|
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
|
|
| |
Leo the Lion
A few weeks ago while cruising eMusic, I happened upon the work of Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, a straight-up rock songwriter from New Jersey. Apparently he’s been around for a little while, since he has a few albums out, but how he escaped my notice till now is a mystery I can only attribute to approaching old age and fading hipness.
This guy is good. Really good. Paul Westeberg (Replacements)-in-his-prime good, which is to say, about as great a rock songwriter and performer as America has seen in the past 20 years. He’s got less punk in him than Westerberg, who was really snotty in his early years. Musically, he is more reminiscent of the “New Wave” sound of the late 70s, particularly Graham Parker, The Jam and the early Pretenders. His normal singing voice and delivery bears a marked resemblance to Joe Jackson, another prominent influence, although he is prone to bounce up to a bumble-bee falsetto to add melodic variety. As a lyricist, he is perpetually clever and inventive, if not especially profound. His talent is evident from line to line, as he surprises with unexpected wordplay, complemented with an intense, passionate delivery and some unspeakably catchy hooks.
Leo practices a form of rock-craft seldom seen anymore these days. I’m told he was on Conan O’Brien last night, though I missed it and forgot to record it (sorry, Guy – but there may be a rerun), and he’s in Seattle over the weekend. Hopefully this is a sign of rising popularity. It would be nice to see intelligent, unpretentious guitar-based rock and roll make a comeback. If it does, Ted Leo and the Pharmacists are about as good a choice as any to lead the charge.
9:37:31 AM 
|
|
Sans Soucis, Les Sans Culottes
Grim times require fun, mindless music. Fortunately, over the winter break in New York, I was introduced to Les Sans Culottes, certainly the best fake-French 1960s-style bubblegum pop band ever to emerge from Brooklyn. Apparently, these ‘dames, ‘seurs have been at it since the mid-90s. I recently downloaded their 2002 album, Faux Realism, from emusic. It’s an absolute howl, with goofy upbeat pop-rock sung in French, English and “Franglais,” complete with spoken parts in authentic fake-French-accented English. Think of the French verse of Blondie’s “Sunday Girl” as an entire guiding concept. At the very least, it can make an hour at the gym fly by in a heartbeat.
9:03:00 AM
|
|
|
|
|
Sunday, August 22, 2004
|
|
| |
Give ‘em Enough Rope
“Combat Rock” was playing
And it had to be a folk song
Cause everyone knew the words.
-- Roger Manning
Although you’d think I’d know better, last night I went down to a local club to see a tribute show to the greatest rock band of all time, the Clash. It was sponsored by a group called No Vote Left Behind, dedicated, they say, to regime change in 2004. It was also the birthday party for a local DJ and there were lots of bands on the bill. Surely some of them might be worth a listen.
As it turns out, the evening was a testament to the songwriting power of the late and greatly lamented Joe Strummer and his bandmates. If the Clash catalog could survive interpretation by the lineup that turned up last night, it could survive anything. Of the eight bands we saw, one was worth hearing – a mostly-white rap group that did spirited hip-hop versions of “Train in Vain” and “Guns of Brixton.” As the Clash were one of the first white bands to embrace hip-hop in the very early 1980s (check out “Magnificent Seven” and “This is Radio Clash”), I’m sure they would have approved.
The remaining acts clearly spent too long in their parents’ basements, or maybe not long enough. Apparently the bands didn’t coordinate their set lists, so there was a great deal of repetition. Does anyone need to hear four versions of “Brand New Cadillac,” a song the Clash didn’t even write? Also, get the memo: the Clash were a four-piece for a reason. Don’t try performing “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” as a trio unless your guitarist is named Bob Mould. I don’t care how good your bass player is.
Painful as it was to see the classics lined up and murdered, there was something interesting about the whole event. The Clash got started in 1976, nearly 30 years ago. That moment in rock history – the punk outbreak – is the clear line separating the antedeluvian world of Elvis, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones from the era we still live in. No matter how many years go by, the Clash, along with their immediate contemporaries (Elvis Costello, Talking Heads, Joe Jackson, etc.), remain irreducibly modern in ways that musicians from just a year or two before don’t. Even within that epoch, the Clash were uniquely accomplished, producing the definitive punk rock record (The Clash, their first), the monumental double-album set London Calling, and their misunderstood magnum opus, Sandinista, which laid out a precise blueprint for the next 20 years of musical history. Almost incidentally, they were the greatest white reggae band ever. Even the much-derided Combat Rock, from their decadent later period, is worth another listen. Every significant musical figure that followed, from REM to Bill Laswell, Nirvana to Radiohead, owes something to their influence.
Angry, smart and relentlessly cosmopolitan, the Clash set the standard for the modern rock-band persona. They were political, but usually in an oblique way that prevented their work from descending into the dated clichés of the “protest song” of the 60s. “White Riot” and “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” – two of their early rabble-rousing classics – were based on real incidents now long forgotten, but their relevance lives on because of the craft and passion Strummer and Jones put into their creation and performance. “If Adolph Hitler were here today/ they’d send along the limos anyway” is an observation that defies time and place. If anything, the celebrity-obsessed culture it is commenting on has become even more pathological than when the words were first penned.
As such, they are, for better or worse, uniquely well-suited to events like last night, where the agenda is specifically political. Everyone between 25 and 45 years old with a political consciousness knows when and where they were when they first heard “London Calling,” and can sing along to the often-incomprehensible lyrics of “Safe European Home” or “Spanish Bombs.” Unlike, say, Bruce Springsteen, the Clash are cool enough to give image-cover to hipsters, punks, skaters, Seattle scenesters, graying Gen-Xers, hippies, gangstas and dreadlocked stoners. Unlike Bob Dylan, whose hoary current-day incarnation still walks the earth to compete with his eternally-young and transcendently-relevant 1960s persona, the Clash have gone over the great water into the mists of fondly-remembered history (especially if you end that history in 1982, forgetting the final ugly album and tour). Joe Strummer, taken from us too soon just before Christmas in 2002, provides the essential martyr element.
So, in a dynamic that seems as improbable as inevitable, the Clash have become folkloric. Like Woody Guthrie, the Depression-era troubadour whose work was rediscovered by the 1960s protest kids (most prominently the aforementioned Mr. Dylan), the Clash have found an afterlife as totems for progressive politics, 25 years after the fact. Think about that: in 1980, at the Clash’s creative peak, 25 years ago was 1955. Nothing from that era, with the possible exception of the Beat Generation writers like William S. Burroughs, could conceivably have relevance to the present day.
And yet now, the world the Clash described so brilliantly in their work seems to still be with us. A lesbian punk band in 2004 could rip through the 28 year-old anthem “I’m So Bored with the USA” and make it sound like it was written about the November election. “All the Young Punks (New Boots and Contracts)” was trotted out in service of a get-out-the-vote message. “Straight to Hell” sounded like commentary on the current obsession with the Vietnam era. Interestingly, no one performed the Clash’s most enduringly-relevant political song, “Washington Bullets,” which remains one of the most trenchant observations on the complex dynamic between colonialism, terrorism and political oppression. If you can find an Afghan rebel who the Moscow bullets missed/ ask him what he thinks of voting Communist.
Just as well. Even the Clash had trouble performing that one live, and given the caliber of the performances last night, it probably would have sucked beyond the telling of it. But hey, the spirit would have been right.
12:33:15 PM
|
|
|
|
|
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
|
|
| |
Went to See the Gypsy
Yesterday was Bob Dylan's 63rd birthday, and to celebrate, the local Seattle watering hole The Sunset Tavern screened the rarely-seen documentary of Dylan's 1966 tour of England, Eat the Document. This tour produced some of the most awesome and confrontational music of Dylan's career (finally heard in legitimate form on the Live 1966 "official bootleg" album released several years ago), but it was also a time when the young singer was spiraling further and further out of control in his personal life. Partly because the film itslef is a mess and partly because it captures the chaos of Dylan's stardom in a bit too much detail, Eat the Document sunk nearly without a trace almost 40 years ago and even many die-hard Dylan fanatics (like yours truly) have never seen it.
Just as well that the film has an aura of legend to it, becuase what's on screen is, to be generous, a mixed bag. There's a great scene at the opening of Dylan and John Lennon, both in an extremely altered state, in the back of a limosuine having a stream-of-lack-of-consciousness discussion about various musical figures and followers of the era. There are also performance clips of Dylan with his band the Hawks (later known as The Band) pulverizing skeptical audiences who came to hear "The Times They Are a-Changin'" with a wall of rock and roll noise. These alone are worth the price of admission (free in my case last night), especially the definitive version of "Ballad of a Thin Man" punctuated by snipets of horrified reactions of stunned fans and press. In between these transcendent moments, however, is a lot of random garbage, jump-cut to appear avant-gard but really just sloppy, bad moviemaking. Apparently Dylan had obtained the footage from the original producer, D. A. Pennebacker (director of the earlier and far superior Dylan documentary Don't Look Back) and re-edited them himself. This effort proved for the first time but not the last (anyone see Renaldo and Clara or Masked and Anoynmous) that Dylan shouldn't quit his day job to become a film-maker.
The screening was followed by a tribute show by local bands covering the works of the Bard of Hibbing. As expected from such events, it was spotty but generally entertaining, and proved without a doubt that the Dylan songbook is a national treasure, and as great a body of work as has ever been produced in America in any medium. All hail Bob, and happy 63rd!
8:32:02 AM
|
|
|
|
|
Saturday, January 31, 2004
|
|
| |
God Save the Queen
Update: "Sailor" link fixed. Links to 96kps (low-res) .mp3.
One of my favorite sensations is that moment during takeoff when the airplane reaches top speed and lifts off the ground. Now, you can enjoy this experience at least one time a minute in the comfort of your own home, thanks to the awesome rock trio Visqueen – certainly the best thing musically to come out of Seattle in a long time.
Visqueen is a drums-bass-guitar trio, powered by the songwriting and excellent vocal chops of guitarist Rachel Flotard. Kim Warnick, who fronted the legendary Seattle power-pop group The Fastbacks, plays bass and sings backup, with Ben Hooker on drums. Their high-octane formula is as old as “hey-ho-let’s-go”: chunky guitar riffs driven into a frenzy by feverish bass and drum, finally exploding into ringing choruses and transcendent, rough-hewn harmonies. Visqueen’s métier is short, simple tunes with concise but expressive lyrics, delivered as if the world as we know it might end any minute, and that would be just fine. Think in terms of the bastard daughter of Superchunk and Shonen Knife, or maybe Juliana Hatfield fronting the Lunachicks. Like many things about Visqueen, it might not be pretty, but it sure is beautiful.
Last night, after listening to the band’s debut release, King Me, for 3 solid weeks, I saw them perform live at Seattle’s Crocodile Café. They had just returned from a tour of the South, and appeared happy to be back home. Flotard regaled the audience with tour tales (memorably, the bloody fingerprints on the box spring at the Days Inn in Chatanooga) between songs, and sorrowfully informed the audience that we lived in the best place on Earth. “It’s too bad, ‘cause you always want to think there’s somewhere out there that’s better, but really, there isn’t.”
Flotard’s stage presence and persona are what separate Visqueen from the yapping pack of power-popsters. She doesn’t fit easily into any established model for female rockers, which might be the wrong standard to judge her by anyway. The lyrics to Visqueen’s first album wouldn’t fill the back of an envelope, but Flotard makes them stand up with a soaring, heartfelt singing voice that’s as real as the day is long. I dare anyone to listen to “Vaxxine” or “Sailor” or practically any song on the first record without breaking into a big grin.
Visqueen ripped through an album-plus worth of material in a state somewhere between joyous and ecstatic. The Croc’s PA system wasn’t quite up to the task of reproducing the vocal harmonies between Flotard and Warnick, but energy made up for the lack of sonic precision. There were times when it seemed that the entire audience might start to spontaneously rise a few inches off the floor. It was one of the best small-venue shows I’ve been to in many years.
The bill was helped by two really good supporting acts. Usually, turning up early to a club-show like this is like playing Russian roulette with five rounds and one empty chamber. But tonight, Big Business and Spiderbite, two bands apparently making their performing debuts, were right on the money. Big Business – a drum and bass duo – was particularly impressive. Ten years after the grunge eruption defoliated the Seattle music scene, signs of life are finally returning.
2:58:27 PM
|
|
|
|
|
Sunday, August 24, 2003
|
|
| |
Masked and Annoying
I am a huge Bob Dylan fan – have been for almost 20 years. But unfortunately no amount of sympathy or enthusiasm could carry me through the 110 minutes of Masked and Anonymous without frequent groans of disappointment and boredom. There’s no point in saying what the film is about. Even if I knew, it’s the kind of film that is much more interesting in the description than in the watching. On the visual side, there’s some decent camera work, although the set-piece of post-revolutionary somewhere (America, perhaps?) seems to end at the edge of the frame.
The music is great, of course – both the well-selected songs and offbeat versions used as background music and the electrifying (and all too brief) clips of Dylan performing with his band. Former Hollywood A-listers (Val Kilmer, Mickey Rourke, Jessica Lange, Christian Slater, etc. etc.) pop up all over this film and add nothing to it, with the conspicuous exception of John Goodman. In fact, for his performance as the sleazy promoter, I nominate Goodman for finest actor in the land. If he could find some way to be convincing in a picture where there is not a comprehensible line of dialogue spoken by anyone, he is surely a talent to be reckoned with.
But alas, poor Bob, who deadpans his way though this weird mess with nary a shred of recognizable humanity, seems to have lost his compass (yet again). In the midst of a career revival with a recent series of great albums and concert appearances, he appears to have let ambition and pretension get the better of him yet again when approaching the medium of cinema. Long-time followers know that frustrating audience expectations is page one of the Dylan playbook, and his missteps occasionally look better in the fullness of time than they do at the moment. Still, it’s hard to see what Masked and Anonymous will do for his legacy, other than confirm some stereotypes that Dylan is, and remains, a very strange guy.
11:27:49 AM
|
|
|
|
|
Friday, August 15, 2003
|
|
| |
One Man Drives While the Other Man Screams
Loudfast homies the A-Frames wrapped up a tour in June and chronicled their exploits in a great online diary. But don't take my word for it. Here's what Seattle alternative weekly The Stranger writes:
"Our own A-Frames have done quite a bit of touring recently, and thankfully bassist Min Yee has been keeping a careful document of the trio's life on the road--a diary you can check out yourself at www.dragnetrecords.com. Yee documents items such as hanging out in Detroit with the Henchmen, taking "a bottle of clonzapans [sic]" that drummer Lars Finberg found on the floor at Chicago's Blackout festival, and the following interaction with the Black Lips: "Hung out and met the Black Lips from Atlanta. One of them said to me, 'Got a light, shithead?' I figured that was fairly punk rock, and I'm down with punk and kids and stuff. I used to be punk and a kid and that made me the wonderful person I am now, so I go, 'Sure' and give the kid a light." Proving in every way that A-Frames are both attuned to and ahead of the times, this tour diary is interactive, offering sound clips of things like the Spits' performance at the Blackout, threatening answering-machine messages from a drunk, and photos of cheap motels and basements. Check it out." (thanks for the heads-up, Tai)
Damn straight.
12:46:45 PM
|
|
|
|
|
Tuesday, June 03, 2003
|
|
| |
Joyful Noise
If you’re looking for something to take your mind off the hideous state of contemporary politics, check your local club listing to see if Arturo Sandoval and his band are coming to your town. He was just here in Seattle, where he demonstrated conclusively why this Cuban émigré is considered the greatest living jazz trumpet player – indeed, perhaps the most technically accomplished performer on that instrument of all time. His effortless technique and great passion were in evidence on tunes ranging from straight-ahead bebop to touching ballads to houserocking Afro-Cuban jams, and the rest of the band was good enough to keep up. He even took a stint at the piano, and sang on a version of Chet Baker’s “My Funny Valentine.” Best of all, for the entire show, the smile never left his face. There’s nothing better than seeing a world-class musician at the top of his game. Now if only he’d just played a little longer…
7:56:20 AM
|
|
|
|
|
Monday, March 17, 2003
|
|
| |
Elvis Has Left the Building
Last night, my brain tired from all the garbage I wrote yesterday, I tuned in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony on VH1 to see two of my all-time favorite artists - Elvis Costello and the Clash - honored and institutionalized by the very establishment that they tried to destroy 25 years ago. As these kinds of things go, it wasn't bad. I laughed (at AC/DC's Angus Young, still cavorting in his schoolboy uniform into his 50s), I cried (at the tragic absense of main Clash man Joe Strummer, who died several months ago, just when we need him most), but mostly I got chills when Elvis Costello wound up a lackluster rendition of "Deep Dark Truthful Mirror," strapped on his Fender stratocaster, and led his band through a scorching version of "What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love and Understanding?" (ironically, one of the few songs in his repetoire written by someone else - Nick Lowe in this case). Quoting rock lyrics is, in my view, usually the last refuge of the pretentious scoundrel, but I simply can't help myself.
As I walk through
This wicked world
Searchin' for light in the darkness of insanity.
I ask myself
Is all hope lost?
Is there only pain and hatred, and misery?
And each time I feel like this inside,
There's one thing I wanna know:
What's so funny 'bout peace love & understanding? Ohhhh
What's so funny 'bout peace love & understanding?
And as I walked on
Through troubled times
My spirit gets so downhearted sometimes
So where are the strong
And who are the trusted?
And where is the harmony?
Sweet harmony.
'Cause each time I feel it slippin' away, just makes me wanna cry.
What's so funny 'bout peace love & understanding? Ohhhh
What's so funny 'bout peace love & understanding?
There's one other Elvis lyric that sums up my mood, from 1979's Oliver's Army: "I would rather be anywhere else but here today."
9:00:09 AM
|
|
|
|
|
Saturday, March 01, 2003
|
|
| |
Pure Pop For Now People
When you say "Seattle sound," the first image that springs to mind is probably not accoustic guitars and light harmonies. However, in the burned-out ashes of our famously-overexposed grunge scene, new retro-pop groups are sprouting like weeds and filling the spring air with sunny, bouncy tunes. I just got back from an in-store performance by two of the most prominent of these groups, the Model Rockets and the Minus Five. Both have been around for a long time and feature some heavyweight local music veterans. The Minus Five in particular is something of a "legends of jangle-pop" supergroup, with REM guitarist Peter Buck on bass and members of the Fallouts and the Posies supporting Young Fresh Fellow (and sometime REM collaborator) Scott McCaughey.
The MO for these groups is pretty straightforward. Combine excellent musicianship, well-crafted songs, rockin' accoustic guitars, tight vocal harmonies, an encyclopedic knowledge of musical esoterica of the 60s and 70s, and a sensibility that allows the bands to perform covers like Todd Rundgren's "I Saw the Light" with a straight face and not send the crowd into fits of hysterics or running for the exits. As musical formulas go, it's not a bad one.
The in-store performance, celebrating the opening of yet another music shop in this already well-tuned neighborhood, looked like the cast party of "The Big Lebowski" held on the set of "High Fidelity." At this point in my life, I'm not sure if the presence of a roomful of people who were cool when I was 25 signifies a cultural event or a nostalgia trip, but those members of the Seattle rock aristocracy who were not present on the stage were well-represented in the audience. Still, it was nice to spend an hour and a half on a sunny Saturday afternoon doing nothing but bopping along to some happy songs, thinking back on simpler times.
5:40:48 PM
|
|
|
|
|
Thursday, February 27, 2003
|
|
| |
test- still messing with the template
8:28:46 AM
|
|
|
 |
© Copyright 2005 Rob Salkowitz.
Last update: 2/11/2005; 9:38:02 AM.
Emphasis Added Theme designed by Andrew Lueck and Rob Salkowitz. |
|
