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(07/25/02 8:23pm)
Cambridge-based Rounder Records has always prided itself on presenting the widest variety of traditional folk and roots music in North America. That difficult but admirable goal is represented by two of the label's June releases: One a live, two-disc set from Cape Breton fiddle player Natalie MacMaster, the other a compilation of 1930s aluminum and acetate recordings of spirituals and work songs from a tiny enclave of African Americans in South Carolina.
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>I didn't know John Entwistle had died until a friend e-mailed me the morning after it happened.
"I guess this means there's not going to be a tour this summer," Steve's e-mail read, followed by several of those e-mail frowny faces.
I instantly felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. I knew immediately that he was talking about the Who's impending tour; we had discussed meeting up at the Verizon Center when the band came to Indianapolis in August. We have never seen the Who together, Steve and I, even though we have been dedicated fans of the band since junior high school. Now that they were on tour again and we were both in Indiana, we were looking forward to the Indy show.
But not anymore. Now that Entwistle -- the Who's influential bassist -- is dead, we just don't believe the Who exists anymore. In fact, we both kind of felt that the Who actually ended when drummer Keith Moon died in 1978, although the group continued playing together as a threesome: Entwistle, singer Roger Daltrey and guitarist Pete Townshend. It just wasn't the same without Moon's frenetic drumming. And now it's definitely over.
But Entwistle's recent death -- from a heart attack at age 57 -- hit me even deeper than the disruption of the band's tour. That's because for the last 15 years, the Who have been my heroes -- a bunch of blokes who captured my imagination and helped me survive when I never thought I would make it. The Who have always been there: from the turmoil of adolescence, through the emotional whirlwind of college and now as I nervously and regretfully approach my 30th birthday.
And out of all the men in the band, Entwistle was always my favorite. He was the eye of the storm -- the spot of tranquility at the center of a raging hurricane. While the other three members often lost control, both on and off stage, Entwistle consistently remained stoic and strong. While the others smashed their instruments or ended up in fistfights with each other, Entwistle -- known lovingly as "the Ox" by his fans -- just did his thing.
And that thing was establish a style of and attitude toward bass playing that revolutionized the instrument and the way rock bands put together music. Perhaps only Parliament-Funkadelic's Bootsy Collins has had as much of an impact on rock bass as Entwistle did.
But for me, the Ox was more than just a bassist. He also felt like a close friend, someone who somehow knew how I was feeling and had just the right thing to say. The songs he wrote were often macabre masterpieces, but he also wrote many tracks that were introspective and insightful songs filled with a dreamy sense of wonder and almost child-like appreciation for life and all the joys and sorrows that come with it.
After hearing that the Ox had died, I could not help but think of his song "Heaven and Hell," in which he ruminates about the nature of life after death and the inevitability of our own mortality.
After describing the two afterlife options, he sings wistfully, "Why can't we have eternal life, and never die?"
John Entwistle was truly one of my heroes. I thought he would live forever, thought he would always be there to inspire me and to let me know that, although life might be tough at times, it's also a journey that we must make, like it or not.
My favorite Entwistle song is one from 1971 called "When I Was a Boy." Now that he's gone, I am even more drawn to this song than ever before:
When I was a baby, I hadn't a care in the worldBut now I'm a man, the troubles fill my head.When I was five, it was good to be aliveBut now I'm a man, I wish that I were dead.
When I was a boy, I had the mind of a boyBut now I'm a man, ain't got no mind at all.When I was in my teens, I had my share of dreamsBut now I'm a man, ain't got no dreams at all.
My how time rushes by.The moment you're born you start to die.Time waits for now man, and your lifespanIs over before it began.
As I sit here at my window, my life comes back to meIt's been so long since the good days,It's been so long.And I count up all the wasted years,the hopes and the fears, the laughs and the tearsand I wonder, I wonder,I wonder what went wrong
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Wyclef MasqueradeColumbia
It's pretty much a guarantee that whatever Wyclef Jean releases, it'll be better than 90 percent of the hip-hop out there today. Unlike the vast majority of dime-a-dozen rappers infesting the modern hip-hop scene, Wyclef's music is thoughtful, insightful and introspective; the former Fugee knows how to pinpoint a certain emotion, a certain memory, a certain thought and turn it into a universal message of faith and spiritual renewal.
Masquerade, his latest release, is no different. Having said that, Masquerade is not as good as his 1997 masterpiece, The Carnival. But it is better than his disjointed 2000 effort, Ecleftic, which itself certainly was not bad.
Masquerade contains several brilliant examples of emotional sincerity and intellectual soul-searching. "Daddy" is a plaintive farewell to his father, while "PJ's," featuring Governor and Prolific, is a sobering look at ghetto life. Likewise, "Peace God" and "War No More" are heartfelt pleas for compassion and understanding, and Wyclef's cover of "Knocking on Heaven's Door" is stirring, if a bit syrupy.
Masquerade stumbles when it covers other, less worthy standards. King of schmaltz Tom Jones guests on "Pussycat," a feeble update of an even more feeble original by -- shudder! -- Burt Bacharach. And "Oh What a Night" is a play on "December 1963 (Oh What a Night)," another equally rancid song that was better left alone.
But Wyclef has always been a sucker for such examples of pop trash. On Carnival he covered the Bee Gees, and on Ecleftic he featured a guest appearance by Kenny Rogers, who almost single-handedly killed country music 20 years ago.
But we can forgive Wyclef for such foibles, mainly because the rest of his albums always lift his work above the lousy covers and above the bile that is the vast majority of modern hip-hop.
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
Punk can be a very limited music form. Very few punk bands are able to expand their sound and style very far. Those punk groups that do manage to transcend the genre end up creating a whole now identity for themselves. The Clash, for example, evolved from a straight-ahead, angry-Brit punk combo into a funky, cutting-edge dance band. And like other punks, the guys of Green Day are really trapped inside a musical straitjacket.
(07/25/02 4:00am)
Punk can be a very limited music form. Very few punk bands are able to expand their sound and style very far. Those punk groups that do manage to transcend the genre end up creating a whole now identity for themselves. The Clash, for example, evolved from a straight-ahead, angry-Brit punk combo into a funky, cutting-edge dance band. And like other punks, the guys of Green Day are really trapped inside a musical straitjacket.
(07/18/02 4:00am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>I didn't know John Entwistle had died until a friend e-mailed me the morning after it happened.
"I guess this means there's not going to be a tour this summer," Steve's e-mail read, followed by several of those e-mail frowny faces.
I instantly felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. I knew immediately that he was talking about the Who's impending tour; we had discussed meeting up at the Verizon Center when the band came to Indianapolis in August. We have never seen the Who together, Steve and I, even though we have been dedicated fans of the band since junior high school. Now that they were on tour again and we were both in Indiana, we were looking forward to the Indy show.
But not anymore. Now that Entwistle -- the Who's influential bassist -- is dead, we just don't believe the Who exists anymore. In fact, we both kind of felt that the Who actually ended when drummer Keith Moon died in 1978, although the group continued playing together as a threesome: Entwistle, singer Roger Daltrey and guitarist Pete Townshend. It just wasn't the same without Moon's frenetic drumming. And now it's definitely over.
But Entwistle's recent death -- from a heart attack at age 57 -- hit me even deeper than the disruption of the band's tour. That's because for the last 15 years, the Who have been my heroes -- a bunch of blokes who captured my imagination and helped me survive when I never thought I would make it. The Who have always been there: from the turmoil of adolescence, through the emotional whirlwind of college and now as I nervously and regretfully approach my 30th birthday.
And out of all the men in the band, Entwistle was always my favorite. He was the eye of the storm -- the spot of tranquility at the center of a raging hurricane. While the other three members often lost control, both on and off stage, Entwistle consistently remained stoic and strong. While the others smashed their instruments or ended up in fistfights with each other, Entwistle -- known lovingly as "the Ox" by his fans -- just did his thing.
And that thing was establish a style of and attitude toward bass playing that revolutionized the instrument and the way rock bands put together music. Perhaps only Parliament-Funkadelic's Bootsy Collins has had as much of an impact on rock bass as Entwistle did.
But for me, the Ox was more than just a bassist. He also felt like a close friend, someone who somehow knew how I was feeling and had just the right thing to say. The songs he wrote were often macabre masterpieces, but he also wrote many tracks that were introspective and insightful songs filled with a dreamy sense of wonder and almost child-like appreciation for life and all the joys and sorrows that come with it.
After hearing that the Ox had died, I could not help but think of his song "Heaven and Hell," in which he ruminates about the nature of life after death and the inevitability of our own mortality.
After describing the two afterlife options, he sings wistfully, "Why can't we have eternal life, and never die?"
John Entwistle was truly one of my heroes. I thought he would live forever, thought he would always be there to inspire me and to let me know that, although life might be tough at times, it's also a journey that we must make, like it or not.
My favorite Entwistle song is one from 1971 called "When I Was a Boy." Now that he's gone, I am even more drawn to this song than ever before:
When I was a baby, I hadn't a care in the worldBut now I'm a man, the troubles fill my head.When I was five, it was good to be aliveBut now I'm a man, I wish that I were dead.
When I was a boy, I had the mind of a boyBut now I'm a man, ain't got no mind at all.When I was in my teens, I had my share of dreamsBut now I'm a man, ain't got no dreams at all.
My how time rushes by.The moment you're born you start to die.Time waits for now man, and your lifespanIs over before it began.
As I sit here at my window, my life comes back to meIt's been so long since the good days,It's been so long.And I count up all the wasted years,the hopes and the fears, the laughs and the tearsand I wonder, I wonder,I wonder what went wrong
(07/18/02 4:00am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Wyclef MasqueradeColumbia
It's pretty much a guarantee that whatever Wyclef Jean releases, it'll be better than 90 percent of the hip-hop out there today. Unlike the vast majority of dime-a-dozen rappers infesting the modern hip-hop scene, Wyclef's music is thoughtful, insightful and introspective; the former Fugee knows how to pinpoint a certain emotion, a certain memory, a certain thought and turn it into a universal message of faith and spiritual renewal.
Masquerade, his latest release, is no different. Having said that, Masquerade is not as good as his 1997 masterpiece, The Carnival. But it is better than his disjointed 2000 effort, Ecleftic, which itself certainly was not bad.
Masquerade contains several brilliant examples of emotional sincerity and intellectual soul-searching. "Daddy" is a plaintive farewell to his father, while "PJ's," featuring Governor and Prolific, is a sobering look at ghetto life. Likewise, "Peace God" and "War No More" are heartfelt pleas for compassion and understanding, and Wyclef's cover of "Knocking on Heaven's Door" is stirring, if a bit syrupy.
Masquerade stumbles when it covers other, less worthy standards. King of schmaltz Tom Jones guests on "Pussycat," a feeble update of an even more feeble original by -- shudder! -- Burt Bacharach. And "Oh What a Night" is a play on "December 1963 (Oh What a Night)," another equally rancid song that was better left alone.
But Wyclef has always been a sucker for such examples of pop trash. On Carnival he covered the Bee Gees, and on Ecleftic he featured a guest appearance by Kenny Rogers, who almost single-handedly killed country music 20 years ago.
But we can forgive Wyclef for such foibles, mainly because the rest of his albums always lift his work above the lousy covers and above the bile that is the vast majority of modern hip-hop.
(06/27/02 4:00am)
Cambridge-based Rounder Records has always prided itself on presenting the widest variety of traditional folk and roots music in North America. That difficult but admirable goal is represented by two of the label's June releases: One a live, two-disc set from Cape Breton fiddle player Natalie MacMaster, the other a compilation of 1930s aluminum and acetate recordings of spirituals and work songs from a tiny enclave of African Americans in South Carolina.
(06/20/02 8:58pm)
We fans of '50s rock 'n' roll all have our favorite artists from that heady era. I love Little Richard, Chuck Berry and Ritchie Valens. Others love Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, the Platters or Fats Domino. But there is one name that often gets overlooked when discussing the early days of rock 'n' roll -- Otis Blackwell. And that's unfortunate because Blackwell wrote many of the songs that propelled those favorite artists to stardom and fueled the fire of the '50s.\nRaised in Brooklyn, Blackwell longed to become a singer himself, but that opportunity never opened up for him. He managed to etch his name in history by penning songs that stand as early rock classics: Lewis' "Great Balls of Fire" and "Breathless," Presley's "Don't Be Cruel" and "All Shook Up" and Little Willie John's "Fever" (later covered by Peggy Lee), to name a few.\nBlackwell's talents were rich and diverse; he blended country and rhythm and blues to create both flat-out ball-busters and perfectly crafted pop songs. That artists as divergent as wildman Lewis and pop princess Lee used his work as testimony to Blackwell's malleable style of songwriting.\nMy favorite Blackwell songs are, of course, the rockers recorded by Jerry Lee Lewis. Few songs from the '50s can match the power and hair-raising vitality of "Great Balls of Fire." While "Breathless" is actually Lewis' best cut (an underrated gem written by a man who never got the thanks due to him).\nOtis Blackwell may never receive adequate thanks. He died May 6 of a heart attack in Nashville, Tenn. He was 70. Nearly 50 years after helping pour the foundation of rock 'n' roll, he passed away without much fanfare or acknowledgement. A short obituary here, maybe a few seconds on cable television news. Time magazine gave him a paragraph.\nBut the memory of the 1950s and beyond is burnished by Blackwell and his songwriting legacy. As IU rock history Professor Glenn Gass told me in a recent email, "Otis Blackwell was amazing."\nHail, Hail Chuck Berry \nSpeaking of the '50s, I just caught 1987's "Hail! Hail! Rock and Roll" on American Movie Classics, and I was reminded of how phenomenal a flick it is. The documentary, directed by Taylor Hackford, celebrates Chuck Berry's 60th birthday with an all-star concert (organized by Berry's spiritual godson, Keith Richards) and testimonials from a dizzying array of rock legends, including Bo Diddley, Little Richard, John Lennon, Bruce Springsteen and Roy Orbison.\nThe concert included performances by Etta James, Robert Cray, Eric Clapton, Linda Rondstadt and others. Interviews with Berry's parents, siblings, musical collaborators and business associates give us a glimpse of Berry's background, his love for the music and his complex character.\nOn a few occasions Berry gets testy with the interviewer, revealing an often prickly and sometimes conceited personality, which is tempered by sincerity, honesty and an incredible ability to tell a story in both words and song.\nFor fans of Chuck Berry, the movie is a revelation. It provides depth and complexity to a hero we have loved and admired for decades. The film seems even more important now that Berry has celebrated his 75th birthday. As fans, we just don't know how much time we have left with Chuck (and with Richard and Jerry Lee and Fats and all the other '50s greats). "Hail! Hail! Rock and Roll" lets us hold on just a little longer.\nAbove all, the movie fleshes out Berry's simple genius, his knack for capturing the spirit of America and the passions of several generations. So if you're out at the video store this weekend, pass up that lame Adam Sandler movie (it doesn't matter which one, they're all lame) and rent "Hail! Hail!" and rock out.
(06/20/02 4:00am)
We fans of '50s rock 'n' roll all have our favorite artists from that heady era. I love Little Richard, Chuck Berry and Ritchie Valens. Others love Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, the Platters or Fats Domino. But there is one name that often gets overlooked when discussing the early days of rock 'n' roll -- Otis Blackwell. And that's unfortunate because Blackwell wrote many of the songs that propelled those favorite artists to stardom and fueled the fire of the '50s.\nRaised in Brooklyn, Blackwell longed to become a singer himself, but that opportunity never opened up for him. He managed to etch his name in history by penning songs that stand as early rock classics: Lewis' "Great Balls of Fire" and "Breathless," Presley's "Don't Be Cruel" and "All Shook Up" and Little Willie John's "Fever" (later covered by Peggy Lee), to name a few.\nBlackwell's talents were rich and diverse; he blended country and rhythm and blues to create both flat-out ball-busters and perfectly crafted pop songs. That artists as divergent as wildman Lewis and pop princess Lee used his work as testimony to Blackwell's malleable style of songwriting.\nMy favorite Blackwell songs are, of course, the rockers recorded by Jerry Lee Lewis. Few songs from the '50s can match the power and hair-raising vitality of "Great Balls of Fire." While "Breathless" is actually Lewis' best cut (an underrated gem written by a man who never got the thanks due to him).\nOtis Blackwell may never receive adequate thanks. He died May 6 of a heart attack in Nashville, Tenn. He was 70. Nearly 50 years after helping pour the foundation of rock 'n' roll, he passed away without much fanfare or acknowledgement. A short obituary here, maybe a few seconds on cable television news. Time magazine gave him a paragraph.\nBut the memory of the 1950s and beyond is burnished by Blackwell and his songwriting legacy. As IU rock history Professor Glenn Gass told me in a recent email, "Otis Blackwell was amazing."\nHail, Hail Chuck Berry \nSpeaking of the '50s, I just caught 1987's "Hail! Hail! Rock and Roll" on American Movie Classics, and I was reminded of how phenomenal a flick it is. The documentary, directed by Taylor Hackford, celebrates Chuck Berry's 60th birthday with an all-star concert (organized by Berry's spiritual godson, Keith Richards) and testimonials from a dizzying array of rock legends, including Bo Diddley, Little Richard, John Lennon, Bruce Springsteen and Roy Orbison.\nThe concert included performances by Etta James, Robert Cray, Eric Clapton, Linda Rondstadt and others. Interviews with Berry's parents, siblings, musical collaborators and business associates give us a glimpse of Berry's background, his love for the music and his complex character.\nOn a few occasions Berry gets testy with the interviewer, revealing an often prickly and sometimes conceited personality, which is tempered by sincerity, honesty and an incredible ability to tell a story in both words and song.\nFor fans of Chuck Berry, the movie is a revelation. It provides depth and complexity to a hero we have loved and admired for decades. The film seems even more important now that Berry has celebrated his 75th birthday. As fans, we just don't know how much time we have left with Chuck (and with Richard and Jerry Lee and Fats and all the other '50s greats). "Hail! Hail! Rock and Roll" lets us hold on just a little longer.\nAbove all, the movie fleshes out Berry's simple genius, his knack for capturing the spirit of America and the passions of several generations. So if you're out at the video store this weekend, pass up that lame Adam Sandler movie (it doesn't matter which one, they're all lame) and rent "Hail! Hail!" and rock out.
(06/06/02 4:00am)
(06/06/02 4:00am)
Like most music fans, there are certain artists and albums I wouldn't listen to for anything. Take, for example, Lynyrd Skynyrd. I wouldn't listen to those talentless crackers even if doing so would, say, get me a date with Gillian Anderson or put George Clinton in the White House. However, I am also human. I have human weaknesses, personal failings that irritate and embarass me. This means that every once in a while, I find myself liking a song or album by an artist I would otherwise despise. Even as I derive pleasure from listening to such songs my insides are tied into knots of shame and self-loathing. That's why I call them guilty pleasures. It's music I know I should hate, but for some reason I'm still drawn to it like a pigeon to a freshly waxed car. The list is nothing short of frightening:\n"Ray of Light," Madonna\nNormally, I would shrug off Madonna as the screeching, two-bit whore she is. However, this one song turns my whole world upside down. Because I like it, I feel like my musical sensibilities have been scrambled and convoluted. I don't know what's real anymore. It pains me very much to admit I like a Madonna song. If I were Catholic, I'd be repenting every week.\n"Already Gone," the Eagles\nThe knowledge that the Eagles continue to plague modern society keeps me awake at night. I almost had a coronary when the band was elected to the Rock 'n' Roll of Fame. But this song actually kicks butt, which is surprising, since it was recorded by a bunch of sunstroked, California pansies.\nMotley Crue's Too Fast For Love\nLike most people of normal intellectual capacity, I outgrew the Crue in junior high school. However, the band's debut album has a surprisingly raw and punky streak to it that actually makes it kind of listenable. It's too bad these clowns took the fluff-metal path instead of the punk one.\n"Renegade," Styx\nFor some bewildering reason Styx was really popular in the '70s and '80s. My guess is that Dennis DeYoung sold his soul to the devil, a transaction that cursed humankind with "Lady," "Come Sail Away" and "Mr. Roboto." But "Renegade" is a rockin' little number that almost makes you forget that the rest of the Pieces of Eight album is total crap.\n"Heaven Is a Place on Earth," Belinda Carlisle\nMs. Carlisle should have just given up music altogether after leaving the Go-Gos. But, unfortunately, she didn't, and American society suffered for it. However, "Heaven" is just one of those catchy, well-written pop songs that gets under your skin and plants itself in your head. It makes you long for a lobotomy.\n"Sugar Sugar," the Archies\nThe Archies were an embarassment to rock 'n' roll fans everywhere. They were a completely made up group based on a comic book. They somehow made the Monkees look good. Despite the insulting concept behind the band, "Sugar Sugar" is a pop gem. (Tip: Check out Wilson Pickett's version of it.)\n"Breakfast in America," Supertramp\nWas there any wussier '70s group than Supertramp? Roger Hogsdon sounded like he had been castrated with a weed whacker. But this song, found on the album of the same name, was catchy and somewhat socially relevant.\n"These Boots," Nancy Sinatra\nThis offspring of music royalty had very little talent but was blessed with a hot body and a sultry song that fit her near-monotone vocals perfectly. (Another tip: Check out Megadeth's version of it.)\nThis is, of course, an abbreviated list of my guilty pleasures. There are many more sinful songs that will send me to hell, but I'd rather keep those buried deep within the twisted recesses of my mind. So please, if you ever see me singing "Ray of Light," do the humane thing and put me out of my misery, preferably with a baseball bat to the head.
(05/23/02 8:40pm)
Robert Fripp is, by most accounts, a jerk. But the driving force behind the pioneering progrock band King Crimson is also, by most accounts, a musical genius. I got a taste of both sides of Fripp, a visionary guitarist who literally invented new and unheard of ways of playing the instrument over his 30-plus year career, when a couple friends and I drove from Rochester, N.Y. to Toronto to see King Crimson in concert. \nIt's important to note at this point that King Crimson, one of the most idiosyncratic bands in rock history, inspires rabid devotion among the group's most diehard fans. Over three decades, Crimson managed to change their sound so many times that it's now impossible to pigeon-hole the band. Their discography simply defies definition and their fans respond to such eclecticism with fanatical love. \nWhat's funny (or sad, depending on your point of view) about the relationship between King Crimson and their fans is the fact that Fripp is a grump and a curmudgeon who, in many ways, views his fans with contempt. He refuses to sign autographs or even engage in small talk with fans, and he frequently launches into venomously sarcastic diatribes on the band's web site. And, as I and my Toronto-bound friends learned first-hand, Fripp will cut short a concert if anyone does anything to piss him off. \nBefore the concert we learned that, when the audience behaved, Crimson was ending concerts on that tour with a cover of David Bowie's "Heroes." Fripp produced and played guitar on the original. Unfortunately, someone in the audience snapped a flashphoto of the band as they played. That was apparently enough for Fripp. Once the group finished its current selection, Fripp made a beeline for the backstage area, and the show was over. No "Heroes." It was a long drive home to Rochester. Still, despite the abrupt ending, it was a great show. The band ripped through a healthy dose of the Crimson catalogue and did it with gusto. \nAnd what a catalogue it is! King Crimson made its debut in 1969 with In the Court of the Crimson King, an album that pushed rock's boundaries much farther than the previous, wimpy efforts of bands like the Moody Blues. The album included the haunting ballad "Epitaph," as well progrock classic "21st Century Schizoid Man," a bizarre song that featured distorted vocals by Greg Lake (Emerson Lake and Palmer) and rocking (yes, rocking) reeds by Ian McDonald. The record also featured the somewhat silly title track, a nine-minute-plus opus comprised of two parts goofily named "The Return of the Fire Witch" and "The Dance of the Puppets" that reflected prog-rock at its bombastic, irrelevant worst.\nAfter Crimson King, the band released a trio of flakey, meandering albums In the Wake of Poseidon (1970), Lizard (1970) and Islands (1971) that are generally worth ignoring. King Crimson then embarked on an amazing two-year spurt of creativity and vitality that firmly established the group as one of the most important prog bands. With three albums Larks' Tongues in Aspic (1973), Starless and Bible Black (1974) and Red (1974), King Crimson somehow fused Black Sabbath and Yes, producing what could alternately be termed "thinking man's metal" or "headbanger's prog." What was perhaps most amazing about this trio of albums and the incredible soundscapes they showcased was that they were created by only three men. \nThe group then took a seven year hiatus, re-emerging in 1981 with a new line-up: Fripp, Adrian Belew, Bill Bruford and bassist Tony Levin (a virtuoso who has worked with the likes of Peter Gabriel, Paul Simon and the members of Yes). That quartet issued three stellar albums, Discipline (1981), Beat (1982) and Three of a Perfect Pair (1984), that featured echoes of new wave pioneers like Talking Heads, XTC and Squeeze. The records also showcased the considerable talents of each band member, but especially Levin's adeptness with the stick and Bruford's ability to use cutting-edge percussion techniques and technology. \nSince then, King Crimson has continued to evolve and release albums periodically, including 1995's Thrak and 2000's Heavy Construktion. The line up has changed, too; Levin and Bruford, for example, have moved on to other things, while Trey Gunn and Pat Mastelotto have signed up. But the one constant throughout the lifespan of King Crimson has been Fripp. For better or for worse, the cantankerous guitarist has gathered different groups of musicians to produce an eclectic, almost dizzying catalog of progressive rock. It's just too bad he's such a wanker.
(05/23/02 4:00am)
(05/23/02 4:00am)
Robert Fripp is, by most accounts, a jerk. But the driving force behind the pioneering progrock band King Crimson is also, by most accounts, a musical genius. I got a taste of both sides of Fripp, a visionary guitarist who literally invented new and unheard of ways of playing the instrument over his 30-plus year career, when a couple friends and I drove from Rochester, N.Y. to Toronto to see King Crimson in concert. \nIt's important to note at this point that King Crimson, one of the most idiosyncratic bands in rock history, inspires rabid devotion among the group's most diehard fans. Over three decades, Crimson managed to change their sound so many times that it's now impossible to pigeon-hole the band. Their discography simply defies definition and their fans respond to such eclecticism with fanatical love. \nWhat's funny (or sad, depending on your point of view) about the relationship between King Crimson and their fans is the fact that Fripp is a grump and a curmudgeon who, in many ways, views his fans with contempt. He refuses to sign autographs or even engage in small talk with fans, and he frequently launches into venomously sarcastic diatribes on the band's web site. And, as I and my Toronto-bound friends learned first-hand, Fripp will cut short a concert if anyone does anything to piss him off. \nBefore the concert we learned that, when the audience behaved, Crimson was ending concerts on that tour with a cover of David Bowie's "Heroes." Fripp produced and played guitar on the original. Unfortunately, someone in the audience snapped a flashphoto of the band as they played. That was apparently enough for Fripp. Once the group finished its current selection, Fripp made a beeline for the backstage area, and the show was over. No "Heroes." It was a long drive home to Rochester. Still, despite the abrupt ending, it was a great show. The band ripped through a healthy dose of the Crimson catalogue and did it with gusto. \nAnd what a catalogue it is! King Crimson made its debut in 1969 with In the Court of the Crimson King, an album that pushed rock's boundaries much farther than the previous, wimpy efforts of bands like the Moody Blues. The album included the haunting ballad "Epitaph," as well progrock classic "21st Century Schizoid Man," a bizarre song that featured distorted vocals by Greg Lake (Emerson Lake and Palmer) and rocking (yes, rocking) reeds by Ian McDonald. The record also featured the somewhat silly title track, a nine-minute-plus opus comprised of two parts goofily named "The Return of the Fire Witch" and "The Dance of the Puppets" that reflected prog-rock at its bombastic, irrelevant worst.\nAfter Crimson King, the band released a trio of flakey, meandering albums In the Wake of Poseidon (1970), Lizard (1970) and Islands (1971) that are generally worth ignoring. King Crimson then embarked on an amazing two-year spurt of creativity and vitality that firmly established the group as one of the most important prog bands. With three albums Larks' Tongues in Aspic (1973), Starless and Bible Black (1974) and Red (1974), King Crimson somehow fused Black Sabbath and Yes, producing what could alternately be termed "thinking man's metal" or "headbanger's prog." What was perhaps most amazing about this trio of albums and the incredible soundscapes they showcased was that they were created by only three men. \nThe group then took a seven year hiatus, re-emerging in 1981 with a new line-up: Fripp, Adrian Belew, Bill Bruford and bassist Tony Levin (a virtuoso who has worked with the likes of Peter Gabriel, Paul Simon and the members of Yes). That quartet issued three stellar albums, Discipline (1981), Beat (1982) and Three of a Perfect Pair (1984), that featured echoes of new wave pioneers like Talking Heads, XTC and Squeeze. The records also showcased the considerable talents of each band member, but especially Levin's adeptness with the stick and Bruford's ability to use cutting-edge percussion techniques and technology. \nSince then, King Crimson has continued to evolve and release albums periodically, including 1995's Thrak and 2000's Heavy Construktion. The line up has changed, too; Levin and Bruford, for example, have moved on to other things, while Trey Gunn and Pat Mastelotto have signed up. But the one constant throughout the lifespan of King Crimson has been Fripp. For better or for worse, the cantankerous guitarist has gathered different groups of musicians to produce an eclectic, almost dizzying catalog of progressive rock. It's just too bad he's such a wanker.
(05/09/02 8:03pm)
Sometimes I am struck by an urgent sense of wanderlust that prods and cajoles me into taking impulsive, spur-of-the-moment road trips to God-knows-where. Such a spontaneous desire struck me about a month ago after my hopeful plans for a weekend date fell through. I was left to face yet another dismal, self-pity-filled weekend. \nAt around 1 a.m. Saturday morning, I decided to drive to Iowa -- northern Iowa, to be precise. I set out for Clear Lake, a small town near the Iowa-Minnesota state line that, on Feb. 3, 1959, fell into a singular but tragic place in rock and roll history when a small plane carrying Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and J.P. "Big Bopper" Richardson crashed into a cornfield just north of the town.\nI had wanted to make the pilgrimage to Clear Lake since I took IU Music Professor Glenn Gass' rock history course way back in 1992. For me and for countless other fans, that cornfield near Clear Lake is almost hallowed ground, the place where rock and roll innocence died. But while many people remember "the day the music died" as the event that took Buddy Holly's life, I wanted to make the trek because of Ritchie Valens. Over the last few years I have gradually become a huge fan of the Mexican-American rocker and trailblazer. For me, his rags-to-riches story, his struggles with family problems, poverty and racism, drew me to him.\nI made it to Clear Lake in about 10 hours. I checked into a hotel around noon on Saturday and immediately set out for the crash site. I found directions in a local tourist guide and followed them to a dusty crossroads nestled within endless cornfields. I parked and started to walk the muddy half-mile to the site. Located on private property, the site is marked by a small memorial, featuring three silver circles engraved with titles of the three stars' biggest hits: Holly's "Peggy Sue," Richardson's "Chantilly Lace," and Valens' "Donna." \nAs I stood in the soggy soil in silence, chill winds wrapped around my body. A sudden and powerful burst of melancholia shot through my body. Lying scattered around the memorial were small piles of personal effects, trinkets and mementos left by fellow pilgrims. I quickly noticed that most of the items were placed there in honor of Valens, including several from Mexico. I was not, it seemed, the only one who had been moved by Ritchie's music, his story and his soul.\nOf all the first-generation rockers, Ritchie played the rawest, most energetic form of the nascent musical genre. He channeled his frustration and boundless energy through his voice and guitar. In fact, it could be argued that the tradition of punk and garage-rock can be traced back to Valens, and that songs like "Ooh! My Head" and "Come On, Let's Go" were the earliest appearances of grunge. Of course, Ritchie wasn't just raucous; he could be equally doleful and tender. It is the plaintive and aching "Donna," not Elvis's syrupy "Love Me Tender," that was the first great rock love ballad, and "Bluebirds over the Mountain" is almost as somber.\nStarting in July 1958, Valens, under the tutelage and guidance of agent and producer Bob Keane, started recording sides for Del-Fi Records. Seven months later, at the age of 17, Ritchie was dead. But within that painfully short time span, Ritchie packed in so much raw emotion and kinetic musicianship that he became, in many people's minds, a rock and roll giant, a legend who has unfortunately been overshadowed by Holly and the other great '50s rockers. And, to this day, he remains, with the possible exception of Carlos Santana and the members of Los Lobos, the most important and influential Latino in rock history.
(05/09/02 4:00am)
Sheryl Crow\nC'mon, C'mon\nA&M/Interscope\nThese days, there are very few women who play straight-ahead rock and roll in the classic sense: melodic, guitar-based and riff-heavy, a la the Stones, Creedence, Neil Young and Tom Petty. Sheryl Crow is one of those few. Along with Liz Phair and a couple of others, Crow carries the torch that has in the past been borne by Ronnie Spector, Grace Slick, Janis Joplin and Chrissie Hynde. In a music world dominated by air-headed pop divas of questionable talent, at best, Crow provides a refreshing reminder that, yes, women can indeed rock.\nHowever, the best rock icons haven't simply rocked; they've developed and matured as artists and have given their audience different sounds throughout their careers. On C'mon, C'mon, Crow's fourth studio album and the first since 1998's The Globe Sessions, the singer-songwriter-guitarist doesn't display the type of growth that should be expected of the best rock stars. The album derives much of its inspiration from classic rock, the sometimes wonderful, sometimes schlocky genre of music that started in the late 1960s and developed throughout the '70s. In fact, C'mon, C'mon features guest appearances by such classic rock standard-bearers as Stevie Nicks and Don Henley, as well as visits from more contemporary stars like Phair, Lenny Kravitz and Dixie Chick Natalie Maines. And that can be a good thing, but only to a certain extent. \nWhile the album does display some token ventures into modern production techniques and instrumentation, in general C'mon, C'mon remains stuck in the past. That's not to say it's not a good record. C'mon, C'mon is certainly on a par with her previous efforts, and it's miles ahead of 90 percent of the pop-music market. The best tracks are the leadoff, "Steve McQueen," which establishes a solid groove from the get-go, and the plaintive, wistful title track, which features Crow's best singing and songwriting.\nHopefully, Crow will eventually move beyond such ho-hum influences as the Eagles and Fleetwood Mac and start to carve out her own special niche in rock and roll history. That doesn't happen on C'mon, C'mon.\n
(05/09/02 4:00am)
Sometimes I am struck by an urgent sense of wanderlust that prods and cajoles me into taking impulsive, spur-of-the-moment road trips to God-knows-where. Such a spontaneous desire struck me about a month ago after my hopeful plans for a weekend date fell through. I was left to face yet another dismal, self-pity-filled weekend. \nAt around 1 a.m. Saturday morning, I decided to drive to Iowa -- northern Iowa, to be precise. I set out for Clear Lake, a small town near the Iowa-Minnesota state line that, on Feb. 3, 1959, fell into a singular but tragic place in rock and roll history when a small plane carrying Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and J.P. "Big Bopper" Richardson crashed into a cornfield just north of the town.\nI had wanted to make the pilgrimage to Clear Lake since I took IU Music Professor Glenn Gass' rock history course way back in 1992. For me and for countless other fans, that cornfield near Clear Lake is almost hallowed ground, the place where rock and roll innocence died. But while many people remember "the day the music died" as the event that took Buddy Holly's life, I wanted to make the trek because of Ritchie Valens. Over the last few years I have gradually become a huge fan of the Mexican-American rocker and trailblazer. For me, his rags-to-riches story, his struggles with family problems, poverty and racism, drew me to him.\nI made it to Clear Lake in about 10 hours. I checked into a hotel around noon on Saturday and immediately set out for the crash site. I found directions in a local tourist guide and followed them to a dusty crossroads nestled within endless cornfields. I parked and started to walk the muddy half-mile to the site. Located on private property, the site is marked by a small memorial, featuring three silver circles engraved with titles of the three stars' biggest hits: Holly's "Peggy Sue," Richardson's "Chantilly Lace," and Valens' "Donna." \nAs I stood in the soggy soil in silence, chill winds wrapped around my body. A sudden and powerful burst of melancholia shot through my body. Lying scattered around the memorial were small piles of personal effects, trinkets and mementos left by fellow pilgrims. I quickly noticed that most of the items were placed there in honor of Valens, including several from Mexico. I was not, it seemed, the only one who had been moved by Ritchie's music, his story and his soul.\nOf all the first-generation rockers, Ritchie played the rawest, most energetic form of the nascent musical genre. He channeled his frustration and boundless energy through his voice and guitar. In fact, it could be argued that the tradition of punk and garage-rock can be traced back to Valens, and that songs like "Ooh! My Head" and "Come On, Let's Go" were the earliest appearances of grunge. Of course, Ritchie wasn't just raucous; he could be equally doleful and tender. It is the plaintive and aching "Donna," not Elvis's syrupy "Love Me Tender," that was the first great rock love ballad, and "Bluebirds over the Mountain" is almost as somber.\nStarting in July 1958, Valens, under the tutelage and guidance of agent and producer Bob Keane, started recording sides for Del-Fi Records. Seven months later, at the age of 17, Ritchie was dead. But within that painfully short time span, Ritchie packed in so much raw emotion and kinetic musicianship that he became, in many people's minds, a rock and roll giant, a legend who has unfortunately been overshadowed by Holly and the other great '50s rockers. And, to this day, he remains, with the possible exception of Carlos Santana and the members of Los Lobos, the most important and influential Latino in rock history.
(04/25/02 1:07am)
It's impossible to underestimate the impact Son House has had on modern American music.\nAlong with a small handful of other bluesmen, House embodied the blues of the Mississippi Delta during the first third of the 20th century. \nIt was the Delta blues that eventually morphed into rock and roll; the early bluesmen firmly cemented the 12-bar format into folk and popular music and injected the music with the type of raw passion and feeling that fed the rock explosions of the 1950s and '60s.\nHouse was also renowned for his guitar work. He revolutionized the sliding bottleneck technique, turning it into his own specialty. Blues historian William Barlow writes that by the time House retired, "The classic Delta bottleneck guitar style he was so instrumental in developing had become inseparable from the rural blues culture indigenous to the region and would prove to be the seminal influence on the music of younger Mississippi Delta blues giants like Robert Johnson, Bukka White, Muddy Waters and Elmore James."\nBorn in 1902 on a farm near Clarksdale, Miss., Eddie "Son" House spent his formative years soaking up the culture and music of the Delta. Inspired by a local bluesman, House started playing guitar-based blues in the 1920s. He also experienced the type of hard, harrowing life typical of so many blues originals. In 1928 he claimed self-defense after killing a man at a party; he eventually served two years on a prison work farm.\nHouse traveled throughout the South, playing wherever and whenever he could until 1943, when he moved to Rochester, N.Y. (this columnist's hometown), eventually retiring in 1957. Up until that time, he toiled in relative obscurity; his only recording sessions came in 1941-42, when legendary folklorist Alan Lomax made several field recordings for the Library of Congress.\nBut a landmark performance at the 1964 Newport Folk Festival led to a concert at Carnegie Hall, several documentaries and studio sessions at Columbia. The product of those 1965 sessions is Father of the Delta Blues, a stark and stunning double-CD collection that crackles with emotional electricity and guitar virtuosity.\nThe original single album has nine tracks, including the harrowing "Death Letter," in which the singer learns that his love has died: "I walked up right close, looked down in her face / The girl's gone, gonna lay out for Judgement Day." In the a cappella "Grinnin' in Your Face," he bewails the fact that "a true friend is hard to find: Don't you mind people grinnin' in your face / You know your mother will talk about you, your sisters and brothers too / It don't count how you're tryin' to live, they'll talk about you still."\nThe disc concludes with "Levee Camp Moan," a duet with harmonica player Al Wilson about sexual frustration and heartbreak that grabs the reader by the throat and holds on for more than nine intense minutes.\nFather of the Blues is an amazing document of musical genius. It captures the soul of vintage Delta blues in a modern recording; there are no hisses or pops that dotted blues discs in the 1920s and '30s. The collection is, quite simply, essential blues listening.\nHouse died in 1988 at the age of 86, but not before he influenced countless numbers of musicians, black and white, blues and rock. His remarkable guitar playing and raw, searing vocals established a standard that still stands today.
(04/24/02 4:00am)
It's impossible to underestimate the impact Son House has had on modern American music.\nAlong with a small handful of other bluesmen, House embodied the blues of the Mississippi Delta during the first third of the 20th century. \nIt was the Delta blues that eventually morphed into rock and roll; the early bluesmen firmly cemented the 12-bar format into folk and popular music and injected the music with the type of raw passion and feeling that fed the rock explosions of the 1950s and '60s.\nHouse was also renowned for his guitar work. He revolutionized the sliding bottleneck technique, turning it into his own specialty. Blues historian William Barlow writes that by the time House retired, "The classic Delta bottleneck guitar style he was so instrumental in developing had become inseparable from the rural blues culture indigenous to the region and would prove to be the seminal influence on the music of younger Mississippi Delta blues giants like Robert Johnson, Bukka White, Muddy Waters and Elmore James."\nBorn in 1902 on a farm near Clarksdale, Miss., Eddie "Son" House spent his formative years soaking up the culture and music of the Delta. Inspired by a local bluesman, House started playing guitar-based blues in the 1920s. He also experienced the type of hard, harrowing life typical of so many blues originals. In 1928 he claimed self-defense after killing a man at a party; he eventually served two years on a prison work farm.\nHouse traveled throughout the South, playing wherever and whenever he could until 1943, when he moved to Rochester, N.Y. (this columnist's hometown), eventually retiring in 1957. Up until that time, he toiled in relative obscurity; his only recording sessions came in 1941-42, when legendary folklorist Alan Lomax made several field recordings for the Library of Congress.\nBut a landmark performance at the 1964 Newport Folk Festival led to a concert at Carnegie Hall, several documentaries and studio sessions at Columbia. The product of those 1965 sessions is Father of the Delta Blues, a stark and stunning double-CD collection that crackles with emotional electricity and guitar virtuosity.\nThe original single album has nine tracks, including the harrowing "Death Letter," in which the singer learns that his love has died: "I walked up right close, looked down in her face / The girl's gone, gonna lay out for Judgement Day." In the a cappella "Grinnin' in Your Face," he bewails the fact that "a true friend is hard to find: Don't you mind people grinnin' in your face / You know your mother will talk about you, your sisters and brothers too / It don't count how you're tryin' to live, they'll talk about you still."\nThe disc concludes with "Levee Camp Moan," a duet with harmonica player Al Wilson about sexual frustration and heartbreak that grabs the reader by the throat and holds on for more than nine intense minutes.\nFather of the Blues is an amazing document of musical genius. It captures the soul of vintage Delta blues in a modern recording; there are no hisses or pops that dotted blues discs in the 1920s and '30s. The collection is, quite simply, essential blues listening.\nHouse died in 1988 at the age of 86, but not before he influenced countless numbers of musicians, black and white, blues and rock. His remarkable guitar playing and raw, searing vocals established a standard that still stands today.