Robert Baird Blog

The Grammy Issue Posted Mon Feb 1, 2010, 5:00 PM ET

The Grammy Awards are that one Sunday night every January, when for a few brief hours, I try to imagine what people on other continents (in not other planets) think of America when they watch this silly, frivolous, super glam display of Las Vegasness come to the Staples Center. How incredibly ridiculous we must look to the rest of the world. During the telecast, I’m liable to claim I’m from Canada. By the end, I want to take a shower and scrub off the sleaze. The whole thing is so bad, so not about music, that I have to change channels throughout the telecast if only to cleanse my palette. Last night at one point, I flipped over to the hi def Palladia network and there was a Britney video of her tune, “Womanizer,” which was nominated for a Grammy but lost to Lady Gaga. Owing to the fact that much of the video takes place in a sauna, with Brit writhing around nude (creatively covering her nasty bits), the contrast between Spears skin and the absolute nonsense that was goin’ on in L.A. made Little Miss Crazy look like the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields.

Let’s start with the host, Stephen Colbert who was too stiff for this kind of show, and his attempts at being a cheerleader for the music business were painful to watch. He did however manage to get in a couple of zingers, when he kicked off the first presentation by saying, “Now let’s give each other awards.” His tweak of Jay Z, when he pulled out his iPad and ask Z whether or not he’d gotten one in his goodie bag was fun to the point that Z himself had to laugh. The whole night was the Beyonce/Jay Z celebration. Beyonce—that woman has some thighs on her damn!—came out with this military–themed big production number that included a quote from Alanis Morrisette’s “You Oughta Know,” before Beyonce got on her knees and swung her hair in a move that had to be seen to be believed.

Of course Beyonce looked like Garbo compared to Pink’s Flashdance–meets–Cirque du Soleil meets a high class strip joint. If you didn’t see it, there’s no way to describe it. Load up the Youtube.com version and see for yourself. It involved her being basically nude, suspended from bandages from the roof and then spinning around while singing and then being dunked in water and twirling as the drops flew. It was the night’s weirdest moment. But hey, if you lack talent never fear: the Grammys aren’t about music, they’re about pageant and spectacle. And censorship. And young fresh faces like Taylor Swift who could not sing harmony with the great Stevie Nicks to save her life. Swift is too scrubbed clean to watch. Really, I cannot watch her and her 19–year–old blonde tresses, although I will give her credit for performing with a low key Americana band rather than in some big shiny production number.

As for censorship, at first I assumed the B grade technogeeks at CBS were merely fucking up the audio portion of the show, but then it dawned on me that the audio drop outs were deliberate and someone’s hot little finger was hovering over the bleep button which in this case was merely silence, no actual bleep. So pitiful. There should be a real version that’s carried on cable so those for whom “FAMILY VALUES” are a synonym for RANK HYPOCRISY can watch it with all the big bad words left in. And how does Pink get to parade around in a nude leotard and every other word of Eminem’s rhyming was cut? So weird.

Before this entire post is swamped with negativity let me mention that few and far between scraps of reality and real music that somehow slipped into last night’s idiocy. It was good to hear and see Jeff Beck if only for a few minutes. Leon Russell and Waddy Wachtel also both made very welcome appearances as sidemen. My dear friend Ken Weinstein and his publicity/management agency, Big Hassle Media, got a wonderful and well–deserved shout out on national television from Kings of Leon when they won, Record of the Year. Congrats Ken!! And KOL!!! First time I heard it, I knew, “Use Somebody” was the kind of solid, hooky, tune that would push them to a higher level. Sometimes the Grammys, yes, even the Grammys, manage a wonderful surprise or two and this year it came in the form of the very inspired pairing of Alice Cooper and Katy Perry to present Best Rock Album and the performing duo of two of my least favorite artists (or most favorite objects of scorn) Mary J, Blige and Andrea Bocelli, both of whom seriously sang their asses off on “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” Brought on to pump his musical movie, Crazy Heart, Jeff Bridges actually mentioned Louis Armstrong’s name which I considered a major moral victory of sorts considering that fact that half the “artists” in the arena have never I’m sure heard a Pops cut even though they are “stars.” The Grammys very slight connection to the past was maintained with the In Memorium montage when artists like Jim Dickinson, Stephen Bruton, Jay Bennett, Vic Chestnut, Les Paul and Sam Butera were honored along with famed Living Presence record producer Wilma Cozart Fine

My favorite moment of all though was when Wyclef Jean offhandedly commented that “even if there ain’t no more record companies,” and a ripple of nervous laughter echoed across the arena. All the glam masked the hard truth that the record biz is in serious trouble. And in case you weren’t aware who sells records these days and who doesn’t, the performers and the awards given live told the tale. Country music and Hip Hop sell and so were featured. Classical music and Jazz no longer pull their weight in sales and so get no presence at the Grammys. Even rock was marginalized. Seeing Bon Jovi, the night’s “big” rock act, submit to being forced to play “Living on a Prayer” because fans chose it from three possibilities up for a vote on CBS.com was pathetic.

Audio gear heads got a special nod this year when during the Black Eyed Peas much bleeped performance, the stage was filled with robots clad in bookshelf–sized speakers that had been sawed in half and spray painted metallic silver. That and a commercial from Harmon International were the only signs that audiophiles even exist.

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Bruton's Swan Song Posted Fri Jan 22, 2010, 4:07 PM ET

Call it “Hollywood Alcoholism,” meaning it’s not Requiem for a Dream, that chilling and incredibly visceral film depiction of addiction, but the more common cut and dried variety—he came, he drank, he fucked up, he had an epiphany and of course, he cleaned up after one neat and tidy trip to the Zen rehab clinic. Having seen Townes Van Zandt and more than a few other musical substance abusers when they were riding high (which is really riding low, if you know what I mean), things just ain’t this a way. Hollywood’s way is to show addiction without any of the struggle. Oh sure, he threw up, sort of, once or twice but hell, I remember seeing Townes fall off a stage that was four inches high, and then he couldn’t get up. When I pitched in to help, the man clearly had not showered in quite some time. He’d been bingeing and playing one nighters, which is where Crazy Heart starts out.

Hollywood depends on suspending that old disbelief and dammit, sometimes you know too much about a subject to ever see it made into a movie; or be “Hollywoodized” as it were. I’m probably the wrong audience for a film like Crazy Heart>. But then given my musical tastes, which have always included a decided weakness for Texas Troubadours, it would seem that I’m also exactly the right audience for this film about Bad Blake, the broke and broke down country rock singer/songwriter who works small bars in the Texas/New Mexico/Arizona Chitlin’ Circuit of country music and finds salvation thanks to Maggie Gyllenhaal, who incredibly in this film, does not find a way to get naked. The story is lightweight and there are serious pacing problems; too many slow spots. And lots of loose ends that could have added many layers, but did not. Robert Duvall appears ever so briefly. And then there’s Colin Ferrell’s character of Tommy Sweet, who was once Blake’s guitar player but is now a mainstream country star. There could have been sparks in that relationship, anger, forgiveness, a good sharp comment on selling out and the current state of country music but alas, Ferrell loves Blake, pays him respect, Blake gruffly accepts and poof! No complexities. They do manage to harmonize convincingly in one scene. I didn’t think they had it in `em.

And then let’s not even talk about idiocies like Jeff Bridges talking in a working phone booth (in the age of cellphones?), that just happened to be sitting alongside a rural road, somewhere in the wilds of New Mexico. I lived in New Mexico. There are no phone booths out in the country. I laughed at that part, thinking it had to be a joke. It wasn’t. I know people in New Jersey and South Carolina and everywhere east of Arkansas don’t know what New Mexico looks like but Dammit! That is askin’ a lot.

Despite all this kvetching from a professional nitpicker, it’s still a film about music, about a drunken, rocked up country singer/songwriter who is fairly real, so what’s not to like really. And again, I may be too close to the subject to enjoy this decidedly unmessy retelling of a composite of biographies that are decidedly messy. As Rodney Crowell said in a memorable song, “Life is Messy” but this film really isn’t. Or it isn’t messy enough. Unless your idea of messy is Bridges sucking on cigarettes like his life depends on it in every scene. The soundtrack is good, with tracks by Buck Owens, Charlie and Ira Louvin and Lightnin’ Hopkins among others. The standout performance comes from Bridges who channels a number of different real life celebrities at once. If you know who he’s imitating, it’s both fun and scary to watch. While he nods towards David Allan Coe, and Townes, the primary inspirations for Bad Blake are Billy Joe Shaver, Waylon Jennings and Kris Kristofferson. It’s Shaver’s real life, Jennings look and Kristofferson’s growl. Again, lots to like.

The film’s deepest connection to the music it celebrates is its dedication to the memory of Stephen Bruton, a singer/songwriter and guitar player who was a fixture on the Austin scene for many years who tragically passed way this past May from throat cancer at age 60. Bruton, who produced the film’s music, even writing several of the songs Blake sings in the film, completed work on the project two weeks before he died. His childhood friend and co-producer, T Bone Burnett, is one of the producers of the film. Bruton died at Burnett’s house. Some of the moments when a genuine sepia mood seeps into the film, such as when Blake tries to call an adult son he hasn’t seen since he was a toddler and gets shut down, seem to me to resound with some of the sadness that Bruton’s illness and death must have cast over the entire project. But then that’s just the old nit picking romantic in me talking.

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Teddy Posted Thu Jan 14, 2010, 8:10 PM ET

When you’re old, you begin to read obits and relate to the ages of the dead. Like this from this morning: the great Teddy Pendergrass dead at 59 of colon cancer.

If you are of a certain age, it also gives you mortality rumbles because Teddy was once the GO–TO music for bumbling seductions. Ask anyone of the much maligned 70’s generation who was/is at an elevated level of A) musical knowledge and taste and B) interest in the fairer sex, and "Turn Off The Lights,” (a Gamble/Huff tune) and “Love T.K.O.”(a tune Leon Huff co-wrote) were the gold standard. They were so sexy that even the firmest objections and tightest mental chastity belts loosened when they were playing. As adjectives go, “Steamy” was invented for Teddy. Gracias Senor!

And then there was that time when the same girlfriend, like all women between 12 and 35 in those days,wanted to see Teddy. In the biblical sense. And you went along, unsuspecting fool, unaware that the man was gonna grind his hips, slowly lose all his clothing and sing directly to every woman within like 20 feet of the stage. No, there were no Teddy Pendergrass gigs with seats. Or at least the real fans never thought of sitting in them. They were called “Ladies Only” concerts and it was the first time I’d ever seen a shower of panties and bras at a concert. It was like being at Macys on 34th street in the womens underwear department on a Saturday afternoon during the spring sale. We’re talking a sky full of everything from thongs to boxers. Lace rubber bands to steel cable DD cups. All hurled toward Teddy who just smiled and kept on alluring them with that big, conspiratorial, “you want to get naked with me” voice of his. I’ve really never been the same since that night. Being in the middle of the Beatles screaming/crying thing, which by 1975 had evolved into something like werewolves who wanted to eat (?) Teddy, was unforgettable. It was like 10,000 chicks in a sexualized trance. But only for Teddy. He was like flames. In a 70’s polyester, wide–lapel suit. And he was a Philly Guy. One whose car wreck, which put him in a wheelchair, remains a source of controversy. Women, drugs, a Rolls——it was a classic Philly story. And before that, let’s not forget the Blue Notes where Teddy was the Big Dog. “The Love I Lost.” It’s gonna get better than that—how? And of course, “If You Don’t Know Me By Now.” Very likely the best Philly Soul ballad, if not best tune among all the magic that Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff conjured back in those days. And Teddy, the poor man survived an odd, cruel twist of fate being paralyzed from the waist down (!) since 1982. What a voice and what a presence. The man owned the stage. And my girlfriend. Talk about humbling.

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Whole Lotta Rosie Posted Tue Jan 12, 2010, 4:47 PM ET

What a weird–assed juxtaposition it was. Freezing as hell outside, like 20 degrees with a stiff breeze, and a Zydeco band inside generating a sweaty mess. On top of that, a mysterious fever swept the place. The kind of fever, brought on by alcohol, that you have to sort of call Jazzfest fever. Anyone who’s ever been to the Jazz and Heritage Festival in New Orleans and gotten into the spirit of the thing can instantly reconnect with those feelings, once they have a few beers and hear some NOLA music, be it Cajun, Zydeco, funk or whatever. Hey, you have to hand it to Jazzfest, they’ve created a mojo that goes way beyond the music and creates wildly loyal fans, every festival should be so lucky.

I enjoy slugging beer outta bottles, sucking crawfish tails, puttin’ on my Luccheses and clinging onto/dancing with sweaty, fragrant (preferably drunk) females all nite as much as next guy—or at least I did until I got married— but the whole Jazzfest magic thing never ceases to amaze me. One visit and they’re hooked. From then on they’ll wade through blood to hear New Orleans music and get even a whiff of the spirit of that event. And if they’re the kind of aging fratboys that Randy Newman sang about in “Rednecks” God help you. To anyone who’s semi–normal, it’s really pretty wholesome and innocent and all about getting a buzz on and dancing. Letting the good times roll is, I believe, the correct Loo–See–Anna term. I watched a couple chicks at the Bitter End in Greenwich Village on Friday night who staggered up and introduced themselves while they were getting their beers and then proceeded to dance and booze it up the rest of the night, often in the archetypal drunk–chick–loving–music pose: arms over head, fists clenched, hips waggling, biting lower lip. God help me but I do love it so!

The star of Export NOLA, a kind of mini–Jazzfest that took over two venues in GV last weekend, was Rosie Ledet, who is a kind of Queen Ida for the next generation. Though Ida, who is now 80 but I’m sure can still get out there and squeeze that box (so to speak) if so motivated, was never the wild woman (at least to my knowledge but then I could be wrong) that Ledet is. Part of the reason I haven’t seen Rosie until now is that she blew off the last gig I was supposed to see her. While that’s annoying as hell—and in a situation like today’s music world where the only way to make money is through touring, downright lethal to your career—dusting off gigs is nothing compared to this whole weird story, which I got from one of the guides on About.com. According to this tale, Ledet who lives out in Southwestern Louisiana and is in her mid–thirties, and was “unaware she was pregnant,” (?) had a miscarriage, hid the corpse in the shed of a bandmate and went off to do a weekend’s worth of gigs up in Illinois. When she returned home, she told another bandmate who then called the cops—who then did not in the end charge her with anything because there had been no foul play.

To translate this story into any sort of logic that can be grasped outside of Louisiana, let’s just say that this could mean any number of things and like most things in Louisiana, there are a probably a million shades of the truth going on here at once. There is literally no getting to the bottom of anything in New Orleans. And so, let us leave that sordid tale alone because true or not, it adds to Ledet’s reputation as an asskicker, which is basically what you have to be to play Zydeco—well.

Ledet, who learned from one of the best, Boozoo Chavis, plays the real thing as opposed to one of the rocked up offshoots—which feature more guitars than accordions and more rock star posing than actual singing and playing. I blame Bourbon Street for this watering down of Zydeco, which is really from out west in Louisiana and east Texas and not NOLA anyway. Although before getting all purist on this subject, I have to stop and remember that attracting young players to what is still a traditional music form, and one you ain’t gonna get rich playing, is difficult. And then if they can’t rock it up in their own way, a lot of young players who might stay with Zydeco which they probably learned near where they grew up (no Zydeco players in Iowa for example), are more than happy to go on to hip hop or R&B or some other more lucrative stream in music.

All blues shuffles and waltzes, Zydeco is truly a revelation when you hear it for the first time. I remember the first time I saw Clifton Chenier (as John Lee Hooker once cautioned me several times, “it’s pronounced SHEN–YeAA not Shen–Near) and it blew me away. Because of its overuse in music writing, the word “infectious” has almost ceased to be a medical term, but when it comes to Clifton and his music, it really applies. There was no way not to dance to it, even if you just moving back and forth from foot to foot, spilling your beer and occasionally yelling out some unintelligible words of encouragement. What a sweet soul that man truly was. Damned Diabetes took him way too soon.

As for Rosie, while her records like the one pictured are good, and all on the great Maison de Soul label, they like most Zydeco records (with the notable exception of live sets), fail to capture the essence of seeing the stuff live. Rosie, who impressed me with a song that talked about the devil being circumcised (again, think Louisiana where that’s actually nuthin’) is certainly the best Zydeco act I’ve seen in a long time. Four hundred pound guy playing bass. Totally incongruous white dude guitar player from the Bronx. A lead singer/accordion player who may or may not have been pregnant and on this bitter NYC night, never took off her wool hat. In short, crazy as hell, just the way it has to be.

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White Man's Blues Posted Fri Dec 18, 2009, 4:24 PM ET

John Hammond has always been a strange case. Son of the legendary record producer and scout John Hammond Sr. who worked with Billie Holiday, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen, young John who sang and played guitar staked out a difficult piece of musical turf when he decided to make playing acoustic Delta–styled blues on the National Steel guitar his signature move.

Because acoustic blues only appeals to a fairly limited crowd—the old beer and biker bar crowd like their blues electrified—Hammond’s career has been low key. Larger success has alluded him which is not a huge surprise considering the music he chooses to play. Much as I love my old Yazoo blues records of Charlie Patton, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Robert Johnson and the rest, I also realize mostly from experimentation with civilians who I lure to my listening room that early blues are an acquired taste. And again as much as I love the stuff—it is after all where rock and roll came from—it can be a one trick pony. Much of it sounds the same. Add to that the fact that playing traditional music of any kind often turns the player into more of historian and re-enactor than someone who does new original music. Ask any Celtic trad player, after so many the jigs, reels and waltzes, it becomes a dead end. Fun to play perhaps, but the tradition is damned hard to move forward. Although Hammond has added lots of personal touches to his blues and has updated its sound and approach mostly via his considerable guitar chops, it’s hard, nearly 100 years later, to compete musically and sociologically with the guys who created the music and who lived the life they sang about. And then there’s the Robert Johnson problem. Like all latter day acoustic bluesmen, Hammond worships Johnson. He even made a very good documentary about the man. But with a towering legacy like Johnson’s, I’ve always wondered why Hammond even tried. I mean half the time I've ever listened to Hammond, I end up taking his record off and listening to say, Son House instead. Clearly, it’s just that the music speaks to him

Under the heading of records that almost got by me in 2009 is Hammond’s latest, Rough & Ready which was released earlier this year by David and Norman Chesky on Chesky Records on an SACD multichannel hybrid disc. As is usually the case with Chesky, the thing sounds superb thanks to engineer Nicholas Prout, producer David Chesky and co-producer Marla Hammond (John’s wife). And just in case you had any doubts, inside the jewelbox, under the CD, you’ll find this admonishment:

“No Overdubs. No compressors in the signal path. No Multitracking. No large mixing consoles.”

You Go David! Nice to see all that stated clearly in print. Even better hearing the results.

Overall, Hammond plays (guitar and harmonica) and sings his ass off on this record. The guy’s a pro no doubt. And happily, as much as his records have inspired shrugs from me in the past, this record has a nice energy to it. A pair of Howling Wolf tunes, “My Mind is Rambling” and “No Place to Go” is particularly good. His cover of “Get Behind The Mule” a tune by his old friend Tom Waits, a direction I always thought he should have gone in—albeit 30 years ago now—is the record’s best track. His rough vocals on that cut are perfect.

There’s really only a couple of weaker tunes here, including a goofy cover of “Chattanooga Choo Choo” to which Hammond brings nothing new. I mean why? Being an aficionado of old music is great but don’t carry it too far. It also sticks out like a sore thumb on what is mostly a blues record. Overall though this is an enjoyable, passionate record from a seasoned performer, who despite an odd career choice, has got some mojo workin’

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Livin' in Paradise Posted Wed Dec 2, 2009, 4:45 PM ET

I’d say on average that about 85 percent of the people I ask, hate Christmas music with an undying passion. I am one of a crazed minority who actually like the stuff and have long cultivated a collection of the stuff. Although I usually begin the season with the two volumes of Billboard Greatest Christmas Hits, both of which are now out of print (C’mon Rhino!), but are easily found used on Amazon, my general rule with Christmas music is: the weirder the better. And God knows when it comes to weird, Bob Dylan’s new collection of guttural holiday croakings is truly amazing.

I do however, also have several soft spots for mainstream Xmas hits, first and foremost, Charles Brown’s “Please Come Home for Christmas,” followed by his other “hit,” “Merry Christmas Baby.” Brown’s relationship with Christmas is an odd tale. A suave singer and pianist from Los Angeles who started with Johnny Moore and the Three Blazers, a group that became larger after Nat Cole (who Johnny’s brother Oscar played with) left town, Brown went solo and became something of a star and frequent visitor to the charts in the 1950’s. Rock ‘n’ roll swamped his career for most of the Sixties and Seventies but Brown had a late career renaissance in the late 1980’s thanks to a strong, young(er) quartet led by guitar player Danny Caron, bassist Ruth Davies and tenor man Clifford Solomon, as well as his abundant natural talent rising to the top again.

The weird thing is that after his monster 1945 record, “Driftin’ Blues,” Brown’s most remembered singles are both Christmas records: “Merry Christmas Baby” (1947) and “Please Come Home For Christmas” (1960). His still—in—print 1994 holiday record, Charles Brown’s Cool Christmas Blues on Rounder has both tunes in new re—recorded versions backed by the band mentioned above. Both are slow, smooth blues; that kind of thing that was once played late night in clubs. Sadly, that kind of schwank joint no longer exists in this country and hasn’t since the Sixties which explains what happened to Brown’s career. But even now, much as I love his two Christmas records, I marvel at the love–hate relationship with Santa Claus and all the rest that that man must have had. I remember seeing him playing both tunes in July in Albuquerque once, and he had a funny little rap about how great it was that those tunes had paid his bills for many years, but how it forced him into weird situations like playing them in the dead of summer. The man was always such a class act. And such a pleasure to be around. His passing in 1999 was a sad occasion. The unintended result of his Christmas stardom is that he’ll always be remembered by some—the cold, tired and musically geeky—every holiday season. Dammit! At Christmastime, Charles Brown is immortal!

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Kind of Blue Barcelona Posted Thu Nov 19, 2009, 4:13 PM ET

There was fast food like Catalonian baguette pizza with chorizo. Tapas like flash fried baby squid or crispy potatoes with olive oil mayo and tomato sauce. And then of course there was that robber baron Rupert Murdoch and his damnable tabloid The Sun which every morning has a half–naked twentysomething smiling at you from page two! Danni, 23, from Coventry was my personal favorite. Yes, Europe does have its advantages! And then there was the music, right, right, the music. A mini-theme of the 41st installment of the Barcelona Jazz Festival was the 50th anniversary of Kind of Blue. The idea, and it was an admirable one, was to turn three groups of musicians loose on Miles masterwork and then sit back and enjoy the contrasting approaches. Now that I’m back in the States and have had a few days to contemplate what I saw, it all sort of comes under the heading of: “The Mysterious Ways in Which a Musician’s Mind Works(?).” Or “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Drummers.”

Representing the forces of authenticity was Jimmy Cobb’s So What Band. At 80 years–old Cobb is a friggin’ miracle of modern science. The fact that he can fly over the Atlantic to play a string of dates in Europe that feature the music of a band whose members he’s outlived by decades is damned amazing. Unfortunately, Jimmy should consider staying home from now on. I understand that this is probably a lucrative gig for him, but he and his band gave a fairly tired, by rote reading of Kind of Blue. The crowd at Barcelona’s ungodly gorgeous concert hall, The Palau de la Musica, loved it—to it a point. Even they could sense that the energy levels were not overly high. Or that what they were hearing and seeing was a band going through the motions to pick up the cash. Very talented tenor player Javon Jackson, alto player Vince Herring and trumpeter Wallace Roney did a decent job imitating the Trane, Cannonball, Miles lineup on the original album. But none of them smiled once or made even the most feeble stage announcement. It was all silence and stone faces. In other words, bullshit. Roney, who is reputed to be Miles only trumpet student, who played with Davis before he died, and is often derided as a Miles imitator, looked particularly aggrieved throughout the evening. Rather than try and reproduce the original solos which would have been tantamount to suicide, they kept their solo flights near enough the originals to be recognizable while still playing in their own style. In the end however, this show was just plain flat.

Cuban pianist Omar Sosa who has lived in San Francisco and currently resides in Barcelona, decided to take the opposite path from Cobb. Instead of faithful renditions, Sosa went the opposite direction, taking the music from that landmark album places it has never been before and probably will never go again. One of the sweetest guys in jazz, Sosa clearly worked at adapting Miles’ music. His interpretations were nothing if not elaborate. The problem was that they were so over the top, rhythmically, dynamically, melodically (which in this case meant a lack of melody) that it came off as too insider, too exclusive. What was supposed to be the Afro-Cuban take on Kind of Blue became strangely disconnected and not the warm, super rhythmic thing that the term Afro-Cuban usually signifies.

The guest for this show was Bronx-born trumpeter Jerry Gonzalez who has lived in Madrid for most of the last decade. Once the leader of the Fort Apache Band, Gonzalez has grown into a crusty–as–hell MoFo, whose personality reminds you of a profane Popeye. His trumpet skills remain intact however and he played most of his solos in a Miles–like tone which worked and was probably the only obvious connection to Kind of Blue. Trying to compose music based on a masterpiece like KOB is damned near impossible no matter who you are and so Sosa gets points for certainly for even trying this kind of risky approach. In the end however it did not have much emotional impact.

The ace reliever in this trio of shows, the man who saved the day so to speak was Spanish pianist Chano Dominguez who’s flamenco interpretation of KOB, which actually sounded the strangest when I first read about the three on paper, ended up being a colossal success. His rearrangements which were recognizable as the songs they were, as well as lots of original music he wrote around those re–imaginings, was sprightly and joyous; sparkling and full of high spirits; all of it both something new and something that paid tribute to Miles. Not surprisingly, snappy rhythms predominated. “All Blues” for example, was organically turned into a clap your hands tune which it is decidedly not in its original form. Chano’s solos were fluid and ingenious. The evening’s dancer Tomasito was the icing. The short bursts of his flourishes, lascivious looks and foot stamping elan that studded the evening were absolutely perfect. It would be nice to hear that Chano planned on recording some these piece but alas I heard nothing like that while I was in Barcelona.

Strangely enough, in what is a semi-stroke of genius (attain international attention) the 41st Barcelona Jazz Festival ends in New York City at the Jazz Standard with a repeat of Chano’s performance. It should a fun night.

In the end, the old conundrum faced with playing, covering if you will, an unassailable masterpiece like KOB, the choice in other words between playing straight covers in a solemn tribute or taking that masterpiece and stretching it beyond all recognition, is a matter of personal taste and one that ultimately leaves you damned if you do and damned if you don’t. The collisions in Barcelona, between the two approaches, and something in between, was fascinating.

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Barcelona in Hi Fi Posted Mon Nov 16, 2009, 11:35 AM ET

Casa Werner During my Barcelona sojourn, I made a trip to the leading high end gear store in that beautiful city, Casa Werner, which is downtown, on the Ronda Sant Pere. Open since 1933, this former music store which began selling Victrolas along with 78’s, before moving entirely from content to gear, has been in the same family now for about a decade.

I had a good feeling about the place when, as soon as I walked in, there were Stereophile reprints of Bel Canto gear displayed prominently. The owner of Werner, Vicente Viguera, who was a sly fox and a world class character/charmer—interested in the ladies he was—told me in a matter– of–Fact, everybody–knows–this–to–be–true voice that the two Spanish Hi Fi magazines, Alta Fidelidad and On Off, were both “Stereophile knockoffs.” Upon investigation, both did indeed copy our format and according to Viguera, again spoken in a low, dismissive tone, were “inferior.”

I was given a tour of the place which included a loft in a building around the corner, that was stuffed with gear and used for auditioning equipment, although it was very secluded and could have easily been adapted for other less, ummm, business-like purposes. Given Viguera’s suave personality, I’m thinking that perhaps a mujer or two may seen the inside of that room.

Back in the main building, the downstairs space, again crammed with gear, some of it used, from manufacturers like Chario, Bel Canto, Viva, Balanced Audio Technology, PMC, Audium, Classe and B&W, has an exposed wall built by the Romans. An adjoining wall, while not quite that old, was also fairly ancient. The acoustics in this room were impressively cold and crisp to say the least. There’s something very awe inspiring about listening to Miles Davis in a room with a handcut stone wall built by the Romans. Roman ruins, which tend to be brutish and immoveable, always evoke the same response from me: These boys meant business. Steamrolling was the name of their game and ruling forever was the goal. Mercy was out baby. Get in their way and they’d flatten you!

Throughout our visit to Werner, Viguera was entranced with my friend Don Lucoff’s wife Maria who is from Columbia and so has the dark hair and skin tone the Spanish favor. He was laying the charm on thick and heavy and when I ask him to pose in front of the Roman wall, he quickly shot back in Spanish, and with a quick glance towards Maria, “Alone?” When I answered in the affirmative, he looked at her, smiled and said, “What a pity.” I’m telling you the man is a character. No audiophile visit to Barcelona can be complete without a visit to see Senor Viguera.

Back upstairs, Viguera ushered us into his Blu–Ray surround sound room, the kind of haven very few normal folks can afford or build, and showed us excerpts from a performance by Russian soprano Anna Netrebko and Mexican tenor Rolando Villazon (who is currently still recovering from having cysts removed from his vocal chords this past spring) and also a snippet of a concert by the group Naturally 7 who use no instruments but do everything, make the sounds of every instrument you can think of and also straight singing, with their voices. Needless to say it looked gorgeous.

When I was on my way out, Viguera said to me, via translator, that he loved great gear but he was also picky in choosing the music and video he liked to play on that gear:

“The quality of the content has to match the sound quality of the equipment.”

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Spanish Admirers Posted Mon Nov 16, 2009, 11:21 AM ET

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery...or maybe not!

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The Loft aka the room we all need but never get Posted Mon Nov 16, 2009, 11:17 AM ET

If just seeing a room can make you mouth water...well, this was it.

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As soon as I walked in the door... Posted Mon Nov 16, 2009, 11:12 AM ET

I saw this prominently displayed...

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Concha Buika Posted Thu Nov 12, 2009, 11:48 AM ET

Back at the Barcelona Jazz Festival, after many espressos, a hunk of Cod, potatoes with olive oil mayo and tomato sauce, grilled mushrooms, and some of the best cookies I’ve ever had (thumb sized sugar cookies with chocolate centers), I made the trip to several record stores including Jazz Messengers, which has perhaps the finest collection of live jazz CDs and some LPs, in the world. If you’re feeling strong, pay down a credit card and then check out their website, www.jazzmessengers.com. They ship to the States, I checked. I picked up a CD of Clifford Brown’s final concert in Norfolk, Virginia, which was recorded in 1956, the week before his tragic death at age 26 on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The tenor player on the date was Sonny Rollins. Max Roach, Brownie’s friend and constant musical companion was on drums. It’s a legendary concert that has never been available in the US and needless to say I am thrilled to finally have a copy.

Later that night I went to the Palau de la Musica, Barcelona’s ungodly concert hall (more about that later) to see Concha Buika, a singer I’d never heard of, whose family is from Equatorial Guinea but who was raised in Majorca and has a strong gypsy influence. The woman blew me away. A powerhouse singer who can really move a lot of air and push her voice to a very loud, very ragged edge, Buika has a new record El Ultimo Trago on Warner Music Spain that features her singing Mexican Rancheras, a form of sad love song usually written and sung by men. In “Luz de Luna” for example she sings lyrics that loosely translate as:

“I want moonlight/for my sad nights/in order to dream/the illusion that you brought me/to feel you mine/mine like no other/since you left/I haven’t had moonlight/I feel your entanglement/like hooks that grab me/and drowning in the beach of my drunken pain. I feel your chains dragging/in the quiet night/and the light of moon/blue like none other/because since you left me/I haven’t had moonlight.”

“Drowning in the beach of my drunken pain”? Wow! It’s heavy, no doubt. The interesting part is that she sings these laments not with a dejected tone but with a defiant edge to her voice. It makes for a very different experience than is usually the case with rancheras that are more commonly sung by a bunch of drunken men, sitting around a table, bemoaning the one that got away. Concha also dances, has an engaging stage presence and wears dresses that um… don’t leave a whole lot to the old imagination. Seriously though she’s a serious talent, one that could obviously sing whatever she wanted and do it well.

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Hola! Posted Wed Nov 11, 2009, 11:57 AM ET

Transatlantic flights wipe me out. Chalk it up to being an old man I guess. But after a connection through a dark deserted Heathrow, I arrived in Barcelona for the 41st Barcelona Jazz Festival and within a couple of days, semi-disaster had struck. Not to me mind you but to American jazz saxophonist Joe Lovano who fell, not once but twice and broke an arm and a shoulder. He had to cancel his show here in Barcelona, his European tour and then had surgery with the chief orthopedic surgeon of Barcelona’s much beloved soccer team, FCBarcelona, presiding. I saw Lovano this morning as he was leaving for a flight home. He had both arms strapped up in this elastic, soft cast contraption but was in good spirits and ready to head back to NYC. He says he’ll be able to play again in about 15 days, but he’ll have to lay off performing until after the first of the year. No word yet however on what caused his tumble, which is the bigger question.

American saxophonist Javon Jackson, who played the festival with Jimmy Cobb’s Kind of Blue Band who is staying in the same hotel that I am, unloaded his luggage while checking in, and unfortunately allowed his NYC guard down and turned his back. In seconds, it vanished. Passport, credit cards, the works. Thankfully, he did keep ahold of his horn. After a trip to the consulate, he continued on with the band to Italy but it was a colossal hassle.

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CMH Posted Wed Oct 21, 2009, 4:16 PM ET

Even better than the STAX museum in Memphis however, is the Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville. I had friends in Nashville give me the whole rap about… “You don’t have to even know the music to love the museum”…to which I rolled my eyes, but it’s actually true. The CMH integrates music so beautifully in the museum. It could be an utter disaster in there musically, with listening stations bleeding into each other until it’s just a cacophony of noise. But through the intelligent uses of curled Nautilus shell shaped listening booths that control the sound yet still allow the listener to hear what they’ve chosen, the CMH is a model of keeping the music nearby yet allowing folks to look at cases of artifacts and talk among themselves without being blown out by music playing.

Again some highlights:

In one section they had six interactive screens devoted to “The Songwriters Craft,” which I thought was putting the emphasis in the right place although Miss Emmylou Harris, whose quote is splashed across one wall said it best: “The way to study it is to put it on the stereo and turn it up as loud as you can.”

A Williams Family exhibit was fascinating. I had no idea Hank was treated by a “self–described addiction therapist” before he died, who prescribed the Chloral Hydrate that, along with morphine and beer, killed the poor man in the back seat of his Cadillac in Oak Hill, W.V. on New Years Day, 1953. I loved the newspaper clipping about his death that were up on the wall, one of which, from his home state of Alabama asserted tests performed on his body found, “No indications of narcotics or other drugs.” Amongst the many cases of stuff that belonged to Hank was his liquor cabinet which I thought was very apropos.

In the actual rotunda that is the Hall of Fame it’s interesting to see who’s in and who’s not. I have to commend the powers that be there for keeping out useless pop assholes like Reba and Garth while inducting true engineering/producing pioneers like Ken Nelson and Owen Bradley. Vince Gill and George Strait are about as contemporary as the choices have gotten so far. Everyone who knows the music has a bitch about who’s not in so here are two of mine: Wynn Stewart and Tommy Collins, two of the greatest stars of California country music.

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Otis Lives! Posted Mon Oct 19, 2009, 5:18 PM ET

Still on the road in Memphis. At the center of any music trip to Memphis is the odd but very telling juxtaposition of Graceland and the relatively new Stax museum. Elvis was always very up front about where his influences came from—black blues and R&B, along with gospel music, both white and black, and Tin Pan Alley—’ most of which is honored in the Stax museum. And for the record let me say that I will never understand how Memphis, THE big city for all the delta blues pioneers, not to mention the town’s subsequent musical history, B.B. King, Elvis, Alex Chilton, Ardent Studios, etc. took their eye off the ball and lost the Rock Hall (Rock and Roll Hall of Fame) to the mistake by the lake. Such a pity. It would have given this town a triple threat of music tourism. Whoever was Mayor then, not to mention the city council, the local state legislators and oh yes, the fine gun–totin’, God Afearin’ folks of the Tennessee delegation to Congress ought to be beaten.

But enough of that. Museum studies has come a long way from dusty cases and reading little cards placed next to artifacts, and the Stax museum is perfect example of how music museums in particular can integrate sound, pictures, video and historical artifacts into a beautiful whole. From Thomas A Dorsey (aka Georgia Tom) the first gospel composer of note and the man who once put together a band for Ma Rainey, to the end of Stax Records in 1974 and the soul music that happened in Memphis even after that, the Stax Museum is world class. And such a bizarre, shiny, modern change from the hillbilly grandeur of Graceland—a sight that rendered my urbane wife nearly speechless, “shag carpet on the ceiling?”

Other great stuff at Stax: A photo of the great Louis Jordan and his father at the Hippodrome Club on Beale Street in 1950. Jordan came from nearby Brinkley, Arkansas.

An interesting display on clubs across the river in Arkansas where upstanding white folk could go incognito to see black musicians play.

A great display on the late James Brown that included many of his original King albums. Pure Dynamite recorded in “Vivid Sound!” at the Regal Ballroom in Baltimore in 1963 has a super cool cover shot.

The story of Estelle Axton and Jim Stewart, brother and sister, who started the label and created a colorblind family of musicians who made Stax go, is fascinating. Also fascinating was Steve Cropper and others on digital video, talking about how the killing of Martin Luther King Jr. in Memphis in 1968, is what really killed Stax. Until then there had been no racism either way. None of the players had seen beyond the music and thought of each other as black or white.

Stax began when Estelle took a second mortgage on her house so Jim could buy a $1500 Ampex 350 Monaural tape recorder to put in a wooden shed in Brunswick, TN in the spring of 1959 and begin making records under the name Satellite Records. The operation moved to what was then the Capitol Theatre, on the corner of College and McLemore in 1960. That is where the Stax Museum now stands, in a building the replicates the original theatre that was torn down in 1989 by the Southside Church of God in Christ who owned it by then. There’s nothing that says “organized religion” quite like the tearing down of a secular palace.

A Scully 2– was cool if rudimentary (Otis Redding’s “Mr. Pitiful” and “Respect” were taped on it) but it was the big, nasty baby blue cabinet speakers from the original studio and Booker T’s original Hammond B–3 that he used on the recording of Green Onions that are the stars of the room that is a reconstruction of the Stax studio space, complete with a sloping floor replicating the one in the original old movie theatre.

And over the whole place is the shadow of Otis Redding hovering in the rafters. One of the two best music museums in this country. Now I’m off to the other one.

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Put the cowhorns back on the cadillac Posted Sat Oct 17, 2009, 12:31 PM ET

It’s that kind of place. Despite it’s economic distress, the empty streets, the half–assed Bourbon Street mess that Beale Street has become (goddamned is it bad!), and what seems to be a full on crime wave in certain parts of town, in Memphis you cannot keep the music out of your head. It may be the wash over that comes from being so close to the Delta, but I couldn’t keep, “Walking in Memphis” by Marc Cohen or the words to one of John Hiatt’s greatest songs, (and that my friends is truly saying something because John Hiatt has written a shitload, okay, like 25 genuinely great songs) “Memphis in the Meantime” out of my head. “If we could just get off a that beat little girl Maybe we could find the groove At least we can get a decent meal Down at the rendez–vous” Needless to say, I wasn’t in town half an hour and I was at the Rendezvous (www.hogsfly.com), down in the basement as it were, wolfing down chopped chicken, pickles, big hunks of cheddar cheese, cole slaw with vinegar and cumin, sweet tea, fries, red beans and rice (laced with sliced mushrooms?) and the best ribs I have ever tasted. The best. All covered in that secret shake mixture of spices that makes this place world famous. My God it was good. It’s so damned nice to find a “legendary” restaurant that actually lives up, or in this case exceeds its billing.

But enough about the food—although the BBQ’d spaghetti at Interstate BBQ is truly a dish to remember. Memphis is Elvis country. The man’s visage stares at ya from billboards everywhere you look. “Experience Graceland” And clearly there are many many factories in China cranking out nothing but Elvis plastic crap. I mean mountains of trinkets with his face. Funny part almost none of it, even the stuff sold at the 42 gift stores that operate at Graceland, looks like Elvis.

If you’ve never been, and you are musically–inclined, Graceland despite all the crap you’ve heard, is a MUST trip. In a word, two actually: profoundly strange. The first stop on the cheesy iPod–like thing that you wear around your neck and listen to through borderline spoog–ey earphones, plays Elvis singing “Welcome to my World,” as you roll across Elvis Presley Boulevard in the shuttle bus and through those famous musical staff gates of Graceland. You also hear daughter Lisa Marie say that Elvis “permeated” Graceland. Each brick in the walls on either side of the gates, has something—a signature, a shout out, something profane—scrawled on it. That wall, you have to cross the street from the “visitors center” to see it, is perhaps the best part of Graceland.

Right up there with the TV Room and the Jungle Room. You have to fight the ill-mannered Japanese tourists and older, fatter, redneck-y Americans, to see the rooms in Elvis’ house but it so worth it. I’ve been several times but my wife was amazed by their um…décor. Downstairs in the rumpus room we’re talking bright blue and yellow color schemes, not to mention acres of fabric billowed on the ceiling and walls. Upstairs, in the Jungle Room, there’s a gurgly indoor fountain, carpet on the ceiling and a carved African chair that has to be seen to be believed. It’s the embodiment of Elvis famous comment about antiques which went something like, ‘I grew up with nothing but old shit, I want my furniture to be new.”

The Jungle Room is the site of Elvis last recording sessions. By then the pills had made it impossible for him to leave Graceland, unless he was on some sort of buying spree or a run to the dentist for a midnight cleaning and more pain pills. I was actually impressed that the audio to the guided tour mentioned his “years of abuse of prescription drugs” as one of the causes of his death. A new feature, at least since I’ve been there last, is the opening of the racquetball court, where he spent his final hours, and which is now filled with gold records and the collection of his most outlandish costumes from Vegas. The Aztec sundial number from 1976, white with a huge gold embroidered sundial on the front and doodads up and down the sleeves, made by the IC Costume Company, may be the topper. Next to it are framed tickets from a show at the Rushmore Plaza Civic Center, in Rapid City South Dakota on June 21, 1977. Approximately two months before he passed. Watching him doing a performance of “Johnny B. Goode” from the Aloha broadcast in 1973 on a TV monitor while my wife availed herself of the facilities, I found myself playing air guitar and rockin’ out. James Burton had a lot to do with it, but under the cheese, and the pills and the selling out, there was always a bit of the heart of something real still beating.

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Blue Eyes, Gray Hair Posted Sun Sep 20, 2009, 2:27 PM ET

Show me a music writer who has no guilty pleasures and I’ll show you someone you don’t need to waste time reading. Anyone with passion for music, which is what drives you to try to put what you hear into words, has a brain studded with funny little weaknesses. Many is the music writer who has a Bobby Sherman record stashed somewhere. I have a friend, a blues nut extraordinaire, who one dark night admitted to me under the influence of single malt that he “had a few Beatles albums” hidden away under his bed like girly magazines. And then of course there’s always the issue of hipness overload. No one can be cutting edge all the time. There are times when you just want to hear Hall & Oates or Karen Carpenter’s dusky tones and you don’t care who knows. I like Grizzly Bear fine for example, but sometimes you just gotta give in, shed that uber skin and dive headlong into some accessible–as–hell Whiz.

This is all a preface for the fact that among my many musical weaknesses, some wildly egregious, others more forgivable, I spent last night at the always glorious Beacon Theatre watching the two grand old men of blue–eyed soul hold court. Michael McDonald and Boz Scaggs rocked the house. Or at least made it sway. I’m aware that on some levels it’s completely indefensible. Both are cheeseballs. McDonald’s foray into covering the Motown catalog makes some queasy. And former Stereophile managing editor Debbie Starr had a sort of involuntary physical revulsion to McDonald that she could never quite explain. It may have had something to do with the hair. Or the twinkly 80’s keyboards. I alas never had that problem. What can I say other than for one night, it was 1980 all over again, and I didn’t mind paying the Beacon ten bucks a drink. I did notice quite a few sheepish 50 somethings milling around during intermission. The whole experience fulfilled some unnamable, unrequited desire deep within my twisted psyche to be a bit player in the cast of Urban Cowboy. That or I wanted to hear “Lowdown” and “Here to Love You” one more time.

McDonald, who is 57 [Boz is 65] acknowledged that he was a little long in the tooth by admitting at one point between songs that he was a card carrying member of AARP.

“You get these things in the mail from them when you’re like 40, 45 and you’re like what the hell is this. And then after awhile you go, hmmmm, that’s a pretty good deal.”

He also did a fine job delivering the key punch line to this obviously rehearsed bit about age when he mentioned that he and his longtime saxophone player Vince Denham, who he said has been with him 20 years, were once “pretty good looking guys” but had now begun to look like “Popeye and Bea Arthur.” Guess which one was Maude.

As for the man with the white mane’s music, I don’t care what anyone says. This man who came up with Steely Dan, first singing and playing with them on what is arguably their best record, Katy Lied, can still sing his ass off. His Doobie Brothers era stuff still sounds great although he did not play enough of it last nite. No “Here To Love You” though the well-oiled crowd loved “Minute by Minute” and “What a Fool Believes.” And despite his vaguely smarmy move into the Motown catalog, few have ever sung “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” since Marvin’s original, better than the very white McDonald. And oh by the way: he has recorded a new seven inch with Grizzly Bear.

Boz, who headlined, is a different case. For me that tale, and Boz’ credibility, begins when he recorded “Loan Me a Dime” with Duane Allman for his second record in 1969. It’s one of those moments that makes you remember again what a truly brilliant instrumentalist the other, the genuinely great Allman really was. Gregg had Cher and Duane, well, he got all the musical talent.

From there of course Scaggs story shoots into the stratosphere with Silk Degrees, the unjustly underappreciated Down Two Then Left and finally 1980’s harder–edged Middle Man. The band on Middle Man was the kind of ensemble that either defines all the cool, precise LA studio scene of the late 70’s [that’s bad] or embodies a whole bunch of talent and muscular playing [that’s good]. Steve Lukather and Ray Parker Jr. on guitars, Jeff Porcaro on drums, David Hungate on bass and the kingpin/anti–christ of that scene, David Foster on keys. Like or hate `em, those boyz had chops.

Not surprisingly both singers had full on monster bands full of old pros on Saturday, both keyed by young black women. In McDonald’s case it was Memphis native, drummer Yvette "Baby Girl" Preyer. In Scaggs case, it was vocalist Monet Owens, who can wail. Scaggs emotionally cooler music, and his more taciturn stage demeanor was a change from McDonald’s sweaty seated gyrations, but the blue–eyed soul vibe was the same. Boz may be pushing just how long he can be out on tour these days, because his voice painfully cracked during “Georgia” and his drummer played behind a pretty extensive Plexiglas shield. “Lowdown,” “Lido Shuffle,” and “Breakdown Dead Ahead” with a sweet guitar solo from New Yorker Drew Zingg all sounded wonderfully in the groove. A newer tune, “Desire” from his 2001 Dig that was released on 9/11/01 also came off well.

One thing has changed since those two were young: cellphone cameras make the old ‘No cameras, no recording” warning that used to be printed on tickets completely moot. I watched all nite as security personnel played hide and go seek with various members of the crowd who were using iPhones mostly to record video of the event.

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The Beatles 2009 Posted Thu Sep 10, 2009, 4:29 PM ET

So the big day, September 9, Beatles Day, has come and gone and after being away on a brief trip, I returned this morning to a number of voicemails that began, “Are the Beatles reissues worth the money?”

I even had a call from one of my writers. For shame. No, not really. I fully understand times are hard and shelling out $179.99 (on Amazon.com) for the full Stereo Box enchilada may be too much for some. I have to say though that one hundred and eighty bucks for the entire Beatles stereo catalog in its U.S. configuration is pretty reasonable. The boxed set is very basic and no nonsense which is good because often times boxed set designers get too fancy and outstrip the capabilities of the manufacturing end of things. Just a two bay rectangular box with CDs stacked on top of a ribbon for easy accessibility. Also if you can’t afford the entire apple (or in this case, Apple), then the bites at $11.99 (again Amazon.com) for the individual volumes seems very reasonable.

Reasonable that is if the sound is demonstrably better than the original CDs, which came out in 1987. As I mentioned in my feature on the new reissues in the October issue of Stereophile, the chief engineer on the project Allan Rouse doubted whether the average listener could tell the difference between the new reissues and the original CD transfers.

An average listener aside, the bigger question for audiophiles is can the trained ear using good gear detect a difference? Again, as I mention in my article, the differences between the old and new CD masters are significant and for fans and audiophilic types, more than worth the money.

One complicating factor with closely examining the sound of the new reissues was the fact that Apple/EMI would not let any music out until the week of release and that edict included critics, deejays and music biz folks although I’m sure some folks somewhere—groundlings at Apple Corps for instance—must have been exempted from the embargo. Having now received my actual finished copy of the boxed set, I’ve dug into several tracks in depth to see what the differences really are.

Let me first say that I think the LPs will always sound superior to CD versions no matter how much tweaking of the sound of the original mixes goes on. If someday new mixes are commissioned then perhaps the CD sound will give the LPs a run for their money. But in terms of dynamic range, imaging and that wonderful overused analogue bugaboo term, “warmth,” the LPs get the nod. Why LPs are not part of this new sprucing up of the Beatles catalog is unknown. Rouse had no idea when I asked him. Seems to me that would have been as much a win-win as the new Mono Set whose initial pressing of 10,000 units sold out faster than its admittedly more numerous Stereo counterpart. No worries though kids, both CD sets will be reprinted ad infinitum until every last ducat has been squeezed outta this project.

Using my Musical Fidelity Nu-Vista 3D CD player—which by the way is a great machine that I have always adored—at the exact same volume, the first thing you notice when you A-B new against old is that sonically the new transfers make the originals sound flat and one–dimensional. There is a newfound fullness, multi-dimensionality and also a sense of space that the originals lack. On first listen, this new sonic heft can easily be mistaken for loudness, for compression, but it’s really just a wider dynamic range and the presence of more music that you’re hearing. In the stereo CD of Rubber Soul, I A–B’d “Drive My Car” repeatedly against the 1987 originals and the audible differences for me came down to several things: increased separation and clarity between instruments, a more expressive, luxuriant emotional tenor, and an exquisite and exacting sense of bringing out and enhancing details like the roundness of the bass line or the edge on the vocals, which were always there but which are now so much more alive and present in the mix.

After listening for the past few days, several sonic constants have appeared. The contributions of Paul and Ringo, alone and as a rhythm section are now more prominent. Paul’s bass is now something you can regularly hear and be impressed by. Ringo’s tambourine on “Got To Get You Into My Life” (from Revolver) now sounds like a glorious idea come to fruition. Another “Gee, I never heard that before,” moment comes from the layering, particularly of the vocals, which is now so much more defined. On “Doctor Robert,” again from Revolver (a lesser tune that I, of course, have a cheesy affinity for), the harmonies have a new energy.

Energy, in fact, may be the word that best describes the positive sonic alterations inherent in the new remasters. What you really hear is an audible new jolt of energy. Words like cogency, potency and sparkle also apply. This music, on the medium of CD, is suddenly more alive than ever before. Best of all the CD format’s worst quality, that cold digital brightness that’s made so many CD transfers damned near unlistenable, has actually been used, very judiciously, to great effect. I would venture to say that the Abbey Road team has finally harnessed this demon and made it serve rather than harm the music making.

On Lennon’s “Rain” (from Past Masters) one of the band’s most elaborate sonic creations, one that used a series of overdubs at different tape speeds to achieve an odd tonal effect and near the song’s end, backward vocals, the new remaster when compared to the original CD transfer, focuses and revitalizes the panache of this underrated curiosity. The guitars have more bite, Ringo’s snare pops with new vigor and the background vocals are separated more than ever before.

Finally, after listening to the The Beatles (aka The White Album), which despite much love for Abbey Road has always been my favorite Beatles album, the proof as they say, is in the air. The sound is appreciatively better, richer, more intense. The overdubs on this record have always sounded clumsy to me but on the new remaster, that problem has been minimized. A–B’ing “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” is yet another example of how clarity has been strengthened while the music that was always there, the Harrison/McCartney harmonies float above the mix with a new urgency and Clapton’s guitar has a thrilling new sting. Anyone who cannot hear he differences here needs to upgrade their gear or perhaps retune their ears. It’s easy to fall back upon metaphors when describing the exciting new sound that rises from these remasters but I’ll use only one. In listening to these new reissues, it makes me think that the music was like a half-opened flower that has now been brought into full and beautiful bloom.

A word about packaging: The glossy paperboard packs that the new reissues come in are well thought out and a definite success. If you like Beatles photos, many rarely seen (at least by non-fanatics), these new packages are a bonanza. The Rubber Soul package for instance contains 11 photos, only four of which were included in the original CD package

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Les Paul Posted Thu Aug 13, 2009, 3:48 PM ET

I know that every time someone dies, it’s now customary to intone about what a hero they were, how much they were always had a smile for everyone, how they were great family men, husbands, fathers, etc. etc. etc. Speak no ill of the dead, I get it.

Les Paul who died last night in White Plains, NY was one amazing pioneer of both the electric guitar and recording techniques like overdubbing, phasing, multi-track recording, use of delays have all, for better or worse, become a very regular parts of making records. He is also the brains behind prodding Ampex into building the first 8 track recorders and of course, Gibson’s iconic Les Paul guitar. One of the most memorable moments in a two hour interview I had with him in 2005 was Paul’s description of his first guitar, dubbed “The Log” which was a piece of lumber, fitted with a guitar neck, a bridge and a pickup. It will be interesting to see who mounts the first Les Paul museum exhibit.

That piece that I did on him in the October 2005 issue of Stereophile was pure pleasure. Hanging with him backstage at the Iridium in Times Square was special, although I’ll always remember it as one of those interviews where you sit down with someone and suddenly the enormity of what they’ve done in their career washes over you and you don’t know where to start. I could have written five different Les Paul pieces. The other thing that stands out in my memory is what fun the man was still having into his 90’s, mostly via really hilarious and bawdy stories that he recounted from the stage at the Iridium. Most involved females in various states of undress and the man was not shy about naming parts. As those old Wendy’s commercials used to say, “Parts is Parts,” and man, could old Les make up or recount, it doesn’t matter which, some funny things about those parts. Blessed with such a long life, he went out not only revered for his art but also having a hell of a good time. What a guy.

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Freakin' at the Beacon Posted Fri Aug 7, 2009, 2:31 PM ET

They were quite a couple. Like a pair of Octopi in heat. First, he was grabbing her ass. Then he had his hands up the back of her shirt. Then, up the front. Then he had his hands down the back of her pants. Then, down the front. Both hands and about half of his forearms. Her only reaction was to smile, swoon and stick her tongue in his mouth. I'm damned impressed that she was able to keep her clothes on during this determined assault upon her New Jersey virtue. Best of all, during this entire spectacle, they were simultaneously kissing and falling down at the same time. Groping does not begin to get what was happening in my section on Thursday night at the Beacon Theatre.

Now, the six or eight beers they each sucked down in rapid succession certainly had something to do with their uncontrollable urges, but I have to say that I’ve never seen anyone this horny drunk at an Americana show before. Or any show for that matter. I mean these two were damn near knocking boots right there. I knew if a bra flew over my head, it was time to git. The whole time I was standing right behind them and it was like I was invisible: they never saw me. Or heard me laughing. It was pretty classic, I have to admit. A little live porn with my Woody Guthrie covers, I’ve got no problem with that. The fact that they didn’t go down [ouch!], as in falling [oh], was a minor miracle. Who says rock concerts ain’t what they used to be? A little pot smoke wafting by and it would have been 1977 all over again.

What’s billed as The Big Surprise Tour, is in reality four like–minded acts, all in the Americana/Alt–country sphere, who are touring together, joining in on each other’s sets and clearly having a very good time. Justin Townes Earle is clearly the star. Blessed with the uber confidence to schmooze from the stage&3151;or as he mentions in a song about his father, no ability to shut up, Earle is a talent on the rise. Channeling Hank Williams as well as many of the masters of ceremony who have kept things running at the Grand Ole Opry over the years—the late Porter Wagoner comes to mind—Earle, who is Steve’s oldest child, was dressed adorably in a bow tie, plaid jacket and striped shirt. The only problem was that he opened this four band show, and to my ears was probably the best act on the bill. A tough act to follow as they say. Perhaps the highlight of the entire evening was Earle’s version of Paul Westerberg’s “Can’t Hardly Wait,” which originally appeared on the `Mats Pleased to Meet Me but was first attempted in the sessions that led to the band’s major label debut, 1985’s Tim. The bluegrass picking of Earle’s version brings out the tune’s wonderful melody. I’m a sick `Mats fan but even those who aren’t will agree that this is one of Westerberg’s most transcendent tunes and also that Earle’s prescient cover is extremely clever and inspired.

One act that will never be accused of looking ahead, or even being fun to see and hear is David Rawlins and Gillian Welch. They are the most BORING act to ever take a half wild crowd and turn them into a line at the bathroom. In my opinion, those two could suck the life out of anyone, anytime, anyplace. Everyone sitting around me at the Beacon decided en masse after about two songs of their set, that it was a good time to pee or get another round of weak, overpriced drinks. They dragged down the emotional tenor of the evening and sent a lot of folks to the bar. Or the doors. The major problem is that those two cannot stay away from sadness. Ballads. Big, mournful ballads. That’s all they want to sing, all they want to do is sing those samey ballads over and over again. After a half hour of their whining, you want to buy a drum kit. A couple of tunes and you get exactly what they are trying to do in its entirety. They really haven’t changed a lick over the 15 years they’ve been performing together. As much as David, in his straw cowboy hat and big goofy grin was trying to be one of the boyz, he and his wife constantly returned to their natural groove which is dirges; same harmonies, same singing range, same basic song structures, same, same, same. Those two need to get a gig in some East Tennessee mountain music repository or something. Some place where they can sing sad songs in a historical context and where draining the energy out of rooms might be looked upon less egregiously as a good thing. Their presence on this tour presents yet again the old dilemma when it comes to these two: if you have four bands on a bill as this show did, where do you put their Captain Bring Down act. Not first and certainly not last. Best to bury them in the middle where their braying can do the least amount of harm.

One very pleasant surprise at Thursday night’s show at the Beacon was the presence of one Benmont Tench, who played keyboards, on and off, all night and added much to the proceedings. His B-3 work was especially apparent on the set by the Felice Brothers. If you haven’t heard the tale, the Felice boys are a hairy, testosterone–driven tribe from upstate New York—as in poverty stricken, middle–of–nowhere upstate New York—who squatted in Brooklyn for a time before finding themselves and becoming a band. I use the word band very loosely here. Watching them live is a train wreck to behold. My God, they are everywhere and nowhere onstage, running to and fro, mouths open, banging on guitars, jumping around like it’s their first gig ever. Imagine if someone filled a garage full of musical instruments of all kinds, and let a bunch of rowdy as hell teenagers go at it. Harmonies— which is supposedly a strength between brothers right?—are non-existent. Everyone just launches in, in whatever key they feel like.

But what they lose in musical raggedness, they make up for in enthusiasm and a big, loveable spirit. They are one WILD act. There’s a stream of this kind of thing out there today. The Avett Brothers have it as well. It’s family bands who play a cross between The Band and Bill Monroe in a slambang style. The Felice Bros were fun to watch, charging around, bouncing together—accordion, fiddle, electric guitar, acoustic guitar—on every downbeat. They all had Yankees shirts on to salute their competition for Thursday night’s entertainment dollar, the Red Sox/Yankees game up at Yankee Stadium. By all accounts, big bearded James Felice is a teddy bear sweetheart. And brother Ian, clearly the rock star of the group, also represents the Rico Suave side of the family. With his arm around some woman’s shoulders, he passed my friend Traci and I in the aisle between sets and without even a blink cracked, “Hey beautiful” to Traci. Ahhh, rock stars…is there anything they won’t say?

Old Crow Medicine Show was the evening’s closer and clearly the favorite amongst the crowd members. The lusty couple in front of me knew every word of the songs, which they began immediately singing every time their lips unlocked for a minute or two. The Nashville–based act has the advantage of having written—or is that borrowed? Or collaborated?—on a anthemic tune called “Wagon Wheel” which seems to have come from a Bob Dylan outtake that band member Ketch Secor heard and sort of made his own. He and Bobby Z. signed a co-writing agreement on this song a couple years ago and it has now become a sing–a–long favorite. OCMS has built themselves a jam band–like fanatical following. One of these fans even boomed out his preference of them over Justin Earle during the second song of Earle’s set. Justin, much to his credit, swatted it away easily like the pro he is becoming, informing the loudmouth that they’d get to the band he wanted in due time. By the end of their set, the crowd was literally howling, after which everyone joined them onstage for a mass ending jam session. To their credit they do have singers who can sing and players who can play. And by the time guitarist Willie Watson was doing his best Chuck Berry across the front of the stage you could color me semi–impressed. I may not be a full blown fan yet but they’ve got my attention.

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