Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Underrated K Cont'd. - Kill your speakers with razor blades.
So, my Computer killed itself a few times but I resurrected that poor sucker likesome kind of silicon Lazarus. But my underrated list was stricken from the Itunes record. I'm sure I can recreate most of it, but as you can tell, I'm not rushing things. Winter break will be a time of great writing productivity. And as you can tell by the title of this post, we've got some Kinks to talk about. Ray and Dave, better than John and Paul? No. More important to the overall progress of rock and roll? Maybe.
Friday, June 04, 2010
Underrated K - Knowledge Reigns Supreme?
LaLa died, and with it, much of the fun streaming music I had embedded on this little blog here. So maybe I'll get to creating DivShare players for all the songs I've jabbered about previously. Until then, I hope to get through letter R and post a few chapters of a little project I've been working on by the end of the month.
KRS-ONE & Boogie Down Productions - "My Philosophy," By All Means Necessary.
You could make the argument that KRS and Scott LaRock, as the two primaries of Boogie Down Productions, are responsible for introducing gun violence to hip-hop, creating rap original sin. They certainly weren't the first to inject the gun/gang/gangster trope into hip-hop songs. Schooly D's "P.S.K. What Does it Mean?", with it's overt drug and gun lyrics, as well as it's veiled reference to Philadelphia gangs in the song title, predates BDP's "Criminal Minded." They were not responsible for the idea or language of guns in rap songs (though "9mm" was a rather on-the-nose song title). Rather, KRS and BDP created Hip-Hop's first martyr when Scott LaRock was killed after trying to mediate/intimidate in a fight between D-Nice, a young BDP crew-member, and another kid from the South Bronx. He died only months after the release of their first album, Criminal Minded.
BDP's 1987 Criminal Minded was widely and wildly influential. And while the group initially became famous for their dis tracks and rap battles with Marley Marl and MC Shan, this album paved the way for mainstream hip-hop to expose, embrace, and exploit the violence of the late 20th Century ghetto. The art-form that began as a live-performance experience in city parks and dance clubs transitioned quickly into a highly lucrative niche in the record industry. By 1988 Ice-T had recorded Rhyme Pays and West-Coast gangster rap began in earnest. N.W.A had already released N.W.A and the Posse and were in the process of recording Straight Outta Compton and Eazy-Duz-It. BDP's last album in 1992, before KRS-ONE went solo, was titled Sex and Violence, an obvious commentary on the two most surefire ways to sell records. Eazy-E, Biggie Smalls, and Tupac would be dead less than ten years after Criminal Minded was released.
After the death of their musical leader, LaRock, BDP followed up with By All Means Necessary. KRS-ONE, still a young man of 23, matured quickly while processing the loss of his best friend. As evidenced on the album cover imitating Malcom X, KRS did not immediately distance himself from the idea of ghetto violence. Instead, he became possessed by the belief that hip-hop must address the problems in the poor black neighborhoods, as it was one of the few popular art forms that was explicitly poor and black in its content (as opposed to Jazz, Blues, and Rock which were poor and black in genesis, but were often marginalized when themes of the African-American experience were introduced.) The idea of the white performer as invader or cultural pilferer was far more entrenched in hip-hop as a result of this. Although, D-Nice helped introduce the world to Kid-Rock, so go figure. But that is a story for another thesis project.
"My Philosophy," while perhaps not as dense with poetic devices as a Rakim or B.I.G. track, is lyrically as strong as nearly anything being released today. Sure their are plenty of colloquialisms that sound dated in the minuscule geologic time of hip-hop. But some of his phrases are still quoted and sampled. "It's not about a salary, it's all about reality," ring any bells? "When some clown jumps up to get beat down?" Brand Nubian made a career off that line.
While it took time for KRS to reconcile some of the troublesome dichotomies of conscious rap--strains of misogyny, the idea of solving violence with more violence--he matured much faster than the rest of hip-hop and the world at large. He's still recording regularly and touring, but like many trailblazing artists, his newer recordings can't ever achieve the monumental, sea-change impact of his first two albums.
And not to be an old fogey, but the whippersnappers of today could use a dose of KRS, who has quickly gone from a recognized and respected progenitor to a grossly underrated influence on one of the few genres still actually selling records.
Listen to it Here: "My Philosophy"
KRS-ONE & Boogie Down Productions - "My Philosophy," By All Means Necessary.
You could make the argument that KRS and Scott LaRock, as the two primaries of Boogie Down Productions, are responsible for introducing gun violence to hip-hop, creating rap original sin. They certainly weren't the first to inject the gun/gang/gangster trope into hip-hop songs. Schooly D's "P.S.K. What Does it Mean?", with it's overt drug and gun lyrics, as well as it's veiled reference to Philadelphia gangs in the song title, predates BDP's "Criminal Minded." They were not responsible for the idea or language of guns in rap songs (though "9mm" was a rather on-the-nose song title). Rather, KRS and BDP created Hip-Hop's first martyr when Scott LaRock was killed after trying to mediate/intimidate in a fight between D-Nice, a young BDP crew-member, and another kid from the South Bronx. He died only months after the release of their first album, Criminal Minded.BDP's 1987 Criminal Minded was widely and wildly influential. And while the group initially became famous for their dis tracks and rap battles with Marley Marl and MC Shan, this album paved the way for mainstream hip-hop to expose, embrace, and exploit the violence of the late 20th Century ghetto. The art-form that began as a live-performance experience in city parks and dance clubs transitioned quickly into a highly lucrative niche in the record industry. By 1988 Ice-T had recorded Rhyme Pays and West-Coast gangster rap began in earnest. N.W.A had already released N.W.A and the Posse and were in the process of recording Straight Outta Compton and Eazy-Duz-It. BDP's last album in 1992, before KRS-ONE went solo, was titled Sex and Violence, an obvious commentary on the two most surefire ways to sell records. Eazy-E, Biggie Smalls, and Tupac would be dead less than ten years after Criminal Minded was released.
After the death of their musical leader, LaRock, BDP followed up with By All Means Necessary. KRS-ONE, still a young man of 23, matured quickly while processing the loss of his best friend. As evidenced on the album cover imitating Malcom X, KRS did not immediately distance himself from the idea of ghetto violence. Instead, he became possessed by the belief that hip-hop must address the problems in the poor black neighborhoods, as it was one of the few popular art forms that was explicitly poor and black in its content (as opposed to Jazz, Blues, and Rock which were poor and black in genesis, but were often marginalized when themes of the African-American experience were introduced.) The idea of the white performer as invader or cultural pilferer was far more entrenched in hip-hop as a result of this. Although, D-Nice helped introduce the world to Kid-Rock, so go figure. But that is a story for another thesis project.
"My Philosophy," while perhaps not as dense with poetic devices as a Rakim or B.I.G. track, is lyrically as strong as nearly anything being released today. Sure their are plenty of colloquialisms that sound dated in the minuscule geologic time of hip-hop. But some of his phrases are still quoted and sampled. "It's not about a salary, it's all about reality," ring any bells? "When some clown jumps up to get beat down?" Brand Nubian made a career off that line.
While it took time for KRS to reconcile some of the troublesome dichotomies of conscious rap--strains of misogyny, the idea of solving violence with more violence--he matured much faster than the rest of hip-hop and the world at large. He's still recording regularly and touring, but like many trailblazing artists, his newer recordings can't ever achieve the monumental, sea-change impact of his first two albums.
And not to be an old fogey, but the whippersnappers of today could use a dose of KRS, who has quickly gone from a recognized and respected progenitor to a grossly underrated influence on one of the few genres still actually selling records.
Listen to it Here: "My Philosophy"
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Underrated J Cont'd - Juliets and Juke Joints
Is adhering to the alpha-order structure killing my productivity? Hardly.
Anxiety, apathy, and adulthood are the only things keeping me from writing like I want to. And while only one of those three is intractable, the other two have some wicked inertia.
So, on to the rest of the J's it is.
/Blog couch talk-therapy
With LaLa out of bidness thanks to The Notorious J-O-Bs I don't know how I'll link to all these. But I guess I'll have to figure it out by the time I'm done with this post.
Joey Kneiser - "Adelina," The All-Night Bedroom Revival
Joey's already on the list as the lead singer/songwriter for the band Glossary. He is a master of mood, establishing an immediate coherence between the musical tone of each song and the theme or narrative of the lyric. Every album Glossary has recorded has at least one extraordinary song on it, a song that contends for the song of the year on any of the crazy mixed-up lists I make in my head. See this if you need further clarification.
So why should his solo record be any exception? Overall, it is a very good album. Four out of five stars. Four and a half, even? Initially, I wasn't thrilled by the title, too verbose even for little ol' me, but after listening to the whole thing, it grew on me like only a title of true depth can.
The All-Night Bedroom Revival is about a songwriter who locks himself in his sleeping quarters and records an album, because if he doesn't he'll go crazy. It is about a couple who stays up all night talking about their relationship, beating it to death with words, resurrecting it with closeness and copulation, and perhaps killing it once again, the minute they leave the room. The album is a revival in the very Christian tent-meeting sense, but the leaping preacher is replaced by a quiet Southerner with a beat up Gibson guitar, stuck in a ten by ten rented room with worn wood floors and a sputtering ceiling fan. This preacher man favors the power of the word too, the words we speak to each other in our most bare and vulnerable moments. He cherishes the old-time religion of honesty in the face of loss and wants us to be baptized in the tears of love gone wrong and the sweat of love made right.
And once again, on an album full of well-made, intimate songs, Joey brings one that is simply perfect. I wouldn't change a thing about "Adelina." It jangles along like lovers do when they just don't quite know how to make the thing work, but, by God, some of it feels so goddamn good that they just can't quit until they've burned it to the ground. And until a whole lot of people have heard this song, it is most definitely underrated.
John Hammond - "2:19," Wicked Grin.
I can't imagine what it would be like to be a young man with musical aspirations whose father is credited with discovering Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen. Even if you were exceptional at songwriting and were charismatic as hell, people would still always whisper, "Yeah but, his dad was the guy who..." You're either not as good as the other guy, or you only got your shot because of your dad.
Growing up John Hammond, Jr. (actually, The Third) must've felt like making music was nothing less than his destiny. His dad was already an established music producer and helped establish the careers of many music luminaries from the Thirties into the Sixties. The elder Hammond was so important and influential to the popular music of the Twentieth Century that I will not even try to discuss it here. There are many books that address the subject.
His son became a gifted singer and guitarist with a moving Baritone. Hammond Jr. sounded as close to a Delta blues singer as any white boy who'd come along. And while he wrote some excellent tunes of his own, his racially ambiguous vocal chords and his family tree may have dictated the arc his career more than his own musical talent, which was abundant.
Since he was a teenager, Hammond has always sounded best singing other people's songs. No shame in that endeavor at all. But I can't imagine it was all roses and lollipops considering that his father is linked so closely with two of the most important original voices in the history of rock and roll. Nevertheless Johnny seemed to know that a great song could be both venerated and improved by a singer and player who cared about the rendering and fussed, in a good way, over every inch of the song. Whether that meant injecting new tropes into a classic, or just leaving perfect alone, John Hammond was, and still is, a GREAT cover artist.
On Wicked Grin, Hammond takes on the always polarizing Tom Waits. He plays the songs as straight ahead blues, taking care to avoid mimicking Waits' vocal idiosyncrasies. He employs some renowned blues session musicians to aid him in the endeavor, and even brings in Waits himself to help on the "I know I've Been Changed."
Every song is a gem, coaxing out the brilliant songwriting that is often obscured by Waits' madman howl. Waits' lyrical wit is even more apparent when delivered by Hammond, in his dry, off-hand manner. "You know there ain't no Devil, it's just God when he's drunk," becomes a convincing argument when Hammond says it, as opposed to street-corner raving as in Waits' original. The whole album is spectacular. Dance up close to a pretty girl on a hot night. Grab your man and tell him he ain't no good if he don't give you a sip of that whiskey. Get the record.
John Hammond may not have been a Dylan or a Springsteen, but he was one of the great musical apostles of the last hundred years. He knew that great art was more important than one person, in some cases, even more important than the person who created it. And that kind of dedication to continuing the legacy of great artists is always underrated.
Anxiety, apathy, and adulthood are the only things keeping me from writing like I want to. And while only one of those three is intractable, the other two have some wicked inertia.
So, on to the rest of the J's it is.
/Blog couch talk-therapy
With LaLa out of bidness thanks to The Notorious J-O-Bs I don't know how I'll link to all these. But I guess I'll have to figure it out by the time I'm done with this post.
Joey Kneiser - "Adelina," The All-Night Bedroom Revival
Joey's already on the list as the lead singer/songwriter for the band Glossary. He is a master of mood, establishing an immediate coherence between the musical tone of each song and the theme or narrative of the lyric. Every album Glossary has recorded has at least one extraordinary song on it, a song that contends for the song of the year on any of the crazy mixed-up lists I make in my head. See this if you need further clarification.So why should his solo record be any exception? Overall, it is a very good album. Four out of five stars. Four and a half, even? Initially, I wasn't thrilled by the title, too verbose even for little ol' me, but after listening to the whole thing, it grew on me like only a title of true depth can.
The All-Night Bedroom Revival is about a songwriter who locks himself in his sleeping quarters and records an album, because if he doesn't he'll go crazy. It is about a couple who stays up all night talking about their relationship, beating it to death with words, resurrecting it with closeness and copulation, and perhaps killing it once again, the minute they leave the room. The album is a revival in the very Christian tent-meeting sense, but the leaping preacher is replaced by a quiet Southerner with a beat up Gibson guitar, stuck in a ten by ten rented room with worn wood floors and a sputtering ceiling fan. This preacher man favors the power of the word too, the words we speak to each other in our most bare and vulnerable moments. He cherishes the old-time religion of honesty in the face of loss and wants us to be baptized in the tears of love gone wrong and the sweat of love made right.
And once again, on an album full of well-made, intimate songs, Joey brings one that is simply perfect. I wouldn't change a thing about "Adelina." It jangles along like lovers do when they just don't quite know how to make the thing work, but, by God, some of it feels so goddamn good that they just can't quit until they've burned it to the ground. And until a whole lot of people have heard this song, it is most definitely underrated.
John Hammond - "2:19," Wicked Grin.
Growing up John Hammond, Jr. (actually, The Third) must've felt like making music was nothing less than his destiny. His dad was already an established music producer and helped establish the careers of many music luminaries from the Thirties into the Sixties. The elder Hammond was so important and influential to the popular music of the Twentieth Century that I will not even try to discuss it here. There are many books that address the subject.
His son became a gifted singer and guitarist with a moving Baritone. Hammond Jr. sounded as close to a Delta blues singer as any white boy who'd come along. And while he wrote some excellent tunes of his own, his racially ambiguous vocal chords and his family tree may have dictated the arc his career more than his own musical talent, which was abundant.
Since he was a teenager, Hammond has always sounded best singing other people's songs. No shame in that endeavor at all. But I can't imagine it was all roses and lollipops considering that his father is linked so closely with two of the most important original voices in the history of rock and roll. Nevertheless Johnny seemed to know that a great song could be both venerated and improved by a singer and player who cared about the rendering and fussed, in a good way, over every inch of the song. Whether that meant injecting new tropes into a classic, or just leaving perfect alone, John Hammond was, and still is, a GREAT cover artist.
On Wicked Grin, Hammond takes on the always polarizing Tom Waits. He plays the songs as straight ahead blues, taking care to avoid mimicking Waits' vocal idiosyncrasies. He employs some renowned blues session musicians to aid him in the endeavor, and even brings in Waits himself to help on the "I know I've Been Changed."
Every song is a gem, coaxing out the brilliant songwriting that is often obscured by Waits' madman howl. Waits' lyrical wit is even more apparent when delivered by Hammond, in his dry, off-hand manner. "You know there ain't no Devil, it's just God when he's drunk," becomes a convincing argument when Hammond says it, as opposed to street-corner raving as in Waits' original. The whole album is spectacular. Dance up close to a pretty girl on a hot night. Grab your man and tell him he ain't no good if he don't give you a sip of that whiskey. Get the record.
John Hammond may not have been a Dylan or a Springsteen, but he was one of the great musical apostles of the last hundred years. He knew that great art was more important than one person, in some cases, even more important than the person who created it. And that kind of dedication to continuing the legacy of great artists is always underrated.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Underrated J - Jump on in, the water is solipsistic.
If you have any artists to suggest, you teeming throngs of readers, let me know. If they are in my iTunes library, maybe I'll be swayed and give them the old one-two. To the right, in the blogroll, my friend Gabe has undertaken a similar project as that which I have, here. Be warned, he rather enjoys jam bands.
Otherwise, the next two float at the margins of of Underrated/Under-appreciated.
Musicians, artists in general, are probably best defined by their idiosyncrasies. It allows listeners to distinguish one voice, one guitarist, one group from another. The question of authenticity is then raised when judging an artist's idiosyncrasies. Are they manufactured for effect? Or, are they character traits and natural artistic choices emerging from an organic creative process?
Jamiroquai - "Half the Man," The Return of the Space Cowboy.
Jamiroquai emerged from the UK/European Acid-Jazz in the early '90s as a listenable and highly danceable group of excellent musicians with a super-funky, diminutive sparkplug for a vocalist and songwriter. Jay Kay was clearly an intriguing stage performer, and as Jamiroquai grew more popular globally he began to make his performer persona more weird and out-sized, turning into a striking, but sometimes ostentatious caricature. His disco moon-walk on the moving floor in the video for "Virtual Insanity" is one of the last memorable MTV videos, as far as I'm concerned. And while the song is a pretty clumsy deconstruction of modern life and technology, the video was fun to look at.
The song smacked of the same sort of self-importance and silly sociology found in many of their "socially conscious" songs. I'm all for artists making bold and loud political statements, if they can do it well. Jay Kay's affectations, the very idiosyncrasies he created/accentuated to get noticed, killed any chance of being taken seriously past the dance floor.
Which, in the end was fine, because Jamiroquai was best when they were doing dance tunes and chocolaty-rich ballads. "Half the Man" is one of the latter. A trippy lament about break-ups to make-ups that, if you listen to the lyrics too hard, makes no sense in terms of linear narrative. However, the keyboards play with your synapses like lysergic acid and the vocals are perfect Northern-soul--heart stripped bare, soft and smooth until they become full of brass.
It's not what got them noticed by the masses, but it's what they did best. And this song, compared to their inferior hits, is underrated.
Jeff Buckley - "Last Goodbye," Grace.
I'm not going to go too far with Jeff Buckley, because there are people--fans, fanatics, Buckley-completists, devotees, acolytes--who know way more about the guy than I do. I could do the whole Wikipedia thing and regurgitate stuff I didn't really know about him, but Buckley, as a figure, is far too important to lots of people, myself included, to give that kind of treatment.
Suffice it to say, I remember (as many my age do) when he died. I remember having heard Grace at the record store listening station, telling myself that I needed to buy the album when I had a few spare bucks. Several music rags had lavished him with praise, describing his live shows as transcendental, calling his voice a once-in-a-generation gift. And then he was dead, washed away on the banks of the Mississippi River. Craig Finn remembers.
He achieved one of the great feats in music, recording a cover version of a very well-known song by a rock and roll HoFer that surpasses the original. It may well be the saddest song ever recorded.
But what got lost in the Qawwali-inflected, strange beauty of his voice and the fugue-like nature of his guitar-work, was that the kid knew how to write a great song when he put his mind to it. Taking hold of the verse/verse/chorus/verse/chorus structure and placing your personal stamp on a well-composed song is a simple goal, but it is a goal not often reached. Buckley absolutely nailed it with "Last Goodbye."
He was venerated for being unique, idiosyncratic, and mourned mightily for the same reason. His live recordings and semi-finished studio work sold well for years after his death. People hunted for clues as to how someone so talented walks into a river late at night to cool off, and is suddenly gone.
I just wonder if he might've made the perfect song at some point in his life, had he lived. "Last Goodbye," underrated despite the feverishness of those who love him, tells me my hunch was well-founded.
Otherwise, the next two float at the margins of of Underrated/Under-appreciated.
Musicians, artists in general, are probably best defined by their idiosyncrasies. It allows listeners to distinguish one voice, one guitarist, one group from another. The question of authenticity is then raised when judging an artist's idiosyncrasies. Are they manufactured for effect? Or, are they character traits and natural artistic choices emerging from an organic creative process?
Jamiroquai - "Half the Man," The Return of the Space Cowboy.Jamiroquai emerged from the UK/European Acid-Jazz in the early '90s as a listenable and highly danceable group of excellent musicians with a super-funky, diminutive sparkplug for a vocalist and songwriter. Jay Kay was clearly an intriguing stage performer, and as Jamiroquai grew more popular globally he began to make his performer persona more weird and out-sized, turning into a striking, but sometimes ostentatious caricature. His disco moon-walk on the moving floor in the video for "Virtual Insanity" is one of the last memorable MTV videos, as far as I'm concerned. And while the song is a pretty clumsy deconstruction of modern life and technology, the video was fun to look at.
The song smacked of the same sort of self-importance and silly sociology found in many of their "socially conscious" songs. I'm all for artists making bold and loud political statements, if they can do it well. Jay Kay's affectations, the very idiosyncrasies he created/accentuated to get noticed, killed any chance of being taken seriously past the dance floor.
Which, in the end was fine, because Jamiroquai was best when they were doing dance tunes and chocolaty-rich ballads. "Half the Man" is one of the latter. A trippy lament about break-ups to make-ups that, if you listen to the lyrics too hard, makes no sense in terms of linear narrative. However, the keyboards play with your synapses like lysergic acid and the vocals are perfect Northern-soul--heart stripped bare, soft and smooth until they become full of brass.
It's not what got them noticed by the masses, but it's what they did best. And this song, compared to their inferior hits, is underrated.
Jeff Buckley - "Last Goodbye," Grace.I'm not going to go too far with Jeff Buckley, because there are people--fans, fanatics, Buckley-completists, devotees, acolytes--who know way more about the guy than I do. I could do the whole Wikipedia thing and regurgitate stuff I didn't really know about him, but Buckley, as a figure, is far too important to lots of people, myself included, to give that kind of treatment.
Suffice it to say, I remember (as many my age do) when he died. I remember having heard Grace at the record store listening station, telling myself that I needed to buy the album when I had a few spare bucks. Several music rags had lavished him with praise, describing his live shows as transcendental, calling his voice a once-in-a-generation gift. And then he was dead, washed away on the banks of the Mississippi River. Craig Finn remembers.
He achieved one of the great feats in music, recording a cover version of a very well-known song by a rock and roll HoFer that surpasses the original. It may well be the saddest song ever recorded.
But what got lost in the Qawwali-inflected, strange beauty of his voice and the fugue-like nature of his guitar-work, was that the kid knew how to write a great song when he put his mind to it. Taking hold of the verse/verse/chorus/verse/chorus structure and placing your personal stamp on a well-composed song is a simple goal, but it is a goal not often reached. Buckley absolutely nailed it with "Last Goodbye."
He was venerated for being unique, idiosyncratic, and mourned mightily for the same reason. His live recordings and semi-finished studio work sold well for years after his death. People hunted for clues as to how someone so talented walks into a river late at night to cool off, and is suddenly gone.
I just wonder if he might've made the perfect song at some point in his life, had he lived. "Last Goodbye," underrated despite the feverishness of those who love him, tells me my hunch was well-founded.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Underrated I - I don't like you, but I love you.
Some of my favorite humans are Humanists. Maybe that term is too vague or loaded, but I think I'll stick with it.
That is, the people I find most interesting, insightful, and imitable, are primarily interested in people. Particularly when it comes to my favorite songwriters. Whether they are truly Humanists who reject other more dogmatic theological doctrine, or just find humans more interesting and valuable than imaginary wizards in the sky, I don't know. (Not that sky wizards aren't cool, they just don't show up 'round here enough for my tastes. Every two-thousand years is less frequent than the elusive McRib, for goodness sake).
However, these same Humanistic songwriters who seem genuinely concerned with the plight of their fellow man and worry when injustice is done, also like to hold a giant magnifying glass up to the sores of humanity. They don't shy away from sticking their fingers into abscesses or turning on the bright lights to see the boils and scabies even better.
Dylan took this tact often, with songs like "Lonsome Death of Hattie Carrol," "The Death of Emmit Till," and plenty of others. Westerberg worried mightily about the plight gender-queer kids in tight pants with wallet-chains long-ago, many years before Pete Wentz married the prom-queen. Fiona Apple might be a co-dependent bore in real life, but in her songs, she will punch you in the dick if you mess-over another girl. Eddie Vedder used to wear a hair-shirt for ever bete-noir teenager in the world. Rhett Miller, even though he married a super-model, has to work very hard to write anyting but songs of romantic lament, sad anthems for every skinny dork in Texas who never got the girl.
Ike Reilly - "I Don't Want What You've Got (Goin' On)," Sparkle in the Finish.
Ike Reilly falls in with this very loose assemblage of songwriters. He is most assuredly disturbed by the callousness with which the modern world treats his fellow man. But goshdarn if he doesn't find his fellow man in equal parts, pathetic, annoying, disgusting and despicable. If there were another form of life on Earth with whom he could cavort, converse and copulate, he would undoubtedly prefer them to human beings. But since there is not, he's thrown his lot in with the Adams and Eves.
A glance at his album titles lets you know he's a bit jaded and not always hopeful when it comes to his brethren. Salesmen and Racists? Pick one, or maybe you're both. Junkie Faithful. Opiate of the masses or Church of Burroughs. I don't know which one makes me less nauseated. Posion the Hit Parade. Music biz got you down, Ike?
That said, he is the most underrated purveyor of cynical folk-rap this side of St. Bob. His songs make you want to shout, dance, lock arms and march, break bottles and fight, and then go back to the bar to tell each other stories as you bleed on the beer-soaked floor. See him live.
That is, the people I find most interesting, insightful, and imitable, are primarily interested in people. Particularly when it comes to my favorite songwriters. Whether they are truly Humanists who reject other more dogmatic theological doctrine, or just find humans more interesting and valuable than imaginary wizards in the sky, I don't know. (Not that sky wizards aren't cool, they just don't show up 'round here enough for my tastes. Every two-thousand years is less frequent than the elusive McRib, for goodness sake).
However, these same Humanistic songwriters who seem genuinely concerned with the plight of their fellow man and worry when injustice is done, also like to hold a giant magnifying glass up to the sores of humanity. They don't shy away from sticking their fingers into abscesses or turning on the bright lights to see the boils and scabies even better.
Dylan took this tact often, with songs like "Lonsome Death of Hattie Carrol," "The Death of Emmit Till," and plenty of others. Westerberg worried mightily about the plight gender-queer kids in tight pants with wallet-chains long-ago, many years before Pete Wentz married the prom-queen. Fiona Apple might be a co-dependent bore in real life, but in her songs, she will punch you in the dick if you mess-over another girl. Eddie Vedder used to wear a hair-shirt for ever bete-noir teenager in the world. Rhett Miller, even though he married a super-model, has to work very hard to write anyting but songs of romantic lament, sad anthems for every skinny dork in Texas who never got the girl.
Ike Reilly - "I Don't Want What You've Got (Goin' On)," Sparkle in the Finish.
A glance at his album titles lets you know he's a bit jaded and not always hopeful when it comes to his brethren. Salesmen and Racists? Pick one, or maybe you're both. Junkie Faithful. Opiate of the masses or Church of Burroughs. I don't know which one makes me less nauseated. Posion the Hit Parade. Music biz got you down, Ike?
That said, he is the most underrated purveyor of cynical folk-rap this side of St. Bob. His songs make you want to shout, dance, lock arms and march, break bottles and fight, and then go back to the bar to tell each other stories as you bleed on the beer-soaked floor. See him live.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Underrated H cont'd. - Holes in the Backdrop of the Memory
The most satisfying aspect of this exercise is not shilling for my favorite bands, but looking back through my music catalog and finding the bands that I, myself, never paid enough attention to. Both of these two fall into that category.
Homunculus - "Cornelia," The Pulse of Directed Devotion.
I first got romantic with my wife at a Homunculus show. We didn't neck in the corner of the club or anything so classless. We simply danced. Not even that junior high dry-hump kind of dancing. More like late '80s Solid Gold hip-couple-on-the-upstairs-scaffolding dance. It was sexy, I'm sure.
Homunculus was composed of IU dudes who all had wildly eclectic tastes in music, but actually found a way to create a somewhat focused sound guided by a mission statement that went something like "The Funky Meters meets a Beatles Fan Club, with a little Jam Bandiness thrown in."
They weren't afraid to drop it on the one and at the same time loved syrupy sweet lyrics and choruses. Their overall visual aesthetic was remarkably consistent, with every band member wearing a suit onstage. I loved them and went to every show at the Bluebird in Bloomington that I could make it to. They were exceptional live--funky, sweaty fun with lots of this going on.
And like friends from college with whom we've lost touch, I lost touch with Homunculus after I left Bloomington. The singer from the song above and below left the band around the time I was finishing at IU. I saw the band a couple of times in New York, but not nearly with the frequency I did in Southern Indiana.
Homunculus recorded one more album and toured extensively in the early Aughts, but eventually broke up.
My wife and I danced to one of their songs at our wedding.
Their first two records are highly underrated.
Cornelia
Hot Hot Heat - "Goodnight, Goodnight," - Elevator.
Talk about textbook underrated. I don't even own a complete album from these guys, but I would put two of their songs, "Bandages" and "Goodnight, Goodnight," in my top 100 singles of the 2000's.
They are best described as post-Punk post-Ska post-alternative Alternative-Ska-Punk. That's some fine genre murder, right there.
My brother-in-law even has a fleeting cameo in one of their videos.
Every time I hear their songs I think about how much more I ought to listen to them. I never do.
This song should make you happy and dancey and think about a time when you kicked some dude/chick to the curb and felt good about it.
Homunculus - "Cornelia," The Pulse of Directed Devotion.
I first got romantic with my wife at a Homunculus show. We didn't neck in the corner of the club or anything so classless. We simply danced. Not even that junior high dry-hump kind of dancing. More like late '80s Solid Gold hip-couple-on-the-upstairs-scaffolding dance. It was sexy, I'm sure.Homunculus was composed of IU dudes who all had wildly eclectic tastes in music, but actually found a way to create a somewhat focused sound guided by a mission statement that went something like "The Funky Meters meets a Beatles Fan Club, with a little Jam Bandiness thrown in."
They weren't afraid to drop it on the one and at the same time loved syrupy sweet lyrics and choruses. Their overall visual aesthetic was remarkably consistent, with every band member wearing a suit onstage. I loved them and went to every show at the Bluebird in Bloomington that I could make it to. They were exceptional live--funky, sweaty fun with lots of this going on.
And like friends from college with whom we've lost touch, I lost touch with Homunculus after I left Bloomington. The singer from the song above and below left the band around the time I was finishing at IU. I saw the band a couple of times in New York, but not nearly with the frequency I did in Southern Indiana.
Homunculus recorded one more album and toured extensively in the early Aughts, but eventually broke up.
My wife and I danced to one of their songs at our wedding.
Their first two records are highly underrated.
Cornelia
Talk about textbook underrated. I don't even own a complete album from these guys, but I would put two of their songs, "Bandages" and "Goodnight, Goodnight," in my top 100 singles of the 2000's.
They are best described as post-Punk post-Ska post-alternative Alternative-Ska-Punk. That's some fine genre murder, right there.
My brother-in-law even has a fleeting cameo in one of their videos.
Every time I hear their songs I think about how much more I ought to listen to them. I never do.
This song should make you happy and dancey and think about a time when you kicked some dude/chick to the curb and felt good about it.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Underrated H - We're gonna start it with a positive jam. Hold Steady.
The Hold Steady - "Your Little Hoodrat Friend," Separation Sunday; "Stuck Between Stations," Boys and Girls in America; "Sequestered In Memphis," Stay Positive
"You either love them or hate them." How many times have fans or lazy critics uttered this phrase when recommending a band? How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? The problem is, ten times out of nine, the band is not very good at all. The people who love them are their friends and family. The people who hate them are everybody else. Don't tell me your brother-in-law's noisecore project with three turntablists and a Theremin player is a "love it or hate it" proposition. Unless I am related to the people on stage, that is a "hate it or drink arsenic" proposition.
So, obviously this is the point where I say, "Love it or hate it is a myth, EXCEPT FOR THESE GUYS..." Well, I'm not gonna do that.
In the first place 8000 other Monday Morning Christgaus have already said it. And the second-to-last thing I want to be is trite. (The absolutely last thing I want to be is from New Jersey.)
My thesis is, therefore, rather muddled:
I hereby proclaim that you will NOT find yourself tied to a binary choice between adulation and antipathy when you listen to The Hold Steady.
You might think they sound kind of weird and interesting, but aren't your cup of tea. Perhaps you'll find their anthemic rock and roll reminiscent of early era Bruce/E-Street records, mixed with a more punk rock aesthetic, as so many others have described their sound. Maybe lead singer Craig Finn's tales of burnouts and barflies will take hold of you like Dickens' serials took hold of the readers in the nineteenth century. Maybe his voice will make you want to crawl up the walls and stuff cactus in your ears just to make it stop.
And so you have options. You don't have fall in love with this band that simultaneously venerates and tears down the Twin Cities like Dr. Johnson did with London. You don't have to want set the disc on fire and douse it with urine, either.
So why are they underrated? After all, websites like Pitchfork and numerous other critics love these guys. The fact that Finn keeps a cast of characters weaving in and out of all four Hold Steady records fascinates some, mainly because virtually no other modern songwriters use this device. He also creates a lexicon that initially seems limited and repetitive, overusing words like positive, party and killer. He juxtaposes elementary words-- cold, hot; soft, hard--sounding like a poet who lost his thesaurus on first listen. But if one follows the entire through-line of the narrative from Almost Killed Me to Stay Positive all of the words and figurative language that appeared simplistic at first, take on immense poetic significance. He unpacks every double meaning and injects a sense of risk into the simplest turn of phrase. And Finn makes no bones about shooting to be a 21st century Kerouac. The album "Boys and Girls in America" grew out of Finn's belief that he could write a whole record about just one of Sal Paradise's lines in On the Road.
But, again, none of this points to being underrated. And maybe they aren't. But that whole bullshit about love/hate that gets lumped on these guys, and has been since they broke up Lifter Puller and formed The Hold Steady, hasn't allowed for any sort of accurate gauge of how many people might actually enjoy this band. Hipsters and music geeks superpraise THS, wanting to be counted in the Love Them crowd, so their fervor (count me in) can't be trusted. And the material might be too dense and Finn's vocals too idiosyncratic for casual listeners to sift through when they've already been prejudiced with the love/hate preface by whoever gave them the record.
Personally, I think that twenty-years from now, I will be glad that I knew who these guys were. For everyone who doesn't know who they are, give them a try. You might kinda, sorta, halfway enjoy them a bit. Or you might not.
Sunday, April 04, 2010
How A Resurrection Really Feels
It really hasn't been that long since a team from Indiana has been in the NCAA championship game. In 2002, the IU Hoosiers lost to Maryland in an improbable post-Knight run to the Final Four. But since then, IU has spiraled into sanction-laden obscurity. Purdue, despite always performing well in the Big Ten, has classically under-achieved in the NCAA's. Looking past college basketball, the Pacers have gone from lovable, scrappy contenders to a bunch of uninspired millionaires who continue to play with the shadow of the 2004 brawl in Detroit hanging over them.
So while it hasn't been long at all since an Indiana team has been successful at basketball, it feels like the lid has been lifted on an old hope chest and all the musty, old blankets have been cleaned with fresh air and sunlight. Kelvin Sampson, Gene Keady's sad final seasons of an otherwise hall-of-fame career, the refs in the Butler v. Florida game, Ron Artest and Jermaine O'Neal, I can go flick jumpshots in the driveway without thinking about any of that.
I'll get back to my regular programming of navel-gazing and trying to convince other people that my tastes in music are superior to the public at large pretty soon. But right now, I'm savoring the way basketball tastes for the first time in nearly a decade.
I have no illusions about some return to a more "pure" form of college basketball. Butler is not a babe-in-the-woods program who made it all the way to the big game by wishing on butterfly wings and sprinkling pixie dust on the court. During this recent window of time when other programs in the state were struggling, they went and ferociously recruited in-state talent. They pursued and signed players from out of state who fit their program and who were passed up by bigger D-1 programs, so they play with a chip on their shoulder. They are all gifted athletes who play great defense and battle anyone who steps on their court.(And if Hayward and Mack don't declare after their junior year, it will only be because they are thinking with their hearts instead of their retirement funds. Honestly, if I had my druthers, I'd probably eliminate athletic scholarships altogether and tell David Stern to stick his NBA age limit where the pampers is.) But college basketball is a BIG money endeavor and no one, not even Butler and Brad Stevens, no matter how much they may be exemplars of how to do the whole "student-athlete" thing right, comes out of the NCAA wringer totally clean.
That said, I will have no second thoughts tomorrow about shredding my vocal chords yelling for Butler as the Bulldogs attempt to knock off Duke andKaiser K Coach K. I will be shooting as many hoops as I can before then. And hopefully, at around 11:45 PM, I'll be singing along with a really cheesy song that was first broadcast after an Indiana team won the championship, listening to my neighbors cheer and scream into the night sky.
So while it hasn't been long at all since an Indiana team has been successful at basketball, it feels like the lid has been lifted on an old hope chest and all the musty, old blankets have been cleaned with fresh air and sunlight. Kelvin Sampson, Gene Keady's sad final seasons of an otherwise hall-of-fame career, the refs in the Butler v. Florida game, Ron Artest and Jermaine O'Neal, I can go flick jumpshots in the driveway without thinking about any of that.
I'll get back to my regular programming of navel-gazing and trying to convince other people that my tastes in music are superior to the public at large pretty soon. But right now, I'm savoring the way basketball tastes for the first time in nearly a decade.
I have no illusions about some return to a more "pure" form of college basketball. Butler is not a babe-in-the-woods program who made it all the way to the big game by wishing on butterfly wings and sprinkling pixie dust on the court. During this recent window of time when other programs in the state were struggling, they went and ferociously recruited in-state talent. They pursued and signed players from out of state who fit their program and who were passed up by bigger D-1 programs, so they play with a chip on their shoulder. They are all gifted athletes who play great defense and battle anyone who steps on their court.(And if Hayward and Mack don't declare after their junior year, it will only be because they are thinking with their hearts instead of their retirement funds. Honestly, if I had my druthers, I'd probably eliminate athletic scholarships altogether and tell David Stern to stick his NBA age limit where the pampers is.) But college basketball is a BIG money endeavor and no one, not even Butler and Brad Stevens, no matter how much they may be exemplars of how to do the whole "student-athlete" thing right, comes out of the NCAA wringer totally clean.
That said, I will have no second thoughts tomorrow about shredding my vocal chords yelling for Butler as the Bulldogs attempt to knock off Duke and
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Winning or Not Losing
Butler won. In spite of, or as a result of my Swiftian exhortations? I don't know. All I know is that my son, keen little pitcher with big ears that he is, when I asked what he thought about Butler winning, said, "I'm speechless. I don't know what to say." He heard this phrase from someone at my parents' house, either my mother or Bob Proctor. Nevertheless, he knew that we were all hooting and hollering about something rather unexpected and unprecedented and he brought out the line on cue. I almost swerved off the road.
In five days, Butler will play a semi-final game against Michigan State in Lucas Oil Stadium, Indianapolis, Indiana. And here, in the seemingly wonderful serendipity of the location, lies the only impediment to their winning the whole dang thing. It is not their lack of relative size compared to other teams. It is not that MSU and West Virginia are spectacular rebounding teams, or that Duke has three NBA players in its starting lineup. The home city advantage is actually a very sharp, double-edged sword for these Bulldogs, because no matter what the result this weekend, these Bulldogs cannot lose.
They may get beaten by twenty-points on the scoreboard, but in the end they are winners. Gordon Hayward, Shelvin Mack, Ron Nored, Matt Howard, Willie Veasly, and all their teammates will be conquering heroes whether they win or lose. In the eyes of Indiana residents and the country at-large, they are the underdogs who made it to the Final Four. Everything else is gravy on the taters. So Brad Stevens' lone challenge is not game-planning for the Spartans and crazy-good coach Tom Izzo, rather it is to get his team to fear contentedness and satisfaction.
Even the most competitive sumbiches could get pretty swelled up and slow if they came back home at 4 in the morning to screaming, delirious crowds. And if they are anything, these Bulldogs are competitive. But fighting against the insidious mindset that they have "already won" has to be tough for player and coach alike.
Forgive me, I could ramble on about these less-than-concrete ideas for too long. My hope is this, Butler goes out looking for blood. Elbows to the neck, heel-kicks when defending in the low blocks, rabbit punches to the kidneys. No holds barred. Use every flipping foul they give you and get ready to take a punch and shoot the technical afterwords. Butler may be a feel-good story but their opponents will give them no quarter. They should be ready to do the same.
Go out and try to win, because they already can't lose.
In five days, Butler will play a semi-final game against Michigan State in Lucas Oil Stadium, Indianapolis, Indiana. And here, in the seemingly wonderful serendipity of the location, lies the only impediment to their winning the whole dang thing. It is not their lack of relative size compared to other teams. It is not that MSU and West Virginia are spectacular rebounding teams, or that Duke has three NBA players in its starting lineup. The home city advantage is actually a very sharp, double-edged sword for these Bulldogs, because no matter what the result this weekend, these Bulldogs cannot lose.
They may get beaten by twenty-points on the scoreboard, but in the end they are winners. Gordon Hayward, Shelvin Mack, Ron Nored, Matt Howard, Willie Veasly, and all their teammates will be conquering heroes whether they win or lose. In the eyes of Indiana residents and the country at-large, they are the underdogs who made it to the Final Four. Everything else is gravy on the taters. So Brad Stevens' lone challenge is not game-planning for the Spartans and crazy-good coach Tom Izzo, rather it is to get his team to fear contentedness and satisfaction.
Even the most competitive sumbiches could get pretty swelled up and slow if they came back home at 4 in the morning to screaming, delirious crowds. And if they are anything, these Bulldogs are competitive. But fighting against the insidious mindset that they have "already won" has to be tough for player and coach alike.
Forgive me, I could ramble on about these less-than-concrete ideas for too long. My hope is this, Butler goes out looking for blood. Elbows to the neck, heel-kicks when defending in the low blocks, rabbit punches to the kidneys. No holds barred. Use every flipping foul they give you and get ready to take a punch and shoot the technical afterwords. Butler may be a feel-good story but their opponents will give them no quarter. They should be ready to do the same.
Go out and try to win, because they already can't lose.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Underrated H - Hinkle Huskers
Please, whatever you do, you faithful readers out there in the interlands, do NOT root for Butler. If you are not a Butler Alum or a resident of the Butler-Tarkington/MKNA neighborhoods of Indianapolis, do not make this team the spunky underdog you are going to pull for. If you have never been to Hinkle Fieldhouse to see a game, don't know who Barry Collier is, haven't heard of A.J. Graves, Mike Green, Rylan Hainje, Joel Cornette, Darnell Archey, Jon Neuhouser, Jermaine Guice, or Darin Archbold, STAY THE EFF AWAY FROM THIS TEAM BECAUSE YOU WILL RUIN THEM.
I say this only kind of jokingly, because for the last twenty years Butler has defined the rise of the Mid-Major in college basketball, and they've done so, in part, by always being slightly underrated. In the early 90's, I went to way too many Butler games when I should have been doing Chemistry homework or trying to get dates with girls. However, this wasn't foolish escapism. The fact was that Butler was putting high-caliber basketball on display every time they hit the floor of hallowed Hinkle. It wasn't until 1997 that they finally made an NCAA tournament for the first time since old man Hinkle was at the helm; they were a casualty of an exceptionally competitive conference and conference tourney in the MCC and Horizon. However, I remember the level of play exhibited from 1991-1996 and it was indistinguishable from some of the middle rung Big Ten and Big East schools. And of course, within a few years of their first NCAA shot, Butler made a run at knocking off highly-ranked Florida, a feat they would repeat in 2007 when they nearly derailed the Gators who were on their way to a second consecutive championship.
Despite this success, Butler still doesn't sell out every home game. And they play their home games in the stadium where Hoosiers was filmed for jeebus' sake. Somehow this all helps them. Butler rosters are usually composed of a bunch of kids who wouldn't start on ACC, SEC or Big Ten teams because they aren't quite selfish or flashy enough. AJ Graves would've gotten clean-up minutes at IU. Mike Green transferred from a small Philadelphia school and when he got to Butler played like he was trying destroy every "big-time" program who passed on him. He made every player on Butler's team better and played harder and stronger than guys a foot taller than him. Darnell Archey came to Butler and showed everyone else in basketball what consistency and dedication really was. He hit 85 free-throws in a row at one point in the season. And still, the bleachers in the top of the Fieldhouse aren't always full.
During a heated game against the Evansville Aces in 1991, I was sitting above the Butler goal watching the action unfold. The game was close and the star players, Parrish Casebier for Evansville and Darin Archbold for Butler, were going at it, hammer and tongs. On this particular play, Casebier, wearing the metaphorical black hat, wound up guarding Archbold. Archbold had a killer jumper and a nose for the open space where shots develop--a skill best honed, not through practice with coaches and teammates, but by spending hour upon hour in open gyms with aggressive middle-aged guys who hip-check you every time you try to curl around a screen. You don't call fouls because they'll just call you a pussy under their breath and hit you with a sweaty hamboned elbow in the chest the next time down. Instead, you find the space and you stick the jumper right in their face and then swat the shit out of their lay-up when they attempt to exact some ill-advised revenge.
But I digress. Casebier saved his best stuff for Butler. He was a slick kid, with a bowling ball physique and a nasty attitude. He would talk trash all game and light up anybody who gave him too much room. He would also defend with his beer-belly, which worked because he was still faster than everyone else, despite his layer of insulation. The memory I have of this moment is short and sweet and quintessential Butler basketball. Archbold took a pass and dribbled around a high screen, Casebier switched to him and stuck his tummy into Archbold's hip. Archbold drove toward the baseline and elevated about eight feet from the hoop, with Casebier riding him the whole time, and cooly called out "backboard" as he banked in his shot off the glass while the ref blew his whistle.
In that "backboard," I heard the voice of every kid who I ever played against in my backyard. And Butler has always been made up of the best backyard players. The guys who throw no-look bounce passes, not because it makes them look good, but because their teammates wouldn't dare miss the lay-up after such a great pass. The guys who learned how to bank it from eighteen feet because the rim was just tight enough that a slightly off-center shot would thunk off the iron, as opposed to trickling through as the shot would on a more forgiving, professional rim.
Butler has always been in my backyard. And I feel guilty for not going to enough games, even though I've been to quite a few. So I know the rest of my friends, neighbors, and peers, particularly those who profess to be Hoosiers and basketball fans, must feel extra dopey every March when the Bulldogs make their annual stand against the Goliaths of the basketball world. And therefore, I once again plead with you: do not make this Saturday the night you turn Butler into your prize pony instead of your rented mule. They have been underrated for going on twenty years now. And it works for them. They thrive on it. The minute all us yahoos who didn't really pay attention to which one was Howard and which one was Hayward start cheering and dipping chips in Butler's honor, they lose that advantage. So go cut your grass or plant your tomatoes. But don't play pretend Butler fan.
Save that for next Saturday...
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Underrated G Cont'd. - Cold Beverages and Buffaloes
I'm not sure either of these artists are overrated. So much for being committed to the material. However, when I did my initial assessment, I included them and so I will give them the benefit of the doubt. Each of them reached a kind of career popularity apex where they were perfectly "rated" in terms of how many people were listening to them and singing along, refer to the Klosterman Index here. The Avett Brothers have reached that point RIGHT NOW.
G. Love and Special Sauce - "Stepping Stones," Yeah, It's That Easy
G. Love peaked early in his career. Two songs of his persist in popularity, played regularly at frat parties and keggers across the country, they are both standards in the drunken hook-up hymnal. "Cold Beverage" and "Baby's Got Sauce" from his first album G. Love and Special Sauce are still stand-by's for Delta-Chi's looking to get their white boy blooz on. G. Love, (also known as Garrett Dutton) with his Presley-esque coiffure and his absurd, over-the-top, urbanized Philly patois, never quite achieved the level of sales success these first two singles hinted at. The highly derivative blues and R&B he played became much more marketable when performed by an actual black man (Ben Harper) or by a more neutral hippy-dippy white voice (Jack Johson). Nevertheless, G. Love was a fearless dude when it came to wearing his tastes and influences on his sleeve. His 1997 release Yeah, It's That Easy struggled to encompass all of the myriad musical influences he wanted to acknowledge, a symptom that verged into borderline-schizophrenia on later records. However, on a few tracks G. Love absolutely hits his mark hearkening back to the best of '60s Philly soul while adding a modern twist. This is how all high school dances would sound if Jim Crow had never happened.
Grant Lee Phillips - "Wish I Knew," Virginia Creeper
*Warning - I'm going to use the term alt.country a lot here. It's just easier than anything else and people kind of know what it means, I'll throw in a few synonyms and neologisms for fun, too.
It's hard to imagine a time when Jeff Tweedy wasn't the foremost practitioner of bent Americana. After Uncle Tupelo broke apart, Farrar and Tweedy quickly formed new outfits, but except for the hit single "Drown," neither Wilco or Son Volt seemed like they would set the alt.country world on fire in the way they did with tunes like "Whiskey Bottle" and "Graveyard Shift." A.M. was good, Trace was good, but I wasn't sure they were great. (In retrospect both these records are absolutely perfect middle steps in the careers of two of the best songwriters of the last twenty-five years.) Late 1993 into 1994 it wasn't clear if the No Depression-era of country-influenced rock was going to continue.
In walks Grant-Lee Buffalo and alt.country became something altogether different. GLB continued, where Tupelo had begun, re-inventing what American rock and roll sounded like. But this re-invention of country bore signs of influence more far-flung than the Carter Family and Nashville Skyline Dylan. There were hints of 80's New Wave mixed with the banjoes and dobros. It had the fuzzy impertinence of Neil Young with the queer take on rock and roll that made R.E.M. so intriguing. In fact, their first record was called Fuzzy. And within a year of that album, they released Mighty Joe Moon. They toured with Pearl Jam when nobody was bigger than Pearl Jam.
All of this had to do with Grant-Lee Phillips' songwriting and his vocals. His tone was precise and he commanded a perfect Nashville vibrato, but he was able to be vocally eccentric and odd when the moment called for it.
In 1996 Wilco released Being There and Beck released Odelay and alt.country and cow.hop's kings were crowned. By 1999 Grant-Lee Buffalo had disbanded and Phillips was playing and recording as a solo artist, as he has been now for the last decade. And he is still damn good at it. Perhaps he's not the greatest alt.country figure of our time, but he was very important for a moment. And his albums from the 2000's have some real gems. Great American songwriter and definitely underrated.
G. Love and Special Sauce - "Stepping Stones," Yeah, It's That EasyG. Love peaked early in his career. Two songs of his persist in popularity, played regularly at frat parties and keggers across the country, they are both standards in the drunken hook-up hymnal. "Cold Beverage" and "Baby's Got Sauce" from his first album G. Love and Special Sauce are still stand-by's for Delta-Chi's looking to get their white boy blooz on. G. Love, (also known as Garrett Dutton) with his Presley-esque coiffure and his absurd, over-the-top, urbanized Philly patois, never quite achieved the level of sales success these first two singles hinted at. The highly derivative blues and R&B he played became much more marketable when performed by an actual black man (Ben Harper) or by a more neutral hippy-dippy white voice (Jack Johson). Nevertheless, G. Love was a fearless dude when it came to wearing his tastes and influences on his sleeve. His 1997 release Yeah, It's That Easy struggled to encompass all of the myriad musical influences he wanted to acknowledge, a symptom that verged into borderline-schizophrenia on later records. However, on a few tracks G. Love absolutely hits his mark hearkening back to the best of '60s Philly soul while adding a modern twist. This is how all high school dances would sound if Jim Crow had never happened.
Grant Lee Phillips - "Wish I Knew," Virginia Creeper
*Warning - I'm going to use the term alt.country a lot here. It's just easier than anything else and people kind of know what it means, I'll throw in a few synonyms and neologisms for fun, too.
It's hard to imagine a time when Jeff Tweedy wasn't the foremost practitioner of bent Americana. After Uncle Tupelo broke apart, Farrar and Tweedy quickly formed new outfits, but except for the hit single "Drown," neither Wilco or Son Volt seemed like they would set the alt.country world on fire in the way they did with tunes like "Whiskey Bottle" and "Graveyard Shift." A.M. was good, Trace was good, but I wasn't sure they were great. (In retrospect both these records are absolutely perfect middle steps in the careers of two of the best songwriters of the last twenty-five years.) Late 1993 into 1994 it wasn't clear if the No Depression-era of country-influenced rock was going to continue.
In walks Grant-Lee Buffalo and alt.country became something altogether different. GLB continued, where Tupelo had begun, re-inventing what American rock and roll sounded like. But this re-invention of country bore signs of influence more far-flung than the Carter Family and Nashville Skyline Dylan. There were hints of 80's New Wave mixed with the banjoes and dobros. It had the fuzzy impertinence of Neil Young with the queer take on rock and roll that made R.E.M. so intriguing. In fact, their first record was called Fuzzy. And within a year of that album, they released Mighty Joe Moon. They toured with Pearl Jam when nobody was bigger than Pearl Jam.
All of this had to do with Grant-Lee Phillips' songwriting and his vocals. His tone was precise and he commanded a perfect Nashville vibrato, but he was able to be vocally eccentric and odd when the moment called for it.
In 1996 Wilco released Being There and Beck released Odelay and alt.country and cow.hop's kings were crowned. By 1999 Grant-Lee Buffalo had disbanded and Phillips was playing and recording as a solo artist, as he has been now for the last decade. And he is still damn good at it. Perhaps he's not the greatest alt.country figure of our time, but he was very important for a moment. And his albums from the 2000's have some real gems. Great American songwriter and definitely underrated.
Wish I Knew - Grant Lee Philli...
As a post script, I wish to acknowledge and thank any of yous who are "following" this blog. I didn't even know that function existed until a month ago. So, thanks. You are very kind.
As a post script, I wish to acknowledge and thank any of yous who are "following" this blog. I didn't even know that function existed until a month ago. So, thanks. You are very kind.
Monday, March 01, 2010
Underrated G - Golly, Sarge.
Maybe I am just a bit of liberal snob, but for a long time I was prejudiced towards people with Southern accents. Southern United States, to be geographically and linguistically specific. Below the Mason-Dixon Line, East of the Mississippi and throw in Texas for good measure. In my mind, the dialects and the speakers all mash up into a pretty unsophisticated stereotype not too far from ol' Gomer Pyle.
My prejudice told me that people who spoke in such a manner were intellectually inferior to most of the rest of our nation (save for Anglo-Southern California natives). Even "Southern" music, from the Delta Blues to Allman-style Blue-eyed Blues, hillbilly to juke-joint, struck me as less smart than similar artists from other regions. Sure, it was visceral and moving, and sometimes absolutely transcendent, but I never felt challenged by those of southern-ilk, never felt engaged in my brain, only in my legs and pelvis.
Many would say, "Well, that's the point of popular music. DUH." And in return I'd say, "After the dancin' and the luvin', I still want to be able to listen to the song and feel connected and inspired. So it helps if they're sing about somethin' with some substance."
Being an Indiana native, I have absolutely no right to a sense of regional superiority and elitism. Heckfire, we gave birth to Jim Nabors, for Heaven's sake. Nevertheless, my musical opinions were surely affected by my snootiness towards the Southern drawl.
At some point, probably while listening to Woody Guthrie or reading Faulkner (Hey, I am still a liberal elitist, c'mon...) my better angel prevailed and I realized that out of the mouths of Southerners can come profoundly satisfying artistic statements. Along that continuum of smart Southern folk comes Joey Kneiser and his compatriots from Murfreesboro, TN in the band Glossary.
And here's where my sales pitch starts. No, I'm not going to try to sell you timeshares. I'm going to try to sell you Glossary. I'm going to try to get you to buy two, three, maybe four records. I've written about them before , but didn't really come out and say, "Glossary is badass and underrated and you should go get one of their records right now, motherfiretruckers!" So now I will.
Glossary - "Little Caney", "Save Your Money for the Weekend", "Days Go By", etc. - Various albums
Glossary is silly underrated. Go get a record.
You want rock music composed with thematic through-lines and a strong narrative presence? Glossary is your band. You need indie lo-fi mixed with whiskey-fueled alt.country? Here you go. You like Exile-era Stones? Merle Haggard? Thin Lizzy? Superchunk? Come and get you some.
Joey Kneiser's songwriting is at its best when he writes about concrete experiences framed within the context of life as a Southern musician. He writes songs about being on the road that don't ask you to feel sorry for him, they simply ask you to look at the gray areas that enshroud the black and white choices an artist makes. In Glossary's world there is always sacrifice for the sake of art. Are some nights, "too easy to forget," as Kneiser says in the song "Shakin' Like a Flame"? You bet. Do you wake up some mornings so elated from the night before--still a little buzzed, still a little horny--that you wanna go out and get married to the sweet girl laying next to you? Absolutely.
Another frequent Glossary theme is the dichotomy between the values preached in Southern churches and the behavior of the parishioners once they hit the sidewalk in front of the church. Sometimes Mr. Kneiser rails against the hypocrisy other times he relishes the forbidden fruit created when a religion espouses deprivation over moderation. "Save Your Money for the Weekend" takes a big bite of that apple, letting us know that "Southern girls are the sweetest when they're full of Jesus' love." Wink wink.
I'll admit that the casual listener will probably not be as into the entire Glossary discography (I celebrate their entire catalog) as I am. But every one of their albums has at least one single that is a major league alt.country grand-slam. Here they are for your listening pleasure:
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Avett Recycle
I'd write something new, but really, this about sums it up. And I'm lazy. And it's also kind of nice to have written and documented proof that you were keen on the next big thing before they were big. The nasty elitist in me rears its head.
Chech the technique, doubting Thomaseseses.
11/2005
On Thursday night, at The Patio of all places, I kept thinking of Harold Bloom.
The Patio is not the sort of venue where high-fallutin’ Ivy League professors/critics usually come to mind, much less when a alt.country bluegrass act is going to appear. But, while waiting for The Avett Brothers to come to the stage, Bloom’s theory of “The Anxiety of Influence” kept running through my brain.
I won’t bore you with the details of the theory, but in a nutshell it says that no matter what an artist does, the artists that came before them will perpetually influence them. Whether they embrace their forebears or reject them, improve on what came before or tear it down, every artist is influenced by their predecessors. It is only the great ones that can overcome this anxiety to make a real mark on their genre and create something authentic, new and vital. Nov. 17th at The Patio showcased a group in the Avett Brothers that have wrestled with that anxiety and come out on right side of the fray to bring some compelling and sometimes transcendent music to the table.
...
The headliners, The Avett Brothers, made an impressive splash at this summer’s Midwest Music Summit, stomping a big hole in the Monkey’s Tale. The jostling Patio audience this night had, by 11:00 PM, quaffed a few and was clearly hankering for a dose of these feller’s brand of bluegrass-roots sound. A bona fide string band, the group is made of guitarist Seth Avett, his brother and banjo player Scott Avett, and upright bassist Bob Crawford. Spare percussion comes in the form of a small high hat and mini kick-drum, each stomped in time by Seth and Scott. The brothers shared vocals in equal parts, showing off spectacular harmonies that are just as round and unforced onstage as they are on record.
While they have an obvious reverence for their country and bluegrass ancestors, this band is not afraid to throw in a glass-breaking heavy-metal scream, like the call and response shrieks in “Nothing Short of Thankful.” Most of the material this night came from the band’s latest LP, “Mignonette.” Though the image of bucolic charmers with Carolinian accents might be one’s first impression of the singers, it belies the artistic and academic pedigree evidenced in their mock post-modern titled series of songs, “Pretty Girl…,” found throughout their studio and live records.
Each of the Avetts possess an accomplished grasp of their instrument, but the performance never devolved into banjo noodling or self-indulgent solos, just loud foot-stomping crowd-pleasers. In songs like “At the Beach”, they showed a command of Mediterranean rhythms and pop lyrics, punctuated by a Motown “Bah Ba Bah Bop” chorus, yet free of the derivative feeling of a Jack Johnson song. Other highlights were “Love Like the Movies,” “Signs” (a song written and first recorded by their father, thirty years ago), and “Matrimony,” a mournful tune of love gone wrong which will appear on their upcoming album, “Four Thieves Gone.”
The song most emblematic of the band’s sound and aesthetic, however, was “Swept Away.” Imagine the Carter Family and Jay Farrar singing a Willie Nelson lyric and you kind of get the feel for the song. This is a song so timeless and tuneful that it sounds like it could’ve been written 60 years ago and will still hold up as a true Americana 60 years in the future. They capped off the show with a bottle busting rendition of their “Traveling Song,” a number with the theme of “ramblin’ and moving on” that has found its way into every great blues, folk and bluegrass artist’s catalog since Mr. Johnson went down to the crossroads.
There was no encore, perhaps because they wanted to leave us wanting a little bit more in February when they come back to town as openers for BR-549. The band was especially kind to Kit Malone, as well as Rev. Peyton and The Big Damn Band and Otis Gibbs, who were in attendance, thanking them all for their support.
The Avett Brothers could be plunked down in the hills of North Carolina in 1900 and their sound would fit right in. But they have also incorporated bits and pieces of different middle-to-late 20th century influences, which gives a sonic depth and modern presence to their music other “Nügrass” artists don’t necessarily have. The influence of musical ancestors and even recent peers can often crush a band that tries to reach back in time for their inspiration. Not so with The Avetts. They are tremendous live performers whose expanding catalog represents the best in roots music that doesn't pale in the shadow of the large tree above it. Go see them next time they are in town. Just be sure to wear the appropriate footwear for toe tapping and foot stomping -- maybe a pair of your granddaddy’s boots.
Chech the technique, doubting Thomaseseses.
11/2005
On Thursday night, at The Patio of all places, I kept thinking of Harold Bloom.
The Patio is not the sort of venue where high-fallutin’ Ivy League professors/critics usually come to mind, much less when a alt.country bluegrass act is going to appear. But, while waiting for The Avett Brothers to come to the stage, Bloom’s theory of “The Anxiety of Influence” kept running through my brain.
I won’t bore you with the details of the theory, but in a nutshell it says that no matter what an artist does, the artists that came before them will perpetually influence them. Whether they embrace their forebears or reject them, improve on what came before or tear it down, every artist is influenced by their predecessors. It is only the great ones that can overcome this anxiety to make a real mark on their genre and create something authentic, new and vital. Nov. 17th at The Patio showcased a group in the Avett Brothers that have wrestled with that anxiety and come out on right side of the fray to bring some compelling and sometimes transcendent music to the table.
...
The headliners, The Avett Brothers, made an impressive splash at this summer’s Midwest Music Summit, stomping a big hole in the Monkey’s Tale. The jostling Patio audience this night had, by 11:00 PM, quaffed a few and was clearly hankering for a dose of these feller’s brand of bluegrass-roots sound. A bona fide string band, the group is made of guitarist Seth Avett, his brother and banjo player Scott Avett, and upright bassist Bob Crawford. Spare percussion comes in the form of a small high hat and mini kick-drum, each stomped in time by Seth and Scott. The brothers shared vocals in equal parts, showing off spectacular harmonies that are just as round and unforced onstage as they are on record.
While they have an obvious reverence for their country and bluegrass ancestors, this band is not afraid to throw in a glass-breaking heavy-metal scream, like the call and response shrieks in “Nothing Short of Thankful.” Most of the material this night came from the band’s latest LP, “Mignonette.” Though the image of bucolic charmers with Carolinian accents might be one’s first impression of the singers, it belies the artistic and academic pedigree evidenced in their mock post-modern titled series of songs, “Pretty Girl…,” found throughout their studio and live records.
Each of the Avetts possess an accomplished grasp of their instrument, but the performance never devolved into banjo noodling or self-indulgent solos, just loud foot-stomping crowd-pleasers. In songs like “At the Beach”, they showed a command of Mediterranean rhythms and pop lyrics, punctuated by a Motown “Bah Ba Bah Bop” chorus, yet free of the derivative feeling of a Jack Johnson song. Other highlights were “Love Like the Movies,” “Signs” (a song written and first recorded by their father, thirty years ago), and “Matrimony,” a mournful tune of love gone wrong which will appear on their upcoming album, “Four Thieves Gone.”
The song most emblematic of the band’s sound and aesthetic, however, was “Swept Away.” Imagine the Carter Family and Jay Farrar singing a Willie Nelson lyric and you kind of get the feel for the song. This is a song so timeless and tuneful that it sounds like it could’ve been written 60 years ago and will still hold up as a true Americana 60 years in the future. They capped off the show with a bottle busting rendition of their “Traveling Song,” a number with the theme of “ramblin’ and moving on” that has found its way into every great blues, folk and bluegrass artist’s catalog since Mr. Johnson went down to the crossroads.
There was no encore, perhaps because they wanted to leave us wanting a little bit more in February when they come back to town as openers for BR-549. The band was especially kind to Kit Malone, as well as Rev. Peyton and The Big Damn Band and Otis Gibbs, who were in attendance, thanking them all for their support.
The Avett Brothers could be plunked down in the hills of North Carolina in 1900 and their sound would fit right in. But they have also incorporated bits and pieces of different middle-to-late 20th century influences, which gives a sonic depth and modern presence to their music other “Nügrass” artists don’t necessarily have. The influence of musical ancestors and even recent peers can often crush a band that tries to reach back in time for their inspiration. Not so with The Avetts. They are tremendous live performers whose expanding catalog represents the best in roots music that doesn't pale in the shadow of the large tree above it. Go see them next time they are in town. Just be sure to wear the appropriate footwear for toe tapping and foot stomping -- maybe a pair of your granddaddy’s boots.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Underrated - F sharp
I want to knock out the F's. When you've got momentum, best to seize it. Plus, the G's will probably take me ages. I don't even want to think about the M's.
Faces - "Stay With Me," A Nod Is As Good As A Wink To A Blind Horse
Spin did a very fun debunking of various rock and roll myths, particularly the one concerning Rod Stewart and a stomach full of...how shall I euphemize...baby batter.
In the article, they talk about how Rod Stewart went from working-class English rock hero to fancy-boy with a supermodel wife, thus becoming fodder for rather vulgar urban myths about sailors and stomach pumps.
Indeed, Stewart's progression to super-stardom is interesting to think about. He started as the vocalist for a group named after a guitarist, The Jeff Beck Group. Moved from there to Faces, and sang some spectacular blues and rock songs with Ron Wood and Ronny Lane. And finally, ends up becoming a mega-star with disco-schlock songs like, "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy" and ersatz Billy Joel, "Some Guys Have All The Luck."
Surely one of you, my loyal readers, will throw solo Stewart's "Maggie May" in my face. To which I will say, "Great song. Faces song." He didn't record it with Faces, but it reeks of everything Faces did. Subdued mixtures of Folk and Blues, themes of women as beckoning sirens of beauty and turmoil, all very much what Faces did rather successfully.
Honestly, Rod Stewart's later career doesn't trouble me nearly as much as some other truly offensive stuff: Celine Dion, Shania Twain, Avril Lavigne, Anne Murray...wow, apparently I hate Canadian women. But I do think Stewart's subsequent success has left Faces a vastly underrated band. And "Stay With Me" shows off Hot Rod at his best, long before he discovered synthesizers.
Freestyle Fellowship - "Cornbread," Innercity Griots
Really this track is an Aceyalone song, but it is on a Freestyle Fellowship record. West Coast Rap in the '90s is usually described as some monolithic genre with everyone sampling Parliament and Funkadelic and rapping about chronic and drive-by's. While I won't dispute the fact that Cali has been ahead of the curve on sipping extraordinary herb, the homogenized term "West Coast Rap" doesn't hold up.
Listen to "Cornbread" and you'll hear the essence of Black American wordplay, a lighthearted, irreverent approach to the English language, combined with a profound gift for weaving narrative and novelty. Aceyalone, who is one of the more underrated hip-hop artists of the last two decades, juggles schoolyard jump-rope rhymes and comic book tales of fighting King Kong, Godzilla and Rodan, while interspersing statements about ethnic and personal pride, "Used to be a peewee, now I'm full grown/Not a shufflin' jiggaboo, I'm hard like stone."
Most importantly, the song is fun and perfect for playing loudly in your car on a hot summer's day. And it's definitely underrated.
Fiona Apple - "Fast As You Can," When the Pawn Hits...
She kinda set herself for mockery when she gave her second album a ninety word title. I'm not going to take up space printing it here, just google it.
Her first record, Tidal, sold well. It probably didn't hurt record sales that the video for "Criminal," the #1 single from the album, was just this side of teenage porn. This side being Calvin Klein ads, the other side being Ron Jeremy.
But this second album was a different animal. Jon Brion, who has produced numerous other singer-songwriters, influenced Apple's sound dramatically, and helped create an album that was as much vaudeville as it was Tori Aimless.
All of a sudden, Apple sounded as if she welcomed the criticism she had previously been so deeply affected by. She wanted your scorn, so that she could pity you and your need to find fault with her. In the rhythm and sped-up meter of "Fast As You Can," she made it clear that she was flirting with crazy. In fact, she sounded ready to fight, and I loved it.
She warned us.
Faces - "Stay With Me," A Nod Is As Good As A Wink To A Blind Horse
Spin did a very fun debunking of various rock and roll myths, particularly the one concerning Rod Stewart and a stomach full of...how shall I euphemize...baby batter.
In the article, they talk about how Rod Stewart went from working-class English rock hero to fancy-boy with a supermodel wife, thus becoming fodder for rather vulgar urban myths about sailors and stomach pumps.
Indeed, Stewart's progression to super-stardom is interesting to think about. He started as the vocalist for a group named after a guitarist, The Jeff Beck Group. Moved from there to Faces, and sang some spectacular blues and rock songs with Ron Wood and Ronny Lane. And finally, ends up becoming a mega-star with disco-schlock songs like, "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy" and ersatz Billy Joel, "Some Guys Have All The Luck."
Surely one of you, my loyal readers, will throw solo Stewart's "Maggie May" in my face. To which I will say, "Great song. Faces song." He didn't record it with Faces, but it reeks of everything Faces did. Subdued mixtures of Folk and Blues, themes of women as beckoning sirens of beauty and turmoil, all very much what Faces did rather successfully.
Honestly, Rod Stewart's later career doesn't trouble me nearly as much as some other truly offensive stuff: Celine Dion, Shania Twain, Avril Lavigne, Anne Murray...wow, apparently I hate Canadian women. But I do think Stewart's subsequent success has left Faces a vastly underrated band. And "Stay With Me" shows off Hot Rod at his best, long before he discovered synthesizers.
Freestyle Fellowship - "Cornbread," Innercity Griots
Really this track is an Aceyalone song, but it is on a Freestyle Fellowship record. West Coast Rap in the '90s is usually described as some monolithic genre with everyone sampling Parliament and Funkadelic and rapping about chronic and drive-by's. While I won't dispute the fact that Cali has been ahead of the curve on sipping extraordinary herb, the homogenized term "West Coast Rap" doesn't hold up.
Listen to "Cornbread" and you'll hear the essence of Black American wordplay, a lighthearted, irreverent approach to the English language, combined with a profound gift for weaving narrative and novelty. Aceyalone, who is one of the more underrated hip-hop artists of the last two decades, juggles schoolyard jump-rope rhymes and comic book tales of fighting King Kong, Godzilla and Rodan, while interspersing statements about ethnic and personal pride, "Used to be a peewee, now I'm full grown/Not a shufflin' jiggaboo, I'm hard like stone."
Most importantly, the song is fun and perfect for playing loudly in your car on a hot summer's day. And it's definitely underrated.
Fiona Apple - "Fast As You Can," When the Pawn Hits...
She kinda set herself for mockery when she gave her second album a ninety word title. I'm not going to take up space printing it here, just google it.
Her first record, Tidal, sold well. It probably didn't hurt record sales that the video for "Criminal," the #1 single from the album, was just this side of teenage porn. This side being Calvin Klein ads, the other side being Ron Jeremy.
But this second album was a different animal. Jon Brion, who has produced numerous other singer-songwriters, influenced Apple's sound dramatically, and helped create an album that was as much vaudeville as it was Tori Aimless.
All of a sudden, Apple sounded as if she welcomed the criticism she had previously been so deeply affected by. She wanted your scorn, so that she could pity you and your need to find fault with her. In the rhythm and sped-up meter of "Fast As You Can," she made it clear that she was flirting with crazy. In fact, she sounded ready to fight, and I loved it.
She warned us.
Underrated - E is for "Am i a little too lo-fi Emo today?"
I feel a little sad that there is only one underrated E artist. And, really, it isn't even an appropriate alphabetical categorization. For those of us who've spent too much time in libraries or fooling with databases and bibliographies, iTunes' method of alphabetizing can be maddening.
In the worlds of library science and file clerking, artists who use their given name as their stage moniker should be alphabetized by their last name. It is simply how things are done if we wish to keep order in our lives.
However, Steve Jobs and his minions are not interested in truly making our lives easier, they just want to sell episodes of Battlestar Galatica and the new Lady GaGa. And so, rather than an appropriately organized mp3 library, I get Elliot Smith categorized with the E's and not the S's.
I know my blog is hardly an exemplar of proper APA, MLA, or Chicago, but for real, fix yo style manual, Steve.
At any rate...
Elliot Smith - "Happiness/The Gondola Man," Figure 8
I am hardly a expert on Elliot Smith, much less a fan. It's not that I dislike him, a few of his songs scored Thumbsucker, which wasn't a great movie, but for some reason, I absolutely adore it. Likewise, Good Will Hunting.
But his music can make one feel very claustrophobic. His vocals often sound like he recorded them in a dark hall closet with a thick down comforter covering both him and the condenser mic. The songwriting is very good, the overall structure, the lyrics, the dynamics, but after awhile they start sounding so small and thus, they make me feel a little small. Like you took Paul Simon and put him inside a jewelry box.
It is telling that the song I picked feels a little more expansive--at least it does until the last movement/alternate song "The Gondola Man," where Smith reverts to his tiny and tinny sound. It is also maybe a little too hipster-ironic that the song is titled "Happiness," when the artist died in one of the most unhappy and excruciating ways imaginable.
Perhaps I'm in the minority, but overt and earnest pleas for happiness make me uncomfortable and sometimes make me snicker. Infomercials from motivational speakers come to mind. "All I wanted was to be happy, and Tony Robbins showed me how." Oprah and her best life. Joel Osteen. The list goes on. But at the same time, I am confronted by my own hypocrisy, because I frequently lament the fact that Americans seem unable to appreciate their lives and find contentedness. I blame TV, the Internet (I know, right?), Calvinist Christianity, the Native American genocide, Slavery, and James Madison for that inability to simply be happy with what you have.
So here is Elliot Smith-- a textbook tortured soul, no matter what Tolstoy tells us about unhappiness--asking to be happy. And he melts me. Makes me weep almost every time I hear the song, but also makes me feel bigger. Unlike the rest of his songs, I don't have the ceiling pressing down on me. I know that Smith, broken and battered psychologically, probably never found the happiness he so deeply desired. But the rest of can listen to the chorus of this song, totally free of pretense or cynicism, and hope for a moment. Hope that maybe we can find a bit of happiness for you and me.
Can't we?
In the worlds of library science and file clerking, artists who use their given name as their stage moniker should be alphabetized by their last name. It is simply how things are done if we wish to keep order in our lives.
However, Steve Jobs and his minions are not interested in truly making our lives easier, they just want to sell episodes of Battlestar Galatica and the new Lady GaGa. And so, rather than an appropriately organized mp3 library, I get Elliot Smith categorized with the E's and not the S's.
I know my blog is hardly an exemplar of proper APA, MLA, or Chicago, but for real, fix yo style manual, Steve.
At any rate...
Elliot Smith - "Happiness/The Gondola Man," Figure 8
I am hardly a expert on Elliot Smith, much less a fan. It's not that I dislike him, a few of his songs scored Thumbsucker, which wasn't a great movie, but for some reason, I absolutely adore it. Likewise, Good Will Hunting.
But his music can make one feel very claustrophobic. His vocals often sound like he recorded them in a dark hall closet with a thick down comforter covering both him and the condenser mic. The songwriting is very good, the overall structure, the lyrics, the dynamics, but after awhile they start sounding so small and thus, they make me feel a little small. Like you took Paul Simon and put him inside a jewelry box.
It is telling that the song I picked feels a little more expansive--at least it does until the last movement/alternate song "The Gondola Man," where Smith reverts to his tiny and tinny sound. It is also maybe a little too hipster-ironic that the song is titled "Happiness," when the artist died in one of the most unhappy and excruciating ways imaginable.
Perhaps I'm in the minority, but overt and earnest pleas for happiness make me uncomfortable and sometimes make me snicker. Infomercials from motivational speakers come to mind. "All I wanted was to be happy, and Tony Robbins showed me how." Oprah and her best life. Joel Osteen. The list goes on. But at the same time, I am confronted by my own hypocrisy, because I frequently lament the fact that Americans seem unable to appreciate their lives and find contentedness. I blame TV, the Internet (I know, right?), Calvinist Christianity, the Native American genocide, Slavery, and James Madison for that inability to simply be happy with what you have.
So here is Elliot Smith-- a textbook tortured soul, no matter what Tolstoy tells us about unhappiness--asking to be happy. And he melts me. Makes me weep almost every time I hear the song, but also makes me feel bigger. Unlike the rest of his songs, I don't have the ceiling pressing down on me. I know that Smith, broken and battered psychologically, probably never found the happiness he so deeply desired. But the rest of can listen to the chorus of this song, totally free of pretense or cynicism, and hope for a moment. Hope that maybe we can find a bit of happiness for you and me.
Can't we?
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