THE BLANK GENERATION

Out with the old; in with the new

2005-04-15T15:09:00.000-05:00

If you've wondered why I've been posting so sporadically as of the past month, wonder no more. Sure, there was this little thing called the NCAA Tournament, and rooting for my Illini took up a good deal of time. But, there was also something else--a secret lover. Yes, dear old blog, sorry to have to spring it on ya in such a public fashion, but I've been seeing someone else. And, she's a looker, too. I'm packing my suitcase and heading for the door. So long, old pal.

The Blank Generation is no more. But, don't fret. It's death means the birth of a new fling. Ladies and gents, feast your eyes on this. My new mp3 blog.

If you've been reading my site for any amount of time, then you know about my friendship with fellow scribe Jon Wright, who runs Unfinished Novellas. Well, in an effort to defend against writer's burnout, he and I have decided to merge forces, to test the "less is more" philosophy. By that I mean, less individual work, but more sweet, sweet musically-inspired mischief for you, the reader, to enjoy. So, click on over there and bookmark it at once. If you're a fellow blog and you link here, please update your link. Folks, it's time to getLevitation.

Cheers!
The Noiseboy

N/P--Marty Robbins, "They're Hanging Me Tonight"

Quick update

2005-04-12T08:35:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the delay again, but I'm working on something "new" that requires a bit of time off. Apologies, but the wait will be worth it. More bang for your buck, so to speak.

In the meantime, if you've been in the hunt for the new Jens Lekman EP, The Opposite of Hallelujah, I just received word that it's finally available for order here. Paypal is the accepted method, and the item ships from Canada. It works out to be about ten American dollars (shipping included).

Also, the new issue of Skyscraper is on the stands now (at your favorite record store/Borders/B&N/etc.). Issue 18 includes a feature article on The Living Blue (formerly The Blackouts) written by yours truly, as well as lots of reviews and other good stuff. Check it out...

N/P--The Sounds of Sniffles

Well, crap

2005-04-04T22:35:00.000-05:00

I strongly dislike losing, and that's just what my Illini did tonight. It was clear that on this particular eve, North Carolina outperformed my team, mostly due to one Sean May. What I wouldn't give for a guy like that on my team.

We had our chances to win--we had our open looks at the basket--but when it counted, the shots didn't fall. But, don't hang your head for these Illini. They proved once again that they should never be counted out. They almost mounted another unbelievable comeback. Tonight, unfortunately, the opponent was just too good to give under the pressure.

Some of you are probably wondering if I'm ever going to get back to writing about music. Well, yes I am. But, not for a short while. A few changes are in the works. You'll be in the loop on those shortly. For now, however, just sit tight. (However, try not to sit as tight as I did during the NCAA Tourney. That's not good on the old ticker.)

Howdy stranger: J is for Jonathan Fire*Eater

2005-03-28T19:34:00.000-06:00

Jonathan Fire*Eater's EP The Public Hanging of a Movie Star (pictured above) is located on the shelf between The Jesus and Mary Chain's Psychocandy and Smashed Blocked! by John's Children.

If you're hipper than most, you can say that you were there first, when the last great band from NYC to feature an asterisk in their name was packing 'em in at dingy NYC venues. I can't make that claim, myself, even though I hopped on the JFE bandwagon long before they signed to Dreamworks and quickly had their tires slashed. I remember buying this CD--well actually the seven inch (I later bought the CD as it had an extra song on it)--from East Peoria Co-Op without really having any clue who in the fuck Jonathan Fire*Eater was. I soon found out, however.

I gobbled up this release--the band's first--and their subsequent EP, Tremble Under the Boom Lights, before losing interest in the group prior to them actually "making it big" on the indie circuit. I did have the pleasure of catching them in concert. My friend booked them in an attic show--the perfect foil to the typical basement gig--in Peoria in the middle of the summer. It was hot as hell up there, and the band had to lug their equipment up three flights of stairs. Five songs into their set, the cops showed up in response to noise complaints and broke the show up. My friend lost his shirt on the affair, but JFE was cool enough to take what meager amount of money he could offer--which was significantly under their guarantee--and a place to crash for the night. That left quite an impression on me.

Apparently, it left quite an impression on the band, too. Some six years later, when I spoke to them in their new incarnation (The Walkmen), they remembered the gig and said they had just discussed it that day as they drove past Peoria en route to Chicago. JFE pale in comparison to The Walkmen, partly due to the superior frontman abilities of Hamilton Leithauser, who replaced JFE singer Stewart Lupton when The Walkmen formed. In addition, JFE sound more like imitators, happy to be good with the gimmick but hardly a fully-realized musical outfit. Still, I remember these days fondly.

At least two things have remained a constant since that attic show in Peoria. One, organist Walter Martin (now in The Walkmen) still has that killer farfisa with the black and white keys. And Two, I've still got a thing for pale-faced, lanky white kids who wish they had a bit of Mick Jagger in them.

JFE, "When Prince was a Kid"
JFE, "The Public Hanging of a Movie Star"

This is long out of print, but you can buy it here if you've got a wad of cash burning a hole in your pocket.

March madness, indeed

2005-03-27T11:42:00.000-06:00

My friends make fun of me for recording Illini basketball games. I haven’t been doing it for every game, but I have captured all their significant games--their win over Wake Forest which launched them into the No. 1 ranking, Big Ten rivalries against Wisconsin and Michigan State, their lone loss at Ohio State, the conference tournament, and of course the NCAA Tourney. After last night’s game, they now at least know why.

The final four minutes of regulation during Illinois 90-89 victory over Arizona is a complete blur. I need to go back and watch it again--not just so that I can relive the moment, but so that I can recall just what actually happened in that moment. The nuts and bolts of it are simple: Illinois erased a 15-point deficit with under four minutes to go to send the game to overtime. If you don’t watch much college basketball, let me just say this: that sort of thing doesn’t happen--especially against elite teams in the NCAA Tourney.

Saturday was possibly the best day of basketball that I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching. First, Louisville found a way to defeat West Virginia in overtime, much to my chagrin. This, after the Mountaineers made an astounding 18 three-pointers on unbelievable 67 percent three-point shooting. My boy Pittsnogle netted a game-high 25 points in the loss, which ended a real Cinderella story. That game was simply phenomenal. I should have came to the correct conclusion at that game’s end: on this day, anything was possible. If Louisville, which looked like a severely overmatched team in the first half, could battle back after being down 20 points to win the game going away in overtime, then anything could happen in the Illinois-Arizona game.

And, boy, did it ever.

I’ll allow others to sing the Illini’s praises. The team’s rally is already being called the greatest comeback in college basketball history. While that declaration might be a bit premature or reactionary, it’s certain that this game is among the elite comebacks the game has ever witnessed. See for yourself. But, I don’t want to simply rehash what you can already gather from opening up the front page of any sports section in America.

On many personal levels, this game was a wake-up call for me. I’m a doubter by nature, a pessimist that would rather shoulder the doubt than boast of the positive possibilities of “what if?” I’m also an addict. I’m addicted to the thrill of victory and the misery of defeat. And, in the world of an average sports fan, the pain of defeat is encountered far more often than the joy of a championship. During my adult life, I’ve yet to know what it feels like to get the Big Win. I certainly know what it feels like to come close. I only have to turn back to October of 2004 for that emotion, as the Cardinals defeated the Astros to make it to the World Series. We all know how that one turned out.

That Series only reinforced the dangers within for the rooting fan. Enter the world of fandom at your own risk. A season following your favorite team is a tiresome rollercoaster ride. You will be crushed far too often. You will be rewarded with only fleeting, occasional moments of rejoice. You will become oh so familiar with the phrase, “this close.” Rarely, sometimes not even in your lifetime, will you be allowed to call your team a Champion. And, if you are not strong or wise, you will become a cynic, a person who doesn’t allow him or herself to revel in the happiness that goes hand in hand with rooting for a winning, championship-caliber team. There’s always that shadow of doubt darkening the road ahead, begging you to miss the forest for the trees.

Up until last night, I was that cynic. I was full of doubt, attempting to be “realistic.” No, my team isn’t good enough to win a national title. They don’t have the athletes to beat this team. They don’t have the size to handle those guys. They don’t have the talent to beat so-and-so. But, now I know better. There’s no room for “realism” in the mind of a fan. There’s only room for hope. And hope breeds positive energy. And positive energy is what compels basketball teams on to National Championships. And, today, I think that’s exactly where the Illini are headed.

(I promise to get back to writing about music soon. I’m mulling over some significant changes to the site, and should have all of that ironed out within the next few days.)

N/P--Ted Leo & the Pharmcists, The Tyranny of Distance

I'll be back

2005-03-25T12:53:00.000-06:00

Not to get all Schwarzenegger on you, but I will be back--and soon. I've been inspired to new heights recently by the success of the West Virginia Moutaineers (if only I had a photo of me in my new WV t-shirt that M picked up for me while at her peeps in Pee-Ay). And, a modest stack of new albums. So, this weekend I plan to take time out from my NCAA basketball blitz to share some tunes with you all. Look forward to something from Mouse and the Traps, Los Dug Dug's (yay for Mexican bands sporting my name!), and Sam Gopal (Lemmy from Motorhead's old, old band). I know you can't wait!

In the meantime, brackets be damned! Make sure you're rootin' loud and proud this weekend for Joe Herber (pronounced Hair-bear), Kevin Pittsnogle, D'or Fischer, Mike Gansey and the Mountaineers as they battle the evil Rick Pitino-led Louisville Cardinals. And while you're rooting for the underdog, please don't root against the top dog--my Illini. They've got an equally-difficult task ahead in trying to defeat the dapper Lute Olson and his Arizona Wildcats.

N/P--Michael Hurley, Long Journey

Excavating 2004: Freaky folk that's not so weird

2005-03-19T20:11:00.000-06:00

Vetiver. Apparently it’s a kind of tropical grass that’s commonly found in Thailand. That does little to describe why San Francisco songwriter Andy Cabic (he of The Raymond Brake fame) selected the word as his moniker. Further exploration unveils that Vetiver grass is often used by farmers to promote soil and water conservation. The grass grows upward in large clumps, but does not spread outward. Hence, when planted on a slope it forms a natural embankment that helps to eradicate erosion without disturbing the crop it serves to protect. It’s an ideal grass for a rainy area like Thailand.

That said, I have no witty way to tie Vetiver the grass to Vetiver the artist, but at least you’ve now been educated on one small aspect of farming in southeast Asia. Bonus!

Vetiver’s self-titled debut (on the DiCristina label) totally flew under my radar in 2004. Seeing as the group has been lumped in with the new “weird-folk” movement that’s taking the States by storm, and seeing as Devendra Banhart, Joanna Newsom and White Magic all ended up on my Best of 2004 list, I suppose I’m just behind the curve on this one. My bad. The guest appearances on this album are probably its greatest selling point on the surface: Banhart is around for all eleven songs, Newsom guests on harp, and Hope Sandoval (of Mazzy Star) even shows up to lend her voice to a tune. And--get this--Colm O’Ciosoig of My Bloody Valentine lent his San Fran living room and the occasional drum fill to the recording of this album. That’s quite a guest list for Cabic, a newbie to the folk scene.

But, after listening to the record, it’s easy to see why Cabic gained such support. Vetiver is a pleasure to listen to and stands stiff-spined in comparison to Newsom and Banhart’s recent releases. Drawing influences from a wide array of sources--Marc Bolan, Donovan, Nick Drake--Cabic’s songs are wistful and sweet. From a sonic standpoint, his music breathes deep belly breaths, allowing the nostrils to soak in the surroundings. Like a smattering of cool moss on the underside of a felled tree, Vetiver’s rich, tuneful songs are a pleasant surprise given the perception of the "weird-folk" movement that he's been lumped in with.

Cabic is easier on the ears and more approachable than counterpart Banhart and less pretentious than Sufjan Stevens. He reminds me the most of Iron & Wine, yet his songs are more textured than all three thanks to a full-time cellist and violinist.

Pitchfork described the album as “devoid of 21st century,” and I couldn’t disagree more. While the album’s pen-and-ink on parchment paper cover art might lead one down that path, the music itself sounds “hi-fi” and features a glowing, warm ambience. Vetiver’s lyrics are also slice-of-life in nature, a far cry from the esoteric musings of many of his contemporaries. And that fact hardly dates the album in any sense.

There really isn’t much information available online about Vetiver. Apparently, there’s no band web site, and the label is small enough to not have an internet presence either. A google search will turn up a handful of reviews and a couple brief interviews, but Vetiver is missing in action in the world wide web. I guess that’s the only way in which Pitchfork’s assessment was correct.

A trio of songs for you to enjoy:
"Amerilie" (That acoustic guitar riff sounds familiar, but I can't place it. That's Newsom on harp, though.)
"Farther On"
"Angels' Share" (Featuring Hope Sandoval on backing vocals.)

Who are you rooting for?

2005-03-16T23:34:00.000-06:00

Apologies are due for my inability to update my MP3s of the Week. Chances are you wouldn't be too interested in hearing that Gary Glitter song--"da-da-da-da-da HEY..."--for the thousandth time anyway. And, that's about the only theme I could come up with for this week. (Well, that and the Native American-ish "war song" featured at all Illini home games and performed so dutifully by the pep band. Speaking of Mr. Chief Illiniwek, the pressure's once again on to give him the boot, and it's possible that he might be shown the door soon. But as long as I've lived here, that's been the case. So, I'm not holding my breath.)

I doubt I'll post anything new until Sunday. Sorry, but I'm preoccupied over the next several days. I've got Fairleigh Dickinson, the Ragin' Cajuns, and buzzer beaters on my mind. I'd absolutely love to see West Virginia win a couple games and knock off Chris F'in Paul and Wake Forest. How can I not root for a guy named Pittsnogle? And for the love of the basketball God, can someone please take out North Carolina and shut up all these commentators once and for all? Of ESPN's "experts", only four of seven actually have my boys going to the Final Four. They might not make it that far, despite a relatively easy bracket, but for crying out loud they're the No. 1 team in the nation and have lost just once this year--by a single point on a last-second shot on the road. One would think that that would at least buy them a bit more support from the media pundits.

As for my Final Four picks, I've filled out three brackets for three different pools. On each, I changed my picks somewhat to improve my chances at winning the jackpot. In general, I'll take my chances with these four teams: Illinois, Louisville, UConn, and Duke. At least, that's what my gut tells me. What's your's whisperin' to ya?

Waving the white flag

2005-03-15T17:53:00.000-06:00

Music for the moment: Cheap Trick, "Surrender" (outtake from the Heaven Tonight sessions)

I’ll admit to being more than a little distracted as of late. I’ve got 64 reasons to be this time of year. Plus, I’ve been sick, and on “vacation”--which always makes for an amusing pair of bedfellows. But, in general, I just haven’t felt inspired to write about music.

Being the finger-pointing type, I select my “Year Without Music” as the scapegoat. It has felt an awful lot like an ankle bracelet, which I guess means that Martha Stewart and I have something in common other than the towels hanging in my bathroom. Coming into this absurd New Year’s resolution, I thought that I would potentially experience a sense of freedom from my obsession, as if I could detach myself from my greed by simply waving a magic wand. But if anything, instituting such a rigid guideline has accomplished the exact opposite. I feel suffocated by my own desire, unable to shake the need to purchase new music from my thoughts. It’s a Catch-22: if I buy music, I feed the greed. If I don’t buy music, the greed only grows hungry and barks louder.

So, it’s over. Two-and-a-half months into 2005, and I surrender. Maybe all my friends are right about which Cheap Trick song is superior after all.

It never was much of a fast, if we’re speaking honestly. I purchased eight albums this year prior to the great “Year Without Music” crash of ‘05. Three with “cash money,” and five more thanks to credit earned from items sold online. I didn’t break the rules of my silly contract, that is until my trip to Bloomington, Indiana to see Jens Lekman. Bloomington presented me with a fresh challenge--an actual live, breathing record store. Champaign doesn’t have any of those. We have Record Swap, which sells only used vinyl and CDs (at extremely outrageous prices and with generally poor selection). And we have Parasol, which is a wonderful store but sells only new vinyl and CDs. Bloomington, however, has a real survivor in T.D.’s, a little hole-in-the-wall store in the basement of a coffee shop that isn’t much bigger than my bedroom. It stocks new and used vinyl and has a tasteful eye for the kind of music that I’m interested in--left-of-center rock music and eclectic contemporary music. It’s back catalogue is actually quite impressive, and I assume because Bloomington is a small town that it’s racks aren’t picked over like one often finds in a big city emporium. I passed on several new releases of interest and--given self-imposed time constraints--I didn’t have enough time to really scour the racks. But, I did find a few used items of note:

1. James Chance & the Contortions, Lost Chance on CD
2. Esquivel, Music from a Sparkling Planet on CD
3. The Cherry Valance, Riffin’ on LP (to replace my CD)
4. John Mayall, The Blues Alone on LP, and
5. The Monkees Greatest Hits on LP (to replace my severely beat-up copy)

I wouldn’t call it “the jackpot” by any stretch of the imagination. But, it was exhilarating nonetheless to be in a real record store for the first time in months, slap a couple twenties on the counter and walk out the door with a stash under my arm. Music is the one constant in my life--other than M--that keeps me happy. I was stupid to think that I could deprive myself of that joy and not suffer an intolerable loss. I live for such experiences: the thrill of the hunt, the agony of defeat and the occasional exhileration of the kill. I suppose that if I lived in a larger city I might find a trip to the record store to be more commonplace. But, I don’t. So this trip, considering the past two months, was like a cross-continent trek to the Wailing Wall.

As for my “Year Without Music,” I have no regrets that I gave it a go. I may never kick the habit, but hopefully I’ll be better off because of it, not worse off as a result of it. As author Thornton Wilder famously quipped: “Money is like manure; it’s not worth a thing unless it’s spread around encouraging young things to grow.”

So, grow record collection. Stand tall with sturdy knees and a firm backbone. I’m sorry that I neglected you all these weeks. And, dear blog, forgive my recent absence. It’s true that it only makes the heart grow fonder.

N/P–Vetiver’s self-titled album (more on that soon)

Sorry for the delay

2005-03-10T11:17:00.000-06:00

I'm actually on one of those use-it-or-lose-it vacations from work. The unfortunate thing is, I'm also sick. That means plenty of time on the couch (with the HBO series The Carnivale). So, I apologize, but I haven't felt up to posting anything new this week.

On the bright side, I received an e-mail from Jens Lekman yesterday in response to an inquiry about how to order his new EP, The Opposite of Hallelujah. The process sounds more like a spy mission than a simple ordering process. But, if you're one of the brave souls (like me) who really wants to hear his new songs, follow the advice of "J" (that's how Jens signs his name):

"Write to skylights@gmail.com (for vinyl 7") or info@thehiddencameras.com (for CD version). Be patient as it might take a while for them to reply."

Cheers!

N/P--The sound of coughing

MP3s of the Week: Go Swedes Go!

2005-03-06T19:00:00.000-06:00

Mr. Jens Lekman is an abominable snowman in the market, the luckiest guy on the lower East Side, and the light that never goes out--all rolled into one! His show on Friday in Bloomington, Indiana simply floored me. It was like the first time I saw Stephin Merritt all over again (except unlike Merritt, Lekman has a wee bit of innocence and a dash of youthful energy). Simply spectacular. Lekman performed with a drummer (playing standing up), a bassist (both on loan from The Impossible Shapes), a cellist and a violinist. Lekman handled electric guitar and ukelele (another thing he has in common with Merritt). His set consisted of a good number of tunes from his EPs, to my surprise. In fact, the only one of the songs that he didn't play from those I previously posted (see post below) was "Sky Phenomenon". The best news from the show? Lekman has a new 7" you can purchase, although even he doesn't know how you go about buying it. (See his site for contact info.) He performed the title cut from it, "The Opposite of Hallelujah," which is yet another stellar offering from this boy genius.

The rest of Bloomington was a minor letdown. For starters, we arrived late, but luckily didn't miss any of Lekman. M and I forgot about the time change and then had trouble finding the club, which was a dump compared to the posh indie rock venues of Champaign. The no smoking policy was a nice surprise, but unfortunately all that did was call more attention to the skank smell of mold. Hello, ventilation, you are needed at the Second Story. Our hotel, The University Plaza, came cheap enough ($56 through Priceline). But, let's just say, the room reflected the price. Peeling wallpaper, no hot water, and a wall of curtains that would lead one to believe that there was a wall of windows behind it. Sadly, much like in The Wizard of Oz, once the curtains were opened, what was behind them was found to be quite inferior: a wall.

Once outside the hotel, things perked up. M found some good clothing shops, I picked up an MC5 t-shirt, we had a yummy brunch at a downtown deli and toured the campus/downtown (they are essentially connected) by foot. And, oh yes, I bought a few records. But, more on that haul--and the happy/sad demise of my Year Without Music--at a later date.

To speed things along, in honor of Mr. Lekman's super show, I'm posting some MP3s this week from his fellow Swedish patriots, whom I highly recommend: The Chrysler, the Shout Out Louds, and Suburban Kids with Biblical Names. See my Top 30 of 2004 for additional thoughts on the tunes. I will add that the Shout Out Louds, who recently released a new EP, have signed to Capitol and are likely to blow up this year. They're touring the western half of the States with The Futureheads right now (see schedule at their site). If memory serves, The Chrysler will be re-releasing their last full length with Parasol shortly. So, look for that. And, Suburban Kids can be found on the net here and here.

N/P--Tears of rage as a result of the first loss of the season for my Fighting Illini. (29-1 ain't too shabby, though.)

TBG on hiatus thru weekend

2005-03-03T22:47:00.000-06:00

I'm heading to sunny (hopefully) Bloomington, Indiana tomorrow night to see Sweden's "15th sexiest man," so says he: Jens Lekman. I gotta say, I'm pumped! This will be my second trip to Bloomington in the past year. However, last time, I was there with M for a conference she was participating in, and I didn't really get much of a chance to explore the town. This time around, I'll be seeing Lekman at the Second Story, spending the night, and using Saturday to find my way to a few cool shops and an interesting eatery or two. (If all goes well, I'll avoid the two fine record shops that I dropped $100 at my last time through town. Remember, I'm still holding on ever so loosely to my Year Without Music.)

In the meantime, you can have your very own Jens Lekman concert in your study (or bedroom, or living room, or wherever your computer resides). Enjoy the following tracks taken from two of his EPs. As you listen up, feel free to revisit my ramblings on Lekman from September. If you like what you read/hear, be sure to pick up some of his goods. Parasol's got them all.

Isn't he adorable?

"A Sweet Summernight on Hammer Hill" (from You Are the Light EP)

"I Saw Her in the Anti-War Demonstration" (from You Are the Light EP)

"Sky Phenomenon" (from Maple Leaves EP)

"Black Cab" (from Maple Leaves EP)

Howdy stranger: I is for Ivy

2005-03-02T22:22:00.000-06:00

Ivy, "The Best Thing"
Ivy, "Get Out of the City"

Welcome back to my alphabetical tour of my lonesome, forgotten CDs.

It's slim pickings in the I’s. I’m not sure how many CDs I have in A-Z, but I do know that I only have 14 albums in my I’s. That led me to ponder just what obvious letter-I artists I was missing. Shouldn’t I have some Isley Brothers? Icicle Works? In Sync? Maybe a little Iron Maiden? A few of the obvious letter-I culprits can be found over in my vinyl collection--Billy Idol, INXS, and the International Submarine Band. But, truth be told, I’m not too big on I’s.

For one two-month stretch of college, however, I was big on Ivy. And they’ve since faded fast from my memory. Today, their 1997 album, Apartment Life, rests on the shelf between Iron & Wine’s latest album and a compilation of stuff by The Jam.

Breaking out the CD again brings back one memory in particular--that of moving in with my ex-girlfriend when I first arrived in Champaign in 1999. I was naive, and finally sharing an apartment with the girl I had been dating for three years felt for a brief while like a utopia. Apartment Life, appropriately enough, was my soundtrack for those happy days.

The bubble popped soon enough, and I no longer needed the services of Parisian-born chanteuse Dominique Durand to brighten the corners. I should have listened a bit closer to the lyrics of some of these songs, I suppose, as the subject matter might have been more to my liking:

The cat's on the carpet.
The phone doesn't work.
I hate when it's quiet.
It means that you're hurt.

It gets so complicated
'til I can't pretend.
I thought I could do something good
But I'll never do that again. ...

And you put your book down
And stare into space.
You turn all the lights down
So I won't see your face.

It gets so complicated
'til I can't pretend.
I thought I could do something good
But I'll never do that again. ...

Matter of fact, a good deal of the record deals with a certain sense of longing and uncertainty. Durand isn’t going to win any awards for her lyrical content, but the general undercurrent throughout the album is that of a calming melancholy. There’s absolutely nothing spectacular about the record; it’s simply a likeable slice of adult indie rock lite. In many ways, it reminds me of Luna, or at times a female-fronted Holiday.

A couple selections from Apartment Life appeared in the Farrelly Brothers’ hit movie There’s Something About Mary. Apparently, the trendy movie-makers have a crush on Ivy, as they used another Ivy song in a follow-up film and allowed the group to score their recent film, Shallow Hal. So, Ivy is still at it in the year 2005, having just released their fifth record, In the Clear, on Nettwerk. Absent is songwriter Adam Schlesinger, who I presume left the band to focus on his certain paycheck with The Fountains of Wayne. But, Durand and husband/band founder Andy Chase are still together. Apparently, Apartment Life worked out better for them than it did for me.

And the Oscar goes to...

2005-02-28T19:22:00.000-06:00

...blech.

My only fascination with The Oscars is in the get-together that my friends host in which we do an Oscars pool. This year's pot was only $60 for the winner, with $5 going to the last-place finisher. And, for the second year in a row, I finished last. (I didn't take home the money this year, though, as Tim and M both tied me and Tim then beat me on the tiebreaker. Wah-wah.)

Anyway, The Oscars suck. I mean, did anyone listen to those live musical performances and think that any of those songs deserved anything more than a flush down the toilet? I voted for the song from Motorcycle Diaries--which surprisingly won--because I enjoyed the music from that film. But Antonio Fucking Banderas and Carlos Santana went and murdered it dead on stage, holding the actual song hostage for the sake of their vein performance. (On a side note, I thought that the movie's theme, which is used in the film's trailer, was a far more deserving selection. Of course, it's an instrumental song and we all know that folks love them vocals!)

Anyway, my selections for MP3s of the week are taken from soundtracks that I enjoy. I chose songs that are exclusive to the soundtracks themselves. In doing so, I didn't really put much thought into what to select. I passed over Ennio Morricone, who is the Messiah of soundtracks, for the simple fact that you're probably already familiar with his work. Likewise, I passed on childhood favorite Cyndi Lauper and her contribution to The Goonies, "Goonies 'R' Good Enough". (C'mon, it's a great fucking song!)

The sexy Soledad Miranda, star of Vampyros Lesbos.

I selected a variety from the Vampyros Lesbos soundtrack. If that title leaves you scratching your head, it's essentially an erotic thriller, a "A Psycho-Sexadelic Horror Freakout!" if you will. Really, it's an absurd German B-movie from 1971 that's really not worth seeking out. But, the soundtrack is pretty cool. See for yourself. The music was composed by Manfred Hubler and Siegfried Schwab, and it's sort of a mixture of acid-jazz, psychedelic pop and space-age funk. (Note: the record itself features works from Vampyros Lesbos and two other films, and I can't remember if the specific songs that I pulled are actually from VL.)

I'm also featuring two songs from one of my favorite movies of all time, Midnight Cowboy. You're probably already familiar with Harry Nilsson's "Everybody's Talkin'," a cover of a Fred Neil song. But, the remainder of the soundtrack is good, too, including several songs from scorer John Barry.

Finally, here's a couple Brian Eno songs from his album Music for Films, released in 1978. The record is not among Eno's best, as it collects abstract fragments that he used in various (most likely bizarre, homo-erotic) films during the '70s. Unfortunately, the liner notes are worthless in identifying which films the songs were actually used in. But, the songs themselves are the usual instrumental curiosities that we've come to expect from Eno's mid-'70s body of work.

The songs are located in the sidebar to the right.

N/P--Suburban Kids with Biblical Names, #1 EP

The Lost Weekend

2005-02-27T15:34:00.000-06:00

I've done the grand total of nothing this weekend. Well, nothing particular to this blog, at least. On Friday I went to my first-ever NBA game and witnessed two things that I never thought I would see in person: 1) Cap'n Crunch and the Captain Morgan pirate teaming up together with Ronald McDonald to defeat a pair of inflatable Miller beer bottles and a Pepsi can in a game of three-on-three basketball; and 2) an NBA player airball a free-throw. The later distinction belongs to Washington Wizards forward Michael Ruffin, a former Chicago Bull. He completed his feat against his former team, as the Bulls beat the Wizards 97-90 at the United Center in Chicago. I received the tickets as a Christmas gift from my friend, who accompanied me to the game. I gotta say, I would never, ever, spend $45 of my own money on a ticket to sit that far from the action in a cramped seat. It's a good thing I don't suffer from vertigo, like Jimmy Stewart. (Of course, I'm not entirely convinced of how much actual suffering Stewart endured in the arms of Kim Novak.)

Saturday was a relaxing bore, although I did get to see the Oscar-nominated Scorsese flik The Aviator. Among other things, it was LONG. Methinks Scorsese, who has never won an Oscar for best director, will garner the sympathy vote tonight. Speaking of this evening, I'll be attending an Oscar party. Last year I took home last place in the Oscar pool, which may not sound like a feat, but I did win my five bucks back! Tonight I'll try to reverse the curse and go worst to first. No more going with who I want to see win, which means Paul Giamatti and Sideways won't be getting any nods from me on major categories. Wish me luck!

Later today I will try to post next week's MP3s of the Week. In honor of the Oscars, I'll be posting some of my favorite soundtrack selections of note. Ciao.

N/P--M. Ward, Transistor Radio

I know where Syd Barrett lives, too

2005-02-23T16:15:00.000-06:00

In Italy, apparently. He's posing under the guise of a twosome titled Jennifer Gentle. (Ring a bell, fans of Piper at the Gates of Dawn?)

If you don't believe me, listen to "Universal Daughter" from Jennifer Gentle's brand new album on Sub Pop, Valende.

Okay, Syd Barrett jokes aside--(Wait...anyone else seen this, by the way? ...It's fucking hilarious!)--Jennifer Gentle has peaked my interest. There simply are not any number of modern bands running around attempting to recreate Barrett's loopy psychedelic pop goodness. But, the song that really caught my attention from Valende wasn't so much a raping of Syd Barrett's solo material as it was an orgy of pure erotic bliss featuring The Clean, Faust, and a hodgepodge of your favorite freakbeat bands. Check this song out: "I Do Dream You". It's like a syringe dripping with pop 'n' roll heroin injected right into your bulging blue vein. Fuck! Does it get any better than that?

Jennifer Gentle

The jury is still out on the record as a whole. It's only been in my hands for a matter of hours. But, I've already listened to it four times. It's actually a varied, often mellow affair, full of much more of this--"Circles of Sorrow"--than the rabid, beat-up pop of "I Do Dream You". The mixed bag makes the record a tough study. In many ways, it reminds me of the first time I heard Clinic's Internal Wrangler, which was fascinating simply because of its revolting style. I'll post more on Valende later, but if you're as blown away as I was by the samples, you can purchase it on LP or CD here.

In the meantime, there's another record that I need to spend some time with. I can't wait!

MP3s of the Week: Hang the College DJ

2005-02-21T20:53:00.000-06:00

The good ole days, when one could spin French twee pop stars Caramel on the radio.

This week, I had the opportunity to DJ on the radio for just the second time since leaving college some seven years ago. A friend of mine asked me to co-host his one-hour show. So, I spun some acid rock, Pere Ubu, and Count Five for the unsuspecting listeners of 107.1. In preparation, I spent some time looking back to my junior and senior year of school, when I DJ'ed on the college radio station at Western Illinois University, in sunny Macomb (pop. 20,000, give or take a few cops and several cows). This was long before I had adopted the moniker "The Noiseboy" for my DJ gig at the local pub.

For shits (and mostly) giggles, I broke out an old cassette of one of my college shows from 1997. It was actually entertaining in that "ah, those were the good old days" sorta way. I knew then and remember now that no one listened to my show, which was on Thursday nights from 10 to midnight. I mean, I had a few friends that would call in and pester me, but mostly I was playing to the crickets (and cows...and cops).

Still, I had a great time. Radio was my career ambition for a brief while in school. (Like, before I realized that I would one day have to work for a Clear Channel station and be forced to play the same 30 songs over and over again.) I spent a lot of time making sure that my set list changed dramatically from week to week. For the week that I listened to recently, I had quite a memorable stretch of songs. For starters, my theme song, "(The Gym Is) Neutral Territory," came from hardcore punks Lifetime. I loved the rumbling bass notes at the beginning of the song, and the attitude and lyrics fit my feelings at the time: "Why find a nice way to tell you 'you suck'? I hate your guts; you are so boring. And, if you don't stop those looks I'm gonna poke you in the eye. Who are you anyway? You think you're second to none..." Let's just say that living in Macomb wasn't my cup of tea, and that song just about summed it up.

But, my show wasn't a hardcore punk show; rather, it was a smattering of indie rock and pop. At that time, I was buying as many records from Parasol as I could afford, and supplementing that with the occasional trip to East Peoria Co-Op Records or Reckless in Chicago. I was buying A LOT of seven inches in those days, and to be able to play them on my show I had to transfer them to cart (for you non-broadcasting types, a cart is in many ways like an eight-track) since the station didn't have a functional turntable. (Some college station, eh?)

In one stretch of my set on this particular night I went from Orange Juice to XTC to Charles Bukowski (wtf?) to The Cows to Fugazi to (commercial break: Dominos!) to Apples in Stereo to Built to Spill to Versus to the Eggs. Crazy stuff.

Anyway, I found a couple of a different set lists as well (no tapes, though). And from that list I've plucked a few songs that I haven't listened to in ages to feature in the MP3s of the Week section contained in the sidebar to the right. I can't believe I actually spun Lambchop's "Moody Fucker," for obvious reasons. Then again, my theme song had a few undistinguishable f-bombs in it, too. So, I guess I chose to play with fire like the dumb college kid I was.

I'm sure that Caramel--a French, twee indie-pop band--went over well with my classmates. As did D.C. punks The Meta-Matics. Anyway, enjoy. I sure did.

N/P--Bedhead, What Fun Life Was

My Television: The Dead Boys

2005-02-19T16:00:00.000-06:00

Welcome back to My Television, or MTV for short, a new series reviewing DVDs that I recently rented or purchased. Series one featured The Undertones. This time around, we're dealing with a deadlier band of punks: the Dead Boys.

The fact that I've made it to Year 28 without having ever actually seen the Dead Boys in action is a bit embarrassing. As much as I’ve loved listening to Young, Loud, & Snotty--and to a lesser extent Stiv Bator’s solo material--and as many phenomenal live photographs as I’ve seen of the band, I just can’t believe that I’ve never seen them live. Well, late last year, Music Video Distributors gave me ample reason to get off my ass and stop making excuses when they released Dead Boys--Live at CBGB 1977. All I had to do was peruse the music DVD section at That’s Rentertainment to get my hands on a copy.

It’s rare to see color footage of any band performing at CBGBs from this era. Here, we’re treated to an entire concert, albeit these ten songs are over in prompt time. I can honestly say that I’ve never seen anything like this. There are no modern bands that truly match the insanity and intensity of a Dead Boys concert. It’s a fact that I’ve long suspected, but can only now say with any certainty. As guitarist Cheetah Chrome--real name Eugene Richard O’Connor--said in his current-day interview (which appears here as bonus material): “The Ramones could always follow us. (As for) everyone else--fuck ‘em.” Another funny tidbit from the director’s interview with the now skin-headed Chrome: “I just wish we could’ve been around long enough to make sure Limp Bizkit didn’t exist. Oh well.”

The Dead Boys' Sire promo photo

Chrome also reveals that this concert was originally filmed for an episode of 60 Minutes; Mike Wallace was supposed to the voice-overs. It’s safe to assume that after the folks at CBS got a hold of these tapes, they quickly changed their tune and lost interest in breaking punk rock to the TV masses.

“Alright you animals of this rock and roll zoo,” a hyper emcee announces to the crowd as the Dead Boys take the stage, “up on your hind legs and clap your paws for your keepers. Here, to rattle your cages and choke your chains are Sire recording artists from Cleveland, Ohio--the incredible, phenomenal Dead Boys!”

(The mention of Sire Records gave me a good chuckle. How many modern bands would enjoy being announced in such a manner? “Ladies and gentleman, please rise to your feet for Geffen recording artists--Nirvana!”)

The Dead Boys wasted no time, kicking off their set with “Sonic Reducer.” Stiv Bators already appears to be drenched in sweat. His tight black pants are clinging to his legs. Somehow, he’s even skinnier in person than he appears to be in photographs. Another nice touch is drummer Johnny Blitz’s dual kick drums, both sporting a skull on the drum head.

Bators sheds his white suit coat by the guitar solo, revealing a black sleeveless shirt and a tight, red necktie. The band is smoking, but Bators is only getting warm.

Personal favorite “All This and More” is song two. Stiv has something flesh-toned safety pinned to his shirt that looks like a piece of raw meat. (Upon further thought, it was just that--a slice of bologna.) A piece falls to the floor, which he then picks up, sticks in his mouth, chews on and spits back out. Yeah, sorta odd. Things would only get more bizarre, however, and we’re not even out of song two yet. Later during the same song, he picks the meat up off the floor a second time, blows his nose on it (great camera work, as you can see the snot), puts it back in his mouth and finishes singing the chorus before spitting it back out.

Stiv and Cheetah in action

Cheetah Chrome looks like he’s incredibly doped up and pissed off; he never appears to have any fun on stage. He’s an aggressive, intense stage presence, and works in tandem with Stiv to keep the crowd into it. He’s no match for his singer, though. Stiv is always the showman. Whether he’s humping the mic stand with his back arching his groin into the air, or sitting on his ass in front of the drum kit, legs crossed, he’s always the focal point. He moves around on stage like a pinball out of the shoot. And he’s got more tricks in his bag than anyone this side of Iggy Pop. During the guitar solo of "Not Anymore"--during which Stiv can not allow Cheetah to steal the spotlight--Stiv pours a beer down the front of his pants. (Maybe that’s why he appeared dripping wet before the band even began?)

Periodically during filming, the lights went dim. The director explained that CBGBs just wasn’t capable of giving them enough juice to maintain all of their cameras and the additional lighting that was necessary to be able to get a good shot of the band. Those brief moments, while disappointing, at least gave me a chance to catch my breath.

At the beginning of “Flame Thrower Love,” Stiv falls backward to the stage like a felled Redwood. His energy level is amazing. Stiv spends a good third of the set on the stage floor, writing around and smacking himself with the mic stand. And he gets no breather between songs. Other than one short tuning break, the band breaks little between songs. There’s no need for banter, though, when the in-song performance is this entertaining.

Clearly, the band’s rhythm section plays a vital role in keeping the live songs grounded. Blitz--sporting a sleeveless denim jacket and a blonde mullet--is a fucking MAN on the drums. Meanwhile, bassist Jeff Magnum goes about his business in the background, staying bolted to a spot in front of his bass cabinet. While Cheetah and rhythm guitarist Jimmy Zero are more than capable on stage, it’s obvious that hysteria rules the day. A perfect note-for-note rendition is forgotten in the name of performance. The Dead Boys really gave their audience a show to remember.

During “I Need Lunch,” Stiv breaks out a particularly disgusting trick. He gulps his beer, appearing to swallow it. Then, he meanders toward stage front and--right in front of the camera--massages his throat muscles with his fingers and spews the beer back up. During “Ain’t Nothing to Do,” Stiv discovers a piece of chewing gum on the stage. He picks it up and--of course--chews on it. Minutes later the gum is stretching out of his mouth and down his chin like a mic cord.

When he’s not going for the gore, Stiv is like a partially wounded predator. His weapon of defense is his mic stand, which he beats against his body and swings through the air. Toward the end of the set, he’s pulled his drenched shirt up to his chest like a miniature half-shirt.

By the time of the band’s closing number--a spirited cover of The Stooges’ “Search and Destroy”--Stiv has reached his climax. At one point he shoves Cheetah, causing the guitarist to fuck up the bridge. And (this is a classic) he ups the audience participation level in a truly bizarre manner. He grabs a woman from the audience and drags her partially on stage. He then flips her over so her head is facing up, straddles her face and proceeds to simulate the act of oral sex. She wriggles free and he slams his mic stand into the stage as if he’s chopping wood before exiting the stage. Bassist Magnum is the next to exit, followed by the drummer, who knocks over his entire kit as if he is Gulliver rising to his feet while fending off Lilliputians. The guitars ring in feedback and we fade to black while the audience cheers their asses off.

Phew-wee. Now that was a concert I would’ve paid five bucks to see in person.

An exhausted Stiv after this very show

The disc’s bonus material is worthwhile, too. Interviews with the band on the day of the show are humorous, if not insightful. Cheetah seems totally incapable of putting together enough words to form an intelligent sentence. But, Stiv is more than up to the task, offering up this nugget: “What we’re doing on stage is just releasing a lot of energy, frustration. Where is it best to do it--here or on the streets? ...Here [the audience] can break a bottle or jump around or just watch us get [their frustration] our for [them]. So, what we’re doing is really healthy.” (The questions are not included, but you can imagine the question that was asked of Stiv to get that response: “So, America thinks that what you’re doing is evil, and the root of all that is wrong with young kids today. Can you defend your actions?”)

Cheetah’s response is even better: “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”

The band members are asked for their influences in typical fashion. To no shock, Stiv responds with Iggy Pop and the New York Dolls. But, he also mentions Paul Revere and the Raiders. Go figure. And, Stiv also shows us a bit more of his misogynistic rocker side when asked what kind of girls he likes: “The ones who like to fuck and then leave in the morning. I don’t like ones that like to hang around me all day. I hate that.”

Also of note in the bonus footage is a lengthy interview with Hilly Kristal, CBGB’s mastermind that aided in introducing NYC--and later the world--to the Dead Boys. He remembers the early days well, when the Dead Boys would drive from Cleveland to NYC for a CBGB’s gig, with Stiv mooning everyone along the way.

Ah, but the real trick or treat surprise of the bonus material is some footage of the opening band from that night, a Pere Ubu-ish discordant pop band called The Steel Tips. If you can imagine a man lighting his shirt on fire, hence setting off firecrackers inside his shirt, a huge dude with a pentagram necklace banging away on a cow bell, and a catholic school girl on background vocals, then you’re half way there.

I highly recommend checking out this footage. It’s simply amazing. Must see TV, at least in my household.

N/P--David Bowie, "Andy Warhol"

Year Without Music, update

2005-02-18T10:08:00.000-06:00

(If you have no clue what "Year Without Music" means, see this.)

Today’s theme music: “Dead Man,” by M. Ward.

Oh, I’m not doing so well these days. I’ve caught myself on numerous occasions staring—with bloodshot, lustful eyes—at the new release section of my favorite online music vendors. I’m desperately selling albums that up until this year I never really considered giving up--just so I can fuel the fire. I’ve even purchased the same record--twice--in the past month. I found an import copy of T. Rex’s Prophets, Seers, and Sages and snapped it up, since it was on my January wish list. Then, two weeks later, I found a remastered version with a disc of bonus material--at the same store! I bought it, too. Now I’m selling the import on eBay.

February has not been kind to me. I still need to get the new Iron & Wine EP, the new Dead Meadow, and the new M. Ward. And that's just off the top of my head.

I can feel myself sliding into that mighty void. The cold, damp grasp of Death has a hold of my hand and is leading me to pasture, where I presume all musicaholics eventually end up. (Not that I’m dreading this, however; I hear that this pasture looks a helluva lot like the inside of Amoeba Music.) Oh, woe is me. I’m a failure without a stitch of discipline in my spine. I’d never make it as a monk. I’d rape & murder & steal--sell me shrine, even--just to have one more day with Suicide’s debut LP.

I know how they feel...

I identify with the zombies in Shaun of the Dead who are attacked by flat-mates Ed and Shaun. The protagonists’ choice of weapon as they battle the zombies in their own backyard?

LPs.

I feel like those zombies. Yes! Yes! YES! Feed me more records. Keep flinging ‘em at me. I can’t stand it. I want death by LP!

But, alas, there are others like me in this world—other troubled souls who wander aimlessly through the mean streets with foam seeping from the corners of their mouths, never sure if they are doing the suckering, or if they are the sucker. Today, I found proof.

Thank you, William Bowers. May we find strength in unity.

N/P--Television Personalities, Yes Darling, But Is it Art?

Howdy stranger: H is for Half String

2005-02-16T22:28:00.000-06:00

Half String, A Fascination with Heights

(Series introduction provided here.)

Welcome to the letter H, brought to you today by Half String's A Fascination with Heights, which is located on the shelf between Half Japanese's Greatest Hits and Neil Halstead's Sleeping on Roads.

In a sonic sense, Half String reminds me of C-Clamp, who I rambled on about in my discussion of the letter C. Dreamy jangle-pop was Half String's specialty, which ultimately made their hometown of Phoenix an odd locale to operate from. I don't think of the desert when I think of bands influenced by the likes of My Bloody Valentine and early Primal Scream. At least, that was true for me when I moved to Phoenix in 1999. My stay there was brief--about three months. I didn't find what I was looking for; but, I did find a wonderful independent record store named Stinkweeds. Turns out, it was owned by Kimber Lanning, drummer for none other than Half String.

Much like my time in Phoenix, I've long since forgotten about this particular album, which was released in 1996 on Independent Project Records. Listening to it now, I can see why. It's actually a solid record with a few bright lights, but there isn't anything specifically unique about it. It's mellow, guitar-based psychedelia washed in reverb. Other bands came first and did it better: Felt, the aforementioned Primal Scream, Ride, Chapterhouse, The House of Love and The Ocean Blue, to name a few. Allmusic's summary does the trick: "The surprise is that Half String's work ranks right up there with the best of their predecessors', and like Ocean Blue, their American roots help them avoid some of the British scene's more flowery or overproduced tendencies. A Fascination with Heights is well-written, beautifully focused and does such a good job of using its dream-pop influences that it tends to sound more definitive than derivative--while its very independent roots kept it from receiving much attention, it's certainly as worthy as many higher-profile records." That conclusion might have been truer in 1996 than it is now. Frankly, the record sounds dated, and not in a timeless way.

What is remarkable about this album is the packaging. Keeping par with previous IPR releases, it's a digipak that is hand-letterpressed and individually numbered. The photo doesn't really do it justice.

I dug up my copy of the group's 1994 single, Oval, also on IPR. Memory told me that I enjoyed the seven inch more than the album. And, indeed, I do. "Oval" is an okay song, but I really like the vibe on the flip side, "Sun Less Sea." (On a side note, in the process of hunting down the single I turned up an old Godzuki seven inch that I hadn't listened to in ages. They were an off-kilter indie-pop band from Detroit, so I added them to the list. See the "MP3s of the Week" on the righthand sidebar for a fun Godzuki song.)

I believe that Half String vocalist/guitarist Brandon Capps eventually joined Bruce Licher's band, Scenic. I have no clue what happened to the rest of the band, though. I assume Kimber is still taking care of business at Stinkweeds. Oddly enough, Stinkweeds' site doesn't list Half String among its inventory. Parasol, however, has both A Fascination with Heights (on CD for $4.75!) and the singles compilation Eclipse, Oval, Hue, which features both sides of the Oval single along with two other singles. Buy them here. If you like what you hear, it's hard to go wrong for a measly five bucks. As for myself, I'd probably sell my copy of the full-length if I thought I could get anything worthwhile out of it. But, if Parasol can't move a new copy of the album for more than five bones, it's unlikely that I'll get squat for my used copy. Either way, I'm holding on to the seven inch, though.

Songs:

Half String, "BackStroke" (from A Fascination with Heights on IPR)

Half String, "Hurrah?" (from A Fascination with Heights on IPR)

Half String, "Sun Less Sea" (from the Oval 7" on IPR)

New look, same great taste

2005-02-14T13:01:00.000-06:00

Okay, I think I've finally settled on a "template" that I can live with. Simple, yet refined.

There's a new weekly feature on the sidebar to the right--"MP3s of the Week". Every week I'll post a new batch of songs I've been listening to lately. Enjoy!

N/P--The Go-Betweens, Before Hollywood

Blues run the game

2005-02-12T23:17:00.000-06:00

I fell in love with the old folk song "Blues Run the Game" a few years ago when I heard my first version of it, recorded by Nick Drake. Since that time, I've also heard Simon & Garfunkel's version. And, it turns out that Bert Jansch, Sandy Denny and the Counting Crows have all also covered the song. (Gee, talk about "Which of these is not like the others?".) At any rate, I've finally heard the original version, and it's tops.

The song itself is a lovely ode to depression. See for yourself:

Catch a boat to England, baby,
Maybe to Spain
Wherever I have gone,
Wherever I've been and gone
Wherever I have gone
The blues are all the same

Send out for whiskey, baby,
Send out for gin
Me and room service, honey
Me and room service, babe
Me and room service, well
We're livin' a life of sin

When I'm not drinkin', baby
You are on my mind
When I'm not sleepin', honey
When I ain't sleepin', momma
When I'm not sleepin',
You know you'll find me crying

Try another city, baby
Another town
Wherever I have gone,
Wherever I've been and gone
Wherever I have gone
The blues come following down

Livin' is a gamble, baby
Lovin's much the same
Wherever I have played
Whenever I throw them dice
Wherever I have played
The blues have run the game

Maybe tomorrow, honey
Someplace down the line
I'll wake up older
So much older, momma
I'll wake up older
And I'll just stop all my tryin'

Catch a boat to England, baby
Maybe to Spain
Wherever I have gone,
Wherever I've been and gone
Wherever I have gone
The blues are all the same

The song was originally composed by Jackson C. Frank on a boat ride from America to England in early 1965. Frank was an upstart New York folk singer that traveled to England in the shadow of Simon & Garfunkel to try to find fame in the burgeoning British folk scene that had already spawned Donovan, Bert Jansch, and Al Stewart, among others. Frank released just one record, Blues Run the Game, shortly after arriving in England in 1965. But, his impression upon those who heard him was substantial. Simon produced the album, and later recorded his own version of "Blues Run the Game". And you can hear a direct link between the melancholic, dark folk music of Frank and Nick Drake.

Frank's time in England was limited, however, as was his celebrity and minor success. He was traveling the world on funds awarded from an insurance payout from a childhood accident. He spent money--on cars, mostly--at a ridiculous rate. And soon there was no more. Frank returned to New York, settling in Woodstock. Long story short, there would be no follow-up recording, and after a brief, failed attempt to revive his career in England, Frank returned to the States, fell into a depression that he couldn't shake, and eventually ended up in and out of mental institutions or homeless in New York City. He was discovered in the 1990s by a kind folk fanatic that helped him receive proper medical attention and a new home. Soon thereafter his album was reissued. Frank died in 1999.

My discovery of Frank was recent, as I purchased the Sanctuary Records reissue of Blues Run the Game, the "expanded deluxe edition" that features an entire second disc of material, basically everything he ever laid to tape. It's well worth seeking out, as not only is "Blues Run the Game" one of the best folk songs I've ever heard, but many of Frank's other songs are also noteworthy. Included below are some of them.

Try Nick Drake's version of "Blues Run the Game" first. It's from the Tanworth-in-Arden bootleg, and is a home recording of poor quality. (It's also miscredited in the jacket to British folkster John Renbourn, who covered the song in 1965, the same year Frank began performing it live. That just shows you how quick the song, and Frank, caught on upon arrival in England.)

Then, listen to Simon & Garfunkel's version from Columbia's expanded release of Sounds of Silence.

Finally, here's Jackson C. Frank's version. I think you'll agree that it's the best.

And, a few more songs by Frank from the same album.

"Milk and Honey" (Drake and Sandy Denny also covered this song.)

"My Name Is Carnival"

"Dialogue"(Again, you can hear where Drake drew obvious inspiration from Frank.)

If you're interested in reading more about Frank, see this article from Dirty Linen published in 1995. For more general info on Frank, see this site.

Mixed up: Illinoiseboy Blues

2005-02-10T15:54:00.000-06:00

(Introduction provided here.)

Welcome to the second installment of "Mixed Up." Mary got a kick out of Installment 1.0, a mix for her and her newborn son, Eric. Eric is doing well. (Matter of fact, in the photo she sent me, he looks to have adopted a hybrid emo/hip hop style, sporting some baggy clothes and a skull cap. I guess the media gets to 'em sooner and sooner each year.) We here at The Blank Generation wish her a speedy recovery.

But, today's entry isn't about kids, nor does it have anything to do with high school, my vocal chords, or any pitiful poetry that I may have passed off as mine in high school. (Jon recently posted about this supposed "book of poetry" that I published in high school on his site. But, you'll get no link out of me.)

No, today's entry is about a recent friend of note. A guy who, much like Jon, I knew for only a brief time before he fled town. (On a side note, plenty of my friends have moved away from me. Now, isn't it about time that I do some damn moving of my own? The fucking Midwest is getting a little worse for the wear in Year 28.) This particular fellow and I really didn't share what I would call a normal friendship. We saw each other in bars often enough, and spent time talking and what-not. But, we never really hung out independent of an event. I think if he would have stuck around a bit longer, that would have changed, however.

As it is, we've kept in touch since he left town and I hope to visit with him soon, maybe on a summer vacation to the east coast. I think he's doing well for himself, and the move was definitely something that was needed at the time. But, I do miss hanging out at Mike & Molly's and arguing with him about why Crooked Rain is a better album than Wowee Zowee. (Can you believe anyone siding with Wowee?) That was one argument I think I won. Unfortunately, I keep losing the damn argument concerning the better Cheap Trick song: "Surrender" or "I Want You to Want Me". Guess which side of the fence I sit on?

Pavement

Truth is, we're both right on both counts. It's just opinions, after all—even if "Heaven's a Truck" blows away "Grave Architecture." (We can agree on that at least, can't we?)

Ahhhh, Zac. I do miss ya.

I first met Zac in an interview, of all places. As in, I was interviewing his old band. He used to wield a mean axe for American Minor, and I conducted their first-ever interview (to my knowledge). Now that they're on Jive Records, I'm sure they'll have a few more opportunities. Zac isn't in the band anymore, and that makes me both sad and happy at the same time. Sad, because he was an exceptional guitar player who really fucking ached rock and roll from his soul. Happy, because I think he might be better off now, at least on a personal level. Maybe that's not true; I can't really declare that to be fact. But, I think he's changed some as a person since leaving the band and moving back to the Virginias.

At any rate, Zac and I enjoyed a competitive edge that manifested itself in games of pool and music nerd debates like the above. From my first conversation with him—that interview at the dearly departed Les' Lounge—it was obvious that Zac was a little different. It wasn't just that he was a shaggy-haired transplant from West Virginia. His bandmates could all say the same. Zac wasn't trying to fit in, but it had nothing to do with a rebellious haircut. I do believe that he was homesick for most of his year in Champaign, and that might of caused him to be depressed, or just defensive in general. "Home's always going to be home," he told me in the interview.

But, beyond his apprehension for Illinois and its folk, Zac was one smart and savvy motherfucker. When I asked the band what their influences were, Zac chimed in: "When someone asks us our influences we always say Exile on Main Street-era Stones, Mick Taylor and The Faces." Plenty of bands name-drop Exile, but to overlook Keith Richards for Mick Taylor was a bold—and wise—move. Not to mention The Faces. Who in the fuck is giving Rod Stewart props nowadays?

Sure, that might have been a stock answer that any of the band members would have coughed up. None of them argued with it. But, as I came to know Zac a little better, it became clear to me that he was his own beautiful beast. And he wasn't afraid to let you know it. His musical tastes were varied like mine; matter of fact, he was one of the few friends I had that shared my appreciation for country music. (Zac actually commended me for spinning Merle Haggard's "If We Make it Through December" one night. I did a double take.) But, more importantly, when I spoke to Zac I never felt like he was feeding me a line, telling me what I wanted to hear. He spoke honestly, and his opinions came from a certain understanding that he achieved through years of self-education, self-medication, and a thought process that was decidedly un-West Virginia. On the surface, he looked like one of those guys who drives a beat-up pickup truck with a bumper sticker that reads "These colors don't run!". Once I got to know him, however, I found him to be far more complex than I expected. He was grappling with similar issues as me, even if we were at different points on the map.

Zac didn't have a ton of attitude, but he was confident. And I appreciated that trait. It made our discussions more compelling. And, more than anything, it's his friendly face that I miss nowadays. He was the consumate barstool critic, and sadly I've lost him to the East. I guess home will always be home.

Now, about this mix. There's no Pavement or Merle Haggard on it, and for that, I apologize. But, there is plenty of good stuff. Read on...and while you're at it, click on the selected links to listen to an MP3. I'm only keeping these up for a week.

Illinoiseboy Blues

01 Black Mountain, "Don't Run Our Hearts Around"

I wanted this mix to be a bit unruly, a bit haggard, and a bit raw. And this song actually accomplishes all three. If Zac had to conjure up an ideal rock and roll band to play guitar for, I'd bet it would sound something like Black Mountain. And, I don't think he's heard them yet. This particular song finds the singer doing a Jason Molina impersonation, but the music is just killer—like a headbanger's ball trippin' on LSD. The runaway section at the end of the song just floors me. One of the best six minutes I've spent this year with a song.

02 John Fahey, "Requiem for John Hart"

John Fahey

This is a classic from 1967. I could listen to Fahey play the guitar all day long. His technique is remarkable, but more importantly he's got that emotive instinct that can't be taught. He understands human emotion far better than most, and his ability to communicate his thoughts through his instrument is unmatched. When Zac moved back to the Virginias, he lost his appetite to be a musician. He's now warming to the idea once again, taking up pedal steel and mandolin. Possibly, this song will give him some additional motivation.

03 Junior Kimbrough, "I'm Leaving You Baby"

Kimbrough is a gem. I love this song, a rusty nail stuck in the fleet of foot.

04 Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band, "Grown So Ugly"

Some rambunctious blues from the Captain off of Safe as Milk. At its core, "Grown So Ugly" is a song most can relate to: a tale of a man that's turned into a real asshole, so much so that the woman he loves doesn't even recognize him anymore.

05 Comets on Fire, "Whiskey River"

Listening to this song is like having the skin peeled back from your scalp. I love it. I realize that I'm stuck on a filthy streak in the mix; but things will soon sway in the opposite direction.

06 Pearls Before Swine, "I Shall Not Care" (edit)

While the entire song is a freak-folk fest, I stripped this song of its three parts to focus on the conclusion, a nice little folk song with a backbeat. It's one of the best passages that Tom Rapp has ever put to tape.

07 Tyrannosaurus Rex, "The Travelling Tragition"

From their Prophets, Seers, and Sages album that I recently picked up, this was perhaps the most engaging song on the record that I hadn't previously heard. Notice the fucked-up hand percussion toward the end and the eery choice of chimes. This is one of the few songs on the record in which Marc Bolan actually sings in a manner that enables the listener to understand what he's actually saying. (Of course, he then decides to sing "Boom-de-boom, de tra-la-la, de rat-a-tat-tat, de-boom-de-boom" as if to puncture any sensical progression to the lyrics.)

08 The Holy Modal Rounders, "Dame Fortune"

The Holy Modal Rounders

Oh, how I love this one. It's from the album, The Moray Eels Eat the Holy Modal Rounders, that gave us "Bird Song" (as heard on the Easy Rider soundtrack). This album is just far-out freak-folk recorded well before the term was coined. But for an "underground" group, their reach was notable. Famous playwright Sam Shepard guested on tambourine on this record, although he's not included here. This song is a bit of an odd-man-out on the album, a weird bluesy piano stroll that's both melancholic and melodic. I would not claim that this particular song is representative of the Rounders as a whole, but it's among my faves from what I've had the pleasure of hearing.

09 The Stooges, "Penetration"

For some reason, this song just sounds great following the Rounders. And it serves to pick up the pace. Iggy is one of the best at sounding like an oversexed, sleazy slimeball, and this is one of his best performances.

10 Blue Cheer, "Summertime Blues"

"Lord I got ta raise a fuss, Lord I got ta raise a holler." Blue Cheer's rendition of Eddie Cochran's 1950s hit is just total balls to the wall deconstructionism. It sounds as if it was written specifically for a huge stack of amplifiers with blown woofers. Blue Cheer really did crank it up to 11.

11 Roky Erickson & The Aliens, "Two Headed Dog"

Roky Erickson

Those of you who are familiar with Erickson's Thirteenth Floor Elevators or his subdued folkier albums of the '90s will be surprised to hear what he sounded like after resurfacing from his bout of madness in the late '70s. This is from his first solo album, released in 1980 in Europe and later reissued in the States under the title The Evil One. (Sympathy for the Record Industry released it in 2002 under the same title, but with an entire bonus disc of live material.)

12 Dolly Parton, "Jolene"

Again, this may seem like a bizarre transition. But, the desperation of Dolly's song flows quite nicely out of the wickedness of Erickson's song.

13 Tammy Wynette, "Apartment #9"

Zac was one of the few (younger) patrons at Mike & Molly's that enjoyed my country music sets. So, this triumvirate of country's grandest ladies goes out to Zac. I called it "grits," instead of "country". My vision of country was a mixture of rootsy blues, boot-scootin' boogie, outlaw country, and Hank.

14 Loretta Lynn, "Less of Me"

I've been shocked by the number of peeps I've spoken with that love Lynn's comeback album from last year, but have really never heard her old stuff. I'm no Loretta Lynn expert, and I do not claim to own much of her extensive discography. But, for cryin' out loud folks, this woman is a legend for a reason. Check out Coal Miner's Daughter (where this was plucked from) and Fist City for starters.

15 Bonnie "Prince" Billy & Matt Sweeney, "My Home Is the Sea"

One of these days I'm going to get around to talking about Oldham's latest album, Superwolf, from which this song comes. It's among his strongest albums to date, regardless of moniker.

16 Entrance, "Make Me a Pallet on Your Floor"

Guy Blakeslee's rendition of this traditional blues song is so completely different from Gillian Welch's arrangement on Soul Journey. I know that Zac likes Welch, so I wanted him to hear Entrance's version. They're both exceptional versions, but Blakeslee's rendition taps into a more magical source for its energy. He also allows the song to stretch its legs to almost seven minutes. (Several blues artists have recorded this song, most notably Mississippi John Hurt. I also know Woody Guthrie has covered it, as well as Sandy Denny and Lucinda Williams.)

17 Skip James, "Illinois Blues"

Skip James

Our theme song, and the inspiration for Illinoiseboy Blues. This was taken from Hard Time Killing Floor Blues, which was released in 2003 on the Biograph label. The session is from the mid-'60s, just a few years before James passed. John Fahey rediscovered James, and got him back into the studio for the first time in decades. His guitar playing was still phenomenal at this point. For anyone that wants a great entrance point into James' music, this record would be ideal. Since it was recorded in the '60s, most of the sonic difficulties of his earlier works from the '30s have been banished. And, this is essentially a greatest hits of sorts. Anyway, here's a little excerpt from the lyrics: "You know, I been in Texas and I been in Arkansas. ...But I never had a good time till I got to Illinois." Hopefully, Zac had a few good times, too, while he was in Illinois.

18 Devendra Banhart, "Be Kind"

I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really like this song. A lot.

19 The Gris Gris, "Mary #38"

We continue down the modern bluesy route with these fuck-ups from San Fran. This song actually reminds me of The Rolling Stones circa "Play with Fire". It's got that menacing, sly side to it that lends the song a spooky ambience.

20 Dead Meadow, "Good Moanin'"

Oh, yeah. Finish as you start. We come full circle with this heavy, two-fists-a-swinging bastard. I don't know if Zac still has a pick-up truck or not, but if so, he needs to head to the highway as soon as possible. This song will sound absolutely fucking killer as it rips apart his six-by-nines with the windows down on a crisp, dark evening. For sure.

Good news!

2005-02-09T11:37:00.000-06:00

The Blank Generation will soon feature MP3s. They will not necessarily be of the legal variety, but nonetheless later this week I will have the ability to post MP3s, so you can listen while you read. Cool beans, eh?

Most likely, I'll only keep MP3s posted for a month at a time, as they will pertain to whatever I'm posting about at the moment. I might inquire about posting more-permanent MP3s as well, working with specific indies that I'm familiar with in the process. We shall see.

At any rate, I'm just so excited to finally have this capability!

N/P-The Holy Modal Rounders, "Dame Fortune"

Woohoo! Chickfactor is back on the attack!

2005-02-08T16:55:00.000-06:00

One of my all-time favorite zines is Chickfactor, published soley now by one Gail O'Hara. Some find it too snobby, too cliquish, too NYC, too indie pop. And yes, it is all of those things. But, I simply love it to death. It's like you're snooping in on a cocktail hour conversation about music, and everyone in attendance has, at one point or another, bummed a cigarette off of Stephin Merritt.

Chickfactor does these great polls, where they ask a celebrity cast of indie rockers the same questions: "What musical instrument will dominate the next century and why?"; "What is the weirdest thing you've ever had to eat while on tour?"; "What is the best heckle you've heard or yelled?"; "What record did you buy purely for packaging?"; "What music only makes sense to listeners on drugs?". (The last one, by the way, is asked in the new issue.) In addition, they do fabulous interviews and lots of brief reviews that are often entirely unprofessional.

Alas, the sporadically-published magazine made famous by Belle & Sebastian, is no longer a print magazine. It's exclusively online now. But, I suppose the benefit to you is that you can peruse it for free. This issue features interviews with Ms. Joanna Newsom (among others), a "jukebox jury" with Alasdair Maclean of The Clientele, and plenty of polls featuring celebs like Merritt, David Grubbs, Frances of The Cannanes, Slim from Kill Rock Stars, Jonathan from Lambchop, David from the Silver Jews, and plenty more. Check it out, dude.

N/P–The Possibilities, Way Out

Thank you Superbowl, Goodnight!

2005-02-07T10:34:00.000-06:00

Did you watch Paul McCartney during the Superbowl halftime show? My god, was that awful. M suggested that the elder Paul was the most nonsexual musical God they could find. But, c'mon, surely Billy Joel was available, too. Why not throw the two of them in front of a couple Steinways and let them tickle some ivory together? Now that's really not hot.

On a sad note, McCartney's appearance last night is only throwing money into Michael Jackson's defense fund. Surely, that sterling version of "Get Back" is going to move a few thousand copies of Let it Be.

And, what in the hell was up with the tacky patriotic visual effects during "Hey Jude"? Since when does that song have anything to do with America's identity? Actually, "Na-na-na-na-na-na-na" is applicable to us Americans; after all, it's GW's favorite phrase to utter when someone criticizes his decisions.

But seriously, Paul wrote the song, originally titled "Hey Jules," as a comfort to John Lennon's son Julian while John and Cynthia were getting a divorce. Aha! Now I get it: divorce! Now there's a wholly American concept.

Moving right along, Pitchfork has posted their Top 100 albums of the 2000s, so far. Since we're at the decade's midway point, it makes sense. I pondered doing the same thing late last year, but the "Best of 2004" list in and of itself proved too time-consuming.

Needless to say, I find plenty of questionable choices in their list. That fucking Unicorns record has no business being anywhere near the Top 100. And, while I'm no fan and can't intelligently comment on the record, Eminem's Marshall Mathers LP seems far too low at No. 93. Maybe the record actually isn't that good, but it sure has seemed to make an impression on everyone who has heard it. Prefuse 73's Vocal Studies & Uprock Narratives in the 80s is also too low. That record was the shit. (I haven't heard his follow-up, which charts here at No. 51.) Cat Power's You Are Free at a lowly No. 63 is a joke. I'd love to hear someone defend that record's poor ranking.

I was glad to see my No. 1 of 2004, Ms. Joanna Newsom, appearing in the 50s. I disagree with that low ranking, of course, but I understand that she's not for everyone. Even though it's an EP, I would have charted TV on the Radio's debut Young Liars higher than 46. I can't think of anything else from the past five years that sounds like it. I don't have much beef with Arcade Fire at No. 45, but it goes to show how much of a passing fad they consider that band's freshman album to be considering it was No. 1 on their 2004 list. I'm sure that The Flaming Lips' Yoshimi at No. 32 will raise some eyebrows. Certainly, plenty would say at that position it's underrated. Fugazi's The Argument landed at No. 29. I can't really disagree with the ranking, since I've never heard the record. But, I'm skeptical nonetheless.

I'm pleasantly surprised to see Devendra Banhart's Rejoicing in the Hands at No. 18. Once again, though, to differentiate this release from its brother-in-law Nino Rojo is foolish. Nino did not make the Fork's Top 50 of '04; nor did it make this list. The Strokes debut lands at No. 16. How it failed to crack the Top 10 is beyond me. Ditto for Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, which sits on the bubble at No. 11.

I wish the Fork would finish sucking off Animal Collective and move on already. Sung Tongs is not the ninth best record released since 2000. The rest of the Top 10 is, well, bland. Interpol, Radiohead, Modest Mouse, White Stripes, Outkast, meh. I still need to hear that Avalanches record in full.

Maybe some day I'll get around to my list, which you'll probably find bland as well.

N/P—"Illinoiseboy Blues," a mix that I'll be discussing in the coming days.

My Television: The Undertones

2005-02-05T19:56:00.000-06:00

Welcome to My Television, or MTV for short, a new series reviewing DVDs that I recently rented or purchased. Today's offering is Teenage Kicks: The Story of the Undertones, the companion documentary to the 2003 release of the band's same-titled best-of compilation. The CD is available in the states only as an import, which is fine since it's really no better than the group's domestic best-of comp, The Very Best of..., released in 1994. I have no clue if we can purchase the DVD in the States, but you might be able to find a copy at your local independent video store, if you're as lucky as I am to have a wonderful store like That's Rentertainment nearby.

The film begins on an odd note. John Peel is our host for the documentary, which is only fitting since he broke the band in 1977 and proclaimed their stud song "Teenage Kicks" to be his favorite single of all time. The awkward moment occurs when Peel announces that he wants the lyric "teenage kicks so hard to beat" inscribed on his tombstone. The film was released in 2001, and obviously at that time no one saw Peel's untimely death as immediate. Still, it was a chilling pronouncement for these ears considering how recent ago Peel passed away.

Peel serves as our tour guide as he walks around the Northern Ireland town of Derry, where the Undertones formed, in a Fat Possum t-shirt. Four-fifths of the band joins him, as they recreate old photo opps like the one below. Missing in action is singer Feargal Sharkey, who just happens to have one of the best names of any frontman in rock and roll history. Sharkey and the band seemed to be politely estranged to this day. However, Sharkey is interviewed and featured in the film, independent of his former bandmates. Filling in for Sharkey in the photo is Peel (second from left).

The following realization is striking: when these guys first broke on the strength of that great single, "Teenage Kicks," they were incredibly young—all between the ages of 16 and 20. The group had mailed Peel their demo, and he responded approvingly, suggesting that they get in to a studio in a hurry. (His letter was signed, "the world's most boring man.") The Undertones did just that, and they began gigging in clubs like the Casbah Bar in their hometown around 1977.

Irish journalist Eamonn McCann covered the band in those days, and remembers that the group was the focal point of plenty of resentment, suspicion, and hostility because they were non-conformists in sharp contrast to fellow contemporaries like The Clash or The Sex Pistols. As anyone who is familiar with their music can attest, The Undertones were not your typical punk band in that their songs were not angry and full of spite; rather, they were almost fun, full of yearning and focused on subjects very otherworldly for their Irish kin: girls, the weather and candy bars, for example. Despite existing in a community at war (the Irish Republican Army was making plenty of noise in those days), The Undertones did not come across as a band that was "full of angry, ugly sounds, and snarling at the world," to quote McCann. To Sharkey and Co., revolution meant rebelling against the general attitude of the youth that surrounded them. Their statement of opposition: aim for the mainstream.

Sharkey says he held no misperception that by showing up on stage and performing angry music they were suddenly going to heal a country that had been ripped apart for hundreds of years. So, The Undertones embraced escapism instead of lecturing their audiences. "It was three pints of Guinness and hallelujah! Here comes Saturday night!" remembered Sharkey.

The documentary features a few "music videos" and live performances that are quite revealing, shedding light on a band that loved to have fun and act goofy, even on stage. The group would eventually become more political (in disguised songs like "It's Gonna Happen," which is about Ireland's hunger strikes against Britain), but overall they felt that they could best serve their countrymen by providing an substitute for grief and hostility.

Seymour Stein certainly heard no negative energy in the group's sound when he signed them to Sire. Stein recounts driving down the road in his limo on the way to a Searchers concert and hearing Peel spin "Teenage Kicks." In no time, the band was signed to his label. Starkey remembers calling his bandmates during a meeting with Stein in the singer's living room, which was decorated with singing awards he had won at Catholic School. Stein was offering 16,000 pounds as an advance, which Starkey communicated to the rest of the band. Their response: "Let's ask for 60,000. Tell 'em we want the same deal as The Clash." Stein could be heard going apeshit on the other end of the phone. But, the boys got their wish.

They toured America with The Clash, amongst others. But, touring was not something The Undertones were fond of. Some of the members were simply homesick, and favored remaining close to friends, family, and significant others. But the band's introduction to the fast lane was memorable. Upon being offered their choice of restaurants after performing on Top of the Pops, they chose McDonald's. None of them had ever eaten at one.

The documentary focuses primarily on the band's early years, and spends little effort walking the viewer through the group's maturation and eventual dissolution. It's clear that Sharkey was against the balance of his band from the start. He had a job, while the others didn't. Hence, he also had more money. And, as the group matured, Sharkey's desires shifted as his musical interests developed. A clip from the group's last televised concert in 1983, some four months before the band would break up, shows Sharkey on stage with his fingers in his ears. His subsequent solo career produced a number one hit, a god awful pop cover of Maria McKee's "A Good Heart." Needless to say, he was ready to go in a different musical direction from his bandmates, two of which went on to form That Petrol Emotion, who were quite good for a brief while.

The band reunited in 1999, sans the uninterested Sharkey, and never looked back. The documentary includes live footage of the reformed unit, with fellow Derry vocalist Paul McLoone in Sharkey's place. It's proof positive that while you can retrace your steps, you're bound to have a few missteps along the way.

Overall, Teenage Kicks was worth the rental fee. In addition to featuring a few non-hits like "Jump Boys" that will be fresh to those who only own the greatest hits comp, the documentary's inclusion of early live shows was entertaining in adding a face to a group that had only previously existed to me in sound. The footage was surprisingly crisp as well. Those who used to attend my DJ gigs and requested "Teenage Kicks" (that means you, Erik) will definitely find something of interest in this video.

But the documentary could have been better. I want to know how "Teenage Kicks," which I, too, feel is one of the best punk songs ever written, came to fruition. It's always interesting to discover how a band like this rose to fame, and while this video takes a healthy stab at it, ultimately it misses some key points of interest along the way. How about additional interviews with contemporaries of The Undertones to gain a better understanding of how they were viewed by other musicians, and how they fit into the scene as a whole. I could have done with a shorter walk down memory lane, and a little more commentary and opinion.

N/P—The Undertones, "Mars Bar"

Thoughts on Bobby D and Jonny, too

2005-02-03T09:37:00.000-06:00

Jon has a wonderful walk down memory lane posted at Unfinished Novellas on Bob Dylan. And that brought back a lot of great memories for me, too.

Jon and I have a special relationship. A very unique one, indeed. It dates back to seventh grade at Ingersoll Junior High in Canton, Ill. I don't know if this is necessarily true for him, but for me, Jon was the first person that I connected with in a truly meaningful way. He understood me, and I him. And we appreciated each other as the foolish little devils we were. Jon was a genius, and I recognized this even at the young age of 13.

For some reason, we were assigned a project in our English class (of all classes) to create and market a dream vacation spot, our paradise resort. (Maybe that wasn't exactly the premise of the project, I may not be remembering correctly.) Jon and I competed directly against each other, building these elaborate blueprints for our ideal destinations. Ours were quite similar; they were huge mall-like complexes that featured indoor baseball stadiums and amusement parks and god knows what else. "Mine has a ski resort." "Yeah, well mine's got an amphitheater and Bell Biv Devoe is going to play there." Through this silly competition, we allowed our imaginations to run naked through the woods—and we bonded.

Even dating back that long ago, Jon had a fascination with music that matched mine. He was the first person that I identified that really "got it" as I did when it came to music. By my freshman year of high school, I had discovered my older brothers' record collections. But, at the time I was still just a fool when it came to what I enjoyed. Still, I experienced music as a holistic process. The music I enjoyed, regardless of its quality, affected me in a meaningful way, serving as a steady friend and a healing guide.

Likewise, Jon also felt a spiritual connection to music, even though neither of us would likely have labeled it as such at that time. His obsession had developed beyond mine at that point—and honestly, he's still ahead of my curve. Jon had secretly signed himself up to the BMG Music Club (or maybe it was Columbia House, or both). He was ordering records with the money he earned from a paper route (if memory serves), without his parent's knowledge. They would not have approved of Jon smuggling Aerosmith records into the house. I assume his money was better spent on school clothes or Nintendo games, anything but the Devil's music. (Jon's father was a former minister.) Yet, Jon didn't let that phase him. He licked the stamps that represented album covers and placed them on the ordering card and waited for his records to appear, rushing home every day after school before his parent's arrived to ensure that he was the first one to peep at the day's mail.

On weekends I would ride my bike five miles into town to hang out in Jon's room, a tiny little alcove in the basement of his parent's house. There, we swapped baseball cards and listened to all of the contraband that Jon had successfully smuggled across the border. Our bond grew tighter, even though we had barely known each other a year or so.

Then, Jon moved away. Looking back, it wasn't that big of a deal at the time. We were friends, but I had other friends, too. And they were sticking around. But then, over the next year or so, I became even more of a music nutjob as I fully delved into my bros' collections. And, I began to miss Jon even more. He had only moved 45 minutes away, to another high school, Morton High, in our conference. But, for a kid without wheels, it might as well have been California. This was before the internet took hold, so we really lost touch with each other.

I don't remember why or exactly when I first traveled to visit Jon in Morton. It might have been our mutual friend, Josh, that drove me there since he had his license and car well before me. I remember hanging out in Jon's room—still in the basement—watching videos he had taped off of MTV and making mix tapes full of crappy metal and hard rock tunes. Jon was still purchasing CDs, of which I had few if any; luckily, I had all those records to fall back on. But, my brothers were both far too old to have any Queensryche or Testament, and for fuck's sake I just had to have some of that shit. Jon was my dealer.

Well, luckily for our longterm health, we soon discovered the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Bob Dylan. You may chuckle at the mention of the Peppers. But, they did both Jon and I a great service. Through their selection of covers, we were introduced to Sly, Stevie Wonder, Robert Johnson, and, yes, even Dylan (who needed no introduction). When we got into a new band, we didn't just listen to their records. We mined the artist for their influences, and then went and (sometimes literally) hunted those influences down. The Peppers' influences were one thing, but Dylan's were another. We were probably the only high school juniors in Central Illinois listening to Woody Guthrie.

The Peppers also got us into modern alternative rock as a whole, which led us to underground and indie rock by extension. Dylan, however, and the genres associated with him—from folk to country—have had a far greater impact on us, and more staying power, too. In the entry I linked to above, Jon mentions the Peoria newspaper article that featured his scarred arm. I'm sure the reporter thought he had happened upon a great story—a fucked-up kid who went to the extent of tattooing Dylan onto his arm to show how unique he was. In retrospect, it's a rather funny, if not charming, concept, though. Jon was attempting, in his way, to tell his parent's to fuck off while also showing his close friends how "deep" he was. In actuality, Dylan was an artist his dad probably enjoyed, while some of his friends were only lukewarm toward him. Oh well, it was the thought that counts. And Jon has plenty of other tattoos one could say the same thing about.

As for me, I wasn't about to put needle to skin to show my devotion to Dylan, which grew with every additional Dylan album I procured. But, I did let at least a portion of my high school know just how hip I was to Bobby D. During my senior year of high school I experienced a strange little renaissance that I still can't fully comprehend. It began with being named the lead in the school's musical, and ballooned into being named "Mr. Little Giant" (keep your jokes to yourself) in my school's first-ever male pageant and later prom king. (As a disclaimer, my friends and I decided to do the pageant as a joke. Turns out, no one in the pageant had any talent or charisma, and I was selected as the best of the bunch despite my two-inch goatee.)

The facial hair was part of my costume for the musical, Man of La Mancha. Yes, I was Don Quixote. If you're finished laughing out loud, allow me to explain just how I landed such a role, having never been a part of the drama club or the school choir, and having never participated in a play. I was in love with a girl who thought I was the second-coming of Kurt Cobain. (That part didn't work out, obviously. The girl is ancient history, I'm still alive, and I've yet to knock Michael Jackson off the charts.) She was a drama queen, in both senses of the phrase, and really wanted me to try out for the school musical. It was the final semester of my senior year, and so I figured, "what the fuck?" If I don't try out for the musical, I'll never get to spend any time with this girl, who will be in rehearsals night after night after night. Maybe I can score a bit part or something.

As with any musical, part of the audition process was to act, and the other part was to sing. Everyone else was busy preparing pieces from other musicals for their audition. Most, if not all, of my competition was involved in choir anyway. But not I. I was guilty of singing along to Incesticide in my car, but that was about the extent of my vocal training. The night before the audition, I came to terms with the fact that I had yet to figure out what I was going to sing. Others already had their songs selected and their accompaniment planned, and I had yet to even select what I was going to butcher, let alone figure out who would be brave enough to join me on stage in playing the fool.

That night, I was listening to a Dylan album, The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan. It hit me: I could do a Dylan song. After all, even if my voice sucked, surely I could make a Dylan song sound respectable, no? I frantically telephoned my friend Scott and pleaded him to help me out. I needed him to learn the guitar chords to this Dylan song and join me on stage. My song? Well, let's just say that it probably wasn't the best choice, but Eddie Vedder had recently pulled it off at Dylan's 30th anniversary concert. And, hell, everyone liked Vedder's voice despite the fact that he sounded like shit. My conclusion: I was sure everyone would dig my take on the same song: "Masters of War".

So, for the first—and probably only—time in Canton High School history, "Masters of War" was the audition piece. Scott and I warmed up in the bathroom prior to my audition. It was really our first time rehearsing together. But, when I took the stage, let me tell you was there ever a spark! I'm positive that somewhere in that mess of microphone cables, something surely shorted out in response to my croaking. But, the girl thought I did a good job, at least.

I'm quite certain that I received the lead in the musical, ahead of more qualified and deserving guys, because the director saw some potential in me. After all, I was new to the scene and I could act reasonably well, especially in comparison to the other dudes trying out on the strength of their lungs. I know it wasn't because I nailed the emotive portions of "Masters of War". Oh no, I did not.

Dylan would soon have his revenge on me, unfortunately. As a penalty for butchering his song, I was forced to decline an invite to see Dylan in a quaint theater in Peoria. The tickets were front row, too. You see, the Dylan concert just happened to be the same night as the dress rehearsal for Man of La Mancha. Don Quixote had windmills to concur; there would sadly be no Bobby D for him.

Jon got to go to the Dylan concert, of course, and sit front and center for it. And he had a great time, too. Two nights later, he witnessed this blogger in tights, a wig, and a fake mustachio, singing his ass off under the bright lights. And I'm sure he had a great time, too.

It's been eleven years since I last sung a Bobby D tune in public. I'm sure it will be at least eleven more years before the next occurrence as well. Jon now lives in Denver. It might have seemed like he was a time zone away from me when we were in high school. But, sadly, he now actually is. I've made one trip out to Denver in the five-plus years that Jon has lived there. Other than that trip, we've briefly caught up with each over the holidays on a few occasions.

Today, we keep in touch through these blogs and e-mail. The blog itself I often think is pointless. After all, who gives a fuck what some minor music critic from the middle of nowhere has to say about the new Bright Eyes record? I mostly keep up with this blogging business so that my friends can stay in touch with me, even if it's through something as impersonal as cyberspace. I've never been good with words when it comes to expressing my feelings for someone. (Jon can testify to that; he's read some of the gibberish I passed off as poetry in high school.) It's easier for me to ramble on for 1,000 words about Bright Eyes than it is for me to put into words just how much I miss some of my friends that are now spread out around the country. For that, I'm sorry.

But, I think Jon knows just how much I miss him still today. If he ever desires a reminder, he needs only to think about "Dylan in a dumpster," which means nothing to you but everything to us. Those days are in the past, and those memories will always be there for me to return to. I only hope that in the future, we can share more time together in the flesh. After all, I've still got a box of baseball cards and a few blank tapes. I'm sure Jon hasn't traded in all of his Queensryche records; and I know he still dreams of one-upping my paradise resort. But guess what, Jon: I've got a video tape of a skinny kid pretending to be Don Quixote, and it plays seven days a week in my 10,000 seat movie theater that dispenses FREE TUBS OF POPCORN. Try topping that.

N/P—Brian Wilson, Smile

I Do This!

2005-02-01T20:39:00.000-06:00

It's 22-0 for my Fighting Illini after they took down No. 10 Michigan State in Lansing tonight. What a big win! I'm a believer now. Some rightfully wonder why it took me 22 wins in a row to fully place all of my confidence in this team. Maybe it's just stupidity, but I truly chalk it up to two things:

1) My constant companion, doubt. I find the potential for wrong before I acknowledge the possibility of right. It's a trait that I can't seem to shake, to my chagrin. And, I just went through some tough times when my Cardinals were swept in the World Series. It's a painful trip to make it that far in the process and then be denied in such a brutal fashion. That took a lot out of me, the fan.

2) I've been beaten down by the mindset that the Illini play in a weak conference, which somehow takes away from what they've been able to accomplish with big wins over Wisconsin and now Michigan State. It's true about the conference. The Big Ten is no match as a conference when compared to the SEC or the Big East or ACC. But, and this is a big but, the Illini are just heads and shoulders better than the other teams in their conference. It wasn't true last season. But tonight, I finally believe that to be true about this squad.

They have a saying on this team: "I do this." They utter the phrase when talking smack, usually at each other during practice. Dee Brown pulls up for a three pointer with Luther Head in his face. Swish. "I do this." Deron Williams breaks down Rich McBride on the dribble and dishes to an open Roger Powell under the basket. "I do this." It's a choice of words with a very blue collar ring to it, which is entirely appropriate for this team.

For as much flash and dazzle as they can possess at times—usually thanks to Dee—they really are a workman-like team. Their motion offense dictates that they work their tails off running around the court to get an open look, often making pass after pass after pass before they shoot the ball. On defense, they hound the opposing team, with big guys moving twenty-plus feet away from the goal in order to double-team guards on screen-and-rolls. They use speed and athleticism and hustle to overcome some of their limitations, like an undersized low-post defense and a lack of consistent points-in-the-paint. They've got an unlimited amount of poise. An opponent isn't going to back them into a corner; they're too proud. They play like a hungry mob of union workers who are looking for a new contract, a fresh lease on life. In the case of this team, they want RESPECT. They want you to believe.

And now, I do. I promise.

N/P—Ennio Morricone, "The Big Gundown"

Howdy stranger: G is for Gastr del Sol

2005-01-30T15:56:00.000-06:00

(Introduction provided here.)

Gastr del Sol resides on the shelf between Gang of Four’s Entertainment! and Giddy Motors’ Make It Pop.

Before the days of current freak-folkers like Devendra Banhart and post-rockers like Grand Ulena or Volta Do Mar, there was a trio of Chicago labels that released the best and brightest of the Louisville music scene, from Slint and Rodan to Palace and today’s subject, Gastr del Sol. This group was the chicken that hatched the egg. And Gastr del Sol was most definitely the strangest and most abstract of the bunch, which might explain why I don’t feel compelled to listen to their records today.

That’s no knock on the three albums I still own—Crookt, Crackt, or Fly; Mirror Repair; and Upgrade & Afterlife. But, if there’s a single soul out there that owns three Gastr del Sol records and feels compelled to return to them on a regular basis, please stand up. The group is a fascinating listen, but their songs are like fractured limbs that haven't healed correctly—their use is limited and they're sore on the eyes. The end result is a collection of work that, while engaging, is also confrontational and certainly not the easiest of listens. Since I haven't listened to any of these albums in a while, I'm going to revisit all three.

But first, a little more background on Gastr del Sol. The group began as David Grubbs’ project, and he fielded a host of session musicians including Tortoise’s John McEntire and Bundy K. Brown. But for all practical purposes, after the release of the band’s first album, the group consisted solely of songwriters Grubbs and fellow oddball Jim O’Rourke. Both were accomplished musicians in their own right. Grubbs got his start in the seminal Squirrel Bait during the mid-‘80s. They jumpstarted the Louisville music scene that would soon spawn Slint, taking post-hardcore to a new level in the process. He later performed with Bastro and Bitch Magnet before turning his focus to Gastr del Sol. O’Rourke was a member of both Brise-Glace, the incredibly abrasive and bizarre post-hardcore group, and Gastr del Sol in the early-to-mid-‘90s. O’Rourke later went on to release some noteworthy solo recordings after Gastr del Sol split, and most recently collaborated with Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy in the group Loose Fur.

While Gastr del Sol combined electronic elements like tape manipulations and a massive array of effects pedals, they also utilized traditional instruments like acoustic guitar and piano to a large degree. Their sonic explorations could best be described as nonsensical, often-improvised affairs that spent a good deal of time obsessed with tones, patterns, and loosely defined “riffs”. If that fails to resonate with you, don’t worry. The music is mostly better than the words I can come up with to describe it.

Crookt, Crackt, or Fly

We’ll begin chronologically with Crookt, Crackt, or Fly, which was released in 1994 on Drag City, the same home as the other two albums. It begins with “Wedding in the Park," one of Grubbs’ usual suspects—a brief, idiosyncratic acoustic song that goes absolutely nowhere in a minute. It features a common trait for Grubbs, too—his poetic rambling, which often shadows the odd structure of his compositions.

I arrived too late for a wedding in the park.
The had already
taken one another’s name
& fixed them in solution.

The guests had all
cleft a lean trail.

Names are for whom easier than faces?
Mountebank or sciolist.

Huh?

“Work from Smoke” is a 13-minute epic and probably the album’s most engaging composition. Highlighting the superb guitar-playing of Grubbs and O’Rourke, who can both work over an acoustic guitar with the best of ‘em, “Work from Smoke” really is the blueprint for a lot of Gastr del Sol’s work. Instead of wasting my breath describing it, I’ll leave it to Ned Raggett and excerpt his write-up for Allmusic:

Anyone expecting, say, the fluid genre hopping of John Fahey or the more abrupt but still uncategorizable leaps of the Sun City Girls will find Crookt a different experience. Generally, there are abrupt, quick chord runs or soft, repetitive figures, often with plenty of pauses, over which Grubbs and O'Rourke do or don't quietly sing, as the mood takes them.

If you can imagine having the portion of your brain that attempts to make sense of sounds, that categorizes and identifies with notes and files away that information for future reference, being tugged in 20 different directions in the course of but one song, that is what “Work from Smoke” accomplishes. Disorienting, check mate. Spooky, unfamiliar and downright disconcerting, most definitely. The only portion of the song that remains consistent for longer than a couple minutes is a howling, ringing soundscape that reminds me of the creaking hull of a submerged luxury liner.

Why not follow that up with a dirty little piano ditty before segueing back into a lengthy acoustic guitar composition? “Every Five Miles” is full of abrupt, ferocious, frantic fretboard runs that eventually dissolve in your eardrums like a steady warm rain beating down on a helpless snowman.

After another shorter, beheaded blues number, Gastr del Sol strap on electric guitars for rowdy stomp that revisits Squirrel Bait territory. McEntire joins the duo on drums as all three reek havoc for a minute and change. “The C in Cake” (a humorous reference to McEntire’s more popular and accessible project), is a mostly mellow affair that utilizes silence and an eerie soundscape to cause the listener to feel uneasy.

The album closes with the 15-minute marathon that is “The Wrong Soundings.” A boisterous, amplified, electric affair complete with drums introduces the song before we’re set drift through minutes of empty sound. Eventually, we reconvene in a Rodan-like dirge that eventually deconstructs itself before transitioning into a lengthy, repetitive discourse between electric guitars and drums. It’s hardly easy on the ears, and predates the noise we've come to expect from both Yona Kit and U.S. Maple. And that, folks, is Crookt, Crackt, or Fly.

Mirror Repair

By comparison, Mirror Repair is like a walk in the park. Released less than a year later, this EP features shorter compositions that, while still unpredictable, are at least easier to swallow. The brevity of the songs also places more emphasis on Grubb’s arcane lyrics. How he came up with this, I don’t know:

Who?
Relieves You?
That a raccoon ate the first.
Ate eight digits followed by a gland.
Ate four pair of knuckles dragging one swollen testicle.
The zoo was skeptical.

Bookended are the EP's two lengthier songs, “Eight Corners” and “Dictionary of Handwriting.” The first features some saccharine piano doodling colored at times by sonic bleeps and burps. The overall effect is, actually, pleasing to the ear. Meanwhile, “Dictionary of Handwriting” features an electric guitar hook that fans of Polvo would probably think was pretty alright. McEntire joins on drums again as the song digresses into a more dense mixture of acoustic and electric guitars coupled with tape manipulation. The mess melds itself back onto the original riff as the guitars are sent into a panicked rumble that probably sounds close to what vertigo actually feels like. The song then takes a full minute to unwind itself, as guitars run out of steam before being suddenly silenced.

Upgrade & Afterlife

Released in 1996, Upgrade & Afterlife was the next-to-last album for Gastr del Sol. About the time of its release, I saw the group for the first and only time in Chicago at the Congress Theater in an excellent bill that included The For Carnation, Shellac and Dianogah. On this record, the duo’s appreciation for the works of John Fahey became all the more obvious. (They spent some banter time in concert singing his praises, which eventually led me to purchase some of his work.) On this record, they cover “Dry Bones in the Valley (I Saw the Light Come Shining ‘Round and ‘Round),” which Fahey recorded in 1975. (For those of you unfamiliar with the late Fahey, read this.)

The albums begins with the ethereal “Our Exquisite Replica of ‘Eternity’,” with takes the spaghetti western genre in a whole new otherworldly direction. “Rebecca Sylvester” returns us to common ground, featuring a fairly tame acoustic guitar progression that Grubbs talk-sings over the top of. As a twist, the song’s coda is a melodic lullaby of the lyric “Why did the sharks watch him drown?”

“The Sea Uncertain” combines the whistle of a tea kettle with Grubbs’ plodding piano lines and a mix-match of random static noise. That’s child’s play compared to “Hello Spiral,” which ups the ante several times over with bursts of squelching noise. The noise dissipates to allow the “song” to begin. Another of Grubb’s typical acoustic vignettes gives way to the bulk of the composition, which focuses once again on repetitive interplay between electric guitars and drums before climaxing with the infusion of more static manipulation.

The highlight of the album is the Fahey cover. Not to take away from the grandness of O’Rourke and Grubbs’ original work, but Fahey’s composition is simply too rich in depth and melody to not prevail. It easily distances itself from the balance of the album, which is probably why they chose it as the closer. The duo are such fine musicians, a feat that can go unnoticed thanks to the strangeness of their compositions. However, in this more straightforward (and that could only be said by comparison) Fahey blues composition, their ability to milk the guitars for all their worth is entirely evident. Having not heard the original, I can’t vouch for how warped their cover is. But, the addition of avant-garde composer Tony Conrad on violin adds a delightfully hypnotic element to the song as it stretches its legs around the six minute mark with a wandering, droning passage that explores different tones before wrapping up at twelve minutes.

I have to say that after this initial review of all three albums, I enjoy Crookt the least, despite a few highlights. And, while I think I could part with Upgrade & Afterlife, I think it’s the most realized of the trio. Mirror Repair is definitely the most accessible. So, I think I’ll give them each another spin in the near future, and likely sell Crookt. That is, if—and that’s a big if—I can find a taker.

N/P—Joanna Newsom, The Milk-Eyed Mender

Questions: answers?

2005-01-30T01:17:00.000-06:00

As I near the start of month two of my "Year Without Music," I'm beginning to feel it all slip away. I sold another two records on eBay this week, a copy of CocoRosie's recent and a Xiu Xiu album. That netted me $17, of which I recently spent $9 on the new Black Mountain album. Having heard the whole record now, it's safe to say that I now believe the hype. It's quite good, and very diverse, too. I'll write more on it later.

So far, the damage for this year has been five albums in less than a month. Yes, I've only spent $11 of actual paycheck money; the dollars for the remaining four records came from eBay ventures. However, five albums in one month is more than I envisioned ever buying in any given month this year. The fact that I haven't cut myself off from my usual media routine has meant that I'm still finding lots of records that I wish I owned. That's led me to sell records, which is something I didn't really think I'd do that much of. All said, I've still got a stack of 12 albums that I'd like to sell, but honestly I don't think I'll find any takers. Four of them I couldn't get any bites on via eBay. So, maybe the well has dried up in that regard. Or, maybe I'll just dig deeper into my collection.

As for February, I know I want to get the Dead Meadow record, and M. Ward is also on my list. I still have eBay money left over ($8 and change) to buy the second album, but that only sends me down the throat of consumerism for the second month in a row. I'm weak, help!

Not to change the subject, but I've got a question to pose for you, the loyal reader. Who knows anything about mp3 hosting and would care to recommend a provider/site to look into. I'm looking for a small amount of space so that over the course of a month I can post 10-20 mp3s to my site (and later replace them with others). I'm not hoping to spend more than $10-15 per month to do so. Anyone have a suggestion? Bueller? Bueller?

Post something to the comments section or e-mail me (see my profile). Thanks in advance.

N/P—Jens Lekman, "A Higher Power"

M. Ward: in hindsight

2005-01-27T11:11:00.000-06:00

M. Ward is one suspicious fellow that I should have looked into some time ago, like, say 2003, when he released Transfiguration of Vincent. 2003 was a busy record-purchasing year for me, and despite lots of positive press, I never made it a priority to pick up Ward's album. That was a mistake.

Patrick recently swapped some digital skin with me, burning me several releases from 2003 that I didn't get a chance to hear in exchange for a mix of artists from my 2004 Best Of list. I also received some other goodies from Patrick that I'm anxious to listen to, like Grandaddy, The Handsome Family and John Cale.

But, back to M. Ward. He's a bit of an oddball, which I adore. Picking an acoustic guitar, often with miminal backing instrumentation (occasional organ, drums or lead guitar), Ward strikes me as a rootsy blend of Nick Drake and Tom Waits, with a teeny bit of Ron Sexsmith's gorgeous flair thrown in for good measure. On paper, that doesn't make much sense, as Drake and Waits are polar opposites, but it transcribes well in sound. Ward's eclecticism is obvious here, from his melancholic adaptation of Bowie's "Let's Dance" to the spooky, Cajun blues of "Sad, Sad Song" to mellow, Skip Spence-influenced tunes like "Undertaker".

Ward's personality often trumps his talented songwriting, which is what I enjoy most about him. Here's a good example:

Oh a playful little kitten met a playful little bird,
and then off with it's head, off with it's head, oh my!
And a breeze met a blossom in a winter embrace
and then off with it's head, off with it's head, oh my!

Am I outta my head, am I outta my head my love?
Am I outta my head or is this real life?

There's absolutely nothing "everyday" about Ward's perspective, which is so refreshing. Modernists might say he resembles Devendra Banhart or even Sam Coomes in this regard, but to these ears he really sounds like the second-coming of Nick Drake (possibly with a bit more of a sense of humor).

All in all, Transfiguration of Vincent was a pleasant surprise, and hopefully this year I can pick up a copy of the actual album. His new release, Transistor Radio, drops in a month on Matador.

N/P—Bonnie "Prince" Billy & Matt Sweeney, Superwolf

Keeping up with the Obersts

2005-01-26T13:01:00.000-06:00

I swear that I'm not just buying into the hype with this new Bright Eyes record. I'm not even a Bright Eyes fan, really. I have Lifted, Bright Eyes' previous album. But, it's never really sunk in. I've never given it much of a chance to. Because of the hype that preceeded it. Because of the rave reviews that followed it. Because of my own laziness or distraction or preconceptions.

So, why did I rush to the record store on Tuesday to get Conor Oberst's (aka Bright Eyes) new album, I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning? Well, I guess I fell for everything that I didn't fall for with his previous release. I fell for the hype; there's been talk about this album being his tour de force for some time now. And, I fell for the press' tongue-bath, going against even my gut feeling from previous conclusions drawn about zines like Pitchfork, who gave the record an 8.7.

But, I also did some research, checking out a couple samples from the label's site, which nudged me into taking the risk even though the samples turned out to be the album's weaker offerings. And, my research also led me to the conclusion that Bright Eyes' other new offering, Digital Ash in a Digital Urn, was probably not going to be my cup of tea.

As I discuss this album, understand that I have little history with Conor Oberst. I don't know much about his past records, or his past. Other than the usual "boy wunderkind" tag that seems to have permanently attached itself to Oberst, even though he's now in his mid-20s. So, my opinion of his work is, for the most part, not tainted. No, I couldn't sit on a jury if Oberst was to be tried for manslaughter tomorrow. I know more than some. But, it does seem that Oberst is trying to be convicted of manslaughter with the release of Wide Awake. It's a record that on the surface seems more mature, more supple, more of a discussion with the listener, more of this earth. More "Americana," as they say. It seems he's attempting to slay his prior demons, the boyishness and crudeness that has dogged him throughout his career. He's certainly created a record that will have a greater appeal.

Wide Awake was supposedly written while the Omaha kid was hanging out in the Big Apple. Seems like an odd setting to compose a record of countrified folk songs. Seems like an odd place to try to connect with your inner-Dylan. Then again, NYC is also where Dylan connected with his inner-self on multiple occasions, so what do I know?

I've given this record exactly three spins. That might seem like too few to pass judgment, but I believe that the first impression is often the lasting impression—and for good reason—when it comes to music. I don't want my brain (or further literature) to muddy-up what my the rest of my body is telling me. And the rest of my body is telling me that this is a great record. Not monumental. Not without its doubts. Maybe not even career-defining. But, possibly, career-redefining.

On the opener, "At the Bottom of Everything," Oberst takes us through an uncomfortable, spoken-word intro to set up a tale of our eventual meeting with our maker. The song kicks off much like the opener to Ryan Adam's Heartbreaker, except in a completely different tone. The tune itself is an acoustic, mandolin-led ditty that would sound totally comfortable on Wilco/Billy Bragg's two odes to Woody Guthrie. As a bonus, My Morning Jacket's Jim James lends his voice to the song's chorus. (I didn't even recognize him stripped of all his usual reverb.) The song's soul-searching lyrics—which conclude "I found out I am really no one"—are infused with Oberst's childlike enthusiasm, which (for the first time) I realize reminds me to some degree of Jad Fair. Taken in this context, I'm not as turned off by Oberst's hyperactivity or his gentle naiveté. I'm also not sure that I could have said that three or four years ago. But, as I've grown older, I have created more space for sincerity, and increased the rent on sarcasm and cynicism. So, where once a voice like Oberst's might have been refused a couch to crash on, he's now taken in and fed.

"We Are Nowhere and It's Now" is one giant rhetorical question: "Why are you scared to dream of God, when it's salvation that you want?" A favorite lyric appears, too: "Like stars that clear have been dead for years, but the idea still lives on." The song itself is an uncluttered acoustic tune, spliced together with drum fills, piano embellishments, and flourishes of trumpet. And, most importantly, the weary background vocals of Emmylou Harris, who makes the first of three appearances. Harris lends the song her expert touch, providing a vibrant backdrop and interesting contrast to Oberst's warbly, youthful voice.

"Old Soul Song (for the New World Order)" is a melancholic, pedal-steel number for the headphones that swirls into a wall-of-sound whose cacophony reflects the song's lyrics: "We walked for forty blocks to the middle of the place we heard that everything would be. And there were barricades to keep us off the street. But the crowd kept pushing foward 'til they swallowed the police. They went wild...". As the song's confidence builds, the dueling drummers increase their intensity, the background vocals blend with the drone of the pedal steel and the trumpet sails over the whole mass. It's the record's first rocking moment, and it's a memorable one.

Oberst promptly brings the lights down for the follow-up, "Lua," choosing to provide us with only his acoustic guitar and voice. The decision fits the introspective, travelling-light ballad to a T. "Train Under Water" is another mid-tempo ballad, this time in the model of Gram Parsons and the Byrds. It brings us to Wide Awake's center; with only five songs remaining, we've been treated to a mellow affair thus far.

"First Day of My Life," which would have been a great selection for the mix I did for Mary and her newborn son, keeps the mood relaxed. It's actually about the sense of rebirth we can feel when falling in love. And as I type this, I am aware that this sounds cheesy. And, I won't deny that it is. But if Journey is Velveeta, then this tune would have to be brie. It's a more eloquent sort of emo than, say, Dashboard Confessional. Ultimately, I could do without it, though.

But "Another Travelin' Song," I could do with more of. The album's first rocker from the get-go, it's a straightforward Johnny Cash country-rocker blessed by more pedal steel, vibrating organ, again a pair of drummers and Emmylou's sweet backing vocals. But it's just a teaser to the magnificent, Dylan-esque "Landlocked Blues," which features Emmylou in a duet that reminds me—in such a good way—of an update on the traditional ballad Emmylou would do with Gram (or for a more modern reference, see the fabulous Chitlin' Fooks). Oberst hits a handful of lyrical home runs on this one, including this dandy: "A good woman will pick you apart. A box full of suggestions for your possible heart. And you may be offended and you may be afraid, but don't walk away, don't walk away." But, ultimately, that's just what he does. This sense of the wandering stranger addled by drugs seems critical to Oberst's definition of himself at the current juncture. He seems wiser, but unable to fully realize, afraid to commit, and uneasy with the thought of growing old.

"Poison Oak" strikes me as more of dusty, stark, Springsteen ballad. Again, it grapples with a feeling of restlessness that inspires confusion masquerading as spite, the fuel that drives this young soul. "Road to Joy" brings the album to a close. Moreso than any other song on the album, this particular one paints Oberst as the vocal minority of his country's bewildered youth: "So when you're asked to fight a war that's over nothing, it's best to join the side that's going to win. And no one's sure how all of this got started. But we're going to make them goddamn certain how it's going to end." While it's not quite his own "Masters of War," Oberst gets an A for effort. He ends the song by hitting the nail squarely on the head: "Failure's always sounded better, so let's fuck it up boys. Make some noise!"

By all accounts that I've read, Wide Awake is superior to Digital Ash in terms of songwriting and execution. I suspect Digital Ash will receive more kudos from the youth brigade, however, as its been Postal Serviced in comparison to this album. But, I do think that this album will be of more interest to the aged sect, which is probably what Oberst had in mind when he recruited Emmylou and Jim James and set out to record a country record. I can see this album appealing to fans of Okkervil River, in particular, which is a poor reference point as there are far fewer fans of OR than BE, and OR basically took BE's schtick and ran with it. So, maybe I should say "Recommended if you like Ryan Adams, but with more 'tude and lewd." Nah, that doesn't quite nail it either. Well, I'm not going to say that Bright Eyes is the second coming of Dylan. That's laughable. So, let's just say he's on to something good here. If you felt like you couldn't quite get into Lifted—maybe you were turned off by his bratty attitude or his lack of clarity—or you simply steered clear of Bright Eyes until now, then it's likely that you'll be surprised by this record. Conor Oberst definitely snuck up on me.

N/P—The Carter Family, "Single Girl, Married Girl"

I don't get it (I can't dance)

2005-01-25T14:59:00.000-06:00

Fred from D.C. sent me a copy of the DFA Comp #2 that was all the rave last year. I'm only through the first two (of three) discs, but I already feel nauseated at the thought of continuing any further. I just don't get electronica, even the fucked-up, creative variety (like most of this comp). It hurts my brain to think about this style of music, it bothers my ears to listen to it, and in general, it perplexes me as to why this style of music earns such praise. Curse Moby!

There's some good stuff here, for sure. LCD Soundsystem's "Yeah," despite its lengthy run time, manages to maintain my interest for the most part (even through the abrasive ending). And The Rapture remix of "Sister Saviour" is fun in a Duran Duran-gone-techno sorta way.

But fuck, I just don't find this disc to be the shiznit. Maybe that's because I can't dance. So, I have no interest in music that one dances to, at least in the modern sense of the word "dances". Yet, in the past, I have enjoyed me some electronica, from B. Fleischmann to Kruder & Dorfmeister to Aphex Twin. I've even stomached an Oval concert (one man+laptop), as my curiosity ripped apart my innards and choked me with my own intestines. (Actually, Oval was pretty cool—like an hour's worth of screeching white noise. I'm certain that he turned up the shock value a few notches seeing as he was playing for a handful of Midwesterners.)

So, in the past I've at least enjoyed a smattering of electronica, or whatever in the fuck it's called these days. But, nowadays, I just ain't having none of it. Give me some guitars and amplifiers, or give me death.

Fred, bless his heart, also sent me a copy of Smile, which I have yet to hear in its entirety. I'm guessing that I'm gonna dig it a little more.

N/P—Jon's "Black Mass" mix CD

Deficit & Dumbshit

2005-01-25T09:30:00.000-06:00

News today is Bush wants another $80B for the war, and that the new estimate is that the U.S.ofA. will rack up $855B in debt over the next decade, excluding the overhaul to the social security plan and the expense of the war(s).

The sad fact is that all this debt might not be the most disgusting, lasting effect of the Bush administration. That honor might be reserved for the decisions Bush has made concerning who to put in power, and the negative impact they have on our society.

Ole Judge Rehnquist is about ready to kick the bucket, and experts say that Ole Judge Scalia is the shoo-in to replace Rehnquist as high roller. Of course, it's never too soon to brace for our forthcoming violent smack across the face due to arrive when Bush puts forth his recommendation for a newbie to the Almighty Court.

Meanwhile, Salon posted the following nugget yesterday. I really shouldn't be surprised anymore by what I read concerning Bush and his ability to pat those on the back who have served him well in the past. I don't find that, in and of itself, to be despicable. (After all, in politics the practice is all too common.) But, in Bush's case, he keeps poor company in the first place. Read up, with thanks to Mark Follman for posting this originally.

Newsweek's Michael Isikoff reports that the nominee for attorney general may have helped President Bush escape jury duty in a drunken-driving case involving a dancer at an Austin strip club in 1996, in order to protect Bush from disclosing his own 1976 conviction for driving under the influence of alcohol.

The Newsweek report is based on Gonzales' recent testimony during Senate confirmation hearings, and follow-up interviews with Travis County Judge David Crain and lawyers involved in the case.

"In separate interviews, Crain -- along with [defense attorney] Wahlberg and prosecutor John Lastovica -- told NEWSWEEK that, before the case began, Gonzales asked to have an off-the-record conference in the judge's chambers. Gonzales then asked Crain to 'consider' striking Bush from the jury, making the novel 'conflict of interest' argument that the Texas governor might one day be asked to pardon the defendant (who worked at an Austin nightclub called Sugar's), the judge said. 'He [Gonzales] raised the issue,' Crain said. Crain said he found Gonzales's argument surprising, since it was 'extremely unlikely' that a drunken-driving conviction would ever lead to a pardon petition to Bush. But 'out of deference' to the governor, Crain said, the other lawyers went along. Wahlberg said he agreed to make the motion striking Bush because he didn't want the hard-line governor on his jury anyway. But there was little doubt among the participants as to what was going on.

"'In public, they were making a big show of how he was prepared to serve,' said Crain. 'In the back room, they were trying to get him off.'"

You scratch my hairy back, and I'll scratch yours.

N/P—Samples from the new Bright Eyes albums (I'ma gonna be gettin' me one of 'em.)

Recent (internet) listening

2005-01-22T22:09:00.000-06:00

I've stumbled upon some good stuff recently, and it's only polite to share.

For starters, try out this Weird War song. WW is Ian Svenonius' new band, he of Make-Up/Scene Creamers/Nation of Ulysses fame. I don't really know that much about his new project; in all honesty, I haven't really followed him since The Make-Up. In WW, he couples with Royal Trux's Neil Hagerty. But, this song is rad. And, if you dig it, check this one out, too.

A couple new Arcade Fire tunes are available here, including a cover of The Magnetic Fields' "Born on a Train." Singer Win Butler claims the song is responsible for the Arcade Fire signing to Merge. It's an okay cover, nothing special, as Butler's voice sounds shredded, as if he's doing a poor Tom Waits impersonation. They were recorded live on a radio station. (FYI, I spotted this on the blog Mystical Beast, which I'd recommend working into your regular browsing rotation.)

Jon over at Unfinished Novellas recently peaked my interest with his brief write-up of the Swedish band Witchcraft for his Best of '04 list. I found a sample of these Sabbath-cum-Roky Erickson nerds here and here.

Finally, Jens Lekman, whom I've written about plenty on this site, has posted a slew of unreleased songs—some interesting, others a bore—on his label's site. I can't wait to see him in Bloomington, Indiana in a little over a month!

N/P—Jose Gonzalez, Veneer

Howdy stranger: F is for Fontaine, Brigitte

2005-01-22T17:11:00.000-06:00

(Introduction provided here.)

Brigitte Fontaine and Areski's L' Incendie resides on the shelf in between Flying Saucer Attack's Mirror and The For Carnation's Fight Songs.

This about tops the list of CDs that I don’t listen to very often. I don’t remember exactly when or where I purchased this album (although I suspect Other Music around 1996), and I’m fairly certain that this is the first time that I've given it a spin in well over a year. Before I get into whether it was worth that spin, allow me to provide you with a bit of background info on this strange French chanteuse.

Brigitte Fontaine was a peer of Francoise Hardy during the early-1970s French music scene and the heralded diva of France's underground music scene. While Hardy was more of a rose-colored glasses sort-of pop singer, Fontaine was a kaleidoscope, full of fractured colors and intriguing geometry. Fontaine collaborated with a variety of arrangers and songwriters during the ‘70s, most notably Serge Gainsbourg. But, her consistent sidekick—both in her personal and musical life—was a man named Areski Belkacem, an experimental folk singer whose passionate, worn voice provided an interesting counterpoint to Fontaine’s more polished set of pipes. At the time of this album's release, Fontaine was a political creature prone to periods of self-imposed exile. If for any reason her name rings a bell, it’s likely due to her recent collaborations with Sonic Youth, who guested on her 2001 album, Kekeland. Both Fontaine and Areski also collaborated with the Youth on their SYR6 album.

I don’t have any of Fontaine’s albums proper other than this, L’ Incendie, her second or third (?) collaboration with Areski that was originally released in 1974. To say that the duo filtered world music through a distinctly European folk filter would do this record justice. But, it would also be selling the album mysteriously short. After all, just what in the fuck does “world music filtered through a distinctly European folk filter” sound like? One imagines a sort of drab tapestry of sounds both antiquated and sophisticated. Possibly, a record that is completely unapproachable?

Well, it’s not. Areski was of Algerian heritage, and hence there’s a good deal of North African influence on this record which comes through at various times in edgy, almost-tribal percussion, unpredictable instrumentation (thumb pianos, odd woodwinds, and tympani), and unusual key signatures. The music is often murky and troubled, sinking to soul-searching depths as if the duo took pleasure from their sadomasochistic ways. Other times, it’s playfully psychedelic or shockingly stark, drawing from Middle Eastern influences as well.

Take the song “Les Borgias,” in which hand drums grapple with a flute and upright bass in a sort of cosmic warfare that would probably give Sun Ra a chubby. Areski takes the lead on this song, and his vocal approach reminds of a wandering, homeless minstrel. “Declaration de Sinistre,” meanwhile, borrows nicely from Eno’s electric piano experimental soundscapes of the mid-to-late-‘70s. Over a restless smattering of notes, Fontaine sings—of what, sadly I don’t know—as if she’s just had her heart stomped to death. “Les Murailles” features the aforementioned thumb pianos, as notes splatter like raindrops on a sidewalk. Fontaine’s backing track is cut-up into hiccups for added effect, while Areski handles the lead vocal duties again. A dash of medieval folk only adds to the record’s weirdness in “L’ Abeille,” while “Apres la Guerre” finds Fontaine speaking over a hypnotic guitar track. Closing song “Le Chant des Chants” is a bit of torch song gone awry. “L’ Engourdie” is one of the album’s few stabs at a pop song. While Fontaine’s gorgeous vocals are straightforward, the song is slathered in backward electric guitar and the acoustic guitar track dances from left to right in the headphones.

Fontaine and Areski

For those seeking an easy listen, L’ Incendie is far from it. But, rewarding it is. It’s safe to say I have nothing else in my collection that sounds like this. And, I wish I did. I’m sure that at the time I purchased this album—when I was snatching up French pop records by the likes of Jacques Brel, Jacques Dutronc, Gainsbourg and Hardy—that this was a bit more of a mindfuck than I had bargained for. (Which is why this record sat on the shelf for a long time.) I’m not certain that it’s an album that I’ll ever feel compelled to listen to on a regular basis; it’s simply too bizarre, at turns tempting and aggressive. But, I’m glad I did give it an in-depth listen today. I won’t be parting with it, that’s for sure. I can see myself growing old with this record, enjoying it more as it ages. (Or, maybe it’s simply me that needs to do the aging.)

Order your own copy from Forced Exposure or Other Music.

Thoughts on fandom in C-U

2005-01-20T22:13:00.000-06:00

Watching the Illini narrowly defeat the Hawkeyes tonight reminded me yet again of why I absolutely love college basketball. Does it get any better than two hours of sweaty palms? It sure does! In tonight's game, I received a bonus 30 minutes in the form of an overtime period. Gotta say, the Illini looked stiff and tentative on offense. Part of that is due to some stellar D on the behalf of Iowa. But, why oh why did we continue to feed the post when it was obvious that James Augustine and Roger Powell simply did not have it going on this eve? They missed several gimmes close to the hoop.

And, what’s up with Deron Williams? I really have a problem with this kid’s play so far this season. Earlier in the season he was forcing up shots and missing open looks; now, he’s reverted back to his freshman form in looking to create open shots for others. The later is fine, except at times we need him to be more of a scoring threat, like the way he put the team on his shoulders last year in our big win at home against Illinois State. Thanks to the inconsistent play from our big men and Dee Brown's foul troubles, tonight was one of those times. Instead of driving toward the basket and dishing the ball off to Augustine or Powell (who were a combined 3-for-21 in the game), Williams needed to pull up for a few mid-range jumpers. Of everyone on this team, Williams seems to be forcing the action (and possibly his agenda) more so than anyone else, instead of simply playing fluid ball and using his noggin. He’s capable of more production—and if we’re going to make it to St. Louis by year’s end, he’ll need to start delivering night in and night out.

That said, tonight was a huge win. There was nothing trademark about the victory—it wasn’t raining threes, there were few transition buckets, our defense was uncharacteristically poor at times, we didn’t pass (or catch) the ball as well as we usually do, and open looks were few and far between. So, I guess that goes to show that this team just has “it,” that ability to pull out a victory from the hands of defeat, in any way possible. However, if this was a road game, it would probably have been our first “L” of the year.

But, getting back to fandom, last night’s benefit concert—the debut of The Living Blue (aka The Blackouts)—was a lot of fun. It was my first time on a stage since my theater days in college. I (and the other DJs, too) was really more of a sideshow distraction than a main act, so being on the stage was a bit odd and also made me a bit of a nervous Nelly (or is it Nellie?). The highlight of my set was when Damon, drummer for The Situation, decided to test the mic on his snare drum in time with “TNT”. That was good for a laugh, for at least the two of us. But the real fun was had when I was off the stage, enjoying some fine sets from local bands and some fine company from a few friends that I rarely get a chance to see, from Erik to Damon to Steve to Luke to Rob.

Some gossip was shared, as usual. I learned that American Minor has completed work on their forthcoming full length, which is due to drop in May. All that’s left is the mixing and completion of the artwork. Rob reports that there will be a couple ballads among the bunch; I secretly hope that “Something You Ain’t Got” is one of them, but I didn’t ask. And The Living Blue will be in the studio in late February working on their debut for Minty Fresh. World-class producer/partier Adam Schmitt will be doing the honors once again, but this time they’ll be recording in a Chicago studio instead of in Champaign. The band is anxious to wrap up the record and hit the road. They debuted several new songs last night, and introduced a new tempo with their closing number, which was a welcome change. Joe, the maddest axeman this side of the Mississippi, still needs to turn his ass up in the mix, while the rest of the band could stand to come down a bit. But, I feel I’m beating a dead horse in making that suggestion yet again. I really haven’t heard the band outside of this town in a while, so maybe they sound a bit different on other stages in other locations. But the sound people in C-U seem fixated on pushing everything into the red (possibly at the band’s bequest), and that can work against a band like The Living Blue, who really could utilize a bit of clarity considering that each of their guitar parts (and bass) is worth hearing in all its detail. Not to mention, Steve's a pretty damn good vocalist. Blah blah blah, I’m certainly no expert on mixing a live band. So, I should probably just shut up.

The turnout at the benefit was sort-of crappy. Lately there has been a bit of debate around town between fans and promoters: the fans want better touring artists in town, while the promoters want more people in attendance. It’s a catch-22, of course, because the better the bands, the better the turnout. But, when promoters can’t afford the risk inherent in a $500-plus guarantee considering how flaky turnout can be, it’s difficult for them to put their paycheck on the line and give the fans what they want. To the promoter’s credit, we’ve had some good shows recently (Magnolia Electric Co, The Arcade Fire), but they haven’t been frequent enough. And, as last night might have indicated, locals might be fed up with seeing local bands—even the best—as many of them play out once or more per month.

Plenty of locals yearn for the days of the early-to-mid ‘90s, when C-U was hopping thanks to several C-U bands firmly planted on the national map and the desire of touring acts to play in town. The scene, as most agree, was firing on all cylinders then. Things have been on the upswing as of late, with American Minor signing to Jive and due to make a big splash soon, The Living Blue earning their nation-wide stripes (5-outta-5 review from Alternative Press, who has named them a “band to watch” in ‘05), The Headlights providing a steady backbeat, The Beauty Shop earning rave reviews overseas, and original bands like Terminus Victor rounding out the scene. But, it’s not quite on par with the scene of a decade ago, when the Poster Children, Braid, Menthol, Suede Chain, Castor, Adam Schmitt, etc. were making huge waves. It’s quite possible that C-U will never return to those glory days, as there were certainly unique circumstances on the national level—a healthier music landscape across the nation, for starters, thanks to the search for the “next big Nirvana”—that led to a small town like Champaign, which really had no musical history of significant note, popping up on the nation’s radar.

Regardless, for whatever reason, it seems like banking on the kind of turnout that promoters received at that time is probably not a wise bet for today’s promoters. And that, unfortunately, makes it frustrating to be a music fan living in C-U. Our expectations have been lowered to the point where we can only hope for a handful of shows each year that really get our spirits up. If we show up en masse to shows that we don’t really want to see, and pay the modest cover expected of us, maybe we can provide the necessary confidence to local promoters needed to see a few of today’s next big Nirvanas within city limits. But I, for one, just don’t have the drive needed to make that a reality. Maybe I’m not as big of a fan in general as I used to be, when going to two or three concerts a week seemed normal (even if I didn’t know the band or wasn’t particularly interested in them). Certainly, my priorities as well as my internal clock have changed over the past few years. I don’t recover from a late-night out the way I used to, and I now have to be alert at 8 in the morning, five days a week.

So, my comfort zone has shrunk to the confines of my apartment on most evenings. That probably makes me uncool in the eyes of some, or selfish in the eyes of others. But, I’m only human, and even my style of intense fandom has its limits. I’m not much of a risk-taker anymore. Part of that I’d like to credit to the fact that my taste has evolved to the point where I don’t find enjoyment in seeing bands that are simply bland and acceptable, even if they are in fact considered good by many. I readily admit that the style of bands that get me off now, more so than ever, fall under the category of “niche market”. And that only feeds my frustration, as my niche isn’t being serviced by the promoters in town at an acceptable frequency. That’s ultimately my problem, though, not their’s. Their job is to book bands that, while unique in the sense of being a group that has not played in C-U over-and-over again, have a more mainstream or widespread appeal. That’s common sense. Unfortunately, those bands usually don’t interest me.

Alas, hopefully I’ll rid myself of this problem by eventually moving to a larger city. Or, at least moving to a town that’s within closer proximity to a larger city. In the meantime, I’ll continue to cross my fingers and hope for the best, both in terms of the roster of bands that play in town and the success of the No. 1 Illini. At least one of the two seems to be worth fretting over this year.

N/P—The Fall, "Eat Y'self Fitter"

Payday!

2005-01-19T16:32:00.001-06:00

Today, on Day 19, I scored my first haul of the year, purchasing the three albums that I talked about yesterday (Magnolia Electric Co, The Misunderstood, and T. Rex). I took an extra half-hour over lunch, parked the car in an empty lot, and listened to The Misunderstood. "Children of the Sun," their contribution to Nuggets, is by far the best of the first six songs that were recorded in England late in the band's brief tenure from 1965-66. (I don't recall if it's on Box 1 or 2, as they were technically a California band that briefly flirted with the UK. So, I suppose the Nuggets folks could have included them on either.) But, I can easily see why Richie Unterberger, among others, has made such a big deal out of them. After all, it's not often that you find a steel guitarist running his shit through pedals in a raga-influenced, psychedelic blues band. The band's history is fascinating, too, from their initial involvement with a pre-BBC John Peel to the bizarre circumstances of their break-up to their fascination with music-as-holistic-healing/light show. Read up. But, the record is a bit of let-down. (Then again, I haven't even finished the sucker, so I should withhold judgment.)

Work has prohibited me from listening to much of either T. Rex or Magnolia, so I'll have to provide a recap on those two later. But, I do want to further discuss Black Mountain, which Jon @ Unfinished Novellas has taken the liberty of hyping ad-nausea (along with the fact that he's not on a record-purchasing diet like the proprietor of this blog). You bitch. =)

Anyway, I located another Black Mountain mp3 here (a brief, painless registery process is required) for a third song not featured on the label's site. Wow! "Don't Run Our Hearts Around" finds Black Mountain as good as advertised. Check it out.

On a closing note, if you're in Champaign-Urbana tonight, do head up to The Highdive for the tsunami benefit. I'm now spinning after The Living Blue at the group's bequest. I guess they realized that they can't possibly top my set, so why try? Hardy-har-har. Show up, buy me a beer, and tell me to my face how foolish this whole "Year Without Music" endeavor really is.

N/P—Magnolia Electric Co, Trials & Errors

Every single one of us the devil inside

2005-01-19T08:49:00.000-06:00

How funny is this? Open auditions! My friend found this lingering on a Chicago venue's web site:

Sunday, 2/6/2005

Mark Burnett Productions and INXS
are searching for
A Rock Superstar
To be the new Singer of the World Class Rock Band
INXS
Open Call Auditions
8:00 a.m. - 4:00 p.m.
Men and women ages 21 an up. Be prepared to sing 3 songs (INXS songs are
NOT required). You may perform to track or with musical instrument.
For more info. e-mail music@markburnettprod.com

It's every karaoke star's wet dream! Let's see, do I sing "Guns in the Sky," "Suicide Blonde," or "Original Sin"? Oooo, or better yet, I should do "Never Tear Us Apart" with live accompaniment to see if the sax player has the chops for the solo.

N/P (in my head)—INXS, "New Sensation" (w/Noiseboy on vocals)

Counting CDs in my sleep

2005-01-18T09:21:00.000-06:00

People don't really count sheep to fall asleep, despite what the mattress commercials will have you believe. If your mind is as busy as mine, you're likely preoccupied with whatever random thoughts usually clutter your mind. For me—especially lately—those thoughts have revolved around what album(s) I will purchase this month. Per my new agreement with myself, my "Year Without Music", I can purchase only 12 records this year, or one per month. I do have a loophole, which M thinks is ridiculous, that allows me to purchase additional records if I sell current records first. I'm not very keen on selling records, so I felt like this loophole would probably not be exercised to a great degree. (And so far, in my Howdy Stranger series, I've failed to find anything to trade in.) But, I did have a few records that have been sitting on the shelf for months, awaiting their eventual auction. And this month, I decided to find them new homes.

For the most part, my recent eBay auctions have been a bust, as three records failed to sell despite two attempts, and the five that did sell only netted me $35 total. But, that's $35 that I can spend on welcome additions to the collection. And that means that I can purchase three albums in addition to my allotted one for this month. So, now you can see why my mind was racing last night as I tried to fall asleep with visions of Tyrannosaurus Rex dancing in my head.

Three of my new additions have been decided, and they are as follows:

1) T. Rex's Prophets, Seers, and Sages,

2) The Misunderstood's Before the Dream Faded, and

3) Magnolia Electric Co.'s The Dark Don't Hide It, which I had forgotten about but is an absolute must so that I can once again behold the glory of the almighty savior of old school rock and roll, Jason Molina. (For song samples, go here and click on the MP3s link.) It's a live album, which is usually a turn-off for me; but having witnessed Molina and Co. in the flesh late last year, I can safely say I'm ready for a second-coming.

The fourth selection is up for grabs at this point. In consideration is the debut album by Black Mountain, which Pitchfork raved about yesterday. As we all know, though, Pitchfork can't always be trusted to be the arbiter of exquisite taste. Like any publication, they sometimes assign reviews to whomever is the biggest fan of that particular artist or genre. (And that, friends, can lead to a kegger on top of a mountain of hype.)

So, sticking with my adjusted priorities, instead of leaping at the opportunity to purchase Black Mountain sight-unseen, I'm doing some legwork first. Pitchfork claims that I'll love their album if I was also enthralled by recent ventures from My Morning Jacket and Comets on Fire. (And yes, I was!) But, I'd like to hear what others say first, because the two songs I listened to on the label's site didn't blow me away on first listen. (All this said, it's probably worth owning, as Jon over at Unfinished Novellas raved to me about the group, too, and I usually agree with his taste in music.)

But, I could also choose to store this extra record-purchasing token away for next month, as I already know that there's another new record coming out that I'm gonna get by Dead Meadow. The song sample provided on Matador's site shows the band traversing down a different thrill-seeking path, so I'm quite excited to hear the record, Feathers, in its entirety.

To spend or not to spend, that is the question...

N/P—Dead Meadow, "At Her Open Door"

Mixed up: Mary and the baby Jesus

2005-01-17T10:10:00.000-06:00

Mary is going to give birth any day now to her first child, a bouncing baby boy. She’s a “statistic,” as she says—a single mother. But, to me she’s a lot more than just a statistic; she’s a friend that I’ve known since high school. And even though we don’t keep in close touch anymore, I do still think about her often. She was a big part of my life during my high school and early college years, as we both enjoyed each other’s taste in music and senses of humor. We went to several concerts together, and she holds the distinction of remaining in my mother’s disdain to this very day because she accompanied me on a trip to Iowa to see Nirvana in 1993. (Long story short, I attempted to skip school—without telling my parents—to see Nirvana. The plan succeeded in so much as I got to see Nirvana. It failed miserably, though, on the cover-up end of things. In retrospect, I guess it wasn’t such a good idea to have my friend Dustin call in sick for me as my dad, especially when my mom worked at the school and was easily accessible to the disbelieving school receptionist. My mom panicked, pulling my friends out of class to question them on my whereabouts. Poor Mary was guilty by association and marked for life.)

So, she qualifies for one of what I hope is many mix tapes in 2005 to be delivered to my friends around the country that I don’t keep up with as I probably should. But, why do a mix just for her? Won’t the kid feel dissed if he’s not a recipient, too? So, I decided to attempt to do a mix that would appeal to both of them. That was a challenge.

For starters, like most childless adults, I don’t have a lot of music that kids would dig, especially newborns. But, thinking about this mix as something the kid might enjoy for a few years down the road opened up some new possibilities. The trick was to make the mix enjoyable for Mary, too. The music had to be “childish” or “kid-themed,” but at the same time be something that a parent could tolerate, or even enjoy. Plus, I wanted to include some songs that were geared specifically toward her son, while also incorporating songs that were written more from a mother’s point of view. After scouring my collection, it became abundantly clear that there really haven’t been a lot of songs (at least decent ones that I would own) written from the point of view of a parent or a baby. Nor did I own a lot of “kiddy” songs. Matter of fact, if not for Jonathan Richman, I’d be nearly doomed in that regard. And most songs that feature the word “baby” use it in reference to a lover, not a child. Luckily, in some instances, the usage of “baby” in the context of the song is ambiguous enough to make it inclusive to either child or lover.

Anyway, here’s what I came up with and titled A Reminder: Boy’s Don’t Cry.

01 Superman Intro

A humorous little tidbit taken from this old Superman comic I have that was one of those read-along seven-inch dealies. Superman saves a boy from a skateboarding accident and proceeds to tell him the story of his life.

02 The Meters, “Tippi-Toes”

How could a kid not love this song, with its loopy bass line, groovy organ, and funky rhythm guitar? It puts a smile on my face every time I hear it, and I’m 28. I think there’ll be some crib-shaking boogieing going on to this number.

03 The Delmonas, “That Boy of Mine”

“I don’t care if the sun don’t shine, as long as I can see that boy of mine.” Okay, so this one kinda skirts the whole not appropriate for a mother-child song issue, but whatever. The chorus is spot-on, and The Delmonas treatment of the girl-group classic is fun.

04 The Ramones, “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up”

“When I’m lying in my bed at night, I don’t wanna grow up.” Don’t become a jaded, cynical fuck like the rest of us. Stay young, youngster!

05 The Coasters, “Yakety Yak”

Obligatory kid song. Is this what the poor boy has to look forward to?

06 The Modern Lovers, “Rockin’ Rockin’ Leprechauns”

I could have easily chosen Jonathan Richman songs for the entire mix. If you’ve got kids and you haven’t introduced them to Richman yet, well, then shame on you. This particular song is just a personal fave. “Mother nature’s leprechauns have come back to rock and roll. See them rockin’ and a rolling, and they’re wobbling and a wiggling, and they’re fumbling and a gigglin’. They’re here to rock and roll!”

07 Dr. West’s Medicine Show & Junk Band, “The Circus Left Town Today”

Norman Greenbaum—who would go on to release “Spirit in the Sky” in the ‘70s—gives us a melancholic wave goodbye to the big top. I hope the circus never goes out of style for the young’uns.

08 The Beatles, “Blackbird”

This is more an inspiring song for the mother than the son, although the kid may get a kick outta the bird chirping in the background. “You were only waiting for this moment to arise.”

09 Simon & Garfunkel, “At the Zoo”

It IS all happening at the zoo! You’re never too young to start dreaming of wild, exotic animals, are you? I love this song, even if it uses words that are too big for any nine year-old to understand, let alone an infant.

10 T. Rex, “Cosmic Dancer”

“Danced myself right out the womb…Is it strange to dance so soon?” I’m sure Mary will wish this kid danced himself right out the womb.

11 Winnie the Pooh segue

Did you know that Winnie the Pooh considers his author, A.A. Milne, to be his “fauther”? Now you do.

12 The Beach Boys, “Don’t Worry Baby”

Single parenting can be a difficult task, if I’m to believe what I see on TV. But, I’m sure this kid is in good hands. Plus, he’s got Uncle Mike around, and he’s handy with the tools I’m told. (Just forget the lyric, “Oh what she does to me, when she makes love to me,” and this song is a no-brainer.)

13 Earle Mankey, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”

Mankey’s fucked-up rendition of this doo-wop hit from 1961 is a sure-fire cult classic with the kiddies in crib land. If you hate this song in its original (or Disneyfied) version, you may actually find this version intriguing.

14 Silicon Teens, “Oh Boy!”

“When you’re with me the world can see that you were meant for me.” This one actually works well as a mother-son “love song.” And you can really boogie to the Teens’ electronic adaptation from 1980.

15 The Coctails, “Cakewalk”

I knew my Coctails’ Songs for Children seven-inch would come in handy someday!

16 The Undertones, “Male Model”

This might be a bit rowdy for the crib, but whatever! The kid should know he’s got some options, and baby models get paid handsomely.

17 The Vaselines, “Son of a Gun”

He’s gonna be introduced to the fine art of guitar feedback sooner or later, so The Vaselines might as well steal his virginity. “The sun shines in in the bedroom when you play, and the rain it always starts when you go away.” In hindsight, it’s quite possible that the guitar/piano stabs that enter over the chorus might disturb the child or cause traumatic nightmares. Mary will have to keep us updated.

18 The Rolling Stones, “Time Is on My Side”

Well, it’s true. (Even if Mick wasn’t singing to an infant when he wrote these words.)

19 Joe Turner & His Blues Kings, “Shake, Rattle and Roll”

Get it? Rattle! Hahahaha…

20 The Ramones, “Rock ‘N’ Roll High School”

It’s never too soon to think about the boy’s education. A little brainwashing in the infant years can’t hurt, either.

21 “Cookie Disco” segue

Is Sesame Street still popular with the kids? This song—performed by Cookie Monster, of course—surely has to be. It’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard.

22 James Brown, “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World”

“…but it wouldn’t be nothing without a woman or a girl.” See, I’m making sure the boy gives his mom the proper respect from the get-go.

23 The English Beat, “Twist & Crawl”

I’m working the kid toward his first significant step.

24 Ray Charles, “Tell All the World About You”

“I wanna walk about and talk about and tell all the world about you.” Hopefully, Mary will feel like this more days than not.

25 The Who, “I’m a Boy”

Nothing like introducing a little androgyny into the kid’s life, although I’m pretty sure Mary will shy away from the color pink.

26 Big Star, “When My Baby’s Beside Me”

“Don’t need to talk to my doctor. Don’t need to talk to my shrink. …Because when my baby’s beside me I don’t worry…” They say that a newborn can have a calming affect on one’s soul.

27 The Modern Lovers, “The Wheels on the Bus”

Richman’s chorus makes his version far superior to others. Plus, there’s a monster—big surprise—on the bus in this version, which only adds to the song’s charm.

28 Os Mutantes, “Baby”

A nice Portuguese ballad to close the mix. (It was later re-recorded in English, but I don’t have that version.) I love love love this song, and when I looked up the transcribed lyrics, I actually found out that the verses were written from the point of view of a parent speaking to a child. “You need to learn what I know and more than I know… Baby, I love you.”

29 Superman Outro

We bring things full circle. After hearing Superman’s life-story, the boy learns not to ride his skateboard on city streets and is whisked “up and away” by the man in tights. A happy ending indeed.

N/P—A rather enlightening tape of one of my radio shows from college. Did I actually use a Lifetime song for my show's theme music?

Mixed up

2005-01-13T16:22:00.000-06:00

Heading into a couple nights ago, it had been a long while since I had made a mix for anyone. (I made one for M on Monday while she was out having a drink with friends. See below...) I don't know why that is, as I used to be quite the mix-master. My first girlfriend out of high school was the beneficiary of several. Off and on over the first few years of our five-year relationship, we were a long-distance couple. So, making mix tapes for her seemed to be a soothing and mutually gratifying way to communicate. I do believe I made her at least 80 tapes over that time span, complete with cover art and what not. I used to consider myself to be quite good at putting one together, using found sound samples as intros and mining the depths of my collection for interesting songs.

But, for some reason, I've lost enthusiasm for making mixes. Part of the problem is the fact that I'm such a self-doubter that I don't think that any of the mixes I make are any good. (And yes, I do review every mix before passing it on.) So, frustration sets in. In reality, I'm quite good at it; after all, you don't get to be a DJ in a bar full of people if you can't spin the tunes. But my own standards are just too high, I suppose. And unlike in a bar setting, where I can gauge the success of my selection by the audience's reaction, there's no one in my living room to reassure me that the last cut was awesome.

Last year I kicked around the idea of starting a club full of nerds like myself who wanted to share their music with others. The thinking was simple: I make a mix once a month and send it to ONE other person in the club. That person does the same thing for someone else. You listen to the mix you receive, and on next month's creation you must choose a few songs from the mix you received to share with others. Eventually, everyone is sharing new music with each other and your mixes turn out to be more about these great new songs that were passed on to you than they are a reflection of your own collection.

Well, that idea never reached lift off.

Lately, though, I've been yearning to make a few mixes, probably because I've forced myself via New Year's resolution to pay more attention to my record collection and it's lonely members. I've been toying with the idea of making a mix for some of my old friends that I don't keep in touch with as much as I should, and filling each with music that reminds me of that person. Sort of a "sorry we've lost touch, but I still think about ya" mix. So, head's up...if you haven't heard from me in a while, you just might very soon.

N/P—M's Mix...

Beating a Dead Horse
01 Quasi, "When I'm Dead"
02 The Association, "Never My Love"
03 Claudine, "I Love How You Love Me"
04 The Animals, "We Gotta Get Outta This Place"
05 Belle & Sebastian, "Your Secrets"
06 Jandek, "Babe I Love You"
07 Woody Guthrie, "It Takes a Married Man to Sing a Worried Song"
08 The 6ths, "You You You You You"
09 Donovan, "Josie"
10 Ivor Cutler, "I'm Fixed"

"Year Without Music" in review

2005-01-11T16:16:00.000-06:00

Well, I've completed 10.5 successful days so far in my "Year Without Music" campaign. But, it seems like it's been ten times that. So, I figure it's a good time to sit back and reflect on just how wonderful my year has been so far in comparison to, say, the Godfather of Soul. (Keeping things in perspective always helps. And to my knowledge, no prior business associate is suing me for a rape at gunpoint which then caused the onset of Graves' Disease. So, it's been a good year.)

I've resisted the urge to purchase an album, filling that void in a variety of ways:

1) Going to the local library. We're lucky in the twin cities to have two worthwhile libraries that feature a healthy music collection, of which I can borrow 20 albums at a time. A quick scan of the Champaign library's R-Z turned up a Sonic Youth record I've yet to hear, the recent release by teenyboppers The Redwalls, and a couple recent Richard/Linda Thompson albums. Not a bad score for $0.

2) Listening to WFMU even more than usual thanks to iTunes on the work computer. Tuesdays are my favorite day as I get two superb programs back-to-back: "Three-Chord Monte" from 11-2, followed by Brian Turner's show, which takes me all the way to the "Yabba Dabba Dooo!" whistle-blow at 5pm. Turner's show is wildly eclectic, featuring found sound (motivational tapes, TV show cutouts, and the like), avant-garde rock, experimental ambient-noise, fucked-up jazz, and psych-punk. There's nothing else like it on the dial.

3) Purchasing a Parasol gift certificate to present to my friend Donovan for his b-day. (I can't recall the last time I walked in there and bought something for someone other than me.)

4) Selling some records on eBay (building expectations for a future purchase, as per the loophole in my "Year Without Music" plan): The Ponys ($7.26), a really bad Gary Jules record that I was duped into buying for his cover of "Mad World" ($7.25), and a Beach Boys box set ($18.49). All told, that's like $33 worth of spending cash that will surely net me three new albums in addition to my ONE allotted record for January.

5) Of course, revisiting records that I already own. Last night, I drank a cold beer and sat in a warm bath (good for the head cold?) and enjoyed Plush's debut album, More You Becomes You, which Robert Christgau graded at a C-plus. (I bet ole Bob just hasn't tried the beer-in-the-bathtub listening experience yet.) I give it an A. The album got me thinking about making a list of my ten favorite "obscure/underappreciated" records of the past decade. (Actually, it got me thinking about my favorite albums released over the first five years of the "oughts," of which that would make the list if not for the fact—unbeknownst to me at the time—that it was released in 1998. My, how time flies when you're in the bathtub.) I love making lists, which in today's post-High Fidelity world might seem clichéd, but I can't help my dorkiness.

6) Agreeing to DJ at the forthcoming tsunami benefit.

7) A renewed interest in my "Howdy Stranger" series, which should pick up the pace in the coming weeks. I'd like to get through my CDs by May, and move on to my records after that.

8) Cooking. (Well, at least attempting to feign an interest in it.)

9) Reading. I recently picked up a Phil Spector biography, which was penned mostly prior to Spector's 2003 alleged murder. That, coupled with all these new magazine subscriptions the household will soon be receiving thanks to M's airline miles, should keep my pre-bedtime reading marathon in constant motion. I'm looking forward to Dwell, especially. (One can dream, no?)

10) Actually doing work while at work. For some odd reason, I've been able to concentrate a little easier at work. Maybe this whole drive for clarity is actually working, at least at work.

N/P—WFMU

We've been had!

2005-01-10T17:14:00.000-06:00

Do you recall my notes about the "Hip Hop Rots Your Brain" billboards that went up around Champaign-Urbana? Turns out that it was a hoax. The jokes on us.

The "Coalition of Responsible Attentive Parents," whose name graces the billboards, are actually a load of C.R.A.P. The billboards were put up by a local upstart hip-hop label, Up a Notch Records.

The campaign is actually quite clever, a three-step process. Step One was plastering up the actual billboard, with the slogan and the logo, black text on a white background—nothing else. Of course, this generated a lot of buzz in town about who was behind the billboard and what they hoped to accomplish by making a statement that asinine. Enter Step Two: updating the billboards to make them look like they had been tagged by graffiti. A closer inspection reveals that it's actually fake graffiti that has been plastered onto the ad. But, driving by in a car, it's quite difficult to see that detail. Other billboards feature different graffiti, which lends to the believability of it all. One billboard, which is on a platform that could realistically be reached from the ground, features actual graffiti. On that particular billboard, the words "hip hop" were scratched out and replaced below by "Stereotypes, Racism, Ignorance." The label encouraged the University of Illinois' hip hop club to vandalize the billboard. Then, they left up the graffiti.

Step Three placed a big old stamp across most of the billboard announcing the label and their coming-out party at a local bar.

Not bad for an initial advertising campaign, eh? It's a creative way to get your billboard to stand out from the others. I wonder if the label will live up the hype?

N/P—Uncle Tupelo, Anodyne

Randomly surfing blogger

2005-01-10T08:10:00.000-06:00

You think you've seen it all, and then you see this. Or this. Or this or this or this or this. See, my little obsession isn't so strange, now is it?

Hit the "next blog" button at the top right of the screen if you've got a few minutes to kill and you don't mind peeping in someone else's window. I did this for about 15 minutes last night while I was waiting for my roasted peppers to cook. I actually thought I might stumble upon a cool site; but, no such luck. Maybe next time.

N/P—Todd Rundgren, "Rock and Roll Pussy"

Tsunami concert!

2005-01-09T14:29:00.000-06:00

I wish I was about to tell you about this great upcoming concert featuring the newly reformed, Jenny Toomey-fronted, Simple Machines band Tsunami. I was no fan of Tsunami, but surely that would rock, indie-style.

But, of course, Tsunami is still defunct, Toomey is still running the Future of Music Coalition, and I am referring to an upcoming benefit concert for Tsunami victims that will be held at The Highdive in sunny Champaign, Illinoise. Details follow:

TSUMANI RELIEF BENEFIT
Date: January 19
Time: 9:00 pm
Cover: $5.00
Details: DJ/Live Music

The Living Blue (headlining)
The Noiseboy
The Situation
DJ 2On2Out
Terminus Victor
DJ PBR
Ambitious Pie Party
DJ 2On2Out (opening)

That's right folks, I'll be spinning a brief 45-minute set inbetween local powerhouses The Situation and The Living Blue, whom you know as The Blackouts. For various reasons (legal/confusion), Champaign's Blackouts have decided to change their name upon signing a new record deal with Minty Fresh. Makes perfect sense, as K Records just last year reissued an album by '80s Seattle band The Blackouts. And, from our Blackouts point of view, they also just added a new bass player. So, a new name, and that's The Living Blue. I doubt that they'll have any difficulty keeping that one. Their new web site will be up and running sometime soon, and my interview with them in Skyscraper is a month-and-a-half away from dropping; I'll let ya know when that all happens. But for now, join us at The Highdive and enjoy their first set with their new name. You can say you were at The Living Blue's first-ever concert! How cool is that?

On a more serious note, I'm sure the door guy will accept more than $5, if you should feel so generous. Also, on a related note, Salon.com was running a special last week (not sure if it's still happening) in which they were donating your $35 joining fee (which waives the annoying ads) to the relief efforts. Plus, you get to choose from a few magazine subscriptions, including The New Yorker. Hard to beat that!

As for my set, I'm a bit nervous about it. Apparently, they're putting the DJs on the actual stage itself, which will seem odd. I'm used to being tucked away in the crow's nest at Mike & Molly's, out of harm's way (and sight lines). I better start fretting about what shirt to wear right now. As for the music, I ain't got no worries. I won't even have to disturb my freshly organized collection too much in order to fill 45 minutes. I've been spinning Richard & Linda Thompson to death as of late (after being inspired to pull out the record from a recent post over at Unfinished Novellas), and I'm most definitely going to work in "I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight".

N/P—Swell Maps, Jane from Occupied Europe

Howdy stranger: E is for East River Pipe

2005-01-08T19:46:00.000-06:00

(Introduction provided here.)

East River Pipe’s Mel resides on the shelf between Steve Earle’s Jerusalem and The Easybeats’ Friday on My Mind.

I’ve got too many East River Pipe albums. End of story. No one needs more than two, right? And I’ve got three, plus a bunch of seven inches. So, I went into this edition of Howdy Stranger with the mind set to force myself through the mental anguish that goes hand in hand with making life’s ultimate decisions, like which F.M. Cornog album needs to go.

The abridged East River Pipe bio reads like this:

An alcoholic, twenty-something, Hoboken bum named F.M. Cornog gets the pick-me-up of a lifetime from a woman who helps him get back on his feet. She stabilizes his life, becomes his girlfriend, funds the bedroom studio and the label that releases his earliest records, and allows him to pursue his passion—music. He names his one-man band after the pipe that dumps raw sewage into the local river basin. Fifteen years later, Cornog has released five albums, a compilation and several seven inches.

The story itself is remarkable, setting quite a high standard for the music. Cornog’s first proper full-length, Poor Fricky, was released over a decade ago on Merge. It’s the quintessential East River Pipe album, no doubt. Shining Hours in a Can collects all of his earlier singles, most of which are also spectacular (especially “My Life Is Wrong” and “She’s a Real Good Time”). I own both of those albums, and I’m not parting ways with them. Which brings us back to Mel, which was released right after Poor Fricky in 1995.

Mel is Poor Fricky’s soul mate, featuring similar, soothing synthesizer and ringing, hallucinatory guitar. While it lacks the knockout blow of Fricky (“Bring on the Loser,” “Ah Dictaphone” and “Keep All Your Windows Tight Tonight”), it’s got staying power and lasts the full twelve rounds. In fact, it’s quite same-songy when compared to its predecessor, which might work against it to some degree. But, when the songs are this good, we’re really comparing different years of the same Mercedes Benz model. Poor Fricky is a four-and-a-quarter stars album, and Mel gets three-and-three-quarters.

“The Club Isn’t Open” kicks off the album with those trademark ringing guitars, swelling background synth, and a staple drum machine beat. It’s catchy in a trippy, psychedelic way and ends before it really begins. “I am a Small Mistake” pours the ringing, wailing guitars on thick, which is probably why East River Pipe was so beloved by Sarah Records and the British press. At times, Cornog can musically conjure up the silhouette of Felt, The Field Mice, and other forlorn, melancholic British peers. Cornog sings, “I am a small mistake. I will correct it. I’ve got to leave this planet soon. ...This can all disappear for us so quickly. Get used to it.” On the more chirpy “Prettiest Whore,” a warm bass line ebbs underneath subdued synths and guitar, sounding a bit like Galaxie 500 gone electronica. In fact, Cornog’s coy sense of style and lyrical edginess reminds me often of Dean Wareham. Take “Whore,” for example: “I know you’re a whore, but you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Take care of yourself. You know, people always kill the most beautiful thing.”

F.M. Cornog

Cornog is most adept at tugging on our heartstrings with skill and precision. Beyond just the selection of chords and his capability to add shading and context to them, his gentle yet restless voice sounds entirely pedestrian in a comforting way. In so many ways, East Rive Pipe is the opposite of mainstream; he’s completely down-to-earth. We don’t often think of bums as sensitive, let alone human. But, Cornog proves that at our core, we're all struggling to achieve similar things.

I listened to this album four times over the past few days, and I definitely like it enough to keep it. Yes, it makes me want to return to Poor Fricky. And yes, I do like Poor Fricky better. But, in the end, I think I’ll just have to save some room on the shelf for Mel for a while longer.

This means I’m 0-for-the first five letters in the alphabet in terms of finding something to trade in or sell. I guess that means my collection is leaner and fitter than it used to be, because I don’t think the same could be said five years ago. Then again, we’ve still got 21 letters to go. I might find something yet.

Motorcycle Diaries, Version 2.0

2005-01-07T09:50:00.000-06:00

Motorcycle Diaries, the film about Che Guevara's life-altering trip around South America, was an exhilarating slice of cinema and comes highly recommended. But, there's a different Motorcycle Diary that's peaked my interest lately. One involving Ewan McGregor, of all people.

Have you heard about the six-episode Bravo TV series, Long Way Round? It features McGregor and fellow actor Charley Boorman in a similarly-themed motorcycle jaunt from London east through Europe and Russia and Canada all the way to NYC. 20,000 miles in three-plus months. Sounds fascinating, and early reports are that the series is quite interesting (and often humorous). It's already available as a DVD in the UK, but not here in the States. I've missed Bravo's early screenings of it, but I'm on the lookout now.

There's an urge in most of us, I'd wager, to hop in a car and drive until we're in a land of unknowns. But, since most of us have a limited capacity to do so despite being "Born to Run," we'll have to settle with living vicariously through others. If you've seen the McGregor series, leave me a message and let me know whether you thought it was worth viewing.

N/P—iTunes radio: WFMU

The gig is (almost) up!

2005-01-05T14:26:00.000-06:00

The biggest scam to ever hit commercial radio appears to be on the out and out, reports Salon.

Under pressure from New York's nosy attorney general, who has already posted an impressive track record weeding out corporate fraud in other major industries, the (payola) system is finally collapsing -- or at least contracting -- from its own weight. In recent months, chain after chain of radio stations has announced it's cutting official ties with the middlemen or indies, who are now struggling to come to grips with the radically changed landscape around them.

But, that might not be a good thing for all, including indie labels who some thought would stand to benefit from such a collapse of the payola system. Nor does it mean that radio stations, that seem to prefer hedging their bets on a handful of predictable songs, will be expanding or diversifying playlists anytime soon.

Read up!

N/P—Pavement, "Here" (Peel Session)

Reviewing the Fork's Best of '04

2005-01-05T10:17:00.000-06:00

I read Pitchfork daily. It's usually the first stop I make on my musical tangent through the world wide web that also includes Pop Matters and a few blogs. Their news section I admire (I sure don't have the kinda time to search that info out on my own), and their reviews are often worthwhile reads (even if I don't agree with their assessment or rating, which happens often). This is all to say, I respect what they do and how they go about doing it.

But, they are hardly the perfect savior of underground rock coverage, as some people see them. Yes, they do break bands from time to time. But the Chicago-based publication also occasionally sucks the teat of the British or east-coast press and raves about bands that while deserving, quickly become a mountain of hype that's difficult to sustain. When the avalanche begins as the group's next album is on the way, Pitchfork, like most others, partakes in hopping on that big old snowball until it gets a'rollin' at a mighty quick pace. Which is to say, like most professional publications that employ professional writers, Pitchfork tends to enjoy tearing down what they've built up. They suffer from the same susceptibility to "newness" that many—myself included—are inflicted with. (Of course, that's part of what I'm attempting to cure this year.) They play to our desires as consumers for the "next big thing," which feeds directly into the record industry's philosophy of "fuck developing bands, we're out to make a quick buck."

Still, despite this flaw, in the past I've found their "Best of" list to be fairly similar to mine. The differences were ones that I could rationalize for the most part. But this year's list was simply confounding for multiple reasons.

Starting at the top and working down, Arcade Fire was given the No. 1 slot. I don't agree with that, but I suspected (on these pages) that Pitchfork would turn over their top honor to the year's most-hyped indie rock band, just as they did last year with Interpol. I thought that Fiery Furnances would finish No. 2, considering how much attention and praise had been heaped on them by the site throughout the year; but, they fell to No. 4. Animal Collective and The Streets filled the gap at Nos. 2 and 3. I have a big problem with both. The Streets, from my listens to their singles, are hardly doing anything revolutionary, nor are they doing anything particularly well. (Maybe the non-singles are stronger, I don't know.) And Animal Collective, while intriguing, doesn't have the urgency or cohesion I'd expect from one of the year's best albums. Pitchfork did resist the urge to place Brian Wilson's Smile at No. 1, bucking the year's trend, but they couldn't keep the old eccentric out of the Top 5. I still haven't heard Smile in its entirety, so I'll reserve judgment.

We're only through the Top 5, but you can already see some trendy selections being made. Animal Collective faired quite well in year-end polls, garnering many publication's "obscure wunderkind" selection. And what publications didn't select them probably selected the Furnances. On a different level, The Streets were insanely popular this year, making good on the crossover appeal of their radio singles. But "popular" does not equate to "Top 3" in my mind, and judging from what I've heard of the group, I just don't "get it."

Joanna Newsom's The Milk-Eyed Mender (No. 10) and Devendra Banhart's Rejoicing in the Hands (No. 7) both appeared in the Top 10, too, and I won't argue those as I saved room for both in my Top 10. However, Banhart's second release, Nino Rojo, didn't appear in the Top 50, period. Now, this was the case in a lot of publication's "Best of" lists; Rejoicing, which broke Banhart, made the cut, while Nino was more of an afterthought and didn't appear. But, I hold the Fork to a higher standard than most, and not just because they raved about BOTH albums this year, giving Nino a rating of 8.0 to Rejoicing's 8.4. And, as I stated in my critique of each in my Top 30, there's hardly a discernable difference between the two in terms of content or quality (as Pitchfork's ratings would attest). So, if one makes No. 7 on your list, it's easy to deduce that the other would at least make an appearance somewhere. Either their writers missed the boat on Nino (less likely), or they decided as a whole that one album per artist would be the limit for this list (more likely, and ridiculous).

Continuing into the teens finds more popular records (Kayne West, No. 18; Sonic Youth, No. 11; Bjork, No. 19) that were adored by many and that I haven't heard. It's quite possible that Sonic Youth and Bjork made records that were this deserving; however, Dungen at No. 13 is a disgrace. That record blows away most competitor's in the rock field this year. I have a very hard time stomaching Pitchfork's assessment that this album falls that far from the top slot. But, then again, they only placed two "rock" albums (Sonic Youth and Arcade Fire) ahead of it, and one was their top choice. I'm willing to let this pass, I suppose—but I don't agree with the fact that an album that scored a 9.3 rating in its review isn't in the Top 10.

Then again, The Walkmen scored a 9.2 in their Pitchfork review, and ended up 40th on the site's year-end list. That's just stupid. These are a sampling of some of the artists that placed ahead of The Walkmen, along with their rankings and review ratings: Morrissey (No. 38, 8.9), The Futureheads (No. 33, 8.3), A.C. Newman (No. 29, 8.8), Interpol (No. 27, 8.5), Franz Ferdinand (No. 26, 9.1), TV on the Radio (No. 24, 7.8), Modest Mouse (No. 23, 7.9), and Air (No. 20, 8.3). It's quite possible that what we're seeing here is the difference between the critic's opinion and the fan's opinion. When critics review records, they take into account such things as originality and artistic merit; but when it comes down to listening to records in a casual sense, sometimes those aren't the qualities that are valued as highly. So, while critically we may feel like The Walkmen produced one of the year's best rock albums (as the rating would imply), we might have enjoyed listening to Air and The Futureheads more. If that's the case here (it wasn't for me), then the original rating should have been lower for The Walkmen. Essentially, Pitchfork told you when they reviewed the album that this was one of the year's best, but when it came down to compiling a list of the year's best they more or less concluded that, really, there were several other rock albums that were better.

Now, I know what you're going to say...the review was just one writer's opinion, whereas the list is a collection of opinions. Indeed, if I located the reviewer's individual list (see those lists here), he did place The Walkmen No. 2. But, when you peruse the rest of the lists, you'll see that the next highest rating it received from another individual was No. 23. In fact, of the 25 ballots, The Walkmen's Bows + Arrows appeared on only 10: Nos. 2, 23, 23, 28, 31, 36, 41, 42, 49, and 50. This is the fundamental problem with year-end lists—they often conflict with what the publication previously had to say about the album. If anyone else had reviewed The Walkmen other than the person who sat in the back of the class with his knees locked tight and his hand anxiously darting toward the ceiling when the professor said, "Who would like to review The Walkmen?", they probably would have been given a much more down-to-earth 8.0 rating that would become the record's resting spot in the list.

This is one of the flaw's of reading any particular magazine, and why as a whole it's best to read several reviews of an album (or better yet, listen to it yourself if possible) before making a decision to purchase it. Hype that comes from the individual is often tainted; hype that comes from a mass is sometimes warranted. It's also a good argument for doing away with ratings, which can only come back to haunt you.

Anyway, I still strongly disagree with the Fork's treatment of The Walkmen in their year-end list, and I also have problems with other records I thoroughly enjoyed this year that fell to the end of their list: Loretta Lynn (No. 48, 9.3), Comets on Fire (No. 47, 8.5), and Iron & Wine (No. 46, 8.6).

Meanwhile, a record like Fennesz' Venice, which I've heard no-one else rave about, finished No. 21 on their list. It made 11 of the 25 individual lists, placing in the teens three times and in the Top 6 four times. Their description of Fennesz leads me to believe that it's a one-man Parisian group along the lines of Lanterna, except more shoegazer and less ambient. Pitchfork has reviewed several records by Fennesz over the past few years, and like this one, which received an 8.6 rating, they've been received favorably. But, the magazine has failed to "break" the artist, in part because they chose to spin their hype machine in a different, possibly more accessible direction. This is why the Fork needs to supplement their review section with a features section, so they can profile these interesting artists and give us a more well-rounded definition of each. (Luckily, in 2005, they claim they're ready to do just that when their site relaunches in a week!)

The flaw with Pitchfork's poll appears to be their method of determining who ends up where, which is never an easy task when dealing with a large number of writers which have diverse opinions. They collected a Top 50 list from each of their 25 contributors. One would think that the numbers are simply plugged in and a spreadsheet is popped out and with a snap of the fingers they've got their list. But, that's not the case. Each listing on an individual's list can be weighted by a certain number of additional points, which were not included along with said lists. That seems suspect, to say the least. Does that mean that if I think that Joanna Newsom's album was clearly the year's best, I can give it an additional five points? If so, how do those points figure in to the overall rankings? This seems quite confusing, to say the least. It would not surprise me if Pitchfork allows for an "X-factor," so that the publication's editor can ensure that certain albums end up in certain places. (Maybe that's just the conspiracy theorist coming out in me.)

Take Arcade Fire, for example, their top album of '04. It appeared on 15 of the 25 lists with the following rankings: 1, 1, 1, 4, 5, 8, 15, 17, 18, 21, 32, 34, 41, 42, 45. So, without taking the time to do the math, I can see how this record might have grabbed No. 1, despite coming up M.I.A. on 10 people's lists. That is, until I repeated the exercise for Animal Collective, which finished No. 2 overall. It appeared on 15 lists, too. But, it's rankings were better overall: 1, 1, 1, 2, 2, 2, 2, 3, 11, 11, 13, 18, 18, 41, 43. Hmmm...it's clearly the victor, no? Except, we don't know about that pesky X-factor.

I'm sure someone with some serious time on their hands and a better grasp of math could further explore this subject, but if nothing else my simple evaluation proves my point: Pitchfork's list is somewhat flawed, misleading, and like any list should be taken with a grain of salt. Moreover, the reader should not put too much stock in their actual daily reviews and their subsequent rankings, as it's obvious that they are entirely misleading when considered in a larger context.

Did we learn anything today? No, probably not. So, sorry if I rambled or displayed my shocking "nerdiness"; old habits die hard, I suppose, if ever.

N/P—iTunes Radio: KEXP

Please don't let me be Misunderstood

2005-01-04T22:30:00.000-06:00

What to buy, what to buy, what to buy. So little money, so much time. Well, I'm heading into Day 5 of my "Year Without Music", and so far it's been a carefree trip. But, tonight I started to get that familiar itch. You know the one: as my dad would put it, I've got a dollar in my pocket and it's burning a hole. I NEED TO BUY SOME NEW MUSIC. But, I've been doing so good. I posted some records to sell on eBay (no self-serving link, sorry) that I knew I didn't need anymore (Ponys, The Coral, Cinerama, The Agenda!, Bitter Bitter Weeks) and had already planned to funnel that money away for something good down the road. But today...my mind began to wander as it always does with about one hour left on the work clock.

A couple days ago, I was thinking hard about picking up T. Rex's Prophets, Seers, and Sages with my January allowance. However, this afternoon I remembered that there's a new record by San Francisco's The Misnunderstood available on the Ugly Things label titled The Lost Acetates: 1965-1966. You may know The Misunderstood from their stellar psychedelic single, "Children of the Sun," which appears on Volume 2 of the Nuggets box.

The Misunderstood

Reading Richie Unterberger's great write-up of the band (as well as fellow blogger Anti-Rove's ravings about the band's additional material) only wets my appetite further. But, I need to pick up their great "lost" debut from 1966, Before the Dream Faded, first. It was "discovered" and released on Cherry Red in 1982, and I assumed it would be difficult to locate nowadays. Alas, Gemm.com has several copies of it at a very reasonable price. So, I may be in luck if I should choose to go down that route.

In four days I'll know precisely how much eBay booty I have to spend, so possibly there will be enough cash to get both of The Misunderstood albums AND the T. Rex record. That would be quite the January haul!

However, don't think that I've forgotten about my commitment to spend time with the records already on the shelf. I'll have a new Howdy Stranger (the letter E!) posted in the coming days, and I'd like to talk in depth about The Choir, a little-known Cleveland band that recorded one of my all-time favorite pop-rock tunes in "It's Cold Outside".

Until then, enjoy some of the new blogs I've linked to on the right.

N/P—The Flaming Sideburns, "Stripped Down"

Betty Boop's skeletal remains

2005-01-03T11:53:00.000-06:00

Okay, this is hilarious. Ever wonder what Peppermint Patty looks like under her clothes (and skin and flesh)?

On a more serious note, the recent tsunamis in the Indian Ocean have diverted Americans' attention from the war in Iraq and their upcoming elections. But, photographer Aaron Huey has our back. His recent series, "War at Home," is posted on his site and adds a very human face to the toll this war is taking on our own people. It's a refreshing, if difficult, look at the war, considering how the Bush administration has all but levied a "no photos" rule on the American press regarding our soldiers and their homecoming (in boxes).

Photo by Aaron Huey.

For additional interesting photos (and commentary) see Kevin Sites' blog. Sites is the on-location photographer that recently videotaped the controversial execution of Iraqi prisoners-of-war by an American Marine.

There are plenty of sites available on the web if you're interested in viewing the more gruesome images of both our injured troops and the Iraqi people we're battling/protecting. But both of these sites take, in my eyes, a more respectable approach at showing the true hardships of war without all the gore that's better left to the imagination. (I say that not because I want to deny that such realities exists, but rather because it's simply too much for me, personally, to stomach.)

N/P—Simon & Garfunkel, "Blues Run the Game"

On the radio dial

2005-01-02T20:33:00.000-06:00

Our local "college" radio station, 107.1 WPGU, went through an overhaul last fall. Unlike other "college" radio stations, WPGU had been a station staffed by college students that tried awfully hard to be a regular Joe alternative rock station. Few variety shows, and little-to-no attention paid to the CMJ charts. That changed, somewhat, in September, when the station's new director made the bold choice to piss in the punch bowl. Gone was the Limp Bizkit and Creed, in came the Spoon and Of Montreal. They even lifted several selections from some of my old set lists in order to introduce some oldies but goodies into the mix—New York Dolls, MC5, The Ramones, XTC, etc. The shift was radical, but so far the community has been supportive. While the ratings haven't been released (to my knowledge), the station's facelift has been welcomed by everyone that I've spoken with.

That's not to say that WPGU couldn't stand to improve additionally. Their playlist is still far too narrow (how many times do I have to hear the same Smiths and The The single?), but more telling is the fact that their DJs (for the most part) are incompetent and sound like fools every time they open their mouths. I guess that's what you get when you put a 20 year-old whose musical vocabularly doesn't date back further than Weezer in front of a mic and tell him/her to say something "cool" about Elvis Costello. They do a decent job with newer bands, mostly through regurgitating the latest news from the band's web site or Pitchfork. But, they sound completely out of their element when it comes spouting off worthwhile info on elder or local bands.

Luckily, WPGU is aparently branching out to incorporate into their staff some non-broadcasting students that are musically inclined. A-Rod (Alex Rodriguez), who locals know as a man-around-town and ex-promoter at Mike & Molly's, now has a gig on afternoons from 12-3 p.m. He hopes to work within the station's playlist to make room for more local music. Give him a buzz this week and make a request: 244-1071.

Hopefully, he'll be able to influence the station to continue to push its boundaries and expand its playlist. I'll be listening...

N/P—Dexy's Midnight Runners: Searching for the Young Soul Rebels

New Year's at the parents rots the brain

2005-01-01T23:57:00.000-06:00

Well...Day One of my Year Without Music was as easy as can be. (Okay, so there were no record stores open in town, and I was at my parents for half the day, but whatever!) The urge to buy records did not overcome my best judgment. And not even Jon's recent writings about his New Year's Day shopping spree caused anything more than a slight twinge of jealousy. I'll just have to come to turns with the fact that reading Unfinished Novellas for the next year will be a bit painful at times. Speaking of Jon, I bought him this book for Xmas, that he's enjoying. Can't wait to read more about it.

I did do some thinking today on what my first record purchase of the new year may be. Since January is not typically a strong month for new releases, I'll probably look to pick up an old release. I've wanted for some time to purchase one of T. Rex's pre-Electric Warrior releases. Electric Warrior is definitely among my Top-20 albums of all time, and I have plenty of John's Children, Bolan's band prior to starting T. Rex. So, I want to learn more about the period in his songwriting that served as a bridge from "Midsummer Night's Scene" to "Mambo Sun". I also love what I've heard of Bolan's earlier acoustic work as Tyrannosaurus Rex. Specifically, I want some more songs along the line of "Debora," so that may make Prophets, Seers, and Sages my selection. I need to do a bit of reading, I suppose. Anyone have any opinions?

New Year's at the folks was entirely uneventful. We began drinking (Dos Equis with limes for me) around 4 p.m., and after several hands of Euchre, a stellar win for my Fighting Illini, and far too much BORING football, the entire family packed the living room to watch the ball drop in NYC. I was asleep a little over an hour later. I suppose that's the downfall of drinking so early in the day—both M and I were tired early in the eve. So, no bowling alley bar, no Josie B's, no Billy's Tavern...nothing. Oh well. I did get to kiss M at midnight, keeping with her superstitions.

To wrap things up, do others around the country have these asinine "Hip Hop Rots Your Brain" billboards up around town? We have several here (one is actually on the side of the building I work in), a few of which have already been creatively altered with a can of spray paint. Surely the people who are paying for these ads know that declaring something as "evil" only supplies more enthusiasm for the kids to follow down that path. At any rate, the ads are a fucking joke, an extension of the Tipper Gore anti-metal days. (Ask Twisted Sister if landing the number seven slot on Tipper's Parental Music Resource Center "Filthy Fifteen" list did anything for their record sales.) When will parents find a truly worthwhile campaign to back when it comes to their kids? May I suggest: "New Year's at the Parents Rots Your Brain".

Year Without Music

2004-12-30T16:16:00.000-06:00

There’s one thing that I want from 2005, and it’s a big-ticket item: Clarity. I readily admit that I don’t have the answers as far as how to achieve clarity, but I do know that the search begins with determining my priorities and sticking to them. My main goal is to spend more time on myself. To elaborate, I want to refine my ambitions, discover new passions and continue to develop my perspective on life. Part of this process is defining what matters most to me, and then discovering how best to incorporate those things into my life.

I hope to slow down my speeding mind, to decelerate my thoughts to the point where I can study them. I don’t want to absorb new information for the sake of staying in the loop or keeping up with the Joneses when I haven’t finished digesting the old information that already clogs up my memory. I need to control the intake if I'm ever going to tame the beast.

So, what effect will these changes have on my musical pursuits, or on this blog specifically? Get this: I plan to go one calendar year without buying more than 12 albums. The results will hopefully be two-fold: 1) Spend the money saved on my self, in the hopes of achieving said goals; and 2) Spend more time appreciating music instead of simply consuming it. The later is a point that will be of interest to readers of this blog. I will not stop writing about music; nor will music cease to play an important part in my life. But, instead of acting like a sponge that sucks up as much of the atmosphere around it as possible, only to be wrenched dry moments later, I hope to alter that approach. Instead of soaking up whatever the media or record shops are pimping in a given month, I want to proceed with extreme caution. I plan to spend plenty of time studying new releases through reviews and whatever sound samples I can get my hands on...before I make a purchase. Hopefully, this will lead to a truer sense of anticipation and appreciation for the new music I do purchase. Also, I want to thoroughly enjoy what I currently have in front of me. (After all, if a person can’t take solace in the 1,500 records he already has, then it’s time to treat the sickness with prescribed medicine.)

I arrived at this conclusion as a result of two recent activities. The first was the process through which I compiled my Best of 2004 list. That was, simply put, a headache. When I took a step back to review everything that I had bought this year in order to compile my list, I realized that I had actually purchased over 50 new albums this year—in addition to at least another 50 old albums. The amount is staggering, both in terms of actual money spent and waste produced. I wasn’t actually spending much time with many of those 50-plus records. I had become a consumer of music; but was I really able to appreciate what I consumed? Not really, and that’s sad since my music journalism hobby demands that I do just that.

The second activity was the reorganization of my record collection. I've gone on about the benefits of doing so already, but it’s proven in the long term to keep me on my toes moreso than I thought possible. I own a lot of great albums already that I should be catching up with on a regular basis. Neglect—taking things for granted—has always been among my poorer suits. And I’d like that to change. Also, as motivation, I’m going to give myself an added perk: if I find an old record that I don’t enjoy anymore, I can sell it or trade it in and use that money to purchase something that I do want. (And that purchase does not count against my annual limit of 12.) It’s a sneaky loophole, but like any plan worth obsessing over, having an “out” can prove beneficial. For those that are in the habit of trading in records and find this loophole to be of obvious worth, let me assure you that I am not the kind of music fanatic that has traditionally parted with his music with ease. So, I don’t expect that I’ll find a whole lot to trade in. But, at least that option is there. Housecleaning is essential, and since this quest for clarity is a lot like a cleansing of my psyche, it’s only fair that I should apply the same principle to my record collection, too. I’ll keep you posted when I sell something so that you know just how much spending money I’ve accrued.

(Note: I do not download music illegally, so I will not be obtaining music through those channels. I do receive the occasional handout from publicists or friends, but I will refrain from seeking those out on my own.)

Long story shorter, if you’re hoping for a Best of 2005 list that’s as ridiculously long (and longwinded) as my Best of 2004 list, you’re going to be disappointed.

I call it my “Year Without Music,” which is of course only a half-truth (or maybe third-truth) since I will still be spending a good deal of time with (and a much smaller amount of money on) music. I do hope you stick around to see how it all pans out. Considering that I attempted to adopt this same approach at the beginning of 2004 and failed miserably, it’s quite possible that I’ll belly flop by March. But, this time around, I’ve got at least one secret weapon at my disposal: the support of M. She’s going to crack the whip or dress my wounds when necessary. So, I suspect my chances of success are better than 20%. Keep your wagers to yourself, please. Or, I might just go all Pete Rose on you.

Have a good New Year’s, and don’t forget to make a donation to a cause that matters. And no, I don’t mean the “Buy The Noiseboy a Record Fund.”

N/P—Simon & Garfunkel, “The Only Living Boy in New York”

What I did over Xmas break

2004-12-28T20:19:00.000-06:00

Well...sure enough I got stuck in the snow while driving to Pittsburgh. The Midwest (specifically Indiana and Ohio) got hit with a ton of it on the eve of the 22nd. I'll spare you the gory details and leave it at this: it took me two days and 14 hours of driving to do what normally takes me eight hours. And the radio stopped working for some unknown reason during part of the trip. And, the hood malfunctioned. Around Indy, I popped it to check the windshield washer fluid levels and couldn't get it to latch securely afterward, even after drenching the spring and latch in WD40. So, I had to secure the sucker with twine tied in an array of knots, and hope that the safety catch did the trick. (All of which didn't matter much because I rarely was able to get the car up over 45 miles-per-hour.)

But, the trip home was fun. 75 miles-per-hour never felt so fast! And the radio worked, keeping my ears happy thanks to my recently reloaded mp3 player.

Santa (in this case, we look a lot alike) brought this household a digital camera. Maybe you'll see more photos in 2005; maybe not. But, at least I'm now inching closer to 21st century life, what with my new fancy Dell computer and my handy Nikon camera.

In other news, my copy of The Gris Gris' self-titled debut finally arrived at Parasol, just in time for my long drive east. I love love love this album, and so I inserted it into my Top 30 list at No. 7.5 (which was easier than kicking something out, and renumbering the entire list). Read all about it below.

I'm mulling over some big changes in my life for the year 2005. I'm not normally one to get swept up in the New Year's resolution madness, but this year I feel that certain changes will be for the better...and certain changes will be a necessity. I'll post more on all of this in the coming days.

Enjoy your New Year's eve. I'll be in fabulous Canton, Illinois (pop. 14,000) belatedly celebrating Xmas with my family. M will be with me, and if there's an ounce of luck left in our 2004 cache we might make it to the bowling alley bar by midnight.

Cheers!

Ho ho holidaze

2004-12-22T22:16:00.000-06:00

I'll be closed for business for the next few days. I'm going to attempt to drive across Ohio tomorrow en route to PeeAy. That's dangerous in and of itself (anyone remember the Columbus turnpike sniper?), but in addition the state is getting slammed with snow tonight. Hopefully, the highways will be cleared tomorrow, and Mother Nature will get sick of huffing and blowing. The kitty sitter is lined up (thanks K), the kitty has enough food to survive for at least two weeks (and even then she could probably live off her fat for another two weeks), and the presents (woohoo!) are wrapped. I'm ready to see M—break out the Trivial Pursuit and put the Keystone on ice...I'm on my way!

In my absence, check out Pitchfork's Best of 2004 lists. (I've got beef with them, but I'll save that for when I return.) If you think that my Top 30 was a lot to sift through, you'll go dizzy staring at their Top 50. And, for dessert, try on Pop Matters' Top 100 of '04!

Happy holidays, my dear readers. And to all, a good night.

The Noiseboy's Top 30 of 2004

2004-12-20T22:15:00.000-06:00

I do consider this to be a list of my favorite albums from the year of 2004. By no means is it a list of the best albums from this year. I’d like to make that distinction right now. There are a lot of popular albums—Sonic Youth, Wilco, Polyphonic Spree, and Brian Wilson—that I passed on this year in favor of other records. And there are several additional records that I wish I had the funds to purchase, like Gris Gris, Vetiver, Robyn Hitchcock, The Coral and Six Organs of Admittance. So, my shopping list was long, and I had to make some difficult decisions in the end on what to place in my cart.

That said, there are some parameters for the albums that made my list. For starters, they had to be released between December 2003 and December 2004. I include records from December of last year because they were likely out of mind (or not yet released) when I did my list last year. I believe only one album that I considered for this list is from last year: M83's Dead Cities..., which was released on December 30, 2003. (And it didn't even make the cut.) I also do not include reissued albums, soundtracks, or compilation albums of a greatest hits variety (albums compiling unreleased and obscure songs do warrant consideration, however). Basically, I’m looking at music that was recently recorded with the intent of being released in the year 2004.

I really wish I had the capabilities to post MP3s for each album, but I unfortunately do not. However, if you click to each artist's web site, you can often find goodies there.

So, here we go. Enjoy.

Just missed the cut:
Tom Waits: Real Gone (Anti)
Xiu Xiu: Fabulous Muscles (5 Rue Christine)
M83: Dead Cities, Red Seas, & Lost Ghosts (Gooom Disques)
Moonbabies: The Orange Billboard (Hidden Agenda)
TV on the Radio: Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes (Touch & Go)
Franz Ferdinand: Franz Ferdinand (Domino)

No. 30
The Magnetic Fields
i
(Nonesuch)

There might be a bigger fan of The Magnetic Fields in this world, but I’ve never met him or her. I’m not saying that I own every compilation track known to man or that I’ve taken a month off of work to follow Merritt across the country on one of his patented 12-date tours. But, I have spent a great deal of time waxing endlessly to those who would listen on why Stephin Merritt is the most exceptional songwriter of the past decade—maybe two. I’ve made believers out of doubters, and fools out of plenty. And along the way, of course, Stephin Merritt has always had my back. Until now. i, his seventh proper full-length as the Fields, loosely continues the thematic approach of its predecessor, 69 Love Songs. It’s unfortunate that i has to follow the greatest pop album of the past decade, cause it’s really set up to fail. And, it does just that. While it’s not without its moments, it ultimately misses the mark more often than not. See “I Don’t Believe You,” which is actually a re-recorded version of a previously released single. This tame version is lame compared to the schizophrenic, synth-happy original. But Merritt on an off-day is still better than 99.9% of the rest. And so we’re treated to lovely songs like the country-AOR of “If There’s Such a Thing as Love,” the Harry Nilsson-influenced wedding song “It’s Only Time,” the chamber-rock of “I Don’t Really Love You Anymore,” and the mopey-eyed ukelele ballad “I Looked All Over Town,” which is Merritt’s best of this bunch. Merritt makes a point to not include synthesizers on this release, and the stylistic alteration gives the affair a more sophisticated feel. That’s fine and dandy, but truth be told, Stephin Merritt needs a little down and dirty to keep his listeners honest. And damn, if that isn’t missing from this collection of songs. Possibly, his next album will be all the better off for following this release, but I can’t help but be disappointed in i.

No. 29
Ted Leo + The Pharmacists
Shake the Streets
(Lookout)

I don’t think Ted Leo will ever record an album as incredibly good and thoroughly consistent as Tyranny of Distance, released in 2001. But, I don’t want to hold previous career milestone’s against him, especially when his new album at times comes incredibly close to prior perfection. “Me and Mia” is a spectacular song, the kind that gives me chills even though I'm on my 100th listen. It walks the walk of an eternally hopeful realist. “What’s eating you alive might help you to survive,” Ted tells us on “Mia”. “Do you believe in something beautiful? Then get up and be it.” Shake the Streets is Leo’s political statement, his attempt to mobilize the youth of America. As far as political pop-punk statements in the year 2004 are concerned, this album blows the doors off Green Day’s American Idiot. Yet, despite that triumph, at times the music on Shake the Streets feels a bit forced, relying too heavily on tempo and rhythm while losing focus of the melodies that Leo is so capable of sticking in your skull. Which is to say, the music here is more direct than on Hearts of Oak. That works occasionally against Leo’s strengths as a songwriter capable of truly complex guitar work and super-sticky vocal melodies. (See, for example, the title cut, which ultimately bombs despite its best intentions and some nifty lead guitar work.) Having seen Leo live this year for the first time, my mental image of him as a modern day Paul Weller was cemented. There is hardly a more compelling or energetic frontman in the world of pop-punk; no one matches Leo’s wit and street smarts. Shake the Streets is certain proof.

No. 28
Unbunny
Snow Tires
(Hidden Agenda)

Albums borne out of a cathartic need to create can either be stimulating or suffocating for the listener. In this case, Jarid del Deo—songwriter and main cog in Unbunny—has struck a tiny nerve that’s inside us all. It's one that we prefer to pretend is nonexistent but can’t help but agitate from time to time when we revisit photos tucked away in shoe boxes and mix tapes long since forgotten. He makes toying with that nerve a point of curiosity that doesn’t quite kill the kitten. And with that success, Snow Tires picks up where Elliott Smith left off. Unbunny is the equivalent of Pedro the Lion gone acoustic, or of an easygoing, ‘70s-era Neil Young as covered by Neutral Milk Hotel. His music is familiar without sounding cliched, and on this release—his seventh—he has kept his pop songs on the straight and narrow. A wise choice when the songs are this good. Gentle embellishments range from piano and warm bass to electronic atmospherics, but del Deo mostly prefers stripping his songs to their core. You get nothing fancy, but you’ll ask for nothing more. Unbunny excels at making the bitter break-up pill an easy one to swallow. So while del Deo may prefer to never revisit these themes again, the listener will surely beg to differ. Snow Tires is one of 2004's most compelling singer-songwriter albums.

No. 27
A.C. Newman
The Slow Wonder
(Matador)

I interviewed Carl (A.C.) Newman in 2002, when his band, The New Pornographers, was touring the States for their debut release, Mass Romantic. At the time, Newman claimed, “We never anticipated anyone would like or buy our record.” Well, times have certainly changed. Thanks in part to his band’s success, Newman released a solo record this year to go along with fellow Pornographers’ Neko Case and Dan “Destroyer” Bejar’s solo efforts. Newman also told me in that interview that the Pornographers had set out to make an intelligent party record. So, one might expect on his solo effort to find Newman a bit more introspective and mellow. True to suspicion, Newman does indeed slow it down from time to time, allowing The Slow Wonder a bit of time to wander around and stare at the scenery. But, this record really isn’t a vacation for Newman, and it’s also not a startling departure from Electric Version, the Pornographers’ 2003 release. But, in some ways it’s an improvement. Mostly absent from this album are the synthesizers that busied up Electric Version, replaced instead by rollicking piano. Also missing is a good deal of the kitschy, heavy-handed power-pop that has become the Pornographers’ trademark. (Except on the exceptionally catchy single, “Miracle Drug,” which is one of the year’s best.) Plenty of this album reminds me more of The Shins’ Chutes Too Narrow than either of the Pornographers’ prior records. Which is just another way of saying that Newman is striving for something a little more Sgt. Peppers-ish here. Overall, there’s some misses among the hits, but the hits are hard to miss.

No. 26
The Sadies
Favourite Colours
(Yep Roc)

Toronto’s The Sadies reach for the same plateau as Gram Parsons’ The International Submarine Band or The Flying Burrito Brothers, Townes Van Zandt, and later-period Byrds on this, their fifth full-length. And, often enough, they reach those lofty heights. Striving for that early outlaw-country flavor (jangly, twangy guitars and a healthy dose of rock and soul) can be a risky business. But, on this release The Sadies join contemporaries like the Volebeats and Calexico as one of the few modern bands pushing the alt-country movement further into its roots and deeper in debt. But, that's a catch-22, and my one complaint about these guys: at times they wear their influences on their sleeves a bit too proudly, attempting to work off credit that’s borrowed instead of earned. But, when they hit their stride, as on the Ennio Morricone-inspired spaghetti western “The Curdled Journey” and the gentle, psychedelic pop of “The Iceberg”—both instrumentals—they really settle into a nice groove that finds them absorbed by a glowing ambience. The fact that they can tack on a nice, traditional downtempo country ditty like “A Good Flying Day” that resembles the great Gene Clark is but an added bonus. For those among us that really dug Yo La Tengo’s collection of classic covers, Fakebook, there’s plenty more where that came from in these originals. Plus, Robyn Hitchcock makes a guest appearance on a song he co-wrote!

No. 25
Drive-By Truckers
The Dirty South
(New West)

While The Dirty South is definitely weaker than its predecessors, Decoration Day and Southern Rock Opera, it’s still among the better rock and roll releases of the year. The thematic focus of this record—again focusing on life in rural, southern America—is beginning to wear out its welcome. It’s not so much that the band’s lyrics at times border on cliche (after all, we can certainly admit that life is often quite a cliche), it’s that the group isn’t doing enough to differentiate themes from album to album. And that’s really a shame, considering Drive-By Truckers boasts three superb songwriters in Mike Cooley, Patterson Hood and Jason Isbell. The Alabama boys have no shortage of anthemic rockers in their catalog, and The Dirty South—which was recorded in one of the few remaining Muscle Shoals studios—adds a couple more to the mix in “The Day John Henry Died” and “Carl Perkins’ Cadillac.” Nobody in the circuit does Southern Rock better than these guys, who have even upstaged Neil Young in his old age. Once again, I lobby for more Jason Isbell, who in my opinion has the band's best penmanship. His songs add a real texture and depth to Drive-By Truckers’ sound. He’s responsible for the brightest on this record, including the aforementioned “John Henry” and the closer, a downtrodden ballad titled “Goddamn Lonely Love.” The Smiling Johns could’ve done good by Red State standards to digest a little Drive-By Truckers and take a tour of The Dirty South.

No. 24
Sufjan Stevens
Seven Swans
(Sounds Familyre)

Sufjan Stevens took awhile to grow on me, which is odd because his music is actually fairly rudimentary and down-to-earth. I suppose I had read enough hype for his music that I expected to be blown away, and when I wasn’t—at least immediately—I had to wonder why. Well, he’s a lot like a valuable sixth man on a basketball team. He doesn’t do anything particularly well—or at least not well enough to break into the starting five. He’s not flashy, boasting a 44-inch vertical leap or a jaw-dropping wingspan. But, he’s fundamentally skilled and features a well-rounded game. He’s versatile enough to be able to fill in at multiple positions. Basically, he’s one of those guys you absolutely want to have on your team, even if his solid contributions don’t make their case on the stat sheet. Stevens is like Iron and Wine Lite. On this release, he favors acoustic instruments—guitars and the occasional banjo—to a full band. And the context proves just right for his songs, which are exceptionally well-written and can stand on their own two feet without a rhythm section to prop them up. “To Be Alone with You” is possibly the love song of the year, and “He Woke Me Up Again” is an interesting take on the notion of gospel music. Stevens' isn't explicit in delivery his message, nor would I call his music "religious," but even if Stevens’ spiritual side doesn’t suit you well, there’s still plenty of good times here to be rejoice about.

No. 23
The Chrysler
Blue Gold (EP)
(Flora & Fauna)

I know next-to-nothing about these guys, other than their origin lies in Sweden and their music is highly enjoyable. The title cut from this three-song debut (available through Parasol) is an oddball pop song that recalls the gentle approach and exceptional songcrafting of Odessey & Oracle-era Zombies as well as the early efforts of The Clientele. This cut will be featured on the group’s forthcoming 2005 full-length, which has already moved near the top of my most anticipated albums list. “Dear Dad” reminds me of The Coral in all kinds of good ways. While The Chrysler do not rock-out like The Coral, the two do share a subtle psychedelia, an enthusiasm for well-arranged horns, and a steadfast appreciation for the late-‘60s aesthetic that spawned genre androgyny. Good stuff!

No. 22
White Magic
Through the Sun Door (EP)
(Drag City)

White Magic is part of the upstart American indie folk revival, and an integral part of the revamped Drag City roster that also features Joanna Newsom, Weird War, Plush, Six Organs of Admittance and Bonnie “Prince” Billy. White Magic’s brand of folk is a snug fit for Drag City, as the group blends acoustic, askew folk music with dreary atmospherics, grand piano and at-times aggressive percussion. Throughout the course of the six-song EP, White Magic reminded me specifically of other Drag City residents like Movietone, Mayo Thompson and especially Edith Frost. Singer Mira Billotte (of Quix*o*tic fame) has a striking, distinct voice that’s not going to befriend everyone. Her pipes are equal part Karen Dalton, Edith Frost, and wandering gypsy. And her band’s music, which bleeds ‘60s British folk revival and sweats acid folk-rock, weaves a delusory spell. Of special note here is the group’s cover of “Plain Gold Ring,” which was first put to wax by Nina Simone and later Nick Cave. Billotte’s haunting voice is given boundaries to play within; but by limiting her reach, she presents an open window that any folk fan would be foolish not to peer through.

No. 21
Animal Collective
Sung Tongs
(Fatcat)

Animal Collective are weird. That may not be the most specific of descriptors, but nonetheless it’s the one that is most fitting. Every description I’ve read of them has inevitably included two words: “acid” and “folk”. Which is a bit misleading. There’s nothing traditional about their brand of folk; really, they are more what I would call “anti-folk.” They serve to destruct folk music, interjecting it with modern noise and plenty of nonsense. Case in point, the minute-long “College,” which is essentially a poppy a capella tune that has been attacked by inchworms. Or, the African-sounding, tribal-inspired “We Tigers,” with its “whoop whoop” background vocals, snaking, ridiculous counter vocal melodies, and incessant, pounding percussion. Even when Animal Collective wade into more John Fahey-like guitar arrangements, they still tend to interlace their pieces with random noise—some “natural” and others surreal. Matter of fact, if you’ve heard some of Fahey’s more abstract sound collages from the late-‘60s, that’s a pretty good reference for what Animal Collective attempts to create on Sung Tongs. Or, for a more modern reference, see The Microphones at their most demanding. Much like electronic saboteurs Aphex Twin, Animal Collective will either come off as bizarrely entertaining or bizarrely annoying. There’s not much room for middle ground. I tend to find them on the entertaining side of things more often than not, which marks a significant improvement over their debut album from last year. I’m not sure if acid needs to be involved whatsoever to enjoy creating or listening to music of this ilk, but I am sure that this is not your parent’s folk.

No. 20
Destroyer
Your Blues
(Merge Records)

Dan Bejar—who is the man behind the curtain for Destroyer—is a pop genius. He’s capable of producing an excess of hooks like a one-man Brill Building. His 2000 release, Thief, is one of the brightest moments in the last decade of off-kilter pop-rock. So, it was of specific note to me that Bejar—who has also been a flakey (i.e. non-touring) member of The New Pornographers—decided to largely recreate himself on this, his fourth album in the past five years. Scrapping the more traditional rock band trappings for a whole lotta synthesizer was a bold move. Bejar incorporates strings, piano, drums, percussion, and horns—all synthetic—into his own little Philharmonic symphony. Surprisingly, this serves Bejar’s grandiose vocal gestures quite well, playing up the playful, ‘70s-styled melodrama that has always been Destroyer’s calling card. There are several standout songs to be had here, including “Don’t Become the Thing You Hated,” an orchestrated acoustic ditty that is one of my favorite Destroyer songs to date. If you’ve always wondered what David Bowie might sound like if his body was inhabited by Jacques Brel, well, wonder no more.

No. 19
Entrance
Wandering Stranger
(Fat Possum)

Entrance is Guy Blakeslee, a skinny, young, white kid from Baltimore who was weaned on indie rock in the band The Convocation Of. Entrance is Guy Blakeslee, a skinny, young, white kid from Baltimore who plays an approximation of vintage, rural American folk music: in other words, the blues, Delta style. The fact that this skinny, young, white kid succeeds more often than he fails is a testament to his vision, his determination, and his willingness to give himself over to the music. He isn’t kidding when he sings “I hear there’s sweet honey in the rock—taste and see.” If he was, we wouldn’t be having this discussion, because Entrance would be a joke, too. I’m fascinated by this kid who chose a path less traveled to reach his own musical nirvana. I’m also interested to hear what label mates like R.L. Burnside and T-Model Ford think of this skinny, young, white kid from Baltimore who’s capable of producing a folk-blues hybrid that’s so surreal and affecting, so tailored yet authentic. While his previous release strained at times to merge psychedelia and experimental elements into his traditional blues sound, Wandering Stranger sticks to the basics more often and comes out the clear winner for it, sounding far less forced. Entrance treats us to a wonderful cover of Townes Van Zandt’s “Rex’s Blues,” remade with rolling barroom piano and fiddle, as well as entertaining, straightforward interpretations of three traditionals. His originals are worth noting, though, too. “Lonesome Road” is a stirring psychedelic blues marathon that features fiddler Paz Lenchantin (of Zwan and A Perfect Circle). Her melancholy melody is buried beneath a heaping dose of picked electric guitar and Blakeslee’s wailing vocals and eerie falsetto. His vocals are of continual interest on this album; unlike past efforts, Blakeslee allows his voice to walk on its own two good legs, pushing it to front and center. “Please Be Careful in New Orleans” revolves around a disturbing guitar passage that sounds more inner-Earth than Delta blues and really ups the primal energy a few notches. “Happy Trails” (no, not that “Happy Trails”) closes the album with more nervous energy, as guitars ring and fingers pluck until the listener is enwrapped in a fuzzy, electric mess. Seeing as Blakeslee enjoys lathering his blues compositions with a tasteful layer of distortion and destruction, his appeal to blues traditionalists will probably be limited. But, even they can’t deny that Entrance has stumbled upon something unique here.

No. 18
Mirah
C’mon Miracle
(K Records)

Mirah Yom Tov Zeitlyn has been a staple in the K Records stable over the past few years, and for whatever reason I've just ignored her existence. This is the first Mirah album that I’ve purchased, and the first that I’ve spent much time listening to. Judging by this record, I’ve probably been missing out. Mirah reminds me a lot of Cat Power on a good deal of C’mon Miracle. She does the bare-bones folk song quite well, embellishing her plucked guitar with strings, organ and percussion performed by friends including The Microphones’ Phil Elvrum. But, Mirah also knows when to layer on the distortion to toughen her sound, and in that way she at times reminds me of older P.J. Harvey. She has a definite pop sensibility about her; Mirah would rather attract you with her fragrances than make you feel unwelcome. Matter of fact, it's her intimacy that's most striking on C'mon Miracle. Both Elvrum and Calvin Johnson lent a hand in recoding this album, and the former’s sonic fingerprint is all over this release. (In fact, with The Microphones more or less taking the year off in 2004, this album served quite well to carry the weight in their absence.) C’mon Miracle is a focused, thoughtful, and confident album that definitely snuck up on me.

No. 17
The Soft Pink Truth
Do You Want New Wave or Do You Want the Soft Pink Truth?
(Tigerbeat6)

There’s absolutely nothing novel about an album of covers, except for the fact that the year is 2004 and not 1964. And while punk covers are all too common, even in 2004, it’s not that often that an experimental electronic artist who shares more in common with Aphex Twin than Fatboy Slim ventures into the realm of Punk Planet. But, there’s never been anything usual about Drew Daniel, who is one-half of Matmos and the ringleader of The Soft Pink Truth. Just how fucking odd is this project? Well, maybe not quite as odd as the other 2004 release that has Daniel’s name attached to it—Matmos’ Rat Relocation Program (just read about it already, it’s too bizarre to explain). But, it’s still pretty fucking weird. Do You Want New Wave or Do You Want the Soft Pink Truth?, which borrows inspiration for its name from a Minutemen song, is a collection of punk tunes revisioned as suitable music to pump through the loudspeakers in a sleazy S&M bar. I don’t think this is quite what Minor Threat had in mind when they recorded “Out of Step"; nonetheless, you can now dance to it. Well, sort of. The Soft Pink Truth have brutalized some known and unknown (by me, at least) punk tunes with a mighty techno bitchslap. As with any good cover, hearing The Soft Pink Truth’s version of a few of these entices me to want to check out the original. (I really wanna hear L. Voag’s version of "Kitchen." Interesting side note: Voag was one of the founding fathers of The Homosexuals.) That side note actually brings up the other point of interest with this album, which is that the covers selected (especially “Homo-Sexual” by The Angry Samoans and “Confession” by Nervous Gender) do, to some degree, play up Daniels own sense of sexual politics. And considering the times we find ourselves in (fuck bible-banging Bush; viva Canada!), I can’t think of a better year to make a statement like this: "Jesus was a cock-sucking Jew from Galilee. Jesus was just like me: a homosexual nymphomaniac." Anyway, this is not the type of album that I’ll choose to listen to on a regular basis, in no small part because I prefer guitars to samplers. But, this is an interesting record regardless, and I’d recommend checking it out if you’re feeling adventurous.

No. 16
Jens Lekman
Maple Leaves (EP)
(Secretly Canadian)

Maple Leaves offers four exclusive songs and is the best of Lekman’s three EPs released in 2004 prior to his full-length. We start with the title track, constructed with a flowery orchestral arrangement and rolling toms that give way to a sleigh bell-driven chorus. Somewhere, Scott Walker is shedding a tear. It’s a brilliantly catchy slice of airy chamber pop that—unlike many of Lekman’s other songs—takes emphasis away from his vocals by assembling a busy template. “Sky Phenomenon,” a piano ballad touching on the loss of a lover who’s flown off into the horizon, is a dead ringer for the somber, touching tones of The Cat’s Miaow. Lyrically, Lekman hits a homerun, tugging on heartstrings with one-liners like, “You and I are not the same; we’re divided by the smoke of an aeroplane.” Luckily for the listener, vulnerability is never an issue with Lekman. “Black Cab” picks up the pace by combining a bright, clean, electric guitar melody with playful harpsichord to form a convincing number that wouldn’t sound out of place alongside any of the fine songs on The Magnetic Fields’ Distant Plastic Trees. And the EP closes with a Television Personalities cover. This is an essential companion to Lekman’s full-length, When I Said I Wanted to Be Your Dog.

No. 15
Shout Out Louds
Oh, Sweetheart (EP)
(Bud Fox Recordings)

This one was a pleasant surprise that I found while window shopping at Parasol. I had read something of this Swedish band in passing, so their name was in my head. And when I stumbled upon the release sitting in the new releases bin, Ms. Angie Heaton was kind enough to offer up a topnotch recommendation. We threw it on the Parasol sound system and sure enough, it just sounded right. But, what does “right” sound like? Well, on this particular blustery cold December evening, “right” reminded me of the love of my life. Or more specific, of the instance that I first realized that I really was head over heels in love with M...when I felt all loopy and lightheaded and elated. And, oddly enough, that’s exactly what the Shout Out Louds set out to accomplish, to be “a soundtrack to the state of being in love.” Well done, I say. They do wear their influences—playful, Kiss Me x3-era Cure, recent American indie pop like Elf Power and Beulah, and the Stone Roses—on their sleeve. But in the case of this band, they are too absolutely adorable to hold them accountable for their actions. “Oh, Sweetheart” combines a catchy-as-hell Aislers Set lead guitar lick over the verse with a sweeping, string-drenched chorus that melts as easily as Velveeta cheese. “A Track and a Train” sounds like Grandaddy remixed by The Cure remixed by Rocketship and is just as infectious as the opener. And the closer, “Seagull,” takes things in a different direction, bringing the late-‘80s British pop infatuation to the fore. All three are exceptional songs, which places this release right up there with the Suburban Kids for the title of “Best Swedish EP” of 2004. It’s hard to justify space on a list like this for an EP, but not when it’s as instantly satisfying as this one. Seek this out, and be sure to keep a lookout for their 2005 full-length, which will be released domestically.

No. 14
Bonnie “Prince” Billy
Sings Greatest Palace Music
(Drag City)

A lot of people hated this album, and I understand why. But as I said here previously, I found Oldham’s odd choice to re-record his “greatest hits” with a slick Nashville backing band to be a bold—and also typical, for him—decision. Oldham has always taken pleasure in defying his critics and fans alike, whether it was through switching monikers on every release or constantly redefining his “sound.” (Look no further than the transformation in sound as he progressed from the bleak acoustic blues of Days in the Wake to the rocking, twangy country of Viva Last Blues to the beat-box driven Arise, Therefore.) He’s a lot like Neil Young or Bob Dylan in his unwillingness to defer to popular opinion when it comes to steering his ship. He does what he wants, with no warning, even if it means leaving his fans scratching their heads. Anyway, all this aside, I thought Sings Greatest Palace Music was a great record. How can you go wrong with these songs? Are you going to tell me that all of a sudden “Ohio River Boat Song” and “Agnes, Queen of Sorrow” and “Horses” are not exceptional songs? Sure, they sound closer to contemporary country on this release, but really only in terms of production values, the occasional female background vocalist, and some newfound textures. And, I like country music to begin with; I’m guessing some of his recent detractors truly do not. Fuck, I wish more contemporary country sounded this damn good.

No. 13
Suburban Kids with Biblical Names
#1 (EP)
(Labrador)

What better way is there to divert your attention from Karl Rove and the rearmed Bush regime than by enjoying some fine Swedish indie pop? I don’t think it gets much more un-Evangelical, non-Red State, and immorally seductive than two pale-skinned Viking lads named Johan and Peter who want to turn all dance floors into a burning inferno of “Ba-ba-ba.” Am I right or am I right? Despite their moniker, there is nothing about these Kids with should give you pause, other than their sugary sweet melodies and their childish infatuation with Calvin Johnson. These suburban kids—nay, Knights of the Fey Table!—come galloping in on a horse-hoof driven drumbeat in “Trumpets and Violins.” Acoustic guitars collide with pianos and tambourines as the kids declare: “I want the trumpets and violins to play. I want revolvers and adrenaline today. I want solutions and kingdoms of love. Don’t want confusion and these black walls.” Hallelujah! If that isn’t worth crusading for then I’m not half the naïve twit I claim to be. The vocalist—he has not yet revealed his true identity to us in the liner notes, only adding to the group’s Biblical mystique—sings in a slightly off-key baritone that reminds this scribe of Sir Calvin Johnson and Sir Stephin Merritt stripped of their rich timbre. He sings of faraway lands and the rented wrecks that will carry him there, with vitality coursing through his bulging blue veins. He sings of ripped-up letters of rejection from women who dare to listen to Joy Division, with the resigned supposition that “love will bring us down.” He sings in “do-doos” and “ba-baas” just like his proud European forefathers, the Stereolabs and Komedas. But what separates the Suburban Kids from those artsy-fartsy rock and rollers is the group’s lo-fi charm, which sides the band with twee-poppers like Papas Fritas, Spare Snare, The Pastels, and, yes, Beat Happening. In fact, these Kids got some attitude, dude. I half expect them to burst into an impromptu interpretation of Beat Happening’s “Bad Seeds” at any given moment. Get your copy now or die of thirst tryin’. Full length due out in ‘05.

No. 12
Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds
Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus
(Mute)

I don’t think Nick Cave has ever or will ever record an album better than this two-for-one, so you better enjoy it. Recorded in a total of 16 days, these 17 songs extend Cave’s vision and represent a certain newfound confidence in songwriting. Backed by members of the London Community Gospel Choir and the Bad Seeds (minus Blixa Bargeld), Cave is full of fire and strangeness and eloquence in creating an album that sounds remarkably mature (even compared to his mid-‘90s material) yet refreshingly classic. “Get Ready for Love” kicks off album one, Abattoir Blues, with screaming gospel-like intensity that really one-ups Spiritualized. It sets the tone for what will be a wild romp through disc one. “Hiding All Away” is quite Tom Waits-ian, but hits harder than anything Waits accomplished on his much-heralded Real Gone. But, the real stunner on disc one is “There She Goes, My Beautiful World.” It summarizes Cave’s ongoing obsession with the death of the artist—both literal and figurative—to perfection. The song’s power supply surges to circuit-popping proportions thanks to what seems like a thousand voices and a cacophony of whirling rhythm and blues noise provided by a rabid Bad Seeds. (Appropriate, considering the song references Johnny Thunders and Dylan Thomas.) While some of his ballads from the past decade were real yawners despite their sophisticated nature, Cave has taken sophistication to a new level on this release—and the results are hardly boring. Never has Cave’s slinky, sleazy, bluesy ballads sounded better than here, in part because the addition of a female chorus really adds an eerie backdrop for Cave’s rich voice. Disc two, The Lyre of Orpheus, features one of the best ballads of this bunch, “Babe, You Turn Me On.” An odd ode to a lover—sort of a “let’s fuck during the apocalypse” love song—Cave’s pen finds its way to a memorable phrase or two on this number. “Now, the nightingale sings to you, and raises up the ante,” he sings. “I put one hand on your round ripe heart and the other down your panties.” Cave ditches the piano to better-than-fair results on the acoustic guitar ditty “Breathless,” which is lyrically about as close to a proper love song as Cave is going to get. That sense of near-perfection—that Cave is on the cusp of greatness—envelops this album. The songs are memorable, the performance is spectacular, and the subject matter is classic Cave. I don’t see how he tops this.

No. 11
Comets on Fire
Blue Cathedral
(Sub Pop)

While Blue Cathedral might show Comets on Fire mellowing some as they age (introducing a more prevalent role for analog keyboardist and effects-savant Noel Harmonson), there’s certainly no shortage of hell to pay on the group’s third release. They still love that vintage stoner rock. But in addition to the maelstrom that is the Comets dual six-string attack, a stronger textural dexterity emerges on Cathedral that sometimes keeps the focus off the fire and brimstone and on rock and roll’s introverted self. Introducing a more prevalent role for organ and expanding the group’s sonic horizons in a direction that’s more seductive and less harsh, has paid dividends for the band on this release. A perfect example is “Whiskey River” (most definitely not a cover of the country song that Willie Nelson popularized in the ‘70s). In the space of eight minutes, the listener is splattered with all the blood, guts and gore in the Comets on Fire arsenal. We begin with the kind of muscular riff that one expects from a group of guys whose sole purpose is imposing tonal carnage on weaklings. Masquerading as howling celestial voices over the top of the chaos is Harmonson’s echoplex, which resembles the sound of a theremin in producing otherworldly noises. But, getting back to that softer side of the Comets, “Whiskey River” harnesses its frenzied tendencies at the midway point to strip the song down to its Stonesy riff while introducing an acoustic guitar, which for a while allows the song’s skeleton to really breathe. But the break eventually builds scorching steam, reaching climax with the echoplex bleeping over the top of a frenetic electric guitar solo and Tim Daly’s tenor sax. Fans of Mudhoney’s recent foray into the world of Blue Cheer-meets-Stooges blooze, Since We’ve Become Translucent, will totally dig this shit. Blue Cathedral breaks new ground for this fearsome fivesome, and in doing so stakes Comets on Fire’s claim as a band with as much mind as muscle. For fans of rock’s rough, psychedelic fringes, that’s a very good thing.

No. 10
Jens Lekman
When I Said I Wanted to Be Your Dog
(Secretly Canadian)

Sweden’s Jens Lekman is one of the year’s most pleasant surprises. He’s an awkward crooner, sort of a mixture between Stephin Merritt and Morrissey. Oddly enough, his lyrics are reminiscent of both as well. Obsessed with women (in his case) and his ultimate failure to understand them, Lekman’s songs are witty serenades encased in white soul, piano ballads, rootsy Americana, pseudo world music, and traditional ‘80s-inspired British indie pop. (In that way, again, his songwriting is similar to the diversity displayed by The Magnetic Fields.) His music has recently been climbing the Swedish charts to the tune of a No. 2 radio single. In the States, where he’s distributed by Bloomington, Indiana label Secretly Canadian, he's hoping to cash in at a favorable exchange rate. Yet his music sounds distinctly un-American, both in terms of nuance and melodrama. Lekman shifts from heart-on-the-sleeve to stake-in-his-heart with such ease. Case in point: “Do You Remember the Riots?”. Essentially an a cappella tune, “Riots” is a snapshot of a couple breaking up at a riot—of all places. “Your hand slipped out of mine. I couldn’t see no love in your eye. I knew what I had to do—burn the avenue. I’m not a political fighter. And I don’t even have a cigarette lighter. But I wanna see that fire.” Contrast that imagery with the album's closer, “A Higher Power.” Welding blurry string arrangements together, he delivers yet another tale of young love—except this one ends on a promising note. Lekman sings: “She said let’s put a plastic bag over our heads and then kiss and stuff until we get dizzy and fall on the bed.” At this point, Lekman, who’s in his early 20s, needs only to further differentiate himself from his contemporaries. Even if he fails in that regard, he’s still someone to get excited about. After all, knowing that there are two Stephin Merritts running around the globe can’t be a bad thing.

No. 9
Arcade Fire
Funeral
(Merge)

I've already told you about how Arcade Fire put on what was most definitely the “show of the year” in November. Listening to Funeral after seeing them live puts a slight damper on the album. They’re even better live, which is not to say that this album is anything short of a spectacular debut. (In fact, see my unbiased pre-concert review of the album here.) But, in person they couple a hyperactive core with a charismatic exterior that’s simply astounding, and they can’t quite pull that off on disc. I want to hold them to a higher standard and dock them a couple points. Maybe that’s unfair, as there are definitely moments in this album where the group’s infectious energy boils over the rim. But, it’s a good problem for a band to have: "How do we take our incredible live energy and successfully transfer that to 0s and 1s on disc?" Many bands would kill to have that problem. “Wake Up” is still one of my favorite songs of the year, and seeing it live—with the slung over-the-shoulder marching drum, the entire band singing background vocals, and the dense lushness of the strings—was one of the best concert memories I have to date. I’d place it right up there with the night that Mudhoney blew out the drum in my right ear, the only time I saw Neutral Milk Hotel, and my screening of Liars pre their new lineup. In other words, I was blown away with the sheer intensity of Arcade Fire’s performance—their earnest love for the music and the obvious pleasure they derived from being on a stage in front of hundreds of people. Wow. It’s easy to see why these guys got signed on the strength of their live show. Believe the hype and buy the record already.

No. 8
Devendra Banhart
Nino Rojo
(Young God)

Devendra Banhart: wandering minstrel, Texas-born neo-hippie, man of international mystery, and downright odd-looking fellow named after an Indian mystic his parents adored. The dude who pulled the lo-fi rug right out from under Lou Barlow. You could also toss in there “not your average 23 year-old,” but I suppose that goes without saying. Love him or hate him...you gotta have an opinion of him by now. If not, form one already! His music is too controversial—some will argue vital, others nonsensical—to go unheard by you. The splash he’s made on the scene this year is possibly of the most interest in the neo-folk singer-songwriter camp since fellow beardsman Will Oldham broke through over a decade ago. I don’t know how one reasonably determines much difference between Banhart’s two releases from this year: Rejoicing in the Hands, which was released in April, and this, which came out in September. They’re both exceptional, containing charming, eclectic folk songs sung in Banhart’s distinctive tongue. Nino Rojo is a bit more poppy, which might make it the (slightly) more accessible of the pair. For example, “We All Know,” a blues-folk number that gently strolls along, possesses an irresistible hook and showcases Banhart’s ability to channel the unique vocal stylings of Marc Bolan. “Little Yellow Spider” features Banhart’s playful poetics wrapped up in a pretty little ditty. (Not to mention some silly lyrics: “I came upon a dancing crab and I stopped to watch it shake. I said dance for me just one more time before you hibernate, and come out a crab cake.”) And “At the Hop” is a quirky love song that fans of Iron & Wine will adore. Still, Nino Rojo is not without its challenging spots, either. “HorseheadedfleshWizard” finds Banhart back on a mystical, almost-spiritual plane, as does the Nick Drake-inspired “A Ribbon,” which showcases just how far Banhart’s finger-picked guitar playing has progressed since his 2002 debut. But the album’s real keeper is the full-band blues stomp of “Be Kind,” probably the closest Banhart has come thus far to writing what we may identify as a rock song. The addition of bass, piano, mouth harp and percussion fleshes out Banhart’s typical bare-bones approach to great results, allowing him a bit more muscle than usual and suggesting a possible new direction for the singer-songwriter on future releases. If I have to pick one of Banhart’s 2004 releases to take to the desert island with me, I’m giving the nod to Rejoicing. But, as the high rating for this album can attest, it’s really a close call.

No. 7.5
The Gris Gris
The Gris Gris
(Birdman)

Better late than never; this one has to be in my Top 10—even if it means being sandwiched between two other releases. I suppose you could say that the new car smell hasn’t worn off of this record since I cracked the seal on it two days before Xmas. But, you could also say that the record hasn’t left my stereo since then. These San Francisco-via-Texas psych rockers put forth the kind of damaged rock ‘n’ roll that gets me off. Touches of Syd Barrett, The 13th Floor Elevators, Beck, Os Mutantes, The Velvets, Chuck Berry-cum-White Stripes, the West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band and Can are shaken violently, beaten with baseball bats, and then whisked into a creamy solution that tastes like a strawberry milkshake made with sour milk. Greg Ashley’s songs are polarizing yet seductive, the sort of oddities that I could imagine making a fine soundtrack to an Andy Warhol film. At his most plainsong, as on the exceptional, stripped-down “Mary #38,” Ashley sounds like Jack White itching his Joe Meek scratch. Meanwhile, on the brilliant “Necessary Separation,” The Gris Gris treat us to a rockin’ rhythm and blues number with a savory lead guitar solo that sounds a helluva lot like The Makers humping The Gories. Not to mention, it’s a nice anti-government ditty, too. Juxtaposed with these more traditional offerings is the skewed psych-folk of “Winter Weather”—which really sounds like an outtake of Beck’s One Foot in the Grave—and the sultry island-folk of “Me queda um bejou”—which reminds me of Billy Corgan-gone-Latin...if he had talent, vision and soul. (Okay, so maybe that actually disqualifies the Billy Corgan reference altogether cause that’s never gonna happen.) Overall, this is another sterling debut for the year 2004 that comes highly recommended.

No. 7
The Blackouts
Living in Blue
(Lucid)

I’ve written about these guys so fucking much this year that I can’t really string together any additional coherent words. See the winter issue of Skyscraper (due out in February) for my long feature article on the band. In August they won Little Stevie’s Battle of the Garage Bands and got to play on the same bill as Iggy Pop, The New York Dolls, The Electric Prunes, The Pretty Things, The Creation, Nancy Sinatra and The Strokes. A lot of bands would probably call it quits right there—what do you do for an encore? I suppose if you’re The Blackouts, you hit the road hard in 2005 and attempt to follow up a stellar sophomore album. I’ve probably listened to this record 75 times over the course of the past year, which is a lot especially after you take into consideration that I’ve also seen them live around 15 times, too. Having seen them in concert so much, I’m sick of this album now. Even though it still sounds so good—the band’s tense rhythm and blooze backbone coupled with the way Joe chokes the life from his fretboard is just dynamite—I’ve now digested so much of their newer, unreleased songs that my focus has shifted. And man, let me tell you that their new stuff is even better. More psychedelic, more wicked, more profound, more strange. They’ll have another record ready to drop in the spring on Minty Fresh Records. Make damn sure you buy that album, folks. It’s going to be among next year’s greats, just as Living in Blue was one of this year’s brightest. And I really hope you get the opportunity to catch them live in 2005, cause there is likely no better live rock and roll band on the planet right now. P.S. If you're looking for this release, good luck. Their current label has the worst distribution this side of the old Soviet Bloc. The album will be re-released around February, though, so ask your friendly record store clerk to order you a copy then.

No. 6
Iron & Wine
Our Endless Numbered Days
(Sub Pop)

Iron & Wine’s Sam Beam gets my nod for songwriter of the year. His subtle, effortless, down-to-earth acoustic songs blend the best of rural American folk music with a modern, stark, artistic sensibility that’s incredibly refreshing. Like a nineteenth-century clapboard home that’s seen its hardwood floors refinished, its rooms livened up with a fresh coat of colorful paint, and the hinges of its wooden shutters tightened, Beam’s songs utilize something instinctively old to create something distinctly new. The first few times I listened to Our Endless Numbered Days, I didn’t find it to be quite of the same quality as its predecessor, The Creek Drank the Cradle. My opinion had nothing to do with the fact that the new album was recorded in a proper studio, whereas the first album was recorded mostly at Beam’s South Florida home. (In honesty, with these kinds of folksier albums I do prefer more of the stripped down, simplistic approach, as in the difference between Nick Drake’s first two albums and the bleaker, more haunting Pink Moon.) The difference in recording technique between Beam’s first and second records simply isn’t discernable enough. The instrumentation and approach is quite similar, although on the new album Beam does employ a full band on occasion. And it’s not as if Creek was an album that suffered from it’s “lo-fi” trappings. Nor does Days suffer from its improved sonic qualities. So, why wasn’t I as blown away the first few times I heard this album? I’ll be damned if I know. Maybe it was the fact that the first time I listened to the album I was at work (huge mistake!). In retrospect, I was a fucking fool, though. This album is amazing, and seeing Beam perform it live at the Abbey Pub in Chicago was a real treat. Iron & Wine gives me the same sense of spiritual connection to the music that I received from Neutral Milk Hotel. While the two artists have their differences, they do both share a fascination with cryptic tales, soulful endeavors and romantic notions that seem to be at the heart of this thing we call life. Beam might be more straightforward with his language and his imagery, but he’s aiming for the same target as Jeff Mangum. And like Mangum, he’s a marksman of unmatched ability. He scores bulls-eyes on every song.

No. 5
Loretta Lynn
Van Lear Rose
(Interscope)

I don’t think anyone saw this coming: that at the age of 69, the Coal Miner’s Daughter from Butcher Hollow, Kentucky, would reinvent herself a la Johnny Cash and release a stunning collection of originals. Lynn took the entire decade of the ‘90s off to spend time with her ailing husband. She released her first album in eleven years in 2000, but that was a non-heralded collection of typical country fare penned by others. So, it was easy to assume at that point that her career was all but over. She would be resigned to release a few unglamourous “essential” “greatest hits” albums, or maybe a box set that drudged up unreleased recordings from 1965. The fact that her collaboration with Jack White stirred up this kind of a passionate result is simply shocking. This recording sounds so confident yet completely relaxed, as if Lynn has been performing alongside White for decades. (It’s worth noting that the band White put together for this release, the “Do Whaters,” as Lynn lovingly referred to her backing band of garage rockers, also features members of The Greenhornes.) The exceptional songs are penned by Lynn, the performance by both Lynn and even moreso the band is inspired, and the more rocking style fits Loretta to a T. Her duet with White, “Portland, Oregon,” is far and away one of the year’s best singles, opening with the memorable line “Well Portland, Oregon and sloe gin fizz—if that ain’t love then tell me what is.” Much of the subject matter is not new to Lynn’s songs, but the fresh context makes for a compelling revisit. Hopefully, Lynn has another album or two left in her. And hopefully, she’ll bring the Do Whaters along for the ride.

No. 4
The Walkmen
Bows + Arrows
(Record Collection)

My early-on favorite for album of the year fell just short by year’s end. I really didn't think anything could top this sucker, but I guess that's why we play all nine innings instead of stopping at the seventh inning stretch. There’s no other band on earth that sounds like these guys. I’m bound to fail in expressing to you just what it is that makes The Walkmen tick. We can discuss how each band member approaches his instrument in a philosophical sense, unaccepting of conventional wisdom about how guitars and drums are supposed to be properly played in a rock and roll band. We can talk until we’re blue in the face about how Hamilton Leithauser could beat to death a legion of Eddie Vedder wannabes with a single passionate, throaty yelp. We can wonder aloud why no other modern band has ever been capable of producing such gorgeous, esoteric sounds from vintage equipment. Or, we could speak in tongues about their jaw-dropping live show. It all adds up to the same conclusion: I’m not sure how they do it, but The Walkmen are the most intriguing band in rock n’ roll right now. Bows + Arrows announces that they have arrived, fashionably late and dressed to the nines. By now you’ve heard their single, on which Leithauser demands some respect: “Can’t you see me? I’m pounding on your door.” Hopefully, you’ve answered that call by now.

No. 3
Devendra Banhart
Rejoicing in the Hands
(Young God)

Sneaking two records into my Top 10 is no easy task. But, like many other music scribes this year, I can’t deny Devendra Banhart any love. Nor can I expend much energy differentiating between his two releases this year. After all, they’re both cut from the same cloth. He recorded both albums at a home resting on the ‘Bama-Georgia border. He simply set up camp in engineer Lynn Bridges’ living room. From there, the tape rolled for ten days straight, twelve hours a day. 32 songs later, Banhart had himself two new albums. Rejoicing in the Hands was the first batch released, and is slightly more mystical and obscure, the insightful uncle to Nino Rojo’s naive nephew. What makes Banhart’s music so inspiring is not its eccentric nature or Banhart’s unique voice; rather it’s the live emotional core at the heart of his songs. Much like fellow neo-folk pioneer Will Oldham, Devendra Banhart’s songs like to fuck with the listener’s psyche. Just try getting his strangeness out of your head. It’s hopeless. See “This Beard Is for Siobhan,” which serves as a fine example. A typical, finger-picked blues ditty that wouldn’t sound out of place being performed by a street musician gets the Banhart treatment when it comes to the lyrics. “Now because my lips have split, all the little children hide in front, in the middle and in the behind. And because my nose has froze but I can keep on smellin’, I could smell my little day away. Now because my teeth don’t bite, I could take them out dancing. I could take my little teeth out and show them a real good time.” At which point the piano, bass, tambourine and—yes!—kazoo kick in to finish the song out with a lovely little blues stomp. Banhart may not take himself too seriously all of the time, but some of the time he seems dead serious. On “A Sight to Behold” Banhart sets a darker tone, adding a melancholic violin over the top of his rapidly-plucked guitar. It’s this sort of haunting, trembling, gutty blues that Banhart pulls off effortlessly. His emotional reservoir proves murky, restless and deep, but a gentle fog rolls over its surface like the calm touch of a mother’s steady hand. Whether he opts for brightened folk or dusty dirges, his instinctual music proves affecting and provocative. Either record should be welcomed into your home, as they both make for interesting house guests.

No. 2
Dungen
Ta Det Lugnt
(Subliminal Sounds)

Dungen—aka multi-instrumentalist Gustav Ejstes—doesn’t sing in English. He sings in his native Swedish tongue. And because of that, I doubt the American press will waste much ink on him, which really is a shame as Dungen’s Ta Det Lugnt is the most fascinating psychedelic rock album of the year. (I should be a bit broader, in fairness, and say it's the best rock album of the year. After all, I did rank it No. 2.)

The album opens with a loose drum fill that would sound comfortable on a Dizzy Gillespie album. A hyper bass line joins under a ragged guitar riff. And 30 seconds later the entire bottom drops out as the verse begins. A mellow guitar passage drowns itself in reverb as layered, harmonized vocals wash over the top. Dare I say just a minute into the album Dungen has already managed to sound like Neu and Cream, with Keith Moon on drums? Fuck, this is good stuff. Song two, “Gjort bort sig” features bright, classic rock guitar hollering over Ejstes, who on this song has taken a liking to Ray Davies. Masterful guitar noodling embellishes the song throughout, lending it a trippy feel that’s similar yet more ethereal than fellow countrymen The Soundtrack of Our Lives. Several songs on this album bare comparison to TSOOL, except that Dungen’s songs are way more mindfuck psychedelic, like an untamed Iron Butterfly rockin’ a house party hosted by The Electric Prunes. Song three, “Festival,” is an upbeat, acoustic folk-rock song that wouldn’t sound out of place on Zeppelin III. Ejstes’ vocals are finally pushed all the way to the forefront, forcing the listener to grapple with whether they care about his non-English lyrics. I sure don’t. The music and singing are both more than capable of holding down my interest. (And singing in a foreign language actually adds to the mystique.) The song eventually turns on its ear as a piano is pounded into submission and smothered in reverb. Like a fresh, still-life watercolor being hosed down, the instrumental bridge completely reinvents the song.

And reinvention is a theme that Dungen favors. A melancholy string arrangement performed by Ejstes, who as I said earlier is a multi-instrumentalist, suggests that a transitional song is in the workings on song four. However, the strings soon fade away, and we’re left with a song within a song—another acoustic folk song built with sturdy strumming, handclaps, and layered vocals. Ejstes reintroduces the string theme before flirting with a warped flute passage. The style of this song—which creeps back and forth throughout the album—is reminiscent of Brazil’s Os Mutantes. At this rate, I have to expect Dungen to break into Donovan’s “Mellow Yellow” anytime soon. Then, the song within a song bends around a curve and becomes…a song within a song within a song? Seriously, we’re only six minutes into this tune and now guitarist Reine Fiske is wailing away on his electric a la Hendrix while the backing band makes a raucous—or at least as much noise as they could muster with a cowbell, an acoustic guitar, drums and bass. The jam disintegrates to leave us with the guitar solo, which at this point sounds as if it’s being attacked by a sonic machine gun. The song closes with a weary guitar droning to its defeat. All this in a shade over eight minutes!

As the album progresses—splashing hints of avant-garde jazz, Left Banke-inspired pop, Vampyros Lesbos, Bjorn Olsson-like ambient and Krautrock into the sonic landscape like acid rain—it becomes clear that Dungen is accomplished both in terms of musicianship and songwriting. It’s also clear that Ejstes' schizophrenic tendencies are to be encouraged. Ravaging several moods within a five-minute song, Ejstes and company find success where several others dare to go. Much like Olivia Tremor Control—known for their own ambling neo-psych-pop masterpiece …Dusk at Cubist Castle—Ejstes rarely conforms to traditional sense when it comes to constructing a rock song. That Dungen’s ambition does not slay the song is a testament to how fucking wonderful of a record Ta Det Lugnt is. This is the closest we’re likely to come in modern times to re-envisioning the radical sense of freedom the rock and roll community experienced as the ‘60s bled into the ‘70s and one drug gave way to another. That a 20-something kid from Sweden has tapped into this kind of emotion and captured it in a recording that sounds of that time is…frighteningly genius.

I’d be lying to you if I didn’t admit that I take greater satisfaction in listening to records that prove difficult to discover, or headstrong on first listen. Plenty of other scribes can wax endlessly on the chic cool of Paul Banks. That’s not to say that I don’t sometimes agree with them; I’d just rather make use of my thesaurus in describing bands buoyed a bit further out to sea. Or, in the case of Dungen, across the ocean in Sweden.

I could go on, but words can only stretch so far, and I already feel like I’ve lost a battle in trying to describe this record to you. I guess I’ve won the war, however, if you choose to buy it.

No. 1
Joanna Newsom
The Milk-Eyed Mender
(Drag City)

I’ve resisted the urge to write about Joanna Newsom so far this year, in part because it’s no easy task and I really don’t want to muck it up. I want you to “get it” as I do. To further complicate matters, plenty of my friends just don’t get Joanna Newsom. They’re turned off by her bizarre voice, which at times can resemble a 12 year-old with a stuffy nose and at other times a ninety year-old woman confined to her rocking chair. (Oh, but despite her voice’s uniqueness, she does sing well! Keep reading...) Or, they just don’t get my fascination with the harp, which she plays on nearly every song on The Milk-Eyed Mender. Some of those people—just like me—have seen her live, too. And even then, they weren’t blown away by her like I was. Maybe Joanna Newsom is just the perfect example of different strokes for different folks. But I haven’t been affected by another album on such a profound level in recent memory. It’s not only that The Milk-Eyed Mender sounds like no other offering from this year, it’s that to me it’s a piece of gorgeous, timeless art. But, before I over-indulge in too many adjectives, allow me to digress.

I first heard Joanna Newsom earlier this year on WFMU. I was listening to Brian Turner's Tuesday afternoon show while at work, and when Joanna Newsom came on, I had to stop what I was doing just to e-mail him and find out what he played. I still have a copy of that e-mail (along with about 2,300 others) in my “sent” folder. Let me post it for you:

“What in the world was that artist you just played? The song featured a happily hyperactive harpsichord and what sounded like a chorus of small Norwegian children. That was pretty cool.”

You know the reply. At that point, I didn’t know whether I really liked Joanna Newsom. She’s so weird at times—especially so on this song, “Peach, Plum, Pear”—that she comes across as slightly confrontational. But, I was intrigued. And so I went to her web site, and then to Drag City’s site, where I watched a video for another song on her album which sounded nothing like the song on WFMU. I discovered that she primarily plays the harp, and that kicked up my interest level a couple notches. So, I ordered her record, which happens to be her debut, from Parasol. The rest, as the cliche goes, is history.

Newsom does play the harp, and quite well. But, she doesn’t play the harp as a traditional, classically-trained harpist might...despite the fact that she is a classically-trained harpist. By her own admission, her playing is influenced by the harp traditions found in West African, Venezuelan and Celtic music. Ms. Newsom is of a different school of musical thought, and so is her playing.

“First of all, the harp has this bad reputation,” she said in an interview earlier this year. “It's been used for easy schmaltzy crap. Much of the stuff that I do has been influenced by studying African harp, from Senegal to Mali. It's much more compressive and not always pretty. It's rattling, strange, small and complicated, rather than these huge muddy gestures. The harp is capable of much more expressiveness. It doesn't have to be this sloppy, over the top, dramatic instrument. It can be really delicate and yet abrasive at the right time. I am producing sounds that people are not used to hearing from the harp.”

But, despite her worldly influences, Newsom’s interest lies in following the songwriting traditions of her American ancestors. Bluegrass has had a large influence on her development as a musician. And probably less telling is the fact that her family—all of which are musically inclined—reside next door to avant-garde composer Terry Riley, whom Newsom knows quite well.

“I like American music. I like Appalachian Music and old Blues. I like all the stuff the Lomax Brothers did,” she said in the same interview. “I am inspired to try to do something that I consider working in those perimeters somehow. I want to make music that somehow connects to the things that I love in American music.”

Okay, so what does this actually translate to on wax? Good question. Like I said it’s not easy to describe mostly because there is nothing modern (that I know of) to accurately compare her music to. I suppose there is a certain feel of old-time Americana present in her music. The harp, by nature, sounds very earthen. However, Newsom’s songs are also infused with a strangeness that leads to curious unfamiliarity. So, in a sense, her music is like an old family quilt that’s been passed down by generations. Except, the family is not your own. You purchased the quilt at a thrift store. Point being, you can feel the warmth, the depth, the sincerity and the texture of her music, and it feels like something you know quite well. But, on the surface, it’s a complete stranger to you. Joanna Newsom possesses something intrinsic to all of us, yet we wouldn’t know exactly what it is if it walked up and smacked us on the ass.

Maybe it’s the truth, since Newsom’s stunning music is also utterly far-fetched and open-minded. What I find lovely about Newsom’s honesty, others might find disturbing or annoying. She simply opens her mouth, and whatever comes out—whether it’s the sounds from her throat or the vocabulary itself—is given free reign. While her voice is expressive in its freedom—occasionally she recalls a younger Bjork in style—her songs are like novellas penned for inquisitive children that prefer to live in La-La land. Part Doctor Doolittle, part JR Tolkien, part Isabelle Allende, Newsom’s lyrics cast literary spells that match her musical magic. Some might call it poetry, and while I’m no judge, I’ll offer up a sample:

“Sadie, white coat,
carry me home.
Bury this bone,
take this pinecone.

Bury this bone
to gnaw on it later; gnaw on the telephone.
'Till then, we pray & suspend
the notion that these lives do never end.

And all day long we talk about mercy:
lead me to water Lord, I sure am thirsty.
Down in the ditch where I nearly served you,
up in the clouds where he almost heard you.

And all that we built,
and all that we breathed,
and all that we spilt, or pulled up like weeds
is piled up in back;
it burns irrevocably.
(We spoke up in turns,
'till the silence crept over me.)

Bless you,
and I deeply do.
No longer resolute
and I call to you

But the water go so cold,
and you do lose
what you don't hold.

This is an old song,
these are old blues.
This is not my tune,
but it's mine to use.
And the seabirds
where the fear once grew
will flock with a fury.
And they will bury what'd come for you.

Down where I darn with the milk-eyed mender,
you and I, and a love so tender,
is stretched on the hoop where I stitch this adage:
‘Bless this house and its heart so savage.’
And all that I want, and all that I need
and all that I've got is scattered like seed.
And all that I knew is moving away from me.
(And all that I know is blowing
like tumbleweed.)

And the mealy worms
in the brine will burn
in a salty pyre,
among the fauns and ferns.

And the love we hold,
and the love we spurn,
will never grow cold—
only taciturn.

And I'll tell you tomorrow.
Sadie, go on home now.
Bless those who've sickened below;
bless us who've chosen so.

And all that I've got
and all that I need,
I tie in a knot
that I lay at your feet.
I have not forgot,
but a silence crept over me.
(So dig up your bone,
exhume your pinecone, Sadie.)”

Not typical by anyone’s standards. I suppose some would find a similarity between Newsom’s style of wordsmith and that of Neutral Milk Hotel’s Jeff Mangum. Both favor ambiguity, salty language, an old world charm, and otherworldly imagery in penning their meandering tales of yearning. The two should date, or better yet record an album together (that is, if Ms. Newsom could locate the reclusive Mr. Mangum).

I believe the biggest reason that I fell in love with Joanna Newsom this year is that her personality is so compelling, her world so not-of-this-world, and her allure so without equal. Different strokes for different folks, I suppose. But, when I search for a record to knock me head over heels and change the way I think about music—of not only what is acceptable, but what is possible—I look for something exactly like The Milk-Eyed Mender. I hope for an artist that does not simply exceed my expectations. I hope for an artist that expands my expectations. I’d feel sorry if you missed out on this album. So, don’t.

--

Finally! Some 11,000+ words later, I'm done. My Top 30 albums of 2004. Please post your lists in the comments section. I'm anxious to see what you dug this year.

Bloggies

2004-12-14T08:19:00.000-06:00

Over the past couple years, the best blogs in cyberspace have been awarded for their efforts. Well, technically, the blogs are voted on, presumably by readers of each site. Actually, I have no clue how this contest is decided, nor do I care. But, check out the winners anyway. You'll probably stumble upon a few interesting blogs to bookmark in the process.

As for this blog, I'm progressing (slowly) on my Best of '04 post; it should be up this weekend. I know you can't wait!

Until then...may you drool in your sleep with visions of Jens Lekman on American soil dancing in your head!

Apologies are like assholes, too

2004-12-09T16:24:00.000-06:00

Okay. There's no way I'm going to be ready to share with you my Top 20 Albums of 2004 this week. Sorry, but man I just don't want to fuck this list up. I'm a perfectionist, and hence I want to make sure that I've got each record situated right where I want it. Not that you'd care if I've got Drive-By Truckers at No. 12 or No. 14, but I sure do. So, you'll have to wait a bit longer. The parents are stopping by for a visit this weekend, and that's going to eat into my writing time, unfortunately. But, I do promise you this: the list will be long (I'm already considering expanding it to 25), and while not exhaustive it will be exhausting to read.

In the meantime, dust off your favorite Ray Charles record and enjoy yourself a bit of soul. It's that time of the year.

The audience fights back

2004-12-09T08:57:00.000-06:00

By now, we've all heard about the ridiculous raucous at the Palace in Detroit last month, when ballplayers and fans embraced each other like never before. Well, the fans apparently haven't had enough. Some of those Auburn Hills fans (probably left-handed) must have commuted down to Columbus, Ohio to take out their aggression at this concert by heavy metal band Damageplan. No Ron Artest sightings. Nor does it say a word about the band provoking the audience. (Although one could argue that simply by taking the stage and turning on their amps, these dudes—some of which used to be in Pantera—stirred the pot with a fury. After all, we all know that our soldiers overseas just love to kill foreigners while listening to the good rock.) In all seriousness, this is some sad, scary shit. I wonder if venues both small and large—at least the ones that host metal shows—will now take the safety of their patrons and performers a little more seriously. Big, beefy bouncers are one thing. Might metal detectors be another? R.I.P. Dimebag Darrell. There's a Marshall amp full stack waiting for you in the sky.

Descended from violence

2004-12-08T14:13:00.000-06:00

Any of you that have had the misfortune of facing me on the basketball court at the 6-pack can attest to my wicked post moves and my nasty competitive streak. If you were guarding me on the wing, hopefully you figured out that I like to go to my left...because I'm left-handed. Well, turns out that being left-handed might be a more distinguished trait than I thought. (Yes, it gets even better than being more "creative" than you righties out there.) You see, I've descended from violence. There's a little Billy the Kid in me. And maybe some Jack the Ripper, too. How exciting! It's Darwinism in action. And, I swear, if someone doesn't come up with an L-shaped office desk that's kind to a lefty real soon, I'm gonna lose my cool real fast. It wasn't funny in 2nd grade, and it isn't funny now.

Dick Gephardt joins the Me Generation

2004-12-07T09:00:00.000-06:00

While Bush spends another trillion dollars that he doesn't have on Social Security reform, take comfort in the lighter side of politics. The following, from Salon, struck me as highly believable:

Though he never was quite able to score the nod for veep, the veteran Democratic congressman from Missouri is probably still in the running for at least one title: the least hip politician in modern history. All the same, on the eve of his retirement from Capitol Hill, Dick Gephardt is suddenly sounding a wee bit less wooden. He spoke with Matt Bai of the Times Magazine, where he praised Bill Clinton -- whose ability to "connect emotionally" makes him "the most talented politician" Gephardt ever saw -- and then dropped some 411 regarding eBay, iPod and Eminem.

Bai: I was at the flea market the other day, and they were selling the edition of The New York Post with the famous headline that said you were the vice-presidential nominee.

Gephardt: I thought I could get enough of them that I could support myself in retirement. I could autograph them and sell them for a little more on eBay, and get $5 rather than $3.

Bai: That's as good a retirement plan as I've heard from Congress in a while. What else have you been buying?

Gephardt: I did get an iPod. Oh, I love it. It's the best thing that ever happened to me.

Bai: What are you listening to -- political speeches?

Gephardt: The collected speeches of Newt Gingrich. That would be NO. I like Josh Groban. I like Tony Bennett. I like Nelly. He's from St. Louis. He's a very good rapper. I like Eminem. I have his album.

Bai: Some of the lyrics are a little hard to take.

Gephardt: Oh, I don't listen to the lyrics. I just like the music. I like the beat.

P.S. I'm still working hard on my Best of '04 list. New post coming later this week.

Vacation...all I ever wanted

2004-12-04T21:13:00.000-06:00

I'll be on a brief hiatus over the next few days. I've got some reviews that are on deadline, and I'm also going to be working on my Top 20 albums of '04 list. That'll be a joy to read, I'm sure. So, no Noiseboy for the next few days. Check back middle of next week.

In the meantime, please check out the bloggers linked to on the right. For those Champaign-Urbana readers among us, you may be interested to peep The Age of Precarious in particular, as that's the blog of one Tom Ventura, whom you may remember from such bands as My Brother's Keeper. Tom lives in Denver now, although I can tell that he still pines for Jarlings Custard Cup and Papa Del's pizza.

Howdy stranger: D is for The Doleful Lions

2004-12-02T22:56:00.000-06:00

An introduction to this series is provided here.

The Doleful Lions' Motel Swim is located between Do Make Say Think's Goodbye Enemy Airship the Landlord Is Dead and Euphoria! The Best of Dr. West's Medicine Show & Junk Band.

The Ds were a difficult bunch to choose from. I found several other CDs desperate for some attention; Dump's Superpowerless, Jacques Dutronc's 1968 self-titled debut, and Dub Narcotic Sound System's Out of Your Mind were all in contention. But, I really just wanted to write about The Doleful Lions, cause maybe you haven't heard of them before, and you definitely should become acquainted.

I don't think I would have ever stumbled upon The Doleful Lions if not for my stint working at Parasol Records. At the time I started working at Parasol, I was two years removed from college. I had a day job that paid okay. But, my musical itch was simply not being scratched. Since leaving college I hadn't participated in any extracurricular, so to speak, musical activities. I missed DJing, and even though I was still purchasing lots of records, I wanted music to play a larger role in my life.

I don't actually recall exactly why I was hired at Parasol. I think they had an opening in the mailorder room due to an employee that had moved away, and I probably pestered Bill Johnson until he hired me. I had been ordering from Parasol for a few years at that point. And, I'm sure it didn't hurt me any that I had dropped $1,200 on records at Parasol in just one evening. (I bought up some guy's Sarah and Creation collection, which amounted to a bunch of mint, out-of-print LPs, most of which I don't own anymore. But that's a story for another day.)

Anyway, I went to work at my day job, and then three days a week I headed on over to Parasol right after work to man their phones until 9 p.m. It made for a long day, but honestly the work didn't seem like work to me. Maybe that's because Parasol didn't really pay me in cash. Thanks to my generous employee discount and the ability to listen to every album that landed on the store's shelves, I basically ate up each paycheck by purchasing new records. In retrospect, I bought a bunch of crap that I didn't really need and have since sold. But, I also traded my manpower for some really great music, The Doleful Lions included.

None of the group's subsequent records that I've heard did that much for me, but this debut from 1998 is a slice of power-pop perfection. I could wax on forever about the joys of a wonderful power-pop album, about its potential to lift even the saddest son of a bitch from the doldrums of day jobs that pay okay but ultimately leave one feeling utterly empty. But, either you dig Cheap Trick or you don't. And if you don't, your life is worse off because of it.

The Doleful Lions

Anyway, The Doleful Lions have got it going on on Motel Swim. Not only are the melodies absolutely infectious and the vocals at-times gorgeous, but the songs just jump out at the listener with the kind of confidence only naivete can muster. Case in point: the album's hilarious opener, "The Sound of Cologne," which begins with an answering machine message. "Hey, this is a message for Jonathan. This is Jeb up at Two-Way Pull Records. You wanted a copy of Can's Future Days, and it came in." As you might be able to infer from the song's title, this little gem is an ode to Krautrock. No, it's not a slaughter at the alter of prog-rock. Rather, it's a straight up power-pop number with a killer hook that finds frontman Jonathan Scott raving about all the great Krautrock records he just discovered. Check it:

When the record I just bought hits the needle
And the man that rocks my world, his name is Deiter.
Cause I love to hear the sound
as the drummer drowns out all the singing.
All alone down in my room is one of my ways
to bury all this hard-luck world with Can's Future Days.
...
And when Neu! makes a noise,
they sound just like the Beach Boys.
From Dusseldorf to Highway Cone,
digging the Sound of Cologne.

You just gotta hear him belt it out...this American kid singing his heart out about how fucking rad Cluster is. It's fucking brilliant.

But The Doleful Lions aren't only into celebrating their record collections. On the compelling "Viper in Hiding," they try on some Superchunk-inspired rock for size in telling the tale of two lovers who love to hate each other. And on "Motel Swim," one of a couple exceptional ballads, Scott tries to convince his girlfriend to take the afternoon off work and head down to the motel for a skinny dip in the pool. If it all sounds clumsily "emo" it's because it is. But Scott nails the heart-on-the-sleeve approach by focusing on the subtleties that are easy to identify with, rather than bludgeoning the listener with romantic cliches.

"Hang Around in Your Head" is arguably the album's tour de force, a pop 'n' roll bopper in the mold of the dB's and Let's Active. (Proving that the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree, Mitch Easter of Let's Active fame actually produced the album.) The jangly rock of Motel Swim is not going to win any points for originality, but what it lacks in innovation it more than makes up for in contagious enthusiasm, which is exactly what we expect from record collecting nerds who probably obsess over which is the better Cheap Trick song: "Surrender" or "I Want You to Want Me". (I still say it's the later, even though no one agrees with me.)

I'd recommend checking this album out, except that it's out of print. I'd still place a phone call to Parasol to see if they can dig up a copy for you. If not, buy this seven-inch single for fifty cents, which features two of the album's better cuts (in alternate form). It'll have to do, I suppose, cause you are not prying my copy of Motel Swim from me.

This, that and the other

2004-12-02T09:45:00.000-06:00

Just a few quick hits this morning...

For starters, my Illini smoked Wake Forest last night. Watching the game from my couch (tickets in C Section were going for $300 or more), I had my faith in college basketball reaffirmed once again. The pros may occasionally play with passion, but rarely—if ever—do they play with soul. These college kids still have a real love for the game and the fans and for being part of a greater whole. And this Illini squad is the epitomy of that ideal.

Moreover, even regular season games in early December can have the feel of a Final Four event. Since college teams play a third of the number of games on a pro schedule, each individual game is more precious and hence more significant. And the rankings—as artificial and meaningless as they truly are—play a big role in producing hype and creating excitement. "We've got a chance to knock off the number one team in the nation!" Is Wake Forest actually the number one team in the nation? Probably not. That will be decided in early April, at the end of a tournament. But, in our mind's eye...we just took out the best of the best. And we did it on national TV, while the rest of our Big Ten conference struggled to muscle away victories from the mighty ACC.

College basketball truly has a way of securing an intimacy among a team and its fans. Of course there's the obvious—the players are a part of the student body, too. As a result, they have an undeniably of-this-world vibe, even if they're 6'10" and treated as rock stars. But at these games, the student section—whether by mere proximity or through obnoxious cheering—often feels poised to spill out onto the court at any given moment. They create an energy that fuels their team as if they were furiously shoveling coal into the belly of a freight train. The end result reminds me of some of the better concerts I've attended in intimate venues. The band feeds off the audience and vice versa.

Now, to switch gears to an issue that's larger than college basketball but not quite as fun to follow... Have you heard about the banning of the United Church of Christ commercial? This is simply amazing. We have two of the largest four TV networks refusing to air this commercial, which promotes a sense of community and a willingness to accept others (gays and lesbians) for who they are, because it deals in subject with a hot-button topic on Bush's agenda.

A NBC spokeswoman said: "It went against our long-standing policy of not accepting ads that deal with issues of public controversy."

What what what? We're supposed to believe this response coming off of six months worth of political advertisements, some of which were blatantly false and served no other purpose than to attack a person's character? If you were hoping for a clear sign that the national media is not acting in the best interests of the general public, look no further than this ridiculous veto of a perfectly fine advertisement. These networks have their hands in whatever political pocket suits them best at any given moment. Which is just another reason why Americans who take themselves (and their media) seriously must continue to ignore traditional media giants—or at least take them with a boulder-sized grain of salt—in favor of the underdogs with something of worth to say.

Allow me to step off the soapbox and end this post on a bright note. Check out this guy's photography site. At the age of 25, this guy ripped a page right out of On the Road and walked from L.A. to NYC with his dog, taking photos the entire way. He's working on compiling a book of his photos/journal entries from the trip. The rest of his photos are interesting, too. But be sure to check out the "Walk Across America" section of his site.

Selling our musical souls

2004-12-01T10:30:00.000-06:00

Tonight is the No. 5 Illini's nationally-televised matchup with No. 1 Wake Forest. It's officially "paint the Hall orange night," which is Coach Bruce Weber's excuse to don a bright orange blazer and the crowd's excuse to get pumped for the opportunity to knock off the nation's highest-ranked team. I would hope that no additional motivation is needed for either the crowd or the team, but being superstitious as I am I will be preparing for the game today by eating oranges and drinking only orange-colored drinks (Hi-C, oragne cola, etc.). This is one game that I will not be missing. (I'm sure M will be quick to point out that I don't miss any Illini basketball games.) This will be the first time since 1979 that a No. 1-ranked team has battled the Univeristy of Illinois on its home turf. (I know, hard to believe.) And on that occasion, a fourth-ranked Illinois club knocked off a Magic Johnson-led Michigan State on a last-second jumper by forward Eddie Johnson. Hopefully, tonight's game will be just as exciting.

Over the Thanksgiving holiday I watched a good deal of college basketball with the men in my family (and M, too). We got a preview of Wake Forest as they narrowly defeated a good Arizona team. And it was during one of the commercial breaks for that game that I was smacked upside the head by a catchy rock tune that I never expected to hear on national TV, let alone in a Chevy Trailblazer advertisement. "Hmmm...what is this tune?" I thought. "I know this song...confidant female vocals...tough riff...it's not The Runaways, is it? Nope..."

Then, it hit me. I was listening to the verse of "Bad Word for a Good Thing" by The Friggs. "The who?" you ask. The Friggs were a little-known all-girl band from Philly that took after The Runaways, Pat Benatar, and the like. They were around in the mid-to-late '90s, and as far as I know they never made any kind splash on the national scene. (Although, I did hear Little Steven spinning said song on his radio show once.) So, there I was, sitting on my mom's couch, dumbstruck by the fact that I was: 1) watching a Trailblazer ad that was blatantly targeting women (mom's specifically); and 2) listening to a song that I used to spin by the most obscure of all-girl bands, The Friggs; and 3) waiting for the chorus of the song to come into play. It's the chorus of the song, after all, that's the catchiest part: "I need a Bad (bad), Word (word), for a Good (good), THINGGGGGGG". The singer gnarls on those words as a sultry background singer whispers the words in paranthesis. Pretty provocative for a Chevy ad, eh? Except, the ad doesn't use the chorus—opting instead to play it safe with the ambiguous verse.

I'd love to meet the person who, when it came time to select a music bed for this commercial—which revolves around a "mom on the go" who loads her kids into the Trailblazer, where they can conveniently continue watching their Powerpuff Girls DVD—thought out-loud in one of those brainstorming meetings, "Hey! What about the fucking Friggs? They'd be perrrrfect!"

On a related note, the brilliant Stephin Merritt, he of the Magnetic Fields, they of the most disappointing album of the year, has also sold his soul this season to the world of car advertisements. See this bizarre affair for the proof.

That said, I have nothing against starving musicians making an extra buck on the side...of the street! (Just kidding.) This whole hearing my favorite artist's music in a commercial thing is going to take some getting used to, me thinks. What next?

MC5 selling peanut butter?

The Dead Boys selling diapers?

The Louvin Brothers selling laundry detergent?

("Cleanse your soul, dear brothers and sisters, with Tide's new Tropical Clean liquid detergent with fabric softener. It's tough on Satan's evil stains, but goes easy on all of the colors in God's wonderful rainbow.)

Hey, I might be on to something here...

On Speedo and chakras

2004-11-27T23:26:00.000-06:00

I watched a humorous, slice-of-life documentary tonight titled Speedo. I found this in the new release section of Rentertainment, and just couldn't pass up a documentary subtitled "A Demolition Derby Love Story". I've been burned a lot recently on indie films, but this one was a keeper. I'd place it right up there with Okie Noodling, the documentary on the art of noodling (catching 60-pound catfish with your bare hands) that was scored by The Flaming Lips. Speedo follows Ed "Speedo" Jager, demolition driver extraordinaire, on his quest to earn a national rep, take home a purse that'll put food on the table, split with his long-estranged wife, raise two sons (one the frontkid of a hardcore band), and marry the love of his post-divorce life. It's a snapshot of a hick soul that many of us educated folk might call "fucked up". But, when taken for what it is, Speedo's life actually has a true, almost Walden-like ring to it. Not to say that Speedo has been misunderstood and hence has obtained greatness, but rather that Speedo has reduced his life to a pursuit of happiness that is both simplistic and honest—even if for him happiness is found when slamming his '76 Caddy into other pieces of junk in front of a WWF-like crowd of bystanders. I dunno, rent it and see what you think.

Speaking of Walden, I found my copy from high school in my parent's basement over "Thanksgiving vacation" along with the Basic Writings of Nietzsche. Man, it's been a while.

Now, not to get all transcendental on your ass, but I've been thinking a lot about meditation lately at the bequest of a few people. I'm just not down with meditation, even though at its core it can be summed up as nothing more than conscious relaxation—focusing on one's breathing in an attempt to clear one's mind of all thoughts and distractions. And, I'm totally down with that. But, I just can't imagine having any success at it, especially given the fact that I find the whole practice to be incredibly hippie—and not in a charming way. I know that getting over my preconceived notions of what is and what is not "hippie"—and whether "hippie" is a mostly good or evil thing to begin with—would probably do me some good. But, that's a pretty big hurdle to clear for someone that fears the smell of patchouli, astrology, bootlegged Dead concerts, and barefoot, beflowered people alike. (Yes, it's true that I do value certain hippy principles, like activism, a love of the environment and a fondness for music and the arts.) Still, the search for inner rest and relaxation has become more of an intrigue as I grow older and still more restless. So, maybe I'm becoming a rare non-drug-using, bathing, meat-eating hippie in my old age. To be continued, I suppose.

Back on point, I'm interested specifically in determining whether I can meditate to rock music, cause I'm just too much of a self-conscious music snob to be down with listening to the sound of waves gently lapping at a shore while I meditate. I'd like to think that when I listen to certain kinds of non-ambient music—from acoustic blues-folk like John Fahey and spooky art-folk like Movietone to hypnotic neo-psychedlic rock like Dead Meadow or abrasive Daydream Nation-era Sonic Youth—I'm able to reach a sort of inner stillness. Through my mind's devotion to the sounds emanating from the headphones, I'm able to lose my grasp on other common thoughts, and in doing so create a mental environment that one would equate on a surface level with the act of meditation.

Certain forms of rock music do seem to allow me to "escape" from my current mental environment, to relinquish whatever thoughts I might be consumed with at that moment and turn off my brain. When I was younger I used to listen to music through headphones every night as I was attempting to fall asleep. For some, this would only stimulate their brain and prevent the necessary shutdown that gives way to sleep. But for me, it worked like a novel aphrodisiac, slowing down my thoughts to the point that I could simply become consumed in the music I was listening to. The relaxation that resulted would send me off to sleep in a swift fashion.

While I haven't spent much time thinking about it until now, I wonder if what was happening to me at that moment could be deemed quite similar to meditation. More importantly, I wonder if it's possible to successfully meditate to non-ambient music, in specific rock music. My brief stint spent researching the topic hasn't proven this assumption to be accurate. But, I'm not giving up hope just yet. I want to believe that I can meditate to music, and do it on my own terms. Of course, I also want to believe that hippies are so Urbana, and I'm so Champaign. This sure is a fine tight rope I walk.

Something to be thankful for...

2004-11-27T15:31:00.000-06:00

Wow. Hanging with the family for two whole days doesn’t get any easier even as I grow older and supposedly more mature. But, after 20-some games of euchre, enough dessert to feed an infantry unit, a viewing of the Jim Carrey Grinch remake (for the kids), and a Turkey dinner, I’ve survived to return to my disheveled apartment. Coming along with me for the ride back to Champaign was a new 10.5-gallon, stainless steel, flip-lid, step-can for the kitchen (a nice find by M), a few vintage shirts (25 year-old Sears button downs courtesy of my dad) and I regret to say none of M’s tasty pumpkin cake (no, not pie, cake…even better!). So, there you have it.

There will be plenty of talk of music in the coming days, as I’ve got a lot of stuff to blab on about. And, there’s that pesky “Best of 2005” list that continues to loom over my head. Plus, some reviews due for the next issue of Skyscraper.

But, but, but, first there’s some genuine thanks that I need to extend (after all—it’s that time of the year) to my friends—all of you scattered about the country that I speak to far too infrequently because I’m lazy and busy and busily lazy and just plain poor at that whole spoken-word conversation thing. Thanks for, well, being a good bunch of people, I suppose. For most of us—from Zac to Mary to Fred to Amy—we've shared at leat one thing in common: our love of music. Music has been good to us, for the most part, and we've propped its ass up on more than a few occasions with 400-mile roundtrips to concerts or by devoting way too much money (and in some cases guitar strings) to this philanthropic cause that is our lifeblood.

Anyway, hopefully my rambling about music will show you that no matter how fucking bizarre (or normal) my life becomes, I'm still going to need to rest upon my musical laurels from time to time to achieve some sense of sanity. And in resting on those laurels, my thoughts will also turn to you...to shared experiences that we've enjoyed in the past and possibly to what could become of the future. To me, music and you are linked, even if I don't bring that up all too often. Many of my greatest moments are directly alligned with some of my fondest musical memories, like the night I almost got up the courage to hook up with M after an amazing Wilco concert, or the time I skipped school and drove to Iowa with Jon and Mary to catch Nirvana playing in a gymnasium. So, friends, remember that I do think about you, even if I'm a bastard that doesn't return phone calls or breaks plans on a whim. It's the thought that counts, right?

Tonight, I’m especially thankful that a pair of my friends are still among the living this weekend. They were involved in a nasty auto accident on Wednesday and were quite lucky to have come out of it with only a totaled car. So, remember to take good care of yourself over the holidays… I need to keep the few readers I already have right here with me.

Revisiting the Blackouts on radio, radio

2004-11-24T10:38:00.000-06:00

Mr. Joe Prokop, the sexy beast.

So, The Blackouts did indeed make an appearance on WFMU this week, which of course I completely forgot about. Lucky for me, there's an archive of the show posted on Three Chord Monte's site. Listen to the RealPlayer version, as you can fast-forward that one. You want to go to about the one-hour, fiften-minute mark to catch the beginning of their set. The sound quality on the RealPlayer version just doesn't come anywhere close to matching the intensity of their actual live show, but you can still get a good sense for what they're all about. And they're playing mostly new songs that haven't been released yet.

I'll be without the world wide web for the next couple days in good ol' Canton, Illinois, with the family. Enjoy your Turkey Day. Remember: mashed potatoes and gravy never taste as good the second time around, so eat an extra helping the first time around.

Howdy stranger: C is for C-Clamp

2004-11-23T22:05:00.000-06:00

A nifty introduction to this series is provided here.

C-Clamp—a now-defunct, ex-Champaign-Urbana band—is tucked away on the shelf in-between the Buzzcock’s Operators Manual and John Cale’s Fear.

I got my first taste of C-Clamp well before I moved to Champaign when I picked up what I believe to be their first recording, the self-released “Passing/Fox & the Hound” seven-inch, in May of 1995. Oddly enough, I didn’t buy the record in C-U; rather, I got it from Reckless on Broadway and Belmont in Chicago. The Reckless sticker on the sleeve reads: “Chicago band plays low key angular pop in a Seam or Codeine style. Features member of Steak Daddy Six.”

I really miss the days when I used to spend a good chunk of change on seven inches. What a great, inexpensive way to discover new bands. And those stickers that Reckless slapped on everything were quite helpful in building hype for whatever single I happened to be fawning over. Nowadays I don’t spend a dime on singles. Most bands don’t bother with them anymore because most labels don’t want to front the cash to press a single when pressing a full-length CD is more cost-effective. And sadly, all of my seven inches are now stored in the closet, out of sight and often out of mind.

But, I did listen to this particular single tonight to see if my memory was correct. Both of the single’s songs also appear on C-Clamp’s debut album, Meander and Return, which is what I’m actually going to discuss at greater length here. I recall that I preferred the single’s versions of each song, and in retrospect I can’t quite place why that was. Maybe it was the fact that I heard the original versions first, and possibly I just fell in love with the vinyl's more “raw” production values. At any rate, I don’t see how it much matters now.

So, lets move on to Meander and Return. At the time of its release in late 1995, I thought C-Clamp was a pretty unique band. Sure, they did have a melodic, clean-tone sound reminiscent of Seam. And, to a lesser extent I suppose they also sounded a bit like Codeine. So, the Reckless sticker was accurate. But more so than either of those bands, C-Clamp seemed to relish in rocking and rolling. That was due in no small part to Nick Macri’s round, energetic bass tone (a precursor to Dianogah for certain) and Frantz Etienne’s spectacular, soulful, atmospheric drumming. Etienne was truly a monster behind the kit, sort of like rock’s version of Elvin Jones (which had nothing to do with the fact that he too was Black, and everything to do with his ability to use his drum kit in both a rhythmic and melodic sense). Still today he remains one of my favorite drummers to witness in the flesh. Too bad he’s no longer active, to my knowledge.

It’s hard to place C-Clamp anywhere but in the slow-core camp. But unlike a lot of the bands often lumped into that movement, C-Clamp borrowed a lot of texture—especially in the form of feedback—from the shoegazer movement and their friends in HUM. Actually, listening to this record now, I hear a decent amount of early Starflyer 59 in the band’s sound, too.

Another determining factor in differentiating C-Clamp from bands like Low and Bedhead was their obsession with obtuse melodies and angular riffs, much of which can be credited to Tom Fitzgerald’s songwriting. Fitzgerald’s elaborate, irregular guitar playing would not prove easy for anyone to sing over the top of; luckily for that anyone, Fitzgerald had the job of attempting to do just that. His vocal lines often sounded like abstract painting looked—broad brush strokes juxtaposed against a busy background. He definitely wasn’t constructing vocal leads with a killer hook in mind. And that was yet another reason why I was fascinated by C-Clamp’s complex web of intrigue. To think, the band claimed their songs were “simply pop songs that require a little patience.” Ha!

Vocals and all this talk of slowcore aside, my favorite C-Clamp song remains the instrumental “Fox and the Hound,” which sounds more in line with Slint or Hoover. The version on the album is drenched in distortion and thus rocks a bit heavier than the seven-inch version. The rhythmic guitar line that lays the song’s foundation bounces around like an acrobat on amphetamines so much so that I have a hard time figuring out exactly what time signature the band is playing in. (Anyone that has this album wanna figure it out for me? Maybe it’s just 4/4, who knows?) This song strikes an emotional nerve with direct force, more so than any other song on the record.

Meander and Return was Ohio Gold’s first release. They went on to release records by Dianogah, The Zincs, and Pinebender, as well as another C-Clamp full-length, Longer Waves. C-Clamp gained some notice overseas when the British label Che Records nabbed a song of theirs for a 1996 compilation entitled Disco Sucks, which also features The Delgados, Fuxa, Bardo Pond, Merzbow, Windy & Carl, and others. I presume that Parasol Records might still have a copy or two of Meander and Return for sale, considering that Nick Macri used to work for them and all. If not, I’m sure they’ll know whom to speak with about getting yourself a copy. As for me, I’m keeping mine.

I actually interviewed Nick on behalf of C-Clamp in or around 1996 when I was still “publishing” my zine. He was in the process of moving up to Chicago at the time. But, I never finished that particular issue and the interview is sadly lost. I do recall him telling me something about a kitty cat that liked to piss on Frantz’s drums, though. Hmmm…maybe my memory isn’t so good.

I do remember that Nick, who was previously in Steakdaddy Six, did go on to play with Heroic Doses and possibly in Euphone's live band. But that's about as good as my memory gets.

How easily friends become enemies

2004-11-23T10:08:00.000-06:00

"Winning the peace" in Iraq was a continual talking point in the presidential debates and the dialogue that surrounded them. But yet, many Americans don't understand just what "winning the peace" means. Sure, we have to have a trained Iraqi army and police force that supports our desires. Yes, we need to have an Iraqi-led governing force that is strong enough to keep the peace. These are basic concepts that are easy to grasp.

But, in retrospect, not enough thought was given as to why the Iraqi army decided to lay down their guns, which led to our quick "Mission Accomplished" proclomation. Looking back now, as this informative first-person account on Salon does, it's obvious that we lied to the Iraqi army in convincing them to surrender, and as a result shot ourselves in the foot (over and over and over again). If only we had used some common sense at the time—which unfortunately seems to be the recurring theme with this administration—and actually gave the Iraqis a chance to share their opinions and goals, we might have been able to circumvent a good deal of the chaos we've since created. Sad, but true.

To the Devil Dogs of 3.1

2004-11-22T10:46:00.000-06:00

By now you've probably read about (and probably viewed) the recent shooting of an unarmed, injured Iraqi insurgent prisoner by a U.S. Marine. Well, the reporter that captured the murder on video has finally posted his thoughts on his blog. And it's a truly moving account.

Show. Of. The. Year.

2004-11-22T10:17:00.000-06:00

The best concerts all have one thing in common: they leave the listener feeling invigorated, reinvented, and giddy as a six year-old who receives the square of birthday cake with the biggest slab of icing on top. The best live bands have that ability to tear down walls (pardon the cliche) between the audience and band. You know what I'm talking about—that imaginary "fourth wall" that allows the audience to peak in on the party. Some bands are better than others at creating a communal sense of excitement at their concerts. Essentially, some reveal more than others; some feature peakholes, while others just swing the front door wide open and let the audience sleep on their couch.

There are plenty of tactics that bands will use to tear down that wall, from actually going into the audience (ala the old grunge fave "the stagedive") to simply slapping some skin or allowing the audience (the "hot" ones at least) to come up on stage and boogie. But, it's a rare feat to discover a band that can break down that wall with wrecking ball-like intensity without resorting to well-worn tricks of the trade. Last night, I found one.

The Arcade Fire put on the best show of the year as far as I'm concerned. Forces both seen and unseen united to create a special night. For starters, the concert was supposed to be held in an all-ages coffee house. I think coffee houses are obviously great for coffee (if you drink the filthy brew) and studying and yapping with friends and reading the paper. They are not well-served as a venue, however. (Unless we're talking about Joe Schmoe playing some songs he wrote on his acoustic guitar.) I like beer with my bands. And I like my bands on an elevated, well-lit stage backed by a great-sounding P.A. So, luckily, due to "overwhelming demand for tickets" the show was moved to a proper venue, The Highdive.

For those non-locals among us, The Highdive was once considered to be the savior of the rock and roll scene in Champaign-Urbana when it opened five-plus years ago. It was a 450-capacity venue that was appealing to both the eyes and ears. Not only did the promoter bring in great bands that weren't receiving the opportunity to play in town otherwise, but he was doing so on a regular basis. Well, time, circumstances and reality have changed some of that. Now, there are other, smaller venues that fill that niche, and The Highdive is primarily a DJ/dance venue that hosts the occasional touring band of note.

So, seeing The Arcade Fire at The Highdive brought back all these wonderful memories of old. I think the club itself had a good fucking time last night. The exposed brick walls were happy to shake free a little dirt and the lights were pleased to be coordinated to a kick drum instead of a Xtina album and the stage was overjoyed to hold an upright bass, steel drums and an accordian instead of forty sorority girls showing off their shoulder blades.

And the crowd was definitely having a good time as well. After witnessing The Arcade Fire's hyped live show (supposedly they were signed on the strength of their live show) myself, it takes some definite doing on the part of the audience to not have fun at one of their shows. The band simply bursts with energy and emotion and reckless we-don't-give-a-hoot-whether-you-
dig-us-or-not-cause-we're-rocking-the-party-anyhow attitude.

The group's live set put into motion some influences that aren't as readily apparent on the record, namely the Talking Heads (whom they covered), Neutral Milk Hotel and the Flaiming Lips. I already had a Yo La Tengo-meets-Broken Social Scene vibe from the band's debut album. But what they do on a raised platform transcends simple indie rock conventions to elevate the band to a truly unrestricted status. My friend Chris—who dislikes their name—says the "arcade" portion of their title is fitting because the band resembles a carnival on stage. They were having FUN; but more so, they effortlessly constructed a communal atmosphere. Not only were the band members swapping instruments between songs, but the entire group seemed to shout out the background vocals. There was an unruly energy that possessed the band and was left totally unchecked throughout their set. Percussionists pounded the stage floor, the mic stands, the monitors, each other, tambourines, Civil War-styled marching drums, sleigh bells ... basically anything capable of producing a noise regardless of whether it was bolted down or not. In this sense, The Arcade Fire reminded me of Neutral Milk Hotel's live backing group, a ragtag Salvation Army-styled band full of bruised horns and strange instruments culled from the attic of an eighth-grade music instructor. The Arcade Fire could have just as easily been peddling for change on a street corner.

The celebratory atmosphere also reminded me of my experiences seeing The Flaming Lips. While the crowd was never doused in confetti and there was no fake (or real) blood to be seen, The Arcade Fire seemed intent on forcing their exuberance onto the crowd, and the audience seemed more than willing to accept the gift. The mood fell short of bedlam, for certain; but then again, convincing aging indie rockers to stand (instead of sit) at a concert might be as much movement as one can expect at a concert of this ilk.

Just as the group's album inspires a sort of restless optimism, their live show also capitalizes on that sensation, but with a greater urgency and without sacrificing any of the album's textured pleasantries. Even though it was clear that the lead singer's voice was worn and weary, his supporting cast was more than able to make up for any imperfections with a rousing performance. And whether we're discussing baseball, bands or the affairs of state, I think we can all agree that it's those that wholly accept the concept of winning as a team that have the greatest chance of ultimate success. The Arcade Fire are quite familiar with that concept.

They also paid dues—rightfully so—to The Blackouts, who rose to the occasion and put on one of their best sets of recent memory. It's too bad the rest of you out there in cyberspace won't have the opportunity to witness this one-two punch for yourselves. But I suspect that your opportunity to see The Blackouts on a stage near you will be coming soon enough.

You can't handle the truth!

2004-11-20T14:13:00.000-06:00

At the end of every year, as Novemeber gives way to December, I begin to draw up my list of favorite records from that year. It's a common task that any music critic with a big mouth (and lets face it, that's every one of them) gets excited about completing. For me, that means a mad scramble about this time of the year to round up records from the current year that I've procrastinated over purchasing. It's not just about wanting to ensure that my list passes my own test. In tune with the theme of the holidays, I also want to share my favorite songs with (force my shitty opinions on) my friends (anyone that's willing to accept a free mix).

This year is no exception. There's still a few releases—like the new Jonathan Richman album, for example—that I need to hear. But, I can scratch one record off my list thanks to a recent trip to Parasol Records: The Soft Pink Truth's Do You Want New Wave or Do You Want the Soft Pink Truth?

The Soft Pink Truth

Those keen music nerds out there will get the joke in the title; it's a play off the title of an old Minutemen song that appears on Double Nickels on the Dime. The wordy adaptation is appropriate for The Soft Pink Truth's second album, a collection of old punk covers. The Minutemen number doesn't actually appear on the album, but songs from The Angry Samoans, The Swell Maps, Minor Threat, Crass, Die Kreuzen and others do.

Now, a punk covers album certainly isn't a novel concept. But The Soft Pink Truth is a novel band, which is why the project comes off as a stunning success. The group is essentially one man: Drew Daniel, one-half of electronic cut-up artist Matmos. Daniel redesigns these guitar-based originals as booty-bass techno songs that have been beat up by Aphex Twin. The Soft Pink Truth has really gotta be heard to be appreciated. I don't think I can do his cover of Crass' "Do They Owe Us a Living?" justice, outside of suggesting that if you've never felt like shaking your skinny white ass on a dance floor while listening to Crass, then Daniel's revamp might just do the trick.

Daniel is a genius at re-envisioning these songs without stripping them entirely of their flesh. Yes, Minor Threat's "Out of Step" sounds a bit odd recast with a woman's voice and a bouncing ball bass line, but the song still retains a good deal of its aggression even with a playful overhaul and more than a hint of irony.

The Soft Pink Truth does serve a particular agenda on this album. Sexual politics play a big role in shaping the album's roster of songs. (Hence we get "Confession" by Nervous Gender which includes the lyric "Jesus was a cock-sucking Jew from Galilee. Jesus was just like me: a homosexual nymphomaniac.") Hearing all of these traditional punk-rock songs setting the dance floor ablaze with filthy, frenetic beats creates some sexual tension that's not dissimilar from potty-mouth Peaches.

For that reason alone, The Soft Pink Truth may not be everyone's cup of tea. But, I haven't heard another record this year as brilliantly ballsy as Do You Want New Wave or Do You Want the Soft Pink Truth? It's going on my Top 10 list for sure, even if it looks a little odd next to My Morning Jacket, Joanna Newsom and Dungen.