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They Just (Look) a Little Weird
True Love
All Together Now, the DVD that details the making of Love the Beatles collaboration with Cirque du Soleil is coming out on October 21 and from the looks of the trailer it could be fun. I hear there are flashes of Yoko being a dragon lady (now there’s a shock), McCartney being a doofus of sorts (another revelation) and some great bits with George Martin which, all kidding aside, might make this worth the price. The subtitle in this trailer that says, “Yoko hates it,” is a classic.
Guitars and Digital Only
Wexler
Fuck and Run
The Freewheelin'
Whole Lotta Sammy
Shotgun Willie
His Way
In his absence, his legacy has grown—at least among fans—thanks in large measure to the release of the Sinatra:Vegas boxed set which collected some classic live performances, particularly the two Sands dates from 1961 and 1966. When his mouth was rolling—and he wasn't being sexist or racist—he had some comedic skills going on.
Fashionable Pessimism
White and Lazy
There it was again. Goosebumps. Even a grainy old out–of–synch YouTube video of a 1986 sound check at Maxwell's in Hoboken still evoked a shiver. At the risk of living in the rock 'n' roll past, The Replacements were one of the best bands, bar or otherwise, that I've ever had the pleasure of witnessing. Over the years I saw Westerberg, Mars and the Stinson Bros many, many times. I saw them when they were riotously drunk, careening from one tune to the next, never finishing any of them. I saw them once at an unbilled gig do not a note of their own music, preferring instead to rip through TV themes: Batman followed by Bewitched followed by The Flintstones... I saw them jacked up on God knows what, painting their shoes and whipping bologna from a deli tray all over their dressing room. Through it all, with the possible exception of when Bob Stinson was kicked out for getting a little too addictive, they had a ball. When it got serious near the end, around the time of Don’t Tell a Soul, it was for all intensive purposes, over. They were the best thing to come out of the once vaunted Minnesota scene—okay, after Prince—and whether they liked it or not, one of the originators of the whole "alt" rock thang. All that is why critics—always the band's best audience—are drooling over the just released Rhino reissues of the band's first four albums, all of which were released on Peter Jesperson’s Twintone label. While I still prefer Tim and Pleased To Meet Me, the band’s first two post-Twintone records on Sire, this quartet's early records have an undeniable ragged charm about them. And even the debut, Sorry Ma, Forgot To Take Out The Trash proves once again that these monuments to excess were in reality popmeisters from the get-go. The drawback here to promising, embryonic tunettes like "Customer" and "I Hate Music," is that the record sounds like it was recorded in a 55 gallon drum. The energy in the music though is undeniable. The big draw with these reissues is the healthy slugs of outtakes, alternate takes and demos (much of it unreleased) that come with each disc. On Sorry Ma, the band’s first four demos, dropped off by Westerberg to convince Jesperson to help the band get a live gig, have the kind of songwriting that eludes many bands even two and three records into their careers. Then comes Stink (full title: The Replacements Stink. Initially they had a thing for self-deprecating titles), which is both more punky than the debut in the headlong rush that is "Dope Smokin Moron," and also more flecked with great hints of songwriting to come like the opener, "Kids Don't Follow," which starts with a recording of the Minneapolis Police clearing out a rowdy Mats gig. The bonus cuts include wonderfully hard-edged, fast versions of "Hey Good Lookin'" and "(We’re Gonna) Rock Around The Clock." No one, I mean NO ONE, has ever been able, before or since, to imbue covers of classics with the verve that the Mats mustered. The more obvious the cover, the more they reveled in it. There's a "hidden track" here, appended onto track 12, that is the recording of a very young Tommy (I'm assuming) talking about his influences an ending with "I Lied." Again, if nothing else, these guys had a good time. The knockout bonus track on Stink however is track 12 proper which is a rough demo of the Westerberg track, "You’re Getting Married." Although the band played it live and even tried to work up a version for their next record, 1982's Hootenanny album. Long available on bootlegs, this ranks as one of his best unreleased songs. Next up: Hootenanny and the breakthrough Let It Be.
Hootenanny
Amongst all the hand–ringing and head–scratching and kvetching about the music business and what we're going to do with our CDs and LPs and how iPods sound like shit but are the future whether we like it or not (in my case, the jury's still out), it's a good idea, at least in my overamped case, to step back, close–a–dee mouth and occasionally remember that at the bottom of all this claptrap, there's still music. Which I (we) presumably still love. I was reminded of this salient fact by an incident that occurred today at Stereophile HQ, located deep in the canyons of Murray Hill, Katie Hepburn's old neighborhood. A co-worker from another fine Source Interlink publication came storming into my office and demanded to know what I was listening to. Now this woman is normally very polite and quiet, so the big smile on her face and gleam in her eye told me something serious was definitely up. When I handed her the jewel box—yes, a CD, an SACD in fact—she was astonished to learn it was Mozart; one of the four superlative volumes of his sonatas for keyboard and violin, that English fiddle player Rachel Podger and Gary Cooper have recorded for the Channel Classics label. They've become one of my favorite morning soundtracks because they are so fizzy and nimble, easy on the half awake brain, impossible to hate. The Mats in the afternoon (hence the title of this entry), but Mozart divertimenti in the morning. If there's anything better musically in the a.m. than effervescent chamber music, particularly Mozart, I haven't found it. Holding the CD, she told me a story I've heard many times before: her dad was a classical music head but she never listened to him or it and now that he's gone she wishes she'd have paid more attention. It's the world's oldest music story: I shoulda listened. I have a nephew, the poor kid, who is well on his way to someday having that tale to tell. "Yeah, my uncle would never shut up; he was a real pain in the ass about Bill Evans but now I kinda like jazz…" I can hear it all now. Anyway, I ended up giving my co-worker the Mozart record, much to her delight, and then did an impromptu sales job on her for Naxos, Harmonia Mundi, the Brilliant Classics boxed sets (which happen to be sitting on my desk) and classical music in general. The Brilliant Classics sets from Holland deserve special mention. The complete Mozart for example, 170 CDs containing every piece he wrote, in decent to sometimes near great versions, for one hundred and thirteen dollars on Amazon.com? CD boxed sets in the twilight of physical media? Makes no sense at all. I assigned a story for Stereophile on Brilliant which ran in November 2007, and while it did not turn out as clear or to the point as I would have liked, these completist sets continue to be talked about. I find them profoundly weird. Clearly these Dutchmen are on a pipe of some kind. These sets are, however, as I found out when my colleague decided in front of me that she'd buy one, an easy way to learn about the big, scary subject of classical music. No, it's not Bernstein nor von Karajan that you are listening to, but all in all it's not that bad. And it can be a riot at cocktail parties where civilians, i.e. non-music obsessed folk, can be shocked and awed by the sheer massiveness. "This is all of Mozart," said the tipsy music critic. "Wow!" exclaimed the drunk girl he was trying to impress. Score one for Wolfy! How old are you? How young am I? Oh, feets don't fail me now!!! But seriously, it's always great when music is playing and someone says something like, "Who's this?" and their eyes light up when they realize it's someone they've always heard about but never actually listened to. Turning people on to music is still the best part of this gig.
The Final Ya Ya's
Shine A Light. Scorsese meets the Stones. First off let's get one thing straight: it ain't no Last Waltz! The other night I saw, courtesy of Paramount Pictures, the new Stones–Scorsese picture, Shine a Light at the IMAX Theatre near Lincoln Center here in New York. As anyone who's seen it knows, the "IMAX Experience" is something akin to going over Niagara Falls in a barrel; something that closet Nazi Walt Disney left behind to torture anyone fool enough to slip into its clutches. With a sound system that is the very embodiment of those famous '70s vintage Pioneer ads— you HAVE to sit back in an IMAX theatre— the IMAX ain't for everyone. Seeing Mick Jagger's wrinkled face coming at me four stories tall nearly had a recently consumed club sandwich spilling out of me onto my New Balances. I remember thinking years ago that Vincent Price in the3–DHouse of Wax, with that damned carnival barker armed with the paddle ball winging towards your head was bad, but IMAX is positively brutal. And after more than two hours of the Stones you do end up feeling like you've been punched or at least kicked a couple of good times in the eyes and ears. Too loud and too large. Some observations: Best Lines: Scorsese on lighting at the Beacon Theatre: "We can't burn Mick Jagger." Keith after being told he had to meet more of Ex-President Clinton's guests: "Hey Clinton, I'm bushed!" Keith on who is the better guitar player, he or Ron Wood: "We're both pretty lousy, but together we’re better than the next ten guys." The beginning when Scorsese gets exasperated trying to deal with the Stones is self– serving and dumb. Marty needs to stop trying to be Woody Allen. Mick Jagger is the most preening, overweening ego on earth. No human has ever loved themselves more. He's also the most in–shape sixty year old on earth. He is a ball of energy throughout the film. Of course that keeps the camera on him all the bloody time. His dancing/mugging/theatrics though are nothing short of amazing. You get fatigued just watching. I was also struck, mostly during guest Buddy Guy's appearance, that Jagger has no voice at all really. He's made a career out of talking or singing in a very flat, nasal sort of bluster. Another guest Christina Aguilera was like Jagger treats. He lapped it up. The look on his face when she turns her back towards him and they shimmy together, his hand around her waist, drawing her closer, is priceless. The amount of women that man has had, I mean HAD dammit, is absolutely incredible. In a number of shots, when the lights were directly on him, Jagger's dye job was showing badly. And Woody's black dye job is just silly. And when Jagger walked towards the drum risers and a camera shot him full in the face, oh lord, did the wrinkles reveal themselves. Musically, the newer songs like "Start Me Up" dragged while older material "All Down The Line" in particular, really cooked. Missed "Sweet Virginia" though. And for some odd reason, there was no performance of the title cut which is one of the band's very best: "Saw you stretched out in Room Ten O Nine/ With a smile on your face and a tear right in your eye…" The complete lack of fresh interviews seriously hamstrung the film and made it just another overlong concert film. I mean if this was a show from 1972 maybe, but 2008… please. This will conform for you that you never again have to pay wildly inflated ticket prices to see their now ancient satanic majesties. Keith Richards, whose wizened visage is a truly a wonder to behold—not to mention that spangle adorned doo–rag thang he's got wrapped around his head—, is the only human being in the band. Charlie is a robot as the vintage interview footage that Scorsese sparingly cuts into the film shows. Woody is a cipher of sorts. No real flavor there. He needs Stewie, and they need to be drunk for him to have a personality again. And then Jagger, well, the authentic juice seeped out of that sweet and bitter fruit a long time ago didn't it? It's Keith who truly benefits from the film and comes off as likable and real. Between his bent fingers and creased face (with eyeliner of course), he IS the Rolling Stones isn't he?
Rage Against The Machine
In Aural Robert in the April issue of Stereophile, Amoeba owner David Prinz and I discuss his label, Amoeba Records, and his ongoing program to reissue Gram Parsons live sets. Needless to say however, I also talked with him about the ever more bizarre situation that the record business now finds itself in. As the owner of the biggest and best independent record stores on planet Earth, his opinion carries more than a little weight. Here's a sampling of what he said about the biz and the specter of iTunes. "I feel like it [the record business] is in really dire straights right now, but it's a spirit that can't be killed and no matter what forces are out there trying to do that, it's not going to work. Everyone has music that matters to them and no matter what, there's going to be a way that people get spiritual nourishment from music that's for sure. "Right now, it's looking bad, I don't see how new artists can break anymore. I'm trying and it's impossible." "Maybe what we need to get out of is this rigidity and control that people who don't really care about music have been exercising over people who do." "I feel we're close to a major shift in the way people get music, listen to music and appreciate music." He say he's working on a download site that replicates the experience customers have shopping at his stores—which for me would be something akin to getting high on retail—although that seems like a very tall order considering the hold that iTunes now has over the business. "There's no question iTunes cannibalizes the business. "When iTunes first started out and was doing about one percent of the music business, the CD business was down five percent, so they said we're only down four percent because iTunes is making up one of those points. Okay, good. "Then when iTunes was two percent they were down seven percent. So they think, `Oh, we’re not [down] seven, we're down five.' Then when iTunes was three percent, they were down nine percent. Every time iTunes takes a point they lose two. Right now, iTunes is about five percent and they're down fifteen percent. "There has to be answer for the industry that doesn't do that; that's more of an album oriented sales philosophy than a singles oriented sales philosophy." Although he's full of optimism (he has to be), he's clearly aware that in some ways, he's already the last man standing. "I hope there's plenty more answers. I don’t want to be the only person out there. That's too much pressure."
SXSW Part I
Although the brain pall caused by four solid days and nights of music has yet to lift entirely, I will attempt to begin to dissect South by Southwest 2008. For starters, let me take on those pathetic souls who would rather wallow in dissension and what's wrong with SXSW. For all the hating, blogosphere jerk-off's who whine and cry and condemn all SXSW's shortcomings—I refuse to mention them because publicity is what these Me! Me! Me! publicity hounds live for—it remains the vital once–a–year coming together of the tribes. If there's one thing the music world could use more of, it's any shred of a sense of community. If you want to bitch about it, then please don't come. I noticed in some of the most negative blog posts, the writers weren't even there. Kind of like reviewing the Black Crowes without listening to the record. Yeah, it's all dollars and cents capitalism on some levels, but it's also about a mass of music. There were 2000 acts at SXSW 2008. If that doesn't get your juices flowing then you need to get away from music because baby, it's over for ya. I mean can't there still be a little joy about music in amongst all the shifty, trying–to–sell–music rat race? If you want to see and get a feel for what is happening in music today, in nearly all genres, Austin during SXSW is it. If you want to feel good again, if only briefly, about the state of music in the world, Austin for a week in March is the place to do it. Should bands go in expecting to land some gazillion dollar record deal? Hell no. But playing for rooms full of critics and industry folk sure can't hurt and it's infinitely better than playing on Monday nights in some dumpy club in nowheresville for hundred bucks. The music business is destroying itself fast enough; let's not add to the fires. In general, we need less hate. Being jaded to the point of no return is a terrible thing. Isn't squabbling about nothing and forgetting about music part of what got the business where they are today? Two brief episodes may be appropriate. I watched as a German band, fresh from a SXSW gig which must have gone very well, felt flush and bought their first ever pairs of cowboy boots. You're in Texas, so of course you gotta buy boots right? Amidst all the waddling around in new boots—the concept that boots unlike Chuck Taylors need to be "broken in" completely escaped them—they were babbling like parrots about their showcase and how all these people, critics, booking agents and label reps, came up and introduced themselves after the gig. I have the feeling that the entire band is now somewhere nursing their blistered and broken feet so some of these opportunities may have to wait until they heal but still, they made a bunch of valuable contacts and got their music some exposure. The second fond incident was a Spanish band called Tokyo Sex Destruction. The name alone made me stop in to see what they had musically. At SXSW, one of the key principals is a fairly strict adherence to forty five minute sets. If you want to blow your time singing power ballads or running you mouth at the microphone, that's fine but you ain't getting more than 45 minutes. The boys in Tokyo Sex Destruction used up a third of their time soundchecking like they were the Rolling Stones. When you have a bass player endlessly checking his vocal mike—"Check, check, check" enough already!!!!—time begins to crawl by. By the time they finally launched into their first song, the crowd had thinned out. Their music was your basic thrashy punk with no real songs and vocals (in English) that were unintelligible, but watching a rolly poly bass player convulsing across the stage and a lead singer with a Beatles haircut and greenish velvet jacket, jumping off the drum riser like he was the second coming of David Lee Roth made me smile. You cannot have rock 'n' roll without rebellion and ENERGY. Perhaps that's what's best about SXSW: all the energy. It never fails to recharge my batteries. On this, the sixth anniversary of the war in Iraq let me quote one salient fact: it IS costing a family of four in this country around 16 grand annually to support this wasteful, lethal, mismanged fiasco. The GOP has spent us into disaster. For American taxpayers, winning this war, the Bush McCain mantra, would be getting out. Soon.
Does Loud Equal Music?
"...evokes the masterpieces of silent cinema and Orson Welles' Citizen Kane." "...bears comparison to the greatest achievements of Griffith and Ford." God help critics. Citizen Kane!!!! Some just like so much that the joy blinds 'em. That and their desire to be quoted in hysterical newspaper ads. 'Course the flip side is, there's nothing worse than critics who hate: their job, their salary, what they're supposed to review, themselves. When critics go permanently dark, it ain't pretty.
Grammy'd
Writing about the idiocy known as the Grammy Awards Show just isn't that much fun anymore. I used to take great glee is slicing and dicing them but they’ve been so dumb for so long that, to quote Mr. King (as in B.B.): the thrill is gone. That said, I now look at it as live comedy, of the squirm in your seat variety. It's always mildly amusing to see the U.S/U.K. music business make an ass of itself for the entire world to see. In no particular order here's a few Grammy 2007 observations. On one of those occasions when the camera whirled down and across the crowd, I saw Jeff Tweedy of Wilco, looking very adult-like, and his wife sitting in a coveted aisle seat. He's come up in the world. His band's Sky Blue Sky was nominated for Best Rock Album but lost out to the Foo Fighters. Sinatra and Keys? A tragic mistake for her. Showed how limited her talent is, but then anyone would come up short against Frank. That little sound/image synch problem did not help. A bad idea gone wrong. Tina and Beyonce. Tina looked spectacular at 69 and sounded even better. She is a wonder of nature. And plastic surgery. Beyonce? Damn, the woman has dancer thighs doesn't she? She looked and sounded very nervous. Of course again, she was matched, not to her advantage, with a masterful singer. Maybe the whole young/old thing needs a rethink. Liked the commercials for Garth Brooks Greatest Hits records. The Jerry Lee Lewis/Little Richard/John Fogerty segment was fairly amazing. The Killer, who has been rumored to be on death's door for at least the last decade, looked jowly as hell but was still having fun. Little Richard, on the other hand, was oddly waxen looking (yes, more than normal) and was downright grim when he played. It did occur to me that that performance could well be Jerry Lee's final television appearance, the last glimpse America will ever get, of one of the more unforgettable creators of rock ‘n ‘roll. Thank God Michael Jackson didn’t show up to pay tribute to Thriller. The freak quotient was off the map to begin with. Seeing and hearing Keely Smith was great. Kid Rock however is the same untalented dope he's always been. His only redeeming quality is his respect for rock's elders, which still ain't enough to make me say anything but: why does this man have a music career? Loved the look on people's faces when Doris Day’s name was mentioned. Ooohh was that a LONG time ago. Andy Williams looked like Andy Williams if he were one hundred and ten years old. It’s testament to what performing in Branson, Mo. ad nauseum will do to ya. And poor squinting Tony Bennett did not a whole lot better. Great choice on Herbie Hancock. Blew everyone's mind. In a good way.
The Return of Physical Media?
"I want my Maypo!!!" To paraphrase the Doobie Brothers, what was once ridiculous has now become absurd. To the Nth power. Here's the deal with Sony's latest effort to fight piracy, the piracy by the way that they allowed occur in the first place, an idea straight from the boys in accounting and legal: Platinum Musicpass. You go into a Best Buy, Target or Fred's and purchase a credit card with fancy artwork for each album you want to download in what the press release calls, "high-quality MP3 files." Each card costs $12.99. You then take your card home and scratch the back to reveal a pin number. You then type that pin number into a website to unlock a legal download and extra content, mostly videos, which were not on the original record. This is blatant sop to retail, the same retail that the labels first, years ago, made partners out of and more recently have cut out like a crazy uncle. And then this isn't even going to record stores; it's going to big box retailers where in theory it has a better chance of success because it will reach the semi-computer literate. Unfortunately, this is a non-starter of the kind only the record business can devise. First, it's still too damned expensive. Twelve Ninety Nine for catalog pieces? These are records that were paid for years ago. Why not six bucks? Next, it emphasizes entire albums when what downloaders want is the ability to select tracks. This scheme also fails to recognize that getting people to pay for downloads they can steal elsewhere ain't ever gonna happen. And why the claptrap of buying a card so you can go home and plug in a number, blah, blah, blah. iTunes is easy and convenient. This is not. The ways that this is wrong and unrealistic boogle the mind. The idea that this is going to somehow satisfy anyone's jones for physical media is also crazy although the press release asserts that, "the cards themselves are highly collectible." I'm in absolute shock that the business is finding ways to make things worse instead of better.
iPod Envy
A New York resident since 1981, Elias, her husband bassist Marc Johnson (who was also Evans' last bass player) and drummer Joey Baron (who smiles the whole time and is a fine drummer to boot) put together a mostly melodic, upbeat set of Evans tunes that began with an obscure number, "Five" and included their versions Evans classics like "Waltz for Debby." Elias take on Evans is very strange in that she took everything at a fast pace with only brief patches where she slowed it down and sort of did Evans, before taking the pace back up. She also sings along with several of the tunes, something Evans, of course, never did. Still, the new record is well recorded, sounds good, and also for fans of Evans—"He was a God" enthused one jazz critic in attendance—who doesn't get covered as much as you might think, it's interesting to hear Elias drill down and pay tribute to his technique and then back away and fly off into wildly diverse (from him) interpretations. After the gig, I was an interested listener and occasional participant in a conversation between artist managers and jazz critics about how the miniaturization of their record collection, i.e. having it all in their hip pocket (literally) thanks to the iPod made them less interested in their home audio system for a time but how they're now growing tired of muddy MP3 sound and are thinking of re&#investing in some new home gear. Comparing iPods, which sounds and actually in practice looks vaguely sexual, ensued, with everyone either oohhing and aaahhing about what someone had on their iPod or howling uproariously at what someone didn't. It was all little boy–esque in a perverse way. My wife supplied the bored, I–can’t–believe– what–a–bunch–of–silly–children–you–are eye-rolling and exhales of mild disgust. The old competition to see who had the best record collection, who had the coolest record collection, has now transmorphed into whose iPod is the most selective and esoteric. Music goons making a circular motion with their index finger and showing each other their little screens. Weird.
Sour Honey
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