Don’t Steal Music – a great Salon article about how the record companies just don’t get it…yet.
All posts by Derek Phillips
Nirvana vs. Courtney
More squabbling between members of Nirvana and Courtney Love. Can she spell Yoko?
I’m Beginning to See the Light…again.
Rediscovering the Velvet Underground
Sometimes it’s amazing what you find when you dig back into your collection. Forgotten gems of music gathering dust in crates or on CD racks can take you back to specific times in your life or fill you with emotions also long forgotten.
I recently dug out my copy the Velvet Underground’s debut album and was immediately awash in memories of my first listening of this fantastic record. Back in our college days, Glono founder, Jake Brown, was away on foreign study in Scotland and had left me his entire CD collection for safekeeping. Totaling less than a hundred CDs, Jake’s collection still dwarfed my meager assortment of Beatles, Smiths and Stone Roses disks. My collection was reigned in by my seemingly endless state of destitution and I was forever borrowing disks from Jake. Now I had them all together and I was going to listen to every damned one.
I was going to use this time to catch up with the old boy. His collection was always more mature and diverse than mine. Though I was always hip to the good stuff, I never owned it and my exposure was limited to selections on mix tapes. Now, I was going to take the time to get to really know the stuff I’d only ever really had a glimpse.
Rummaging through the box less than an hour after Jake’s plane headed to the UK, I found not-so-golden oldies like Nancy Sinatra and the Jackson 5, the latter of which introduced me to soul music. Rare UK Import CDs quickly found their way to mix tapes I made for the Indie Kids at Denny’s. The real discovery though was a collection of disks from the pioneers of both Punk and New Wave like The Modern Lovers, the Pretenders and finally the Velvet Underground. That fall is when my fascination with VU was born.
I think most people discover the Velvets in college. It’s a time for liberal thinking and acceptance of art as more than just an easy class. The Velvet Underground is the perfect catalyst for accepting art in rock. They serve as a Trojan Horse for underground ideals to sneak into suburbia with droning, driving rhythms that thinly veil the sexual/drug themes in good, honest Rock. It also introduced poetry in Rock in a way the bloated ramblings of Jim Morrison never could. Where the Doors were a fat, bearded howl of paganistic declarations and Jim Beam ballyhoo, the Velvets were sleek speed freaks with minimalistic ravings from pseudo bisexuals and Warhol ingenues. Though they were twenty-odd years gone by the time I’d found them, they were fresh and new and dangerous. And I loved them.
But time fades away and you discover new fascinations. Later that year I also discovered Neil Young and that obsession led me to alt.country and the founders of the No Depression genre, Uncle Tupelo. Soon, Tupelo split into Son Volt and Wilco, my current obsession. Listening to Wilco’s yet unreleased Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and its droning art rock leanings led me back to the Velvet Underground and those long fall nights listening alone in my room. I can still see the ceiling fan of my teenage bedroom swirling as the long notes and cryptic laments of VU swirl in my head. The Velvet Underground opened my mind to a different brand of Rock and Roll that has led me to the finest unheard bands in America and THAT has changed my life.
Tonight’s the Night
Tonight’s the Night
Wilco at the Riviera Theater, Chicago
By Derek Phillips
In 1973, Neil Young toured for an album that was vastly different than the country comfortable Harvest that had made his name as a solo artist the year before. In fact, the set list for many of the ’73 tour dates didn’t include a single song from Harvest, but instead had tracks from Tonight’s the Night, Young’s harrowing tribute to close friends and drug casualties that wouldn’t see official release for almost two more years. As Wilco’s set closed in on ten songs, almost entirely from their as yet unreleased album, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (YHF), I began to wonder if Tweedy was walking in Neil Young’s footsteps
Wilco took the stage of Chicago’s Riviera Theater to the precocious and creepy strains of “Pure Imagination” from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, a song and a movie that are equally innocent and dark—not unlike Wilco’s latest recordings.
From the onset it was clear things had changed since their last Thanksgiving show, now a Chicago tradition. First, the stage was outfitted with white Christmas lights resembling stars against a black sky. Large yellow-white oriental globe lamps also hung above the band adding to the stark, dark spacey-ness of the fantastic YHF.
More importantly, guitarist/keyboardist/collaborator Jay Bennett was gone, having left the band a few months ago. Bennett’s influence on Wilco’s best work (arguably 1996’s Being There and 1998’s Summer Teeth) is undeniable. His sense of melody and skill on keyboards, guitar and as a sound engineer were surely the bedrock of what made Wilco the great band it is today. And most of the first set avoided any guitar-heavy songs with the band focusing on its moodier and more keyboard-driven tracks.
From set opener “I am Trying to Break Your Heart” to “A Shot in the Arm” to the tenth song in the set, “Misunderstood” the band floated through their more introspective songs, completely ignoring the implied demand for toe-tappers like AM‘s “Casino Queen” or “King Pin.” Ten songs down and no sign of any of the lighter, country-inspired tunes that established Wilco as THE band of alt.country. Was Tweedy antagonizing the audience like Young did on his Tonight’s the Night tour? This show was a journey, a test of faith for both the band and the audience. Wilco was walking into the darkness and we were about to see who would follow.
But the band had an ace in the hole with Glenn Kotche on drums. If the driving guitar and spirit of Jay Bennett was missing, it was craftily hidden by Kotche’s truly inspired percussion. Tastefully injecting stuttered percussive flashes into Tweedy’s sparsely populated songs, Kotche added a level of sophistication to songs that could easily be lost in their own space. As the Chicago Tribune’s Greg Kot wrote in his review of the previous night’s show, “Kotche pulls melody and texture from an instrument typically consigned to the rhythm section.”
And just as other senses sometimes sharpen when one is lost, so too have the members of Wilco stepped up in Bennett’s absence. Longtime auxiliary player, Leroy Bach, washed the songs in lush keyboard parts and though not an inspired guitarist like Bennett, Bach is a capable guitarist who may in time find his own style as the band progresses.
But the MVP of the show was undoubtedly bassist John Stirratt. His pristine harmonies and McCartney-esque bass playing pulled together all of the elements, old and new, of a band in flux. Most notably on YHF’s “War on War.”
And, in the end, this was not an antagonistic show, nor was it an exercise in artistic bullying in which the band forces the audience to swallow unfamiliar material wholesale. Wilco may be moving on but it’s not forgetting and the band played a number of songs covering the seven years of its history. Old timers sang along loudly to “Pick Up the Change” and “I Got You” while their girlfriends cooed at Tweedy as he lightly touched their hearts with “Far Far Away,” “Sunken Treasure” and “One By One.”
In fact, it was in the first encore that IT actually happened. Tweedy finally delivered “California Stars,” his equivalent to Young’s “Heart of Gold.” And that was the difference between the two. Where Neil Young was dragging his audience through forced group therapy in 1973, Tweedy was just asking a loyal audience to follow him. And we did.
There are similarities, of course. Wilco has drifted away from the roots-rock sound that established it as a true American treasure, just as Young drifted away from the down-home folksiness of Harvest (No Depressioners can find solace in the fact that Young has continually returned to his folk roots, just as Tweedy may someday). But in walking away, both Young and Tweedy have stepped into new territory. As Young said in an interview years ago, “Heart of Gold” may have put him in the middle of the road, but he soon got bored and headed for the ditch where you meet more interesting people—maybe even Jeff Tweedy.
Boxing Bob Dylan
Nothing’s free in this world. Especially when it’s offered by a corporation. Is it worth it to accept freebies from the Man when he seemingly expects nothing in return? Not when it’s box seats to a concert. You’re better off watching it at home with relatives you hate. At least you can kick them out…or kill them. This Glono feature looks at the sick world of corporate boxes and how they can kill your favorite rock stars.
Rude Awakening: Glenn Kotche and Guest
Glenn Kotche and Guest at Chicago’s Hideout Inn
As a kid, I never had much appreciation for abstract art. It seemed like just a lot of lines and splotches of color on canvass, or twisted metal and broken glass trying to be passed off as “sculpture.” It wasn’t until I was in 10th grade and I’d found a biography of Picasso that I started to realize what was going on. I saw Picasso as a classically trained artist who could paint portraits as vivid and realistic as a photograph but one who grew tired of the confines of fine art. He knew the rules and broke them. It was an awakening.
Friday night at my beloved Hideout found a room full of sleepers still trying to rub the gunk from their eyes as Glenn Kotche and Jeff Tweedy were packing up their gear after a 40 minute set of spastic percussion and caustic feedback.
The Hideout had a Wilco-heavy bill with John Stirratt’s Autumn Defense (See Jake Brown’s upcoming review of this great band) checking in with material from their new album and Kotche opening the night with an undisclosed performance. Being the drummer for Wilco, questions were bandied about as to what Kotche would do? A half-hour drum solo? Spoken word set to rhythms? Or would he have help? Rumors soon spread that he would indeed have help from none other than Jeff Tweedy.
Rumors of a Wilco members hanging at the Hideout will usually draw a small crowd on any night. An Autumn Defense show draws larger crowds of melodic-pop music lovers. A “secret” performance from Tweedy draws a packed house with dozens of California Stars lovers hoping to catch an intimate performance of their faves like those that long-time Wilco fans brag about in the Lounge Ax days. The place was abuzz with people high-fiving each other for finally getting to see one of these famed stripped down sets. They should be careful what they wish for.
Kotche took the stage with his un-announced accompaniment and without a word from either, locked into a set of unstructured, unrestrained noise.
The crowd was mostly obliging as a one minute of feedback stretched to three, but nervous jokes and furrowed brows soon surfaced and the groundlings began to stir.
“Can you dance to this?” a blonde to my right jokingly asked her beau.
“Number Nine,” a Beatle-hip scenester droned from the back.
Three minutes dragged to ten and conversation circles formed. Most people realized this was a night of avant-garde and resigned themselves to waiting for the next act and the fact that at least they can say they saw Tweedy up close. Still others held out, hoping this was an extended intro. meant to throw the audience off and that soon enough they’d be hearing the heartbreaking strains of Far Far Away and the rawk-stomp of Casino Queen. Surely, America’s pre-eminent songwriter will bless us with his songs!
God Bless Glenn Kotche and Jeff Tweedy for NOT playing any songs. Those folks on the countless message boards devoted to Wilco can rest assured that they did not play Hesitating Beauty for the one-millionth time. This was a night of art. Pure expression devoid of rules.
That’s not to say that Tweedy’s pop sensibilities didn’t pop up from time to time. There were enough riffs to make most hardened Classic Rock station manager grin and Kotche and Tweedy craftily raised and loosened the tension with swells and lulls of sonic pressure. But it was not a night of well-crafted country/folk balladry. In fact, as the screeching howled into the half-hour mark, already alienated No Depressioners around the world could be heard drawing a warm bath and getting out the razor strap.
Friday’s show may have been seen by some as self-indulgent, but Wilco has been struggling to shed the alt.country moniker for years. Tired of being pigeon-holed by an obsessed fan base hell bent on keeping them for their own, the Band who helped define the genre is growing out of its skin and alt.country Rumplestiltskins should wake up and smell the music.
Give till it hurts
Rock stars unite for 9-11 attacks, but does anyone care?
By Phil Wise
With all the madness surrounding the September 11 attacks, people feel as though they should do something—anything to help. The incredible outpouring has dwarfed even that of the We Are the World spectacle of the early 80s, both in contributions and pomposity. But is it fair to criticize people for trying to help?
Two scathing articles about celebrity benefits to raise money for attack victims question the importance and even motivation of these types of benefits despite their raising of millions of dollars. It makes one wonder if it’s worth the effort to help when all you’ll get is grief.
Most of the criticism of Paul McCartney’s “Concert for NYC” and Michael Jackson’s “What More Can I Give” shows centers on a few things: shameless self-promotion by artists, lack luster performances and a never-ending barrage of preaching.
Jim DeRogatis described the McCartney show as a corporate bloated marathon punctuated with “annoying telethon glad-handing, unbearable bathos and disturbing outbursts of unrestrained blood-lust and blatant jingoism” (jingoism: our hot new buzzword replacing “uber-anything” as THE thing to say at parties—ed.)
DeRogatis continued to bash the Concert for NYC as a just plain boring with “imminently forgettable pop stars doing their awards show shtick.” Even performances by seasoned veterans who’ve built careers on “delivering” were “mostly just incredibly lame.”
And then there’s Jacko’s party, which got such a whipping from Salon’s Eric Lipton I won’t even comment further. Read for yourself.
Now the Beastie Boys join the fray. A press release from Beastie, Adam Yauch, dated October 16, announced the New Yorkers Against Violence (hence forth referred to as NYAV) benefit. The show is scheduled to take place at the Hammerstein Ballroom in Manhattan on October 28. But with the flak both Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson have taken in recent days, are the Beastie Boys setting themselves up for a sucker punch?
I think it’s safe to say the NYAV will be relatively free of corporate pandering and unrestrained bloodlust, but the telethon glad-handing by way of tolerance preaching could reach new heights. While I agree that intolerance only plays into the hands of those who committed the attacks, most of us and almost certainly EVERYONE who might attend this show, gets it. It’d be like preaching to the choir while the church is burning.
The NYAV line up includes the Beasties playing a “short hip-hop set with Mixmaster Mike,” the Strokes, B-52s, Cibo Matto , Saul Williams, Rivals Schools and Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. Save the Strokes’ almost guaranteed self-promotion and the B52s one-millionth mind numbing attack of “Love Shack,” NYAV isn’t likely to fall into the trap of mediocrity that soaked the Concert for NYC.
Ultimately, all of the performers in each of these benefits deserve some credit. They did pull together to play benefits, surely disrupting touring and recording schedules. In a time when self-congratulating awards shows seem to be on every week, can they even be blamed for less than inspiring appearances and callous promotion? Yes, they can, but they’re trying and here’s to hoping that those associated with the New Yorkers Against Violence benefit don’t come home with a black eye.
Note to the Government Hacks who have been sniffing around GLONO: Buzz Off!
Note to the Government Hacks who have been sniffing around GLONO: Buzz Off!
Your Mother Wears Combat Boots
Punk rock gives birth to a whole new generation…literally.
By Phil Wise
Like any era, scene, phase, what-have-you, punk rock has grown into something much bigger than the dirty architects imagined in their puke drenched booths at CBGB. It’s matured (egads!) and even been accepted by the mainstream (don’t tell Johnny Rotten-Lydon-Rotten), despite the New York Dolls being snubbed for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Yes, it seems rock and roll’s snot-nosed, loudmouthed little brother has grown up a bit. And so have some of the followers of the scene, which has given birth, er, to the punk rock mom. And they are hot.
All around big cities and even some small towns you can see punk chicks pushing strollers and toting wet naps. Decked out in their leather jackets, spiked hair and Doc Martins, they’ve added to their uniform another list of accessories that includes binkies, Pampers, animal crackers and Tickle Me Elmo. These mavens of punk Momdom can just as soon be heard humming the theme to Barney as the Dead Boys‘ “Caught with the Meat in Your Mouth.”
And the punk moms may not just be raising fine kids, they may in fact be the saviors of a movement that’s been subjugated and tamed by mass media. Imagine the looks of blue hairs (those whose hair is blue due to age rather than by design) when punk mom strolls in with Baby Stiv on hip and a Walkman blasting “Gimme Gimme Shock Treatment.” Punk kids may have lost all their shock value but what about the punk moms? Not to mention they’re raising a generation brought up on gobbing as a sign of respect, something babies are naturally adept at.
Now, punk broke some 25 years ago and certainly there were scenesters who became parents in that quarter century, but never before have we seen such a proliferation of punk in maternity wards as we have today. Perhaps it’s because punk’s influence over those years has spread to include a wider range of people. Regardless, there is a new wave of mothers out there still clinging to punk ethics, fashion, music and politics and they’re raising children!
Yes, God May Not Save the Queen, but as long as there are moms out there listening to Television, shacking up with guys who “look exactly like Richard Hell” and know that “Gabba Gabba Hey” is NOT baby-talk, then I’ll sleep well knowing America is in good hands.
Jay Bennett’s Big Night Out
September 16, Schubas, Chicago IL (opening for Allison Moorer)
By Phil Wise
Wilco front man Jeff Tweedy casts a long shadow. His former songwriting partner in Uncle Tupelo, Jay Farrar, is still living with comparisons some seven years after the two parted ways. Now, just weeks after announcing his split from Wilco, guitarist/songwriter/keyboardist Jay Bennett presented a set of ten songs in 30 minutes ranging in style from Elvis Costello-inspired pop to goofy country bumpkin sing-alongs.
Nursing a severely cut finger, Bennett enlisted the help of fellow Chicago scenester, Edward Burch (playing the very same Epiphone guitar featured on the cover of Wilco’s sophomore release Being There), to accompany on guitar and vocals. The two meshed onstage together like a partnership should with Burch providing not only levity in his stage banter, but inspiring vocal harmonies pulled straight from the Paul McCartney playbook. It made for the most musically rewarding half-hour I’ve experienced in ages.
Debuting selected cuts from his someday-to-be-released solo album (some three years in the making), Bennett and Burch ambled through a set peppered with bitter sweet love songs, the best of which was “Mirror Ball,” co-written with Bennett’s friend Sherry Rich. Bennett made several cracks about his Wurlitzer electric piano sounding too “Billy Joel,” but the stark accompaniment provided startling renditions of these soulful and melodic songs.
But it wasn’t all kisses and tears. Bennett and Burch also played a rousing rendition of the Woody Guthrie-penned “They’ll Be No Church Tonight,” presumably from the Mermaid Avenue sessions, and a rambling country knee-slapper “Watching Junior Drive,” which brought a rousing applause and caused Bennett to quip, “It’s always weird when the stupidest song you’ve ever written gets the biggest applause.” Bennett struggled honorably through the flat picking of the latter with his injured finger and still managed to amaze me with his playing.
Though never prominently featured on a Wilco recording, Bennett’s vocals were surprisingly strong and soulful. His voice is low and gravelly, sounding a bit like Elvis Costello doing his best Leonard Cohen impersonation. And while his voice may not be as distinct as Tweedy’s (ah, so the comparisons begin), it’s strong and possesses its own quality.
Jay Bennett was a key player in the evolution of Wilco’s sound and instrumental in the songwriting as evidenced by the credits from Being There through to the anxiously awaited Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and I was sorely disappointed to hear of his departure from the band. While I was confident Jeff Tweedy would carry on and continue to create great music, I was afraid Bennett would slip away into the darkness and the wake left by Wilco’s front man. After last night’s performance I think it’s safe to say that I’ll not soon lose track of Jay Bennett as long as he’s willing to step out of the shadows.
Missed this show? Catch Jay Bennett and Edward Burch at The Hideout in Chicago, September 24.