Let me get this out of the way at the start: in spite of what’s coming, I like Lucinda Williams. I love her music, which I’ve followed avidly since her late ‘70s blues albums on Smithsonian Folkways. I’ve seen her in concert several times. I don’t know her personally, but I wish her well. But she’s still made a near-stinker of a new album. I wish it wasn’t so.
West, due out February 13th, is the latest in a series of gradually declining releases since 1998’s masterpiece Car Wheels on a Gravel Road. That album, redolent with sweat and dirt, love and lust, captured a sense of place as well as any album ever made, as Lucinda explored the American Deep South with idiosyncratic, finely detailed geographical and personal reflections. Essence and World Without Tears, the albums that followed, were solid efforts, but failed to recapture the magic entirely. With West, the decline is far more precipitous.
To be sure, West has its high points, most of them grouped near the middle of the album. “Fancy Funeral” is a starkly moving ballad, Lucinda mournfully recalling her recently departed mother, poking at the hole in the soul that seems incapable of being filled, her always-fragile voice cracking and breaking in ways that will melt your heart. “Everything Has Changed” is a lovely and bittersweet acknowledgement of emotional hollowness, while “Rescue” is a harrowing 3:00 a.m. confession of existential loneliness. Of the few uptempo tracks, “Unsuffer Me” is a searing slow-burn blues, and “Come On” a righteously pissed off howler and indignant middle finger to a former lover. These songs finally move the album beyond its prevalent downbeat dirge and into full-blown Neil Young/Crazy Horse territory, and they can hold up with the best Lucinda has ever written.
But there are problems. Sweet Jesus, are there problems. Williams has never been known for her hook-laden melodies, but the somnambulant opener “Are You Alright?” takes mind-numbingly repetitious to a whole new level, while the second track “Mama Sweet” fixates on the two words in the title and repeats them like a mantra. It’s not so much “hypnotic” as “nap inducing.” If you’re still awake ten minutes in, you’ll discover a pretty good album. Unfortunately the trend continues late as well, with the ill-advised nine-minute talking blues “Wrap My Head Around That” followed by the laconic “Words,” which actually contains some pretty good ones. Sadly, they are masked by a tune so quiescent and monotonous that you may not be able to remain conscious to hear them. It makes me realize how indebted Lucinda was on her earlier albums to departed guitarist/producer Gurf Morlix, who injected both energy and supremely melodic, chiming guitar runs. The fact is that on at least half these tracks Lucinda commits the unpardonable musical sin: she’s deadly boring.
More disturbingly, “America’s best songwriter” (according to Time Magazine) seems remarkably unfocused and lazy. “Are You Alright?,” that snoozer of a leadoff track, offers such lobotomized sub-Hallmark Card sentiments as “Are you sleepin’ through the night?/Do you have someone to hold you tight?” before the title phrase echoes, ad nauseam, through an extended coda. It’s a stultifyingly dull and cliché-ridden five minutes, all the more shocking because Lucinda is capable of genuinely great writing.
Lucinda Williams has too strong a track record to give up on her entirely, or to think that she might not be considerably better next time out. So I’ll be listening for her next move. But with West, America’s best songwriter has gone south, and this time she’s nowhere close to the geographic or emotional epicenter that gives her best work such deep weight and resonance.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Monday, February 05, 2007
Fountains of Wayne, Joe Craven, Milton and the Devils Party, Jon Rauhouse
Some new or about-to-be-released music that I’ve enjoyed of late …
Fountains of Wayne – Traffic and Weather
Fountains of Wayne frontmen Adam Schlesinger and Chris Collingwood will remind you of the two smirking wiseacres who always sat in the back of the class during your high school years. They’re hip and they know it, they’re cynical, and they’re too clever for their own good. They rhyme “diner” and “Carl Reiner,” “law degree” and “Schenectedy,” “routine” and “Lichtenstein.” They find the ridiculous and surreal in every current cultural fad, and they pepper their lyrics with topical references that will be out of date by the time their next album is released.
That’s okay. These smartasses also happen to write the best hooks extant in rock music, and their delicious power pop is guaranteed to make old farts like me jump on the couch and play air guitar. The fourteen songs here borrow shamelessly from every great band from The Beatles to Weezer, and if they don’t really do anything here that they haven’t done on their previous three albums, songs like “Someone to Love” and “New Routine” certainly reinforce the notion that that there is, and always will be, an exalted place in the rock ‘n roll canon for three-minute songs with clever lyrics and singalong choruses. Best of all is “Fire in the Canyon,” where the smirk is replaced, finally, by some honest, melancholic soul-searching, sweetened by spot-on Simon and Garfunkel harmonies.
Joe Craven – Django Latino
Originally released in 2004 to overwhelming indifference, Joe Craven’s Django Latino is being re-released on Compass Records. Don’t miss it this time; it’s a great album. Craven, a longtime musician in David Grisman’s Dawg Music ensemble, is a one-man band who plays mandolin, mandola, cavaquiño, violin, ukulele and a full range of percussion instruments, including cookie tins and martini shakers. Here he multi-tracks himself to play nearly every part on these wondrous songs associated with gypsy guitarist extraordinaire Django Reinhardt and violin maestro Stephan Grappelli of the Quintet of the Hot Club of France. These songs, originally recorded between the 1930s and 1950s, are among the most beloved of the jazz canon. Here Craven adds his own unique spin by adding elements of cumbia, meringue, samba, and tango. Not a jazz or world music fan? Okay, then consider this: Joe Craven’s playing will make your jaw drop in wonder and amazement. He’s a dazzling soloist, his virtuosity matched by his ability to swing. Django Latino is both a fine tribute and a stunning reinvention.
Milton and the Devils Party – How Wicked We’ve Become
In case you were wondering, that’s “Milton” as in “John,” not as in “Berle.” There’s little to laugh at on How Wicked We’ve Become, but enough heartfelt angst and literary allusions to keep even the most introspective, morose English major happy. Or at least as happy as introspective, morose English majors ever get. Petrarch, Shakespeare, and Norman Mailer all make cameo appearances, as does sadsack Morrissey from the introspective, morose musical world.
It’s enough to make you think that these songs were written by an English professor. And then you find out that they were. But if Daniel Robinson doesn’t do much to disguise his day gig, he also does just fine as a part-time rock star, turning out tuneful, spiky guitar pop that is reminiscent of Marshall Crenshaw, The Police, and early Elvis Costello. There are deep undercurrents of longing and yearning in the lyrics, cleverly disguised by the bright, uptempo music. The themes are universally relevant, although it’s probably not a bad idea to keep a thesaurus near your iPod just in case. But if you can handle “The palliative promise of eternal life/Has turned into a stultifying curse” as a jangly guitar anthem, then you’ll thoroughly enjoy this little genre exercise in pop existentialism, and probably score better on your SATs as a result.
Jon Rauhouse – Jon Rauhouse’s Steel Guitar Heart Attack
Those of you who associate the pedal steel guitar solely with cry-in-yer-beer country weepers are in for either an unpleasant shock or a delightful surprise. Jon Rauhouse plays pedal steel guitar the way John Zorn plays the saxophone. That is, he thoroughly messes with your head as he takes you on a schizophrenic musical journey. On … Heart Attack Rauhouse covers western swing, Hawaiian music, Big Band standards, ‘60s easy listening schlock, Bing Crosby crooners, the TV themes to Mannix and the Andy Griffith Show, and gunfighter ballads. Along the way, he’s helped out by members of Calexico, Giant Sand, The Mekons, Kelly Hogan, and the incomparable Neko Case, who lends her pipes to the old Sinatra chestnut “East of the Sun (and West of the Moon).” Best of all is Rauhouse’s take on Cole Porter’s “Begin the Beguine,” where the pedal steel does a Broadway turn. It’s great, uncompromising, wildly eclectic music.
Fountains of Wayne – Traffic and Weather
Fountains of Wayne frontmen Adam Schlesinger and Chris Collingwood will remind you of the two smirking wiseacres who always sat in the back of the class during your high school years. They’re hip and they know it, they’re cynical, and they’re too clever for their own good. They rhyme “diner” and “Carl Reiner,” “law degree” and “Schenectedy,” “routine” and “Lichtenstein.” They find the ridiculous and surreal in every current cultural fad, and they pepper their lyrics with topical references that will be out of date by the time their next album is released.
That’s okay. These smartasses also happen to write the best hooks extant in rock music, and their delicious power pop is guaranteed to make old farts like me jump on the couch and play air guitar. The fourteen songs here borrow shamelessly from every great band from The Beatles to Weezer, and if they don’t really do anything here that they haven’t done on their previous three albums, songs like “Someone to Love” and “New Routine” certainly reinforce the notion that that there is, and always will be, an exalted place in the rock ‘n roll canon for three-minute songs with clever lyrics and singalong choruses. Best of all is “Fire in the Canyon,” where the smirk is replaced, finally, by some honest, melancholic soul-searching, sweetened by spot-on Simon and Garfunkel harmonies.
Joe Craven – Django Latino
Originally released in 2004 to overwhelming indifference, Joe Craven’s Django Latino is being re-released on Compass Records. Don’t miss it this time; it’s a great album. Craven, a longtime musician in David Grisman’s Dawg Music ensemble, is a one-man band who plays mandolin, mandola, cavaquiño, violin, ukulele and a full range of percussion instruments, including cookie tins and martini shakers. Here he multi-tracks himself to play nearly every part on these wondrous songs associated with gypsy guitarist extraordinaire Django Reinhardt and violin maestro Stephan Grappelli of the Quintet of the Hot Club of France. These songs, originally recorded between the 1930s and 1950s, are among the most beloved of the jazz canon. Here Craven adds his own unique spin by adding elements of cumbia, meringue, samba, and tango. Not a jazz or world music fan? Okay, then consider this: Joe Craven’s playing will make your jaw drop in wonder and amazement. He’s a dazzling soloist, his virtuosity matched by his ability to swing. Django Latino is both a fine tribute and a stunning reinvention.
Milton and the Devils Party – How Wicked We’ve Become
In case you were wondering, that’s “Milton” as in “John,” not as in “Berle.” There’s little to laugh at on How Wicked We’ve Become, but enough heartfelt angst and literary allusions to keep even the most introspective, morose English major happy. Or at least as happy as introspective, morose English majors ever get. Petrarch, Shakespeare, and Norman Mailer all make cameo appearances, as does sadsack Morrissey from the introspective, morose musical world.
It’s enough to make you think that these songs were written by an English professor. And then you find out that they were. But if Daniel Robinson doesn’t do much to disguise his day gig, he also does just fine as a part-time rock star, turning out tuneful, spiky guitar pop that is reminiscent of Marshall Crenshaw, The Police, and early Elvis Costello. There are deep undercurrents of longing and yearning in the lyrics, cleverly disguised by the bright, uptempo music. The themes are universally relevant, although it’s probably not a bad idea to keep a thesaurus near your iPod just in case. But if you can handle “The palliative promise of eternal life/Has turned into a stultifying curse” as a jangly guitar anthem, then you’ll thoroughly enjoy this little genre exercise in pop existentialism, and probably score better on your SATs as a result.
Jon Rauhouse – Jon Rauhouse’s Steel Guitar Heart Attack
Those of you who associate the pedal steel guitar solely with cry-in-yer-beer country weepers are in for either an unpleasant shock or a delightful surprise. Jon Rauhouse plays pedal steel guitar the way John Zorn plays the saxophone. That is, he thoroughly messes with your head as he takes you on a schizophrenic musical journey. On … Heart Attack Rauhouse covers western swing, Hawaiian music, Big Band standards, ‘60s easy listening schlock, Bing Crosby crooners, the TV themes to Mannix and the Andy Griffith Show, and gunfighter ballads. Along the way, he’s helped out by members of Calexico, Giant Sand, The Mekons, Kelly Hogan, and the incomparable Neko Case, who lends her pipes to the old Sinatra chestnut “East of the Sun (and West of the Moon).” Best of all is Rauhouse’s take on Cole Porter’s “Begin the Beguine,” where the pedal steel does a Broadway turn. It’s great, uncompromising, wildly eclectic music.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Cross-Over Matching
I am taking a training course today on communication. I, as an upwardly-mobile corporate American, aspire to the best in non-verbal communication. So I am particularly interested in a technique, first revealed to me today, called "Cross-Over Matching." Here's what cross-over matching entails:
"This is matching the other person's behavior with a corresponding, but different, movement. If a person is blinking rapidly, you may cross-over match by discreetly tapping your finger at the same rate as they are blinking. You could also pace the rhythm of someone's speech with slight nods of your head, or with your breathing."
Wow. This communication business is much harder than I thought, and requires more rhythm than I suspect I have. I don't know because I haven't tried it out yet, but I suspect I'm going to be so busy counting in my head and working out polyrhythmic counterpoint and such that I'm going to have no idea what anyone is saying. Any of you veteran cross-over matchers have any words of wisdom for me?
And can I just say that I love corporate America.
"This is matching the other person's behavior with a corresponding, but different, movement. If a person is blinking rapidly, you may cross-over match by discreetly tapping your finger at the same rate as they are blinking. You could also pace the rhythm of someone's speech with slight nods of your head, or with your breathing."
Wow. This communication business is much harder than I thought, and requires more rhythm than I suspect I have. I don't know because I haven't tried it out yet, but I suspect I'm going to be so busy counting in my head and working out polyrhythmic counterpoint and such that I'm going to have no idea what anyone is saying. Any of you veteran cross-over matchers have any words of wisdom for me?
And can I just say that I love corporate America.
Best Music of 2006
The top 5 reasons to obsess over "Best of" Lists:
1. They contribute to the illusion that messy life can be quantified.
2. Art as science. You can't beat it.
3. Admit it. We all want to be #1. Or at least Top 10.
4. They give us something to grouse about. In fact, I'm considering moving this reason into the Top 3. What do you think?
5. They keep our counting skills finely honed.
So here's the list of the Top 100 albums of 2006 from Paste Magazine:
Best-of lists are notoriously problematic. Despite their flirtation with math/science in the form of numerical rankings, there is a vague arbitrariness pervading even the most meticulously constructed example. The difference between spot #47 and #93 might as well hinge on how seamlessly an editor's fast food breakfast is digesting that particular morning. Still, we make our lists, if only to have an excuse to let our minds wander back over the year and remember which pieces of art caused us to forget the world, or simply appreciate the complexity of it.
Sometimes, after walking into the Paste office's music library and seeing the mailbins piled four-high and spilling over because the vast rows of shelves have filled up yet again (weren't they just cleared off?), I wonder if the world really needs any new music. Maybe every artist should just take a few years off so we can all get caught up on our listening. But then I look over this list and find myself amazed at how many great records have come out in just one year's time. Because it's true: You can never have too much of a good thing. And let's be honest. Some records are gooder than others.
-Jason Killingsworth
----
1. The Decemberists - The Crane Wife
2. The Hold Steady - Boys and Girls in America
3. Joanna Newsom - Ys
4. TV on the Radio - Return to Cookie Mountain
5. Sonic Youth - Rather Ripped
6. Cat Power – The Greatest
7. Midlake - Trials of Van Occupanther
8. Gomez - How We Operate
9. M Ward – Post War
10. The Long Winters - Putting the Days to Bed
11. Bob Dylan - Modern Times
12. Neko Case - Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
13. Josh Ritter - The Animal Years
14. Beck - The Information
15. Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins – Rabbit Fur Coat
16. Pete Yorn - Nightcrawler
17. Yo La Tengo - I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass
18. Califone - Roots & Crowns
19. Joseph Arthur - Nuclear Daydream
20. Beirut – Gulag Orkestar
21. Paul Simon - Surpise
22. Mastodon - Blood Mountain
23. Bonnie "Prince" Billy - The Letting Go
24. Mates of State - Bring it Back
25. Luke Doucet - Broken and Other Rogue States
26. Camera Obscura – Let’s Get Out of This Country
27. Hem - Funnel Cloud
28. Gnarls Barkley - St. Elsewhere
29. Jackie Greene - American Myth
30. Van Hunt - On The Jungle Floor
31. My Brightest Diamond - Bring Me The Workhorse
32. Kate York - Sadlylove
33. Man Man - Six Demon Bag
34. Johnny Cash - American V
35. The Raconteurs - Broken Boy Soldiers
36. Damien Dempsey - Shots
37. Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris - All the Roadrunning
38. Roman Candle - The Wee Hours Review
39. Destroyer – Destroyer’s Rubies
40. Ghostface Killah - Fishscale
41. Corinne Bailey Rae - Corinne Bailey Rae
42. Nellie McKay – Pretty Little Head
43. The Thermals - The Body, the Blood, the Machine
44. Liars - Drums Not Dead
45. Willie Nelson - Songbird
46. The Roots – Game Theory
47. Manchester Orchestra - I'm Like a Virgin Losing a Child
48. Built To Spill - You In Reverse
49. Phoenix – It’s Never Been Like That
50. Jeremy Enigk - World Waits
51. Damien Jurado - Now That I'm In Your Shadow
52. Beth Orton - Comfort of Strangers
53. Pernice Brothers - Live a Little
54. Calexico - Garden Ruin
55. The Arctic Monkeys - Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not
56. Benevento Russo Duo - Play Pause Stop
57. Toumani Diabate's Symmetric Orchestra - Boulevard de l'Independence
58. Junior Boys - So This is Goodbye
59. Ratatat - Classics
60. Josh Rouse - Subtítulo
61. Jim Noir – Tower of Love
62. Guillemots - Through the Broken Window
63. Hot Chip – The Warning
64. Nicolai Dunger - Here's My Song
65. Belle and Sebastian – The Life Pursuit
66. Muse - Black Holes and Revelations
67. Bill Mallonee – Permafrost
68. Archie Bronson Outfit - Derdang Derdang
69. Danielson – Ships
70. Tobias Froberg – Somewhere in the City
71. KT Tunstall - Eye to the Telescope
72. My Morning Jacket - Okonokos
73. Ray Lamontagne - Till The Sun Turns Black
74. Thom Yorke – The Eraser
75. John Mayer - Continuum
76. Swan Lake - Beast Moans
77. Brazilian Girls - Talk To La Bomb
78. Peter and the Wolf - Lightness
79. Grizzly Bear – Yellow House
80. Ben Kweller - Ben Kweller
81. T.I. - King
82. Be Your Own Pet - Be Your Own Pet
83. Loose Fur - Born Again in the USA
84. Todd Snider - The Devil You Know
85. Starlight Mints - Drowaton
86. Los Lobos - The Town and the City
87. Brightblack Morning Light - Brightblack Morning Light
88. James Hunter - People Gonna Talk
89. Band of Horses - Everything All The Time
90. The Flaming Lips - At War With the Mystics
91. Justin Timberlake - FutureSex/LoveSounds
92. Girl Talk - Night Ripper
93. Sunset Rubdown - Shut Up I Am Dreaming
94. Bruce Springsteen - We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions
95. The Mountain Goats – Get Lonely
96. Fiery Furnaces - Bitter Tea
97. Figurines - Skeleton
98. Viva Voce - Get Yr Blood Sucked Out
99. The Dears - Gang of Losers
100. The Old Ceremony - Our One Mistake
And here's a fun one: the Blogger Best Of list. Someone with way too much time on his/her hands trolled the web, looking for all the "Best Music of 2006" lists on individual blogs, then came up with a composite rating. And here it is:
1 - TV on the Radio, Return to Cookie Mountain
2 - Decemberists, Crane Wife
3 - Joanna Newsom, Ys
4 - Hold Steady, Boys and Girls in America
5 - Neko Case, Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
6 - Belle & Sebastian, The Life Pursuit
7 - Band of Horses, Everything All the Time
8 - Thom Yorke, The Eraser
9 - Destroyer, Destroyer’s Rubies
10 - Cat Power, The Greatest (*)
11 - Knife, Silent Shout
12 - Arctic Monkeys, Whatever People Say I Am That’s What I’m Not (*)
13 - Hot Chip, The Warning
14 - Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins, Rabbit Fur Coat
15 - Beirut, Gulag Orkestar
16 - M. Ward, Post-War
17 - Bob Dylan, Modern Times
18 - Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Show Your Bones
19 - Midlake, Trials of Van Occupanther
20 - Sunset Rubdown, Shut Up I am Dreaming
21 - Gnarls Barkley, St. Elsewhere
22 - Camera Obscura, Let’s Get Out of This Country
23 - Ghostface Killah, Fishscale
24 - Grizzly Bear, Yellow House
25 - Muse, Black Holes and Revelations
26 - Regina Spektor, Begin to Hope
27 - Raconteurs, Broken Boy Soldiers
28 - Clipse, Hell Hath No Fury
29 - Islands, Return to the Sea
30 - Lily Allen, Alright, Still
30 - Thermals, The Body, The Blood, The Machine
32 - Yo La Tengo, I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass
33 - Junior Boys, So This is Goodbye
34 - Girl Talk, Night Ripper
34 - Justin Timberlake, FutureSex/Lovesounds
36 - Peter Bjorn and John, Writer's Block
37 - Sonic Youth, Rather Ripped
38 - Final Fantasy, He Poos Clouds
39 - Josh Ritter, The Animal Years
40 - Silversun Pickups, Carnavas
41 - Beck, The Information
42 - Built to Spill, You in Reverse
43 - Roots, Game Theory
44 - Liars, Drum's Not Dead
44 - Tapes ‘n Tapes, The Loon (*)
46 - Phoenix, It’s Never Been Like That
47 - Flaming Lips, At War with the Mystics
48 - Asobi Seksu, Citrus
49 - Califone, Roots and Crowns
50 - Mogwai, Mr. Beast/Zidane (**)
51 - Cold War Kids, Robbers & Cowards
52 - Killers, Sam's Town
53 - My Chemical Romance, The Black Parade
54 - Mastodon, Blood Mountain
54 - Pipettes, We are the Pipettes
56 - Strokes, First Impressions of Earth
57 - Mates of State, Bring it Back
58 - Lupe Fiasco, Food & Liquor
59 - Mew, And the Glass Handed Kites
59 - Rapture, Pieces of the People We Love
61 - Guillemots, Through the Windowpane
62 - Wolfmother, s/t
63 - Pearl Jam, s/t
64 - Man Man, Six Demon Bag
65 - Bonnie "Prince" Billy, The Letting Go
66 - Snow Patrol, Eyes Open
67 - Scott Walker, The Drift
68 - Love is All, Nine Times That Same Song
69 - Danielson, Ships
70 - Blow, Paper Television
71 - Kooks, Inside In/Inside Out
72 - Margot & the Nuclear So and So's, The Dust of Retreat
73 - Format, Dog Problems
74 - Shearwater, Palo Santo
75 - Damien Rice, 9
76 - Mountain Goats, Get Lonely
77 - Bruce Springsteen, We Shall Overcome
78 - Beatles, Love
78 - Black Keys, Magic Potion
80 - Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan, Ballad of the Broken Seas/Isobel Campbell, Milk White Sheets (**)
82 - Cansei de Ser Sexy, s/t
82 - Tom Waits, Orphans
84 - My Brightest Diamond, Bring Me the Workhorse
84 - Ratatat, Classics
84 - Scritti Politti, White Bread Black Beer
87 - Sparklehorse, Dreamt for Light Years in the Belly of a Mountain
88 - Johnny Cash, American V: A Hundred Highways
89 - Scissor Sisters, Ta-Dah
90 - Sufjan Stevens, The Avalanche
91 - Jarvis Cocker, Jarvis
92 - J Dilla, Donuts
93 - Annuals, Be He Me
94 - John Mayer, Continuum
95 - Calexico, Garden Ruin
96 - Keane, Under the Iron Sea
97 - Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton, Knives Don't Have Your Back
97 - Juana Molina, Son
99 - I'm From Barcelona, Let Me Introduce My Friends
100 - Ben Kweller, s/t
1. They contribute to the illusion that messy life can be quantified.
2. Art as science. You can't beat it.
3. Admit it. We all want to be #1. Or at least Top 10.
4. They give us something to grouse about. In fact, I'm considering moving this reason into the Top 3. What do you think?
5. They keep our counting skills finely honed.
So here's the list of the Top 100 albums of 2006 from Paste Magazine:
Best-of lists are notoriously problematic. Despite their flirtation with math/science in the form of numerical rankings, there is a vague arbitrariness pervading even the most meticulously constructed example. The difference between spot #47 and #93 might as well hinge on how seamlessly an editor's fast food breakfast is digesting that particular morning. Still, we make our lists, if only to have an excuse to let our minds wander back over the year and remember which pieces of art caused us to forget the world, or simply appreciate the complexity of it.
Sometimes, after walking into the Paste office's music library and seeing the mailbins piled four-high and spilling over because the vast rows of shelves have filled up yet again (weren't they just cleared off?), I wonder if the world really needs any new music. Maybe every artist should just take a few years off so we can all get caught up on our listening. But then I look over this list and find myself amazed at how many great records have come out in just one year's time. Because it's true: You can never have too much of a good thing. And let's be honest. Some records are gooder than others.
-Jason Killingsworth
----
1. The Decemberists - The Crane Wife
2. The Hold Steady - Boys and Girls in America
3. Joanna Newsom - Ys
4. TV on the Radio - Return to Cookie Mountain
5. Sonic Youth - Rather Ripped
6. Cat Power – The Greatest
7. Midlake - Trials of Van Occupanther
8. Gomez - How We Operate
9. M Ward – Post War
10. The Long Winters - Putting the Days to Bed
11. Bob Dylan - Modern Times
12. Neko Case - Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
13. Josh Ritter - The Animal Years
14. Beck - The Information
15. Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins – Rabbit Fur Coat
16. Pete Yorn - Nightcrawler
17. Yo La Tengo - I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass
18. Califone - Roots & Crowns
19. Joseph Arthur - Nuclear Daydream
20. Beirut – Gulag Orkestar
21. Paul Simon - Surpise
22. Mastodon - Blood Mountain
23. Bonnie "Prince" Billy - The Letting Go
24. Mates of State - Bring it Back
25. Luke Doucet - Broken and Other Rogue States
26. Camera Obscura – Let’s Get Out of This Country
27. Hem - Funnel Cloud
28. Gnarls Barkley - St. Elsewhere
29. Jackie Greene - American Myth
30. Van Hunt - On The Jungle Floor
31. My Brightest Diamond - Bring Me The Workhorse
32. Kate York - Sadlylove
33. Man Man - Six Demon Bag
34. Johnny Cash - American V
35. The Raconteurs - Broken Boy Soldiers
36. Damien Dempsey - Shots
37. Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris - All the Roadrunning
38. Roman Candle - The Wee Hours Review
39. Destroyer – Destroyer’s Rubies
40. Ghostface Killah - Fishscale
41. Corinne Bailey Rae - Corinne Bailey Rae
42. Nellie McKay – Pretty Little Head
43. The Thermals - The Body, the Blood, the Machine
44. Liars - Drums Not Dead
45. Willie Nelson - Songbird
46. The Roots – Game Theory
47. Manchester Orchestra - I'm Like a Virgin Losing a Child
48. Built To Spill - You In Reverse
49. Phoenix – It’s Never Been Like That
50. Jeremy Enigk - World Waits
51. Damien Jurado - Now That I'm In Your Shadow
52. Beth Orton - Comfort of Strangers
53. Pernice Brothers - Live a Little
54. Calexico - Garden Ruin
55. The Arctic Monkeys - Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not
56. Benevento Russo Duo - Play Pause Stop
57. Toumani Diabate's Symmetric Orchestra - Boulevard de l'Independence
58. Junior Boys - So This is Goodbye
59. Ratatat - Classics
60. Josh Rouse - Subtítulo
61. Jim Noir – Tower of Love
62. Guillemots - Through the Broken Window
63. Hot Chip – The Warning
64. Nicolai Dunger - Here's My Song
65. Belle and Sebastian – The Life Pursuit
66. Muse - Black Holes and Revelations
67. Bill Mallonee – Permafrost
68. Archie Bronson Outfit - Derdang Derdang
69. Danielson – Ships
70. Tobias Froberg – Somewhere in the City
71. KT Tunstall - Eye to the Telescope
72. My Morning Jacket - Okonokos
73. Ray Lamontagne - Till The Sun Turns Black
74. Thom Yorke – The Eraser
75. John Mayer - Continuum
76. Swan Lake - Beast Moans
77. Brazilian Girls - Talk To La Bomb
78. Peter and the Wolf - Lightness
79. Grizzly Bear – Yellow House
80. Ben Kweller - Ben Kweller
81. T.I. - King
82. Be Your Own Pet - Be Your Own Pet
83. Loose Fur - Born Again in the USA
84. Todd Snider - The Devil You Know
85. Starlight Mints - Drowaton
86. Los Lobos - The Town and the City
87. Brightblack Morning Light - Brightblack Morning Light
88. James Hunter - People Gonna Talk
89. Band of Horses - Everything All The Time
90. The Flaming Lips - At War With the Mystics
91. Justin Timberlake - FutureSex/LoveSounds
92. Girl Talk - Night Ripper
93. Sunset Rubdown - Shut Up I Am Dreaming
94. Bruce Springsteen - We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions
95. The Mountain Goats – Get Lonely
96. Fiery Furnaces - Bitter Tea
97. Figurines - Skeleton
98. Viva Voce - Get Yr Blood Sucked Out
99. The Dears - Gang of Losers
100. The Old Ceremony - Our One Mistake
And here's a fun one: the Blogger Best Of list. Someone with way too much time on his/her hands trolled the web, looking for all the "Best Music of 2006" lists on individual blogs, then came up with a composite rating. And here it is:
1 - TV on the Radio, Return to Cookie Mountain
2 - Decemberists, Crane Wife
3 - Joanna Newsom, Ys
4 - Hold Steady, Boys and Girls in America
5 - Neko Case, Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
6 - Belle & Sebastian, The Life Pursuit
7 - Band of Horses, Everything All the Time
8 - Thom Yorke, The Eraser
9 - Destroyer, Destroyer’s Rubies
10 - Cat Power, The Greatest (*)
11 - Knife, Silent Shout
12 - Arctic Monkeys, Whatever People Say I Am That’s What I’m Not (*)
13 - Hot Chip, The Warning
14 - Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins, Rabbit Fur Coat
15 - Beirut, Gulag Orkestar
16 - M. Ward, Post-War
17 - Bob Dylan, Modern Times
18 - Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Show Your Bones
19 - Midlake, Trials of Van Occupanther
20 - Sunset Rubdown, Shut Up I am Dreaming
21 - Gnarls Barkley, St. Elsewhere
22 - Camera Obscura, Let’s Get Out of This Country
23 - Ghostface Killah, Fishscale
24 - Grizzly Bear, Yellow House
25 - Muse, Black Holes and Revelations
26 - Regina Spektor, Begin to Hope
27 - Raconteurs, Broken Boy Soldiers
28 - Clipse, Hell Hath No Fury
29 - Islands, Return to the Sea
30 - Lily Allen, Alright, Still
30 - Thermals, The Body, The Blood, The Machine
32 - Yo La Tengo, I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass
33 - Junior Boys, So This is Goodbye
34 - Girl Talk, Night Ripper
34 - Justin Timberlake, FutureSex/Lovesounds
36 - Peter Bjorn and John, Writer's Block
37 - Sonic Youth, Rather Ripped
38 - Final Fantasy, He Poos Clouds
39 - Josh Ritter, The Animal Years
40 - Silversun Pickups, Carnavas
41 - Beck, The Information
42 - Built to Spill, You in Reverse
43 - Roots, Game Theory
44 - Liars, Drum's Not Dead
44 - Tapes ‘n Tapes, The Loon (*)
46 - Phoenix, It’s Never Been Like That
47 - Flaming Lips, At War with the Mystics
48 - Asobi Seksu, Citrus
49 - Califone, Roots and Crowns
50 - Mogwai, Mr. Beast/Zidane (**)
51 - Cold War Kids, Robbers & Cowards
52 - Killers, Sam's Town
53 - My Chemical Romance, The Black Parade
54 - Mastodon, Blood Mountain
54 - Pipettes, We are the Pipettes
56 - Strokes, First Impressions of Earth
57 - Mates of State, Bring it Back
58 - Lupe Fiasco, Food & Liquor
59 - Mew, And the Glass Handed Kites
59 - Rapture, Pieces of the People We Love
61 - Guillemots, Through the Windowpane
62 - Wolfmother, s/t
63 - Pearl Jam, s/t
64 - Man Man, Six Demon Bag
65 - Bonnie "Prince" Billy, The Letting Go
66 - Snow Patrol, Eyes Open
67 - Scott Walker, The Drift
68 - Love is All, Nine Times That Same Song
69 - Danielson, Ships
70 - Blow, Paper Television
71 - Kooks, Inside In/Inside Out
72 - Margot & the Nuclear So and So's, The Dust of Retreat
73 - Format, Dog Problems
74 - Shearwater, Palo Santo
75 - Damien Rice, 9
76 - Mountain Goats, Get Lonely
77 - Bruce Springsteen, We Shall Overcome
78 - Beatles, Love
78 - Black Keys, Magic Potion
80 - Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan, Ballad of the Broken Seas/Isobel Campbell, Milk White Sheets (**)
82 - Cansei de Ser Sexy, s/t
82 - Tom Waits, Orphans
84 - My Brightest Diamond, Bring Me the Workhorse
84 - Ratatat, Classics
84 - Scritti Politti, White Bread Black Beer
87 - Sparklehorse, Dreamt for Light Years in the Belly of a Mountain
88 - Johnny Cash, American V: A Hundred Highways
89 - Scissor Sisters, Ta-Dah
90 - Sufjan Stevens, The Avalanche
91 - Jarvis Cocker, Jarvis
92 - J Dilla, Donuts
93 - Annuals, Be He Me
94 - John Mayer, Continuum
95 - Calexico, Garden Ruin
96 - Keane, Under the Iron Sea
97 - Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton, Knives Don't Have Your Back
97 - Juana Molina, Son
99 - I'm From Barcelona, Let Me Introduce My Friends
100 - Ben Kweller, s/t
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Last of the Breed
The album name overstates the case a little. Last time I checked the entertainment obituaries, George Jones, Ralph Stanley, and Charlie Louvin were still around (the octogenarian Charlie with a great new album, at that). So Last of the Breed, the title of the new 2-CD collaboration between Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, and Ray Price isn’t entirely accurate. But why quibble? The fact is that these three grizzled amigos represent the best of a brand of country music that hasn’t really been in vogue since the Reagan administration, before Garth Brooks discovered wireless mics and Shania Twain figured out how to charge people to watch aerobics classes.
What Nelson, Haggard, and Price can do is sing, and even at their relatively advanced ages they can still swoop down to nail a bass note so soul-shatteringly lonesome and blue that you will want to start drinking hard liquor again even if you’ve sworn off the stuff. This is 180-proof honky-tonk hokum, full of Jesus and mama and old lovers who are nothing but gone, and if you can get past the schmaltz factor, what you will discover is that it touches on universal hopes and fears. You don’t need to be a hardcore country music fan to appreciate this music. You just need to have a heartbeat.
Twenty of the twenty-two songs here are about as old as the participants. Well, okay, not quite, but Harlan Howard and Lefty Frizzell were writing most of these classics in the ‘50s, and songs like “Heartaches by the Number” and “I Love You a Thousand Ways” would have sounded just as good and just as true in 1907 as they do in 2007. Age hasn’t diminished Willie or Merle one bit, and if Ray Price sounds a little frayed around the edges, that only adds to the poignancy of these sad, sad songs. Nashville old schoolers like pedal steel virtuoso Buddy Emmons and fiddler Johnny Gimble are around to lend their musical expertise. And the Jordanaires, seemingly missing in action since the death of Elvis, drop by to lend their trademark gospel quartet harmonies.
But mostly there is Willie. And Merle. And Ray. I don’t mean to be morbid, but if Johnny and June teach us anything, they teach us that this breed, regardless of their number, won’t last forever. So enjoy them while we’ve got them, still at or near the peak of their powers, still making radically unhip, out-of-time music. And try to avoid the liquor store on the way back from the record shop.
What Nelson, Haggard, and Price can do is sing, and even at their relatively advanced ages they can still swoop down to nail a bass note so soul-shatteringly lonesome and blue that you will want to start drinking hard liquor again even if you’ve sworn off the stuff. This is 180-proof honky-tonk hokum, full of Jesus and mama and old lovers who are nothing but gone, and if you can get past the schmaltz factor, what you will discover is that it touches on universal hopes and fears. You don’t need to be a hardcore country music fan to appreciate this music. You just need to have a heartbeat.
Twenty of the twenty-two songs here are about as old as the participants. Well, okay, not quite, but Harlan Howard and Lefty Frizzell were writing most of these classics in the ‘50s, and songs like “Heartaches by the Number” and “I Love You a Thousand Ways” would have sounded just as good and just as true in 1907 as they do in 2007. Age hasn’t diminished Willie or Merle one bit, and if Ray Price sounds a little frayed around the edges, that only adds to the poignancy of these sad, sad songs. Nashville old schoolers like pedal steel virtuoso Buddy Emmons and fiddler Johnny Gimble are around to lend their musical expertise. And the Jordanaires, seemingly missing in action since the death of Elvis, drop by to lend their trademark gospel quartet harmonies.
But mostly there is Willie. And Merle. And Ray. I don’t mean to be morbid, but if Johnny and June teach us anything, they teach us that this breed, regardless of their number, won’t last forever. So enjoy them while we’ve got them, still at or near the peak of their powers, still making radically unhip, out-of-time music. And try to avoid the liquor store on the way back from the record shop.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Paste #28
Paste #28 (February 2007) is out now. Those of you who want to be happier, wealthier, and more popular should pick it up. Why? Because The Shins are on the cover. The Shins will change your life. You've heard it from Natalie Portman. Now hear it from me. One listen to their new album Wincing the Night Away will result in instant bliss, the removal of any longstanding debt, and almost instantaneous connection to seventeen new soulmates. And exposure to even a few seconds of any Shins song can cure Stage 4 cancer. You don't want to miss out.
There's also a rundown/ranking of the best albums and films of 2006. Oddly enough, I mostly agree with the albums selected and how they are ranked. The list of films makes me realize how out of the loop I am in terms of quality cinema. The only foreign film I saw last year was Borat.
I have three articles in this issue, my Listening to My Life column (yes, it's still there, for the two of you who have wondered; it's just not on the back page), and two short album reviews.
There's also the usual CD sampler, this time with the worst Lucinda Williams song I've ever heard, both musically and lyrically. What's up with that? I sincerely hope it isn't representative of her new album.
There's also a rundown/ranking of the best albums and films of 2006. Oddly enough, I mostly agree with the albums selected and how they are ranked. The list of films makes me realize how out of the loop I am in terms of quality cinema. The only foreign film I saw last year was Borat.
I have three articles in this issue, my Listening to My Life column (yes, it's still there, for the two of you who have wondered; it's just not on the back page), and two short album reviews.
There's also the usual CD sampler, this time with the worst Lucinda Williams song I've ever heard, both musically and lyrically. What's up with that? I sincerely hope it isn't representative of her new album.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
One Day When The Weather Is Warm
When I was nineteen years old I fell on my knees and gave my life to Jesus. It was the culmination of six months of impassioned 2:00 a.m. arguments in overheated dormitory rooms, of feeling alone and isolated, of being shaken to my core, of watching my family unravel to the tune of adultery and alcoholism and suicide attempts. It was based on an inarticulate groaning, a wordless acknowledgement of the inadequacy of my little storehouse of optimism and self-assurance. It was, in fact, surrender: I can’t deal with this. Here, you take it.
That was, wow, thirty-two years ago, and in the meantime I’ve learned precisely nothing more about optimism and self-assurance. All I know is that some people die tragically young, and other people grow old and die of the usual, horrific suspects: cancer mostly, but also heart attacks and diabetes, strokes and good old pneumonia. I’m no expert on these things, but I think you’d have to be a fool to feel much optimism and self-assurance about your future, at least on this planet.
I have diabetes, and in addition to swallowing four pills each day, I get to stick myself with a needle every night before bedtime. The insulin keeps me alive, and I’m grateful for big favors. But when I read about the long-term prognosis for this disease, I learn that what I have to look forward to probably includes heart disease, stroke, blindness, amputation of limbs, kidney failure, and nerve damage. It’s a nasty little fucker. Sorry if my language offends you, but if you’re going to swear, what better thing to swear at than the notion of your bad self becoming a blind amputee? So about the only thing I know with much certainty is that it’s going to get worse. Here’s that little piece of paper inside my personalized Chinese fortune cookie: “You will be Stump Man on a dialysis machine. You don’t have time to screw around.” So I’m trying not to screw around.
When I was a student at Ohio University I used to hang out with a goofy, Napoleon-Dynamite-looking guy named Jeff Treffney. The day I met him he told me that he had an enlarged heart, and that doctors didn’t expect him to live past 25. He was 21 years old at the time. Sure enough, right on cue, four years later he died, and his funeral was the first time I think I truly experienced that great, aching void that accompanies the loss of someone you cherish, and will never see again. I was a new Christian when I met him, and Jeff had been at it for, oh, two or three years, and he told me to memorize the following Bible verse: “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. This is what the ancients were commended for.” Had he lived, Jeff would have been approaching “ancient” status by now. He would have been in his mid-fifties, old enough to start worrying about the big C and diabetes. But he didn’t. He died tragically young.
At his funeral a well-meaning pastor assured us that Jeff was in heaven, that his pain and suffering were over. I certainly hoped he was right. I prayed he was right, and I believed, as best I could believe, that he was right. But I wasn’t sure he was right. Jeff probably would have been disappointed in me. But then again, I’ve never quite understood the apostle Paul in that passage Jeff loved so well, either. If you’re absolutely sure of something, why do you need faith? I don’t need faith to believe that an exploding car bomb in Baghdad can end the lives of innocent men and women and children. I do need faith to believe that God can work good out of it anyway.
It’s ridiculous, this thing called faith, if I think about it logically. On one hand we have the vastness of space and the microscopic tinyness of my individual life, one of six billion people on one of the smaller, inconsequential stars off in an obscure corner of a galaxy, surrounded by billions of other galaxies. On the other hand we have the Creator of the universe, who is said to know and care about the most intimate details of my tiny life, including the number of hairs on my balding head. Impossibly, I get intimations that this is so. What are the chances? Only an infinite God would place bets given such infinitesimally small odds. And so I choose to believe, and acknowledge my uncertainty and doubt, and hope and pray for love and mercy. It’s what I need. And it’s what I hope I will believe even if I am lying in a bed, blind, without my legs. Then, if that dire day comes to pass, I will recite the same old mantra I’ve recited, sometimes faintly and halfheartedly, sometimes desperately and pleadingly, for the past thirty-two years: I can’t deal with this. Here, you take it. Hour by hour, day by day.
I recall with some sorrow and embarrassment what I experienced during my college years at Ohio University. I wish I knew then what I know now. And I wish I knew now what I’d like to know. But I’m holding on to the notion that I might know just enough. And, as I am wont to do, I play a song that mirrors my mood, one by the great Joe Henry, whose songs resonate with me regardless of current meteorological conditions, but which seem particularly appropriate on cold, dreary Midwestern winter days like this one:
One day when the weather is warm
I’ll wake up on a hill
And hold the morning like it was a plow
And cut myself a row
And I’ll follow it until
I know better, by God, than I know now
The apostle Paul states the same thing another way: “Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” But I like Joe Henry better, and I believe, although I’m not entirely sure, that warm weather is coming.
That was, wow, thirty-two years ago, and in the meantime I’ve learned precisely nothing more about optimism and self-assurance. All I know is that some people die tragically young, and other people grow old and die of the usual, horrific suspects: cancer mostly, but also heart attacks and diabetes, strokes and good old pneumonia. I’m no expert on these things, but I think you’d have to be a fool to feel much optimism and self-assurance about your future, at least on this planet.
I have diabetes, and in addition to swallowing four pills each day, I get to stick myself with a needle every night before bedtime. The insulin keeps me alive, and I’m grateful for big favors. But when I read about the long-term prognosis for this disease, I learn that what I have to look forward to probably includes heart disease, stroke, blindness, amputation of limbs, kidney failure, and nerve damage. It’s a nasty little fucker. Sorry if my language offends you, but if you’re going to swear, what better thing to swear at than the notion of your bad self becoming a blind amputee? So about the only thing I know with much certainty is that it’s going to get worse. Here’s that little piece of paper inside my personalized Chinese fortune cookie: “You will be Stump Man on a dialysis machine. You don’t have time to screw around.” So I’m trying not to screw around.
When I was a student at Ohio University I used to hang out with a goofy, Napoleon-Dynamite-looking guy named Jeff Treffney. The day I met him he told me that he had an enlarged heart, and that doctors didn’t expect him to live past 25. He was 21 years old at the time. Sure enough, right on cue, four years later he died, and his funeral was the first time I think I truly experienced that great, aching void that accompanies the loss of someone you cherish, and will never see again. I was a new Christian when I met him, and Jeff had been at it for, oh, two or three years, and he told me to memorize the following Bible verse: “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. This is what the ancients were commended for.” Had he lived, Jeff would have been approaching “ancient” status by now. He would have been in his mid-fifties, old enough to start worrying about the big C and diabetes. But he didn’t. He died tragically young.
At his funeral a well-meaning pastor assured us that Jeff was in heaven, that his pain and suffering were over. I certainly hoped he was right. I prayed he was right, and I believed, as best I could believe, that he was right. But I wasn’t sure he was right. Jeff probably would have been disappointed in me. But then again, I’ve never quite understood the apostle Paul in that passage Jeff loved so well, either. If you’re absolutely sure of something, why do you need faith? I don’t need faith to believe that an exploding car bomb in Baghdad can end the lives of innocent men and women and children. I do need faith to believe that God can work good out of it anyway.
It’s ridiculous, this thing called faith, if I think about it logically. On one hand we have the vastness of space and the microscopic tinyness of my individual life, one of six billion people on one of the smaller, inconsequential stars off in an obscure corner of a galaxy, surrounded by billions of other galaxies. On the other hand we have the Creator of the universe, who is said to know and care about the most intimate details of my tiny life, including the number of hairs on my balding head. Impossibly, I get intimations that this is so. What are the chances? Only an infinite God would place bets given such infinitesimally small odds. And so I choose to believe, and acknowledge my uncertainty and doubt, and hope and pray for love and mercy. It’s what I need. And it’s what I hope I will believe even if I am lying in a bed, blind, without my legs. Then, if that dire day comes to pass, I will recite the same old mantra I’ve recited, sometimes faintly and halfheartedly, sometimes desperately and pleadingly, for the past thirty-two years: I can’t deal with this. Here, you take it. Hour by hour, day by day.
I recall with some sorrow and embarrassment what I experienced during my college years at Ohio University. I wish I knew then what I know now. And I wish I knew now what I’d like to know. But I’m holding on to the notion that I might know just enough. And, as I am wont to do, I play a song that mirrors my mood, one by the great Joe Henry, whose songs resonate with me regardless of current meteorological conditions, but which seem particularly appropriate on cold, dreary Midwestern winter days like this one:
One day when the weather is warm
I’ll wake up on a hill
And hold the morning like it was a plow
And cut myself a row
And I’ll follow it until
I know better, by God, than I know now
The apostle Paul states the same thing another way: “Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” But I like Joe Henry better, and I believe, although I’m not entirely sure, that warm weather is coming.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Post-Rock Roundup -- Yndi Halda and Six Parts Seven
I am a sucker for post-rock serenity and bombast -- the slow, dirge-like buildups, followed by the cathartic payoffs where massed guitars create sonic tsunamis that threaten to wash away the winter snows that tend to dominate the landscapes of these morose, deadly serious musicians. The three best-known bands who work this genre -- Mogwai, Sigur Ros and Godspeed You! Black Emperor (formerly Godspeed You Black Emperor!; you know the winters are long when you find yourself playing with exclamation marks) have created a handful of masterpieces. Not surprisingly, they've inspired a horde of imitators, some very good (Explosions in the Sky, A Silver Mount Zion, Do Make Say Think), and some that try a little too hard to be different (Labradford, Trans Am, Cul de Sac). But give them credit for trying. Eighteen years after Talk Talk kickstarted the genre with Spirit of Eden, post-rock is still one of the most interesting and vibrant musical genres, and new bands are continuing to push and prod at the boundaries.
Two of them -- Canterbury, England's Yndi Halda and Kent, Ohio's Six Parts Seven -- have just released new albums. Both fit comfortably under the "post-rock" umbrella. And, not surprisingly given the amorphous nature of a label that has come to mean little more than "mostly instrumental music with electric guitars," they sound nothing alike.
Yndi Halda's debut album Enjoy Eternal Bliss will readily appeal to Sigur Ros fans. Four tracks spread out over sixty-six minutes should tell you all you need to know. These four lads not only have time to slowly build from whisper to wall of sound, but they have time to get quiet again, and then crank up the sonic fury again. Guitars and violins are the primary instruments, with cameo appearances from glockenspiels. Yes, this may be the glockenspiel's finest hour since Mike Oldfield recorded Tubular Bells. It's pretty and contemplative, then very, very loud and bombastic, just the way I like it. Although the lads go in for a bit of chanting, this is for all intents and purposes instrumental music; there is no accompanying Jonsi whalesong to liven up the proceedings. To that extent, it's a little monochromatic. But just a little. Enjoy Eternal Bliss is an impressive debut.
Even more impressive is Six Parts Seven's latest offering Casually Smashed to Pieces, the band's sixth proper album (not counting a split EP with The Black Keys). This is post-rock by way of the Applalachians, with banjo and lap steel vying for prominence with the usual guitars. I find the Americana influences particularly bracing, as is the fact that the band manages to squeeze eight songs into a little more thirty minutes. That's virtually unthinkable in this genre. Hooks? They must have used 'em all to go fishing in those mountain streams. These aren't so much songs as pastoral dreamscapes, and they float by so effortlessly that you'll be tempted to relegate this to full-time background music status. Don't. Instead, listen to the way the motifs weave in and out of this music, taken up first by guitar, then by pocket trumpet, then by lap steel. Listen to the contrapuntal layering of the instruments, the Bach Goes to County Moonshine vibe of these tracks. And then just sit back and let it wash over you and enjoy it. It's lovely music.
Two of them -- Canterbury, England's Yndi Halda and Kent, Ohio's Six Parts Seven -- have just released new albums. Both fit comfortably under the "post-rock" umbrella. And, not surprisingly given the amorphous nature of a label that has come to mean little more than "mostly instrumental music with electric guitars," they sound nothing alike.
Yndi Halda's debut album Enjoy Eternal Bliss will readily appeal to Sigur Ros fans. Four tracks spread out over sixty-six minutes should tell you all you need to know. These four lads not only have time to slowly build from whisper to wall of sound, but they have time to get quiet again, and then crank up the sonic fury again. Guitars and violins are the primary instruments, with cameo appearances from glockenspiels. Yes, this may be the glockenspiel's finest hour since Mike Oldfield recorded Tubular Bells. It's pretty and contemplative, then very, very loud and bombastic, just the way I like it. Although the lads go in for a bit of chanting, this is for all intents and purposes instrumental music; there is no accompanying Jonsi whalesong to liven up the proceedings. To that extent, it's a little monochromatic. But just a little. Enjoy Eternal Bliss is an impressive debut.
Even more impressive is Six Parts Seven's latest offering Casually Smashed to Pieces, the band's sixth proper album (not counting a split EP with The Black Keys). This is post-rock by way of the Applalachians, with banjo and lap steel vying for prominence with the usual guitars. I find the Americana influences particularly bracing, as is the fact that the band manages to squeeze eight songs into a little more thirty minutes. That's virtually unthinkable in this genre. Hooks? They must have used 'em all to go fishing in those mountain streams. These aren't so much songs as pastoral dreamscapes, and they float by so effortlessly that you'll be tempted to relegate this to full-time background music status. Don't. Instead, listen to the way the motifs weave in and out of this music, taken up first by guitar, then by pocket trumpet, then by lap steel. Listen to the contrapuntal layering of the instruments, the Bach Goes to County Moonshine vibe of these tracks. And then just sit back and let it wash over you and enjoy it. It's lovely music.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Music Headine of the Week
The music publicists are working overtime. Here it is:
Lesbian Comes Out This Spring
(for the April release of the debut album from Seattle heavy metal band Lesbian -- four flannel-shirted, bearded dudes, by the way)
Lesbian Comes Out This Spring
(for the April release of the debut album from Seattle heavy metal band Lesbian -- four flannel-shirted, bearded dudes, by the way)
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Holmes Brothers, Elliott Brood, Paula Fraser, John Reuben, Mas Rapido!
Other than the upcoming Graham Parker and Grinderman (Nick Cave) releases, these are the new albums that keep me pressing the Play button on the iPod.
The Holmes Brothers – State of Grace
The Holmes Brothers’ play a brand of country blues/gospel that really hasn’t been in vogue since the glory days of The Staple Singers. Here the brothers, along with guests Joan Osborne and Levon Helm, apply their trademark harmonies and funk rhythms to several sparkling originals, as well as covers from Lyle Lovett, John Fogerty, and Hank Williams. It’s not that difficult to imagine “Bad Moon Rising” transformed into a gospel vamp. But how about Cheap Trick’s “I Want You To Want Me”? Believe it. The wonder is that they pull it off, and pull it off marvelously.
Elliott Brood – Ambassador
Canadian sadsack trio Elliott Brood sounds like Being There-era Wilco – all banjos and ragged feedback – and writes songs about loners, drunks, and dead-end love affairs. Hey, I miss that side of Jeff Tweedy, and it’s a lot better than ten minutes of A Ghost is Born-era amplifier hum.
Paula Fraser/Tarnation – Now It’s Time
Paula Fraser was one of the last of the great 4AD artists, and like her old label mates Liz Fraser (Cocteau Twins) and Lisa Germano (Dead Can Dance), she had a crystal-clear soprano that was generally used in service of ethereal, misty soundscapes. Tarnation, her alt-country band, added some needed heft, however, and after a decade-long hiatus to pursue an unappreciated solo career, Paula’s back with her old bandmates. She still has a gorgeous voice, and she has a morbid streak to rival Nick Cave’s, but this time she has a great band to serve as a gritty foil to her macabre but airy songs. It’s beautifully spooky stuff.
John Reuben – Word of Mouth
Okay, John Reuben isn’t doing anything Beck hasn’t done for the past fifteen years. But Beck has his pasty face (as seen in Paste Magazine) plastered on the covers of music rags worldwide, while John Reuben is a relative unknown. But I love the musical mashup that Reuben concocts, banjos colliding with John Lee Hooker samples, strutting, in-your-face rhymes backed by Bootsy Collins funk bass and the most saccharine of Mantovani strings. And although Reuben is a sometimes hilarious smartass, there’s no denying the weight of his lyrical themes, as he wrestles with image versus reality, the hype machine versus the mundane and far more significant tasks of getting along with spouses, friends, and enemies.
Mas Rapido! – Pity Party
Mas Rapido! is NYC-by-way-of-Seattle duo Frank Bednash and Donna Esposito. Frank and Donna alternate songs on this noisy power pop outing. Frank is clearly enamored with second-generation Beatles knockoffs such as Badfinger and The Raspberries, and his half dozen originals are fine homages to those bands. But the real revelation is Donna Esposito, whose breathy, little-girl voice masks a sarcastic wit and edgy, suicidal sentiments. The killer riffs, courtesy of the aforementioned bands, The Kinks, and The Who, help to make the doom and gloom more palatable.
The Holmes Brothers – State of Grace
The Holmes Brothers’ play a brand of country blues/gospel that really hasn’t been in vogue since the glory days of The Staple Singers. Here the brothers, along with guests Joan Osborne and Levon Helm, apply their trademark harmonies and funk rhythms to several sparkling originals, as well as covers from Lyle Lovett, John Fogerty, and Hank Williams. It’s not that difficult to imagine “Bad Moon Rising” transformed into a gospel vamp. But how about Cheap Trick’s “I Want You To Want Me”? Believe it. The wonder is that they pull it off, and pull it off marvelously.
Elliott Brood – Ambassador
Canadian sadsack trio Elliott Brood sounds like Being There-era Wilco – all banjos and ragged feedback – and writes songs about loners, drunks, and dead-end love affairs. Hey, I miss that side of Jeff Tweedy, and it’s a lot better than ten minutes of A Ghost is Born-era amplifier hum.
Paula Fraser/Tarnation – Now It’s Time
Paula Fraser was one of the last of the great 4AD artists, and like her old label mates Liz Fraser (Cocteau Twins) and Lisa Germano (Dead Can Dance), she had a crystal-clear soprano that was generally used in service of ethereal, misty soundscapes. Tarnation, her alt-country band, added some needed heft, however, and after a decade-long hiatus to pursue an unappreciated solo career, Paula’s back with her old bandmates. She still has a gorgeous voice, and she has a morbid streak to rival Nick Cave’s, but this time she has a great band to serve as a gritty foil to her macabre but airy songs. It’s beautifully spooky stuff.
John Reuben – Word of Mouth
Okay, John Reuben isn’t doing anything Beck hasn’t done for the past fifteen years. But Beck has his pasty face (as seen in Paste Magazine) plastered on the covers of music rags worldwide, while John Reuben is a relative unknown. But I love the musical mashup that Reuben concocts, banjos colliding with John Lee Hooker samples, strutting, in-your-face rhymes backed by Bootsy Collins funk bass and the most saccharine of Mantovani strings. And although Reuben is a sometimes hilarious smartass, there’s no denying the weight of his lyrical themes, as he wrestles with image versus reality, the hype machine versus the mundane and far more significant tasks of getting along with spouses, friends, and enemies.
Mas Rapido! – Pity Party
Mas Rapido! is NYC-by-way-of-Seattle duo Frank Bednash and Donna Esposito. Frank and Donna alternate songs on this noisy power pop outing. Frank is clearly enamored with second-generation Beatles knockoffs such as Badfinger and The Raspberries, and his half dozen originals are fine homages to those bands. But the real revelation is Donna Esposito, whose breathy, little-girl voice masks a sarcastic wit and edgy, suicidal sentiments. The killer riffs, courtesy of the aforementioned bands, The Kinks, and The Who, help to make the doom and gloom more palatable.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Elvis Has Left the Building
I’ve just completed Peter Guralnick’s massive, two-volume biography of Elvis Presley, Last Train to Memphis: The Rise of Elvis Presley and Careless Love: The Unmaking of Elvis Presley. At nearly 1,200 pages, these books are clearly intended for the serious Elvis fan. And as music biographies, they are simply superb. Guralnick, without casting moral judgments, simply chronicles Elvis’s meteoric rise, long sojourn at the top of the cultural summit, and precipitous descent from the mountain.
By the time I started paying attention to music in the mid-1960s, Elvis was already past his prime. Upon his release from the army in 1960, he returned to the cultural spotlight as a romantic crooner, a schlockmeister, and the principal actor in a long string of bad movies. And, with the exception of a handful of worthwhile singles, he continued that way until his death in 1977. I missed the whole King of Rock ‘n Roll hype, and I never really understood what all the fuss was about. As far as I was concerned, Elvis was a cartoon character. He was Redneck Stud Man. He wore capes, like Superman and Batman, sang ridiculously over-the-top, embarrassing Vegas swill, and made middle-aged women squeal. Okay, I briefly considered the cape angle as a way to become a Chick Magnet, then dismissed it out of hand as absurd. And that’s the way I viewed Elvis. He was a buffoon, the surreal fantasy stud of a million bored Midwestern housewives. And I didn’t think much more about him.
Eventually, of course, I heard those fifties records. And I discovered, at least in part, what all the fuss was about. The guy had a voice for the ages, and when he used it on great material, as he did for most of the first four years of his career, he was a force of nature, a miracle. And his influence on popular music is incalculable. He was the great dividing line. After 1956 the musical world could be conveniently encapsulated as B.E. and A.E. All shook up was just about right. He was the earthquake that changed the way we heard music.
And all too soon he became an embarrassment – to those who loved good music, and, perhaps most profoundly, to himself. Guralnick’s books help to unlock that enigma, and show an enormously conflicted man – alternately kindhearted, mean-spirited, humble, self-absorbed, proud, and deeply ashamed. Elvis was capable of acts of great generosity, and he was also capable of the most flippant, uncaring insults. He believed his own hype, and yet he never quite felt comfortable in his own skin. Most disturbingly, he was a man who was defined by both his faith and his addictions, belting out “How Great Thou Art” in concert as if he meant it (and he probably did), all the while blasted out of his mind. His life was one big contradiction – the biggest star in the world circling the drain, watching his life become smaller and smaller with each passing year and each passing tour.
Elvis left the building quite a few years before he died. He checked out emotionally and never came back. I see parts of myself in him, and the contradictions that defined him are not unfamiliar to me. But he saddens me, this enormously gifted man. If I didn’t particularly like him before reading Peter Guralnick’s books, I like him now. His story is a peculiarly American tragedy, focused on the Bible Belt and conspicuous consumption, on the gaping hole in the soul that no amount of stuff, and no amount of adulation, could fill. He died as the King, seated on a porcelain throne, choking on his own vomit. No one has really worn the crown since him. I’m not sure why anyone would want to.
By the time I started paying attention to music in the mid-1960s, Elvis was already past his prime. Upon his release from the army in 1960, he returned to the cultural spotlight as a romantic crooner, a schlockmeister, and the principal actor in a long string of bad movies. And, with the exception of a handful of worthwhile singles, he continued that way until his death in 1977. I missed the whole King of Rock ‘n Roll hype, and I never really understood what all the fuss was about. As far as I was concerned, Elvis was a cartoon character. He was Redneck Stud Man. He wore capes, like Superman and Batman, sang ridiculously over-the-top, embarrassing Vegas swill, and made middle-aged women squeal. Okay, I briefly considered the cape angle as a way to become a Chick Magnet, then dismissed it out of hand as absurd. And that’s the way I viewed Elvis. He was a buffoon, the surreal fantasy stud of a million bored Midwestern housewives. And I didn’t think much more about him.
Eventually, of course, I heard those fifties records. And I discovered, at least in part, what all the fuss was about. The guy had a voice for the ages, and when he used it on great material, as he did for most of the first four years of his career, he was a force of nature, a miracle. And his influence on popular music is incalculable. He was the great dividing line. After 1956 the musical world could be conveniently encapsulated as B.E. and A.E. All shook up was just about right. He was the earthquake that changed the way we heard music.
And all too soon he became an embarrassment – to those who loved good music, and, perhaps most profoundly, to himself. Guralnick’s books help to unlock that enigma, and show an enormously conflicted man – alternately kindhearted, mean-spirited, humble, self-absorbed, proud, and deeply ashamed. Elvis was capable of acts of great generosity, and he was also capable of the most flippant, uncaring insults. He believed his own hype, and yet he never quite felt comfortable in his own skin. Most disturbingly, he was a man who was defined by both his faith and his addictions, belting out “How Great Thou Art” in concert as if he meant it (and he probably did), all the while blasted out of his mind. His life was one big contradiction – the biggest star in the world circling the drain, watching his life become smaller and smaller with each passing year and each passing tour.
Elvis left the building quite a few years before he died. He checked out emotionally and never came back. I see parts of myself in him, and the contradictions that defined him are not unfamiliar to me. But he saddens me, this enormously gifted man. If I didn’t particularly like him before reading Peter Guralnick’s books, I like him now. His story is a peculiarly American tragedy, focused on the Bible Belt and conspicuous consumption, on the gaping hole in the soul that no amount of stuff, and no amount of adulation, could fill. He died as the King, seated on a porcelain throne, choking on his own vomit. No one has really worn the crown since him. I’m not sure why anyone would want to.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
New Blog
No, this one isn't going away. But I'll be contributing to a new blog on a fairly regular basis at Paste Magazine's web site.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Calvin College Festival of Faith and Music
Let me put in a plug for the upcoming (March 30th - 31st) Festival of Faith and Music at Calvin College. The 2005 conference was an absolute blast, a wonderful, thought-provoking time, and a great opportunity to hang out with several hundred artists, journalists, academics, and uber music fans, and to think collectively about what it means to be a Christian involved in the arts.
This year's conference promises to be even better, with musical performances by Anathallo, Sufjan Stevens, Neko Case, and Emmylou Harris, and many fine opportunities for conversation/dialogue with those folks, as well as David Dark (Everyday Apocalypse: The Sacred Revealed in Radiohead, The Simpsons, and Other Pop Culture Icons), Lauren Winner (Girls Meets God), Steve Stockman (Walk On: The Spiritual Journey of U2), Paste Magazine editor Josh Jackson, and many more. And me. Along with Michael Kaufmann, head of Asthmatic Kitty Records (Sufjan Stevens, Halfhanded Cloud, My Brightest Diamond, etc.), I'm going to be playing a Simon Cowell-like character, judging new music from a bunch of musical hopefuls, and awarding the lucky winner a slot onstage with Sufjan, Neko, and Emmylou. It should be great fun, and I'm practicing my scowl in preparation.
This year's conference promises to be even better, with musical performances by Anathallo, Sufjan Stevens, Neko Case, and Emmylou Harris, and many fine opportunities for conversation/dialogue with those folks, as well as David Dark (Everyday Apocalypse: The Sacred Revealed in Radiohead, The Simpsons, and Other Pop Culture Icons), Lauren Winner (Girls Meets God), Steve Stockman (Walk On: The Spiritual Journey of U2), Paste Magazine editor Josh Jackson, and many more. And me. Along with Michael Kaufmann, head of Asthmatic Kitty Records (Sufjan Stevens, Halfhanded Cloud, My Brightest Diamond, etc.), I'm going to be playing a Simon Cowell-like character, judging new music from a bunch of musical hopefuls, and awarding the lucky winner a slot onstage with Sufjan, Neko, and Emmylou. It should be great fun, and I'm practicing my scowl in preparation.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Lowbrow Protestants vs. High Church Aesthetes
In the circles where I run, it's been stated as an axiom so many times that it's virtually unquestioned. But I confess that I find myself perplexed by the whole lowbrow Protestant vs. enlightened Catholic/Orthodox/Episcopalian view of the arts that is often set forth as indisputable fact. I just don't see it. It may have been true at one time, and certainly Reformed theologians such as Francis Schaeffer and Hans Rookmaaker wrote a lot of books several decades ago that were intended to counter a dismissive view of the arts that probably once characterized Protestantism. But is it true now?
Yeah, yeah, I know. On one side of this debate we have Michelangelo and Bernini and Flannery O'Connor and Walker Percy, and on the other side we have Carmen and Jesus Over the UN posters. But we also now have Marilynne Robinson and John Updike and Sufjan Stevens, artists of the highest order who are operating from a distinctly Protestant perspective. In other words, I don't think the assumed dichotomy is true now, and I don't think it's been true for a long time. We're now more than a generation removed from Francis Schaeffer and Hans Rookmaaker, and there is some evidence that their message stuck with the now balding, aging hippies who first heard it, and their children who have taken the pretty ball and run with it.
It's worth noting that many of the po-mo/emergent churches that are now all the rage take a very high view of the arts, and that art is an integral part of their worship services. The Cornerstone Music and Arts Festival (among others) attracts tens of thousands of (mostly) Protestants every year, who groove to their favorite bands and listen to lots of lectures about, you guessed it, the value of art. On a local, personal level, I am surrounded by church members and friends who have recording contracts, who display their paintings and sculptures in art galleries, who sponsor poetry slams, who own concert venues, and who write for national publications. And they are Protestants, and yes, even Calvinists to a certain degree, one and all.
Are there still more Protestants who don't give a rip about art than those who care about it passionately? Probably, but I'm not convinced that theology has much to do with it, and my guess is that there are also more Catholics, Orthodox, Episcopalians, Buddhists, and good old-fashioned Capitalist Consumer Materialists who don't give a rip about art than those who do. The solution, as always, is to look for and hang out with the people who do. But I'm not convinced that you'll find them more easily if you also look for candles and incense in the sanctuary.
Yeah, yeah, I know. On one side of this debate we have Michelangelo and Bernini and Flannery O'Connor and Walker Percy, and on the other side we have Carmen and Jesus Over the UN posters. But we also now have Marilynne Robinson and John Updike and Sufjan Stevens, artists of the highest order who are operating from a distinctly Protestant perspective. In other words, I don't think the assumed dichotomy is true now, and I don't think it's been true for a long time. We're now more than a generation removed from Francis Schaeffer and Hans Rookmaaker, and there is some evidence that their message stuck with the now balding, aging hippies who first heard it, and their children who have taken the pretty ball and run with it.
It's worth noting that many of the po-mo/emergent churches that are now all the rage take a very high view of the arts, and that art is an integral part of their worship services. The Cornerstone Music and Arts Festival (among others) attracts tens of thousands of (mostly) Protestants every year, who groove to their favorite bands and listen to lots of lectures about, you guessed it, the value of art. On a local, personal level, I am surrounded by church members and friends who have recording contracts, who display their paintings and sculptures in art galleries, who sponsor poetry slams, who own concert venues, and who write for national publications. And they are Protestants, and yes, even Calvinists to a certain degree, one and all.
Are there still more Protestants who don't give a rip about art than those who care about it passionately? Probably, but I'm not convinced that theology has much to do with it, and my guess is that there are also more Catholics, Orthodox, Episcopalians, Buddhists, and good old-fashioned Capitalist Consumer Materialists who don't give a rip about art than those who do. The solution, as always, is to look for and hang out with the people who do. But I'm not convinced that you'll find them more easily if you also look for candles and incense in the sanctuary.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Indie Superstars, and Other Conundrums
The morose, black-clad, cappuccino-sipping legions are about to get happy, or as happy as morose, black-clad legions ever get. Three of the biggest indie bands in the world are set to release new albums in the next few weeks. And soon the fiercely independent masses will genuflect in unison and proclaim their everlasting hipness. It’s a public relations dream and a logician’s nightmare: selling mass-marketed music to people who guard each shrink-wrapped disc and downloaded song as their closely guarded secret treasure, along with several hundred thousand other people who fit their demographic niche.
There was a time when “indie” was synonymous with “under the radar” – virtually unknown and unheralded. But a funny thing happened to “indie” in the early ‘90s. It became big business. Nirvana and Pearl Jam, the bastions of a very visible underground, sold a few million albums, and ever since then “indie” has been as prominent a marketing label as “Nike” or “Apple.” So when The Shins, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and The Arcade Fire drop their new albums in late January and early February, expect to witness some puzzling behavior. Hundreds of thousands of Zach Braff and Natalie Portman fans will rush out and buy the albums, secure in their knowledge that they and they alone (okay, along with one or two of their buddies) will have discovered the musical equivalent of the Holy Grail. They may even head to Best Buy or Wal-Mart to search for the treasure.
Don’t get me wrong. I like these bands. All three of them. And I don’t even wear black. But I am increasingly bemused by the lemming-like nature of “indie,” which used to stand for “independent.” So let me suggest that, along with your prized copies of Wincing the Night Away and Neon Bible, you pick up a copy of, oh, Merle Haggard’s Greatest Hits. How radically unhip would that be? I say go for it.
There was a time when “indie” was synonymous with “under the radar” – virtually unknown and unheralded. But a funny thing happened to “indie” in the early ‘90s. It became big business. Nirvana and Pearl Jam, the bastions of a very visible underground, sold a few million albums, and ever since then “indie” has been as prominent a marketing label as “Nike” or “Apple.” So when The Shins, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and The Arcade Fire drop their new albums in late January and early February, expect to witness some puzzling behavior. Hundreds of thousands of Zach Braff and Natalie Portman fans will rush out and buy the albums, secure in their knowledge that they and they alone (okay, along with one or two of their buddies) will have discovered the musical equivalent of the Holy Grail. They may even head to Best Buy or Wal-Mart to search for the treasure.
Don’t get me wrong. I like these bands. All three of them. And I don’t even wear black. But I am increasingly bemused by the lemming-like nature of “indie,” which used to stand for “independent.” So let me suggest that, along with your prized copies of Wincing the Night Away and Neon Bible, you pick up a copy of, oh, Merle Haggard’s Greatest Hits. How radically unhip would that be? I say go for it.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Italy
2007 will mark two important milestones in the life of the Whitman family. Kate and I will have been married 25 years. And Kate will experience one of those big “decade” birthdays, and since she was neither a teen bride nor a late-blooming wallflower, you can probably figure out which one. Thus, part of the holiday break was spent poring over travel guides and working out a tentative itinerary for the big blowout trip to Italy, which will coincide with both of our birthdays, and will be close enough to our anniversary without having to worry about snowstorms in the Alps. So, assuming ongoing employment and continued good health (knock on wooden prosthetic devices), we will ship the last kid off to college in mid-September, catch our breath for a bit, and then head out for a 16-day extravaganza. All by ourselves. No, you can’t come, but we’ll think fondly of you as we’re sipping vino and saying words such as “antipasto” and “gelato.”
This is where we’re thinking of going:
Venice (3 days)
Ravenna (1 day)
Florence (3 days)
Vernazza (Italian Riviera) (2 days)
Siena (1 day)
Assisi (1 day)
Rome (3 days)
Plus two days of travel time, and there you have it. This is something I’ve dreamed about doing all my life. And I can’t tell you how excited I am (although my kids can, and they’re ready to gag me if I utter one more word about it). I want to immerse myself in the culture. I want to take siestas. I want to talk with my hands. I want to have all my stereotypes blown to bits. If any of you have experienced Italy, I’d love to hear your recommendations, warnings, etc. We’re still in the preliminary planning stages, and it’s a long way off, but I’m already counting down the days.
This is where we’re thinking of going:
Venice (3 days)
Ravenna (1 day)
Florence (3 days)
Vernazza (Italian Riviera) (2 days)
Siena (1 day)
Assisi (1 day)
Rome (3 days)
Plus two days of travel time, and there you have it. This is something I’ve dreamed about doing all my life. And I can’t tell you how excited I am (although my kids can, and they’re ready to gag me if I utter one more word about it). I want to immerse myself in the culture. I want to take siestas. I want to talk with my hands. I want to have all my stereotypes blown to bits. If any of you have experienced Italy, I’d love to hear your recommendations, warnings, etc. We’re still in the preliminary planning stages, and it’s a long way off, but I’m already counting down the days.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Dreamgirls
I enjoyed the movie on one level. Certainly I thought Jennifer Hudson's and Eddie Murphy's performances were remarkable. And, as musicals go, this one was far better than most, and some of these songs could have legitimately stood on their own as great soul tracks from Motown or Stax.
But I guess I'm just not a musicals kind of guy. I admit that I'm not consistent about this. I'm just going by my gut reaction, and there's no logic to it. For some reason, I can watch rock 'n roll bands with painted faces, shooting fire out of their mouths or spitting blood, and just shrug it off and think, "Yep, just another normal day in Heavy Metal Hell." But when somebody switches from dialog to song in a play or movie, my mind can't make the transition. It was actually more difficult for me with Dreamgirls because many of the song lyrics were so pedestrian, and actually sounded like normal speech. The effect was something like this to my ears:
Diva (pleadingly): "Honey, would you pick up a pound of pastrami on your way home from work tonight?"
Boffo Tenor (with bravado): "Sure, right after I drop off the dry cleaning."
I just never want to sing about these things, and I'm always amazed when people do. I have similar problems with opera, although at least people are singing the whole way through, albeit in those sometimes boring recitatives that string the story along between the arias.
But I guess I'm just not a musicals kind of guy. I admit that I'm not consistent about this. I'm just going by my gut reaction, and there's no logic to it. For some reason, I can watch rock 'n roll bands with painted faces, shooting fire out of their mouths or spitting blood, and just shrug it off and think, "Yep, just another normal day in Heavy Metal Hell." But when somebody switches from dialog to song in a play or movie, my mind can't make the transition. It was actually more difficult for me with Dreamgirls because many of the song lyrics were so pedestrian, and actually sounded like normal speech. The effect was something like this to my ears:
Diva (pleadingly): "Honey, would you pick up a pound of pastrami on your way home from work tonight?"
Boffo Tenor (with bravado): "Sure, right after I drop off the dry cleaning."
I just never want to sing about these things, and I'm always amazed when people do. I have similar problems with opera, although at least people are singing the whole way through, albeit in those sometimes boring recitatives that string the story along between the arias.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Do They Know It's Christmas?
Nope. Not the poor, starving children in Africa. Not the movers and shakers in corporate America, either, where December 25th means it's almost the end of the year, and the end of the year means new budget allocations, and the chance to wrap up old projects before those new budgets go into effect. Remind me to breathe starting next week, which I'm hoping will be free of corporate American work. In the meantime, I'm chained to a computer keyboard for the duration of my waking hours.
Friday, December 15, 2006
The Receiver -- Decades
A pox on Radiohead. Although they were far from the first to attempt it, the marriage of electronica and indie rock heard on albums such as Kid A and Amnesiac has launched a veritable Radiohead Wannabe invasion, with countless insecure creeps crooning their angst-filled lyrics against the dissonant gurgle of synths and sci-fi spaceship blips and beeps. I probably receive one album per week that roughly fits those parameters.
So a new one showed up earlier this week -- Decades, by Columbus, Ohio's The Receiver. And it very quickly set itself apart from the morose, scowling pack. The Receiver are two brothers, Casey and Jesse Cooper. Jesse plays drums; Casey plays almost everything else, which includes synths, organ, piano, and bass. One Pastor Anthony Rogers plays cello.
So why should you care? For several reasons. First, Casey is a fine composer. And "composer" really is the operative word here. Decades is an album that needs to be heard as a whole, if only to hear the way Casey weaves his motifs in and out through the various songs. He's adept at the kind of symphonic post-rock synthesis that bands such as Godspeed You, Black Emperor and Sigur Ros work to perfection. Second, Jesse's drums, which are very much the product of a human being and not a machine, offer some much needed warmth and humanity to these lovely but icy soundscapes. Finally, Casey does a very credible Thom Yorke imitation -- a little more breathy than our Alienated Hero, but full of quiet passion and intensity.
The song lyrics are fuzzy odes to fading memories and disconsolate loss. They could be about God, a girlfriend, or a pet guppy. No matter. The Receiver's debut album is both challenging and lovely, and I can't wait to see what icy terrain they travel next.
So a new one showed up earlier this week -- Decades, by Columbus, Ohio's The Receiver. And it very quickly set itself apart from the morose, scowling pack. The Receiver are two brothers, Casey and Jesse Cooper. Jesse plays drums; Casey plays almost everything else, which includes synths, organ, piano, and bass. One Pastor Anthony Rogers plays cello.
So why should you care? For several reasons. First, Casey is a fine composer. And "composer" really is the operative word here. Decades is an album that needs to be heard as a whole, if only to hear the way Casey weaves his motifs in and out through the various songs. He's adept at the kind of symphonic post-rock synthesis that bands such as Godspeed You, Black Emperor and Sigur Ros work to perfection. Second, Jesse's drums, which are very much the product of a human being and not a machine, offer some much needed warmth and humanity to these lovely but icy soundscapes. Finally, Casey does a very credible Thom Yorke imitation -- a little more breathy than our Alienated Hero, but full of quiet passion and intensity.
The song lyrics are fuzzy odes to fading memories and disconsolate loss. They could be about God, a girlfriend, or a pet guppy. No matter. The Receiver's debut album is both challenging and lovely, and I can't wait to see what icy terrain they travel next.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Nick Cave and Danny Cohen
Yesterday the U.S. Postal Service was good to me and dropped off new albums from Nick Cave and Danny Cohen.
Nick's new band, called Grinderman, will release their debut album in April. The music is actually a throwback to Nick's early band The Bad Seeds -- not too surprising since the Grinderman guys are all alumni of that band (as well as The Cramps, The Triffids, and Dirty Three). Given the pedigree, it shouldn't be too much of a shock that the music is loud, raunchy, primal blues punk, not unlike Iggy and the Stooges, but with a far more literate songwriter fronting the whole ramshackle mess. The first single is called "No Pussy Blues" and goes "I bought her a dozen snow white doves/I did her dishes in rubber gloves … but she still didn’t want to, she just never wants to.” Okay, that doesn't sound all that literate. But it has a certain universal appeal.
Danny Cohen, whose new album is called Shade of Dorian Gray, is one strange but strangely appealing dude. I loved his last album We're All Gunna Die, and after one listen, the new one does not disappoint at all. Danny sings in a craggy baritone that wanders in and out of pitch, and writes long, rambling, discursive odes about '50s TV shows and women who lock themselves in the bathroom for days on end. He offers three songs about death ("Death Waltz," "Rigor Mortis," and "Beneath the Shroud" -- the latter loosely based on "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch"). His primary musical accompaniment is church organ and drunken Salvation Army band. Just your standard Top 40 fare. I suspect this one could end up on my Best of 2007 list. We'll see. It will be released on February 6th.
Nick's new band, called Grinderman, will release their debut album in April. The music is actually a throwback to Nick's early band The Bad Seeds -- not too surprising since the Grinderman guys are all alumni of that band (as well as The Cramps, The Triffids, and Dirty Three). Given the pedigree, it shouldn't be too much of a shock that the music is loud, raunchy, primal blues punk, not unlike Iggy and the Stooges, but with a far more literate songwriter fronting the whole ramshackle mess. The first single is called "No Pussy Blues" and goes "I bought her a dozen snow white doves/I did her dishes in rubber gloves … but she still didn’t want to, she just never wants to.” Okay, that doesn't sound all that literate. But it has a certain universal appeal.
Danny Cohen, whose new album is called Shade of Dorian Gray, is one strange but strangely appealing dude. I loved his last album We're All Gunna Die, and after one listen, the new one does not disappoint at all. Danny sings in a craggy baritone that wanders in and out of pitch, and writes long, rambling, discursive odes about '50s TV shows and women who lock themselves in the bathroom for days on end. He offers three songs about death ("Death Waltz," "Rigor Mortis," and "Beneath the Shroud" -- the latter loosely based on "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch"). His primary musical accompaniment is church organ and drunken Salvation Army band. Just your standard Top 40 fare. I suspect this one could end up on my Best of 2007 list. We'll see. It will be released on February 6th.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Baby's First Metallica
The resourcefulness and general oddity of marketeers never ceases to amaze me. Lately I have been the recipient of not one, but two new CDs especially designed to introduce our youngest headbangers to the arcane world of rock ‘n roll. First it was Blues Clues and Veggie Tales. Then it was Mozart and Bach for the baby Einsteins. Now it’s Metallica and The Beatles, presented in nice, colorful, eye-catching packages and cute little storybooks.
What self-respecting parent wouldn’t want to pick up a copy of Rockabye Baby: Lullaby Renditions of Metallica for little Thor or Ozzy? These are recognizable renditions of “Enter Sandman,” “Master of Puppets,” etc., but they are presented as soothing lullabies. Even better, there are instructions for how to transform the packaging into a precious Heavy Metal Mobile to hang over baby’s bed. I am not making this up.
The Beatles CD, which hasn’t yet been released, features moderately-known indie rockers and has-beens such as Marshall Crenshaw and Grandaddy singing famous Lennon/McCartney tunes, accompanied by a children’s choir. The accompanying wooden story book (wouldn’t want baby Ringo to rip the pages) features handy little Life Lessons that mom and dad can read aloud to the little moptops as they listen to the stirring sounds of “Magical Mystery Tour” (here’s a helpful suggestion: it’s coming to take you away, but it’s probably best if the toddlers don’t hear that; read those Life Lessons loudly) and “All You Need is Love.”
I should note that there are also lullaby kiddie renditions of Pink Floyd, Coldplay (as if the originals weren’t good enough), Radiohead, Led Zeppelin, Tool, Nirvana, and The Cure. But I haven’t heard them. I’m tempted to pick up the Nirvana just to hear what “Smells Like Teen Spirit” would sound like as a bedtime nocturne. At any rate, here we are now, entertain us. And the marketeers have done their best.
What self-respecting parent wouldn’t want to pick up a copy of Rockabye Baby: Lullaby Renditions of Metallica for little Thor or Ozzy? These are recognizable renditions of “Enter Sandman,” “Master of Puppets,” etc., but they are presented as soothing lullabies. Even better, there are instructions for how to transform the packaging into a precious Heavy Metal Mobile to hang over baby’s bed. I am not making this up.
The Beatles CD, which hasn’t yet been released, features moderately-known indie rockers and has-beens such as Marshall Crenshaw and Grandaddy singing famous Lennon/McCartney tunes, accompanied by a children’s choir. The accompanying wooden story book (wouldn’t want baby Ringo to rip the pages) features handy little Life Lessons that mom and dad can read aloud to the little moptops as they listen to the stirring sounds of “Magical Mystery Tour” (here’s a helpful suggestion: it’s coming to take you away, but it’s probably best if the toddlers don’t hear that; read those Life Lessons loudly) and “All You Need is Love.”
I should note that there are also lullaby kiddie renditions of Pink Floyd, Coldplay (as if the originals weren’t good enough), Radiohead, Led Zeppelin, Tool, Nirvana, and The Cure. But I haven’t heard them. I’m tempted to pick up the Nirvana just to hear what “Smells Like Teen Spirit” would sound like as a bedtime nocturne. At any rate, here we are now, entertain us. And the marketeers have done their best.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Tim Buckley
Tim Buckley is the finest singer of the 1960s. That will raise some eyebrows (including mine, if I think too hard about it), and it's maybe a little exaggerated given the rarefied company of other contemporary artists such as Aretha Franklin, Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, and Van Morrison. But the point is that everybody knows Aretha, Otis, Marvin, and Van, and almost no one knows Tim Buckley.
Which is too bad, because his voice was a force of nature, and his music was as restlessly creative and searching as any music released during that incredibly fertile decade. You want to discover the template used by sadsack romantics from Nick Drake to Elliott Smith? Listen to Tim Buckley or Goodbye and Hello. You want to hear jazz magically ported to the folk idiom? Listen to Happy/Sad or Blue Afternoon. You want to hear a guy who was as avant-garde and "outside" as Ornette Coleman or Captain Beefheart? Listen to Lorca or Starsailor. You want to hear one of the great soul albums of the early '70s? Listen to Greetings from L.A. And if you want to hear it all merged and taken to dizzying soulful heights, listen to Dream Letter, maybe my favorite live album ever.
The guy had a four-octave range, he oozed soul, and his early ballads ("Once I Was" just slays me, after all these years) were heartbreakingly lovely. That's a pretty great combination, enough to convince me that there's at least minor heartbreak in the fact that his music is all but forgotten today.
Oh yeah ... Tim's son Jeff was (yes, sadly, was) pretty great, too, and his debut album Grace is frequently listed in the Top 100 Albums of All Time lists that curmudgeonly critics like to compile. But here's the deal: Tim was better. You owe it to yourself to check out his music.
Which is too bad, because his voice was a force of nature, and his music was as restlessly creative and searching as any music released during that incredibly fertile decade. You want to discover the template used by sadsack romantics from Nick Drake to Elliott Smith? Listen to Tim Buckley or Goodbye and Hello. You want to hear jazz magically ported to the folk idiom? Listen to Happy/Sad or Blue Afternoon. You want to hear a guy who was as avant-garde and "outside" as Ornette Coleman or Captain Beefheart? Listen to Lorca or Starsailor. You want to hear one of the great soul albums of the early '70s? Listen to Greetings from L.A. And if you want to hear it all merged and taken to dizzying soulful heights, listen to Dream Letter, maybe my favorite live album ever.
The guy had a four-octave range, he oozed soul, and his early ballads ("Once I Was" just slays me, after all these years) were heartbreakingly lovely. That's a pretty great combination, enough to convince me that there's at least minor heartbreak in the fact that his music is all but forgotten today.
Oh yeah ... Tim's son Jeff was (yes, sadly, was) pretty great, too, and his debut album Grace is frequently listed in the Top 100 Albums of All Time lists that curmudgeonly critics like to compile. But here's the deal: Tim was better. You owe it to yourself to check out his music.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Holiday Roundup
Two new Christmas albums and one old favorite.
Sufjan Stevens – Songs for Christmas
You’ve got to be at least a little suspicious of a man so enamored with exclamation points. Here, everyone’s favorite banjo/oboe player offers sprightly holiday originals such as “Hey Guys! It’s Christmas Time!,” “Come On! Let’s Boogie to the Elf Dance!,” and “Get Behind Me, Santa!,” and more traditional exclamatory fare such as “Lo! How a Rose E’er Blooming” and Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!” In spite of such decidedly insistent titles, the music is often quiet and contemplative.
It is what it is: five years’ worth of Sufjan screwing around, not trying too hard, and making holiday music for his family and friends. But when you’re a certified indie superstar, your every festive fart must be released to the demanding public. The end result, captured on 5 EP-length CDs here, is wildly uneven, sometimes dreadful, and occasionally brilliant. But the brilliance ultimately wins me over. For every half-assed, under-rehearsed song (and there are a lot of them here), there are stunning arrangements of “What Child is This?” and “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” Even better, Sufjan understands that the light of the stable shines brightest in the darkness, and the darkness is reflected in both the choice of traditional carols (“O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” with its minor-key melody and mournful longing) and in the sometimes disarmingly honest originals such as “Did I Make You Cry on Christmas Day? (Well, You Deserved It!)” which, in spite of its ponderous, exclamatory title, is one of the saddest Christmas tunes written since Joni Mitchell wanted to skate away on a frozen river. In the end, and despite my aversion to the kitsch, I have to pronounce it as Pretty Good!!!
Various Artists – Oy to the World! A Klezmer Christmas
Only one exclamation point in this one. There is the star of wonder, and then there is just plain wondering: in this case, about a Christmas album recorded by Jewish klezmer musicians. So I am left to wonder.
But what is here is an absolute delight: classic Christmas carols (“Deck the Halls,” “Away in a Manger,” “Carol of the Bells”). Originals with titles such as “Santa, Geh Gezunder Heit” (Yiddish for “go in good health”). Wailing clarinets. A quote from Nino Rota’s “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly” interjected into the middle of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” A surf instrumental haphazardly appended to “The Little Drummer Boy.” Fans of Johnny Mathis and Nat King Cole should probably cover their ears. But for irreverent, and decidedly non-stereotypical fare, this is both as traditional and as odd as it gets.
George Winston – December
Have you ever noticed that people who are attracted to the Druids – New Agers and Metal Heads – are generally into crappy music? Most reviews will tell you that December is a New Age album, and that George Winston is a New Age pianist. And that pains me because it’s a label that conjures visions in my mind of people listening to blissed out, boring Jazz Lite as they meditate at Stonehenge. In other words, Druid lovers.
So let me detonate the stereotype. Druids would not like this music. New Agers wouldn’t really like it, either. It’s lovely all right, but in places it’s complex and knotty, and Winston’s originals zig when you expect them to zag. They are consistently surprising, and the improvisation he employs, particularly on well-known classical pieces and carols such as Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” and “The Holly and the Ivy.” reflect the heart of a restless experimentalist. Operating somewhere near the nebulous intersection of folk and jazz, Winston created a work of stark, minimalist beauty, and twenty-five years after its release, December sounds as fresh and vital as ever. This is still my favorite holiday album, and if you own only one non-New Age/Druid Fest release, this should be the one.
Sufjan Stevens – Songs for Christmas
You’ve got to be at least a little suspicious of a man so enamored with exclamation points. Here, everyone’s favorite banjo/oboe player offers sprightly holiday originals such as “Hey Guys! It’s Christmas Time!,” “Come On! Let’s Boogie to the Elf Dance!,” and “Get Behind Me, Santa!,” and more traditional exclamatory fare such as “Lo! How a Rose E’er Blooming” and Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!” In spite of such decidedly insistent titles, the music is often quiet and contemplative.
It is what it is: five years’ worth of Sufjan screwing around, not trying too hard, and making holiday music for his family and friends. But when you’re a certified indie superstar, your every festive fart must be released to the demanding public. The end result, captured on 5 EP-length CDs here, is wildly uneven, sometimes dreadful, and occasionally brilliant. But the brilliance ultimately wins me over. For every half-assed, under-rehearsed song (and there are a lot of them here), there are stunning arrangements of “What Child is This?” and “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” Even better, Sufjan understands that the light of the stable shines brightest in the darkness, and the darkness is reflected in both the choice of traditional carols (“O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” with its minor-key melody and mournful longing) and in the sometimes disarmingly honest originals such as “Did I Make You Cry on Christmas Day? (Well, You Deserved It!)” which, in spite of its ponderous, exclamatory title, is one of the saddest Christmas tunes written since Joni Mitchell wanted to skate away on a frozen river. In the end, and despite my aversion to the kitsch, I have to pronounce it as Pretty Good!!!
Various Artists – Oy to the World! A Klezmer Christmas
Only one exclamation point in this one. There is the star of wonder, and then there is just plain wondering: in this case, about a Christmas album recorded by Jewish klezmer musicians. So I am left to wonder.
But what is here is an absolute delight: classic Christmas carols (“Deck the Halls,” “Away in a Manger,” “Carol of the Bells”). Originals with titles such as “Santa, Geh Gezunder Heit” (Yiddish for “go in good health”). Wailing clarinets. A quote from Nino Rota’s “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly” interjected into the middle of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” A surf instrumental haphazardly appended to “The Little Drummer Boy.” Fans of Johnny Mathis and Nat King Cole should probably cover their ears. But for irreverent, and decidedly non-stereotypical fare, this is both as traditional and as odd as it gets.
George Winston – December
Have you ever noticed that people who are attracted to the Druids – New Agers and Metal Heads – are generally into crappy music? Most reviews will tell you that December is a New Age album, and that George Winston is a New Age pianist. And that pains me because it’s a label that conjures visions in my mind of people listening to blissed out, boring Jazz Lite as they meditate at Stonehenge. In other words, Druid lovers.
So let me detonate the stereotype. Druids would not like this music. New Agers wouldn’t really like it, either. It’s lovely all right, but in places it’s complex and knotty, and Winston’s originals zig when you expect them to zag. They are consistently surprising, and the improvisation he employs, particularly on well-known classical pieces and carols such as Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” and “The Holly and the Ivy.” reflect the heart of a restless experimentalist. Operating somewhere near the nebulous intersection of folk and jazz, Winston created a work of stark, minimalist beauty, and twenty-five years after its release, December sounds as fresh and vital as ever. This is still my favorite holiday album, and if you own only one non-New Age/Druid Fest release, this should be the one.
Gibbering Idiot Unable to Operate Word's Most Intuitive Machine
Well, you know, these things never go entirely smoothly. At least they never do at the Whitman house.
We bought the three-year extended warranty. Given our current track record, it just seemed like a wise thing to do. So in attempting to register the warranty and ensure that we were covered, I discovered that I needed something called an Apple ID. Okay, no big deal. So I went to the Apple support site and attempted to create an Apple ID. The first three times (all after re-typing name, address, phone, and some nineteen-digit alphanumeric monstrosity whose purpose I forget, etc.) were unsuccessful. Somebody had already claimed the Apple IDs I coveted. The fourth time I was able to create a unique Apple ID. Swell. I was then able to use my Apple ID to link to the correct page, and register my iMac. Except I couldn't make it happen. The serial number of the machine is on the back of the machine, as well as on the box. I checked them both, and they were both clearly labeled as "Serial Number." Same number. Cool. That's the number I entered when prompted to do so. I checked and double checked and triple checked. The error message told me that the serial number wasn't recognized. So ... sometime this evening I'll attempt to talk to a real human being and get my iMac registered. The entire process, up to this point, has only taken, oh, about an hour and fifteen minutes. And we still don't have an official extended warranty.
Then there is the mystery of attempting to set up email accounts that will, in theory, allow us each to have email addresses ending in mac.com. There is a nice, handy, friendly wizard that walks us through the process. And we (as in three of us, who all attempted this) have invariably ended on the last screen with the message, "Unable to create email account." How informative. I have no idea what we're doing or not doing to end up with uncreatable accounts. We seem to have a special knack for these types of things.
We have an external hard drive (where virtually our entire digital lives are backed up) that seems to be recognized some times, but not others. Who knows why? Not me.
Then there is iTunes. All our music files reside on the external hard drive because I didn't want them hogging the (formerly limited) hard drive of our former PC. Now that we have a 500GB hard drive it's not a big deal, but since they're already on the external drive, I'd prefer to keep them there. Except iTunes doesn't recognize the fact that we have, between three of us, roughly 60GB of music files on the external hard drive. iTunes comes up, and is as pure and blank as a fresh snowfall. On the occasions when I can actually navigate to the external hard drive, the directories where I know, where I am absolutely positive, our music resides, show nothing in them. This is not good, and there is, of course, no way to go from the iPod to iTunes, which would help us resolve this little dilemma. It only works the other way.
I am a reasonably intelligent guy. I have three college degrees. And I hear all the marvellous tales of how intuitive iMacs are, how they virtually run themselves, and I end up feeling like a gibbering idiot.
I have yet to install Age of Empires III, but I'm hoping that the process will go smoothly. After a night like last night, all I really want to do is conquer the world. Maybe I'll get around to it this weekend.
We bought the three-year extended warranty. Given our current track record, it just seemed like a wise thing to do. So in attempting to register the warranty and ensure that we were covered, I discovered that I needed something called an Apple ID. Okay, no big deal. So I went to the Apple support site and attempted to create an Apple ID. The first three times (all after re-typing name, address, phone, and some nineteen-digit alphanumeric monstrosity whose purpose I forget, etc.) were unsuccessful. Somebody had already claimed the Apple IDs I coveted. The fourth time I was able to create a unique Apple ID. Swell. I was then able to use my Apple ID to link to the correct page, and register my iMac. Except I couldn't make it happen. The serial number of the machine is on the back of the machine, as well as on the box. I checked them both, and they were both clearly labeled as "Serial Number." Same number. Cool. That's the number I entered when prompted to do so. I checked and double checked and triple checked. The error message told me that the serial number wasn't recognized. So ... sometime this evening I'll attempt to talk to a real human being and get my iMac registered. The entire process, up to this point, has only taken, oh, about an hour and fifteen minutes. And we still don't have an official extended warranty.
Then there is the mystery of attempting to set up email accounts that will, in theory, allow us each to have email addresses ending in mac.com. There is a nice, handy, friendly wizard that walks us through the process. And we (as in three of us, who all attempted this) have invariably ended on the last screen with the message, "Unable to create email account." How informative. I have no idea what we're doing or not doing to end up with uncreatable accounts. We seem to have a special knack for these types of things.
We have an external hard drive (where virtually our entire digital lives are backed up) that seems to be recognized some times, but not others. Who knows why? Not me.
Then there is iTunes. All our music files reside on the external hard drive because I didn't want them hogging the (formerly limited) hard drive of our former PC. Now that we have a 500GB hard drive it's not a big deal, but since they're already on the external drive, I'd prefer to keep them there. Except iTunes doesn't recognize the fact that we have, between three of us, roughly 60GB of music files on the external hard drive. iTunes comes up, and is as pure and blank as a fresh snowfall. On the occasions when I can actually navigate to the external hard drive, the directories where I know, where I am absolutely positive, our music resides, show nothing in them. This is not good, and there is, of course, no way to go from the iPod to iTunes, which would help us resolve this little dilemma. It only works the other way.
I am a reasonably intelligent guy. I have three college degrees. And I hear all the marvellous tales of how intuitive iMacs are, how they virtually run themselves, and I end up feeling like a gibbering idiot.
I have yet to install Age of Empires III, but I'm hoping that the process will go smoothly. After a night like last night, all I really want to do is conquer the world. Maybe I'll get around to it this weekend.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
iMac Daddy
So yesterday we bought this. We went with the 24" display and upgraded the memory to 2GB. Otherwise, we went with the standard iMac, which in and of itself is pretty cool.
Setup took all of about, oh, three minutes. We had to connect a mouse and keyboard to the back of the computer, and plug the Roadrunner cable into a USB port, but the overall experience basically entailed taking it out of the box and plugging it in the wall.
I've never seen such a sleek and cable-free design. It's very cool. And that 24" display is truly dazzling.
Then it took my picture. I set up my account, was momentarily puzzled by an onscreen notification to smile, and then was surprised by the fact that my grizzled visage actually appeared on the screen. I'm not sure if I like this, but there you go. With an internal microphone and an internal camera, I am apparently ready to teleconference myself and podcast myself to the world. Look out.
We decided not to go the Parallels route (at least for the time being). We did buy the Mac version of Office, and old docs created with MS Word opened without a hitch. And I bought Age of Empires III. If I cannot literally take over the world, I can at least now virtually do so.
Setup took all of about, oh, three minutes. We had to connect a mouse and keyboard to the back of the computer, and plug the Roadrunner cable into a USB port, but the overall experience basically entailed taking it out of the box and plugging it in the wall.
I've never seen such a sleek and cable-free design. It's very cool. And that 24" display is truly dazzling.
Then it took my picture. I set up my account, was momentarily puzzled by an onscreen notification to smile, and then was surprised by the fact that my grizzled visage actually appeared on the screen. I'm not sure if I like this, but there you go. With an internal microphone and an internal camera, I am apparently ready to teleconference myself and podcast myself to the world. Look out.
We decided not to go the Parallels route (at least for the time being). We did buy the Mac version of Office, and old docs created with MS Word opened without a hitch. And I bought Age of Empires III. If I cannot literally take over the world, I can at least now virtually do so.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Mac Daddy?
The Dell, which is less than three years old, appears to be headed for the Great Computer Scrapyard in the Sky. It's currently being examined by the Computer Doctors at MicroCenter, where I suspect they will tell me that it is so badly hosed by viruses that they will need to wipe the hard drive clean and start again. It's been running verrrrrry, verrrrrry sloooooowly (as in it takes five minutes to launch an application). Very, very strange things happen when it is running (Windows Explorer disappeared; how does that happen?; and my brand spankin' new external hard drive isn't recognized anymore).
Maybe it can be repaired. But frankly, I'm so sick of viruses, spam, adware, etc. that I'm about ready to play Elvis and shoot the @#$% thing. We pay relatively big bucks for the usual suite of firewall, anti-virus, anti-spam, anti-adware stuff, and none of it seems to do any good.
So ... we may be ready to make the big move to Apple. Yes, I know what some of you are thinking. But we stayed with Dells because it was relatively easy to move files back and forth between work, which is (and always will be?) a Windows world, and home.
So let me solicit your advice, particularly those of you who are Apple devotees:
1) Viruses are virtually non-existent on Apple computers. True or false?
2) The latest Apple models can run Windows applications? True or false? (This is still a huge consideration in my world.)
3) If the answers to 1 and 2 are true, which Apple desktop in the $2K - $3K range would you recommend? Thanks for your help.
Maybe it can be repaired. But frankly, I'm so sick of viruses, spam, adware, etc. that I'm about ready to play Elvis and shoot the @#$% thing. We pay relatively big bucks for the usual suite of firewall, anti-virus, anti-spam, anti-adware stuff, and none of it seems to do any good.
So ... we may be ready to make the big move to Apple. Yes, I know what some of you are thinking. But we stayed with Dells because it was relatively easy to move files back and forth between work, which is (and always will be?) a Windows world, and home.
So let me solicit your advice, particularly those of you who are Apple devotees:
1) Viruses are virtually non-existent on Apple computers. True or false?
2) The latest Apple models can run Windows applications? True or false? (This is still a huge consideration in my world.)
3) If the answers to 1 and 2 are true, which Apple desktop in the $2K - $3K range would you recommend? Thanks for your help.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Hipper-Than-Thou Rock Critics
Books & Culture currently features an article by Mark Gavreau Judge entitled "Please Flush: Why Rock Critics Need to Re-Read Lester Bangs and JP II." You can read the entire article here.
Judge takes rock critics to task for their elitist attitudes. He begins his article:
"Let's impose a moratorium on rock critics. Now. A few months ago, I came across this line by critic David Dunlap, Jr.: "[The band] Windsor for the Derby has plenty of experience jumping subgenres … everything from slo-core to krautrock to electronica to its current flavor of Mancunian-tinged postrock."
Call me square, dismiss me as an oldster, but I think when you're referring to Mancunian-tinged postrock, it's time to hang it up. Pop music criticism has grown so insular, full of itself, hipper-than-thou, and, most important, aesthetically disjointed from the thing it claims to examine that we'd best start over ..."
Call me overly sensitive, but what's a rock critic to do? The problem is that for at least the last thirty years, the best, most creative, and most influential rock music has existed on the fringes. You won't hear it on MTV. And unless you live in one of the three or four genuine cultural outposts of creativity in the U.S., or have discovered the wonders of Internet radio, the non-obsessive music fan is simply not going to be exposed to it. I understand Judge's whining about "Mancunian-tinged postrock." It sounds like an insular, hipper-than-thou statement that is designed to inflate the ego of the rock critic and deflate the egos of the 98 percent of the world that has never heard The Stone Roses, Lush, or The Boo Radleys. But in fact there is such a thing as "the Manchester sound," and there is such a thing as postrock, and when you combine those influences, you may very well end up with something that sounds like Mancunian-tinged postrock. You could compare Windsor for the Derby to Britney Spears, an artist who is known throughout the world. But Windsor for the Derby doesn't sound like Britney Spears. They sound like Mancunian-tinged postrock.
Rock critics are, by and large, elitist snobs who write for elitist snobs. There's no getting around it. But the hipper-than-thou factor can be mitigated by the kinds of human connections that Judge promotes in his article. And I agree with him. I don't want to read album reviews that are more about the reviewer than the music. And I don't want to read a laundry list of musical sub-genres and influences, either, although a short list is usually helpful. What I do want to read is why I, the reader, should care about this particular album. What does it sound like, and what does it say? But you know what? Sometimes it sounds like Mancunian-tinged postrock, and any other comparison with a better-known artist/band will be wide of the mark. In those circumstances, I'd like to think that instead of whining, the serious music fan might check out the Manchester sound and postrock, and might eventually arrive at Mancunian-tinged postrock.
Judge takes rock critics to task for their elitist attitudes. He begins his article:
"Let's impose a moratorium on rock critics. Now. A few months ago, I came across this line by critic David Dunlap, Jr.: "[The band] Windsor for the Derby has plenty of experience jumping subgenres … everything from slo-core to krautrock to electronica to its current flavor of Mancunian-tinged postrock."
Call me square, dismiss me as an oldster, but I think when you're referring to Mancunian-tinged postrock, it's time to hang it up. Pop music criticism has grown so insular, full of itself, hipper-than-thou, and, most important, aesthetically disjointed from the thing it claims to examine that we'd best start over ..."
Call me overly sensitive, but what's a rock critic to do? The problem is that for at least the last thirty years, the best, most creative, and most influential rock music has existed on the fringes. You won't hear it on MTV. And unless you live in one of the three or four genuine cultural outposts of creativity in the U.S., or have discovered the wonders of Internet radio, the non-obsessive music fan is simply not going to be exposed to it. I understand Judge's whining about "Mancunian-tinged postrock." It sounds like an insular, hipper-than-thou statement that is designed to inflate the ego of the rock critic and deflate the egos of the 98 percent of the world that has never heard The Stone Roses, Lush, or The Boo Radleys. But in fact there is such a thing as "the Manchester sound," and there is such a thing as postrock, and when you combine those influences, you may very well end up with something that sounds like Mancunian-tinged postrock. You could compare Windsor for the Derby to Britney Spears, an artist who is known throughout the world. But Windsor for the Derby doesn't sound like Britney Spears. They sound like Mancunian-tinged postrock.
Rock critics are, by and large, elitist snobs who write for elitist snobs. There's no getting around it. But the hipper-than-thou factor can be mitigated by the kinds of human connections that Judge promotes in his article. And I agree with him. I don't want to read album reviews that are more about the reviewer than the music. And I don't want to read a laundry list of musical sub-genres and influences, either, although a short list is usually helpful. What I do want to read is why I, the reader, should care about this particular album. What does it sound like, and what does it say? But you know what? Sometimes it sounds like Mancunian-tinged postrock, and any other comparison with a better-known artist/band will be wide of the mark. In those circumstances, I'd like to think that instead of whining, the serious music fan might check out the Manchester sound and postrock, and might eventually arrive at Mancunian-tinged postrock.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Jovial Company, Joe, and J.O.
As we do every year (24 and counting for me; longer than that for many other family members), we ventured down to Old Man’s Cave State Park to spend three days with Kate’s family over the Thanksgiving holidays. It was a wonderful time – thirty-five people hanging out in eight adjacent cabins, talking, eating and drinking, and hiking. Lots of hiking. For you non-Buckeyes, there is actually a corner of the state (the southeast one) that butts up against West Virginia, and that can be considered to be relatively scenic. It’s not the Grand Canyon, but there are canyons, and ravines, and caves, and hills that the natives somewhat euphemistically refer to as mountains, and miles and miles of unspoiled natural beauty. It is, in fact, one of my favorite places on earth, at least partly because of the wonderful memories I’ve accumulated there over the past 24 years. There are four generations of us now; the nephews and nieces are all grown up and have kids of their own. But they still drive from Chicago and Washington D.C. with the toddlers in tow to be a part of it. I think that speaks volumes. In this day and age we’re all a part of something remarkable – a functional family – and at the end of three days everybody still likes each other. I’m so thankful that I can be a part of it.
So we hiked at places called Conkle’s Hollow and Old Man’s Cave and Rock House and Cedar Falls and Ash Cave. My mother-in-law, who will be 90 next month, joined us for the paved hike down to Ash Cave. There’s something to be said for those hardy German genes.
On Saturday, my niece Heather and I ventured down to Athens, Ohio, the home of Ohio University, where I went to school back in the pioneer days. Okay, but it was the Nixon, Ford, and Carter administrations. Close enough. We strolled around the deserted campus, which will soon be home to my youngest daughter Rachel, and I realized that I will indeed look forward to visiting this idyllic little college town on a fairly regular basis. I picked up a few used CDs (Destroyer, Cat Power, Sandy Denny, Iron and Wine, Sparklehorse) on the cheap at Haffa’s in uptown Athens. Haffa’s opened when I was a student at O.U. in the mid-‘70s, and it’s still there. That was great to see.
Before we left on Thursday I received a very gracious e-mail message from Joe Henry. Joe Henry is a music producer, friend to the stars, Hollywood maverick, father, husband of Madonna’s sister, and the best singer/songwriter you’ve probably never heard. At any rate, I wrote about him in the latest issue of Paste because I really love his music, and he was kind enough to send me a wonderful reply. Sometimes I wonder if all the late nights and weekends spent staring at a keyboard even matter. And then I receive a note like that and I remember. If I can help a few people connect with such a talented artist, then I will be happy.
Finally, another friend, Jeffrey Overstreet, is about to publish his first book, entitled “Through a Screen Darkly: Looking Closer at Beauty, Truth and Evil in the Movies.” Y’all should read it. You can check out a review of JO’s book from Publisher’s Weekly right here.
So we hiked at places called Conkle’s Hollow and Old Man’s Cave and Rock House and Cedar Falls and Ash Cave. My mother-in-law, who will be 90 next month, joined us for the paved hike down to Ash Cave. There’s something to be said for those hardy German genes.
On Saturday, my niece Heather and I ventured down to Athens, Ohio, the home of Ohio University, where I went to school back in the pioneer days. Okay, but it was the Nixon, Ford, and Carter administrations. Close enough. We strolled around the deserted campus, which will soon be home to my youngest daughter Rachel, and I realized that I will indeed look forward to visiting this idyllic little college town on a fairly regular basis. I picked up a few used CDs (Destroyer, Cat Power, Sandy Denny, Iron and Wine, Sparklehorse) on the cheap at Haffa’s in uptown Athens. Haffa’s opened when I was a student at O.U. in the mid-‘70s, and it’s still there. That was great to see.
Before we left on Thursday I received a very gracious e-mail message from Joe Henry. Joe Henry is a music producer, friend to the stars, Hollywood maverick, father, husband of Madonna’s sister, and the best singer/songwriter you’ve probably never heard. At any rate, I wrote about him in the latest issue of Paste because I really love his music, and he was kind enough to send me a wonderful reply. Sometimes I wonder if all the late nights and weekends spent staring at a keyboard even matter. And then I receive a note like that and I remember. If I can help a few people connect with such a talented artist, then I will be happy.
Finally, another friend, Jeffrey Overstreet, is about to publish his first book, entitled “Through a Screen Darkly: Looking Closer at Beauty, Truth and Evil in the Movies.” Y’all should read it. You can check out a review of JO’s book from Publisher’s Weekly right here.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Favorite Music of 2006
No, it’s not the end of the year. But we’re in the traditional dead time in which no self-respecting musician/band releases new music. So, working on the assumption that no masterpiece will be forthcoming when people are distracted by turkey and tinsel, I offer you my favorite albums from 2006.
In spite of the moaning from Corporate Musicdom, it’s actually been a great year for music, one of the best since the early ‘90s. Old farts like Paul Simon and Donald Fagen have released their best music in decades. Bob Dylan arose from his wheelchair and delivered another great album. Thanks to the Internet, the proliferation of new indie labels, and a DIY aesthetic, new musicians and bands can release the music they want, regardless of pressure from A&R types at big music conglomerates. As a consequence, all kinds of new and interesting sounds are readily available. And people, for whatever reasons, have mostly stopped buying albums from whoever happens to win the latest I Wanna Be a Star in Vegas reality karaoke program. All of this is cause for great rejoicing.
Disclaimers
The Top Ten
10. The BellRays – Have a Little Faith
Take one singer with the biggest Afro you’ve ever seen. Give her Aretha Franklin’s voice. Then put her in a room with a bunch of guys weaned on Led Zeppelin, The Stooges, and The MC5. Except for one anomaly (“Third Time’s the Charm,” which sounds like Aretha Franklin fronting the Stax/Volt band), that’s what Have a Little Faith sounds like. I like Robert Plant as much as the next Boomer, but he’s no Aretha. And Aretha never did an Iggy Pop cover, either. That’s the strange mashup that characterizes this album, and it’s a wondrous thing.
9. Lambchop – Damaged
One of the most idiosyncratic of bands, Lambchop keeps its string of great albums intact. Damaged is ersatz lounge music that is anything but easy listening. Dripping with countrypolitan strings, Kurt Wagner’s music sounds, on the surface, like the backdrop to classic tunes from the likes of Patsy Cline or Ray Price. Eventually you decipher the enigmatic mumble, though, and discover oddly telling reveries about loss and regret, aging and death. Just like Patsy, Kurt Wagner falls to pieces, but he does it in a way that only he could do.
8. Iarla O Lionaird – Invisible Fields
Iarla O Lionaird, leader of Afro Celt Sound System, has the soaring tenor and warm brogue that melts hearts in every faux-Irish pub throughout America. But he’s not singing “Danny Boy”; he’s singing the traditional Gaelic songs of his native Galway. More impressively, he’s welded those ancient melodies to the decidedly modern beats of Beck and Royksopp and a wall of sound that recalls Sigur Ros and Mogwai. It’s a glorious din.
7. Donald Fagen – Morph the Cat
Donald Fagen is still too cool for school, and if sonically he has never really moved beyond the ‘70s Steely Dan classics Katy Lied and Aja, he’s at least updated the sentiments. This time out he explores the claustrophobic, fearful world of post-9/11 New York, and in the process creates a masterful song cycle about aging and death. Consider “Brite Nitegown,” an incredibly funky, booty-shaking song about the Grim Reaper, as Exhibit A in how to dance on your own grave.
6. The Decemberists – The Crane Wife
The major label didn’t hurt at all, did it? Colin Meloy still writes with thesaurus in hand, and he’s still hung up on the traditional folk music of the British Isles and esoteric historical themes. His band has also been listening to Emerson, Lake and Palmer and early Peter Gabriel and Genesis, and on the two twelve-minute prog rock suites here they feature everything but the rotating drum kit. It’s okay. They’re saved from Penultimate Pomposity by the idiosyncratic writing and by Meloy’s undeniable melodic gifts. “Yankee Bayonet” is as fine an anti-war statement as you will ever want to hear, even if its subject matter is the American Civil War, and the two prog-rock suites make me want to put on a cape. Ask my wife if that’s a good thing.
5. Birdmonster – No Midnight
The debut album has been greeted with lukewarm reviews. I don’t care. I still love it. It’s literate, it features a great, unhinged lead vocalist (operating in the fine tradition of Talking Heads’ David Byrne and Arcade Fire’s Win Butler), and it rocks like crazy. If The Strokes or Interpol had a lead singer who dropped the bored, ironic affectations and was actually involved with the proceedings, this is what they might sound like.
4. Scott H. Biram – Graveyard Shift
Biram is a one-man-band who does White Stripes/Black Keys minimalism one better. He handles lead and harmony vocals, CB radio, loudspeaker, breathing, harmonica, gut, all acoustic and electric guitars, Hammond B3 organ, homemade footstomp board, hi hat, tambourine, claps, hambone, table thump, special effects, and random noises. He doesn’t so much play the guitar as bludgeon it. He sings about sin and salvation, Jesus, weed, 18 wheelers, the wonders of inebriation, how much he hates work, wanting to find someone to love, and wanting to murder his lover. This is a raw and dirty tantrum, more Saturday night than Sunday morning, but there’s still a fascinating spiritual tussle at work here. It all ads up to amateurism taken to a breathtakingly belligerent, soulful level. If Hank Williams had grown up listening to Johnny Rotten, this is what he might have sounded like.
3. Jolie Holland – Springtime Can Kill You
Jolie Holland sidesteps the whole folk vs. jazz debate that characterized the reviews of her first two albums, and heads straight for the front parlor. Her music evokes images of a far different time; Woody Guthrie riding the rails during the Great Depression, maybe, or the years when a blues lament was more likely to be heard from the front porch of a tarpaper shack than a concert stage. But Holland’s lyrics – sultry, deeply sexual, intensely poetic – stand in sharp contrast to the sepia-toned nature of the music. She’s a marvelous writer. She’s also the best singer working today, period, and her phrasing is impeccable. Some have argued that her voice is an acquired taste. Only if you have to work really hard to listen to Billie Holiday.
2. The Hold Steady – Boys and Girls in America
Boys and Girls in America is great rock ‘n roll – the archetypal Americana of Bruce Springsteen and the ramshackle glory of The Replacements, all rolled into one. It features a songwriter who is dead set on writing the 45-minute musical equivalent of the Great American Novel. It’s sweeping and grand and desperate, full of hope and fear, and if you’re a longtime student of the genre, it will make you want to do cartwheels even at a relatively advanced age, because it will remind you of everything that is good and great about the icons, from Elvis, Lennon, and Dylan right into the present day. It’s almost perfect. And maybe next time Craig Finn can figure out a way to make rock ‘n roll about something other than sex and drugs. They’re great themes. But I suspect they’ve been done before. Once or twice.
1. Camera Obscura – Let's Get Out of This Country
Camera Obscura’s Tracyanne Campbell is a throwback to the Brenda Lee’s or Leslie Gore’s of the early 1960s. She’s sweet, she’s wholesome, and she’s slightly nondescript. That is, until you start listening to what she has to say. Let’s Get Out of This Country is the ultimate breakup album, and Campbell’s vocal sweetness masks a deep sorrow. She’s a wondrous writer, capable of touching deep wells of heartache, and on songs like “Lloyd, I’m Ready to be Heartbroken” and “Tears for Affairs,” her Everywoman delivery is all the more profound because of its universal appeal. These are breezy three-minute pop tunes about having everything you live for sucked right out of your soul. In short, it’s a perfect pop record, the kind that would have sounded great in 1962, and the kind that sounds just as great in 2006.
The Best of the Rest
After that it gets murky, but these are albums I liked a lot this year:
00100 – Taiga
Band of Horses – Everything All the Time
Beck – The Information
Beirut – Gulag Orkestar
Benevento Russo Duo - Play Pause Stop
Blood Meridian – Kick up the Dust
Solomon Burke – Nashville
Don Byron – Do the Boomerang: The Music of Junior Walker
Neko Case – Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
Johnny Cash - American V: A Hundred Highways
Dirty Dozen Brass Band - What's Goin' On
Johnny Dowd – Cruel Words
Bob Dylan – Modern Times
Elanors – Movements
Jeremy Enigk – World Waits
Melody Gardot – Worrisome Heart
Vince Gill – These Days
Gnarls Barkley - St. Elsewhere
Gomez - How We Operate
Steve Goodman – Live at the Earl of Old Town
Horse Feathers – Words Are Dead
Alan Jackson – Like Red on a Rose
James Hunter - People Gonna Talk
The Kennedys – Songs of the Open Road
Ray Lamontagne - Till The Sun Turns Black
Mastodon – Blood Mountain
Scott Miller – Citation
Van Morrison – Pay the Devil
Jim Noir - Tower of Love
Pernice Brothers – Live a Little
The Sails – The Sails
Silversun Pickups – Carnavas
Paul Simon – Surprise
Mindy Smith – Long Island Shores
Chris Smither – Leave the Light On
Bruce Springsteen – We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions
Sufjan Stevens – The Avalanche
Subtle – For Hero: For Fool
Sugarland – Enjoy the Ride
K.T. Tunstall – Eye to the Telescope
Derek Trucks Band – Songlines
TV on the Radio – Return to Cookie Mountain
Tom Waits – Orphans: Brawlers, Bawlers, and Bastards
M. Ward – Post-War
Tom Ze – Estudando o Pagode
Best Box Sets/Reissues
Karen Dalton – In My Own Time
Brian Eno and David Byrne – My Life in the Bush of Ghosts
John Lee Hooker – Hooker
Willie Nelson – The Complete Atlantic Sessions
Gram Parsons – Fallen Angel
Andy Partridge – Fuzzy Warbles Vols. 1 - 8
Most Overrated Albums of 2006
They’re not terrible, and Kevin Federline is in no imminent danger of losing his Most Loathsome Album of 2006 crown. But in the absence of a new Coldplay album this year, I offer you:
T Bone Burnett - The True False Identity
Flaming Lips – At War with the Mystics
Grandaddy – Just Like the Fambly Cat
Lady Sovreign – Public Warning
The Raconteurs – Broken Toy Story
Most Likely Home-Schooled Hippie to Release Pretentious Twaddle
Joanna Newsom – Ys
Friday, November 17, 2006
Buckeye Nation
I am at work, munching on my sandwich during my lunch hour. People around me are singing. Normally staid, sober, middle-aged Ohioans are making fools of themselves, decked out in full Buckeye regalia, belting out the Ohio State University fight song, shaking pompoms and pennants, and cavorting like young bucks (and Bucks).
This is an odd time of year. Oh, I understand it. I’ve lived in Columbus most of my life, and these attitudes are deeply embedded in my DNA. I remember meeting St. Woody Hayes in line at Lazarus one day when I was a kid. Woody shook my hand and told me to study hard. I felt like I had touched the hem of God. I wrote a paper when I was in eighth grade on the topic: “Your Favorite Day.” My favorite day was November 23rd, 1968, a day in which the Ohio State Buckeyes, on their way to the national championship, demolished the Michigan Wolverines by a score of 50 – 14. That was the game in which Woody, already up by 34 points with less than two minutes to go in the game, went for a two-point conversion, and made it. When asked later why he had gone for two when he already had a clearly insurmountable lead, Woody replied, “Because I couldn’t go for three.”
When you grow up in central Ohio, certain eternal verities are deeply ingrained: the great enemies of freedom and the American way are Communism, godlessness, and the University of Michigan, and not necessarily in that order. It was only much later in life, in fact when I was an adult, that I dared step foot in Ann Arbor, Michigan and found that it was an attractive college town, and that its inhabitants were not horned and fanged.
So there’s this football game tomorrow. It’s a big game. It’s always a big game, The Biggest Game, in fact. But this time it’s even bigger. The Buckeyes are undefeated, and ranked #1 in the nation. The Wolverines are undefeated, and ranked #2 in the nation. The winner of the game will most likely go on to win the national championship.
I ought to care. And in some sense, I do. But I can’t help it. Every year about this time I get embarrassed to be in Columbus, Ohio. Because I also know that sometime tomorrow some unlucky or clueless person will have his car torched for the simple reason that it has Michigan license plates. People who have the audacity to wear Michigan regalia in Columbus, Ohio will be, on the bright side, ridiculed and belittled, and on the dark side, verbally and/or physically assaulted. After the game people will burn dumpsters and couches. Don’t ask me why. You win a football game, you burn the city down. Or, you lose a football game, you burn the city down. It’s just what we do.
The singing appears to be wrapping up now. I am going to attempt to hide in my cubicle and make myself as inconspicuous as possible. I made the mistake of wearing a blue shirt to work today. I didn’t think about it. I just reached in the closet and grabbed a shirt. I’m hoping that the minivan won’t be in flames when I leave for home in a few hours.
This is an odd time of year. Oh, I understand it. I’ve lived in Columbus most of my life, and these attitudes are deeply embedded in my DNA. I remember meeting St. Woody Hayes in line at Lazarus one day when I was a kid. Woody shook my hand and told me to study hard. I felt like I had touched the hem of God. I wrote a paper when I was in eighth grade on the topic: “Your Favorite Day.” My favorite day was November 23rd, 1968, a day in which the Ohio State Buckeyes, on their way to the national championship, demolished the Michigan Wolverines by a score of 50 – 14. That was the game in which Woody, already up by 34 points with less than two minutes to go in the game, went for a two-point conversion, and made it. When asked later why he had gone for two when he already had a clearly insurmountable lead, Woody replied, “Because I couldn’t go for three.”
When you grow up in central Ohio, certain eternal verities are deeply ingrained: the great enemies of freedom and the American way are Communism, godlessness, and the University of Michigan, and not necessarily in that order. It was only much later in life, in fact when I was an adult, that I dared step foot in Ann Arbor, Michigan and found that it was an attractive college town, and that its inhabitants were not horned and fanged.
So there’s this football game tomorrow. It’s a big game. It’s always a big game, The Biggest Game, in fact. But this time it’s even bigger. The Buckeyes are undefeated, and ranked #1 in the nation. The Wolverines are undefeated, and ranked #2 in the nation. The winner of the game will most likely go on to win the national championship.
I ought to care. And in some sense, I do. But I can’t help it. Every year about this time I get embarrassed to be in Columbus, Ohio. Because I also know that sometime tomorrow some unlucky or clueless person will have his car torched for the simple reason that it has Michigan license plates. People who have the audacity to wear Michigan regalia in Columbus, Ohio will be, on the bright side, ridiculed and belittled, and on the dark side, verbally and/or physically assaulted. After the game people will burn dumpsters and couches. Don’t ask me why. You win a football game, you burn the city down. Or, you lose a football game, you burn the city down. It’s just what we do.
The singing appears to be wrapping up now. I am going to attempt to hide in my cubicle and make myself as inconspicuous as possible. I made the mistake of wearing a blue shirt to work today. I didn’t think about it. I just reached in the closet and grabbed a shirt. I’m hoping that the minivan won’t be in flames when I leave for home in a few hours.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
U 218 Singles
On the front cover the "2" and the "1" are suspicously close together, so it looks like you're getting 218 singles for about $15. Which would be a good deal.
Instead, you're getting eighteen songs, sixteen of which you've already heard far too frequently, and which have already been packaged and re-packaged ad nauseum in various Greatest Hits configurations. For $15. That's not such a good deal.
I hate when bands do this, even if they are led by the Messiah. I like Bono. I respect what he has done in terms of AIDS and African debt relief. But I would respect him more if he and his bandmates would stop repackaging their music and doling out the new stuff in pitifully small doses. This is an album nobody needs, and it will probably sell gazillions of copies. Maybe, on the bright side, all the profits will go to African debt relief. You think?
Instead, you're getting eighteen songs, sixteen of which you've already heard far too frequently, and which have already been packaged and re-packaged ad nauseum in various Greatest Hits configurations. For $15. That's not such a good deal.
I hate when bands do this, even if they are led by the Messiah. I like Bono. I respect what he has done in terms of AIDS and African debt relief. But I would respect him more if he and his bandmates would stop repackaging their music and doling out the new stuff in pitifully small doses. This is an album nobody needs, and it will probably sell gazillions of copies. Maybe, on the bright side, all the profits will go to African debt relief. You think?
Yusuf -- An Other World
You all know Yusuf, formerly Yusuf Islam, formerly Cat Stevens. Back in his feline days he was better than just about anybody at framing philosophical conundrums and spiritual questions as part of perfectly realized three-minute pop songs.
But that was a long time ago, and his conversion to Islam and his subsequent critical commentaries on western culture have alienated him from much of his old audience. And he hasn't exactly been prolific in the musical department, either, offering a few dour doctrinal discourses over the past three decades, and little else.
So An Other Cup is an unexpected return. To be sure, Yusuf is very much a Muslim, and he'd like you to know how important his faith is in his life. But a few didactic moments aside, I'm impressed by how warm and welcoming this album sounds. Yusuf's voice is virtually unchanged from the '70s, and that's a very good thing indeed. His melodic pop gifts are intact, as is at least part of the classic band that made Tea for the Tillerman and Teaser and the Firecat so memorable. Newcomer (for Yusuf) Youssou N'Dour adds stirring vocals. Most significantly, in songs like "Maybe There's a World" Yusuf allows us to see through the cracks, as he admits that he's not perfect, and that he's not the man he'd like to be. How about that? The humanity, long the hallmark of his early '70s recordings, is still there, and this time it's front and center. This is far from the man's best work, but it's really, really nice to have him back.
But that was a long time ago, and his conversion to Islam and his subsequent critical commentaries on western culture have alienated him from much of his old audience. And he hasn't exactly been prolific in the musical department, either, offering a few dour doctrinal discourses over the past three decades, and little else.
So An Other Cup is an unexpected return. To be sure, Yusuf is very much a Muslim, and he'd like you to know how important his faith is in his life. But a few didactic moments aside, I'm impressed by how warm and welcoming this album sounds. Yusuf's voice is virtually unchanged from the '70s, and that's a very good thing indeed. His melodic pop gifts are intact, as is at least part of the classic band that made Tea for the Tillerman and Teaser and the Firecat so memorable. Newcomer (for Yusuf) Youssou N'Dour adds stirring vocals. Most significantly, in songs like "Maybe There's a World" Yusuf allows us to see through the cracks, as he admits that he's not perfect, and that he's not the man he'd like to be. How about that? The humanity, long the hallmark of his early '70s recordings, is still there, and this time it's front and center. This is far from the man's best work, but it's really, really nice to have him back.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Joanna Newsom
Joanna Newsom, everyone's favorite fairy princess, has a new album called Ys (pronounced "ees").
I waver in my reaction to Ms. Newsom, but I vacillate between grudging admiration of her sheer audacity, and hoots of laughter over her ridiculously overwrought persona and songwriting. Fly away, my dearest darling, with your alliteration and your elusive, effusive allusions, on moonbeams and butterfly wings. Call me when you've found a voice and you've put away the damned thesaurus.
To be sure, we have entered the most indie sanctum when someone can alternately coo and shriek words like
you froze in your sand shoal
prayed for your poor soul
sky was a bread roll, soaking in a milk-bowl
and when the bread broke, fell in bricks of wet smoke
my sleeping heart woke, and my waking heart spoke
then there was a silence you took to mean something:
mean, run, sing
for alive you will evermore be
and the plague of the greasy black engines a-skulkin'
has gone east
while you're left to explain them to me
released from their hairless and blind cavalry
and then carry on in a similar manner for another sixteen minutes, all in the same song. This is an achievement of sorts, although I'm content to note it and move on to something else, very quickly. A doubter I will evermore be. Meanwhile, the harpist was a-pluckin', and the scene kids were a-swoonin', and the critics were a-pukin', all in the month of May.
I waver in my reaction to Ms. Newsom, but I vacillate between grudging admiration of her sheer audacity, and hoots of laughter over her ridiculously overwrought persona and songwriting. Fly away, my dearest darling, with your alliteration and your elusive, effusive allusions, on moonbeams and butterfly wings. Call me when you've found a voice and you've put away the damned thesaurus.
To be sure, we have entered the most indie sanctum when someone can alternately coo and shriek words like
you froze in your sand shoal
prayed for your poor soul
sky was a bread roll, soaking in a milk-bowl
and when the bread broke, fell in bricks of wet smoke
my sleeping heart woke, and my waking heart spoke
then there was a silence you took to mean something:
mean, run, sing
for alive you will evermore be
and the plague of the greasy black engines a-skulkin'
has gone east
while you're left to explain them to me
released from their hairless and blind cavalry
and then carry on in a similar manner for another sixteen minutes, all in the same song. This is an achievement of sorts, although I'm content to note it and move on to something else, very quickly. A doubter I will evermore be. Meanwhile, the harpist was a-pluckin', and the scene kids were a-swoonin', and the critics were a-pukin', all in the month of May.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
K-Fed, Instinct, and Block "O"
It's not just politics. Spin is everywhere. Within the past 24 hours:
- I've received a new rap album from Kevin Federline, current but soon to be ex-spouse of everybody's favorite former Mouseketeer, Britney Spears. Federline's album has received the most universally damning critical reviews of any album released this year, and inspired quips such as "Other rappers might hesitate to brag about marrying into bling, but Federline isn't self-conscious about it" and "Here's a novelty: Playing With Fire is a concept album about squandering Britney Spears' fortune." Apparently at a loss for how to encapsulate Federline's shtick, his publicist notes in the breathless press release I received: "He enunciates well."
- I've read about actress Denise Richards, who threw a couple laptops off a second-story balcony Thursday night. According to Richards' publicist, "To protect her safety, she instinctively knocked the paparazzo's laptops off a ledge." I love the "instinctively" part of that quote. It has been this way since early man first scrawled pictures of Power Macs on cave walls. You see laptops, you knock 'em off a ledge. It's embedded deep within our DNA.
- I've been bemused by an ad for a local pizza establishment, which is advertising "Block O" pizza on Saturdays when the Buckeyes play football. A "Block O" pizza is a pizza with pepperoni in the shape of an "O" near the center of the pizza. Normally, this pizza establishment advertizes "edge-to-edge pepperoni." Here they put on one third the pepperoni and charge $2 more per pizza for the privilege. Brilliant. And go Bucks.
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