Silver Soundz

Egan & Napster Reunited

2010-07-08T20:34:00.000-07:00

Dog days of summer. It's like 134 degrees outside and my IPod shuffle broke, eliminating my ability to provide a soundtrack for everything I do...and therefore my basic functionality. I need some new damn music. Unfortunately: money's tight; none of my record stores (or the music library) seem to have anything on my "wish list" [see right]; I'm tired of nickel-and-diming myself on MP3s that don't...in the words of P. Diddy, "preserve the sexy" of my music collection; and ITunes killed Lala.

What's a music lover to do?

I never thought I'd say this, but it's time to consider a subscription music service.

In some twisted proof that we don't have control over our own destiny, I've essentially become the target audience for these enterprises. My summer job keeps me tethered to a computer all day, so hooking up the headphones is a plus. And, as I proved to myself with Lala, when given access to a massive library of music I basically go insane like Augustus Gloop in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Room.

Of course, with Lala--a free service--the catch was that you could only listen to any song or album once while deciding to download. With the paysites, you pay a monthly fee and have the right to download, along with unlimited streaming (assuming it's available). Turns out the prices are pretty reasonable. Rhapsody, the first site I checked out, costs $10 a month; Napster--that's right, Napster--is cheaper, based on different "tiers" of commitment.

It really wasn't a hard sell for me to go with Napster. I was in undergrad during Napster's glory days, when you could download virtually anything in about 5 seconds. In retrospect it makes no sense that this was possible, but it caught the music industry so off guard that by the time they were able to control it, people had come to view free access to music as a right. Kind of like when people started having sex for fun instead of just for procreation in the late 1960s.

Anyways, the death of the original Napster always saddened me, so after checking out the service and being convinced that the subscription version's got the biggest library, I decided to blow $15 for a 3-month subscription. So far, I'm pleased. The web interface is solid, and the one for Google Chrome is retro 2002-style, which of course pleases me to no end. If anyone out there is like me, and slaves away at a desk, pissing away valuable minutes to Pandora's bogus music genome robot, I would highly recommend checking out the new Napster.

We'll have to see whether my work computer, which struggles to automatically update GMail, can ultimately handle the sweetness, but I'm already a happier man, now that I've got thousands of new tunes at my disposal.

Now it's time to dive in:

First listens today were Miles Kurosky's (Buelah) awesome 2009 solo album, The Desert of Shallow Effects, and a little Outkast Stankonia...just cuz I needed some.

Bullets

2010-06-07T20:11:00.000-07:00

Summer albums column on the way soon, I promise; along with some more Rock Doc Summer reflections.
R.I.P. lala.com -- if you were a lala user, you know what a loss it was when Apple shut it down on May 31. Basically, as a subscriber you could listen to any album or song once for free, then you had several options of buying--as a web album for when you're on the 'net, regular mp3, album download, etc. The prices were all below ITunes, as well. It also had way more functionality as a social networking platform for music, with user-generated playlists and recommendations/reviews. I think I listened to about 100 new albums on there, and it made me a more active buyer...call me crazy, but I think it looked a little bit like a happy future for online music. But, since the future is already owned and branded by Apple, they snatched it up, halfheartedly tinkered with it and then shut it down. Bollocks.
Highly recommend checking out the new Ratatat album, LP4, available for free listenin' at NPR. Electro-rock is really not my thing, and my previous exposure to Ratatat was confined to video games (true, really), but the production and vibe on this album is really engaging. Dig.

That's all for now, stay tuned for more coherent thoughts.

Summer Babes (not like that)

2010-05-22T19:57:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in a tweet last week, I'm currently assembling a list of my top-5 summer albums for a column [a follow up to my 2009 piece on Egan's top-5 spring albums, where I explained my premise that all good albums should pair with seasons, much like wine with food]. If you know me, it goes without saying that Pavement makes this list...but which record? My first thought was Slanted and Enchanted, given the anthemic weight of the first track, "Summer Babe (Winter Version)," along with its general sense of careless artistic expression.

But what about Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain? My favorite album, it bears mentioning, but also the most angsty in Pavement's catalog. "Gold Soundz" is summer love ("so drunk in the August sun/ and you're the kind of girl I like/ because you're empty, and I'm empty/ and you can never quarantine the past)" and the epic "Range Life" is guiltless summer apathy: hopping turnstyles, riding aimlessly on skateboards, sniping at the Smashing Pumpkins..."school's out/what did you expect?!"

But wait! Then I gave Wowee Zowee a fresh listen, and I'll be damned if I didn't come away thinking that the album's sprawling ebb and flow made it Pavement's most dynamic document. There's blistering heat on there ("Rattled by the Rush") and sad, rainy days (the alt-countryesque "Motion Suggests" and "Father to a Sister of a Thought")...and isn't that what summer is all about?

Sure...but then there's Brighten the Corners, widely considered Pavement's attempt to find musical maturity rooted in a more classic rock sound. Tell me that "Shady Lane" isn't about innocent summer romance. I mean, who has oysters and dry lancers in Winter? And Terror Twilight? You mean the album that basically defined my first summer in Boston, 1999?

You see where I'm going with this. I've basically come to the conclusion that Pavement is a summer band. To see if my wistfulness had carried me too far, I decided to test my hunch by looking at recording and release dates for each of their major albums:

Slanted and Enchanted: Recorded Dec-Jan 90-91/ Released Apr 91

Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain:......Aug-Sept 93/ February 94

Wowee Zowee:...................................Nov 94/April 95

Brighten the Corners:............................Jul 96/ Feb 97

Terror Twilight.....................................Jun-Dec 98/Jun 99

Three out of five ain't bad. Even if the evidence isn't conclusive, I swear there's something there. Maybe it has something to do with that too-cool-to-care Northern CA identity. It just seems fitting that Pavement got back together after a ten year hiatus this summer...right?*

None of this, of course, helps me with my decision. Which of these albums best embodies the summer essence? I'd be interested to hear some thoughts. I think I've made up my mind, but you'll have to stay tuned to see which album best fits my summer bill.

Rock Doc Summer: The Clash, Westway to the World

2010-05-21T11:31:00.000-07:00

One of my several musical tonics for an idle summer in Charlottesville is the "Rock Doc Summer" project. On a regular basis, I'll be raiding the UVA library's healthy collection of music documentaries and, when so provoked, posting my thoughts on Silver Soundz. I call it a "project" because I've learned better than to make these things into commitments.

Last night I took on Westway to the World, Don Letts' 2000 documentary on The Clash. Unlike the Townes Van Zandt doc that I watched last week--and am still digesting--this film won't blow you away. Most of the footage is canned material from the band's personal collection, interspersed with snippets from one session's worth of interviews. I suspect you won't discover anything groundbreaking that you didn't already know about the Clash, nor will you come away thinking that the group is some forgotten artistic force in the pantheon of 20th century music.

That being said, if you dig the Clash, Westway will give you a much deeper appreciation for the sound and fury that comprised their "moment" from the late 70's until their breakup in 1983.

Part way through the documentary, Clash manager Bernie Rhodes is describing his attraction to the band's sound, and uses a word that resonates through the rest of the documentary: "Vital." It's dead on. Above everything else, the Clash had a tremendous amount of life. You see it in the concert footage, where--whether the crowd is in a frenzy or not--the center of gravity is always on the stage. This was helped, as bassist Paul Simonon points out, by the fact that none of them knew how to play their instruments very well. Half the fun of being in a band was the opportunity to jump around on stage, and they took advantage. Even in their swan song, as the band was deteriorating during a bruising residency New York in 1982, their music and their presence is so full of sneer and swagger. It's intimidating and inspiring at the same time.

But sure, I thought to myself, that's the punk trope: 4 guys with no money and no skills realize that you can move a crowd by wailing on your instruments, spitting into the crowd, and cursing the man. So what?

There's a few things beyond that going on with the Clash, though, and even though they take credit for none of it (that wouldn't be very punk of them, after all), the evidence is all on display Westway. First of all is ambition. Without sacrificing their credibility as a "ga-rage band," from the moment the Clash began gaining momentum with Joe Strummer's addition in 1977, they had direction. You can hear it in the way Strummer talks about their record deal, which unexpectedly put them on the hook for 10 albums. Rather than hand-wringing over the question of selling out, Strummer and Simonon immediately looked beyond England to figure out how they were going to use the opportunity to "go global."

None of this is to dispute the Clash's very serious, radical socialist politics. However, not many punk bands would cop to such pretension, and it's indicative of a second aspect to the Clash that went deeper than their "Stalinist" identity: musicality. Don't get me wrong, the Clash were just as technically bad as advertised when they formed, and their contributions did not exactly move musicianship forward to some glorious aesthete. But what the Clash excelled at was creating a definitive sound, which is all the more impressive given their individual musical handicaps. Mick Jones, who learned guitar by playing along with punk and reggae records in his room, ends up being the master arranger for the band, according to Joe Strummer. Paul Simonon, who joined the band with the express purpose of acting like Pete Townshend on stage, says he forced himself to write "Guns of Brixton" because he realized that you didn't make money in a band unless you could write. Finally, it's impossible to ignore Joe Strummer's own emphasis on the drumming of Topper Headon, who was so technically skilled that he allowed the band to explore different forms of music at will. That's where Strummer (and Jones) come in--synthesizing 1970's West Indian Reggae with blue collar British Punk; fat-chord American punk a la the Ramones with emerging hip hop--writing and arranging songs that sound like nothing really before or since.

The documentary also gives due credit to Guy Stevens, who produced the Clash masterpiece London Calling. As any good producer must do, he succeeded in eliciting and amplifying the band's emotions and personalities in the studio. The result is undeniably good--London Calling is, for me anyway, the White album of punk rock. So many styles, so much range, and the band's confidence (skill or no skill) bleeds through every song from the title track to the punk-ballad standard "Train in Vain." Strummer admits that the album represents the band's "finest hour." Their rise from a group of derelicts to really (for lack of a better word) professional musicians by 1979 is stunning.

It's equally jarring, then, to see the group fall apart by 1983. The documentary recounts all the reasons--overtouring, drug addiction, internecine hatred [Jones and Simonon would only communicate through Strummer]--but the end was somewhat anticlimactic. After a bitter show in 1983, the band simply made a decision to call it quits. A few of the members wonder on camera how things might have played out if they stayed together, but the implicit answer is that it doesn't matter. The Clash embodied the dilemma at the heart of the term "punk rock": they pulled themselves up from nothing, proving that the D.I.Y. punk ethic didn't have to limit a band, but could actually shape the development of something musically ambitious. Their rock n' roll was vital, but ultimately it was about just living for a moment. When challenged, the moment fell apart, and so did the band.

They left it all on stage. And what's more punk rock than that?

**Note: Much of the documentary is on youtube, but rather than give the links to a pirated version (of which I'm sure the Clash would approve), I've embedded some links to relevant clips.

Just Because: Badass Live Videos

2010-05-10T09:39:00.001-07:00

Resurfacing after months of silence; the slog of the school semester is over, and I'm feeling free. Thoughts on summer music coming soon, but for now, some badass live performances. Just because.

Pearl Jam- Animal (Indio, CA-1993)

Led Zeppelin- Immigrant Song (1972)

AC/DC- Shot Down in Flames (??)

Free Dios Leaks from Buddyhead

2010-01-25T19:02:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite under-the-radar groups, Dios (previously/alternately known as Dios Malos) is due to release their third album "We are Dios" in early February on West Coast record label/rock n roll tastemaker Buddyhead. At the end of 2009 they dropped a 4th quarter single, "Puttin it Down" via free download. Very solid stuff. This week they've given us one more appetizer; the 2010 1st quarter single, "Feather in Yr Cap," also free. I'm about to check it out, and you should follow my lead. Songs, some cool artwork, and some news on the upcoming release from Buddyhead--links below:

1st Quarter Single 2010

2009 4th Quarter Single

Resolution Rock

2010-01-22T09:40:00.000-08:00

Mea Culpa: I suck.

6 months ago, I moved from Washington, DC to Charlottesville, VA. At the time, I expressed optimism that the change of music scenery would invigorate my writing and jumpstart this blog. That was not the case.

In fact, the life change proved fairly overwhelming and, despite my best intentions, I completely dropped off the map. I know how devastating this was to my loyal readership. I feel like a bad parent. Not, like, Leland Palmer-bad, but my trail of broken promises is a major let-down to the great ideas that inspired me to start this project.

And yet, we rock on. It's a (relatively) new year still, and in 2010 my resolution is to pick up right where I left off and bring it all back home. No more hand-wringing, no more apologies, no playing catch-up. Just a clean slate and Egan Caufield going full tweed ahead.

My informal sabbatical might not have been the worst thing in the world. I have been catching up on some old music that I've unjustly ignored, including Sunny Day Real Estate and Wilco's back catalog. Now that I'm a bit more settled in, I should have more regular time to write, not to mention a massive backlog of ideas on how to make the blog cooler for you guys. Shorter pieces, more C-Ville scene stuff, more links to good/new/unheard music, and maybe even a constructive use of the Twitter medium. Believe Dat!!!

Skeptical? I don't blame you. But the proof, they say, is in the pudding. So, stay tuned to this space for a solid helping of music...pudding.

Dig!

(Belated) First Listen: Pheonix, Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix

2009-08-27T10:53:00.000-07:00

First of 3-part series catching up on Egan's Silver Summer

The first time I ever heard Phoenix, it was Spring 2002, and I was coming back from an all-night party outside of Boston. I had scored a ride back into town thanks to a friend who knew the band that played that night, and we squeezed into the back of the BMW with their gear. It was 5 a.m. when we left, starving, and stopped at McDonalds for some breakfast sandwiches. As we raced back toward the city, the sun began to rise over the Charles River, and the driver turned on the stereo, whence the first notes of Phoenix's "If I Ever feel Better" trickled out. The beat started thumping; he pumped up the volume to full blast. One of the catchiest songs of the past 10 years [seriously, click on that link!] oozed out of the speakers. I munched on my Egg McMuffin, crammed in between to amps and a bass guitar, let the wind blow through the open window, and took it all in.

It's a romantic memory, yes. But that's what Phoenix was built for. Their European electro-pop-rock sound is like some type of scientifically engineered emotional response generator. Set the dial to nostalgia! Crank up the pining! Tweak the sadness! More hipster! Less human emotion! It's Alive!!

But it’s 2009 and things have changed. I’m older for one; no longer finding myself in cars in racing through the suburbs at 5 in the morning. We've grown more closed in, I think, as I come home and settle in to dig in to Phoenix’s new Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix. I have said it before and I'll say it again: one of the coolest album titles in recent memory. Cover art not bad either:

As the first notes of the opening track Lisztomania play, I am inexplicably compelled to open the door, and next the shades; opening up the apartment to let the fresh air and light into this cave. The beat pumps, and polished, dancy guitars and bass bounce over the pulsing of the drum samples—I can see the dust lifting off my things with every drumkick. The music is expansive—it immediately fills my apartment, and Thomas Mars’ voice cries out over the catchy swell: “So sentimental/ Not sentimental, no!/ Romantic not disgusting yet/ Darling I’m down and I’m lonely/ When with the fortunate only/ I’ve been looking for something else.”

It’s an exclamation—of protest, passion, and persuasion—as all Phoenix lyrics seem to be. They come in short bursts, often repeating themselves insistently, as if engineered to invade your brain and make you into an indie pop dance zombie (the best kind). Lisztomania is a call to arms—“Think less but see it grow/ Like a riot, like a riot, oh!/ I’m not easily offended/ it’s not hard to let it go/ from a mess to the masses.” The lyrics plead, like a bored lover insistent on existential awakening, and the music begs the same of the listener. It’s a beautiful expression of feeling, with true energy. Ultimately, it is pop music. But this is what pop music should be.

The listener has no time to recover from the disarming first track before they are hit with the bombastic synthesizers opening the second song; the clear-cut standout, “1901.” This is an interesting strategy in terms of album design, leading with two obvious singles up front. The last Phoenix album, the defensively titled It’s Never Been Like That followed a similar strategy but left the listener disappointed with several indistinguishable tracks and an unfocused back end of the album. In this case, the 1-2 punch is stunning. 1901 is a work of art. High-pitched keyboards alternate with big, warm synths that absorb the listener. Guitar and bass stake out the middle ground while the drum beat pulses indefatigably, like an engine pushing some top-notch race automobile.

Phoenix has had great singles before. I mentioned “If I ever Feel Better”; there was also "Long Distance Call" from the previous album. These gems are usually the core of the album. But something feels different here, in the music, in the lyrics, the sound. There’s a confidence pervading the approach, not just the product. “I’ll be anything you ask and more/ going hey hey hey hey…/ It’s not a miracle we needed/ you know I wouldn’t let you think so.” It’s as if Phoenix senses an opportunity--their time--and are stepping forward to seize it. "1901" also explicitly states the setting implied elsewhere on the album: Summer. “it’s twenty seconds till the last call/ you’re going hey hey hey…/ lie down you know it’s easy/ like we did it all summer long.” I’ve spoken on this blog before on the convergence of seasons and music, and here it is.

The stellar “1901” is followed up by the slick, dancy “Fences” which seems to consciously reign itself in from the explosive poppyness of the leadoff songs. Then the album retreats subtly into a mostly-instrumental that spans two tracks, on “Love Like a Sunset.” Not only are the two parts of this composition complex and catchy enough to engage the listener, but they serve as a strategic breakup of the album, and reveal a seriousness that wasn’t there on previous Phoenix efforts.

Refreshed by track 5, the listener is roped in—get it?—by “Lasso,” quite possibly the third best song on the album. In reality, it’s hard to say: on Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, the band has created a wall-to-wall solid effort that exemplifies what good pop rock should be. That’s not to say every song is superb. “Rome” sounds like a generic song Phoenix has done before, demonstrating the dangers that face a band so intimately tied to a specific sound. But for the most part, Phoenix has mastered the art of fine-tuning that trademark sound—crisply sampled beats, giant synthesizers, longing vocals—crafting it into something that does not wholly depart from what came before, but undeniably improves it.

In the process, Phoenix has laid a strong claim of musical rights to Summer 2009.

Up/Down: Industry Accoutrements

2009-06-07T18:42:00.000-07:00

I'm back to my even-handed and judicious self this week, though I have noticed that these Up/Down columns tend to focus heavily on my opinion of new music. So this week I'm handing out disses and approvals for an assortment of things related to tunes, but not directly:

Big Ups

1. Yep Roc Records "Fun in the Summer Sun" Sale- One of my favorite means of finding new music is to identify a record label that has put out something I like, then scavenge their website for bands I haven't heard of. I urge you to try this. Set aside about an hour, check out all links, devour every sound clip, and hoard free downloads. If nothing else it should give you some tracks to use on mixes for loved ones. I did this with a small North Carolina-based label, Yep Roc Records, a few months ago, and signed up for their newsletter. This week got an email about a great sale they've got going on: 50 of their best Summer CDs on sale for $10 (+s&h), and they throw in a free sampler of Summer tunes for free. Check it out here; sale ends June 26th. Lots to choose from on the list, much of it Alt-Country. I went with Cities, who sounded like a good honest rock band. If you're at a loss, you can't go wrong with the Apples in Stereo, who are also on the list. Dig!

2. Rolling Stone- De La Soul feature. RS is featuring a track-by-track retrospective on De La Soul's 1993 debut album, 3 Feet High and Rising. I could go on and on and on about the genius and significance of De La, but that would do no justice--just read the piece. One of the most innovative groups in hip-hop, and one of the few crews in that genre to grow and mature like a band. I have mixed feelings about RS covering this album in isolation, since at the time coverage like this made De La Soul feel so pigeonholed as "Rap Hippies" that they moved away from it on their next album, De La Soul is Dead. But, breakthroughs are breakthroughs, and it's great to see magazines doing this type of retrospective coverage that really digs into the music, especially Rolling Stone, which can't be bothered to write about music lately. You'll remember I posted about a similar piece on Nas' Illmatic featured in XXL a few months ago. This is music journalism!

3. Amoeba Music's "Music we Like"- My roommate just came back from a trip to the West Coast, where he paid a visit to one of the best record stores in the country, Amoeba Music. I've only been once: during a drive through L.A. in 2003, we stopped in and I dropped about $80 of my road trip budget on one of the best collections of new and used music I had ever seen. Literally, the money was just pouring out of my pocket, and I walked away with one of the best single-day music hauls in my life. At any rate, my roommate came back from the Amoeba in San Francisco with Amoeba's "Music We Like" guide, a self-published biannual 100 page, 'zine-style guide to their staff's favorite new music and movies. As someone who worked in a music store (Sam Goody! Yes!) this is the kind of power every staffmember covets, and the ultimate testament to Amoeba's independence. If you're in Cali, make it a point to go. If you see someone wearing an Amoeba Music t-shirt, give them a hug.

Big Downs

1. Pearl Jam's Accoustics on Conan- The L.A. Times were all over Pearl Jam's performance on the inaugural Late Show with Conan O'Brien, and the lead-up was definitely compelling. But did anyone else catch the first show last week? The song wasn't horrible, but the acoustics definitely were. Specifically the drums, which sounded like tupperware. Not sure who takes the blame for this one, but somebody's A-game was lacking.

2. Phish is Back- Hide your wares.

3. One-off Festivals- I was checking out the lineups for Lollapaloza and Bonnaroo this week, both of which are formidably awesome. Trust me, no one's happier than me that Lollapalooza still exists. But when I read about these festivals, I get sappy nostalgic for the days when festivals were more than static events where artists come together for a weekend and then disipate. It used to be that bands would sign on for the entire slate of shows, and the festivals would snake through the country like old fashioned circuses, stopping off in your town to raise hell for a weekend and then disappearing into the night. Back then, festivals were really the embodiment of a scene--where artists of all different stripes essentially toured together, and played together week in and week out, in love and hatred (I'm thinking of the infamous Breeders/Pumpkins dynamics from Lollapalooza '94). Nowadays there's no such drama, emotion, or competition--there's no scene--and static festivals reflect it. Now allow me to pour out some liquor in the form of Pavement's "Range Life" video, filmed during Lollapalooza '95. Isn's it glorious:

Up/Down: High on Summer

2009-05-28T20:34:00.000-07:00

The DC heat must be softening my typically judicious taste. Lots of good things this week, and not a lot of bad. So I've got six in a grabbag for you, but they're mostly up. I'll be back to cranky form next week.

Big Ups

1. Raekwon the Chef, "The New Wu" / Cuban Linx II- Almost two years ago, I stood in the crowd of the Virgin Music Festival at Pimlico race track in Baltimore, watching Wu-Tang Clan absolutely tear down the house. That day, RZA wore a shirt advertising the long-awaited and highly anticipated Raekwon solo album, Only Built for Cuban Linx II. For those not in the know, the original Cuban Linx (1994) was one of the original Wu-Tang solo albums that fortified the Wu empire via a series of groundbreaking platinum albums/satellite republics to include GZA’s Liquid Swords and Method Man’s Tical. Since then, Raekwon albums have come an gone, but when word leaked that Raekwon was harkening back to the spirit of Cuban Linx, heads flipped. Furthermore, early rumors swirled that production of the album would be split between Dr. Dre and RZA. Are you kidding me?

Only problem: two years have passed since RZA promised the crowd at Pimlico a November 2007 release, and we’ve got nothing.

That might be about to change. Raekwon’s Myspace page heralds an August 11th release date—“Witness the Rebirth.”

Me? I’ll believe it when I see it. But in the meantime, we skeptics can bite our tongues and feast on the new Raekwon single, “The New Wu” featuring Method and Ghostface. It's listed as "WU Ooh" on the Myspace playlist, but check the Itunes Link. Like RZA’s 08 single, "You Can't Stop Me Now," it’s smooth, soulful, and ultra-refined. These guys are masters of the hip hop craft. Everything points to rebirth. This could be huge. So huge.

2. Z-Trip at Movement/Paxahau- Was reading up on Summer festivals and came across some press on the Detroit electronic music festival Movement, put on by Paxahau Events. Not exactly my scene, but I have spent some time in the dance tent in my day, and I find the Detroit music scene pretty awesome. For a city widely considered to be down on its luck, it seems to have a massive wellspring of creative energy, not unlike what you find in Baltimore. This article on Z-Trip’s Detroit-flavored mash-up set was especially dig-inspiring. I couldn’t find the audio for it, but I’ve added his “Motown Breakdown” to my mixtape below, an it should give you some of that Detroit flavor. Girl Talk fans take heed.

3. THE BEASTIE BOYS NEW ALBUM IS GOING TO BE CALLED HOT SAUCE COMMITTEE.
3a. Their "impromptu" performance with the Roots on Jimmy Fallon was excellent. Mike D looks so fly. Shout out to And-Rock for the heads-up!

More Big Ups

4. Weezer and Blink 182 on tour -The Summer tour bill to end all Summer tour bills? I'll be there, potentially incognito. And while we're at it...
4a. Weezer Snuggies- "It's a totally legit Snuggie."

5. Email from someone I trust-
Subject: oh my goodness
new grizzly bear album is absolutely incredible

check it here.

Big Down

1. Jay-Z and Def Jam
Jay-Z splits but still owes them an album. Will he record? Do I care? The most interesting thing about Jay-Z at this point is whether he'll be able to fulfill the absurd terms of the contract he signed with Live Nation last year, before Live Nation goes the way of pets.com. Plus, didn't he retire?

Maybe Hov should take a cue from Beastie Boys' Mike D, who levied a nice shot at Def Jam on 2007's To the Five Buroughs: "I see that Def Jam doesn't recognize me/ I'm Mike D: the one that put the satin in your panties."

Up/Down: Blame it on the Videos

2009-05-21T21:24:00.000-07:00

I'm turning last week's up-or-down referendum into a weekly feature on my latest loves and hates. And as promised, no more self-justifying diatribes. This week I've got some music videos for you. The slow transmutation of the music video over the past 15 years has been absolutely fascinating, and at the same time depressing. On the one hand, few are made and now they mostly suck; on the other, MTV has made up for this by making it possible to watch whatever music video you want, whenever...and embed it in my blog (I love you MTV!)...with an obligatory 15 second commercial (I hate you MTV!). It's an unhealthy relationship, me and the MTV.

Big Ups
1. "Blame It"- Jamie Foxx feat. T-Pain: Jamie Foxx's music career has been one long "is he serious?" awkward moment. This song is an excellent balance of the humor and the R&B, umm, talent. "Fill another cup up/feelin' on your butt, what"...I mean, that's a joke, right? Got to be. I get it.

Jamie Foxx - New Music - More Music Videos

2. "Magnificent"-U2: Someone pointed out to me recently that no U2 member has ever released a solo album, and that this commitment to the core band is what has kept them around. Hard to argue with that, especially watching this latest video. Nothing groundbreaking, but the music is solid, the sound is good, and the shots of the band playing together are a simple way of conveying that power. Also, there's the sheets.

U2 - New Music - More Music Videos

3. "Love Sex Magic"-Ciara feat. Justin Timberlake: As long as Ciara keeps making music and videos like this, I can do without Beyonce. Sexy, sexy song. Video speaks for itself.

Ciara featuring Justin Timberlake - New Music - More Music Videos

Big Downs

1. "Sugar" - Flo Rida: there was a time when Hip-Hop was music's most innovative genre, in no small part because it's protagonists are by nature aggressively competitive (As Boogie Down Productions told it in 1988, the point of rapping is to be #1--it's a battle). If you stole someone else's style--or didn't have your own--you simply wouldn't survive. Unfortunately The borrowing, theft, and outright lack of creativity in rap today says alot about what's happened as a result of the "mainstreaming" of hip hop. Case in point: Flo Rida taking the "remix-a-slightly-obscure-song-that-people-will-drunkenly-recognize-on the-dancefloor-and-rap-blandly-over-that" model to unforeseen lows with a sample from Eiffel 65's willfully forgotten techno hit "Blue." When will it stop? He even butchers the sample...how is that possible?!?!? Hopefully this is what jumping the shark looks like.

Flo Rida - New Music - More Music Videos

2. "Know Your Enemy"- Greenday: Anyone else find it weird that Greenday "discovered their punk roots" and got political right when it paid to be lefty? Go back to Dookie.

Green Day - New Music - More Music Videos

3. "I Never Knew You"-Cage: Shia Labouf directed this. Strike 8. Emo+rap=extra big downs.

Cage (Rap) - New Music - More Music Videos

Up/Down: Shiny and New

2009-05-10T18:50:00.000-07:00

When I unveiled Silversoundz last year, I led with a poetic waxing in defense of music writing that was not fixated on novelty--on being the first to go on record with an opinion on new song X or album Y. It sounded like a crotchety attempt at high-mindedness, but it was also founded in practicality. With the multiplication of music media, and the ease and speed of production, it's inherently futile to try and stay on top of everything at once. Let's face it: for most, the internet has become THE portal for accessing new, if not all, music. Yet the internet has also screwed with our decision making as music consumers by making it easier to publish and access opinions...not necessarily to form them.

As we try desperately to keep up with the volume of music available, we devour more and digest less. Meanwhile, every download comes with stigma--be it an offhand review, blog comments, even the street cred of the site you're pulling music from. These are new shades of old problems, of course. But instead of reviews in a limited number of music mags, what we heard on the radio or from friends, now we have about 5,000 inputs to consider. Not to mention bands' increased ability to promote themselves.

I'm not complaining. After all, you're reading this, right? But what concerns me about the music/information overload is the way we play it off as if the mere access to it is enough to make us, for lack of a better word, cool. The internet tempts us to think less about why we like certain music, and trades us unlimited access to affirmation by knowing what virtually everyone else is listening to. In my view, this has led to a really bizarre set of collective tastes and music fads over the past few years. Not all bad, of course, but bizarre in the sense that for about 4 years running, I can't remember the last time I listened to what was generally considered good music, and thought to myself without any irony: "this is clearly good music." I think we may look back on this period as the digital music equivalent of the early 1970's. We never quite recovered from the free-love days of Napster, but until some of the looming questions about the music industry vs. digital distro get figured out, we are simply saturated in music. We will look back and applaud ourselves for the Led Zeppelins of our times, laugh about the Supertramps, and cry about our version of disco (I'll leave the analogies to you). Put simply, distinguishing the good from the bad has gotten hard.

Of course, we try. What's new is fresh and what's fresh is powerful, and what's powerful bears mentioning. So here's my contribution to the heaping pile of new music opinion.

Big Ups

1. Phoenix- Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix/"1901". This album, due out on the 26th (already leaked on the interweb), has one of the coolest fucking names in recent memory. "1901" is one of the catchiest fucking songs in recent memory. I'm all over this.

2. Iran- Dissolver. I'm not a big TV on the Radio fan, so the hubbub over this band featuring Kyp Malone on guitar nearly deterred me from buying Dissolver. But I went for it and was pleased to find the songwriting of lead singer Aaron Aites is far less consciously serious (but not any less dark) than TVoTR. Most importantly, Iran can rock. AND THEN I find out they're touring with destroyer this Summer? Dig!!!

3. Kidz in the Hall- "I Got it Made 09 (Reebok Classic)". Can you say "summer anthem"? Love the beat, love the flow, love the video, love the vibe, love that they're one letter away from a Canadian Comedy troupe. If anyone knows why I can't download this on Itunes, please explain it to me.

Big Downs

1. Dinosaur Jr.- "I Want you to Know". Not necessarily the song. The song is fine, I guess. But see this pitchfork review for an illustration of my moral dilemma above. "...Even at their most triumphant, Dinosaur Jr. come off as shy and introspective; when Mascis usually lets fly with another rebar-melting guitar solo, it's like an overcompensating apology for his lyrical and vocal sad-sackery." Come on, it's Dinosaur Jr. Isn't it the whole point to say less?

2. Ween- Quebec. I know, it's not new. But I finally got around to buying this 2003 album and resuming my fascination with Ween last week. It's disappointing. Gene & Dean do all the old Ween things, but it's just not doing it for me. This could potentially change based on how many times I listen to the song "Zoloft" so stay tuned.

3. Asher Roth- Despicable. This guy makes Snow look like Talib Kweli. If I read one more magazine article in which this guy advertises his own rap credentials, mark my words I will barf all over the magazine, right there in the store. #1 sign that you don't deserve street cred? Repeated reminders that you want it.

Tell me yours! No more diatribes next time!!!

Egan's Five Albums for Spring

2009-04-16T14:06:00.000-07:00

Every good album should correspond to a season. It's an immutable fact of life, and if you don't agree, it's either because you haven't thought about it, or because you're listening to bad albums.

After all, the essence of the album is its expression of a coherent set of ideas, feelings, and powers in a roughly 60-120 minute timeframe. Albums matter. That's why since time immemorial, bands have talked about the writing process in terms of the album; gushed excitedly about "going into the studio"; and mused about "recording cycles." That's why musicians care about cover art and liner notes--because the album is a medium for the message. We often take for granted that musicians (at least the good ones) are real people, and that their music is an expression of the joys and pains (and in many sad pop examples, the vacuity) of life. Well, life happens episodically, and so does music (compare Weezer's Pinkerton to the Blue Album and tell me that doesn't represent two different phases of Rivers Cuomo's career).

If albums didn't matter, then bands would be content releasing disconnected one-off digital singles with no accompanying art. This might be the Brave New World of Music that Apple Corp. and the Obama administration see when it sleeps, but it will never come to pass. Take heart. When the musical Armageddon is upon us, me and the other heretics will strap on armor of old CDs and LPs, arm ourselves with the raw power of Led Zeppelin II, Beck's Midnite Vultures, and some Fugazi Album. And we shall turn back the tide of .99 cent downloads!

Wait, what was I saying?

Ah yes, life is episodic. Music is episodic. And what's more, our connections to albums are subject to the same random tumult of our own lives. When did you first hear an album? Did someone give it to you? Who? Where were you at the time? Did you have reason to revisit it? How did it make you feel? On and on with questions we never consciously ask ourselves, but that abound when we really dig into an album.

Which brings me to seasons. I could probably group albums in an infinite number of ways, but something just feels right about seasons. Not only are they a reasonable size, but like albums they all have their own characteristics that we tend to associate with certain feelings and ideas-- some unique, some abstract--in a very personal, subjective way. Spring for instance is a time of renaissance. We emerge from our winter cocoons charged with energy and ideas; older and wiser but naive and hopeful. We find music that matches this wave of fresh air. But our enthusiasm is ripe to be dampened. As I write this, the skies have unceremoniously opened up to drench Washington, DC. Meanwhile, the temperatures have surged above 60, and the humidity has coaxed the tulips out only to wash their petals into storm drains.

Without further adieu, here are 5 albums that, for me, are forever tied to Spring. In memory, in experience, and in spirit.

1. Zwan- Mary Star of the Sea

A controversial pick, I know. I am a card-carrying disciple of the temple of Corgan, but hear me out: MSotS came out in the first week of February, 2003, almost three years after the Pumpkins broke up. After listening to months of dirty rumors swirl about what Corgan had up his sleeve, he delivered a payoff-pitch curveball. Zwan was a supergroup for musicheads, featuring Matt Sweeney (Skunk, Chavez), Paz Lenchantintin (Babe/bassist from A Perfect Circle), and David Pajo (Papa M, Slint and Tortoise), along with formerly disgraced Pumpkins drummer Jimmy Chamberlin. Billy Corgan tapping someone from Tortoise was a veritable collision of worlds, and it gave currency to Corgan's renaissance.

And that's what Mary Star of the Sea is about: rebirth; both for Corgan, and his listeners. Arguably no living band/musician of my time (90's on basically) has had a more tumultuous and public career than the Pumpkins. Think about it. There's actually some very deep similarities between Corgan and Axl Rose that I won't pursue now, but they're there. In 2003, memories of the Pumpkins' demise was fresh in every fan's mind, along with the band's last album, the grand, dark and narcissisitic opus Machina: the Machines of God. When Zwan unveiled MSoTS in 2003, (I still remember buying it at Newbury Comics) all we wanted was something to believe in.

And that Spring, we got it. Happiness and hope lived in Zwan. The three-guitar ensemble rocked, Chamberlin was in top form, and even Corgan's voice sounded rejuvenated. The first single, "Honestly" was a bouncy, emotive rock love song. When was the last time we were gifted one of those on the radio? Well-known Pumpkins-haters started approaching me to sheepishly admit tht they loved the single. We even found out what Billy looks like when he smiles (strange). Corgan's songwriting was thriving on a sense of spiritual certainty that had been absent in the Pumpkins' final years (though never explicitly religious, Corgan's "spirituality" could not be ignored on MSotS, or in the press surrounding Zwan). The music was fresh and unique--it was hard not to think big. The most direct statement of the album's spirit is first track, "Lyric." Watch the video and you'll see exactly what I mean. Marching through the streets of Chicago behind Billy Corgan? Yes we can!

It seems dubious in retrospect, but at the time, MSotS was a powerful and inspiring album. Even though it was released in Winter, it was a staple in my rotation throughout my final Spring semester of college. It also helped that Zwan came to Boston in April, and played one of the best shows I've ever seen to sold-out Orpheum. What better soundtrack for times of such importance? Listening to this album could literally make make a trip to the grocery store seem like an existential experience. My personal favorite: on "Ride a Black Swan" Corgan preaches the refrain, "Remove my spirit from darkness / love become my hammer" over a cresting tidal wave of guitars and drums. Music can have great power, and Zwan harnessed it, albeit briefly. This album is every promise--realistic and unrealistic--you make to yourself on the first sunny day in April.

2. Richard Hawley - Cole's Corner

It's Spring, 2006, and I've taken up residence in the gothic fortress of solitude that is Yale's graduate dormitory. Richard Hawley is a regular on 2005 year-end top ten lists, so I buy the album on an impulse. I know what to expect: lush sound, emotionalism, and Hawley's throwback crooning. After all, that is his calling card. I listen; I like. Over time, I am slowly conquered by the feeling of the album. Taken in pieces, it's easy to marvel at Hawley's talent for simply writing good love songs. Not songs expressing love per se, but songs inspired by love. Taken together, the songs on this album suggest something far more powerful--a longing that exists in and out of our relationships with loved ones. New Haven thaws and blossoms and I open the window, despite the biblical rains pouring into the concrete gutter outside. We long for the those we have left, and despite ourselves we long for the ones we have at hand. It's a persistent loneliness of society, and a deteremination to defeat it. Hawley's songs weave in and out of physical and emotional confines: wandering the street at Cole's Corner, eager to encounter love or something; inside a Hotel Room, locked in arms with an old friend and lover; down by the ocean; watching the city lights from a car on the hill, trying to forget someone. Hawley seeks and seeks, unable to escape his romantic hex, finding no refuge, and leaving us only with a reassuring lullaby: "Papa's gonna shoe your pretty little feet/ mama's gonna glove your little hand/ I'm gonna kiss your ruby red lips/ mmm hmm hmmm." I walk the streets of New Haven, my own Cole's Corner, and reacquaint myself with the evening.

3. Destroyer- Your Blues

Interestingly, this abstract (some might say inaccessible) album was my first exposure to Destroyer. I still remember listening to the opening song, "Notorious Lightning" for the first time, looking out the back window of a lonely Georgetown apartment in Spring 2004. It was trial by fire--that first track, "Notorious Lightning", is everything audaciously good and bad about Daniel Bejar's music in one 7 minute opus. It starts with graceful acoustic guitars draped in true poetry ("I lay myself down to observe your gilded jeans hit the ground and still haven't grown from this worship"), and then crescendos into a crashing, synthesizer-laden, flamboyant refrain in which Bejar caws "someone has to fall before someone goes free!" It is the beautiful but awkward emotional climax of the album, five minutes into the first song. But it sets the tone.

Afterwards, Bejar goes about his business exploring all sorts of unfamiliar people and places: Oakland, Warsaw, fops on the terrace, actors seeking revenge, inviting army sluts, lovers stealing gondolas to sea. All orchestrated around a synth, accoustic guitar, light drums, and that piercing voice. There are moments of light and happiness in this effortlessly imagined world, but all of it is imbued with a vague sense of foreboding, of collapse; of a weight that hangs on even the most mystical images. That unnamed feeling is of course, sadness, and Destroyer's music about that feeling is, by artful definition, the blues. His blues. Your Blues. Think about that for a second.

Your Blues is every rainy day in April that you decide to walk instead of taking the subway. It is, as he sings in "Certain Things You Ought to Know," when we reflect on our "springtime on the barricades/our Springtime charades." And it is the peace of the evening after an April shower, in "What Roads?", when Bejar chants, "Tonight we work large, we aim high, pillars stare at a sky designed to come down upon everyone at once."

4. The Clientele- Suburban Light // Preston School of Industry- All this Sounds Gas-
I'm cheating. These two go together because I bought them together in Spring, 2002 at a 2-for$20 sale at newbury Comics in Boston. These are two niche albums that I can't explain my love for. The former is a collection of Clientele B-Sides (I don't even own any A-Sides!!!) that feels like a Sunday evening with friends (or a lover) outside on a freshly cut lawn. The second--the underrated solo project by Spiral Stairs from Pavement--is just plain good. It's about traveling, and understanding home-neither especially deep subjects but pertinent ones at that time in my life. More importantly, the songwriting and recording embodies a spirit of adventurism and ambition that Spring dutifully renews every year.

5. Modest Mouse- We Were Dead before the Ship Even Sank
Another controversial pick. This one generally goes down like ballast water with most Modest Mouse fans, who decided that the band sold out long, long ago. Longer ago, in fact, than you even realize. So goes the predominant hipster narrative, anyway.

These days, wringing your hands over the fate of Isaac Brock and compatriots is strongly discouraged, if not passé. The mainstream commercial success or 2003’s Good News for People who Love Bad News betrayed the band's trademark gritty esotericism, which now appeared to be bordering on the trite. Even Brock’s trademark guttural screams were starting to sound more like polished growls. As the band picked up legions of new fans (I cannot forget one local homeboy in a Redskins jersey and sideways cap, flailing around to "Float On" like a Kanye West song at Constitution Hall in DC), those more heavily invested in one of the best rock acts of the late millennium began to feel a distance from the band. This is the point at which we generally project on others as "selling out." The seeds had been sewn—many were quick to remind themselves—in 2000, when Modest Mouse left Up Records for Epic. [never mind that the album, LP and side project that followed were blisteringly good]. What came after that was just fait accompli. First there was Good News, with "Float On" in heavy rotation on Clear Channel adult contemporary radio stations [Say it ain't so!]. We Were Dead was just a followup. Same label, same sound...why even bother?

There's just one problem with this revisionist history: it forgets what it means to be involved with a band; to root for them. If you listen to WWDBTSES in search of reasons to dismiss it, you'll find them. There's no denying that Isaac Brock's poetic psychosis has ebbed, and taken his lyrical edge with it. The band has expanded from a 3-piece crew with a larger-than-life sound to a 5+ member well-produced collective. The addition of former Smiths' guitarist Johnny Marr (a major press point leading up to the album's release) produced riffs that hang like repetitive ornamentation on songs throughout the album. And do we really know what that second drummer is for?

On the other hand, if you listen to the album with a forgiving ear, an entirely different experience emerges. From the very first chords and lines of the first song, "March Into the Sea," the album rolls and pitches like a cutter lost in the straits of Magellan, with Isaac Brock as the grizzled, and generally insane, Captain. "March into the Sea" swells like a storm around choruses that featuring Isaac's self-mocking laughter: "Bang your head like a gong/ Because it's filled with all wrong/ A-ha-ha!/ Clang, clang, clang!" It sounds weird--maybe even a little contrived--and no doubt the Modest Mouse longingly cry to themselves,"what have you done with the REAL Isaac Brock?!" Then, in the eye of the storm, we hear a voice that resembles something real: "If you think you know enough/ To know you know we've had enough/ And if you think you don't, you probably will/ Our tails wagged and then fell off/ But we just turned back, marched into the sea." Sounds like he's sending a message... Then the raging sea is back, slamming your eardrums to the climax of the song: "Cut me down like the trees/ Like the lumber or weeds/ Drag me out of the sea and then teach me to breathe/ Give me forced health till I wish death on myself/ Give me forced health till I wish death on myself/ [more maniacal laughter]."

Egan Caufield contrarian opinion here: "March into the Sea" masterfully sets the stage for one of the most poignant inward-looking concept albums I have ever heard. This album is a posthumous death-knell from a watery grave. Isaac Brock doesn't give a fuck that you think he's sold out. In fact, you might be to blame; you and all the other fickle bastards that unceremoniously marked the band for dead the minute it was cool to do so. You know what? He doesn't care about you either, because even death, it turns out, makes for good music. The album is painted on a canvas of perpetual motion--boats, dashboards, marches, rickshaws, even carbon --and Modest Mouse is the hapless band of travelers, always moving, never settled; never arriving. Death is prominent on the album, as are bugs; it's lovely. But it's the marine motif ties the album together (see the brilliant video for Dashboard for more of the marine motif). The sea: that normally hopeful, infinite expanse on which Modest Mouse once sailed, has now swallowed the band and turned them into another one of Indie Rock's coral reefs.

I'll admit, it's dangerous to interpret albums so simply, but here it's impossible to escape the notion that this is an album about the band; marching, wailing, touring, growing, recording more albums in the face of death (perceived) with a healthy sense of cynicism and even some moments of apologetic hope (at the end of the boisterous "Spitting Venom" when Isaac sings reassuringly "Cheer up baby, it wasn't always quite so bad/ for every little venom that came out, the antidote was had," it kills me). It is art mocking life; theatre within film within music. And when it's all over, we are surprised to learn that no one has drowned after all. Modest Mouse is still alive and breathing, though perhaps amphibiously. Now there's a concept album for you.

The fact that so many Modest Mouse fans write this one off will never make sense to me. There's so much depth [no pun intended] to this album, so much of their gritty spirit, but most seem deaf to it. Unfortunately I don't think the new fans totally get it either. But I'll stand down. What does this have to do with Spring, anyway? Everything. This album is a string of April defeats: getting shafted on tax day, rejected from graduate school, betrayed by a best friend...and keeping on. Dig?

"That shit is a science of everything ill."

2009-03-22T19:37:00.000-07:00

Last month, XXL Magazine ran two pieces on the making of Nas’ 1994 major label debut, Illmatic. Those of you who know me, aside from knowing that I read XXL magazine religiously, know that I have a serious crush on Illmatic. While you won’t find me singing Nas’ praises in the general sense (he is an excellent rapper, but his body of work is just not consistently great), this album was born a classic. If you don't own it, don't have an opinion on Nas and, oh I don't know, consider Jay-Z's reign over hip-hop to be undisputed, then do yourself a favor and buy the album. From Nas' gravelly voice to the sparingly funky production; his poetic flow to the sinister but dreamlike vibe that runs through all 10 songs...Illmatic is the wormhole that connects the violent rap culture ascendant from the mid-80's to the early 90's East Coast hip-hop movement that thrived on lyricism and creativity. It's like the two sides of the force, and Nas balances them like a prophesied Jedi. I just wish there was a word for how awesome this is. Oh wait, there is: Illmatic.

As Nasir tells it: "Illmatic is supreme ill. It’s as ill as ill
gets. That shit is a science of everything ill."

Yeah, what he said.

Anyways, be sure to check out the XXL articles, which recount some of the stories involved in the recording and production of the album. It will make you nostalgic for a time and place that you have no connection to...as all classic albums do.

XXL: Still Ill
XXL: Nas, The Genesis

First Listen: Ben Kweller, Changing Horses

2009-02-15T17:27:00.000-08:00

When I picked up Ben Kweller’s latest disc, Changing Horses, the first thing that struck me was the packaging. It’s in a slim-folding soft case—which, I might adroitly observe, are becoming massively popular these days—that is all black, adorned with an elaborate white design and lettering. The font is an old-timey script, draped in white vines which curl around an acoustic guitar and culminate in two roses at the top of the album. My first thought was that this album design reminded me of one of those rodeo shirts which have become immensely popular with hipster types.

This turns out to be quite a poignant observation. When I slide the disk in to stereo, instead of Kweller’s typical grunge rock, I am greeted with the sparse twang of steel guitar and soft bass. The first track, “Gypsy Rose,” is defined by this simplicity. Over the gentle back-and-forth of the strings, and an even gentler kick-and-snare drum rhythm, Kweller croons to his lady muse. the song is praising, yet it is also longing and sad. I consult the lyrics sheet: "Bring ya food, money, shoes just to lye here with ya 'neith yer sheets / I see hope in your life / it's the world that makes me cry." [verbatim]

I take a look back at the album cover, and think: Rodeo shirt.

Wait a minute….is this a country album?

The affirmative comes on track 2, “Old Hat.” Slide guitar laces through a slow, plodding drum rhythm while Kweller proclaims, “I never wanna be/that old hat you put on your [whoops! yer] pretty head.” The song builds into a modest crescendo, while Kweller sings the refrain in a higher register. Make no mistake, this is a country ballad.

Now, I'll be honest: I didn’t read anything about Ben Kweller’s upcoming album before buying it, nor did I see him when he came through DC, so I wasn't expecting a country album. But maybe it’s not all that shocking. After all, Ben Kweller’s talent centers on in his effortless sense of harmony, songwriting ability, and versatile voice—something like a hip version of a young Paul McCartney, or a simple man's Elton John—so branching out into new kinds of music was never out of the question. Nor is there any debate regarding Kweller's chops.

Most importantly, it’s not like the decision to produce a country album is anything novel. Three examples come to mind: Bob Dylan’s Nashville Skyline, Ween’s 12 Country Hits, and Beck’s Sea Change. Not to mention hundreds of individual songs ("Rocky Racoon"). Artists of all stripes love to co-opt the county & western style, either to explore it musically (Dylan), to mock it (Ween—see “Piss up a Rope”), or to mine its natural power in telling stories of love lost and sadness (Beck). Where will Ben Kweller fit?

In any case, it will be a tough sell, since so much of Kweller’s appeal is based on his stature as an indie rock figure of note. An understated wunderkind and a rock songwriter on his own terms, Kweller is (in my opinon) an unsung successor to the post-90’s rock mess. [Not to mention, the album cover for On My Way was one of my favorites in recent memory] His songs and albums are never groundbreaking, but they're determined, quirky, and independent in the literal sense. As a result, his music has always been an anthemic alternative for a generation that kills itself trying too hard to be cool. Which begs the question: can Ben Kweller change horses with his standard aplomb?

“Fight” and “Hurtin' You” are unsettling answers to this question. In the former, Kweller oddly juxtaposes cliche country motifs of lonely truckers and playing cards with the more urban image of an intern, frustrated by love. The song rallies to a boot-stomping chorus (“You gotta set yourself on the lord in your life/ you gotta fight til your dyin’ day”), but it seems forced and kitschy. In “Hurtin' You,” Kweller tries to cheer up an old friend whose “pretty point of view” has been dampened by generic sadness. Kweller speaks the right language, and plays the right notes, but on songs like these, he seems most like a rodeo-shirt wearing indie kid attempting to paying homage.

The strongest song by far is the album's first single, “Sawdust Man.” Laid over a piano riff that would make young Billy Joel and Elton John proud, Kweller belts out a song to a returning love from the top of a Greyhound Station. Here, Kweller finds his country groove: he is unpolished, energetic, quirky, and very endearing. It's ironic that amongst all the standard country themes on this album, it’s when Kweller puts himself back in his peculiar environs (on top of a bus station) that the listener finds his act the most authentic.

The second half of the album surges on this peculiarity. “Things I Like To Do,” a song in which the singer literally lists the things that make him happy ("I like talkin' in the diner 'stead of screamin' in the noisy bar"), wouldn't pass muster in Branson or Nashville. But when Kweller drops the pretense and just lets it flow, listeners find a pleasant marriage of his trustworthy talent and country ambitions.

Ultimately, Changing Horses is an inconsistent but harmless foray into country music, which will leave most fans hopeful that Kweller’s horse change is a temporary one. If that sounds harsh, it's useful to remember that Kweller remains in good company. Bob Dylan adopted a country voice to record Nashville Skyline that was nothing short of awkward. And Ween...well, they wrote a country song called “Help me Scrape the Mucous off my Brain.” Beck’s Sea Change is the most authentic example--in part because Beck fuses elements of the genre with his own musical style, and in part because the album is just so goddamned sad. Kweller gets this, and he certainly has his moments when form and function align, but by all measures this horse change is no sea change.

...but then again, there’s never been harm in having a little country fun.

First Listen: Guns N' Roses, Chinese Democracy

2008-11-26T21:06:00.000-08:00

Guns N’ Roses

Chinese Democracy

What the fuck?

Fifteen years of false starts, artistic differences, internal warfare, delayed releases, canceled tour dates, million-dollar payoffs from Geffen, Axl’s dreads, Slash’s Snakepit…it all comes down to this: me buying the first Guns N’ Roses studio album in over a decade at a suburban Best Buy, while the Mom in front of me drops $100 on Wii equipment. Best Buy didn’t even carry DVDs until 1997, let alone VR gaming equipment—that was pure fantasy in 1993, the year GNR released their last studio album, The Spaghetti Incident? In a way, the reappearance of GNR on shelves of music stores feels a complete anachronism. It’s an event at the crossroads of time, like Encino Man being unfrozen; Dinosaurs being recreated in Jurassic Park; King Kong coming back to New York. We’re out-of-our-head excited over this, but everyone is aware it could be a complete disaster.

I should admit outright that I was 12 years old when Spaghetti was released (though Appetite for Destruction was one of the first tapes I owned, in 3rd grade). So even though I understand that Guns n’ Roses exists as some sort of unanimously shared American cultural experience, I have always felt somewhat aloof from it. The music has always been there, and obviously brilliant. But as a child of 90’s, I was behind the curve on Axl & co. For people even one or two years older than me, the rise and fall of the band was something personal that they lived through. Meanwhile I was left scratching my head, trying to connect the dots between the naked woman on the cover of my Appetite tape (a formative experience), the beauty of “November Rain,” and, well, Spaghetti.

In other words, Guns N’ Roses has never made great sense to me.

This is not a bad thing. When I heard several years back that Axl was going to (eventually) release an album under the name "Chinese Democracy," I wondered aloud what every reasonable person should have: “What the fuck?” GNR was never particularly political. So if Axl was turning that corner, he sure picked one hell of a stand to make. If it wasn’t political, well, then Axl was treading in some of the most irreverent (and therefore awesome) territory in recent memory. Either way it’s a win.

Now add to that what we knew about Chinese Democracy [basically, very little]: fifteen years in the making, multiple rumored collaborators (including Sebastian Bach), a constantly changing release date, and production shrouded in utter secrecy, not to mention controversy. Earlier this year, a blogger much more serious than me was arrested—but ultimately avoided jail time—for uploading the album’s tracks. To cap it off, when the album was released this week, it received immediate castigation from the Chinese government.

That’s when it hit me that maybe I’m not so far behind the ball. In all likelihood, no one understands Guns n’ Roses. Not even the Chinese government. It’s time to stop thinking, and buy the album. I’m ready for the event. Bring on King Kong.

The album cover is quaint, black & white, with an old bike with a large basket in the foreground. Behind it, on a wall, is tagged “GUNS N’ ROSES.” This is, no doubt, the mark of the burgeoning Chinese Democratic groundswell. The album starts off equally quaint on the first track, with high pitch squeaks and low grumblings (a Chinese city?) surfacing from the background, simmering and ready to blow. The effect is poignant, and a minute and a half in, we get our eardums scorched by the first of Buckethead’s torrential riffs. Then, making the only appropriate entrance that one can make after a 15-year absence, Axl’s voice slides in like the Death Star laser, and blows our quaint little world to pieces.

There is no time to collect your thoughts. I’m sorry, time? You’ve had 15 years to second guess Axl. So let’s get it straight: this is Mr, Rose’s world we’re living in. He wastes no time destroying any lingering doubt, with his trademark scowling voice over thunderous accompaniment: “It don’t really matter/ Gonna find out for yourself/ No it don’t really matter/ Gonna leave this thing to/ Somebody else.” Nice.

...and then it gets slightly weird. “If they were missionaries/ Real time visionaries/ Sittin’ in a Chinese stew/ to view my disinfatuation.” What? I think this is political (song goes on to mention the Falun Gong), but more certainly, I know it is not a complete thought.

I move along. By the end of song 3, “Better” (a standout track) I am awe-struck by what I’m hearing. The lyrics have subdued themselves to simpler, but still poignant, rendering of Axl’s lingering angst. The music is not only great' it’s fresh and complex. There’s a layering of guitars, beats, and background vocals in this song which makes one think of Korn or Linkin Park. Not to suggest that GNR is stealing from the detestable late 90’s rock scene. More like giving a nod to their wayward disciples, and then sounding the rallying cry to reminds us who rules.

The honeymoon is not constant, of course. Track 4, “Street of Dreams” reaches for GNR ballads of the past, but doesn’t get further than some clichés (“So now I wander through my days/And try to find my ways/To the feelings that I felt.”) and—gulp—a hint of voice modulation. Axl’s voice continues to play tricks on the mind for several songs, and the album briefly loses its way in this early middle portion.

This type of meandering is especially unfamiliar to us because albums of this length are so uncommon these days. Only 2 of the 14 tracks are shorter than 4 minutes, and there are no intentional throwaways. I can’t figure out just yet if this is a concept album, but it’s no surprise that after 15 years, every song has been produced in grandiose fashion, with a deliberate attention to detail. It can be exhausting, but this is where Chinese Democracy (the album) lives and dies. Even though Axl is just a voice to the listener, it’s clear that this album represents his powerful vision. The songs are intricately arranged and extremely polished. When they hit the mark, Axl appears a towering figure returning to claim his rightful throne. When songs falter in the slightest way, they appear overproduced and mechanical. Songs on the first half of the album war inconclusively for the listener's sympathy.

The album finds its way again on several understated and well-written songs, including the thoughtful “Catcher in the Rye,” the guitar-blazed “Scraped,” and the chaotic/operatic “Riad N’ the Bedouins” (“Riad N’ the Bedouins/ had a plan and thought they’d win/ But I don’t give a fuck ‘bout them/ Cause I am crazy”).

The album then surges into an improbable climax on the tracks “Sorry” and “I.R.S.” The former, a simple and effective ballad, typifies Axl’s generic emotion on Chinese Democracy: powerful but impersonal. We don’t know who exactly has wronged him, but we’re not inclined to ask. If we heard it alone, this song would be a castoff. Instead, it crystallizes the tone that runs through the rest of the album—an uneasy sadness, an anger, a desire for revenge. Hanging on the final note of "Sorry," we plunge into “I.R.S.” all-in-all the best song on the album. It rides on the shoulders of the best of Guns n’ Roses’ catalog, loud and soft, ear-splitting power chords, crushing rhythm, and Axl sounding 100% vintage for the first time. The lyrics (like most on the album) are unintelligible, but it’s the feeling that speaks most coherently. The solos are even Slash-worthy (gasp). If 15 years was all leading up to this, it seems worth it.

The rest is just dénouement. 71 minutes later, I’m tired, exhausted, beat up, beat down. I didn’t just listen to an album…I feel like I survived something.

And what, exactly? I have no clue. I do know this: the album is absolutely tremendous. It matches its hype and anticipation in both scale and force. I also know this: the album is over-produced, overambitious, and conceptually absurd. But it is unmistakably the work of a genius.

The Spinto Band

2008-11-26T20:57:00.000-08:00

I’ve finally figured it out! The Spinto Band is the modern incarnation of the Sugarplastic.

This has been bugging me since I saw them live at Black Cat two weeks ago. Unfortunately, since no one knows the Sugarplastic, I concede an alternative, more accessible comparison:

Devo + Apples in Stereo w/ a spicing of R.E.M.

They are a band worth checking out. Pop-geeks from Delaware, and very talented musicians. My personal fave, “Oh Mandy” is from their first album, Nice and Nicely Done; “Summer Grof” is the single from their new record, Moonwink.

Alive and Kicking (and Screaming) Part 2: AC/DC at Madison Square Garden 11/12

2008-11-15T17:11:00.000-08:00

Note: Part 2 of the greatest musical event of my life. See below for part 1, on the Pumpkins. It seems that a ton of footage from the AC/DC show has made its way onto youtube. I've linked to it here where possible, but note that's not my footage, so I'm not responsible for the atrocious audio in some of the clips. I'll be updating this post with some pictures from the show before the end of the weekend.

It’s 10:45 P.M. in Madison Square Garden. The lights are dimmed, but below me I can make out a rolling, pitching sea of human bodies. They jump up and down. They punch their fists toward the ceiling. They whistle. They scream. They chant: “AN-GUS!! AN-GUS!!" They want blood.

And they get it.

The blazing stage lights fire up, and AC/DC hits the first few notes of their final song. It’s the jilting masterpiece “For Those About to Rock.” The crowd (myself included) knew this was coming, and yet it still takes us to a nirvanic state of pandemonium. I can’t hear my own thoughts. I have no thoughts. I have no voice. My ears are already blown out, and I’m seeing in stereo. At this point, I notice that behind the band, a row of six cannons has materialized, pointing directly at the crowd.

And this is when it hits me that I’m about to get my face blown off.

But my story begins a few hours earlier. More accurately, it begins in the year 2000. At the time, AC/DC had just finished the Stiff Upper Lip tour and I had, well, missed the tour. But I wasn’t alone. During a late night bar conversation sometime thereafter, some friends of mine and I made a pact: we would pay any cost (actually I said up to $500) to see AC/DC on their next tour. At this age—and with that lifestyle—you never know when AC/DC’s going to play their last note, we reasoned [we were categorically wrong on this note, more on that later].

So, naturally, when the Black Ice tour was announced, we freaked out. Not like we hadn’t been talking about this for the past eight years, but all of a sudden it was finally possible. With only one slight hitch: the only show we could all attend was in New York City, on a Wednesday night. However, this is hardly the thing that stands in the way of pacts. One half day at work and $20 bus ride later, there we stood on 8th avenue, outside the hulking Madison Square Garden, about to rock.

After killing some time at Tir Na Nog (props to the establishment for playing some AC/DC tunes before the show), we headed into MSG and to our seats. My friends and I have a phrase for the feeling you get when you walk out of a stadium/arena gate and finally have full view of the field/court/concert/whatever: the walk of life. In this case, the walk of life was unbelievable—the dark mass of humanity swelling from wall to wall and floor to ceiling in that place was just awesome. We arrived just as the opening band, The Answer, was wrapping up. No slight intended here, but thanks, now get off the damn stage.

My sense of time may have been warped (thanks again, Tir Na Nog), but after only about 10 minutes of silence, the squeaks and groans of guitars being picked up and strapped on emerged from the din. The fuse was lit. The crowd roared, and without skipping a beat, Angus, Brian and Malcolm appeared—except, not in real life. Instead, they appeared in animated form, in a tremendous opening cartoon for “Rock n’ Roll Train” which hit all the points of devilish, sexual innuendo necessary to set the stage for an AC/DC show. The cartoon cimaxed in a catastrophic train wreck which broke through the screen (as a real train!) amid major pyrotechnics. Then, you guessed it: AC/DC appeared. (Tremendous video of the opening here, but with bad sound quality)

There was no tension to be broken by that point. The crowd was raucous before the show, and the band’s appearance simply took them to another level. I cannot stress enough the power and energy in the building during this show, from beginning to end. From the first chords of RnR Train to the final cannon blasts of the encore, I have never taken part in anything comparable to this sustained outpouring of energy on that level for that amount of time. I think I pumped my fist 643,000 times, I still don’t have my voice back, and I’m sore in inexplicable places.

The setlist was—no shame in saying it—predictable. AC/DC live is a known quantity at this point. Half of the show consists of consensus classics that everyone agrees on, like “Back in Black,” “Thunderstruck,” and “You Shook Me All Night Long.” One quarter is saved for the new stuff, like "Black Ice" and "Big Jack." The final quarter is reserved for choice classics, i.e. songs that everyone loves, but that are not necessarily givens. Think “Shoot to Thrill,” “Let There be Rock,” etc. On an AC/DC tour, it's this final small portion of the setlist where you’re going to find your surprises, if there are any. That’s not a bad thing by any means, but one certainly knows what they’re getting at this point with AC/DC.

With that in mind, the most striking aspect of this show was how good the band was. Why does that seem strange to say? Was anyone questioning AC/DC’s ability? No, but then again, when you’re lead singer is 61 years old and your guitarist bears a striking resemblance to Gollum from Lord of the Rings, one has natural concerns about how things are going to hold up. Well, as I mentioned before, these concerns turned out to be completely unfounded. It’s as if the band has hit some new sort of sexagenarian stride. Brian Johnson’s voice sounded gritty and full, and held up for the full two hours. Angus continued to be a freak of nature, absolutely shredding his Gibson, torching the fretboard while running around the stage like a demonic ADHD schoolboy. They even kept in the classic bit where Angus strips down to his AC/DC boxers for “the Jack” and—yeah, I’ll say it—the man doesn’t look too shabby.

Did I expect AC/DC to bring down the house? Yes. Did I expect that, during the encore when the balding Angus was shirtless and running in circles on the floor, I would consider that I wanted to be him? No. And yet, I did.

Highlights of the show? I don’t know what to tell you. The whole show was one furious, indistinguishable highlight. "Shoot to Thrill" was a personal favorite, as was "Hell’s Bells." During "Let There Be Rock" Angus emerged from under the stage on a rising pedestal with his hands in classic devil-horn position above his head. Nice touch. "Whole Lotta Rosie" bears mentioning, not just because the song was great, but because it featured a 40-foot high inflatable version of a voluptuous woman as a backdrop, which I’m hoping to see above an AC/DC float at the Macy’s Day parade.

They have that, right? They should. Seriously, after this concert, I’m convinced that’s the type of stature AC/DC deserves. This band has put on a clinic for other rock bands on how to age gracefully. Don’t evolve, just improve. Give the people what they want, and they’ll indulge your musical ambitions. Who else could pull off Black Ice? While I consider them two very, very different bands, I will say it was poignant to see this concert 24 hours after seeing the Smashing Pumpkins anniversary show. Contrasting with Billy Corgan’s bizarre exchange with the audience, Brian Johnson was more understated with his address of the crowd:

“Yeah New York, you’re making us proud to be here.”

That about says it.

We! Salute! You!
[cannon fire]

Alive and Kicking (and Screaming) Part 1: Smashing Pumpkins at DAR Constitution Hall, 11/11

2008-11-14T04:38:00.000-08:00

Note: These are exciting times at Silver Soundz, as I have just completed a musical feat that will likely remain in the pantheon for some time: on back-to-back nights, I attended a Smashing Pumpkins concert in DC, and AC/DC live at the Madison Square Garden in NYC. In the same way that the past 2 days have bled together (with very little sleep) the two shows were essentially one event. Accordingly, I will be posting the reviews for each, back to back as two parts. Part one follows:

It’s 10:45pm in DAR Constitution Hall. The lights are on, signaling that the night is winding to a close on the first of back-to-back Smashing Pumpkins 20th anniversary shows in D.C. Billy Corgan, gangly as ever, is wearing a dress that looks like it’s made out of toilet paper, high-top Nikes, and his trademark silver pleather “ZERO” shirt. He meanders across the stage with a microphone in hand, leading the crowd in a happy sing-a-long: “everyone is beautiful…in their own way.” As the band members chime in with kazoos, Billy reminds the crowd that “God loves each and every one of you.”

It is at this point that Billy catches an auspicious audience member giving him two very emphatic middle fingers. The music comes to a screeching halt, and DAR Constitution Hall goes awkwardly silent.

- “I’m sorry, sir, what are you so angry about?” Thousands of eyes turn to the heretic. “Everything is so beautiful.”
- “You used to rock!”

And this is when its strikes me that things have gotten, well, weird.

But my story actually begins a few hours before this. More accurately, it starts 15 years before this, on the day that I first heard Siamese Dream blasting through the door of sister’s room. Consider this my full disclosure: since that musical epiphany, I have been an unrelenting diehard Pumpkins fan. I consider S.P. to be the greatest rock band of my time, and Billy to be the best (and arguably only) rock star of the modern era. Their musical judgment is immune to question, and their supremacy inarguable. Yes, I recognize that these opinions put me in a small and ever-shrinking minority, but that is a burden we Pumpkins fans shoulder with pride. We’ve always taken pleasure in being weird.

So when the Pumpkins announced plans for a 20th anniversary tour, it seemed too good to be true. The band—freshly liberated from its record label—announced they were rehearsing upwards of 40 songs for the tour. No two shows would be the same. There were hints about “special musical guests.” Billy’s statements suggested a full survey of the Pumpkins’ catalog. It was a diehard’s dream.

And yet, something didn’t sit quite right. A Rolling Stone piece published on the eve of the tour was filled with passive aggressiveness that belied the retrospective tone that Billy was trying to convey. Now it was clear that James and D’arcy were not coming back—it would be the same band that had toured for 2007’s Zeitgeist, an album that still sits uncomfortably with even the most loyal fans. Billy’s frustration with crowd reception on that tour had shone brightly in the Rolling Stone piece: "We found that America had turned every older band into the 'reunion band.' It was 'I just want to hear those eight songs and drink my beer.' You think, 'I'm 41 years old, and I've earned some level of trust.' And you find out you're just like everybody else. You're no better than Bon Jovi."

Well, I had seen one of those shows, and it was pretty awesome. So, if the current tour was a conscious reaction to that, then one could only hope for Billy to take it out in the best way possible: to deliver for those he believed are the true fans. But even that prospect seemed strange and laden with baggage. I didn’t even buy my ticket until the week of the show.

Which brings me back to Tuesday night.

The palpable anticipation before the show (at least my own; I was in my seat a half hour early) is finally broken as Jimmy takes the stage and roars through an unbelievable drum solo. There is no opening band. The show gets underway when Billy emerges on stage, dressed as some sort of majestic harlequin in a dress and crown. I’ve seen him wear stranger things, or at least I tell myself that. The band then jives through a bossa nova number that I can’t recognize. Something about rock n’ roll, but I can’t hear what Billy is saying over the trumpets and trombones, or his backup vocalists. The whole thing has a circus atmosphere. At the end of the song, two men wearing white masks come on stage to remove Billy’s elaborate regalia. Frankly, I have become concerned.

Thankfully, underneath Billy’s blouse we glimpse the trademark ZERO shirt. His masked assistants place a black guitar over Billy’s head, and within seconds, he’s trashing through the intro to 2007’s single “Tarantula.” Things have suddenly taken a turn for the better: the band is playing tight, Billy’s voice is as good as ever, and they are poised to rock Constitution Hall. The next several songs I’ve never heard, which strikes me as strange, but I figure they may be new and, after all, they rock pretty hard. My sense of encouragement reaches a peak as Billy leads the band through a trifecta of somewhat obscure classics: Siva, Eye, and Mayonnaise.

During this three song stretch, everything that’s good and holy about the Pumpkins becomes obvious. Billy can still shred and sing and—most importantly—scream. He floats around the stage like some sort of religious figure, the bald head bobbing and darting back and forth as he bestows his music. Jimmy Chamberlin is a master on drums. Even with two of the original members missing, S.P. is still S.P.; oscillating from loud to soft and back to loud again with tangible, real emotion. It’s impossible not to be moved by this, and when they’re in their element live, this emotional interplay between band and crowd is what defines the Smashing Pumpkins. Unfortunately Billy has never seemed completely comfortable with that raw power, and tonight it disappears as quickly as it is summoned.

Most notably bizarre is the setlist. Diehards like me are not disappointed by the appearance of some random rarities and b-sides (“Speed Kills”, “The End is the Beginning is the End”), but these are offset by a number of new and unfamiliar songs. Hardly what I expected from an anniversary show. There is also a noticeable lack of flow in the setlist. One ten minute song with a lengthy guitar solo gives way to another ten minute song with a lengthy guitar solo. Hits like “Today” and “Tonight, Tonight” get the crowd moving, but they are overshadowed by amorphous musical interludes featuring adapted lyrics and odd sounds. My worst fears—that the Smashing Pumpkins are becoming a Prog Rock band before my eyes—seem inevitable when Billy ends the second set with a 20-minute (seriously) cacophonic guitar feedback solo that has people clenching their teeth. I am having flashbacks to a bad Cirque du Soleil experience.

As a fan, this is hard to watch. At least there’s always the encore, right?

Not tonight. The encore features another unexpected rarity: “We Only Come Out at Night” from Mellon Collie, only guess what? The band plays the second half of the song on kazoos! Of course they do! Then, as we wait for the punchline—surely there’s a payoff here—the lights come on, and Billy begins telling all of the beautiful people that God loves them. Thousands of fans search frantically for a hint of irony.

There is none. This is the end of the show. There’s a detectable sense of confusion in the building. Some are angry, which leads to Billy’s exchange with the disgruntled audience member. Things get more awkward when the fan yells “Where’s James Iha?!” Unable to let it go, Billy calls up a different audience member to stand in for James, taking the opportunity to make a few more passive-aggressive comments about the former guitarist. This makes it harder to stomach when Billy reverts back to the chorus… “everyone is beautiful…” Jimmy offers some closing remarks: “what other band would rehearse for four weeks straight, 48 songs, to play 24 different songs over two nights?!” We get it, though having it rubbed in our faces kind of takes away from the effect.

Outside of the show, the bizarre atmosphere was just as pervasive. Normally fans are buzzing with reaction. In this case, people were quiet, seemingly trying to process what they just witnessed. I know I was. I know I still am.

In a very basic way, the show was unsatisfying. Serious fans (like me) grant great bands (like the Smashing Pumpkins) artistic license, with some confidence that it will be used productively. We want musicians to be creative; to not only play their hits; we want them to evolve and to stick around. But we also want them to age gracefully, and to not totally abandon the core “things” that made us fans in the first place. Normally, this is Smashing Pumpkins’ strong suit. The fan base may not have grown substantially after the initial breakup, but the fans are fiercely loyal. They’ve gone along with new album distribution schemes, the no-record label experiment, and they continue to support a band that is literally half of what it used to be. So when a 20th Anniversary show ends up being an experimental, unfamiliar affair, it’s no wonder that the response is lukewarm. Part of me suspects that the band convened this tour just to prove to the world how free they are to do what they please, and that is hardly a positive thought.

Meanwhile, my reflex to defend the band does not take long to kick in. In 1993, Billy Corgan was a cutting-edge guitar player and an egomaniacal jackass. He took pleasure in pissing people off, and we loved him for it. The band played music that no one else played, and we ate it up. Billy had issues, but they made the music real. That’s what the Pumpkins were. After 8 years of shifting identities for the band (and that whole Zwan thing), there’s something reassuring about the sight of Billy Corgan on stage, inviting the wrath of thousands as he sings them a little ditty about being beautiful.

Seems fitting for the greatest rock star of our time, right?

Friday Video Jamz

2008-11-14T04:18:00.000-08:00

Note: With these posts, I will honor the enduring importance of the music video medium (this deserves its own post, later) with 5 videos for you to dig. Typically, they'll follow some theme. Due to this weeks' musical antics, today's are a quick batch of Smashing Pumpkins and AC/DC vids.

Smashing Pumpkins- Today

Smashing Pumpkins- Tonight, Tonight

Smashing Pumpkins- The Everlasting Gaze

AC/DC- Shoot to Thrill (Live)

AC/DC- Whole Lotta Rosie

First Listen: Kiss Me Deadlys, Misty medley

2008-11-08T22:15:00.000-08:00

There is a coffee shop in New Haven called Koffee Too, aka K2. There is an employee there with long, nappy hair and stringy facial scruff. This barista, whose name I do not know, transcends the townie/employee archetype. He is a tier-1 New Haven all star. Everyone knows who he is, even though they don’t think about it. You see him at shows, out on the street, on his bike. You just know him. In reality, you don’t.

During the two years I spent at Yale, I went to K2 fairly often. I would estimate that 90% of the times that this guy served me, he was wearing the same worn-out, ratty t-shirt. It was purplish-blue, with small white stars printed on it to give the effect of the night sky. Above the drawing of an astronaut was printed: KISS ME DEADLYS.

The shirt first caught my attention because it’s an obtuse reference to an amazing Generation X (Billy Idol’s old band) song called “Kiss Me Deadly” (video here) [others might argue it’s a reference to a 1955 movie of the same title, but I admit ignorance]. Aside from that I had no idea what the shirt was for. I suspected it might be a band, but never bothered to ask. I must have seen it 100 times during those two years. The image was burned into my brain for random subconscious recall at a later date. That happened a week ago. A year after leaving New Haven, I finally decided to look into the mysterious “Kiss Me Deadlys.”

Turns out, as I suspected, that it is a band, though not a very well known one. A Google search (with quotations) brings up some myspace profiles and an ad for thong underwear. Amazon is more helpful. Within minutes not only have I located what appears to be the Kiss Me Deadlys only release, Misty Medley, but I’ve found a used copy for $.99. Sold, for the cost of shipping & handling.

It arrived today. First of all, the packaging is really nice: a folding soft-case with--surprise--an astronaut floating through space looking pensively at the sky on the cover. The band members appear in similar pencil-drawn spacesuits on the inside cover, looking slightly emo. This concerns me since the album came out in 2005 and I may have just unwittingly given my first contribution to the emo movement that peaked around that time. The enemy.

Also notable, song titles max out at 2 words. Your starting lineup includes "Dance 4", Dance 2" "Pop" "Let's" and "Groove."

I realize that as far as first listens go, this one is really out there. But as I tune in, I’m immediately digging the band’s sound, which features driving rhythm, delayed reverbed guitars to match, and a breathy female voice tempting me with things I can’t understand. "Dance 2," the first track, ends as these whispers morph into screams. I’m along for the ride. Track 2 starts with some murmuring beats, another scream, and now we’re rolling: “We’ve got to think it over/ you said that the last time/ you said that the time before.” Brevity; I approve.

I soon realize that the space motif that pervades the album (and the barista’s ratty t-shirt) is appropriate, if not deliberate. Between the vacuumish vocal effects, the mechanical pumping of the rhythm and twinkling guitars, this album feels a soundtrack for romance on space station Mir—only with more screaming.

Male vocals make an appearance on a few tracks. Definitely weaker than the female, but the versatility is welcome.

By track seven, I am impressed. It’s nothing entirely original. There’s a detectable dose of Modest Mouse and Yeah Yeah Yeahs in here. But Kiss Me Deadlys is tight, and the vocal styling is unique. On first listen, there seems to be a concept or purpose driving the music, and that feeling maintains coherence through most of the album. The production is also quite good, it bears noting.

"Groove" is a notable high-point on the album, with the female and male vocalists trading the refrain “It doesn’t matter if you’re not alone” over a sparse but well-constructed instrumental backdrop that slows and speeds up intermittently. Enter strings for about 20 seconds before the end of the album—nice touch.

Final Say: Good album, and I feel a bit of obscurist pride for having tracked this one down. I mean, any time you buy an album solely on the basis of a ratty shirt—well, you’ve got to be pleased with yourself. "Man, I really dig the Kiss Me Deadlys...oh, I'm sorry, you haven't heard of them?" I have half a mind to stop in K2 next time I’m in New Haven to thank the man responsible for my good fortune. I guarantee you he's wearing the shirt.

Alas, questions lead to more questions in this twisted musical universe: Where are they from? Is Misty Medley their only album? Are they still around? The mystery continues.

Show Review: Built to Spill at the 9:30 Club, 9/23/08

2008-11-06T18:42:00.000-08:00

NOTE: This review was written on 9/24, when I was first toying with the idea of creating a blog. I've resurrected it here for your pleasure.

I’m lying in bed at 2 in the morning, kept awake by that feeling of vertigo you get from live music, collected like puddles on your dented eardrums. I have just come back from seeing Built to Spill play 1997’s Perfect from Now On in its entirety at the 9:30 Club. Void of rest, I am turning over an incomplete analogy in my mind: "Built to Spill is the [insert great rock band] of my time."

It’s a fair question, at least for a sleepless night. BtS has put out six full length albums, at least three of which are alternative classics. They have a tremendous stage presence and a polished sound which transcends the “indie” identity of their contemporaries. The live show is spontaneous yet consistently engaging. The band has gotten tighter with age and, let’s face it, Doug Martsch has some good fucking chops.

Tonight, playing to a 9:30 Club that was packed but definitely not predisposed, they took unquestioned command for their hour-and-a-half set. My fourth time seeing BtS and that’s what gets me every time: quality. That’s a boring way to put it, especially when Doug is one of the more emotionally insightful songwriters around, but seriously, these guys just know what they’re doing, and the listeners know.

So, back to my equation. Built to Spill=[BAND X] of my time. Maybe its ridiculous, but I’m inclined to think big. On one hand, they’ve outshined most of the 90’s scene and continue to prove themselves live, so I’ve got no problem comparing them with the big names. On the other hand, they’ve left no mark on other artists—not their fault, but I can knock out the Beatles, Stones, and Zeppelin. How about the Who? Too much energy. Maybe BtS is a post-punk Who; that’s a possibility. Neil Young? That’s a comparison that gets made because of Martsch’s voice, but the drenching guitars aren’t that far off either. BTS is spacier, with more jamming. Pink Floyd? There’s a piece of it, but it's less conceptual. Southern Rock, i.e. Skynrd? Hard to see that—more down to earth northwest angsty, and for BtS, the album always takes precedence over the jam, if that makes sense.

While I’m considering it, a few notes on the show:

• The 9:30 Club, while pricey, does a great job with ambiance for a show like this. The lighting and sound are superb, both thanks to the lofty ceiling, which gives shows an outdoors-at-night feel. For this set it felt particularly right.

• One bad thing about being the premiere DC rock venue: 9:30 club seems to attract a lot of “accidental” audience members who look confused about why they are there, and often trying hard to make up for it by drinking and trying too hard. They were out in force tonight.

• Caught the end of the opener-opener, the Drones, who sounded very good through the 2½ songs I heard.

• The Meat Puppets were the main opener. This comes from someone who admits to not fully grasping their importance: this was bad.

• The bassist of the Meat Puppets looks like Willem Defoe in a wig.

• Doug Martsch and other BtS members sat on the VIP balcony and watched both opening bands play. I have seen Martsch in the crowd at other shows, watching his openers. Always thought that was a cool thing to do, and says a lot about his dedication to music, especially after years of touring and hundreds of opening bands.

• As advertised, setlist included all of Perfect from Now On (I love this idea, by the way), plus a 2-song encore: “Going Against Your Mind” and “Virginia, Reel Around the Fountain.” After the first two songs, we got our only memorable crowd interaction of the night from Martsch: “That’s the end of side one. I think. Does anyone have the record? Is it the end of side one? I listened to the record once; the first pressing.”

• Standouts (for me) included “Randy Described Eternity,” “I Would Hurt a Fly” and “Velvet Waltz,” also “Going…” from the encore, which I hadn’t heard live but really dug.

• One knock on the setlist: this show broke my streak of BtS concerts where they have closed with a classic rock cover. I have seen them play Freebird (2000), Cortes the Killer (2003) and While my Guitar gently Weeps (2005). Have to admit, I was a little disappointed when they closed without a cover.

Final thought: This was not the best BtS show I’ve ever been to, but the album-setlist format was a great idea with even better timing. By honest standards, BtS’s last two albums were sub-par. A coda to the emotionally articulate and moving Perfect gives one the strange feeling of reminiscing for a time that you don’t even realize you miss, and a renewed sense of gratefulness for the band capable of capturing/creating it. It was a welcome reminder.

Meanwhile, back in bed: I briefly settle on the verdict that BtS is a Pacific Northwest version of the Allman Brothers, meets Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. Before I can acknowledge that this suggestion is delusional in multiple regards, I’ve slipped into a pleasant half-consciousness, repeating tonight’s endless refrain:

I’m gonna be perfect from now on
I’m gonna be perfect…starting now.

T-Pain: Believable?

2008-11-03T20:41:00.000-08:00

I had written off T-Pain as one of the primary perps in the tragic coup d’etat of hip-hop in our time, but I am reconsidering. Yes, the latest single, “I Can’t Believe It” features some funny-in-a-sad-way lyrics, [“I can put you in a mansion/ somewhere in Wisconsin”] But listen closely, and you’ll hear him drop this bomb of sincerity: “like I said, there ain’t nothing to the Pain/ we can change the last name if you want to.”

Offering to forsake his tough-guy persona to win over a fragile young maiden? That kind of vulnerability is scarce in hip-hop these days.

Despite the interest she’s showing on the dance floor (“she’s all on me”), T-Pain insists on leaving the club with her—not for illicit purposes, like you might have assumed, but because “I really think you need some ventilation.” That’s chivalry. The whole point of the song is to celebrate T-Pain overcoming the odds and getting the girl. The good guy wins, and he can’t believe it. Given what most rappers claim in the average song these days, neither can I.

I’m actually not being totally facetious. Obscured as it may be by Li’l Wayne’s verse (the voice modulation makes me feel dirty, can we ban this?) and some standard references to spending cash, this song has charm. A 2008 radio gem

Top 10 Shows, Part 1

2008-11-01T19:38:00.000-07:00

I recently knocked out a perennial to-do list item by committing to paper every concert I have ever attended. It wasn’t easy [why is 2002 so hard to remember?], but definitely a rewarding exercise. Any excuse to mentally revisit Cambridge’s Central Square more than three times in one sitting is a good one. It also gave me a reason to dig through my shoebox collection of old shit, where I found tickets from a surprising number of shows, including Reel Big Fish live at Axis in Boston, 2000. Purchased through a Strawberries Ticketmaster outlet. 4realz.

But I wasn’t blowing off the dust for nothing. As is my way, I immediately set about rearranging the list according to rank. This is where things get interesting. So many variables go into any one concert experience. What album was the band touring for? Were they “on” that night? How was the crowd? Who were you there with? This chaos is what makes live music so great. Two people with the same music tastes could go to the same five shows and come out with a completely different impression about what they saw and heard.

So, that’s what this is all about: me. Egan Caufield’s distorted prismatic musical perception. There’s no second guessing this list because it’s openly subjective. This is what rocked me. Dig?

A couple quick guidelines and caveats: First, each concert includes the main act and the opener(s)—except for festivals, which counted as single event on my overall list but are now separated by performances for purposes of the the top 10. Second, I’ve put dates where I can humanly remember; others are estimated. Finally, I admit to leaving out two Rosenschontz concerts that I went to when I was 6, only because—based on the vague memories I have now—I think If I could revisit them now they would be so mind-blowingly bizarre/awesome that it wouldn’t be fair to the other bands on this list.

Part one, reverse order, #10-6. Dig:

#10 James Mercer (of the Shins) w/ Sam Beam (of Iron & Wine) at T.T. the Bears Cambridge, MA January 2003

In February 2003, Iron & Wine’s Creek Drank the Cradle had just been released, and had not yet garnered widespread attention. Sub Pop had paired Sam and James for a U.S. tour which brought them through Boston. My first concert on U.S. soil after a semester abroad, I was able to rope one friend into to coming along with no expectations. Standing in the third row of a tightly-packed but friendly winter crowd, we were treated to some incredible music that night. Sam Beam brought his sister on stage to sing a few characteristically sweet songs, and Sam Mercer was more endearing solo than with the Shins. I was mesmerized for the entirety of the two sets. Also, the kickoff to my final months in Boston—this unexpectedly superb show can’t escape the top 10.

#9 Eels Live with Strings at the 9:30 Club Washington DC, Spring 2005

I don’t consider myself a diehard Eels fan, but I dig their music and think E is one of the more under-the-radar musical auteurs of our time. So when a friend of mine who is a diehard invited me to see them in during the Summer of 2005, I decided to go for it. He warned me beforehand that the band tends to change their entire stage act every tour. For this tour, in support of the double-CD Blinking Lights and Other Revelations, the band consisted of E on piano, a standup bassist, a drummer playing on empty suitcases, and an actual string quartet. This could have gone awry, but instead I was blown away by a quality show. They played upwards of 25 songs, including a few rare covers. Even my diehard friend was shocked by some of the playlist selections. That’s usually a good sign [A creepy, violin version of “Novocaine for the Soul” segues into “Girl from the North Country”?! Unreal]. E held court with the crowd in a professorial manner, and brought the band back out for four—four!—encores. I was really impressed with the thought and that had one into what the concert would be, and it showed.

# 8 Ugly Cassanova w/ Iron & Wine at the Black Cat Washington, DC, June 28, 2003

After becoming a Modest Mouse fan in 2000, it would be another five years before I saw them live—by that time a shell of their former selves. But I was fortunate to experience the short-lived side project Ugly Casanova, which Isaac Brock pulled off under the tightening noose of Epic Records. The project included members of Red Red Meat and the Fruit Bats among others, and had the feeling of one epic, misguided campfire session deep in the Redwood forest. The type of one-off that I know I’ll spend hours explaining to my children how good it is, to no avail.

The release of Sharpen your Teeth coincided with my first Summer in Washington DC, and became something of a soundtrack for the humid, pastoral city. The August tour date coincided with a friends’ visit, and while she was a willing accomplice, her sister was less so. After a late dinner we arrived at the show and missed the opening band--something I never like to do. It was only later that I realized the opening band was Iron & Wine, meaning I would have seen them a full five months before Sam Beam hit it big, which I would be bragging about to you right now in a parallel universe. To say nothing of missing what in retrospect is an unbelievable twin bill for the Black Cat. But anyways…

When we arrived, Isaac Brock and Co. were in rare form. Brock appeared to be drunk, and not amused by the technical difficulties the band was having with sound check. Some faulty connection which no one could seem to find was releasing an awful hiss. After 40 minutes of delay the band hadn’t started playing. The crowd was growing restless and, sensing this, Brock was becoming eagerly belligerent. In a morbid way, after all the stories of Modest Mouse’s twisted past, this was precisely what I was hoping for as my first Isaac Brock experience. While he was trading slurred curses with the front rows, each of the band members tuned their instruments with short, loud bursts of sound. The effect created a jolting cacophony [the hiss never got fixed], unsettling and awkward. Then, slowly, behind Brock’s drunken raving, the instrumental bursts started to harmonize. It picked up rhythm, gradually, and then out of nowhere it started to take a shape…a song. Brock said his last words, shut up, and then joined in the melee, slamming the metal strings of his guitar, and belting out the first lines of Pacifico (“they said they’d give me everything/ now here’s the part that makes me laugh/ they didn’t give me anything and then they took half of that/ sharpen your teeth, or lay flat!”). The awkwardness was shattered, and the room was theirs. The intro had taken about five minutes to materialize, and I had never seen it coming. Not that Isaac wasn’t sincerely drunk or belligerent, but I’ve never seen the mood in a room so masterfully manipulated. By the end of the song, every band member and most of the crowd was shouting the refrain at the top of their lungs (“sharpen your teeth, or lay flat!!!”). Absolutely incredible beginning to a show.

The rest of the show was just as good, which is why it lands in the top 10. In an age when so many bands eschew spontaneity for fan expectation and the comfort of a rehearsed setlist/act, my appreciation for Ugly Casanova grows with time. Ironically, one band very guilty of this is Modest Mouse. I’ve seen them twice, and no show on any scale comes close to the intimate evening I shared with Ugly Casanova at Black Cat.

Unfortunately, the memory is forever tinged by one small catch: against my better judgment, I allowed myself to be convinced to leave before the encore. The following day I read in the paper that Ugly Casanova covered “Styrofoam Boots on Ice, It’s Alright”—an incredible but somewhat obscure Modest Mouse song. The lesson? Don’t break your own rules.

Dig!

#7 Built to Spill at the Showbox Seattle, WA June 1, 2003

I warned you context was everything. I’ve seen Built to Spill three times, and even though I believe that they will one day be remembered as one of the best live bands of our time (and as one of the few bands who seemed to really care about their live show), I always come away from their shows thinking: “solid.” They go a long way to reaffirming my faith in music in general, but on any all-time list, they’re likely to anchor the upper-middle portion. This show cracks the top ten for a specific set of reasons.

It was the Summer of 2003, and my friends and I had set out from Florida for a cross country road trip—literally. By May 31, we had made it to Eugene, Oregon. Knowing we’d be in Seattle the next night, we looked through city listings to see what was going on. Sure enough, our one night in the rainy city coincided with the opener of three night stand by Built to Spill at the Showbox. We rolled into town blasting Hole and Nirvana, ready to singlehandedly blow life back into the grunge movement. We arrived at our hostel with just enough time to change, take in a bit of the city, and then make our way to the Showbox.

Something about being out on Seattle’s streets that night—transient tourists in the great wellspring of so much music that I grew up listening to—it really felt special. Inside the Showbox, the walls were covered with posters from previous shows which only added to my awe-masquerading-as-nostalgia. Built to Spill was characteristically great. Doug Martsch walked on stage with a backpack, set it down, and then never looked back, riffing through a 90 minute no-nonsense set of BtS classics and covers. For the record, the crowd was lousy. One drunk imbecile threw ice from his mixed drink at Doug until another fan shoved him. But it didn’t really matter. That night wasn’t just about the show itself—it was about where we were and what we had done to get there. It was even about the fact that we’d leave the next morning. All that mattered is that we were there. Where it all happened, and—for those 10 minutes when Doug Martsch tore the place down with Cortez the Killer as an encore— where it was still happening. It was about freedom, Summer 2003.

#6 Destroyer at the Avalon Manhattan, NY March 28, 2005

I’ve now seen the enigmatic Daniel Bejar/Destroyer four times, and once with the New Pornographers. One of my top-three bands/songwriters of the past five years, every show teeters on the edge of glory, but there always seems to be a hangup. Most recently he visited my home turf at the Black Cat in support of Trouble In Dreams, too intimate a setting for what turned out to be an out-and-out rock show (i.e., notably bad acoustics). In 2005 I saw him play in Manhattan in support of nothing in particular, where he played a wet-dream setlist, except he did it with a stand-in backup band who did the songs little justice. Perhaps the ideal setting was back in 2004, when Destroyer had first made themselves known to me, and I saw them at Iota, a nondescript bar in Northern Virginia. He was probably selling out larger venues in New York, and meanwhile I was one of about 20 souls who came out to see him that night. [He even used the bathroom right before me!] Unfortunately for me, the Your Blues tour called for a lot of cacophony and squelching, and I left disappointed.

‘twas not the case in Spring of 2006, when I made the trip from New Haven to Manhattan for Destroyer’s stand at the Avalon, a church converted into a concert hall. I say “stand” with some irony because they were in fact opening for Magnolia Electric, Co., but you wouldn’t have known it. There was an undeniable ambience that night. Bejar, reunited with Destroyer’s original/primary lineup, had just released the opus Destroyer’s Rubies. As the band campaigned through a well-balanced set of old and new, the room buzzed—people danced, people swayed, people called out, seething energy. Chalk it up to the ghosts of the church, but I vividly remember thinking to myself that for one of the few times in my young musical life, I was witnessing something. Destroyer, the opening band, played for an hour and fifteen minutes and was summoned back for a three-song encore. Before Magnolia Electric Co. even had a chance, I had melted out onto 7th avenue to enjoy the New York night.

Stay tuned for part 2...