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About a month ago, I argued that Yo La Tengo has demonstrated extraordinarily consistent talent throughout its career. The same could easily be said of Built to Spill, and the band’s seventh and most recent album, “There Is No Enemy,” is no exception.
As the story goes, Johnny Ramone once replied to a complaint that the Ramones’ songs were too short by saying: “They’re not too short; we just play ’em real fast.” In describing The Zero Boys’ 1982 debut album “Vicious Circle,” few words could be so apt.
After decades of scholars, music critics, parents and other assorted baby boomers hyped The Beatles as the greatest rock band of all time, it’s tempting to see their work as a museum piece to be admired from a distance, but not loved. And some of their later music fits that mold. But not “A Hard Day’s Night.”
The name of Scottish rock band Glasvegas is perhaps even more apt than its members intended.
<< Slide show of cover bands in Bloomington
The Reverend Horton Heat will play the Bluebird Nightclub May 13.
The National Institutes of Health claim that one is supposed to get seven to nine hours of sleep a night – but honestly, who can afford to waste that much time? Life is short and the world is full of exciting things to do – or, at least, there are papers to be written after weeks of procrastination and “Planet of the Apes” marathons to be watched. No, sleep is for those with nothing better to do than sprawl about and take in the garish entertainments of the subconscious. \nThe most popular ways of fighting sleep’s grip are, of course, imbibing caffeine, sugar and prescription stimulants. But these methods have side effects: the jitters, increased heart rate and cavities, as well as cleaning your domicile, rearranging your music collection and running around in circles with a colander on your head gibbering about the CIA satellite monitoring you from geosynchronous orbit 20,000 miles above.\nAlternately, a Google search reveals a variety of other tips for staying awake, from keeping a room cold, to inviting a friend over, to taking a walk, to meditating – but, really, are any of these enough? For those for whom the fight against dread sleep appears lost, the following are some extreme recommendations:\n• Buy cans of dog food. Empty them. Find your closest neighbor who keeps one or more dogs outside. Throw a can into his or her yard – not at the dog, but at a hard surface that will produce a sufficiently loud clatter. Repeat to stimulate barking, or as needed. \nSide effects: possible arrest, murder by neighbors. Beware of Pit Bulls and yards with weak fences.\n• Using an adjustable pipe wrench, loosen every tap within earshot, removing washers and rubber seals as necessary. If the gentle sound of dripping isn’t enough to ensure wakefulness, place forehead under the tap.\nSide effects: increase in water bill, possible desire to confess seditious thoughts.\n• Find a leading figure in the local organized crime syndicate (check the police blotter of your newspaper or any local contractor known to lay foundations with papier mache). Call him up. Once he’s on the line, tell him a long story about his mother’s proclivity for engaging in deviant sexual acts with many partners for hourly compensation. His reaction should be enough to keep you awake for many months on end. \nSide effects: you may have to move ... repeatedly, and with great frequency. Could lead to possible thumb, knee or face loss. \n• Pick up a very large, human-sized pea pod from that weird neighbor who keeps to himself and smiles too much. Install it prominently in your bedroom or living room – wherever you are most in danger of falling asleep. When tired, glance at it to remind yourself that sleep will cause it to burst open and substitute you with a soulless replicant bent on world domination. \nSide effects: None whatsoever. It’s wonderful. You should try it.\nThere you go – with these tips to you should enjoy fuller, longer days (if not many of them).
Filmed in the Empress Ballroom in BlackPool England during the Elephant tour, this DVD showcases the White Stripes at their rawest and most glorious. The film is shot in 8 mm to give it a grainy look, adding to the back-to-basics feel of it all, and Jack showcases why he is considered a modern guitar god.\nThere are no extras, but with 26 songs there's a ton of concert footage to keep you busy.\nThey run through several blues covers as well as plenty of their early work. Highlights include "Ball and a Biscuit" and the Son House cover "Death Letter"
On Monday, Deborah Jeane Palfrey, the “madam” whose Washington, D.C., escort agency boasted clients from among the U.S. political elite, made 13 years’ worth of phone records public on her Web site. So far, former deputy Secretary of State Randall Tobias and Louisiana Senator David Vitter have been outed, and journalists are investigating to see who else turns up. The hype has it that this list could serve as a veritable “who’s who” of the rich and the powerful, the influential “movers and shakers” of American politics. Some might even consider having one’s phone number appear in Palfrey’s documents to be a sort of status symbol. But that would, of course, be nonsense – because I’m not in there.\nYes, despite being a prominent media commentator whose words have been known to stir the halls of power on a regular basis, my phone number does not appear on Palfrey’s list. But there are many good reasons for this.\nFor one, when you’re as important as I am, you can’t help but be busy. So busy, in fact, that it would take at least three or four escorts a day to keep up with me, and such demands would be an intolerable drain on the agency’s resources. I’m sure they would have been willing to make arrangements given sufficient compensation, but doing so would create a shortage of high-class Washington talent, raising the asking price and putting my good friends in the federal government at a disadvantage. That simply would not do.\nAnd it’s not like Palfrey’s company, Pamela Martin and Associates, was actually all that elite. Oh sure, they were sort of elite – certainly more so than, say, propositioning someone off the street. But we’re talking about the equivalent of buying a saucepan from Target rather than Wal-Mart, whereas individuals of my prominence shop at Williams-Sonoma.\nAlso, while I’m sure their employees were attractive, I doubt they could have held up to my exacting standards. After all, they only had to impress various Washington functionaries who – let’s face it – are not accustomed to being around incredibly beautiful women all the time. Nor do they possess terribly rarefied tastes. I doubt, for example, that their fantasies ever involve peanut butter and contortionists. They lack the necessary flexibility (in all senses of the word).\nAnd who’s to say that I’m not on that list anyway? It’s a long list, and some number could belong to one of my many assistants – or a major political figure that called the service in order to curry my favor. When your days are as occupied with actions as vitally important as mine, it’s difficult to keep track of such details. Even a close examination of the records would lead to difficulty determining conclusively that none of those numbers are related to me.\nAs a measure of power and prestige, Palfrey’s list falls far short. But all this talk has filled me with curiosity about the case’s progress. Would anyone happen to have her number handy?
I am so tired of reading about the Summer of Love. More specifically, I’m tired of reading fawning, nostalgia-dripping, Boomer-ego-stroking articles about the 40th anniversary of the Summer of Love. “It was a magical time of free love and consciousness-altering experimentation,” you say? “It showed the power of young people to change the world,” you say? So, you say you got a revolution?\nHindsight being 20/20, it’s easy for us in the 21st century to see that the view of human nature espoused by the Summer of Love, and its prescriptions for a utopian society, were fundamentally flawed. Still, you wouldn’t know this from the rose-colored tint of much of the anniversary coverage – so perhaps we need a brief accounting.\nPeace, free love, free food, free concerts, free expression, loads of psychedelic drugs, communal sharing – and what did we get? Altamont, the Manson Family and a general explosion of violent crime into the 1970s. Student activism that became the terrorism by the Weathermen, Germany’s Red Army Faction, Italy’s Red Brigades, the Japanese Red Army, etc. Placidly stoned, penniless hippies who turned into damaged, dangerous, homeless junkies – and bunches of drug-addled artists (Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Brian Jones) who didn’t even reach age 30. A decade-and-a-half of casual shagging that finally gave rise to the AIDS epidemic. And, come 1989, the realization that the “squares” may have been wrong about Vietnam and the “domino theory” but they were right about communism – that communist governments were ruthless, brutal, dysfunctional regimes that killed millions of people, and their own citizens were yearning for the freedom and prosperity that the Western counterculture was deriding.\nThe utter failure of the Summer of Love is revealed, above all, in one simple observation: now that its alumni, the Baby Boomers, are in charge, are they applying any of its ideals? The answer is “no” (and you could add a “duh” for good measure). Pacifism? Nope. Free love? Nope – heck, we’re still fighting over whether sex ed teachers can suggest behaviors besides abstinence. Legal drugs? A huge NOPE. Communal sharing? Today, we’re living in the most free-market-oriented times since the turn of the turn of the 20th century. Free expression? If it weren’t for the First Amendment, the Boomers would “protect” the rest of us from everything ranging from violent video games to politically-incorrect disk jockeys (although the Federal Communications Commission sure is trying to censor as much as it can). I agree with some of these polices and disagree on others (if you’ve read my past columns, you can probably guess which ones) – but the point here is that, if the Summer of Love “changed the world,” it’s because the Boomers steered society in the diametrically opposite direction.\nThis brings us to the most irritating thing about all this worshipful coverage of the Summer of Love. It was supposedly so great but, because of a combination of accident and design, the Boomers have made it so that you, in generation Y, can’t have one. Sorry, kid.
To some extent, it must be frustrating to be a Chemical Brother. In the mid-'90s, you devised a pioneering new sound -- big-beat electronica that works just as well on the radio or in an arena as on the dance floor. But the sound is so popular, it becomes ubiquitous -- and by the end of the decade, it's already passe, a relic of the dot-com era. Now what do you do? \nTheir third album since the turn of the millennium "We Are The Night" shows the Chemicals still haven't solved this problem. And to make matters worse, they're up against incredibly stiff competition. For the last couple of years, electronica/dance has been on the rebound thanks to innovative, but accessible, work from groups like LCD Soundsystem, Goldfrapp, Gorillaz, The Knife, Battles and now "the new French touch" led by Justice. As a result, "We Are the Night" sounds like the work of a middle-aged act struggling to catch up with the kids -- a bit bland and musty with the occasional idea lifted from the younger set (for example, introductory track "No Path To Follow" borrows heavily from The Knife's "Silent Shout").\nWhile "We Are the Night" isn't all that memorable, it's generally well-crafted and has enjoyable highlights in title track "We Are The Night," as well as "All Rights Reversed" (featuring The Klaxons) and "Do It Again" (featuring Ali Love). Unfortunately, it also has "The Salmon Dance," a jokey collaboration with Fatlip that, like Dave Chappelle's "Kneehigh Park" sketch, is a hip-hop-influenced parody of "Sesame Street." Except this time without the funny. It might be the dumbest damned track I've heard this year -- challenged only by The Stooges' "Trollin'" and everything Fergie does.\nStill, as album purchases go, you could do a lot worse. Unfortunately for The Chemical Brothers, you could also do a lot better.
I'm issuing a challenge to my fellow indie rock snobs: Check out My December, the new Kelly Clarkson album. Not only will you be amazed by what you hear, it'll reaffirm the very values leading you to eschew the major labels in the first place.\nIf you haven't followed the past month's gossip, "American Idol's" most successful graduate has, in succession, fought with her record label, fired her manager and postponed her summer tour. The drama started because Clarkson wrote and co-produced My December herself and Clive Davis, head of Sony BMG (which owns RCA), didn't like that the album wasn't generic Velveeta pop. In fact, RCA went so far as to recommend that Clarkson include a Lindsay Lohan cover (which Clarkson rejected). \nHere's the rub: My December is surprisingly good. And I speak as someone who hates "American Idol" and couldn't give a damn about anything on 2004's Breakaway except "Since U Been Gone." Indeed, Clarkson might have produced the break-up album of the year.\nNow, it's not perfect. The lyrics are kind of bland (Clarkson could use the Poetry 101 suggestion "emphasize imagery and avoid cliches"), the rock tracks get pretty emo-derivative and it's all relentlessly dark (guys, you'll think twice about dating ol' Kell). But with hooks abounding, Clarkson's superhuman pipes and the whole proceeding's winning sincerity, you could well end up singing along in spite of yourself. The best of the angry-rock moments -- first single "Never Again" (with Clarkson's wonderful snarl "a trophy wife? Oh, how cute"), "Hole" and "Haunted" -- appropriate Evanescence's chilly effects and big choruses but ditch their dull, murky chug for buzzing garage-rock guitars and smart, subtle flourishes.\nAnd even better than the rock are the album's more unusual tracks: "One Minute" sounds like Madonna's "Hung Up" meets Nine Inch Nails. "Be Still" and "Irvine" are stunningly beautiful grooves worthy of Leslie Feist. And hidden track "Chivas" is a lovely, stripped-down, overwhelmingly bitter acoustic gem.\nIn the fight between artistic integrity and major-label calculation, My December represents a win from a most unexpected corner.
Did you hear the latest Hillary Clinton scandal? Possibly not. Last I checked, her lackeys in the liberal media had hardly reported on it. \nBut it’s truly shocking. And it sends a disturbing message about not only those running her campaign but about the whole of American society. \nOn Tuesday, the Clinton camp released the shameful news: her official campaign song will be Celine Dion’s “You And I.” SHUDDER.\nEven worse, it was selected after it won a popular vote held among Clinton supporters, so we regular folks can’t even blame it on the machinations of out-of-touch D.C. campaign hacks, corrupt special interest groups or bureaucratic mismanagement. Aren’t liberals supposed to have, on average, better musical taste than conservatives? All those musicians who donate money and time to the Democratic Party every election – this is the result? It’s almost enough make one lose faith in democracy. \nThis fiasco once again underlines the general direness of the American musical mainstream. In the last couple of decades, we’ve managed to embrace the quality and variety of gourmet coffee, artisanal bread and micro-brewed beer, but the music most people listen to remains flavorless. However, coincidentally, today a possible remedy is being employed simultaneously in 110 countries around the world. \nIf you ever visit France, I highly recommend that you plan your trip to coincide with June 21. Why? Because that’s the date of Fête de la Musique – an annual music festival celebrated across the country, from major cities to small towns, with free performances in every genre imaginable by professionals, amateurs and anyone who wants to play. I’ve personally experienced it twice – and really, it’s no wonder that, in the 25 years since it was established by France’s Ministry for Culture, it has spread so far beyond the country’s borders. It’s simply that much fun. \nOf course, it hasn’t reached the United States yet – it is, after all, a French idea and, hence, inherently suspect. But trust me – this is up there with their best: French fries, French toast, French kissing, the Statue of Liberty, etc. Imagine wandering around on a beautiful summer evening (the day of the summer solstice, in fact) taking in a performance by a furious garage band on one corner, then going down the block for some New Orleans jazz, then hitting a park to hear the local symphony orchestra. Or hey, playing for a crowd yourself. \nSure, individual U.S. communities have their own music festivals – Bloomington has some great ones – but we don’t have a national celebration of music like this, nor do we often open them up for just anybody to play. We need something that brings us together in a collective experience, something that allows us to savor the incredible diversity of music in this country, something that allows us to show off our talents. The mass-produced, obsessively constrained “American Idol” just won’t cut it.\nC’mon – we could even call it the “Freedom Festival” if you want.
It's funny to think that, as numerous bands are now merging brainy songwriting with red-meat riffs, Queens of the Stone Age have been at it for nine years and six albums. Even the title captures the dynamic perfectly -- it's a high-falutin' Latin phrase for "common era" chosen by frontman Josh Homme because, as he told Pitchfork.com, "It sounds like 'the Vulgar Era,' which I like, because that sounds like something that I would like to be part of."\nThis balance, along with their constant innovation, makes QOTSA one of the greatest bands of the decade -- so much so that, even though Vulgaris might be their second-worst studio album, it's still really good.\nThat said, let's deal with its weaknesses first. Following the adventurous Lullabies To Paralyze, Vulgaris is a bit too safe. With its emphasis on atmosphere Vulgaris doesn't have Lullabies' baggage, but neither does it have tracks that stick firmly in one's brain. \nStill, Vulgaris is about three-fourths greatness, one-fourth OK-ness and no lameness. Lead single "Sick, Sick, Sick," with vocals from The Strokes' Julian Casablancas, is a killer bass-heavy dance track, and it's also rivaled by many other excellent moments. Vulgaris might not be QOTSA's best, but since what's common for them is exceptional for most other bands, it's well worth your time.
Punk fundamentally changed the course of rock music. By placing individual expression and authenticity above technical skill and studio wizardry, it unleashed a flood of creative expression that continues today. And while The Ramones invented punk's sound, and The Sex Pistols its image, it was The Clash that created a true artistic revolution by combining punk's values with big ideas, both political -- for example, by organizing social activism -- and aesthetic -- by exploding punk's boundaries, most notably in London Calling.\nThat's why it's not surprising that "The Future Is Unwritten," a documentary about late Clash frontman Joe Strummer, has a far-ranging soundtrack. Combining songs from Strummer's bands (including the pre-Clash 101'ers, and the post-Clash Latino Rockabilly War and Mescaleros) with ones from his 1999-2002 stint as a BBC world service DJ, it seeks to connect his work to his creative inspirations and heterogeneous musical taste.\nOn the plus side, this means several stone-cold classics are included -- MC5's "Kick Out The Jams," Bob Dylan's "Corrina, Corrina," Nina Simone's "To Love Somebody" and fine tracks from Elvis Presley, Tim Hardin, Eddie Cochran and Woody Guthrie. And the Clash tracks are solid (although being three unreleased demos and a B-side, they'll hardly replace your favorites), as are The 101'ers' "Keys To Your Heart" and Mescaleros' "Johnny Appleseed." \nOn the downside, the soundtrack feels more educational than fun. The world music from Strummer's DJ period is more exotic than entertaining -- excepting Colombian troubadour Andres Landeros' fun "Martha Cecelia" -- and Strummer's own "Omotepe" and "Willesden to Cricklewood" are downright dull. Strummer's DJ identifications, peppered throughout, feel gimmicky, and the soundtrack's sheer breadth makes it hard to get a feel for what Strummer was really like. \nC'mon folks, we want to read his diary -- not his resume
The latest project from former Jane's Addiction/Porno For Pyros frontman Perry Ferrell, Satellite Party is proof that if you have sky-high ambitions and a huge talent pool (Extreme's Nuno Bettencourt on guitar; guest appearances by, among others, the Red Hot Chili Peppers' Flea, New Order's Peter Cook, Thievery Corporation and, uh, Fergie), you can accomplish something that… only kind of works.
On July 15, the government's Copyright Royalty Board will inflate the cost for Internet radio stations to play music, bankrupting many of them. You can stop them. Find out how at:
Starting this week, USA Today will begin celebrating its 25th anniversary by publishing 25 lists over the course of 25 weeks, each consisting of 25 things from the last 25 years. (Get all that?) The first list is 25 things that have died out since 1982. \nThis got me thinking: This fall, I will have been in college 10 years (as an undergrad and grad student). What has changed over that time? This gets a little tricky. Besides undergrad/grad differences, I got my bachelor’s degree from a liberal-arts school roughly 1/20th the size of IU-Bloomington. Nevertheless, I think I’ve come up with five general changes to college life. I’d do 10, but hey, not enough space.\n• Interconnection. When I was an undergraduate, instant messaging was just catching on, cell phones were still fairly rare (given their expense) and we were very much wired rather than wireless. So you mostly learned about happenings via word-of-mouth or fliers, phoned your parents occasionally and sometimes received e-mails from friends at other schools. Thus, today’s constant connection via Facebook, cell phones, blogs and ever-expanding wireless coverage still blows my bleedin’ mind. On the plus side, you never feel lonely. But they can also be distracting and overwhelming and prevent you from cutting the parental apron strings.\n• Political correctness. In 1997, things weren’t as bad as they had been in early ’90s, but public discourse was still pretty stilted – there was a real fear that a comment could be construed as sexist, racist, homophobic, etc., making you a pariah. Thank God for programs like “Chappelle’s Show” and “South Park” and for the Internet. Things may be cruder now, but they’re more honest and lively – and at the same time, surveys are indicating greater tolerance for things like interracial marriage and gay rights, PC’s death seems like a good thing.\n• Sexual interaction. I can’t decide whether 1997 was more backward or more enlightened than today. On the one hand, there was less openness about sex and too much paranoia due to a lack of understanding about matters such as AIDS and sexual harassment. On the other hand, I’m not sure that media-fueled self-objectification has benefited women’s rights or that the proliferation of random hook-ups is healthy.\n• Polarization. All my college life, liberals have outnumbered conservatives. Both sides have had fanatics and there’ve always been efforts to establish ideologically pure cliques. The division is just a lot worse now – the latest “American Freshman” survey from UCLA’s Higher Education Research Institute shows both greater polarization and greater interest in politics among incoming students. ’Course, if you were here in 2004, you already know this.\n• Uncertainty. I was an undergrad during the prosperity of the late-’90s “.com bubble.” Liberal-democracy was invincible, and globalization promised to bring economic development to the world. Then the bubble burst, 9/11 and Iraq happened... and suddenly it has seemed as if everyone is trying to kill you or take your job. No wonder you kids are hooking up like rabbits.\nSo are things better now? Worse? I don’t know. But at least *NSYNC is off the radio.
Over the course of four albums, including 2005's excellent sleeper success, Alligator, The National have shown a rare ability get better with every release. And their latest project, Boxer, is so good that, if there's any justice, it should finally launch them into indie rock's A-list. Could it go mainstream? It's probably too moody -- but, hey, who knows what'll happen if one of the songs gets on "Grey's Anatomy." \nIf you're new to The National, here's what you should expect:\nWith his languid baritone, Matt Berenger sounds like the world's weariest frontman (excepting, possibly, Tom Waits), and his impressionistic lyrics suggesting failure, heartbreak, paranoia, resignation and societal decline seem like a ready-made soundtrack for an Irish wake at the end of the world. Add to this a loping piano refrain, then a single note plucked repeatedly on guitar, then drums and bassoon, build in tempo and volume, then kick everything into a clockwork shuffle and fire up a triumphant volley of brass and guitars -- and that's "Fake Empire," the album's very first track. Then, as incredible as "Empire" is, it's outdone by "Mistaken For Strangers," with its powerful drums, chilly lead guitar, heavy bass and catchy chorus: "You get mistaken for strangers by your own friends / when you pass them at night under the silvery, silvery Citibank lights / arm in arm in arm, and eyes and eyes glazing under."\n"Strangers" might be Boxer's most immediate song, but not a weak track follows. Other highlights include the office drone lament, "Squalor Victoria," and the bittersweet, but deeply romantic, "Slow Show" (chorus: "You know I dreamed about you / for 29 years before I saw you"). \nSlow and powerful, with fire seething between the cracks in its surface, The National's Boxer rolls past the ears like lava, although it is a lot easier to sing along to.
Television opened my eyes this week. You and I – we all have things that go wrong in our lives. We all have our disappointments and problems. And we’re used to fixating on them and feeling sorry for ourselves. \nBut did you ever stop to think about just how hard beautiful people have it?\nSure, they probably get laid a lot more often than you or me. And they can make loads of money without any education, talent, intelligence or hard work. And studies have shown that, even when they’re working normal jobs, they get paid more than less-attractive people – and that individuals are nicer to them in just about all circumstances, from college classes to court trials. It might seem terribly unfair. \nBut simply switch on the TV and flip through the channels, and you’ll find that the programming is how the world compensates beautiful people for having incredibly difficult lives. \nFor example, turn to the networks during prime time. What will you see? \nYou’ll see beautiful people whose lives are thrown into disarray by quirky neighbors, unlikely coincidences and madcap situations that normal people never, ever have to deal with. Or beautiful people who are heartbroken because, somehow, they can’t hook up with one another – all while other uglier people plot to ruin them or their careers as beautiful doctors, beautiful lawyers or beautiful breeders of champion whippets. Or you’ll find beautiful people having to interrogate skeevy criminals because other beautiful people were robbed or murdered. On “Lost,” beautiful people are stuck on an island filled with dangerous secrets that might kill one of them in the season finale. On “24,” beautiful people live under the constant threat of a nuclear attack while getting the bejeezus beat out of them. Or you’ll see game shows, where beautiful people’s dreams of fame and riches are dashed for not being able to eat five goat testicles in one minute. \nThe tragedy!\nYou and I, living among the average-to-unsightly population, we could never handle the strains of such lives – the uncertainty, the disappointment.\nAnd they don’t have things any better on cable. On the Sci-Fi Channel, beautiful people are imperiled with alarming frequency – via giant snakes, giant two-headed snakes, giant radioactive snakes, giant cyborg snakes, snakes with wings and snake-borne viruses, often all in one 12-hourlong block on Sunday. E! tells us all about their break-ups, controlling parents, their descents into a vortex of drugs, alcohol, anorexia, bulimia and uh, streptococcus. And on the Home Shopping Network they beg for our help in buying Oscar Blandi two-piece hair-styling sets and Royal Doulton sculpted napkin rings.\nTruly such things make the biblical trials of Job look like a mosquito bite. Knowing this, the good folks behind TV have sought to make us feel better about our lives by focusing on the beautiful people and broadcasting their stories. Which you know must all be true – because they’re on TV.
Solutions by The State News