Wanna see something creepy?
Wanna see something creepy?
Wanna see something creepy?
I don’t know how long this has been up, but Emusic.com has a great collection of Elvis photos from his 1954 Louisiana Hayride days. In my opinion, this is when Elvis looked his best. He’s so cool in these pictures, it hurts to look at them.
These were the days of the original Sun Sessions, when Elvis, Scotty and Bill — with a whole lotta help from Sam Phillips — were actually creating a whole new style of music, a combination of country and western with rhythm and blues that no one had heard before. Say what you want about Bill Haley, Little Richard and Chuck Berry — all great artists — but they didn’t come up with anything as new as our boy, Elvis.
Just listen to that very first single. “That’s All Right” is an obscure blues song by Big Boy Crudup, hopped up all hillbilly-style. The flip is “Blue Moon of Kentucky,” a famous Bill Monroe bluegrass hit, rocked out with no trace of bluegrass left in it. It’s not just a white boy trying to sing like a black guy. It’s way more than that. Al Jolsen tried to sing like a black guy. Bing Crosby did too. What Elvis did changed the world. And that’s the way it is.
Old Man Winter has finally been kicked out of the Midwest on his ass. And with Summer comes the annual ritual of neighbors introducing their record collections to each other. So why does it remind me of the menu at a Holiday Inn?
Hot times, Summer in the city.
Speakers in front windows blast tunes into the street, the better to have a catch to. Loc’d out Monte Carlos and Impalas cruise the strip, competing to see who can rattle more license plates to the sounds of the latest single (currently, the favorite seems to be J.Lo’s “Play That Song”). And of course, everyone in the city is out on the porch, barbecuing, drinking, and kicking back to their favorite Summertime music. But too often and for too many people, a few rays of sunshine and a bag of charcoal means that they need to dig down into that stack o’ CDs at the end of the rack, the ones with the cracked jewel cases and sun-blistered, margarita-stained liner notes. These are the discs that have stuck through 3 colleges, 5 apartments, 2 girlfriends, and too many Summer bashes. They mean a lot to the owner, and occasionally (sometime between Coronas 6 and 10), he can relate some “bitchin'” collegiate anecdotes that get his work buddies howling.
It’s become such a cliché. Summer? Corona? Burgers? Quick! To the Jimmy Buffet!
What caused this knee-jerk reaction? Well, part of it is Jimmy himself. A failed Nashville troubadour who re-made himself as a Gulf Coast Tropic-core rocker with a penchant for pirates, beer, and laziness, Buffet’s 1973 nugget “Why Don’t We Get Drunk” and its smirking punchline forever positioned him as every aging beer drinker’s Instant Summer Panic Button. Which explains the sales numbers generated by the man himself. Something tells me his album of showtunes (co-written with everyone’s favorite wild party guest Herman Wouk) hasn’t exactly funded the man’s latest jetboat purchase. For legions of SUV-driving Parrotheads, Buffet’s ketchup-and-mustard greatest hits collection and his annual Summer tour are all they know (or care) of Key West’s favorite son. So what’s tiresome about Summer music? Not Buffet the man. It’s Buffet the fan…
The past few weeks have seen some beautiful nights in Chicagoland. The breeze is just right, the beer gardens are full, and dogs are meeting people on every stoop. Recently, I sat down on my porch with a can of Bud to watch the world go by. Jeeps rolled down the street with The Wu and Crazy Town booming out of the back. A fella across the way had the baseball game on a little transistor radio. And then I heard them, wafting across the warm Summer air from the coach house behind my building.
Now, “Touch Me” was never a good song. But it’s even worse coming out of a pair of shitty Realistics. Jim Morrison’s moronic warble accompanies production that’s two steps away from a Tom Jones road show rolling into Branson, MO. His delivery is so bloated, Morrison makes Billy Idol’s “Eyes Without A Face” sound like Johnny Hartman. But I digress. I’m still out on the porch, and my Bud’s getting warm while I ponder why in God’s name my neighbors believe The Doors are worthy of anything, let alone Summertime outdoor music listening.
I think my neighborhood Doors-lovers have quite a bit in common with the Parrotheads, and both share an affinity with those consumers out there keeping the singles and soundtracks sections of the store commercially viable. Many people just don’t want to work that hard for their music. The only thing I could ever compliment The Doors on were a few funky organ licks. But Jimmy Buffet is a hard-working dude, and at least his music has some narrative depth to it. So I’m not necessarily railing on the musicians. Like I said, it’s more a problem with the fan himself. Too many times, people simply settle for what’s available on a “Top Sellers For Summer!” endcap, not realizing the gems that lay beyond greatest hits collections and the same 8 Buffet songs that everyone else loves. It’s like my man Phil Wise said before. Record shopping is tough business. But if you have the patience to explore, and the ears to listen, those Coronas and brats just might start tasting a little better. There’s nothing wrong with knowing the lyrics to “Cheeseburger In Paradise,” or even (ugh) “LA Woman.” But why not make your barbecue a little bit cooler with a few unheard or un-recongnized gems? In the meantime, I’ll be on my stoop, drinking a Bud.
And the back of my neck’s getting dirty and gritty.
So it’s 80 degrees here in Detroit, which means a lot of things. Like, summer is here, and the time is right for… listening to bad bar bands covering Jimmy Buffet on the deck at some cheesy restaurant? Please, not that.
Summer should mean that it’s time to head up to Pine Knob or Val du for some great outdoor rock and roll. But alas, that ritual seems to have died with the lp. (Or it died when I got that reckless driving ticket in Mears?) Or perhaps, more accurately, I’ve just gotten old enough that the only sort of music that really gets my rocks off happens in a bar. When I’m drunk. When they’re drunk. It costs about $5 plus whatever it takes to get my head in the right mood. (Editor’s note: Tickets to see, ahem, Chicago this summer are over $40, not including parking.)
Problem is, going to a bar in the summer to see a band, if not one of the aforementioned parrots, is often the equivalent to “making weight.” Sure I want to lose about 20 pounds, but not in one night and not by sweating. A guy the other day in a local band and gave me further motivation to skip the bar band scene for the next few months: “Most good bands don’t tour in the summer because it’s too damn hot.”
I do have high hopes for the Detroit Electronic Music Festival (I may even have a hotel party), but other than that, the soundtrack to my Summer in the City is going to have to come from my record collection. There’s much to do in the summer and I’m glad it’s here, but I’m going to miss the action and the ears ringing in the morning.
There’s a silly article on Slate.com about how rock and roll flourishes every 12 years. According to the author 1967, 1979, and 1991 were abnormally good years for music, and therefore, we can expect another high point in a couple of years.
Looking casually at my Desert Island discs (which I’m already completely unsatisfied with, by the way), I noticed that none of my picks were released or recorded on any of those years. I’m too lazy to go through everybody else’s picks and determine when the good years were, but if someone else wants to do it, feel free.
I think the overall flaw with Geoff Shandler’s theory is that great music has been written and performed and recorded and released every single year. And a lot of it. Sometimes (often) the great records don’t sell a ton and they don’t make it to the charts or to the radio, but they’re out there. It may be hard to find them, but they’re around. The current state of music is pretty great. I’ve picked up some great albums recently. The fact that the radio stations play a bunch of crap and MTV doesn’t show videos anymore only means that we have to work harder to find the good stuff.
The web can help. Along with legally dubious means such as Napster and good old-fashioned FTP, there are tons of legitimate sites that have songs available to stream and/or download for free. I like Listen.com and it’s always my first stop when I hear about a band I want to check out. If they don’t have anything there, I resort to CDNOW for audio samples or to Napster to see if anything’s out there.
And don’t forget about your local, independent record stores. As long as the guys behind the counter aren’t snotty punks, they will usually have a few current releases to recommend. And they should even let you listen to it before you buy it. Get to know them. Let them get to know you, and I guarantee their recommendations will be more suited to your taste than anything a computer database can come up with.
Good music is available now, and it’s always been available. Go out there and find it. I just picked up the new Me First and the Gimme Gimmes record and it’s a hoot. Non-stop fun. All covers of 60’s songs. Maybe not for everyone, but I smile every time I listen to them roaring through Cat Stevens’ “Wild World.”
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Given that the ol’ Spring Fever has spread so far through our lives here in Chicago that I got supremely soused at my man Phil Wise’s house last Sunday and had to leave work early the following day due to “exhaustion” (hey, if it’s a good enough excuse for Matthew Perry…), I have been listening almost exclusively to power-pop opuses since my late-Monday recovery. (Aside to Mrs DeEtta Kambick, my grade school librarian: Sorry about the run-on sentence.)
And my record of choice? Mass Romantic by The New Pornographers.
It’s not like they’ve been at it as long as The Knack. NP was assembled, Justice League style, out of a hodgepodge of Vancouver scenesters whose day jobs include the bands Zumpano, Destroyer, and Limblifter. Bloodshot Records stalwart and owner of huge voice Neko Case is even along for the ride on 2 or 3 numbers. Mass Romantic (Mint) has only come to fruition after years of thinking about it, and only then between the other projects of its members (shit, Neko Case lives in Chicago. And that’s nowhere near Vancouver!). Chris Newman is NP’s main cheerleader. While his work in Zumpano has always been a more, ahem, baroque approach to pop, the music here is pure, uncut pop/rock demon weed (can you smell it?). You’ve got your rolling drum fills dropping down into power chords, no less than five-part harmonies, and plenty of snappy songwriting that moves the album along on its fuzzy, sugary tip. Think The Tremeloes fucking around with Weezer’s guitars.
Ballads? New Pornographers aren’t having it. You’re not going to find the sequel to “Heaven” on Mass Romantic, even if Bryan Adams is from their hometown. The straightforward rock of “Letter From An Occupant” or “My Slow Descent Into Alcoholism” plays like music made without pretense, and without the intervention of a greasy A & R dude who “doesn’t hear a single.” After all, NP is compiled of artists who release their records on labels like Mint and Bloodshot. The freewheeling individuality that independent labels offer their artists is soaked into Mass Romantic’s pure pop fiber; it gives the album’s vocals that smiling sound that can only come out of musicians doing what they totally dig.
One of the best things about the set is that it’s Canadian. I’ve never been a huge fan of our Northern neighbors’ musical output. It’s always one step away from Christian rock. The aforementioned Adams, Barenaked Ladies, Our Lady Peace? If they have mullets in Canada, you’ll surely find them at these bands’ shows. (What would a Canadian mullet be called? The Northwest Territory? A Canadian Mounty? Yukon Do It? Ah, Never mind…) All of which makes the absurdly catchy pop/rock of Vancouver’s New Pornographers that much more exciting to hear. Who knows, it’s probably just a one-off album, given the bandmembers’ other projects. But this Spring, Mass Romantic is my album to play frisbie to, and somehow it makes my Pabst taste better.
Maybe I should be drinking a Moosehead?…..Nah. PBR me, ASAP.
Sure, it’s old and it’s sort of lame, but the idea of compiling your “Desert Island Discs” really makes you think about how you feel about music. This is particularly difficult for music freaks, the kind of people who cherish items as extravagant as the Complete Hank Williams Recordings box set. Still though, it’s an interesting exercise, so I asked the Glorious Noise posse to come up with their Desert Island Discs. Click here to see what kind of hut-buddies we’d be.
And if you want to show us your own list of Desert Island Discs, we created a new topic on the Board. Interact!
The “Week in Review” section of the Sunday New York Times is not a straight-up chronicle of what happened during the preceding week; rather, it is a section where some of the key events of the week are essayed. So, for example, the April 22 edition examines the situations in the Middle East and in China; slavery in Sudan and the possible consequences of child care on the development of kids. This is generally serious stuff in the Newspaper of Record.
But there, just below the fold on page 3 of the section, is a photo of Joey Ramone. He died the previous Sunday, April 15. Age: 49. And with the shot is a piece by Jon Pareles, who examines what Joey , Johnny, Dee Dee, and Tommy did to punk in particular and music in general.
The last sentence of the piece is worth pondering:
“If the Ramones had been, at first glance, a joke, they turned out to be the joke the conquered the world.”
And a joke that got serious run in the Times. Back in ’76, it is hard to imagine such a thing happening. Play hard.
It’s an international power-trio showdown! From Wales, the young men in Stereophonics bring to the table their new album, Just Enough Education to Perform (V2). The challenger? Three dopes from southern California who call themselves Blink-182. You may have seen them running around naked on MTV. Who’s the better band? Let’s find out…
The three young Welshmen in Stereophonics have been around since the late 90s, and have found their brand of Manic Street Preachers-style arena rock to be very palatable to UK ears. Frontman Kelly Jones sounds like Rod the Mod at 2 in the morning after a pack of Dunhills; the music is capable midtempo rawk, crashing riffs sharing space with quiet moments. Throughout their 3-album career, they have been a singles machine, cranking out fist-pumping, pal-hugging numbers with the efficiency of The Army Corps of Engineers. Just Enough Education to Perform (V2), their latest album, is a misstep on the level of Howard The Duck.
Stereophonics are kind of like the UK Blink-182: Three good-lookin’ kids who bash out anthems just serviceable enough to justify their garrulous tour riders. But while Blink has stuck to the same sophomoric pop-punk formula since the band’s inception, Stereophonics – most notably principal songwriter Jones – have decided to become ah-tists, mate. Maybe that’s why their new album stinks like blue cheese.
Blink-182 has never apologized for their utter lack of originality. Their mantra seems to be, “if it ain’t broke, copy it.” “What’s My Age Again?,” the head-rush lead single from 1999’s Enema of the State, is like hearing Tommy Tutone on speed. Who can blame them? “867-5309” was a great song. Blink-182 have since released a string of well-received, completely serviceable rockers that retain the band’s So-Cal, skate punk sense of humor while still selling millions of records. It’s Joke-Punk for the masses, and those boys’re getting away with murder.
Since their appearance on the pop culture radar screen, Blink-182 have gone on to rekease a live album chronicling their recent world tour. I’m sure it’s very nice. Most likely, when a new studio album surfaces, it’ll be more of the same sugar-punk that the trio has become rich playing. And if there’s a “We Didn’t Start The Fire”-esque history ballad in the bunch, I’ll wear a barrel. After all, these are the guys who rhymed “would never make it” with “can’t drive naked.” But Stereophonics? Well, let’s just say Kelly Jones might have been spending some time towing the line on the Downeaster Alexis.
J.E.E.P.‘s “Have A Nice Day” is the kind of decade-per-verse historical rock crapola that no one besides Don McLean has any right to perform. Here, as Jones yaps about Kennedy and The Moon and whatever else, he and his band end up sounding like a Jesus Jones cover band doing their modern rock take on “Right Here, Right Now.” Unfortunately, “Have A Nice Day” typifies what’s wrong with Stereophonics’ new material. With his lyrics, Jones is trying way too hard to be lyrical, man, and you know, make people think about shit, you know? And I really don’t think that’s a good avenue for three young guys from Wales to travel down. The group’s Performance & Cocktails (V2) LP from 1999 struck a balance between boozing, cigarette-smoking rave-ups (“Roll Up And Shine”) and Brit-pop ballads (“Just Looking”). There was no pretense. Songs were about girls, drinking, and drinking with girls, with plenty of influence from Faces and AC/DC. Unfortunately, the bland rock of J.E.E.P. keeps putting shitty Mike & The Mechanics songs in my head. “Can you hear me? Can you hear me runnin’…?”
The band’s new material is probably just up to snuff enough to sell a few tickets to their gigs on the annual UK festival circuit. Even though J.E.E.P’s mediocrity will stink up the joint, “classics” like “Thousand Trees” or “Local Boy In The Photograph” (both from 1997’s Word Gets Around) can carry a crowd. Even when Canadian-Rock-sounding tripe is spilling out of his mouth, Jones’ roughshod voice is still cool, and very Rock and Roll. So that’s something. But he and his mates should really take a page from Mark, Tom and Travis of Blink-182: Less cock, more rock! Crank up the amps, order a round of pints for the lads, and leave the proselytizing and message songs to Billy fucking Joel.