You could troll the Internet, searching for Best of 2007 music lists. But why? Right here on the Paste website you can find all the variety you need, including the official "Paste Top 100 Albums" list, plus individual Top 10 lists from various staff members and writers. And if you act now, you can vote on your own choices for Best Albums of 2007.
What is glaringly obvious from these lists is that the music world is more fragmented than ever, and that there is no clear-cut consensus on "Best of" anything. Out of approximately thirty lists, I don't think the same album appears twice in the top spot.
Here's my list, by the way, which shouldn't contain too many surprises for anyone who's been paying attention to this blog.
1. Ezra Furman and the Harpoons -- Banging Down the Doors
2. Southeast Engine -- A Wheel Within a Wheel
3. Devon Sproule -- Keep Your Silver Shined
4. Joe Henry -- Civilians
5. Bruce Springsteen -- Magic
6. Frog Eyes -- Tears of the Valedictorian
7. Peter Case -- Let Us Now Praise Sleepy John
8. Arcade Fire -- Neon Bible
9. Anders Osborne -- Coming Down
10. Future Clouds and Radar -- Future Clouds and Radar
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Watermelon Slim
I don't know if there are many blues fans here, but this guy Watermelon Slim is one Delta Mack Daddy, the most exciting and authentic blues performer I've heard in years. Surely the ghosts of Muddy and the Wolf are smiling. Mr. W. Slim is one William P. Homans of Oklahoma City, Oklahoma -- Vietnam veteran, truck driver, forklift operator, sawmiller, firewood salesman, collection agent, funeral-parlor director, small-time criminal, watermelon farmer, college graduate times three, and member of Mensa. You can hear all that and more in his songs, which have justly made him famous at an advanced age, almost forty years after he recorded his first album.
The three albums you're likely to find -- Up Close and Personal, Watermelon Slim and the Workers, and The Wheel Man -- are as raw and as viscerally moving as any blues albums I've ever heard. This is no dilettante dabbling in some ancient, petrified musical genre. He's very much invested in the proceedings, he's one hell of a bottleneck guitarist, and he's got that cry in his voice that only the greatest singers in the genre have had before him. In short, he's the real deal. He covers Muddy, the Wolf, Sonny Boy Williamson, and Mississippi Fred McDowell, and he writes originals that can hold their own with the classics. And yes, he wrote most of those originals while behind the wheel of his big rig. He's got a big, raw sound, equal parts Mississippi Delta acoustic and Chicago electric. He's fabulous. You should check him out.
Adoration of the Storm Troopers*
On coming to the manger, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasures and presented him with gifts of light sabers and oxygen masks and black rubber gloves. And having been warned in a dream not to go back to Darth Vader, they returned to their planet by another route.
-- 1 Tattooinians 2: 4-5
* With thanks to Karen, from whom I shamelessly stole the photo.
Monday, November 26, 2007
In Praise of Obscurity
In the current issue of Paste, esteemed music critic Geoffrey Himes laments the decentralization of the music industry, and points out that his favorite album of 2007 will go unnoticed, even by most ardent music fans.
And I’ll see Geoffrey’s obscure artist and raise him two: my three favorite albums of 2007 are by a Boston wunderkind named Ezra Furman, a bunch of Ohio indie rockers called Southeast Engine, and a Virginia country/folk neo-hippie named Devon Sproule. Who? Are those albums better than the ones released by Bruce Springsteen, Arcade Fire, and The National, the albums that occupy the top three rungs on Paste’s Best of 2007 list? Sure. At least I’d argue that they are. But nobody’s heard them, and even when it’s your business to pay attention to new music, as it is to the staff of Paste Magazine, it’s impossible to cover all the worthy music released each month. It’s inevitable that some gems fall through the cracks. There are a million bands with their self-produced CDs and their MySpace pages. Ninety-eight percent of them are utterly forgettable. And a few of them are astoudingly great, and undeservedly obscure.
The problem, as Geoffrey points out, is one of promotion and distribution. You can’t buy an album you can’t find. And you can’t find an album if you don’t know to look for it. And in an era when big music labels are fighting for their very lives, and responding to sluggish sales by employing increasingly conservative tactics to sell the same tired old musical formulas, it’s almost impossible for new and innovative bands to get noticed. Geoffrey is absolutely correct, and the old fart Baby Boomers I relate to every day are wrong. There’s no lack of great music being made these days, and no, it hasn’t been all downhill since John married Yoko and Led Zeppelin stopped using Roman numerals in their album titles. The ratio of greatness to crap hasn’t changed significantly from the supposedly halcyon days of the sixties. What has changed is the ability to hear the great music.
The downbeat news for all those wonderful but obscure musicians and bands: don’t give up those day jobs. It’s harder than it’s ever been to secure the big break. If the big break is your goal, then sign up for American Idol and practice your Motown covers. But if you can live with the notion of making music because you love it, you’ll do fine. Music blogs like this one and music magazines like Paste will continue to champion your work. And there will be an audience for what you do. Just don’t be surprised if some nights there are only twenty people in the club.
And I’ll see Geoffrey’s obscure artist and raise him two: my three favorite albums of 2007 are by a Boston wunderkind named Ezra Furman, a bunch of Ohio indie rockers called Southeast Engine, and a Virginia country/folk neo-hippie named Devon Sproule. Who? Are those albums better than the ones released by Bruce Springsteen, Arcade Fire, and The National, the albums that occupy the top three rungs on Paste’s Best of 2007 list? Sure. At least I’d argue that they are. But nobody’s heard them, and even when it’s your business to pay attention to new music, as it is to the staff of Paste Magazine, it’s impossible to cover all the worthy music released each month. It’s inevitable that some gems fall through the cracks. There are a million bands with their self-produced CDs and their MySpace pages. Ninety-eight percent of them are utterly forgettable. And a few of them are astoudingly great, and undeservedly obscure.
The problem, as Geoffrey points out, is one of promotion and distribution. You can’t buy an album you can’t find. And you can’t find an album if you don’t know to look for it. And in an era when big music labels are fighting for their very lives, and responding to sluggish sales by employing increasingly conservative tactics to sell the same tired old musical formulas, it’s almost impossible for new and innovative bands to get noticed. Geoffrey is absolutely correct, and the old fart Baby Boomers I relate to every day are wrong. There’s no lack of great music being made these days, and no, it hasn’t been all downhill since John married Yoko and Led Zeppelin stopped using Roman numerals in their album titles. The ratio of greatness to crap hasn’t changed significantly from the supposedly halcyon days of the sixties. What has changed is the ability to hear the great music.
The downbeat news for all those wonderful but obscure musicians and bands: don’t give up those day jobs. It’s harder than it’s ever been to secure the big break. If the big break is your goal, then sign up for American Idol and practice your Motown covers. But if you can live with the notion of making music because you love it, you’ll do fine. Music blogs like this one and music magazines like Paste will continue to champion your work. And there will be an audience for what you do. Just don’t be surprised if some nights there are only twenty people in the club.
Deer Season
Today is the start of gun deer season in Ohio, a high holy day for Bubba and Wanda and their progeny. Schools are closed in many counties in southeastern Ohio, not because of weather or natural disaster, but because the savvy superintendants have learned that little Maideen and Bubba Jr. are going to be out hunting with pa, and won’t be bothered by little things like homework. Supper’s on the line.
And so I bring you a very special high holy day playlist:
1. Twin Killers – Deerhoof
2. Sun – Lost Fawn
3. Peace and Quiet – The Rifles
4. Meat is Murder – The Smiths
5. There’s a Hole – John Doe
6. A Devil in the Woods – Gun Club
7. These Old Shoes – Deer Tick
8. No Smoke Without Fire – James Hunter
9. Buckaroo – Buck Owens
10. Southern Comfort – Shooter Jennings
11. Pathetic – Venison
12. Lake Somerset – Deerhunter
13. Hungry Like the Wolf – Bambi and the Boys
14. In the Snow – The Antlers
And so I bring you a very special high holy day playlist:
1. Twin Killers – Deerhoof
2. Sun – Lost Fawn
3. Peace and Quiet – The Rifles
4. Meat is Murder – The Smiths
5. There’s a Hole – John Doe
6. A Devil in the Woods – Gun Club
7. These Old Shoes – Deer Tick
8. No Smoke Without Fire – James Hunter
9. Buckaroo – Buck Owens
10. Southern Comfort – Shooter Jennings
11. Pathetic – Venison
12. Lake Somerset – Deerhunter
13. Hungry Like the Wolf – Bambi and the Boys
14. In the Snow – The Antlers
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Thanksgiving
This song doesn't reflect my experience (at least not for this particular holiday). But there's a lot of truth here. As he usually does, Loudon cuts through the schmaltz to find the bittersweet core. For anyone out there who understands the sense of something lost, it's my hope and prayer that this Thanksgiving you will find something -- or somethings -- for which to be grateful.
Lord, every year we gather here
To eat around this table
Give us the strength to stomach as much
As fast as we are able
Bless this food to our use
Though communication's useless
Don't let me drink too much wine
Lord, you know how I get ruthless
Let us somehow get through this meal
Without that bad old feeling
With history and memory
And homecooking redeeming
Remind us that we're all grown up
Adults no longer children
Now it's our kids who spill the milk
And our turn to want to kill them
I look around and recognize
A sister and a brother
We rarely see our parents now
We barely see each other
On this auspicious occasion
This special family dinner
If I argue with a loved one, Lord
Please make me the winner
All this food looks and smells so good
But I can hardly taste it
The sense of something has been lost
There's no way to replace it
After the meal switch on the game
There's just a few more seconds
But after the meal I need a nap
The guest bedroom beckons
I fall asleep, I have a dream
In it is the family
Nothing bad has happened yet
And everyone is happy
Mother and father both still young
And naturally they love us
We're all lying on the lawn at night
Watching the stars above us
Lord, every year we gather here
To eat around this table
Give us the strength to stomach as much
As fast as we are able
-- Loudon Wainwright III, "Thanksgiving"
Lord, every year we gather here
To eat around this table
Give us the strength to stomach as much
As fast as we are able
Bless this food to our use
Though communication's useless
Don't let me drink too much wine
Lord, you know how I get ruthless
Let us somehow get through this meal
Without that bad old feeling
With history and memory
And homecooking redeeming
Remind us that we're all grown up
Adults no longer children
Now it's our kids who spill the milk
And our turn to want to kill them
I look around and recognize
A sister and a brother
We rarely see our parents now
We barely see each other
On this auspicious occasion
This special family dinner
If I argue with a loved one, Lord
Please make me the winner
All this food looks and smells so good
But I can hardly taste it
The sense of something has been lost
There's no way to replace it
After the meal switch on the game
There's just a few more seconds
But after the meal I need a nap
The guest bedroom beckons
I fall asleep, I have a dream
In it is the family
Nothing bad has happened yet
And everyone is happy
Mother and father both still young
And naturally they love us
We're all lying on the lawn at night
Watching the stars above us
Lord, every year we gather here
To eat around this table
Give us the strength to stomach as much
As fast as we are able
-- Loudon Wainwright III, "Thanksgiving"
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Random Musical Notes
Soundtracks
I don’t have one, maybe for the first time in my life. For more than forty years I’ve been able to conjure up a playlist to fit my every mood. Not this time. I could go with the usual emo whiners and sadsack romantics, but they don’t really capture my peculiar little world. Besides, I’m not sure that a song could accurately capture just what it’s like to feel knitting needles probing one’s inner organs.
Worst Christmas Album of All Time
I recently received Conway Twitty’s 1983 album A Twismas Story with Twitty Bird and Their Little Friends. This just may be the nadir of recorded music. First, Conway sounds like he’s been pulled away from the honky-tonk to fulfill some contractual obligations. Various reindeer songs appear, as do songs about snowmen, as does a song about someone called “Happy the Christmas Clown.” A vocal group that may be The Ray Conniff singers accompanies Conway, and adds that special holiday schlock to the proceedings, chiming in with “like a lightbulb” after Conway tells us that Rudolph had a shiny nose. But the real piece de resistance here is the inclusion of Twitty Bird, a chirpingly upbeat little avian friend with a lisp, who routinely crashes the musical proceedings to offer, “Mawwy Twismas, evwybody!” Sounding somewhat like Alvin from Alvin and the Chipmunks, there are times when Twitty Bird’s duets with Conway are tinged with the surreal, as on the aforementioned “Happy the Christmas (Twismas) Clown,” when man and munk entwine their voices to bring us the tale of the clown “a winkin’ and a blinkin’ at you and me.” This is either the best album or the worst album I’ve heard in the new millennium.
Thanksgiving
Every year we gather here to feast around this table
Lord, give us the strength to stomach just as much as we are able
-- Loudon Wainwright III, “Thanksgiving”
Many people dread the holidays. I don’t. Or at least not this one. For the past thirty years, and long before I arrived on the scene, Kate’s family has filled up a bunch of cabins in Old Man’s Cave State park in southeast Ohio, where they hike, eat and drink their way through three days of the festivities. I won’t be doing any hiking, but I’ll be there. The nieces and nephews are all grown up now, and have toddlers of their own, but they still get in their cars and drive long distances to make it to the proceedings. There will be about thirty of us this year, and four generations. In what may be the closest thing to a miracle that I’ll ever experience, I get to hang out with a functional family. People seem to genuinely like and love one another When I think about reasons to be thankful, I won’t have to look far. I’ll just look around the room.
Family Bonding
Rachel’s back from Ohio U. for the start of her Christmas break. And what better way to get in that family bonding time than by hanging out in a local bar listening to some great local bands? Saturday night we saw Columbus’ Spanish Prisoners and The Whiles and Athens, Ohio’s Southeast Engine. Very good stuff. I am becoming a major Southeast Engine fan. Not only does the band have a great sound – simultaneously raw and melodic – but lead singer/songwriter Adam Remnant’s songs keep opening up in new ways for me. At one point, in the same song, I heard oblique references to the Bible, Abraham Lincoln, and T.S. Eliot. This is an English/Theology major’s dream come true.
Positive Proof that Music Publicists Don’t Know Who They’re Dealing With
I just received the new Celine Dion album in the mail.
I don’t have one, maybe for the first time in my life. For more than forty years I’ve been able to conjure up a playlist to fit my every mood. Not this time. I could go with the usual emo whiners and sadsack romantics, but they don’t really capture my peculiar little world. Besides, I’m not sure that a song could accurately capture just what it’s like to feel knitting needles probing one’s inner organs.
Worst Christmas Album of All Time
I recently received Conway Twitty’s 1983 album A Twismas Story with Twitty Bird and Their Little Friends. This just may be the nadir of recorded music. First, Conway sounds like he’s been pulled away from the honky-tonk to fulfill some contractual obligations. Various reindeer songs appear, as do songs about snowmen, as does a song about someone called “Happy the Christmas Clown.” A vocal group that may be The Ray Conniff singers accompanies Conway, and adds that special holiday schlock to the proceedings, chiming in with “like a lightbulb” after Conway tells us that Rudolph had a shiny nose. But the real piece de resistance here is the inclusion of Twitty Bird, a chirpingly upbeat little avian friend with a lisp, who routinely crashes the musical proceedings to offer, “Mawwy Twismas, evwybody!” Sounding somewhat like Alvin from Alvin and the Chipmunks, there are times when Twitty Bird’s duets with Conway are tinged with the surreal, as on the aforementioned “Happy the Christmas (Twismas) Clown,” when man and munk entwine their voices to bring us the tale of the clown “a winkin’ and a blinkin’ at you and me.” This is either the best album or the worst album I’ve heard in the new millennium.
Thanksgiving
Every year we gather here to feast around this table
Lord, give us the strength to stomach just as much as we are able
-- Loudon Wainwright III, “Thanksgiving”
Many people dread the holidays. I don’t. Or at least not this one. For the past thirty years, and long before I arrived on the scene, Kate’s family has filled up a bunch of cabins in Old Man’s Cave State park in southeast Ohio, where they hike, eat and drink their way through three days of the festivities. I won’t be doing any hiking, but I’ll be there. The nieces and nephews are all grown up now, and have toddlers of their own, but they still get in their cars and drive long distances to make it to the proceedings. There will be about thirty of us this year, and four generations. In what may be the closest thing to a miracle that I’ll ever experience, I get to hang out with a functional family. People seem to genuinely like and love one another When I think about reasons to be thankful, I won’t have to look far. I’ll just look around the room.
Family Bonding
Rachel’s back from Ohio U. for the start of her Christmas break. And what better way to get in that family bonding time than by hanging out in a local bar listening to some great local bands? Saturday night we saw Columbus’ Spanish Prisoners and The Whiles and Athens, Ohio’s Southeast Engine. Very good stuff. I am becoming a major Southeast Engine fan. Not only does the band have a great sound – simultaneously raw and melodic – but lead singer/songwriter Adam Remnant’s songs keep opening up in new ways for me. At one point, in the same song, I heard oblique references to the Bible, Abraham Lincoln, and T.S. Eliot. This is an English/Theology major’s dream come true.
Positive Proof that Music Publicists Don’t Know Who They’re Dealing With
I just received the new Celine Dion album in the mail.
Friday, November 16, 2007
You Can't Fail Me Now
My virtual friend, e-mail pal, and songwriter extraordinaire Joe Henry doesn't think he writes prayers, but he does.
I know that fan is moving air
I can see it in your hair
But I can’t bear to breathe it in somehow
I’ll rise and fall with you ‘cause you can’t fail me now
I’ll rise and fall with you ‘cause you can’t fail me now
Salt is sweet upon my mouth
And dark throws sparks against my house
The state of love is a smudge on my brow
But you see through me and you can’t fail me now
When you see right through me you can’t fail me now
I’ve bit off more than I can chew
It’s something that I tend to do
When fewer words are what we need and how
Well, you bite my tongue and you can’t fail me now
I rant and rail but you can’t fail me now
I’ve lost the thread among the vines
And hung myself in story lines
That tell the tales I never would allow
God knows the name of every bird
That fills my mind like angry words
But you all know my secret heart avows
We’re taught to love the worst of us
And mercy more than life
But trust that mercy’s just a warning shot across the bow
I live for yours and you can’t fail me now
I live for your mercy and you can’t fail me now
-- Joe Henry, “You Can’t Me Now”
I know that fan is moving air
I can see it in your hair
But I can’t bear to breathe it in somehow
I’ll rise and fall with you ‘cause you can’t fail me now
I’ll rise and fall with you ‘cause you can’t fail me now
Salt is sweet upon my mouth
And dark throws sparks against my house
The state of love is a smudge on my brow
But you see through me and you can’t fail me now
When you see right through me you can’t fail me now
I’ve bit off more than I can chew
It’s something that I tend to do
When fewer words are what we need and how
Well, you bite my tongue and you can’t fail me now
I rant and rail but you can’t fail me now
I’ve lost the thread among the vines
And hung myself in story lines
That tell the tales I never would allow
God knows the name of every bird
That fills my mind like angry words
But you all know my secret heart avows
We’re taught to love the worst of us
And mercy more than life
But trust that mercy’s just a warning shot across the bow
I live for yours and you can’t fail me now
I live for your mercy and you can’t fail me now
-- Joe Henry, “You Can’t Me Now”
Today's Playlist
I haven't listened to much music in the past two weeks. I haven't had time. But when I have listened, these songs have dominated the CD player and the iPod. Music really is the soundtrack to life.
What Do You Want From Life? – The Tubes
Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow – Frank Zappa
Hospitals I’ve Visited – Jerry’s Kids
Bring Me the Head of Jerry Garcia – Iron Prostate
Piss Factory – Patti Smith
Urine Palace – Tiger Lillies
Pissing in the Wind – Badly Drawn Boy
Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kit Bag – Red Foley
Hospital Vespers – The Weakerthans
What Do You Want From Life? – The Tubes
Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow – Frank Zappa
Hospitals I’ve Visited – Jerry’s Kids
Bring Me the Head of Jerry Garcia – Iron Prostate
Piss Factory – Patti Smith
Urine Palace – Tiger Lillies
Pissing in the Wind – Badly Drawn Boy
Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kit Bag – Red Foley
Hospital Vespers – The Weakerthans
Monday, November 12, 2007
Southeast Engine
Southeast Engine are a band from my old stomping grounds of Athens, Ohio, the best place in the world to spend the years 18 - 22. They've released one of my favorite indie/Americana albums this year, a little gem called A Wheel Within a Wheel. For you Bible scholars, that's a reference to the Book of Ezekiel. I don't know anyone in the band, nor do I know what any individual members may believe. I do know that they make wonderfully melodic, sadsack indie rock, and sound a lot like early Wilco.
So imagine Jeff Tweedy, his voice cracking in all the right places, accompanied only by an acoustic guitar and a mournful cello, and singing this little straightforward repentance song:
If I return would you take me back?
Teach me to learn to face the facts?
I’m so sorry for all I did
Oh God, let me back in
When I was a child I believed in you
A simple thing for a child to do
I could see the sky and my mind was set
I could feel okay when I was so upset
But as I grew it was so easy to forget
Oh God, let me back in
Because I’ve taken for granted all that you gave
I threw away what I was supposed to save
So if you would erase my doubt
And let me appreciate what I’ve got left
And be here in the moment
Oh God, let me back in
‘Cause I’ve been so selfish, toneless and cruel
I’ve done whatever I wanted to
So if you would forgive my sin
I won’t be who I have been
I’ll put my stock in you not them
If you let me back in
For so long now I’d just like to know
I’ve sawed off the branch that I was resting on
And as I fell from limb to limb
I found I was no real exception
So here I’m beggin’ for redemption
Oh God, let me back in
Oh God, let me back in
-- Southeast Engine, "Oh God, Let Me Back In"
Normally I'm a metaphor and simile guy. There's no great poetry there. But sometimes you just have to cut to the chase. I've sung that song. Maybe you have too.
The band is playing at Scully's Saturday night and celebrating their CD release on Misra Records, one of my favorite indie labels. I'm going to be there. Y'all are welcome to join me.
So imagine Jeff Tweedy, his voice cracking in all the right places, accompanied only by an acoustic guitar and a mournful cello, and singing this little straightforward repentance song:
If I return would you take me back?
Teach me to learn to face the facts?
I’m so sorry for all I did
Oh God, let me back in
When I was a child I believed in you
A simple thing for a child to do
I could see the sky and my mind was set
I could feel okay when I was so upset
But as I grew it was so easy to forget
Oh God, let me back in
Because I’ve taken for granted all that you gave
I threw away what I was supposed to save
So if you would erase my doubt
And let me appreciate what I’ve got left
And be here in the moment
Oh God, let me back in
‘Cause I’ve been so selfish, toneless and cruel
I’ve done whatever I wanted to
So if you would forgive my sin
I won’t be who I have been
I’ll put my stock in you not them
If you let me back in
For so long now I’d just like to know
I’ve sawed off the branch that I was resting on
And as I fell from limb to limb
I found I was no real exception
So here I’m beggin’ for redemption
Oh God, let me back in
Oh God, let me back in
-- Southeast Engine, "Oh God, Let Me Back In"
Normally I'm a metaphor and simile guy. There's no great poetry there. But sometimes you just have to cut to the chase. I've sung that song. Maybe you have too.
The band is playing at Scully's Saturday night and celebrating their CD release on Misra Records, one of my favorite indie labels. I'm going to be there. Y'all are welcome to join me.
Connections
I had a terrible weekend. I had a great weekend. Let me explain. Physically, I had a terrible weekend. I feel like crap. I still don't know what's going on with my prostate/bladder/whatever else may be affected/infected, and I still have that #%$!@ catheter, which still hurts like nothing I've ever quite experienced. I was told by my doctor that I might experience some "discomfort." Does "discomfort" include wincing every two minutes, involuntary grunting in pain every five minutes, and a general feeling of having a razor-sharp knife on the inside of your body? Because that's what it feels like.
So I spent most of Saturday morning in a grunting, depressive funk. I tried praying, and I did, but my prayers quickly devolved from the the highminded and Elizabethan "Oh Lord, let thy servant grow closer to you through mine own suffering" to "Father, if it be your will, taken this cup (or attached bag, if you prefer) away from me" to "Shit, this hurts," and "Help me, help me, help me."
Saturday afternoon and early evening we hosted a marriage mentoring session at our house, with three other couples/marriage mentors discussing intimacy. I started out cynical (Helpful suggestion #1: Avoid a tube in your dick), but ended in a better place. It's hard to stay cynical when you're relating with six people, all of whom have come close to shipwrecking their marriages, and who genuinely desire to help others navigate the treacherous shoals and pointy rocks. It was good. I love these folks, and feel honored to be a part of a bigger calling.
Yesterday morning was church, and I felt like crap. But it was good to worship, to acknowledge that God is good, and in control, even when I don't see it. And I do acknolwedge that. I am so thankful to be a part of a church where we are known, and cared for, and I deeply appreciated the people who prayed for me, who were concerned about how I was doing, and who didn't try to put on a pious front. "That sucks" is a perfectly acceptable response as far as I'm concerned, because it does. But these people do not suck, nor does the church as a whole.
Yesterday evening we had dinner with our friends Tim and Beth, and that was good, and affirming. The Indian food was first rate, the conversation both silly and deadly serious, and it was good to be reminded that there are people who are facing far more serious issues than I am, and that infected bladders/prostates have nothing on Stage 4 cancer.
Life is difficult. It just is. We get brief respites from the gloom, and then we are blindsided by our own inadequacies and incompetence, or by the latest senseless tragedy or health crisis. The good news is that we get to experience these things together. I don't take that for granted. I'm hanging in there.
So I spent most of Saturday morning in a grunting, depressive funk. I tried praying, and I did, but my prayers quickly devolved from the the highminded and Elizabethan "Oh Lord, let thy servant grow closer to you through mine own suffering" to "Father, if it be your will, taken this cup (or attached bag, if you prefer) away from me" to "Shit, this hurts," and "Help me, help me, help me."
Saturday afternoon and early evening we hosted a marriage mentoring session at our house, with three other couples/marriage mentors discussing intimacy. I started out cynical (Helpful suggestion #1: Avoid a tube in your dick), but ended in a better place. It's hard to stay cynical when you're relating with six people, all of whom have come close to shipwrecking their marriages, and who genuinely desire to help others navigate the treacherous shoals and pointy rocks. It was good. I love these folks, and feel honored to be a part of a bigger calling.
Yesterday morning was church, and I felt like crap. But it was good to worship, to acknowledge that God is good, and in control, even when I don't see it. And I do acknolwedge that. I am so thankful to be a part of a church where we are known, and cared for, and I deeply appreciated the people who prayed for me, who were concerned about how I was doing, and who didn't try to put on a pious front. "That sucks" is a perfectly acceptable response as far as I'm concerned, because it does. But these people do not suck, nor does the church as a whole.
Yesterday evening we had dinner with our friends Tim and Beth, and that was good, and affirming. The Indian food was first rate, the conversation both silly and deadly serious, and it was good to be reminded that there are people who are facing far more serious issues than I am, and that infected bladders/prostates have nothing on Stage 4 cancer.
Life is difficult. It just is. We get brief respites from the gloom, and then we are blindsided by our own inadequacies and incompetence, or by the latest senseless tragedy or health crisis. The good news is that we get to experience these things together. I don't take that for granted. I'm hanging in there.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
David Foster Wallace
Are there any David Foster Wallace fans out there? He's probably my favorite contemporary writer, a dazzling stylist who works the postmodern metafiction territory of Pynchon and Barthelme, but who tempers his cynicism and "look ma, no boundaries" zaniness with a surprisingly compassionate vision.
His best known work is probably his 1996 novel Infinite Jest, which is utterly uncategorizable, but which the Wikipedia article bravely attempts to summarize as follows:
The book's plot centers on a lost film cartridge, titled Infinite Jest by its creator James Incandenza, and referred to in the novel as "the Entertainment" or "the samizdat". The film is so "entertaining" to its unwitting viewers that they become lifeless, losing all interest in anything other than endless viewings of the film. In the novel's future world, North America is one unified state composed of the United States, Canada, and Mexico, known as the Organization of North American Nations (O.N.A.N.). Corporations purchase naming rights to each calendar year, eliminating traditional numerical designations; e.g., "The Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment," "The Year of Dairy Products from the American Heartland." Much of what used to be the northeastern United States and southeastern Canada has become a massive hazardous waste dumping site known as "The Great Concavity"/"The Great Convexity."
And that doesn't begin to tell the story. It is, for example, the best and most realistic study of addiction I've ever read.
I've been reading Wallace's 2004 collection of short stories called Oblivion. There's a story there called "The Soul is Not a Smithy" that is set in Columbus, Ohio in 1960. I've lived in Columbus, Ohio most of my life, including as a first-grader in 1960. The story takes place in an elementary school classroom and on the streets of Columbus. Foster, who to my knowledge has never lived in Columbus, not only accurately captures the zeitgeist of specific Columbus neighborhoods at the fag end of the Eisenhower era, but perfectly recreates a 1960 classroom, including the way the desks were bolted to the floor, and the pattern of the tiles on the ceiling. In true metafiction fashion, there's nothing straightforward about any of this. The story also contains a chilling description of a substitute teacher's mental breakdown in front of his students, and a young boy's gentle, lyrical reminiscence of his father's soul-sucking life, stuck in the headquarters building of a downtown Columbus insurance company, doing menial work for day after day, year after year, until he was a hollow shell. I don't know. Maybe it's because I know Columbus, and I know the neighborhoods Foster describes. Maybe it's because I'm currently stuck on the 16th floor of a downtown Columbus insurance company building, using my Creative Writing degree to write about database capacity planning and forecasting. But it hit me in the gut. It's an astonishing piece of writing. But then again, he regularly astonishes me.
As an added bonus, he's also written the only commencement speech worth reading, which he delivered to the assembled graduates of Kenyon College in 2005. As a general rule, don't waste your time reading commencement speeches. But read this one.
Sometimes I play the "if you could meet anyone alive right now, who would it be?" game. My answer varies, but I know who it would be today.
His best known work is probably his 1996 novel Infinite Jest, which is utterly uncategorizable, but which the Wikipedia article bravely attempts to summarize as follows:
The book's plot centers on a lost film cartridge, titled Infinite Jest by its creator James Incandenza, and referred to in the novel as "the Entertainment" or "the samizdat". The film is so "entertaining" to its unwitting viewers that they become lifeless, losing all interest in anything other than endless viewings of the film. In the novel's future world, North America is one unified state composed of the United States, Canada, and Mexico, known as the Organization of North American Nations (O.N.A.N.). Corporations purchase naming rights to each calendar year, eliminating traditional numerical designations; e.g., "The Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment," "The Year of Dairy Products from the American Heartland." Much of what used to be the northeastern United States and southeastern Canada has become a massive hazardous waste dumping site known as "The Great Concavity"/"The Great Convexity."
And that doesn't begin to tell the story. It is, for example, the best and most realistic study of addiction I've ever read.
I've been reading Wallace's 2004 collection of short stories called Oblivion. There's a story there called "The Soul is Not a Smithy" that is set in Columbus, Ohio in 1960. I've lived in Columbus, Ohio most of my life, including as a first-grader in 1960. The story takes place in an elementary school classroom and on the streets of Columbus. Foster, who to my knowledge has never lived in Columbus, not only accurately captures the zeitgeist of specific Columbus neighborhoods at the fag end of the Eisenhower era, but perfectly recreates a 1960 classroom, including the way the desks were bolted to the floor, and the pattern of the tiles on the ceiling. In true metafiction fashion, there's nothing straightforward about any of this. The story also contains a chilling description of a substitute teacher's mental breakdown in front of his students, and a young boy's gentle, lyrical reminiscence of his father's soul-sucking life, stuck in the headquarters building of a downtown Columbus insurance company, doing menial work for day after day, year after year, until he was a hollow shell. I don't know. Maybe it's because I know Columbus, and I know the neighborhoods Foster describes. Maybe it's because I'm currently stuck on the 16th floor of a downtown Columbus insurance company building, using my Creative Writing degree to write about database capacity planning and forecasting. But it hit me in the gut. It's an astonishing piece of writing. But then again, he regularly astonishes me.
As an added bonus, he's also written the only commencement speech worth reading, which he delivered to the assembled graduates of Kenyon College in 2005. As a general rule, don't waste your time reading commencement speeches. But read this one.
Sometimes I play the "if you could meet anyone alive right now, who would it be?" game. My answer varies, but I know who it would be today.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Today's Favorite Band ...
... is Seattle's The Catheters.
I don't know if any of you guys have ever sat around and wondered, "Hey, what's it like to have a tube up your dick?" I know I never did. But now I know. Wonder no more. It hurts just like you would think it would.
So I have an infected prostate glad that landed me in the hospital last night. But hey, given the tube and trusty legbag, I'm back in business. How humiliating. I'm walking like John Wayne, but I don't feel like him.
I don't know if any of you guys have ever sat around and wondered, "Hey, what's it like to have a tube up your dick?" I know I never did. But now I know. Wonder no more. It hurts just like you would think it would.
So I have an infected prostate glad that landed me in the hospital last night. But hey, given the tube and trusty legbag, I'm back in business. How humiliating. I'm walking like John Wayne, but I don't feel like him.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Malcolm Holcombe -- Gamblin' House
I've been enthralled with North Carolina singer/songwriter Malcolm Holcombe since I heard his debut album A Hundred Years back in 1999. Subsequent appearances have been infrequent, but memorable. On an otherwise forgettable soundtrack to the forgettable movie The Slaughter Rule, Holcombe simply astonished with his take on "Killin' the Blues," a feral country lament last heard on the recent Robert Plant/Alison Krauss duets album. Quite simply, he's a phenomenal singer. But to put it mildly, he won't appeal to everyone's tastes. If Tom Waits sounds a little too smooth for you, he might. Otherwise, you might want to give his music a pass.
But I love his voice; a big, gruff, soulful mess of a thing, and I love the sound he gets out of his band, who play dobros and mandolins like rock 'n roll instruments. The end result reminds me of what a homeless wino poet from Appalachia might sound like if he put down the bottle long enough to stumble into a recording studio. And yes, for those of you who feel adventurous, that's a strong recommendation.
His new album Gamblin' House is due out in January. It's a killer; English-major poetry set to raw, plaintive Appalachian melodies, with that voice growling and insinuating murder and mayhem. Holcombe can sing an innocuous lyric like "I'm goin' downtown to see the Christmas lights" and make it sound a menacing threat. He's weird, he's wild, and he's great.
But I love his voice; a big, gruff, soulful mess of a thing, and I love the sound he gets out of his band, who play dobros and mandolins like rock 'n roll instruments. The end result reminds me of what a homeless wino poet from Appalachia might sound like if he put down the bottle long enough to stumble into a recording studio. And yes, for those of you who feel adventurous, that's a strong recommendation.
His new album Gamblin' House is due out in January. It's a killer; English-major poetry set to raw, plaintive Appalachian melodies, with that voice growling and insinuating murder and mayhem. Holcombe can sing an innocuous lyric like "I'm goin' downtown to see the Christmas lights" and make it sound a menacing threat. He's weird, he's wild, and he's great.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Megahits and Bands Past Their Prime
Okay, I have a theory, made up of equal parts music snobbery and jaded listening habits, that states that a band's biggest/most popular album (or their "breakthrough" album) is always always inferior to albums that have come before it. Some examples:
Bruce Springsteen -- Born in the U.S.A. (compare to Born to Run)
U2 -- The Joshua Tree (compare to War)
R.E.M. -- Out of Time, Automatic for the People (compare to Murmur)
Death Cab for Cutie -- Plans (compare to We Have the Facts and We're Voting Yes)
Wilco -- Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (compare to Being There)
Now, before I am inundated with indignant replies, let me note that I think all of these albums fall under the "Okay" or "Pretty Good" categories. None of them are stinkers. But I also think that all of these musicians/bands did far better work on earlier albums (specfically, the ones mentioned above). And I'm sure there are exceptions, but honestly I can't think of them. Why is it that most albums that go Platinum strike me as toned down/dumbed down when compared to the artists' best work? And why is it that the exceptions, such as Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (which hardly strikes me as toned down or dumbed down) merely strike me as indulgent wankery? Anyone have any insight into my twisted musical mind?
Bruce Springsteen -- Born in the U.S.A. (compare to Born to Run)
U2 -- The Joshua Tree (compare to War)
R.E.M. -- Out of Time, Automatic for the People (compare to Murmur)
Death Cab for Cutie -- Plans (compare to We Have the Facts and We're Voting Yes)
Wilco -- Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (compare to Being There)
Now, before I am inundated with indignant replies, let me note that I think all of these albums fall under the "Okay" or "Pretty Good" categories. None of them are stinkers. But I also think that all of these musicians/bands did far better work on earlier albums (specfically, the ones mentioned above). And I'm sure there are exceptions, but honestly I can't think of them. Why is it that most albums that go Platinum strike me as toned down/dumbed down when compared to the artists' best work? And why is it that the exceptions, such as Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (which hardly strikes me as toned down or dumbed down) merely strike me as indulgent wankery? Anyone have any insight into my twisted musical mind?
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
The Funky Western Civilization
I see that the traveling edition of "So You Think You Can Dance?" was at the Schottenstein Center last night, featuring many of the amateur dancers who are now celebrities on your TV screen. To mark this momentous occasion I offer you one of my favorite dance tracks:
come on everybody
get on your feet
get with the beat
there's a brand new dance craze
sweeping the nation
and it's called the funky western civilization
well there's a riot in the courthouse,
there's a fire in the street
there's a sinner bein' trampled by a thousand pious feet
there's a baby every minute bein' born without a chance
now don't that make you want to jump right up and start to dance?
let's do the funky
the funky western civilization
it's really spunky
it's just like summertime vacation
you just grab your partner by the hair
throw her down and leave her there
they put jesus on a cross,
they put a hole in j.f.k.
they put hitler in the driver's seat
and looked the other way
now they've got poison in the water
and the whole world in a trance
but just because we're hypnotized,
that don't mean we can't dance
we've got the funky
the funky western civilization
it's really spunky
it's just like summertime vacation
you just drag your partner through the dirt
leave him in a world of hurt
you get down, get funky, get western
(own up to it boys and girls)
and if you try real hard maybe you can even get,
you know, kinda civilized
(mesdames et messieurs, bon soir. this is joan of arc. tonio has asked me to personally deliver a rather special message. he say he just cannot get enough of my 15th-century wisdom. he say he loves it when i talk with him like this. and after many a saturday night of doing ze funky western civilization together, i know for a fact he agrees with me when i say [in french]:you can bullshit the baker and get the buns, you can back out of every deal except one)
this is the funky
the funky western civilization
it's oh, so very spunky
it's just like summertime vacation
all's you gotta do is find some little kid somewhere
and throw him way up in the air (never mind the parents)
yes it's a funky
a funky western civilization
and it may seem kinda skunky, you know
but it's hitting every nation (all across the universe)
that's 'cause all's you gotta do is grab your partner by the hair
throw her down and leave her there
-- Tonio K., "The Funky Western Civilization"
come on everybody
get on your feet
get with the beat
there's a brand new dance craze
sweeping the nation
and it's called the funky western civilization
well there's a riot in the courthouse,
there's a fire in the street
there's a sinner bein' trampled by a thousand pious feet
there's a baby every minute bein' born without a chance
now don't that make you want to jump right up and start to dance?
let's do the funky
the funky western civilization
it's really spunky
it's just like summertime vacation
you just grab your partner by the hair
throw her down and leave her there
they put jesus on a cross,
they put a hole in j.f.k.
they put hitler in the driver's seat
and looked the other way
now they've got poison in the water
and the whole world in a trance
but just because we're hypnotized,
that don't mean we can't dance
we've got the funky
the funky western civilization
it's really spunky
it's just like summertime vacation
you just drag your partner through the dirt
leave him in a world of hurt
you get down, get funky, get western
(own up to it boys and girls)
and if you try real hard maybe you can even get,
you know, kinda civilized
(mesdames et messieurs, bon soir. this is joan of arc. tonio has asked me to personally deliver a rather special message. he say he just cannot get enough of my 15th-century wisdom. he say he loves it when i talk with him like this. and after many a saturday night of doing ze funky western civilization together, i know for a fact he agrees with me when i say [in french]:you can bullshit the baker and get the buns, you can back out of every deal except one)
this is the funky
the funky western civilization
it's oh, so very spunky
it's just like summertime vacation
all's you gotta do is find some little kid somewhere
and throw him way up in the air (never mind the parents)
yes it's a funky
a funky western civilization
and it may seem kinda skunky, you know
but it's hitting every nation (all across the universe)
that's 'cause all's you gotta do is grab your partner by the hair
throw her down and leave her there
-- Tonio K., "The Funky Western Civilization"
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
The Hold Steady/Art Brut
Saturday night I went to see The Hold Steady, the second time I've seen the band in the past six months. Anyone who has read this blog for any length of time knows that I have an ongoing love affair with The Hold Steady. They are, without question, my favorite rock 'n roll band working today, and their concert back in March was easily one of the highlights of my year. So it pains me to write that Saturday night was a letdown. Maybe my expectations were too high, but I don't think so. I know what this band is capable of delivering. And they simply didn't deliver. On the positive side, let me extend kudos to guitarist Tad Kubler, who is my power-chord hero. Kubler alone almost carried the show. But overall I have to confess to some disappointment, primarily because singer/songwriter Craig Finn appears hellbent on living up to the self-destructive lifestyle he writes about. Staggering about on stage, forgetting a quarter of the lyrics, and mistiming your vocal entrances isn't my idea of a musical good time.
What is? How about Art Brut, who opened for The Hold Steady and blew them off the stage. I had heard a couple tracks from their first album, but really hadn't paid much attention to them. My mistake. These guys (and girl) are cheeky, droll, witty, and very loud, always a good combination. "Look at us/We formed a band!" goes Art Brut's semi-hit, and that's as concise an encapsulation of what they're about as you will find. Featuring songs that sound like they were each written in ten minutes (and probably were), their set consisted of fifteen three-minute pop/punk anthems overflowing with references to popular culture, about being young, in love, and in love with pop music. Lead singer/songwriter Eddie Argos was part punk, part buffoon, and I loved him. In a world of deadly serious, earnest guys with poetry and guitars, how refreshing to find someone who still thinks that rock 'n roll is fun. Art Brut reminded me of the early B52's, but without the beehive hairdos. They write wonderful songs, and their two (and only two) albums just rocketed to the top of my "Must Acquire Soon, Maybe Today" list.
What is? How about Art Brut, who opened for The Hold Steady and blew them off the stage. I had heard a couple tracks from their first album, but really hadn't paid much attention to them. My mistake. These guys (and girl) are cheeky, droll, witty, and very loud, always a good combination. "Look at us/We formed a band!" goes Art Brut's semi-hit, and that's as concise an encapsulation of what they're about as you will find. Featuring songs that sound like they were each written in ten minutes (and probably were), their set consisted of fifteen three-minute pop/punk anthems overflowing with references to popular culture, about being young, in love, and in love with pop music. Lead singer/songwriter Eddie Argos was part punk, part buffoon, and I loved him. In a world of deadly serious, earnest guys with poetry and guitars, how refreshing to find someone who still thinks that rock 'n roll is fun. Art Brut reminded me of the early B52's, but without the beehive hairdos. They write wonderful songs, and their two (and only two) albums just rocketed to the top of my "Must Acquire Soon, Maybe Today" list.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Coheed and Cambria, I'm Not There Soundtrack, John Fogerty
Coheed and Cambria – No World for Tomorrow
There are concept albums, and then there are meta-concept musical careers. NYC’s Coheed and Cambria are now four albums into an ongoing saga about something or other, revisiting musical motifs and lyrical themes that all vaguely seem to tie in to Rush’s 2112 and dystopian visions of a dark future. Be very afraid. To their credit, these guys have the prog-rock chops to pull it off, and lead singer/songwriter Claudio Sanchez has clearly absorbed some valuable histrionics lessons at the Shrine of St. Geddy Lee. But for better or worse, this music makes me want to go hibernate in the basement and play Dungeons and Dragons, not shower for days, and subsist on Mountain Dew and Cheetos. It’s best if I pass. My wife agrees.
Various Artists – I’m Not There Soundtrack
About fifteen years ago one of my friends, an avid Dylan collector, sent me eight ninety-minute cassette tapes chock full of Dylan covers. They ranged from the obvious (The Byrds, Jimi Hendrix) to the painfully obscure (Joey Powers, Moose), from the sublime (Johnny Winter, Van Morrison) to the ridiculous (Mae West, Lawrence Welk, William Shatner). I didn’t realize at the time that that was just the tip of Quinn the Eskimo’s iceberg. To give you some idea of the magnitude of the issue, The Bob Dylan Covers website currently lists 5,870 unique covers of 350 Dylan songs by 2,791 artists. And the website hasn’t been updated since 2002. All of which begs the question: do we really need another 34 Dylan covers?
Thankfully, the answer is yes, as the soundtrack to Todd Haynes’ upcoming film I’m Not There readily attests. For starters, music superviser Randall Poster has assembled an indie dream team for the soundtrack, enlisting the services of Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy, Pavement’s Stephen Malkmus, The Hold Steady, Iron and Wine, Sonic Youth, Sufjan Stevens, Yo La Tengo, Antony and the Johnsons, Cat Power, The Black Keys, and Calexico, along with wily veterans Roger McGuinn, Willie Nelson, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, and Richie Havens. Second, he’s mostly avoided the obvious song choices in favor of a wildly eclectic mix from throughout Dylan’s career, including several obscurities/outtakes that will be familiar to only the most diehard Dylan fans. Third, he’s involved the maestro himself, uncovering a previously unreleased Dylan and The Band Basement Tapes chestnut (the title track) to wrap up the proceedings.
Not all of it works. Callow surfer dude Jack Johnson thoroughly botches his cover of “Mama, You’ve Been On My Mind.” The usually reliable Sufjan Stevens offers a woeful misreading of “Ring them Bells,” a dirge when it originally appeared on Oh Mercy, here transformed into the usual Fourth of July marching band set piece. But there are many, many delights and surprises, starting with Tweedy’s soulful reading of “Simple Twist of Fate,” Malkmus’ letter-perfect sneer on “Ballad of a Thin Man,” My Morning Jacket frontman Jim James’ and Calexico’s rootsy take on “Goin’ to Acapulco,” Sonic Youth’s spooky, feedback-drenched version of the title track, and The Hold Steady’s raucous cover of the Highway 61 Revisited outtake “Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window.” The house band, featuring Television’s Tom Verlaine,Wilco’s Nels Cline, and Sonic Youth’s Lee Ranaldo on guitars, and Medeski, Martin, and Wood’s John Medeski on keyboards, is dazzlingly inventive throughout.
Like the song selection itself, Poster’s musical direction splits the difference between safe, familiar arrangements and more radical, risk-taking moments. The end result is endlessly satisfying, and will appeal to longtime Dylan fans, and a new generation of fans attracted by the indie lineup. Forty-five years down the line, the music of Bob Dylan matters more than ever. It’s gratifying to hear that musicians the age of his grandkids are onto that fact as well.
John Fogerty – Revival
John Fogerty can do anything and everything except write a decent song. His voice, one of the greatest in the history of rock ‘n roll, is still miraculously intact at 62. His swamp rock guitar work, often imitated, is still as dirty and gritty as can be. But bad things happen when he opens his mouth:
But if tomorrow everybody under the sun
Who's happy just to live as one
No borders or battles to be won
But if tomorrow everybody was your friend
Happiness would never end
Lord, don't you wish it was true
Fogerty unhappily marries the worst of sixties sunny utopianism, man, with rhymes that the Hallmark Company would have the good sense to reject. It’s a deadly combination, one that mars the otherwise excellent Revival. Fogerty namechecks his old band (and its sound) on “Creedence Song,” updates “Fortunate Son” with a new and great political screed called “Long Dark Night,” and steals the guitar riff from “Sunshine of Your Love” on “Summer of Love,” giving the aging hippies two nostalgic thrills for the price of one. All of which is fine, or would be fine, if the lyrics weren’t so hamfisted and inarticulate. Once upon a time Fogerty’s songwriting could be considered bracingly straightforward. Now it seems merely straightforwardly awkward. I dreamed John’s rhymes still sounded new. Don’t you wish it was true? Lord, I surely do. I bet you do too.
There are concept albums, and then there are meta-concept musical careers. NYC’s Coheed and Cambria are now four albums into an ongoing saga about something or other, revisiting musical motifs and lyrical themes that all vaguely seem to tie in to Rush’s 2112 and dystopian visions of a dark future. Be very afraid. To their credit, these guys have the prog-rock chops to pull it off, and lead singer/songwriter Claudio Sanchez has clearly absorbed some valuable histrionics lessons at the Shrine of St. Geddy Lee. But for better or worse, this music makes me want to go hibernate in the basement and play Dungeons and Dragons, not shower for days, and subsist on Mountain Dew and Cheetos. It’s best if I pass. My wife agrees.
Various Artists – I’m Not There Soundtrack
About fifteen years ago one of my friends, an avid Dylan collector, sent me eight ninety-minute cassette tapes chock full of Dylan covers. They ranged from the obvious (The Byrds, Jimi Hendrix) to the painfully obscure (Joey Powers, Moose), from the sublime (Johnny Winter, Van Morrison) to the ridiculous (Mae West, Lawrence Welk, William Shatner). I didn’t realize at the time that that was just the tip of Quinn the Eskimo’s iceberg. To give you some idea of the magnitude of the issue, The Bob Dylan Covers website currently lists 5,870 unique covers of 350 Dylan songs by 2,791 artists. And the website hasn’t been updated since 2002. All of which begs the question: do we really need another 34 Dylan covers?
Thankfully, the answer is yes, as the soundtrack to Todd Haynes’ upcoming film I’m Not There readily attests. For starters, music superviser Randall Poster has assembled an indie dream team for the soundtrack, enlisting the services of Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy, Pavement’s Stephen Malkmus, The Hold Steady, Iron and Wine, Sonic Youth, Sufjan Stevens, Yo La Tengo, Antony and the Johnsons, Cat Power, The Black Keys, and Calexico, along with wily veterans Roger McGuinn, Willie Nelson, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, and Richie Havens. Second, he’s mostly avoided the obvious song choices in favor of a wildly eclectic mix from throughout Dylan’s career, including several obscurities/outtakes that will be familiar to only the most diehard Dylan fans. Third, he’s involved the maestro himself, uncovering a previously unreleased Dylan and The Band Basement Tapes chestnut (the title track) to wrap up the proceedings.
Not all of it works. Callow surfer dude Jack Johnson thoroughly botches his cover of “Mama, You’ve Been On My Mind.” The usually reliable Sufjan Stevens offers a woeful misreading of “Ring them Bells,” a dirge when it originally appeared on Oh Mercy, here transformed into the usual Fourth of July marching band set piece. But there are many, many delights and surprises, starting with Tweedy’s soulful reading of “Simple Twist of Fate,” Malkmus’ letter-perfect sneer on “Ballad of a Thin Man,” My Morning Jacket frontman Jim James’ and Calexico’s rootsy take on “Goin’ to Acapulco,” Sonic Youth’s spooky, feedback-drenched version of the title track, and The Hold Steady’s raucous cover of the Highway 61 Revisited outtake “Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window.” The house band, featuring Television’s Tom Verlaine,Wilco’s Nels Cline, and Sonic Youth’s Lee Ranaldo on guitars, and Medeski, Martin, and Wood’s John Medeski on keyboards, is dazzlingly inventive throughout.
Like the song selection itself, Poster’s musical direction splits the difference between safe, familiar arrangements and more radical, risk-taking moments. The end result is endlessly satisfying, and will appeal to longtime Dylan fans, and a new generation of fans attracted by the indie lineup. Forty-five years down the line, the music of Bob Dylan matters more than ever. It’s gratifying to hear that musicians the age of his grandkids are onto that fact as well.
John Fogerty – Revival
John Fogerty can do anything and everything except write a decent song. His voice, one of the greatest in the history of rock ‘n roll, is still miraculously intact at 62. His swamp rock guitar work, often imitated, is still as dirty and gritty as can be. But bad things happen when he opens his mouth:
But if tomorrow everybody under the sun
Who's happy just to live as one
No borders or battles to be won
But if tomorrow everybody was your friend
Happiness would never end
Lord, don't you wish it was true
Fogerty unhappily marries the worst of sixties sunny utopianism, man, with rhymes that the Hallmark Company would have the good sense to reject. It’s a deadly combination, one that mars the otherwise excellent Revival. Fogerty namechecks his old band (and its sound) on “Creedence Song,” updates “Fortunate Son” with a new and great political screed called “Long Dark Night,” and steals the guitar riff from “Sunshine of Your Love” on “Summer of Love,” giving the aging hippies two nostalgic thrills for the price of one. All of which is fine, or would be fine, if the lyrics weren’t so hamfisted and inarticulate. Once upon a time Fogerty’s songwriting could be considered bracingly straightforward. Now it seems merely straightforwardly awkward. I dreamed John’s rhymes still sounded new. Don’t you wish it was true? Lord, I surely do. I bet you do too.
Name Your Price
=NAME YOUR PRICE!!
PASTE Magazine Subscriptions On Sale For, Well,
Whatever You Want...
“the best among American music titles”
– The Wall Street Journal
Decatur, GA (October 29, 2007) – Beginning today, and continuing for the next two weeks, PASTE magazine will be offering one-year subscriptions—and readers can name their price! New subscribers can sign up, and loyal subscribers can renew online at www.pastemagazine.com for a minimum payment of $1, though all are encouraged to pay what they think the subscription is worth. Anyone paying more than the $19.95 PASTE typically offers for a one-year (11-issue) subscription will be thanked in print, in a future issue of PASTE.
The campaign came about from a casual conversation at the PASTE offices discussing the recent Radiohead campaign and the Jim Collins book, Good to Great. “We were curious to know what our customers thought we were worth. And what better way to find out, than to let them tell us,” explained PASTE President/Publisher Tim Regan-Porter. “While it’s certainly a bit unconventional, we also see it as a chance to get our product in the hands of people who could become lifelong fans. It’s been our experience that once people become familiar with PASTE, they turn into loyal readers,” added Regan-Porter.
Interested readers can order multiple subscriptions to PASTE, as long as there is a valid mailing address, so even gift subscriptions are encouraged. Each issue of PASTE comes with a CD sampler, so one subscription will give you 11 CDs of great music, in addition to the award-winning writing and entertainment coverage.
Voted “Magazine of the Year” by the PLUG Independent Music Awards for 2006 and 2007, and having won the Grand GAMMA Award (along with 4 Gold awards and 1 Silver award) at the 2007 GAMMA Awards, Paste is rapidly emerging as the go-to source for music and film aficionados.
PASTE Magazine Subscriptions On Sale For, Well,
Whatever You Want...
“the best among American music titles”
– The Wall Street Journal
Decatur, GA (October 29, 2007) – Beginning today, and continuing for the next two weeks, PASTE magazine will be offering one-year subscriptions—and readers can name their price! New subscribers can sign up, and loyal subscribers can renew online at www.pastemagazine.com for a minimum payment of $1, though all are encouraged to pay what they think the subscription is worth. Anyone paying more than the $19.95 PASTE typically offers for a one-year (11-issue) subscription will be thanked in print, in a future issue of PASTE.
The campaign came about from a casual conversation at the PASTE offices discussing the recent Radiohead campaign and the Jim Collins book, Good to Great. “We were curious to know what our customers thought we were worth. And what better way to find out, than to let them tell us,” explained PASTE President/Publisher Tim Regan-Porter. “While it’s certainly a bit unconventional, we also see it as a chance to get our product in the hands of people who could become lifelong fans. It’s been our experience that once people become familiar with PASTE, they turn into loyal readers,” added Regan-Porter.
Interested readers can order multiple subscriptions to PASTE, as long as there is a valid mailing address, so even gift subscriptions are encouraged. Each issue of PASTE comes with a CD sampler, so one subscription will give you 11 CDs of great music, in addition to the award-winning writing and entertainment coverage.
Voted “Magazine of the Year” by the PLUG Independent Music Awards for 2006 and 2007, and having won the Grand GAMMA Award (along with 4 Gold awards and 1 Silver award) at the 2007 GAMMA Awards, Paste is rapidly emerging as the go-to source for music and film aficionados.
Favorite Songs of 2007
Yeah, I know, there are still two months left in the year. So things could change. But it just seemed time for a new list because:
1) Lists are fun.
2) Lists are educational, and
3) Lists provide the illusion of order and objectivity to our increasingly chaotic and inscrutable lives.
So this is the 4-CD box set, complete with 64-page illustrated book and collectible "Best Songs of 2007" stamps. I dearly love all these songs, all of which have been released this year. And since they cross genres and moods, I won't even begin to try to fit them into some sort of coherent/consistent mix. Here they are, in alphabetical order.
CD 1
1. Filibuster XXX – Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra
2. Beautiful Machine, Parts 1 – 4 – Apples in Stereo
3. Keep the Car Running – The Arcade Fire
4. Direct Hit – Art Brut
5. For Agent 13 – The Besnard Lakes
6. Fiery Crash – Andrew Bird
7. Country Caravan – Blitzen Trapper
8. Suffering Time – Bottom of the Hudson
9. Down in the Valley – The Broken West
10. Melody Day – Caribou
11. Ain’t Gonna Worry No More – Peter Case
12. Brighton Beach to Santa Monica – The Clientele
13. Maasai – Damien Dempsey
14. It’s Natural to be Afraid – Explosions in the Skies
15. My Moon My Man – Feist
CD 2
1. Scar That Never Heals – Jeremy Fisher
2. Long Dark Night – John Fogerty
3. People Get Ready – The Frames
4. Bushels – Frog Eyes
5. American Highway – Ezra Furman and the Harpoons
6. Hurricane Judy – Future Clouds and Radar
7. Everything in its Right Place/Maiden Voyage – Robert Glasper
8. Trapeze – Patty Griffin
9. No Pussy Blues – Grinderman
10. Wave Backwards to Massachusetts – Hallelujah the Hills
11. You Can’t Fail Me Now – Joe Henry
12. Downtown – Malcolm Holcombe
13. Wonderful World – Jolie Holland and Booker T. Jones
14. Enemy – Jesca Hoop
15. Goin’ to Acapulco – Jim James and Calexico
CD 3
1. All My Money on You – Diana Jones
2. If I Were You – Chris Knight
3. 31 Candles – The Mendoza Line
4. Fake Empire – The National
5. Place to Be – Christopher O’Riley
6. Spotlight – Anders Osborne
7. Bros – Panda Bear
8. Lord Franklin – The Pentangle
9. Young Folks – Peter Bjorn and John
10. Killing the Blues – Robert Plant and Alison Krauss
11. Bodysnatchers – Radiohead
12. Draconian Crackdown – Rasputina
13. Put a Penny in the Slot – Fionn Regan
14. Make Money Money – John Reuben
15. To the Dogs or Whoever – Josh Ritter
CD 4
1. Chemicals – A.J. Roach
2. Cool Sounds Are Here Again – The Safes
3. Rainy Day Man – Patti Scialfa
4. Swamp Thing – The Soul of John Black
5. Oh God, Let Me Back In – Southeast Engine
6. You Got Yr Cherry Bomb – Spoon
7. Long Walk Home – Bruce Springsteen
8. Dress Sharp, Play Well, Be Modest – Devon Sproule
9. Superette – Tandy
10. Beauty – Linda Thompson
11. Dad’s Gonna Kill Me – Richard Thompson
12. Grey in L.A. – Loudon Wainwright III
13. Utilities – The Weakerthans
14. 300 M.P.H. Torrential Outpour Blues – The White Stripes
15. Let It Roll – Willard Grant Conspiracy
1) Lists are fun.
2) Lists are educational, and
3) Lists provide the illusion of order and objectivity to our increasingly chaotic and inscrutable lives.
So this is the 4-CD box set, complete with 64-page illustrated book and collectible "Best Songs of 2007" stamps. I dearly love all these songs, all of which have been released this year. And since they cross genres and moods, I won't even begin to try to fit them into some sort of coherent/consistent mix. Here they are, in alphabetical order.
CD 1
1. Filibuster XXX – Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra
2. Beautiful Machine, Parts 1 – 4 – Apples in Stereo
3. Keep the Car Running – The Arcade Fire
4. Direct Hit – Art Brut
5. For Agent 13 – The Besnard Lakes
6. Fiery Crash – Andrew Bird
7. Country Caravan – Blitzen Trapper
8. Suffering Time – Bottom of the Hudson
9. Down in the Valley – The Broken West
10. Melody Day – Caribou
11. Ain’t Gonna Worry No More – Peter Case
12. Brighton Beach to Santa Monica – The Clientele
13. Maasai – Damien Dempsey
14. It’s Natural to be Afraid – Explosions in the Skies
15. My Moon My Man – Feist
CD 2
1. Scar That Never Heals – Jeremy Fisher
2. Long Dark Night – John Fogerty
3. People Get Ready – The Frames
4. Bushels – Frog Eyes
5. American Highway – Ezra Furman and the Harpoons
6. Hurricane Judy – Future Clouds and Radar
7. Everything in its Right Place/Maiden Voyage – Robert Glasper
8. Trapeze – Patty Griffin
9. No Pussy Blues – Grinderman
10. Wave Backwards to Massachusetts – Hallelujah the Hills
11. You Can’t Fail Me Now – Joe Henry
12. Downtown – Malcolm Holcombe
13. Wonderful World – Jolie Holland and Booker T. Jones
14. Enemy – Jesca Hoop
15. Goin’ to Acapulco – Jim James and Calexico
CD 3
1. All My Money on You – Diana Jones
2. If I Were You – Chris Knight
3. 31 Candles – The Mendoza Line
4. Fake Empire – The National
5. Place to Be – Christopher O’Riley
6. Spotlight – Anders Osborne
7. Bros – Panda Bear
8. Lord Franklin – The Pentangle
9. Young Folks – Peter Bjorn and John
10. Killing the Blues – Robert Plant and Alison Krauss
11. Bodysnatchers – Radiohead
12. Draconian Crackdown – Rasputina
13. Put a Penny in the Slot – Fionn Regan
14. Make Money Money – John Reuben
15. To the Dogs or Whoever – Josh Ritter
CD 4
1. Chemicals – A.J. Roach
2. Cool Sounds Are Here Again – The Safes
3. Rainy Day Man – Patti Scialfa
4. Swamp Thing – The Soul of John Black
5. Oh God, Let Me Back In – Southeast Engine
6. You Got Yr Cherry Bomb – Spoon
7. Long Walk Home – Bruce Springsteen
8. Dress Sharp, Play Well, Be Modest – Devon Sproule
9. Superette – Tandy
10. Beauty – Linda Thompson
11. Dad’s Gonna Kill Me – Richard Thompson
12. Grey in L.A. – Loudon Wainwright III
13. Utilities – The Weakerthans
14. 300 M.P.H. Torrential Outpour Blues – The White Stripes
15. Let It Roll – Willard Grant Conspiracy
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