Equal parts oral history of a band and memoir of a tour manager, On the Road with the Ramones is essentially a Ramones fan’s bible. At turns both hilarious and poignant, it’s a sympathetic yet brutally honest account of the band, as told by those who witnessed the band’s many highs and lows over their lengthy musical career. Now republished with details about the recent death of Johnny Ramone and a brief update regarding the surviving Ramones, Frank Meyer’s and Monte Melnick’s book still remains one of the best musical memoirs to be published.
In roles that included tour manager, surrogate father, van driver, human punching bag, intermediary when certain band members weren’t on speaking terms, and occasional sound man – CJ Ramone likens Melnick’s job to “trying to babysit special-needs kids” – Melnick was certainly a key figure in the band’s story. His book, complete with numerous photographs and enough various band memorabilia to make sick musos insanely jealous, is an essential read for anyone with even a passing interest in music history.
Although both Melnick and many of the book’s contributors clearly share a definite sympathy and affection for the Ramones as both a band and as people, the book isn’t a fawning, biased piece of apologia. Indeed, the contributors’ willingness to address the band’s flaws and dysfunctions creates a far better understanding of each Ramone. The book’s not quite as direct, or as shocking, as Crystal Zevon’s recent oral history of ex-husband Warren Zevon, but it’s close.
Of the four original Ramones, Tommy receives perhaps the most sympathetic treatment. John Holmstrom, who also supplied the perfectly cartoonish cover art for the book, plainly states that the band “fell apart when Tommy left… He was the glue of the Ramones.” Tommy also receives much credit throughout the book for being a key component in shaping the Ramones sound; indeed, Tommy produced the band’s first four albums.
Lead singer Joey Ramone is essentially portrayed with great sympathy as well. At times painfully awkward and shy, many of the comments about Joey focus on both his overall gentle nature and his various physical and mental ailments, especially his eccentricities that were most likely signs of OCD (long before the disorder even had a name). Coupled with accounts of the singer’s death from cancer in 2001, it’s sometimes difficult and disturbing reading.
The commentary regarding the final two original Ramones, Dee Dee and Johnny, is frequently far from flattering. While Dee Dee’s significant contributions to the band are acknowledged (the lyricist behind some of the Ramones’ best songs, he even continued to provide material for the band after he was ousted), many of the interviews describe how the bassist treated himself like a pharmaceutical pin cushion, which in turn greatly altered his behavior. Most contributors agree that Dee Dee was a different person when sober, often times quiet, reserved, and polite. Possibly bi-polar and/or split personality, numerous comments recall how Dee Dee was intimidating and wildly unpredictable due to his drug intake; photographer Bob Gruen says that the bassist “used to walk around without a shirt on in the middle of the night carrying a baseball bat. He was a scary guy. You didn’t want to be on his bad list.” Dee Dee’s addictions would claim his life via an accidental overdose in 2002.
Many of the comments about guitarist Johnny focus on his intense focus and discipline on making the Ramones a success; one commentator goes so far as to say that “Johnny was a super hard-ass, but… they probably wouldn’t even be a band if he hadn’t taken control.” Yet this single-mindedness also came with some baggage. Johnny is often depicted as moody, domineering, aggressive, and militaristic; musician Cheetah Chrome says “we used to call them the Marones because Johnny was such a drill sergeant. They’re not the Marines – they’re the Marones.”
Johnny’s right-wing politics and racist tendencies are also the source of much discussion. Allegedly a card carrying member of the KKK (and the possible inspiration behind the song “The KKK Took My Baby Away”), the book’s contributors disagree over whether Johnny was racist or just trying to wind people up. Agent John Giddings wryly comments that the guitarist “was more right wing than Attila the Hun.”
The book is rounded out by a wonderful collection of various odds and ends. The contributions of the various later band members – Marky, CJ, Richie, and Dopey (wait, wrong group) – are finally acknowledged as key pieces in the band’s history. The importance of the band’s dedicated road crew is discussed, and the book offers a nice insider’s view of what it’s like doing the grunt work that makes a concert tour possible. The band’s relentless touring, legacy, and impact on later musicians are examined without any of the gross hyperbole that sometimes creeps into such histories. There are plenty of stories of hotel hijinks and practical jokes, some of them extremely juvenile and thus extremely funny, to break the sometimes heavy tone of the book. With terrific photos and enough memorabilia to satisfy even the most geeked-out fan, the book also serves as an excellent visual history of how the band was marketed and promoted.
Yet what remains most striking is that the band was able to overcome its dysfunction for over 20 years. The band’s members were never particularly close; Melnick likens the relationship between Joey and Johnny to a marriage that stays together for the sake of the children. While offstage the band had serious differences and their own demons to cope with, by all admissions they were consummate professionals onstage.
On the Road with the Ramones tells the band’s history with both affection and honesty. It paints a vivid portrait of each band member as a person, not merely as a punk stereotype or musical persona. Moving, heartbreaking, and hilarious, it’s still the most thorough and objective study of the band to date.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Music Review: Charlie Louvin - Steps to Heaven
Here’s hoping we’re all doing as well as Charlie Louvin by the time we reach the age of 81, instead of slobbering into our beers, boring the pants off strangers with exaggerated tales of our glory days, and fighting off senility. A recent surge of activity that would put much younger musicians to shame has seen Louvin tour with Lucinda Williams, appear at the Bonnaroo and Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festivals, and the release of 2007’s Charlie Louvin (when you’ve been recording since the Truman administration, I suppose you eventually run out of album titles). With contributions from Jeff Tweedy, Elvis Costello, and Will Oldham, many critics rightly went batshit crazy for that album.
Though this resurgence probably won’t make Louvin a household name – the bulk of his audience will likely remain the more hardcore music history buffs and fellow musicians – it has certainly led to increased critical and media attention for the performer.Louvin’s Steps to Heaven is the first of two albums for the Alabama-born musician planned for release in 2008. Consisting of traditional gospel tunes, as well two Louvin Brothers originals, the album was produced by Mark Nevers and features a three sister strong gospel choir, Derrick Lee on piano, and Chris Scruggs on bass and electric guitar.
The risk any religious album runs is being excessively preachy or dogmatic, and thus turning off secular listeners by discounting the music in an attempt to spread a very specific message (similar to a truly heinous Christian rock album or even Bob Dylan’s Saved and Shot of Love debacles). Thankfully, Louvin’s album doesn’t have this particular character flaw; listeners who agree with every word as well as those who can quote The God Delusion from memory will both likely enjoy the album.
In many ways the album is reminiscent of Johnny Cash’s American Recordings releases. Like the best moments of those albums, Louvin’s voice, ranging from weary and ragged to powerful and confident, is perhaps Steps’ most striking and immediate feature. His voice carries the weight of a lifetime of experience with it; coupled with Nevers’ warm production and the band’s contributions, the songs take on a certain immediacy and impact that might not exist if sung by a younger musician or played in a different arrangement.
Many of the songs strongly evoke an acceptance of mortality without any fear of death; the promise of an afterlife runs through the songs. As interpreted by Louvin, these traditional songs are meant to offer comfort; standout interpretations of “How Beautiful Heaven Must Be” and “If We Never Meet Again This Side of Heaven” are perhaps the clearest expressions of this theme. This overtly religious theme is explored in depth without becoming overbearing; still, any listener needing a quick hit of songs about humankind’s ultimate demise can give Tom Waits’ Bone Machine a spin as needed.
Yet the album does have some drawbacks. Most noticeably, sometimes the background singing drowns out Louvin’s voice or is occasionally overwrought and affected. “There’s a Higher Power” and “Where We’ll Never Grow Old” are the most egregious offenders.Despite these few missteps, Charlie Louvin’s Steps to Heaven is an excellent release. The production is warm and clean, the musicianship is spot-on, and Louvin’s voice evokes a world of emotions and textures. Though it’s an album rooted in a very specific faith and set of beliefs, it doesn’t attempt to force such beliefs on the listener. It’s a worthy entry in Louvin’s varied and lengthy career.
Though this resurgence probably won’t make Louvin a household name – the bulk of his audience will likely remain the more hardcore music history buffs and fellow musicians – it has certainly led to increased critical and media attention for the performer.Louvin’s Steps to Heaven is the first of two albums for the Alabama-born musician planned for release in 2008. Consisting of traditional gospel tunes, as well two Louvin Brothers originals, the album was produced by Mark Nevers and features a three sister strong gospel choir, Derrick Lee on piano, and Chris Scruggs on bass and electric guitar.
The risk any religious album runs is being excessively preachy or dogmatic, and thus turning off secular listeners by discounting the music in an attempt to spread a very specific message (similar to a truly heinous Christian rock album or even Bob Dylan’s Saved and Shot of Love debacles). Thankfully, Louvin’s album doesn’t have this particular character flaw; listeners who agree with every word as well as those who can quote The God Delusion from memory will both likely enjoy the album.
In many ways the album is reminiscent of Johnny Cash’s American Recordings releases. Like the best moments of those albums, Louvin’s voice, ranging from weary and ragged to powerful and confident, is perhaps Steps’ most striking and immediate feature. His voice carries the weight of a lifetime of experience with it; coupled with Nevers’ warm production and the band’s contributions, the songs take on a certain immediacy and impact that might not exist if sung by a younger musician or played in a different arrangement.
Many of the songs strongly evoke an acceptance of mortality without any fear of death; the promise of an afterlife runs through the songs. As interpreted by Louvin, these traditional songs are meant to offer comfort; standout interpretations of “How Beautiful Heaven Must Be” and “If We Never Meet Again This Side of Heaven” are perhaps the clearest expressions of this theme. This overtly religious theme is explored in depth without becoming overbearing; still, any listener needing a quick hit of songs about humankind’s ultimate demise can give Tom Waits’ Bone Machine a spin as needed.
Yet the album does have some drawbacks. Most noticeably, sometimes the background singing drowns out Louvin’s voice or is occasionally overwrought and affected. “There’s a Higher Power” and “Where We’ll Never Grow Old” are the most egregious offenders.Despite these few missteps, Charlie Louvin’s Steps to Heaven is an excellent release. The production is warm and clean, the musicianship is spot-on, and Louvin’s voice evokes a world of emotions and textures. Though it’s an album rooted in a very specific faith and set of beliefs, it doesn’t attempt to force such beliefs on the listener. It’s a worthy entry in Louvin’s varied and lengthy career.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Book Review - The Last Season by Eric Blehm
Eric Blehm’s The Last Season examines the life and death of Randy Morgenson, a backcountry ranger in the Sequoia and Kings Canyon mountain range who mysteriously disappeared in 1996. Despite a massive search effort in the days after Morgenson’s disappearance, no trace of the ranger was found until 2001. Even despite this grisly discovery, the circumstances that led to the ranger’s death will likely never be known.
Central to Blehm’s study is the fascinating, and sometimes contradictory, figure of Morgenson himself. Blehm shows how Morgenson, depending on one’s point of view, could be considered either a dedicated naturalist – the author gives numerous examples of the ranger’s genuine and sincere love of and respect for nature - or an environmental zealot (Morgenson refused his mow his lawn because he viewed the grass as a “meadow” that should be left undisturbed). Although Morgenson could sometimes take a condescending tone in his journals toward how people would, by his standards, disrespect nature, by all accounts he conducted himself with complete professionalism in his encounters with hikers, including several incidents where he risked his life to assist lost or missing visitors.
What Blehm makes clear is that by the time of his disappearance, Morgenson found himself at a crossroads. An affair with a female ranger had left his marriage heading toward a divorce, and he had apparently become increasingly fatalistic about his life. Without inserting his own opinion into what happened to Morgenson, Blehm explores the various theories as to what exactly happened to the ranger, including how these personal issues may have contributed to his death.
The majority of Morgenson’s colleagues, perhaps understandably, maintain that the death was purely accidental; indeed, the official ruling shares this assessment as well. Yet Blehm does show there is enough circumstantial evidence to support the argument that Morgenson took his own life. Some of Morgenson’s comments are chilling in retrospect (“the least I owe these mountains is a body”), and various rangers reported that their colleague seemed “out of sorts” and “in a funk” prior to his disappearance. The possibility of foul play is also briefly mentioned, but is quickly dismissed as a valid explanation. Ultimately it’s up to the reader to weigh the evidence and form an opinion as to what actually transpired.
The Last Season also touches on other interesting topics that separate it from the glut of also-rans in the adventure/nature genre. Certainly at its core this is a story about Morgenson and how he essentially dedicated his life to protecting his portion of the High Sierra. Yet it’s also about the lengths Morgenson’s colleagues went to in the days following his disappearance, and how they came to terms with this death. It’s about friendship and the lengths people will go to in honoring and remembering a loved one. It celebrates humanity’s place in nature, but also shows nature’s indifference to people. Well written and carefully researched, The Last Season is part biography, part detective story, and part cautionary tale. As a study of Morgenson, it’s a fascinating glimpse into the ranger’s life, death, and legacy.
Central to Blehm’s study is the fascinating, and sometimes contradictory, figure of Morgenson himself. Blehm shows how Morgenson, depending on one’s point of view, could be considered either a dedicated naturalist – the author gives numerous examples of the ranger’s genuine and sincere love of and respect for nature - or an environmental zealot (Morgenson refused his mow his lawn because he viewed the grass as a “meadow” that should be left undisturbed). Although Morgenson could sometimes take a condescending tone in his journals toward how people would, by his standards, disrespect nature, by all accounts he conducted himself with complete professionalism in his encounters with hikers, including several incidents where he risked his life to assist lost or missing visitors.
What Blehm makes clear is that by the time of his disappearance, Morgenson found himself at a crossroads. An affair with a female ranger had left his marriage heading toward a divorce, and he had apparently become increasingly fatalistic about his life. Without inserting his own opinion into what happened to Morgenson, Blehm explores the various theories as to what exactly happened to the ranger, including how these personal issues may have contributed to his death.
The majority of Morgenson’s colleagues, perhaps understandably, maintain that the death was purely accidental; indeed, the official ruling shares this assessment as well. Yet Blehm does show there is enough circumstantial evidence to support the argument that Morgenson took his own life. Some of Morgenson’s comments are chilling in retrospect (“the least I owe these mountains is a body”), and various rangers reported that their colleague seemed “out of sorts” and “in a funk” prior to his disappearance. The possibility of foul play is also briefly mentioned, but is quickly dismissed as a valid explanation. Ultimately it’s up to the reader to weigh the evidence and form an opinion as to what actually transpired.
The Last Season also touches on other interesting topics that separate it from the glut of also-rans in the adventure/nature genre. Certainly at its core this is a story about Morgenson and how he essentially dedicated his life to protecting his portion of the High Sierra. Yet it’s also about the lengths Morgenson’s colleagues went to in the days following his disappearance, and how they came to terms with this death. It’s about friendship and the lengths people will go to in honoring and remembering a loved one. It celebrates humanity’s place in nature, but also shows nature’s indifference to people. Well written and carefully researched, The Last Season is part biography, part detective story, and part cautionary tale. As a study of Morgenson, it’s a fascinating glimpse into the ranger’s life, death, and legacy.
Satire: Indie Music Fan Hopelessly Unaware of Current Pop Culture
Indie music enthusiast David Dennisson reluctantly admitted today that his love of the genre has left him completely out of touch with current pop culture trends, celebrities, and events.
“What initially began as a brief innocent flirtation in college has developed into a decades-long perverted dalliance; like irrational and hyperbolic praise and hype for the indie band du jour that two years from now will once again be stocking shelves at Target, it’s difficult to stop now. I’ve also experienced a burning sensation in my groin region since I first began this affair,” Dennisson stated.
Dennisson has also discovered that his rejection of all things mainstream has led to some embarrassing moments. “I heard ‘Float On’ on the radio years ago, and confidently told my wife it sucked since it was on commercial radio. When I found it was a Modest Mouse song and that the band was experiencing a minor bit of mainstream airplay, I was floored. My Lonesome Crowded West mind couldn’t stomach it.”Dennisson also acknowledges that a borderline psychotic knowledge of indie rock doesn’t lend itself well in social situations. “Think being able to alphabetically recite the songs in 69 Love Songs will impress your friends and coworkers? Well it won’t; it will just get you a lot of sideways glances and quickly locked car doors.”
The admission is a major victory for Dennisson’s long-suffering wife, Janelle, who views it as the first step in her husband coming to terms with his addiction, which she adds “trumps his previous fixation with Spanish Inquisition torture devices by a long shot.
“Plus, that music he listens to is way more disturbing and destructive than one of the darkest chapters in the depths of man’s depravity towards his fellow man.”
Even so, Janelle does acknowledge a modicum of complicity on her part. “When he’d sing Jesus Lizard songs in the shower, I found it endearing. When he cribbed the lyrics to a Dismemberment Plan song for our wedding vows, I found it romantic. And when he insisted that we dress up as Vic and Tina Chesnutt for Halloween, I enjoyed it, and even managed to play the bass pretty well at the party.
“But the fact that he thinks Beyonce is a type of ferret and that Rihanna is a rare and lethal Amazonian venereal disease is inexcusable. He couldn’t identify a Jonas Brother to save his life. He needs help.”
Janelle has developed a three-phased plan to bring her husband back into the 21st century of mainstream American culture. The first phase will consist of behavior modification, in which she will attempt to curb his tendency to answer everyone’s questions in a poor imitation of Tom Waits’ rough voice. The second phase will attempt to expand her husband’s musical horizons, in which every hour of indie music listened to must be matched by an hour of mainstream pop radio.
Yet the final phase promises to be the most difficult. This will require Dennison to be strapped into an inflatable Hannah Montana chair for an entire 48-hour period, where he’ll be forced to watch American Idol reruns, The Hills, and E! News Daily until he can sing his own overwrought karaoke version of Edwin McCain’s “I’ll Be,” identify each Hills character according to their petty, innocuous dilemma, and concisely explain why it’s completely rational for magazines to pay ungodly sums of money for pictures of the Jolie-Pitt children.”
Janelle is quick to point out she’s not seeking to fully eliminate her husband’s indie leanings. “If he wants to spend his time trying to find discernible differences between My Morning Jacket and Fleet Foxes, that’s perfectly fine. But when I ask him what happened on the season premier of Sunset Tan, he’d better damn well know.”
“What initially began as a brief innocent flirtation in college has developed into a decades-long perverted dalliance; like irrational and hyperbolic praise and hype for the indie band du jour that two years from now will once again be stocking shelves at Target, it’s difficult to stop now. I’ve also experienced a burning sensation in my groin region since I first began this affair,” Dennisson stated.
Dennisson has also discovered that his rejection of all things mainstream has led to some embarrassing moments. “I heard ‘Float On’ on the radio years ago, and confidently told my wife it sucked since it was on commercial radio. When I found it was a Modest Mouse song and that the band was experiencing a minor bit of mainstream airplay, I was floored. My Lonesome Crowded West mind couldn’t stomach it.”Dennisson also acknowledges that a borderline psychotic knowledge of indie rock doesn’t lend itself well in social situations. “Think being able to alphabetically recite the songs in 69 Love Songs will impress your friends and coworkers? Well it won’t; it will just get you a lot of sideways glances and quickly locked car doors.”
The admission is a major victory for Dennisson’s long-suffering wife, Janelle, who views it as the first step in her husband coming to terms with his addiction, which she adds “trumps his previous fixation with Spanish Inquisition torture devices by a long shot.
“Plus, that music he listens to is way more disturbing and destructive than one of the darkest chapters in the depths of man’s depravity towards his fellow man.”
Even so, Janelle does acknowledge a modicum of complicity on her part. “When he’d sing Jesus Lizard songs in the shower, I found it endearing. When he cribbed the lyrics to a Dismemberment Plan song for our wedding vows, I found it romantic. And when he insisted that we dress up as Vic and Tina Chesnutt for Halloween, I enjoyed it, and even managed to play the bass pretty well at the party.
“But the fact that he thinks Beyonce is a type of ferret and that Rihanna is a rare and lethal Amazonian venereal disease is inexcusable. He couldn’t identify a Jonas Brother to save his life. He needs help.”
Janelle has developed a three-phased plan to bring her husband back into the 21st century of mainstream American culture. The first phase will consist of behavior modification, in which she will attempt to curb his tendency to answer everyone’s questions in a poor imitation of Tom Waits’ rough voice. The second phase will attempt to expand her husband’s musical horizons, in which every hour of indie music listened to must be matched by an hour of mainstream pop radio.
Yet the final phase promises to be the most difficult. This will require Dennison to be strapped into an inflatable Hannah Montana chair for an entire 48-hour period, where he’ll be forced to watch American Idol reruns, The Hills, and E! News Daily until he can sing his own overwrought karaoke version of Edwin McCain’s “I’ll Be,” identify each Hills character according to their petty, innocuous dilemma, and concisely explain why it’s completely rational for magazines to pay ungodly sums of money for pictures of the Jolie-Pitt children.”
Janelle is quick to point out she’s not seeking to fully eliminate her husband’s indie leanings. “If he wants to spend his time trying to find discernible differences between My Morning Jacket and Fleet Foxes, that’s perfectly fine. But when I ask him what happened on the season premier of Sunset Tan, he’d better damn well know.”
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Book Review: Backstage Passes and Backstabbing Bastards - Memoirs of a Rock 'N' Roll Survivor by Al Kooper
Originally published in that most holy of musical years, 1977, updated and republished in the late 1990s, and now again revised in 2008 with an additional chapter, Al Kooper’s Backstage Passes and Backstabbing Bastards: Memoirs of a Rock ‘N’ Roll Survivor remains one of the most honest, hilarious, and in many ways poignant entries in the bloated wasteland of the music autobiography genre.
Kooper is occasionally described as the “Forrest Gump of Music.” Besides making for lazy journalism, it’s not a particularly accurate or flattering depiction. Gump was an out and out moron who coincidentally happened to experience many of the key events of modern America; anything that happened to him was by pure accident and he never really understood the significance of those events. Kooper is quite different. Very intelligent and ambitious despite the laid-back persona he sometimes paints of himself in this biography, through determination and the occasional hustle he managed to maintain one of the most remarkable careers in music.
Of course one of the big draws in Kooper’s book is his interaction with Bob Dylan, particularly the hipster mid-1960s version. Recounting how being asked to play with Dylan was like “getting backstage passes to the fourth day of creation,” Kooper describes how he essentially tricked his way into playing organ on “Like a Rolling Stone.” A novice (at best) keyboardist at the time, his rudimentary organ playing is one of the song’s most recognizable features. The incident was a key moment in launching Kooper’s extremely varied career, which has included playing on Blonde on Blonde, founding the first incarnation of The Blues Project and Blood, Sweat & Tears, working as an A&R man, and producing that bastion of redneck music, Lynyrd Skynyrd.
Kooper also points out many of the inaccuracies that have seeped into musical lore; of note is his assertion of why the “Brill Building Sound” is a misnomer. However, some of Kooper’s claims are still open to debate. He maintains that people booed at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival because the set was so short (clocking in at around 15 minutes), not because of any folkie revolt against Dylan going electric. Yet bootlegs of the Newport performance don’t support this assertion; the booing occurs throughout the songs, from the start of Dylan’s performance. At that point no one in the crowd knew how long or short Dylan and the band would play. But, hell, as Kooper points out, he was there.
Backstage Passes is perhaps primarily considered a book of humorous musical anecdotes, which Kooper describes with great comedic effect. Certainly there are plenty of those, with stories ranging from the usual hotel hijinks and horizontal tangos favored by musicians on the road to stories of a cohort defecating on a poor music lackey’s desk. A veritable who’s who of music history ducks in and out of many of these stories: from Miles Davis allegedly threatening Kooper for simply (and unknowingly) talking to Davis’ wife to his interactions with pre-faces-like-a-catcher’s-mitt Rolling Stones, Kooper brings a definite comedian’s touch as he remembers them.
Yet what’s most striking upon rereading Backstage Passes are the poignant and emotional moments that Kooper describes with no pretenses or excuses. Though not exactly as explicit as Junkie, the passages in which Kooper addresses his early 1970s addiction to painkillers are among the most moving of the entire memoir. Likewise, a real sense of loss can be felt as Kooper offers a sincere tribute to his deceased friend, blues guitarist Mike Bloomfield. Finding himself recording with George Harrison at the time of John Lennon’s death, Kooper conveys the shock everyone, especially Harrison, felt, without coming across like a sleazy tabloid goon.
Kooper’s book also succeeds because he rarely comes across like a pampered rock star, even if he does tend to sometimes use the book to settle old scores or to grouse about financial issues fairly often at times. He never gets overly philosophical or pedantic (like Bruce Thomas in The Big Wheel). He never portrays himself as some sort of misunderstood, suffering existentialist (like Bruce Thomas in The Big Wheel). And though some stories probably have the benefit of hindsight and the artistic license of exaggeration, Kooper doesn’t make those stories so outlandish as to be unbelievable (like Bruce Thomas in… you get the point).
Although the chapter that covers 1998-2007 might not be enough to warrant another purchase of the book for those who own a previous edition, Backstage Passes is still one of the best music memoirs written. Kooper’s lived a pretty remarkable life; between releasing his own various albums, touring with musical giants, and producing some other ones, there’s plenty of good material to write out. That he put it all to paper is still a treat for any music fan.
Kooper is occasionally described as the “Forrest Gump of Music.” Besides making for lazy journalism, it’s not a particularly accurate or flattering depiction. Gump was an out and out moron who coincidentally happened to experience many of the key events of modern America; anything that happened to him was by pure accident and he never really understood the significance of those events. Kooper is quite different. Very intelligent and ambitious despite the laid-back persona he sometimes paints of himself in this biography, through determination and the occasional hustle he managed to maintain one of the most remarkable careers in music.
Of course one of the big draws in Kooper’s book is his interaction with Bob Dylan, particularly the hipster mid-1960s version. Recounting how being asked to play with Dylan was like “getting backstage passes to the fourth day of creation,” Kooper describes how he essentially tricked his way into playing organ on “Like a Rolling Stone.” A novice (at best) keyboardist at the time, his rudimentary organ playing is one of the song’s most recognizable features. The incident was a key moment in launching Kooper’s extremely varied career, which has included playing on Blonde on Blonde, founding the first incarnation of The Blues Project and Blood, Sweat & Tears, working as an A&R man, and producing that bastion of redneck music, Lynyrd Skynyrd.
Kooper also points out many of the inaccuracies that have seeped into musical lore; of note is his assertion of why the “Brill Building Sound” is a misnomer. However, some of Kooper’s claims are still open to debate. He maintains that people booed at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival because the set was so short (clocking in at around 15 minutes), not because of any folkie revolt against Dylan going electric. Yet bootlegs of the Newport performance don’t support this assertion; the booing occurs throughout the songs, from the start of Dylan’s performance. At that point no one in the crowd knew how long or short Dylan and the band would play. But, hell, as Kooper points out, he was there.
Backstage Passes is perhaps primarily considered a book of humorous musical anecdotes, which Kooper describes with great comedic effect. Certainly there are plenty of those, with stories ranging from the usual hotel hijinks and horizontal tangos favored by musicians on the road to stories of a cohort defecating on a poor music lackey’s desk. A veritable who’s who of music history ducks in and out of many of these stories: from Miles Davis allegedly threatening Kooper for simply (and unknowingly) talking to Davis’ wife to his interactions with pre-faces-like-a-catcher’s-mitt Rolling Stones, Kooper brings a definite comedian’s touch as he remembers them.
Yet what’s most striking upon rereading Backstage Passes are the poignant and emotional moments that Kooper describes with no pretenses or excuses. Though not exactly as explicit as Junkie, the passages in which Kooper addresses his early 1970s addiction to painkillers are among the most moving of the entire memoir. Likewise, a real sense of loss can be felt as Kooper offers a sincere tribute to his deceased friend, blues guitarist Mike Bloomfield. Finding himself recording with George Harrison at the time of John Lennon’s death, Kooper conveys the shock everyone, especially Harrison, felt, without coming across like a sleazy tabloid goon.
Kooper’s book also succeeds because he rarely comes across like a pampered rock star, even if he does tend to sometimes use the book to settle old scores or to grouse about financial issues fairly often at times. He never gets overly philosophical or pedantic (like Bruce Thomas in The Big Wheel). He never portrays himself as some sort of misunderstood, suffering existentialist (like Bruce Thomas in The Big Wheel). And though some stories probably have the benefit of hindsight and the artistic license of exaggeration, Kooper doesn’t make those stories so outlandish as to be unbelievable (like Bruce Thomas in… you get the point).
Although the chapter that covers 1998-2007 might not be enough to warrant another purchase of the book for those who own a previous edition, Backstage Passes is still one of the best music memoirs written. Kooper’s lived a pretty remarkable life; between releasing his own various albums, touring with musical giants, and producing some other ones, there’s plenty of good material to write out. That he put it all to paper is still a treat for any music fan.
Book Review: Shattered Air - A True Account of Catastrophe and Courage on Yosemite's Half Dome by Bob Madgic
On July 27, 1985, five hikers climbed Yosemite’s Half Dome even as the sky became increasingly menacing and thunder sounded overhead. Within hours of ascending to the Dome and seeking shelter inside a cave, two of the hikers were dead from a lightning strike, two others were seriously wounded, and the final hiker struggled to maintain his sanity as the situation deteriorated.
All of this is recounted in harrowing, and sometimes graphic, detail by Bob Madgic in Shattered Air - A True Account of Catastrophe and Courage on Yosemite’s Half Dome, one of the better and more informative recent entries in the outdoors/adventure genre. Madgic, a former teacher and Half Dome hiking veteran, writes in an engaging and suspenseful style, including details about the actual incident, and also provides a nice overview of lightning, its causes, effects, and how it has played a role in the park’s history.
Central to the tragedy described in Shattered Air are Tom Rice and Adrian Esteban, two men who would eventually discover a shared love of outdoor adventure and a half-baked, balls-to-the-wall philosophy that the only way to overcome fear was to confront it in whatever way necessary, consequences be damned. The men adopted Half Dome as their personal Mecca, and developed a near-mystical bond with the mountain (they certainly aren’t the first people to erroneously feel that Nature would willingly reciprocate such strong emotions).
It was this ill-informed philosophy and deep emotional bond to the mountain that greatly influenced the men’s actions and contributed to the tragedy Madgic describes so well. Along with three other hikers, all of whom had varying degrees of hiking ability and desires with or reservations about reaching the Dome because of the worsening weather conditions, Rice and Esteban eventually found themselves confronting a situation that, Madgic implies, neither felt their karma and connection to the mountain would ever allow to happen. Although both Rice - portrayed throughout the book as a gutsy daredevil who rarely considered the risks of his actions - and Esteban would survive the lightning storm, two of their hiking companions died on the mountain.
Madgic conveys a number of key points throughout the book. The first and most obvious is that the hikers made several critical mistakes in continuing to ascend the mountain when it was obvious that a nasty storm was approaching. The hikers plainly ignored the fact that a storm was imminent and also disregarded the advice of several groups they encountered along the way who told them to stop climbing the mountain; the fact that Rice would later comment that he wanted to reach the Dome so that he could dance in the lightning storm (which he indeed did) clearly shows where his head was during the climb. “Sheer stupidity and craziness” is how one of those involved would describe the incident, and it’s hard to disagree with this blunt assessment.
Madgic does a nice job giving a balanced portrait of the incident; he’s sympathetic to the victims but also doesn’t absolve them from the poor decisions they made or the actions they took afterwards (though one of the two men who died, a sixteen year old inexperienced hiker, is portrayed as a reticent participant throughout). The overall implication is that the entire tragedy could have easily been avoided, since the hikers had several opportunities to halt their climb but chose to continue upward. Several of the hikers were well versed in Half Dome and should have also been aware of the frequency of lightning strikes on it.
Esteban, who contributed to the book, is also not absolved from culpability; Madgic notes that Esteban didn’t attend the funerals of either hiker who died and also gave media interviews in which he embellished the story. At the same time, it is impossible not to feel sympathetic towards Esteban; his various comments about the tragedy years after it happened show that the burden of responsibility is a tough one to carry.
Madgic also shows that were it not for the courage and bravery of several other hikers, a couple of whom were trained EMTs and risked their lives to both help the wounded men and seek additional help, the tragedy could have been much worse. In the days before cell phones, the fate of the wounded men rested entirely on these hikers. This makeshift rescue crew was both able to gain control of the situation and to notify park rangers, who then arranged for a risky nighttime helicopter rescue.
Shattered Air is primarily a cautionary tale – of poor decisions and the results of those decisions, of a cavalier and disrespectful attitude toward nature and its power, and of the risks of adopting and following a philosophy of conquering personal fears and pushing personal limits without even considering the consequences. Despite the individual acts of courage shown by the hikers’ rescuers, the reader is still left with the overall impression that the tragedy was completely avoidable.
All of this is recounted in harrowing, and sometimes graphic, detail by Bob Madgic in Shattered Air - A True Account of Catastrophe and Courage on Yosemite’s Half Dome, one of the better and more informative recent entries in the outdoors/adventure genre. Madgic, a former teacher and Half Dome hiking veteran, writes in an engaging and suspenseful style, including details about the actual incident, and also provides a nice overview of lightning, its causes, effects, and how it has played a role in the park’s history.
Central to the tragedy described in Shattered Air are Tom Rice and Adrian Esteban, two men who would eventually discover a shared love of outdoor adventure and a half-baked, balls-to-the-wall philosophy that the only way to overcome fear was to confront it in whatever way necessary, consequences be damned. The men adopted Half Dome as their personal Mecca, and developed a near-mystical bond with the mountain (they certainly aren’t the first people to erroneously feel that Nature would willingly reciprocate such strong emotions).
It was this ill-informed philosophy and deep emotional bond to the mountain that greatly influenced the men’s actions and contributed to the tragedy Madgic describes so well. Along with three other hikers, all of whom had varying degrees of hiking ability and desires with or reservations about reaching the Dome because of the worsening weather conditions, Rice and Esteban eventually found themselves confronting a situation that, Madgic implies, neither felt their karma and connection to the mountain would ever allow to happen. Although both Rice - portrayed throughout the book as a gutsy daredevil who rarely considered the risks of his actions - and Esteban would survive the lightning storm, two of their hiking companions died on the mountain.
Madgic conveys a number of key points throughout the book. The first and most obvious is that the hikers made several critical mistakes in continuing to ascend the mountain when it was obvious that a nasty storm was approaching. The hikers plainly ignored the fact that a storm was imminent and also disregarded the advice of several groups they encountered along the way who told them to stop climbing the mountain; the fact that Rice would later comment that he wanted to reach the Dome so that he could dance in the lightning storm (which he indeed did) clearly shows where his head was during the climb. “Sheer stupidity and craziness” is how one of those involved would describe the incident, and it’s hard to disagree with this blunt assessment.
Madgic does a nice job giving a balanced portrait of the incident; he’s sympathetic to the victims but also doesn’t absolve them from the poor decisions they made or the actions they took afterwards (though one of the two men who died, a sixteen year old inexperienced hiker, is portrayed as a reticent participant throughout). The overall implication is that the entire tragedy could have easily been avoided, since the hikers had several opportunities to halt their climb but chose to continue upward. Several of the hikers were well versed in Half Dome and should have also been aware of the frequency of lightning strikes on it.
Esteban, who contributed to the book, is also not absolved from culpability; Madgic notes that Esteban didn’t attend the funerals of either hiker who died and also gave media interviews in which he embellished the story. At the same time, it is impossible not to feel sympathetic towards Esteban; his various comments about the tragedy years after it happened show that the burden of responsibility is a tough one to carry.
Madgic also shows that were it not for the courage and bravery of several other hikers, a couple of whom were trained EMTs and risked their lives to both help the wounded men and seek additional help, the tragedy could have been much worse. In the days before cell phones, the fate of the wounded men rested entirely on these hikers. This makeshift rescue crew was both able to gain control of the situation and to notify park rangers, who then arranged for a risky nighttime helicopter rescue.
Shattered Air is primarily a cautionary tale – of poor decisions and the results of those decisions, of a cavalier and disrespectful attitude toward nature and its power, and of the risks of adopting and following a philosophy of conquering personal fears and pushing personal limits without even considering the consequences. Despite the individual acts of courage shown by the hikers’ rescuers, the reader is still left with the overall impression that the tragedy was completely avoidable.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Music Review: David Bowie - Live In Santa Monica '72
Part of the problem with legendary shows that eventually find their way to official release is the occasional letdown factor. Originally acquired via unofficial channels, such shows are spoken about in mystical terms by an artist’s hardcore and most demented fans until the show itself becomes far more than just another live performance in the artist’s career. It becomes a defining moment in music history, and goddammit, it demands worship at its altar.
In some cases the actual official release lives up to the hype. Bob Dylan’s fabled 1966 “Judas” concert, previously immortalized both on vinyl as well as the classic Guitars Kissing and the Contemporary fix bootleg, among others, eventually saw official, if grossly belated, release from Sony. Despite some alleged sonic inferiorities to previous bootleg versions, this long-awaited official version confirmed that the actual performance equaled the legend that surrounded it.
Similarly, David Bowie’s 1972 show in Santa Monica, California is considered by many Bowie fans and sick musos to be among the defining concerts of his career, as well as one of those landmark performances that dot the landscape of music history (the fact that this marked Bowie’s first live radio broadcast in the States probably didn’t hurt the myth factor).
Previously available in various releases of both dubious legality and sound quality, the show is certainly on target and solid. Bowie performs the songs with conviction and focus on his first American tour. Although he was well established in merry England, he was not yet a household name in the States. There’s also very little hint of the personal and musical over-indulgences that would come later, and depending on your preferences, would mark the beginning of a run of innovative 1970s albums, or indicate the first signs of a performer whose musical outputs never quite lived up to his ambitions.
Backing band the Spiders from Mars are as integral to the album as Bowie himself; they bring enough force to the songs to make them stand out and give them a frenetic life and energy, in most cases. The trio of “The Supermen,” “Five Years,” and “Life On Mars” is intense and frantic, with both Bowie and the band bringing a palpable anger and doom to the apocalyptic foreboding of these songs. “Queen Bitch” performed live here surpasses its album counterpart, and “Rock ‘N’ Roll Suicide” is an emotional, if perhaps heavy-handed, fitting close to the concert.
However, it’s still open to debate as to whether the show deserves its place at the table of legendary musical performances. Certainly it’s mostly an outstanding performance and the material is nearly irreproachable. Bowie was able to pick and choose from landmark albums The Man Who Sold The World, Hunky Dory, and The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust.
Nevertheless, there are some agonizingly dull moments that sound pretty dated hearing them over 35 years later. “Width of a Circle” clocks in at around ten minutes and loses its steam after only a few of those; it’s a struggle to get through it.
Likewise, Bowie’s take on the Velvet Underground’s “Waiting for the Man” is a curiosity piece at best. Performed with minor lyrical changes and at a pace somewhere between the Velvet’s classic version on The Velvet Underground and Nico and the pseudo-country live arrangement the band favored after John Cale’s forced departure, Bowie’s interpretation sounds both odd and a little boring. It’s more of a careful, polite homage than a successful attempt to reinvent or interpret the song in a unique way.
Because of these flaws, it’s tough to include this concert among the big boys. Maybe it’s a generational thing and the album sounds better to those who experienced Bowie the first time around, instead of through these 1990s indie-bred ears. Or maybe hearing it on various bootlegs over the years lessened the mystery once the album finally made is official release, leading to a letdown. And while a live album doesn’t necessarily need a Judas moment or Johnny Rotten-esque confrontational approach (“You’ll get one encore and one encore only!”), it still needs something to both separate it from the glut of live albums and live up to the myth that surrounds it.
Even though this release is an excellent snapshot of 1972 Bowie and the Spiders from Mars and is well worth repeated listens, it doesn’t always live up to its myth. Besides, some of us are still holding out hope for a definitive Tin Machine live album to see official release.
In some cases the actual official release lives up to the hype. Bob Dylan’s fabled 1966 “Judas” concert, previously immortalized both on vinyl as well as the classic Guitars Kissing and the Contemporary fix bootleg, among others, eventually saw official, if grossly belated, release from Sony. Despite some alleged sonic inferiorities to previous bootleg versions, this long-awaited official version confirmed that the actual performance equaled the legend that surrounded it.
Similarly, David Bowie’s 1972 show in Santa Monica, California is considered by many Bowie fans and sick musos to be among the defining concerts of his career, as well as one of those landmark performances that dot the landscape of music history (the fact that this marked Bowie’s first live radio broadcast in the States probably didn’t hurt the myth factor).
Previously available in various releases of both dubious legality and sound quality, the show is certainly on target and solid. Bowie performs the songs with conviction and focus on his first American tour. Although he was well established in merry England, he was not yet a household name in the States. There’s also very little hint of the personal and musical over-indulgences that would come later, and depending on your preferences, would mark the beginning of a run of innovative 1970s albums, or indicate the first signs of a performer whose musical outputs never quite lived up to his ambitions.
Backing band the Spiders from Mars are as integral to the album as Bowie himself; they bring enough force to the songs to make them stand out and give them a frenetic life and energy, in most cases. The trio of “The Supermen,” “Five Years,” and “Life On Mars” is intense and frantic, with both Bowie and the band bringing a palpable anger and doom to the apocalyptic foreboding of these songs. “Queen Bitch” performed live here surpasses its album counterpart, and “Rock ‘N’ Roll Suicide” is an emotional, if perhaps heavy-handed, fitting close to the concert.
However, it’s still open to debate as to whether the show deserves its place at the table of legendary musical performances. Certainly it’s mostly an outstanding performance and the material is nearly irreproachable. Bowie was able to pick and choose from landmark albums The Man Who Sold The World, Hunky Dory, and The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust.
Nevertheless, there are some agonizingly dull moments that sound pretty dated hearing them over 35 years later. “Width of a Circle” clocks in at around ten minutes and loses its steam after only a few of those; it’s a struggle to get through it.
Likewise, Bowie’s take on the Velvet Underground’s “Waiting for the Man” is a curiosity piece at best. Performed with minor lyrical changes and at a pace somewhere between the Velvet’s classic version on The Velvet Underground and Nico and the pseudo-country live arrangement the band favored after John Cale’s forced departure, Bowie’s interpretation sounds both odd and a little boring. It’s more of a careful, polite homage than a successful attempt to reinvent or interpret the song in a unique way.
Because of these flaws, it’s tough to include this concert among the big boys. Maybe it’s a generational thing and the album sounds better to those who experienced Bowie the first time around, instead of through these 1990s indie-bred ears. Or maybe hearing it on various bootlegs over the years lessened the mystery once the album finally made is official release, leading to a letdown. And while a live album doesn’t necessarily need a Judas moment or Johnny Rotten-esque confrontational approach (“You’ll get one encore and one encore only!”), it still needs something to both separate it from the glut of live albums and live up to the myth that surrounds it.
Even though this release is an excellent snapshot of 1972 Bowie and the Spiders from Mars and is well worth repeated listens, it doesn’t always live up to its myth. Besides, some of us are still holding out hope for a definitive Tin Machine live album to see official release.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Music Review: Bonnie "Prince" Billy - Lie Down In the Light
Lie Down In the Light is in many ways an atypical Will Oldham record. For the most part, the themes most often associated with his albums (death, fractured relationships and lives on the skids, a touch of dread, and a little more death) are now tempered with a tranquility and contentment rarely seen on any of Oldham’s previous releases. He’s gone a little domestic. Sure it’s not as obvious as say, New Morning or Planet Waves, but long time listeners will certainly notice this shift.
Several of the songs on Light evoke a genuine peace and optimism that might come as a shock for those who like their Oldham gothic and doomed a la I See A Darkness. Opening track “Easy Does It” starts with a breezy country rhythm and then works in piano, fiddle, and backwoods geetar as Oldham (again releasing an album under his Bonnie "Prince" Billy handle) sings joyfully about “good earthly music.” It’s about family and friends, and simple pleasures; it sets the tone for the next several songs as well.
Second track “You Remind Me of Something (The Glory Goes)” continues this heavily country sound as it evokes a happy family scene that could very easily be from a past era (you know, the era where Uncle Jethro had no real teeth left and played his banjo on the front porch of his Appalachian shack). “I like the places where the night does not mean an end/where smiles break free and surprise is your friend/and dancing goes on in the kitchen until dawn” Oldham sings with a sincerity and lack of lyrical ambiguity that dotted previous albums. Similarly, “(Keep Eye On) Other’s Gain” builds from a simple guitar accompaniment and stresses the importance of family (just like your mother also said): “keep your loved ones near/and let them know just where you’ll be/because others need you right nearby/just as you need me.”
Nevertheless, several of the songs deal in the woe, despair, and dark humor that bring either a smile to or induce morose depression in Oldham’s fans. “You Want That Picture,” sung as a duet with Ashley Webber (who lends excellent backing vocals throughout much of the album), depicts a faltering mess of a relationship, with both characters lobbing accusations and finding a decidedly morbid silver lining: “I went outside/and I stood very still in the night/and I looked at the sky/and knew someday I’d die/and then everything would be alright.”
“Missing One” immediately follows and finds the relationship now over. Again backed by sparse guitar, Oldham’s newly single man admits that “missing you has only just begun.” The conflicting emotions and muted resolutions that characterize Oldham’s best songs again creep in here, with the male character saying “I wouldn’t trade my life for someone’s millions/and I know you left for a reason.” What that reason is Oldham isn’t saying.
The trio of woe concludes with “What’s Missing Is.” With some subdued instrumental flourishes that compliment the guitar, and featuring Webber singing backing vocals that meld very well with Oldham’s voice, it’s perhaps the darkest song on the album. The mournful instrumental break adds to the overall tone of despair in the song.
Produced by Lambchop’s Mark Nevers, Light’s sound relies heavily on country music elements. Although these elements have been implied in Oldham’s previous works, it’s brought to the forefront this time around. The result is an album whose production is warm and balanced; it also sounds great on both headphones and stereo. Even though Lie Down In the Light is not entirely a hopeful album, it doesn’t cozy up to abject bleakness like an old friend the same way Oldham’s previous albums have.
Several of the songs on Light evoke a genuine peace and optimism that might come as a shock for those who like their Oldham gothic and doomed a la I See A Darkness. Opening track “Easy Does It” starts with a breezy country rhythm and then works in piano, fiddle, and backwoods geetar as Oldham (again releasing an album under his Bonnie "Prince" Billy handle) sings joyfully about “good earthly music.” It’s about family and friends, and simple pleasures; it sets the tone for the next several songs as well.
Second track “You Remind Me of Something (The Glory Goes)” continues this heavily country sound as it evokes a happy family scene that could very easily be from a past era (you know, the era where Uncle Jethro had no real teeth left and played his banjo on the front porch of his Appalachian shack). “I like the places where the night does not mean an end/where smiles break free and surprise is your friend/and dancing goes on in the kitchen until dawn” Oldham sings with a sincerity and lack of lyrical ambiguity that dotted previous albums. Similarly, “(Keep Eye On) Other’s Gain” builds from a simple guitar accompaniment and stresses the importance of family (just like your mother also said): “keep your loved ones near/and let them know just where you’ll be/because others need you right nearby/just as you need me.”
Nevertheless, several of the songs deal in the woe, despair, and dark humor that bring either a smile to or induce morose depression in Oldham’s fans. “You Want That Picture,” sung as a duet with Ashley Webber (who lends excellent backing vocals throughout much of the album), depicts a faltering mess of a relationship, with both characters lobbing accusations and finding a decidedly morbid silver lining: “I went outside/and I stood very still in the night/and I looked at the sky/and knew someday I’d die/and then everything would be alright.”
“Missing One” immediately follows and finds the relationship now over. Again backed by sparse guitar, Oldham’s newly single man admits that “missing you has only just begun.” The conflicting emotions and muted resolutions that characterize Oldham’s best songs again creep in here, with the male character saying “I wouldn’t trade my life for someone’s millions/and I know you left for a reason.” What that reason is Oldham isn’t saying.
The trio of woe concludes with “What’s Missing Is.” With some subdued instrumental flourishes that compliment the guitar, and featuring Webber singing backing vocals that meld very well with Oldham’s voice, it’s perhaps the darkest song on the album. The mournful instrumental break adds to the overall tone of despair in the song.
Produced by Lambchop’s Mark Nevers, Light’s sound relies heavily on country music elements. Although these elements have been implied in Oldham’s previous works, it’s brought to the forefront this time around. The result is an album whose production is warm and balanced; it also sounds great on both headphones and stereo. Even though Lie Down In the Light is not entirely a hopeful album, it doesn’t cozy up to abject bleakness like an old friend the same way Oldham’s previous albums have.
Satire: Engaged Couple's Musical Differences Threaten to Derail Wedding
Engaged couple Kristen Tiffington and Curtiss Ian announced today that their June 2013 wedding is in jeopardy due to ongoing conflicts regarding the music that will be used to commemorate their special day.
Ian, a 30 year-old maintenance supervisor and self-proclaimed “indie snob, but in a good way” says the high point of his life occurred when a drunken concert-goer recently mistook him for Hold Steady singer Craig Finn. Ian is rather blunt in his assessment of the ongoing conflict. “Chick’s taste in music sucks. Girly doesn’t know the difference between Tom Waits and Tom Hanks. She thinks Mission of Burma was a 1950s Russian space expedition and that Radiohead stole their ideas from Coldplay, for chrissakes.”
Tiffington, a 27 year-old investments analyst who describes herself as a “pop music princess” and is clearly marrying down, is still optimistic the matter can be resolved by the rapidly approaching wedding date, which is a scant five years away. “Right now Curtiss and I are not aligned in terms of the music that will be utilized, vis a vis our musical preferences. However, I’m confident we can reach a mutual agreement without me having to withhold certain favors from him,” Tiffington stated with a wry grin.
As the wedding planning got underway, it was agreed that each would create a list of the top 25 songs they wanted played at the reception.
“I picked upbeat, fun, danceable music, and I expected Curtiss to do the same,” Tiffington explained, her eyes misting with tears of disappointment. “I came up with enough 1990s sugar pop tunes to keep everyone dancing like the Funky Bunch. And of course the ‘Macarena.’ No reception is complete without that one.”
Yet the end results revealed that the couple’s diametrically opposite musical tastes were far greater than the blushing bride originally thought. “Was I bothered by his choices?” Tiffington asked rhetorically. “No. I was horrified and emotionally disturbed. The mixture of depressing, atonal, and patently unlistenable squawking crap he came up with I can’t even give a name. It’s a wedding, not some Emo weep fest.”
Ian is quick to defend his choices, however. “A wedding is more than just a celebration of life, eternal love, new beginnings, and all that crap,” he explained. “It’s also the perfect opportunity to foist my musical preferences on unsuspecting relatives.”
To this end, Ian compiled an eclectic collection of music that only a marginal number of wedding guests are likely to enjoy. “I want my wedding to have a certain vibe to it; sure it’s flowers and roses and obnoxiously drunken distant uncles. But it’s about more than that. If I convert just one person to a love of My Bloody Valentine or Jawbox while ruining the experience for everyone else, it will be totally worth it.”
Yet his future wife isn’t budging. “I’ve vetoed every one of his choices. I could have brained him when he suggested our first dance be to “Love Will Tear Us Apart.” This is a wedding; the music’s meant to be fun and frivolous in a light, airy, Electric Slide kinda way. His bizarre musical obsessions are out.”
Ian’s musical tastes might not be the only thing that’s out. The couple does agree on one thing: if they don’t get this resolved soon, the wedding might very well have to be postponed again. “Five years is barely enough time to plan a vacation, let alone a wedding,” Tiffington lamented, with Ian eagerly nodding his head and smiling widely in agreement.
Ian, a 30 year-old maintenance supervisor and self-proclaimed “indie snob, but in a good way” says the high point of his life occurred when a drunken concert-goer recently mistook him for Hold Steady singer Craig Finn. Ian is rather blunt in his assessment of the ongoing conflict. “Chick’s taste in music sucks. Girly doesn’t know the difference between Tom Waits and Tom Hanks. She thinks Mission of Burma was a 1950s Russian space expedition and that Radiohead stole their ideas from Coldplay, for chrissakes.”
Tiffington, a 27 year-old investments analyst who describes herself as a “pop music princess” and is clearly marrying down, is still optimistic the matter can be resolved by the rapidly approaching wedding date, which is a scant five years away. “Right now Curtiss and I are not aligned in terms of the music that will be utilized, vis a vis our musical preferences. However, I’m confident we can reach a mutual agreement without me having to withhold certain favors from him,” Tiffington stated with a wry grin.
As the wedding planning got underway, it was agreed that each would create a list of the top 25 songs they wanted played at the reception.
“I picked upbeat, fun, danceable music, and I expected Curtiss to do the same,” Tiffington explained, her eyes misting with tears of disappointment. “I came up with enough 1990s sugar pop tunes to keep everyone dancing like the Funky Bunch. And of course the ‘Macarena.’ No reception is complete without that one.”
Yet the end results revealed that the couple’s diametrically opposite musical tastes were far greater than the blushing bride originally thought. “Was I bothered by his choices?” Tiffington asked rhetorically. “No. I was horrified and emotionally disturbed. The mixture of depressing, atonal, and patently unlistenable squawking crap he came up with I can’t even give a name. It’s a wedding, not some Emo weep fest.”
Ian is quick to defend his choices, however. “A wedding is more than just a celebration of life, eternal love, new beginnings, and all that crap,” he explained. “It’s also the perfect opportunity to foist my musical preferences on unsuspecting relatives.”
To this end, Ian compiled an eclectic collection of music that only a marginal number of wedding guests are likely to enjoy. “I want my wedding to have a certain vibe to it; sure it’s flowers and roses and obnoxiously drunken distant uncles. But it’s about more than that. If I convert just one person to a love of My Bloody Valentine or Jawbox while ruining the experience for everyone else, it will be totally worth it.”
Yet his future wife isn’t budging. “I’ve vetoed every one of his choices. I could have brained him when he suggested our first dance be to “Love Will Tear Us Apart.” This is a wedding; the music’s meant to be fun and frivolous in a light, airy, Electric Slide kinda way. His bizarre musical obsessions are out.”
Ian’s musical tastes might not be the only thing that’s out. The couple does agree on one thing: if they don’t get this resolved soon, the wedding might very well have to be postponed again. “Five years is barely enough time to plan a vacation, let alone a wedding,” Tiffington lamented, with Ian eagerly nodding his head and smiling widely in agreement.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Music Review: The Hold Steady - Stay Positive
The Hold Steady’s previous album, Boys and Girls in America, was an exhilarating, emotional, and occasionally sobering mix of songs about drinking, drugs, and other wholesome activities. Its characters seemed to enjoy getting their kicks and fixes in the moment, but remained acutely aware that the morning after wouldn’t be so sweet. Its most obvious influences were impeccable – a holy triumvirate of the Replacements, Husker Du, and E-Street Band-era Bruce Springsteen came to mind for various reviewers – yet the album somehow managed to incorporate those influences without sounding like a cheap knockoff.
The band’s latest album, Stay Positive, wears these influences with pride once again, perhaps a little too much so for some fans and critics. Still, it’s not accurate to dismiss the band’s latest effort as unoriginal or blandly derivative. Despite what one witty critic recently wrote, lead singer Craig Finn isn’t the offspring of Springsteen and Bob Mould. The band brings an organic, traditional rock sound, free of needless background music and manufactured noise, and an intensity to both their albums and live performances that do separate them from the glut of indie bands.
Stay Positive is a good album, even if it doesn’t quite match up to either Boys and Girls or their earlier album Separation Sunday. The songs vary from aggressive, pseudo-macho anthems (macho for indie standards, at least) like “Constructive Summer” and “Sequestered in Memphis,” to ballads like “Lord, I’m Discouraged.”
Although the vocals are a bit more restrained and the instrumentation a tad more polished, Finn still talk-sings in his distinctive voice and the band still makes a decent amount of racket. In an album setting, the band clearly knows how they want their music to sound; it’s textured and layered without being oversaturated or suffering from a cold production.
The songs explore many of the same themes as Boys and Girls and Separation Sunday. Like those two albums, Finn’s characters still invariably always seem to be getting older at breakneck speed, aided by drugs, booze, horizontal tangos, or the various other temptations of the late-night scene. These are songs where the characters could either be heading for redemption or disaster, or maybe both. There’s a fair amount of boredom and restlessness here, with little hint of resolution or positive endings.
Death guest stars on many of the songs. The clear Springsteen conceit aside, Finn’s cynical summation of “work at the mill and then you die” in “Constructive Summer” sets the tone for the much of the album. “Lord, I’m Discouraged” is damn bleak, with the narrator admitting “I mostly just pray she don’t die.” “Both Crosses,” so heavy on the religious imagery you might think you’re back in PSR, ranks among the darkest songs Finn has written. On top of a sparse musical arrangement, Finn sings “I’ve been mostly dying, and I’ve been mostly coughing, and I’ve been mostly crying.”
There are a few subtle shifts though. Whereas the band’s two previous albums explored drug and alcohol-fueled lives and the inevitable after-effects, some of the songs on Stay Positive find people simply struggling to come to terms with getting older, no chemical assistance required.
The title song (if you’re in a particularly bad mood, this song might set you off like Michael Douglass in Falling Down) finds the narrator increasingly tiring of wild nights. In “Joke About Jamaica,” a woman finds herself noticing that “the boys are getting younger and the bands are getting louder.” Longtime Hold Steady geeks will also notice that recurring characters Holly, Charlemagne, and Gideon don’t make any explicit appearances on the album. If any of the songs are about them, Finn’s not giving it away.
Stay Positive isn’t exactly The Hold Steady treading water, but it’s certainly not a major step forward musically either. In many ways it sounds like we’ve heard this before, or at least parts of it. Still, there are some noticeable shifts, even if it won’t stop the detractors from focusing on the band’s sometimes too-obvious influences.
The band’s latest album, Stay Positive, wears these influences with pride once again, perhaps a little too much so for some fans and critics. Still, it’s not accurate to dismiss the band’s latest effort as unoriginal or blandly derivative. Despite what one witty critic recently wrote, lead singer Craig Finn isn’t the offspring of Springsteen and Bob Mould. The band brings an organic, traditional rock sound, free of needless background music and manufactured noise, and an intensity to both their albums and live performances that do separate them from the glut of indie bands.
Stay Positive is a good album, even if it doesn’t quite match up to either Boys and Girls or their earlier album Separation Sunday. The songs vary from aggressive, pseudo-macho anthems (macho for indie standards, at least) like “Constructive Summer” and “Sequestered in Memphis,” to ballads like “Lord, I’m Discouraged.”
Although the vocals are a bit more restrained and the instrumentation a tad more polished, Finn still talk-sings in his distinctive voice and the band still makes a decent amount of racket. In an album setting, the band clearly knows how they want their music to sound; it’s textured and layered without being oversaturated or suffering from a cold production.
The songs explore many of the same themes as Boys and Girls and Separation Sunday. Like those two albums, Finn’s characters still invariably always seem to be getting older at breakneck speed, aided by drugs, booze, horizontal tangos, or the various other temptations of the late-night scene. These are songs where the characters could either be heading for redemption or disaster, or maybe both. There’s a fair amount of boredom and restlessness here, with little hint of resolution or positive endings.
Death guest stars on many of the songs. The clear Springsteen conceit aside, Finn’s cynical summation of “work at the mill and then you die” in “Constructive Summer” sets the tone for the much of the album. “Lord, I’m Discouraged” is damn bleak, with the narrator admitting “I mostly just pray she don’t die.” “Both Crosses,” so heavy on the religious imagery you might think you’re back in PSR, ranks among the darkest songs Finn has written. On top of a sparse musical arrangement, Finn sings “I’ve been mostly dying, and I’ve been mostly coughing, and I’ve been mostly crying.”
There are a few subtle shifts though. Whereas the band’s two previous albums explored drug and alcohol-fueled lives and the inevitable after-effects, some of the songs on Stay Positive find people simply struggling to come to terms with getting older, no chemical assistance required.
The title song (if you’re in a particularly bad mood, this song might set you off like Michael Douglass in Falling Down) finds the narrator increasingly tiring of wild nights. In “Joke About Jamaica,” a woman finds herself noticing that “the boys are getting younger and the bands are getting louder.” Longtime Hold Steady geeks will also notice that recurring characters Holly, Charlemagne, and Gideon don’t make any explicit appearances on the album. If any of the songs are about them, Finn’s not giving it away.
Stay Positive isn’t exactly The Hold Steady treading water, but it’s certainly not a major step forward musically either. In many ways it sounds like we’ve heard this before, or at least parts of it. Still, there are some noticeable shifts, even if it won’t stop the detractors from focusing on the band’s sometimes too-obvious influences.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Music Review: The National - The Virginia EP
A collection of demos, b-sides, and live performances, The Virginia EP is a solid release from indie darlings/morose dudes The National. Although it doesn’t match up with the band’s most recent proper release, the much feted and breathlessly praised Boxer – and with the same cover style and font as that album, the EP is clearly meant to recall it – the EP is still a worthwhile release. With 12 songs and a running time of around 45 minutes, fans of the band certainly cannot complain about not getting their money’s worth. Even better, most of the songs are keepers and worth repeated listens.
The album is divided evenly between demos, studio cuts, and live tunes. Of the four demos, “Tall Saint” and “Forever After Days” are nearly album-ready and would have fit nicely on Boxer. “Rest of Years” is pretty rough even in demo form and suffers from oddly distant vocals. Final demo “Slow Show” is markedly different from the Boxer version. With an almost robotic musical and vocal arrangement, and significantly different lyrics that also appear on b-side “Blank Slate,” the song bears little resemblance to the finished album version. The demo seems rushed and cold; it gives little hint of the remarkable take eventually included on Boxer. Those indie dweebs interested in how a song’s lyrics and instrumentation evolve can geek out and find many other differences between the demo and finished versions.
Three of the four studio cuts are National originals, with the fourth being a cover version of Caroline Martin’s “Without Permission.” Originals “Santa Clara” and “Blank Slate” were previously issued as b-sides in the UK, and opening track “You’ve Done It Again, Virginia” is a previously unreleased version (a different version appeared on the “Lit Up” single). These three originals are all representative of both The National’s sound and the themes that recur throughout Matt Berninger’s lyrics.
The EP ends with four excellent live songs that give the listener a glimpse into what The National sound like in a live setting. Although the songs suffer from the visual element being taken away, and the version of Bruce Springsteen’s “Mansion on the Hill” sometimes seems a little forced and overwrought, the three other live songs will whet fans’ appetites for an official live album.
A radio session performance of “Lucky You” presents the song in a more stripped down manner, with Berninger’s vocals sounding far more weary and defeated than what appears on Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers. “Fake Empire” and “About Today” are heavier on the horns and overall noise than their album counterparts. The reworked arrangement is used to great effect on “About Today,” which on Cherry Tree is goddamn depressing and certain to put a damper on anyone’s mood. The song’s overall theme of doubt and a relationship on the skids remains in the live cut, but added to it is a hint of the range of emotions the band is able to convey in concert.
The EP also includes Vincent Moon’s A Skin, A Night film that ostensibly covers the making of the album, interspersed with fragments of live performances. Though not exactly a booby prize, it doesn’t add much to the Boxer story, and its disorienting concert footage is an epileptic’s worst nightmare. One person’s art house documentary is another person’s nightmare of torture.
Any EP such as this is bound to have inherent flaws: the term b-side implies a certain inferiority to the songs that actually made the proper album, demos are sometimes difficult for even the most obsessed (er, dedicated) fan to listen to more than a few times, and a smattering of live songs can only hint at, and never fully convey, what it’s like to see a band on stage. Not quite a release solely for The National’s most loyal fans but also not the best starting point for those unfamiliar with the band, the Virginia EP is nevertheless a welcome addition to The National’s catalog. Fans most likely won’t walk away disappointed, but those not yet converted probably won’t be drinking the Kool-Aid if this is their first introduction to the band.
The album is divided evenly between demos, studio cuts, and live tunes. Of the four demos, “Tall Saint” and “Forever After Days” are nearly album-ready and would have fit nicely on Boxer. “Rest of Years” is pretty rough even in demo form and suffers from oddly distant vocals. Final demo “Slow Show” is markedly different from the Boxer version. With an almost robotic musical and vocal arrangement, and significantly different lyrics that also appear on b-side “Blank Slate,” the song bears little resemblance to the finished album version. The demo seems rushed and cold; it gives little hint of the remarkable take eventually included on Boxer. Those indie dweebs interested in how a song’s lyrics and instrumentation evolve can geek out and find many other differences between the demo and finished versions.
Three of the four studio cuts are National originals, with the fourth being a cover version of Caroline Martin’s “Without Permission.” Originals “Santa Clara” and “Blank Slate” were previously issued as b-sides in the UK, and opening track “You’ve Done It Again, Virginia” is a previously unreleased version (a different version appeared on the “Lit Up” single). These three originals are all representative of both The National’s sound and the themes that recur throughout Matt Berninger’s lyrics.
The EP ends with four excellent live songs that give the listener a glimpse into what The National sound like in a live setting. Although the songs suffer from the visual element being taken away, and the version of Bruce Springsteen’s “Mansion on the Hill” sometimes seems a little forced and overwrought, the three other live songs will whet fans’ appetites for an official live album.
A radio session performance of “Lucky You” presents the song in a more stripped down manner, with Berninger’s vocals sounding far more weary and defeated than what appears on Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers. “Fake Empire” and “About Today” are heavier on the horns and overall noise than their album counterparts. The reworked arrangement is used to great effect on “About Today,” which on Cherry Tree is goddamn depressing and certain to put a damper on anyone’s mood. The song’s overall theme of doubt and a relationship on the skids remains in the live cut, but added to it is a hint of the range of emotions the band is able to convey in concert.
The EP also includes Vincent Moon’s A Skin, A Night film that ostensibly covers the making of the album, interspersed with fragments of live performances. Though not exactly a booby prize, it doesn’t add much to the Boxer story, and its disorienting concert footage is an epileptic’s worst nightmare. One person’s art house documentary is another person’s nightmare of torture.
Any EP such as this is bound to have inherent flaws: the term b-side implies a certain inferiority to the songs that actually made the proper album, demos are sometimes difficult for even the most obsessed (er, dedicated) fan to listen to more than a few times, and a smattering of live songs can only hint at, and never fully convey, what it’s like to see a band on stage. Not quite a release solely for The National’s most loyal fans but also not the best starting point for those unfamiliar with the band, the Virginia EP is nevertheless a welcome addition to The National’s catalog. Fans most likely won’t walk away disappointed, but those not yet converted probably won’t be drinking the Kool-Aid if this is their first introduction to the band.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Devo Sues McDonald's; New Wave Nigel Under Fire
In perhaps the most bizarre music story of 2008 to date, New Wave band Devo is suing greasy French fries, quasi-chicken nuggets, and mysterious meat substance McRib purveyor McDonald’s over alleged unauthorized use of the band’s likeness in a Happy Meal toy. The band claims that “New Wave Nigel,” which besides sporting an American Idol logo is also clad in a costume strangely similar to the one the band immortalized in the “Whip It” video, is little more than a mass-produced ripoff of the Devo image.
First, the easy part: that damn toy undeniably looks conspicuously similar to Devo. Anyone who’s even remotely aware of either the band or its most famous video (kids: back in the old days, MTV played videos and not just America’s Next Top Model on an endless loop) would agree. Nigel’s truly styling in both a jumpsuit and flowerpot hat; it’s likely not a coincidence that his wardrobe looks so similar to Devo’s. Either McDonald’s Marketing and Legal departments are musical Neanderthals devoid of even the most basic knowledge of music history, or they simply chose to take their chances with the toy anyway. Hell, Nike tried a similar approach with Minor Threat.
And while it’s likely that the Happy Meal chowhounds of today won’t associate Devo with the toy, it’s quite possible that said chowhounds’ parents (or grandparents, har har) will.
Devo is currently riding the artistic integrity highway in explaining its legal action. Bassist Gerald Casale, credited with creating the band’s unique look, is quoted as saying that McDonald’s “didn’t ask us anything. Plus, we don’t like McDonalds’, and we don’t like American Idol, so we’re doubly offended.”Nevertheless, it’s somewhat difficult to accept this assertion at face value. Despite its carefully crafted image as a band that mocked and criticized commercialism, Devo hasn’t shied away from using its image or music in commercials. The band appeared in a 1984 ad for Honda scooters, and later recorded a new version of “Whip It” for Swiffer television commercials (though Casale has since stated the band regrets that decision). Clearly, Devo won’t ever be confused with Tom Waits regarding their views on licensing their songs (or themselves) for commercial use.
With this history in mind, Casale’s comment that McDonald’s “didn’t ask us anything” is curious. Those cynics among us could interpret that to mean that Devo might have approved the idea, had they been asked and, it can be inferred, been given a cut of that sweet Big Mac baksheesh.
So why continue with the lawsuit? Sure McDonald’s is guilty of either unimaginable, ignorant stupidity at best or shameless, blatant thievery at worst. Devo’s always operated with a twisted and wry sense of humor; they should get creative and devise a partnership with McDonald’s. Besides, there are many similarities between Devo and McDonald’s that are too striking to ignore:
Devo has crafted an other-worldly image throughout their career. Similarly, anyone biting into a McGriddle will certainly agree that those ingredients are not of this world.
The musical output of Devo and the less-than-gourmet output of McDonald’s don’t age particularly well. A bad Devo song is basically the musical version of a day-old Quarter Pounder: hopelessly dated beyond repair, possibly toxic, and likely to send you scurrying to the bathroom.
Devo can parlay this Happy Meal brouhaha to their advantage by introducing themselves to a new generation of music and fast food consumers. A whole line of new toys could document every phase of the band’s career. McDonald’s cups could be shaped into the band’s famous flowerpot hats. And, oh yeah, I’ll take my McDevo with cheese.
First, the easy part: that damn toy undeniably looks conspicuously similar to Devo. Anyone who’s even remotely aware of either the band or its most famous video (kids: back in the old days, MTV played videos and not just America’s Next Top Model on an endless loop) would agree. Nigel’s truly styling in both a jumpsuit and flowerpot hat; it’s likely not a coincidence that his wardrobe looks so similar to Devo’s. Either McDonald’s Marketing and Legal departments are musical Neanderthals devoid of even the most basic knowledge of music history, or they simply chose to take their chances with the toy anyway. Hell, Nike tried a similar approach with Minor Threat.
And while it’s likely that the Happy Meal chowhounds of today won’t associate Devo with the toy, it’s quite possible that said chowhounds’ parents (or grandparents, har har) will.
Devo is currently riding the artistic integrity highway in explaining its legal action. Bassist Gerald Casale, credited with creating the band’s unique look, is quoted as saying that McDonald’s “didn’t ask us anything. Plus, we don’t like McDonalds’, and we don’t like American Idol, so we’re doubly offended.”Nevertheless, it’s somewhat difficult to accept this assertion at face value. Despite its carefully crafted image as a band that mocked and criticized commercialism, Devo hasn’t shied away from using its image or music in commercials. The band appeared in a 1984 ad for Honda scooters, and later recorded a new version of “Whip It” for Swiffer television commercials (though Casale has since stated the band regrets that decision). Clearly, Devo won’t ever be confused with Tom Waits regarding their views on licensing their songs (or themselves) for commercial use.
With this history in mind, Casale’s comment that McDonald’s “didn’t ask us anything” is curious. Those cynics among us could interpret that to mean that Devo might have approved the idea, had they been asked and, it can be inferred, been given a cut of that sweet Big Mac baksheesh.
So why continue with the lawsuit? Sure McDonald’s is guilty of either unimaginable, ignorant stupidity at best or shameless, blatant thievery at worst. Devo’s always operated with a twisted and wry sense of humor; they should get creative and devise a partnership with McDonald’s. Besides, there are many similarities between Devo and McDonald’s that are too striking to ignore:
Devo has crafted an other-worldly image throughout their career. Similarly, anyone biting into a McGriddle will certainly agree that those ingredients are not of this world.
The musical output of Devo and the less-than-gourmet output of McDonald’s don’t age particularly well. A bad Devo song is basically the musical version of a day-old Quarter Pounder: hopelessly dated beyond repair, possibly toxic, and likely to send you scurrying to the bathroom.
Devo can parlay this Happy Meal brouhaha to their advantage by introducing themselves to a new generation of music and fast food consumers. A whole line of new toys could document every phase of the band’s career. McDonald’s cups could be shaped into the band’s famous flowerpot hats. And, oh yeah, I’ll take my McDevo with cheese.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Concert Review: Tom Waits at the Fox Theatre, St. Louis, MO, June 26, 2008
It's an understatement to say that expectations were high and the crowd was madly eager for Tom Waits' St. Louis show at the Fox Theatre on Thursday night. Playing St. Louis for the first time since the mid 1970s (and not, as one snide person commented to me, for the first time since the American Civil War), Waits and his excellent backing band delivered a performance that made it well worth the, er, wait.
By now the Waits stage persona has been written about and described to death: the odd twitches and gestures, the stomping and hollering, and the overall theatrical/carnival barker qualities that are impossible to miss, and that Waits himself has been willing to embellish and exaggerate over the years. Still, those descriptions don't adequately reflect what it's like to see Waits live on stage. A day after the concert, with a slight and bizarrely enjoyable ringing still in my ears, I suspect I'm not the only fan or critic struggling to suitably describe what a tremendous show this was.
I've long thought that the main reason people attend concerts is because they want to participate in a communal experience and walk away from the show with a few lasting musical memories. Well, ok, I've actually maintained that the primary reasons people attend concerts are to get shitfaced and/or stoned, drunkenly request "Freebird" at the most inappropriate point in the evening, get a night away from the brats (sorry, children), or behave like inmates freshly escaped from the mental ward. And after all that, people attend live performances for the communal experience and the memories.
If that's true, Waits and the band didn't disappoint. In a set that ran a little over two hours (and even then felt far too short), what was perhaps most noticeable was Waits' ability to convey a song's themes and moods in a live setting. In this way, Waits could somehow go from the slow and beautiful solider song "Day After Tomorrow" to the hilariously demented "Cemetery Polka" without the contrasts seeming forced or out of place. Waits' stage movements were clearly at least partly choreographed; even when glitter rained down on him during "Make It Rain," it somehow managed to fit into the mood onstage.
One of the show's most memorable portions found Waits playing several songs at the piano, with minimal instrumental accompaniment. "Hang Down Your Head" was followed by "A Little Rain" for a wonderful duo of grand weepers. A Waits solo piano tour in the near future would be nice...
The band's (Casey Waits, Patrick Warren, Seth Ford-Young, Vincent Henry, and Omar Torrez) ability to provide new textures to the songs was also noticeable. Several of the songs performed were markedly different than their album counterparts. "Black Market Baby" and "Lie To Me" bore little resemblance to their album versions, and benefited nicely from the reworked musical arrangements.
The crowd was clearly appreciative of the effort, with wild applause and hollers throughout the night that sometimes came at odd times (you don't need to scream in orgasmic joy after every refrain). There were also some other bizarre moments. One fan shouted for "Johnsburg, IL" about 20 minutes after it had been performed; that guy's probably currently nursing a massive hangover and racking his addled brain to remember anything about the show. Another male fan shouted on a couple occasions that he wanted to have Waits' children (see buddy, the way it works is that...).
Worst of all, there were a couple altercations in the Fox's plush velvet seats. During "Lucky Day," a handful of angry Rain Dogs approached a couple engaged in conversation and rather forcefully "suggested" that they be quiet. Waits himself seemed aware of the ruckus, or the frequent and obnoxious shouts and bloodthirsty screams, joking later that the audience hadn't worked together before and needed an elected official to maintain order, describing it as (my faltering memory notwithstanding) "mass pandemonium."
It was as close to perfect as a live performance could be. It took over 30 years for Tom Waits to come back to St. Louis (though to be fair, many fans at the show weren't even on this mortal coil in 1974, myself included). All around, it was a wonderful show where the audience's expectations were exceeded by a truly memorable performance.
By now the Waits stage persona has been written about and described to death: the odd twitches and gestures, the stomping and hollering, and the overall theatrical/carnival barker qualities that are impossible to miss, and that Waits himself has been willing to embellish and exaggerate over the years. Still, those descriptions don't adequately reflect what it's like to see Waits live on stage. A day after the concert, with a slight and bizarrely enjoyable ringing still in my ears, I suspect I'm not the only fan or critic struggling to suitably describe what a tremendous show this was.
I've long thought that the main reason people attend concerts is because they want to participate in a communal experience and walk away from the show with a few lasting musical memories. Well, ok, I've actually maintained that the primary reasons people attend concerts are to get shitfaced and/or stoned, drunkenly request "Freebird" at the most inappropriate point in the evening, get a night away from the brats (sorry, children), or behave like inmates freshly escaped from the mental ward. And after all that, people attend live performances for the communal experience and the memories.
If that's true, Waits and the band didn't disappoint. In a set that ran a little over two hours (and even then felt far too short), what was perhaps most noticeable was Waits' ability to convey a song's themes and moods in a live setting. In this way, Waits could somehow go from the slow and beautiful solider song "Day After Tomorrow" to the hilariously demented "Cemetery Polka" without the contrasts seeming forced or out of place. Waits' stage movements were clearly at least partly choreographed; even when glitter rained down on him during "Make It Rain," it somehow managed to fit into the mood onstage.
One of the show's most memorable portions found Waits playing several songs at the piano, with minimal instrumental accompaniment. "Hang Down Your Head" was followed by "A Little Rain" for a wonderful duo of grand weepers. A Waits solo piano tour in the near future would be nice...
The band's (Casey Waits, Patrick Warren, Seth Ford-Young, Vincent Henry, and Omar Torrez) ability to provide new textures to the songs was also noticeable. Several of the songs performed were markedly different than their album counterparts. "Black Market Baby" and "Lie To Me" bore little resemblance to their album versions, and benefited nicely from the reworked musical arrangements.
The crowd was clearly appreciative of the effort, with wild applause and hollers throughout the night that sometimes came at odd times (you don't need to scream in orgasmic joy after every refrain). There were also some other bizarre moments. One fan shouted for "Johnsburg, IL" about 20 minutes after it had been performed; that guy's probably currently nursing a massive hangover and racking his addled brain to remember anything about the show. Another male fan shouted on a couple occasions that he wanted to have Waits' children (see buddy, the way it works is that...).
Worst of all, there were a couple altercations in the Fox's plush velvet seats. During "Lucky Day," a handful of angry Rain Dogs approached a couple engaged in conversation and rather forcefully "suggested" that they be quiet. Waits himself seemed aware of the ruckus, or the frequent and obnoxious shouts and bloodthirsty screams, joking later that the audience hadn't worked together before and needed an elected official to maintain order, describing it as (my faltering memory notwithstanding) "mass pandemonium."
It was as close to perfect as a live performance could be. It took over 30 years for Tom Waits to come back to St. Louis (though to be fair, many fans at the show weren't even on this mortal coil in 1974, myself included). All around, it was a wonderful show where the audience's expectations were exceeded by a truly memorable performance.
Satire: Area Cyclist Agrees to Share the Road
Local cycling enthusiast Randall B. Pieder shocked family and friends at his surprise 30th birthday party when he reluctantly agreed to share the road with motor vehicles. As the party lapsed into the early morning hours and the cyclist received his 14th water bottle as a gift, it soon turned into a mass intervention, as Randall's tearful wife, children, and non-biking friends pleaded with him to "respect the fact that he's a solitary, wiry, skinny man who possibly shaves his legs, alone on a bicycle in a world of angry SUVs."
Perhaps most relieved by Randall's decision is his wife of five years, Elsa, who actually met her husband when he unexpectedly cut across two lanes of traffic and plowed into her Range Rover. "At first I was totally pissed," Elsa reported. "What kind of person treats the roads like his own personal velodrome? And here this hump just totally splats into my car. But when I saw his Lance Armstrong biker outfit with his junk prominently on display, I was totally smitten."
Despite Randall's Lycra and spandex-accentuated physical endowments, his wife admits it wasn't always a bike ride in the park for her. "Our first date was what he called an 'easy peddle across West St. Louis county,'" she reminisced. "Before I could say 'Cycling Rocked by More Allegations of Steroid Abuse,' he had us both securely planted in the right lane of Manchester Road, traffic behind us brought to a crawl. We looked like the head of a massive funeral procession."
Elsa also admits that drivers lost their patience after a while. "Most people swerved into the left lane with nothing more than an angry sneer or look of complete and utter confusion and befuddlement." But when Randall spontaneously decided to bike in the left lane, prefaced only by a perfunctory hand signal, drivers soon became frustrated. "I'll never find words to adequately describe all those bleating horns, fingers, and fists raised to the heavens we endured. And all the while Randall just kept peddling on, lost in some bizarre Greg Lemond-like trance.
"I'm just so relieved he's agreed to again share the road."
Less excited are Randall's fellow cyclist friends, all of whom are clearly disappointed that he's hanging up his endangering-himself-and-those-around-him shoes. "Some people view cyclists like us who use traffic lanes as mere suggestions as risks to traffic safety who lack even the smallest amount of common sense," said Spencer Darlington.
"That's pure nonsense. In all the years I've been cycling with him, I can count the number of near-scrapes and minor vehicular accidents he's directly caused on my two hands, two feet, and your left hand, counting the thumb. Randall's biking safety record speaks for itself, except for that one time he collided with the manure truck. No shit!"
Darlington also views his friend's decision as a sign that things are no longer like the good old days of 2005, when he first met Randall. "He was part of that breed of cyclist who just knew that the roads were built specifically for bikers, not two-ton gas-fueled behemoths traveling at ungodly speeds.
"When I wanted to ignore a stop sign, Randall was there for me. When I wanted to use the chicken lane as my own personal raceway, Randall supported me. When I wanted to bike on the interstate instead of the national park one mile from my house, Randall encouraged me.
I won't wildly approach a blind turn from the center lane with fearless abandon without thinking of him. It's truly the end of an era."
Perhaps most relieved by Randall's decision is his wife of five years, Elsa, who actually met her husband when he unexpectedly cut across two lanes of traffic and plowed into her Range Rover. "At first I was totally pissed," Elsa reported. "What kind of person treats the roads like his own personal velodrome? And here this hump just totally splats into my car. But when I saw his Lance Armstrong biker outfit with his junk prominently on display, I was totally smitten."
Despite Randall's Lycra and spandex-accentuated physical endowments, his wife admits it wasn't always a bike ride in the park for her. "Our first date was what he called an 'easy peddle across West St. Louis county,'" she reminisced. "Before I could say 'Cycling Rocked by More Allegations of Steroid Abuse,' he had us both securely planted in the right lane of Manchester Road, traffic behind us brought to a crawl. We looked like the head of a massive funeral procession."
Elsa also admits that drivers lost their patience after a while. "Most people swerved into the left lane with nothing more than an angry sneer or look of complete and utter confusion and befuddlement." But when Randall spontaneously decided to bike in the left lane, prefaced only by a perfunctory hand signal, drivers soon became frustrated. "I'll never find words to adequately describe all those bleating horns, fingers, and fists raised to the heavens we endured. And all the while Randall just kept peddling on, lost in some bizarre Greg Lemond-like trance.
"I'm just so relieved he's agreed to again share the road."
Less excited are Randall's fellow cyclist friends, all of whom are clearly disappointed that he's hanging up his endangering-himself-and-those-around-him shoes. "Some people view cyclists like us who use traffic lanes as mere suggestions as risks to traffic safety who lack even the smallest amount of common sense," said Spencer Darlington.
"That's pure nonsense. In all the years I've been cycling with him, I can count the number of near-scrapes and minor vehicular accidents he's directly caused on my two hands, two feet, and your left hand, counting the thumb. Randall's biking safety record speaks for itself, except for that one time he collided with the manure truck. No shit!"
Darlington also views his friend's decision as a sign that things are no longer like the good old days of 2005, when he first met Randall. "He was part of that breed of cyclist who just knew that the roads were built specifically for bikers, not two-ton gas-fueled behemoths traveling at ungodly speeds.
"When I wanted to ignore a stop sign, Randall was there for me. When I wanted to use the chicken lane as my own personal raceway, Randall supported me. When I wanted to bike on the interstate instead of the national park one mile from my house, Randall encouraged me.
I won't wildly approach a blind turn from the center lane with fearless abandon without thinking of him. It's truly the end of an era."
Monday, June 23, 2008
Music Review: Wolf Parade - At Mount Zoomer
Wolf Parade’s debut full-length album, Apologies to the Queen Mary, was a decidedly manic and unnerving album. The lyrics were more spat out than sung, with odd vocal twitches from both Dan Boeckner and Spencer Krug. The instrumentation was jagged and aggressive, with guitars in the forefront. The album’s themes were vague but not obtuse; most songs implied both an internal and outward tension and dissatisfaction that made it pretty clear the characters in these songs weren’t the types of people you’d want to have a beer with. Indie fans and critics swooned and raved with wild superlatives
At Mount Zoomer finds Wolf Parade exploring similar themes as their debut album, but with a noticeably different vocal style and instrumental sound. Like the best moments of Apologies, the songs hint at Big Existential Concepts without getting heavy-handed or laughably philosophical: images of death are most noticeable, with enough bleakness to put a downer on anyone’s day (“like some dead relative you will remember me most”). Boeckner and Krug’s subjects all tend to feel perilously out of place in their environment (“Soldier’s Grin”), engage in pointless acts for no apparent reason (“all this work just to tear it down” in “Language City”), or desperately seek to escape their lives (“The Grey Estates”).
The vocal approach taken by both singers is very different from Apologies. Modest Mouse frontman/deranged carnival barker Isaac Brock’s vocal influence was felt throughout that album in his role as producer, with Wolf Parade’s lyrics often being yelped out and oddly phrased in a way that occasionally made the words hard to decipher (it’s not the Canadian accent, as one less-than-enthused smartass friend once told me after listening to the album).
On Zoomer, the vocals are mostly far more controlled and restrained, without making the songs sound any less urgent. There’s also an audible fatigue in both singer’s voices that serves the songs well. In some ways, this restraint actually heightens the tension throughout the album’s songs.
The other striking departure is the instrumentation; keyboards are much higher in the mix this time around, and as prominent as the guitars, drums, and random synth noises. Detractors might drop the magical “P” word (Prog, you fiends…get your minds out of the gutter), but this new sound fits in well with the more-restrained vocals. The instrumental breaks are also more pronounced; the last minute or so of “Fine Young Cannibals” and closing track “Kissing the Beehive” incorporate this approach very well. While it’s not a wildly dramatic shift (like, say, Tom Waits going from crooning over a piano to pounding away on random junkyard scraps), it does show the band incorporating sounds that were absent from Apologies.
If Wolf Parade can be faulted for anything, it’s that At Mount Zoomer could be accused of being overly-serious; indeed, moments of hope, or even simple levity, are virtually non-existent. The voices in these songs are frail, with their nerve endings exposed and no real indication that anything will change for the better. With great lyrics and an evolving musical style, this album is every bit as good as Apologies to the Queen Mary.
At Mount Zoomer finds Wolf Parade exploring similar themes as their debut album, but with a noticeably different vocal style and instrumental sound. Like the best moments of Apologies, the songs hint at Big Existential Concepts without getting heavy-handed or laughably philosophical: images of death are most noticeable, with enough bleakness to put a downer on anyone’s day (“like some dead relative you will remember me most”). Boeckner and Krug’s subjects all tend to feel perilously out of place in their environment (“Soldier’s Grin”), engage in pointless acts for no apparent reason (“all this work just to tear it down” in “Language City”), or desperately seek to escape their lives (“The Grey Estates”).
The vocal approach taken by both singers is very different from Apologies. Modest Mouse frontman/deranged carnival barker Isaac Brock’s vocal influence was felt throughout that album in his role as producer, with Wolf Parade’s lyrics often being yelped out and oddly phrased in a way that occasionally made the words hard to decipher (it’s not the Canadian accent, as one less-than-enthused smartass friend once told me after listening to the album).
On Zoomer, the vocals are mostly far more controlled and restrained, without making the songs sound any less urgent. There’s also an audible fatigue in both singer’s voices that serves the songs well. In some ways, this restraint actually heightens the tension throughout the album’s songs.
The other striking departure is the instrumentation; keyboards are much higher in the mix this time around, and as prominent as the guitars, drums, and random synth noises. Detractors might drop the magical “P” word (Prog, you fiends…get your minds out of the gutter), but this new sound fits in well with the more-restrained vocals. The instrumental breaks are also more pronounced; the last minute or so of “Fine Young Cannibals” and closing track “Kissing the Beehive” incorporate this approach very well. While it’s not a wildly dramatic shift (like, say, Tom Waits going from crooning over a piano to pounding away on random junkyard scraps), it does show the band incorporating sounds that were absent from Apologies.
If Wolf Parade can be faulted for anything, it’s that At Mount Zoomer could be accused of being overly-serious; indeed, moments of hope, or even simple levity, are virtually non-existent. The voices in these songs are frail, with their nerve endings exposed and no real indication that anything will change for the better. With great lyrics and an evolving musical style, this album is every bit as good as Apologies to the Queen Mary.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Music Review: Silver Jews - Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea
Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea, the latest offering from indie darlings Silver Jews, is a tough album to define. It’s not that it’s inaccessible, although David Berman’s ragged voice certainly won’t attract the mainstream crowd or other non-believers. It’s also not a mailed-in effort; the typical Silver Jews sound, and Berman’s lyrical observations, are present and used to good effect. Overall it’s a solid album.
That’s part of the problem. The songs are good, but they aren’t exactly outstanding or mind-blowing. There aren’t as many of the holy shit musical or lyrical moments that can be found on previous Silver Jews albums. With no real high or low points, the album sort of just rolls along, never gaining momentum and leaving the listener a little confused, disoriented, and underwhelmed. It’s like walking into a movie that’s halfway over.
This tone is largely set by opening track “What Is Not But Could Be If.” Besides sounding like the title to a poem a troubled and overly-sensitive college undergrad might scrawl, it’s a weird way to open the album. Vague and excessively slow, it’s an anti-climactic song right out of the gates, and it’s placement as the first track throws off the pacing of the rest of the album. This is immediately felt when the up-tempo second track, "Aloysius, Bluegrass Drummer" kicks in. There’s just something about the running order of the songs that seems a little off.
The mix of the album is also disappointing and doesn’t serve the songs very well; it lacks the warmth of American Water and, to a lesser extent, Tanglewood Numbers. Some of the instruments sound buried and too low on many of the songs. This strange separation between the vocals and the instrumentation makes it sometimes sound like the two are separate, distinct parts that don't really mesh together. And I’m all for keeping the wife happy, but bassist/Berman wife Cassie Berman is ridiculously upfront in the vocal mix, most notably on “Strange Victory, Strange Defeat” and “Suffering Jukebox.”
Like any other Silver Jews album, Berman’s lyrics are again one of the album’s greatest strengths. Alternately humorous and poignant, with plenty of observations ranging from the banal and silly to those of pure brilliance that will make fledgling lyric writers everywhere jealous, the lyrics do somewhat offset the album’s overall odd and ineffective flow.
The previously mentioned “Aloysius, Bluegrass Drummer” is damn funny in a bizarre and twisted way, describing a dishwasher fellow who meets a girl described as a “hardcore gobbler and a longtime guzzler of hydrogenated crap.” Similarly, in “San Francisco B.C.,” amid a collection of criminals and dodgy characters with lousy haircuts, Berman offers up perhaps the best line of the entire album: “Romance is the douche of the bourgeoisie was the very first thing she imparted to me.”
By and large, Berman’s misfits on Lookout seem far less desperate and fractured than those hapless souls from previous albums. As with any lyricist whose songs often come across (or are interpreted by fans and critics) as highly personal, the obvious temptation is to view this shift in light of what is known about how Berman’s life has stabilized in the last few years. Of course, this is pure speculation and critics and fans would be misguided to apply their limited knowledge of such things to the songs. Lyrically, the songs stand on their own, regardless of whether the listener wants to view them as biographical or not.
Lookout is a good album with good songs. Even if it doesn’t quite stack up to the Silver Jews’ best work, it’s worth checking out and giving a spin. But, like some of Berman’s more troubled characters, it never really gains any steam or goes very far.
That’s part of the problem. The songs are good, but they aren’t exactly outstanding or mind-blowing. There aren’t as many of the holy shit musical or lyrical moments that can be found on previous Silver Jews albums. With no real high or low points, the album sort of just rolls along, never gaining momentum and leaving the listener a little confused, disoriented, and underwhelmed. It’s like walking into a movie that’s halfway over.
This tone is largely set by opening track “What Is Not But Could Be If.” Besides sounding like the title to a poem a troubled and overly-sensitive college undergrad might scrawl, it’s a weird way to open the album. Vague and excessively slow, it’s an anti-climactic song right out of the gates, and it’s placement as the first track throws off the pacing of the rest of the album. This is immediately felt when the up-tempo second track, "Aloysius, Bluegrass Drummer" kicks in. There’s just something about the running order of the songs that seems a little off.
The mix of the album is also disappointing and doesn’t serve the songs very well; it lacks the warmth of American Water and, to a lesser extent, Tanglewood Numbers. Some of the instruments sound buried and too low on many of the songs. This strange separation between the vocals and the instrumentation makes it sometimes sound like the two are separate, distinct parts that don't really mesh together. And I’m all for keeping the wife happy, but bassist/Berman wife Cassie Berman is ridiculously upfront in the vocal mix, most notably on “Strange Victory, Strange Defeat” and “Suffering Jukebox.”
Like any other Silver Jews album, Berman’s lyrics are again one of the album’s greatest strengths. Alternately humorous and poignant, with plenty of observations ranging from the banal and silly to those of pure brilliance that will make fledgling lyric writers everywhere jealous, the lyrics do somewhat offset the album’s overall odd and ineffective flow.
The previously mentioned “Aloysius, Bluegrass Drummer” is damn funny in a bizarre and twisted way, describing a dishwasher fellow who meets a girl described as a “hardcore gobbler and a longtime guzzler of hydrogenated crap.” Similarly, in “San Francisco B.C.,” amid a collection of criminals and dodgy characters with lousy haircuts, Berman offers up perhaps the best line of the entire album: “Romance is the douche of the bourgeoisie was the very first thing she imparted to me.”
By and large, Berman’s misfits on Lookout seem far less desperate and fractured than those hapless souls from previous albums. As with any lyricist whose songs often come across (or are interpreted by fans and critics) as highly personal, the obvious temptation is to view this shift in light of what is known about how Berman’s life has stabilized in the last few years. Of course, this is pure speculation and critics and fans would be misguided to apply their limited knowledge of such things to the songs. Lyrically, the songs stand on their own, regardless of whether the listener wants to view them as biographical or not.
Lookout is a good album with good songs. Even if it doesn’t quite stack up to the Silver Jews’ best work, it’s worth checking out and giving a spin. But, like some of Berman’s more troubled characters, it never really gains any steam or goes very far.
Music Review: Colin Meloy - Colin Meloy Sings Live
Drawing on songs recorded during his 2006 solo acoustic tour, Colin Meloy Sings Live marks lead Decemberist and hero of bespectacled sensitive male indie fans Colin Meloy's first "official" album release. Previous limited edition, tour-only releases have included a set of Morrissey covers (for the mopey person inside all of us), a collection of Sam Cooke songs (for the hopelessly romantic types), and a mess of songs by Shirley Collins (for those with high pain thresholds).
Unlike those previous albums, Sings Live primarily focuses on Meloy's Decemberists tunes, though the album is sprinkled with a few cover snippets: portions of Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" and The Smiths' "Ask" are worked into the songs, and the melody of R.E.M.'s "7 Chinese Brothers" (or, for the rabid R.E.M. fans out there, "Voice of Harold") shows up in the break between "California One/Youth and Beauty Brigade."
With the songs stripped down to just acoustic guitar and voice, Meloy's solo performances offer a different take on the Decemberists' songs, which, depending on your point of view, are either textured and ornate, or excessively theatrical and melodramatic. This stripped-down treatment reveals the melodies that sometimes get buried in the Decemberists' instrumentation, and is particularly striking on "We Both Go Down Together" and "On the Bus Mall."
Many of the songs performed fall under the romantic and tragic story-song category Meloy is best known for, but it's the more non-specific and abstract songs that are the most memorable and engaging on this album. Previously-unreleased song "Wonder" contains none of the locales and landmarks of the typical Meloy song. One of the best performances on the album, it's poetic, moving, and sincere. Opening song "Devil's Elbow," from Meloy's former band Tarkio, contains a few place names that set the song in a specific setting, but still comes across as personal and contemporary.
Meloy also works the crowd with his dry and often self-deprecating sense of humor. This approach brings a certain amount of levity to the performances, without with some of the songs might seem excessively serious. With the confidence of someone who knows he's written plenty of good songs, Meloy presents "Dracula's Daughter" as the worst song he's ever written, and he's probably right.
There are some drawbacks to this release though. The guitar sounds distant and flat on a few of the tracks, and occasionally can be difficult to hear with Meloy's singing. The more energetic and picky Decemberists fans out there could also find fault with some of the song choices as too easy and obvious; the album versions of some of the songs performed are already pretty stripped down ("Red Right Ankle" for one), at least by the band's standards. Those hardcore and demented fans hoping for an acoustic take on "The Infanta" will just have to wait.
Still, these are minor complaints - indie fans can never be completely satisfied with an album, right? As an album that showcases both Meloy's abilities as a lyricist and musician, it's well worth repeated listens.
Unlike those previous albums, Sings Live primarily focuses on Meloy's Decemberists tunes, though the album is sprinkled with a few cover snippets: portions of Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" and The Smiths' "Ask" are worked into the songs, and the melody of R.E.M.'s "7 Chinese Brothers" (or, for the rabid R.E.M. fans out there, "Voice of Harold") shows up in the break between "California One/Youth and Beauty Brigade."
With the songs stripped down to just acoustic guitar and voice, Meloy's solo performances offer a different take on the Decemberists' songs, which, depending on your point of view, are either textured and ornate, or excessively theatrical and melodramatic. This stripped-down treatment reveals the melodies that sometimes get buried in the Decemberists' instrumentation, and is particularly striking on "We Both Go Down Together" and "On the Bus Mall."
Many of the songs performed fall under the romantic and tragic story-song category Meloy is best known for, but it's the more non-specific and abstract songs that are the most memorable and engaging on this album. Previously-unreleased song "Wonder" contains none of the locales and landmarks of the typical Meloy song. One of the best performances on the album, it's poetic, moving, and sincere. Opening song "Devil's Elbow," from Meloy's former band Tarkio, contains a few place names that set the song in a specific setting, but still comes across as personal and contemporary.
Meloy also works the crowd with his dry and often self-deprecating sense of humor. This approach brings a certain amount of levity to the performances, without with some of the songs might seem excessively serious. With the confidence of someone who knows he's written plenty of good songs, Meloy presents "Dracula's Daughter" as the worst song he's ever written, and he's probably right.
There are some drawbacks to this release though. The guitar sounds distant and flat on a few of the tracks, and occasionally can be difficult to hear with Meloy's singing. The more energetic and picky Decemberists fans out there could also find fault with some of the song choices as too easy and obvious; the album versions of some of the songs performed are already pretty stripped down ("Red Right Ankle" for one), at least by the band's standards. Those hardcore and demented fans hoping for an acoustic take on "The Infanta" will just have to wait.
Still, these are minor complaints - indie fans can never be completely satisfied with an album, right? As an album that showcases both Meloy's abilities as a lyricist and musician, it's well worth repeated listens.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Satire: Mysterious Group Vows to Constantly Talk During Music Concerts
A mysterious group calling itself Concert Talkers of America (CTOA) announced today its ambitious plan to “create a steady, audible, and obnoxious torrent of constant talking and to utterly ruin the concert experience for as many concert goers as possible” by the year 2010.
In its defiant statement, CTOA also boldly declared: “Our aim is to return the concert experience to its purest, most primitive, and least civilized form. Concerts are meant to be talked through with conversations ranging from the banality of modern life to Jimmy’s bizarre and unusual sexual proclivities to Susan’s doctor who totally misdiagnosed her, not listened to with rapt attention, or danced to in enjoyment. We are certain that both the majority of music fans and musicians themselves would agree with this.”
Although the group admitted its strategy for achieving these goals is not yet solidified, it reported its first successful test run at The National’s opening slot of the May 29 R.E.M. show at the Hollywood Bowl. “Conditions were perfect for this experiment,” the group stated. “An indie band with increasing popularity playing the bottom of the bill for a Voltron-like legendary band. Only the most dedicated National fans would be there for their set. A perfect setting for ruining the experience for those indie hipster kids.”
The group declared their first victory once they heard a tape of the band’s performance. “Even the loud songs are compromised by our constant, inane chatter. We worked in topics ranging from Bud Light Lime to circus freaks to that one’s girl’s haircut. We even received several requests to sit down and shut up, from clearly agitated fans. One little indie fella even said we were more obnoxious than post-Exile in Guyville Liz Phair, whatever that means. Our mission was a complete success."
Although CTOA was not willing to divulge its current number of members, the group did announce plans to actively recruit throughout the United States. “Our requirements are simple but strict: anyone wishing to join CTOA must pay their own money to attend a concert, find a dedicated fan who really wants to hear the band or dance the night away, turn their head immediately to the left, and loudly talk nonstop for the length of the concert. Requests to be quiet must be swiftly answered with either an F bomb or a rabbit punch to the spleen. Intoxication via pink-hued beverages ending in ‘tini’ is also strongly encouraged.”
The CTOA statement also placed the group in the larger context of American concert talkers. “From the most famous and influential American musicians of the 1960s to the least-known and most-talented unsigned band pounding away in some dingy, poorly-ventilated shithole club in Fort Wayne of today, Americans have a fine history of treating live music as an incidental backdrop to more important concert activities, like playing grabass with old college frat brothers or talking about the finer assets of Janine in Payroll. We aim to expand that tradition into all genres of music.”
In an attempt to gain increased exposure, CTOA is targeting Tom Waits’ upcoming American tour as its next foray into concert sabotage. “Waits shows are rare and tickets are difficult to get. His fans are fiercely loyal and appreciate his music. There will be many people who have never seen him in concert before, complete with excessive expectations of musical transcendence and the simple desire to listen to the music without extraneous background talking. Our forces will be mobilized and our vocal chords will be well rested to ensure that simply doesn’t happen.”
Finally, CTOA has its sights set on expanding overseas. “Our methods will likely be different in Europe,” the statement concluded. “A quick, jarring first volley is needed. We likely will begin employing the primarily American practice of talking during the entire concert, and then screaming hysterically like possessed drunken louts when the one song we recognize is finally played.
“Ambitious? Sure. Unrealistic? Possibly. But with dedication, perseverance, and blatant disregard for that short guy in the Sufjan Stevens Illinoise t-shirt who’s nearly in tears as we chat during the entire show, we can achieve these goals.”
In its defiant statement, CTOA also boldly declared: “Our aim is to return the concert experience to its purest, most primitive, and least civilized form. Concerts are meant to be talked through with conversations ranging from the banality of modern life to Jimmy’s bizarre and unusual sexual proclivities to Susan’s doctor who totally misdiagnosed her, not listened to with rapt attention, or danced to in enjoyment. We are certain that both the majority of music fans and musicians themselves would agree with this.”
Although the group admitted its strategy for achieving these goals is not yet solidified, it reported its first successful test run at The National’s opening slot of the May 29 R.E.M. show at the Hollywood Bowl. “Conditions were perfect for this experiment,” the group stated. “An indie band with increasing popularity playing the bottom of the bill for a Voltron-like legendary band. Only the most dedicated National fans would be there for their set. A perfect setting for ruining the experience for those indie hipster kids.”
The group declared their first victory once they heard a tape of the band’s performance. “Even the loud songs are compromised by our constant, inane chatter. We worked in topics ranging from Bud Light Lime to circus freaks to that one’s girl’s haircut. We even received several requests to sit down and shut up, from clearly agitated fans. One little indie fella even said we were more obnoxious than post-Exile in Guyville Liz Phair, whatever that means. Our mission was a complete success."
Although CTOA was not willing to divulge its current number of members, the group did announce plans to actively recruit throughout the United States. “Our requirements are simple but strict: anyone wishing to join CTOA must pay their own money to attend a concert, find a dedicated fan who really wants to hear the band or dance the night away, turn their head immediately to the left, and loudly talk nonstop for the length of the concert. Requests to be quiet must be swiftly answered with either an F bomb or a rabbit punch to the spleen. Intoxication via pink-hued beverages ending in ‘tini’ is also strongly encouraged.”
The CTOA statement also placed the group in the larger context of American concert talkers. “From the most famous and influential American musicians of the 1960s to the least-known and most-talented unsigned band pounding away in some dingy, poorly-ventilated shithole club in Fort Wayne of today, Americans have a fine history of treating live music as an incidental backdrop to more important concert activities, like playing grabass with old college frat brothers or talking about the finer assets of Janine in Payroll. We aim to expand that tradition into all genres of music.”
In an attempt to gain increased exposure, CTOA is targeting Tom Waits’ upcoming American tour as its next foray into concert sabotage. “Waits shows are rare and tickets are difficult to get. His fans are fiercely loyal and appreciate his music. There will be many people who have never seen him in concert before, complete with excessive expectations of musical transcendence and the simple desire to listen to the music without extraneous background talking. Our forces will be mobilized and our vocal chords will be well rested to ensure that simply doesn’t happen.”
Finally, CTOA has its sights set on expanding overseas. “Our methods will likely be different in Europe,” the statement concluded. “A quick, jarring first volley is needed. We likely will begin employing the primarily American practice of talking during the entire concert, and then screaming hysterically like possessed drunken louts when the one song we recognize is finally played.
“Ambitious? Sure. Unrealistic? Possibly. But with dedication, perseverance, and blatant disregard for that short guy in the Sufjan Stevens Illinoise t-shirt who’s nearly in tears as we chat during the entire show, we can achieve these goals.”
Satire: Prince Sues U.S.-Based Mirrors
A publicist for 1980s pop icon and resident weirdo Prince announced today the eccentric musician’s intent to sue U.S.-based mirrors for unlicensed use of his image. This legal action comes in the wake of Prince’s apparent demand that videos of his recent April Coachella performance of the Radiohead song “Creep” be removed from YouTube.
According to the publicist, who spoke on condition that he be referred to only as “Magic J. Mysterio” and that interviewers swear under oath that they aren’t really, totally, entirely still creeped out by the Lovesexy album cover, the Dirty Mind album cover or the Rave Un2 the Joy Fantastic album cover, the pending lawsuit is simply the musician’s latest attempt to control how his likeness is used and disseminated.
“Prince has always maintained his inalienable and other-worldly right to decide when, where, and how both his image and recorded output are used,” Mysterio stated in an alien language that was expertly translated by Prince’s loyal translator. “He currently remains vehemently opposed to video sharing sites that post footage of his massively creative and ever-evolving performances in which he re-invents both his music and the songs of others. Prince is a musician, and clearly such unauthorized clips of a musician doing musician-type things are inappropriate from a musical point of view.”
Mysterio also asserted that the bold lawsuit against mirrors, which baffled legal experts say has no precedent in American jurisprudence, once again shows that Prince remains dedicated to controlling how the public at large views him by carefully monitoring the footage that reaches the public domain.
“Think back to the 1980s. Almost everyone viewed Prince as a musical master whose genius could be confined only by the limits he’d impose upon himself. Through-out that decade it poured Purple Rain. When you thought of Prince, you thought of genre-bending, exciting, and beautiful music.
“Now, through nearly two decades of vigilant persona-framing, almost everyone considers him a bizarre pseudo-human who once changed his named to an unpronounceable symbol and who may or may not have more knowledge of various taboo proclivities than Caligula. And, oh yeah, he occasionally releases albums.”
Although the lawsuit is still in its formative stages, the publicist did provide some details. “After discussions with his lawyers, soothsayers, snake wranglers, and circus acrobats, Prince feels the only way to stop unauthorized use of his concert performances is to cut the problem off at its source. He has noted on many occasions that mirrors are using his image without permission. YouTube is simply an outgrowth of the culture of invasion of privacy foisted upon us by mirrors.
“Furthermore, Prince has personally observed numerous instances where these mirrors have mimicked his every word and action, repeating exactly what he’s saying at the exact same time he’s saying it. It’s as if the mirrors are mocking him. One time the mirror image even gouged him in the eyes, Moe Howard-style. We aim to aggressively end this unsanctioned practice.”
Mysterio did acknowledge one minor hiccup in being able to file the lawsuit. “The lawsuit’s scope is constantly expanding. Every time Prince looks into a new mirror, it steals his image and we are forced to add another defendant to the suit. Honestly, I see no end in sight.”
According to the publicist, who spoke on condition that he be referred to only as “Magic J. Mysterio” and that interviewers swear under oath that they aren’t really, totally, entirely still creeped out by the Lovesexy album cover, the Dirty Mind album cover or the Rave Un2 the Joy Fantastic album cover, the pending lawsuit is simply the musician’s latest attempt to control how his likeness is used and disseminated.
“Prince has always maintained his inalienable and other-worldly right to decide when, where, and how both his image and recorded output are used,” Mysterio stated in an alien language that was expertly translated by Prince’s loyal translator. “He currently remains vehemently opposed to video sharing sites that post footage of his massively creative and ever-evolving performances in which he re-invents both his music and the songs of others. Prince is a musician, and clearly such unauthorized clips of a musician doing musician-type things are inappropriate from a musical point of view.”
Mysterio also asserted that the bold lawsuit against mirrors, which baffled legal experts say has no precedent in American jurisprudence, once again shows that Prince remains dedicated to controlling how the public at large views him by carefully monitoring the footage that reaches the public domain.
“Think back to the 1980s. Almost everyone viewed Prince as a musical master whose genius could be confined only by the limits he’d impose upon himself. Through-out that decade it poured Purple Rain. When you thought of Prince, you thought of genre-bending, exciting, and beautiful music.
“Now, through nearly two decades of vigilant persona-framing, almost everyone considers him a bizarre pseudo-human who once changed his named to an unpronounceable symbol and who may or may not have more knowledge of various taboo proclivities than Caligula. And, oh yeah, he occasionally releases albums.”
Although the lawsuit is still in its formative stages, the publicist did provide some details. “After discussions with his lawyers, soothsayers, snake wranglers, and circus acrobats, Prince feels the only way to stop unauthorized use of his concert performances is to cut the problem off at its source. He has noted on many occasions that mirrors are using his image without permission. YouTube is simply an outgrowth of the culture of invasion of privacy foisted upon us by mirrors.
“Furthermore, Prince has personally observed numerous instances where these mirrors have mimicked his every word and action, repeating exactly what he’s saying at the exact same time he’s saying it. It’s as if the mirrors are mocking him. One time the mirror image even gouged him in the eyes, Moe Howard-style. We aim to aggressively end this unsanctioned practice.”
Mysterio did acknowledge one minor hiccup in being able to file the lawsuit. “The lawsuit’s scope is constantly expanding. Every time Prince looks into a new mirror, it steals his image and we are forced to add another defendant to the suit. Honestly, I see no end in sight.”
Satire: New Kids on the Block Fans Vindicated
New Kids on the Block fans, alternately known as either Blockheads or Thirty-something Female Masochists, formally declared vindication today regarding ticket prices for the boy band's upcoming reunion tour.
Ever since it was revealed that the band (best known for such classic songs as...uh...uh...never mind that, there's more to a band that the songs they record) would be reuniting, critics, music fans, those with functioning temporal lobes, and cultural observers with a modicum of good taste have questioned the band's motives in reuniting after a blissful nearly 20-year layoff.
Yet the band's fans are now having the last laugh, as the reasonable ticket prices for the tour have confounded skeptics and silenced critics who leveled the age-old charge that the Kids "are just in it for the money" and that a reunion tour "would be more pointless than a surf board in Siberia."
For the NKOTB tour starting in September, ticket prices range anywhere from $35 for a view near the rafters to upwards of $80 for the best floor seats. Prices which, the vast majority of Blockheads agree, are more than appropriate for a band of NKOTB's stature. "Of all the bands that could described as a footnote on the epic ass of music, NKOTB was the biggest of all!" exclaimed user Iluvjordan in a recent internet posting. "Only between $35 to $80 to see my favorite childhood band at a coldly impersonal, enormous, cavernous arena? Sign me up!"
Although the band was rehearsing 20 hours a day to perfect their instrument-less song and dance craft, an announcement via the band's website explained the band's decision to offer such cheap, inexpensive, music-superstar-level prices: "In continuing the NKOTB tradition of honoring its dedicated fans, tickets for this tour have been priced in keeping with rates for other artists of NKOTB's caliber. We used equivalent artists like Tom Waits and Bob Dylan, as well as other reunited bands such as The Stooges, to gauge our market value. The best tickets only cost about $16 per Kid, though Danny might of course get less."
Kathy McMontgomery, an avid 35 year-old Blockhead from Wheeling, West Virginia who still boasts about her NKOTB ankle tattoo, took a quick break from her work-at-home telemarketing job to express a view shared by many of the band's fans: "All we've heard since the reunion was announced was that the band was doing it just for the money. Let's be clear: the ticket prices for this tour clearly answer that accusation."
Husband John McMontgomery, a rare male NKOTB fan who didn't request that his identity be withheld for this report, echoed his wife's sentiments: "An NKOTB reunion comes along, if you're really, really, really lucky, only once in a lifetime. Although you can't really put on a price on that, I think it's fair to say that the prices speak for themselves."
The Blockheads also feel that the going rates for the upcoming tour confirm their belief that the band's primary motives in touring are strictly fan-based. "No question these low, low, bargain basement liquidation ticket costs clearly show the Kids are doing the tour for the fans," stated Annie Franzen-Crosby of Kansas City, MO. "With these ridiculously low ticket prices, it's clear the Kids aren't interested in making any profit. This is truly a tour for the fans, just like we also thought."
Franzen-Crosby added, a bit less diplomatically, "All those critics who thought the reunion was simply a way for the band to cash in on some people's love of irrelevant, nostalgic, mediocre, disposable kitsch can shove it. We're rough."
Ever since it was revealed that the band (best known for such classic songs as...uh...uh...never mind that, there's more to a band that the songs they record) would be reuniting, critics, music fans, those with functioning temporal lobes, and cultural observers with a modicum of good taste have questioned the band's motives in reuniting after a blissful nearly 20-year layoff.
Yet the band's fans are now having the last laugh, as the reasonable ticket prices for the tour have confounded skeptics and silenced critics who leveled the age-old charge that the Kids "are just in it for the money" and that a reunion tour "would be more pointless than a surf board in Siberia."
For the NKOTB tour starting in September, ticket prices range anywhere from $35 for a view near the rafters to upwards of $80 for the best floor seats. Prices which, the vast majority of Blockheads agree, are more than appropriate for a band of NKOTB's stature. "Of all the bands that could described as a footnote on the epic ass of music, NKOTB was the biggest of all!" exclaimed user Iluvjordan in a recent internet posting. "Only between $35 to $80 to see my favorite childhood band at a coldly impersonal, enormous, cavernous arena? Sign me up!"
Although the band was rehearsing 20 hours a day to perfect their instrument-less song and dance craft, an announcement via the band's website explained the band's decision to offer such cheap, inexpensive, music-superstar-level prices: "In continuing the NKOTB tradition of honoring its dedicated fans, tickets for this tour have been priced in keeping with rates for other artists of NKOTB's caliber. We used equivalent artists like Tom Waits and Bob Dylan, as well as other reunited bands such as The Stooges, to gauge our market value. The best tickets only cost about $16 per Kid, though Danny might of course get less."
Kathy McMontgomery, an avid 35 year-old Blockhead from Wheeling, West Virginia who still boasts about her NKOTB ankle tattoo, took a quick break from her work-at-home telemarketing job to express a view shared by many of the band's fans: "All we've heard since the reunion was announced was that the band was doing it just for the money. Let's be clear: the ticket prices for this tour clearly answer that accusation."
Husband John McMontgomery, a rare male NKOTB fan who didn't request that his identity be withheld for this report, echoed his wife's sentiments: "An NKOTB reunion comes along, if you're really, really, really lucky, only once in a lifetime. Although you can't really put on a price on that, I think it's fair to say that the prices speak for themselves."
The Blockheads also feel that the going rates for the upcoming tour confirm their belief that the band's primary motives in touring are strictly fan-based. "No question these low, low, bargain basement liquidation ticket costs clearly show the Kids are doing the tour for the fans," stated Annie Franzen-Crosby of Kansas City, MO. "With these ridiculously low ticket prices, it's clear the Kids aren't interested in making any profit. This is truly a tour for the fans, just like we also thought."
Franzen-Crosby added, a bit less diplomatically, "All those critics who thought the reunion was simply a way for the band to cash in on some people's love of irrelevant, nostalgic, mediocre, disposable kitsch can shove it. We're rough."
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Satire: Tom Waits Fans Respond to Glitter and Doom Ticket Policy
The ticket policy utilized for Tom Waits’ upcoming Glitter and Doom concert tour is receiving mixed reviews among the musician’s more vocal fans. This policy, primarily designed to ensure that scalpers do not have an opportunity to acquire and then resell tickets at butt-puckering inflated prices, limits the number of tickets to two per household per show, requires the purchaser to show both the credit card used and government-issued photo identification the night of the show, and ends with a quick, relatively painless blood donation that would seriously go a lot smoother if you’d just stop squirming and crying and remember this needle can very easily go somewhere else but if you’re good you’ll get juice and cookies.
Many Waits fans feel this is the best way to ensure that his most dedicated and affluent fans have an opportunity to see the musician live, without having to pay exorbitant prices to scalpers that they would willingly pay anyway.
Warner Spencer, a self-confident 45-year old advertising executive who has worked with several high-profile musical legends in co-opting their tunes for commercial use and still uses the word “bro” way too much, stated that he supports the policy. “Just because I like hearing Tom sing about Peoria Johnson, Scarface Ron, and Yodeling Elaine doesn’t mean I want to sit next to those scumbags. This ticketing approach, along with the fact that tickets start at around $70, will keep most of the leeches, mooches, and smelly societal bottom feeders outside the palace gates.”
Spencer added, “I know Tom is vehemently opposed to licensing his songs for commercial use. While that’s very noble – Tom, buddy, pal, homey, bro – you’re missing the boat on this one. "Hoist That Rag" would be perfect for a Lysol commercial. The homely yet still attractive housewife actress has already been cast. We’d just need to clean that song up a bit and get a more conventional voice to sing it. I could have the baksheesh heading you’re way in no time. Call me bro.”
Other fans are far more ambivalent about how tickets were sold for the upcoming tour. Ian Middleton gave a half-smile/half-frown as he expressed what could only be described as a mixture of apathy and confusion: “I easily got tickets for St. Louis but was shut out of Columbus. Now unless I somehow find a sympathetic person with an extra ticket or violently incapacitate someone the night of the show and steal their credit card, tickets, and identity, I’ll only be seeing one show this time around. It sucks, kind of.”
Middleton, a divorce arbitrator who describes himself as a “middle-of-the-road guy, most of the time, for the most part,” ultimately gave the policy a mild endorsement: “You can’t please all the people all the time. So some of the people will be upset part of the time. Which means some of the people will be happy most of the time. I guess you can’t get much better than that.”
Nevertheless, a small segment of Waits fans are very angry with the policy, coupled with the high demand for tickets for a very limited number of shows. “The only way to ensure true fans get a chance at tickets is to sell them at the venue’s box office, where those without wives, jobs, children, or other societal responsibilities can sleep outside for days subsisting only on beef jerky and Swordfishtrombones to snag the first tickets,” said Justin Bukeler of Columbus, Ohio.
Other fans are upset that a credit card is required to purchase tickets. “Some of us have made a conscious decision, assisted by several aggressive and unrelenting credit agencies, one foreclosed home, a giant Samoan loan shark nicknamed "Stumpy," and two separate stints at bankruptcy, to live the aimless, rootless, drunken, quasi-romantic bohemian lifestyle that Tom abandoned sometime in the 1980s,” said performance artist Josh Brokeman. “I only carry cash. I’m very disappointed people like me won’t have the opportunity to con unsuspecting people by selling them magazines for the homeless in order to buy a ticket with their cold, hard, stolen cash.”
With tickets for some shows selling out in a matter of minutes, such as in Phoenix and Columbus, some fans won’t be seeing their musical hero in concert this time around. These fans feel there is a simple solution to this problem: “If Waits really cared about his fans, he’d tour like a beaten one-eyed dog, play 25,000-seat venues in the same city for a week at a time, and reserve a seat each night just for me,” Brokeman offered.
“I’m very disappointed in Mr. Waits,” Brokeman lamented. “I can’t get a ticket and I also don’t have the opportunity to be exploited by scalpers by paying thousands of dollars for one. Is that looking out for your fans’ best interests? I don’t think so. Thanks a lot, Tom.”
Many Waits fans feel this is the best way to ensure that his most dedicated and affluent fans have an opportunity to see the musician live, without having to pay exorbitant prices to scalpers that they would willingly pay anyway.
Warner Spencer, a self-confident 45-year old advertising executive who has worked with several high-profile musical legends in co-opting their tunes for commercial use and still uses the word “bro” way too much, stated that he supports the policy. “Just because I like hearing Tom sing about Peoria Johnson, Scarface Ron, and Yodeling Elaine doesn’t mean I want to sit next to those scumbags. This ticketing approach, along with the fact that tickets start at around $70, will keep most of the leeches, mooches, and smelly societal bottom feeders outside the palace gates.”
Spencer added, “I know Tom is vehemently opposed to licensing his songs for commercial use. While that’s very noble – Tom, buddy, pal, homey, bro – you’re missing the boat on this one. "Hoist That Rag" would be perfect for a Lysol commercial. The homely yet still attractive housewife actress has already been cast. We’d just need to clean that song up a bit and get a more conventional voice to sing it. I could have the baksheesh heading you’re way in no time. Call me bro.”
Other fans are far more ambivalent about how tickets were sold for the upcoming tour. Ian Middleton gave a half-smile/half-frown as he expressed what could only be described as a mixture of apathy and confusion: “I easily got tickets for St. Louis but was shut out of Columbus. Now unless I somehow find a sympathetic person with an extra ticket or violently incapacitate someone the night of the show and steal their credit card, tickets, and identity, I’ll only be seeing one show this time around. It sucks, kind of.”
Middleton, a divorce arbitrator who describes himself as a “middle-of-the-road guy, most of the time, for the most part,” ultimately gave the policy a mild endorsement: “You can’t please all the people all the time. So some of the people will be upset part of the time. Which means some of the people will be happy most of the time. I guess you can’t get much better than that.”
Nevertheless, a small segment of Waits fans are very angry with the policy, coupled with the high demand for tickets for a very limited number of shows. “The only way to ensure true fans get a chance at tickets is to sell them at the venue’s box office, where those without wives, jobs, children, or other societal responsibilities can sleep outside for days subsisting only on beef jerky and Swordfishtrombones to snag the first tickets,” said Justin Bukeler of Columbus, Ohio.
Other fans are upset that a credit card is required to purchase tickets. “Some of us have made a conscious decision, assisted by several aggressive and unrelenting credit agencies, one foreclosed home, a giant Samoan loan shark nicknamed "Stumpy," and two separate stints at bankruptcy, to live the aimless, rootless, drunken, quasi-romantic bohemian lifestyle that Tom abandoned sometime in the 1980s,” said performance artist Josh Brokeman. “I only carry cash. I’m very disappointed people like me won’t have the opportunity to con unsuspecting people by selling them magazines for the homeless in order to buy a ticket with their cold, hard, stolen cash.”
With tickets for some shows selling out in a matter of minutes, such as in Phoenix and Columbus, some fans won’t be seeing their musical hero in concert this time around. These fans feel there is a simple solution to this problem: “If Waits really cared about his fans, he’d tour like a beaten one-eyed dog, play 25,000-seat venues in the same city for a week at a time, and reserve a seat each night just for me,” Brokeman offered.
“I’m very disappointed in Mr. Waits,” Brokeman lamented. “I can’t get a ticket and I also don’t have the opportunity to be exploited by scalpers by paying thousands of dollars for one. Is that looking out for your fans’ best interests? I don’t think so. Thanks a lot, Tom.”
Concert Review: Wilco At The Pageant, St. Louis, MO, May 17, 2008
Think of St. Louis and you think of Wilco. Well, actually, think of St. Louis and you think of the Cardinals, the ungodly humid summer weather, people who add the letter R to certain words (it’s Warshington, D.C. here in the Lou), and the Arch.
Further down on the list, you then think of Wilco. St. Louis is undoubtedly a Wilco town; like toasted ravioli, thin crust pizza, and Sammy Hagar (god knows why), St. Louisians love Wilco the way Diane Fosse loved gorillas. Only St. Louisians are more protective than she ever was.
Playing their third show in as many nights at the Pageant (and the final U.S. show of their Sky Blue Sky tour), Wilco delivered a fun and raucous two-hour plus show that was a fitting close to the tour. For those fans who like their Wilco loud and their concerts long, it was definitely a great way to spend a Saturday night in St. Louis.
Yet what tends to be as interesting as the actual band performing on stage though is the sometimes odd (and always entertaining) behavior of some St. Louis music fans. And since no one’s really interested in reading another concert review about how much Wilco rocked man, here are some various observations, ramblings, and fairly shallow and obvious wisecracks:
• Retribution Gospel Choir opened and were farking loud as hell. They made all the windows in the neighborhood shake and, if rumors are to be believed, caused a pregnant woman’s water to break during the third song. Despite some cheesy drumstick finger twirls and several occasions of the power guitar face of pain, they were a solid opening act.
• Wilco seems to attract a legion of massively bearded older men who spend the concert rolling their own cigarettes and stroking said beards (to make sure the beards haven’t left their faces?). The balcony section looked like an army of Confederate generals.
• Despite Wilco’s massively dedicated following, there was a constant audible background of people talking throughout the concert. And I’m not talking about between-song comments (“that sounded good”/”I think he’s on something”/“check out that chick”). Entire conversations could be heard throughout the night, when the music wasn’t loud enough to drown it out. Let’s just say that I know for a fact that some poor sap named Daniel is likely headed for a messy breakup because he’s an “insensitive bastard who doesn’t understand the vagaries of a woman’s mind.” Said, ironically enough, during “She’s a Jar.”
• Most unexplainable slurred conversation of the night. Left Center balcony bathroom, about one hour into Wilco’s performance:
o Person A: “They still haven’t played anything from Pablo Honey.”
o Person B: “Pablo Honey? They aren’t gonna play any Uncle Tupelo stuff.”
• By my count, this was Wilco’s 17,000th show. Maybe it was the fact that this was the tour’s closing night, but the consensus among those I talked to afterwards was that this was one of the most unique Wilco shows they’ve seen. From Jeff Tweedy engaging in a humorous exchange of middle fingers with an audience member, to an unexpected final encore song after the house lights had come on and people had begun heading for the turnstiles, to the appearance of a giant St. Louis Cardinals foam finger onstage, it was a concert of unexpected moments.
• The songs were pretty good also. Although some of the songs never strayed too far from other live versions, there were plenty of nice flourishes – especially with the keyboards, guitars, and the band’s overall stage demeanor – to make Wilco standards like “ELT,” “Shot in the Arm,” and “Airline to Heaven” sound original and interesting.
Toward the end of the show Jeff Tweedy said a few words of sincere thanks to those in attendance for being, well, fiercely loyal and borderline psychotic Wilco fans. For once a musician’s thanks didn’t seem like shameless, WWE-style pandering. Even if the idea of a life-changing concert experience is a silly cliché, Wilco’s tour-ending show felt like one of those rare concerts where the audience knew they were seeing a great band on a special night. That the tour ended in the Lou made it seem all the more fitting.
Further down on the list, you then think of Wilco. St. Louis is undoubtedly a Wilco town; like toasted ravioli, thin crust pizza, and Sammy Hagar (god knows why), St. Louisians love Wilco the way Diane Fosse loved gorillas. Only St. Louisians are more protective than she ever was.
Playing their third show in as many nights at the Pageant (and the final U.S. show of their Sky Blue Sky tour), Wilco delivered a fun and raucous two-hour plus show that was a fitting close to the tour. For those fans who like their Wilco loud and their concerts long, it was definitely a great way to spend a Saturday night in St. Louis.
Yet what tends to be as interesting as the actual band performing on stage though is the sometimes odd (and always entertaining) behavior of some St. Louis music fans. And since no one’s really interested in reading another concert review about how much Wilco rocked man, here are some various observations, ramblings, and fairly shallow and obvious wisecracks:
• Retribution Gospel Choir opened and were farking loud as hell. They made all the windows in the neighborhood shake and, if rumors are to be believed, caused a pregnant woman’s water to break during the third song. Despite some cheesy drumstick finger twirls and several occasions of the power guitar face of pain, they were a solid opening act.
• Wilco seems to attract a legion of massively bearded older men who spend the concert rolling their own cigarettes and stroking said beards (to make sure the beards haven’t left their faces?). The balcony section looked like an army of Confederate generals.
• Despite Wilco’s massively dedicated following, there was a constant audible background of people talking throughout the concert. And I’m not talking about between-song comments (“that sounded good”/”I think he’s on something”/“check out that chick”). Entire conversations could be heard throughout the night, when the music wasn’t loud enough to drown it out. Let’s just say that I know for a fact that some poor sap named Daniel is likely headed for a messy breakup because he’s an “insensitive bastard who doesn’t understand the vagaries of a woman’s mind.” Said, ironically enough, during “She’s a Jar.”
• Most unexplainable slurred conversation of the night. Left Center balcony bathroom, about one hour into Wilco’s performance:
o Person A: “They still haven’t played anything from Pablo Honey.”
o Person B: “Pablo Honey? They aren’t gonna play any Uncle Tupelo stuff.”
• By my count, this was Wilco’s 17,000th show. Maybe it was the fact that this was the tour’s closing night, but the consensus among those I talked to afterwards was that this was one of the most unique Wilco shows they’ve seen. From Jeff Tweedy engaging in a humorous exchange of middle fingers with an audience member, to an unexpected final encore song after the house lights had come on and people had begun heading for the turnstiles, to the appearance of a giant St. Louis Cardinals foam finger onstage, it was a concert of unexpected moments.
• The songs were pretty good also. Although some of the songs never strayed too far from other live versions, there were plenty of nice flourishes – especially with the keyboards, guitars, and the band’s overall stage demeanor – to make Wilco standards like “ELT,” “Shot in the Arm,” and “Airline to Heaven” sound original and interesting.
Toward the end of the show Jeff Tweedy said a few words of sincere thanks to those in attendance for being, well, fiercely loyal and borderline psychotic Wilco fans. For once a musician’s thanks didn’t seem like shameless, WWE-style pandering. Even if the idea of a life-changing concert experience is a silly cliché, Wilco’s tour-ending show felt like one of those rare concerts where the audience knew they were seeing a great band on a special night. That the tour ended in the Lou made it seem all the more fitting.
Book Review: Bad Moon Rising - The Unauthorized History of Creedence Clearwater Revival by Hank Bordowitz
Hank Bordowitz’s Bad Moon Rising: The Unauthorized History of Creedence Clearwater Revival chronicles the origins, commercial, and critical successes and failures, breakup, and legacy of CCR. It also addresses the decades-long personal and litigious pissing contests that have sometimes overshadowed CCR’s actual musical output. In fact, Going Litigious On Each Others’ Asses might have been a more appropriate subtitle than the one chosen for this book.
Bordowitz’s book essentially takes a traditional chronological approach in crafting the band’s story, encompassing everything from the band’s early incarnations as the Golliwogs (complete with ridiculous headwear) to their incredible run of hit singles as a shit-kicking quartet. In many ways the band’s story is dysfunctional and remarkably ugly, particularly all the legal battles and potshots back and forth between the band members; Bordowitz’s book at times reads more like a legal history than a band biography.
Bordowitz does a nice job telling the band’s story as impartially as possible; what emerges is a portrayal of each band member that is pretty balanced. Tom Fogerty receives the best treatment, and is essentially portrayed as a gentle soul and music lover who quit CCR to pursue his own musical interests. Though his various chemical addictions, which increased in the post-CCR years, are discussed, Bordowitz clearly views the musician with sympathy.
The depictions of the remaining three CCR members -- Stu Cook, Doug Clifford, and John Fogerty -- are decidedly less flattering. Cook and Clifford, perhaps due to being aligned together in their legal and personal squabbles with John Fogerty, share a common portrayal in the book. Although Bordowitz does show the many cases in which the two musicians were slighted by Fogerty -- and there are many, especially in terms of their musical contributions to CCR -- Bordowitz doesn’t let them off the hook as innocent victims. Without showing any bias, Bordowitz does point out some of the more questionable post-CCR decisions made by Cook and Clifford, including touring sans-Fogerty as Creedence Clearwater Revisited, where they performed the CCR songs entirely written by the estranged lead singer.
Singer, lyricist, and lawyer-in-training John Fogerty receives the most expansive, and perhaps the most unflattering, treatment in Bad Moon Rising. Bordowitz does a nice job detailing Fogerty’s actions without being judgmental; he clearly acknowledges that Fogerty’s CCR output was pretty remarkable, that Fogerty was the driving force behind the band, and that Fogerty’s anger toward and legal actions against CCR’s record label were understandable.
That said, too many instances of Fogerty’s controlling nature, massive ego, and bewildering professional decisions are mentioned to ignore or write off as isolated incidents. Whether it was Fogerty’s stubborn insistence that he was CCR, his lengthy legal battles with both CCR’s record label and Cook/Clifford, or other incidents, there are plenty of ugly actions to go around.
Bordowitz’s book does have one major flaw in that it relies primarily on secondary sources, and contains very few new interviews with the band members. Most notably, John Fogerty’s quotes are culled from previous interviews. This is unfortunate, as it does sometimes create the impression of a one-sided argument.
Each member of CCR, in their own unique way, both enhanced and later dry humped CCR’s musical legacy. Bordowitz does a nice job of revealing the many layers in CCR’s complex story. Perhaps the ultimate irony is that while each band member had their own ideas of the best way to preserve CCR’s place in music history, any discussion of CCR today inevitably turns to the petty squabbles and legal wrangling that are now as much a part of their history as their actual albums.
Bordowitz’s book essentially takes a traditional chronological approach in crafting the band’s story, encompassing everything from the band’s early incarnations as the Golliwogs (complete with ridiculous headwear) to their incredible run of hit singles as a shit-kicking quartet. In many ways the band’s story is dysfunctional and remarkably ugly, particularly all the legal battles and potshots back and forth between the band members; Bordowitz’s book at times reads more like a legal history than a band biography.
Bordowitz does a nice job telling the band’s story as impartially as possible; what emerges is a portrayal of each band member that is pretty balanced. Tom Fogerty receives the best treatment, and is essentially portrayed as a gentle soul and music lover who quit CCR to pursue his own musical interests. Though his various chemical addictions, which increased in the post-CCR years, are discussed, Bordowitz clearly views the musician with sympathy.
The depictions of the remaining three CCR members -- Stu Cook, Doug Clifford, and John Fogerty -- are decidedly less flattering. Cook and Clifford, perhaps due to being aligned together in their legal and personal squabbles with John Fogerty, share a common portrayal in the book. Although Bordowitz does show the many cases in which the two musicians were slighted by Fogerty -- and there are many, especially in terms of their musical contributions to CCR -- Bordowitz doesn’t let them off the hook as innocent victims. Without showing any bias, Bordowitz does point out some of the more questionable post-CCR decisions made by Cook and Clifford, including touring sans-Fogerty as Creedence Clearwater Revisited, where they performed the CCR songs entirely written by the estranged lead singer.
Singer, lyricist, and lawyer-in-training John Fogerty receives the most expansive, and perhaps the most unflattering, treatment in Bad Moon Rising. Bordowitz does a nice job detailing Fogerty’s actions without being judgmental; he clearly acknowledges that Fogerty’s CCR output was pretty remarkable, that Fogerty was the driving force behind the band, and that Fogerty’s anger toward and legal actions against CCR’s record label were understandable.
That said, too many instances of Fogerty’s controlling nature, massive ego, and bewildering professional decisions are mentioned to ignore or write off as isolated incidents. Whether it was Fogerty’s stubborn insistence that he was CCR, his lengthy legal battles with both CCR’s record label and Cook/Clifford, or other incidents, there are plenty of ugly actions to go around.
Bordowitz’s book does have one major flaw in that it relies primarily on secondary sources, and contains very few new interviews with the band members. Most notably, John Fogerty’s quotes are culled from previous interviews. This is unfortunate, as it does sometimes create the impression of a one-sided argument.
Each member of CCR, in their own unique way, both enhanced and later dry humped CCR’s musical legacy. Bordowitz does a nice job of revealing the many layers in CCR’s complex story. Perhaps the ultimate irony is that while each band member had their own ideas of the best way to preserve CCR’s place in music history, any discussion of CCR today inevitably turns to the petty squabbles and legal wrangling that are now as much a part of their history as their actual albums.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Music Review: Elvis Costello and the Imposters - Momofuku
After riding a roller coaster for the first time, you’re pumped full of adrenaline and eager to ride it again. After riding it for the second time, you’re a little woozy but still want to give it another go; after all, those carnival tickets weren’t cheap. After riding it for the third time, you still enjoy it but it wasn’t as exciting and unpredictable as you first thought. After riding it for the fourth time, when the carnival’s about to close, the tickets are about all blown, and the stuffed animal you won at tremendous cost is giving your skin a rash, you’re dizzy and disoriented, and that sick feeling in your stomach lets you know that you’re definitely going to upchuck something pretty soon.
Yet despite all this, you’ve enjoyed the ride and know you’ll probably want to tackle that coaster again once the carnival has left town.
That’s pretty much how I feel about Momofuku, the latest offering from Elvis Costello and the Imposters. It’s ultimately a solid album, even if subsequent listens reveal some of the bigger flaws within it.
Without sounding like a Luddite, the album’s best songs are those that feature the traditional patented Costello mix of guitar, drums, and keyboards. One of the album’s highlights is “American Gangster Time,” which prominently features keyboard wizard Steve Nieve on organ. It’s reminiscent of Costello’s earlier work without sounding derivative. Other nice moments include “No Hiding Place,” “Turpentine,” and “Stella Hurt,” complete with enough insults, veiled threats, and wordplay to satisfy those fans who prefer their Costello with a pinch of anger.
The album also contains one of Costello’s most autobiographical songs this side of North. “My Three Sons” is about, well, the singer’s three sons, and is not, despite what anyone might think, the theme song to an upcoming sitcom on CBS that will air immediately after Two and a Half Men. Sure it’s sentimental, perhaps overly so; but it somehow works as part of this album.
Some of the other songs aren’t as engaging. The most distracting aspect I hear in the album is the sometimes too-heavy reliance on background singers (both Costello’s voice and other singers). The most egregious offender is “Harry Worth,” which after a few listens sounds like a cross between Bob Dylan’s Shot of Love and a Bob Marley outtake.
“Pardon Me Madam, My Name Is Eve,” which Costello performed as a stripped-down guitar-only song on his recent solo tour opening for Dylan, seems a little cluttered on the album. Maybe it’s the benefit of having heard the solo outings on Costello’s tour, but the album version just sounds a little too jammed up with background singing.
To paraphrase Moe Green from The Godfather, Elvis Costello was making his bones while the rest of us were chasing after cheerleaders. Whether rightly or wrongly, Costello’s latest albums will always be judged against his late 1970s masterpieces. Maybe that’s inevitable for a musician who’s been releasing albums for that long. While Momofuku isn’t the best album Costello’s ever released (that honor clearly goes to Goodbye Cruel World…wait…), it’s a solid album with some great songs.
Yet despite all this, you’ve enjoyed the ride and know you’ll probably want to tackle that coaster again once the carnival has left town.
That’s pretty much how I feel about Momofuku, the latest offering from Elvis Costello and the Imposters. It’s ultimately a solid album, even if subsequent listens reveal some of the bigger flaws within it.
Without sounding like a Luddite, the album’s best songs are those that feature the traditional patented Costello mix of guitar, drums, and keyboards. One of the album’s highlights is “American Gangster Time,” which prominently features keyboard wizard Steve Nieve on organ. It’s reminiscent of Costello’s earlier work without sounding derivative. Other nice moments include “No Hiding Place,” “Turpentine,” and “Stella Hurt,” complete with enough insults, veiled threats, and wordplay to satisfy those fans who prefer their Costello with a pinch of anger.
The album also contains one of Costello’s most autobiographical songs this side of North. “My Three Sons” is about, well, the singer’s three sons, and is not, despite what anyone might think, the theme song to an upcoming sitcom on CBS that will air immediately after Two and a Half Men. Sure it’s sentimental, perhaps overly so; but it somehow works as part of this album.
Some of the other songs aren’t as engaging. The most distracting aspect I hear in the album is the sometimes too-heavy reliance on background singers (both Costello’s voice and other singers). The most egregious offender is “Harry Worth,” which after a few listens sounds like a cross between Bob Dylan’s Shot of Love and a Bob Marley outtake.
“Pardon Me Madam, My Name Is Eve,” which Costello performed as a stripped-down guitar-only song on his recent solo tour opening for Dylan, seems a little cluttered on the album. Maybe it’s the benefit of having heard the solo outings on Costello’s tour, but the album version just sounds a little too jammed up with background singing.
To paraphrase Moe Green from The Godfather, Elvis Costello was making his bones while the rest of us were chasing after cheerleaders. Whether rightly or wrongly, Costello’s latest albums will always be judged against his late 1970s masterpieces. Maybe that’s inevitable for a musician who’s been releasing albums for that long. While Momofuku isn’t the best album Costello’s ever released (that honor clearly goes to Goodbye Cruel World…wait…), it’s a solid album with some great songs.
Summer Music Festival Survival Tips and Etiquette
You might think that attending a summer concert festival with thousands of other music fans who share your abiding love of a specific band would be enough to make your festival experience enjoyable. You'll doubt that when you hear said band perform their best songs from their best album with the fellow fan while desperately wanting the lines to the porta-potties to just move already.
You might think that several days in the sweltering sun with like-minded music fans would lead to a mystical sense of musical joy and community, and that the person thuggishly shoving his way to the front of the stage won’t step on your head to get a few feet closer to the band.
You’d be wrong.
Simply put, a summer concert festival is Thunderdome, a regular outdoor concert gone gonzo on HGH and the cold, unforgiving Darwinian struggle for survival all rolled into one. With Coachella already in the books and a whole mess of festivals remaining this upcoming summer, a few simple tips are in order to maximize your enjoyment and ensure your survival.
1. Do not be deceived by the "Chill Tent." What looks like an oasis of cold water and available shade from a distance is actually a cruel mirage. Get close enough to the "Chill Tent" and you’ll see what it really is -- a swarming mass of suffering humanity that most closely resembles a Goya painting or a medieval leper colony.
2. You must cheer wildly for the dinosaur act that recently reunited for the festival circuit. Sure the band hasn’t released a decent album in decades. Their waists have gotten wider while the hair has gotten thinner and grayer. Their upcoming album, that’s described as a return to form, will probably stink out loud, but dammit, the band dusted their corpses off for this festival. Applaud.
3. Dress appropriately. The deciding factor for your wardrobe is not the temperature; instead, it’s your favorite musical genre. If you are a Goth Rock fan, and I know the five of you are still out there somewhere, heavy black clothing is required. If you’re an indie rock fan under the age of 30, you must wear a hoody and dark-rimmed glasses. Bonus points if someone mistakes you for Colin Meloy.
4. You are responsible for your pharmaceutical stash. If you get all Han Solo and panic by dropping your goods at the first sign of an Imperial Cruiser, don’t drop them in the lap of the nearest innocent bystander.
5. Ric Flair was your favorite wrestler and that’s cool. The Nature Boy’s a legend, even though his minimalist wrestling attire left nothing to the imagination. Still, use between-song “woos!” sparingly. You don’t need to shout like Flair after every song.
6. You might see people with recording devices. Let them be. They are your friends. Plus, there is nothing worse than an illicit live recording punctuated with “are you recording this? Are you? Really?” during every song.
7. If the natives become restless, the festival starts to deteriorate into an orgy of mayhem and violence, and a random stranger who looks like Beavis asks you to help tip something over or set something aflame, do not accept the offer. Or at least wait for a camera crew before proceeding.
8. Every band has a fan that can only be described as "That Guy." "That Guy" knows the length of every song, can link the band’s latest album to a current political issue, and thinks the band is singing about him in every song. You’ll first meet him buying a beer. Then he’ll be in front of you by what the concert promoters have charitably called the “restrooms.” By this time he’ll consider you his friend, slap you on the back with drunken gusto, and give you a nickname like Johnny One Punch, even though you’re name is Evgeny and you’re from Latvia. Avoid That Guy at all costs.
The final band on the final night is playing the final song. The concert promoters and sponsors are loading their crates of money into vans under cover of darkness. Limbs and legs are strewn over the festival grounds like a Fiona Apple video. You haven’t bathed in 72 hours, your car keys were lost in the Great Unknown, mud and beer have mixed into your clothes to form a potentially fatal epoxy, and your girlfriend’s been backstage for a while and you’re getting suspicious.
But you’re still breathing and have a few musical memories you won’t forget. Survey the carnage and take a deep breath. You survived.
You might think that several days in the sweltering sun with like-minded music fans would lead to a mystical sense of musical joy and community, and that the person thuggishly shoving his way to the front of the stage won’t step on your head to get a few feet closer to the band.
You’d be wrong.
Simply put, a summer concert festival is Thunderdome, a regular outdoor concert gone gonzo on HGH and the cold, unforgiving Darwinian struggle for survival all rolled into one. With Coachella already in the books and a whole mess of festivals remaining this upcoming summer, a few simple tips are in order to maximize your enjoyment and ensure your survival.
1. Do not be deceived by the "Chill Tent." What looks like an oasis of cold water and available shade from a distance is actually a cruel mirage. Get close enough to the "Chill Tent" and you’ll see what it really is -- a swarming mass of suffering humanity that most closely resembles a Goya painting or a medieval leper colony.
2. You must cheer wildly for the dinosaur act that recently reunited for the festival circuit. Sure the band hasn’t released a decent album in decades. Their waists have gotten wider while the hair has gotten thinner and grayer. Their upcoming album, that’s described as a return to form, will probably stink out loud, but dammit, the band dusted their corpses off for this festival. Applaud.
3. Dress appropriately. The deciding factor for your wardrobe is not the temperature; instead, it’s your favorite musical genre. If you are a Goth Rock fan, and I know the five of you are still out there somewhere, heavy black clothing is required. If you’re an indie rock fan under the age of 30, you must wear a hoody and dark-rimmed glasses. Bonus points if someone mistakes you for Colin Meloy.
4. You are responsible for your pharmaceutical stash. If you get all Han Solo and panic by dropping your goods at the first sign of an Imperial Cruiser, don’t drop them in the lap of the nearest innocent bystander.
5. Ric Flair was your favorite wrestler and that’s cool. The Nature Boy’s a legend, even though his minimalist wrestling attire left nothing to the imagination. Still, use between-song “woos!” sparingly. You don’t need to shout like Flair after every song.
6. You might see people with recording devices. Let them be. They are your friends. Plus, there is nothing worse than an illicit live recording punctuated with “are you recording this? Are you? Really?” during every song.
7. If the natives become restless, the festival starts to deteriorate into an orgy of mayhem and violence, and a random stranger who looks like Beavis asks you to help tip something over or set something aflame, do not accept the offer. Or at least wait for a camera crew before proceeding.
8. Every band has a fan that can only be described as "That Guy." "That Guy" knows the length of every song, can link the band’s latest album to a current political issue, and thinks the band is singing about him in every song. You’ll first meet him buying a beer. Then he’ll be in front of you by what the concert promoters have charitably called the “restrooms.” By this time he’ll consider you his friend, slap you on the back with drunken gusto, and give you a nickname like Johnny One Punch, even though you’re name is Evgeny and you’re from Latvia. Avoid That Guy at all costs.
The final band on the final night is playing the final song. The concert promoters and sponsors are loading their crates of money into vans under cover of darkness. Limbs and legs are strewn over the festival grounds like a Fiona Apple video. You haven’t bathed in 72 hours, your car keys were lost in the Great Unknown, mud and beer have mixed into your clothes to form a potentially fatal epoxy, and your girlfriend’s been backstage for a while and you’re getting suspicious.
But you’re still breathing and have a few musical memories you won’t forget. Survey the carnage and take a deep breath. You survived.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Book Review: The Grizzly Maze - Timothy Treadwell's Fatal Obsession with Alaskan Bears by Nick Jans
Nearly five years after his death, Timothy Treadwell still remains a divisive character among biologists, wildlife experts and novices, and even his closest friends. Treadwell, who had received some media and celebrity attention from his exploits “protecting” bears over 13 summers in Alaska’s Katmai Coast, was mauled and killed by a bear in 2003, along with companion Amie Huguenard. In a bitter twist of irony, the bear believed to be their killer was shot to death by rescuers, as was a younger bear that was possibly showing aggressive stalking behavior.
In the aftermath that followed, Treadwell’s critics used the deaths to reinforce various views that the amateur had pushed his luck too far, had caused more harm than good by interfering with Alaska’s wildlife, and had contributed very little to either a better understanding or appreciation of bears. Likewise, Treadwell’s supporters were quick to portray him as an ecowarrior solely focused on protecting bears from poachers and increasing the public’s appreciation of the animals. The reality probably falls somewhere in between.
All these aspects of Treadwell and his life are examined in Nick Jans’ The Grizzly Maze: Timothy Treadwell's Fatal Obsession with Alaskan Bears. Published prior to the release of Werner Herzog’s docudrama Grizzly Man and since updated with a new introduction, Jans’ book is a far more expansive study of Treadwell than Herzog’s artful and controversial film. Whereas Herzog’s film essentially portrayed Treadwell as a man teetering on the edge of insanity -- though it should be noted that Herzog did also show some empathy towards Treadwell -- Jans’ book offers a far more thorough examination of Treadwell’s life, motives, and legacy, or infamy.
The author’s portrayal of Treadwell is largely sympathetic; Jans shows that, despite Treadwell’s lack of any institutionalized education about bears, Treadwell clearly viewed himself as an expert of things ursine. Although Treadwell’s methods ranged from misguided at best to wildly dangerous and blatantly illegal at worst, Jans does a nice job showing how Treadwell used his excursions as a vehicle to advance the cause of ursine preservation, including the oft-noted fact that Treadwell frequently shared his findings and photos with schoolchildren free of charge. For whatever flaws he had, Treadwell did clearly think “his” bears would not survive without his watchful eyes.
Nevertheless, the book is not exactly a ringing endorsement of Treadwell; much of it focuses on the many mistakes he made and plainly idiotic notions in which he clearly believed about his relationship with the Katmai bears. Jans shows how Treadwell either broke or blatantly ignored basic rules when camping in bear habitats, including making actual contact with the bears, refusing to use any type of bear spray or electric fence, and deliberately setting up his camp at some areas highly trafficked by bears. Treadwell also clearly became emotionally attached to the bears, giving them names and attributing to them human emotions that were clearly not there.
Jans also shows how both Treadwell and his Grizzly People organization’s claim that Treadwell’s presence was necessary to discourage poaching was misleading at best and irrelevant at worst. Poaching incidents in the Katmai region Treadwell camped in were non-existent; in addition, poaching was a far larger threat in other parts of Alaska and during the non-summer months, when Treadwell had left Alaska for the year. Jans shows the added irony that by interacting and living closely with bears, Treadwell might have actually made the bears less safe: by making himself a constant presence in the bears’ lives, Treadwell might have caused the bears to be more relaxed around other humans, including poachers.
Whether Timothy Treadwell’s incredible 13-year run of surviving with bears is attributable to some innate sense of bear psychology that he had, or is simply a testament to the high tolerance level of bears toward humans, is open to debate. It would be too easy to dismiss Treadwell as a mentally-disturbed amateur intent on playing grabass with bears for his own selfish reasons. At the same time, the ultimate irony of Treadwell’s tragic end is that both the deaths of Huguenard and two of the bears he so desperately tried to protect are on his hands. Far more balanced than Herzog’s Grizzly Man, Jans’ The Grizzly Maze allows the reader a fuller glimpse into the life, motives, and psychology of Timothy Treadwell.
In the aftermath that followed, Treadwell’s critics used the deaths to reinforce various views that the amateur had pushed his luck too far, had caused more harm than good by interfering with Alaska’s wildlife, and had contributed very little to either a better understanding or appreciation of bears. Likewise, Treadwell’s supporters were quick to portray him as an ecowarrior solely focused on protecting bears from poachers and increasing the public’s appreciation of the animals. The reality probably falls somewhere in between.
All these aspects of Treadwell and his life are examined in Nick Jans’ The Grizzly Maze: Timothy Treadwell's Fatal Obsession with Alaskan Bears. Published prior to the release of Werner Herzog’s docudrama Grizzly Man and since updated with a new introduction, Jans’ book is a far more expansive study of Treadwell than Herzog’s artful and controversial film. Whereas Herzog’s film essentially portrayed Treadwell as a man teetering on the edge of insanity -- though it should be noted that Herzog did also show some empathy towards Treadwell -- Jans’ book offers a far more thorough examination of Treadwell’s life, motives, and legacy, or infamy.
The author’s portrayal of Treadwell is largely sympathetic; Jans shows that, despite Treadwell’s lack of any institutionalized education about bears, Treadwell clearly viewed himself as an expert of things ursine. Although Treadwell’s methods ranged from misguided at best to wildly dangerous and blatantly illegal at worst, Jans does a nice job showing how Treadwell used his excursions as a vehicle to advance the cause of ursine preservation, including the oft-noted fact that Treadwell frequently shared his findings and photos with schoolchildren free of charge. For whatever flaws he had, Treadwell did clearly think “his” bears would not survive without his watchful eyes.
Nevertheless, the book is not exactly a ringing endorsement of Treadwell; much of it focuses on the many mistakes he made and plainly idiotic notions in which he clearly believed about his relationship with the Katmai bears. Jans shows how Treadwell either broke or blatantly ignored basic rules when camping in bear habitats, including making actual contact with the bears, refusing to use any type of bear spray or electric fence, and deliberately setting up his camp at some areas highly trafficked by bears. Treadwell also clearly became emotionally attached to the bears, giving them names and attributing to them human emotions that were clearly not there.
Jans also shows how both Treadwell and his Grizzly People organization’s claim that Treadwell’s presence was necessary to discourage poaching was misleading at best and irrelevant at worst. Poaching incidents in the Katmai region Treadwell camped in were non-existent; in addition, poaching was a far larger threat in other parts of Alaska and during the non-summer months, when Treadwell had left Alaska for the year. Jans shows the added irony that by interacting and living closely with bears, Treadwell might have actually made the bears less safe: by making himself a constant presence in the bears’ lives, Treadwell might have caused the bears to be more relaxed around other humans, including poachers.
Whether Timothy Treadwell’s incredible 13-year run of surviving with bears is attributable to some innate sense of bear psychology that he had, or is simply a testament to the high tolerance level of bears toward humans, is open to debate. It would be too easy to dismiss Treadwell as a mentally-disturbed amateur intent on playing grabass with bears for his own selfish reasons. At the same time, the ultimate irony of Treadwell’s tragic end is that both the deaths of Huguenard and two of the bears he so desperately tried to protect are on his hands. Far more balanced than Herzog’s Grizzly Man, Jans’ The Grizzly Maze allows the reader a fuller glimpse into the life, motives, and psychology of Timothy Treadwell.
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