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(01/30/02 7:08pm)
In 1949 Lew Chudd, the head of Imperial Records, signed Dave Bartholomew to a recording and production contract. Little did they know that they were setting in motion one of the most crucial developments in the history of rock and roll.\nUnfortunately, little does anyone else know. That's because Dave Bartholomew is one of the most overlooked, underappreciated geniuses of American popular music. As a bandleader and producer, Bartholomew was the architect of the New Orleans sound of the 1950s, a sound that was a key ingredient of the heady stew that was early rock and roll. \nBartholomew and his band; Frank Fields on bass, Alvin "Red" Taylor on baritone sax, Lee Allen on tenor sax, Ernest McLean on guitar, Bartholomew himself on trumpet and the legendary Earl Palmer on drums formed one of the great studio crews in history. Few backing groups -- maybe the Motown house band, maybe Booker T. and the MGs -- had as big an impact on the course of music. They inherited R&B tradition established by Louis Jordan and extended it into the modern rock era.\nBartholomew and the band slipped easily from laidback boogie woogie into uptempo jump blues. They provided support on now-classic rock and roll cuts like Fats Domino's "Ain't It a Shame," Shirley and Lee's "Let the Good Times Roll" and Smiley Lewis' "I Hear You Knocking." They could also step out on their own and commit some of their own rollicking jump blues to wax.\nFinding Bartholomew's stuff on CD is fairly easy -- just pick up a Fats Domino or Smiley Lewis best-of or any decent collection of New Orleans rock and roll classics (I recommend "Highlights from Crescent City Soul: The Sound of New Orleans, 1947-1974," a collection culled by EMI for the 1996 New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival).\nBut to really get a flavor for what Bartholomew was capable of, hunt down The Genius of Dave Bartholomew, a two-CD collection of vintage Imperial sides compiled for EMI's "Legends of Rock 'n' Roll" series. I was lucky enough to come across it while browsing the Tower Records outlet in "N'Awlins" about 10 years ago. It's a diamond in the rough and definitely worth the time, effort and money it takes to find it.\nIn addition to standout tracks by Fats, Shirley and Lee and Smiley, the two-disc collection contains classic cuts by such R&B pioneers as Joe Turner, T-Bone Walker, Chris Kenner and Roy Brown. The discs are crammed with vibrant songs by solo singers (Tommy Ridgley's "Shrewsbury Blues," Jewel King's "3 x 7 = 21," Earl King's "Come On" and Berna-Dean's "I Walk in My Sleep") and vocal groups (the Hawks' sweet "Can't See for Lookin'," the Bees' lewd "Toy Bell" and the Spiders' perfectly-crafted classic "Withcraft").\nBut for me, the collection's ultimate highlight is the first song on the second disc, "Jump Children" by Bartholomew himself. Over a frenetic jump-blues beat, Bartholomew issues rapid-fire exhortations to boogie: "Well I'm goin' to a party across the tracks/ It's a hole in the wall, people call it a crack/ Do you want to jump children?" The song, co-written by Bartholomew and Domino, manages, in less than two and a half minutes, to embody the spirit and soul of New Orleans R&B. Unfortunately, the two-disc set does not contain another one of my favorite Bartholomew solo shots, "The Monkey," in which a monkey, citing all injustice, violence, waste, crime and cruelty perpetrated by the humans, tells his peers that humans could never have evolved from their noble species. "Here's another thing a monkey won't do/ Go out at night and get on a stew/ Or use a gun, a club or a knife/ To take another monkey's life/ Yes, man, he descended, the worthless bum/ But my brothers, from us he did not come/ The monkey speaks his mind." Underpinned by a throbbing bass track and biting, repetitive guitar chords, the song is one of the first -- and best -- examples of social commentary in rock and roll.\nAnd that's crucial, because the heart and soul of New Orleans is, in many ways, the heart and soul of rock music. And without Dave Bartholomew, we wouldn't have had New Orleans R&B and therefore, we wouldn't have rock and roll as we know it today.
(01/30/02 5:00am)
Ozark Folksongs\nVarious Artists\nRounder\nLance Randolph did most of his work in other people's kitchens or on other people's porches. The folklore collector spent nearly 50 years recording the music of the Ozark Mountain region, which covers parts of Missouri, Arkansas, Oklahoma and Kansas. Nestled in that rugged terrain, Randolph captured Ozark natives as they spilled forth the soul of a culture.\nMuch of Randolph's work was completed in 1941-42, after famed folklorist Alan Lomax loaned him a cumbersome recording machine, aluminum discs and travel expenses. Randolph proceeded to capture roughly 830 pieces on nearly 200 discs, recording ballads, songs and instrumentals. The collection was deposited at the Library of Congress' Archive of Folk Culture, but, for the most part, the recordings were not commercially released until now.\nOzark Folksongs presents a wide variety of musical forms and styles, from the lonely a cappella warblings of Charles Ingenthron, Lillian Short and Doney Hammontree to the solemn couplings of harmonica player Arthur Trail and guitarist Wiley Hembree. The collection also features solo instrumentalist pieces by several artists, including fiddler Lon Jordan and Shamus O'Brien on guitar.\nPerhaps the best music on the collection are the two songs by Jimmy Denoon. On "The Little Old Shod Shanty on the Claim," Denoon's sad, lilting voice resonates beautifully against quiet guitar accompaniment, while Denoon's shows his talents as a guitar-picker on "Chicken Reel."\nThe music on Ozark Folksongs is limited by the production quality; the recordings are scratchy and sometimes muffled, and often the listener can hear the sounds of shuffled papers or passing trains in the background.\nBut then again, that's part of the music's charm. Ozark Folksongs presents real American folk music being performed in its natural environment -- on a porch, for just a few attentive listeners.\n
(01/30/02 5:00am)
In 1949 Lew Chudd, the head of Imperial Records, signed Dave Bartholomew to a recording and production contract. Little did they know that they were setting in motion one of the most crucial developments in the history of rock and roll.\nUnfortunately, little does anyone else know. That's because Dave Bartholomew is one of the most overlooked, underappreciated geniuses of American popular music. As a bandleader and producer, Bartholomew was the architect of the New Orleans sound of the 1950s, a sound that was a key ingredient of the heady stew that was early rock and roll. \nBartholomew and his band; Frank Fields on bass, Alvin "Red" Taylor on baritone sax, Lee Allen on tenor sax, Ernest McLean on guitar, Bartholomew himself on trumpet and the legendary Earl Palmer on drums formed one of the great studio crews in history. Few backing groups -- maybe the Motown house band, maybe Booker T. and the MGs -- had as big an impact on the course of music. They inherited R&B tradition established by Louis Jordan and extended it into the modern rock era.\nBartholomew and the band slipped easily from laidback boogie woogie into uptempo jump blues. They provided support on now-classic rock and roll cuts like Fats Domino's "Ain't It a Shame," Shirley and Lee's "Let the Good Times Roll" and Smiley Lewis' "I Hear You Knocking." They could also step out on their own and commit some of their own rollicking jump blues to wax.\nFinding Bartholomew's stuff on CD is fairly easy -- just pick up a Fats Domino or Smiley Lewis best-of or any decent collection of New Orleans rock and roll classics (I recommend "Highlights from Crescent City Soul: The Sound of New Orleans, 1947-1974," a collection culled by EMI for the 1996 New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival).\nBut to really get a flavor for what Bartholomew was capable of, hunt down The Genius of Dave Bartholomew, a two-CD collection of vintage Imperial sides compiled for EMI's "Legends of Rock 'n' Roll" series. I was lucky enough to come across it while browsing the Tower Records outlet in "N'Awlins" about 10 years ago. It's a diamond in the rough and definitely worth the time, effort and money it takes to find it.\nIn addition to standout tracks by Fats, Shirley and Lee and Smiley, the two-disc collection contains classic cuts by such R&B pioneers as Joe Turner, T-Bone Walker, Chris Kenner and Roy Brown. The discs are crammed with vibrant songs by solo singers (Tommy Ridgley's "Shrewsbury Blues," Jewel King's "3 x 7 = 21," Earl King's "Come On" and Berna-Dean's "I Walk in My Sleep") and vocal groups (the Hawks' sweet "Can't See for Lookin'," the Bees' lewd "Toy Bell" and the Spiders' perfectly-crafted classic "Withcraft").\nBut for me, the collection's ultimate highlight is the first song on the second disc, "Jump Children" by Bartholomew himself. Over a frenetic jump-blues beat, Bartholomew issues rapid-fire exhortations to boogie: "Well I'm goin' to a party across the tracks/ It's a hole in the wall, people call it a crack/ Do you want to jump children?" The song, co-written by Bartholomew and Domino, manages, in less than two and a half minutes, to embody the spirit and soul of New Orleans R&B. Unfortunately, the two-disc set does not contain another one of my favorite Bartholomew solo shots, "The Monkey," in which a monkey, citing all injustice, violence, waste, crime and cruelty perpetrated by the humans, tells his peers that humans could never have evolved from their noble species. "Here's another thing a monkey won't do/ Go out at night and get on a stew/ Or use a gun, a club or a knife/ To take another monkey's life/ Yes, man, he descended, the worthless bum/ But my brothers, from us he did not come/ The monkey speaks his mind." Underpinned by a throbbing bass track and biting, repetitive guitar chords, the song is one of the first -- and best -- examples of social commentary in rock and roll.\nAnd that's crucial, because the heart and soul of New Orleans is, in many ways, the heart and soul of rock music. And without Dave Bartholomew, we wouldn't have had New Orleans R&B and therefore, we wouldn't have rock and roll as we know it today.
(01/23/02 5:00am)
The Dances Down Home\nJoe Cormier\nRounder Records\n"Cheticamp, a French-Acadian village of three thousand souls, is situated on the northwest shore of Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia."\nThus begins Anselm Cormier's essay about life in Atlantic Canada that appears in The Dances Down Home, a collection of jigs and reels by Anselm's brother, violinist Joe Cormier.\nThe essay, which originally appeared in the liner notes for Joe Cormier's first album for Rounder Records in 1974, details how the Cormier family grew and flourished in a land settled by Acadian outcasts and, later, Scottish immigrants. The village and the surrounding landscape were, and still are, beautiful, Anselm writes, but life in often-frigid Nova Scotia during the Depression was tough.\nIt was from that stark background that Cape Breton fiddle music developed and where Joe Cormier learned how to play. "The love of music and fiddling," Anselm writes, "came easy to Joe because our house was one where musicians gathered."\nThe Dances Down Home reflects Cormier's brilliant talents and captures the soul of Scottish Canada. The album is one of a projected 30 Heritage compilations released by Rounder to mark the company's 30th year of operation. The collection was culled from currently out-of-print material Cormier recorded for Rounder during a quarter-century.\nAbly supported by Eddie Irwin on piano and Edmond Boudreau on guitar and bass, Cormier's violin ranges from soothing to haunting over the 20 songs in the set. Cormier, who now lives in Waltham, Mass., and rarely plays for large groups of people, evokes images of lonely fishermen yearning for home and close-knit communities gathering to dance on a Saturday night in an attempt to ignore the cold of the North Atlantic.\nOn an even broader scale, this collection of Cormier's music reminds us that North American folk traditions extend to music made north of the border, where the musical heritage is just as deep as the ones found in the Mississippi Delta or the mountains of Kentucky.\n
(01/16/02 6:48pm)
Editor's Note: This semester Ryan Whirty will write about good music \nthat goes unnoticed.\nIn many ways, I am a very stubborn man. For years, when asked to name the best rock albums of the 1970s, I would give the same three answers: Who's Next by the Who, Exile on Main Street by the Stones and Rust Never Sleeps by Neil Young. That's it. Period. I would consider nothing else. I was without pity or remorse.\nHowever, a couple of years ago I came across a $1 vinyl copy of Warren Zevon's Excitable Boy, released in 1978. It had "Werewolves of London" on it, and I also thought that song was kinda neat, if a bit goofy. So I bought it.\nI have since changed my ways. Excitable Boy is easily one of the best albums of its decade and perhaps the finest example of singer-songwriter craftsmanship of the pop-rock era.\nNot that it's a normal album, mind you. The songs Zevon packed on the disc are quirky and even macabre. They're twisted portraits of hapless fools, bizarre oddities and vicious badasses, standing in sharp contrast to the dreamy, mellow work of softer singer-songwriters like James Taylor, Carole King and even the often happy-go-lucky songs of Paul Simon and Young.\nThe first side of Excitable Boy, especially, blends brilliant pop sensibilities and a warped, schizophrenic imagination. It begins with the cheery "Johnny Strikes Up the Band," a jaunty tune about a songster who can "put your mind at ease" and brings "jubilation in the land."\nBut the up-tempo mood is suddenly and brusquely dampened by the foreboding opening notes of "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner," the tale of a Scandinavian mercenary who signs up to fight in the war in the Congo. The CIA persuades one of Roland's peers to kill him. "That son of a bitch Van Owen," Zevon sighs, "blew off Roland's head."\nRoland, still headless, then stalks the continent of Africa seeking revenge, eventually tracking Van Owen down in a bar in Mombassa. In a sickly surrealistic scene, Roland then blows Van Owen's body "from there to Johannesburg." The song ends with Roland still on the prowl -- in Ireland, in Lebanon, in Palestine.\nThe mood then shifts again, this time with the title cut. We're introduced to the "excitable boy" right away: "Well, he went down to dinner in his Sunday best / Excitable boy, they all said / And he rubbed the pot roast all over his chest / Excitable boy, they all said." The lyrics are backed by a buoyant, 1950s-style rave up, with a chorus ooh-ing in perfect girl-group fashion.\nThe song progresses, and we watch the excitable boy bite a movie usherette's leg during a show. He then takes Suzie to the junior prom and ends up raping and killing her. The stark, even creepy lyrics stand in sharp contrast to the ebullient music, creating and eerie paradox that revolts and mesmerizes at the same time.\n"After 10 long years they let him out of the home," Zevon continues. "And he dug up her grave and built a cage with her bones / Excitable boy, they all said." Like Roland, the excitable boy never changes.\nThen comes "Werewolves," Zevon's most popular song and the one most people recognize. It's punctuated by Zevon's off-key howling during the chorus. The werewolf eats beef chow mein in Soho, sips a pina colada at Trader Vic's -- and mutilates a little old lady. Not exactly Britney Spears or Limp Bizkit (or any other pop drivel now on the charts).\nThe side ends with another sharp twist of atmosphere as Zevon suddenly turns serious and solemn for the ballad "Accidentally Like a Martyr." Gone are the mercenaries and werewolves; all that remains is Zevon's sad vocals and heartfelt outpouring of lost love. "The phone don't ring / And the sun refused to shine / Never thought I'd have to pay so dearly / For what was already mine," Zevon sings, the hurt flowing forth. He concludes depressingly, "The hurt gets worse and the heart gets harder."\nThe second half of the album is strong as well, especially "Tenderness on the Block," a world-weary lament for a mother and father whose daughter is growing up too fast.\nThe album then concludes with a major bang -- "Lawyers, Guns and Money," which could very well be the strongest and most perfectly-crafted rock song of the last quarter-century.\nIt tells the tale of a luckless sap who gets into trouble south of the border and pleads for his father to solve his steep problems. He goes home with a waitress without realizing "she was with the Russians too" and risks too much gambling in Havana. "Send lawyers, guns and money," he cries. "Dad, get me out of this."\nBacked by a balls-out supporting cast of Waddy Wachtel (guitars), Kenny Edwards (bass) and Rick Marotta (drums), Zevon tears into the final verse, in which the beleaguered son makes one last pitch to Dad: "Now I'm hiding in Honduras / I'm a desperate man / Send lawyers, guns and money / The shit has hit the fan."\nOverall, what's most amazing about Excitable Boy is the fact that it manages to cover so much emotional and psychological ground in just over 30 minutes. The listener is introduced to a cast of characters who represent the highs and lows of human existence. Few albums have managed to do that -- and even fewer have done it with such a deliciously personal flair as Zevon's.
(01/16/02 5:00am)
Editor's Note: This semester Ryan Whirty will write about good music \nthat goes unnoticed.\nIn many ways, I am a very stubborn man. For years, when asked to name the best rock albums of the 1970s, I would give the same three answers: Who's Next by the Who, Exile on Main Street by the Stones and Rust Never Sleeps by Neil Young. That's it. Period. I would consider nothing else. I was without pity or remorse.\nHowever, a couple of years ago I came across a $1 vinyl copy of Warren Zevon's Excitable Boy, released in 1978. It had "Werewolves of London" on it, and I also thought that song was kinda neat, if a bit goofy. So I bought it.\nI have since changed my ways. Excitable Boy is easily one of the best albums of its decade and perhaps the finest example of singer-songwriter craftsmanship of the pop-rock era.\nNot that it's a normal album, mind you. The songs Zevon packed on the disc are quirky and even macabre. They're twisted portraits of hapless fools, bizarre oddities and vicious badasses, standing in sharp contrast to the dreamy, mellow work of softer singer-songwriters like James Taylor, Carole King and even the often happy-go-lucky songs of Paul Simon and Young.\nThe first side of Excitable Boy, especially, blends brilliant pop sensibilities and a warped, schizophrenic imagination. It begins with the cheery "Johnny Strikes Up the Band," a jaunty tune about a songster who can "put your mind at ease" and brings "jubilation in the land."\nBut the up-tempo mood is suddenly and brusquely dampened by the foreboding opening notes of "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner," the tale of a Scandinavian mercenary who signs up to fight in the war in the Congo. The CIA persuades one of Roland's peers to kill him. "That son of a bitch Van Owen," Zevon sighs, "blew off Roland's head."\nRoland, still headless, then stalks the continent of Africa seeking revenge, eventually tracking Van Owen down in a bar in Mombassa. In a sickly surrealistic scene, Roland then blows Van Owen's body "from there to Johannesburg." The song ends with Roland still on the prowl -- in Ireland, in Lebanon, in Palestine.\nThe mood then shifts again, this time with the title cut. We're introduced to the "excitable boy" right away: "Well, he went down to dinner in his Sunday best / Excitable boy, they all said / And he rubbed the pot roast all over his chest / Excitable boy, they all said." The lyrics are backed by a buoyant, 1950s-style rave up, with a chorus ooh-ing in perfect girl-group fashion.\nThe song progresses, and we watch the excitable boy bite a movie usherette's leg during a show. He then takes Suzie to the junior prom and ends up raping and killing her. The stark, even creepy lyrics stand in sharp contrast to the ebullient music, creating and eerie paradox that revolts and mesmerizes at the same time.\n"After 10 long years they let him out of the home," Zevon continues. "And he dug up her grave and built a cage with her bones / Excitable boy, they all said." Like Roland, the excitable boy never changes.\nThen comes "Werewolves," Zevon's most popular song and the one most people recognize. It's punctuated by Zevon's off-key howling during the chorus. The werewolf eats beef chow mein in Soho, sips a pina colada at Trader Vic's -- and mutilates a little old lady. Not exactly Britney Spears or Limp Bizkit (or any other pop drivel now on the charts).\nThe side ends with another sharp twist of atmosphere as Zevon suddenly turns serious and solemn for the ballad "Accidentally Like a Martyr." Gone are the mercenaries and werewolves; all that remains is Zevon's sad vocals and heartfelt outpouring of lost love. "The phone don't ring / And the sun refused to shine / Never thought I'd have to pay so dearly / For what was already mine," Zevon sings, the hurt flowing forth. He concludes depressingly, "The hurt gets worse and the heart gets harder."\nThe second half of the album is strong as well, especially "Tenderness on the Block," a world-weary lament for a mother and father whose daughter is growing up too fast.\nThe album then concludes with a major bang -- "Lawyers, Guns and Money," which could very well be the strongest and most perfectly-crafted rock song of the last quarter-century.\nIt tells the tale of a luckless sap who gets into trouble south of the border and pleads for his father to solve his steep problems. He goes home with a waitress without realizing "she was with the Russians too" and risks too much gambling in Havana. "Send lawyers, guns and money," he cries. "Dad, get me out of this."\nBacked by a balls-out supporting cast of Waddy Wachtel (guitars), Kenny Edwards (bass) and Rick Marotta (drums), Zevon tears into the final verse, in which the beleaguered son makes one last pitch to Dad: "Now I'm hiding in Honduras / I'm a desperate man / Send lawyers, guns and money / The shit has hit the fan."\nOverall, what's most amazing about Excitable Boy is the fact that it manages to cover so much emotional and psychological ground in just over 30 minutes. The listener is introduced to a cast of characters who represent the highs and lows of human existence. Few albums have managed to do that -- and even fewer have done it with such a deliciously personal flair as Zevon's.
(01/15/02 3:54am)
For IU Professor of Music Edmund Cord, tonight's Martin Luther King Holiday Celebration concert will put King's message of global togetherness into song.\n"It's an opportunity for us as artists to make a positive statement about our shared values and humanity," said Cord, who is also director of the IU Brass Choir. "Music has been said to have the power to express the inexpressible. To be a part of this concert is a great opportunity."\nThe Brass Choir will be joined by the IU Youth Chorale and the African American Choral Ensemble. The fourth annual concert, which is sponsored by the IU School of Music in conjunction with the African American Arts Institute, also features solo vocal performances and instrumental duets by IU students. Performers will include vocalists graduate students Ailyn Perez and Virginia LeBlanc, pianists senior Carl Gales and Haruko Murphy, and saxophonist graduate student Otis Murphy.\nSchool of Music Associate Dean Eugene O'Brien, who is coordinating the event, said this year's concert will not have a specific theme.\n"(Concert-goers) will certainly hear a wide variety of musical styles," he said. But, he added, "It's all centered around the African-American experience."\nJames Mumford, director of the African American Choral Ensemble, said it's appropriate that the university recognize King's life with music. He noted that African-American spirituals often were a crucial part of King's speeches and civil-rights protests frequently centered around singing.\n"Music was the thing that brought the demonstrators together and gave them the strength to fight and overcome fear," he said.\nMumford said he hopes because of the strong connection between King and music, the choral ensemble pieces will demonstrate a similar link.\n"We just hope that we can show that these songs reflect more than just music," he said. "They also reflect an ideal."\nCord said the Brass Choir will perform Aaron Copland's "Fanfare for the Common Man," a piece he said inspires people from all walks of life.\n"It affirms our humanity and what we have in common," Cord said.\nMumford said the concert has been well-attended from its inception. \n"The last two performances have been standing room only," Mumford said. "They had to turn people back because there wasn't enough room."\nBecause of that, he said, the ensemble is grateful to be involved.\n"We consider it an honor to be a part of remembering the legacy of Dr. King," Mumford said.
(12/06/01 5:36am)
The last few years have not been kind to the zydeco industry. First, the groundbreaking Beau Jocque passes away, and then, on May 5 of this year, Wilson Anthony "Boozoo" Chavis died at the age of 70.\nFortunately, both Cajun legends left behind a remarkable and infectious body of work. Down Home on Dog Hill, Chavis' last studio recordings, are part of that collection.\nWhile perhaps not as innovative or experimental as Beau Jocque, Chavis helped lay the groundwork for the modern zydeco sound by mining the rich Louisiana musical traditions and remaining on a strong, steady course throughout his career.\nFor his last album, Chavis gathered together the Magic Sounds, a tight, racially diverse band, to back him up. The Sounds -- sons Charles and Rellis Chavis on rubboard and drums, respectively, Classie Ballou Jr. on bass, Sonny Landreth on guitar, David Greely on fiddle and Scott Billington on mouth harp -- gathered near Lake Charles, La., to practice the new material at Boozoo's home, Dog Hill.\nThe resulting songs, while somewhat predictable, are inspired nonetheless. The band runs through Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup's bluesy "Rock Me Mama" and the waltz-like shuffle of "Crying Blues" with equal aplomb, and the Magic Sounds put Chubby Checker to shame with their cover of Hank Ballard's "The Twist."\nThe high points of the album come from Greely's greasy fiddle work and Boozoo's classic accordion melodies. Landreth adds some sharp, bluesy licks, while the Chavis boys provide a steady beat behind it all.\nThis year, Boozoo Chavis was honored posthumously with a National Heritage Fellowship Award, and it was certainly hard-earned and well-deserved. Few artists have been able to so consistently conjure up the soul of the swamps as Chavis. Although Down Home on Dog Hill is at times formulaic, it's a fitting, touching swan song for a zydeco legend.\nRating: 7
(12/06/01 5:35am)
I can honestly say that I've never heard of any of the songs on Robbie Fulks' new album, 13 Hillbilly Giants. But, in many ways, that's a good thing.\nBy covering songs by some of country's more obscure artists, Fulks reveals that some of the best country music is not found in the mainstream. In fact, only one song on the album -- Dolly Parton's "Jeannie's Afraid of the Dark" -- is by a "famous" musician.\nOf course, Fulks himself isn't famous either, perhaps because the songs he writes -- like "She Took a Lot of Pills (And Died)" and "God Isn't Real" -- are often quirky, disquieting or laced with a dark humor that most fans of mainstream, cookie-cutter country wouldn't like.\nOn 13 Hillbilly Giants, Fulks has apparently found some kindred spirits. His version of Bill Anderson's "Cocktails" is a lament about the dangers of alcohol that's sung with a bit of a yodel, while Jimmie Logsdon's "I Want to Be Mama'd" into a steel-guitar rave-up punctuated by Fulks' wailing of "I'm a big baby."\nHe also covers a range of musical styles. "Burn on Love Fire" contains a subtle Latin tinge, while Jimmy Arnold's "Southern Comfort" takes on a rightfully bluegrass feel. There's also a few heartbreaking ballads, such as "Jeannie's Afraid" and "Bury the Bottle with Me," a poignant cover of a Hylo Brown's song that painfully points out, "The bottle is the Devil… It's the bottle that took my soul and petrified my brain."\nOverall, 13 Hillbilly Giants is not only a good introduction to Robbie Fulks, but also to the world of real country music, where pain doesn't always come in 12-bar form and emotions aren't easily summed up in a three-minute pop format. Those lessons can be a bitter pill to swallow, but you'll be better off for doing it.\nRating: 8
(12/06/01 5:00am)
I can honestly say that I've never heard of any of the songs on Robbie Fulks' new album, 13 Hillbilly Giants. But, in many ways, that's a good thing.\nBy covering songs by some of country's more obscure artists, Fulks reveals that some of the best country music is not found in the mainstream. In fact, only one song on the album -- Dolly Parton's "Jeannie's Afraid of the Dark" -- is by a "famous" musician.\nOf course, Fulks himself isn't famous either, perhaps because the songs he writes -- like "She Took a Lot of Pills (And Died)" and "God Isn't Real" -- are often quirky, disquieting or laced with a dark humor that most fans of mainstream, cookie-cutter country wouldn't like.\nOn 13 Hillbilly Giants, Fulks has apparently found some kindred spirits. His version of Bill Anderson's "Cocktails" is a lament about the dangers of alcohol that's sung with a bit of a yodel, while Jimmie Logsdon's "I Want to Be Mama'd" into a steel-guitar rave-up punctuated by Fulks' wailing of "I'm a big baby."\nHe also covers a range of musical styles. "Burn on Love Fire" contains a subtle Latin tinge, while Jimmy Arnold's "Southern Comfort" takes on a rightfully bluegrass feel. There's also a few heartbreaking ballads, such as "Jeannie's Afraid" and "Bury the Bottle with Me," a poignant cover of a Hylo Brown's song that painfully points out, "The bottle is the Devil… It's the bottle that took my soul and petrified my brain."\nOverall, 13 Hillbilly Giants is not only a good introduction to Robbie Fulks, but also to the world of real country music, where pain doesn't always come in 12-bar form and emotions aren't easily summed up in a three-minute pop format. Those lessons can be a bitter pill to swallow, but you'll be better off for doing it.\nRating: 8
(12/06/01 5:00am)
The last few years have not been kind to the zydeco industry. First, the groundbreaking Beau Jocque passes away, and then, on May 5 of this year, Wilson Anthony "Boozoo" Chavis died at the age of 70.\nFortunately, both Cajun legends left behind a remarkable and infectious body of work. Down Home on Dog Hill, Chavis' last studio recordings, are part of that collection.\nWhile perhaps not as innovative or experimental as Beau Jocque, Chavis helped lay the groundwork for the modern zydeco sound by mining the rich Louisiana musical traditions and remaining on a strong, steady course throughout his career.\nFor his last album, Chavis gathered together the Magic Sounds, a tight, racially diverse band, to back him up. The Sounds -- sons Charles and Rellis Chavis on rubboard and drums, respectively, Classie Ballou Jr. on bass, Sonny Landreth on guitar, David Greely on fiddle and Scott Billington on mouth harp -- gathered near Lake Charles, La., to practice the new material at Boozoo's home, Dog Hill.\nThe resulting songs, while somewhat predictable, are inspired nonetheless. The band runs through Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup's bluesy "Rock Me Mama" and the waltz-like shuffle of "Crying Blues" with equal aplomb, and the Magic Sounds put Chubby Checker to shame with their cover of Hank Ballard's "The Twist."\nThe high points of the album come from Greely's greasy fiddle work and Boozoo's classic accordion melodies. Landreth adds some sharp, bluesy licks, while the Chavis boys provide a steady beat behind it all.\nThis year, Boozoo Chavis was honored posthumously with a National Heritage Fellowship Award, and it was certainly hard-earned and well-deserved. Few artists have been able to so consistently conjure up the soul of the swamps as Chavis. Although Down Home on Dog Hill is at times formulaic, it's a fitting, touching swan song for a zydeco legend.\nRating: 7
(12/06/01 4:11am)
I don't like writing straightforward opinion columns. I never really have.\nPart of my hesitation springs from plain ol' paranoia. I worry about getting my facts wrong and looking like a doofus, and I'm too much of a doofus as it is. I worry about Cliff Clavin's pointing out tiny miscues in my column and needling me about it. I guess maybe I'm too sensitive, and I'll freely admit that: not only am I a doofus, but I'm also a wuss.\nBut the biggest reason I shy away from writing opinion columns is, well, that I hate opinions. \nWe all know the old adage about opinions and certain bodily orifices. And if everyone's got an opinion, then what's so special about mine -- or anyone else's? We can all blab and blab and blab about what we believe, but most of the time it just ends all jumbled up, an excruciating cacophony of personal peeves and perturbations that, in the end, goes nowhere. Kind of like Congress. Or the United Nations. Or the Dallas Cowboys.\nThe fact is, most people's minds have long been made up, and whatever I write in 550 words or less won't change their minds. People who disagree with me will either ignore my column or read it and call me a jerkwad while they drink their coffee. So I end up just preaching to the converted, and what's the point of that?\nBut there's even more to it than that. Much too often, opinions get out of hand. Discussions about abortion or Afghanistan or campaign-finance reform or who deserves the Oscar for Best Actor or the best shortstop in history start to heat up and spin out of control because people take offense with the other person's opinion, even though that opinion most likely has no effect on the person being offended.\nAnd I'm one of the worst examples of people who get all worked up over nothing. I start tossing my opinions around and in a matter of no time I'm more ornery and irrational than a basketball coach at Texas Tech.\nJust this week I was talking with my classmates about whether the government should play a role in ensuring freedom of speech. We started to discuss the idea that the government, in the interest of fairness, should get involved in what a newspaper publishes.\nBeing a typical, hard-core journalist -- a territorial and possessive jerk who distrusts and resents anyone telling me what the hell I should print -- I adamantly opposed such an idea and got worked up in the process. By the end, I was saying stuff that was borderline insulting and offensive.\nAnd that ain't right. To become angry and hotheaded over something as nebulous and unsolvable as the freedom of the press is silly, and it probably takes years off my life.\nAnd people get upset over opinions that are much more volatile and dangerous. Opinions are what cause racism and hatred. Opinions caused the Holocaust, caused lynchings, caused Wounded Knee, caused the rule of Pol Pot and Idi Amin. Opinions led to every war that has ever cursed humankind. Opinions are what keep women in a subservient status and the environment on the brink of destruction.\nOpinions, in essence, have threatened to destroy the world and everything on it. \nAnd I'd rather not add to that. It's not worth it. I've got better things to do.\nLike being a doofus.
(11/30/01 4:02am)
At first I was very self-conscious about walking Dorothy and Toto.\nI mean, I'm a big guy, an ex-football player and a big Stones fan. I'm not supposed to be seen in public with two pugs. They're so tiny and ... well, cute. And they have curly tails. Here I am, going for the Grizzly Adams look, but instead of a huge, scary-looking bear, I'm walking two little rug rats.\nFor the first week I was in town, my housemates were on vacation and entrusted me with caring for the mutts. So for eight days, I it was my job to walk the little buggers. In public. For everyone to see. Me and the pugs. I was mortified.\nI soon learned that Dorothy and Toto had some little quirks. Pugs, I found out, have trouble breathing because their faces are basically smooshed in. And Dorothy, I learned, has it particularly bad. She snorts and hacks and wheezes regularly.\nOn the second day I was dog-sitting, I put them outside on their chains for about an hour or so. It's something I always did with our dog at home, so I figured it would be no problem with Dorothy and Toto. But when I went out to get the pugs, Dorothy was wheezing loudly, and I started to panic. Great, I thought. I've killed her.\nNot knowing that Dorothy always does this, I rushed her inside, gave her cold water and started to plan my alibi. But after about a half an hour or so, she calmed down and started to breathe normally -- at least, normally for her. I, on the other hand, was still about to pass out.\nToto was also a challenge. His little quirk, as it turned out, was pooping on the floor. I would get up at 7 a.m. and walk the pugs. We'd walk up and down the neighborhood, and while Dorothy did everything she needed to do, Toto would only do No. 1.\nThat is, until he got back inside. Within a half an hour of the walk, I would find a little pile of joy somewhere in the house. This happened on a daily basis, and by the end of the week, I was at my wits' end. But eventually, I got philosophical about it and found inner peace regarding Toto's bathroom habits. As long as he doesn't poop in my room, I said to myself, it doesn't matter to me.\nToto and Dorothy also like to play, with usually involves them running around the house at top speed and trying to chew on each other's faces. Toto will bite Dorothy's tail and just yank, while Dorothy will get all huffy and attempt to body-slam Toto.\nAnd, lucky enough for me, they often like to do this when they're on my lap. They're so loud and noisy that my mother can hear them yipping and growling over the phone. And when Toto gets really worked up, he'll start to bite my fingers or nip at my nose.\nWhich, of course, is both painfully annoying and endearingly cute. Despite their quirks, despite failing asleep to Dorothy's snoring, despite having to pick up piles of doodie, I've grown to love Dorothy and Toto. True, every once in a while, they can be a pain in the butt. But most of the time, they're endlessly affectionate and unconditionally loving.\nAnd that comes in handy when I'm feeling lousy and depressed. If I didn't have them around, I'm not sure I would have made it this far into the semester. They've taught me that even ex-football players can have a soft spot for a little cuteness.\nAs long, of course, as there's no poop in my room.
(11/16/01 3:52am)
I was a little uncomfortable sitting there in the cafe. I've always known that I wasn't a cafe kind of guy. For me, cafes conjure visions of small portions, croissants and teas with all sorts of fruit flavorings in them. Like boysenberry. Or kiwi. Or prune.\nBut I also try to be open-minded (I swear), so I figured I'd give this place a go. And in the end, it wasn't that bad. I ordered a chicken wrap type of thing, and it was actually fairly big. They also let me drink Diet Coke instead of a hot beverage. And the men's bathroom was so nice it looked like a women's bathroom. Not that I would know what a women's bathroom looks like.\nBut this is all beside the point. The point is I had a chance to have lunch with a friend. We worked at the IDS when we were undergrads; she was the copy desk chief, I was the night janitor. I used to clean up after those journalism geeks after their Taco Bell binges. Like all those bean burritos made the paper any better.\nMy friend entered the cafe and sat down. She's several months pregnant, and I attempted to compliment her without being a yutz.\n"Hey," I said, "you look really … big."\nYutz.\n"Oh geez, thanks," Ceci said with a smile.\nI tried to make up for my yutziness.\n"I mean everything seems to be going well," I said. "In that manner, I mean, you look nice and big. And healthy. Very healthy. Healthy, healthy, healthy."\n"Thanks," she said. "I even know what it's going to be."\n"What's it going to be?" \n"A girl," she said, beaming with pride.\n"Well, congratulations," I said earnestly. \n"So, how's your life going?"\nAt that point I did a mental "D'oh!" I knew she was going to ask that.\n"Uh, it's OK," I said, my eyes fixed on my chicken wrap. "It's going … OK."\n"Have you met anyone?"\nI swallowed hard.\n"Not, uh, not really, no," I said, scrambling for an excuse. I knew she wouldn't take just any old stupid reason for why I had no social life. Ceci was always up-front and no-bull. She was always honest and sincere, and she didn't take any crap from her friends.\n"Well," she said, "have you asked anyone out? Is there anyone you'd like to get to know better?"\n"Yeah, sure," I said. "I've asked a couple people out, but it didn't work out."\nI wanted to tell her that I really had no close friends here yet, that -- to quote Hank -- 'I'm so lonesome I could cry.' I wanted to tell her that I go home and put on Solomon Burke and just sit in the dark and wonder why I'm such a wiener.\n"Well, what's the problem?" she asked. "You're not a troll or anything, you know."\nShe's right, my mind said. You're not a troll. You're more like John Merrick, the Elephant Man. This is what my brain tells me.\n"I know, I know," I said, grateful for her support and friendship.\n"Something will happen," she said.\n"Yeah, maybe," I said. "We'll see."\nWe finished our lunch and paid our bills. We left the cafe and walked toward Sixth Street.\n"I had a good time," I told her as we parted ways. "Thanks for meeting me."\n"No problem," she said with a smile. At that point I was very glad I had a friend that didn't take any crap. I needed the grounding that she gave me. We all do. If we aren't grounded, we'd probably float away into nothingness.\nI headed up Grant Street, toward All Ears record store. I needed to buy some music. Maybe, I thought, they have some Solomon Burke.
(11/09/01 5:39am)
The ferry was just leaving the port of Argentia and the rocky shores of Newfoundland when I thought of Calvin. As the huge ship glided through the early-morning mist, I reflected on the two weeks I had just spent traversing my ancestral home.\nFor me, breathing the air on The Rock and gazing out onto the Atlantic Ocean from the hills of St. John's had been a moving, even life-altering experience. I had learned about where I came from, learned about the Newfie spirit and courage that courses through my veins.\nAnd out of everyone in my life, every person who had made an impact on me, I wanted Calvin there with me to share my experience.\nAnd that was kind of strange. For one, I hadn't seen Calvin for three years, hadn't talked to him in more than two. We had fallen out of touch. But that wasn't really the strangest part.\nI had just spent two weeks with people who were entirely Irish or English descendants, people who had spent their entire lives on the bleak but beautiful island of Newfoundland, scratching out livings as fishermen or laborers in a timber plant.\nAnd now, as I was leaving that behind me, I thought of Calvin, a humble, jovial, African-American photojournalist who had spent his entire life living in rural North Carolina.\nAs I settled into the 14-hour ferry ride to Sydney, Nova Scotia, I wondered why Calvin had crossed my mind. I remembered the two years I spent working at small daily newspapers in North Carolina. I remembered how Calvin welcomed me with a huge smile, warm handshake and a affable, "Hey man, nice to meet you."\nI remembered how Calvin and I covered car accidents and press conferences and boisterous town meetings together. I remembered how we played basketball at the local rec center; Calvin invariably gave me a whuppin' every time, the Tar Heel fan beating the hapless Hoosier.\nI remembered how I spent one weekend in bed. From Friday night to Sunday afternoon I pulled the covers up over my head, afraid of the world outside and the failure I was sure to find if I ventured outside my door. I missed job assignments and scared my family -- and myself.\nAnd I remembered how I called Calvin from my bed. I remembered how he was at my door within 10 minutes. I remembered how he somehow got me off the floor and into some clothes. I remembered how he pulled me up, supported me, believed in me. I remembered how, on that Sunday, I realized I had been blessed with one of the best friends anyone could have, someone who accepted me as I was without condition or pretense.\nAs I drifted out into the Atlantic Ocean, I remembered how much Calvin meant to me, and how much I missed him, and I realized why I thought of him -- because, like my trip to Newfoundland, Calvin had changed my life.\nThis past Tuesday I called the offices of the Daily Southerner, the local paper in the bustling metropolis of Tarboro, N.C. I asked for Calvin. After a few seconds of holding, a voice came on the other end.\n"This is Calvin."\n"Calvin, I can't believe it's you. This is Ryan."\nCalvin laughed, his warmth and charisma instantly making me feel welcome and happy -- just like he did when I first met him six years ago.\n"I knew right away that it was you, man," he said. "How you been?"\nIt was the first time I had talked to Calvin in years. It had been way too long. And I realized Tuesday that Calvin had actually been with me all along. Friends like him stay with you forever. Even in the chilly confines of the North Atlantic.
(11/02/01 5:58am)
Earlier this week, I received an e-mail from a friend back home. It included a picture of the costume he said he'd wear for Halloween. The costume basically involved a cardboard box on his head. The front was removed, with two half-circle slots cut in on the bottom edge of the box near his mouth. On top of the box was a sign: "Free Mammograms."\nThe concept, apparently, was that a woman could place her breasts on the slots, right in front of his face, and have them "examined." \nHow funny, I thought. I'm glad my friend feels free enough to make fun of breast cancer. How nice for him.\nThe "costume" reminded me of a scene from the FOX cartoon show "Family Guy." The main character, a Homer Simpson rip-off, is feeling around his chest and gets a worried look on his face. "Oh God," he says, "it's a lump. It's a lump."\nHe pauses for minute, and a relieved look comes over his face. "Oh good," he says, "it's just a cheese doodle."\nHilarious.\nFor some reason, it's apparently kosher to belittle breast cancer. Apparently, it's not that big a deal. In fact, it seems breast cancer can be a source of humor and bawdy bathroom jokes. It's only a cartoon, nothing that happens in real life. And if it does happen in real life, then it's funny.\nI'll have to pass that message on to my mother. I think I'll wait until her next mammogram. I'll wait until she's waiting in fear for the results. I'll wait until she's so nervous that she can't eat or sleep until she finds out that this six-month check-up came back clean.\nOr maybe I'll wait to tell her when she's remembering about all the trips she took to the bathroom to throw up. Maybe I'll tell her when she sees the gaping scars in her chest and remembers the weeks she spent with a tube and medical bag filled with drained blood hanging from her side. Maybe I'll tell her when she's doing spring cleaning and comes across the thick red wig she wore for most of a year.\nIn fact, I think I'll inform the 192,200 women who will be diagnosed this year with breast cancer, according to the American Cancer Society, that it's perfectly alright for people to have a good laugh at their expense. I'll let them know that it's alright for men to mock their suffering with jokes about free breast exams. I'll tell them to ignore that big, gaping hole where a breast used to be. I'll tell them to not worry about maintaining their dignity and self-esteem. Those things aren't that important anyway.\nWhile I'm at it, I can spread the word to the families of the American Cancer Society's expected 40,200 women who will die this year from the disease. Every husband without his wife, every son or daughter without their mother, every sibling without their sister. Hey, guess what? I'll say to them. Your loved one's death was really, really funny! So smile, lighten up. Your wife, your mother, your sister, your daughter ... they weren't all that important anyway.\nBecause, you see, breast cancer doesn't really exist. Women don't really suffer, don't really waste away, don't really die. All of that? That's just a figment of our imagination.
(10/31/01 5:00am)
Chris Thomas King wants to bring the blues into the 21st century -- kicking and screaming, if necessary.\nWith the All Over Blues Tour, King is spreading his unique blend of rootsy blues and modern hip-hop all across the country. \nBut not everyone in the traditional blues community approves.\n"I've found a lot of resistance in the United States," King says. "We've been banned from a lot of blues festivals. There are still cities on our schedule that want to stop this tour."\nKing, whose father is noted bluesman Tabby Thomas, says the reaction is different in Europe, where fans don't try to pigeonhole him as a straight-on blues artist. He says that overseas, audiences accept the way he has incorporated the music of his influences, which range from Muddy Waters, Jimi Hendrix and Robert Cray (with whom he just completed a tour) to Chuck D and NWA.\n"It's kind of easy to say I'm influenced by everything, but that's a good way to start," he says. "I let everything seep in."\nAs co-headliner of the All Over Blues Fest, which comes to Bloomington this weekend, King is one half of a blues yin and yang. The other featured act on the tour is the Muddy Waters Tribute Band, a group featuring such respected blues stars as Luther "Guitar Junior" Johnson, Willie "Big Eyes" Smith, Calvin "Fuzz" Jones, Jerry Portnoy and "Steady Rollin'" Bob Margolin.\nKing says the show gives audiences what he believes are two views of the blues -- the Muddy Waters band's traditional Chicago blues and his updated, modern take on the century-old genre, what he calls "21st-century blues." (King heads up his own record label of the same name.)\nHe says he didn't decide to embark on a new musical path overnight.\n"I don't wake up in the morning and say, 'I'm going to make blues and hip-hop,'" King says.\nInstead, he says, it involved a steady process of absorbing and integrating his musical influences and personal experiences -- experiences that differed from those of traditional bluesmen.\n"When I started learning about the blues, Muddy Waters had been dead for several years," says King, who released his first album in 1986 at age 17. \nAs a result, he doesn't attempt to replicate the type of music Waters played.\n"I couldn't be that if I tried," he says.\nBut, he adds, straight-forward hip-hop "doesn't fit me, either." That non-conformist attitude has led to albums and live shows that feature a DJ and turntable in addition to King and his guitar.\n"When I play my guitar, people hear a blues sound, but it's all contemporary," he says. "I've got to have my turntables. I've got to have a little scratching in my music."\nProfessor Susan Oehler says it's that kind of experimentation that will keep the blues fresh. Noting that the blues have survived -- and even thrived off -- such "radical" developments as the white blues revival of the 1960s, Oehler says artists like King fit into the blues heritage.\n"He represents a category of blues performers who carry on a large African American tradition, which is to flavor traditional blues with contemporary sound scapes that occur today," she says.\nOehler cites another key development in African American history -- the massive migration of rural blacks to northern urban centers in the first half of the 20th century -- that helped transform the blues. By electrifying and urbanizing traditional rural blues, artists like Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf created a new genre of music. Artists like Chris Thomas King are no different, she says.\n"To blend in a new musical style is always controversial for some people who think blues as it was is the best, most expressive, most beautiful form of the blues," she says. "But change is a part of the blues, especially if the blues are to be maintained."\nBy the time King released Me, My Guitar and the Blues in 2000 on Blind Pig Records, King's forward-thinking sound had crystallized. But a lot has happened since then. He played itinerant bluesman Tommy Johnson in Joel and Ethan Cohen's movie, "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" and contributed a song to the high-selling soundtrack.\nHis latest release is this year's "The Legend of Tommy Johnson Act I," recorded for 21st Century Blues and distributed by Valley Entertainment. In addition, he is featured on the cover of the November issue of OffBeat Magazine.\nBut not everyone is thrilled with what King is producing. A recent review for "Tommy Johnson Act I" on the Web site "Blues Bytes" stated that "this atrocity jumbles together too many different styles in a way that makes it painful to the listener. At the front of the CD are half a dozen acoustic, traditional numbers that were recorded in a much too sterile environment ... It's all downhill from there, as Thomas King goes electric on the next three cuts and gets too histrionic and rocked out."\nBut for every harsh critic, there seems to be an enthusiastic convert to King's new style.\n"In a world where many blues bands tend to rely on overdone cover songs and mindless guitar solos, it is refreshing to hear the work of an artist like Chris Thomas King, who is able to draw on disparate influences while maintaining traditional blues roots," wrote Barry T. Gober in a 2000 issue of Southwest Blues. "While many listeners might be taken back by King's unique fusion of musical styles ... Chris Thomas King is truly a unique musician whose talents should only grow in the future and his new recording is definitely a worthwhile listen for those with adventurous musical tastes."\nFor his part, King tries not to worry too much about how other people react to his style. Musically, he says, "I just let the chips fall where they may. I let other people try to figure it out for themselves."\nOne of his biggest goals is to help revitalize a genre that, in his mind, is in a downswing.\n"Blues music is pretty dismal, as far as recordings go," he says. "The labels that specialize in blues are really hurting."\nThe problem, he says, is a failure to connect with young people.\n"The records (labels) make don't say anything about the lives of people who buy records today," he says. "They just don't resonate."\nAs a result, he says, King wants to keep the blues alive by keeping the music fresh.\n"I try not to sing about what happened 50 years ago," he says. "I try to sing about what's happened in my life. If I strike a chord with my generation or younger, then I feel I'm doing a service to the blues"
(10/31/01 5:00am)
They tell me the new fall TV season is underway. I really wouldn't know. Network TV lost me a long time ago. Today, it seems, prime-time opportunities go to either has-beens who have flopped out of the movie business (Jim Belushi, Damon Wayans, Keifer Sutherland, Geena Davis, Charlie Sheen ... the list is endless and depressing) or hyperactive chefs.\n At this point, there's only a handful of shows that I watch regularly, and the vast majority of them are shown on Fox on Sunday nights. Once in a while I will watch "Monday Night Football," but only when they have a decent match-up (which, apparently, happens about as frequently as Eminem says something intelligent).\nCable offers a similarly bleak broadcast landscape. ESPN is OK for "SportsCenter" or college football, but that's balanced off by the presence of Paul McGuire and Joe Theismann -- both of whom were most assuredly dropped on their heads as babies -- on the channel's Sunday night NFL broadcasts.\nThe "news" channels offer talking Barbie and Ken dolls and frenetic, incomprehensible displays of computer-generated graphic excess. TNT or TBS might show a good movie once in a while, but only in between the 152 times a month they show either "Jaws" or "Stepmom." Then there's E!, a channel entirely devoid to phony breasts and even phonier people. (The one exception is "Talk Soup," which now features new host Aisha Tyler, who is witty, goofy and a total babe to boot. Too bad the show has been banished to the 1 a.m. slot. I guess E! executives figure it's much more important to show "Wild On Boise" in prime time.)\nAnd the music channels? The dimwits at CMT wouldn't know real country if it fell in their laps, MTV is a vacuous wasteland and VH-1 has been reduced to doing "Behind the Music"s on clowns like Creed or No Doubt.\nWhich, of course, leaves only one viewing option: Comedy Central. There's really no other logical choice.\nComedy Central is, of course, anchored by two mainstays: "South Park" and "The Daily Show." Although it has completely permeated popular American culture and become a merchandising juggernaut, "South Park" is still freakin' funny. It's maintained its edge after four years of swear words, poop jokes and Kenny deaths.\nAnd "The Daily Show" didn't win a Peabody Award for nothin'. Jon Stewart is easily the funniest and most cutting-edge host on the air today, and he's also quite the hottie. He's not as annoyingly smug as his predecessor, Craig Kilborn, and he's got a great supporting cast of correspondents. You got your sarcastic cynic (Lewis Black), your lovable loser (Steve Carell) and your nerd with a bow tie (Mo Rocca).\nComedy Central also is the only channel to show reruns of "The Critic," the hilarious but ill-fated cartoon featuring the voice of Jon Lovitz. It says a lot about the American populace that "The Critic" -- an insightful, intelligent comedy that skewered Hollywood with alternately biting and subtle humor -- failed miserably while Tim Allen survived for a decade doing the same hackneyed "dumb guy with power tools" schtick.\nMy favorite new addition to the Comedy Central line-up is "Let's Bowl," a slightly insane game show in which contestants settle their squabbles in a bowling alley. Set in Minneapolis, the show features two loony, dippy announcers and prizes like canned fish and a 1973 El Camino for prizes. I used to bowl when I was a kid, and it was nothing like this.\nBut Comedy Central does have one major drawback -- "The Man Show," which routinely features 30 minutes of lowbrow, sexist and downright lame comedy aimed at the worst features of the average male psyche. Example No. 1: they call their scantily-clad cheerleaders the "Juggies." Example No. 2: It's hosted by Jimmy Kimmel. Example No. 3: It's hosted by Adam Corolla.\nBut fortunately, "The Man Show" isn't on that often, and Comedy Central doesn't suffer as a result. And we don't suffer as a result. So boycott network TV. Ween yourself from Calista "For the love of God eat a sandwich" Flockhart. Resist the temptation to watch "The O'Reilly Factor."\nInstead, watch Comedy Central and become an introverted, anti-social freak like me. Come. Join us. An Emeril-free life awaits.
(10/31/01 5:00am)
In the mid- to late-1990s, music fans discovered R.L. Burnside after a strange but fortunate series of events that included help from alt-rocker Jon Spencer, album production by a Beck cohort and inclusion on a "The Sopranos" soundtrack.\nIt's too bad it had to come to that, because the 75-year-old Burnside has been cranking out high-energy, gut-bucket blues for decades. With Burnside on Burnside, a live album recorded mostly at the Crystal Ballroom on Burnside Street in Portland, Ore., listeners are shown how powerful -- and fun -- the blues can be in the hands of a master.\nBacked only by grandson Cedric Burnside on drums and "adopted son" Kenny Brown on guitar, R.L. rips through a loose but intense set of stripped-down, relentless blues that can best be described as grunge-boogie. \nWhile Cedric pounds out a steady, heavy rhythm for his grandfather, R.L. frequently hits on a single note on the guitar and drives it in, much like late blues legend John Lee Hooker did in his classic sides. \nAlthough 2001 has brought a handful of health problems for Burnside, he barely shows it in Burnside on Burnside. A Mississippi native who for many years subsisted as an itinerant farm worker, Burnside conjures up images of sweaty, deep South juke joints and monthly house-rent parties.\nHe brings a freewheeling attitude and devilish sense of humor to the album. Mid-way through the disc, he stops to relate the story of a friend whose son had yet to have a girlfriend at the age of 22. The father implores the son to find a woman to bring home, which the son dutifully does. But the father rejects the girlfriend for a sordid reason: "Son, you can't marry that girl. That's your sister, but your momma don't know it."\nThe son finds a second girlfriend, but the father again balks for the same reason. The son then tells his mother what his father told him. The mother tells her son not to worry. "Son, you can marry either of them girls you want to," she says, "'cause he ain't your daddy, but he don't know it."\nIt's that type of sly, earthy approach that makes Burnside on Burnside so great. It also makes you wonder what took the mainstream so long to find out about R.L. Burnside.
(10/26/01 4:16am)
I stayed up way too late Sunday night, but I really couldn't help it. TBS started showing "The Breakfast Club" at about 1:30 a.m. The movie is the Achilles heel of every American who went to high school during the 1980s. We have to watch it. It's a biological imperative. Dogs chase cars. Cats cough up hairballs. We watch Molly Ringwald and Judd Nelson.\nAs I basked in the warm, soothing rays of my television, a commercial for a new Journey greatest hits compilation came on. It was a perfect stroke of marketing genius -- butter us up with John Hughes, then slam us with the schlock. How else would they expect to sell any copies of a Journey album? Like they can depend on Steve Perry's strangled-farm-animal voice.\nBut it got me to thinkin'. Journey is still around? One would have hoped they would have mercifully quit after "Open Arms." (Insert chilled shudder here.)\nBut nay, the band and its marketing madmen plunge ahead. Most people with IQs more than 30 gave up Journey -- and REO Speedwagon, and Bad Company, and ZZ Top, and Night Ranger, and Rush and any assortment of other hokey 1980s arena-rock bands -- after middle school.\nNevertheless, the corporatized and homogenized entity known as Journey continues to survive, despite that the band wore out its welcome a long, long time ago.\nAll too frequently, American culture spits up similarly annoying examples of people and things that should have faded into the sunset (or the fiery pits of hell) but have for some reason -- be it chance or cheated fate or pact with Satan -- have not done so.\nThere is no bigger example than Michael Jordan, a man whose self-image apparently is so inflated that he believes the sport of basketball will wither and die without him. Never mind he has already staged one triumphant comeback. Never mind he retired a second time in storybook manner -- hitting the shot that won the Chicago Bulls their sixth NBA title.\nNever mind that he's twice as old as the Washington Wizards No. 1 draft choice. Never mind that the Wizards are so mired in suckiness they would embarrass Daniel Snyder. Never mind that Magic Johnson tried coming back too late and looked like an absolute fool doing it. Never mind that it's time to pass the torch to any number of capable prodigies like Allen Iverson or Vince Carter or even the annoyingly precocious Kobe.\nNope. Screw all that. Jordan gets what Jordan wants, even if it is one huge ego-stroke.\nOf course, IU has never had an experience with someone hanging around too long (Bob Knight). This campus always knows when to say goodbye at the right time (Bob Knight). Nope, this fair institution has never had anyone stick around for too long (Bob Knight), never had anyone make a jerk out of themselves out of sheer vanity (Bob Knight), never let itself, its staff and its students become a mass of monkey boys for one person (Bob Knight).\nAnd the list of worn-out welcomes goes on. "Friends." Madonna. Trent Lott. Ted Kennedy. Stephen King. The war on drugs. Tom Green. SUVs. "Garfield." MTV. Starbucks. The electoral college. Texas.\nAnd don't think I don't know that a lot of you are saying, "Well, this doofus has certainly worn out his welcome. Jerk." \nTrue, at this point in my rant I very well may have. But I ask you this one question: Why wasn't there an Ally Sheedy nude scene?