I'll Know My Song Well Before I Start Singin'

Oh, you Post-Rockist you!

2006-07-20T18:36:00.000-07:00

Wow, why are you here? I haven't updated for weeks. You're loyal. You're a pal. Well, you won't be seeing very many posts here anymore, though. I mean, every once and a while a may slither over yonder, but a new project in the works for a while is now acceptable enough (at least for me) to tell you about, my babies.

www.post-rockist.com

That is where you'll find my prose jivin' taking place from now on. With the fantastic T-Bone McK (Todd) and others, we'll be delivering music writing you can read if you are able to or want to. We use words that exist in the English language. And we write about music that is played by people with instruments. For more description, please see our Mission Statement in the "About" section of the website.

With any luck--and with lots of your comments and hits--we can get free CDs soon. We'll totally share.

Aces,

Scotter

Not Terrific, but Competent

2006-06-21T21:13:00.000-07:00

Awhile back, I wrote a review of Paul Whitelaw's book on Belle and Sebastian, "Just Another Modern Rock Story," and did nothing with it. I thought I'd post it to Amazon but as I was about to hit the "upload" button I noticed a clause at the bottom of the page which reads: "All content uploaded becomes the property of Amazon.com." Umm, no-ah-ah. So here it is for you lovely people:

No one writes a book to trash a band. Such books are written by fans for fans. So the question of such books is not whether the band deserves to be mythologized, but what a band’s mythology should be.

In his biography of the Scotland’s Belle and Sebastian, a staple-band for anyone who wishes to describe what “Indie” music is for those friends musically emaciated by the poor succor provided by rabid radio-listening, Paul Whitelaw (music writer and editor for the British daily, Metro, what a Scottish friend of mine called the City Paper of Glasgow) is keen to save Belle and Sebastian from oft-mentioned epithets such as “wishy-washy” and “twee.” Instead, he attempts to establish them as securely “punk,” however un-Ramonesesque their sound may be. Unfortunately for Whitelaw and his readers, the music journalist himself dips his pen in an inkpool of twee far too often even as he successfully does convince that Stuart Murdoch and his band of merry musical hipsters are the kind of anti-corporate magi who can raise a large and dedicated following without giving in to the Man.

The story Whitelaw weaves begins with the humble beginnings of one Stuart Murdoch of Ayr, Scotland, who, after recovering from a rare illness causing severe exhaustion, locates to Glasgow and finds a sense of purpose in music and a knack for playfully ironic lyrics. His illness helps him to forge a will to become a “bard of the dispossessed” and “venerated indie godfather.” Still the artist-to-be in his nascent stages of development, Stuart hones his songwriting genius by playing open-mic nights—introducing himself as the Lisa Helps the Blind--while recruiting the musicians who would soon become Belle and Sebastian. Stuart gets his chance at making a record soon enough by winning an annual contest put on by the student-run Stow College record label, Electric Honey, which functions as a music marketing class’s semester project. Stuart recruits members from local coffee shops, through friends of friends of friends, and at parties, finally putting together the musical line-up that would record in five days Belle and Sebastian’s first record, Tigermilk.

After a few gigs and moderate dispersion of the LP, every record label on both sides of the Atlantic makes bids to sign the barely-extant group of Scottish newcomers. From that point on, the band manages to become the pride of the Indie music scene despite their meager efforts to create a stir. The band signs to the newly-formed Jeepster label, who would give Belle and Sebastian enough freedom to express their anti-corporate attitudes by playing few shows and allowing fewer interviews. For some years and many albums, the group hardly allowed pictures to be taken of themselves, preferring to put on their album covers and promotional matter artsy pictures of forlorn hipster girls on a summer days, gazing aloofly at the sky in-between chapters of a book. Amazingly, avoiding the spotlight and spending more effort making sophisticated pop music (as impossible as this sounds) allowed Belle and Sebastian to have pop prestige haply plopped upon their laps.

The story of the band is an inspiring one for the idealist who believes good music can triumph over good marketing, especially when considering the pop landscape that existed at the time of their inception. Belle and Sebastian’s sensitive yearning and sexual subversiveness cloaked in adolescent wistfulness came about during the days of Britpop, when bands like Oasis and Blur were attracting large audiences with their unctuous bravado. This inevitable juxtaposition may be the reason why B&S have been so often tagged as twee.

One of the most curious incidents in the band’s history is Belle and Sebastian’s win at the 1998 British Music Awards, a corporate back-slapping extravaganza equivalent to our Grammys and MTV Music Awards. Turns out that Belle and Sebastian had even more fans than they knew. The award—-voted upon by the public—-was so unexpected for the group that the British tabloids the next day ran stories that the Brits had been fixed.

A less public aspect of the Belle and Sebastian story is the relationship between Stuart Murdoch and cellist and co-founder of the group, Isobel Campbell. Like much of the book, their amour is conducted through a rock n’ roll mythology: Isobel is the “June to his Johnny, Cher to his Sonny, Jane to his Serge.”

The reality is not so romantic. Although songs like I’m Walking up to Us and Take your Carriage Clock and Shove It intimate the troubled relationship that the two were engaged in, Whitelaw reveals that their relationship—and the effect it had upon the band—was destructive and even malicious.

In Whitelaw’s account, Isobel takes most of the blame. Stuart and guitarist Stevie Jackson are especially open in their blame, but even Whitelaw himself seems to be unable to give a fair account of the breakup. He follows short defenses of her behavior with pointed criticisms that null whatever justifications he has just presented. Some have wondered why Stuart, who wrote most of Belle and Sebastian’s songs after the age of 25, sings so often about school and school kids.
Whitelaw quotes Isobel explicitly saying “I thought it was a bit disturbing,” only to answer the charge scornfully: “no more disturbing than Isobel actually dressing as a schoolgirl, as she often did, or talking like a twelve-year-old.”

Granted, these claims are certainly not untrue; however, the viciousness inherent in these charges speak to Whitelaw’s need to blame the mis-apprehensions about and troubles within the group squarely upon the shoulders of la petite amie.

One of Whitelaw’s ways of rubbing Isobel’s face in a pieful of blame is to turn the “twee” accusations upon her own music, claiming that “her solo output deserves the ‘twee’ criticism more than anything Belle and Sebastian have ever released.” Indeed, Whitelaw goes to great lengths to defend the group from the twee accusation by giving us a dictionary definition of the word, a short history of “twee” music from the eighties, quotes from members who defend themselves against such accusations (including manager Neil Robertson, whom the author claims is “as twee as shite in a pint glass”), and even feels the need to write in full caps that the group “actually LIKE FOOTBALL! AND DRINKING! AND SOME OTHER NAUGHTY THINGS, INCLUDING RUTTING LIKE STAG-BEETLES WITH MEMBERS OF THE OPPOSITE GENDER!”

Suffice it to say, the author gets his point across. Yet Whitelaw—-as much as he wishes to expel that accursed word—-is not himself so free from twee.

Each chapter of the book begins with a kind of prelude, distinguishably in italics, where Whitelaw represents key moments in the group’s history through a third-person present omniscience, using a novelistic perspective that attempts to present the reader with the thoughts of a particular band member during a particular moment in time. These excursions into the psyche are out of place within the journalistic mode in which most of the story is told. As a result, he too often speaks for Belle and Sebastian instead of letting them speak for themselves.

Even worse, Whitelaw feels the need to rename his characters with overly-precious appellations in these preludes: Guitarist Stevie Jackson becomes “Reverb,” bassist Stuart David is cleped “the Space Boy,” Isobel Campbell is simply “the girl,” and Stuart Murdoch becomes “the curious boy.” The preludes represent a group united in the bright-eyed dreams—-kept alive in their heart of hearts—-and their wishes to make these dreams a reality, by gum!

I don’t mean to trivialize or characterize as overly precious the idea that youngsters do have dreams they wish to make true, but Whitelaw tends to overdue such pronouncements and characterizations to the point where you’d like to firmly place your finger down your throat.

Which isn’t to say the book isn’t a pleasurable read. The stories behind the songs and the people who made them—-no matter how wishy-washily they may be told at times-—will be fascinating to those who love the music. It is when he writes about the music itself that Whitelaw is at his best. I find books about pop music most pleasurable to read when they perceive things in songs that I had never noticed or thought about. He writes the following about the song Dog on Wheels:

"The protagonist is damaged, depressed, possibly suicidal, curling up on the pavement in an exhausted attempt to ignore the harsh reality around him, longing to reclaim the dog on wheels which kept him happy and contented as a child. “See my dog on wheels, he seems a mile away,” he laments, before intoning with an air of mysterious portent, as the bare backing rumbles like a Spanish dust storm beneath him, that “anything goes.”

This passage is not only insightful, but good writing to boot. More room for such passages could easily have been made by cutting Whitelaw’s extra-sensory perceptions of the group’s collective consciousness.

Andrew Bird's Nervous Ticking

2006-06-19T20:29:00.000-07:00

A fading wave of unconsciousness leaves you.

Overperscribed, soberly and acoustically, under the mister [A cattle farmer from Homerville, OH, has installed misters in his fields so that the cows can continue to graze in the otherwise dangerous heat] we had survived to turn on the History Channel [There is no factual evidence that TV is bad for your eyes, at least] and ask our esteemed panel why are we alive? and here's what they replied: You're what happens when two substances collide and on all accounts you really should have died [The doctrine of probabilities dates to the correspondence of Pierre de Fermat and Blaise Pascal (1654).][A basic idea of chaos theory is the butterfly effect: "The phrase refers to the idea that a butterfly's wings might create tiny changes in the atmosphere that ultimately cause a tornado to appear (or, for that matter, prevent a tornado from appearing). The flapping wing represents a small change in the initial condition of the system, which causes a chain of events leading to large-scale phenomena. Had the butterfly not flapped its wings, the trajectory of the system might have been vastly different."]

Crack, crackle, crack: jangly thunder claps then fades.

A sound similar to when a door would open in the main deck of the Enterprise in classic 60s Star Trek. Drawing figure 8s with a pencil in 3rd grade on a hot May day. Breath pushed through pursed lips. A finger tip lightly circling the brim of a glass filled 1/3 with water.

Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick.

Stretched out on the tarmac, six miles south of North Platte [Glenn Miller lived in North Platte, NE, for many years as a child. Later in life, he died in an airplane crash. "Had the butterfly not flapped its wings, the trajectory of the system might have been vastly different."]

He can't stand to look back [Martin Scorcese directed a documentary on Bob Dylan called "Don't Look Back." It ends in 1967 when Dylan was thrown from his bike and nearly killed. "Had the butterfly not flapped its wings..."]Sixteen tons of Hazmat[HAZMAT is short for hazardous materials and is defined as any solid, liquid, or gas that can harm people, other living organisms, or the environment. From the North Platte Telegraph, 01/22/2005: "The train accident in Granitville, S.C., is just a small example of what kind of disaster could happen in North Platte. On Jan. 6, a tanker car ruptured after a Columbia-bound freight train struck a parked train near Avondale Mills plant. A dangerous gas cloud formed quickly, forcing more than 5,000 residents to evacuate. The chemical spill of chlorine gas killed five people."]

It's what goes undelivered.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

It's a nervous tick motion of the head to the left
[Autism is often marked by nervous ticks of the head]
Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick.
It's a nervous tick motion of the head to the left
[Obsessive compulsive disorder is a type of anxiety disorder characterized by obsessions and/or compulsions.Compulsions are repetitive behaviors that the person feels forced or compelled into doing, in order to relieve anxiety.]
Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick.
Of the what, of the head to the left
[Tik is a street name for methamphetamine]
So exercise yourself to your bereft.
Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick.
Cause it's a nervous tic motion of the head to the left of the, of the, to the
Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick.
[Ticks are second only to mosquitoes as vectors of human disease, both infectious and toxic. Hazmat may be radioactive, flammable, explosive, toxic, corrosive, biohazardous, an oxidizer, an asphyxiant, an allergen, or may have other characteristics that make it hazardous in specific circumstances.]

The Enterprise door
Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick.
Figure eights
Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick-ta. Tick.
Circular motion makes sound.

Splayed out on the bathmat,
[The bathroom is the best acoustic space in most houses and apartments]
Six miles north of South Platte
[Circular motion makes sound]
He just wants his life back
[Don't look back?]
What's in that paper nap sack
[Tik is a street name for methamphetamine]
It's what goes undelivered
Undelivered

It's a nervous tic motion of the head to the left
A nervous tick-ta tic tick-ta motion of the head
Head to the tick-ta left
It's a nervous tic motion of tick-ta the, of tick-ta the, to tick-ta the
Left

It's a nervous tic motion of the head to tick-ta the, of tick-ta the, of the tick-ta head of the head to the

Cracks jangly thunder

Over imbibed Under the mister [Homerville, Oh]
Barely alive we cover the blisters in flannel
[Dr. Scholl's® Molefoam® Padding: Extra-soft, smooth cotton flannel padding]
Though the words we speak are banal
Not one of them's a lie
[No]
Not one of them's a lie
[Yes]
You're what happens when two substances collide
["Had the butterfly not flapped its wings, the trajectory of the system might have been vastly different."]
And by all accounts you really should have died

Moratorium Schmoratorium

2006-06-19T20:24:00.000-07:00

I've got something in the works, folks, but for the time being it's time to start writing again. I try something new.

A Moratorium

2006-05-15T18:20:00.000-07:00

Dearest Readers,

As you surely have noticed, I haven't really been turning out the posts as of late. For this, there are reasons personal and existential, reasons that will certainly keep me from writing as punctually as I would like.

Thus begins a moratorium for "I'll Know My Song Well Before I Start Singin'." It won't last long, will certainly be back for sweeps, and will surely be better than ever after its convalescence. It might even get interesting. How can I stay away for too long? Because...

"You made me love you.
I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to do it..."

--S

I hope we all will remember that we all need Neil Young around, anyhow

2006-05-07T00:19:00.000-07:00

In the four years that are left of this decade, I believe that protest music may find a welcome revival. Please check out this link to All Songs Considered and listen to "Let's Impeach the President" by Neil Young. It certainly isn't his best song, but the guts are genuine and the soundbites by Bush are quite incredible.

http://www.npr.org/programs/asc/archives/asc109/

Now What Do I Do?

2006-04-29T13:13:00.000-07:00

I just heard "John Wayne Gacy, Jr." by Sufjan Stevens for the first time. I was cutting a tomato. I put down the tomato and the knife and sat on the floor, beside the stereo. I sat crossed-legged with my hands in my lap. I just stared at the graphic equalizer as the bars floated up and down, mirroring the contours of the song. The song ended. I turned off the stereo. I sat on the floor, motionless, for at least three minutes. The sound of a loud honking horn from the street outside my apartment awakened me. I stood up. I walked to the computer to write this. Now what do I do?

"I got nothing to say"

2006-04-29T11:46:00.000-07:00

I've been a bit lax lately on the blog--apologies. However, I've just posted some thoughts about the Kinks in another venue and would like to share them with you, my babies. If you're familiar with the Kinks, I'd appreciate your views. I am responding to a fellow blogger:

I guess when it comes to it, Ray's music is so complex and multifaceted that it offers many interpretations and meanings. I believe personally that Ray's vision is much darker and more sorrowful. I don't think he honestly favors one time over another--the past over the present--although he often sets his characters in and uses musical forms from bydone eras.

Ultimately, I think Ray finds problems in both the past and the present--that's his crisis. "Walter" absolutely favors the past, but not the past of a bygone era of history; it favors childhood and innocence, now lost necessarily and tragically from the unstoppable nuissance of having to grow up.

Arthur certainly favors the past as well--the main character must leave for Australia to escape the modern world and all of its terrors. But I must say that I think Ray is not only being ironic in "Victoria," but viciously so. First of all, it sucks that "sex was bad, called obscene." And all of us who are feeling the pinch from Exxon making trillions while we're all paying our working wages for gas so that we can drive to work and pay for more gas certainly understand what it is that "the rich were so mean." Things haven't really changed there. Finally, the last verse is the kicker:

"Canada to India
Australia to Cornwall
Singapore to Hong Kong
From the West to the East
From the rich to the poor
Victoria loved them all"

Thus we have the parameters of the British Empire during the 19th century (Cornwall is the western most part of the English island). The Queen held tight control in Canada. Britain oppressed millions in India until Gandhi rallied his people in the twentieth century. Britains were systematically slaughtering the native tribes of Australia as they were "setting up" their colonies and cities. Britain started trading with Singapore (ie. robbing the natives of their resources) officially in 1819 and decided--out of the blue--to "annex" the entire island officially in 1867. When the British realized that China was beating them fair and square in the world tea market (and opium market), it decided to end that problem by invading in 1841.

Victoria loved them all?

I guess the point I'm trying to make is that Ray really does have a fondness for bygone times, but often finds them not only just as problematic as the present, but the cause of our current problems.

To me, Arthur repeats one thing over and over again--the people in the album have nothing to say. They are shocked into silence in several songs and situations. A soldier is so shocked by war that all he can communicate is that he can't communicate. "Nothing to Say" sadly tells the story of a father and son who cannot speak to each other. The lonely little man sits lonely in his Shangri-La. Folks cannot speak for themselves because they are brainwashed. We get only the party line in "Mr. Churchill Says" (which, by the way, uses language shockingly similar to our current "administration"). "Some Mother's Son" is breathtakingly, terrifyingly, and crushingly sorrowful in the context of our current war. The distance Ray presents in the song achieves a closeness to those lives, allowing us to feel the trauma that they cannot enunciate, cannot speak. "Young and Innocent Days" laments losing childhood, carefree and burdenless. Maybe the past is the only thing one can speak about in the vicious world of adulthood.

Maybe that's why Ray favors it.

The Problem with Writing about Music

2006-04-24T20:10:00.000-07:00

It's just impossible.

How can I describe to you, how can anyone describe to anyone, the feelings one feels when listening to great music?

It's impossible.

I'm listening to A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night (see previous "Stuff I've Been Into" blog). How can I describe to you his singing of "It Had to Be You," and how the final lyric "it had to be me" drifts into an orchestral transition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," with the lushness of the strings, taking the listener into the first lines of "Always": "I'll be loving you" (breath) "...always."

Fucking Impossible. Frustratingly impossible. Impossibly impossible.

I wish there was a way to have commentary pop up as a song plays, that commentary using words that equal the feelings the song sucks into and out of the listener, those feelings filtering into your consciousness and your body as the music does, your consciousness becoming one with every pull of the bow, every pluck of the string, every tickle of the ivory, every inhalation, every exhalation.

Impossible.

Sadly, sorrowfully, but also wonderfully impossible.

Stuff I've Been Into, April 20, 2006

2006-04-22T16:41:00.000-07:00

Albums bought:
Weird War: Illuminated by the Light
Harry Nilsson: Aerial Ballet
The Original Soundrack to My Fair Lady on vinyl
Steve Eastin and Company: Twister on vinyl

Albums I've Been Listening to:
The Original Soundtrack to My Fair Lady
Stephin Merritt: Showtunes
Cole Porter: The Songs of Cole Porter

Good day, chaps. Terribly sorry about my recent non-presence in the blogosphere--I took an unscheduled week off. But that doesn't mean that I've given up on this blog thing or have become too lazy (although I pondered over the possibility of the latter's truth for several dark hours). Thanks for coming back.

Here lies my bi-weekly "Stuff I've Been Into" post. I have pronounced unashamed my reversion into the 60s of late and my regret for not keeping up with new music (I have even yet to buy the new Morrissey and Flaming Lips. What's wrong with me?).

I'll tell you what: I am into showtunes.

Like everything musical in my life, it all goes back to The Kinks. I heard a great interview with Ray Davies on NPR, which you can access for free online (Thanks NPR. Please support your local and national NPR stations). Here are links to the Ray Davies interviews:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5319800
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5232915
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1149069
http://www.npr.org/programs/wesun/features/2002/kinks/

The final interview is the most interesting. The occasion is the release of "This is Where I Belong," a cover CD of Ray Davies songs. The NPR page lists "other" influences on Ray Davies himself: Big Bill Broonzy and British Music Hall (or what all of us think understand as "musicals.")

The Kinks wrote and recorded four complete "rock operas" in the 70s. I put "rock opera" in quotations because these are very different from those of The Who. Besides being much more ambitious in subject matter and scope, The Kinks's "rock operas" were more like musicals with guitars and drums than "rock operas" because Ray Davies actually grew up on the form of the showtune and could write songs in that form as well as many others. The tracks of "Tommy" could exist without the story or the characters (has anyone really put much stock in those characters anyway, let alone remember any besides Tommy himself?). Ray Davies' songwriting is based more in the musical in that he writes not as a confessional songwriter but as a playwright of sorts; he creates characters and situations and writes through them, instead of just writing what he feels directly.

While I firmly believe that Bob Dylan is the great poet of pop music (Leonard Cohen was a poet before he made music for the public), I always think Ray Davies as the great playwright of pop music: they are incomparable figures in music and, by definition, cannot be compared to each other.

To make a short story long, Ray Davies' interest in the showtune allowed me to overcome my rockist sentiments and bravely imbue myself with the showtune. And it has been loverly, to take the word from my precious Eliza Doolittle from My Fair Lady.

Ah, My Fair Lady! When I next play an open-mic night, I will certainly cover "Just You Wait, Henry Higgins." I saw the movie for the first time a few weeks ago at 2am. I could not get the songs and the words out of my head for weeks. Still they follow me like a ghost, like a merry little Casper at my ear.

Stephin Merritt of Magnetic Fields fame also makes me feel unashamed of my new fascination with showtunes, since he has written them for three different musicals that played at the Lincoln Center and has released them on a new CD, aptly titled Showtunes. The musicals, two based upon 13th and 15th century Chinese dramas and the last upon the life of Hans Christian Anderson, are a wry blend of comic and tragic. Merritt sings none of the songs; all are sung by the original cast members. The songs range from bordello dirges to imperial laments to choruses celebrating the ukelele, but all are intersting and imaginative in their own right.

I bought the album used, notable since I bought it used less than a week after its release. The album obviously did not entice one Magnetic Fields fan, but it certainly has taught me that music is more than one scene or sound.

And if you haven't checked out the songs of Cole Porter, you are more unfortunate than you know. I was first introduced to Cole Porter about 3 months ago when I rented De-Lovely. The movie? Eh, it was alright. I really thought the framing device was too smart for its own good, but the real strenth of the movie is that it introduces you to songs that you surely already know. Popular artists such as Alanis Morrisette, Elvis Costello, Robby Williams, etc. sing beloved Cole Porter songs, but you need to get to the originals to really get a feel for them. Porter recorded only a handful of his own songs, but the ones he did record are worth downloading/buying and listening to over and over, particularly "Anything Goes" and "You're the Top." He is a wordsmith of the first rate. Here is the lyrics from "Anything Goes":

Times have changed,
And we've often rewound the clock,
Since the Puritans got a shock,
When they landed on Plymouth Rock.
If today,
Any shock they should try to stand,
'Stead of landing on Plymouth Rock,
Plymouth Rock would land on them.

In olden days a glimpse of stocking
Was looked on as something shocking,
But now, God knows,
Anything Goes.

Good authors too who once knew better words,
Now only use four-letter words
Writing prose, Anything Goes.

The world has gone mad today
And good's bad today,
And black's white today,
And day's night today,
When most guys today
That women prize today
Are just silly gigolos

And though I'm not a great romancer
I know that I'm bound to answer
When you propose,
Anything goes

When grandmama whose age is eighty
In night clubs is getting matey with gigolo's,
Anything Goes.

When mothers pack and leave poor father
Because they decide they'd rather be tennis pros,
Anything Goes.

If driving fast cars you like,
If low bars you like,
If old hymns you like,
If bare limbs you like,
If Mae West you like
Or me undressed you like,

Why, nobody will oppose!
When every night,
The set that's smart
Is intruding in nudist parties in studios,
Anything Goes.

The world has gone mad today
And good's bad today,
And black's white today,
And day's night today,
When most guys today
That women prize today
Are just silly gigolos

And though I'm not a great romancer
I know that I'm bound to answer
When you propose,
Anything goes

If saying your prayers you like,
If green pears you like
If old chairs you like,
If back stairs you like,
If love affairs you like
With young bears you like,
Why nobody will oppose!

And though I'm not a great romancer
And though I'm not a great romancer
I know that I'm bound to answer
When you propose,
Anything goes...
Anything goes!
______________________________________________________

Excellent!

If you are wondering who Stephen Eastin and Company is, I couldn't tell you. Whilst rummaging in the Salvation Army, I found this album with a cover that was actually made of denim and a back pocket on a pair of jeans.

Absurd.

I haven't listened to it yet and have found little information about the artist. It was issued on a Fortune Music label out of Dallas, Texas in 1973. It is not listed on allmusic.com. I googled it and came up with the following. Check this out!

http://www.musicstack.com/item/118497621/twister/stephen+eastin+_apz_

The album is selling for $104.50 online! I bought a copy in mint condition for $0.50.

Music's Hard Work

2006-04-15T22:53:00.000-07:00

I'm reading Woody Guthrie's Bound for Glory. The first chapter takes place in a freight train car with over 60 stowaways, including Woody. The following dialogue ensues:

A heavy-set boy with a big-city accent was rocking along beside me and fishing through his overhauls for his tobacco sack.

'Beats walkin!' I was setting down beside him. 'Bother you fer my guitar handle ta stick up here in yer face?'

'Naw. Just long as yuh keep up th'music. Kinda songs ya sing? Juke-box stuff?'

'Much oblige, just smoked.' I shook my head. 'No. I'm 'fraid that there soap-box music ain't th'kind ta win a war on!'

'Little too sissy?" He licked up the side of his cigaret. 'Wisecracky, huh?'

'Hell yes.' I pulled my guitar up on my lap and told him, 'Gonna take somethin' more'n a dam bunch of silly wisecracks ta ever win this war! Gonna take work!'

'You don't look like you ever broke your neck at no work, bud!' He snorted some fumes out of his nose and mashed the match down into the dust with his foot. 'What th'hell do you know 'bout work?'

'By God, mister, I work just as hard as you er th' next guy!'

I Can Hear Muzak. Sweet, Sweet Muzak

2006-04-14T07:56:00.000-07:00

Kleenex is the name of a company founded in 1924, specializing in the production of facial tissues and other delicate paper products. The success of their particular tissue brought them a kind of monopoly over the market and their tissues became so ubiquitous that the bland moniker, "facial tissue," eventually was replaced in American consciousness by the company's name.

Muzak is commonly known in the American consciousness as that annoying, bland instrumental music most often heard in elevators, offices, and on the telephone as you wait to be transfered to an actual human being, associated often with Kenny G. But Muzak is not the name of a kind of music, like Punk or Rock or Classical, but the name of the company that brought this drivel to your elevators, offices, and hold lines in the 80s (they are not directly responsible for Kenny G). But they are that company no more.

Check out this facinating essay from The New Yorker and let me know after reading it if working for Muzak isn't your new dream job.

http://www.newyorker.com/printables/fact/060410fa_fact

The essay is from the April 10, 2006 New Yorker. This link may become inactive after a few weeks.

A March to the Salvation Army and the Future of Mariah Carey?

2006-04-12T15:42:00.000-07:00

Okay, this is my third post that mentions Mariah Carey. When I started writing this blog, I never dreamed that I would be spending so many words writing about her, so many hours thinking about her (please see "Mission Statement" for evidence).

I enjoy scavenging for records at local Salvation Army and Goodwill stores. It's a dirty, dusty, and enjoyable business. You know, kids, I've flipped through enough LPs at these store to be able to present you with the 5 most-frequently stocked artists at these stores.

Drum roll, please....

5. Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass--I haven't purchased one of these yet, but the sheer volume that must have been purchased in order to fill these stacks astounds me. Maybe for a future blog.

4. Classical music--I'm shocked that so many people bought so many classical albums of all kinds. It's sad that their demand has dropped so dramatically.

3. 3-way tie between Andy Williams, Perry Como, and Jerry Vale--Your first exposure to these three singers most certainly took place while flipping through your grandparents' old records when you were a kid. You'll also remember the Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Fred Astaire records, artists who seem to have managed to remain distinguished enough that they are spared the Salvation Army's draft. A few years back, Robert Goulet albums would have been just as ubiquitous as the Williams, Como, and Vale albums, but I think that Will Farrell's impersonation of Goulet has shot him into the zenith of the kitsch statosphere.

2. Kenny Rogers--You gotta know when to fold 'em.

1. (By an overwhelming amount) Barbara Streisand--I am not hyperbolizing in the least when I say that more than one-third of all of the albums at thrift stores are Streisand albums. Babbs has recorded nearly forty albums and has made more money per performance than any other singer/band/act/circus that I know about. She has been very successful, more successful than Mariah herself, for sure. And yet, with all of the respect she receives, with all of the accolades, awards, and praises, she still has 50-100 pieces of plastic with her name on it at every single thrift store I visit. Her name appears at thrift shops more than any clothing brand name. So numerable are her albums that they accrue no worth in demand. So undistinguished are her songs that no one really cares to cherish them. She is known for singing certain songs--for making them famous--but not known like Sinatra is known for singing "Strangers in the Night," Judy Garland for singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," Jimmy Durante for singing "Young at Heart," or Gene Kelly for singing "Singing in the Rain." So her records lie in the dust. Who buys them that does not already own them? Why would anyone buy them anyway? With her illustrious career now behind us, with the musical landscape now so different, what does Barbara have to offer us?
____________________________________________
Something new is happening at thrift shops all over the country.

CDs are beginning to populate those dusty old bins and shelves. On this recent excursion, I purchased a DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince CD (the one with "Summertime" on it), Surfer Rosa by The Pixies, Corporate Avenger (for another blog), and a KCRW mix with Patti Smith singing "Dancing Barefoot" live.

I also found, very interestingly, two Mariah Carey CDs. While this is no large number, only MC Hammer had more with three.

Mariah Carey will be the best-selling female singer of all time. She may even become the best-selling performer of all time. But as the years go by, and as time passes, and as tastes change, and as we all grow older, more and more than less than less, when our children and our children's children are scavaging Salvation Armys and Goodwills for these archaic CDs, will they find that they are spending a considerable amount of energy and time flipping through the Mariah Carey CDs as they try to find a few real treasures?

_______________________________________

Thank you for reading this really long blog. If you have any stories to share about vinyl finds at thrift shops or would like to comment upon or amend my top 5, please feel free to leave a comment. You can leave a comment even if you don't have a Blogger account.

Remember...

2006-04-12T15:06:00.000-07:00

I heard "I'll Never Let You Go" by Third Eye Blind over the PA system at Taco Bell yesterday while munching upon a Nachos Bell Grande (I know, I know...).

Remember in the late 90s when Third Eye Blind was a really good band?
Remember when you used to listen to their debut album over and over again?
Remember how every single track was really good?
Remember how you listened to Radiohead when you weren't listening to Third Eye Blind?
Remember when Third Eye Blind looked like a bunch of interesting but regular guys?
But then, do you remember how their next album wasn't as good as their first?
And do you remember how the lead singer bulked up in the hiatus between albums?
Remember how he kind of started to look like Scott Stapp?
Remember how, upon further listening, the second album was actually pretty bad?
Remember how bad a song "I'll Never Let You Go" really is?

I do.

Stuff I've Been Into, April 10, 2006

2006-04-08T14:59:00.000-07:00

Hello and welcome to my bi-weekly entry, Stuff I've Been Into. Your attendance is welcome.

Albums Purchased: Randy Newman, Sail Away
Stephin Merritt, Showtunes

Albums Returned due to excessive skips and scratches: Randy Newman, Sail Away

Albums I've Been Listening to: Ray Davies, Other People's Lives
Leonard Cohen, Songs from a Room
Violent Femmes, Violent Femmes

I feel a bit guilty for not listening to any new bands for yet another two weeks. One of the cool things about the blogs and magazines I read is that they help to spread the word on the newest talents and the future great songwriters, singers, and musicians.

Alas, I can't free myself from the hold of my favorite artists from by-gone eras. Not that this is a terrible alternative, of course, so the guilt has not blackened my heart--it just causes the occasional murmur.

I liked Ray Davies' new album Other People's Lives when I first bought it, but found it really great after seeing him perform the songs live and listening to an interview with Terry Gross on Fresh Air (please listen to this interview gratis at http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5319800
and support your local NPR station).

I'm finding that some of the songs are really speaking to me and my thinking about life. Here we have a 62-year-old man singing songs wrought from his many experiences of heartbreak, disappointment, and existential crisis, and I feel that the album is really becoming a soundtrack to my brief and unspectacular existence. I guess it makes sense that Davies can, at the age of 62, write songs that speak to this 20 something since he wrote songs that spoke to the over-40 crowd when he was in his twenties (see "Where Did My Spring Go" from Village Green Preservation Society Deluxe Edition for an example). I recommend, in particular, "After the Fall," "Runaway from Time," "Things are Gonna Change (The Morning After)," and "Creatures of Little Faith."

A note on "Thanksgiving Day": I remember watching with trepidation and dread on Thanksgiving day when Ray Davies sung this song on Conan O'Brien. He looked old, tired, and a bit feeble, singing this silly song. It was catchy right away, a fact I bemoaned since I didn't like thr song. Maybe he has just gotten too old, has gone the way of McCartney, and has lost any edge at all. I was surprised that Other People's Lives, which came out a few months after the "Thanksgiving Day" EP, was such a sophistocated and interesting record. But still, I couldn't forgive "Thanksgiving Day," which ends Other People's Lives. Then I listened to the interview on Fresh Air. Davies was very honest about "Thanksgiving Day," calling it probably the uncoolest song he's ever written, or maybe even the uncoolest song in the history of pop music. But he admitted this unflinchingly, arguing that Thanksgiving is a real chance to strengthen bonds we often take for granted. I can now admit, unflinchingly, that it's a chessy song, but that doesn't mean it isn't optimistic, true, or (I know I may lose cred for using this word) sweet (oops, just flinched). I now sing gleefully the hook of the song to describe my former dislike : "It's all over. It's all over. It's all over..."

I end this entry with the lyrics to the great Randy Newman song, "Political Science." I'm just beginning to get into Randy Newman and am shocked that so many people dislike him. I realize this comes from the fact that they think of him as the composer of Disney music, but his work in the 70s and 80s might be some of the best American music of that era. His satire is delivered with such sincerity that it is difficult to figure out what he really thinks. This is another reason why he is so often misunderstood.

The song "Political Science," which I owned in an imperfect form for about 3 hours before returning it to the unnamed record store that sold me the scratched CD, couldn't be a more deliciously biting commentary on the fuckups that are currently running this country. Please pop your irony cap on your noggin and enjoy. The lyrics can stand on their own, but are always better delivered by the singer.

"Political Science"

No one likes us-I don't know why
We may not be perfect, but heaven knows we try
But all around, even our old friends put us down
Let's drop the big one and see what happens

We give them money-but are they grateful?
No, they're spiteful and they're hateful
They don't respect us-so let's surprise them
We'll drop the big one and pulverize them

Asia's crowded and Europe's too old
Africa is far too hot
And Canada's too cold
And South America stole our name
Let's drop the big one
There'll be no one left to blame us

We'll save Australia
Don't wanna hurt no kangaroo
We'll build an All American amusement park there
They got surfin', too

Boom goes London and boom Paris (sung "Pair-ee")
More room for you and more room for me
And every city the whole world round
Will just be another American town
Oh, how peaceful it will be
We'll set everybody free
You'll wear a Japanese kimono
And there'll be Italian shoes for me

They all hate us anyhow
So let's drop the big one now
Let's drop the big one now

Mariah? Scary

2006-04-01T06:51:00.000-08:00

A college professor of mine once noted the sadness he felt for critics of pop music, since for the most part the critic's analytical prowess far outstrips the sophistocation of the music about which s/he is writing. While I could see his point, I also took the comment with a grain of salt (that's the correct phrase, right?). He wasn't talking about the many zines, both paper and online, that at the their best moments are able to capture in words the brilliance borne upon our ears, hearts, and minds by so many excellent and sophistocated artists past and present. He was talking about those poor souls who were actually making money, forced to write about the most banal and soporific (I've just spent my ten-cent word for this blog) crap to issue from the major record labels' asses every new fiscal year.

Although it is impossible for me (or anyone else, I think) to read through every New Yorker that comes to the door, I always make it a point to read the pop music critic Sasha Frere-Jones, who is not only a good writer but is also usually insightful and free enough to write about artists who may not be on MTV but do prove themselves, through their work, to be true artists.

Imagine, then, my shock at seeing that his latest column (April 3, 2006) was about Mariah Carey. Not just about Mariah Carey, but a fervent eulogy (no, she isn't dead physically or professionally--second definition of the word, please).

Here's the part I can buy:"She...is the first woman to have three studio albums sell more than eight million copies each in this country."

"She will likely break the world record for the most No. 1 songs before she turns forty. The Beatles had twenty, and Carey is currently tied with Elvis Presley for second place, at seventeen."

I can even buy this: "...she reportedly soundeda G-sharp three and a half octaves about middle C, one of the highest notes produced by a human voice in the history of recorded music."

Here's what I don't buy: "She has written or co-written sixteen of her seventeen No. 1 hits...and has produced twelve No. 1 songs."

Okay, I know you might think that I'm operating on that rockist bias that only true artists write their own songs and that anyone who doesn't is crap. But could she really have co-written sixteen songs, honestly? What does it mean to have co-written a song? Does that mean that she wrote the chord progression, the lyrics, or just figured out how to sing the words? I'm not going to belabor the point. You get it.

But are the songs any good, really? I don't know. Frere-Jones mentions many of these songs but I could only really remember "Emotions." Not only do I refuse to base my music tastes by the record companies' publicity machines, but I actively avoid it. But that's probably why this column bothers me so. I can accept that Mariah (dare I deign to call her by her first name?) has an inhumanly good voice. But is she really worth listening to? And how does Sasha Frere-Jones get the time to follow her bland and uninteresting career? Is it bland and uninteresting?

All this begs a few questions: Was Sasha Frere-Jones--respected and (I presume) well-paid pop music critic--forced at gun point to write this paean? Does he really believe what he writes? Or does he understand something that all of us fans of Indie music (whatever the hell that means) do not understand?

Somebody help me with this question. I'm scared. I'm very scared.

P.S. Without realizing it, I've broken a promise I made in my first posting, "Mission Statement." Props to Malati for calling me out on it. Now I'm really scared. I've given Mariah Carey more time in this blog than every musician but Ray Davies. Fear not, Raymond Douglas. I shall be your champion still.

Stuff I've Been Into

2006-03-25T16:50:00.000-08:00

Inspired by Nick Hornby's monthly column in The Believer (which ironically, and for no particular titualar reason, is where I look to find a reason to believe), I've decided to post a blog at least once every two weeks about what I've recently been listening to or reading, along with what albums I've purchased. Without further ado:

Albums bought:
Nilsson: A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night
Herbie Mann: At the Village Gate

Albums I've been listening to:
The Young Rascals: Groovin'
Louden Wainwright III: Therapy
Of Montreal: Satanic Panic in the Attic
Nilsson: A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night

Hello and welcome to my bi-weekly special: "Stuff I've Been Into." Welcome, and please visit regularly.

I live in Arlington, Virginia (can I get a "hells yeah!" for Arlington, Virginia?! No? Well, okay.). There's a wonderful library down the street with a room holding donated books and records for sale at a very inexpensive price: 50 cents. The possibility of your local library having such a room is reason enough to buy a turntable. Today, I picked up two records by artists I know little about. The first is Herbie Mann's "At the Village Gate." It's jazz. I don't understand jazz, really. The cover is pretty--that's one thing I do know about jazz: it gave record companies a reason to employ really talented artists and designers. In my apartment, I have several jazz records (many of which I listen to, however unconscious of their brillance I may be) hanging on the walls due to their sheer beauty. Just take a look at the album up there at the top of the page. Yeah, it's cool. Haven't listen to it yet. The other albums I've been listening to are too infectious.

A few months ago, at the same Arlington Library bin, I bought "Groovin'" by the Young Rascals. While I know "Good Lovin'" quite well I had no idea the Rascals wrote so many amazing songs. "Groovin'" is one of those albums you listen to and say "Hey, I know that one, but didn't realize they sang it" to nearly every song. It's the same kind of feeling that Gen Xers and Yers often have when they first listen to Carole King's "Tapestry." All these songs are familiar. You heard them playing from your parents' car radio on the oldies station as they drove you dutifully to baseball practice, bowling, boy scouts, girl scouts, dance, jazz dance, tap, polka, etc. I always thought either the Temptations or the Four Tops wrote most of these songs, not a quartet of white guys from New York. The album has been on repeat on my stereo for nearly the entire week (that is, I've been continually getting out of my chair to lift the needle arm back onto the album after it lifts itself off the record at the album's completion). The songs are so musically sophistocated that I'm sure that only the Beach Boys have bettered it as far as American 60s bands are concerned.

In those few moments I have not been listening to the Rascals, I've been exploring Loudon Wainwright III's "Therapy." It's not the best I've heard from him (I own "III" and a "Best of" collection), but some of the songs are terribly sophistocated and beautiful. My favorite is the first track, "Therapy." My immediate attachment to it proves to me once again that my tastes hunger for an older time. A sl0w country-dance rhythm makes the song instantly swayable and the lyrics contain half-witty, half-sweet sentiments about a relationship and its inherent problems. Cole Porter could have written it. With each measure, each swaying return to left from the right, and with every line in the lyric, Wainwright is able to move the listener from tears of laughter to tears of longing. In this, it is similar to my new current "best song of all time," The Kinks' "Till Death Us Do Part," from "The Great Lost Kinks Album." I shall not go into a description of this song now--I might die. Suffice it to say, both songs: highly recommendable.

Hold on. I must be sincere. I must not play games with you, gentle readers. I shiver with fear, aghast that I've feigned so completely my condition while continuing this blog. I began this blog entry a few days ago. I was quite sure that I would be listening to the Rascals for the next few days, or at least by the time I had finished this entry. I was stopped in the middle of the paragraph above where I compare "Groovin'" to "Tapestry." I put on the Harry Nilsson album then, thinking that I'd listen through once to see if it was worthy of a few listens afterward. I suddently heard Nilsson sing the first few words of "As Time Goes By." Then a distant harp dropped a few choice staccato notes in the background, with Nilsson continuing the lyric until a surge of violins and cellos, like a soft wave brushing upon the ocean shoreline a few hours after dusk, caught hold of the singer's voice, lifting it and carrying it back into the belly of the ocean, thus devouring the song after only seconds of its singing. Just then, woodwinds softly washed the voice back ashore, back into my presence, to deliver the first words of "Lazy Moon," the first song on the album. "As Time Goes By" is meant to finish, not begin the album.

"A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night" is Willie Nelson's "Stardust," only five years beforehand. Both albums are comprised entirely of 40s and 50s standards, and I have to think that Willie was at least aware of "A Little Touch" since he repeats none of the songs from that album. Unlike Willie Nelson, Nilsson is backed on every song by an orchestra with music so delicated arranged that it could have backed Sinatra. Literally: Nilsson worked with conductor/arranger Gordon Jenkins, who won a grammy for his arrangements on Sinatra's "September of My Years" (thank you, allmusic.com, for this bit of information).

The songs are all gorgeous, heartfelt, sentimental, and true. Some are quite funny as well, and reveal how a song can enter our collective unconsciousness without truly understanding them. An example is "Making Whoopee!"--a song I've always thought of as a stupid and banal 50s ballad. In reality, it has a wonderfully ironic perversity to it. Here are the lyrics:

Another bride, another June
Another sunny honeymoon
Another season, another reason
For makin' whoopee

A lot of shoes, a lot of rice
The groom is nervous, he answers twice
It's really killin' that he's so willin'
To make whoopee

He's washin' dishes and baby clothes
He's so ambitious he even sews
But don't forget folks
That's what you get folks, for makin' whoopee

Another year, or maybe less
What's this I hear? Well you can guess
She feels neglected, and he's suspected
Of making whoopee

She sits alone, most every night
He doesn't phone; he doesn't write
He says he's busy, but she says "Is he?"
He's making whoopee

He doesn't make much money
Only five thousand per
Some judge who thinks he's funny
Says you'll pay six to her

He says, "Now judge, suppose I fail?"
The judge says: "Budge, right into jail"
You'd better keep her, I think it's cheaper
Than making whoopee

That's just really funny and unsuspected and even a little dark and cynical. And charming.

The album begins with the first few lines of "As Time Goes By," then cuts them off so that Nilsson can present the other standards before it ends with a full version of the song. Such credence to "As Time Goes By" is made obvious in the liner notes (which, as some of you know, are usually on the back cover of vinyl). Every song on the album is given a couple of paragraphs, relating who sung the songs and why they are great. Under "As Time Goes By," it is written: "Probably the best song ever written."

So true.

You must remember this:
A kiss is still a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.

This is a justification for the entire album. I read on allmusic.com that this album alienated many of Nilsson's fans. He was known for his eccentricity--that is his main appeal. But he plays these songs completely straight, probably out of reverence. I'm so glad that I started here. By featuring this song, Nilsson tells us not only that love has not changed as old generations pass and new are born; he tells us that love songs do not change either. That music does not change in that it can entirely enrapture us all. Not all songs are love songs. It would be terrible if that were so. We need Radiohead to bring out the alienated in us all as much as we need Nat King Cole to bring out the lover in us, or Roy Orbison to bring out the wounded lover in all of us, or Jimmy Buffett to bring out the Parrothead in all of us.

But we are lucky to have albums such as "A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night" to bring out the by-gone romantic in all of us. To transort us to an entirely different time that is also no different from our own at all.

You can keep all your smart modern songwriters, give me Ray Davies

2006-03-22T16:31:00.000-08:00

Yes, why I did see Ray Davies live in concert. Thanks for asking.

I've been waiting for March 20, 2006 for some time. The Ray Davies was coming to town. I try not to become starstruck by artists--they is peoples too, you know. And all of the greatest artists, like everyone else who has tried to compose a song, poem, story, or dance, have struggled, have honed, and developed, and have produced, but have all worked very hard. Ray Davies is no exception. Although he's often thought of as the kind of Carnebetian snob of which he sings, his roots are just as working class as mine; we both wear our blue-collars like badges of honor.

However, there is something about the songs of Ray Davies that has captured me entirely. If I could claim any artist's songs as my own, I would choose the songs of Ray Davies. I am equally as awestruck when listening to Dylan, but there's something in Dylan that is mocking in a way that drives you away from him, that pushes you from the inner being of the man, which is probably why even in his sixties the man is still a mystery. Ray Davies, however, draws you into his world and into reality. Even the Beatles and the Stones can't claim that. I think most of the Beatles' songs offer escape. With them, you are either in a world of love, a world of heartbreak, or, at certain times, a Salvador Dali painting. The Stones made music that was gritty, that was dirty, that did put you in the real world, but put you in the real world temporarily, with everything alright as soon as the hangover disappears.

The Kinks are different. Once you found yourself in Dead End Street, how could you not look about your apartment for cracks in the ceiling and kitchen leaks? After listening to Waterloo Sunset, how can you not sink with that setting sun? When you listen to the opening and closing words of "Oklahoma, USA" (All life we work and work is a bore, if life's for living what's living for?), how can you not feel the gravity of existing in a world where we work far more than we play? After you listen to "Days," how can you not think of every single person you have lost in your life?

"Imagine" is the Marxist love song: "Imagine there's no heaven," "...no country," "...no religion," "...all the people living life in peace." However, it's an idealistic version of Marxism. It's post-revolution, a revolution that never happened. Here is the Kinks' "Uncle Son":

He was just a workin' man,
Simple rules and simple plans,
Fancy words he didn't understand,
He loved with his heart,
He worked with his hands.

Liberals dream of equal rights,
Conservatives live in a world gone by,
Socialists preach of a promised land,
But old Uncle Son was an ordinary man.

Bless you Uncle Son,
They won't forget you when the revolution comes.

Unionists tell you when to strike,
Generals tell you when to fight,
Preachers teach you wrong from right,
They'll feed you when you're born,
And use you all your life.

Bless you Uncle Son,
They won't forget you when the revolution comes.

This is what the revolution is all about (at least the one Marx imagined). Not heavenly, but earthy, a dirty and costly revolution. The high-minded idealists aren't the ones who make it happen. The philosophers don't fight. They don't work either. It's Uncle Son--the working man who doesn't know why he's working, doesn't think of much beyond the need to eat--who makes the revolution happen. Both songs were written in 1971, after the 60's spirit was nearly at its end. John Lennon gave us a beautiful picture of what it could have been like if it had worked. Ray Davies--the realist--tells us what the costs would have been, and who the real heroes really are. ____________________

Well, I'll be writing enough "THE KINKS ARE THE GREATEST BAND EVER" posts in the future. But the show. The show? The show was absolutely astounding--seriously, one of the best I've ever seen. And it wasn't just because I'm such a fan. My friend Richard, who joined along, thought it one of the best concerts he's been to. For a 63-year-old man who was shot in the leg 3 years ago, the guy can sure move around and his voice really hasn't gone away at all. The place was packed full of the over 50s crowd, and one scowled at me as I was screaming along to a song right into his ear. "Why don't you go up there and sing for him," he says to me. "Why don't you fuck off," I thought in my head, scared out of my mind (he was really big).

Ray played for a total of two-and-a-half hours, with a 15 minute intermission. We waited outside the club for him afterward with about 20 other people. After 30 minutes, a silver SUV pulled away with him in the back. Richard and I heard that artists often visit one of two bars after shows, so we visited one of the two and played rock stars since Ray Davies never showed up (literally, we played the juke box). After 4 beers, a couple of rum n' cokes, and two hours of the Violent Femmes, Tom Waits, and the Smiths, we called it a night (and after three jumbo pizza slices). I'd write more about the concert, but in many ways it was a blur, although the most memorable blur of my life. I did (dorkily) write down the set list, but saw 5-6 other people doing the same throughout the night too, so I didn't feel so bad. And who wouldn't want to capture, in some small way, a night like this?

Here's the setlist:

I'm Not Like Everybody Else
Where Have all the Good Times Gone
Till the End of the Day
After the Fall
20th Century Man
Oklahoma, USA
Village Green
Picture Book
Animal Farm
Johnny Thunder
Sunny Afternoon
Dead End Street
Next Door Neighbor
Creatures of Little Faith
Outta My Head
The Tourist
[Odd costume change from silk suit to flannel shirt and jeans]
Low Budget
--Intermission--
Stand Up Comic
Things Are Gonna Change (the Morning After)
A Long Way from Home
The Getaway
Hardway
Tired of Waiting for You
Set Me Free
All Day and All of the Night

Encore 1:
Days
You Really Got Me

Encore 2:
Lola

ON THIS BLOG: Well, it's been a slow start so far, but I believe I 'm picking up speed. Thank you for reading it, and a special thanks to you who have bookmarked it. I've bookmarked all of you in my heart.

Balk?

2006-03-06T19:47:00.000-08:00

So I finally started a blog and, as you can read below, I have set a bar so high that I can hardly reach it, let alone grab a hold and lift myself up upon it. "The music shall be my destroyer, my words the rebuilder?" I may has well have written, "I can never live up to this and shall never blog again." Shit, I sound like an Old Testament prophet (and I ain't one, and I certainly try to stay away from the New Testament profits as much as I can).

Not like anyone's reading this yet since I've told two people about it. So for the past week I've been doodling verbs and adjectives with crayon, trying to compose the perfect post. I've gone through half a notebook and have nothing. I thought I could be a music journalist and critic to end all music journalism and criticism, but who wants to end that? So I shall be more personal, write what I know and feel, and write about music whenever I get the courage, the grit, to do so.

Let see what happens next.

Together.

Okay?

Mission Statement

2006-02-25T10:17:00.000-08:00

The title of this blog is from a Bob Dylan song. In "No Direction Home," this line almost brings Allen Ginsberg to tears as he reflects upon it in an interview over thirty years after first hearing the song "Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall." Dylan was a visionary who never thought he was doing anything visionary, who thought he was simply "writing within an established form." If only we could all be so lucky.

This blog is dedicated to music. Melodies run through my mind like blood through my body. I spend hours thinking about the songs that make me shudder in their genius, beauty, or thumping intensity; or, to use buddhist language I picked up from Leonard Cohen, the songs that destroy me completely.

This blog is dedicated to my variegated musings on music. The scope will be everything that fancies me, which in the larger history of music will be nothing. I shall try not to pontificate, for to my knowledge I have not been given pontifical powers. However, as democratic as I tell myself (and others) that I am, and as much as I respect (or say I do) that different music touches different people in different ways, I will not hide the fact that some music and musicians are offensive to me. I don't mean offensive in language or subject manner or demeaner (George Carlin is correct: There are no bad words!), but offensive musically (Mariah Carey I shant waist my typing fingers upon your name again).

Ultimately, I wish not to castigate, but to enlighten (especially myself). Writing about music is not a new form. However, it is a way to move toward a deeper appreciation of the music that makes you resist sleep at night and welcome consciousness in the morning. After a song destroys me, I must rebuild myself. And like a muscle, I grow stronger every time my fibers are broken down. The music shall be my destroyer, my words the rebuilder.