Crash

I don't have a crystal ball. I don't know what's happening to America, or what the future may hold. But like a lot of other Americans, I've been thinking and praying a lot. And I've been doing a lot of wondering.

I'm starting with a couple basic assumptions. One can love and serve God and be employed. And when one is employed, one earns money. Money is needed to live. We don't barter in livestock and crops. We barter with money. And money, at least in the western culture that I live in, buys not only food and shelter, but also high-definition television sets and iMacs and the trip to Italy for one's 25th wedding anniversary.

In such a culture, one's relationship with money can become quite complicated. As a Christian I am taught that I should not store up treasure on earth, but that I should store up treasure in heaven. As a Christian, I am also taught that the love of money is the root of all evil, and so fairly routinely I ask myself questions such as, "How can you be more generous with what you have?" and "What can you give away?" because I am aware of how easily I can become ensnared by money and the false security it promises. As a Christian, I am also taught to emulate the industrious ant, who stores up something for the future (apparently not treasure, lest he/she/it should contradict Jesus), and to not emulate the sluggard who gives no thought for tomorrow. And as an American Christian, I also see quite clearly the folly of not preparing for the future, and as part of the Baby Boomer generation that has exemplified the "live for today and don't worry about tomorrow" philosophy more than any other, I see the stupidity of people, now aging, now retiring, who have not prepared for the future and who now have no idea how they're going to continue to live. They've squandered their money, and their hearts just keep on ticking.

How have I resolved that conundrum? I've saved throughout my working life, starting with my first paycheck from my first real job. And I've kept at it, paycheck after paycheck, for almost thirty years. I've invested in the stock market, because when one's retirement savings are tied up in a 401K account, as most working Americans' savings are, that's how one does it. I've lived within my means, purchasing cars and homes that I can afford, and paying off debts immediately whenever possible. I've turned down more lucrative job opportunities because I wasn't willing to trade time for money. And I've given more and more away as my income has increased throughout my career.

My guess is that my story isn't all that different from that of many American Christians. Obviously I've purchased things that I didn't need. I didn't need to go to Italy. But that certainly was a wonderful celebration. And I've watched, sometimes contentedly, sometimes not, as my neighbors bought more stuff, and I've wrestled nearly constantly with the notion of what it means to be a Christian in a land of plenty, and I've tried to surround myself with other Christians who will routinely challenge me on what it means to be a rich Christian who is called to love and serve the poor.

So now it may all come crashing down. I've realized a basic fact. My money in the bank has been a sort of security -- the security that life will continue much as I have known it. Is that a bad thing? I don't think so. I'm fairly sure that I've been able to serve God during my lifetime, and that I would be able to serve God if life had continued much as it had before. And I'll be able to serve God if I'm flat broke, too, with the single caveat that I won't be able to give as much away. But there will be great regrets if the bottom is out of the tub. I'll regret it that I won't be able to pay for my daughters' college educations, educations that I've planned for and saved for. I'll regret it that I won't be able to pay for their weddings, if and when those days occur. I'll look at my life, at 53, and note the health problems that are already there, and wonder how in the hell I am supposed to keep working forever and pay the bills if medical science keeps me alive to the extent that the heart keeps on ticking but the rest of the body doesn't want to comply.

Blessed be the name of the Lord. Truly. That is the ultimate bottom line for me. But I hope you'll permit me some anger and frustration toward the greedy bastards who have gotten us into this mess, and who have proven conclusively that the love of money really is the root of all evil. And I'll hope you'll allow me a bit of grief and sorrow at what may be passing away. What I and many other people may be losing does not seem illusory. It seems real. And blessed be the name of the Lord.

Plea for Help

I wish I could claim it as my own, but I can't. This was forwarded to me from a friend. Source is unknown.

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Dear American:

I need to ask you to support an urgent secret business relationship with a transfer of funds of great magnitude.

I am Ministry of the Treasury of the Republic of America. My country has had crisis that has caused the need for large transfer of funds of 700 billion dollars US. If you would assist me in this transfer, itwould be most profitable to you. I am working with Mr. Phil Gramm, lobbyist for UBS, who will be my replacement as Ministry of the Treasury in January. As a Senator, you may know him as the leader of the American banking deregulation movement in the 1990s. This transaction is 100% safe. This is a matter of great urgency. We need a blank check. We need the funds as quickly as possible. We cannot directly transfer these funds in the names of our close friends because we are constantly under surveillance.

My family lawyer advised me that I should look for a reliable and trustworthy person who will act as a next of kin so the funds can be transferred. Please reply with all of your bank account, IRA and college fund account numbers and those of your children and grandchildren to wallstreetbailout@treasury.gov so that we may transfer your commissionfor this transaction. After I receive that information, I will respond with detailed information about safeguards that will be used to protect the funds.

Yours Faithfully,

Minister of Treasury Paulson

Where Is the Prog Love?

It's gotta be the shimmering robes. Once again the Prog wing (Yes, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Genesis, Jethro Tull, and if we're feeling rationally self-interested, Rush) has been snubbed by the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame.

Granted, Rick Wakeman (the keyboard player for Yes pictured here) is the poster child for Modern Elfwear, not for the snarling adolescent rebellion for which rock 'n roll is known and loved. And yes, it's hard to imagine Galadriel and the Hellcats. But still ... those bands made a lot of great albums and played a lot of great shows. No, really. And it's high time for a critical reassessment of the music.

Taking nothing away from this year's nominee Iggy Pop, who could bludgeon with the best of them, the Prog wizards made complex, beautiful, and frequently moving music, and they could play their instruments extraordinarily well, a fault for which they were summarily dismissed during the heady days of punk. But maybe we should rethink that. Yes, there were wretched excesses, and if I never hear another Toccata and Fugue on a Theme from The Hobbit again, I will be quite happy. But Fragile? Close to the Edge? Selling England by the Pound? Thick as a Brick? Brain Salad Surgery? I'll take any and all of the above over the Neanderthal leer of "I Wanna Be Your Dog."

But that's just me. I do know this: it's all theater. But somewhere along the way the keepers of the rock 'n roll canon decreed that bodies smeared in blood were cool and bodies covered in shimmering robes were not. Whatever. I'll continue to go my unhip way and champion the wizards.

Indie Roundup -- Querulous Barking Edition

I’m a guy who likes idiosyncratic – some would say bad – singing. Tom Waits and Bob Dylan are my heroes. But even I have my limits. These three indie bands push me to the brink. None of these albums are horrid, parts of them are very good, and all of them have moments of inspired creativity. But oh, those voices.

The Spinto Band – Moonwink

There are problems, but I generally like this album. The Spinto Band features no band members named Spinto, and that’s not the only surprise. Lead singer Nick Krill is a true barker, but at least he’s a carnival barker, and there’s a madcap Talking Heads/Clap Your Hands Say Yeah circus atmosphere that imbues most of these songs. Krill has also mastered the sophisticated, world-weary proto-Glam of Cole Porter, and opening track “Later On” sounds like what Cole might have written if he had lived 75 years later and had worked way, way off Broadway.

Vocal style: David Byrne meets chihuahua.

Johnny Foreigner – Waited Up ‘Til It Was Light

Featuring not one but two barkers, a boy and a girl, who alternate yips and sometimes howl in tandem. She’s off key. He squawks in a wounded parrot kind of way and doesn’t know what a key is. But the guitars are bracingly frenetic, and the stop/start rhythms keep things consistently interesting. Think of it as a great instrumental indie album with unfortunate vocal interludes.

Vocal style: Geddy Lee meets basset hound

These New Puritans – Beat Pyramid

We need a new genre label. What does one call a revival of the late ’70s/early ‘80s post-punk music of Wire, Gang of Four, and PiL? Post-post-punk? No, that would be very, very bad. Triple P marketing tags aside, These New Puritans sound a lot like Wire and Gang of Four and Public Image Ltd. They entitle songs “4” and “H,” although neither seems to be agriculturally related. Lead singer Jack Barnett barks earnestly if somewhat slobberingly about numbers and Elvis and infinity.

Vocal style: Johnny Rotten meets Scooby Doo.

Gimme Some Truth

I've had enough of reading things
By neurotic, psychotic, pig-headed politicians
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
-- John Lennon, "Gimme Some Truth"

Here's a National Review Poll from September 19th that proves conclusively that John McCain shaved off 8 points from Barack Obama's lead last week in terms of voter perception on which candidate could best handle an economic crisis.

Yeah, well, I'll see that poll, and raise you a poll.

The next day, the September 20th Gallup Poll showed Obama ahead 50% to 44%, and with a lead that had widened over the past week.

Umm, sure. So ... who do you believe? For what it's worth, I wouldn't make too much of any of it. It's just a recognition that in the too-much-information age we can find anything, and usually multiple anythings, to substantiate our particular views and biases. We can certainly find "scientific" polls and polls of polls.

It makes me wonder how one can be an informed voter. I'd like to be an informed voter. And there is no lack of printed and pixelated material that passes for information. But from what I've seen (and I include myself in this as well), we tend to retreat to our favorite publications and web sites and blogs that reinforce our own preconceptions and that say what we want to hear.

My own contribution to information overload: I would bet that 90% of the American voting population views the upcoming presidential election as enormously important, one that will have very significant impacts on the future of America. And I would bet that 90% of the voting population believes that it is impossible to receive accurate, objective, unbiased information about the two major candidates. So we make our voting decisions based on our preconceptions and biases, just as we always have. But this time we add a veneer of objectivity to it, and we can provide multiple hyperlinks to prove it.

Herbert Hoover Redux

It's been a big week for fans of Herbert Hoover. First, on Tuesday, we had John McCain channeling the Depression-era president by echoing, almost word-for-word, Hoover's pronouncement that the U.S. economy is fundamentally strong. And now look: we have a fresh renaissance of Hoovervilles. What next? Prohibition?

Power to the People

That's Ohio governor Ted Strickland. He has a flashlight strapped to his head, which is not a look that is going to win acclaim in the fashion boudoirs of NYC, but a guy's gotta see. And since the power is off in the governor's mansion for the fifth day in a row, Ted has taken to imitating a coal miner.

Five days ago the remnants of Hurricane Ike swept through Columbus, bringing 75 MPH winds that knocked out the power, pretty much everywhere. Ours came back in about twelve hours, but many sections of central Ohio are still without power, and may be without power until Sunday or Monday, more than a week after the storm. A day without power is an inconvenience and a nuisance. A week without power is called a State of Emergency, and affects nearly all of life. Businesses can't operate. Traffic lights don't work, making travel hazardous. Grocery stores can't refrigerate food. And so on. It's a mess.

If you see a line worker up on a power pole, give him a round of applause. And tell him to hurry up.

Forgetting Ohio

A snippet of an actual conversation that occurred a couple days ago:

Dad: How did Kate like New York?

Me: No, dad, that was my daughter, Katryn. Kate is my wife. Katryn's been back from New York since May, and now she's starting her senior year at Kent State.

Sister: That reminds of that Neil Young song about forgetting.

Me: Forgetting? I don't think I know that one.

Sister: Sure you do. You know. (Sings) Forgetting Ohio.

Me: Oh, that one. Yeah, that's a classic.

Don't ask. Yes, she was serious.

Signs of the Forthcoming Apocalypse

The indie rock website Idolator has a thread in which readers/posters discuss signs of the impending apocalypse. One of the signs listed is my recent review of the Hold Steady album Stay Positive in Christianity Today Magazine.

Just doing my part to hasten the Day of the Lord. If you're interested in reading the review, you can check it out here.

David Foster Wallace

Several news sources are reporting that novelist and essayist David Foster Wallace hanged himself Friday night.

I love David Foster Wallace for many reasons, not the least of which is that he delivered the only commencement address ever worth reading. Here's a little snippet:

And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about in the great outside world of wanting and achieving. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.

He may not have been in a church, but I still want to give him an "Amen."

This is just devastating news. The word "genius" is overused, but Wallace was a literary genius, the kind of writer who comes along about once every generation. His books were astounding, and he was the kind of stylist who could simply dazzle with his use of language. Many, many times I've stopped in the midst of his works and gone back to re-read a page or two, not because I didn't get it the first time, but because I wanted to go back and savor the beauty of not just a word, and not just a phrase, but the entire vision of a literary kamikaze whose sense of playfulness was matched only by his compassionate heart. Unlike many post-mods, who are all technique and no substance, Wallace wrestled with the deepest issues, and he unfailingly brought honesty and beauty to the process.

For me, this is a cultural loss akin to Bob Dylan. These folks don't come along every day. They don't come along every decade, either. I feel like I've lost a friend.

Genesis 1970 - 1975

I'm enjoying this one immensely. The remastering sounds great. The original albums stack up about the way I remembered them. Trespass is mediocre, Nursery Cryme and Foxtrot are good-to-great, and Selling England By The Pound and The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway are the twin pinnacles of prog rock. The disc of previously unreleased rarities has a couple inconsequential tracks, and half a dozen absolute gems.

Of course, all this is predicated on the notion that ten-minute songs featuring odd time signatures and mellotron solos are worth your time and attention. Nostalgia is certainly a factor for me, but I also believe that Sigur Ros, Muse, and Mars Volta fans might find value in discovering where their contemporary heroes found their sound. And Peter Gabriel is Peter Gabriel, one of the most strikingly original and theatrical singers and songwriters in the history of rock music.

And speaking of theatrical ... the 3.5 hours of concert video footage is worth the price of admission by itself. I haven't gotten around to the other 3.5 video hours of the band, in 2007 Boring Old Fart mode, sitting around the old hearthstone and reminiscing about the grand, weird days. But the concert footage from the early '70s is spectacular. I particularly love the footage from The Midnight Special, an early '70s late-night musical revue hosted by uber-DJ Wolfman Jack. This is a show that regularly featured the likes of Helen Reddy and David Cassidy. Seeing Peter Gabriel on the program in full winged-headgear regalia, looking like a nightmare version of the Flying Nun, is priceless.

iTunes Genius?

iTunes 8.0 incorporates a new feature called "Genius." Select a song, click the "Genius" button, and iTunes automatically constructs a playlist of songs that are similar to the song you originally selected. Or that's the idea, at any rate.

Pandora, of course, has been doing this for years. The music genome approach, if someone ever really gets it right, will revolutionize the music industry. And right now, Pandora has got it far more right than Apple. Select an Elvis Presley song and click that "Genius" button. What does iTunes recommend? Buddy Holly. Umm, no. Other than both artists' undeniable place in the Rock 'n Roll Pioneer pantheon, just what do Elvis Presley and Buddy Holly have in common? Not a whole lot.

Aside from the glitches in the recommendation, this isn't really what I'm looking for in "Music Recommendation" software anyway. I already know what the music on my iPod sounds like. I put it on there. I've already played it, most of it many times. And I've got ears. I don't need some unhelpful algorithm to figure out that Boston is classic rock, and Peter Frampton is classic rock, so if I like Boston then maybe I'd like Peter Frampton. Wrong, vocoder breath. I suspect my own ability to make musical connections is far more finely calibrated than anything Apple or Pandora will ever come up with.

What I'm looking for, and will probably never find, is software that will help me make thematic connections. When I select Sufjan Stevens' song "A Short Reprise for Mary Todd Lincoln," I'm not looking for more music that sounds like Sufjan Stevens. I can find that using my own brain just fine. I'm looking for other songs about Mary Todd Lincoln. Why? Because I'm weird that way. Because I used to spend hours making Gloria mix tapes featuring Vivaldi, Van Morrison, and Patti Smith. Because it's a kind of puzzle, and I like puzzles.

That's what I really want: an easy way to make a Pop Songs That Mention Mid-to-Late Twentieth Century Literary Figures playlist. Okay, we've got Rhett Miller with his mention of Don Delillo, Simon and Garfunkel with Norman Mailer, that stupid Deep Blue Something song about Breakfast at Tiffany's, which at least contains a veiled Truman Capote reference, and what else? I'm telling you, I'd pay big bucks for that kind of musical software.

Waco Brothers -- Waco Brothers Alive and Kicking at Schuba's Tavern

In the taxonomy of local watering holes, Yuppie Fern Barn probably anchors the genteel, tame end of the scale, while Roadhouse probably stands menacingly at the other end. Campus Dive, my own choice for the best place to catch live music, is probably just to the genteel side of Roadhouse.

I've been to Schuba's Tavern in Chicago, and it's neither Fern Barn nor Roadhouse. But you'd never know it by the latest live album from UK shitkickers The Waco Brothers, who turn an otherwise staid and proper establishment into a rowdy juke joint where you're just as likely to have a bottle knocked upside your head as you are to have it placed on your table.

It's all in the attitude. Lead singer/songwriter Jon Langford uses the Wacos as his redneck alter ego, but he's best known as the leader of Leeds punk band The Mekons (and if you don't own The Mekons Rock 'n Roll, you're missing one of the greatest albums. Ever), and he and his bandmates bring the punk vitriol and raw passion to every song on this collection. Presiding over the proceedings with a querulous Joe Strummer yelp, Langford half sings and half chants his acerbic populist anthems, investing them with the kind of damaged soul that Strummer brought to every Clash song. But this is piledriving rock 'n roll music with a Stetson, and steel guitarist Marc Durante is an equal partner in the mayhem. Imagine the Sticky Fingers-era Rolling Stones fronted by Strummer and playing while well lubricated. That's the sound of this album, and that's the swagger that Langford and his bandmates capture perfectly.

The Waco Brothers albums are, quite honestly, spotty, but there's no filler here. Think of it as a louder, looser, more ragged, and more glorious Greatest Hits album for a band that has never had a hit. It's a wondrous thing, by far my favorite live album that has been released this year. And by listening from the comfort of your own home, you avoid the risk of that bottle upside the head.

Bobcat Love

They didn't win. But given Ohio University's sacrificial lamb status yesterday in Ohio Stadium, they performed mighty well. They were supposed to roll over and lose, oh, say 56 - 3, as any Ohio State fan will tell you. Instead, the Bobcats led through much of the game before succumbing 26 - 14.

I have divided loyalties. I graduated from both schools, and I would have been happy and unhappy either way. I missed the game because Kate and I were moving our daughter Rachel into her dorm room at Ohio University in Athens, Ohio. Yes, Rachel is a second-generation Bobcat. It was kind of refreshing to wander around that quintessential college down and realize that precious few people knew or cared that their football team was playing a game. This is because people in Athens have lives that revolve around other things than college sports.

I did catch the last few minutes on the radio on the drive home. My favorite memory? The Ohio State fans engaged in their normal first grade spelling bee. "O-H," one side of the stadium chanted. "I-O" the other side answered back. "U-u-u-u-u" the Bobcat faithful responded in turn. It was a great moment. I was proud of all those unemployed journalism majors.

What Would Kathleen Whitman Do With $145,000,000?

That was the title of a junk email message I just received.

My prediction: she would buy new carpeting and windows.

Politics Suck -- Special RNC Issue

Introducing Politic Suck: an engaging new microbrew with a surprisingly bitter aftertaste.[1]

I tune in expecting to hear substantive content on the party plank and policy issues. I watch instead what appears to be a combination pep rally/character assassination that has all the grace and nuance of kids sticking their tongues out at each other on the playground. The precipitous descent in the level of political discourse in this country is astonishing. Why should we elect people to some of the highest offices in the land when their approach is vindictive, snide, and smug, and their primary means of communication is insult? I wouldn't hire people like that in my office, let alone to run a country.

I truly despise what politics in America has become. Can we just start again? Maybe with the Constitution this time?

If you feel like you need a scorecard
You really don't have to fuss
You know the winner is always somebody else
And the loser is always us
It's shake it to the east, shake it to the west
Hand me down my bullet-proof vest
It's nobody choice and it's anybody's guess
Do that election,
There ain't no selection,
Do that Election Year Rag
-- Steve Goodman, "Election Year Rag"

[1] h/t Joshua Neds-Fox

Jon Dee Graham -- Full

Jon Dee Graham's latest album Full has been out for a couple years now. I listened to it when it was new, reviewed it for Paste, and thought it was a decent roots rock album. Jon Dee is best known as Alejandro Escovedo's sidekick and former bandmate, and there are certainly some similarities with Alejandro's thoughtful and raw music here. But taking "slow grower" to new extremes, I've been coming back to Jon Dee's latest and best solo album quite a bit of late, and I've been paying far more attention. It's a great album, characterized by Byrds-like chiming guitars, a gravel-voiced vocalist who will call to mind Tom Waits, and some absolutely superb songwriting.

Maybe it has something to do with attending three funerals in August. "O death, where is thy sting?" the apostle Paul asks. Right here. Check it out. I can show you the holes in the ground and at least hint at the holes in my heart. But this song, in particular, strikes me as one of the best hymns I've heard in a long time. A fallen world? I don't need much convincing, although this song hammers home the truth.

Got out of the garden, no longer is it home
Sat down on the outside ground, my newmade world to roam
But I named all the animals, the fishes in the pond
I wake up in the morning, they wonder where we've gone

He pulled the door, blocked by flaming sword
Of course the last word would be the Lord's
What did we do wrong?
Never will I hide myself again

Driven out beneath the sky we walked a pilgrim's pace
She said this land is huge, this land is grand
But it's empty of his grace
There is so much space to fill and he is not in this space

He slammed the door, blocked by flaming sword
Of course the last word will be the Lord's
What did we do wrong?
Never will I hide myself again

We're grateful for the grasses, we're grateful for the grains
We're grateful for the lands in use, we're grateful when it rains
But secretly and most of all we're grateful for the dreams
About the beloved garden that never again we'll see

He closed the door, blocked by flaming sword
The last word of course will be the Lord's
What did we do wrong?
Never will I hide myself again
-- Jon Dee Graham, "Beloved Garden"

Josh Garrels -- Jacaranda

Josh Garrels writes overtly Christian songs that are too idiosyncratic and prickly to fit within the confines of the CCM industry. That probably consigns him to a day job that is, at best, his second choice. But the musical rewards are many, and are readily evident.

On Jacaranda, his third album, Garrels simply does what he’s done before, but better. At heart a gentle folkie, Garrels picks his guitar (and what sounds like the charango, although the instrumental credits don’t tell), and sings his contemplative, mystical songs. His subjects – the wonders of the natural world, the still, small voice of God, the sorrows and joys of life on a fallen, dazzling planet – call to mind a young Bruce Cockburn, drunk on beauty, ripped apart by injustice and casual indifference. They are complex, nuanced, and lovely.

The two instrumentals that bookend the album set the tone: pastoral, quiet, soft enough to allow room for the chirp of crickets and the song of birds. In between the music shimmers and shines and continually escapes easy categorization; a straightforward folkie ballad here, a neo-soul workout with a hint of electronica there, a reggae-tinged spiritual lament here, a Peruvian cumbia there, with a choir of the angelic host breaking in occasionally just to mix things up. Garrels’ voice is wondrously supple throughout, and it’s a joy to listen to him soar into a pure, soulful falsetto. He sings about the birth of a child, the funeral of a loved one, the desert fathers of the early Church, the exploitation of the poor, the soul-crushing demands of the drab and routine, the subtle joys of walking by faith in the darkness. It’s a kaleidoscope of an album, every pattern reflecting an unseen but loving hand. It will probably sell squat, and it doesn’t have nearly enough uplifting choruses and grace/face rhymes. You can remedy that somewhat by buying it anyway and striking a blow for quietly uplifting, sorrowful, real, and transcendently hopeful music.

Dirty Laundry

You have to either be insane or a masochist to want the job of President of the United States.

It turns out that Sarah Palin's teenage daughter is pregnant out of wedlock. And her husband was convicted of DWI. In 1984. And Barack Obama did inhale, and John McCain, war hero, has a nasty temper he can't control and five or six houses, he can't remember which, in various parts of the country.

Screw ups, one and all. So let's villify them, mock them, and divert attention away from, you know, relevant issues, by digging up the dirt. I'll bet that within the next few days we'll also find out that Sarah Palin inhaled too, back in her college days, and that Joe Biden once attended a college fraternity kegger and passed out on the couch.

It's just good investigative journalism, right? Because we, the American people, have a right to know. Never mind that, even though we won't admit it, we're also Pharisaical prudes.

I have a crazy idea: let's apply the same standards to journalists that they apply to politicians. For every breathless story written about a politician's foibles, some other journalist gets to write a breathless story, after doing a solid background check and thorough vetting, of that journalist's past. I know. It will never happen because nobody really cares about what a journalist might have done a quarter century ago. Exactly.

Too Much of a Good Thing?

Accuradio is introducing several new radio stations to the Internet mix, including an All French Pop station. This means Francoise Hardy (pictured at left during the swingin' sixties) and Serge Gainsbourg, round la pendule. Hopefully no Maurice Chevalier.

This is exciting to me, and perhaps to as many as seven others, worldwide. Is it possible to have too much of a good thing?

Genesis 1970 - 1975

You have no idea how happy this makes me. Dungeons and Dragons in the basement. Peter Gabriel in geometric headgear. It doesn't get much better than that.

We now have a box set for the boxhead years, the final installment in the Genesis catalogue reissues. This is the one I've been waiting for for years. Here are the details.

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GENESIS, IN THE BEGINNING

Rhino Concludes an Upgrade to the Group's Catalog With the Third and Final Box Set of the Series That Will Cover the Critically Acclaimed Peter Gabriel Era

Contains 5 Studio Albums (1970-1975) Expanded with Bonus Audio and Video, Plus an Exclusive Disc of Rarities

7-CD/6-DVD Boxed Set will be Available November 11 From Rhino

LOS ANGELES ‹ Since launching an upgrade of the entire Genesis catalog lastyear, the comprehensive series has followed Genesis' transformation fromprog-rock pioneers to stadium-filling power trio. With the finalinstallment, Rhino ends at the beginning with a set covering the band'searly years with lead singer, Peter Gabriel. GENESIS: 1970-1975 will beavailable November 11 from regular retail outlets and at www.rhino.com fora suggested list price of $139.98.

Produced by Banks, Collins, and Rutherford, GENESIS: 1970-1975 presents five of the band's studio albums as CD/DVD sets featuring new stereo mixesof the original albums on CD, along with a DVD that includes the original album in 5.1 DTS (96/24) and Dolby Digital Surround Sound, plus bonus videos and new interviews with band members filmed exclusively for these reissues. The set contains hours of previously unreleased video as well as photo galleries featuring rare pictures and tour memorabilia.

One of the top-selling recording artists of all time, Genesis has sold more than 150 million albums so far. This 7-CD/6-DVD set collects some of the band's most adventurous and ground-breaking albums, covering Peter Gabriel's tenure with the group.

GENESIS: 1970-1975 spotlights five albums: ­ TRESPASS, NURSERY CRYME, FOXTROT, SELLING ENGLAND BY THE POUND and THE LAMB LIES DOWN ON BROADWAY, plus EXTRAS 1970-1975, a newly assembled compilation only available withthis collection.

Featuring favorites like "The Knife" and "White Mountain," Genesis' second album, TRESPASS (1970), marked the beginning of a five-year journey that saw the band create ever-more daring albums of progressive rock. The album includes guitarist Anthony Phillips and drummer John Mayhew, who were replaced on the following album by Steve Hackett and Phil Collins respectively.

NURSERY CRYME (1971) opens with "The Musical Box," a beautiful 10-minute sprawl that captures the essence of the band's sophisticated musicality tweaked with freewheeling theatrics. Genesis' new lineup starts to define its unique voice on songs like "The Return Of The Giant Hogweed" and "The Fountain Of Salmacis."

The band returned the following year with FOXTROT (1972), a breakthrough album hailed by critics and embraced by fans, especially in England where it reached #12. Two tracks in particular, ­ "Watcher Of The Skies" and"Supper's Ready," ­ became live staples for years to come. Nearly filling the album's second half, "Supper's Ready" stands as an avant-garde showcase for each member's individual talents. DVD extras include: over 30 minutes of live video from 1972 of the band performing on Belgian television's Rock of the 70s and on stage at the Piper Club in Italy.

Genesis' popularity continued to grow with its fifth studio album, SELLING ENGLAND BY THE POUND (1973). These eight songs find the band's inventive storytelling and imaginative arrangements coming into sharper focus with "I Know What I Like (In Your Wardrobe)" ­ Genesis' first hit single in the U.K. The album also introduced audiences to "The Cinema Show" and "Firth Of Fifth," songs that would become popular concert staples. DVD extras include: video from 1973 recorded during a performance on Italian television and on stage in Bataclan, France, over one and a half hours of live performance.

The band wasn't at a loss for inspiration for THE LAMB LIES DOWN ON BROADWAY (1974), a double album about a Puerto Rican hood searching for his brother. It was to be Gabriel's final release with Genesis. The band toured for the album, performing the entire 90-minute album along with an ambitious stage show complete with costume changes, theatrical lighting and pyrotechnics. The title track, "Carpet Crawlers" and "In The Cage" remain popular parts of the band's live show. The album will be presented with the Surround Sound mix. Additional bonus features will be included on a DVD, including a performance on the French television show Melody.

GENESIS concludes with EXTRAS 1970-1975, a disc of rarities offered exclusively as part of this boxed set. The compilation contains 10 tracks,including the 7" single "Happy The Man," a demo of "Going Out To Get You," and the b-side "Twilight Alehouse." A trio of songs ­ "Shepherd," "Pacidy" and "Let Us Now Make Love" ­ are taken from the BBC program Nightride. The disc also includes a VH1 Boxed Set Special on Genesis 1967-1975 and a performance from the Midnight Special.

The final four songs on EXTRA TRACKS 1970-1975 ­ "Provocation,""Frustration," "Manipulation," and "Resignation" ­ are the legendary"Genesis Plays Jackson" tapes. The band recorded these songs in 1970 for a documentary about painter Mick Jackson. The documentary never happened and the songs were lost until now. Fans will notice how sections of this music evolved into other songs. "Frustration" is an early version of "Anyway" from The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway, while "Manipulation" features themes heard later in "The Musical Box" from Nursery Cryme.

Music Writing and the Death of Blogs

My buddy Erik just wrote an article about the Death of Blogs. I capitalize that because it appears to be a phenomenon that has captured the attention of the media, who, as a general rule, try to Make Things More Portentous Than They Really Are. Anybody remember Y2K? Like Davey Crockett coonskin caps, like Pet Rocks, blogs are said to be a passing fad, one that captured the public imagination and attention for a few years, and that now appears to have (mostly) run its course.

I'm not entirely convinced. Or convinced at all, for that matter, although I know many people who have abandoned their blogs. This is because people will continue to discover the joy of writing, and because blogs provide the perfect Vanity Press. The people who don't particularly care about writing will stop writing. And the people who do care will continue to write, and many of them will continue to write in their blogs, where they are assured an audience of at least one, which is as good as it ever gets with Dear Diary.

Aside from one's personal edification, though, blogs offer a bounty of information. I love music. And there are several blogs I check every day because they consistently yield new and interesting musical information: Stereogum, My Old Kentucky Blog, Largehearted Boy, Aquarium Drunkard, and Brooklyn Vegan. There are many others I check with slightly less frequency.

And here's some more news. The best music writing today is found on blogs, not in print magazines, which are often forced to truncate or otherwise mangle the writing because of word length restrictions and editorial constraints. Here are three great examples. These folks are not famous. They don't earn their living by writing about music. But they offer insight, and something more; beauty in the way they string the nouns and verbs together, life in the way they understand that things like power chords and backbeats can transform a mundane day into a glorious day.

Here is Michael Atchison at Teenage Kicks on why Bruce Springsteen still matters.

Here is Kelly Foster, English teacher, on the ineffable power of rock 'n roll.

Here is Josh Hurst, seminarian, on music as storytelling, and a storyteller named Loudon Wainwright III.

Blogs are doing just fine.

Hats Off to Roy Harper

Roy Harper, semi-legendary folkie in an alternate universe, and sometime resident of various mental institutions, is about to have his moment in the sun. Virtually his entire early catalogue, consisting of 9 albums recorded from the late '60s through the mid-'80s, is about to be re-issued (and issued for the first time in the U.S.) on Koch Entertainment. Here he is looking pensive, and much younger than he now looks.

Why should you care? Well, for several reasons. First, he's very good. Fans of the doomed romantic strain of folk music, a la Nick Drake, will find much to love. Second, he hung out with the greats, and you probably already know Roy Harper even if you think you don't. "Hats Off to (Roy) Harper," from Led Zeppelin III is about him, and that's Roy on lead vocals on Pink Floyd's "Have a Cigar," from Wish You Were Here. Third, Jimmy Page (billed as S. Flavius Mercurius) plays all over these albums, including some riffs that would later come to roost on the official Led Zeppelin releases. If you only buy one, buy Stormcock, from 1971. But buy it. It's a brilliant album, full of ten-minute winding, idiosyncratic folkie suites with strings and horns, and some astounding riffing between Harper and Page.

Baby's Not in Black, and I'm Feelin' Blue

Today my wife wore a skirt the color of cantaloupe. She headed out the door on her way to work, looking like the sensible professional woman she is, and looking like a paragon of fashion, because she is that, too. Nobody would know that her mom died two weeks ago, and that she's mourning her, that she finds herself crying in strange and awkward places. It happens while driving a car, while taking a shower, while preparing a meal.

At one time everybody would have known she was mourning because she would have been forced to walk around for an extended period of time in a black dress. For six months, a year, she would have shuffled around solemnly, and that black dress would have been as good as a flashing neon light: Sorrow Here. Tread Carefully. But women don't wear mourning clothes any more, at least in our culture. They take their three bereavement days from the workplace, which is magically supposed to take care of the great, yawning void in human hearts, and then they get back to the daily grind. Some of them wear skirts the color of cantaloupes. Nobody knows.

Yesterday we went to church. "Hey, haven't seen you in a while" various people said to us. Right. That's because we've been living in hospitals and funeral homes. "What's up?," they asked. "Well," I replied, "Kate's mom died, and my dad is dying." "Oh," they said, "that sucks. My life sucks too. Can I tell you about it?" And they did.

I'm not exactly sure what I expect, but I think I expect something other than this. Kate's mom's death and funeral came and went, and we got lots of flowers and cards and sympathetic phone calls. From work. From non-Christian friends. From Christian friends outside our church. And our local church? A couple people called and sent nice e-mail messages. That's something, I suppose, and I'm grateful for it. But it wasn't nearly enough. In the old game of Church vs. Everybody Else, Everybody Else won in a landslide. It might have been different if we had had a baby. We probably would have been showered with meals and feted and given cloth diapers. But we're at the other end of life, and people are dying, not being born, and nobody knows what to say, so they say nothing at all. We were virtually invisible in the local manifestation of the body of Christ.

This produces profound disappointment. I wish it didn't. I wish I could shrug it off. Nobody's intentionally ignoring us. They just have their lives, almost exclusively with people their own age, and they make the social rounds and discuss how to be better stewards of the environment and how to serve people halfway across the globe. They are good people to whom we are invisible.

Our old Presbyterian Church had the Funeral Ministry down to a science. Some old geezer would croak, and the women would kick it into gear, ordering flowers, coordinating meals for the grieving family, cooking up a whopper of a potluck for the post-funeral bash, complete with jello salad and green bean casserole. Those old women didn't know what to say either. So they cooked. It was something. It was a lot. They were simply there, and their presence was meaningful as they ladled more green bean casserole on your plate.

We don't have a Funeral Ministry at our church. It's not a very trendy kind of ministry, and probably nobody would have interest in heading it up. All I know is that a funeral came and went, and nobody was there. Either nobody knew, or nobody cared. Neither prospect is good news. In the meantime, my wife heads off to work in her cantaloupe-colored skirt, acting for all the world as if all is normal. But all is not normal. She walks around with a hole in her heart. Nobody sees it. Nobody knows.

Guilty Pleasures -- The Frontier Brothers, Matt Mays and El Torpedo, Valencia

There's nothing profound here, and the best lyric out of the bunch might be "Tess, you're a sexy robotron." But these all sound great, for different reasons that all seem to coalesce around memorable melodies and singalong choruses. The Frontier Brothers -- Space Punk Starlet Now here's a novelty: a band from Austin, Texas paying homage to David Bowie and The Cure. The PR releases want to bill them as interplanetary rock stars, which is fine, but Bowie did that a long time ago. So I'll just say that they do Bowie with laryngitis very well, and that the synth hooks will warm the heart of any early '80s New Waver. Matt Mays and El Torpedo -- Terminal Romance Solid, meat 'n potatoes classic rock modeled on Tom Petty and Neil Young in Crazy Horse mode. Terminal Romance doesn't rival the classic albums it emulates. But it's better than anything Petty or Young have done in the past ten years. Valencia -- We All Need a Reason to Believe Sensitive pop punker loses girlfriend in tragic accident: it's a recipe for a musical catastrophe of epic proportions. But that's what we have here, with singer Shane Henderson overemoting for all he's worth, and the band throwing down the power chords and chiming in with anthemic early U2 "Whoah-oh-oh" backing vocals. Normally I would be fairly cynical about the basic building blocks. But Shane sounds so honestly conflicted and hurting, and the band bashes out those power chords so energetically, that I can't help wishing the poor, heartbroken kids well. This is an emo album about hope in the midst of pain: crazy kids. God bless 'em.

Musicians with Wings

This is Shara Worden, AKA My Brightest Diamond. I like her music. I hate the costume.

Here Shara tries for the butterfly look. Or perhaps she is a moth or a dragonfly. Look at her soar! I blame it all on Sufjan Stevens, Shara's former employer, and his damned Swan outfit. That's probably where she got the idea. Perhaps she thought that a wing is a wing is a wing. But it's a bad idea. Insects, in particular, don't inspire a positive musical reaction. I want to swat them and spray poison on them, not listen to them sing.

The only animal costume that has ever really worked for a musician was that worn by Captain Beefheart, and he was a trout. Bjork wore that dead goose around her neck and her career went into a tail(feather)spin. Paul McCartney dressed up as a walrus for Magical Mystery Tour and then promptly sucked for the next forty years.

These are bad ideas. Wings are bad ideas (again, just ask the fans of Paul McCartney). Shara, we like you just the way you are. You are the monarch of indie pop. You don't need to be a monarch butterfly to prove it.

Bela Karolyi

I know, I know. We've had the Michael Phelps onslaught, the dominance of the Chinese in diving, Usain Bolt running faster than the speed of light, etc. But my favorite Olympic Moments(TM) have come from commentator (and former Romanian and U.S. gymnastics coach) Bela Karolyi, who is Oliver Hardy to Bob Costas' Stan Laurel.

Here he is giving a bearhug to an unknown 3' 4" gymnast. Bela likes to hug people. He also likes to yell, wave his arms, and utter indignant epithets such as "Dot was a total reep off."

I love the man. I would watch him for several hours per night if I could. In fact, my guess is that NBC's already gaudy ratings would go up even more if we had more Bela and less, say, softball. I would watch Bela buy fried scorpions from the food vendors. I would watch him dogpaddle in the Water Cube. Bela himself is an Olympic event, and part of the fun is betting on whether he will better his own on-air time to his first tirade of the evening.

Now that gymnastics is over, I miss him. It's a quieter, more professional world. And Bob Costas looks lonely without him.

USB Turntables

I'm about to invest in a USB turntable. I think. Several people I know and trust have recommended this one. But I'd like to get some feedback before I do so.

The one shown here is called the Gem Sound DJ-USB Belt-Drive USB Turntable with Bias Soundsoap SE and Audacity Software, which is pretty scary, when you think about it, and sounds far more complicated than I'd like my life to be. I'd like my life to be simple. Pain-free. Full of joie de vivre and esprit de corps and Boeuf Bourgignon. And I worry about a turntable with a name like that.

Here's what I want to do: I want to magically turn my old, scratchy vinyl albums into MP3 files. I'd like the musical babysitting to be as minimal as possible during this process. I have several thousand vinyl albums. And although I won't be transferring them all to MP3, the prospect of doing this is daunting enough that I have serious reservations about the time commitment.

So, here are my questions.

1. If I'm transferring, say, a 40-minute Beatles album to MP3, do I have to play the entire 40-minute album as part of the MP3 conversion process? (For what it's worth, I can't imagine that the answer to this question is anything but "Yes," but I hope I'm wrong.)
2. How does one chop up a vinyl album into MP3 files (one file per song)? Again, I'm assuming that this would require intense babysitting involving some sort of computer work at the end of each song, but again I hope I'm wrong.
3. How effective is the scrubbing/soundsoap software at removing all those clicks and pops? How easy is the software to use?

Anyone have experience with this? I may be talking myself right out of the prospect, but I'd love to hear your views.

Breakfast Wars: Pink Floyd vs. Nico Muhly

For almost four decades Pink Floyd's 1970 album Atom Heart Mother has reigned as the undisputed champion of breakfast sound effects. The thirteen-minute opus that concludes the album, "Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast," raised the bar so high in terms of the sounds of sizzling bacon, butter knives scraping on bread, and cereal crackling under freshly poured milk that it seemed pointless for other aspiring breakfast afficionados and musical freaks to even attempt to match its magnificence.

But I realized, after reading Pitchfork's review of NYC avant-garde composer Nico Muhly's new album Mothertongue, that someone had at long last launched a serious challenge to the Floyd breakfast hegemony. Reviewer Jayson Greene writes:

You know you're in trouble when the audio sample of a burbling coffee machine or the sound of a knife scraping butter on toast exerts as great a hold on the listener's interest as everything that preceded it.

and

The four-movement piece lights briefly on some promising notions in its twenty minutes-- found-sound samples of mundane morning routines (the crunch of breakfast cereal, muttering during the shower), for example-- but flits away distractedly before anything interesting is allowed to materialize.

There it was. Nico had thrown down the gauntlet, taking direct aim at the heart of Atom Heart Mother. Nico, you may recall, also employs the sound of raw whale blubber slopping around in a bowl on this album, which is pretty cool in and of itself. Just not for breakfast. And so I limited myself to apples-to-apples and bananas-to-bananas comparisons. Would the brash newcomer unseat Rogers Waters and company from the breakfast stool? Would the Floydians slip from the top Breakfast Sound Effects rung? Or would the grizzled veterans hold off the inspired challenge? It was time for a head-to-head comparison:

Coffee Brew -- Winner: Nico Muhly. It's the satisfying hiss of steam that does it. I'd like to think that a French press was involved here, perhaps a burr mill grinder, although the recording itself leaves the mystery unexplained. In comparison, Pink Floyd's Psychedelic Alan sounds like he's making tea.

Bacon Sizzle -- Winner: Pink Floyd. To his credit, Nico doesn't even attempt to match the sublime grease spatter that can be heard throughout the middle movement of "Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast." You can't improve upon perfection.

Cereal Crunch/Crackle -- Winner: Pink Floyd. Nico comes on strong here, closely mic-ing the sound of chewing jaws. You can almost hear the saliva at work. But Pink Floyd gets the nod by focusing on the satisfying crackle and pop of freshly poured milk on particularly effervescent cereal, perhaps Kellogg's Rice Krispies.

Butter Scrape -- Winner: Nico Muhly. Nico's butter scrape has a rhythmic, almost percussive effect that nicely augments the music. Pink Floyd's Alan goes for more of a freeform, improvisational scrape that never quite connects.

Breakfast Mutter -- Winner: Pink Floyd. Again, Nico knew better than to mess with a breakfast epiphany. Two-thirds of the way through his revelatory breakfast, Alan mutters, "Marmalade. I like marmalade." Nico has the good sense to shut up and say nothing at all.

Overall Winner: Pink Floyd. But nice try, Nico. It was about time somebody challenged the complacent Brits. In non-breakfast-related musical news, the rest of Nico's album is weird as hell, and pretty great, just like Atom Heart Mother.

Top Albums of 2008?

Too early, you say? Not for Paste Magazine, which is already preparing its January, 2009 issue. And so, 7.5 months in, here's my ballot for the Top 10 albums of 2008:

1. Son Lux – At War with Walls and Mazes
2. Ezra Furman and the Harpoons – Inside the Human Body
3. Jamey Johnson – That Lonesome Song
4. Frightened Rabbit – The Midnight Organ Fight
5. Sun Kil Moon – April
6. Fleet Foxes – Fleet Foxes
7. Jolie Holland – The Living and the Dead
8. Johnny Flynn – A Larum
9. The Hold Steady – Stay Positive
10. Kasey Chambers and Shane Nicholson – Rattlin’ Bones

Paste also requested a list of the Top 10 Singles. I passed on that. What's a radio?

The Ones That Got Away

As a general rule, outtakes are outtakes for a good reason. They're not as good as the tracks that make it to the officially released albums. But let's make an exception for the greatest songwriter of the past 50 years, shall we? As an obsessive collector of "rare" Dylan for more than 30 years now, I can assure you that Dylan has discarded more than his share of masterpieces in the studio, and that some (but far from all; the man is nothing if not maddeningly inconsistent) of his live performances are truly legendary. I have dozens and dozens of cassette tapes that were reverently compiled and assiduously traded among the faithful, and if some of this was overkill (do we really need to hear a 45-second intro to "Like a Rolling Stone" that was interrupted by Dylan's coughing?), some of the ones that got away are mind-bogglingly great.

Columbia started to redress this criminal negligence in the early '90s with the release of the Bootleg Series Vols. 1 - 3, mining the vaults to produce a 3-disc box set that compiled more than 50 outtakes and previously unreleased gems from throughout Dylan's career. Subsequent installments of the Bootleg Series have seen (finally, at long last) the release of the legendary Manchester/Royal Albert Hall concerts from 1966, great live tracks from the mid-'70s Rolling Thunder Revue, an intact concert from NYC on Halloween, 1964, which saw Dylan bidding a not-so-fond farewell to the folkie/social protest years, and a mishmash of assorted effluvium to accompany Martin Scorsese's great documentary No Direction Home.

Vol. 8 of the Bootleg Series, entitled Tell Tale Signs, will be released on Columbia on October 6th. It's a 2-disc series of outtakes, demos and live tracks from the latest phase of Dylan's career, encompassing the studio albums Oh, Mercy, Time Out of Mind, Love and Theft, and Modern Times. For those of you who only know Dylan from his mid-'60s surrealistic peak, you may want to check out those albums (and the outtakes from those albums). They're a master class in how to age, sometimes gracefully and sometimes not, and how to integrate virtually every strand of American music into something utterly original, utterly Dylan.

Here's the tracklist:

DISC ONE

1. Mississippi 6:04 (Unreleased, Time Out of Mind)
2. Most of the Time 3:46 (Alternate version, Oh Mercy)
3. Dignity 2:09 (Piano demo, Oh Mercy)
4. Someday Baby 5:56 (Alternate version, Modern Times)
5. Red River Shore 7:36 (Unreleased, Time Out of Mind)
6. Tell Ol' Bill 5:31 (Alternate version, North Country soundtrack)
7. Born in Time 4:10 (Unreleased, Oh Mercy)
8. Can't Wait 5:45 (Alternate version, Time Out of Mind)
9. Everything is Broken 3:27 (Alternate version, Oh Mercy)
10. Dreamin' of You 6:23 (Unreleased, Time Out Of Mind)
11. Huck's Tune 4:09 (From Lucky You soundtrack)
12. Marchin' to the City 6:36 (Unreleased, Time Out of Mind)
13. High Water (For Charley Patton) 6:40(Live, August 23, 2003,Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada)

DISC TWO

1. Mississippi 6:24 (Unreleased version #2, Time Out of Mind)
2. 32-20 Blues 4:22 (Unreleased, World Gone Wrong)
3. Series of Dreams 6:27 (Unreleased, Oh Mercy)
4. God Knows 3:12 (Unreleased, Oh Mercy)
5. Can't Escape from You 5:22 (Unreleased, December 2005)
6. Dignity 5:25 (Unreleased, Oh Mercy)
7. Ring Them Bells 4:59 (Live at The Supper Club, November 17, 1993,New York, NY
8. Cocaine Blues 5:30 (Live, August 24, 1997, Vienna, VA)
9. Ain't Talkin' 6:13 (Alternate version, Modern Times)
10. The Girl on the Greenbriar Shore 2:51 (Live, June 30, 1992,Dunkerque, France)
11. Lonesome Day Blues 7:37 (Live, February 1, 2002, Sunrise, FL)
12. Miss the Mississippi 3:20 (Unreleased, 1992)
13. The Lonesome River 3:04 (With Ralph Stanley, from the album ClinchMountain Country)
14. 'Cross the Green Mountain 8:15 (From Gods and Generals Soundtrack)

A deluxe set will include a third bonus disc featuring:

1. Duncan & Brady 3:47 (Unreleased, 1992)
2. Cold Irons Bound 5:57 (Live at Bonnaroo, 2004)
3. Mississippi 6:24 (Unreleased version #3, Time Out of Mind)
4. Most of the Time 5:10 (Alternate version #2, Oh Mercy)
5. Ring Them Bells 3:18 (Alternate version, Oh Mercy)
6. Things Have Changed 5:32 (Live, June 15, 2000, Portland, OR)
7. Red River Shore 7:08 (Unreleased version #2, Time Out of Mind)
8. Born in Time 4:19 (Unreleased version #2, Oh Mercy)
9. Tryin' to Get to Heaven 5:10 (Live, October 5, 2000, London,England)
10. Marchin' to the City 3:39 (Unreleased version #2, Time Out of Mind)
11. Can't Wait 7:24 (Alternate version #2, Time Out of Mind)
12. Mary and the Soldier 4:23 (Unreleased, World Gone Wrong)

Facebook?

Can someone please explain to me the appeal of Facebook?

It's an honest question. The members of my church, most of them twenty- and thirty-somethings, seem to have left the blog world en masse and have absconded to the world of Facebook. And I'm trying to figure out why.

I will confess that I don’t really get Facebook. My college-age daughters have their Facebook pages, and as best I can tell (I really don’t spy on them, but sometimes they leave the screen up when they walk away from the computer :-)) their pages consist of thousands of comments like “Dude, that had me LMAO!!” and “No kidding, I was ROFL!!!” It reminds me of the Internet of the mid-1990s, when it went from the exclusive domain of techie nerds and shadowy government types to heated exchanges between Muffy@aol.com and BIFF@psu.edu, arguing over whether DC Talk ROOOLZ. This is progress?

I think I must have a Facebook page as well, because I periodically get requests to be Facebook friends with someone. I always click the link that says “Sure, you can be my friend, and I’ll be your friend.” But that’s about the end of it. I’m fairly certain that my face does not appear on my Facebook page. That’s more time and energy than I'd like to invest. Otherwise, when I visit others' Facebook pages, they appear to be obscenely cluttered with STOOOOOPID comments and invitations to join online communities that no sane person would want to join. So I'm probably missing something. What is it that draws people to Facebook?

Rock 'n Roll Fashion Tips

This is a photo of Atlanta indie rockers Of Montreal. What happened? Who told them that Pocohontas was chic? And that guy on the right looks like he's ready to join William Wallace and the Scots army before he heads back to the library to work on his doctoral dissertation. This is a truly unfortunate look. Real freedom fighters don't wear glasses. Also, the guy on the left appears to be wearing a Saran Wrap wig/toga combo, with an Aztec placemat for a loincloth. Never mix 20th century consumerist culture innovations with ancient placemats. They clash badly.

Johnny Flynn -- A Larum

Time to bump up the Johnny Flynn album A Larum again. I know nobody's heard it, but it's absolutely one of the best albums I've heard this year.

And he may be coming to a city near you:

Johnny Flynn & The Sussex Wit
2008 U.S. Tour Dates w/ Laura Marling

Date City, State Venue

9/13/08 Allston, MA ICC Church
9/15/08 New York, NY Bowery Ballroom
9/17/08 Philadelphia, PA Side Chapel at First Unitarian Church
9/18/08 Alexandria, VA Birchmere
9/20/08 Chicago, IL The Bottom Lounge
9/23/08 Englewood, CO The Falcon
9/26/08 Los Angeles, CA The Hotel Café
9/28/08 San Francisco, CA Café Du Nord
9/30/08 Portland, OR Lola’s
10/1/08 Seattle, WA Tractor Tavern

Nothing between the east coast and Chicago. Do people actually live there?

Nevertheless, Johnny's debut is the best raw folkie album I've heard this year, and anybody who knows me knows that "raw folkie" is pretty close to heaven in my musical universe. It's loose, energetic, melodic, and that reference to "Sussex Wit" is no mistake. Johnny's lyrics are consistently sharp and biting. Witness what he does with a bunch of East End London down and outers, complete with obscure Bob Dylan reference. It's got that Jolly Olde England folk swagger, a la Martin Carthy, with a bit of Pogues Celtic punk mayhem mixed in, and it's a beautiful song:

Shore to shore, got some land between
Island life is living from a cup of broken queens
Hit the jackpot rolling through a pipe dream in a knot
And I'm missing what was pissing up the wall that I forgot
I forgot, I forgot

I am the masked rider, give me some grace
You've never seen me and you don't know my face
She was no Hattie Carroll, it was cold, it was blue
And it only happened despite me or you
Me or you, me or you

Smoking paper to the crimson flashing bars
Drinking cocktail wine or cottage cream and passing strangers' cars
Live in one-room housing, with a roof to meet the sky
Spelling Jesus won't you please us 'cos you seem a damn nice guy
Damn nice guy, damn nice guy

We listened to passengers stamping old songs
And we lose, what's to lose, when you haven't done wrong
Drums too slow for a funeral beat
No strumming of strings and no stamping of feet
Of feet, of feet

It's awfully considerate of you to think of me
And it's not so hard to see you smoking fags and drinking tea
It's the crummy lost at seasick with a floating on the waves
To join the other flotsam with the ripped up queens and knaves
Queens and knaves, queens and knaves

There lies a lady, she's gone and she's gone
She'll be a fine lady before too long
But I hit her head and she finished her walking
She shouldn't be dead, she was too busy talking
Busy talking, busy talking

They can fill a cup or two and still disturb the peace
It's never made it all the way from shore to shore, from west to east
I read that independence was a lightness in your step
You walked away, I felt so heavy at the start of every day
Every day, every day

I've been waiting an hour and the bus hasn't come
I've been cursing my god for the lack of the sun
I've been ruined by destiny, lowered by fate
And the upshot of this is I'm going to be late
To be late, to be late
-- Johnny Flynn, "Shore to Shore"

Go see him if he comes within a couple hundred miles of your home. Chicago's about 300 miles away for me. I'll miss him this time around, this time around, this time around.

Top 10, Washington D.C. Edition

Forget the economy and Iraq. Here are John McCain's Top 10 All-Time Favorite Songs:

1. Dancing Queen -- ABBA
2. Blue Bayou -- Roy Orbison
3. Take a Chance On Me -- ABBA
4. If We Make It Through December -- Merle Haggard
5. As Time Goes By -- Dooley Wilson
6. Good Vibrations -- The Beach Boys
7. What A Wonderful World -- Louis Armstrong
8. I've Got You Under My Skin -- Frank Sinatra
9. Sweet Caroline -- Neil Diamond
10. Smoke Gets In Your Eyes -- The Platters

Mama mia! Abba and Neil Diamond in the same Top 10 list! John apparently turned off the radio in 1975, but you can rectify this grievous oversight. You know who to vote for. Yes, the Anti-christ and bimbo.

Music Vacations

Paste just ran a story about a guy who planned his vacation around visiting the country's best record stores. He visited record stores in Nashville, Memphis, New Orleans, and Atlanta. Okay, that doesn't really qualify as "the country," but it still sounds like a cool vacation to me. I hear there may be some other interesting sites in some of these cities as well.

Throw in some blues stops as we head through the Mississippi Delta, skip Atlanta (nothing against Atlanta, but I've already been there too many times), and you've got the dream vacation that I've actually pondered for many years now. The trick is convincing at least one other person that this is a dream vacation. At this point, nobody's buying. For some reason, spending six to eight hours per day in a record store doesn't appeal to anyone else in my family. Want to come?

I do have my qualms, by the way. By this point the whole cradle of American music has become so polished and commodified and tourist-accessible that it's probably like visiting the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas instead of Venice itself. You think they're playing slide guitar with a broken beer bottle at B.B. King's Blues Club on Beale St. in Memphis? Still, I'd be willing to take a gamble on locating that unknown roadhouse outside of West Helena, Arkansas. Who wants to follow the blues highway?

Ezra Furman and the Harpoons -- Inside the Human Body

My favorite album of 2007 was a raw, beautiful and alarming little gem called Banging Down the Doors, by Boston band Ezra Furman and the Harpoons. So, perhaps not surprisingly, my most anticipated album this year is Ezra's followup, entitled Inside the Human Body, which will be released on Minty Fresh Records on October 7th.

I'll be writing a detailed review for Paste's October issue. In the meantime, you can catch a preview right here.

Here's what Ezra has to say:

The last record had a song called “My Soul Has Escaped From My Body.” I feel that every song on this record could have that title. The album is about your soul busting outta your chest--how our humanity cannot be suppressed, and how that which is inside cannot be kept inside. That's how I've always felt about being human.

We present to you, then, our new record about being a human being, even when the world tries to turn you into a monster. I really hope you like these songs about the secret things that wait inside us to be released, and about the triumph of the human spirit. We gave it all we've got.

And he does. I need to spend much, much more time with this music, but after one listen, I can tell you that this is why I stay up far too late listening to music. It's the only time I can fit it in my day. But I can't imagine how dreary life would be if I didn't make the time to fit it in. You go, kid.

A Apolitical Blues

Telephone is ringin', they told me it was Chairman Mao
Telephone is ringin', they told me it was Chairman Mao
Well, I don't care who it is
I just don't want to talk to him now
-- Little Feat, "A Apolitical Blues"

Over the weekend, while I was at my mother-in-law's funeral, I saw that the McCain campaign had launched an ad comparing Barack Obama to the Antichrist. We have reached a whole new level of surreal absurdity. I hear Barack has "333" tattooed on the backs of both wrists. Put 'em together, and what have you got?

I hate politics. How in God's name did we ever reach a point where these kinds of ads could be launched, and where people might actually take them seriously? What next? Barack with devil's horns? I hear you can do amazing things with Photoshop. Not that I was particularly tempted, but remind me not to vote for John McCain. Just out of general principle.

I think I'll watch the Olympics instead.

The Trouble with Humans

The trouble with humans is that they’re only human
The trouble with trouble is that it’s always at hand
-- Chip Taylor and Carrie Rodriguez, “The Trouble with Humans”

I’m in a misanthropic mood. This is because people suck. Not all of them, but enough of them to poison the general bonhomie and joie de vivre and other French terms that normally characterize my lobotomized, chuckleheaded life.

Look at that oaf. He could be me. He is fat, bald, and oblivious to fashion. He appears to be wearing a pheasant on his head. I wish I could be like him. But I'm not.

Instead, I harbor grudges. I plot witty putdowns of e-assholes I've never met, and whose words I encounter in various Internet discussion lists. Yeah, Paris Hilton and Barack Obama are a lot alike. Let's see, one of them is a spoiled, rich heiress best known for a porn video and her non-stop party lifestyle, and the other one is a poor kid from a broken home who graduated from Harvard Law School, was the first black president of the Harvard Law Review, a law professor at the ripe old age of 30, a state legislator at 36, and a U.S. senator at 43. Hard to tell 'em apart. Assholes. I also wonder if I should talk to my doctor about anti-depressants. This is because I suck, too.

All I know is that I've survived on three or four hours of sleep for too many nights in a row, that I wake up dispirited, and that the day tends to go downhill from there. I know that right now I can't stand being a parent, or a corporate American, or a Christian. I love Jesus. I just can't stand the people who claim to follow Him. They're all immensely disappointing. These are all areas where people could be helpful. And they're all areas of stress. The people in those areas either drain me of the little emotional reserves I have, or they're non-existent. "I'm Not There" isn't just the title of a recent movie about Bob Dylan.

Part of me wishes that the rest of the world would leave me alone, and part of me wishes that the rest of the world would notice how alone I am.

“Don’t say nothin’.” That’s the way Chip and Carrie conclude their song. And they’re probably right. But my mouth has gotten me into trouble all my life, and my e-mouth might as well join in the hilarity. I'll probably be better after a good night's sleep, whatever month that might happen. In the meantime, people suck. And trouble does seem to be at hand.

Irene Krupp, 1916 - 2008

1916. World War I was underway. The automobile was still a newfangled invention, and most people didn't own one.

She lived a long life, and a good life. She's still gone too soon. It is always this way. She died earlier this afternoon. I'd appreciate your prayers, particularly for my wife and her family, over the next few days.

The Fine Art of Dying

Nobody knows what waits ahead
Beyond the earth and sky
Lie-d Lie-d Lie
I'm not afraid to die

Yesterday, at 5:00 in the morning, we were awakened by a phone call informing us that Kate’s mom was in her final hours. Within the course of a few days the phrase “six months to live” had become two weeks to live had become a few hours to live. We hoped that we would make it to Akron in time.

We did. It turned out to be a false alarm, at least if “false alarm” can be interpreted to mean that we were off by a day or two. My mother-in-law, always a frail little bird, is now down to 80 pounds. She is wasting away. Her legs and arms look like twigs. She can no longer talk, but she can hear, and she can still acknowledge our presence by nodding. And she’s not quite ready to die, although I don’t begrudge our frantic five hours behind the wheel on a few hours sleep, or a single second we were able to spend with her yesterday.

And there the work of my own hand
Be broken by and by
Lie-d Lie-d Lie
I'm not afraid to die

Kate’s mom more or less raised six girls. After the birth of #6, my wife, my father-in-law quite sensibly retreated to his woodshop, and spent a lot of time at work. That left the tough task of parenting mostly up to my mother-in-law, who focused on things like etiquette lessons, trips to the symphony and the art museum, and the fine art of becoming good Catholic women.

And that was a mixed bag, as it usually is. All of those women, now in their fifties and sixties, care deeply about art and culture. Only one of the six has remained Catholic, although four of the six have only partly apostasized by becoming members of various Protestant churches. That’s been a source of some sorrow for my mother-in-law.

It doesn’t matter, at least to the loosey-goosey Protestants. We pray the rosary with her and for her, relying on childhood memory to provide the proper words to the Hail Mary. We pray for her using our own non-standard, non-official prayers that we believe God hears anyway. We pray a blessing for her. We pray for a peaceful passing. We express our thanks, because a functional family is a rare thing these days, and we are thankful for her and her role in making that happen.

We are thankful for her life. She’s a good woman, and a sweet woman. I thought it would be hard being around someone who is dying. And it is. But it’s something else as well. It’s a privilege.

Forget my sins upon the wind
My hobo soul will rise
Lie-d Lie-d Lie
I'm not afraid to die[1]

When she was still lucid, a week ago, my mother-in-law told her daughters that she’s not afraid to die. She knows where she’s going, and she’s ready. Her daughters were scattered all over the world. One returned from the middle of a vacation in Utah. Another returned from the middle of a vacation in Maine. Another was on her way to China, where she will spend a year teaching English as a second language. They all made it back to Akron in time. They’ve all been able to say the words to my mother-in-law that needed to be said. Me too, and I’m grateful. Death is such a traumatic experience for many people. Not for my mother-in-law. She’s showing us how it’s done. We are so sad. But we are so honored to witness this.

[1] Gillian Welch, “I’m Not Afraid to Die”