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.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
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.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Concert Review: Okkervil River and New Pornographers - St. Louis, MO - April 19, 2008
Somehow I had managed to convince my wife that attending the Okkervil River/New Pornographers concert in St. Louis was the best way to spend our two-year anniversary. Certainly better than a quiet, romantic dinner and a few glasses of wine. After all, if spending an April night in a packed concert club with various hoody-wearing indie fans isn’t romantic, I don’t know what is.
I understood her trepidation; she hadn’t heard anything by Okkervil River, and her knowledge of the New Pornographers didn’t extend far beyond the song “Twin Cinema” and “that poppy song that was used in the University of Phoenix commercials.”
Top that off with several failed attempts to impose my musical tastes on her (“there’s no way you can’t like this"), and several brutal Bob Dylan concerts over the years (synopsis: sweltering St. Louis summer, lawn seating, and a dancing concert neighbor sporting what appeared to be a massive case of scabies), and the possibility of a disastrous evening was very real.
But a person unfamiliar with the musical performers brings something that those familiar with the band’s music sometimes lack: objectivity and a lack of preconceived notions. Chances are very good that if you really like the band on stage, nothing short of a complete disaster (chemically-disabled musicians, abysmal venue acoustics, or Woodstock 1994) will change your opinion about that band. You’ll enjoy the songs and be reminded of why you downloaded the latest album on the sly; maybe on the way out you’ll stop at the Merch stand and buy a size medium t-shirt that shrinks to the size of a postage stamp upon first washing. Roughly paraphrased, Bob Dylan once said in an interview that he plays for the people who don’t attend every concert and who might not be familiar with or fans of his music; those Dylanphiles who roam the world popping up at every Dylan show (and they are out there, living among us, biding their time, corrupting our children…) are already converted.
Applying this concept to the show at the Pageant Saturday night, both my wife and myself largely had the same experience and opinions for both bands: headlining act New Pornographers was solid and tight; opening act Okkervil River was nothing short of spectacular.It’s not that the New Pornographers mailed in the performance; far from it. The band was clearly energetic and enjoying themselves, and there were some musical highs. The live versions of songs from their latest, and underrated, album Challengers were played well enough, even if they didn’t sound much different from the actual album version. And a cover of ELO’s “Don’t Bring Me Down” unleashed the closet pogo dancers throughout the pit. The biggest letdown from their performance is that the band and their playing almost seemed too controlled, too proficient, too note-perfect. There weren’t many rough edges or new twists: just another day at the musical office.
This impression was at least partially shaped by Okkervil River’s standout opening performance. At times quiet and controlled, and other times unhinged and wild, the band delivered one of the most memorable performances I’ve seen at the Pageant.
Cramming songs from recent albums Black Sheep Boy and The Stage Names into an hour-long set list, singer Will Sheff and the band delivered an emotional, sometimes theatrical performance that successfully communicated the themes that run throughout the band’s songs: life’s small disappointments (“Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe” and “A Girl In Port”), self-inflicted endings (“John Allyn Smith Sails”), and a whole mess of ugly emotions (“Black” and “A Stone”).My wife was hooked from the opening song (“The President’s Dead) and I suspect she wasn’t the only one. The band’s music and Sheff’s lyrics didn’t so much nudge us awake as they grabbed us by the throat. After an hour that seemed to pass all too soon the band was done and left to loud applause.
Despite both being indie bands, Okkervil River and the New Pornographers are far more different than similar. With their open-ended lyrics, catchy tunes, and controlled stage demeanor, the New Pornographers are somewhat traditional. Okkervil River’s lyrics tend to be more direct and attention-grabbing, and their music often veers into various styles and tempos. At the Pageant on Saturday night, each band played to their strengths. One band was solid. The other was spectacular.
I understood her trepidation; she hadn’t heard anything by Okkervil River, and her knowledge of the New Pornographers didn’t extend far beyond the song “Twin Cinema” and “that poppy song that was used in the University of Phoenix commercials.”
Top that off with several failed attempts to impose my musical tastes on her (“there’s no way you can’t like this"), and several brutal Bob Dylan concerts over the years (synopsis: sweltering St. Louis summer, lawn seating, and a dancing concert neighbor sporting what appeared to be a massive case of scabies), and the possibility of a disastrous evening was very real.
But a person unfamiliar with the musical performers brings something that those familiar with the band’s music sometimes lack: objectivity and a lack of preconceived notions. Chances are very good that if you really like the band on stage, nothing short of a complete disaster (chemically-disabled musicians, abysmal venue acoustics, or Woodstock 1994) will change your opinion about that band. You’ll enjoy the songs and be reminded of why you downloaded the latest album on the sly; maybe on the way out you’ll stop at the Merch stand and buy a size medium t-shirt that shrinks to the size of a postage stamp upon first washing. Roughly paraphrased, Bob Dylan once said in an interview that he plays for the people who don’t attend every concert and who might not be familiar with or fans of his music; those Dylanphiles who roam the world popping up at every Dylan show (and they are out there, living among us, biding their time, corrupting our children…) are already converted.
Applying this concept to the show at the Pageant Saturday night, both my wife and myself largely had the same experience and opinions for both bands: headlining act New Pornographers was solid and tight; opening act Okkervil River was nothing short of spectacular.It’s not that the New Pornographers mailed in the performance; far from it. The band was clearly energetic and enjoying themselves, and there were some musical highs. The live versions of songs from their latest, and underrated, album Challengers were played well enough, even if they didn’t sound much different from the actual album version. And a cover of ELO’s “Don’t Bring Me Down” unleashed the closet pogo dancers throughout the pit. The biggest letdown from their performance is that the band and their playing almost seemed too controlled, too proficient, too note-perfect. There weren’t many rough edges or new twists: just another day at the musical office.
This impression was at least partially shaped by Okkervil River’s standout opening performance. At times quiet and controlled, and other times unhinged and wild, the band delivered one of the most memorable performances I’ve seen at the Pageant.
Cramming songs from recent albums Black Sheep Boy and The Stage Names into an hour-long set list, singer Will Sheff and the band delivered an emotional, sometimes theatrical performance that successfully communicated the themes that run throughout the band’s songs: life’s small disappointments (“Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe” and “A Girl In Port”), self-inflicted endings (“John Allyn Smith Sails”), and a whole mess of ugly emotions (“Black” and “A Stone”).My wife was hooked from the opening song (“The President’s Dead) and I suspect she wasn’t the only one. The band’s music and Sheff’s lyrics didn’t so much nudge us awake as they grabbed us by the throat. After an hour that seemed to pass all too soon the band was done and left to loud applause.
Despite both being indie bands, Okkervil River and the New Pornographers are far more different than similar. With their open-ended lyrics, catchy tunes, and controlled stage demeanor, the New Pornographers are somewhat traditional. Okkervil River’s lyrics tend to be more direct and attention-grabbing, and their music often veers into various styles and tempos. At the Pageant on Saturday night, each band played to their strengths. One band was solid. The other was spectacular.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Satire: Earthquake In Midwest Stirs Ghost of Iben Browning Vindicated
A 5.2 magnitude earthquake hit southern Illinois and eastern Missouri in the early morning hours of April 18, shaking windows, waking up people throughout the bi-state region, flooding police departments with panicked calls, and disturbing St. Louis' downtown drug peddlers who mistook the commotion for a police raid and frantically dropped their stashes.
Also, your mother called you during the quake to ask if the kids were okay, whether the doors were locked, and why you don't visit anymore.
No major structural damage has been reported thus far, however, several locals say they have been mentally traumatized by the event, and are also "quite disappointed that it was nothing like the earthquakes at that Richter's restaurant we ate at on vacation in Florida."
Other locals have vowed to take up arms against the city of Bellmont, where the quake was centered. "That city's been trouble ever since it added that second, unnecessary 'L' to its name," said Valley Park native Todd "Goober" Farkins. "It's because of that city's blatant arrogance in violating accepted rules of linguistics, and not the scientifically-explainable phenomenon of two tectonic plates moving apart near the Wabash Valley Seismic Zone that caused this."
Most dramatically, the ghost of Iben Browning emerged from a prolonged silence to announce the earthquake has vindicated his previous prediction made in 1990. Browning, who managed to create a sustained panic and all-around level of irrational stress in St. Louis and surrounding areas by claiming there was a 50% chance an earthquake would strike at the New Madrid fault line on December 2 or 3, 1990, quickly became the object of scorn and ridicule when his prediction failed to materialize. Not even being name-checked in the Uncle Tupelo song, "New Madrid," could repair his reputation in the Show Me State.
With this major, catastrophic quake that caused little damage to buildings and no serious reported injuries, Browning feels like a preening rooster and wants the world to acknowledge the accuracy of his prediction. Speaking from the Great Beyond, Browning had this to say: "I told anyone who would listen that the quake would happen. Sure I overshot it by nearly 20 years, and got the month and day wrong to boot, but the bottom line is that the event occurred."
Browning is also seeking gratitude from the people whose lives his bold prediction helped spare. "Back in 1990, schoolchildren were practicing earthquake drills by diving under desks, businesses shut down to prepare for the impending destruction, and insurance companies squealed like stuck pigs as Missourians bought earthquake insurance at premium rates. I have no doubt these knee-jerk reactions caused by my forecast saved countless lives in this recent quake."
Browning wants to reassure those traumatized by what he calls the "defining meteorological incident of the last 268 years" that the risk of another devastating quake is quite low. "Massive quakes hit about once every 500 years. The chance of another one occurring anytime soon is exceptionally unlikely. Besides, I'm the professional here. Trust me."
Also, your mother called you during the quake to ask if the kids were okay, whether the doors were locked, and why you don't visit anymore.
No major structural damage has been reported thus far, however, several locals say they have been mentally traumatized by the event, and are also "quite disappointed that it was nothing like the earthquakes at that Richter's restaurant we ate at on vacation in Florida."
Other locals have vowed to take up arms against the city of Bellmont, where the quake was centered. "That city's been trouble ever since it added that second, unnecessary 'L' to its name," said Valley Park native Todd "Goober" Farkins. "It's because of that city's blatant arrogance in violating accepted rules of linguistics, and not the scientifically-explainable phenomenon of two tectonic plates moving apart near the Wabash Valley Seismic Zone that caused this."
Most dramatically, the ghost of Iben Browning emerged from a prolonged silence to announce the earthquake has vindicated his previous prediction made in 1990. Browning, who managed to create a sustained panic and all-around level of irrational stress in St. Louis and surrounding areas by claiming there was a 50% chance an earthquake would strike at the New Madrid fault line on December 2 or 3, 1990, quickly became the object of scorn and ridicule when his prediction failed to materialize. Not even being name-checked in the Uncle Tupelo song, "New Madrid," could repair his reputation in the Show Me State.
With this major, catastrophic quake that caused little damage to buildings and no serious reported injuries, Browning feels like a preening rooster and wants the world to acknowledge the accuracy of his prediction. Speaking from the Great Beyond, Browning had this to say: "I told anyone who would listen that the quake would happen. Sure I overshot it by nearly 20 years, and got the month and day wrong to boot, but the bottom line is that the event occurred."
Browning is also seeking gratitude from the people whose lives his bold prediction helped spare. "Back in 1990, schoolchildren were practicing earthquake drills by diving under desks, businesses shut down to prepare for the impending destruction, and insurance companies squealed like stuck pigs as Missourians bought earthquake insurance at premium rates. I have no doubt these knee-jerk reactions caused by my forecast saved countless lives in this recent quake."
Browning wants to reassure those traumatized by what he calls the "defining meteorological incident of the last 268 years" that the risk of another devastating quake is quite low. "Massive quakes hit about once every 500 years. The chance of another one occurring anytime soon is exceptionally unlikely. Besides, I'm the professional here. Trust me."
Book Review: 33 1/3 - Tom Waits' Swordfishtrombones by David Smay
For better or worse, the entries in Continuum’s 33 1/3 series have a reputation of being serious, analytical, and largely humorless studies of various classic albums. While this approach is likely loved by an artist’s most dedicated fans ("100 pages about the musical techniques and literary themes of Double Nickels On The Dime? Sign me up"), it does run the risk of making the series inaccessible for casual music fans.
All of which makes David Smay’s take on Tom Waits’ Swordfishtrombones the bastard stepchild in the Continuum family. Simply put, Smay’s book is a great read for both serious Rain Dogs and casual music fans. It’s also damn funny. Taking a traditional approach by structuring his book according to the album’s songs, the end result is far from typical for 33 1/3: Smay is informative without being overly didactic and humorous without being overly snarky.
While the primary focus of Smay's book is Swordfishtrombones, he also manages to cover the various themes and styles that have characterized Waits’ music over the years in a unique way. Although the book is ordered according to the album’s songs, Smay expands the book’s scope to cover far more than just the album. In this way, his discussion of the song “Dave the Butcher” shows how images of slaughterhouses and butchers recur throughout several of Waits' songs. Likewise, Smay uses the song “16 Shells From a Thirty-Ought Six” as a starting point for an interesting take on how images of crows and mules are used in various Waits songs. Sure it’s kinda geeky, perhaps even borderline psychotic, but an entire series of books that chronicle every burp and gaseous emission of an album is pretty geeky and psychotic.
Smay's book also partly serves as a non-chronological biography of Waits' life, and especially of the various creative, absurd, and laughably ridiculous myths and tall tales the musician has crafted and that some fans and critics have accepted as fact. Smay gets into these biographical details without coming across like a sleazy tabloid journalist or mediocre blogger writing a review of his book. He discusses the role of wife Kathleen Brennan in Waits’ life, and how various true-life details have found their way into the songs. The character in “Eyeball Kid” from Mule Variations has the same birthday as the singer, the Uncle Vernon referenced in “Cemetery Polka” is actually Waits’ uncle, and perhaps most despairingly, the Mathilda referenced in “Tom Traubert’s Blues” is based on a Danish singer who Waits drank with right around the time he hurled on his shoes. Smay also creates some new Waits myths; according to Smay, the musician “was born September 8, 1683, during the siege preceding the Battle of Vienna.” Sure it’s pure BS, but it works; in a clever way, Smay shows the reader both how Waits has essentially fabricated an alternative biography and how the various songs mix historical details and characters with wild fiction.
In many ways Smay’s book is actually a better study of Waits’ music and life than the few recent (and much longer) biographies. The major elements of Waits’ music, and how many of those elements originated with Swordfishtrombones, are all addressed with a mixture of well-researched information and hilarious anecdotes and interpretations. Smay doesn’t use boring, technical terms when describing the songs; instead, a song like “Underground” is explained as “black-hammered bastardy…Timed precisely to the throb in your temples, this may be one of the ten worst songs to wake up to with a hangover…somebody’s just dropped a toolbox on your head.” Unconventional perhaps, but this approach works.Waits fans will find plenty to like here. Even the most grizzled Rain Dog (you know the one…he wears his “Blue Valentines” t-shirt proudly and screams for “The Piano Has Been Drinking” at every Waits concert he attends) will find this an enlightening, engaging, and humorous read.
All of which makes David Smay’s take on Tom Waits’ Swordfishtrombones the bastard stepchild in the Continuum family. Simply put, Smay’s book is a great read for both serious Rain Dogs and casual music fans. It’s also damn funny. Taking a traditional approach by structuring his book according to the album’s songs, the end result is far from typical for 33 1/3: Smay is informative without being overly didactic and humorous without being overly snarky.
While the primary focus of Smay's book is Swordfishtrombones, he also manages to cover the various themes and styles that have characterized Waits’ music over the years in a unique way. Although the book is ordered according to the album’s songs, Smay expands the book’s scope to cover far more than just the album. In this way, his discussion of the song “Dave the Butcher” shows how images of slaughterhouses and butchers recur throughout several of Waits' songs. Likewise, Smay uses the song “16 Shells From a Thirty-Ought Six” as a starting point for an interesting take on how images of crows and mules are used in various Waits songs. Sure it’s kinda geeky, perhaps even borderline psychotic, but an entire series of books that chronicle every burp and gaseous emission of an album is pretty geeky and psychotic.
Smay's book also partly serves as a non-chronological biography of Waits' life, and especially of the various creative, absurd, and laughably ridiculous myths and tall tales the musician has crafted and that some fans and critics have accepted as fact. Smay gets into these biographical details without coming across like a sleazy tabloid journalist or mediocre blogger writing a review of his book. He discusses the role of wife Kathleen Brennan in Waits’ life, and how various true-life details have found their way into the songs. The character in “Eyeball Kid” from Mule Variations has the same birthday as the singer, the Uncle Vernon referenced in “Cemetery Polka” is actually Waits’ uncle, and perhaps most despairingly, the Mathilda referenced in “Tom Traubert’s Blues” is based on a Danish singer who Waits drank with right around the time he hurled on his shoes. Smay also creates some new Waits myths; according to Smay, the musician “was born September 8, 1683, during the siege preceding the Battle of Vienna.” Sure it’s pure BS, but it works; in a clever way, Smay shows the reader both how Waits has essentially fabricated an alternative biography and how the various songs mix historical details and characters with wild fiction.
In many ways Smay’s book is actually a better study of Waits’ music and life than the few recent (and much longer) biographies. The major elements of Waits’ music, and how many of those elements originated with Swordfishtrombones, are all addressed with a mixture of well-researched information and hilarious anecdotes and interpretations. Smay doesn’t use boring, technical terms when describing the songs; instead, a song like “Underground” is explained as “black-hammered bastardy…Timed precisely to the throb in your temples, this may be one of the ten worst songs to wake up to with a hangover…somebody’s just dropped a toolbox on your head.” Unconventional perhaps, but this approach works.Waits fans will find plenty to like here. Even the most grizzled Rain Dog (you know the one…he wears his “Blue Valentines” t-shirt proudly and screams for “The Piano Has Been Drinking” at every Waits concert he attends) will find this an enlightening, engaging, and humorous read.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Satire: New Kids on the Block Defiant in Press Conference
In their first press conference since it was announced they would be reforming, late 1980s boy band and purveyors of all that is soulless and wrong in music New Kids On The Block discussed a wide range of topics Monday. These included their upcoming reunion tour, their place in music history, and the political, social, and cultural impacts of 19th century Utopian Socialist movements in modern Europe. Wait, scratch that last one.
Speaking to reporters from the EconoLodge just outside of Missoula, Montana, the five Kids – Jordan, Jonathan, Joey, Donnie, and, uh, Bashful – wanted to assure their long-time fans that it will be the same Teen Beat NKOTB they loved with lustful, pre-pubescent zeal back in the day.
Said Jordan: “Some have suggested our new sound will be influenced by the current popular music trends. Our fans will be pleased to know that it’s still 1989 to us: Bush is president, the Middle East is a boiling cauldron of chaos and violence, and the economy’s about to go in the shitter. Our new songs will have the same mediocre, innocuous, and ultra-Caucasian qualities that previously endeared us to so many.”
Many of the reporters’ questions centered around whether there is a market for the band in the 21st century. The band is convinced the world is ready for another rash of NKOTB-induced mania. According to Bashful, who remained strangely silent after answering just a few questions, “There hasn’t been a truly successful, vacuous, and empty-brained pop band in about 20 minutes. This is America baby. There’s always a market for us.” Bashful added, “I need to get out of this freakin hickburg. Bum a quarter for bus fare? Anyone?”
The band also used the press conference as a way to address its many detractors. Asked to respond to criticisms that the band is simply reuniting for the big concert paychecks, Jonathan said, “Sure the money that poured in years ago from posters, lunch boxes, action figures, strawberry-scented prophylactics, and toilet paper dispensers was nice. But it’s not about the green: we’re back to show everyone that we’re still the best five-piece, non-musical-instrument-playing band in the world.”
The band is also keenly aware that many people view the reunion as pointless. Joey was blunt in his assessment: “Mission of Burma, The Stooges, Pixies, and Dinosaur Jr. all reunited and nobody busted their balls. To my ears we’re just as good as them. What’s the difference between Doolittle and Hangin' Tough? Nothing.”The Kids are also comfortable with their place in music history. “We’ve blessed the world with offspring like 98 Degrees and the Backstreet Boys. And don’t even act like Nirvana didn’t borrow their subject matter from our back catalog. A subtle layer of angst and loathing ran through all our songs long before Cobain and those two other humps cashed in. Bastards should be paying us royalties,” Donnie stated.
This defiant attitude characterized the hour-long press conference; only when the motel’s manager reminded the Kids that “check-out time is at 11 am, and the room service wasn’t free” did the band lose their stride. Exiting to tepid applause and a selection from their 1989 Merry, Merry Christmas album, the band ended the press conference with a final impressive show of bravado. “It’s an NKOTB universe. All you slobs just live in it.”
Speaking to reporters from the EconoLodge just outside of Missoula, Montana, the five Kids – Jordan, Jonathan, Joey, Donnie, and, uh, Bashful – wanted to assure their long-time fans that it will be the same Teen Beat NKOTB they loved with lustful, pre-pubescent zeal back in the day.
Said Jordan: “Some have suggested our new sound will be influenced by the current popular music trends. Our fans will be pleased to know that it’s still 1989 to us: Bush is president, the Middle East is a boiling cauldron of chaos and violence, and the economy’s about to go in the shitter. Our new songs will have the same mediocre, innocuous, and ultra-Caucasian qualities that previously endeared us to so many.”
Many of the reporters’ questions centered around whether there is a market for the band in the 21st century. The band is convinced the world is ready for another rash of NKOTB-induced mania. According to Bashful, who remained strangely silent after answering just a few questions, “There hasn’t been a truly successful, vacuous, and empty-brained pop band in about 20 minutes. This is America baby. There’s always a market for us.” Bashful added, “I need to get out of this freakin hickburg. Bum a quarter for bus fare? Anyone?”
The band also used the press conference as a way to address its many detractors. Asked to respond to criticisms that the band is simply reuniting for the big concert paychecks, Jonathan said, “Sure the money that poured in years ago from posters, lunch boxes, action figures, strawberry-scented prophylactics, and toilet paper dispensers was nice. But it’s not about the green: we’re back to show everyone that we’re still the best five-piece, non-musical-instrument-playing band in the world.”
The band is also keenly aware that many people view the reunion as pointless. Joey was blunt in his assessment: “Mission of Burma, The Stooges, Pixies, and Dinosaur Jr. all reunited and nobody busted their balls. To my ears we’re just as good as them. What’s the difference between Doolittle and Hangin' Tough? Nothing.”The Kids are also comfortable with their place in music history. “We’ve blessed the world with offspring like 98 Degrees and the Backstreet Boys. And don’t even act like Nirvana didn’t borrow their subject matter from our back catalog. A subtle layer of angst and loathing ran through all our songs long before Cobain and those two other humps cashed in. Bastards should be paying us royalties,” Donnie stated.
This defiant attitude characterized the hour-long press conference; only when the motel’s manager reminded the Kids that “check-out time is at 11 am, and the room service wasn’t free” did the band lose their stride. Exiting to tepid applause and a selection from their 1989 Merry, Merry Christmas album, the band ended the press conference with a final impressive show of bravado. “It’s an NKOTB universe. All you slobs just live in it.”
Book Review: Captain Beefheart's Trout Mask Replica (33 1/3) by Kevin Courrier
I can count the number of people I’ve met who have liked Trout Mask Replica upon first listen on one hand. Okay, on one finger. It’s one of those rare albums where every listener who hears it for the first time walks away saying it’s unlike anything they’ve heard before; the difference is whether they think it’s a masterpiece or a pile of garbage. Even for those listeners who like the album, it usually takes several listens to finally get on the Beefheart Express.
Kevin Courrier tackles Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band’s finest album in his 2007 entry into Continuum’s ever-expanding 33 1/3 series (next up: a six-volume series analyzing the works of Skid Row). The end result is an informative, if uneven, account of the origins, making, and legacy of one of music’s most challenging albums.
To say Courrier knows the material is an understatement; he covers in great detail everything from the band’s biography to how the album fit into the larger arena of avant-garde works by musicians like Ornette Coleman and John Coltrane. For a short book (less than 150 pages), the amount of quoted sources is impressive; a bibliography that includes more than just shady Beefheart internet fan sites is also included. For anyone looking for a one-stop shop that summarizes the history of the album and its conspirators, Courrier’s book is a great source.
One of the main storylines in the making of Trout Mask Replica is Beefheart’s documented Gestapo-like intimidation and domination of the band members, including cultish tactics like food and sleep deprivation and attempts at mind control. Courrier manages to discuss this without turning the book into a musical E! True Hollywood Story. While Courrier is clearly a fan of the album, he does offer an impartial, and often critical, portrayal of the reclusive Captain. He also rights some of the wrongs perpetuated against the band members by showing how the musicians played an integral role in the album’s music, dispelling the myth long propagated by both critics and Beefheart himself that the album was a work of Beefheart’s singular genius.
Nevertheless, Courrierr's 33 1/3 is flawed. Despite tons of details about the album, his ultimate conclusion never really advances past the argument that Trout Mask Replica is an atonal masterpiece unlike any other album and listeners either love it so much that they wet themselves or flee to the catacombs in abject horror, scarred for life by what they’ve just heard. It’s of course difficult to argue this point, but it doesn’t really add much to understanding or appreciating the album.
Details about the commercial and critical responses to the album are brief and perfunctory. Likewise, scant pages are devoted to how the album has influenced other musicians (by law and under penalty of banishment to Iowa, anyone discussing Trout Mask Replica is required to mention Tom Waits, and Courrier fulfills this obligation). With such few pages covering these topics, it seems they were included almost as an afterthought or as a way to pad the book’s length. Some of the details provided about Frank Zappa, Beefheart’s previous works, and other non-mainstream artists sometimes feel extraneous and unnecessary; a greater focus on the album’s lasting legacy and impact would have been more welcome.
Courrier notes that around 80,000 copies of Trout Mask Replica have been sold. Although this number seems low, he might be right: conduct an informal unscientific poll of “What do you think of Beefheart?” would likely return seven perplexed glances, one suggestion to do something physically impossible to yourself, and two beyond-inappropriate propositions.
Accepting Courrier’s number as accurate, it does show the difficulty in writing a book about Beefheart’s best album: those who don’t like or haven’t heard the album probably won’t care enough to buy 33 1/3, and those who like the album will expect the book to increase their understanding of the album. While Courrier’s study does a great job of examining the origins of Trout Mask Replica and its place in music history, hardcore Beefheart fans (is there any other kind?) probably already know the story.
Kevin Courrier tackles Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band’s finest album in his 2007 entry into Continuum’s ever-expanding 33 1/3 series (next up: a six-volume series analyzing the works of Skid Row). The end result is an informative, if uneven, account of the origins, making, and legacy of one of music’s most challenging albums.
To say Courrier knows the material is an understatement; he covers in great detail everything from the band’s biography to how the album fit into the larger arena of avant-garde works by musicians like Ornette Coleman and John Coltrane. For a short book (less than 150 pages), the amount of quoted sources is impressive; a bibliography that includes more than just shady Beefheart internet fan sites is also included. For anyone looking for a one-stop shop that summarizes the history of the album and its conspirators, Courrier’s book is a great source.
One of the main storylines in the making of Trout Mask Replica is Beefheart’s documented Gestapo-like intimidation and domination of the band members, including cultish tactics like food and sleep deprivation and attempts at mind control. Courrier manages to discuss this without turning the book into a musical E! True Hollywood Story. While Courrier is clearly a fan of the album, he does offer an impartial, and often critical, portrayal of the reclusive Captain. He also rights some of the wrongs perpetuated against the band members by showing how the musicians played an integral role in the album’s music, dispelling the myth long propagated by both critics and Beefheart himself that the album was a work of Beefheart’s singular genius.
Nevertheless, Courrierr's 33 1/3 is flawed. Despite tons of details about the album, his ultimate conclusion never really advances past the argument that Trout Mask Replica is an atonal masterpiece unlike any other album and listeners either love it so much that they wet themselves or flee to the catacombs in abject horror, scarred for life by what they’ve just heard. It’s of course difficult to argue this point, but it doesn’t really add much to understanding or appreciating the album.
Details about the commercial and critical responses to the album are brief and perfunctory. Likewise, scant pages are devoted to how the album has influenced other musicians (by law and under penalty of banishment to Iowa, anyone discussing Trout Mask Replica is required to mention Tom Waits, and Courrier fulfills this obligation). With such few pages covering these topics, it seems they were included almost as an afterthought or as a way to pad the book’s length. Some of the details provided about Frank Zappa, Beefheart’s previous works, and other non-mainstream artists sometimes feel extraneous and unnecessary; a greater focus on the album’s lasting legacy and impact would have been more welcome.
Courrier notes that around 80,000 copies of Trout Mask Replica have been sold. Although this number seems low, he might be right: conduct an informal unscientific poll of “What do you think of Beefheart?” would likely return seven perplexed glances, one suggestion to do something physically impossible to yourself, and two beyond-inappropriate propositions.
Accepting Courrier’s number as accurate, it does show the difficulty in writing a book about Beefheart’s best album: those who don’t like or haven’t heard the album probably won’t care enough to buy 33 1/3, and those who like the album will expect the book to increase their understanding of the album. While Courrier’s study does a great job of examining the origins of Trout Mask Replica and its place in music history, hardcore Beefheart fans (is there any other kind?) probably already know the story.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Book Review: Doolittle by Ben Sisario
Several weeks back the local alternative music radio station here in St. Louis treated listeners to a “way back weekend.” Instead of hearing those godawful songs that pass for alternative music these days, listeners of a certain age could act like it was the early 1990s all over again, with songs by the good (Nirvana), the bad (Stone Temple Pilots), and the fugly (Bush).
Perhaps not surprisingly, absent from these 48 hours of grunge-era goodies was anything by the Pixies. Despite the mass recognition, plaudits, and breathless write-ups the band finally received during its recent reunion tour, the Pixies are still in some ways familiar only to a certain type of music fan.
For that certain type of music fan (obsessive, opinionated, and stalker-like loyal... er, dedicated), Ben Sisario’s take on the Pixies’ classic album Doolittle is a welcome treat. It’s also one of the better entries in the sometimes erratic 33 1/3 book series from Continuum. In a little more than 100 pages, Sisario covers all the key areas of both the Pixies and the album, including a nice overview of the band’s history, how the songs took shape, the quiet-loud-quiet-loud approach that runs throughout the album, the critical and commercial responses (or non-responses in the United States, as the band was largely ignored) to the album, and the album’s overarching themes.
Any analysis of a song’s lyrics runs the risk of being an exercise in futility; the reviewer in many cases can only guess at what the writer’s intentions were, has limited knowledge of the writer’s life and cultural influences, and makes assumptions based on his or her own interpretations of the lyrics. Pixies singer, lyricist, and top-ten bald musician of all time Frank Black was interviewed for this book, which allows Sisario to avoid these pitfalls. Sisario actually cruised around Portland with Black in the musician’s Cadillac, talking about the Pixies music and even stopping at a local record store to buy a copy of Leonard Cohen’s I’m Your Man.
Besides making countless Pixie fans jealous, the end result of this approach is that Black provides many details about the album, especially the lyrics. For years Black was somewhat evasive and argumentative when questions about his lyrics were asked; he would often maintain that the words meant nothing and just sounded good strung together. Even if that does hold true in some cases on Doolittle (“Silver” comes to mind), Black provides tons of details into the album’s major topics and even into the context of certain lines.
Through Sisario’s musical joyride with Black, Doolittle’s themes of violence, death, and the horizontal tango, as well as the twisted and dark sense of humor that rests just below the surface, are examined and discussed. Black talks about how the album’s songs were influenced by Surrealism (“slicing up eyeballs” from “Debaser”), the Old Testament (“Dead” and “Gouge Away”), and crazy former roommates (“Crackity Jones”), among other things. Black is clearly sincere when discussing the album; he’s not blowing smoke or BS’ing about the songs in 1960s Bob Dylan fashion. Sisario’s book is a great glimpse into how Black assimilated these various influences and reflected them in the album’s lyrics.
The book does have some minor flaws. Sisario sometimes dives deep into what even the most obsessive Pixies fan might consider boring minutiae; things like the number of beats per song or the fact that a song is in 4/4 time are interesting but probably unnecessary in creating a better understanding of either the band or the album. And when Black offers only cursory input for some songs (“I Bleed," for example), Sisario tends to fill in the blanks with shaky conclusions.
Regardless of these shortcomings, Sisario’s book offers numerous insights and revelations into both the Pixies and Doolittle. Pixies’ fans won’t be disappointed.
Perhaps not surprisingly, absent from these 48 hours of grunge-era goodies was anything by the Pixies. Despite the mass recognition, plaudits, and breathless write-ups the band finally received during its recent reunion tour, the Pixies are still in some ways familiar only to a certain type of music fan.
For that certain type of music fan (obsessive, opinionated, and stalker-like loyal... er, dedicated), Ben Sisario’s take on the Pixies’ classic album Doolittle is a welcome treat. It’s also one of the better entries in the sometimes erratic 33 1/3 book series from Continuum. In a little more than 100 pages, Sisario covers all the key areas of both the Pixies and the album, including a nice overview of the band’s history, how the songs took shape, the quiet-loud-quiet-loud approach that runs throughout the album, the critical and commercial responses (or non-responses in the United States, as the band was largely ignored) to the album, and the album’s overarching themes.
Any analysis of a song’s lyrics runs the risk of being an exercise in futility; the reviewer in many cases can only guess at what the writer’s intentions were, has limited knowledge of the writer’s life and cultural influences, and makes assumptions based on his or her own interpretations of the lyrics. Pixies singer, lyricist, and top-ten bald musician of all time Frank Black was interviewed for this book, which allows Sisario to avoid these pitfalls. Sisario actually cruised around Portland with Black in the musician’s Cadillac, talking about the Pixies music and even stopping at a local record store to buy a copy of Leonard Cohen’s I’m Your Man.
Besides making countless Pixie fans jealous, the end result of this approach is that Black provides many details about the album, especially the lyrics. For years Black was somewhat evasive and argumentative when questions about his lyrics were asked; he would often maintain that the words meant nothing and just sounded good strung together. Even if that does hold true in some cases on Doolittle (“Silver” comes to mind), Black provides tons of details into the album’s major topics and even into the context of certain lines.
Through Sisario’s musical joyride with Black, Doolittle’s themes of violence, death, and the horizontal tango, as well as the twisted and dark sense of humor that rests just below the surface, are examined and discussed. Black talks about how the album’s songs were influenced by Surrealism (“slicing up eyeballs” from “Debaser”), the Old Testament (“Dead” and “Gouge Away”), and crazy former roommates (“Crackity Jones”), among other things. Black is clearly sincere when discussing the album; he’s not blowing smoke or BS’ing about the songs in 1960s Bob Dylan fashion. Sisario’s book is a great glimpse into how Black assimilated these various influences and reflected them in the album’s lyrics.
The book does have some minor flaws. Sisario sometimes dives deep into what even the most obsessive Pixies fan might consider boring minutiae; things like the number of beats per song or the fact that a song is in 4/4 time are interesting but probably unnecessary in creating a better understanding of either the band or the album. And when Black offers only cursory input for some songs (“I Bleed," for example), Sisario tends to fill in the blanks with shaky conclusions.
Regardless of these shortcomings, Sisario’s book offers numerous insights and revelations into both the Pixies and Doolittle. Pixies’ fans won’t be disappointed.
Satire: Local High School Student Discovers New Athens, GA Band
Port Huron High sophomore Aimee Berryman reported to her friends today that she’s discovered a great new band from Athens, GA.
Berryman says she came across a band named “R.E.M.” when checking the iTunes store on Tuesday. “I rely entirely on iTunes to keep up to date with the hottest, most cutting-edge, and most subversive music around. If it wasn’t for the folks at iTunes who truly know what ‘underground’ and ‘anti-establishment’ mean, I’d be completely clueless about music history.”
According to Berryman, she purchased the band’s sophomore album Accelerate based on several disparate factors, including a quick listen to excerpts from the album, several breathless reviews posted on the popular music download site, and the fact that “the geeky-looking blonde-haired guy wearing the glasses looks like Ms. Villa, my Spanish teacher.”
Berryman readily admits that she has a long way to go in understanding this mysterious new band. “From what I can tell, they released one album a couple years ago that was poorly received. But what do you expect? How many bands’ first full length album is a classic that they then spend the next 25 years unfairly trying to live up to?”
The high school sophomore also confirms that Accelerate has been in heavy rotation on her iPod, alongside the likes of Beyonce, Fergie, and “some old-ass fossilized geezer named Dylan who my parents babble incessantly about. Whatever.”
Berryman also especially likes the brevity of the album; with 11 songs that clock in at about 35 minutes, it’s one of the shortest albums in her burgeoning iPod collection. Explains Berryman: “The length fits my attention span. Anything over that four-minute mark, and it’s time to check out. No thanks.”
The student believes that R.E.M. could be the precursor to a new musical style. “What the music world needs is a musical genre that specializes in songs less than three minutes in length that features aggressive guitars, nihilistic grandiose statements that decades later seem naïve and simplistic, and only three chords. Maybe there could even be a British version that in a little more than a year from its inception chokes to death on its own excesses and countless derivative copycat bands. Yeah, that’d be cool.”
Nevertheless, Berryman isn’t optimistic about the band’s chances of mainstream success. She feels that “a three-piece all-male band that doesn’t have either the backing of a major label or a carefully crafted and honed image as a true democratic band is at a disadvantage in today’s segmented and derivative radio airwaves. Plus, the lead singer is way too Moby bald to get on magazine covers.”
Berryman admits most of her friends are not on board with her new musical discovery. “Sometimes I’m able to turn my friends on to new music, like the time I discovered an unknown band named The Stooges. We all agreed that The Weirdness had to be just about the best thing they’d ever do.” But her friends remain unconvinced with the Athens band. Friend Quinlin Griffin thinks the band “will never have an unexpected hit song that features a mandolin, a somewhat controversial video that includes quasi-homo-erotic religious imagery, and obtuse lyrics based around Southern colloquialisms.”
Yet Berryman, who considers herself a budding music historian, remains undeterred and plans to dive deeper into the band’s small back catalog. In addition to downloading debut album Around The Sun, she plans to see the new band in concert. She’s quite convinced the band will remain largely unknown. “They’re having to tour with two other bands just to fill the space. You tell me: what chance does that type of band have of hitting the big time?”
Berryman says she came across a band named “R.E.M.” when checking the iTunes store on Tuesday. “I rely entirely on iTunes to keep up to date with the hottest, most cutting-edge, and most subversive music around. If it wasn’t for the folks at iTunes who truly know what ‘underground’ and ‘anti-establishment’ mean, I’d be completely clueless about music history.”
According to Berryman, she purchased the band’s sophomore album Accelerate based on several disparate factors, including a quick listen to excerpts from the album, several breathless reviews posted on the popular music download site, and the fact that “the geeky-looking blonde-haired guy wearing the glasses looks like Ms. Villa, my Spanish teacher.”
Berryman readily admits that she has a long way to go in understanding this mysterious new band. “From what I can tell, they released one album a couple years ago that was poorly received. But what do you expect? How many bands’ first full length album is a classic that they then spend the next 25 years unfairly trying to live up to?”
The high school sophomore also confirms that Accelerate has been in heavy rotation on her iPod, alongside the likes of Beyonce, Fergie, and “some old-ass fossilized geezer named Dylan who my parents babble incessantly about. Whatever.”
Berryman also especially likes the brevity of the album; with 11 songs that clock in at about 35 minutes, it’s one of the shortest albums in her burgeoning iPod collection. Explains Berryman: “The length fits my attention span. Anything over that four-minute mark, and it’s time to check out. No thanks.”
The student believes that R.E.M. could be the precursor to a new musical style. “What the music world needs is a musical genre that specializes in songs less than three minutes in length that features aggressive guitars, nihilistic grandiose statements that decades later seem naïve and simplistic, and only three chords. Maybe there could even be a British version that in a little more than a year from its inception chokes to death on its own excesses and countless derivative copycat bands. Yeah, that’d be cool.”
Nevertheless, Berryman isn’t optimistic about the band’s chances of mainstream success. She feels that “a three-piece all-male band that doesn’t have either the backing of a major label or a carefully crafted and honed image as a true democratic band is at a disadvantage in today’s segmented and derivative radio airwaves. Plus, the lead singer is way too Moby bald to get on magazine covers.”
Berryman admits most of her friends are not on board with her new musical discovery. “Sometimes I’m able to turn my friends on to new music, like the time I discovered an unknown band named The Stooges. We all agreed that The Weirdness had to be just about the best thing they’d ever do.” But her friends remain unconvinced with the Athens band. Friend Quinlin Griffin thinks the band “will never have an unexpected hit song that features a mandolin, a somewhat controversial video that includes quasi-homo-erotic religious imagery, and obtuse lyrics based around Southern colloquialisms.”
Yet Berryman, who considers herself a budding music historian, remains undeterred and plans to dive deeper into the band’s small back catalog. In addition to downloading debut album Around The Sun, she plans to see the new band in concert. She’s quite convinced the band will remain largely unknown. “They’re having to tour with two other bands just to fill the space. You tell me: what chance does that type of band have of hitting the big time?”
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Book Review: The Big Wheel by Bruce Thomas
“Why the [expletive deleted] do you want to re-read that [expletive deleted] book?” To be honest, it was a fair question. My brother’s basement library has enough books to rival a major league library. Choosing Bruce Thomas’ The Big Wheel was the equivalent of walking into a fine dining restaurant and asking for Hamburger Helper and I’ll take a Banana Pudding Pop for dessert, thank you.
I had decided to re-read several books related to life on the road in the world of music, including Sam Shepard’s Rolling Thunder Logbook, Larry Sloman’s On The Road With Bob Dylan, and, most precariously, Thomas’ The Big Wheel. Thomas, former bassist with Elvis Costello and the Attractions, is still an outcast in Planet Costello, and this book is allegedly a large part of the reason for this.
I first read this book when its second edition (a surefire and utterly distressing sign that there is indeed no justice in the publishing world) was published in 2003. To say I disliked it is being too mild; upon first reading, I couldn’t recall a less interesting, more pompous, and completely inane piece of writing (other than one of my own blogs). The insights into the touring life were the worst kind of pseudo-philosophical nonsense that a college kid might write after studying Sylvia Plath for a semester. Thomas was prone to massive fits of existential ponderings; the simple act of watching a lousy television show from his hotel room could plunge him (and the reader) into page after page of post-modern angst. He also came across as a snarky, sarcastic, bitter ex-musician (from a bassist, no less). Perhaps worst of all, he completely botched a reference to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
A second reading hasn’t really changed these opinions. However, there is actually a decent amount of comedy in this book, if the reader can look past its many flaws and accept it as, at best, a grossly exaggerated account of life in the Attractions. For example, Thomas tells a humorous story about how he assists a friend in transporting “wellies” all over the English countryside. Of course, nothing goes according to plan; the van filled with wellies (which I’m told by a British friend are either shoes, jimmy hats, or Filipino hookers) breaks down, Thomas “borrows” a tire from a nearby car, cops intervene, and the harebrained scheme takes several days and results in no profit.
The book also contains some funny stories about life in the Attractions, though, perhaps for fear of a lawsuit, Thomas never mentions the band members by name. Instead, they are reduced to names like The Singer, The Keyboard Player, and the Drummer. Although some of the tales are pure VH1 Behind the Music (musicians getting drunk and doing idiotic things in hotel rooms... imagine that), some of the dynamics of the Attractions’ interactions are revealed, if from a sometimes suspect point of view.
The other aspect that’s striking after a second read is how mild and non-offensive the characterization of Costello (er, The Singer) truly is. In fact, there are actually very few mentions of The Singer. These brief mentions portray The Singer as a hypochondriac, distant and removed from the rest of the band, and someone whom dogs always bark at. I suppose that Costello is actually a Terminator. That this book managed to get Costello, a man who’s lobbed plenty of grenades and putdowns in plenty of his songs, riled up, is somewhat surprising. The insults are few and far between, and are quite tame.
Even with these occasional touches of humor, The Big Wheel is a pretty brutal read, and seems far longer than it actually is. It certainly won’t go down as one of the best books about life in music. Thomas’ absurd philosophical musings and snarky disposition almost ensure that by themselves. But buried among these problems are some entertaining stories that might make the reader laugh. Just don’t expect an objective, fact-based account of life on the road with Elvis Costello and the Attractions.
I had decided to re-read several books related to life on the road in the world of music, including Sam Shepard’s Rolling Thunder Logbook, Larry Sloman’s On The Road With Bob Dylan, and, most precariously, Thomas’ The Big Wheel. Thomas, former bassist with Elvis Costello and the Attractions, is still an outcast in Planet Costello, and this book is allegedly a large part of the reason for this.
I first read this book when its second edition (a surefire and utterly distressing sign that there is indeed no justice in the publishing world) was published in 2003. To say I disliked it is being too mild; upon first reading, I couldn’t recall a less interesting, more pompous, and completely inane piece of writing (other than one of my own blogs). The insights into the touring life were the worst kind of pseudo-philosophical nonsense that a college kid might write after studying Sylvia Plath for a semester. Thomas was prone to massive fits of existential ponderings; the simple act of watching a lousy television show from his hotel room could plunge him (and the reader) into page after page of post-modern angst. He also came across as a snarky, sarcastic, bitter ex-musician (from a bassist, no less). Perhaps worst of all, he completely botched a reference to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
A second reading hasn’t really changed these opinions. However, there is actually a decent amount of comedy in this book, if the reader can look past its many flaws and accept it as, at best, a grossly exaggerated account of life in the Attractions. For example, Thomas tells a humorous story about how he assists a friend in transporting “wellies” all over the English countryside. Of course, nothing goes according to plan; the van filled with wellies (which I’m told by a British friend are either shoes, jimmy hats, or Filipino hookers) breaks down, Thomas “borrows” a tire from a nearby car, cops intervene, and the harebrained scheme takes several days and results in no profit.
The book also contains some funny stories about life in the Attractions, though, perhaps for fear of a lawsuit, Thomas never mentions the band members by name. Instead, they are reduced to names like The Singer, The Keyboard Player, and the Drummer. Although some of the tales are pure VH1 Behind the Music (musicians getting drunk and doing idiotic things in hotel rooms... imagine that), some of the dynamics of the Attractions’ interactions are revealed, if from a sometimes suspect point of view.
The other aspect that’s striking after a second read is how mild and non-offensive the characterization of Costello (er, The Singer) truly is. In fact, there are actually very few mentions of The Singer. These brief mentions portray The Singer as a hypochondriac, distant and removed from the rest of the band, and someone whom dogs always bark at. I suppose that Costello is actually a Terminator. That this book managed to get Costello, a man who’s lobbed plenty of grenades and putdowns in plenty of his songs, riled up, is somewhat surprising. The insults are few and far between, and are quite tame.
Even with these occasional touches of humor, The Big Wheel is a pretty brutal read, and seems far longer than it actually is. It certainly won’t go down as one of the best books about life in music. Thomas’ absurd philosophical musings and snarky disposition almost ensure that by themselves. But buried among these problems are some entertaining stories that might make the reader laugh. Just don’t expect an objective, fact-based account of life on the road with Elvis Costello and the Attractions.
Who Else Is Nervous? R.E.M.'s Upcoming Album
R.E.M.’s new album is coming out April 1. Entitled Accelerate, it follows hot on the heels of Around the Sun, which, um, stunk out loud.
I’m willing to bet many R.E.M. fans are nervous as hell. Maybe it’s because, to these ears, every R.E.M. album released since the underrated New Adventures In Hi Fi has been an unholy mixture of annoying blips, bleeps, and bloops that are oddly reminiscent of actor Michael Winslow (think Spaceballs). Maybe it’s because I have a lingering fear, perhaps shared by many R.E.M. fans but vocalized by few, that the band is simply irrelevant in the current music scene, or worse, incapable of delivering a quality album. Maybe it’s because I’m hesitant to pour more money into the iTunes beast for another underwhelming album from Stipe and Co.
Maybe.
But I simply cannot shake the feeling that many fans want Accelerate to be a great album for other reasons. For many music fans, R.E.M. was our first serious music addiction. Although I got into the game late – I was barely a teenager when I bought my first R.E.M. album, Out Of Time, in 1991 – I quickly devoured the back catalog and with much glee bought the concert tickets, t-shirts, and singles (“the b-side is a 1992 live performance of “Radio Free Europe”? They never play that! I gotta have it!”). I had much to learn.
Like many other R.E.M. junkies, my favorite concert memories are also tied to the band. The 1995 Monster tour stop in St. Louis was the first concert my brother and I attended. We blasted Automatic For The People from the car speakers as we drove (as much as you could blast that album, anyway). My friend showed up late due to his high school football game, still wearing his uniform, and only managed to hear the last few songs. His twin sister was even escorted out of the amphitheatre for, putting it in PG terms, inappropriate behavior during “Bang and Blame.” Even with this jail bait hiccup to deal with later, he was thrilled just to be there. To me, such devotion made total sense.I’ve been hooked on R.E.M. for the better part of my life. But like a trout plucked from the water by an enterprising fisherman, the problem is that the hook is now securely wedged into my lip. And it’s kinda painful.
The R.E.M. faithful among us who aren’t total jocksniffers haven’t had much to cheer for in more than a few years. It’s certainly been tough for R.E.M. fans. The occasional concert tour aside – as a live band R.E.M. still delivers the goods, even if Stipe does an excessive amount of posing and posturing – the band has been the equivalent of an 8-8 NFL team: some highs, some lows, and nothing much to get excited about.
Shows such as Family Guy and Saturday Night Live have taken potshots at the band (of course, if any show should refrain from making jokes about anything being irrelevant. it’s SNL). Sure, some aspects of R.E.M. are very easy to mock (Stipe’s tiny, bald, and looks like a low-rent stand-in for Mr. Clean), but I can’t help but think the jokes would have been far fewer if the band had released better albums in the last decade.I want Accelerate to be a great album. I want to again be reminded why R.E.M. essentially kick-started my addiction as a music fiend. I want to listen to a new R.E.M. album without feeling that I’m listening to a once-great band treading water at best and sinking fast at worst. And especially, I want the friends, acquaintances, and sworn enemies who come out of the woodwork to mock and humiliate me every time the band releases a new album to remain quiet for once.
I’m avoiding all pre-release reviews for Accelerate. I’m even avoiding the live shows where the new songs have been road tested. For all I know, advance reviews are gushing over the album like they did for Bruce Springsteen’s Magic or Neil Young’s Trans (wait, scratch that one). When April 1 arrives, I’ll join the legion of R.E.M. fans with crossed fingers as we listen to the new album and hope for the best...
I just hope we aren’t disappointed again.
I’m willing to bet many R.E.M. fans are nervous as hell. Maybe it’s because, to these ears, every R.E.M. album released since the underrated New Adventures In Hi Fi has been an unholy mixture of annoying blips, bleeps, and bloops that are oddly reminiscent of actor Michael Winslow (think Spaceballs). Maybe it’s because I have a lingering fear, perhaps shared by many R.E.M. fans but vocalized by few, that the band is simply irrelevant in the current music scene, or worse, incapable of delivering a quality album. Maybe it’s because I’m hesitant to pour more money into the iTunes beast for another underwhelming album from Stipe and Co.
Maybe.
But I simply cannot shake the feeling that many fans want Accelerate to be a great album for other reasons. For many music fans, R.E.M. was our first serious music addiction. Although I got into the game late – I was barely a teenager when I bought my first R.E.M. album, Out Of Time, in 1991 – I quickly devoured the back catalog and with much glee bought the concert tickets, t-shirts, and singles (“the b-side is a 1992 live performance of “Radio Free Europe”? They never play that! I gotta have it!”). I had much to learn.
Like many other R.E.M. junkies, my favorite concert memories are also tied to the band. The 1995 Monster tour stop in St. Louis was the first concert my brother and I attended. We blasted Automatic For The People from the car speakers as we drove (as much as you could blast that album, anyway). My friend showed up late due to his high school football game, still wearing his uniform, and only managed to hear the last few songs. His twin sister was even escorted out of the amphitheatre for, putting it in PG terms, inappropriate behavior during “Bang and Blame.” Even with this jail bait hiccup to deal with later, he was thrilled just to be there. To me, such devotion made total sense.I’ve been hooked on R.E.M. for the better part of my life. But like a trout plucked from the water by an enterprising fisherman, the problem is that the hook is now securely wedged into my lip. And it’s kinda painful.
The R.E.M. faithful among us who aren’t total jocksniffers haven’t had much to cheer for in more than a few years. It’s certainly been tough for R.E.M. fans. The occasional concert tour aside – as a live band R.E.M. still delivers the goods, even if Stipe does an excessive amount of posing and posturing – the band has been the equivalent of an 8-8 NFL team: some highs, some lows, and nothing much to get excited about.
Shows such as Family Guy and Saturday Night Live have taken potshots at the band (of course, if any show should refrain from making jokes about anything being irrelevant. it’s SNL). Sure, some aspects of R.E.M. are very easy to mock (Stipe’s tiny, bald, and looks like a low-rent stand-in for Mr. Clean), but I can’t help but think the jokes would have been far fewer if the band had released better albums in the last decade.I want Accelerate to be a great album. I want to again be reminded why R.E.M. essentially kick-started my addiction as a music fiend. I want to listen to a new R.E.M. album without feeling that I’m listening to a once-great band treading water at best and sinking fast at worst. And especially, I want the friends, acquaintances, and sworn enemies who come out of the woodwork to mock and humiliate me every time the band releases a new album to remain quiet for once.
I’m avoiding all pre-release reviews for Accelerate. I’m even avoiding the live shows where the new songs have been road tested. For all I know, advance reviews are gushing over the album like they did for Bruce Springsteen’s Magic or Neil Young’s Trans (wait, scratch that one). When April 1 arrives, I’ll join the legion of R.E.M. fans with crossed fingers as we listen to the new album and hope for the best...
I just hope we aren’t disappointed again.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Book Review: This Is Your Brain On Music - The Science of a Human Obsession by Daniel J. Levitin
A book that analyzes how our brains process, listen to, remember, and interpret music runs the risk of being the equivalent of explaining a joke. It’s not entirely helpful or illuminating to understand why someone considers a joke hilarious or abysmally lousy (the wife pig is upset because her husband and two children have turned their home into a total mess. In fact, it’s a sty. See, it’s not funny because it’s a lame joke because…). We instinctively either have a reaction to it; an analysis of why it’s funny or not misses the point.
Similarly, music listeners have a gut reaction to music; it moves us, depresses us, inspires us, makes us want to raise our arms in the air and wave them like we just don’t care, or in the case of Panic At The Disco, causes us to flee in terror, jump the barricades, and bunker down in anticipation of the apocalypse.
Despite these potential pitfalls, Daniel J. Levitin’s This Is Your Brain On Music: The Science of a Human Obsession is a fascinating study about what happens in the brain when we listen to music, and doesn’t turn the subject into a boring scientific exercise. Levitin, a neuroscientist and former session musician and producer, has crafted an excellent study that both scientists with tons of initials after their names and lay readers whose grasp of science starts and ends with CSI or Forensic Files will find informative. Perhaps best of all, Levitin’s book doesn’t ruin the enjoyment of listening to music.
Levitin primarily takes a thematic approach in examining how the brain functions when listening to music. Although the first chapter, which explains the basics of music like pitch, timbre, meter, and all the other things your elementary school music teacher taught you against your will, is somewhat dry and boring, the remaining chapters are enlightening. With topics including how the brain remembers and recalls music, why music can impact our moods, and why musical preferences can vary from person to person, Levitin explains the processes occurring in the brain without overwhelming the reader with overly-technical and academically-dry details. It’s actually more of a page-turner than some of the best-selling thrillers that find their way onto airplanes and beaches every summer.
Perhaps the most interesting chapter is the final one, which makes a case for the evolutionary origins of music, arguing against scientists who believe music was a happy accident or an unplanned byproduct of language development (you know, like Vin Diesel). Levitin shows how music may have played a role in human survival and evolution, including aiding in cognitive development, serving as a key factor in promoting early human interactions, and giving musical males an extra advantage in the grand reproductive race. This last part is pretty discouraging for us non-musicians; even in ancient times, any fugly dude with an instrument would apparently be more desirable than non-musicians to females.
Written for non-experts who might not know the difference between a hippocampus and a hippopotamus, This Is Your Brain On Music successfully manages to explain how we listen to music without reducing music to a series of neurons and brain waves. Levitin writes in an intelligent but not overbearing or condescending tone; his passion for music is apparent throughout the book. An excellent integration of science and music, Levitin’s book examines the brain’s role in listening to and processing music without downplaying any of the emotions we experience when listening to music.
Similarly, music listeners have a gut reaction to music; it moves us, depresses us, inspires us, makes us want to raise our arms in the air and wave them like we just don’t care, or in the case of Panic At The Disco, causes us to flee in terror, jump the barricades, and bunker down in anticipation of the apocalypse.
Despite these potential pitfalls, Daniel J. Levitin’s This Is Your Brain On Music: The Science of a Human Obsession is a fascinating study about what happens in the brain when we listen to music, and doesn’t turn the subject into a boring scientific exercise. Levitin, a neuroscientist and former session musician and producer, has crafted an excellent study that both scientists with tons of initials after their names and lay readers whose grasp of science starts and ends with CSI or Forensic Files will find informative. Perhaps best of all, Levitin’s book doesn’t ruin the enjoyment of listening to music.
Levitin primarily takes a thematic approach in examining how the brain functions when listening to music. Although the first chapter, which explains the basics of music like pitch, timbre, meter, and all the other things your elementary school music teacher taught you against your will, is somewhat dry and boring, the remaining chapters are enlightening. With topics including how the brain remembers and recalls music, why music can impact our moods, and why musical preferences can vary from person to person, Levitin explains the processes occurring in the brain without overwhelming the reader with overly-technical and academically-dry details. It’s actually more of a page-turner than some of the best-selling thrillers that find their way onto airplanes and beaches every summer.
Perhaps the most interesting chapter is the final one, which makes a case for the evolutionary origins of music, arguing against scientists who believe music was a happy accident or an unplanned byproduct of language development (you know, like Vin Diesel). Levitin shows how music may have played a role in human survival and evolution, including aiding in cognitive development, serving as a key factor in promoting early human interactions, and giving musical males an extra advantage in the grand reproductive race. This last part is pretty discouraging for us non-musicians; even in ancient times, any fugly dude with an instrument would apparently be more desirable than non-musicians to females.
Written for non-experts who might not know the difference between a hippocampus and a hippopotamus, This Is Your Brain On Music successfully manages to explain how we listen to music without reducing music to a series of neurons and brain waves. Levitin writes in an intelligent but not overbearing or condescending tone; his passion for music is apparent throughout the book. An excellent integration of science and music, Levitin’s book examines the brain’s role in listening to and processing music without downplaying any of the emotions we experience when listening to music.
Music Review: Okkervil River - The Stage Names
It’s difficult listening to an album for the first time after fans and critics alike have already picked it clean and are working on the bones. Setting aside the question of whether it’s even possible to listen to a new record without any preconceived ideas of either it or its creators, hearing a months-old album for the first time is a bit like catching a must-see movie after the fact. In many cases, it’s hard not to be disappointed, as overblown hype and positive reviews can lead to unrealistic expectations.
For several months Okkervil River’s The Stage Names remained on my Must Listen To Before I Spring Off This Mortal Coil list. I liked 2005’s Black Sheep Boy well enough, especially its ragged sound and subject matter, even if it sometimes bordered on the overly melodramatic. Yet for whatever reason, as the plaudits for The Stage Names poured in, my doubts about how good an album it really was continued to increase.
Perhaps the attendant hype and eventual letdown around recent albums like Magic and Neon Bible have made me too skeptical. Despite this, The Stage Names is one of those rare albums where listeners hearing it for the first time won’t walk away wondering what all the spastic fuss is about. Over nine songs, Will Sheff and company craft a remarkable album that reveals new layers with each subsequent listen.
Most of the album’s reviews have focused on its obvious themes of the relationship between musicians and fans, the role and meaning of popular music in everyday life, and life on the stage. Certainly these are littered throughout the album: references to “some midlevel band” and “the ghost of some rock and roll fan, floating up from the stands with her heart opened up” make these themes obvious and impossible to ignore.
But this is an easy and somewhat lazy analysis. Such reviews make the album sound like a modern-day Ziggy Stardust, or, at its worst, a humorless and bleak concept album like Pink Floyd’s soap opera drivel The Wall. What’s most striking after several listens are the album’s “smaller” themes and how they unfold: life’s disappointments and boredom, little and massive failures, and lost and wasted opportunities.
These come in a variety of shapes and sizes and are almost always skewed with a wry and dark sense of humor, whether it’s a messy breakup that references Paul Simon (“The 51st way to leave your lover, admittedly, doesn’t seem to be as gentle or as clean as all the others…”), an unspectacular 17th birthday (“not everyone’s keen on lighting candle 17. The party’s done. The cake’s all gone. The plates are clean.”), or simple, biting observations that offer only small consolations (“It was your heart hurting, but not for too long, kid”).
These themes are perhaps most clearly evident in “Savannah Smiles” and “John Allyn Smith Sails,” two musically disparate songs that bookend the album. “Savannah Smiles” is a bleak account of groupie and porno actress Shannon Wilsey, told from the point of view of a father simply trying to figure where and how things went wrong. Will Sheff’s vocal is sufficiently fragile to convey the father’s emotions: “Photos show no tears in her eyes. All those pretty years gone by I just cannot believe could do that to a child.” The dark humor found throughout the album surfaces again, this time with a nasty tone. Shannon’s father reads her diary but regrets what he’s read: “Talk about your big mistakes – hey Shan, nice going.”
“John Allyn Smith Sails” addresses the suicide of poet John Berryman and is the album’s standout track. Sheff sings in Berryman’s voice as a defeated man, a “fall-down drunk with his tongue torn out and his balls removed” whose best days and writings are long behind him. Sheff supposes that Berryman might have viewed his death as a welcome change, of course with a twisted sense of humor: “From a bridge on Washington Avenue, the year of 1972 broke my bones and skull, and it was memorable… Oh, but wise men know when it’s time to go, and so I should too.”
Those familiar with Berryman’s work will also notice that the lyrics also mirror some of the phrases found in the poet’s Dream Songs: “I’m stripped down to move on own, my friends” and “stupidly, I lingered on” as examples. With additional details about Berryman’s life scattered throughout the song – the Brass Rail bar, his university job in Minnesota – it’s a convincing take on how Berryman might have felt about himself.
The Stage Names isn’t exactly depressing – the anthemic and driving instrumentation in some of the songs, the wild horn arrangements, the band’s mostly upbeat playing, and enough musical and cultural references to satisfy any sick muso ensure that listeners won’t be violently sobbing at the album’s close – but it isn’t entirely uplifting either. Its characters exist in an uneasy space between hope and hopelessness, resignation and stubborn determination.
For several months Okkervil River’s The Stage Names remained on my Must Listen To Before I Spring Off This Mortal Coil list. I liked 2005’s Black Sheep Boy well enough, especially its ragged sound and subject matter, even if it sometimes bordered on the overly melodramatic. Yet for whatever reason, as the plaudits for The Stage Names poured in, my doubts about how good an album it really was continued to increase.
Perhaps the attendant hype and eventual letdown around recent albums like Magic and Neon Bible have made me too skeptical. Despite this, The Stage Names is one of those rare albums where listeners hearing it for the first time won’t walk away wondering what all the spastic fuss is about. Over nine songs, Will Sheff and company craft a remarkable album that reveals new layers with each subsequent listen.
Most of the album’s reviews have focused on its obvious themes of the relationship between musicians and fans, the role and meaning of popular music in everyday life, and life on the stage. Certainly these are littered throughout the album: references to “some midlevel band” and “the ghost of some rock and roll fan, floating up from the stands with her heart opened up” make these themes obvious and impossible to ignore.
But this is an easy and somewhat lazy analysis. Such reviews make the album sound like a modern-day Ziggy Stardust, or, at its worst, a humorless and bleak concept album like Pink Floyd’s soap opera drivel The Wall. What’s most striking after several listens are the album’s “smaller” themes and how they unfold: life’s disappointments and boredom, little and massive failures, and lost and wasted opportunities.
These come in a variety of shapes and sizes and are almost always skewed with a wry and dark sense of humor, whether it’s a messy breakup that references Paul Simon (“The 51st way to leave your lover, admittedly, doesn’t seem to be as gentle or as clean as all the others…”), an unspectacular 17th birthday (“not everyone’s keen on lighting candle 17. The party’s done. The cake’s all gone. The plates are clean.”), or simple, biting observations that offer only small consolations (“It was your heart hurting, but not for too long, kid”).
These themes are perhaps most clearly evident in “Savannah Smiles” and “John Allyn Smith Sails,” two musically disparate songs that bookend the album. “Savannah Smiles” is a bleak account of groupie and porno actress Shannon Wilsey, told from the point of view of a father simply trying to figure where and how things went wrong. Will Sheff’s vocal is sufficiently fragile to convey the father’s emotions: “Photos show no tears in her eyes. All those pretty years gone by I just cannot believe could do that to a child.” The dark humor found throughout the album surfaces again, this time with a nasty tone. Shannon’s father reads her diary but regrets what he’s read: “Talk about your big mistakes – hey Shan, nice going.”
“John Allyn Smith Sails” addresses the suicide of poet John Berryman and is the album’s standout track. Sheff sings in Berryman’s voice as a defeated man, a “fall-down drunk with his tongue torn out and his balls removed” whose best days and writings are long behind him. Sheff supposes that Berryman might have viewed his death as a welcome change, of course with a twisted sense of humor: “From a bridge on Washington Avenue, the year of 1972 broke my bones and skull, and it was memorable… Oh, but wise men know when it’s time to go, and so I should too.”
Those familiar with Berryman’s work will also notice that the lyrics also mirror some of the phrases found in the poet’s Dream Songs: “I’m stripped down to move on own, my friends” and “stupidly, I lingered on” as examples. With additional details about Berryman’s life scattered throughout the song – the Brass Rail bar, his university job in Minnesota – it’s a convincing take on how Berryman might have felt about himself.
The Stage Names isn’t exactly depressing – the anthemic and driving instrumentation in some of the songs, the wild horn arrangements, the band’s mostly upbeat playing, and enough musical and cultural references to satisfy any sick muso ensure that listeners won’t be violently sobbing at the album’s close – but it isn’t entirely uplifting either. Its characters exist in an uneasy space between hope and hopelessness, resignation and stubborn determination.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Music Review: Elvis Costello - This Year's Model Deluxe Edition
When I first read that Hip-O was going to reissue Elvis Costello’s debut album My Aim Is True, I was incredibly skeptical. The album had already been reissued approximately 219,000 times; another edition stank of pure, unhinged, uncontrollable record company (or musician) greed.
But when the Hip-O version turned out to actually be quite good – a few tunes that had never been released before, plus an early live concert, were included – I was pleasantly surprised. Even if this reissue wasn’t exactly the definitive version of the album (it didn’t by any means top the Rhino version), it had a reason to exist and wasn’t a fleecing of Costello’s fans.
Hip-O’s reissue campaign continues with its release of This Year’s Model. Costello’s second album and the first one featuring The Attractions, the album is rightly recognized as a stone classic, full of the anger, spite, and revenge that Costello personified in the late 1970s. Of course, this album has been reissued previously. The 2002 Rhino reissue was a welcome new take on the album. Jammed full of demos and other goodies, and featuring Costello’s humorous and honest liner notes, that edition appeared to be the final word on the album.
Hip-O’s release of the album won’t do much to change that opinion for most Costello fans. Whereas the MAIT edition had a few twists to make it a worthy purchase, there isn’t much in Hip-O’s edition to justify it as a purchase for Costello fans who already have the Rhino version.
Too much of this release is simply a rehash of the previous reissue. The vast majority of the bonus tracks on the first disc have already been released commercially, with most of them appearing on the superior Rhino editions of This Year’s Model or Armed Forces. This leaves the kick-ass 1978 Washington, D.C. show on the second disc as the only new offering for Costello fans. Although the show itself is fantastic and the sound is great – it’s also noticeable how manic and wild the band’s playing had become since the show featured on the MAIT reissue – it’s hard to justify another pricey purchase of the album for essentially nothing more than the live concert. Costello fans who already have the Rhino version won’t have much interest in this reissue, apart from the second disc.
The packaging itself follows the same formula as the Hip-O edition of MAIT, with printed lyrics and tons of photos that have either appeared in previous reissues or are minor variations of those photos. The packaging is sharp, to be sure; but at a time when creative packaging is one of the things that might influence someone to buy an actual hard-copy album instead of just grabbing it on iTunes, Hip-O’s final product is a little bland and uninspired. Just like the MAIT Hip-O version, Costello’s excellent liner notes that appeared on the Rhino edition are again excluded.
A two-disc set of live Elvis and the Attractions from 1978 might have been a better release and would certainly have satisfied Elvis’ army. With both the Rhino version still in print and a large number of great 1978 shows that circulate unofficially, another rehash of This Year’s Model without much of anything new comes across as pointless, or more cynically, as a typical record label money grab. One can only assume that Armed Forces is next on the reissue list; here’s hoping that reissue is an improvement over this one.
But when the Hip-O version turned out to actually be quite good – a few tunes that had never been released before, plus an early live concert, were included – I was pleasantly surprised. Even if this reissue wasn’t exactly the definitive version of the album (it didn’t by any means top the Rhino version), it had a reason to exist and wasn’t a fleecing of Costello’s fans.
Hip-O’s reissue campaign continues with its release of This Year’s Model. Costello’s second album and the first one featuring The Attractions, the album is rightly recognized as a stone classic, full of the anger, spite, and revenge that Costello personified in the late 1970s. Of course, this album has been reissued previously. The 2002 Rhino reissue was a welcome new take on the album. Jammed full of demos and other goodies, and featuring Costello’s humorous and honest liner notes, that edition appeared to be the final word on the album.
Hip-O’s release of the album won’t do much to change that opinion for most Costello fans. Whereas the MAIT edition had a few twists to make it a worthy purchase, there isn’t much in Hip-O’s edition to justify it as a purchase for Costello fans who already have the Rhino version.
Too much of this release is simply a rehash of the previous reissue. The vast majority of the bonus tracks on the first disc have already been released commercially, with most of them appearing on the superior Rhino editions of This Year’s Model or Armed Forces. This leaves the kick-ass 1978 Washington, D.C. show on the second disc as the only new offering for Costello fans. Although the show itself is fantastic and the sound is great – it’s also noticeable how manic and wild the band’s playing had become since the show featured on the MAIT reissue – it’s hard to justify another pricey purchase of the album for essentially nothing more than the live concert. Costello fans who already have the Rhino version won’t have much interest in this reissue, apart from the second disc.
The packaging itself follows the same formula as the Hip-O edition of MAIT, with printed lyrics and tons of photos that have either appeared in previous reissues or are minor variations of those photos. The packaging is sharp, to be sure; but at a time when creative packaging is one of the things that might influence someone to buy an actual hard-copy album instead of just grabbing it on iTunes, Hip-O’s final product is a little bland and uninspired. Just like the MAIT Hip-O version, Costello’s excellent liner notes that appeared on the Rhino edition are again excluded.
A two-disc set of live Elvis and the Attractions from 1978 might have been a better release and would certainly have satisfied Elvis’ army. With both the Rhino version still in print and a large number of great 1978 shows that circulate unofficially, another rehash of This Year’s Model without much of anything new comes across as pointless, or more cynically, as a typical record label money grab. One can only assume that Armed Forces is next on the reissue list; here’s hoping that reissue is an improvement over this one.
Satire: Amy Winehouse Hired as Selsun Blue Spokesperson
Chattem, Inc. announced today that it has hired talented and follicularly-challenged train wreck/musician Amy Winehouse as its spokesperson for its Selsun Blue line of shampoo products. The endorsement deal is set to begin when Hell freezes over; the company’s R&D division estimates that this phenomenon will occur next Tuesday. The terms of the deal were not disclosed, though Internet rumors are rampant that Winehouse will partly be paid in “dangerous and illicit materials.”
Chattem, Inc. officials admit that pegging the troubled chanteuse as its spokesperson marks a dramatic shift in the company’s advertising strategy. According to company liaison Phillip Enwasher, the company wants to take its Selsun Blue products in a bold new direction, and Winehouse fits that mold.
“For too many years we’ve had commercials featuring perfectly proportioned men and women wearing black turtlenecks and mild cases of dandruff,” Enwasher commented. “In the span of 30 seconds, the man’s dandruff would be cured. He’d stroll confidently into the office, and you just knew he was gonna nail his big presentation or the floor secretary. That type of advertising was safe, predictable, reliable, and incredibly profitable. That type of approach is now totally out of touch in the 21st century.”
Although some industry experts are skeptical of the agreement and feel that Winehouse’s mind-boggling bird’s nest hair cannot be tamed and will in turn tarnish both Selsun Blue’s reputation and revenues, Enwasher will not be dissuaded. “We plan to initially feature Amy in commercials for our Medicated, Moisturizing, and Daily Use lines. The commercials will take a chronological approach as we track Amy’s journey from coiffured disaster so Selsun Blue mega-babe. Every day for 34 weeks, and twice daily when it’s raining in Seattle, she’ll be pampered with hourly rinses, lathers, and repeats.
“Then, once we’ve nearly tamed the beast and it's breathing its last gasps, we’re gonna drop our new Ragged Scalp Blaster X product on her,” Enwasher stated. “Designed specifically for unpredictable, irrational, and near-epic-disaster singers, Amy’s hair will be cleaner than a post-colonic colon.”
Although the details of the contract have not yet been released, Enwasher did acknowledge that the company has also secured the rights to anything discovered in Winehouse’s hair. “Even if our attempts to sanitize that primordial monster fail miserably, I’m confident that humanity can advance greatly from what we unearth. Cures for various diseases, the lost colony of Roanoke, the answer to how the filling gets inside the Twinkie, several peach trees, and various extinct species of birds are likely residing somewhere in the deep regions of that hair. And most importantly, I personally have reason to believe that Joss Stone and her career have taken residence there.”
According to her publicist, Winehouse was busy “reading to orphaned street urchins, and most definitely not on a mad bender” and was therefore unavailable for comment.
Chattem, Inc. officials admit that pegging the troubled chanteuse as its spokesperson marks a dramatic shift in the company’s advertising strategy. According to company liaison Phillip Enwasher, the company wants to take its Selsun Blue products in a bold new direction, and Winehouse fits that mold.
“For too many years we’ve had commercials featuring perfectly proportioned men and women wearing black turtlenecks and mild cases of dandruff,” Enwasher commented. “In the span of 30 seconds, the man’s dandruff would be cured. He’d stroll confidently into the office, and you just knew he was gonna nail his big presentation or the floor secretary. That type of advertising was safe, predictable, reliable, and incredibly profitable. That type of approach is now totally out of touch in the 21st century.”
Although some industry experts are skeptical of the agreement and feel that Winehouse’s mind-boggling bird’s nest hair cannot be tamed and will in turn tarnish both Selsun Blue’s reputation and revenues, Enwasher will not be dissuaded. “We plan to initially feature Amy in commercials for our Medicated, Moisturizing, and Daily Use lines. The commercials will take a chronological approach as we track Amy’s journey from coiffured disaster so Selsun Blue mega-babe. Every day for 34 weeks, and twice daily when it’s raining in Seattle, she’ll be pampered with hourly rinses, lathers, and repeats.
“Then, once we’ve nearly tamed the beast and it's breathing its last gasps, we’re gonna drop our new Ragged Scalp Blaster X product on her,” Enwasher stated. “Designed specifically for unpredictable, irrational, and near-epic-disaster singers, Amy’s hair will be cleaner than a post-colonic colon.”
Although the details of the contract have not yet been released, Enwasher did acknowledge that the company has also secured the rights to anything discovered in Winehouse’s hair. “Even if our attempts to sanitize that primordial monster fail miserably, I’m confident that humanity can advance greatly from what we unearth. Cures for various diseases, the lost colony of Roanoke, the answer to how the filling gets inside the Twinkie, several peach trees, and various extinct species of birds are likely residing somewhere in the deep regions of that hair. And most importantly, I personally have reason to believe that Joss Stone and her career have taken residence there.”
According to her publicist, Winehouse was busy “reading to orphaned street urchins, and most definitely not on a mad bender” and was therefore unavailable for comment.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Book Review: Parental Advisory: Music Censorship in America by Eric Nuzum
The back cover of Eric Nuzum's Parental Advisory: Music Censorship in America describes the book as a "thorough and complete chronicle" of music and artists that have been censored or suppressed in Uncle Sam's land. In this sense, it's pretty accurate.
Over the course of several hundred pages, Nuzum covers music censorship according to a variety of themes including race, religion, drugs, and the good ol horizontal tussle. However, Nuzum's book is far from an objective history. Much of it is little more than a very slanted tome that takes far too long to say nothing more than (to use the technical terms) censorship sucks and freedom of expression rules.
At its best, Parental Advisory gives a detailed account of music censorship in the United States. Nuzum covers all the key events including the uproar caused by the skinny Elvis Presley's swinging hips, John Lennon's "bigger than Jesus" comment, the rise and influence of the PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center) in the 1980s, and attempts by various groups to regulate heavy metal, gangsta rap, and goth rock.
The author does a nice job showing how several key characteristics of censorship have been repeated over the decades:
• Some concerned parents, religious leaders, and politicians always feel the current generation's minds and morals are being poisoned by filthy popular music. For them, music of the present day is far more violent, sexual, and dangerous than music at any other point in history. Music now viewed as both quaint and benign (e.g.: Cole Porter, Bobby Darin) was once viewed as threats to the very moral fabric of the nation.
• Violent tragedies (such as the Columbine shooting in 1999) almost always trigger a backlash against certain types of music, leading to the inevitable Congressional grandstanding and calls for tighter regulation of the music minors have access to.
• In many cases, those advocating parental warning stickers, bans on certain albums, and other forms of censorship don't have the first clue about the music's actual content. In one hilarious story, Nuzum describes how wild rebel John Denver's song, "Rocky Mountain High," was banned by radio stations for its supposed drug undertones. Similarly, Frank Zappa's Jazz From Hell was slapped with a parental advisory sticker for explicit content. The album was entirely instrumental.
• It doesn't take much to get the censorship ball rolling. Musicians who have the misfortune of getting on the radar of an overzealous politician, conservative watch group, religious leader, or everyday parent who complains to the authorities can quickly and easily find themselves at the center of controversy.
The book's major drawback is that it is not a balanced history. Nuzum doesn't really question the motives of the performers who find themselves being censored (with the notable exception of Marilyn Manson). In this way, he sees every artist who was ever suppressed as essentially a crusader for free speech and artistic expression.
In many cases this characterization is accurate (Frank Zappa), but in other cases, it's clear certain artists were more concerned with gaining notoriety — however negative it was — than with fighting as First Amendment soldiers (like 2 Live Crew). This is not to say such acts should have been censored (any music fan realizes the grave implications of any form of musical censorship), but it would be naïve to think certain artists didn't exploit the attention for financial gain in the form of increased record sales and sold-out concerts.
The book fails to place censorship in the larger context of how it influences American culture or society. How censorship has impacted artists as they record and release music, whether consumers avoid (or prefer) censored artists, and the long-term impacts of censorship on freedom of expression are never addressed. There is more to censorship than Congressional hearings, altered album covers, and manic reactionary conservatives. Unfortunately, Nuzum rarely covers these areas.
Music fans interested in a thorough, though biased, history of music censorship in America should enjoy this read. However, readers looking for a thoughtful analysis of how censorship has impacted music will likely be disappointed.
Over the course of several hundred pages, Nuzum covers music censorship according to a variety of themes including race, religion, drugs, and the good ol horizontal tussle. However, Nuzum's book is far from an objective history. Much of it is little more than a very slanted tome that takes far too long to say nothing more than (to use the technical terms) censorship sucks and freedom of expression rules.
At its best, Parental Advisory gives a detailed account of music censorship in the United States. Nuzum covers all the key events including the uproar caused by the skinny Elvis Presley's swinging hips, John Lennon's "bigger than Jesus" comment, the rise and influence of the PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center) in the 1980s, and attempts by various groups to regulate heavy metal, gangsta rap, and goth rock.
The author does a nice job showing how several key characteristics of censorship have been repeated over the decades:
• Some concerned parents, religious leaders, and politicians always feel the current generation's minds and morals are being poisoned by filthy popular music. For them, music of the present day is far more violent, sexual, and dangerous than music at any other point in history. Music now viewed as both quaint and benign (e.g.: Cole Porter, Bobby Darin) was once viewed as threats to the very moral fabric of the nation.
• Violent tragedies (such as the Columbine shooting in 1999) almost always trigger a backlash against certain types of music, leading to the inevitable Congressional grandstanding and calls for tighter regulation of the music minors have access to.
• In many cases, those advocating parental warning stickers, bans on certain albums, and other forms of censorship don't have the first clue about the music's actual content. In one hilarious story, Nuzum describes how wild rebel John Denver's song, "Rocky Mountain High," was banned by radio stations for its supposed drug undertones. Similarly, Frank Zappa's Jazz From Hell was slapped with a parental advisory sticker for explicit content. The album was entirely instrumental.
• It doesn't take much to get the censorship ball rolling. Musicians who have the misfortune of getting on the radar of an overzealous politician, conservative watch group, religious leader, or everyday parent who complains to the authorities can quickly and easily find themselves at the center of controversy.
The book's major drawback is that it is not a balanced history. Nuzum doesn't really question the motives of the performers who find themselves being censored (with the notable exception of Marilyn Manson). In this way, he sees every artist who was ever suppressed as essentially a crusader for free speech and artistic expression.
In many cases this characterization is accurate (Frank Zappa), but in other cases, it's clear certain artists were more concerned with gaining notoriety — however negative it was — than with fighting as First Amendment soldiers (like 2 Live Crew). This is not to say such acts should have been censored (any music fan realizes the grave implications of any form of musical censorship), but it would be naïve to think certain artists didn't exploit the attention for financial gain in the form of increased record sales and sold-out concerts.
The book fails to place censorship in the larger context of how it influences American culture or society. How censorship has impacted artists as they record and release music, whether consumers avoid (or prefer) censored artists, and the long-term impacts of censorship on freedom of expression are never addressed. There is more to censorship than Congressional hearings, altered album covers, and manic reactionary conservatives. Unfortunately, Nuzum rarely covers these areas.
Music fans interested in a thorough, though biased, history of music censorship in America should enjoy this read. However, readers looking for a thoughtful analysis of how censorship has impacted music will likely be disappointed.
Book Review: Crazy Diamond: Syd Barrett and the Dawn of Pink Floyd by Mike Watkinson and Pete Anderson
Originally published in 1991, Crazy Diamond was one of the first serious attempts to document the life of Pink Floyd founder and cautionary tale Syd Barrett. Recently updated after Barrett's death in 2006, it's still the best Barrett biography I've read.
Its greatest strength is that it looks past the mythic and questionable tales of Barrett's post-Pink Floyd life to create a revealing portrayal of the musician as a person, not a caricature of LSD abuse or the many other labels both fans and music journalists have applied to Barrett ever since he disappeared from the music scene in 1967.
The book takes a chronological approach to Barrett's life, including how he first became interested in art and music at a young age, the founding of Pink Floyd and the band's influence on the psychedelic scene. It also follows Barrett's exit from the band and his two solo albums, and of course, his mental issues. These include his well documented behavioral "eccentricities," and retreat from public view, as well as the possible factors that resulted in this retreat.
The book is nicely rounded out with the critical and commercial responses to Barrett's only Pink Floyd album, The Piper At the Gates of Dawn, why Barrett continues to hold people's interest despite a scant recording career, and how his decline is eerily similar to that of other artists.
In any book about Syd Barrett, there will inevitably be a focus on his mental decline. The authors do an admirable job of chronicling this without turning into hack armchair psychologists. What becomes clear is that starting around 1967, Barrett became increasingly withdrawn, and his behavior increasingly bizarre, with the initial and obvious culprit being his extreme regimen of acid intake. The authors also suggest other factors, with varying degrees of plausibility, including the singer's sensitive personality, his fear of the fan worship he found himself subject to, and a never-diagnosed mental condition (possibly Asperger's disease).
The well-known stories are all told again, including how the musician would be completely uncommunicative, would sometimes play the same note over and over during concerts, and would, as one contributor to the book stated, "travel in his own mind." Pink Floyd member Nick Mason is more direct, describing Barrett as an "f---ing maniac."
Barrett's post-Floyd life is also examined. After releasing two solo albums, including the brilliant and disturbing The Madcap Laughs, Barrett essentially lived a solitary existence until his death in 2006. From what details we do know, he had little human interaction outside of his family, and passed the time by painting, walking, riding his bike, and watching television. Attempts by music fans and journalists to speak with the legendary Pink Floyd founder were either met with adamant refusals or only a few cryptic words. When Barrett was spotted, the details were strange and perhaps apocryphal; no doubt these stories have helped shape the image of Barrett that still persists to this day.
In some ways this book is not easy to read. Many of Barrett's flaws are exposed, including violent episodes against both former girlfriends and music business executives. The irony is that the book discusses the intimate faults and shortcomings of a man who, regardless of whatever mental conditions he had, wanted his privacy from the world at large respected.
The authors do an admirable job of walking the fine line between accurate biography and dirt digging. They also show how the notion of Barrett as a throwback to the suffering artist living in splendid artistic isolation is complete and utter BS. The great unanswered question is what would have happened to both Pink Floyd and Barrett had he essentially not gone off the rails.
Its greatest strength is that it looks past the mythic and questionable tales of Barrett's post-Pink Floyd life to create a revealing portrayal of the musician as a person, not a caricature of LSD abuse or the many other labels both fans and music journalists have applied to Barrett ever since he disappeared from the music scene in 1967.
The book takes a chronological approach to Barrett's life, including how he first became interested in art and music at a young age, the founding of Pink Floyd and the band's influence on the psychedelic scene. It also follows Barrett's exit from the band and his two solo albums, and of course, his mental issues. These include his well documented behavioral "eccentricities," and retreat from public view, as well as the possible factors that resulted in this retreat.
The book is nicely rounded out with the critical and commercial responses to Barrett's only Pink Floyd album, The Piper At the Gates of Dawn, why Barrett continues to hold people's interest despite a scant recording career, and how his decline is eerily similar to that of other artists.
In any book about Syd Barrett, there will inevitably be a focus on his mental decline. The authors do an admirable job of chronicling this without turning into hack armchair psychologists. What becomes clear is that starting around 1967, Barrett became increasingly withdrawn, and his behavior increasingly bizarre, with the initial and obvious culprit being his extreme regimen of acid intake. The authors also suggest other factors, with varying degrees of plausibility, including the singer's sensitive personality, his fear of the fan worship he found himself subject to, and a never-diagnosed mental condition (possibly Asperger's disease).
The well-known stories are all told again, including how the musician would be completely uncommunicative, would sometimes play the same note over and over during concerts, and would, as one contributor to the book stated, "travel in his own mind." Pink Floyd member Nick Mason is more direct, describing Barrett as an "f---ing maniac."
Barrett's post-Floyd life is also examined. After releasing two solo albums, including the brilliant and disturbing The Madcap Laughs, Barrett essentially lived a solitary existence until his death in 2006. From what details we do know, he had little human interaction outside of his family, and passed the time by painting, walking, riding his bike, and watching television. Attempts by music fans and journalists to speak with the legendary Pink Floyd founder were either met with adamant refusals or only a few cryptic words. When Barrett was spotted, the details were strange and perhaps apocryphal; no doubt these stories have helped shape the image of Barrett that still persists to this day.
In some ways this book is not easy to read. Many of Barrett's flaws are exposed, including violent episodes against both former girlfriends and music business executives. The irony is that the book discusses the intimate faults and shortcomings of a man who, regardless of whatever mental conditions he had, wanted his privacy from the world at large respected.
The authors do an admirable job of walking the fine line between accurate biography and dirt digging. They also show how the notion of Barrett as a throwback to the suffering artist living in splendid artistic isolation is complete and utter BS. The great unanswered question is what would have happened to both Pink Floyd and Barrett had he essentially not gone off the rails.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Local Woman Listens To Grandson's iPod
When Kirksville High student and self-proclaimed “Northeast Missouri music czar” Larry Walforten forgot his iPod on his senior class trip to Thousand Hills State Park last week, he was more than a little peeved.
“All my friends had Fall Out Boy, Rick Astley, Cameo, and all the other musical visionaries of the 20th century to make this trip bearable. For five nights I had to listen to the sounds of a gently running river stream, the howls of the coyotes, and the calming, steady calls of the owls. Who wants to listen to that crap on a camping trip?”
Yet nothing prepared him for the shock he experienced when he returned home from the trip. His grandmother and legal guardian, 89-year old Eunice Walforten, had discovered Larry’s iPod. While Larry was suffering from both a lack of music and a massive sumac rash he caught on the second day, the woman was busy dissecting every song in her grandson’s collection.
“I discovered the device when I was cleaning Larry’s room on Monday morning. Larry’s a good kid, but he’s a total pig, just like his deadbeat long-gone father," the grandmother stated. “At first I thought it was a garage opener, and then a device for smoking marijuana,” Eunice readily acknowledges in between sips of Sanka.
Although she admits to not following music trends since “Richard ‘Rabbit’ Brown serenaded people on the Pontchartrain,” this hasn’t stopped Eunice from becoming very opinionated regarding Larry’s musical preferences. “I don’t think this young Dylan guy will amount to much,” Eunice says dismissively. “What’s a four-legged forest cloud anyway? In my day, someone who talked like that would rightly be committed.” Yet Eunice does say this “Dylan whippersnapper” has potential: “I absolutely loved Empire Burlesque, and I haven’t heard anything better than `Under The Red Sky' in a long time.”
She likewise dislikes the artists found in Larry’s seldom listened to “Music Cred” playlist. “This Waits fella barks, yelps, and howls like a deranged madman. Unconventional and challenging sounds have no place in my music world.” Eunice also fails to see the charm in Neil Young, the last artist in this playlist. “I’m not too keen on that voice, but I do predict Mr. Young will become a shrewd businessman whose concert tickets will one day cost hundreds of dollars.”
The grandmother also says she’s found herself constantly returning to the music of Black-Eyed Peas and on-stage urinator Fergie time and time again. “Now this gal’s got some real talent and a lot of important things to say, just like FDR in one of his Fireside Chats,” Eunice says enthusiastically. Fergie’s originality and cutting-edge tunes also impress her. “I doubt any musician has ever come up with a better generic, non-offensive, mediocre, and crassly commercial sound.” Yet Eunice doesn’t like Fergie’s chances of reaching the big time. “The American record-buying public’s well-documented disdain for such fluff rife with product placement might end her career though; this type of music never sells millions of albums.”
Larry reports that his grandmother’s constant opinions about his music have left a strain on their relationship. “My grandmother listens to the same music as me,” he laments in complete resignation. “Think it’s cool that an old woman knows all the lyrics to Jay-Z’s ‘99 Problems’ or that she no longer thinks Timbaland is a country in Eastern Europe? Well, it’s not.”
Larry also believes that his grandmother’s discovery of his music collection has cheapened the music for him. “Take Public Enemy for instance. That group understood me; they knew what it was like to grow up as an oppressed, suffering, and moderately affluent white kid in rural Northeast Missouri. Now she plays It Takes A Nation Of Millions for her friends during their games of Mah Jongg.”
Larry isn’t giving up hope though. “I plan to start exploring something called ‘indie rock,’ whatever the hell that means. From what I’ve heard, no one listens to that stuff. It’ll be years before she catches up to that music.”
“All my friends had Fall Out Boy, Rick Astley, Cameo, and all the other musical visionaries of the 20th century to make this trip bearable. For five nights I had to listen to the sounds of a gently running river stream, the howls of the coyotes, and the calming, steady calls of the owls. Who wants to listen to that crap on a camping trip?”
Yet nothing prepared him for the shock he experienced when he returned home from the trip. His grandmother and legal guardian, 89-year old Eunice Walforten, had discovered Larry’s iPod. While Larry was suffering from both a lack of music and a massive sumac rash he caught on the second day, the woman was busy dissecting every song in her grandson’s collection.
“I discovered the device when I was cleaning Larry’s room on Monday morning. Larry’s a good kid, but he’s a total pig, just like his deadbeat long-gone father," the grandmother stated. “At first I thought it was a garage opener, and then a device for smoking marijuana,” Eunice readily acknowledges in between sips of Sanka.
Although she admits to not following music trends since “Richard ‘Rabbit’ Brown serenaded people on the Pontchartrain,” this hasn’t stopped Eunice from becoming very opinionated regarding Larry’s musical preferences. “I don’t think this young Dylan guy will amount to much,” Eunice says dismissively. “What’s a four-legged forest cloud anyway? In my day, someone who talked like that would rightly be committed.” Yet Eunice does say this “Dylan whippersnapper” has potential: “I absolutely loved Empire Burlesque, and I haven’t heard anything better than `Under The Red Sky' in a long time.”
She likewise dislikes the artists found in Larry’s seldom listened to “Music Cred” playlist. “This Waits fella barks, yelps, and howls like a deranged madman. Unconventional and challenging sounds have no place in my music world.” Eunice also fails to see the charm in Neil Young, the last artist in this playlist. “I’m not too keen on that voice, but I do predict Mr. Young will become a shrewd businessman whose concert tickets will one day cost hundreds of dollars.”
The grandmother also says she’s found herself constantly returning to the music of Black-Eyed Peas and on-stage urinator Fergie time and time again. “Now this gal’s got some real talent and a lot of important things to say, just like FDR in one of his Fireside Chats,” Eunice says enthusiastically. Fergie’s originality and cutting-edge tunes also impress her. “I doubt any musician has ever come up with a better generic, non-offensive, mediocre, and crassly commercial sound.” Yet Eunice doesn’t like Fergie’s chances of reaching the big time. “The American record-buying public’s well-documented disdain for such fluff rife with product placement might end her career though; this type of music never sells millions of albums.”
Larry reports that his grandmother’s constant opinions about his music have left a strain on their relationship. “My grandmother listens to the same music as me,” he laments in complete resignation. “Think it’s cool that an old woman knows all the lyrics to Jay-Z’s ‘99 Problems’ or that she no longer thinks Timbaland is a country in Eastern Europe? Well, it’s not.”
Larry also believes that his grandmother’s discovery of his music collection has cheapened the music for him. “Take Public Enemy for instance. That group understood me; they knew what it was like to grow up as an oppressed, suffering, and moderately affluent white kid in rural Northeast Missouri. Now she plays It Takes A Nation Of Millions for her friends during their games of Mah Jongg.”
Larry isn’t giving up hope though. “I plan to start exploring something called ‘indie rock,’ whatever the hell that means. From what I’ve heard, no one listens to that stuff. It’ll be years before she catches up to that music.”
Book Review: The Progress Paradox: How Life Gets Better While People Feel Worse by Gregg Easterbrook
Gregg Easterbrook’s The Progress Paradox: How Life Gets Better While People Feel Worse is not an easy read. The first several chapters nearly suffocate under page after page of statistics, poll results, and findings by researchers and other academic heavyweights. However, if the reader sticks with the book long enough, it proves itself to be a fascinating and thought-provoking study of how quality of life has continued to trend upwards, while personal happiness continues to decline.
The author’s investigation of how quality of life continues to improve is decidedly heavy, and is by far the most difficult and overwhelming part of the book. It’s fairly academic and dry. People who suffer from insomnia could try these first few chapters as non-pharmaceutical sleeping aids. Nevertheless, Easterbrook eventually shows how key areas in quality of life — including income, medical care, and housing — have all improved in the last several decades. He includes many examples of how people, especially in the Western world, by and large live with comforts previous generations could only dream of, and how these luxuries are taken for granted.
To his credit, Easterbrook does acknowledge that some trends are troubling: many in the world still live below the poverty line, and there has been an increase in obesity, especially among children, in the United States. The author is also clearly concerned with unchecked, excessive wealth. He rails against the appalling greedy practices of corporate CEOs while millions across the world still suffer from malnutrition, high rates of disease, and short life spans.
Easterbrook then turns to a sometimes-rambling discussion regarding the possible reasons personal happiness has not increased in step with an improved quality of life. The usual suspects are mentioned: genetics (people might be evolutionarily conditioned to focus on the negative); accumulation of material goods (having carpeted steps for your doggie might not make you any happier); popular entertainment (watching reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger won’t fill the void in your life); and SUVs (driving an armored tank across America’s highways and byways might not shield you from feeling miserable).
Cynics could of course argue that Easterbrook doesn’t say anything more than the accepted and tired cliché that “money doesn’t buy happiness.” Nevertheless, this middle section is by far the most engaging and interesting element of the book.
A few flaws emerge in Easterbrook’s discussion of why happiness has not increased. First, he never really establishes a working definition of “happiness.” For some people, happiness might mean a beautiful house and a beautiful wife; for others it might mean a high-paying job, copious amounts of booze or drugs, season tickets on the 50-yard line, or bizarre and strange sexual practices.
Second, he only marginally acknowledges that relying on polls to gauge trends in human happiness is inherently problematic; someone polled one day as being “happy” could have a different outlook on another day, or hell, five minutes after being asked the questions the first time. Easterbrook also sometimes comes across as a dry intellectual by focusing on poll numbers a bit too much. He tends to de-emphasize the impact that daily events (loss of job, birth of child, filing of restraining order) have on a person’s outlook on life in favor of broader and impersonal categories.
Easterbrook’s book ends with ideas of how people can possibly increase happiness in their lives through simple steps like forgiving others, reducing stress, reading more and watching television less, and realizing material possessions cannot ensure happiness. Sure it’s perhaps borderline motivational speaker and somewhat sappy, but he makes his case and doesn’t get overly dogmatic or preachy.
Easterbrook shows that as long as people rely on material possessions to make them happy, it’s likely that this unhappiness will continue or increase. This isn’t to say that Easterbrook is against free trade; however, it’s clear he thinks the race to acquire more and more will not lead to happiness.
This book isn’t perfect. Cute catch phrases like “reference anxiety” are used too often and have very little actual meaning outside of a college political science course. There are a few rants that should have been excised, and the initial chapters are repetitive. Easterbrook sometimes tends to get a little starry-eyed in addressing ways to solve the world’s problems, chief among them global poverty.
The Progress Paradox makes a compelling case that people will likely continue to become increasingly unhappy and discontent if their focus remains a bigger house, a better car, and other material possessions. Easterbrook manages to make his case without sounding like either a Luddite or a total reactionary.
The author’s investigation of how quality of life continues to improve is decidedly heavy, and is by far the most difficult and overwhelming part of the book. It’s fairly academic and dry. People who suffer from insomnia could try these first few chapters as non-pharmaceutical sleeping aids. Nevertheless, Easterbrook eventually shows how key areas in quality of life — including income, medical care, and housing — have all improved in the last several decades. He includes many examples of how people, especially in the Western world, by and large live with comforts previous generations could only dream of, and how these luxuries are taken for granted.
To his credit, Easterbrook does acknowledge that some trends are troubling: many in the world still live below the poverty line, and there has been an increase in obesity, especially among children, in the United States. The author is also clearly concerned with unchecked, excessive wealth. He rails against the appalling greedy practices of corporate CEOs while millions across the world still suffer from malnutrition, high rates of disease, and short life spans.
Easterbrook then turns to a sometimes-rambling discussion regarding the possible reasons personal happiness has not increased in step with an improved quality of life. The usual suspects are mentioned: genetics (people might be evolutionarily conditioned to focus on the negative); accumulation of material goods (having carpeted steps for your doggie might not make you any happier); popular entertainment (watching reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger won’t fill the void in your life); and SUVs (driving an armored tank across America’s highways and byways might not shield you from feeling miserable).
Cynics could of course argue that Easterbrook doesn’t say anything more than the accepted and tired cliché that “money doesn’t buy happiness.” Nevertheless, this middle section is by far the most engaging and interesting element of the book.
A few flaws emerge in Easterbrook’s discussion of why happiness has not increased. First, he never really establishes a working definition of “happiness.” For some people, happiness might mean a beautiful house and a beautiful wife; for others it might mean a high-paying job, copious amounts of booze or drugs, season tickets on the 50-yard line, or bizarre and strange sexual practices.
Second, he only marginally acknowledges that relying on polls to gauge trends in human happiness is inherently problematic; someone polled one day as being “happy” could have a different outlook on another day, or hell, five minutes after being asked the questions the first time. Easterbrook also sometimes comes across as a dry intellectual by focusing on poll numbers a bit too much. He tends to de-emphasize the impact that daily events (loss of job, birth of child, filing of restraining order) have on a person’s outlook on life in favor of broader and impersonal categories.
Easterbrook’s book ends with ideas of how people can possibly increase happiness in their lives through simple steps like forgiving others, reducing stress, reading more and watching television less, and realizing material possessions cannot ensure happiness. Sure it’s perhaps borderline motivational speaker and somewhat sappy, but he makes his case and doesn’t get overly dogmatic or preachy.
Easterbrook shows that as long as people rely on material possessions to make them happy, it’s likely that this unhappiness will continue or increase. This isn’t to say that Easterbrook is against free trade; however, it’s clear he thinks the race to acquire more and more will not lead to happiness.
This book isn’t perfect. Cute catch phrases like “reference anxiety” are used too often and have very little actual meaning outside of a college political science course. There are a few rants that should have been excised, and the initial chapters are repetitive. Easterbrook sometimes tends to get a little starry-eyed in addressing ways to solve the world’s problems, chief among them global poverty.
The Progress Paradox makes a compelling case that people will likely continue to become increasingly unhappy and discontent if their focus remains a bigger house, a better car, and other material possessions. Easterbrook manages to make his case without sounding like either a Luddite or a total reactionary.
Satire: Jerry Falwell Unhappy With Afterlife Living Conditions
In his first public statement since his (un)timely demise, the Reverend Jerry Falwell on Thursday complained that his current heavenly environment is "hotter than freakin' hell." Sweating profusely from his podium and flanked by bodyguards dressed like Ziggy Stardust, Falwell said, "Who do I need to talk to about this heat? I'm sweating more than a lesbian liberal prostitute at one of my television broadcasts. I'm on fire here."
Falwell's complaints were not limited to the fiery temperatures, however. The former televangelist, who reports he now spends his time in the Great Beyond compiling the ultimate Lilith Fair compendium, is apparently also quite upset with his current roommate, poet and truly all-around troubled woman, Sylvia Plath.
"All day long with her it's 'daddy this' and 'daddy that.' And those awful non-rhyming lines she recites all the time. I'm a quiet, reserved, respectful, contemplative person, and I've never been one to criticize anyone whose lifestyle, beliefs, hair color, shoe size, favorite sports team, or preferred Laffy Taffy flavor are opposed to mine, but I cannot help it. In this case our personalities simply clash." Falwell reports that when the poet starts reciting new lines, he plays his Sony Walkman and relaxes to the sweet tones of Conway Twitty.
Fallwell also addressed other concerns in his brief press conference. He's clearly not thrilled with the afterlife's intellectual curriculum. "Crap classes like Science In Intellectual History, The History of Women in Warfare, and Introduction to World History? C'mon, who needs that type of stuff? What good can possibly come from an in-depth, well-informed, and carefully studied examination of such diverse topics? What's a guy gotta do to get one farkin course about important things like the inevitable fall of the hedonistic United States, the history of hate mongering, or how Temptation Island is the best show Fox ever aired?"
Falwell is also peeved about the non-academic activities offered. Aside from his ongoing ambitious Lilith Fair project, and another task he was only willing to refer to as "Project Ultimate Doom," he's having trouble filling the hours. "The only athletic activity offered is amateur wrestling," Falwell morosely lamented. "I've never been one to criticize or condemn anything involving close male physical contact, but the simple fact is that my knees are too wobbly to allow me to participate." Referring to his knee, Falwell said, "Feel that there? That's pure bone on bone, no cartilage left."
Afterlife officials commented they were investigating the complaints, but weren't willing to make any promises. "Sure it's hot, but it's always hot down, er, up here. What does he expect? There's not a whole helluva lot we can do about it - if you catch my meaning."
Falwell's complaints were not limited to the fiery temperatures, however. The former televangelist, who reports he now spends his time in the Great Beyond compiling the ultimate Lilith Fair compendium, is apparently also quite upset with his current roommate, poet and truly all-around troubled woman, Sylvia Plath.
"All day long with her it's 'daddy this' and 'daddy that.' And those awful non-rhyming lines she recites all the time. I'm a quiet, reserved, respectful, contemplative person, and I've never been one to criticize anyone whose lifestyle, beliefs, hair color, shoe size, favorite sports team, or preferred Laffy Taffy flavor are opposed to mine, but I cannot help it. In this case our personalities simply clash." Falwell reports that when the poet starts reciting new lines, he plays his Sony Walkman and relaxes to the sweet tones of Conway Twitty.
Fallwell also addressed other concerns in his brief press conference. He's clearly not thrilled with the afterlife's intellectual curriculum. "Crap classes like Science In Intellectual History, The History of Women in Warfare, and Introduction to World History? C'mon, who needs that type of stuff? What good can possibly come from an in-depth, well-informed, and carefully studied examination of such diverse topics? What's a guy gotta do to get one farkin course about important things like the inevitable fall of the hedonistic United States, the history of hate mongering, or how Temptation Island is the best show Fox ever aired?"
Falwell is also peeved about the non-academic activities offered. Aside from his ongoing ambitious Lilith Fair project, and another task he was only willing to refer to as "Project Ultimate Doom," he's having trouble filling the hours. "The only athletic activity offered is amateur wrestling," Falwell morosely lamented. "I've never been one to criticize or condemn anything involving close male physical contact, but the simple fact is that my knees are too wobbly to allow me to participate." Referring to his knee, Falwell said, "Feel that there? That's pure bone on bone, no cartilage left."
Afterlife officials commented they were investigating the complaints, but weren't willing to make any promises. "Sure it's hot, but it's always hot down, er, up here. What does he expect? There's not a whole helluva lot we can do about it - if you catch my meaning."
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Concert News: The National/Modest Mouse/R.E.M. Mega Tour
According to a report from Billboard.com and confirmed by R.E.M.’s and Modest Mouse’s handlers, Modest Mouse and The National will serve as the opening acts on R.E.M.’s upcoming tour. Representatives for The National had been listening to Boxer too often, and were too lachrymose to respond with anything other than muted whispers and resigned attempts at defiance.
This will mark R.E.M.’s 437th official tour, and will be in support of upcoming release Accelerate, the follow-up to turd-in-the-punchbowl Around the Sun. Although fans’ expectations are that the new album will crush Around the Sun like a grape, it must be pointed out that the new album is being released on April Fool’s Day. Not to mention that Athens, Georgia's finest have been stuck in a vacuum of suck since the release of New Adventures in Hi Fi.
Tour dates and ticket prices have not yet been announced. If ticket prices are set based on the number of times Michael Stipe preens and gives the audience sinister glances or the number of times Isaac Brock barks and yelps, fans can expect to pay a premium.
Regardless of past studio album transgressions, R.E.M. still remains a great live act, even if Mike Mills has retired the sequin jackets from the Monster era, Peter Buck still looks a little surly on stage, and Bill Berry no longer mans the skins. Coupled with Modest Mouse and current best band on the indie planet The National, this tour should hold nice treats for fans of any of the three bands.
I’m even told that this here dinosaur band called R.E.M. has had something of a lasting impact on current bands like Modest Mouse and The National. With the quality of music being released by these bands, it’s clear that this influence came from albums like Murmur and Reckoning than Up, Reveal, or Michael Stipe Sings the Ballads of Appalachia.
This will mark R.E.M.’s 437th official tour, and will be in support of upcoming release Accelerate, the follow-up to turd-in-the-punchbowl Around the Sun. Although fans’ expectations are that the new album will crush Around the Sun like a grape, it must be pointed out that the new album is being released on April Fool’s Day. Not to mention that Athens, Georgia's finest have been stuck in a vacuum of suck since the release of New Adventures in Hi Fi.
Tour dates and ticket prices have not yet been announced. If ticket prices are set based on the number of times Michael Stipe preens and gives the audience sinister glances or the number of times Isaac Brock barks and yelps, fans can expect to pay a premium.
Regardless of past studio album transgressions, R.E.M. still remains a great live act, even if Mike Mills has retired the sequin jackets from the Monster era, Peter Buck still looks a little surly on stage, and Bill Berry no longer mans the skins. Coupled with Modest Mouse and current best band on the indie planet The National, this tour should hold nice treats for fans of any of the three bands.
I’m even told that this here dinosaur band called R.E.M. has had something of a lasting impact on current bands like Modest Mouse and The National. With the quality of music being released by these bands, it’s clear that this influence came from albums like Murmur and Reckoning than Up, Reveal, or Michael Stipe Sings the Ballads of Appalachia.
Book Review: Eye Mind: Roky Erickson and the 13th Floor Elevators by Paul Drummond
With a collective drug intake massive enough to knock out a Clydesdale, frequent harassment and several busts by police, in-fights, mentally fractured band members, one violent death, and one classic album, the story of the 13th Floor Elevators is a music journalist’s wet dream. What’s surprising is that it’s taken so many years after the band’s disintegration to finally get a biography that looks past the myth and provides a detailed account of the band. Paul Drummond’s Eye Mind: Roky Erickson and the 13th Floor Elevators is both an exhaustive study of the band’s story and how the band fit (or didn’t fit) into the 1960s musical landscape. Fans of the band or music history won’t be disappointed.
Drummond covers every aspect of the band, including the Elevators’ rise as one of Texas’ premier live acts, the brief national notoriety gained by the single “You’re Gonna Miss Me,” their failed attempts to break out on a national scale, and their record company’s shoddy management techniques. The band’s (primarily Hall’s) psychedelic philosophy of transcendence, drug regimens, and struggle against Texas’ police force and how these influenced their albums, live performances, daily lives, and relationships with each other are also addressed.
Central to the book are in-depth details about the band’s primary members: drummer John Ike, lyricist/jug player Tommy Hall, guitarist Stacy Sutherland, and vocalist/yelper Roky Erickson. While Erickson is probably the biggest draw for fans of the band, Drummond presents all the major and minor players in the Elevators’ twisted tale. Although Drummond is obviously a fan of the band, for the most part he doesn’t let his bias interfere with providing an objective account.
Tommy Hall, depending on one’s point of view, was either a certified genius or a misguided druggie with half-cooked ideas about LSD, the path to enlightenment, the meaning of life, and other HEAVY concepts, and how the Elevators’ music could be used as a conduit for communicating cosmic truths (what that term actually meant to the band is a convoluted mess).
This portrayal of Hall is often unflattering; the lyricist comes across as a pompous ass, a bully, and the worst kind of drug user. Convinced that LSD was central to a greater understanding of life (one story even recalls how Hall attempted to distribute acid to young schoolchildren), and filling his head with writings by philosophers whose names seriously need to buy a vowel, Hall insisted the band take acid prior to performing, in an attempt to convey the psychedelic experience to the audience. Drummond shows how this dogmatic insistence to play on LSD, coupled with Hall’s abrasive and conceited personality, led to numerous fights within the band, and more than one lousy live performance.
Of course, Roky Erickson remains the central figure throughout the band’s history. Either a cautionary tale about the dangers of consuming LSD like Mentos or a misunderstood left-of-center genius (or both), the singer’s tale is one of addiction, mental instability, and varying degrees of recovery. Drummond’s book traces Erickson’s life carefully, with a central question being when the singer’s mind cracked, what caused it, and whether Erickson either faked or exaggerated his mental illness.
What becomes clear is that at some point starting around 1967, Erickson’s behavior became increasingly erratic and bizarre. The singer would often get sidetracked and turn up at the wrong venue or not all, became increasingly paranoid, and claimed that he was receiving transmissions from Russians and Martians in his teeth. In one famous story from the 1980s, Erickson was discovered in his home with several TVs and radios turned to different stations at maximum volume; another time, he was arrested for driving zero miles an error. With symptoms that included traces of autism, schizophrenia, and the inability towards self control, it’s certainly hard to accept Erickson’s later claims that his mental illness was largely a ruse.
A number of causes for this mental decline are proposed. Erickson’s liberal use of LSD, often fed to him by Hall, clearly had its adverse effects, although the singer’s coddling by his religious mother and friends, the various chemicals he received at the sinisterly-named Rusk Maximum Security Prison for the Criminally Insane, and Erickson’s sensitive personality cannot be ruled out either.
Despite a few relapses – by 1999 Erickson appeared to be completely helpless and lost man-child when he didn’t have a guitar in his hands, as shown in the You’re Gonna Miss Me documentary – he appears to have largely recovered. Some of his solo “Horror Rock” work almost rivals anything from the Elevators’ classic Psychedelic Sounds album, and Erickson’s also managed a few concert appearances in the last few years.
At its depressing worst, the Elevators’ story reads like a from-the-depths-of hell version of VH1’s Behind the Music. All of the clichés are there: regional fame and a failed attempt at national stardom, massive and naïve drug use, gross negligence from a record label, band squabbles, time spent in both prisons and mental institutions, failed reunion attempts, and tragic personal stories for the band’s members (especially in the case of Sutherland, who was accidentally shot to death by his wife in a drunken/drug-fueled argument). Yet despite the Elevators never achieving the attention in their heyday that should have, the band has been cited as an influence by bands such as Spacemen 3 and R.E.M. In some cases, specifically that of Roky Erickson, the band’s story is one of perseverance and survival.
Drummond’s book was meticulously researched and is deeply detailed. It’s the first definitive history of the Elevators and also serves as a nice study of 1960s psychedelic culture. With many new photos and interviews with the band and other key players in the Elevators’ scene, Drummond’s book is a great read for both fans of the band and fans of music history.
Drummond covers every aspect of the band, including the Elevators’ rise as one of Texas’ premier live acts, the brief national notoriety gained by the single “You’re Gonna Miss Me,” their failed attempts to break out on a national scale, and their record company’s shoddy management techniques. The band’s (primarily Hall’s) psychedelic philosophy of transcendence, drug regimens, and struggle against Texas’ police force and how these influenced their albums, live performances, daily lives, and relationships with each other are also addressed.
Central to the book are in-depth details about the band’s primary members: drummer John Ike, lyricist/jug player Tommy Hall, guitarist Stacy Sutherland, and vocalist/yelper Roky Erickson. While Erickson is probably the biggest draw for fans of the band, Drummond presents all the major and minor players in the Elevators’ twisted tale. Although Drummond is obviously a fan of the band, for the most part he doesn’t let his bias interfere with providing an objective account.
Tommy Hall, depending on one’s point of view, was either a certified genius or a misguided druggie with half-cooked ideas about LSD, the path to enlightenment, the meaning of life, and other HEAVY concepts, and how the Elevators’ music could be used as a conduit for communicating cosmic truths (what that term actually meant to the band is a convoluted mess).
This portrayal of Hall is often unflattering; the lyricist comes across as a pompous ass, a bully, and the worst kind of drug user. Convinced that LSD was central to a greater understanding of life (one story even recalls how Hall attempted to distribute acid to young schoolchildren), and filling his head with writings by philosophers whose names seriously need to buy a vowel, Hall insisted the band take acid prior to performing, in an attempt to convey the psychedelic experience to the audience. Drummond shows how this dogmatic insistence to play on LSD, coupled with Hall’s abrasive and conceited personality, led to numerous fights within the band, and more than one lousy live performance.
Of course, Roky Erickson remains the central figure throughout the band’s history. Either a cautionary tale about the dangers of consuming LSD like Mentos or a misunderstood left-of-center genius (or both), the singer’s tale is one of addiction, mental instability, and varying degrees of recovery. Drummond’s book traces Erickson’s life carefully, with a central question being when the singer’s mind cracked, what caused it, and whether Erickson either faked or exaggerated his mental illness.
What becomes clear is that at some point starting around 1967, Erickson’s behavior became increasingly erratic and bizarre. The singer would often get sidetracked and turn up at the wrong venue or not all, became increasingly paranoid, and claimed that he was receiving transmissions from Russians and Martians in his teeth. In one famous story from the 1980s, Erickson was discovered in his home with several TVs and radios turned to different stations at maximum volume; another time, he was arrested for driving zero miles an error. With symptoms that included traces of autism, schizophrenia, and the inability towards self control, it’s certainly hard to accept Erickson’s later claims that his mental illness was largely a ruse.
A number of causes for this mental decline are proposed. Erickson’s liberal use of LSD, often fed to him by Hall, clearly had its adverse effects, although the singer’s coddling by his religious mother and friends, the various chemicals he received at the sinisterly-named Rusk Maximum Security Prison for the Criminally Insane, and Erickson’s sensitive personality cannot be ruled out either.
Despite a few relapses – by 1999 Erickson appeared to be completely helpless and lost man-child when he didn’t have a guitar in his hands, as shown in the You’re Gonna Miss Me documentary – he appears to have largely recovered. Some of his solo “Horror Rock” work almost rivals anything from the Elevators’ classic Psychedelic Sounds album, and Erickson’s also managed a few concert appearances in the last few years.
At its depressing worst, the Elevators’ story reads like a from-the-depths-of hell version of VH1’s Behind the Music. All of the clichés are there: regional fame and a failed attempt at national stardom, massive and naïve drug use, gross negligence from a record label, band squabbles, time spent in both prisons and mental institutions, failed reunion attempts, and tragic personal stories for the band’s members (especially in the case of Sutherland, who was accidentally shot to death by his wife in a drunken/drug-fueled argument). Yet despite the Elevators never achieving the attention in their heyday that should have, the band has been cited as an influence by bands such as Spacemen 3 and R.E.M. In some cases, specifically that of Roky Erickson, the band’s story is one of perseverance and survival.
Drummond’s book was meticulously researched and is deeply detailed. It’s the first definitive history of the Elevators and also serves as a nice study of 1960s psychedelic culture. With many new photos and interviews with the band and other key players in the Elevators’ scene, Drummond’s book is a great read for both fans of the band and fans of music history.
Band of Horses and an Open Letter to Snow
Dear Snow:
There’s no easy way for me to say this. Wait, yes there is: I hate you. As Ugly Kid Joe once so eloquently sang, I hate everything about you. There’s a reason dogs urinate on you, plows sweep you away into back alleys, and everyone south of Morehead, Minnesota views you as a slushy pain in the ass. Crazy skiers, snowboarders, and ESPN X-Games executives and sponsors excepted, nobody likes you. I’m also starting to despise your bastard cousins Sleet and Hail.
Don’t act so surprised; we both know things were coming to this. Like Fredo betraying his brother Michael in The Godfather II, we’re past the point of reconciliation, forgiveness, or understanding. All that’s left is raging, indescribable, Baldwin vs. Bassinger loathing.
Sure we’ve had some good times over the years. You managed to get a good number of school days cancelled for me, and I’ll never forget wadding you up into little icy balls of mayhem and hurling them at my father as he begged me to quit screwing around and start shoveling.
But then, on January 31, 2008, the day of the Band of Horses concert in St.Louis, you decided to turn my fair city into Hoth. Of course many St. Louisians responded in typical snow-mania fashion: grocery stores were violently plundered, canned goods thrown into shopping carts with merciless haste and venom, the local stations began running dramatic and sinister “Winter Storm 2008” music and taglines, and drivers in armored SUVs tooled down the highways and byways as if they were leading the siege of Vicksburg.
As I sat in my cubicle and watched you fall steadily to the ground, I noticed you accumulating like the snotty brat you are in alarming fashion. Even so, I knew that nothing was going to deter me from seeing Band of Horses. After all, I’d endured much more treacherous weather in the name of the concert-going experience. I’d learned how to handle nasty weather with a good degree of patience and perspective; three consecutive days spent in line for Bob Dylan shows with freezing rain, below-freezing temperatures, and a whole army of Dylanphiles discussing everything from Dylan’s hats to Dylan’s shoes to Dylan’s role in the late 1990s economic boom have that effect.
Yet a strange thing happened when I began driving on you. My quasi-reliable General Motors vehicle slipped and skidded a little, then a little more, and then a lot. Like Sasha Cohen on ice at the Olympics, my car was wobbly, shaky, and clearly a head case. But for the grace of front-wheel drive did I make it home without hitting an abutment or being steamrolled by those pesky jumbo SUVs.
I didn’t make it the concert; to drive on you would clearly be tempting the cruel fates of a car insurance deductible and towing costs a little too much. I’m assuming the show went on as scheduled and was probably outstanding; nothing online indicates the show was cancelled. I can only imagine that hearing Band of Horses live is far better than listening to either Everything All the Time or Cease To Begin or the Ford commercial that features the song “Funeral.” Now, if St. Louis music trends hold true, the next time the band hits St. Louis, they’ll be opening for a more-established act in a massive, impersonal amphitheatre.
Don’t tell me this shows that I demonstrated good judgment or common sense; that’s no consolation. Even if the concert would have been cancelled, you simultaneously ruined my plans and made me look like a total chickenshit. A few years ago, nothing short of the skies opening and Jesus himself descending to earth, Liar by the Jesus Lizard blasting from his iPod, would have prevented me from missing a St. Louis concert by one of “my” bands. And even then I would have strongly considered attending the performance and dealing with that little apocalypse thing later.
Snow, you and I are no longer on speaking terms. Like Michael Corleone dealing with Fredo, I want advance notice when you’ll be coming around, so I can make sure I’m in a different part of town. And when Band of Horses returns to the STL in a couple years and is opening for Once Forgotten But Now Suddenly Relevant And Respected Dinosaur Act at the St. Louis Enormo-Dome, it won’t make up for missing this show.
Fix you good,
Eric
There’s no easy way for me to say this. Wait, yes there is: I hate you. As Ugly Kid Joe once so eloquently sang, I hate everything about you. There’s a reason dogs urinate on you, plows sweep you away into back alleys, and everyone south of Morehead, Minnesota views you as a slushy pain in the ass. Crazy skiers, snowboarders, and ESPN X-Games executives and sponsors excepted, nobody likes you. I’m also starting to despise your bastard cousins Sleet and Hail.
Don’t act so surprised; we both know things were coming to this. Like Fredo betraying his brother Michael in The Godfather II, we’re past the point of reconciliation, forgiveness, or understanding. All that’s left is raging, indescribable, Baldwin vs. Bassinger loathing.
Sure we’ve had some good times over the years. You managed to get a good number of school days cancelled for me, and I’ll never forget wadding you up into little icy balls of mayhem and hurling them at my father as he begged me to quit screwing around and start shoveling.
But then, on January 31, 2008, the day of the Band of Horses concert in St.Louis, you decided to turn my fair city into Hoth. Of course many St. Louisians responded in typical snow-mania fashion: grocery stores were violently plundered, canned goods thrown into shopping carts with merciless haste and venom, the local stations began running dramatic and sinister “Winter Storm 2008” music and taglines, and drivers in armored SUVs tooled down the highways and byways as if they were leading the siege of Vicksburg.
As I sat in my cubicle and watched you fall steadily to the ground, I noticed you accumulating like the snotty brat you are in alarming fashion. Even so, I knew that nothing was going to deter me from seeing Band of Horses. After all, I’d endured much more treacherous weather in the name of the concert-going experience. I’d learned how to handle nasty weather with a good degree of patience and perspective; three consecutive days spent in line for Bob Dylan shows with freezing rain, below-freezing temperatures, and a whole army of Dylanphiles discussing everything from Dylan’s hats to Dylan’s shoes to Dylan’s role in the late 1990s economic boom have that effect.
Yet a strange thing happened when I began driving on you. My quasi-reliable General Motors vehicle slipped and skidded a little, then a little more, and then a lot. Like Sasha Cohen on ice at the Olympics, my car was wobbly, shaky, and clearly a head case. But for the grace of front-wheel drive did I make it home without hitting an abutment or being steamrolled by those pesky jumbo SUVs.
I didn’t make it the concert; to drive on you would clearly be tempting the cruel fates of a car insurance deductible and towing costs a little too much. I’m assuming the show went on as scheduled and was probably outstanding; nothing online indicates the show was cancelled. I can only imagine that hearing Band of Horses live is far better than listening to either Everything All the Time or Cease To Begin or the Ford commercial that features the song “Funeral.” Now, if St. Louis music trends hold true, the next time the band hits St. Louis, they’ll be opening for a more-established act in a massive, impersonal amphitheatre.
Don’t tell me this shows that I demonstrated good judgment or common sense; that’s no consolation. Even if the concert would have been cancelled, you simultaneously ruined my plans and made me look like a total chickenshit. A few years ago, nothing short of the skies opening and Jesus himself descending to earth, Liar by the Jesus Lizard blasting from his iPod, would have prevented me from missing a St. Louis concert by one of “my” bands. And even then I would have strongly considered attending the performance and dealing with that little apocalypse thing later.
Snow, you and I are no longer on speaking terms. Like Michael Corleone dealing with Fredo, I want advance notice when you’ll be coming around, so I can make sure I’m in a different part of town. And when Band of Horses returns to the STL in a couple years and is opening for Once Forgotten But Now Suddenly Relevant And Respected Dinosaur Act at the St. Louis Enormo-Dome, it won’t make up for missing this show.
Fix you good,
Eric
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