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(02/13/03 5:00am)
On a day in which the imminent terror status at home was elevated to high, anything short of blood on the stage was going to seem irrelevant. That was precisely the presence of The Nicotones on the night of their release party for their newest EP, You Got It Raw. Though hardly a beacon of the populous, Saturday night at Rhino's was not a symbol of the new disenfranchised youth, it was of the blinded, non-involved and conservative suburbanites. \nFormerly Abercrombie Skins, The Nicotones looked the part of their former name. To focus on the Nicotones' look is necessary because of the incredible triteness they exuded. The bass player was a rather androgynous looking fellow, like a cross between David Bowie circa the Hunky Dory album and Gram Parsons. He had the look of a true rock star and was gorgeous in a manner usually reserved for that elite group. He towed the line of his clean-cut brethren in the band who were dirty only because of their thrift store clothes. \nThe lead singer and rhythm guitarist Dave Parker, who had an "Eraserhead" style haircut with red tips, shifted his eyes coyly, in that cute manner learned from sellout punks like Green Day or Blink-182. Parker's compatriot guitarist to his left looked sharp in his gray and black Sunday clothes and black tie. \nLooking like an expose from VH1, the crowd hopped along with the jolly sounds of pop-punk. Moody meant a minor chord tossed in amongst the barrage of power chord riffs, which could have been stolen from any one of the hundreds of similar bands on the radio, kiddy-scene and basement circuit around the Midwest. Exhausting their limitations, they sunk to lows of meandering merriment by playing tongue-in-cheek covers of Lita Ford's "Kiss Me Deadly" and "Daydream Believer." \nAs Robert Christgau always says, rock and roll is essentially an art of becoming, so what are the Nicotones becoming? Garage workers? People who quote rock critics? Liberal arts students? Journalists? Criminals? Probably somewhere in between these ghastly futures. Of course, it really isn't fair to hold this relatively immaterial group of Bloomington residents responsible for the outcome of their generation, but from a critical point of view it is polemical to hold so-called artists to higher standards of practices.\nAs young boys prepare to go off to be cannon fodder in strange nations for strange reasons, they may never fully understand that politics are an absolute necessity, or at least a display of raw emotion is. The Nicotones provided a contrived sense of reality on this night. Perhaps it was the best night of their lives, when they had their fifteen minutes and got the girl, but perhaps there is a little more to life then your friends and neighbors.
(02/12/03 5:52pm)
On a day in which the imminent terror status at home was elevated to high, anything short of blood on the stage was going to seem irrelevant. That was precisely the presence of The Nicotones on the night of their release party for their newest EP, You Got It Raw. Though hardly a beacon of the populous, Saturday night at Rhino's was not a symbol of the new disenfranchised youth, it was of the blinded, non-involved and conservative suburbanites. \nFormerly Abercrombie Skins, The Nicotones looked the part of their former name. To focus on the Nicotones' look is necessary because of the incredible triteness they exuded. The bass player was a rather androgynous looking fellow, like a cross between David Bowie circa the Hunky Dory album and Gram Parsons. He had the look of a true rock star and was gorgeous in a manner usually reserved for that elite group. He towed the line of his clean-cut brethren in the band who were dirty only because of their thrift store clothes. \nThe lead singer and rhythm guitarist Dave Parker, who had an "Eraserhead" style haircut with red tips, shifted his eyes coyly, in that cute manner learned from sellout punks like Green Day or Blink-182. Parker's compatriot guitarist to his left looked sharp in his gray and black Sunday clothes and black tie. \nLooking like an expose from VH1, the crowd hopped along with the jolly sounds of pop-punk. Moody meant a minor chord tossed in amongst the barrage of power chord riffs, which could have been stolen from any one of the hundreds of similar bands on the radio, kiddy-scene and basement circuit around the Midwest. Exhausting their limitations, they sunk to lows of meandering merriment by playing tongue-in-cheek covers of Lita Ford's "Kiss Me Deadly" and "Daydream Believer." \nAs Robert Christgau always says, rock and roll is essentially an art of becoming, so what are the Nicotones becoming? Garage workers? People who quote rock critics? Liberal arts students? Journalists? Criminals? Probably somewhere in between these ghastly futures. Of course, it really isn't fair to hold this relatively immaterial group of Bloomington residents responsible for the outcome of their generation, but from a critical point of view it is polemical to hold so-called artists to higher standards of practices.\nAs young boys prepare to go off to be cannon fodder in strange nations for strange reasons, they may never fully understand that politics are an absolute necessity, or at least a display of raw emotion is. The Nicotones provided a contrived sense of reality on this night. Perhaps it was the best night of their lives, when they had their fifteen minutes and got the girl, but perhaps there is a little more to life then your friends and neighbors.
(02/12/03 5:31pm)
As a boy, with a boyish imagination, I spent my nights in bed listening to readings of "Moby Dick," "The Chronicles of Narnia," "The Red Badge of Courage" and many others on my mini tape deck. As I think back on those romantic days now, I imagine hearing that famous first line of "Moby Dick," "Call me Ishmael," and I swear that I hear the sound of seagulls swarming around the docks for scraps from the enormous wooden ships and the narrator saying "Argh!" before he delivered his most personal information.\nLou Reed's new album, The Raven, takes me back to those days when my reverie was given a voice to stories so resplendent and profound that it was a wonder I ever fell asleep. Originally, it was conceived as a stage presentation of Edgar Allen Poe's writings with new Lou Reed music and direction by Robert Wilson called "POE-try." Now the music has been released upon the world in two versions. There is a double-CD with two hours of music and Reed's rewrites of Poe delivered by some famous actors, and a single disc, which eradicates much of the spoken word material. \nSo is Lou Reed's rewriting of Poe blasphemy? Hardly, though the language is denser than what Reed usually works with. Since his days in the Velvet Underground, he has been an expert of conveying the stories and images of the little dark corners of the world. Poe, with his lecher limp, strange sexual history and serious drug issues is an easy fit to the world of Lou Reed. The actors, which include Willem Dafoe, Steve Buscemi and the incorrigible Elizabeth Ashley, deliver their lines with fervor and precision, making Reed's words sound effortlessly ancient. \nReed had once said that he wanted to take the idea of a novel and present it within the fun of rock and roll. The Raven is similar to that idea, but like the 1990 album Songs for Drella which he made with John Cale about the life of Andy Warhol, this is something more like a biography. Reed is attempting to educate, shed new light and to once again make the words of Edgar Allen Poe radiate with the intensity they had in the late-19th century.\nWith the spoken word parts alone this album would be a treasure chest of stimulus, but interwoven throughout is some great rock music and a collection of talented musicians to help out. David Bowie shows up to sing with a joyous buoyancy on "Hop-Frog," Ornette Coleman honks along rhythmically with "Guilty" and The Blind Boys of Alabama sing their hearts out in a call and response with Reed on "I Wanna Know (The Pit and the Pendulum)."\nThe album ultimately succeeds because Reed's music does not sound out of place as it exchanges passages with the spirit of the dear, departed Poe. When the unknown Antony sings the Reed classic "Perfect Day" as if someone had gutted his lovers heart and then flows into Dafoe's inhabiting of "The Raven," it seems just right.\nThough the concept screams out with the vain pretentiousness Reed has been accused of in the past, it ends up being a very warm-hearted, yet frightful affair. As he sings with typical bluntness on "Edgar Allen Poe," "We give you the soliloquy the raven at the door/flaming pits the moving walls no equilibrium/No ballast, no bombast/the unvarnished truth we've got/mind swoons guilty cooking ravings in a pot/Edgar Allan Poe/not exactly the boy next door," Reed is aching for his fans to feel the same passion for the writer as he does.
(02/06/03 5:00am)
Many times the question has been asked, just what would Phish sound like if they were a good band? Well, one option might be the Midstates, the band formed from the wake of Novasonic Down Hyperspace. Choosing to sound psychedelic through the studio rather than counting on constant melodic reiteration has always been and will always be a good idea. The Calumet City, Ill. band's debut is a glorious ode to orchestrated pop in the vain of Grandaddy and the infamous Flaming Lips. With the melodies always attempting to reach the perfect crescendo, Shadowing Ghosts certainly isn't loose. Singer Paul Heintz sings with a gentle inflection of recompense that recalls Trey Anastasio. That combined with the soft lyrics, listening to the Midstates can feel like a nice pat on the head. The lack of rhythm and the meticulously crafted melodies are perfect in their own tiny universe, though. The careful nature of the album doesn't take away from the fact that it is brilliant dope music. Nothing is messy or confusing and there are sing-a-long choruses too. Theramins, chimes, a choir of friends all ringing the rhymes of the deep in perfect harmony.
(02/06/03 5:00am)
In an interview done for personal reasons with Robert Christgau, the "dean" of American rock critics, I was told, "Michael, God doesn't say there's always going to be new bands. If you look back at the history of the arts, arts ebb and flow... maybe the fact you think they're a good group is a function of your age and your own limitations." So the Warlocks ebb? With a name stolen from the pre-economist Grateful Dead period and riffs just plain robbed from "Sister Ray"-era Velvet Underground, the Warlocks could fool a lot of people's mothers. When singer Bobby Hecksher gets to the imperative line of the opening chorus, "Shake, shake, shake the dope out," though, hearts melt like an abused wife's. Like good, little furry-faced hipsters, they know what their crowd wants to hear: wheezing guitars with high distortion, primitive beats and flat, bleak vocals. Well, this is a relatively new band, with a pretty old stack of party favors. It is in actuality, even further proof the economy is in good shape. Phoenix Album is simply product just like Shania, faith and Andrea Bocelli.
(02/05/03 6:58pm)
In an interview done for personal reasons with Robert Christgau, the "dean" of American rock critics, I was told, "Michael, God doesn't say there's always going to be new bands. If you look back at the history of the arts, arts ebb and flow... maybe the fact you think they're a good group is a function of your age and your own limitations." So the Warlocks ebb? With a name stolen from the pre-economist Grateful Dead period and riffs just plain robbed from "Sister Ray"-era Velvet Underground, the Warlocks could fool a lot of people's mothers. When singer Bobby Hecksher gets to the imperative line of the opening chorus, "Shake, shake, shake the dope out," though, hearts melt like an abused wife's. Like good, little furry-faced hipsters, they know what their crowd wants to hear: wheezing guitars with high distortion, primitive beats and flat, bleak vocals. Well, this is a relatively new band, with a pretty old stack of party favors. It is in actuality, even further proof the economy is in good shape. Phoenix Album is simply product just like Shania, faith and Andrea Bocelli.
(02/05/03 6:56pm)
Many times the question has been asked, just what would Phish sound like if they were a good band? Well, one option might be the Midstates, the band formed from the wake of Novasonic Down Hyperspace. Choosing to sound psychedelic through the studio rather than counting on constant melodic reiteration has always been and will always be a good idea. The Calumet City, Ill. band's debut is a glorious ode to orchestrated pop in the vain of Grandaddy and the infamous Flaming Lips. With the melodies always attempting to reach the perfect crescendo, Shadowing Ghosts certainly isn't loose. Singer Paul Heintz sings with a gentle inflection of recompense that recalls Trey Anastasio. That combined with the soft lyrics, listening to the Midstates can feel like a nice pat on the head. The lack of rhythm and the meticulously crafted melodies are perfect in their own tiny universe, though. The careful nature of the album doesn't take away from the fact that it is brilliant dope music. Nothing is messy or confusing and there are sing-a-long choruses too. Theramins, chimes, a choir of friends all ringing the rhymes of the deep in perfect harmony.
(01/30/03 5:00am)
Driving east on Highway 16 in South Dakota, through the Black Hills, you can hear the sound of the highway. Every crack in the road and yellow line reflector ran over is accompanied by the wind whipping the car, treating the imported piece of metal like a plastic bag. Life is more pointless and impossible there than anywhere else in the world. \nIf that sounds like a suggestion as to what the Loose Fur album holds in store, it is. The band is a collaboration between Wilco frontman Jeff Tweedy and drummer Glen Kotche with avant-garde pop composer and sometime Sonic Youth-member Jim O'Rourke. The trio was also mainly responsible for the miracle of last year's Wilco record, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. \nMeandering, dreamlike, precocious, and dull. These are adjectives you might see critics brand upon their debut release as Loose Fur.\nTheir formula is obvious and has been done to death: start off with a pretty melody and play it ad nauseum, let the other two go to work, see what happens. Since John Cage, Ornette Coleman or Sonic Youth itself has done this better and earlier, any innovation it might cast on neophytes can be chalked up to ignorance. \nPerhaps, though, with the indie-rock crowd and rock critics 'round the globe licking Jeff Tweedy's boots, this is his version of Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music or Dylan's Self Portrait. Incomprehensible for the sake of incomprehensibility. But judging from his self important performance in last fall's Wilco movie, "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart," it seems unlikely.\nO'Rourke and Tweedy are too in love with melody to make the drastic art-rock statement they're aiming at, and the light feeling of Loose Fur recalls YHF in more ways than one. It's a grave fallacy to separate lyrics from the music and Tweedy had turned into one of the best ambiguous poets in rock. Loose Fur is devoid of the beautiful stories and passing imagery that clouded YHF. \nThe opening track, "Laminated Cat," is a song Wilco has been banging around since late 2000. In 2002 concerts the band had turned the song into a noise-rock freak out, which caused many a catcall from the audience. Even in Indianapolis the crowd shouted "play some rock and roll!" Like everything else on this record though, it has become a snoozer. Tweedy sings in his least impressive voice yet, a kind of let's-get-this-over-with monotonal intonation. \nEven Glen Kotche, who had brought some much needed energy to the latest Wilco lineup, sounds deliberate. When he's not glued to the 4/4, he could be mistaken for a Swedish free-jazz drummer at 22nd and Indiana in Chicago, who drops log chains on his snare and hits the cymbals with his elbow.\nBut at last, Loose Fur is nothing more than half-thought songs and musique concrete on conventional rock instruments. Wading through the sludge of random guitar on "So Long" reveals that this music is purposely obtuse, not to mention real laid back. At least Ornette Coleman's or Captain Beefheart's improvised schtick had a vitality and energy that gave it direction.\nWith only six songs and a disc of 40 minutes, this is what rock snobs would call a "heavy" record. Money and drugs usually create albums like this, but there is another culprit at hand: prog-rock. Wilco fans devoted to their alt-country period feared that YHF was a bit too artsy. They can relax though, this is a throw away disc created by friends having fun in the studio. The problem is, Loose Fur is not much fun at all.
(01/29/03 11:25pm)
Driving east on Highway 16 in South Dakota, through the Black Hills, you can hear the sound of the highway. Every crack in the road and yellow line reflector ran over is accompanied by the wind whipping the car, treating the imported piece of metal like a plastic bag. Life is more pointless and impossible there than anywhere else in the world. \nIf that sounds like a suggestion as to what the Loose Fur album holds in store, it is. The band is a collaboration between Wilco frontman Jeff Tweedy and drummer Glen Kotche with avant-garde pop composer and sometime Sonic Youth-member Jim O'Rourke. The trio was also mainly responsible for the miracle of last year's Wilco record, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. \nMeandering, dreamlike, precocious, and dull. These are adjectives you might see critics brand upon their debut release as Loose Fur.\nTheir formula is obvious and has been done to death: start off with a pretty melody and play it ad nauseum, let the other two go to work, see what happens. Since John Cage, Ornette Coleman or Sonic Youth itself has done this better and earlier, any innovation it might cast on neophytes can be chalked up to ignorance. \nPerhaps, though, with the indie-rock crowd and rock critics 'round the globe licking Jeff Tweedy's boots, this is his version of Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music or Dylan's Self Portrait. Incomprehensible for the sake of incomprehensibility. But judging from his self important performance in last fall's Wilco movie, "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart," it seems unlikely.\nO'Rourke and Tweedy are too in love with melody to make the drastic art-rock statement they're aiming at, and the light feeling of Loose Fur recalls YHF in more ways than one. It's a grave fallacy to separate lyrics from the music and Tweedy had turned into one of the best ambiguous poets in rock. Loose Fur is devoid of the beautiful stories and passing imagery that clouded YHF. \nThe opening track, "Laminated Cat," is a song Wilco has been banging around since late 2000. In 2002 concerts the band had turned the song into a noise-rock freak out, which caused many a catcall from the audience. Even in Indianapolis the crowd shouted "play some rock and roll!" Like everything else on this record though, it has become a snoozer. Tweedy sings in his least impressive voice yet, a kind of let's-get-this-over-with monotonal intonation. \nEven Glen Kotche, who had brought some much needed energy to the latest Wilco lineup, sounds deliberate. When he's not glued to the 4/4, he could be mistaken for a Swedish free-jazz drummer at 22nd and Indiana in Chicago, who drops log chains on his snare and hits the cymbals with his elbow.\nBut at last, Loose Fur is nothing more than half-thought songs and musique concrete on conventional rock instruments. Wading through the sludge of random guitar on "So Long" reveals that this music is purposely obtuse, not to mention real laid back. At least Ornette Coleman's or Captain Beefheart's improvised schtick had a vitality and energy that gave it direction.\nWith only six songs and a disc of 40 minutes, this is what rock snobs would call a "heavy" record. Money and drugs usually create albums like this, but there is another culprit at hand: prog-rock. Wilco fans devoted to their alt-country period feared that YHF was a bit too artsy. They can relax though, this is a throw away disc created by friends having fun in the studio. The problem is, Loose Fur is not much fun at all.
(01/22/03 12:20am)
Thirty years since it formed and 15 years after its departure, the legendary Senegalese group Orchestra Baobab reunited in 2002 to concoct another timeless album. In its day, the Baobab was the most famous and highly regarded group in Senegal. It blended native touches with Latin rhythms, to create something Westerners called Afro-pop. Easily, the star of the record is Barthelemy Attisso's guitar. His concise, melodic playing in each song seems to create perfect counter compositions to the material. The re-recording of the band's signature tune, "On Verra Ca," is a celebration of atmospheric proportions. As noted in the liner notes, all the original musicians present at the original recording were along for the ride 26 years later. Sounding like a cross between Paul Simon's Graceland and the Buena Vista Social Club, Specialist In All Styles is perfect for those who find the fatiguing wankers of Phish too unfocused or the Grateful Dead unmusical. 1982's Pirate's Choice still remains Baobab's masterpiece, but as an introduction, Specialist In All Styles is that and much more.
(01/22/03 12:05am)
The fourth edition in Johnny Cash's collaborations with famed producer Rick Rubin belittles the whole Cash experience by making the dying singer a caricature of himself. Approach this album skeptically, the material is less than befitting -- Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus," 70's schlock-soul ballad "First Time Ever I Saw Your Face," the Eagles' "Desperado," "Danny Boy," Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt," etc. Cash has always been somewhat of a one-trick pony, but it was always the combination of his words and minimalist music that resonated with fans. Guest turns and Rubin's ugly irony can't cover for the poor pre-production choices. As always though, Cash sounds saintly and superannuated. On American IV, along with his quivering bass voice, death rattles from his lungs, which suggests this may be his final statement. His reading of Sting's "I Hung My Head" is surprising, and almost worth the price of the album. In a death sentence story he's told a hundred times before, Cash howls as the gallows and judge close in, "I felt the power of death over life"
(01/16/03 5:00am)
The fourth edition in Johnny Cash's collaborations with famed producer Rick Rubin belittles the whole Cash experience by making the dying singer a caricature of himself. Approach this album skeptically, the material is less than befitting -- Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus," 70's schlock-soul ballad "First Time Ever I Saw Your Face," the Eagles' "Desperado," "Danny Boy," Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt," etc. Cash has always been somewhat of a one-trick pony, but it was always the combination of his words and minimalist music that resonated with fans. Guest turns and Rubin's ugly irony can't cover for the poor pre-production choices. As always though, Cash sounds saintly and superannuated. On American IV, along with his quivering bass voice, death rattles from his lungs, which suggests this may be his final statement. His reading of Sting's "I Hung My Head" is surprising, and almost worth the price of the album. In a death sentence story he's told a hundred times before, Cash howls as the gallows and judge close in, "I felt the power of death over life"
(01/16/03 5:00am)
Thirty years since it formed and 15 years after its departure, the legendary Senegalese group Orchestra Baobab reunited in 2002 to concoct another timeless album. In its day, the Baobab was the most famous and highly regarded group in Senegal. It blended native touches with Latin rhythms, to create something Westerners called Afro-pop. Easily, the star of the record is Barthelemy Attisso's guitar. His concise, melodic playing in each song seems to create perfect counter compositions to the material. The re-recording of the band's signature tune, "On Verra Ca," is a celebration of atmospheric proportions. As noted in the liner notes, all the original musicians present at the original recording were along for the ride 26 years later. Sounding like a cross between Paul Simon's Graceland and the Buena Vista Social Club, Specialist In All Styles is perfect for those who find the fatiguing wankers of Phish too unfocused or the Grateful Dead unmusical. 1982's Pirate's Choice still remains Baobab's masterpiece, but as an introduction, Specialist In All Styles is that and much more.
(12/05/02 5:00am)
New albums by Desaparecidos and Bright Eyes are two very different experiences masterminded by the same boy wonder, Conor Oberst of Omaha. Oberst has been drawing praise for years now and continues to do so with Desaparecidos' debut album and Bright Eyes' fourth album, Lifted. For the record, as of 2002 he is a veteran at the ripe old age of 22.\nBright Eyes is an emo-type outfit that Oberst fronts like a folk troubadour. On the band's latest album, his words and acoustic guitar are moved to the front. Instead of the usual rock band accompaniment, Lifted... is rounded out with old-world instruments and '60s pop arrangements. \nOberst is aching to hit on overreaching themes, social injustices and anything in general that is bigger than him, and on Lifted... the success of this can be extremely varied. His simple chord structures and ever-quivering vocals make him sound like he is just begging to be taken seriously. Yet, as he reaches the end of each line, he either lets out a curdling punk-rock screech or drops his tone a register à la Johnny Cash. In both cases the results seem contrived. \nThe lyrics from the Bright Eyes record are interesting, but they don't captivate the imagination the way Oberst is able to do with Desaparecidos. Read Music/Speak Spanish is a ruthless assault upon the listener and middle America.\nIf Bright Eyes is Oberst as a compromising nihilist, he is a gun-waving revolutionary with Desaparecidos. The name of the group was taken from a term given to political heretics who were kidnapped by South American governments and dropped out of airplanes over the ocean. With all the connotations the band name recalls, there can be no doubt that Oberst is going to be accusatory. Gone is the air of hesitation in his voice from Bright Eyes, and now he is backed by a loud and straight rock-and-roll group.\nRead Music/Speak Spanish begins with a soundbites of girls discussing their ideal man; one says, "I like a man that has money." The importance of money in American culture is the recurring theme. Along with other soundbites of infomercials and teens discussing corporate culture while smoking pot, which are interspersed with crunching guitars, it can make for a suffocating listening experience, but each song is highlighted by a simple guitar melody which allows for passive attention.
(12/05/02 5:00am)
In 1975, Bob Dylan toured the Northeastern states and parts of Canada in a medicine-show spectacle he called the Rolling Thunder Revue. Traveling like a circus with Dylan were such characters as T-Bone Burnett (producer of the "O Brother" soundtrack), Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell, Ramblin' Jack Elliott, Roger McGuinn and Allen Ginsberg. In retrospect, '75 was seen as a year Dylan returned to form; he released his heartbreaking Blood On the Tracks album, came back to protest with "Hurricane" and generally seemed happy and engaging on stage.\nThe Bootleg Series Vol. 5 is a fabulous Christmas-time product. The sound is absolutely pristine, the packaging is beautiful and it comes with informative liner notes by Larry Sloman and a bonus DVD to boot.\nThe material on Live 1975 presents Dylan in his most funky and playful mood. The all-star backup band is loose in a democratic fashion. Dylan sings with a tone of voice delivery, but the hero of this tour must have been Scarlet Rivera's violin.\nApparently, Dylan was riding around the streets of New York and saw Rivera, a young woman with long, jet-black hair walking around with a violin case, so he stopped and asked her if she wanted to play with him. \nIt's impossible to guess what was going on in Dylan's head, and Live 1975 is pleasant at worst. There are people out there who might find these performances transcendent, but it's the most domestic and mannered Dylan's ever sounded.\nUncle Bob seems as if he was in a nostalgic mood on the tour; he reaches back in his catalog for favorites like "Mr. Tambourine Man," "It Ain't Me, Babe," "Blowin' In the Wind" and "Just Like a Woman." The mid-'70s was a time when he was more of a populist artist; though the songs are lovely and comfortable, Dylan seems to be in awe of himself.
(12/05/02 5:00am)
1) The Thanksgiving Party and Dinner\nThanksgiving in my parents' house was spent in some ulterior time frame. A large portion of my family was there, and I avoided eye contact all night. Questions like, "So, when are you graduating?," etc...\n2) Faith Hill Special on ABC, Thursday Night\nAs Thanksgiving dinner broke and the fam exited to the living room, the television was turned on to this moronic schlock-fest. It was a surreal experience, in a way. I thought about how it might be funny to gut myself while sitting on the couch, replacing order with chaos and finally giving everyone a purpose.\n3-4) Eminem's "Lose Yourself," and Robert Christgau's "Consumer Guide"\nI bought the "8 Mile" soundtrack on the strength of Em's new single, which might just be his most successful ever. It is a moral tale, accessible to mom and dad as well as that racist rocker in your circle. The rest of the soundtrack was a profound disappointment, and I'm sure that Obie Trice is the dumbest person on the face of the planet.\nVillage Voice pop critic Christgau wrote in his monthly "Consumer Guide," "The worst thing I know about Eminem is the African Americans he chooses to hang with. And at least Dr. Dre serves a commercial function - these ill jockeys are just a two-inch ruler for Marshall Mathers to measure his dick against."\n5) Old Friends and Neighbors\nEventually, Thanksgiving break leads me to the local bars of my hometown. I had to mingle with the same people I've been saying I'll never see again for four years. One nice element of it was that I could use up some of my new material in my quasi-intellectual standup routine. I explained my theories of the reduction of all things to sex and death (borrowed from writer Nick Tosches), being dignified and old (confiscated from the Modern Lovers) and my personal colloquialisms on the Bible, fire and brimstone (stolen from Jerry Lee Lewis).\n6) The Roots - Phrenology (MCA)\nEmbarrassed to say, besides Jay-Z's "Unplugged" show on MTV, this is my introduction to the Roots. The album sounds like pure genius to someone who may not know any better, a combination of Afrocentricity, free jazz, psychedelic and post-punk rock music, with some hard funk-rap. It's kept me calm over the break, but I have no idea what this is about yet. Phrenology is a study of the shape of the skull as an indication of mental abilities and character traits, which I suppose implies some sort of racial dividing line, or at least it does to me. But the CD is mysterious like the best music is, like the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds, the music of Isaac Albéniz or any Pavement album. It's like part of the air of another country. It will always be unfamiliar, and yet it becomes comfortable. It can become home, but there is always that distance and the other.\n7) DMT\nFrom writer Terence McKenna, who proposed the theory that the birth of human consciousness came when the monkeys started to eat psychedelic mushrooms, comes the book "True Hallucinations: Being an Account of the Author's Extraordinary Adventures in the Devil's Paradise." He talks about the drug DMT, which apparently puts you in touch with the elves that run the machine of the universe. If you're going to do drugs, why not meet the people who run the universe?\n8) Football\nI swear this is the most idiotic sport man has ever created, and Thanksgiving is usually a time when I must be forced to watch said monstrosity. Somehow I avoided it this year, though, which is no small feat and a cause for a meal and celebration itself.\n9) The Ridgewood Tap\nThe Homewood, Ill., bar I spent three nights in a row at. A cavernous place indeed, no windows, smoke clouds that reach to the floor and a few of my old high school teachers sitting drunk at the bar. It's the kind of burnout place that is marvelous in one way, but in another, back-to-reality way, it is a bad movie on a continuous loop. \n10.) DJ Shadow, "You Can't Go Home Again," from The Private Press (MCA)\nAs a melancholy, Asian guitar gives way to an announcement ("and now here's a story about being free"), the track turns into a bouncy lament. It suggests the drive away from your old home more than the actual visit, appreciative yet sad. Certainly, it is freedom.
(12/04/02 6:30am)
1) The Thanksgiving Party and Dinner\nThanksgiving in my parents' house was spent in some ulterior time frame. A large portion of my family was there, and I avoided eye contact all night. Questions like, "So, when are you graduating?," etc...\n2) Faith Hill Special on ABC, Thursday Night\nAs Thanksgiving dinner broke and the fam exited to the living room, the television was turned on to this moronic schlock-fest. It was a surreal experience, in a way. I thought about how it might be funny to gut myself while sitting on the couch, replacing order with chaos and finally giving everyone a purpose.\n3-4) Eminem's "Lose Yourself," and Robert Christgau's "Consumer Guide"\nI bought the "8 Mile" soundtrack on the strength of Em's new single, which might just be his most successful ever. It is a moral tale, accessible to mom and dad as well as that racist rocker in your circle. The rest of the soundtrack was a profound disappointment, and I'm sure that Obie Trice is the dumbest person on the face of the planet.\nVillage Voice pop critic Christgau wrote in his monthly "Consumer Guide," "The worst thing I know about Eminem is the African Americans he chooses to hang with. And at least Dr. Dre serves a commercial function - these ill jockeys are just a two-inch ruler for Marshall Mathers to measure his dick against."\n5) Old Friends and Neighbors\nEventually, Thanksgiving break leads me to the local bars of my hometown. I had to mingle with the same people I've been saying I'll never see again for four years. One nice element of it was that I could use up some of my new material in my quasi-intellectual standup routine. I explained my theories of the reduction of all things to sex and death (borrowed from writer Nick Tosches), being dignified and old (confiscated from the Modern Lovers) and my personal colloquialisms on the Bible, fire and brimstone (stolen from Jerry Lee Lewis).\n6) The Roots - Phrenology (MCA)\nEmbarrassed to say, besides Jay-Z's "Unplugged" show on MTV, this is my introduction to the Roots. The album sounds like pure genius to someone who may not know any better, a combination of Afrocentricity, free jazz, psychedelic and post-punk rock music, with some hard funk-rap. It's kept me calm over the break, but I have no idea what this is about yet. Phrenology is a study of the shape of the skull as an indication of mental abilities and character traits, which I suppose implies some sort of racial dividing line, or at least it does to me. But the CD is mysterious like the best music is, like the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds, the music of Isaac Albéniz or any Pavement album. It's like part of the air of another country. It will always be unfamiliar, and yet it becomes comfortable. It can become home, but there is always that distance and the other.\n7) DMT\nFrom writer Terence McKenna, who proposed the theory that the birth of human consciousness came when the monkeys started to eat psychedelic mushrooms, comes the book "True Hallucinations: Being an Account of the Author's Extraordinary Adventures in the Devil's Paradise." He talks about the drug DMT, which apparently puts you in touch with the elves that run the machine of the universe. If you're going to do drugs, why not meet the people who run the universe?\n8) Football\nI swear this is the most idiotic sport man has ever created, and Thanksgiving is usually a time when I must be forced to watch said monstrosity. Somehow I avoided it this year, though, which is no small feat and a cause for a meal and celebration itself.\n9) The Ridgewood Tap\nThe Homewood, Ill., bar I spent three nights in a row at. A cavernous place indeed, no windows, smoke clouds that reach to the floor and a few of my old high school teachers sitting drunk at the bar. It's the kind of burnout place that is marvelous in one way, but in another, back-to-reality way, it is a bad movie on a continuous loop. \n10.) DJ Shadow, "You Can't Go Home Again," from The Private Press (MCA)\nAs a melancholy, Asian guitar gives way to an announcement ("and now here's a story about being free"), the track turns into a bouncy lament. It suggests the drive away from your old home more than the actual visit, appreciative yet sad. Certainly, it is freedom.
(12/04/02 5:56am)
In 1975, Bob Dylan toured the Northeastern states and parts of Canada in a medicine-show spectacle he called the Rolling Thunder Revue. Traveling like a circus with Dylan were such characters as T-Bone Burnett (producer of the "O Brother" soundtrack), Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell, Ramblin' Jack Elliott, Roger McGuinn and Allen Ginsberg. In retrospect, '75 was seen as a year Dylan returned to form; he released his heartbreaking Blood On the Tracks album, came back to protest with "Hurricane" and generally seemed happy and engaging on stage.\nThe Bootleg Series Vol. 5 is a fabulous Christmas-time product. The sound is absolutely pristine, the packaging is beautiful and it comes with informative liner notes by Larry Sloman and a bonus DVD to boot.\nThe material on Live 1975 presents Dylan in his most funky and playful mood. The all-star backup band is loose in a democratic fashion. Dylan sings with a tone of voice delivery, but the hero of this tour must have been Scarlet Rivera's violin.\nApparently, Dylan was riding around the streets of New York and saw Rivera, a young woman with long, jet-black hair walking around with a violin case, so he stopped and asked her if she wanted to play with him. \nIt's impossible to guess what was going on in Dylan's head, and Live 1975 is pleasant at worst. There are people out there who might find these performances transcendent, but it's the most domestic and mannered Dylan's ever sounded.\nUncle Bob seems as if he was in a nostalgic mood on the tour; he reaches back in his catalog for favorites like "Mr. Tambourine Man," "It Ain't Me, Babe," "Blowin' In the Wind" and "Just Like a Woman." The mid-'70s was a time when he was more of a populist artist; though the songs are lovely and comfortable, Dylan seems to be in awe of himself.
(12/04/02 5:54am)
New albums by Desaparecidos and Bright Eyes are two very different experiences masterminded by the same boy wonder, Conor Oberst of Omaha. Oberst has been drawing praise for years now and continues to do so with Desaparecidos' debut album and Bright Eyes' fourth album, Lifted. For the record, as of 2002 he is a veteran at the ripe old age of 22.\nBright Eyes is an emo-type outfit that Oberst fronts like a folk troubadour. On the band's latest album, his words and acoustic guitar are moved to the front. Instead of the usual rock band accompaniment, Lifted... is rounded out with old-world instruments and '60s pop arrangements. \nOberst is aching to hit on overreaching themes, social injustices and anything in general that is bigger than him, and on Lifted... the success of this can be extremely varied. His simple chord structures and ever-quivering vocals make him sound like he is just begging to be taken seriously. Yet, as he reaches the end of each line, he either lets out a curdling punk-rock screech or drops his tone a register à la Johnny Cash. In both cases the results seem contrived. \nThe lyrics from the Bright Eyes record are interesting, but they don't captivate the imagination the way Oberst is able to do with Desaparecidos. Read Music/Speak Spanish is a ruthless assault upon the listener and middle America.\nIf Bright Eyes is Oberst as a compromising nihilist, he is a gun-waving revolutionary with Desaparecidos. The name of the group was taken from a term given to political heretics who were kidnapped by South American governments and dropped out of airplanes over the ocean. With all the connotations the band name recalls, there can be no doubt that Oberst is going to be accusatory. Gone is the air of hesitation in his voice from Bright Eyes, and now he is backed by a loud and straight rock-and-roll group.\nRead Music/Speak Spanish begins with a soundbites of girls discussing their ideal man; one says, "I like a man that has money." The importance of money in American culture is the recurring theme. Along with other soundbites of infomercials and teens discussing corporate culture while smoking pot, which are interspersed with crunching guitars, it can make for a suffocating listening experience, but each song is highlighted by a simple guitar melody which allows for passive attention.
(11/21/02 6:15am)
Kid Dakota (aka Darren Jackson) is the latest incarnation of Buddy Holly, the lanky white kid with black spectacles and an inability to escape himself. From the cards he has laid out for us, it doesn't appear that Jackson has had a very fun time with his life so far. Like so many others, he has embraced the proverbial hellhound on his trail as a viable muse. The songs on So Pretty seemingly lay out a well-bred character, erudite and snobby, fighting against and amongst lower-class issues.\nJackson and bandmate/drummer Christopher McGuire lean toward an experimental attitude of indie-rock. That particular genre of music has been weighed down by redundancy, which has made the lo-fi, guitar-based approach seem formulaic and highly stylized. \nKid Dakota is indie merely by coincidence; in lieu of big dollars for the recording process the band resorts to ad-hoc ideas (such as ice-cube-tray percussion). There is also quite a bit of double tracking of Jackson's vocals, which cements the Holly correlation by giving the album a "Words of Love"-like weirdness. \nThe key to the success of So Pretty, though, is the interplay between Jackson's words and his guitar. He plays a mock rhythm/lead style, never totally giving over to one or the other. His lyrics require some deciphering and hide somewhat literary pretensions.\n"Jesse and I were not looking so pretty / we hadn't been well in a while / we ran out of cash and we ran out of pity / our demeanor lacked what you call style," Jackson sings on the title track, presenting himself at once like an Oscar Wilde dandy and a troubled youth. Later in the song when he sings, "I'm scrapin' bags and double boilin' cottons / I'm looking around for my rig," the problem is clear.\nSo Pretty is a sign of the times, educated and prepared in all the right ways and having nothing to do with that education. Really, Jackson seems to be discovering what those in the lower classes have known for years: problems beget problems. Kid Dakota's debut album follows him down this trail, from inception to recovery.
