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Damn, this is very different from all my Top 10 of 2011 frontrunners so far but it deserves and gets a place on that list. This one is in for the long haul. Get it now and let your thoughts drift wherever Should takes you. You will dig it.

Peace and love to all of y’all reading this. Some of y’all made out okay (like me and Red and Dan) and some of y’all did not (see Ringgold, et al). Times like this, the man next to you is your brother or nephew, the woman crying in the yard where her house used to be is your mother or cousin. Help who you can when you can however you can. It will make YOU feel good, I promise.

Hola, John Johnson. Como estas?

Later taters.

The other sonic indication that this is all James Leg is the space in the songs, the room in the mix that allows some of the music’s undercurrents room to breathe and expand a bit. The Black Diamond Heavies are as balls to the wall a band as I have ever seen, but that sort of sound is somewhat prohibitive when trying to tap the brakes and slow down a bit. Serious talk – Slayer was the fastest, meanest band in the damn world and realized the only thing they could do was slow down, which resulted in the incredible “Seasons in the Abyss”.

John Myers has said the BDH sound is a sacred thing, not to be tinkered with, which brings us James Leg’s “Solitary Pleasures”. The opening track, “Have to Get It On”, is a wide-open declaration of intent to rock, which it does. Hard. The third track, “Nobody’s Fault”, showcases a slowed-down piano and vocal style that highlights some hard-hitting lyrics.

The covers, Link Wray’s “Fire And Brimstone” and Kill Devil Hills’ “Drinking Too Much”, are exquisite, done up all James Leg-style. “Whatever It Takes” should be all over radio somewhere, everywhere, with smooth vocals and some nice sax and piano arrangements. It would be right at home on a late-Seventies Tom Waits album.

I could go on but what the Hell? If you are a fan of John Myers’ work with The Immortal Lee County Killers, Left Lane Cruiser, and (of course) the Black Diamond Heavies, then you will dig this to no end. It has a familiar sound that expands and diverges into new territory. If you have never heard of any of these bands and/or John Wesley Myers, shame on you. Get off your dead ass and on your live feet and get this now. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

Do you have it yet? Quit screwing around. You should have put this down a minute ago and ordered it through your iPhone or whatever.

James Leg’s “Solitary Pleasure” and other tunes will be on tap this Saturday, April 30, at JJ’s Bohemia. This is a do not miss event, so get there.

John Johnson, you have been on my mind, brother.

See this show. You will be very glad you did.

Later taters.

Apparently, singer/pianist Fyfe Dangerfield’s release last year of his solo effort, “Fly Yellow Moon”, which I highly recommend, cleared the decks for a Guillemots album that travels the distance and takes the ideas and songs all the way to their final form.

Well, thank God for that, because their latest effort, “Walk the River”, is their best album to date, and one of the best I have heard this year.

Never a band for understatement, the songs the Guillemots put on “Walk the River” are unrestrained emotions, stories played out in eight/nine minute songs with lyrics that nail it – the entire song “Sometimes I Remember Wrong” is a perfect example. The title lays a foundation for a dreamy, perfect song of loss and memories and the trickery they cause when combined. “So, if it’s just the way it is/if everything ends up like this/let everybody go abroad … “ presents the only solution to the sadness as escape, literally a change of scenery, while the music and chorus of “Sometimes I remember wrong” remind the listener that, in the end, you cannot escape yourself.

The title track, “Walk The River”, lists the woes that may have influenced the tone of this album, with the lines of “Fell in love with a boy/Grew tired of it/Fell in love with the world/Yearned to fly from it/Fell in love with myself/Broke it off for the breeze/Broke it off for the weather” setting the pace at the start. The repeat of “Did someone mention the weather?” in mid-song summons a texture to the expansive sound palette that lingers, and the line “I never said I was right/Ii just hoped you thought it anyway” is choice.

The multitude of guitar sounds range from sparse to neo-psychedelic and the synths add atmosphere, almost a musical Foley artist for the movie this album conjures in the mind’s eye. Nothing musical is held back, but none of the songs ever feel crowded with sound. The aural dreaminess on “Walk the River” is both welcome and enjoyable, with so many bands attempting to walk this path and flailing about, lost in their own sonic overloads. “The Basket” screams single, which is exactly why it feels out of place on what is otherwise an album, meant to be listened to as a whole. It is a good song, but Guillemots should have saved this for a single only release.

“I Don’t Feel Amazing” is almost Jayhawks-worthy in its melancholy. “Just take my hand and laugh like you are crazy/Oh, take my hand and tell me life is fair/Oh, take my hand and tell me I’m amazing, darling/’Cause I don’t feel amazing now, amazing now” … if that doesn’t hit you square in the gut, then I don’t know what to do for you. It takes my breath away …

Good Lord. Go get this now. Albums you can lose yourself in are rare and good ones are rarer still. This is Top 10 of 2011 all the way. Sending the good vibes out to ya, Johnny. Love ya, man.

Y’all stay out trouble.

Later taters.

Ever since Brett Dennen’s single, “Sydney”, landed in my ear a few months back, I have been seriously waiting on the album to drop. Well, the wait is over. “Loverboy” is out now and it is well worth the wait.

Brett Dennen has a back catalog of albums that challenged his listeners to think about some of the problems facing our world and what their responses to those challenges would be. He has had songs placed all over TV – “Grey’s Anatomy”, “Scrubs”, etc. His fan base seems to keep growing … what could be wrong?

Well, outside of some asshole critics that hate his voice and, therefore, miss the forest for the trees, there is not much. “Loverboy” is an attempt by Dennen to shed a bit of that heavily introspective image and to record an album about “letting go and having fun”, to quote the brief liner notes.

The album starts with a powerful trio of tunes to set the pace. “Surprise, Surprise” is a sparkling sound collage of a mind wandering, thoughts tumbling one over the other. It sounds jumbled, I know, but it works very well. The tropical-sounding “Dancing at a Funeral” turns a sad occasion on its head, turning a sad day into a wonderful evening.

“Loverboy” hits on all cylinders with the middle section of the album. “Comeback Kid (That’s My Dog)” is a hand-clapping sing-along just waiting for some rolled-down window weather to be truly enjoyed. “Frozen in Slow Motion” settles into a mellow vibe, sweetened with some strings and a nice piano break. This song begs for a strong, frozen alcoholic beverage and a nice sea breeze.

The following track, “Sydney”, has to be one of the most infectious grooves of the year to date. It shows what Dennen may be capable of should he ever turn his talents toward putting out an album calculated to break him big on the pop charts, but I feel he is too comfortable in his own skin to ever contemplate such. Well, good for him, because what he is putting out now is what the music world needs badly, an artist who pays no attention to the haters and does what he does, which is write some fantastic pop songs that forge a connection with his audience. Suck that, Christina Aguilera.

The album relaxes and swings through the latter tracks. “Make You Fall in Love with Me”, “Only Rain”, and “Must Be Losing My Mind” settle perfectly into some late afternoon stoner vibe and are damned hard to beat. On the other hand, “Can’t Stop Thinking”, “Queen of the Westside”, and “Little Cosmic Girl” skip from ska to funk to old Paul Simon-sounding vibes. Moreover, the final tune, “Walk Away, Watch Me Burn”, recorded live in studio on one microphone, is simply fantastic. Damn …

The whole album is this mix of “TB Sheets”-era Van Morrison blue-eyed souls with hints of Boz Scaggs’ “Silk Degrees” and Michael McDonald-fronted Doobie Brothers. The grooves here swing very deftly from one song to the next. The aural textures lean toward a very poppy and smooth blend that works perfectly with Dennen’s vocals, which are direct and completely genuine. His connection to his work is so effortlessly real that there is never a false note struck on “Loverboy”.

There will (and already are) capricious little bitchy critics taking their potshots at this album – it is fluff; his voice is annoying; etc. They sound like a chorus of people with a case of the red ass who need something to bitch about.

Well, when I started this column, I said I would only dismember the albums that desperately needed it and that I would try to highlight the albums that kicked ass, that there were so many terrible releases that someone needed to try to find the wheat in all that chaff. Brett Dennen’s “Loverboy” is one hundred percent whole wheat and it kicks much ass. This will not be an everyday album, because my chi is not as aligned as Brett Dennen’s is, but it will be in very heavy rotation here at the Fortress. It is one of the best I have heard this year and one of the few that I have grinned my ass off listening to.

Get it now.

Red and Dan, y’all are my everything.

John Johnson, how are ya, son? Shoot me a line if ya got a minute.

Later taters.

Oh yeah, “The Answer Was You” blends right into “Unkind”, which unapologetically lifts a Foghat riff and puts it to better use. That kind of genius pisses the American music-buying public and makes my freaking day.

There was a time when, much like bands such as Oasis, the Black Crowes, and Black Flag, Sloan was on my new release watch list. I started waiting for the next album expectantly the second I had become saturated with their current one. Somehow, along the way, Sloan fell off that list, probably due to my addled nature. In a perfectly fitting bit of synchronicity, “Double Cross” places Sloan back on that pedestal, much as Oasis and the Black Crowes fought their way back in from the wilderness. There is little as satisfying as a band that floored you as few others ever had when you first heard them remembering that they are a great band. “Oh yeah, we DO make kickass music, don’t we?” You can almost see the lights going on over their heads …

There are no noticeable gaps between the songs on “Double Cross”, so perhaps it is best to recommend it as a whole. To recommend listening to something as an album, a fully realized work with a beginning and middle and an end, is almost heretical these days. So get the pyre lit because this is an album, a damned fine one, and deserves to be listened to as such. To do anything less is to perform a disservice to you, much less the music on “Double Cross”. Get it now. Sloan shows they have forgotten and remembered more about making great albums than most artists have ever even dreamt of. Score one for the smart kids.

Hang tough, JJ.

Love you, Red and Dan. Y’all are the best.

Later taters.

Hang on a minute. I need to hear “Fly on the Windscreen” …

Okay, all better. Anyway, those are all great albums. I own and still listen to each of them, as should each of you. However, there was an album released that month that is better and yet is virtually unknown to the average listener, even overlooked by fans of the artist.

Joe Jackson released “Big World” in March of ’86 to little acclaim and much head scratching. He had recorded three sides of material at shows on January 22-25 at the Roundabout Theatre in New York City, which made no conventional sense in the era of LPs. The material was all new and released as it was recorded, when the standard approach was to use live albums to show off an artist’s biggest hits, repackaged with overdubs and appreciative audiences of true believers. Strangest thing out of all this was that, except for the music, “Big World” was quiet. Joe Jackson had asked the audience to remain as quiet as possible and, though almost unthinkable in this day and age, they played along. All these examples of Joe Jackson’s very strong contrarian streak led to the recording of one of the finest albums of his career.

He stepped away from the steeped-in-jazz sound of “Body and Soul” and recorded “Big World” with a pared-down lineup of guitar, bass, drums, and keys. If the sound had lightened, the theme had not. The album’s title was a clue to the themes here: relationships, global differences, politics of the time, etc. all seen through a large lens. It was almost a savage repost to Disney’s “It’s A Small World (After All)”, pointing out that the common problems shared by all only served to make the distances between people seem even greater.

The album divides into three sides with the first and third sides being more accessible and driven and the second being more experimental and dry. Not everything is the alpha and the omega here – I personally cannot handle “Fifty Dollar Love Affair”, a bad love song from a person who has written some of the best love songs ever. Outside of that clunker, however, all the songs are good-to-great with “(It’s A) Big World”, “Right and Wrong”, and “Tonight and Forever” being among the some of the best songs Joe Jackson has ever written. “Big World” is a quiet live album of new music recorded directly from microphones on the instruments and mixed live with no later overdubbing or remixing that, on LP in 1986, had a blank fourth side with the legend “there is no music on this side” printed on the label. It should not work. It is marvelous. Get it now. It is worth every penny. It is one of my favorite albums by one of my favorite artists.

80 degrees in March? Good Lord …

Y’all be good.

Hey John Johnson, thank you a lot. You know why.

Later taters.

Oasis has been gone for almost two years now, a fact that makes many people that want to have Tom Petty’s kid very happy. Tom Petty never did (and never will do) it for me, which makes me anathema to those that worship at the altar of “Refugee” and the like, and that is fine by me – the day I crave to listen to Tom Petty is the day I need to schedule a brain scan because something is very wrong with me.

However, unlike most of the Tom Petty-ites, I have been craving some music from the hermanos Gallagher. With Noel puttering about doing a lot of nothing, that leaves the heavy lifting up to Liam and his new outfit, Beady Eye. Their first release, “Different Gear, Still Speeding”, has just hit the shelves. I believe most observers were ready for Liam to fall on his face, with Noel quietly chuckling in the background.

Most observers were damned wrong. Noel needs to find a hobby, because his little brother does not need him anymore. I still am a fan of the last Oasis album, “Dig Out Your Soul”, but Beady Eye’s debut shows what that album could have been, if only the sibling squabbling had not poisoned the process.

“Different Gear, Still Speeding” is a lot of fun. Beady Eye is essentially the latter-day Oasis lineup minus Noel, and they sound almost freed by his departure. There is none of Noel’s soaring guitar pyrotechnic work here, but that leaves room for Liam, Gem Archer, Chris Sharrock, and Andy Bell to stretch out. The band hits its stride on the John Lennon-influenced “The Roller”, the nicely trippy “Wind Up Dream”, and the archly wry “World Outside My Room”, a tune that has Ray Davies’ influence all over it.

“Different Gear, Still Speeding” is not without its blemishes. “Kill For A Dream” is a wet blanket dropped smack in the middle of the album and the opening track, “Four Letter Word”, has the feel of a fill-in-the-blanks rock song. Nonetheless, this is a good album, especially for a debut. It highlights a new band confident enough to experiment musically. It must have been tempting, and would have been easy, to modify the Oasis sound just enough to escape charges of self-plagiarizing, all the while cashing in on the familiar sound. Beady Eye avoided that temptation and released an enjoyably solid debut. “Different Gear, Still Speeding” has me waiting for the follow-up; not many debuts do that. Give it a listen.

Another new album that hit lately was Elbow’s “Build A Rocket, Boys!” Elbow is the antithesis of the flash-in-the-pan bands that have become so common lately, with their by-now standard two year “big splash/sudden success/burnout” lifespan. With a slightly heavyset 37-year old man fronting the band, Elbow does not fit what a successful band should look like in 2011. By building a loyal fan base with songs that are nothing less than brilliant, lined with observations and memories of life lived small but writ large, Elbow is too literate, too mature to succeed nowadays.

Any of that might be true if Elbow gave a damn about trends in music, but they do not, which is precisely why they, and their new album, are so magnificent.

“Build A Rocket, Boys!” is full of songs with lyrics about dentures and the “simian stroll(s)” of teenaged boys. Guy Garvey sings of wanting his bones laid “on cobblestones … in neat little rows”. The sense of place is surgically precise, the British equivalent of what the Drive By Truckers do for their stomping grounds here in the South. There are no vapid horseshit lyrics here; every word is placed with purpose exactly where needed.

The same can be said for the music. There are no clichéd song structures or instrumentations. Acoustic guitars, pianos, and Garvey’s inimitable bruised tenor interweave with electric guitars and some great percussion to create an aural soundscape that is unique and fascinating. You will be drawn in from the jump. “Build A Rocket, Boys!” shows how adults can make incredible rock and roll with a sound that is mature, yes, but never old.

This is one of the best albums of the year so far, and it will take something damned fine to top it. Get it now.

Get better, John Johnson. The world is better with you here.

Love you, Red and Dan.

Later taters.

We lost power around 2:20 PM. That is nothing new here. We seem to be on a bitchier grid or whatever than the neighboring properties, as we will be sitting in the dark and every damned light in Red Bank is lit up like the Fourth of July. This happens roughly whenever a gnat breaks wind, so I did not think much of the outage. I mean, Hell people, the storm here was over in ten minutes tops.

I took Pete out to take a leak and that is when I noticed the rather large tree now residing on the house to our immediate left. Even my silly ass now realized that something was amiss, but I had no idea what had happened.

Now here is where I piss off the American Red Cross and the Department of Homeland Security. Gather in tight and listen up – if you are on an extremely tight budget and buy all that crap you are supposed to have for Armageddon, you and yours will be eating ramen noodles exclusively for the next two years. There is a LOT of junk on the “must have” lists of those two entities and frankly, if something happens that requires the use of all of the garbage, chances are your ass is history anyway. That is the truth, kind of like Tyler Durden explaining why you would be sucking down pure oxygen all the way down in case of some airborne toss of snake eyes in “Fight Club”.

Anyway, after placing a few phone calls and gathering some information, Red and I had a better appreciation of the bigger picture and started to get set up for a non-electric night. Candles were brought out, a lighter was found, the blinds were opened – you get the idea. Davina came by and brought BK and more candles. Thanks again – you kick ass. Dan held up very well. When night fell, that was the darkest it had ever been here since he came home from the hospital. He was a very brave little boy, having a lot of fun for the most part.

The one thing that we did not have was music. Dude, I was dying. I usually have something playing here all the time, whether on the computer, Sirius XM (The Spectrum is a daily staple), or CDs on the stereo. I was drowning in the silence, though I did not want to say anything as Red and Dan were being troopers about it all. Then Red set up her iPod Touch and turned it on.

I did not know that it contains an external speaker. Suddenly, the day/night got a whole lot better. Music, our music, played through a little speaker was just what the doctor ordered. It is funny – the songs were so indicative of our melding after all these years together. Dave Matthews Band “You and Me” faded into Corrine Bailey Rae’s “Put Your Records On”. Then came Franz Ferdinand’s “This Fire”, Guster’s “Satellite” Counting Crows’ “Rain King” … it was one tune after another that is OUR music, a category that didn’t exist when we met. Every song, whether Bob Schneider’s “40 Dogs” or Adele’s “Right As Rain”, brought to my mind what was going on in our lives when it became one of our tunes, part of the soundtrack of our lives.

It was a wonderful thing on a night when it was easy to worry about friends and family, to stress about all the things that I could do nothing about. Instead, there I was with Red and Dan, the two best things that ever happened to this jarhead, listening to songs that told our story.

If your music does not do that for you, I am sorry, and if you try to tell me that music does not hit anyone like that, I will tell you to kiss my ass. That very feeling, that vibe that is a wave that runs up your spine and over your scalp, is why I was hooked from the first time I heard a song that rocked. It is why I love music as I do.

This week’s column really has no point except to say that, maybe instead of plastic sheeting and D batteries that have died unused in the kitchen drawers, it is better to have your family, your friends, and a fully charged iPod when something like Monday night goes down. A night without power and light becomes a night remembering what matters and why. Memories light the night like no flashlight or candle ever could.

Red and Dan, I love y’all.

You too, John Johnson.

Just a quick note to let y’all know to listen to others and me on “FRED the Show”, 102.3 FM, Wednesday, March 9, talking music. Give it a listen.

Later taters.

John Johnson, you are loved by so many, here and elsewhere. Hang tough, fight hard, and lean on your friends when you need a blow, hoss. We are all here for you.

Y’all hug the Hell out of your friends the next time you see ‘em, whether they need it or not. It will make YOUR day.

Later taters.

Primal Scream were a young band when they made “Screamadelica”, but this week's pick, These Ghosts, have them beat. The Norwich three-piece all look like they are about fifteen, which means they should not be making music as moody, atmospheric, and entrancing as the music found on their debut album, “You Are Not Lost, You Are Here”. They should sound like Hanson or Silverchair. Instead, they sound like a slightly less demented Radiohead with elements of Doves, The Foals, and my favorite underappreciated band, the Corrections blended in precisely.

The bordering-on-forever guitarscape of the lead single, “Luna”, had some ready for a Muse meets Smashing Pumpkins sound. Fortunately, These Ghosts avoided that trap and recorded an album that should be receiving a Hell of a lot more attention than it is.

“Rational Thinking” has Doves written all over it, what with the mid-tempo pace and airy vocals supported by sparse drumming and some very effect-laden guitar work. It never slips away from the band, though; the song is of These Ghosts the whole way. Where Doves would have taken the song into sonic overdrive near the end, These Ghosts choose to let the same open, airy arrangement that carries the song finish it as well. It disappears at the end, leaving a ghost image in the listener's mind.

I am skipping around on the tracks because … well, I had my media player set on random and repeat and forgot to change it when I started this week's strangeness. The album benefits from this approach. The opening track, “What Seems Like Forever”, grafts a David Gray synthesizer track onto a Keane melody structure and then adds PIL-era John Lydon phrasing to create a very danceable and very bleak song that just begs for a Maddslinky remix.

“Cocoon” sounds like Shawn Mullins and Laurie Anderson took some good acid and recorded a song. It is fantastic.

“This Is” is as close to Radiohead as These Ghosts get, using Calum Duncan's vocals as the touchstone for the entire song, much as Thom Yorke's vocals on “Paranoid Android” are the only thing holding the song together. “This Is” never becomes as explosive as “Paranoid Android”, but that seems to be the way These Ghosts operate - drive a song to the edge and then zig when everyone else's instinct would be to zag. It makes for intensely rewarding listening.

Moody, entrancing, stadium-ready rock is not supposed to just appear in the guise of a teen-aged three-piece that cannot grow a proper beard. Yet, that is exactly what has happened with the arrival of These Ghosts on the music scene. This album should not be an immediate attention grabber nor should it be a week-in-the-CD player type album, but it is both, as These Ghosts know no better in their precociousness. This lot is going to be very, very good. Hell, they are already to that point. These Ghosts, as they have illustrated so well on “You Are Not Lost, You Are Here”, are going to be something special.

Get it yesterday.

Man, this weather is bitchier than I am and that is saying something.

Keep on keeping on, Johnny J.

Later taters.

I know the Decemberists’ main man Colin Meloy is from Helena, Montana originally … but the Decemberists’ new single, “Down By The River”, is so damn Southern Gothic that I think we have to adopt him as one of our own. Gillian Welch and Peter Buck contribute on the tune, a song where Meloy finally lets go of the fey concept shite and just writes a masterpiece. The feelings of resignation, failure, and disappointment are powerful and, for once, universal. This song could be about anyone, anywhere and that is quite the accomplishment. There will be more on this album later, but get it now. Do not hesitate.

I wanted to talk about the new club opening at the Choo-Choo, discuss why the “scene” isn’t and never was, and how hard a kick in the ass Chattanooga’s music lovers need to get the shit in one sock, but …

I made the wonderful mistake of listening to Bobby Charles’ ’72 self-titled masterpiece and lost all interest in doing anything but hepping y’all to one mighty fine lost album.

Bobby Charles wrote the songs “Walking to New Orleans”, “See You Later Alligator”, and “(I Don’t Know Why I Love You) But I Do”, three seminal songs from the early days of rock and roll. In the days before Google, everyone went by the sound of his music and assumed he was black. When he toured with other Chess Records artists, he was not well received at some stops, with the occasional bullet fired at the tour bus to punctuate the integration not yet attempted, much less achieved.

That soured Bobby Charles on touring. He preferred to stay out of sight, working on tunes in the studio or helping others record his songs. Bobby Charles played no instruments nor could he read music. The songs arrived, complete, in his head and he would sing them into the nearest answering machine he could find before they could get away.

In the Seventies, he wrote songs such as “The Jealous Kind”, which was covered by Joe Cocker, Delbert McClinton, and damn near everyone else on the planet. The royalties coming in helped him survive a personal life marred by run-ins with the law, cancer, divorce, and – everyone’s favorite Seventies fuck-up – cocaine.

I bring all this up because Bobby Charles was much more comfortable behind the scenes. He played at the Band’s Last Waltz, but he did not make the movie or much of the soundtrack, so he just slipped off the radar for a decade or so. It didn’t bother him; that was the way he was.

That is why “Bobby Charles” is such a find, a document of an enormous talent who was finally at peace with himself long enough to record a classic album. This album has a Randy Newman vibe but with a wry Louisiana twist. There are some Leon Russell-like sounds here as well, which is a strange way to describe this album’s sound, seeing as how Bobby Charles pre-dated both of them by at least a decade or more.

The best of the best here are the opening track, “Street People”, that would have been perfectly at home on The Band’s “Northern Lights – Southern Cross” with either Levon Helm or Richard Manuel on vocals. “Small Town Talk” is a paean to the gossip common to little towns everywhere and a plea by the singer to ignore it and give him a chance. It swings in such an easy, graceful manner that is unheard of today.

“Bobby Charles” is funky, track after track. It is not the in-your-face funk of Parliament or the groovy funk of Curtis Mayfield. An indigenous-to-Louisiana, probably slightly stoned groovy funk that is never overpowering, yet highlights some fantastic keyboard, slide guitar, and bass work. It pushes one tune, and then pulls on another.

This is only available as an import but is worth every penny. Get it and listen to what a good part of Seventies radio should have sounded like and, in a perfect world, would have sounded like.

Next week we will turn lead into gold or some such nonsense.

John Johnson, all the strength, love, and peace I can send ya, brother.

Later taters.

I really do not know why this is happening. Midlife crisis is my favorite Faith No More tune, not something that I am going through. I made it through a volcanic explosion; I am in no way intimidated by ageing.

Being a ’68 kid meant growing up on the edge of practically everything. Victoria Williams nailed it in her song, “Summer of Drugs”:

“We were too young to be hippie/Missed out on the love
Learned from the teens of the late-70s/ In the summer of the drugs.”

I am not going into depth here but I remember teething gel with Valium. There was no philosophy about elevating your consciousness and freeing your mind. It was much more a chemical retreat from the mega-bummer that the early Seventies brought – the end of the Vietnam debacle, Watergate, Kent State. Faced with such uplifting experiences, it is no wonder that so many people retreated into a Quualude/Seconal/Valium haze, letting the ugliness slide on by to land on someone else.

Someone else happened to be my generation. I remember watching the Watergate hearing on television, Sam Ervin’s homespun honesty and H.R. Haldeman’s thousand-yard stare. I was told, and knew in the way five-year olds just know, that this event was important, that one day I would tell my children about it. Well, how about that shit? Here I am, a new dad staring 43 in the face, and I will tell Dan about Watergate when he is old enough to be interested. It is interesting how many things our parents predict about our futures that come true …

The helicopters leaving Saigon, the Vietnamese fighting like Hell to climb the fence and catch one of those choppers before the NVA showed up. Even kids know that is totally messed up.

Is it any wonder that, in the face of all the crap happening, that my generation retreated into headphones, carried away by punk, new wave, British heavy metal, etc.? There had to be some relief, some buffer between us and all that we could not influence, much less control.

This screed came to mind when I heard When In Rome’s “The Promise” today. The song is a beautiful synth-pop masterpiece, and it immediately carried me back to the Eighties when it was all different, the future wide open and strangely desolate. REM’s “Driver 8” defines that time, for me. I have no solid justification for that; it just is what it is.

I have met people that do not get music. When you ask them what is playing on their stereo, they have no idea. I have no idea how those people get through times like the one running all over me, because I have summoned every tune that has ever grabbed me by the short and curlies to help me stomp this malaise into the ground. As I have hammered this jumbled garbage into something resembling a column, my soundtrack has included Ace Frehley’s cover of “Do Ya”, Mojo Nixon’s “Take Me to Your Leader”, Jason Isbell, New Order, Merle Haggard, and the Amazing Rhythm Aces. I have an army of tunes and memories aligned to fight with me, to come out of the other side of this intact and improved. If you do not “get” music, I do not have any idea how you would handle a funk like this nor do I understand why you would be reading this. Boredom, I suppose.

Forty-three arrives Saturday, no matter how I feel about it. It might have been touch and go but I think I will lay Thin Lizzy’s “Cowboy Song” on it and go get a cheeseburger.

Music will carry you through anything. Jam out and conquer. I don’t know what that is in Latin but I want it on a crest.

John Johnson, stay strong and feel the love, brother.

Later taters.

Well, when in doubt, I always look across the pond to the U.K., where I find more quality music these days than just about anywhere else. I have stumbled across an album worth keeping in the Mutineers' “Friends, Lovers, Rivals”, which gets points for the title alone.

The Mutineers came together in early 2009, when vocalist Nicholas James Mallins (formerly of the Cardinals) and bassist Iwan Gronow (ex-Johnny Marr and the Healers) joined up with guitarist Michael Reed and former Haven drummer Jack Mitchell. Over the following months, they created songs that beg to blast from a stadium -size sound rig, anthems of serious scale. I love bands that have the sheer balls to aim that high; I love them even more when they nail it, as the Mutineers have.

The nasal, visceral raw power of Mallins' vocals recalls Suede's Brett Anderson, with a dash of “Animal Nitrate” here and a dash of “Metal Mickey” there. The Suede analogy works even further, as Reed's guitar work is as powerfully melodic and intricate as Bernard Butler's work. Mallins and Reed understand, as did Mssrs. Anderson and Butler did, how to compliment and elevate one another so that the songs just soar. Some use the word anthem derisively, but not me. “Friends, Lovers, Rivals” is full of anthems that, in turn, are loaded with biting wit and hooks for days.

As a band, you have my undivided attention when you pull off a couplet like “It's not my infidelity/it's just you never suited me”. Those are lyrics worthy of one of my favorite bands ever, the Manic Street Preachers. If you follow that later on the album with a line such as “Stone cold reflections of unruly minds”, consider me sold. At that point, I have crossed over from a band crush to a full-blown case of “You have to hear this”. Albums this loaded have been known to make me play them at complete strangers, convinced that not to do so would be to endanger their very souls.

The airy, fluttering keyboards bring to mind the Cure from the late Eighties - as well as Echo and the Bunnymen, the Lotus Eaters, etc. - but the razor lyrics are all Suede, Pulp, MSP, and Blur. The edginess bleeds over into everything, adding a tinge of Neil Young's ability to sound threatening and fragile at once.

The beauty of these influences is, that to a person who has never heard of one of the bands I have mentioned, this is still a great album. The Mutineers do Manchester's musical history proud with “Friends, Lovers, Rivals”, an album that shows how good accessible rock music can be.

This knockout of a debut is a 2010 leftover, but it is a 2011 discovery to me, so allow me to hip y'all to it. Get this now, especially if you are a Britpop and/or Suede fan. There is plenty to like here. I cannot wait to hear the next one. The Mutineers are the real thing.

Stay warm, dry, and safe. Almost a year ago on the day we gained a son, I lay unconscious in the parking lot from a closed-head injury caused by black ice I never saw. My mother recently badly broke her arm from the same thing. DO NOT BE NEXT. Stay safe and be well.

All our prayers and good vibes and thoughts go out to John Johnson. Keep hooking and jabbing, Johnny. Fight like Hell.

Be good to each other. We all need to do more of that.

Later taters.

I mentioned Bob Schneider’s “Lovely Creatures” in passing in 2010 and meant to go back and review it, good intentions paving the road to Hell, I guess. It knocked my socks off, a mixture of humorous and serious songs that included my love song of the year, “40 Dogs (Like Romeo and Juliet)”.

Bob Schneider is a legend in the Austin, Texas music scene, having collected 24 Austin Music Awards. Having fronted three bands that are still local legends – Joe Rockhead, The Scabs, and Ugly Americans – Bob Schneider could rest on his laurels and play the regional circuit until the end of time. Instead, he continues to crank out albums for major labels (Universal, Vanguard) while also putting out albums on his Shockorama label. Song placement on various soundtracks has helped to raise his profile. Then, he became romantically involved with Sandra Bullock, which ended … and then along came “Lovely Creatures”, with its downbeat songs (“The Bringdown”) playing off the whimsical songs (“Realness of Space”) and highlighting the romantic ones (the aforementioned “40 Dogs”). Bob denies any autobiographical bleed-over into his lyrics, but I will kiss your ass if the break-up with Sandra isn’t all over this album.

Not that such an happening is a bad thing; the rollercoaster that everyone rides when something wonderful happens becomes truly interesting when it jumps the tracks and you are left to clutch the retaining bar and scream your head off all the way down. It is no fun, but everyone has been/is/will be at that point in his or her lives and the key is how you deal. Coping is for Dr. Phil; romantic Chernobyls call for dealing.

On “Lovely Creatures”, Bob Schneider deals. The songs are all smart as a whip, whether they drift through the ennui of being alone or ride the floating bliss of that time, the time when it all clicks and there are not words to describe that feeling. Well, there are not words for people such as you, Dear Readers, and me but Bob Schneider is not one of us. He is one of those rare beings that comes around every so often with songs that describe every moment so exactly, so precisely, that it is almost painful, akin to looking straight into the sun. You get the feeling that he has more finished songs lying around his house right now than he will ever live long enough to record.

Not everyone will dig Bob Schneider. There’s no “mad at my middle class upbringing/pissed at Mom and Dad” vibe that inhabits so much dreck that passes for rock nowadays, so that crowd will be shit out of luck, which would probably make Bob’s day, truth be told.

Dear Readers, you and I are NOT “everyone” so, for us, this album kicks much ass. My mind must be more addled than I realized for me to have forgotten this one for 2010’s Best of list. Oh well, what can you do?

Get this. Now. This is an album by a character that speaks to characters everywhere. If you have lived your life instead of it living you, then this album is all you. I cannot recommend it highly enough.

I am putting this back on the stereo. Y’all stay out of trouble. If you got past New Year’s alright, you should be okay for a bit.

Later taters.

Okay people, the time is upon us again when I tell you my best music of the past year and y'all tell me just how far up my ass my head is. We all know how this goes, so let us get to it.

Oh yeah, wait a minute. I figured what with inflation being what it is, this year's best of is a Top 12. Those of you that cannot handle change should be kind enough to step outside before your heads explode, so that no one has to club soda grey matter out of the shag carpet. Everyone else, strap in tight.

1. The Legendary Shack Shakers - "agri-dustrial" The band finally harnesses their live show energy in the studio. The results are incendiary, a musical party at ground zero.

2. The Gaslight Anthem - "American Slang"  Instead of trying to reinvent the wheel or commit commercial suicide, the Gaslight Anthem wear their influences proudly on their sleeves and produce the year's most perfect rock album, throwing down the gauntlet for all comers.

3. The National - "High Violet" Cincinnati’s loss continues to be the world's gain. "High Violet" is rife with songs of sadness, regret, and powerlessness ... and yet somehow the songs gain a lift from those very elements. "High Violet" is memorable, hummable, and miserable.

4. Frightened Rabbit - "The Winter of Mixed Drinks" Here is another album where the emotional landscape appears desolate at first glance, but for those who persevere, the rewards are tremendous. "Swim Until You Can't See Land", the album's second song, is my single of the year ... for now. 2010 is not over yet.

5. Drive-By Truckers - "The Big To-Do" DBT turns out another masterpiece. What else is new? No, seriously. The mood here is grim and the songs' protagonists are fucked, but DBT manages to find the divine in the details, with the music complimenting and lifting the lyrics to higher ground. Shonna Tucker continues to progress as a songwriter and the Hood/Cooley dichotomy just keeps on rolling.

6. Cory Chisel and the Wandering Sons- "Death Won't Send A Letter" I cannot explain why this one will not go away, but it will not. "Born Again" is an incredible single and the album just rocks. This is rocking Americana at it's finest.

7. Paul Weller - "Wake Up The Nation"  With the fire of a man half his age, Paul Weller declares war on the raw deal the new millennium is unleashing on his beloved Britain and especially Britain's working classes. This is red-hot and too smart for half of America.

8. John Mellencamp - "No Better Than This"  Recorded in mono and produced by T-Bone Burnett, John Mellencamp has finally pulled off the trick he has been working towards lo these past ten years or so - he has made an album that sounds as good and is as good as most of the ones he grew up listening to. Bravo.

9. I Like Trains - "He Who Saw The Deep" Disturbing and dark, I Like Trains' "He Who Saw The Deep" is a concept album (roughly) about the person who saw the caps melt and the oceans rise to claim their due. It is not for damp and rainy days but is better listened to on bright and sunny ones. Combining bad weather with this album could be disastrous.

10. Mumford and Sons - "Sigh No More" I tried and tried to resist, but it's just too damned good. It has hooks, choruses galore, and banjo with an attitude. Add in instant sing-along capability and this is a no-brainer.

11. Manic Street Preachers - "Postcards From A Young Man" Wales' finest continue to defy all naysayers with another stone classic of an album, all barbed couplets and rocking guitar licks. If you still have not listened to this band, you are skating on the thin ice of beyond hope.

12. Band of Horses - "Infinite Arms" I could rattle off all the highlights of this one. Instead, go put "Laredo" on your stereo on repeat for ten minutes or so. That should be all the convincing you need ... and the rest of the album is just as good.

There it is, the Top 12 of 2010. Please forward all complaints, hate mail, and cold hard cash to the e-mail in this column's header. If you have what I consider a legitimate bitch, you might see it here.

By the way, the new Danzig joint, "Deth Red Sabaoth", is the best "get tore up and howl at the moon" album I have heard this year. It ain't artsy or popular, but it kicks ass.

Both Tom Waits and Dr. John are to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. What the Hell happened? Where is the suck factor? Is this a joke like the Joaquin Phoenix/Casey Alleck flick? What gives?

More, better next week ... or maybe not - your guess is as good as mine is.

Later taters.

The sound of a band or artist is more than merely the instrumentation; otherwise, Black Sabbath would sound like the Kings of Leon. Oftentimes, acts employ specific producers and/or engineers for their unique talents. For years, Bob Rock could not produce anything that would not get airplay. Occasionally a band will take their sound a different direction to experiment, Rush’s (unfairly) much-maligned “Signals” being a good example thereof. Whether it is the quest for a unique sound or for the refreshing of the brand name of an established act, the sound of an album can make or break the deal, be it with reviewer or purchaser.

Destroyer is Daniel Bejar’s band from back before he joined the New Pornographers and he shows he understands the initial make-or-break sound thing better than most. Destroyer’s “Kaputt” makes a definite aural statement that draws upon Seventies album rock, Eighties synth rock, and, if I had to guess, enough weed to stone Willie Nelson to craft a sound that rewards further listening. This album has the wonderful contrast of a very expansive and relaxed musical palette up against the lyrics that vacillate between self-reference and wordplay. That is a neat trick if you can pull it off without irritating the listener, and Destroyer does it quite well. There are certain lines on the album that will have listeners blowing coffee/tea/whatever all over the place the first time they hear them. The humor running rampant on the album is infectious and plays into the relaxed atmosphere that permeates the entire record. Daniel Bejar may not have been high while recording this album, but if he was not, he missed a great opportunity.

The music is a great mix of synths and horns playing off the solid bass and guitar work. The horns accent a very laidback, Haircut One Hundred meets Roxy Music vibe that invites repeated listening. “Kaputt” has a warm, stoner-roaming-the-beach ramble to it that is the perfect counterpoint to the cold, grey days of late.

I would say get this now, but y’all will have to wait for this one. Merge Records will drop this one on January 25, 2011, so y’all will have to be patient until then. It will be a good opportunity to use any gift certificates from Christmas, if there are any left by then. Get it then and start the new year off with a bong, I mean, bang.

Here is a quick Happy/Merry (insert your holiday here) to everyone that bothers to read this. Hope you get some good music for the holiday. If you do not, well, that is what return receipts are for.

Here is a merry Christmas to all my family and a get well soon to my mom, because having a broken arm is no fun.

Merry Christmas, Dave Weinthal. Thanks for letting me have fun.

Merry Christmas, John Johnson. Here is hoping Santa brings you some getting better.

Merry Christmas, Red. I love you. I especially want to wish a happy first Christmas to our son, Dan. The world is a better place since you got here, little boy.

Next week I will rattle off the year’s best, so tune in for the carnage.

Later taters.

I stumbled upon “Happiness” by Hurts by chance. I saw an ad in Uncut and knew just from the look of the ad that I had to hear this. It was akin to seeing some of the visual images from Heaven 17 and mid-career Depeche Mode - the black-and-white photography and throwback font for the ad copy – that are British visual shorthand for that type of exquisitely produced synth-driven, danceable pop, which “Happiness” delivers in spades.

I have not had this much fun listening to an album that half of my friends would hate in quite a while. This is not a complex exercise in navel-gazing; this is brilliant, soaring pop music that is completely out of step with most of pop music’s race to out-eclectic each other this year. Hurts are not the typical guitar or keyboard/drum musical duo that seems the standard configuration since the White Stripes broke big. They are structured more along the lines of Yaz(oo) and Erasure, with the soaring vocals of Theo Hutchcraft and the electronics/guitar work of Adam Anderson playing off one another wonderfully. If you do not know whom Yaz(oo) or Erasure is, this is not for you.

If you do know, this is wonderful. The lyrics are tales of love lost and found, statements of pain and pleasure that kick more ass than most of the melancholy, sad sack shit I have heard as of late. In addition, the production … oh Lord, the production is beautiful. Every song is a soaring, crystal-clear epic. There are no small songs here, only huge ones. It is reminiscent of Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Welcome to the Pleasure Dome” in that way, not the sound but the statement of the sound. Everything is big; every sound is a glissando from an angel; and every emotion is experienced ever more fully than the last. I could name off some songs as example, but they are all like this. If I had to pick, I might say “Stay” is the best on here, but I would probably pick a different one tomorrow …

Hurts’ “Happiness” will not make many Best of 2010 lists, if I had to guess. Critics are usually too far removed from the joy of pop music to ever enjoy it, much less give it any credit. The inability to enjoy some three-and-a-half minute throwaway masterpiece has done more to cripple music writing the past twenty years than anything, evidence of the herd mentality as to what is fit to deem good publicly. If an album is not deep or difficult, it need not bother showing up.

Well, “Happiness” is not deep nor is it difficult. Any of the tracks on this album would fit perfectly in the pop Nirvana that is a soundtrack of a John Hughes film. It would be playing during the end of “Pretty in Pink”, if the band had existed then. You are supposed to outgrow music like this, much as you are supposed to outgrow John Hughes movies. If you have, fine. As for me, I watch “Pretty In Pink” or “The Breakfast Club” every chance I get.

Next week will be another trip into the ether, so stay tuned for more weirdness – same Bat-time, same Bat-channel, and the week after that will bring my Best of 2010 list, with plenty to love/hate/bitch about for all.

Last, but not least by any means, get your ass to the benefit show for John Johnson (Feast of Pigs, Chattanooga punk rock old school, great guy, good friend) at JJ’s Bohemia this Friday the 17th. John is seriously sick with no insurance as the bills continue to mount. There is a lot of talking the talk about goodwill towards your fellow human this time of year. Friday is time to walk the walk. More bands than I can list playing on a Friday night to help out one of our own. That is about as good as it gets.

Later taters.

All bullshit aside, remember that if y’all hear anything that sets your hair on fire, drop an e-mail to the address in the header. Some of my favorite bands of the last few years have come to my attention because y’all have been fired up enough about some act to take the time and spread the word. Cheers.

Anyway, this week’s “Where the Hell has this been?” act and album is Cats on Fire’s “Dealing in Antiques”. They hail from Finland (so cut me some slack, huh?) and come off as if they were a semi-lost treasure of the indie Eighties in the U.K. They sound as if they grew up on the music of that era, but I have no idea what radio in Finland is like, so I do not know. If anyone does know what Finnish radio is like, please let me know – seriously. I have a weird affinity for radio from other countries. I remember the radio stations out of Manila in ’90-’91 cooked, Depeche Mode one minute, Orange Juice the next. It was incredible …

“Dealing in Antiques” is a collection of covers, b-sides, and demos with one or two originals, depending on how finely you would care to parse the meaning of that word. Like the Drive-By Truckers’ “The Fine Print”, Cats on Fire’s “Dealing in Antiques” is strong enough to stand on its own as an album, a fact that speaks volumes about the band’s prowess.

It is not as varied as “The Fine Print”, but “Dealing in Antiques” is the finest distillation of post-C86 influences I have heard in quite the while. The sound might seem to veer dangerously toward monotonous, but the sources Cats on Fire draw from were always immediately identifiable – the Smiths, Orange Juice, Aztec Camera … Hell, even the Blow Monkeys (yeah, laugh if you want but “Digging Your Scene” is all over this album). The point being, one man’s monotony is another’s signature sound.

The cover of White Town’s gender-bending “Your Woman” that starts the album is well played, stripping the song down to the basics of guitar, vocals, bass, and drums. That brings the song into the new millennium by removing the dated sound of the original.

The following “Poor Students Dream of Marx” has shades of the Housemartins and the Smiths with just enough jaunty guitar work thrown in to bring Roddy Frame to mind. It is a great pop song.

The next track that jumps out is “Something Happened”, an Orange Juice meets the Beautiful South jaunt that swings along nicely. The singer shows a nice touch with playing to his strengths a la Morrissey or Edwyn Collins. I started to type Paul Heaton, but that cat can sing the back of a box of Cheerios.

I could skip all over the album, naming off tracks, but “Dealing In Antiques” listens well as an album, as rare as that is in our MP3 age. So, listen to it front to back. You will find yourself wondering what Smiths record THAT one was on. It is that good. Get it now.

Between this lot, the Hellacopters, and the Exploding Boy, I need to start scouring Scandinavia for some more tunes. Maybe I will try out “Nordic Rocks” on SiriusXM’s The Spectrum. That is not a shameless plug, ‘cause I don’t get any money for it. It is just a plug.

Y’all stay dry and warm and be good or Santa will kick your ass.

Later taters.

If you did not know, Daryl Hall is hosting what is possibly/probably the coolest show on the net, Live From Daryl’s House, at livefromdarylshouse.com. It is a monthly free show where anyone can and will show up and jam with Daryl. Guests have included such luminaries as Smokey Robinson, Nick Lowe, K.T. Tunstall, et al. It is cooler than the other side of the pillow.

Yeah, I know – it will damage your hipster quotient to dig it. If that is the problem you face, allow me to suggest a solution – go screw yourself. I am too old to give a tinker’s damn as to what is cool and what is not. I like Hall and Oates and I think Daryl’s new thing is tres cool. If you do not, well, enjoy that Paramore album for me, will ya?

Speaking of what is cool, the Greenhornes’ “****” fits the bill. They have been under the radar since 2002’s “Dual Mono”, playing with Loretta Lynn, the Dead Weather, and the Raconteurs. When you are channeling ‘60s garage rock through a time warp to 2010, however, eight years is a pit stop for to take a leak and grab a cup of java.

The howling guitars and the quality songwriting make “****” a timeless album. It would fit just as easily into 1967 as 2010. The vocal harmonies are second-wave British Invasion to a tee – the Zombies, the Animals after Eric Burdon dropped acid, that sort of sound. The opener, “Saying Goodbye”, sounds like it was found in some studio, buried since it was recorded in the late ‘60s and forgotten. It smokes, as does the following “Underestimator”, with a guitar/organ showdown that has to be heard to be believed. It clocks in at slight over two-and-a-half minutes and should be played at every self-indulgent shithead band that takes fifteen minutes to say nothing and rock less.

The third track, “Better Off Without It”, would not be out of place in the second half of the Dave Clark Five catalogue. The straight 4/4 drumming, the driving organ riffs, the hollow/thick guitar tones … it is all there. This is one of the best ‘60s songs you have never heard. “Cave Drawings” comes along next, reminiscent of the Doors or Jefferson Airplane when the drugs were really kicking it hard. The left channel to right channel and back again drumming evokes serious Zep memories, bombed as Jimmy Page rewired half my skull.

“Song 13” sticks to the same groove, rocking along in handclap/fuzzy guitar heaven. “My Sparrow”, however, downshifts nicely into an introspective, slightly sad navel-gazing mode, Charlie Rich’s “The Most Beautiful Girl” meets Fleetwood Mac’s “Albatross”. It kicks much ass and then fades out into the ether. I love songs with fadeouts.

“Need Your Love” should have been a Zombies Top Forty single. Rod Argent would be flattered …

I could go on forever. Suffice it to say, the Greenhornes’ “****” is the best ‘60s psychedelic/garage album that was not. Instead, we are lucky to have this simple, savage kick-ass album dropped in our laps in 2010. It has been a great year for music if you have not been listening to commercial radio. Between the net and Sirius XM (thanks Spyder), I have not listened to terrestrial radio in quite the while. Judging by the charts, I made the right call.

Okay, that’s enough smacking broadcast radio around for now. Back to what matters and that is getting your paws on the Greenhornes’ “****” yesterday. This is in mega-heavy rotation at the Fortress of Hollytude and looks to be there for a long time. I have it in a mix with Quicksilver Messenger Service, the Zombies, and the Nuggets box set. Set the controls for the heart of the sun, indeed.

Man, my sinuses say rain. Actually, they are pounding that in Morse code as I type this. Benadryl, take me away.

My son kicks more ass than Bruce Lee did. Deal with it. And have a happy Thanksgiving.

Later taters.

There is nothing like starting to beat a column into some shape with some random audio goodness. I have not heard Icicle Works’ “Whisper to a Scream” in a while. Then my media player really hits the jackpot with the Sisters of Mercy’s “Temple Of Love” remix with Ofra Haza. Man, that stuff is still red-hot twenty-plus years on …

There is no in-between with this gig. Last week I was struggling to find something worth mentioning and/or recommending to y’all. This week I am knee-deep in it with a free Springsteen unreleased album, Beady Eye’s debut single, British Sea Power’s newest tune, and the Decemberists’ teaser single for their upcoming release.

Whatever. Let us knock this bitch out …

Beady Eye is the band that Liam Gallagher formed almost immediately following Oasis’ demise. The sound is very different from the trademark Noel Gallagher multi-layered guitar sound that dominated so much of Oasis’ output. Here, where Noel drew from the late Sixties guitar sound of so many British bands like the Beatles, the Faces, and the Kinks (just to name a few), Liam draws from the Fifties pop/rock sound for Beady Eye’s debut single, “Bring The Light”, with stripped-down production and a serious keyboard/drum vibe driving the tune. It will be very interesting to see if the Beady Eye album hews to this track’s “shake your ass” vibe. There is no hint of Noel’s song-story approach on this song; it is nothing more than a rock song about rocking out with your cock out. Beady Eye is not Oasis. Musically, that allows the younger Gallagher room to figure out what Beady Eye should sound like and, judging by this tune, the band has not finished the process. As a debut single, this is promising and raw stuff. As a declaration of independence, it rings loud and clear.

The Springsteen album, “The Ties That Bind”,  is available for free (and slow) download from various sites on the web and is reputed to be what Springsteen had in the can and ditched to turn around and record “The River”, a brilliant and damned depressing populist masterpiece. “The Ties That Bind” shows Springsteen to be as prolific as any artist of his era. He also writes as good a pop/rock song as anyone and I prefer this to the vinyl Valium of “The River”, probably due to an ungodly level of overexposure to that album. I had always wondered what an entire Springsteen album in the vein of “Hungry Heart” would sound like. Now I know and I will be damned if “The Ties That Bind” does not immediately jump into the Boss’ top five albums. This is a great pop/rock album, much more in tune with “The Wild, The Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle” than anything he has done since, and I have missed that side of Springsteen. I can take only so many earnest, depressing, and yet great song stories. Get this now … for FREE. Therefore, no damned excuses will be accepted.

The Decemberists’ newest tune, “Down to the Water” from the upcoming album, “The King Is Dead”, is masterful. The band is joined on the track by REM’s Peter Buck on 12-string and Gillian Welch adds a hauntingly beautiful vocal accompaniment. Colin Meloy, the Decemberists’ lead everything, says REM influences the new album’s sound. That can be a good or bad thing, depending on what era REM you have in mind. Fortunately, “Down to the Water” has hints and touches of early, great REM. This was available free for a limited time, which has passed. Do not let that deter you. Do what I did – go to the link, use it, and when it does not deliver, fire off an e-mail to the support staff. They hooked me up. You should receive the same treatment. This tune kills and is worth the hassle.

British Sea Power is a band you either get or you do not; there is no try. The new single, “Living Is So Easy”, is damned fine psychedelic-tinged insanity. I am a fan and dig the Hell out of this. If you are a fan as well, then you know what to do. The uninitiated should proceed carefully …

RIP Gregg Miller. You are missed.

Hey, Red, you and our boy, Dan, keep me as sane as it gets. I love y’all.

Later taters.

I got nothing, so let us see if I can make 600-700 words out of that …

Belle and Sebastian are back after a four-year hiatus with their newest effort, “Belle and Sebastian Write About Love”. By this point, if you have heard Belle and Sebastian before, you should know to expect lilting harmonies, jangly guitars, and lyrics that range from unbearably fey to heartbreakingly beautiful. Belle and Sebastian can be quite the mixed bag at times, but they are never boring.

Here, they have found a middle ground that suits them well. The harmonies and guitars drive the songs from the slow burn of “Little Lou, Ugly Joe, Prophet John” (with Norah Jones laying down a nice guest vocal) to the rollicking opening track, “I Didn’t See It Coming”. The sound is fleshed out by piano, organ, strings, and some nice keyboard/synthesizer work. The lyrics here are, at times, playful, remorseful, and plain goofy. Do not get me wrong – that is a great mix.

Belle and Sebastian break no new ground here but Hell, who cares? The music world could stand more ethereal, playful, and strangely accessible albums such as this one. “Belle and Sebastian Write About Love” is sing-along level fun, and I guess I was in the mood for that. Get this if you want/need something airy and freaky to listen to.

Guster also has a new album out, “Easy Wonderful”, a wonderful, breezy record full of all the Guster aural trademarks – acoustic guitars front and center, great vocal harmonies, and a bassist who knows how to sit in the pocket and rock it. They augmented the Guster sound essentials with bells, piano, harmonica, and some great synthesizer riffs.

Ryan Miller wrote half a dozen new songs after the initial recording sessions were deemed unsatisfactory. The new songs he brought into the studio appear to have inspired Guster to greater heights. The songs are bright, big-sounding power pop as always but Guster dives into topics here that are deeper than their usual fare. “What You Call Love” and “Do You Love Me?” explore two of the aspects of the ultimate four-letter word, the first decrying a false love – “that’s not love/what you call love” – and the second flying sky high on the initial tidal wave surge of a love found – “I got marbles in my mouth/A thousand words I wanna say but it’s impossible to spit ‘em out/I can barely make a sound/Do you love me?” Damn people, does power pop get any better than that? Hell no, it does not.

Themes float by just under the surface of these songs, new fatherhood for all three members of the band sparking a few questions and some answers as if they used the recording of “Easy Wonderful” as a dry run for being Dad.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, Red and I have a nine-month old son and I grok this album beyond all words, so take the following evaluation with that knowledge in mind.

Dude, this is great. It keeps growing on me, with a different song being my favorite song almost every day. Get this now. Do not tarry along the way.

If you read this on Wednesday, November 10, then our son Dan has just turned nine months old and it is the Marine Corps birthday. Buy a jarhead a beer.

If you read this on Thursday, November 11, then it is Veteran’s Day, a day to remember those who wore this country’s uniform and stood tall.

Thursday will also be me and Red’s tenth wedding anniversary. Against all odds (and fuck all you naysayers, past and present), we have shared a decade as wife and wife. Those that were at the actual ceremony will get that. It has been the greatest ten years a guy could ask for and I am as lucky a soul as you will ever meet. I love you, Red, forever and always.

“Gotta love that’ll never die/No, no/I’m a lucky man”. The Verve nailed it.

Later taters.

Anyway, evidently Tuesdays are meant to NEVER be mundane and uneventful. I suppose I should note that somewhere …

Three new albums are out that need some critical clarification. Here they are.

The first, Chrissie Hynde’s latest gig, “JP, Chrissie, and the Fairground Boys”, is the one I expected to sag a little, I must admit. Her dabbling in an almost-country sound in the recent past had scared the Hell out of me – one of the best female rock vocalists ever, pulled into some kind of “It’s Five O’ Clock Somewhere” vortex of suck.

I was wrong. This album has a real basis. Hynde and Welsh singer JP Jones had a brief, torrid fling that ended when they both realized a 27-year age difference was going to be insurmountable. They took the memories, good and bad, and the end of their romance and channeled all that into this album.

Chrissie Hynde sounds more alive and sultrier than she has in quite the while. JP Jones is an interesting vocal foil, raspy and howling, making the most out of a limited range. She toys with lyrics here (the track, “Meanwhile”, being a great example) and JP fires his off in an earnest, earthy rasp, yang to Hynde’s yin.

On its worst tracks, “JP, Chrissie, and the Fairground Boys” is merely above average, but when it all clicks – see “If You Let Me” and “Australia” – the chemistry that started all this is still in evidence in every note. This is how fairy tales end so often in life, the “happily ever after” part of the ending crashing down on everyone’s heads. That fact sucks, but this album does not. Get it now.

Next, Kings of Leon have a new one out, “Come Around Sundown”, which sucks. The single, “Radioactive”, is enjoyable enough, but the rest of this mess is so damned bland and toned-down musically that it causes a pleasant, mass-market, mass-effect ennui that I am sure will ensure platinum sales. This album screams, “Let’s follow the Nickelback career path!” Caleb Followill’s recent admission that most of the album’s lyrics were improvised in the studio does nothing to help matters, either. Do not be surprised if it hits it big but “Come Around Sundown” is a turd, a well-polished turd, but a turd nonetheless. Miss this one.

The last album for this week is Carl Barat’s self-titled solo debut. As the former Libertine who has managed to avoid addiction, jail, and the tabloids, Barat, and his band, Dirty Pretty Things, have always been overshadowed by his Libertines legacy. It may not be fair, but it is true.

Here, Barat aims for and achieves an expanded palette for his musical shadings, adding a European sound. He follows in Bowie’s footsteps in other places here – glam phrasings with lyrics from a continental cosmopolitan camera’s eye viewpoint.

It does not hit the mark consistently; Barat jumps from master lyricist to Thirties pulp writer in the space of two verses, with the arrangements and music often holding together some very fragmented lounge lizard lyrics.

That artifice constructed by Barat for this release does not satisfy musically. It is only when the songs seem more organic and less constructed to spec that Carl’s musings click.

Figuring out how to live the rest of your life after hitting your as-to-yet career peak early on is rough – ask Anthony Michael Hall – but not impossible. I can forgive the scattershot nature of this album for that reason. However, once Carl Barat figures out who he really is without Pete Doherty, the grading curve will get harder. Write that down, Carl.

“Carl Barat” does not suck. The music alone in reason enough to buy the album, the production being spot on, and the lyrics are not bad, only a bit too preciously coy for anyone’s good. This is a good start and deserves a listen but it is not the Libertines, and that is really what Carl is going to be compared to the rest of his musical career, whether anyone else will admit it in print or not.

There we are - two to get, one to forget.

Fall is beautiful this year – the Giants finally won the Series and my son Dan starts every one of my mornings with the greatest smile ever. I also have the greatest wife in the world. Love ya, Red. Cue the Verve’s “Lucky Man” here.

Later taters.

Man, let me tell y’all – if you have not dealt with a baby boy with a double ear infection, you have not dealt with anything. Parris Island was easier than this, but not nearly as much fun.

DO NOT SCREW AROUND AND MISS THIS: Paul Collins, October 22 at JJ’s Bohemia. Along with Jack Lee and Peter Case, Paul Collins was a member of the seminal rock band, the Nerves. After the Nerves ended, he formed the Beat and released some of the most criminally overlooked music of the era. This cat is a legend, the real deal, so get off your dead ass and on your live feet and get to the show. It will rock.

Speaking of rocking, Red and I had the opportunity to see Jimmy Duke and the Riot, Jim Cheney’s newest effort, at a private event, in a small venue. That is the ultimate setting to evaluate a band and Jimmy Duke and the Riot did not disappoint. It was a loose, flowing vibe for the gig and I would love to see them in some roadhouse to compare the performances, but the gig we saw was rocking, tight, and fun. Cannot argue with that.

This week’s selection is one from out of the blue, I Like Trains’ “He Who Saw The Deep”. A quartet from Leeds, they built a solid following because of albums such as “Elegies To Lessons Learnt”, that feature a sparse, dour sound.

“He Who Saw The Deep” continues the dour mood but lightens the sound. The themes addressed here are time, the inevitable progress, the regrets left unaddressed, and the complete end of it all. That may sound incredibly morose, but I Like Trains manages to leaven the leaden and dark musical horizon with beautiful flourishes that signal a certain beauty found even in the wasteland that the band creates and inhabits.

I Like Trains had stated that “He Who Saw The Deep” was to be a change in musical direction and it is, but it is a change that is to be incremental and gradual going forward. That would be frustrating with most other bands but I Like Trains is so precise in their aural sculptures that slow and steady change allows them more room to roam on their sonic horizon. Like Black Swan Lane and some of Wire’s different sounds over the decades, here is a band unafraid to dwell in the sound of a moment for what seems eons. If it is done poorly, that gambit is unbearable, but in the hands of a band both inspired and skilled enough to do it properly, it becomes entrancing and hypnotic, the loops of music pulling the listener in and holding them under the waves. It is inescapable.

Damn, I had no idea what I had in my hands when I started this review. I Like Trains’ “He Who Saw The Deep” has immediately climbed into my top ten for the year so far. Lyrically darkly intriguing and musically absorbing, this album is worth keeping. Get it now and explore it. This album deserves listeners willing to make the effort, mouth breathers need not apply.

Halloween’s around the corner and our Dan has the cutest costume ever.

Later taters.

Damn, what a week it has been. This time of year always gets to me . . .

Jessie Galante’s newest album, “Spitfire”, has some highlights – Ms. Galante’s voice; some smoking guitar work; and a tight backing band that understands how to rock, a trait as rare as hen’s teeth nowadays.

However, the album’s highlights sink under the weight of its faults. The production is not atrocious but, by God, it does not help at all. The dynamics of every song on the album are essentially the same, with far too much high end and very little differentiation in the dynamics and pace. Every song rips along, hell bent for leather, which works fine for Motorhead, but they are Motorhead and Jessie Galante is not.

Jessie Galante has a good voice but she could use a co-songwriter and a producer who understands how to put some depth in her sound. There is unrealized potential here and that is a shame.

Next up is “The Line”, a companion CD to Mark Laxer’s novel, “The Monkey Bible”. I must admit that I have not read the book, but then I am a music writer, so cut me some slack.

What is intriguing is how well the CD stands up alone. It is an unintentional concept album, flowing from one song to the next with ease, no abrupt stop/start dynamics to destroy the vibe. The sound is lush and warm, complementing the mostly acoustic instrumentation well.

The subjects of the songs may be a bit opaque without the novel to expound on them, but the conservation/we are all in this together vibe runs all over this album. That sounds hokey, but on “The Line”, it seems very organic with nothing forced to fit a sonic and/or metaphorical

“The Line” works best as an album to be absorbed as a part of your day. Put this on and leave it for a few days. Cook dinner to it. Pick up the house to it. Get ready to start the day with it. It will slowly work its way into your brain’s background. Then you will find yourself sitting down with a cup of joe or something stronger and giving this album a conscious listen.

“The Line” may have a Seventies singer/songwriter groove going but it wears it well. Whether you read “The Monkey Bible” or not, “The Line” is well worth a listen and if you dig this kind of sound, get it. You could do much worse by far.

It is October 12, 2010 as I type this and my spirits are waning a bit. Four years ago, my father Larry Sells, my one true hero in this life, left this world for whatever lies beyond. That left the world a bit poorer of spirit, for he was never lacking in his ability to relate to and enliven the lives of about everyone he met. The world was indeed his stage and he strode it like a gentle giant. He loved my mother, Manon, and he loved his children and their families. He made kids and old folks smile, he always made me feel like a million dollars, and I miss him something fierce. I feel broken in a way that can never be fixed and, yet, I feel blessed to have had him as my father. There was none finer. None. Love you, Dad.

Yeah, it is sappy but shut up and go hug your Dad’s neck right now, ‘cause one day you won’t be able to.

Later taters.

Red is home and recuperating. The procedure went well, if somewhat painfully. I hope that this will put the kibosh on her cardiac problem. Keep your fingers crossed.

Dan, as always, is kicking ass and taking names, though he is still working on the pronunciation.

The public seems to think Dane Cook’s shtick is funny. A movie starring Seth Rogan in yet another unbelievably stupid situation mined for cheap laughs makes money hand over fist, which is a sign of the Apocalypse, I am certain. Carlos Mencia, the comic plagiarist extraordinaire, had a show on Comedy Central for a few years (thank God for Joe Rogan calling him out every damn chance he got).

What the fuck? When did laughter and comedy become estranged from one another? Doug Stanhope is funny in a very nihilistic dead end fashion. Lewis Black is wound like a watch 24/7, but for the life of me, I cannot figure out exactly why.

I think it is because I am spoiled. I remember sitting in a friend’s living room about fifteen years back and getting turned on to this guy named Bill Hicks. He didn’t scream like Kinison, but he was much more riveting. I remember laughing uncontrollably and thinking, critically thinking …

The comedy of a dynamic intelligence at war with commercialism, mediocrity, racism, hatred, stupidity, etc. is almost impossible to grok but that was exactly what Bill Hicks laid on mostly indifferent and hostile audiences 300 nights a year. He never made it big – too smart for the mainstream and too principled to sell out or dumb down his act – but he left a legacy of recorded performances for posterity. Now, Ryko has combined selected tracks from his various albums (“Relentless”, “Rant in E Minor”, etc.) with a few previously unreleased bits into two CDs and THEN paired them with two DVDs of early performances and interviews and THEN thrown in a download card for eleven Bill Hicks tunes that were mastered at Abbey Road Studios. They titled this collection “The Essential Bill Hicks” and the title is fitting. A lot of Best Ofs and Greatest Hits suck; someone who evidently could care less and/or has never listened to said act assembles them haphazardly.

Not here. The CDs are hysterically funny, though the absence of some of the L.A. riot material such as “Step on the Gas (L.A. riots)” and “Officer N**ger Hater” is lamentable. Some of Hicks’ L.A. material was beyond funny in that area between sheer hatred and revulsion that Los Angeles seemed to inspire in him. Having said that, the two CDs are a fine overview of Hicks’ material, with iconic bits like “Drugs Have Done Some Good Things” and “Pussy Whipped Satan” sounding as funny as ever.

The DVDs are revelatory. Seeing the young Bill Hicks evolve his act and material over a period of years shows many facets of his life. There is the young fresh-faced smartass. There is the depressed, (probably) heavy drinking downer comic. Finally, there is the seasoned veteran comic genius, having weathered some personal storms to hone the finest stand-up comedy of his time, bar none. No one was funnier and no one was getting the laughs the way he did – by challenging his audiences to think and think differently. Stand up is hard; stand up based in and of the intellect is damn near impossible.

When Bill Hicks died in 1994, he was barely on the radar in the U.S. and a legend in the U.K. He was only 32 years old. Let that sink in – dead at 32, virtually ignored at home, having stomped the terra firma like a Greek Titan doing a comedy no one had ever heard the likes of before.

Now, sixteen years later, with a documentary out and a Hollywood treatment in serious talks, Bill Hicks is better known than ever and just in time. If we ever needed someone who challenged us to think, experience, love, and not be afraid ever, it is now. The fact that we are laughing the whole time is just a bonus.

“The Essential Bill Hicks” is just that – essential. Get it now.

RIP Bill. You were and still are the best.

Later taters.

Wish us luck. Red’s heart procedure is scheduled for Thursday, so all prayers, thoughts, good vibes, etc. would be accepted and appreciated. Supposedly this kind of thing is fairly routine, so here’s hoping …

The past decade has shown one thing to be true in the music business – if you are a retro act, stick to your guns musically. Steely Dan reunited and scored four Grammys. ABC continued to tour and recorded a fine album, “Traffic”. Go West, Belinda Carlisle, Berlin, the English Beat – the list goes on and on. Staying in musical character, for lack of a better term, has paid very well for acts such as these for the past few years.

However, outside of Steely Dan and ABC, not many of the retro acts have released new material. Devo released a new album recently, “Something For Everybody”, to extremely mixed reviews. The Pixies have toured but only play songs from their back catalogue, no new tunes allowed. Soundgarden reunites but the big stories are how bassist Ben Shepherd is homeless or couch surfing or something, depending on which mag you read. The Residents keep releasing new albums, but they’re so damn weird and unique, they’ve essentially become their own barometer, immune to any musical fronts that might blow through.

Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark would not have been my first guess for a return from obscurity, but I didn’t see the Spandau Ballet reunion/love fest coming either. OMD has returned with a new album, “History Of Modern”, that claims a balls-out musical raison d’être with surprising grace and ease.

“History Of Modern” starts with a blast in “New Babies: New Toys” and follows that with “If You Want It”, a great pop song that George Michael will be secretly envious of for the next decade, at least. “If You Want It” is one of the best pop songs I’ve heard this year.

“History Of Modern (Pt. I)” is weird. It doesn’t really click, but it is also far from sucking, so maybe I just need more time to grok it. The following “History Of Modern (Pt. II)” is a knockout. It rides waves of synthesizers, with the song dropping in and riding the tube again and again. The songs swells and wanes, effortlessly capturing the listener for a joyous synth OD.

“Sometimes” is a good tune that suffers in comparison to “History Of Modern (Pt. II)”. “RFWK”, a tribute to their childhood heroes Kraftwerk, is a bit clunky but it swings nonetheless.

The second half of the album finds OMD more vulnerable, as if the musical bull rush of the first half of the disc was to establish the modern-day bona fides so that they could get down to being OMD on the second half. “Pulse”, “Sister Marie Says”, “Green” … cut after cut, OMD delivers great pop songs in the musical style that is all their own and recognizable across any dance floor. What an album from a band most had assumed was done, a faded Eighties relic seen only on VH1 Classic.

Thirty years past their Eighties prime, OMD has thrown down the gauntlet once more. As the noise surrounding music nowadays consists of rehab and cleavage and meat suits, MEAT SUITS, for Christ’s sakes, OMD subtly pimpslaps the pretenders to the side with an album that shows what pop music can be minus the silly shock value and soft-core porn videos and outfits the pop divas specialize in today. Don’t get me wrong - if Christina Aguilera wants to go out in public looking like a dominatrix, good for her, but it doesn’t draw attention to her work; it just makes her another publicity whore. Give me middle-aged New Romantics any day.

Fall’s here. Alright!

Later taters.

It seems the 15 in 15 list intrigued a few of y’all. There were many different albums of many different genres on the lists I saw online but, as Dave Brown pointed out, the Clash’s “London Calling” appeared on a lot of lists. It appeared to be the one album whose brilliance wasn’t up for debate. I would say “London Calling” is a generational touchstone, but a lot of people listing it were born about the time the album was released, so I suppose it is a cultural touchstone. You can call “London Calling” many things, the main one being damned good.

The playlist at the compound this week:

   1. Frightened Rabbit – “Swim ‘til You Can’t See Land”

   2. Jay-Z and Linkin Park – “Numb and Encore”

   3. Florence and the Machine – “The Dog Days Are Over”

   4. Sloan – “Underwhelmed”

   5. Quicksilver Messenger Service – “Fresh Air”

First up is Trenton’s “Reasoning in Doubt”, the debut album from the Nashville-based act. Wow, this is really good. The soaring choruses, hazy dream quality of the production, the quality of the songs here all add up to quite a listen. The influences of Radiohead, Ben Folds, and others are present but never overwhelming. A lot of the album reminds me of the late, lamented Ambulance Ltd., an act I could listen to for hours on end.

“Reasoning in Doubt” has a musical integrity to it that is hard to find these days. There are a lot of bands out there that have been influenced by the same bands as this lot and they are working day and night to hone a sound-alike single so they can go big, all the while piggybacking on another band’s sound. Trenton instead has taken their time to craft an album that is very accessible, yet is all their own and they should be proud to claim it.

All the songs are good and this listens well as an album, so it is hard to pick out standout songs, but give a spin to “I Know” and “Diamond in the Mine”, which ABC was bright enough to use on that dreadful show, “Brothers and Sisters”.

Trenton’s “Reasoning in Doubt” is going to stay in my CD player for quite the while. GET IT. It is available on iTunes as you read this weirdness.

Second on the list is Interpol’s self-titled new release. God, this sucks. I’ve been an Interpol fan from jump and enjoyed watching their evolution from “Say Hello to the Angels/NYC” to “Evil” to “The Heinrich Maneuver”, which is still one of my favorite songs ever.

So, on their first album as a trio after the departure of bassist Carlos Dengler, what do they do? Suck, utterly and totally suck. What used to be a cool, distant sound has now drifted into the category of a “sound”, i.e. “they sound like Joy Division” or “we’re aiming for a Radiohead-type sound”. When that which was real becomes rote, bad things happen musically.

“Barricades”, the second video released, shows that Interpol doesn’t ever need to do an openly yearning love song again. Ever. The song is indicative of one of the album’s biggest problems – the band never seems to turn it up and cut loose. All the songs appear to build towards some climax and then just never get there. It’s frustrating as Hell to listen to, because there are some good ideas, snippets, and half-formed songs here that just need to simmer a little longer in the old brain juices.

Look, I don’t know how much input Carlos Dengler had in Interpol’s songwriting but they might want to consider begging him to come back after this aural fiasco. DON’T get it. Don’t even listen to it unless you dig sonic car crashes. Wow … it’s just not good at all.

I’m thinking maybe Lissie’s debut and the new Manic Street Preachers for next week, and maybe some more tidbits from the 15 in 15 input. We’ll see.

Y’all be good ‘til Sunday. It’s supposed to be 83 for the high and if any of y’all screw that up with the Big Guy, Heaven help you ‘cause nobody here will.

Later taters.

I apologize in advance – this column will be a bit short and lacking any reviews. I’ve had a sick baby boy on my hands and a wife who’s looking at a heart procedure, so forgive me if I’ve been a bit freaking distracted lately. There will be more, better in this space next week.

For now, however, here’s a thing that’s been running viral in waves on Facebook (and I’m sure on other social networking sites). The idea of the thing is to pick fifteen albums you have to have, that have influenced your life tremendously, or … whatever in fifteen minutes. I went with the “Fifteen I have to have if they’re the only ones I can have on the moon or a desert island” approach.

Here’s mine and, if you get the urge, make a list of your own. The e-mail is in my column header; send some in and let’s compare notes.

1. Chris Whitley – “Living with the Law” He never got his due while living, but his reputation grows with each passing year after his premature death. When this first came out, everyone whose musical opinion mattered to me was listening to this. Essential.

2. The Jam – “Setting Sons” (2001 re-release) The Jam always delivered the goods, so picking just one to go with was difficult. The 2001 “Setting Sons” contains “The Eton Rifles”, “Strange Town”, and “Going Underground”. Mix those in with “Thick as Thieves” and the sublime “Smithers-Jones” and this is THE one Jam album to have.

3. Joy Division – “Unknown Pleasures” There was never anything like this before them and no one has come close since. It is music so dark that it glows.

4. The Verve – “Urban Hymns” Richard Ashcroft had always talked about how great the Verve’s songs were, and some of them were, but they had never assembled an album of great ones from front to back until this one. “Bittersweet Symphony” (suck it, Loog) is the one everyone remembers but songs like “Sonnet” and the luminescent “Lucky Man” are what makes “Urban Hymns” worthy of its title. It is a gospel of a new time, ecstasy and uncertainty mixed in equal parts.

5. Black Flag – “Damaged” What is there to tell you that you don’t know? It is raw, unrelenting, incredibly physical, and heavy and yet it has some goofy humor and some of the best damned guitar work you’ll hear. If you want to start in on American punk rock, here’s your primer.

6. Oasis – “(What’s the Story) Morning Glory?” Yeah, I know – everybody hates Oasis. Okay, well everybody can line up and kiss my ass. Here are songs like “Roll with It”, “Wonderwall”, “Champagne Supernova”, and, of course, “Don’t Look Back in Anger”, the topper. Hate all you want; you are wrong.

7. The (English) Beat – “What Is Beat?” I tried to stay away from compilations but this is the one to have. There is no filler to be found and, depending on which media format you find, there are different track listings. The (English) Beat was wrongly viewed as being second-rate behind the Specials and Madness. This is their statement of equality.

8. Elvis Costello – “Armed Forces” Those who listen to Elvis Costello have their own favorite EC album, usually for a myriad of dark, painful reasons. This one is mine.

9. X – “Los Angeles” The only thing Ray Manzarek has done worth a damn since Morrison croaked was to promote this lot to the hilt. They have a great catalogue but none of it ever topped this. The playing is red-hot, but the writing is even better.

10. The Who – “Who’s Next” Dave Marsh called this the two finest sides of vinyl ever recorded, and on any given day, I agree with him.

11. Bill Hicks – “The Flying Saucer Tour Vol. 1” The greatest comic ever takes on the worst audience ever and wins, causing laughter leading to loss of control of one’s bladder. Must have it.

12. Radiohead – “OK Computer” Weirder than Beefheart, more atonal (at times) than Gang of Four, Radiohead provides the soundtrack for a head trip too strong for most to attempt, much less live through, and … it rocks hard.

13. Wall of Voodoo – “The Ugly Americans Live in Australia” Stan Ridgway had left, replaced by Andy Prieboy, and I wanted nothing to do with that lineup – until I heard this. Recorded in Melbourne, here is the document of rock as dark art, a New Wave band reinterpreting Woody Guthrie, singing odes to philandering, and deconstructing Hollywood in one song better than all the Laurel Canyon crowd ever did with all their albums. Creepy cool.

14. The Clash – “London Calling” The Clash experimented with different styles on this album – dub, reggae, etc. – and yet all I need to convince me of this album’s inclusion on this list is the title track. It is the clarion call of Armageddon, Joe Strummer running down the end of it all as Paul Simonon’s bass tectonically rumbles along. Add Mick Jones’ incredible leads and that one howl, the howl that everything was finished and it has to be here.

15. Drive By Truckers – “Southern Rock Opera” Combining growing up in the South with the story of Lynyrd Skynyrd AND having the guts to call it a “rock opera” takes a pair of brass ones and some serious talent to back it up. Fortunately, the Drive By Truckers had both on this one, with songwriters Patterson Hood and Mike Cooley laying down track after track of great tunes about George Wallace, the Devil, Steve Gaines joining the band, highways that bind, and trying to grow up and get out before it all drives you crazy as Hell. It’s two discs of pure greatness.

16. Slayer – “Seasons in the Abyss” To make this a baker’s fifteen, I threw this in, not that I could leave it out, mind you. Slayer had taken the metal (and music) world by storm, playing faster and flat-out meaner than everyone else. After “Reign in Blood”, what was left but to slow down and bring out the tones in the music, let the menace build steadily and then gallop all over the listener? Here is a masterpiece of dark evil metal that stomps as much ass as Clint Eastwood’s hair in “Dirty Harry”. It is THAT awesome.

Alright, there’s my fifteen in fifteen plus one. It should give you a glimpse into my addled and disturbed brain and allow you some insight into what is reviewed here and why. It either sucks or it does not suck; there is no try.

I gotta go kiss our boy and my wife goodnight. Give your amore a smooch; you’ll both feel better and sleep well. Promise. Word is bond.

Later taters.

I have more crazy tales of Marines run amok in foreign lands but I will save those for later. I am not feeling the need to incriminate myself any further this week. It is hard to remember when to plead the Fifth when your memory has become an exercise in multiple choices, ya know?

Whatever. I latched on to an album recently that I had wanted to give a spin but had sort of forgotten about. John Mellencamp’s “No Better Than This”, his twenty-first studio album, traveled a strange path in its creation. Mellencamp toured the U.S. with an old-time recorder, one solitary microphone, T-Bone Burnett, and Marc Ribot. He set out to record in historic locations and see what vibes he picked up. He and his crew recorded at Sun Studios, the First African Baptist Church in Savannah, and the Sheraton Gunter Hotel in San Antonio, where Robert Johnson recorded “Sweet Home Chicago”, among other classics.

The approach Mellencamp took to recording “No Better Than This” may sound strange, but it continues his latter-day renaissance. Recorded in mono and forgoing all modern studio technology, he and his band capture the spark that has made Mellencamp constant necessary listening, even in times of lean creativity.

The songs here fit the equipment used to record them. They could easily have been coming out of an AM radio somewhere in late Fifties/early Sixties America. The easy rolling “No One Cares About Me” is a timeless lament, remarking, “If I had to guess/it’s ‘cause I’m spotty at best/no one cares about me at all”. Mellencamp’s ear for phrasing is very good here.

The title track is a rollicking rave-up, a declaration of celebration of the now, of how something new is always around the corner, of how regrets are part of ageing, and how easy it is to lose sight that it really does not get any better than this. Mellencamp understands the end is closer than the beginning. He does not intend to go quietly anywhere, much less into that good night.

The early rock shuffle drumming, the twangy guitar parts, the chug-a-chug rhythms - Mellencamp has duplicated them exactly, to the point where the sound summons ghosts of the past. Shades of Johnny Cash, early Bob Dylan, Sonny Curtis, and others drift through these recordings, these sparse-sounding triumphs of man over marketing. Mellencamp made an album he wanted to make, to Hell with what is current, and the result is wonderful listening.

He has always been at his best with short sharp sketches of life on the everyday scale, whether it be “Jack and Diane” or “Pink Houses” or “Key West Intermezzo (I Saw You First)”. Here he strips them down to their bare canvasses and paints them sparingly, yet fully. It takes a deft touch, but people forget Mellencamp is a Rock and Roll Hall of Famer, that he has been nominated for thirteen Grammys, and won numerous other awards. John Mellencamp knows what he is doing.

I feel this one in my bones. Life recently has been a strange combination of age and youth, death and birth, and Mellencamp’s ruminations on those themes here are better than anything I can manage. Staying ornery ‘til the end, never giving an inch, and doing all that with a sly grin of a man who knows we all lose in this game. He also knows that you can have a great time the whole way and that fear and age are only words to constrain those afraid to live.

Damn, what an album from an artist that this instant ADD culture has mostly forgotten. A friend of mine often mentions a touch of “the high lonesome” in artists he likes and that is an apt a phrase as any for this album. “No Better Than This” has more than a touch of that high lonesome and songs to match. Get this now. No, even better – get it yesterday. I didn’t expect to cotton to this one but it is a damned masterpiece.

Is that summer breaking that I’m feeling? Lord, I hope so.

Later taters.

Wow, it rained here most of the day. It was very familiar but, considering this summer, it was also very strange. I have seen it rain before, many times, but it had been so hot for so long, I think my mind refused to comprehend the fact. It reminded me of drinking in this particular bar in the Philippines.

The bar, whose name I cannot remember for the life of me, was located on the fourth floor of this nondescript concrete building about a third of way down Magsaysay Boulevard in Olangapo City. The only access was up a set of iron stairs that went straight up; they did NOT double back like flights of stairs should in a sane world but then again no one who knows ever said that the Philippines were exactly sane.

Anyway, the grade of the ascent was challenging and slightly scary to begin with and the small fact that the stairs were NOT bolted into the exterior wall made it all the hairier. The stairs attached at the bottom and at the doorway of the bar. So, about twenty stairs up, it would start to sway slightly. After you add in a few more jarheads hell-bent on tearing liberty a new one, the swaying of the stairs was truly epic. “Fear Factor” would have peed themselves over this as a stunt and we were doing it to get a drink.

I swear there is an analogy here somewhere …

The bar had a deal, where you would pay roughly five dollars and you could drink the local hooch all day. Combine that fact with the best jukebox in town and a cool haggard-looking parrot that was the (un)official mascot of the bar and it was on. Many hours would pass and then someone would have the bright idea to gravitate to the Nashville Room or the Love Shack (owner was a HUGE B 52s fan). That meant we would have to go down the damn stairs. Going down was worse than going up because when you went down them, you could see just how warped they were and you were usually pretty lit. HERE is where this links to the rain today - you would see and recognize the stairs, having climbed them many times, but your brain refused to grok exactly what it was seeing and that you wanted it to direct your feet to go down the damn things. Usually we just went to autopilot and figured God looked out for Marines. My friends and I are still here, so I guess that He does.

Hey, music …

I’ve been listening to James “Earache” Shouse.  The bio lists the acts he’s played/worked and it would take up more space than I have available to list them here. That fact alone doesn’t make the artist; the fact that he can play anything up to and including the kitchen sink and play them well does. It seems he has un-retired. Good. I didn’t know he was retired, but someone this talented un-retiring only helps to balance the scales in the eternal war between product and music.

The music of his that I’ve heard doesn’t fit any template of current popular music styles, thank God. The bluegrass/hillbilly instruments are present but the rigidity of any specific style is not. Songs such as “Ain’t Part O’ Nothing” and “The Road Less Traveled” remind me of hanging/living in North Chattanooga in the Nineties before all the money moved in. I was fortunate enough to hear and sometimes join in on some impromptu jams on many porches on many nights and they were damned fun. There was no endless noodling, no trite jam band clichés, just good, honest music played by people doing what they loved to do. I miss those notes, voices, and porches. What a time …

Anyway, that vibe is what James “Earache” Shouse is mining; he is playing the music he loves to play, the way he wants to play it. It is a wonderful counterpoint to the dogmatic bluegrass purists or the got to-have-a-black-hat country crowd. Damn it, THIS is what ought to come to mind when someone says “jam music” or “jam band”, not some underlying slight feeling of nausea.

Visit his MySpace page, http://www.myspace.com/shouse2007, and check out what he’s got cooking. It is good stuff and worth a few bucks for the CD. It may not be for everyone, but for those that dig it, it will rock their asses. Give it a listen and if you dig it, well, GET IT, dammit.

Next week we might get to Michael Franti’s newest …

Man, I hope this is the end of the heat wave from Hell. When fall arrives, I may run naked through the parking lot.

Quick proud dad moment - Dan weighed in at twenty pounds, two ounces, and was twenty six and a half inches long with a forty-six centimeter noggin. Baby Hulk is in the house. Love you, Dan. Love you, Red. Y’all are the best.

Later taters.

Evidently, stories involving natural disasters, using the can outdoors, and showering in the rain tickle the fancy of some of y’all, twisted little fiends that you are. Cool. I’ll drop other tales of partying at ground zero on y’all as they pop into my addled mind.

I opened the mailbox here at the Fortress of Hollytude recently and grabbed a padded envelope, roughly CD-sized. Now, I was all for that ‘cause it beat the Hell out of bills, coupons for crappy chain pizzas, and the Mint (which moved from somewhat useful to completely annoying lately).

Petey and I went back inside before one or both of us melted and I opened the envelope. I pulled out a CD titled “Deep South” from Bill Leverty. The beautiful woodcut replication on the cover immediately grabbed my attention. The name also rang a bell, but a faint one. Too many late nights in too many places listening to a lot of music will do that to a guy.

It seems Bill Leverty is a founding member of Firehouse, the guys from Charlotte, N.C. that had breakout success in the late Eighties/early Nineties with the albums “Firehouse” and “Hold Your Fire”, beating out Nirvana and Alice In Chains for Best New Hard Rock/Metal Band at the American Music Awards in 1992 to boot. That’s why it didn’t click who he was. I was in the Marines during that stretch and overseas a lot as well. No offense to Mr. Leverty or Firehouse, it’s just MTV wasn’t playing in Korea or the Philippines at the time.

As with the rest of that era and type of music (hair metal/pop metal/whatever phrase you like), oversaturation of the market combined with the emergence of grunge to bring about a point of markedly diminishing returns. Like many New Wave acts, bands such as Poison and Cinderella have found life after grunge in package tours here. Some like Night Ranger and Firehouse have found the Asian markets to be more responsive to new albums. Good for all of ‘em. Everybody’s gotta eat …

There have been many albums by artists covering a selection of songs not their own ever since Johnny Cash’s first “American Recordings” and most of them suck. I mean suck. They are blatant attempts to revive flagging careers/sales/public profile and reek of some agent and record company’s desperate ploy to make whatever act bankable again. Pandering is one thing but panicked, groveling pandering is another hemorrhoid all together.

It pleases me to say that Bill Leverty’s “Deep South” is not one of those albums. The songs are mostly traditionals arranged by Mr. Leverty, with the exceptions of “Hit the Road Jack” and “Walk Beside Me”. The voice, the instrumentation, the interpretation are what pulls this off with gusto. These songs are not hidebound covers tripping all over how “authentic” or “historically accurate” they can be. Instead, they are compelling, driving versions that sound as “modern” today as they must have in their respective hey days all those years ago. That takes some serious work.

Another great thing on this album is Bill Leverty’s voice, which is rock to the core. His vocals are in fine form here, working as a sonic compliment to the updated sound of the songs. You should let this play through a few times and then grab the liner notes and dig in. The love for this project is evident in the way Bill Leverty takes time in the liner notes to tell a brief story of his grandfather that makes the album all the more enjoyable to listen to.

I hesitate to pick any song off here as a favorite or must hear. They are all fantastic. What I will pass along is that when I heard “Man of Constant Sorrow”, which I think everyone with a pulse has heard via “O Brother Where Art Thou”, I didn’t recognize it for a good minute or so. I was absorbed in this cool sounding tune and the eureka moment came when I grabbed the jewel case to see what the title of the track was.

This kicks ass. I love artists and albums that surprise me like this. It almost makes American Bang worthwhile.

www.leverty.com is an easy place to find it. I’m sure most, if not all, of the usual suspects have it as well. If not, they damned well should. Get this and surprise yourself how much you dig it.

Happy six-month birthday (Wednesday August 10) to our son, Dan. He is the greatest baby in the world, not that I am biased or anything. Red and Dan, I love y’all with all my heart. Y’all are the best family a man could ask for.

Where the Hell are those “arctic winds from Canada” when you really need them?

Later taters.

Thank God for clouds and late afternoon thunderstorms. I would go stand naked in them if the police wouldn’t arrest me …

There is a quick back-story to my affinity for standing naked in thundershowers. I was stationed in the Philippines when Mount Pinatubo erupted in 1991. It was the second largest volcanic explosion of the twentieth century and all the ash and detritus landed everywhere, including the water tanks at the base’s water treatment plant. That meant no running water, which meant no showers. United States Marines tend to be a busy, sweaty bunch, so the lack of showers readily became evident by about the third day.

I was knee-deep in Coricidin HBP and Kahlua as a homemade remedy for the ongoing insanity. I mean, c’mon, I went to take a dump, sitting with my ass hanging over a fallen tree, trying to re-read Hunter S. Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ‘72” to clear my mind for the daily constitutional. My chi was almost properly aligned when I looked up and saw, on all the other fallen trees, a bunch of the native monkeys watching me, their distant relative trying to recall how to take a dump au naturel. Somehow, the absurdity of the situation hit home and all I could do was laugh. I accomplished my mission and returned to the Quonset hut with a different mindset.

I grabbed my soap and my towel and changed into swim trunks. I scanned the sky and watched this group of rainclouds rotate above me. Sure enough, it started to sprinkle and I put my towel in a dry spot and dropped trou in front of God and everybody. The temperature was in the mid-80s so I wasn’t cold and, after the monkey episode, I sure as Hell wasn’t shy. I soaped up head to toe and finished right as the rain stopped. A few of my fellow jarheads thought that I was screwed and laughed from the safety of the barracks. I just watched the clouds rotate around and about five minutes later, it started raining again, my personal rinse cycle. I let Mother Nature finish up and strolled nude into the barracks freshly scrubbed and smelling of Irish Spring. It was one of those moments in life that are just freaking great and that you remember forever. It makes you want to do a handstand and tell the world to line up and kiss your ass.

Anyway, THAT is why I love standing in the rain …

Oh yeah, I AM supposed to review some kind of music here, right? I might as well get to that.

This week’s find is a cat by the name of Eli ‘Paperboy’ Reed. I don’t know where the ‘Paperboy’ moniker came from and I really don’t care because his major label debut, “Come and Get It” flat-out swings. He has stated in interviews that the album was influenced by late 60s/early 70s recordings of Chicago soul artist like Mel and Tim and others. That is an understatement. This is blue-eyed soul from a performer who has done the research and listened to all those great R&B/Soul recordings from that era. The influences evident here aren’t just Chicago soul. There are bits of the Motown-era Jackson 5, hints of Van Morrison’s “His Band and the Street Choir”, Mitch Ryder, and James Brown, of course.

Listening to this album is like scanning through the AM frequencies while driving (one of the best ways to review an album) and finding some static-laden station that hasn’t heard it is 2010. It’s all here – the James Brown screams, the smoking guitar work just under the surface, the funky bass, bells and xylophones, throaty female backing singers, a smoking horn section, everything.

The title tune rules and sets the tone and pace immediately. It is an instant toe tapper. The second tune, “Explosion”, runs wild and whiplashes the listener with a smoking jam that threatens to implode but instead settles for blowing your damn mind. It is GOOD. Mmmmm …

“Just Like Me” is that slow jam you used to hear in the 70s, sort of that “Me and Mrs. Jones” vibe. This tune would be the slow grind song on the jukebox at the ultimate hip bar of your dreams.

I could go on. “Pick A Number” is another smooth tune, with backing vocals that make me see black gentlemen in tuxedoes doing some choreographed number on “The Mike Douglas Show”. There’s no parody or slavish homage here. Eli ‘Paperboy’ Reed is for real and “Come and Get It” is some seriously ass-kicking R&B/soul music, the likes of which I haven’t heard in forever.

Man, get this now. Get set with your aperitif, turn this on, and just groove. I don’t usually babble like this but I don’t usually hear great NEW soul music everyday either.

Get it, get it, get it.

Hang in there, y’all. It’s August and this heat wave shite has to break. Right?

Later taters.

You HAVE to love living in the South. I’d step outside and see how damned hot it is, but the porch melted last week, so …

Fortunately, a friend of mine (thanks ET) laid Alejandro Escovedo’s latest album, “Street Songs of Love”, on me a while back. Recently I’ve been clearing the decks of some backlog, but I’ve had my eye on this one for a while.

If you came in midway through the program, Alejandro Escovedo is an artist that has been around in different bands (The Nuns, Rank and File, The True Believers) and different styles (punk, cowpunk, rock, alt-country/Americana) long enough to have both opened for the Sex Pistols and have No Depression magazine name him its Artist of the Decade. He also played a set at the late, lamented Lizard Lounge that Chattanooga nightlife pros still talk about to this day.

On “Street Songs of Love”, Escovedo brings his experiences, musical and otherwise, to bear in a set of songs equal to anything he has ever released. The tracks here swing from rocking to introspective, rueful to intense.

His pen is still razor-sharp. On “This Bed Is Getting Crowded”, Escovedo puts his discontent to good use, questioning his lover “… am I with you/are you with me/ are we both here with him” and “Street Songs” contains lines such as “her reflection was the drug of choice”, which should be dialogue in a Tarentino movie.

The music is incredible, shifting gears from alt twang-fest “Tula” to the gentle psychedelia of “After the Meteor Showers” at the drop of a hat. “Fall Apart with You” is as pretty a pop song as Alejandro Escovedo has ever written.  The backing vocals of Karla Manzur and Nakia Reynoso drift from song to song throughout the album, adding a different dimension to Escovedo’s usual sound.

“Shelling Rain”, the second-to-last track has been on repeat for quite a while now …

“Street Songs of Love” also features “Faith” featuring Bruce Springsteen, which rocks pretty well. However, the absolute jaw-dropping performance on this album is Ian Hunter’s guest vocals on “Down in the Bowery”. Serious talk here – he sounds great, I mean flat-out fantastic. 71-year-old rock legends aren’t supposed to sound this good, this vital. Man, I could do with a new Ian Hunter album.

In a less f’ed-up world, where corporate broadcast radio hadn’t sucked all the life from the airwaves, where MTV still played videos and the cast of “Jersey Shore” had been summarily executed, where there had been less stylistic apartheid in music, Alejandro Escovedo would be a big artist, poised to break through with an album that would be played on everything from AOR to Top Forty.

That, unfortunately, is not the world where we live. Here, we’ll just have to be satisfied with a healthy Alejandro Escovedo sticking around to make some more great albums like this one.

Get it now. No excuses, no letter from your Mom that you were too sick to rock out, nothing like that will be accepted. Play it for your friends. Let everyone else enjoy their Justin Bieber CDs in blissful ignorance; this would only confuse and scare them.

Stay cool and wet. Summer’s got to end sometime, right?

Later taters.

Consider these two facts and see just where you stand on your “To Do” checklist. Joe Bonamassa opened for B.B. King when he was twelve years old. He is 32, with ten solo albums to his credit. This man is evidently quite the overachiever …

Anyway, his newest album, “Black Rock”, continues Joe’s assault on the concept of spare time and/or taking a break after a rather busy 2009, a year which saw him release a killer album, “The Ballad Of John Henry” (highly recommended) and the DVD, “Joe Bonamassa: Live From Royal Albert Hall” (ditto).

“Black Rock”, named for Black Rock Studios in Santorini, Greece where it was recorded is in my heavy rotation for 2010 and maybe some time after that. “Black Rock” finds Joe Bonamassa fusing his English/Irish blues-rock influences into a thunderous blues all his own, rock edge and all.

If you are new to Joe Bonamassa, his approach on albums tracks is to combine originals with wonderfully reinterpreted covers. His taste in cover tunes is choice. On “Black Rock”, he covers Leonard Cohen’s “Bird On A Wire”, where the local influence creeps in with a bouzouki and mandolin and some rocking drumming (Jason Bonham, maybe?).

He also reworks Otis Rush’s “Three Times a Fool” and Jeff Beck’s “Spanish Boots”. Where as most covers hew closely to the original version, just exchanging passion for ennui (Nouvelle Vague) or acoustic arrangements of the original tune (too damn many to even mention), Bonamassa extracts the essence of the song and then runs with it, keeping just enough of a musical touchstone to remind the listener of the original tune. It reminds me of when Gov’t Mule covered Humble Pie’s “Thirty Days in the Hole” – the original was there essentially as a rough draft that Warren Haynes and the boys tore all to Hell.

The biggest highlight of the album is Bonamassa’s cover of Willie Nelson’s “Night Life”. It features B.B. King and absolutely smokes. B.B. King’s approach, as always, is soulful and precise, picking his spots and licks well. This is the perfect foil for Bonamassa’s more muscular, attacking style. Joe’s tone is hot and B.B. brings the choice notes to cool it back down. This version of “Night Life” is one of the best reinterpretations, screw “cover”, of a song that I have heard. It is necessary listening.

Bonamassa shows his chops on his originals as well. “Three Times a Fool” and “When the Fire Hits the Sea” are standouts, with some cool slide action on the latter of the two. The Jimmy Page sound pops up here and there (“Blue and Evil”) but the sound is always Joe Bonamassa, channeling his influences.

This cat popped unexpectedly and landed on me. I admit I had to go back and listen to his back catalogue to get a grip on what exactly was going on here. Joe Bonamassa is the heir to the electricity and verve that Stevie Ray Vaughn brought to the blues when he surfaced all those years ago. Johnny Lang and Kenny Wayne Shepherd tried to claim the mantle but ultimately fell short of the prize. Bonamassa, on the other hand, claims it almost unknowingly, focused on evolving his technique and his singing, which has improved markedly. He IS the Once and Future King and everyone else best recognize.

“Black Rock” is different from anything else in my listening rotation right now and that kicks ass. I love altering the chi of my iPod or CD shuffle player. The unexpected riff or surprise cover adds a kick to the daily routine and that alone makes this album worth the price of purchase. Get it. Get it now and sonically blow your freaking’ mind. It will be fun, I promise.

On a side note, I listened to John Wort Hannam’s “Queen’s Hotel” this week as well. It is well-arranged Canadian folk/rock/singer-songwriter craft. If you like that sort of thing, go for it. It is not my cup of tea but I cannot say it is bad either. This one is your call …

Man, it hit 100 degrees on my porch the other day. Where the Hell is October when you need it?

Later taters.

Dave Brown turned me onto Peter Case’s “Peter Case Sings Like Hell” many years ago. It started my addled mind connecting the dots – the Nerves to the Plimsouls to a solo career that migrated towards a folk sound. Usually the term “folk music” makes my skin crawl, all nasal lesbians and sensitive people singing depressing songs that would really benefit from a screaming Marco Pirroni guitar solo.

Over time, I realized that there was “folk” music and then there was folk music. One is the aforementioned crap that no one should really waste time on and one has become a sort of catchall for acts and artists that do not quite fit into music’s stylistic ghettoes. Mary Chapin-Carpenter, Dave Alvin, Steve Earle, Victoria Williams, and The Waifs … all of those acts have worn or wear the folk music label and they are all damned good acts. Once again, DB was around to turn me on to his latest discoveries or a seminal album I had missed hearing. I did my best to do the same and I like to think that both of our musical horizons expanded.

Out of all that music, “Peter Case Sings like Hell” stuck in my head like flypaper. There was a raw and simple voltage running the length of the album. I tried to keep up, but with Case’s work as a musicologist as well as various Plimsouls reunions and a few Grammy nominations AND writing a memoir that was published in 2007, well Hell, what is a man to do? I’d’ve had to clone myself and assign my doppelganger the sole duty of trying to keep up with Peter Case.

Evidently, the touring, writing, song workshops, etc. took its toll on Case. He had a double bypass in early 2009. Having a lot of spare time to kill as he recuperated from his surgery, Case remastered reissues of both the Plimsouls and the Nerves. It appears the groove from those works drove him to write more rock-oriented tunes as he healed.

Well, “Wig!” is the result, with drumming by X’s D.J. Bonebrake and additional guitar from Gasoline Silver’s Ron Franklin. There are only three musicians present on “Wig!” but the sound is thick and the atmosphere redolent with desperate people living desperate lives in an insane era. The harmonica present on many of the cuts on “Wig!” is the icing on the aural cake.

Peter Case has never sounded better in any sonic incarnation. “Wig!” is a raucous testament to Case’s will to live and create and to do it better. That is a tall order for any artist, especially one on the mend, but Case takes his self-imposed mandate and runs with it. “Ain’t Got No Dough” and “House Rent Jump” are two songs that I am listening to repeatedly but “Wig!” deserves the same treatment front to back. This album is so alive, so vital, so damned good … it is just fantastic. Peter Case, a 54-year old with a newly repaired ticker, a man whose career touches four decades of music, has NEVER sounded better than he does right now with this album. That is damned impressive.

Here is what is even better. Y’all can catch this cat live at JJ’s Bohemia this Thursday, July 15. Screw whatever else is going on – get your ass there early, grab a brew, and get a good seat/spot. It is liable to be nuclear.

I don’t want to go any further without mentioning the Sandy Bell benefit, running at JJ’s Bohemia/Discoteca/Aretha Frankenstein’s/Pickle Barrel on Sunday, July 18. Go have to your choice of joint, have a great time, and give a little to help out. Y’all will feel good about, I promise.

I gotta cut this short. I am greasy, unwashed, and need more coffee so I can go to bed. It is weird, I know, but that’s me. What else can I say?

Get this record and rock out. Then, go see Peter Case live Thursday. It will be shit-hot.

 Later taters.

Man, when all breaks loose on deadline day, I know the ghost of HST is somewhere laughing his balls off …

This week’s reach-in-the-pile selection is the latest effort from the Legendary Shack Shakers, “agri-dustrial”. This random selection turned out to be a Hell of a lot better than last week’s regrettable “American Bang”, for which you may thank whatever higher power/cosmic sneeze/karma/chi/etc. you subscribe to.

This album is relatively short but intensely focused. “agri-dustrial” has the hammer down from start to finish, laying down a soundtrack of industrial punkabilly with new guitarist Duane Denison (formerly of Jesus Lizard) cranking out sinister riff after sinister riff. All these years waiting for someone to pick up the gauntlet that Ritchie Blackmore left lying as he skipped of to play medieval English sheep calls or some shite and here he is, Duane Denison pulling the Stratocaster from the stone.

Frontman J.D. Wilkes screeches, recites, croons, and even freaking’ yodels on “agri-dustrial”. He displays a Gabby Haynes-like ability to disappear into a song, only to emerge and drive it straight through your frontal lobes. The songs here are rife with murder, souls starving as egos rage, torture … all manner of Hell is breaking loose on “agri-dustrial” and the Legendary Shack Shakers could not be happier.

Jello Biafra once dubbed J.D. Wilkes “the last great rock and roll frontman” and Wilkes tears through this album as if to prove himself finally worthy of the title He uses his banjo and harmonica to punctuate some of the most brutal rocking aural assaults I have heard in quite the while. Imagine Tom Waits as a musical instigator instead of a chronicler. Imagine Slayer with an upright bass, telling Harry Crews stories. Imagine the Dead Kennedys channeling the Drive-By Truckers. It is THAT weird and it is THAT good. “agri-dustrial” is off the chain. I cannot imagine the late night coffee, fried chicken, and speed needed to construct this album.

I am not certain that I have ever heard any album like this … ever. It is industrial/Tom Waits “Swordfishtrombone” percussion and noise, all anvils and hammers and other assorted objects being beaten to a pulp. The upright bass anchors the sonic maelstrom and the guitars … man, the guitars are otherworldly. Shades of the late Chris Whitley are all over the guitar sound here and that is a good thing. I would have never imagined pairing the Jesus Lizard’s guitarist with this Southern stone freak-out but it works incredibly well.

Oh yeah, there is a real Oingo Boingo mania present here.

Damn, I do not know what to tell y’all but buy this now. This is a psycho masterpiece, the soundtrack to a Southern crime movie that no one has filmed yet. It would be a gumbo of “Gator” and “Midnight in the Garden of Good And Evil ” and “Repo Man” and “The Naked Lunch” with plenty of good old ultraviolence. The film would be too strange to be rated and too brutal to be shown to anything but the barfly/niteowl/insomniac crowd. Showings would be accompanied by corn whiskey and crackling’ bread.

Everybody needs a freak-out like “agri-dustrial” occasionally. It burns all the carbon build-up off the neural pathways and ups your crazy factor. The Legendary Shack Shakers aimed high with “agri-dustrial”, a concept so weird it had every opportunity to fail. Instead, this lot have announced their status as major players and fired a broadside across the bow of today’s rock and roll.  Be ready, poser rockers – the Legendary Shack Shakers are coming for you, to render you into grease for the machine. They ask no musical quarter and none will be given.

Get this. You may not grok it at first, but when you do, it will flip your lid.

It is supposed to be 99 degrees Thursday. That ought to be a hoot.

Happy birthday, Red. I love you always.

Later taters.

I’ve always been intrigued by the yin yang symbol, the interlocking black and white symbol most associated with Taoism and 80s hair metal scarves with Japanese written all over them. Do you remember those? I do because I owned one. Good Lord …

Anyway, the concept of an inevitably intertwined duality has always appealed to me, going at least as far back as to when I decided hair metal scarves might work for Poison but not me.

The reason this weighs heavily upon my brow as I type this is because last week I reviewed the first perfect album I have heard this year, Gaslight Anthem’s “American Slang”. When I wrote that, I knew, KNEW that some steaming load of a CD was going to land in my hands and I would be made to pay for not finding some nit to pick, the dot of black in the field of white (or vice versa – whichever you prefer).

Sure as Hell, here comes Nashville’s own American Bang to shit all over Tuesday. I could be more diplomatic about it, but why would I? My job, if I am not turning y’all on to something seriously good, is to warn you off the music that seriously sucks that I have had the misfortune to stumble upon. I could try to polish telling you their self-titled debut on Reprise Records is a turd but it would still be a turd and y’all need to know that pronto.

American Bang’s “American Bang” … wait I cannot type that anymore. C’mon, the band’s name already sounds like a bad porno and then to use that as the title of the album? How do DJs keep a straight face when these guys show up to do some in-studio promos? If I was working the board and screening calls, after about the tenth use of the phrase “American Bang”, I would just have to start keeping count on a legal pad. I would write the current number in very large numbers on said pad, and hold it up with shaking hands (due to my head drooping in uncontrollable laughter at the sheer jollity of the situation) for the DJs and the band to see. Somewhere around the thirtieth mention and/or use of the phrase “American Bang”, the peals of my laughter would be loud enough to be heard outside the studio and I might possibly lose control of my bladder.

This is product from top to bottom. From the breathlessly-worded press release hyping American Bang’s “swaggering debut single” to the photo on the cover of the promo CD/DVD package that works hard to steal the early Black Crowes look without doing so too obviously, it is obvious that someone with some clout at Reprise thinks that this lot is going to move beaucoup units. Hell, to quote the press release again, “the legendary Bob Rock” heard American Bang and just HAD to produce their debut effort. If that tidbit is true, I will give Bob some leeway and assume that he made his decision on an early morning after a late night spent in the grip of demon rum. Nothing else explains the utter lack of taste to pick this bunch to waste his talents on.

American Bang is a goulash of bits of artists and songs that have sold millions of records, but it is a goulash with no spice or flavor. I know Keith Richards and Carl Wilson stole every lick Chuck Berry ever laid down but they used their ill-gotten gains to make their own great rock and roll. American Bang, on the on the other hand, in one song alone, use a generic acoustic guitar opening to enable lyrics that mentions the Rolling Stones, uses the line “… daddy’s little girl/daughter of a street fightin’ man”, and then mentions angels, just to keep the Black Crowes-lite vibe going. That is just in the first verse. Seriously, how many ill-planned handclaps and exclamations of “hey!” does a guy have to endure? And if you think Kevn Kinney’s vocals are nasal, you ain’t heard nothing yet …

I keep seeing bits of overblown 80s videos in my head while this crap corrodes my aural passages. Glimpses of Cinderella’s “Don’t Know What You Got (Till It’s Gone)” with all the emoting from Tom Kiefer amidst the scenic backdrop of Mono Lake, California, keep popping into my head. That video is the “nature as an emotionally charged substitute for our vapid lyrics” motif at its finest. I always enjoyed how nature had grand pianos and hidden amps everywhere in those sorts of videos.

I highly doubt the supreme glory of the hair cheese that is Cinderella is what American Bang was aiming for on their debut. If I had to choose from albums of this decade, I think they were aiming for something along the lines of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s “Howl”, all gritty texture and roots rock. Instead, they recorded “American Bang”. Ouch. As terrible as it is, this album may have some use yet. Here is an idea: burn this on to a blank CD, play it for friends, and tell them that it is a parody of a terrible rock record by some comedy troupe. See how many people laugh when they know the band’s in on the joke and then, then tell them this lot is perfectly serious. If their senses of humor are as black as mine is, it will be even funnier.

Here’s a quick shoutout to Jonathan Cole and everybody reading this at the public library. Y’all stay cool.

Later taters.

The Gaslight Anthem was a band that kind of snuck up on me. I listened to “The ’59 Sound” and it kicked my butt. Then I saw the video of the Gaslight Anthem and Bruce Springsteen doing “The ’59 Sound” at Glastonbury last year and my head exploded.

On their new album, “American Slang”, Brian Fallon’s vocals are an incredible mix of early Rod Stewart’s rasp, Bruce Springsteen’s nigh religious fervor, and Joe Strummer’s relentless drive. This voice carries the belief that rock and roll is more than prepackaged shite, more than a balance sheet. Fallon knows about the electric current runs up your spine and hits the adrenal glands when you hear “that” song. It could be “We’re An American Band” or “Rise Above” or “Copperhead Road” or any song in the world, but it is the ONE that makes you believe that a song can change your life.

That, Dear Readers, is a take it or leave it statement. If you are so disillusioned with music that you paused when you read that, stop reading this NOW. “American Slang” is a perfect album that is for the believers, the ones that turn it up loud and make their friends listen to it and walk around telling perfect strangers about “that” song.

The palette that Fallon paints his stories with on “American Slang” is a more colorful one than the palette he used on “The ’59 Sound”. Here he draws from his all the memories and experiences from his life instead of writing (great) anthems created by his distilling the best of his record collection into templates for “rock” songs. The Gaslight Anthem’s “The ’59 Sound” is a good album but there are distinct moments of clarity where the listener can almost name the exact song that inspired that particular song.

That is what separates the two albums: “The ’59 Sound” is Brian Fallon’s love letter to the music he treasures whereas “American Slang” is music to treasure. The Gaslight Anthem has the sheer balls to make you care about music again, something that many thought impossible now.

The songs roam all over the musical landscape. “The Queen of Lower Chelsea” is a Clash-sounding swipe at a girl not grabbing the brass ring, just passing time with her record collection and no expectations. Here Fallon challenges the total waste of someone who watched her boat come in and pass right by her, never moving toward it once.

“The Diamond Church Street Choir” owes more to Van the Man than just the title. It is a finger-snapping swinging gem of a tune. Celebrations of your home, your turf, as well written as this are always welcome. This tune will have you singing along by the second verse, whether you know the words or not.

“Stay Lucky” bolts out of the gate with a riff that will not quit and a demand to stand your ground and tell the doubters to piss off. “Boxer” and “Bring It On” are two other examples of how Fallon’s quest to inspire those who are down and on the edge of out. Here is the belief in rock and roll as something that can heal, drive, and inspire. If you hurt, it will make you whole. If you cannot do it one more day, it will drive you. If you doubt, it will convert you. If this sounds scriptural, that is OK. Fallon has declared the crusade of a revived Church of Rock and Roll with the doors wide open and the music blasting out that rock is back, with a swagger and a fire not seen in while.

I admit it - I rode this wave of rock revival right through to the ending tune, “We Did It When We Were Young”. As this masterpiece ends, Fallon cries out for an end to what haunts his memories. He sings “…We were strangers many hours/And I missed you for so long/When we were lions, lovers in combat/Faded like your name on those jeans that I burned” as he lays the bones of a failed love to rest with a eulogy that burns hot and blue.

This is THE album of the year so far. Buy, borrow, or steal this one. This year has had some very good albums but this is the first perfect one I have heard.

Y’all stay cool and hydrate. Beer does not count.

Hey Brian Biggs and all the bunch out at Baylor who read this craziness - y'all rock.

Love you Red and Dan.

Later taters.

I usually try to write about good albums in this space, mainly because I dig writing about stuff that makes my ears perk up; it is a Hell of a lot easier that way, I will admit. Also, I despise opening up some rag and reading the music section and every damned review is about how something totally sucked, as if every album released worldwide from the last time they went to press until the exact moment I picked up said rag sucked. “There was no good music produced for the past (insert appropriate time span here), thus we HAD to review absolute crap.”

My ass. What a load that mindset is, and this coming from a guy who figured out decades ago that, on average, roughly ninety percent of just about anything was shite. What that type of music writing usually signifies is the need for the author to find something else to write about, pronto. It’s like reading Furman Bisher bitch that baseball –the players, the fans, the groupies … hell, even the popcorn – was better fifty years ago every time he writes something. It would be better for everyone if Furman took up writing about cooking, board games, anything BUT baseball.

In this space, I stated quite a while back that favorable reviews from me would greatly outweigh negative ones, because it is harder to find, but infinitely more rewarding to write about, the good music and the good bands.

It is also a real charge to write about a return to form of a band long missing from the limelight. Earlier this year, I had the pleasure of noting how startlingly good Alice In Chain’s “Black Gives Way to Blue” is, how great it felt to hear that band’s unique sound again and have it sound fresh.

Well, lightning evidently does strike twice, because the self-titled new album from Stone Temple Pilots (their first in nine years) is damned fine. Now, I am not comparing Alice In Chains and Stone Temple Pilots; they’re not the same type of band. AIC was and is heavier than the earth riffage and lyrics that make Bukowski look like an optimist. STP leaned toward a more standard rock-pop sound, although STP lead singer Scott Weiland’s lyrics were always reminiscent of a William S. Burroughs cut-up.

None of that has changed. “Stone Temple Pilots” opens with the hardest rocking song on the record, “Between the Lines”, which manages to borrow the signature riff from the Smithereens’ “Behind the Wall of Sleep” and weld it to Wieland’s vocal recalling his troubled relationship with his soon-to-be ex-wife. The song rocks.

The second tune, “Take a Load Off”, recalls STP’s “Lady Picture Show” with its slightly psychedelic, breezy feel. “Huckleberry Crumble”, which follows, shifts gears as Stone Temple Pilots show their love for “Get Your Wings”-era Aerosmith and is quite the fun listen.

“Hickory Dichotomy” has great guitar tone and work, the rhythm section sounds great, and I have NO idea what Scott’s singing about. The following “Dare If You Dare” shows that they’ve been listening to their Mott the Hoople lately, with hints of the Beatles thrown in; the keyboard work is an added bonus. 

The album’s sixth track, “Cinnamon”, is the best Britpop single I have heard in a while. It is a great pop song and a great summer song (windows down, cruising at 70, etc.) to boot. The next song, “Hazy Days”, show Stone Temple Pilots throwing out some Led Zep love.

“Bagman” is pretty rocking for a look back at Scott’s bad old drug days. Most songs of that ilk get on my nerves. They usually sound completely PR-motivated and fake. To quote Bill Hicks, “I used to do drugs, but I'll tell you something honestly about drugs, honestly, and I know it's not a very popular idea, you don't hear it very often anymore, but it is the truth: I had a great time doing drugs. Sorry. Never murdered anyone, never robbed anyone, never raped anyone, never beat anyone, never lost a job, a car, a house, a wife or kids, laughed my ass off, and went about my day.” THAT is what most rehabbed rock stars should say, if they were being honest.

The highlights out of the final four tunes definitely are “Fast as I Can” and “Maver”, though both “First Kiss on Mars” and “Samba Nova” have their moments.

This is a good album, much better than 2001’s “Shangri-La Dee Da”. Just how good it is to you, Dear Reader, depends on whether you are a “Core” person or more of a “No. 4” type.

Y’all stay out of trouble.

Later taters.

Man, what a damn week … There is nothing quite like experiencing just about all the symptoms of a heart attack while you are trying to read your e-mail. That happened to me this past Wednesday. I got my ass ER pronto. After many machines that go “ding!” being attached to my chest and enough damned needles for a sewing circle, they determined it was not my ticker after all. Wow, talk about taking a load off my mind. The ER at Erlanger North and the lot at Parkridge did a fantastic job; I cannot sing their praises loud enough. I thought my ass was in a sling, but it appears that that is not the case.

I am still off my game a bit, so this week’s rant may be a bit short. Forgive me, Dear Readers; I promise to try to do better next week …

Chrissie Hynde has a new project called JP, Chrissie, and the Fairground Boys. Dig around and check out what you find. I think this band has some legs and may be around for a bit. The first single, “If You Let Me”, is a great tune and Chrissie sounds more alive than she has since “Back on the Chain Gang”. I caught an in-studio performance on Sirius XM’s The Spectrum, with the band and Mark Goodman. As someone who remembers the first MTV VJs distinctly, allow me to state that Goodman is not just a nice smile and good hair. If you have Sirius XM, see if you can catch a rerun of the program. The performances are top-notch; the band members sound like they are having a blast; and Goodman does a great job getting the back-story and setting the scene for the songs and the narrative behind them. The album, “Fidelity”, is not due until August, so find the streaming shows, singles, and whatever, and get onboard with this now. This new joint of Chrissie’s is going to be huge.

The National, in their journey from Cincinnati to Brooklyn, have slowly and systematically raised expectations to an almost unreasonable level. Great press and critics going gaga about what you are doing can be distracting when you are trying to raise the bar yet again, but “High Violet” hits the mark. It is a great album; the first single, “Bloodbuzz Ohio” has been stuck in my grey matter ever since I first heard it. My only semi-problem with it is that the lyrics skate a fine line between allegory and obfuscation. Clever is one thing but confusing is a whole other matter altogether. Really, that is just nitpicking. “High Violet” is marvelous. Get it and listen up; this lot is the real deal.

Serious talk – if you have any of the symptoms of having a heart problem, DO NOT SCREW AROUND. GET TO A HOSPITAL IMMEDIATELY. As I was scanning the internet looking for symptoms and such, a couple of sites noted that a lot of the time, the first syndrome is sudden death. That is exactly what happened to my father almost four years ago. Well, once is enough for me. If any of y’all ever have symptoms, get help. I’m damned tired of burying people…

I gotta go. I am about to fall over and I still don’t have my A game going. So let’s call it quits for now and I’ll try to come back next week with both guns a blazin’. Sound fair, Dear Readers? Hell, I hope so, ‘cause it’ll have to do for now.

Next week, we’ll blow the doors of this mother.

Later taters.

I hope everyone made it through the Memorial Day weekend without setting the backyard on fire from some ill-fated barbecue attempt. Deadspin.com has a great gallery of barbecue snafus ranging from “ruined meal” to “how is someone not dead”.

New releases abound, though not many worth a damn. Christina Aguilera has a new one out titled “Bionic”. Yay. Stone Temple Pilots have released their first new one in a decade; it is self-titled, so they did not strain their imaginations there. Maybe the music on it will be worth a damn. A few readers have suggested some of the new metal releases that are on the market, but my heart’s not in it right now.

I want credit for trying to give a shite for mainstream rock/pop release. I am trying, but the product is somewhat underwhelming. When the re-mastered, expanded “Exile on Main Street” is on everyone’s lips as THE release of the past month, something is wrong. Before y’all stroke out on me, realize I mean no offense to the Stones or “Exile on Main Street”; the record remains a document of a great band at the height of their powers recording what many consider their classic work. I think it speaks volumes to the dearth of quality new “big” releases.

However horrible the name might be (and it IS terrible), I am interested to hear what Liam Gallagher’s new band, “Beady Eye”, sounds like. The same goes for the Break, formed by Midnight Oil’s Rob Hirst, Jim Moginie and Martin Rotsey and Violent Femmes’ Brian Ritchie. The press release calls them a surf rock band, which ought to rock hard.

A few lesser-known acts have released some good stuff recently and do deserve some notice. Here are a few albums worth some of your ever-shrinking disposable income.

Band of Horses’ “Infinite Arms” is splendid alt-country melancholia with hook after hook and great vocals. It sounds huge, even on an iPod. Fans of Wilco, Jay Farrar, or any bands of that ilk should drop the cash to pick this one up, post-haste. 

We know where I stand on Kasabian. The last release, “West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum”, was one of my top ten albums for 2009. I have been in love with their sound since “Clubfoot”. Here is where y’all have a chance to catch up. Kasabian has just released the album “Singles” in the UK and it is worth the wait to get an import copy if it is not out here. “Shoot The Runner”, “Reason Is Treason”, the aforementioned “Clubfoot” … there is not a dud here. Get it and let it rip.

Keep an eye out for Liverpool’s Sound of Guns and their debut album, “What Came From Fire”. As big a rock sound as I’ve heard in a while and as big as I’ve heard from a new band this year, this lot are worthy followers in the Oasis mold of huge rock songs that actually rock, rarer than you think at first. YouTube, Facebook and MySpace all have the video for “Architects” up and running. Give it a view/listen and see what you think. It is one of my out-of-the-blue ass kickers for 2010.

Somebody has to say it. Let’s Active were ok to good but Don Dixon’s “Most of the Girls Like ts

o Dance but Only Some of the Boys Do” and “Romeo at Julliard’s” beat Let’s Active’s stuff like a rented mule. Get any Don Dixon you can lay your hands on and if you cannot find any, get a hold of me.

I got to go. My head hurts, laundry calls, and I desperately need a shave. That sounds like some weird Jimmy Buffett/Tom Waits lyric. Damn, that just made my head hurt even more …

Y’all be good. June’s here and there are plenty of heat-caused maladies to strike down the foolish and the uninitiated alike. Act like you know.

Later taters.

Ok, I am pissed off and there is no point in trying to hide it. There are people in the world that you just want to mop the floor with, no matter how hard you try to maintain your inner Gandhi. As an example, allow me to present the Westboro Baptist Church AKA Fred Phelps and his Inbred Bunch of Mouthbreathers. This bunch of pond scum have come out from where they live, just to piss all over the memory of Ronnie James Dio. That’s when they’re not protesting at the funerals of fallen military service members throughout the U.S., carrying signs such as “God Hates Dead Soldiers” and “God Hates Your Tears” and my personal fave (heavy sarcasm here), “Thank God For IEDs”.

By the way Fred, if you are ever in the neighborhood, I can round up a few veterans around here that I am sure would just LOVE a couple of minutes of your time, preferably in a soundproof, confined space. You know, just to have a little rational discussion with you and your Klan … I mean, clan.

So anyway, this brood of mutant DNA is planning to make the rounds at Ronnie James Dio’s funeral. Wow. If there is a Heaven for bad taste, misinterpreting the Bible, and being an all-around asshole, Fred Phelps must be on the “A” train for that gig.

Look, I understand the politics of the Religious Right and even some of the Radical Religious Right. One of the main tenets is that you have to throw raw meat to your followers every so often. John Hagee has it mastered. Falwell was good at it. Liberals, Catholics, atheists (always a crowd pleaser), etc. are useful tools with which to scare money out of the pockets of their respective flocks. Such is the way of the scaremongers.

HOWEVER, the Big Daddy of them all, especially if you as a pastor have a fruitful flock full of families with children, is Heavy Freaking Metal. Flip on any of the God Networks on cable and catch these masters of eschatology (i.e. the world is ending, best get your ass in line) go to work. They will get about halfway into a sermon and, if they are REALLY looking to load up the collection plates that particular Sunday, here comes the “Odious Threat of Heavy Metal To Your Precious Children’s Souls” bit. There is nothing in the world to get that lot reaching for their wallets and checkbooks like a good couple of references to Ozzy Osbourne or Iron Maiden or Anthrax or any of a bunch of newer metal bands. Why? Because they are all in league with Satan, that is why, you idiot. Didn’t you know that?

Hell no, you didn’t know, ‘cause I’m assuming that if you bother to read this column, you have the ability to think for yourself and recognize a shuck and jive when you see one. That fire breathing nonsense is nothing but Grand Guignol at its finest and some of it is high art in a seriously messed up way. Nevertheless, it is part of the accepted bag of tricks for that type of preacher. It is about as serious as that lot being pissed off at Disney twenty or so years back. That provided the networks with some nice sound bites and b-reel footage and provided the protesting yahoos a bucket of cash; everyone got what they wanted and went home happy.

Now, allow me to state here that I find religions fascinating; I feel that a spiritual aspect of your life is important and it is up to you to figure it out, not someone else; and I respect everyone’s right to worship and believe as you choose. Being a First Amendment fanatic, I believe in everyone’s right to gather peaceably and express whatever is on his or her minds.

THAT, boys and girls, is where the Westboro Baptist Church runs afoul of society’s law. They do not gather peaceably. If anything, they gather in hope of inciting a riot, or at least some serious ass stomping of their miserable asses. I support the Westboro Baptist Church ’s right to peaceably express their abhorrent views. I also understand the heat of the moment kind of emotion that can lead to a therapeutic beatdown. Call me equal opportunity on that kind of stuff.

This crap really gets under my skin because Ronnie James Dio was a gentleman, and deserves to be buried as such, not with a bunch of shitheads whose family tree does not branch that are calling themselves “Christians” deciding to desecrate his memory. Tread carefully, Fred. Karma is a bitch.

Here is a list of tunes that I hope the Dio mourners use to drown out the Phelps idiots:

1. “Walk” – Pantera. That ought to establish the tone immediately.

2. “Number of the Beast” – Iron Maiden. All-time great tune that will bake their little brains.

3. “Kings of Metal” – Manowar. Establish just where you stand.

4. “Heaven and Hell/The Mob Rules/Rainbow In The Dark” – Black Sabbath/Dio. Back-to-back-to-back RJD greatness, by which time the freaks should either being giving up and crawling back under their rocks or, I don’t know, getting the Hell stomped out of them by some strange coalition of bikers and vets and metal heads.  I would eat ramen for a week to see THAT pay-per-view.

Once again, Ronnie, rest in peace. You made some great music your way, all the way.

Oh yeah, Fred Phelps and family, kiss my ass. You suck in ways I cannot even go into here.

Later taters.

The Top Five Singles for this week at the Fortress of Hollytude are:

   1. New Model Army with Tom Jones – “Gimme Shelter”. The audio I have had for years and I finally found the video on YouTube to convince the doubters.

   2. James McMurtry – “Just Us Kids”. Larry’s boy pens a great ode to hanging around for all kinds of stuff.

   3. The Godfathers – “Birth, School, Work, Death”. I don’t know that there has ever been a band more solid in their musical identity and intent on their debut album.

   4. Gin Wigmore – “Oh My”. This is some seriously infectious, hooky pop greatness from New Zealand.

   5. Black Sabbath – “Heaven and Hell’. Y’all know why …

This weekend brought the news that Ronnie James Dio had succumbed to stomach cancer at the age of 67. That sucks beyond all words, but I am going to try anyway …

People became aware of Ronnie James Dio in different ways. He was the lead singer of Elf, which opened for Deep Purple on one tour. He caught Ritchie Blackmore’s eye, leading to Blackmore essentially firing Elf’s guitarist and moving right on in to form Blackmore’s Rainbow. Ritchie was never short on ego.

Ritchie Blackmore can play a damn guitar; that’s a fact. He has few, if any, peers in the dark, sinister, yet somehow melodic riffs and hooks game. About three-quarters of the people that have ever worked with him also consider him a world-class asshole. Therefore, it wasn’t amazing that the Dio-fronted version of Rainbow only managed to record four albums before Ritchie decided he wanted a front man willing to move toward a more commercial sound.

Imagine Ritchie’s chagrin when Ronnie was invited to replace an at-that-point derelict Ozzy Osbourne in Black Sabbath. For those too young to remember, the last Ozzy-fronted Black Sabbath albums were lacking oomph, what with keyboards/synthesizers popping up – I mean, this is freakin’ Black Sabbath -  and Ozzy’s voice showing the toll that living like a “madman” was taking on his vocals. He sounded like a wounded water buffalo a lot of the time …

Anyway, enter Ronnie to the rescue. Dio brought a new lyrical approach to Sabbath, continuing his fascination with fantasy realms and otherworldly evil. The result was one of the best Sabbath albums ever, “Heaven and Hell”. The album went gold in the UK and platinum in the US. It featured stellar guitar work by Tony Iommi and great vocals by Dio. Dio wrote all of Heaven and Hell’s lyrics and they showed a great maturity and depth, especially for a metal band.

Black Sabbath’s next Dio-fronted effort was the “Mob Rules” album. Vinny Appice replaced Bill Ward on drums, leading Ozzy to dub that version of Sabbath “Geezer and the three wops”. Classy, huh? Whatever. It was another fine effort, highlighted by the title track. A slightly different version of “The Mob Rules” was used very memorably in the film “Heavy Metal”. When it kicked in during the film’s last segment, you knew it was ON.

Anyway, once again, two strong egos couldn’t co-exist in the same band, leading to Ronnie James Dio going solo, forming the eponymous band “Dio”. The first two albums, “Holy Diver” and “The Last in Line”, were the most successful but Dio recorded and toured well in to the ‘00s.

Then, the “Heaven and Hell”- era Black Sabbath line-up reformed and toured, playing sold-out shows to rave reviews. This was with Ronnie being well into his sixties …

All that to get to this – Ronnie James Dio kicked ass on a LARGE scale. The man stuck to his guns when it would have been easy to go along and told Ritchie Blackmore to get stuffed. Then, he replaced Ozzy Osbourne in Black Sabbath, a fact that many Sabbath fans never forgave him for. He recorded two classic albums with them and then, when Tony Iommi got too pushy, Ronnie left and formed his own band that was a serious presence on radio and especially on the nascent MTV, where his fantasy world videos fit perfectly. Moreover, he kept doing it until his death last week at 67. Let that sink in. Most musicians at 67 are pale imitations of their former selves, their glory days long gone. Now, head over to YouTube, check some of the live Dio/Heaven and Hell videos from the past 3-4 years, and see how a master does it. Damn, what a man, what a voice.

There will never be another Ronnie James Dio. He is one of my five ultimate metal voices and author of some of my favorite songs ever.

On a final note, allow me to state that, having worked as a stagehand for years, I can say that there are many pricks in the music biz, especially vocalists. Not Ronnie - he was universally regarded as a true gentleman in a business overloaded with dickheads.

RIP Ronnie. You rocked.

Later taters. 

To start, here’s a quick list of singles I cannot get out of my head:

Court Yard Hounds – “The Coast”, THE summer song so far

Ace Frehley – “Do Ya”, just ‘cause

Nitzer Ebb – “Control I’m Here”, pure funk

The Tragically Hip – “Coffee Girl”, pure pop for now people

Audioslave – “Like A Stone”, THAT voice and THAT guitar

If y’all have been reading this gibberish weekly for a while now, y’all know that the Chameleons ( UK ) are one of my favorite bands ever. It seemed like that on this side of the pond, only Jack Rabid and I were trying to spread the word about those cats. Their one big U.S. release, “Strange Times” in 1986, was fantastic with layers of sound building songs that defied classification. Gothic? New Wave? Who the Hell knew? There was no debate about one thing: it was (and is) a compelling, powerful album.

Then, of course, in keeping with the tradition established by so many great UK bands before them, they broke up. Oh yeah, and they did at the HEIGHT of their creative powers. Brilliant!

Through the years, there has been a steady trickle of post-Chameleons music from various ex-Chameleons in various projects, most notably Mark Burgess’ involvement in The Sun and the Moon. That was good; some of it was pedestrian. None of it had that Chameleon feel, though bands as diverse as Radiohead, Smashing Pumpkins, Interpol, and Editors (to name just a few) have taken a part of the Chameleons sound for their own.

That extent of it is until now. I stumbled onto a band by the name of Black Swan Lane whilst Googling Mark Burgess one night last week. Hot damn, this is what I have been waiting the 24 years since the release of “Strange Times” to hear.

Consisting of a core featuring Mark Burgess (former Chameleons/the Sun and the Moon), Jack Sobel and John Kolbeck (both of the Messengers), Andy Whitaker, Andy Clegg, Jimmy Oakes, and Kwasi Asante, Black Swan Lane have three albums out; the one I happened upon is titled “The Sun and the Moon Sessions” and it rocks.

The opening track, “Lie Still”, is very light and airy with the rhythm section doing a solid job of letting the layered acoustic/electric guitar tracks soar as Burgess’ vocal drifts on by. It is unhurried, a great driving song.

Then there is “The Sleep”, a mid-album track that has a country swing pace and fittingly dreamy lyrics. “An Individual Mind” shows Burgess’ ability to construct a line is as strong as ever. “The Rest of Everything” starts with some violin and other strings, leading to a signature Burgess vocal, layers of a baritone almost-drone with some vocal samples dropped in back and forth. They give the song the feel of there being a TV on in the background, the sound Pink Floyd had on some of their work on “The Wall”.

“Dead”, “Don’t Know Where You’re Going”, “Last Seconds” . . .  there is not a bad track on the album. Chameleons’ fans may miss the ringing guitars of “Mad Jack” or the thunder of “Swamp Thing”, but nearly a quarter of a century since the triumph of “Strange Times”, Mark Burgess shows he still has some damned fine music left in his future.

Look for Black Swan Lane on any of the usual suspect sites – Facebook, MySpace, etc. – as well as last.fm and their own site at www.blackswanlane.com.

Another one I would like to mention this week is The Tragically Hip’s “We Are The Same” from 2009. Canadian smart rock/pop doesn’t receive much exposure down here and it took a while for me to hear any of this one. Yeah, I hear you – excuses, excuses . . .

It is a good album, though there is a tendency to get a bit TOO droning as the album progresses. If you are a fan of the band, chances are you will like it. If not, it is worth having for the song “Coffee Girl”. I haven’t found any information on its release as a single, so it may take owning the album or hitting up iTunes. Hell, I don’t know. I just know that “Coffee Girl” has been stuck in my head for a week and I am still digging it. That is quite the trick.

Get some Nitzer Ebb in your rotation. Next week I might riff on their newest joint, “Industrial Complex”.

Why don’t they make swings for adults like they make for babies? Dan looks happy as can be right now.

Later taters.

There is nothing in the world like your infant child shooting through two clothing sizes in one week … well, except maybe catching that video of the building floating down I-24. What the Hell? Nashville doesn’t surf.

Anyway, this week is just a hodgepodge of stuff lodged in my head, mental fluff in my brain’s lint filter …

In less than forty days, Riverbend will be upon us once again. Now, before anyone gets ready for my standard reaming of the Festival as in years past, let me stop you for a second …

My on-again, off-again tiff with the Festival is well known and well documented, with various screeds – verbal and written – being fired off by me over the years. Some of the time, they concerned what I think are STILL real issues: the Festival’s lack of transparency concerning payroll/finances/etc.; the impact of Riverbend on businesses in downtown Chattanooga (not all thrive during the nine days of the Festival); the seeming disregard for public opinion/input about a “wish list” for future acts, especially earlier in Riverbend’s existence; and one that this publication experienced firsthand – hypersensitivity to any criticism, evenhanded or malicious. These are real issues that still plague at least a sizeable portion of the public, tinting their perception of Riverbend in unfavorable ways.

In the interest in clearing the air and starting some kind of dialogue about all of that, Jeff Styles invited me (among others but, hey, they didn’t show) on to “Fred the Show” a couple of years back to talk about it. Jeff and I sat down for about an hour and actually had a good give and take about my, and Chattanooga’s, weird ambivalence about Riverbend. Jeff was a great host; many topics were discussed and addressed; and, at the end of the segment, I think we both thought it had made for some good radio. I’d love to do it again, Jefe.

Anyway, in the interest of full disclosure, I must confess that there have been acts/bands over the years that I have either a) borrowed a pin to go see or b) bluffed like Hell and walked/snuck right in like I belonged there, pin be damned. Sorry y’all but those times were in the couple of years when twenty-something bucks was my operating budget for the week.

The acts I took pains to see killed. Shawn Colvin was an absolute revelation. I remember standing around one year, waiting to get Uncle Lightning on stage, and looking over to my left. On whatever stage that was, Blue Oyster Cult was rocking out on their set, tearing it up like it was ’76 all over again. They were consummate pros; you got the feeling that the intensity would have been the same in front of a full house at Madison Square Garden. I was annoyed by some BS a volunteer had been laying on me and the stone groove coming from BOC cleared that negative vibe shite right up. I strode around the rest of the day, humming “Burning for You” with a serious perma-grin.

The semi-point of THIS screed is this: when I have had my socks rocked off, it has usually occurred at one of the side stages with one of the non-headliners ripping up the joint. You, me, and damn near everyone with electricity in the Tri-State area know who is headlining for 2010 and everyone has probably made some decision about whom they are going to go and see. Fine by me. Just allow me to hep you to a few acts that you should meander off and see.

Very quick, here’s a shortlist of under-the-radar stuff to see:

Carmine Appice’s SLAMM!! - kind of like “Stomp” but with a legendary rock drummer running the show

6 Stools 6 Strings – Webb Wilder and five other singer/songwriters lay it down. Two words: Webb Wilder. ‘Nuff said.

Grace Potter and the Nocturnals – preternatural female vocalist backed by a shit-hot band

and, just for old times’ sake,

Uriah Freaking Heep - probably not side stage but probably written off by many; consider it my adventure pick (may kill/may suck)

There are a few more – Janiva Magness, the Whigs (!!!!!) – that are must-sees but time is short and my son needs changing, so let’s call it a wrap, shall we?

Anyway, where the Hell did spring go? It went from late winter, then straight to mid-80s for the high with periodic monsoon craziness.

Stay dry and stay out of trouble. If you can spare the time or a dime, donate it to help Nashville. That lot has had a rough week.

Happy birthday, Deedo. Love you always.

Later taters.

Hope y’all have been staying out of trouble. Acting the fool and making the police blotter is something done better by somebody else, feel me?

Good Lord, I have stumbled onto a flat-out great album this week, one that even the mainstream music media (usually only suitable for emergency toilet paper) has been bowled over by.

Scotland’s Frightened Rabbit’s latest release, “The Winter of Mixed Drinks”, is phenomenal. Layered with great guitar work and pretty harmonies, the sonic tone perfectly compliments the lyrical content. “The Winter of Mixed Drinks” finds Scott Hutchison (lead writer and vocalist/rhythm guitarist), on one hand, isolated, tired, and lonely. The solitude is universal, extending into everyday mundane events as well as his romantic life. Lines such as “This is your story/and you’re not in it …” speak of loneliness, not only solitude.

There is also a feeling of being lost, all the time driven by an urgency that is visceral. It is not hard to see why they took SXSW by storm this year …

The aural picture that is “The Winter of Mixed Drinks” is a complex one that begs listening to in depth, for the initial reaction is to see a soundscape of hurt, disappointment, and self-loathing – the emotional moonscape trifecta. That perception is correct but only sees the surface of this work; there is an entire other story lurking just below.

Beneath all the daily insults and emotional pains that have driven Scott Hutchison to write lines like “Lead me, I’m stupid from a lesson learned”, there is an optimism that is never openly declared, only hinted at. “I’m not miserable now/no one knows” epitomizes the slow, steady climb of Frightened Rabbit out of the darkness that consumed and, in all fairness, propelled their last effort, “The Midnight Organ Fight”, to greatness. The story cycle here that documents their progress towards a better tomorrow, unbowed despite all wounds they have absorbed (self-inflicted or not), is incredibly honest and brutally open. Scott Hutchison lays out more soul on “The Winter of Mixed Drinks” than all the artists currently on the R&B/Urban charts combined.

The second song on the album, “Swim Until You Can’t See Land”, is a spot-on joyous ode to leaving it all behind. “Swim until you can’t see land/are you a man or a bag of sand” states the doubt driving the writer literally into the water, but instead of drowning in the water, he declares “Let’s call me a Baptist/call this the drowning of the past’. A wall of harmony, layered vocals, and handclaps accompanies this self-divorce from what the Band referred to as “the Weight”… the sense of release and relief is tangible and wonderful.

“The Loneliness and the Scream” is a post-modern shamanistic chant, thrumming guitar and handclaps push/pull this exorcism of Hutchison’s psyche. Of all the great songs present on this album, this CANNOT be missed. It is vital music.

Frightened Rabbit have scaled the heights with “The Winter of Mixed Drinks”. Their rough-edged, scruffy charm runs through these songs like a live current, providing a spark that does not wane, and their honesty grounds the whole thing, keeping it … I don’t know –real, I guess. All I know is that there are no Bono or Michael Stipe “Let’s all save the world” moments here. Not that those artists’ sentiments aren’t noble, but this band’s story cycle of a man trying to save himself, hanging on by his fingernails is better. Period.

Listening to this album is akin to having a talk with your best mate when he is a little drunk, a little sad, and needs an ear. By the end of the evening, he has sloughed off the shite of another day and is ready for a nightcap, bed, and another go at it in the morning. Frightened Rabbit has taken the measure of a bad stretch of life and turned it into one of the most satisfyingly intimate albums of 2010. This is damned fine music. Get it now and do not tarry on your way, Dear Readers.

Wow, I feel like I’m floating as I listen to this again. Splendid …

Y’all be good. If you stay outta trouble, maybe we will talk some Riverbend next week. I have no axe to grind here – serious talk - just looking at the peripheral artists and seeing what you NEED to go hear.

Later taters.

This week has been interesting the way the bad guys in Charlie Chan movies used to use that word. You know what I mean. Interesting, my ass …

Anyway, the Drive-By Truckers cancelled their April 29 gig at Rhythm and Brews, which I hope is NOT related to their album, “The Big To-Do”, debuting at Number 22 on the Billboard Top 200. I mean c’mon, when you start to forget the places that booked y’all and the people that came to see y’all play, you are skating on some seriously thin ego ice. I’m not saying that that is what is going on, I’m just saying …

Whatever. Their cancellation allowed Hudson K to schedule a show in that slot and not just ANY show. This gig on April 29 will be their CD release show for “Shine”, Hudson K’s latest release. Let me tell y’all now, you NEED to have your asses there on April 29 ‘cause this new joint of theirs is very, very good.

Hudson K came to me from Parts Unknown, seemingly the place where all the good music I am reviewing lately resides. Hudson K consists of classically trained and educated (Masters in Classical Piano) Christina Horn, Nate Barrett, and Jeff Christmas. All are multi-talented and, on “Shine”, it shows.

“Shine” is what Portishead might do if only they didn’t have their collective heads buried so firmly in their collective arses in some myopic depression dimension. The title track starts with some keyboard/percussion/bass bossa nova vibe that just smokes. Ms. Horn’s vocals are wonderfully expressive. As she states in the song, “I am an actress/I rehearse my lines”. With the tempo changes, rock heaven harmonies, and horns (?), the title track summons the vibes of Tom Waits, the aforementioned Portishead, and a nice dash of Howling Bells. It is simply marvelous.

“Fade” has some smoking piano lines joined with some choice guitar licks. The vocals float and crash in and out of the melody and, as the song winds down, all I could think of were some of the 60s/ 70s classic fadeouts.  Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain” and Mott the Hoople’s “All the Way from Memphis”, and the Monkee’s “Pleasant Valley Sunday” popped to mind immediately …

“Prayer for Love” is tres cool, with flute, skiffle percussion and some great – what? – piano. Muted trumpet haunts the break and flute notes drop like rain throughout. This song begs for some blank verse praise but all I could manage was slack-jawed awe.

The very opening of “I Could Learn A Lot”, the album’s fourth track, is “The Exorcist” and Mike Oldfield’s stone freak of a soundtrack re-envisioned in all of about eight seconds before the tune goes about setting another seriously COOL vibe. Dude, I had to sit back and groove on this, the best recommendation I can give.

The next tune, “Champion”, is the beautifully stark, emotionally bare tune that all the female songstresses of late have been climbing all over one another to come up with. This should be all over college radio, satellite radio and the sound systems of anyone with any taste. Damn, damn, DAMN! Where has this bunch been? Not since Jim Cheney/Jimmy Duke and the Riot has someone local/regional hit me like this.

A quick side note – All the above may be wrong. I may have encountered some local/regional act(s) that twisted my knobs but Red and me have an infant son, so my memory is worse than ever with helping take care of the Dali Lama. It is wearing my old ass out, and … I would not trade it for the world. Hey, Red and Dan, I love y’all.

Whatever the case may be, Hudson K is the real deal, a band with influences galore but a sound that is their own, a rare quality in this day of the doppelgangers haunting the charts and airwaves. “Shine” is regional act Radiohead, brilliance with a ten-buck cover. Hudson K has knocked one out of the park with this one; I could go into more track-by-track break down but why? I mean, how many ways can you say this fantastic, anyway.

Don’t let the piano scare y’all; this bunch kicks it. April 29 at Rhythm and Brews – be there or be square. While you are there, buy the album. You need it like a hog needs slop.

Y’all be good. I’m going to go and kiss on my boy.

Later taters.

There’s no point in beating around the bush this week. Paul Weller, the Modfather from whom all musical blessings flow, has a new album out. That is enough to get my blood stirring and it ought kick-start your ass as well.

“Wake Up The Nation” is the newest Paul Weller release, his first since 2008’s brilliant “22 Dreams”, and it continues in the “22 Dreams” vein of experimentation that rejuvenated Weller’s sound completely the last time around. Produced by and co-written with Simon Dine (Noonday Underground), this album is solid from front to back and it has added bonus mega-goodness: Bruce Foxton on two tracks. “Wake Up The Nation” marks the first time that Paul Weller and Bruce Foxton have worked together since the Jam split in 1982. The pair went decades without speaking afterwards. Recently, Weller said that the passing of his father and the death of Foxton’s wife in 2009 brought about a thaw in their relationship and led to Foxton’s working on the album. That it took events of that magnitude to heal the break in their friendship is terrible; that those events led to their reunion, both personally and musically, is wonderful.

The opening track, “Moonshine”, has a slightly psychedelic feel, which is fitting with Bev Bevan (The Move, ELO) sitting in on the drum kit. The piano and guitars take turns going off into ozone, with Weller’s vocals coming incredibly easy and edgy; this is some of his best ROCK vocalizing since “From The Floorboards Up”.

The title track follows and has the driving pace of “Moonshine”, via one Bruce Foxton on bass, without the freak-out sonic effects. Weller said “It’s about how technology brings advantages but it also de-personalizes things” and I think that sums it up as well as I could. Think of it as an older, wiser “Eton Rifles” filtered through some 70s funk and you’ve got it.

Foxton is still razor-sharp …

Anyway … Clem Cattini lives! The third track, “No Tears Left To Cry”, features the drumming of one Clem Cattini, 72 years old and still rocking. Clem Cattini, for those of y’all that do not know, has played drums on 44 UK Number Ones. He also was on Jimmy Page’s shortlist of drummers for Led Zeppelin. Here, he recreates the 60s soul sound perfectly as Weller nails this one pitch perfect. If you heard this on an AM radio, you would swear it was some unknown nugget from ’67 or so.

The fourth track is “Fast Car/Slow Traffic”, all guitar effects with more spot-on drumming and more Bruce Foxton on bass. Foxton’s bass work is the anchor in a maelstrom of a song that clocks in at a mere two minutes and one second. This cooks with gas.

You know the piano on “Fast Car/Slow Traffic” sounds a lot like the break in Big Audio Dynamite II’s “The Globe”. That is not particularly exciting but I thought I would throw that out there …

The next track, “Grasp And Still Connect”, recalls the weird almost-country shuffle of some of the Kinks’ finest songs but with a strange (brilliant?) chorus. Clocking in at a mere two minutes and twenty seconds, it maintains the pace Weller has set nicely. Some of the songs on this album seem to be over before you can even start to get your head around them. Now, that might irritate some but I dig it. There is never a dull moment and the songs, sixteen in all, just keep coming.

“She Speaks” is a cool organ riff/drum loop/guitar freak-out based on a poem Weller wrote roughly a year back. The sonic textures alone make it worth repeat listening.

“Find The Torch Burn The Plans” is musically a Wall of Sound song, Paul Weller-style, with Weller’s daughter providing some backing vocals. The lyrics are a call to arms against the Establishment and the political scene in England. Some thing never change do they, Paul? Well, thank God they haven’t … 

“Aim High” find Steve Pilgrim (formerly of The Stands and others) on drums laying down a smooth groove as Weller taps back into that 60s groove thang again. This track may be the best on the album.

The tracks keep rocking right on to the end, especially “Trees” and the instrumental “Whatever Next”, which are major triumphs. Dig it all – there isn’t a bad song in the lot. With guests like Little Barrie and Kevin Shields (My Bloody Valentine) as well as the aforementioned luminaries, Weller has an All-Star crew for this particular journey to the center of his mind. Warp eight, my ass. Try warp eighty-eight.

This is on this year’s short list, and not just because I would listen to Paul Weller record armpit farts. It is on the short list because here is a 51-year old rock god who could’ve continued releasing “Paul Weller”-sounding albums from now ‘til doomsday, selling very respectably in the UK, touring, making the TV rounds, etc. and raking in the moolah hand over fist. Instead, Paul Weller took the challenge of stretching his musical boundaries and horizons AGAIN - The Jam to The Style Council to Paul Weller Mk. I to the Great British Treasure during the Britpop era to the Modfather he is now – and he has triumphed again. The only fault “Wake Up The Nation” might have is its brevity, but I choose to see it as a musical roller coaster: it doesn’t last as long as you might like but you’re hanging on for dear life while it’s going.

Get it yesterday.

I swear I saw the mailman melt the other day. It’s April, for God’s sake …

Later taters.

We have the cutest kid in the world. In my never humble opinion, sitting and watching him sleep beats just about anything …

Anyway, that’s enough of the happy crappy. I sit here typing this on April 5, a terrible date in rock history. Kurt Cobain, overwhelmed by addiction, chronic pain, fame . . . Hell, pretty much the life as the face of grunge, committed suicide via shotgun on this date in 1994.

Now, I have a rather twisted take on life and an even more morbid sense of humor. My first two thoughts when I heard this news were 1) Damn, he MEANT it; shotguns are NOT just an attempt to gain sympathy or attention and 2) if I was married to Courtney Love, somewhere in the middle of that particular Hell, an action such as a self-inflicted gunshot wound might somehow make sense. Sorry. In 1994, Mr. Empathy I was not.

It was all screwed up – Kurt Loder almost crying on MTV News; legions of fans mourning in a park in Seattle Center with Novoselic and Love’s pre-recorded spoken bits, then Love reading from Cobain’s suicide note; the instant appearance of the commerce of death a la Jim Morrison … calling it a goat rope would have been being generous.

It was a very strange and dividing event of life in the 90s. You were either one of those people whose life was shaped and defined by that sad shite or you just weren’t. Hell, I watched the media circus with a curiosity akin to a child staring at a train wreck. I didn’t feel flattened by the news simply because I THOUGHT THERE WERE BETTER BANDS OUT OF THAT SCENE. I will let that heresy sink in for a sec …

Truthfully, on any given day, I thought Soundgarden and Alice In Chains kicked Nirvana’s ass up one side and down the other. Nirvana had some good songs but Good Lord, y’all, Soundgarden’s Chris Cornell and Alice In Chains’ Layne Staley weren’t vocalists - they were forces of nature.

Soundgarden was hard as nails, all killer riffs and sonic assault and battery, but Alice In Chains absolutely fascinated me. The songs were dark and melodic (hello Ritchie Blackmore) and the vocals were unreal, Layne Staley and Jerry Cantrell harmonizing on tones only dogs normally hear. The vibe they brought to the table was HEAVY, a density of sound that most “heavy” metal bands only wish they could approach.

Their timing couldn’t have been much better, either. The 90s were the last gasps of MTV as a channel that actually played music videos and Alice In Chains worked the medium perfectly. “We Die Young”, “Man In The Box”, “Them Bones” … the list of high-impact videos from AIC was substantial. Some such as “Man In The Box”, “Would”, and “Rooster” went on to become iconic of that time and that sound, snapshots of a moment in music gone too soon.

Nirvana and Alice In Chains both soared to the top and then saw it all fall away with lead singers in a duel to the death with arm dope. Cobain chose a quicker and much more abrupt end, while Staley wasted away, a day, a month, a year at a time.

Damn it all to Hell. I sit here, type this, and feel the anger just beneath the surface start to bubble up, but it dies out, replaced by sadness and a sense of loss. As much as Kurt Cobain never hit me like so many of my peers, he still had a strong impact on my perception of music and Layne Staley flat-out pinned my ears back. His howl was otherworldly and haunted …

In retrospect, that last statement touches on what bothers me so badly about these two – they were NOT of this earth in any solid sense AND I knew they were doomed for it, from the first time I saw them. The only question was how much music would be put out before their time was up. To the credit of both men, their impact on the music that has come along since their deaths, even with such abbreviated catalogues, is tremendous and continues to this day. Because I love great music and there is so little of it and I am human and thus at times petty and selfish, their deaths piss me off as very few things do. Why? Because the fact of it manages to cut through the hardened psychic dermis and HURT, and I thought I was too cynical and jaded for that garbage. Good Lord …

Sit down with a few albums from these two and give ‘em a spin. You might remember how damned awesome it all was before the wheels came off.

Later taters.

Well, spring evidently is in a damned hurry to be summer. The weather is completely psycho: today’s high – 62; tomorrow’s – 78; next week 500 in the shade. The meteorologists around here have to have a serious habit of some type – arm dope; corn liquor; autoerotic . . . you get the idea. It would have to take something hard and wrong to take the edge off trying to predict the weather here.

Anyway, here is my website tip of the week: Google “new wave outpost” and go waste a day or two discussing Furniture or Heaven 17 with like-minded, knowledgeable geeks like, well, me, for one. It really has a lot to offer (and, NO, this isn’t a paid endorsement) with general discussions, a “help me identify this” section, a marketplace to buy/sell that Orange Juice 7-inch you’ve been dying to get, etc. There’s not much that’s NOT covered there and it is all free. Check it out.

This week has me listening to a band I have never heard nor heard of before, The School. Hailing from Cardiff, Wales, the School’s debut album, “Loveless Unbeliever”, is a revelation. Northern Soul beats with some 70s pop string sweetening mixed with girl-group harmonies and piano, dusted with early-Chicago horns and (I swear) a triangle would be about as precise a description of their sound as I could render for y’all.

Liz Hunt fronts this rather eclectic bunch with pitch-perfect 60s girl band vocals, with style that pays homage to rather than crudely imitates her inspirations. Her voice is nigh impossible to get too much of, which also has a lot to do with the songs. It has been quite a while since I have heard one pop gem after another like this album has.

It starts with “Let It Slip”, which is a bit more guitar-based than the rest of the album and is a flat-out rave-up. Trumpets, tambourines, girl-group harmonies, handclaps . . . this one has it all. “Your first was a masterpiece/your second was genius … “Good Lord, now THOSE are lyrics. Even a curmudgeon such as me could not resist frenetic foot tapping. This song is infectious beyond repair.

“Is He Really Coming Home?” follows, all Northern Soul thump with airy choruses straight out of ’67 or so. Next up is “Valentine”, a quick pop masterpiece displaying Ms. Hunt’s piano and vocals to great effect.

Want You Back” has to be a cover of some lost pop classic, only it isn’t. That’s how good this one is. You’ll be humming the melody by the fifth or sixth bar and singing along to the chorus by the end of the tune. Bet.

“Is It True?” has a Supremes feel and “I Love Everything” unwinds slower and a little trippier than the preceding tunes on the album. Not to fear, “Can’t Understand” comes along and ups the pace perfectly.

The twangy guitar; the metronome drumming with mucho tambourine; the horns . . . did this bunch go into some kind of suspended animation at the Brill Building, say, 1966-67? I mean it – this is no crude, one-joke pony band; the School is the real deal, the same way the Cardigans were when you first heard “Lovefool”. C’mon, ‘fess up – you were sitting there, shaking your head and saying to yourself and anyone that would listen that they COULDN’T be real, they had to be a gag. Well, guess again, chief …

People, if it’s going to be 100 in the shade in April, which looks to be highly possible, THIS is what needs to be pumping as you cruise around catching rays. How the Hell a bunch from Cardiff made the perfect 60s American pop album, I will never know … but they did and you need it. Get. It. Now.

Use some sunblock, y’all. Melanoma’s a bitch.

Later taters.

Composing a column around the sounds of an upset child is intriguing, to say the least.

Anyway, here is a thought that ran through my addled mind the other day: I am not the demographic that most bands today are aiming for when they release and market new product. I am utterly fine with that fact; being 42 years old, my days of having my finger on the pulse of anything are probably gone for good, and I would rather root around to find obscure and weird stuff anyway. Screw ‘em.

However, I DO like to keep my eyes and ears open for all the hype for the Next Great Act That Will Save Rock from Itself or transmute lead into gold or some other such nonsense. That kind of babbleage is too much fun not to keep track of, a series of train wrecks that you see coming a mile off, so you have plenty of time to get the popcorn and a good vantage point to watch it all come crashing to a halt.

There have been bands over the past decade or so that were supposed to change the dynamic of rock for the better – The Strokes; Coldplay; Radiohead; Queens of the Stone Age; etc. They instead provided a brief glimpse of hope through their own brilliance while the rest of the rock audience gravitated toward such piddling nobodies as Daughtry, the All-American Rejects, and Nickelback. The dynamic of rock product did not change one whit, regardless of all the hype those various bands managed to garner, and that is a goddamned shame.

What those bands did and do have is talent. Radiohead has stood rock music as such on its ear. Coldplay keeps reinventing the piano-driven, nice guy rock vibe. Queens of the Stone Age are damned good and impossible to categorize. In addition, the Strokes had it all, if only for the first album.

That whole screed is merely a prelude to something I have realized, in spite of all the music press hype from both sides of the pond – MGMT suck. Utterly suck. When did inhalants become the drug of choice for music critics worldwide? That has to be the only possible explanation for the silliness that otherwise credible rock magazines have been publishing about this bunch of noise clowns.

It is one thing to take noise and conventional music and blend the two into something exciting and good. Bands such as Cop Shoot Cop, Negativland, Einstürzende Neubauten, and the like have all made incredible music over the years that could in no way be defined as traditional rock music. It was/is innovative, difficult, and enthralling music.

MGMT, however, remind me of snotty ten-year old kids screwing around with the demo keyboard at some music store located in the tenth ring of Hell (recently created according to the Onion). Their songs are meandering, half-finished, “Oh, we are SO precious” musical bullshit. Many critics the world over are going to have top answer for the crap they have written about this band but, by God, I will not be one of them.

MGMT’s latest release, “Congratulations”, is inane and the title must be some inside joke they laugh at, having sold their “brilliance” to the music press everywhere. Well, screw that and screw them. This is horrible music for gullible people. Do not be one of those sheep. Do not get this now or ever. It is garbage that, if you are not careful, you might convince yourself that you like for a couple of months. Then, one day when you really need those twenty dollars for a half-case and some pork rinds, you will wish you had heeded this warning. Do not be THAT person. Just do not …

Sorry, I should have balanced this screed with mention of something good but the MGMT shite has to be stopped now, before anyone else is contaminated. Cutesy shit bands deserve the boot and nothing less.

There will be more and better next week. She and Him have their second album coming out and I just landed an album by a bunch by the name of I Can Make A Mess Like Nobody’s Business. With a name like that, I HAVE to hear that album. Count on those two being on next week’s menu.

I should have laid something on y’all about them this time, but the world of suck that is MGMT burned away the capacity for further music criticism at this point. I had to put down the headphones and finish this savagery in silence.

Whatever. Now that we have all had our negativity for the week, get out and catch some rays. This weather is kickin’ ass.

Later taters.

As this Dad gig continues to be more amazing every day …

Anyway, I will not veer off into new Dad stories; this is a music column and, by God, we are going to act like one.

It is always a great day, in whatever Year of Our Lord the calendar says it is, when a NEW Drive-By Truckers album hits the shelves or iTunes or whatever. This lot is one of the very few acts in the past ten years or so that has not disappointed. One of the fan groups on Facebook states their position very succinctly – “Drive-By Truckers – Best Damn Band Ever”. I do not know if I would go that far but on any given day, they are in my top three.

The Drive-By Truckers newest effort, “The Big To-Do”, is due to drop on March 16 (my brother’s birthday –happy birthday, Joe) and it rocks hard, maybe harder in a “turn up the damn amps” way than anything since “Southern Rock Opera”. I know, I know – I have spoken favorably of all their releases since “Southern Rock Opera”, with “Brighter than Creation’s Dark” being an especial favorite of mine.

The difference between those albums and “The Big To-Do” is “The Big To-Do” has a noticeably almost angry edge of a wide scope. “The Big To-Do” marks the return of the sense that everything, everything is FUBAR and the only thing to do is to document the wreckage, to Hell with even trying to pick up the pieces.

The tunes here, whether of an introspective bend such as Shonna Tucker’s “You Got Another” or a rollicking, dark rave-up like Mike Cooley’s “Birthday Boy” or Patterson Hood’s eerie “Drag the Lake Charlie ”, all mark the return to the sense of “Us” that permeates the Truckers’ finest work.

Note that this is not the “Us” in the sense of Pink Floyd’s masterful “Us and Them”. It is the dispossessed “Us” that watched most of the heavy industry in the U.S. either collapse or leave. It is the “Us” that watched the textile industry in the South become extinct. It is the “Us” that watched the American Dream turn out the lights, pack its shite, and leave in the middle of the night, headed for Parts Unknown. The down and out, the barely hanging on, the blue collar, the no collar – these demographics, among others, are the “Us” whose lives the Truckers have been documenting so well for so long. It is no wonder that the Truckers have developed such an incredibly loyal fan base – they tour constantly, playing cities and towns that know the dark themes the Truckers mine all too well to a bunch of fans who absolutely love them for writing songs about people like them … Hell, about THEM.

The secret, twisted bedroom antics of small-town America that Stephen King touched on so brilliantly in his early novels is represented here in the wonderfully weird “The Wig He Made Her Wear”. The grind of a 40-plus hour week at a job you hate is tangible on the killer “This Fucking Job”, which is followed and contrasted perfectly by “”Get Downtown”, where a man has lost his job, his woman, and who know what the Hell else in the process.  It is as if Larry Brown’s stories were set to music and not limited to Mississippi and its adjoining regions.

“The Big To-Do” has some of the Truckers’ finest guitar work since “The Dirty South”. From the loud, ringing full-on sound of “After the Scene Dies” (which could have been one of those lame-ass ‘life on the road is sooooo hard’ pieces of crap but is not) to the electric acoustic of “ Santa Fe ”, there is not a false note to be heard. This album is such a treat on so many levels – arrangements; performances; the further development of Shonna Tucker as a songwriter of considerable ability; the songwriting in general. The twenty-five years of Hood and Cooley’s strange, wonderful partnership has produced some monumental works and “The Big To-Do” stands toe-to-toe with any of them. It is worth whatever they want for it. I have enjoyed many albums so far this year but this one is a strong contender for my best for 2010. Get it now and play it until I tell you different.

Unless, of course, you do not grok the Drive-By Truckers. Then, I suppose you could go get the new Jonas Brothers album or do something equally appealing, such as watching cars rust at the junkyard.

Oh yeah, sorry about switching "BRMC" and "BMRC" around every other sentence last week. I could claim sleep deprivation, but that would be wrong ...

Later taters.

Okay people, I am back, sleep deprivation be damned. Enough ham-and-egger, half-assed shite – let there be rock. Indeed ...

This week marks the release of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s “Beat the Devil’s Tattoo”, the first full-length release on the band’s own Abstract Dragon label. It is their first proper album since 2007’s excellent “Baby 81”, which I played for and at people for weeks on end. “Berlin” was my song of that year, blasting out of every piece of audio equipment I owned.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club bears a great many scars heading into the new decade. The Noughties saw BMRC (as the band shall be referred to from here forward lest my fingers commit seppuku) get a lot of free publicity, first for being hailed as some kind of musical savior for the 2000s. They were stuck with the “Next Great Thing” tag, much like the Knack twenty years before them. In addition, again like the Knack, when they did not reinvent the wheel with their music, the critics crucified them.

It did not help that most of the publicity they did receive after the “Next Great Thing” disappointment/backlash was all of the wrong kind, with the focus being on the prolonged departure/return/final departure of original drummer Nick Jago. It was better melodrama than most soap operas, though not “One Life to Live”, which kicks much ass.

Anyway, back to the critics. What a bunch of officious pricks. “B.M.R.C,”, the self-titled first album, may not have been the Second Coming of (insert your favorite band here) but it was a breath of fresh air in a year, 2001, that saw ‘N Sync and that particular horror, “Now That’s What I Call Music”, ruling the charts. Armed with psychedelic grooves a la the Verve and the swagger and riffs of Led Zeppelin, BRMC cranked out another album in the same vein, “Take Them On, On Your Own” in 2003. The album received a tepid reception, with most criticism pointing towards the album’s rushed, incomplete sound.

Then, the problems between Nick Jago and the band started to surface, beginning at the 2003 NME Awards when Spaceman Nick stood mute on stage for nine minutes whilst accepting the Best New Band award.

We could drift off into all types of BS minutiae at this point, Dear Readers, but we will not. Nick Jago was on the outside looking in, having been replaced by Leah Shapiro formerly of the Raveonettes when BMRC pulled a game change with their ass-kicking 2005 release, “Howl”. “Ain’t No Easy Way” was THE song that year on WAWL, back when it was a real radio station and I could pick it up out at Moccasin Bend. The critics had no choice but to back up seven yards and punt, because “Howl” was the real deal, a stripped-down distillation of BMRC that captured your attention immediately.

“Baby 81” (with the reappearance of Jago) and “The Effects of 333” (with his subsequent dismissal – AGAIN) followed, with “Berlin” from “Baby 81” easily being the best track on the two albums.

BRMC headed into recording “Beat the Devil’s Tattoo” knowing that they needed to hit a home run to avoid becoming another Drivin’ n’ Cryin’, a band that came THAT close to being the Next Big Thing and instead was shuffled into a perma-niche of critical favor (since they did not sell enough to not be cool) and semi-notoriety (but they sold enough to still be heard). That may sound harsh but the music business, which Hunter S. Thompson called “…a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs…”, operates with all the sentimentality and nostalgia of a pissed-off loan shark.

Let me be perfectly clear - this album is not a home run. “Shadow’s Keeper” and “Long Way Down” drag down the intensity for no clear purpose towards the album’s end. Then, the band redeems itself with the closing track, “Half State”, a near ten and a half minute psycho-groove fest that is worth the purchase price in and of itself.

Let us call this one a stand-up triple. Songs such as “Conscience Killer”, “War Machine”, and “Aya” (where Shapiro’s drumming invokes one John Bonham heavily) stomp the aural landscape like Greek Titans let loose within your mind. Until the aforementioned left turn at Albuquerque, BMRC does not let up, delivering one great tune after another. Peter Hayes, Robert Levon Been and Leah Shapiro should be proud of their effort on this album. Once again, as the critics were ready to consign them to have been/never were status, BMRC pulls a bootlegger reverse and rams one home where it hurts and, then, proceeds to break it off.

This is a damned good album that would be made a great album by the judicious removal of two to three tunes, but that is some fine parsing. Let us accept “Beat the Devil’s Tattoo” for what it is, a statement of purpose from a band refusing to die, much less go gently.

Get.This.Now.

Our baby boy Dan gained a pound this past week and my Dad is being posthumously inducted into the Old Timers Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Tennessee. Not a bad week overall…

Later taters.

Sometimes as I meander through this life, I hear bands that I should mention and forget to do so or else I erroneously think that I have already mentioned them. I also manage to miss other acts that fly under my radar, for months if not years, the Beautiful South being a prime example. I make no apologies for this. After all, I sat years ago with Dave Brown and we decided that we could quit listening to anything new at that exact moment and still never live long enough to go back in the music time stream and hear everything we wanted to hear.

Therefore, when I do realize that I have omitted mentioning a worthy act or acts, I do my best to rectify that situation immediately. Here are a few that I have been bending my friends’ ears about but have somehow not made it to this space.

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes’ “Up From Below” came out in 2009 and smoked Australia ’s Triple J Top 100 Countdown for 2009, landing at the Number 15 spot with their ingle, “Home”. It may be the freakiest, catchiest song to hit my brainpan since Soho’s “Hippy Chick”, with Alex Ebert (late of the band Ima Robot) and Jade Castrinos trading vocals backed by some truly hip instrumentation, with really cool brass laid over some nice guitar and percussion work. Check out YouTube for their performance on Letterman last year; it rocks.

Yeah, I know – 2009. So what? I have not found Letterman funny since he left NBC and Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes have become more relevant as of late, what with their impending appearance at this year’s Bonnaroo festival. It will rock, just as the album does. Get it. Truly weird, cool rock does not come around very often ….

Another one I punted was the Gaslight Anthem and their masterpiece, “The ‘59 Sound”. Hailing from New Brunswick , New Jersey , this lot wears its love of the Boss on its sleeve and they wear it WELL. This one came out in 2008 but, Hell, I have slept since then, so I lost track of them along the way. The album is the goods, with the title track threatening to strip the paint off the walls.

Once again, my forgetfulness has paid unforeseen benefits as The Gaslight Anthem is also on this year’s Bonnaroo line-up. Consider my screw-up your heads up to grok these guys now and then let them flip your wig in Manchester this year.

Another good one I skipped was the Maccabees’ 2009 release, “Colour It In”. They released the single “No Kind Words” as a free download, a dark masterpiece that evokes Joy Division and Furniture in equal parts, darkly lyrical and fascinating. I stumbled upon this gem by total chance and have not taken it out of rotation yet here at the Fortress with Red and Deacon Dan.

See what I meant about never being able to even catch up? This Rather Cold Year of Our Lord rolls right along but I HAVE to get y’all hip to these acts, for they kick much ass and rock hard and that is all I ask.

Ace Frehley’s cover of Jeff Lynne’s “Do Ya” is impossible to resist. It is another must-have.

The English Beat is one of the greatest bands ever, essential for real music snobs and wannabes. Their music is timeless and they spawned two killer bands when they split, General Public and Fine Young Cannibals. Recently, I have discovered yet another cool tidbit about the English Beat – they may very well be the best music ever to change diapers by. Take heed,

Man, I hate to keep these screeds as short as I have as of late. I owe y’all more, better, and it is coming. I just got Red and Dan home and have been soaking up all the New Dad goodness I can. Red and I got Dan’s domain set up and squared away and it damn near killed us both. This week’s babbleage is going to be brief but NEXT WEEK count on some serious ranting about something NEW that has caught my fancy. Bet.

Man, spring cannot get here soon enough.

Y’all stay out of trouble. You cannot download MP3s in the pokey.

Later taters.

Good Lord, Dear Readers, what a week it has been. First and foremost, Daniel Larry (Dan) Sells was born on Wednesday, February 10, 2010 at 8:20 PM (2/10/2010 at 2020 military time – have fun, numerology fans). He is our miracle - 7 pounds, 9 ounces, and 21 inches long. Red and I were told children were unlikely; therefore, he IS the cutest baby boy ever. Not that I, as his father, am biased in the slightest . . .

I also managed to sustain quite the concussion the morning of the birth, a brutal combination of walking the dog and black ice. Thanks to a truly wonderful Good Samaritan neighbor and Les Reardon, the best father-in-law a man could have, I made it to the ER to make sure I didn’t pull some walk-and-die garbage like Natasha Richardson did. After some royal ass in the ER triage stated that my priorities were in the wrong place due to me getting checked out while Red was up in her room in Labor and Delivery, it turned out that my thick skull had survived another solid blow. After a short nap and some vending machine nutrition, I was as good to go as any nervous first-time father-to-be could be . . .

A quick note: the crew for Labor and Delivery at Erlanger were top-notch as were our Moms; we could not have asked for better. However, let me catch you out and about, triage boy. We ARE going to have some words and only words, but they will be very harsh ones.

Anyway, there y’all have it. The best thing that ever happened to me (my wife Holly a.k.a. Red) and I are now the proud parents of the best thing to ever happen to us . . . and that started me thinking, which is dangerous, I know, but necessary in this matter.

It occurred to me: what would I grab from my CD rack and hand to Dan when he started to explore his musical tastes and interests? I had no idea; I just reached over and grabbed a CD blindly, to see what random chance would provide. I looked down and I had Tom Waits’ “Rain Dogs” in my hand. God had smiled on my experiment.

“Rain Dogs” was released 25 years ago in 1985 at the height of Waits’ second creative tidal wave, spurred by his switching record labels from Asylum to Island, with a one-off for CBS Records in between. Island encouraged Waits to step outside the besotted post-beatnik persona he had perfected on works such as “Nighthawks at the Diner” and “Small Change”. So, with the label’s support and a full head of steam, he started off to tell Frank’s story.

“Rain Dogs” is the middle part of a trilogy consisting of the albums “Swordfishtrombones”, “Rain Dogs”, and “Frank’s Wild Years” (all Island Records). Here, Waits lays out the story of Frank, a man “who sold used office furniture out in the San Fernando Valley”. As with most of Waits’ work, the story takes many turns and twists – NOTHING is ever linear in his narrative – but it is always compelling, at turns mordant, funny, and sorrowful.

“Rain Dogs” is the best of three, with the songwriting driving the narrative instead of vice versa. The songs range from almost beat poetry (“Ninth and Hennepin”) to a polka (“Cemetery Polka”, which must be heard to be believed) to a wonderful story song (“Downtown Train”) that Rod Stewart sort of covered and made Tom a lot of royalty checks with.

The opening one-two punch of “Singapore” and “Clap Hands” set the tone for the surreal story that follows. Waits rips through the muscular, almost aggressive “Jockey Full Of Bourbon” and “Tango Till They’re Sore” only to change pace with the contemplative gems, “Hang Down Your Head” and “Time”. The portrait of Frank Waits paints is complete and complex, warts and all, cinematic in its scope. The brilliant “Gun Street Girl” needs to be made into a film by itself.

Waits finishes out the album with Frank stating “…anywhere I lay my head, boys/I will call home…” signifying the story is yet unfinished but putting a nice wrap on this chapter. We have seen Frank through the start of this into the meat of his odyssey and Waits leaves the listener wanting more, a trick his study of vaudeville has taught him well. The final chapter of “Frank’s Wild Years” beckons . . .

During his time at Island, Tom Waits was allowed to pursue what had been running through his head and the results are captivating. The songs are ruminations distilled with the essences of Jim Thompson and Charles Bukowski, and the musicians are snap-tight, with luminaries such as Marc Ribot (Lounge Lizards), Tony Levine (King Crimson, Peter Gabriel), and Keith Richards adding their distinct touches to the album’s vibe. This album is essential.

I am not certain as to why this jumped to the forefront of my addled mind. Possibly the concussion knocked something loose that had been running around in MY head, the idea of what Dan’s old man could turn him onto when he hits the age I was when I discovered Waits, when I started to look for something above and beyond the norm. “Rain Dogs” will definitely be on that list and, if you have not had the pleasure of hearing this masterpiece, it should be on yours as well.

“Rain Dogs” reeks of cheap bourbon and back alleys, big dreams and small schemes. It is a modern fable with no moral to be learned, only hard lessons and a few soft landings. Get it now.

Y’all stay warm and safe. This weather’s got to give sometime.

I am off to hold my baby boy, kiss his nose, and do all that silly stuff new dads do.

Later taters.   

“...And since the stench of death will always attract flies and vermin, the arrival of Geraldo was perhaps inevitable.” – From a random “Doonesbury” strip

It seems somehow fitting in this, the winter of our discontent, to slam that cultural syrup of ipecac just for sick kicks. I also enjoy watching “Ed, Edd and Eddy” all the while overdubbing my version of the dialogue, something more befitting an episode of “48 Hours Mystery”.

This is a hodgepodge, so deal with it. Even Shakespeare did not bat 1.000.

Announcements were made that past week that Noel Gallagher would be playing his first two solo gigs, post-Oasis, to benefit the Teenage Cancer Trust on March 25 and 26 at the Royal Albert Hall in London. According to Roger Daltrey (Hell of a spokesperson to have available, Noel), these dates will be the only two live shows all year for the eldest Gallagher brother.

“That Metal Show”, which I have pimped here steadily, is back with Season 4 on VH1Classic. The debut of the new season this past Saturday (Feb 6) had the one and only Dave Mustaine as the guest and a nice shot across the bow from Jim Florentine that was as funny as Hell. Future Season 4 guests include Winger, Joey Kramer of Aerosmith and Joe Satriani, among others. Palladia, the kickass HD music video/concert/movie station, has started airing reruns of previous seasons, which is helpful for newcomers to the show. Watch them all. You WILL enjoy. One of us, one of us . . .

Gil-Scott Heron’s latest, “I’m New Here”, kicks much ass. Poets that last tend to become finely honed, razor-sharp in their latter years. Here is one case in point. This is necessary.

Corrine Bailey Rae has a new album, “The Sea”, which is haunted by the accidental methadone and alcohol overdose of her husband Jason Rae back in 2008 and yet seems to draw hope and the hope for a better day from music. Occasionally, she drifts in bland, Adult Alternative Contemporary fodder but only occasionally. This is good and I will have more on this soon.

The Who acquitted themselves well at the Super Bowl halftime. Wait! Did I pay royalties to speak and use those two words? Oh no, here come the NFL knee breakers now . . . what a bunch of joyless, soulless turds the people that run the NFL are. I bet they make love to their sheep with their black socks still on.

Here is an interesting tidbit, if you are like me and have a pop-culture lint filter for a brain. Survivor, of “Eye of the Tiger” fame, had two lead singers, a fact I tried in vain to convince people of when Starbucks had them singing “Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron” as they followed some tool from stop to stop of his non-life. THAT singer is the second one, Jimi Jamison, from the line-up that will have to answer for shite such as “High on You” and “I Can’t Hold Back”.

The lead singer in the original, “Eye of the Tiger” line-up was a person named Dave Bickler, who had to step aside for throat polyps, though the speed with which he was replaced begs one to question just how amicable the replacement was. Anyway, he is the voice for the hilarious Bud Light Real Men of Genius commercial spots, any of which are better and funnier (at least intentionally) than “Eye of the Tiger” ever thought of being.

Another random fact: Mastodon’s “Colony of Birchmen” was filmed at Ruby Falls.

Iron Maiden’s albums “Number of the Beast” and “Piece of Mind” are indispensable for any metal collection or, Hell, for ANY serious collection of rock. I want to remember to get around to bringing y’all a breakdown of the NWOBHM (New Wave of British Heavy Metal). That whole scene influenced EVERYONE.

Whatever. Maybe that is true or maybe it is just true for me. It is all syllogisms and solipsism here lately.

More to follow. Dan is due to get here about any moment, so I have to be brief tonight.

Tune in next week for more, better. In addition, tune in if only to see if I make ANY sense.

Later taters.

“ . . . I’ve been walkin’ that long mile again/‘Cause I’d never fit the shoes like the ones you were given . . .”

I have a friend that swears lyrics are essentially window dressing, that the music carries the song, that you could be reading the Los Angeles white pages and have the same effect as singing actual lyrics. Allow me to retort – my ass. Without lyrics, most, not all, but most music ends up wandering into Yngwie Malmsteen territory, music that can be technically stunning but is booed offstage in roughly twenty minutes at Louisville ’s Freedom Hall. I know that one for a fact because I was there twenty-five years ago to see AC/DC, not some classically influenced Euro-metal. I, along with a few thousand like-minded souls, voiced my displeasure with the opening act. They did four, maybe five damn-near identical tunes and left in a snit because we did NOT grok that crap. It was somewhere beyond horrible until Angus and the boys came out and made everything all better.

The lyric quoted above is from the song, “Born Again”, by Cory Chisel and the Wandering Sons. It is off their major label (RCA) debut, “Death Won’t Send A Letter”, and it flat-out stopped me in my tracks. I was picking up the kitchen and heard an intriguing melody that caught my attention, almost like when I first heard Pete Yorn’s “Life on a Chain”. The song demanded my attention, with the handclap-driven bridges and the soaring choruses. It is just a magnificent four minutes of music. The shuffle of the drums, the bass line sitting in the pocket, the wailing organ - they are all vehicles to propel his voice and guitar from verse to chorus, allowing him to showcase his two best assets – his voice, emotive but not overwrought, and his use of tension/release dynamics.

Cory Chisel’s voice is perfect for this set of tunes, the voice of a man with some mileage and a few tales to tell. This is not folk nor is it country nor is it rock. This sound is the embodiment of what I hear in my head when someone classifies an act as “ Americana ”. Much like last year’s stellar effort from the Duke and the King, “Nothing Gold Can Stay”, Cory Chisel and the Wandering Sons’ “Death Won’t Send A Letter” pulls influences from every type of music and distills them into a unique, slightly intoxicating brew.

Songs such as “Calm Down” and “ Tennessee ” are perfect constructs to allow him to weave tales of lament, lost chances, and wounds that never will heal. Lines like “ . . . do you think she’ll know or see me now like the broken man I am/doing a little bit more than the best I can/still, she’s gonna need a little more . . .”  are stunning. The vocal interplay with his longtime keyboardist/backing vocalist Adriel Harris is heartbreaking, the song itself a short quick stab to the soul. Songs like “ Tennessee ” should come with a warning along the lines of “Introspective Hurricane dead ahead”. It packs a Hell of a wallop into three and a half minutes . . .

Cory Chisel seems well liked in the music community, with members of My Morning Jacket, Band of Horses, and the Dead Weather making appearances among others. Their presence adds a depth and luster to even the most stripped-down songs on “Death Won’t Send A Letter”. Maybe that is why, through all the small victories and epic failures present in the lyrics, there is a warmth, a sense of hope for tomorrow being better, if only a little. As the son of a Baptist preacher, he brings an underlying sense of redemption to his songs, subtle but damned effective.

I don’t know, y’all. This gig gets tough only when one of two things happens. Either you are trying to review something completely beyond the pale OR you are reviewing something that gets under your skin unexpectedly and quickly. The latter has occurred with this album, a record I pulled from the ether on a whim. At first, I thought I would be done with this in about as much time as it takes to eat a ham sandwich. That was seven or eight listens ago and “Death Won’t Send A Letter” is still at it, pulling me into aural landscapes, and pulling up memories long lost to time and indifference. Damn, what an album this is . . .

Get this now. It is major label, so it will not be difficult, and it is major league, a quality rare enough these days.

Anyone see Pink’s performance at the Grammys? That was tres cool, and blew everyone else off the map, including freakin’ Beyonce. If you missed it, YouTube it.

Later taters.

“I’m just a soul whose intentions are good/Oh lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood . . . “. The Animals knew how to cover a tune and make it YOURS. Eric Burdon’s phrasing remains completely underrated to this day.

The Anti-Hall idea I floated a couple of weeks back seems to have gained some traction with you, my Dear Readers, who seem to be as opinionated and passionate about your tunes as I am about mine. I threw open the nominations for the first class of the Anti-Hall with some of my nominees – Black Flag; X; Iron Maiden; The Smiths; etc. – and the basic ground rules for our nomination/election. NO band in the Rock and Roll WTF-ever can be in the Anti-Hall, all nominations are accepted, and all votes count; those rules are ironclad and not subject to change. This is OUR place to honor OUR heroes that do not pass the Rock and Roll Hall’s smell test - they do not have to like it because, frankly, their Hall sucks. Screw them.

I made a couple of command decisions while banging this one into to shape for reasons I will explain. The first one was to limit inductees to five acts per year AFTER this initial class, on a basis of most votes-received with the tiebreaker subject to run-off voting. That change to the rules should keep the field of nominees deep and fertile for years to come, which is good for I intend to keep this one going. The other one was to add a few acts to this initial class of my own volition. Why? Because it was my idea and I wanted to, that is why. Moreover, it makes for good bitch sessions around the round table at the Pickle Barrel with like-minded music junkies. Good music conversation is rare in this ‘burg and anything that I can do to stir the pot, I by God will.  

So now you know. Anyway, here are the acts that comprise the original class of inductees for our Anti-Hall – Rush; King Crimson; Thin Lizzy; Alice Cooper; Arlo Guthrie; Dead Kennedys; Heart; Blue Oyster Cult; Tommy James and the Shondells; the Guess Who; Cheap Trick; T. Rex; Deep Purple; Sparks; KISS; Todd Rundgren; and the Beastie Boys. My additions are these – Black Flag; The Jam; The Smiths; Iron Maiden; Chris Whitley; Public Enemy; and Grand Funk Railroad. Suck on THAT, Jann.

 A few thoughts from out in the ether . . .

Rush rates. These guys escaped the Led Zeppelin wannabe thing that it seems every band of that era went through and went on to carve out a rabid fan base, strong album sales, and a modicum of critical respect along the way. Imagining Seventies FM radio -well, outside of Chattanooga- without “Spirit of Radio” and “Tom Sawyer” is unthinkable. The same goes for Heart and it HAD to be harder being female and wanting to rock like they did on “Crazy on You” and “Barracuda”.

King Crimson has been about four or five different bands stylistically, each good-to-great. Deep Purple kicked out the melodic, yet sinister jams, as did Blue Oyster Cult. ‘Nuff said.

Thin Lizzy kicks as much ass today as they did in their heyday. Everyone and his or her fuzzy-lipped kid brother know the classic tune, “The Boys Are Back in Town”. The people that you REALLY want to split a 12 pack with prefer “The Cowboy Song” and “Jailbreak”. Listen to the album “Johnny the Fox Meets Jimmy the Weed” and see if you grok what I am saying.

Twenty-plus years ago, a friend of mine by the name of George Coe remarked that the Guess Who was, at once, one of the greatest and most-underrated singles bands ever. I wholeheartedly agree. Theirs is one of the few examples where the “Greatest Hits” is about all you need.

Grand Funk Railroad rocked hard. Songs such as “Walk like a Man”, “Some Kind of Wonderful” and “We’re An American Band” (with the Todd Rundgren tie-in all the sweeter) defined AM radio when I was growing up. The critics hated them but they were so big that Capitol Records once promoted their new album by putting their faces ONLY on the Times Square ticker. MORE COWBELL!

Iron Maiden rocked the metal as few others ever have and the mighty, mighty Black Flag was beyond words, like trying to compose a 500-word essay on a hurricane.

It seems that everyone hated (and still hates) KISS which means, going by record sales, that the twelve of us that actually admitted to being fans must have bought a few million copies of their stuff each. They are more influential, for good AND bad, than anyone will admit.

The Smiths were Roxy Music for the Eighties, the world’s most jaded and laconic front man backed by one of the most shit-hot bands in the world.

I will leave you with a line from two of the others that describe them better than I ever could.

“. . . and when I’m rich and meet Bob Hope/we’ll shoot some golf and shoot some dope. . .”

– Dead Kennedys/”Pull My Strings”

“ . . . I'm ready and hyped plus I'm amped/most of my heroes don't appear on no stamps. . . “

– Public Enemy/”Fight the Power”

Send me your reactions and such and maybe next week we can compare notes. If not, then maybe 1000 words on the Mandrell Sisters. I kid . . . maybe.

Later taters.

“In my adventure of making two wrongs alright . . . “. Dude, I could listen to Robert Pollard every day.

Whatever. I promised a top ten list for 2009 and I am going to deliver on that promise. I will state that there WILL be inconsistencies between this list and my top fifty of the 2000s. Sorry, that is the way my mind works. Internal mental cross-referencing is not a strong suit for me.

In NO particular order and with pithy bon mots for each, here we go.

Jim Cheney – “Caboose”/”Song of Our Time”. I am listing these two together because well, Hell, I feel like it. This gent’s well-crafted tales of life’s laughs and laments have been on heavy rotation here at the Fortress of Hollytude since I laid my hands on them. Singer/songwriters seem to list toward being INCREDIBLY mellow these days, which is a shame. Fortunately, Jim Cheney’s songs delve into whatever takes his fancy and that kicks ass. Songs such as “Booth” and “Brittle Leaves” and “Mishap Like A Tambourine” are wonderful, ranging all over the place emotionally, musically, whatever. These songs and this singer are the real deals.

The Duke and the King – “Nothing Gold Can Stay”. Simone Felice takes permanent leave from the Felice Brothers, mulls it all over during “a long, fateful winter” during which his band mate lost a child he and his wife were expecting, and manages to conjure a song-cycle that quietly rages and seethes at life’s capriciousness. Right when the listener tunes in to that vibe, there appears a subtle, persistent undercurrent of hope that shines throughout “Nothing Gold Can Stay”, adding a depth lacking on most product available these days. This is simply fantastic.

Ponytail – “Ice Cream Spiritual”. This album is weird, period. It also happens to be great, a unique musical collage that explodes out of the speakers and leaves permanent marks on the listener’s grey matter. Hell, what more can you ask?

The Exploding Boy – “Afterglow”. The music here is cold, distant, and self-contained, yet it is as compelling as anything I heard this past year. After bashing ABBA recently, allow me to show some love for Sweden here.

The Rifles – “The Great Escape”. The lazy reviewers all summon the spirit of Paul Weller/The Jam when reviewing this album, as if the Modfather’s influence (which is present) explains everything, is the Alpha and the Omega. I call bullshit. This album is a document of a band making the leap from good to great, with songs such as “Fall to Sorrow” and “Science is Violence” presenting quite the case for a musical maturity hinted at on their debut album, “No Love Lost”. Combine that with the title track, one of the best singles (and bass lines) of 2009, and you begin to understand that the Rifles are not just some slavish homage to past musical glories; they stand on their on merits as one of the best bands in the world now. This is not to be missed.

Manic Street Preachers – “Journal for Plague Lovers”. Over a decade after Richey Edwards’ disappearance, the Manics finally felt strong enough to tackle this project. The lyrics he left with the band mere weeks before his vanishing form the core of the album, delving into dark musical territories not visited since “Everything Must Go”. Steve Albini strips the sound down to match the bleak lyrics and the result is brilliant and ultimately depressing, the sound of a man drowning in plain sight.

The Cribs – “Ignore the Ignorant”. “The UK’s biggest cult band”, according to Q Magazine, had already produced a masterpiece with their previous effort, “Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever”. They then add Johnny Marr and proceed to kick ass and take names. Outselling all but two of the re-released Beatles albums, “Ignore the Ignorant” displayed muscularity on songs like “We Were Aborted” and “Cheat on Me” that was impossible to, well, ignore. The Cribs took no prisoners on this one, thank God.

The Corrections – “Repeat After Me”. This one was supposed to be released in 2008 on EMI but I don’t know what happened. I heard it in 2009, so it makes the list. If critics worldwide can claim reissued Beatles albums, I can claim this underrated masterpiece. Drawing from influences such as the Manic Street Preachers and Primal Scream with hints of Radiohead here and there, the Corrections produce some of the best rock I have heard in a while, dark and melodic. The songs “Full Stop” and “Barcode” once heard are unforgettable and that is all I ask from great music. This band and Jim Cheney are my two bolts from the blue for the past year.

Kasabian – “West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum”. Britain’s favorite whipping boys now that Oasis has imploded, Kasabian responded to the uneven “Empire” with the experimental, psychedelic “West Ryder . . . “ and threw down the goddamn gauntlet. Let all the others talk a good game; Kasabian put their money where their (non-stop) mouths were and nailed it. The album seems scattershot at first listen but repeated listening reveal “West Ryder . . . “ to be the aural equivalent of most acid trips, where everything is good and all is revealed if you can just hang in there long enough. For a band dismissed as unimaginative ladrock, Kasabian takes more chances on this one album than most bands do in their entire careers. This is a welcome, unexpected masterpiece.

So there it is – the top ten of 2009. For now. I may change my mind by the time I finish banging out this piece on the computer, but I will be damned if I am going back and changing anything now. Besides, that might be a future column idea. Completely shameless, huh?

DO NOT forget that I am still taking votes/nominations for the Anti-Hall of Fame. There is some serious support for Thin Lizzy and Rush, among others, and I want to take another week before adding it all up and announcing the pioneering first class of Anti-Hall inductees. The e-mail address in the header works. USE IT. This little twisted idea seems to have struck a chord with a few of you, Dear Readers, so let’s run with it for a bit longer, what say?

This weather is moodier than I am and that takes some work. I love you, Red. Thanks for putting up with me.

Later taters.

Being frozen for a solid week puts a severe cramp in my love for my fellow man. Add that fact to yet another musically barren week and voila! This week’s victim magically appears. This bunch has had it coming for a LONG time and I am glad that I could finally fit them into my busy schedule.

Christ in Heaven, have any of y’all seen the list of the 2010 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductees? It is enough to make a man start fires. For the record, they are ABBA, Genesis, The Hollies, The Stooges, and Jimmy Cliff. Peter Gabriel-era Genesis is good to great but when Phil Collins seized the reins, there was not a thing worth a damn after “Abacab”. My disagreement with ABBA’s selection should be self-evident. The Hollies had some good tunes but so did many other bands. What the Hell? Did the committee get tired or high or both? These selections reek of Tiger Beat and Clearasil. Jesus wept . . .

The Stooges and Jimmy Cliff are the no-brainers here. Give them their trophies or plaques or whatever; they have deserved this honor (and more – album sales and/or royalties would be a nice start) for a long time. The fact that these two acts somehow made it in show that SOMEONE voting had a clue. Maybe. I say maybe because deep down in my cynical mind lurks this sneaking suspicion that the Stooges and Jimmy Cliff were sops thrown out to satisfy music snobs, an attempt to cut off any uncomfortable questions about the musical diversity of the honorees past and present. Nice try, people, but no dice.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame does ok in certain areas. They do a good job of mythologizing 60s bands; they pay homage to mainstream musical juggernauts; they recognize influential R&B/blues artists; and they finally got around to recognizing sidemen like Floyd Cramer and Spooner Oldham. I will give credit where credit is due. In those areas, they have done very well.

But . . . where are the metal acts? The punk acts? The rap acts? Is the Hall scared of music with an edge, an axe to grind? I mean, not every act out there is Pat Boone or Debby Boones, for that matter. Where are the heavy hitters?

In the past, the Hall realized that they had to make a move and they did. Inductees included AC/DC, Metallica, Black Sabbath, The Sex Pistols, and The Clash. All these selections were and are worthy, but their inductions reek of the Hall having their hand forced. The lack of any representation of any type of music outside of the Hall’s unspoken guidelines was becoming increasingly obvious; the committee had to make a move or risk becoming a joke to everyone, not just curmudgeons like me. Therefore, they picked a few worthy, non-typical acts and inducted their asses posthaste. Problem solved, right?

Not even. The Hall is now faced with moving into the 21st century, something for which they are ill equipped. Committee members such as Jann Wenner – hi Jann, I am not done with your ass yet, not by a long shot – and Dave Marsh, who used to be worth his salt, are relics of the last century. Worse, they realize it and try to OVER-compensate. They pull in acts such as Grandmaster Flash and Patti Smith to try to cover their middlebrow refusal to take metal and punk acts seriously. As much as it may piss off the committee, the bands that kicked much ass in the 80s and 90s - Black Flag, X, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Slayer, Einsturzende Neubauten, KMFDM, Depeche Mode, The Smiths, etc. – are becoming very conspicuous by their absences. I am willing to bet dollars to doughnuts (Krispy Kreme only) that there are members on the induction committee that have not heard a damn thing by any of these bands (or anything more current than the Eagles) and yet they will continue to vote blindly until senility or death finally puts an end to their mediocrities. What a freaking joke . . .

I am picking a fight with this bunch not because I am bitchy, though I am by nature, but because of the same reason that I vented my spleen all over lazy rock critics recently – people exploring their musical horizons should not be presented with some tapioca version of rock and roll as the alpha and omega. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, by virtue of their self-appointed position as historian and guardian of all things rock, has undue influence with casual fans and those new to the music and that is regrettable. They continue to induct the safe, the well known, the popular, and refuses to recognize those who pushed boundaries (Motorhead, anyone?) or elevated a subgenre out of its musical ghetto (Public Enemy, Depeche Mode, Kiss).

Maybe it is time for an Anti-Hall to recognize all those bands that influenced the lives of real people, not just FM radio programmers. I nominate all the aforementioned bands the Hall has overlooked as the first class of inductees in the Anti-Hall. Y’all have anybody you want to nominate? E-mail me with your favorites and I will put together the list of the first Anti-Hall of Fame inductee class and publish it here. The only rules are they cannot be in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and all votes count. Y’all want to elect Hall and Oates? Go right ahead. I will not stop you, though I may laugh aloud.

Mull it over and get back to me. This could be a LOT of fun.

52 degrees Thursday? I am going sunbathing.

The best of 2009 is coming. Stand by for fun.

Later taters.

Ok, last week I said that Rolling Stone’s ass was mine this time around and I am here to deliver the goods. It is time to settle these ass clowns hash once and for all. Their list and my list have a few examples of overlap, but hey, even a blind pig finds an acorn now and then. I wonder what an office full of blind pig supposed rock critics smells like. Jeez, no wonder Jann runs from talk show to talk show – the stench must be overwhelming, even for him.

The overlap consists of 5 albums or 10 percent, an amount that would flunk ANY compatibility test anywhere. So fear not – the ass clowns just hit a few scratch-off tickets; I won the jackpot. The five albums we have in common are The Strokes “Is This It” (preferably with the raunchy UK cover art); Amy Winehouse “Back to Black” (put down the damn crack pipe and record something, will you?); Coldplay “A Rush of Blood to the Head” (it took a bit to get over disliking Chris Martin for being a genuinely nice guy); Arctic Monkeys “Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not” (absolutely astounding); and The Killers “Hot Fuss” (showing that synth/guitar/dance/sleaze rock was not dead).

Rolling Stone’s list is packed with safe, somewhat popular (read lazy) picks: Radiohead (Hell, they are a FORCE of nature; how do you even attempt to boil them down to an album or even two?); Bob Dylan (give me a freaking break, huh? Jann, if you want to bone him that bad, ask him out or something); Cat Power; Kanye West; Sigur Ros . . . Christ, I could have taken blind guesses at their list and hit .500, just from how much the entirety of the rock critic world fell all over themselves wanting to be the Next One to fellate in print the Next Big Thing or, in some cases, the Big Comeback. Britney Spears? Spare me . . .

If you want to punish yourself and read the Rolling Stone list in its horrid entirety, go to their website, or read the library’s copy. DO NOT spend a damn dime actually buying a copy.

I have 45 ass-kickers to lay on y’all, so here we go.

In no particular order –

Interpol “Turn On The Bright Lights”; Broken Social Scene “Broken Social Scene”; Drive-By Truckers “Southern Rock Opera”:  M83 “Before The Dawn Heals Us”; Bloc Party “Silent Alarm”; Doves “The Last Broadcast”; Mastodon “Blood Mountain”; Manic Street Preachers “Send Away The Tigers”; The Postal Service “Give Up”; The Libertines “The Libertines”; The Streets “Original Pirate Material”; The Fratellis “Costello Music”; Arcade Fire “Neon Bible”; The Exploding Boy “Afterglow”; Paul Weller “22 Dreams”; The Rifles “No Love Lost”; Gorrilaz “Demon Days”; The Corrections “Repeat After Me”; Black Rebel Motorcycle Club “Howl”; Drive-By Truckers “The Dirty South”; Doves “Kingdom of Rust”; The National “Alligator”; The Bravery “The Bravery”; Clap Your Hands Say Yeah “Clap Your Hands Say Yeah”; The Hold Steady “Stay Positive”; Brian Wilson “Smile”; Dennis Wilson “Pacific Ocean Blue” – my only reissue here but well worth it; The Cribs “Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever”; The Walkmen “Bows + Arrows”; Dolores O’Riordan “Are You Listening?”; Kasabian “West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum”; Franz Ferdinand “Franz Ferdinand”; Nada Surf “The Weight Is A Gift”; The Shins “Wincing The Night Away”; The New Pornographers “Mass Romantic”; Against Me! “New Wave”; Ambulance Ltd. “LP”; Mercury Rev “All Is Dream”; Editors “The Back Room”; John Vanderslice “Pixel Revolt”; The Streets “A Grand Don’t Come For Free”; Muse “Black Holes and Revelations”;  The Good, The Bad, and The Queen “The Good, The Bad, and The Queen”; and Phoenix “Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix”.

There it is and I will stand toe to toe with any numbnuts from Rolling Stone as to whose list has more bounce for the ounce.

That is not to say, however, that I did not miss some wonderful music. I am human and I miss shite from time to time. Unlike Rolling Stone, Spin, and all the utter junk music magazines out there, I confess my omissions. They, on the other hand, continue to act as if a band does not exist until they deign to write about them. THAT, Dear Readers, is the definition of hubris and arrogance. Y’all thought I was bad . . .

I mentioned local/regional acts last week and my top 50 for that lot might be a project for the future . . .

Anyway, let me know what y’all think. As I continue to tell people (a great majority of whom do NOT care), the e-mail address in this column’s header works, so use it. Send hate mail, meat loaf recipes, and conspiracy theories – whatever. I do not care as to content. As any honest writer would tell you, I am enough of an egotist to be satisfied with you taking time to send an e-mail, period. Any positive feedback is just a nice fringe benefit.

Oh yeah, do NOT attempt to e-mail me until your fingers thaw out. Frostbite is a bitch.

Later taters.

Strap in tight. The post-Christmas goodwill bleed-over is nowhere to be found and I have been sharpening my tongue/pen all week. It has been a hectic, almost to the point of crazy week at the Fortress of Hollytude, which is unfortunate in a way. I plan to skewer Rolling Stone’s Top Fifty Albums of the 00s, just not this week. Take advantage of the heads up, meander over to their website, and check out that list of shite. Evidently, Rolling Stone’s critics would not know a good album if it bit them in the ass and they are going to have to answer for that. Next week their asses are mine . . .

It appears that the end of the year’s “Best Of” lists have some problems, notably a huge wave of groupthink and a stunning inability to see outside of their own little snow globes. By no means am I an all-encompassing source of music knowledge, so I try to step outside of my own head/prejudices/preferences when it comes to searching for new music to review. Being a good music writer has much akin to being a shark – if you ever stop moving, you are dead. I am not trying to be melodramatic here; I am trying to illustrate that becoming stagnant and/or static is fatal to both species.

I scanned Metacritic’s compilation of certain magazines/websites/whatever Best of 2009 lists. The lack of a local/regional unknown talent on any, ANY of those damn lists ought to embarrass the Hell out of those slobs. This year, I heard local and regional artists whose works compared very favorably with 2009 releases from recording artists of sizeable stature. The “unknowns” on the lists are only unknown to those who have spent the year under a rock somewhere in the Painted Desert . The “unknowns” have been the subject of a huge critical circle jerk all year long and should be well known to even the most casual wannabe music fan.

Do not get me wrong here. Some of the bands in that group deserve any accolades they receive; others suck. That is the way the world works, and I have no beef with that. What chaps my ass are the same artists showing up on list after list, as if there were only so many bands without the massive sales figures or huge PR machines or slimy managers with good coke that could POSSIBLY be considered to be the “Best” of anything. What a load of crap. I live in a metro area with a population of 496,704 as of 2006 and I do not claim to be a local music aficionado anymore; I have been there and most definitely done that. However, I still manage to hear local/regional acts that rock my world: Creech Holler, Jim Cheney, 500 Miles to Memphis , etc. (with apologies to those I skipped or missed). If I lived in New York City with a metro population in the millions, I believe I could find a few local/regional acts that kicked ass on probably a monthly basis.

Allow me to fire a hateful broadside at all the smug, self-satisfied music critics out there. Chewing your critical cud, mooing, and moving along with the herd is inexcusable. Be lazy on your own dime because you have readers, whether any of you bastards deserve them or not, that want to know what music is out there that DOES NOT SUCK. They deserve your best, or at least a reasonable facsimile, every damned time. To have the resources and time those critics have and to turn out such utter shite is criminal . . .

 Wow, peace on earth and goodwill toward men, huh?

Anyway, here are a couple of songs to give a spin until I get around to reaming Rolling Stone next week.

First is Seven Worlds Collide “Hazel Black”. I know I mentioned them last week but forgive the redundancy for this single is worth it. It is an instantly hummable/memorable tune with the best K.T. Tunstall vocal since her acoustic album, "K.T. Tunstall's Acoustic Extravaganza", the one released between “Eye to the Telescope” and “Drastic Fantastic” that no one heard. Sirius XM has been playing the Hell out of it on the non-fossil stations and deservedly so.

Second would be Austin fixture Bob Schneider’s" 40 Dogs (like Romeo and Juliet)". Bob Schneider has been on the verge of breaking out nationally for what seems like forever and this tune may be the one that makes the nut. I thought it was new, ahem GOOD (listening, Jakob?) Wallflowers music when I first heard it. It falls in the same category as “Hazel Black” as far they both burrow into your brain and refuse to leave and in this instance, as opposed to so much of the aural dreck on the air today, that is okay.

Get them and listen up. They are good. Period.

Take some of that Christmas money and buy a copy of Joe Carducci’s “Rock and the Pop Narcotic”. I disagree with about half of it and I still love it. This is what rock criticism ought to be, one person's clearer picture of what is “rock” and why. Equivocating is not allowed here.

Stay warm and out of jail for New Year’s Eve. It is hard to get a decent start on your resolutions if you are in the drunk tank on January 1.

Later taters.

I have not heard anything this week that is worth commenting on, though I am still trying to get a fix on this Seven Worlds Collide record. Yeah, I know – it HAS been out a while. I missed it – sue me.

It has warmed my very soul to see that Rage Against The Machine’s “Killing in the Name” has become the UK ’s first digital download only number one. Regardless of how you feel about the group and/or their politics, which at times are inseparable, you must dig an internet-spawned, grassroots campaign to stick one straight up the ass of UK reality show “The X Factor”. “The X Factor” – imagine an “American Idol” that sucks harder - released some Miley Cyrus cover, which is a sign of Armageddon itself, and acted as if a Number One was their God-given right, having had a stranglehold on the Christmastime Number One for four years. No more! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Suck it, Simon Cowell. Your haircut looks like a merkin and you are a very wealthy cultural cipher. Enjoy it, you spawn of Satan, as you do your damnedest to lower the level of public discourse everywhere you leave your trail of slime. People, remember the first rule of advertising – the dumbest buy the mostest – every time you see anything touched by Simon Cowell. You ARE being played.

Here is one to win a bar bet with – the voice of Burger King’s commercials is none other than John Bush of Armored Saint and Anthrax renown. Man, that is strange. The person now telling me how bad I need a BK Double Cheeseburger is the same one that blew my mind in “The Decline of Western Civilization, Pt.2: The Metal Years”, which you MUST see if you have not. Armored Saint did this tune called “You Can Run but You Can’t Hide” that rocked. I stole this little tidbit of information from VH1 Classic’s “That Metal Show” which is required viewing. Check it out.

I take it back; I HAVE heard something worth a damn this week. Ace Frehley’s newest effort, “Anomaly”, is great. Sobriety has had a great effect on Ace. His playing is much sharper than in previous years; his songwriting is no longer rote shite; and his sense of humor is finely honed, with thanks to his former band mates in KISS for putting up with his craziness. His cover of Sweet’s “Fox on the Run” is wonderful and the rest of the album is a fine listen as well. Get this now and set the time machine controls for 1978 or so. “Anomaly” is what the “Ace Frehley” album should have been all those years ago. What the Hell – some people have to learn by banging their heads against the wall. I should know; I am one.

 If you thought I finished picking on local radio last week, you were wrong. Chattanooga State ’s head honcho deserved every bit of bile I threw his way last week AND I AM NOT DONE. Hey UTC, what gives? WUTC has your institution’s acronym in its call letters and broadcasts from Cadek Hall on UT Chattanooga’s campus. It seems to me that maybe a radio station located on a college campus should be, I don’t know, maybe a college radio station with some real students on the air playing God-knows-what types of music. Instead, it seems all WUTC aspires to do is combine on-air personality Richard Winham, whom I have no beef with, with nationally syndicated programming, mainly from National Public Radio. Chattanooga needs a NPR outlet, given. However, it needs a college radio BROADCAST station that utilizes and teaches students even more. Why is it that until Der Fuhrer over at Chattanooga State sold the frequency to some Jesus freaks – and I mean stone freaks; I do not use the term loosely – that a two-year technical community college had a viable, mostly student-driven with some sage guidance college radio station, complete with weirdo shows, DJs-in-training that were too young to have lost all their personalities, and good tunes being played that no one else here would touch? WHAT THE HELL GIVES, WUTC? If you are not a college radio station, please move off-campus and change those call letters. Nothing is more irritating than some bullshite bait-and-switch.

If you were to look up “dyspeptic” in the dictionary, you would see my non-smiling mug glaring out at you.

Have a Merry Christmas or Hanukkah or what the Hell ever. Stay out of trouble and remember to say thank you if anyone thinks enough of y’all’s trifling asses to actually get y’all some presents.

Later taters.

"The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side."

-          Hunter S. Thompson

I thought we would start this week with a reminder of just what it is that we peer at and into every week. Remember, Dear Readers, the music business has the soul of a retread tire and the morals of a starving whore; there is never any reason to assume that anything you see or hear in music today will be worth a tinker’s damn.

I semi-remember a quote from Jack Rabid, who happens to be the publisher of “The Big Takeover” (one of the few U.S. music magazines worth its salt) and the only person to dig the Chameleons (U.K.) and Idlewild (the Scottish band, not the damn Outkast movie) as much as I do . . . well, anyway, he said something along the lines of you know that the music you are digging at the moment is cool because you will tell anyone about it, not caring what reaction you receive. That is cool music by definition – I like it and you should like it and if you do not, to Hell with you.

That is exactly where I am calling from, people. I realize that for those of you seeking guidance on Lady Gaga or Britney Spears’ comeback or the ongoing Nickelbackization of the Western world, this column is sorely lacking, week in and week out. Therefore, chances are that if it is playing on broadcast radio today, I do not care in the slightest to hear and/or review it. Product is product and shall always be so.

I am here to protest the shite that infects your ears and destroys your ability to discern the diamonds from the dross. I am here to rescue you from “heritage” anything. No offense meant to the KZ folks or 102.3, which is now Chattanooga ’s “heritage” talk radio station, but it IS 2009 and there is great music to be found out and listened to. Time did NOT stop musically with Fleetwood Mac’s “Tusk”, which was not bad, really, but it was after the cocaine and bed hopping era that led to a musical meltdown for the ages.

Bands such as Idlewild, the Arctic Monkeys, Sloan, and Visqueen all have new albums out, all of them are damn good, and you will never hear them here unless you, Dear Reader, get off your ass and get them. The airwaves here are much akin to whatever point in our solar system the radio waves from 1979 have reached; they share the same freaking playlist. In case anyone here missed it, Boston is no more; Lynyrd Skynyrd is a tribute band to itself in its current incarnation; and the Allman Brothers just plug in progeny and others to keep the behemoth that is THE BAND going.

Jesus, people, the Drive-By Truckers just released an album of castoffs, outtakes and b-sides – “The Fine Print” – that is fantastic. There they are, a Southern band, playing vital rock and roll in 2009, without a chance in Hell of any airplay here now that Chattanooga State, in their infinite wisdom, has reduced WAWL to an internet-only radio station. They ought to be goddamn ashamed of themselves but I am afraid that is beyond their grasp.

I wish I knew what precipitated this screed, I really do. I believe it sprang from sitting in from of the blue screen that is Microsoft Word and realizing that I had somewhere between five and ten albums on my mind that y’all needed to get. That realization preceded the frustration that arises when a writer tries to describe music to his or her readers the like of which they may have never heard in their lives. I promise y’all that former Guided By Voices frontman Robert Pollard and the original Placebo and the Cribs are sui generis acts. I have as much ego and as much overconfidence in my abilities as any writer (we are all sound and fury) but I know when I have reached the limits of my abilities. Robert Pollard sounds like . . . well, Robert Pollard. There is no artist in the popular vernacular that even comes close. Moreover, the original Placebo was . . . incredible, good Lord.

Anyway, go find some works by the aforementioned artists. Hell, Robert Pollard puts out three albums a year on average, astounding for a man who is essentially the Bukowski of indie rock. Sloan has been putting out rock too smart for radio for years know and their latest effort, “Hit and Run”, is as good as anything they have done. Idlewild has kept making smart REM-like rock long after REM wandered off into the musical wilderness. The Cribs I babbled about not too long ago in this very column and I am now, if anything, an even bigger fan. They rock and that, children, is what it is all about, after all.

To address earlier issues, the Arctic Monkeys’ “Humbug” is fantastic and completely different from “Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not” and “Favourite Worst Nightmare”. The sing-along tunes such as “I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor” are gone. This is the sound of an evolving band moving forward and if that leaves any of the old fan bases behind, so be it.

Them Crooked Vultures is good and a fun listen, but it will not change anyone’s perception of rock, God, or the world. It is just a good record and there is nothing wrong with that.

Stephen Stills is amazingly talented and stunningly underrated. If this fact bothers you, suck it.

Shout outs go to the people over at the public library, always doing more with less, and to Brandon Anthony, some of whose paintings grace the walls of the Fortress of Hollytude. Dude, if you read this, shoot me an e-mail to the address in the header. I would love to catch up.

The biggest shout out of all goes to Dave Weinthal for giving me a forum to rant every week and for being a damn good friend. I appreciate both of those things more than you know.

See? I waited until after Thanksgiving, but before Christmas, to be a sentimental sucker.

Be good – Santa has spies everywhere.

Later taters.

There is nothing wrong with opening the door to a 44-degree rainy day, taking one good look around, and saying to Hell with it. Close the door, turn on the coffee, and get back under the covers. Days such as today are inherently wrong-headed – cold, grey, damp affairs that reek of wear-and-tear arthritis and horrible driving. Communities around here – ahem, RED BANK – can invest in revenue generators, I mean, traffic cameras and yet somehow cannot have a single officer out citing people driving in a steady downpour without the benefit of their headlights. Highway 27 was all grey and black vehicles with their headlights off, driving like Dale Earnhardt on crank. Wonderful . . .

I have been trying out Them Crooked Vultures, trying to ascertain what their vibe is. Keep in mind that I want to flesh out what I am about to say but my immediate take on this album is that this lot made a record they enjoyed making and, in the process, turned out a good one. As I said, I intend to fully flesh out that statement but for now, consider it a good purchase if you are interested in the least.

I also remember that I have NOT written anything substantial concerning the Arctic Monkeys’ “Humbug”. That is a crime, for it is a terrific album and it too shall receive the complete treatment soon. Stay tuned, Batfans.

I ventured off the beaten path this week in search of something different, something with an entirely different outlook on what a song and an album consists of, what they are. I struck gold and found a band called the Necks. They are an experimental jazz trio (for lack of a better term) from Sydney in the Land of Oz. The band’s experimentation has overtones of ambience a la Brian Eno with just a hint of Can-style Krautrock. The instrumentation draws off different combinations of piano, organ, bass guitar, double bass, electric guitar and percussion and strange saxophone-like tones that I cannot place to any instrument listed.

The three musicians that comprise the Necks – Chris Abrahams, Tony Buck, and Lloyd Swanton – are committed to building musical tension in their works, allowing patterns to hold and repeat to the point of almost torture before letting the musical momentum carry them forward. I hesitate to call their works “songs”, as conventional terms do not seem to apply. All this would be a recipe for pretentious disaster in lesser hands, but these are not lesser hands. With decades of experience working with a variety of artists and styles individually, when these men come together as the Necks, they know what precisely what they are doing, even if the listener does not. I have not had to play catch-up with a band or a song in quite the while. “Sex” had me running full-bore to stay with the subtle variations within the work.

“Sex” is an album with a single track clocking in at just over 56 minutes. The music is overdubbed, creating a surreal hypnagogic atmosphere. “Sex” starts much like the opening to the Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” and then just drifts off to parts unknown. The piece begs to have a story put to it; this is a soundtrack-in-waiting. The drumming recalls the late night slow swing of 70s Tom Waits albums. The bass work is deceptively repetitive, lulling the listener into a sense of complacency, playing the role of the straight man in this musical con. The piano’s notes ebb and flow, one side of a conversation completed in the listener’s subconscious. I realize that this sounds very 60s English-major, first-wave rock criticism, all literary allusion shite and pretty words, but that style happens to fit here. This music is ethereal and groove-laden at once, a surreal sound emanating from a jazz/not-jazz trio from the Fourth Dimension or Mars or maybe some rift in the fabric of time and space – who knows? What is certain is that they are damn good and that I have not heard anything like this ever. Not once have I listened to an hour-long “song” and immediately restarted it, that is, not until now.

“Sex” is easy to recommend as a get it now album, but it is hard to recommend how to enjoy it. “Sex” is much akin to a mood-enhancing drug, compelling the listener’s state of mind into heretofore unknown or unrealized territories. This music calls out to its listeners to listen and follow, anything after that is up to . . . well, you.

You may well have to hunt for this one, as it was released in 1989. “Sex” may have come out twenty years ago but the album still sounds twenty years ahead of its time.

How did I miss this standout for all those years? Oh wait, I know – I was listening to Oasis albums.

Stay dry and warm. Sleep well. Drink good coffee often. Those are the Three Mantras for cold, miserable weeks. Follow them and prosper, y’all.

Later taters.

I suppose winter is finally here. As I type this, the forecast calls for 1-2 inches of rain tomorrow with 15-25 mph winds. Then, it is going to be colder than a well digger’s ass for the near future. My arthritis is overjoyed let me tell you . . .

The crappy weather set adrift my addled mind, allowing it to wander through various and sundry topics. I had not heard anything new this past week that compelled me to tell y’all about it. Nothing was that noteworthy until the media got all hot and bothered about Tiger Woods’ automotive screw-up, which allowed all the 24-hour scandalmongers to set up shop and order some takeout. Ne’er has there been such a worthless group of talking heads ever; this bunch takes the cake.

The music news that did spark my interest this past week was sadly predictable. For the second time, Steven Tyler has quit/been fired as Aerosmith’s lead singer. The standard processed and massaged press releases were everywhere, with Joe Perry confirming that Tyler had quit. Earlier in the week, band members stated their concerns in the music press, saying that Tyler was NOT acting like a sober person. The very same night, Tyler joined the Joe Perry Project onstage to perform “Walk This Way” and told the audience that he was NOT quitting Aerosmith, stating “Joe Perry, you are a man of many colors but I, motherfucker, am the rainbow!” Good Lord, what a mess.

Wait - there is more craziness. After the original flurry of activity that had Aerosmith breaking up and reuniting with a 24-hour period – the American equivalent of an Oasis self-immolation – the band not only announced plans were still in motion to find a replacrment for Tyler but also that they were afraid that Tyler was off the wagon. Wow, who’d a thunk it after that lucid declaration at the Joe Perry Project gig?

For those of you who missed it the first time, Aerosmith was one of the finest train wrecks going in the 70s. As Mick and Keith were the Glimmer Twins, so Joe and Steven were the Toxic Twins. There was no chemical cocktail too strong for the two and they managed to create some of the most memorable music of the 70s. Songs like “Walk This Way”, “Sweet Emotion”, and “Dream On” blasted out of AM radios and car stereos everywhere as Aerosmith rode a decade-long hot streak. Critics spoke of derivativeness and lack of originality, but fans voted with their wallets resulting in six platinum records for the decade, five of which went multiplatinum.

Then the wheels came off. Recreational drug use was no longer recreational and the ensuing tensions led to guitarist Joe Perry leaving in ’79 to form the Joe Perry Project and guitarist Brad Whitford leaving in ’81 to form Whitford/St. Holmes with ex-Ted Nugent singer Derek St. Holmes. There were various collapses onstage, fisticuffs on and offstage and various states of being completely f’ed up to the point of being incapable of playing a kazoo, much less rocking the rafters.

If Aerosmith stole a great deal of their look and sound from the Stones, the Faces, etc. (Guns and Roses owes Aerosmith some royalties for the scarves on the mike stand look, however), they were serious trailblazers in one aspect- they did the total band rehab a good 15 years before Metallica filmed “Some Kind of Monster” and went from metal gods to touchy-feely head cases.

The rehab sparked a rebirth of the band and the Aerosmith brand. Joe Perry and Steven Tyler appeared on Run DMC’s remake of “Walk This Way” that was EVERYWHERE for a year or so.  The albums “Permanent Vacation” and “Pump” were huge hits, with the single “Janie’s Got a Gun” from “Pump” earning Aerosmith their first Grammy. They showed up on Saturday Night Live in an episode of the hugely popular “Wayne’s World” skit. The band released power ballads; had Number One singles; won more Grammys; had professional co-songwriters brought in to increase their commercial appeal; made a ton of money; and even played halftime at the Super Bowl. Appearing in Gap ads was just a part of the Aerosmith assault on pop culture.

Aerosmith amazes me. They were iconic Rock Gods when I was growing up, kicking ass and fucking up in equal parts. They then proceeded to reinvent themselves as rock/pop hit makers, becoming every American’s cool uncle or granddad rocking the mike everywhere you turned. The single “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” from the “Armageddon” soundtrack lodged in the collective psyche of America and melted the heart of every romantic that saw the movie. The band that would be king had triumphed on a scale I think that even they never thought possible or probable.

Now, we have Perry and Tyler doing their best hermanos Gallagher imitation. It is dysfunction as pop art and ironically keeps the band in the spotlight on the verge of their fortieth anniversary tour. The threat of a new lead singer and the insinuation that Steven Tyler is as f’ed up as a football bat lead me to believe that Aerosmith will leave Steven to his solo album and “brand Tyler” ideas and hit the road to rock some ass. MOREOVER, THIS IS THE PERFECT PROGRESSION FOR THIS BUNCH. To have a simple, happy ending to this very twisted, completely-American-in-a-drug-addled-Horatio-Alger-fashion group’s career would ring false. If you wrote it as fiction, your editor would strike it as being completely unbelievable.

I love old Aerosmith and some of the second wave stuff rocks as well. I do not care what happens in this case; I just want the show to go on. Aerosmith is one of the few bands that are as entertaining when they are not touring as when they are. Let me have more bitchery and rumor. It is better than most of what I am hearing anyway.

Keep your head and feet dry and warm. Being sick for Christmas sucks. Believe me, I have been there.

Later taters.

Hope y’all took my advice about training for the upcoming turkey throwdown seriously, because gastritis is a bitch . . .

Over the decades, the U.K. has spawned a plethora of singers that sound or think they sound like American R&B singers, a wave of blue-eyed soul featuring artists such as Van Morrison, Eric Burdon, Dusty Springfield, Spencer Davis-era Steve Winwood, George Michael, etc. In the Noughties, artists such as Natasha Bedingfield, Adele, and, of course, Amy Winehouse spearheaded another wave of British blue-eyed soul that charted on both sides of the pond. There is another powerhouse voice in this lot, the only one to plumb the depths of R&B and soul as intensely as Amy Winehouse has, and that voice would be Joss Stone.

I confess – I expected Joss Stone to be some prepackaged, processed, focus group-approved product, as soulless as my kitchen table and as funky as a good case of poison ivy. I will be damned if I was not COMPLETELY wrong. Write down the date you read this and laminate this column, because you may never see those words here again . . .

Natasha Bedingfield has the pop sensibility nailed. Amy Winehouse was conquering with her unique sound before good drugs and bad advice derailed her bandwagon. Adele, for her young age, is incredible, a voice already fully formed and a soul searching for answers to the questions that life poses to all of us. Their accomplishments are substantial.

However, none of those women has the ability to let it rip, a talent that soul, blue-eyed or not, demands on a regular basis. By God, Joss Stone can. She is the real deal and her newest release, “Colour Me Free!” offers proof of her further evolution as THE blue-eyed soul diva of her era. This album, delayed in its release due to issues with EMI (her record company), stands as a signpost on Joss Stone’s career path.

The first single, “Free Me”, is flat-out funky, with her band laying down a solid groove, allowing Joss Stone to riff to good effect. This is the best she has ever sounded, another sign pointing to her continuing evolution as an artist. The second track, “Could’ve Been You”, falters a bit as a follow-up; it seems a bit generic after the fiery “Free Me”. “Parallel Lines”, the third track, features Jeff Beck and Sheila E. as guest artists and is very good. Neither of the guests overpowers the track, which Beck especially could have done very easily. Instead, Sheila E.’s harmonies and percussion and Jeff Beck’s restrained and tasteful guitar work bring the song to life. More guest artists on more albums could take a lesson from those two on this track . . .

The following track, “Lady”, has the same problem as “Could’ve Been You” – it lacks the punch needed to follow the knockout track preceding it. The song is airy and nice enough but that is all it is. Joss Stone then turns around with a smoldering “4 And 20”, a paean to the slow grind building of desire. “4 and 20” makes you want to grab your significant other and . . . well you get the idea. The song kills.

Other guest artists make appearances on “Colour Me Free!”. Raphael Saadiq shows up on “Big Ol’ Game”. David Sanborn tunes up a red-hot version of Ray Charles’ “I Believe It to My Soul” that takes on a very funky life of its own. The only misstep by a guest artist occurs when Nas guests on “Governmentalist”. He commits the mortal sin of taking over the tune; Joss Stone becomes a distraction on her own song.

“Colour Me Free!” would have benefited from a producer or engineer with an idea of how to order tracks on an album. This album is like a sine wave, peak followed by valley, time after time. There are twelve tracks on the U.S. version of “Colour Me Free!” Cropped down to nine or ten tracks, this album would have been a classic showcase of great female soul singing. However, that is NOT what happened and we are left with what we have, which is only very good instead of classic. In the current musical climate, I can work with very good. This is worth having, especially if you like evolving artists with big strong voices. “Colour Me Free!” has its dull moments but not enough to mar Joss Stone’s progress as an artist. She is getting better every time around and that voice . . . wow.

Y’all stay out of trouble; I do NOT have time for any nonsense.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Later taters.

Before we get into this week’s pick, allow me to drop some music info in your lap. VH1 Classic shows footage from 120 Minutes at insomnia-thirty in the middle of the night. I believe I saw it this past Sunday night/Monday morning around 3:30 AM or so. You will have to check the program listings on the VH1 Classic website, as Comcast’s video guide listings are useless. Seeing Sisters of Mercy in the middle of the night made the insomnia worth it.

In addition, the British weekly New Music Express, more commonly referred to as NME, has posted their 100 greatest albums of the decade. Aside from the Americana/new folk fetish, there is much on the list that is essential listening. Head on over to nme.com and see what you think.

This week’s pick is the Black Crowes’ “Before The Frost . . .”, thus continuing my recent obsession with brother bands and combining it with a review. Pretty spiffy way to allow my OCD some free rein, huh?

I am biased, I must admit. The Black Crowes’ debut, “Shake Your Moneymaker”, is one of my all-time favorite albums. I still love “The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion”; I see it as the perfect sophomore effort. Then there came “Amorica” and “Three Snakes and a Charm”, which is where the band started to experiment and show influences that went outside the standard Allman Brothers/Rolling Stones/Faces-influenced sounds of their first two efforts. Here is where some of the nonbelievers jumped ship. Time passed. Chris Robinson married Kate Hudson, smoked enough dope to kill us all, and looked like a rock and roll Ted Kaczynski. Rich Robinson, one of the most underrated guitarists of his generation, appeared to grow disgusted with the whole thing and decided to do his own thing, FAR away from Chris.

That is the history of the Black Crowes briefly. The hermanos Robinson have spent the better part of their career trying to avoid one another and explaining in interview after interview that they really do not like one another in yet another example of the brothers’ vibe and the havoc it can wreak on a band. As the over 20 million albums sold as the Black Crowes attest, when they have their heads out of their asses, they make some incredible rock and roll. After a few years (2002-2005) spent in the wilderness, the Black Crowes reunited in 2006. The band started to tour and write new material. The resulting album, “Warpaint”, was a smash hit, both critically and commercially, landing at number 5 on the Billboard charts amidst a bevy of favorable reviews. The Black Crowes had returned to kick ass and take names. Happily, “Before The Frost . . . “continues their creative rebirth.

Recording at Levon Helm’s studio, The Barn, in Woodstock , New York , the Black Crowes perform a set of new material and choice covers for a handpicked audience, whose presence is heard at the end of every track. That could have been annoying as Hell, but I found their reactions to be interesting – they seem to be equally enjoying the performances and reveling what is some of the finest performances this band has ever recorded. The Black Crowes sound relaxed, older, wiser, and willing to let their music take them where it will, with mandolins and fiddles and harps appearing on various tunes. The experimentation that really started on “Amorica” evidently has continued to the present, with killer results. I have not heard a “studio live” album as good as this one in quite the while.

Tracks such as “Good Morning Captain” and the first single, “I Ain’t Hiding”, show that the musical muscle of the Crowes is alive and well. Both are stone grooves and are in heavy rotation here in the Fortress of Hollytude. The slower songs are unexpected wonders. The ubiquitous “She Talks to Angels” illustrates the Black Crowes’ ability and touch with slower tunes and it continues on this album. “Shady Grove” and “Garden Gate” are wonderful, musically fluid with an organic sound and groove. “Garden Gate” is damn near bluegrass . . .

The finale, the eight-minute “Been A Long Time (Waiting On Love), builds to an explosive wailing, rocking climax, as if to illustrate that all the preceding tunes were not some mirage or dream of a band not only returning to their former heights but actually surpassing them. “ Been A Long Time (Waiting On Love) is the exclamation point, finishing off the best album the Crowes have made. Chris and Rich Robinson have finally accomplished what they set out to do all those years ago when they released “Shake Your Moneymaker” – they ARE the scarred but smarter rock and roll road warriors they envisioned themselves as when they started. They have fulfilled their own creation myth and have found their Olympus to be a studio in a barn in Woodstock . They have made the best music of their career to date. The Robinsons should be rightfully proud. By letting down their guard and allowing the chemistry that has always been there to manifest itself in a fertile atmosphere, the Black Crowes have made the album that we knew they were capable of, an album that will be played by all your friends that have musical taste - you know who they are – as y’all split a six pack on some Saturday afternoon.

Get this now. This is as good as anything I have heard in a long time.

Best start training for the upcoming mega-turkey freak-out. The unprepared will pay with severe gastrointestinal distress. The prepared will just be fat, happy, and sleepy.

Later taters.

After searching for quite the while to find a name for this decade - I mean nothing really flowed like the Eighties or the Nineties – I stumbled upon the perfect appellation courtesy of the British music press: the Naughties. That is perfect. Now, I have all of a month and a half to use it. Wonderful . . .

The ass-chewing last week seems to have struck a chord with a few readers. What was very surprising was the number of musicians that voiced their agreement with some, if not all, of the points raised. I supposed that demographic would not want to hear my rant, but it seems to have struck a chord.

Yes, that was a pun – get over it.

 Anyway, the album this week . . . wait a minute . . .  I am listening to Bowling for Soup’s “Girl All the Bad Guys Want”, which is STILL funny as Hell. Sorry, that would be my adult-onset ADHD. What is your excuse?

The hot album this week is the newest album from Editors, “In This Light And On This Evening”. Editors grabbed my attention with the album “The Back Room” and especially the single “Munich”. The stark arrangements did not hide the seething energy lurking just under the surface.  The hatred they garnered from wannabe music snobs they wore as a badge of honor.

A love of “The Holy Bible”- era Manic Street Preachers and Depeche Mode’s dark trilogy of “Black Celebration/Music for the Masses/Violator” is very evident on “In This Light And On This Evening”, with hints of Peter Murphy and Sisters of Mercy and Kraftwerk popping up here and there. The album is fantastic, flawed but wonderful, and one of the best albums I have heard to date this year. It sticks to you; that is the only way I can explain it.

The opening track, “In This Light And On This Evening”, is supremely spooky, an aural wasteland musically that sets off the lyric “I swear to God/in this light and on this evening/ London’s become the most beautiful thing I’ve seen” like a bomb; it jumps out of the mix and hits you between the eyes. Before this release, the title track would have been a wall of droning guitars. Now, the guitars blend with some great synthesizer and sequencer sounds, all the while paced by drumming that ups the tension bar by bar. “In This Light And On This Evening” sets the bar very high for the rest of the album.

The following tune, “Bricks And Mortar”, is genius with a righteous blend of bombast and beat, vocals and synths again pulling the compare/contrast trick with dark, if obtuse lyrics and very airy, light synthesizers playing off one another very well.

The third track, “Papillion”, was the first single and is probably the most accessible track on this album to people who were Editors fans prior to this album. This is the sort of Editors’ tune where you can spot the lazy music critic a mile away, for he/she would refer to the “Joy Division” sound of this tune. That kind of statement is utter shite. The band and song that jumped into my mind immediately was Camouflage’s “The Great Commandment”, possibly the greatest Depeche Mode homage/rip-off (you decide) ever.

“You Don’t Know Love” is all atmosphere, aural film noir. It worms its way into your mind and lingers. “The Big Exit” takes some chances but comes up just short; something here does not click, not as the first four tracks here do.

“The Boxer” shows someone was listening to their “Swordfishtrombones”-era Tom Waits. That is cool with me – Tom Waits run through an Editors filter rocks. “Like Treasure” seems to be where Editors lose a bit of focus, but it is still a memorable song. It is a perfect example of what I meant when I said flawed but wonderful – I was humming it cleaning the house earlier and it is NOT the best song on this album.

“In This Light And On This Evening” closes with “Eat Raw Meat =  Blood Drool”, which is a failed Radiohead-style experiment, and “Walk The Fleet Road”, a perfect droning finish to the album with some glorious lush production. Lo-fi has its place but there are times I love hearing a band use a studio that knows how to do so properly.

The accusation of recycling bands of the past has stuck in Editors craw a bit – the lyric of “living out our secondhand clichés” is the kiss-off of the year, “The Heinrich Maneuver” of 2009. However, the band continues here to do what they do well, distill the albums that influenced them down to their essences and create their own albums from the bare ingredients. That distillation allows the band to create a sonic landscape that is black and white, all the color drained out and tossed away as irrelevant. This is what Goth should have mutated into, not some self-limiting sonic circle jerk ignored by most. This is not a perfect album, but it IS damned good. Very few artists try to evolve once they find any level of success; most are content to not reinvent the wheel and thereby keep the fans happy. Editors on “In This Light And On This Evening” show themselves to be one of the few, allowing us a glimpse of a band on the verge, of a band becoming. That by itself is worth the price; the incredible songs are just a bonus.

Get this now.

Happy 234th birthday to all my fellow Marines. Semper Fi. And I love you, Red. Happy ninth anniversary from your crazy husband.

Later taters.

This one is going to step on many musical toes in this town, so be prepared. There will be neither no quarter asked nor none given. Columns such as the one you are getting ready to read are not pleasurable things to write, but some things need to be said and now is as good a time as any.

There seems to be a great deal of concern and worry lately about the “music scene” in Chattanooga, as if somehow the low attendance figures at recent shows were anything new. The utter lack of interest and/or passion toward local music and musicians is not a new deficit in the local scenesters. The concern is admirable, in that all the problems mentioned are legitimate and troublesome. There is only one thing wrong with that train of thought – this state of affairs is nothing new.

A fickle and lazy majority, always looking to have their minds blown but never seeming to have the time to try to find the act that was actually going to do the blowing, has always populated Chattanooga’s nightlife. Bright spots like Michelangelo’s or the Nucleus were only stars that rapidly went supernova and disappeared, collapsing under the weight of mistakes, mismanagement and sheer bad luck. In the 80s, acts such as Pylon, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, the Descendents and the mighty Black Flag played to crowds here that ranged from decent to damned embarrassing. There were maybe, maybe 20-25 people at the Black Flag show at the Nucleus. Now, in any instance where I mention that show, no matter where I am, everyone in the whole establishment - I do not care if I am at the damned Roundhouse or Mackenzie Fiscal Nightmare or whatever that semi-cylinder is being called nowadays – WAS THERE. Jesus wept . . .

The mid-to-late 90s saw a revival in good music coming to Chattanooga. The Lizard Lounge, the Chameleon and The Bay all had weeks where you took a night off at your own risk; the line-up was that good. There was a sense that the same old shite was not going to cut it this time. Acts like Alejandro Escovedo, Slayer, Clutch, Three Doors Down and GWAR all graced local stages. Hellfire, the Rollins Band played here TWICE and damned near brought down the Bay both times. Those shows were so hot, they bordered on being atomic.

Absolutely none of those venues survived to the present, of course. Whereas venues in ‘burgs with a real “scene” hope to build a reputation and a loyal crowd of regulars over time, all the venues here – past, present and future – realize that they are dealing with a crowd that has essentially the attention span of a magpie. Once the shine or the “new” wears off a venue, its days are numbered, the only differences being that some get a longer reprieve than others do. The Chattanooga nightlife in 2009 is a prime example of getting what we deserve, not what we want.  It is our collective fault; no one is innocent.

Now, as far as local acts being bent about crowds and being paid and such, here is the truth: Chattanooga is a hard dollar and a cheap town to boot. Very few people in this place make any real money, by which I mean having enough dough to actually have what some silly souls refer to as an “entertainment budget”. Therefore, very few people are ready to come off any cash for a show. We have tried to establish an economy based on everyone here selling burgers and slinging drinks to black-socks-and-sandals-wearing Alabama day-trippers and it shows. I say that loving this ‘burg and having had every chance to leave this place in the rearview mirror for good. I chose to stay and watch the circus. What I am saying here may be harsh but it has that added oomph of being true, and that leaves a mark.

The bands of today need to talk to veterans of the Chattanooga music scene – Mike Dougher, Doug Bales, Calvin Steele, Terry Clouse, Richard Tate, et al – and they will learn some hard truths very quickly. Everyone they know will want to be on the guest list. Everyone they know will swear they will be at the show. Maybe a quarter of those people actually will show. Everyone will bitch about the price of the show, even if it is free with Jimi Hendrix back from the grave and shredding a Stratocaster. ALL OF THIS IS TRUE AND IF THEY CAN CHANGE ONE BIT OF IT, GOOD FOR THEM, but I am not holding my breath . . . 

A terminal ennui has taken hold over Chattanooga’s nightlife. After all, this IS the place where I heard “Oh, I was eating toast” uttered as an excuse for not being at a white-hot show. I do not relish that fact; I deplore it. However, there are ways to chip away at the current mindset that do not take that much effort, only a change in mindset for acts and venues. A few ideas come to mind. Start on time or maybe have an earlier show occasionally (the hardcore music freaks of yesterday have jobs, kids, etc. now). ADVERTISE – do not chew my ass for not supporting a show that I never heard about. If you are a band, be professional and practice and try to show up only semi-housed before your gig starts. Moreover, for God’s sake, ventilate your place of business if at all possible. Those ideas are just a start; the list in its entirety would swallow these column inches alive.

Listen, I am as guilty of some of the sins of the Chattanooga nightlife as anyone is BUT I attempt to be self-aware as to what problems we bring upon ourselves and why we do so. I issue a challenge to anyone who wishes to take it up. This town has the ability to have a better musical nightlife with more, better acts of a more diverse variety and yet we do not. Why? I have given y’all some of my take on it but the answer here will never be complete until every scenester takes a long look in the mirror and every venue has a solid idea as to what niche it is trying to fill. Some here are sure of what they are doing (hello, JJ’s Bohemia) but the path is narrow and it seems many have fallen by the wayside.

This is my screed, guaranteed to hack off everyone in the current “scene” that needs it. Those fighting the good fight know who they are and their names are on the Roll of Honor, their deeds known by all who are paying attention. They have my respect. Everyone else can kiss my ass.

God, I am in a mood.

Later taters.

I thought that I would be knee deep in some of the CDs that have landed on my desk as of late but I ran into a brick wall of music that I cannot process. The Del McCoury Band and Stratospheerius both put out well-produced, great sounding music but both are of types that I find very hard to review. Bluegrass and prog rock are two of the hardest genres of music to review unless you happen to be a fan of said genres. I enjoy some of what I have heard of both types but I am a dabbler, not a fan. Therefore, if you enjoy either of those artists, then get your wallet because both of those artists have new releases available now . . .

Anyway, I did stumble upon a CD I CAN review, one that I somehow missed when it initially was released. Alice in Chains has put out their first new album in 14 years, “Black Gives Way to Blue”. Maybe that oversight was a subconscious decision, considering my high regard for most of the band’s output with their original vocalist Layne Staley. They were the only band to emerge from the early 90s Seattle grunge movement that could stand toe to toe and go riff for riff with Soundgarden.  At their best, Alice In Chains was a lurching musical powerhouse with some seriously eerie hooks from guitarist Jerry Cantrell and unbelievable vocals from Layne Staley. Staley came across as some dark, dark force of nature and the vocal harmonies of Cantrell and Staley made songs such as “Man In The Box”, “Would?” and “Heaven Beside You” mainstays of 90s radio and in heavy rotation on MTV. Unfortunately, Layne Staley’s growing heroin addiction forced the band to tour less, record less and, finally, to break up following Staley’s speedball OD death in 2002. Alice In Chains’ demise following Staley’s death left their musical legacy intact, allowing new generations of music fans to hear their output in its entirety, a gestalt of well-written, dark beauty.

In 2005, Alice In Chains reformed with William DuVall taking on the vocal duties. The band started jamming and recording demos of new material. In 2007, the rejuvenated Alice In Chains toured with Velvet Revolver and Kill Hannah on a long, international tour that exposed a wide audience to the new lineup.

“Black Gives Way To Blue” is the first album with the new lineup and new material and IT KICKS ASS. The new vocalist, William DuVall, nails it track after track, showing a style distinct and different from Layne Staley, yet he maintains the trademark AIC vocal sound with searing vocal harmonies with Jerry Cantrell. His second guitar also provides Cantrell more ammunition for AIC’s sonic assault on this album.

Elton John adds some keys to the title track but do fret not, Dear Readers, for there is no “November Rain” present here. All the songs have a sinister sonic edge, which compliments the lyrical content perfectly. Addiction, recovery, relocation and, of course, Staley’s death all are addressed in the album’s songs. The title track is a tribute to Staley. My favorite track, “Check My Mind”, is a darkly humorous self-examination from Cantrell, pondering why a recovering addict would move to Los Angeles, “the belly of the beast” as Cantrell referred to it in a recent interview.

I may have been a bit late on hearing this album – ignoring 99 percent of broadcast radio has its hazards, I suppose – but having finally heard it, I am floored. Here was a perfect opportunity for Alice In Chains to blow it, to come back and suck hard. However, instead of some pale imitation of its original dark majesty or some lackluster self-parody (are you paying attention here, Pearl Jam?), Jerry Cantrell and the gang have returned with an album that is sonically aggressive, yet the overall feel is relaxed. If there was any pressure to produce a certain type of album or reach any particular level of sales, you do not hear it in the music. Instead, you hear the sound of a band that survived and matured. The scars are there, to be sure, but there is a fresh feel to “Black Gives Way To Blue” that makes me hope that Alice In Chains is back to stay. This is the hard rock album of the year so far and will be in heavy rotation here in the Fortress for a long, long time. Get your flannel on, grab a copy and rock out. Hell, it has been raining as if we live in Seattle anyway, right?

Get your freak on, people; it is Halloween.

Later taters.

I am in immense pain, so there is no time to dawdle . . .

Bon Iver’s breakthrough album, “For Emma, Forever Ago”, was one of last year’s big hits with the critics. Every best of 2008 list had it listed, usually in the top five. Except for mine, that is. It did not click with me at all. I was, and still am, looking for things that rock in some fashion. They do not have to be 4/4, stomp thump by-God ROCK but they DO have to have something that set them apart from the rest of the product out there. It may be critical heresy but Bon Iver left me flat. If I wanted soul-baring pseudo-therapy, I would waste an hour of my life of watching “Dr. Phil”. However, if any of you Dear Readers liked it, then good on yer. That is the whole point – find something YOU like, not something that yet another slick ad campaign tells you that you MUST like. It is the old, dishonest and, yet, very effective “Everyone else likes it. WHAT is wrong with you?” method, conjured from the very depths of Hell by the first advertising executives as the price for selling their souls to Satan. Be ever vigilant against that garbage. It is wrong in a myriad of ways too numerous to list here.

Anyway, this week’s joint is a side project by Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon recorded, before his big breakthrough of 2008, back in 2005 with the Milwaukee-based band, Collections of Colonies of Bees. “Unmap” by Volcano Choir is not anything like “For Emma . . . “. Here the lyrics are fragmented bits of thought or emotion that lay over the top of some truly wonderful experimental music. The album is a soundtrack to an afternoon lost in thought.

The lyrics, such as they are, are layered with effects and are more along the Dave Matthews using-a-voice-as-another-instrument train of thought than the traditional narrative use of lyrics. When the lyrics are used in the traditional fashion, they are damn near indecipherable. That is cool by me because I get lost in the grooves running through this album.

“Unmap” has traces of Trans Am, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and others. However, what it resembles most is a lighter version of Laurie Anderson’s “Big Science”. This is music made by musicians for their own purposes, which are unknown to any listener. All we can do is sit back and enjoy the results. “Island, Is” is all groove and my favorite track on the album. I have NO idea what it is about or what is saying. All I know is that it has a funky little groove to it that burrows into my brain and lingers, almost akin to a fine wine on your palate.

“Dote”, the following track, is music to cloudburst by, all waves of sound with an airy vocal that drops in and out. It is short but seems longer than it is. It segues perfectly into “And Gather”, which plays like the second movement of the same song or whatever musical term suits your fancy.

“Mbira for the Masses” has “Rain Dogs”-era Tom Waits’ influence all over it. That is bonus points. Like The Duke and the King, Volcano Choir use background noise to fine effect, adding texture and depth to the sonic mix.

I had no idea what to expect from Volcano Choir’s “Unmap”. I am not on the Bon Iver bandwagon, so I did not know of the tie-in of Justin Vernon. I just got it, grooved on the band’s name and gave it a spin. Wow. That was a good random act for the week. This album is flat-out weird, strange music for strange people. I may play this one for a while and it will definitely be a mainstay sonic selection for daydreaming afternoons.

Get this and freak out in a very mellow and good way.

I have to go. I have a case of the shingles that may kill me yet, or at least there are moments I hope it does.

Stay loose and out of trouble. Halloween is right around the bend.

Later taters.

This week’s column really is more about what is up with me than any actual music, so if that is not your bag and you want to take a week off, I totally understand. I promise to return to more musical riffage next week with likely candidates for review being Del McCoury and Volcano Choir and the latest Drive-By Truckers. Of course, given my past pattern of behavior, none of those may make it. Who knows? Not me, for sure . . .

As I write this, it is Monday October 12, 2009. I believe I have poison ivy/oak/sumac in my left eye and the barometric pressure yo-yo has my sinuses trying their damnedest to kill me.

It is also the third anniversary of my father’s death. Before anyone COMPLETELY freaks out anymore than he or she already has, allow me to state that that fact is not the central point here; it just happens to be what spurred the central point into being.

My father, Larry Sells, was many things to me, more than I could ever list here, but one of the things that he was, and the one germane to this week’s column, was a music aficionado. My father had vinyl for miles – country; soundtracks; boxed collections (I seem to remember the Ink Spots being one); old radio shows; etc. By country, I happen to mean real country like Merle Haggard and George Jones and Waylon Jennings. Country music was the music where my father found voices telling the stories he related to in ways he enjoyed. He started building a collection when there were not that many good record stores outside of bigger cities and I remember the cardboard packages arriving from Columbia House from time to time when I was a kid.

He also liked to sing or whistle along with whatever he was listening to a great deal of the time and he did both well. He had a resonant, beautiful voice that was effortlessly powerful and he whistled like . . . well, I would dare say you do not see people anymore that can whistle as my father could.

I recall these things because like any other person growing up, I rejected a great deal of my parents’ music, especially my father’s music. My mother’s musical tastes seemed to be more varied at the time, whereas my father’s tastes seemed to be country and nothing but. I retreated to my room and played whatever I was listening to at that time and wondered how anyone could listen to what my father had on his stereo. My father, I am certain, was doing the same thinking about what I was listening to. . .

I could talk about Dad for days, but that is not the point here. The point is how we return to the music we grow up with, not totally but enough to recognize/choose for ourselves what is good in the music that we once rejected out of hand. Long-time Enigma readers may remember an interview I did with Drive By Truckers a few years back. Patterson Hood talked about the need to get away from what he heard when growing up, at least for a while. The phenomenon is not limited to him or me; it runs through every teenage boy that has ever been and that ever will be. Such is the way of the universe.

It is also the way of the universe to be sitting around at some point as a man and think, “Damn, Dad was right about this one”. My appreciation for the music of Merle Haggard and Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson did not really take off until I was in the Marine Corps and thousands of miles from more than a handful of souls who knew who Hank Snow was. The cow-punk of early Lone Justice, the east L.A. mixture of Los Lobos, the rave-up songs of the Long Ryders . . . listening to all those bands played a role in opening my ears to what I had heard years before but had never really listened to. I remember buying Merle Haggard’s “Big City” at the PX in Monterey, California. That was it. From that point on, my appreciation of my father’s country music deepened immensely as my sense of what newer country music I liked started to form as well. My father did not much care for Alabama or any of the Kenny Rogers country crossovers that were so big in the 80s. They offended his sense of what the songs of country music were like – honest, sad and happy, sometimes roughhewn. Fittingly enough, I feel the same way now about Kenny Chesney, Keith Urban, Carrie Underwood, etc. Their brand of country ain’t mine. Give me Steve Earle, Robert Earl Keen, Lyle Lovett, Uncle Tupelo (and Uncle Lightning) and kindred musical souls. That is real country music, just like my Dad said to me thirty years ago about his musical heroes.

This topic ran all over me today because I would cut off a hand to listen to some Waylon Jennings with my father now and here him sing along to “Luckenbach, Texas” just once more and some time, some day a while from now, I hope I will.

However, I cannot go about cutting off any hands because I am going to need both off them soon. Red and I found out today that our child is a boy. His name will be Larry Daniel Sells, named for both of his grandfathers. God help him, because like every other boy growing up, he is going to have to live through his Dad’s music and wonder how anybody could listen to such. I hope he will sit down with me some day and ask me to put on something HE grew up with, just as I asked my Dad to once upon a time. I cannot ask for much more . . .

My mom and her tunes had a big influence as well and her column is coming, soon.

Hug your Dad’s neck while you can, because there will come a day when you cannot.

Later taters.

It appears autumn has arrived rather quickly. Two weeks ago, I was sweating like a whore in church from the moment I stepped outside until later in the day when I barricaded myself in the Fortress of Hollytude and worshipped at the altar of the Almighty AC.

Then, this past Sunday was cool rain and a high of 63. Nice. A more gradual approach would have been nice but the weather in this area almost defines the word capricious, so what was I thinking anyway? Walking the dog had to take a break for a minute so that I could pull a hoodie out of the closet; that cool rain was soaking my ass and THAT did not fly at all. Oh well, the lower EPB bills will be nice, at least.

I promised last week to delve into the vibe that having siblings, usually brothers, together in a band generates. Good Lord, the list is long and the reasons for acrimony seemingly endless. Time, the British Invasion, and their own increasing irrelevance overwhelmed the Everly Brothers, culminating in a 1973 concert fiasco that led to the two not speaking to each other for ten years.

Then, there is what may be the penultimate example of the sibling/family rock band vibe going horribly awry, the Beach Boys. Long-time readers of this screed know that I hold Brian Wilson in very high esteem as well as his late brothers Dennis and Carl. Their cousin and Beach Boys lead vocalist Mike Love, however, I feel to be a complete waste of oxygen and a total bastard to boot. This is the man who told Brian Wilson, musical genius and American treasure, “don’t fuck with the formula” when Brian entered a more experimental phase in his songwriting, somewhere around 1966.

This quote allegedly absolutely devastated Brian and, along with enough drugs and junk food to kill a dinosaur, helped lead to Brian becoming a hermit in his bedroom complete with a grand piano and a sandbox. The psychic damage was deep and wide, with Brian going through various phases of recovery and relapse, all the while Mike Love was creating shite like “Kokomo”. The death of Dennis Wilson robbed the Beach Boys, a group never allowed by the music-buying public to grow or be anything different than the early 60s merchants of the California Dream, of the only person who would and could beat Mike Love’s ass. The world is poorer for it as Mike Love’s continued abuse of the Beach Boys name illustrates; it is a travesty only matched by that thing that is touring and recording as Lynyrd Skynyrd. The release of the remastered “Pacific Ocean Blue” shows how powerful an artist Dennis Wilson was and could have been if only the weight of being Brian Wilson’s brother had not crushed him. That may be armchair psychology, but it is my take on it and I will stand by it.

Ray and Dave Davies of the Kinks, one of the most underrated bands EVER, have also had a plethora of problems. Ray Davies was the voice of the Kinks, the man Pete Townsend said should one day be Poet Laureate. Dave Davies, on the other hand, was a successful songwriter in his own right and the creator of a guitar sound (“You Really Got Me”; “All Day and All of the Night”) that guitarists are attempting to imitate to this day. As usual, the voice received more credit than the sound and the tensions simmered to a boil at numerous times throughout the Kinks’ long and storied career. Those tensions, and fading popularity/sales, finally led to the demise of the Kinks in 1996. There has been talk of a reunion involving new material but Dave Davies has flat out said no, so any reunion would be without the man who made the sound. Lyrics can only go so far – ask Morrissey.

There are plenty of others - some talented (the Black Crowes), some one-hit wonders (Deep Blue Something) – where the bond that drove brothers to form a band becomes the familiarity breeding contempt that drives them apart. It is as if the creative spark that spurred the band to greater efforts finally ignites a fire fueled by lingering resentments, petty jealousies and flat-out antipathy, a situation that is sad and strange at the same time.

This all comes to mind because of the recent departure of Noel Gallagher from Oasis. There is talk of the band continuing without Noel, which is nothing short of tragic. Continue the band if you wish, people, but do not make the mistake Pink Floyd made when Roger Waters left, which is continuing using the band name as a brand name. Some of the post-Waters “Floyd” is good, but it was impossible to take seriously for years because of that very fact. Oh well, not that any of that lot cares anyhow . . .

Give it a minute and see if any famously f’ed-up sibling bands pop into your head – the Osmonds do not count. Hell, make a bar game of it.

Quick Top Five on Heavy Rotation at the Fortress:

   1. “Union Street” – The Duke and the King

   2. “Spellbound” – Doves

   3. “A Ghost To Most” – Drive-By Truckers

   4. “Ordinary Day” – Dolores O’Riordan

   5. “Victoria” – The Fall

Everybody be good. Save the crazy stuff for Halloween.

Later taters.

As East Ridge and surrounding areas attempt to dry out, dig out, and carry on with what is left, know that this cynical curmudgeon sends the best vibes and wishes possible. I would add prayers but studies have found that action to be detrimental to those they are intended to benefit. Oh well . . . anyway, be sure to kill any mold you see - brain lesions suck.

Graham Coxon, the guitar god on the entire Blur worth owning, is playing out in the Graham Coxon Power Acoustic Ensemble (not the most original of all band names, I will give you that). What is interesting, besides Graham Coxon making more good-to-great music, is that part of the Ensemble is Robyn Hitchcock. Nice. There is nothing like being able to call on some heavy artillery when you want some sonic backup for your new joint.

On the same tip, it appears that Thom Yorke, late of Radiohead, has formed a new band including Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers and has scheduled some gigs in Los Angeles in early October. Interesting . . .

I have some ideas about brothers in bands, the dynamics, why some work and others fail spectacularly. I will expound next week. This is going to be good; get your ringside seats now.

This week I have been listening to Jann Klose’s newest effort, “Reverie”. This type of album I normally do not review, not because there is any fault in the album but because I lack the skills to review an album like this as it should be. My areas of musical knowledge and expertise lie elsewhere and I feel unequipped to do this properly.

On the other hand, that has never stopped me before and I do no intend to let it start now. “Reverie” is what Adult Alternative Contemporary should be playing. There are only so many songs by Counting Crows and Train; eventually the format will have to expand its playlist or perish. Programmers and consultants do not like to hear that but tough shite – it is the truth.

I could share some of Jann Klose’s info with y’all, but go to www.jannklose.com for all that. What I have to say is this – this is good. Jann’s voice carries all the songs, which is fine, for he has a superior voice. What closes the deal for me is the instrumentation on the songs. “All These Rivers”, probably my favorite track on the album and one worthy of some serious spins, has some funky percussion courtesy of one Doug Hinrichs and flugelhorn by Dan Brantigan. It really swings.

The next track, “Question of the Heart”, is grand piano and cello accompanying Jann Klose’s voice. It is passionate and almost somber in the way it unfolds. It takes a sense of pace and structure to pair these two tracks on an album. Those skills are hard to find evidence of these days, so it was a pleasant surprise to find such skills on “Reverie”. The album moves from instrumentals, “Ithaca”, to swinging ballads, the opener, “Beautiful Dreams”, to breezy rockers such as “Hold Me Down”. There are hints of Jason Mraz and John Mayer here but they are tints; Jann Klose provides all the bold colors with music that is hard to categorize but is very easy to enjoy. Here comes a mention of Jim Cheney again. The two men are very similar in one way – they make the music that they want to make. That intent is admirable in and of itself but to do so and have a result that kicks is even better. “Reverie” does just that.

I cannot offer any tag or reference point for this album; pigeonholing “Reverie” is impossible, thank God. There is too much “product” on the airwaves and in the market now and that is regrettable. While the latest garbage from Nickelback is triple platinum before it ships, music such as Jann Klose’s “Reverie” fights for airplay. Life is not fair by any stretch, but you can help even the scales by buying this one. It is good and musically varied and challenging to the average listener. However, as we all know, Dear Readers, none of you are average, just like Lake Wobegon. Get “Reverie” now and expand your musical palette.

Next week I will break down the fraternal energy that drives and destroys some bands. The case studies are numerous and varied, so the conclusions may surprise some of you. Stay tuned.

Stay dry and hang tough, flood survivors. All of the good vibes from the Fortress of Hollytude are aimed your way.

Later taters.

Do any of you, my Dear Readers, have any idea how difficult it is to find wombats to load onto the boat, two by two? I find them to be incredibly cute, so no aquatic survival effort would be complete without them.

To address all the Oasis haters in the blogosphere and such, the hermanos Gallagher spoke to me of letting it all hang out - cocaine, Patsy Kensit, wishing AIDS on irritating rival bands, etc. C’mon, how does it get any better than that as far as releasing your id to run wild? Oasis saw the path to musical glory, seized it by the balls, and never let up. Bitch about their musical styles all you wish but Paul Weller sought out Noel Gallagher, the fuel Oasis ran off, for musical collaborations and malt beverage consumptions. That speaks volumes to me. The Modfather errs rarely.

Oasis was talented, brash, sometimes derivative (who in rock is not?) but the Gallaghers were by-God Rock Stars in an era when the music world desperately needed some. The dominant rock genre at that time was lo-fi, navel-gazing and eventually self-limiting. In comparison, Oasis was highly produced, anthemic and only limited by their self-destructive impulses, which I understand better than I care to admit. So, yeah, they spoke to me very clearly, even in my mid-20s when, going by the tone of many missives I have received, my musical tastes should have run toward something . . . well, more trendy. Screw that then and now; Oasis will always stand tall in my book. They trod the earth as gods when everyone else wanted to whine about how hard fame was. Jesus wept . . . 

Whatever. I have had my musical tastes, even my basic competence to dare to write about music, criticized before. That will probably occur again, which is unfortunate for those dissenters, for they have forgotten Rule No. 1 – I am always right, even when I am mistaken.

This week’s blast of music from out of nowhere is “Afterglow”, the latest effort from The Exploding Boy. The band hails from Sweden, which I always find interesting; many bands from there draw influences from many of the same sources as other rock musicians worldwide, yet they seem to process them almost completely differently.

The band’s name alone should be a clue to music geeks, coming from the b-side of the Cure’s “In Between Days”. The band’s music draws from that glorious era, the darker edges of punk/post punk/New Wave/Goth/ No Wave/etc. Stalwarts such as Bauhaus, Joy Division and the Sisters of Mercy are distinct influences in the sound and the fury, with guitars and synthesizers mixing with sequencers and drum machines to create a wave of sound that packs a serious emotional punch. Like the best dark wave (or whatever label you prefer) music out there, the sound always seems to pull the listeners back into their own well of emotional unrest. This is an album perfect for drowning in the sound, letting the conscious mind roam until it abuts against an idea previously unknown, swimming below the surface of realization. Tunes such as “Intervention” and “London” with their soaring guitar and pulsing bass interplay lay the foundation for some solid drum work, instead of the usual vice versa. The vocals seem to float in from Parts Unknown, much like Suede at their best. There is not one filler track on the album; it is solid.

It would be easy, and lazy, to lump The Exploding Boy in with the Editors and Interpol as post punk purveyors of sounds most sinister. That idea is true but incomplete; there is a sense and sound of the other, an alien intelligence, driving and shaping an album equal to the best works of their peers, yet unique. “Afterglow” is wonderful, distinct Swedish rock, much as the Editors’ incredible album“The Back Room” is the work of a British mindset and Interpol’s “Our Love to Admire” is as disturbingly American as they come. Here is a true treat, a new spin on an established sound that is well defined and razor-sharp. This is the real deal. Get it now.

Random note - the last band of this type that hit me as The Exploding Boy has was Knoxville’s own Pegasi 51, which is playing out again and worth any cover.

This one should be in your CD player for a long time. It is a triumph, a complete work in the day of half-finished garbage.

Get to high ground and eat chilidogs, the preferred way to ride out anything nature can dish out. Bring plenty – you may have to share.

Later taters.

This week’s rundown is kind of a hodgepodge, so bear with me. There will be no manifestoes explained this week, though’ the “Never Loved Elvis” part is coming, I promise. The weasels are closing in, the fever has returned and there is much to be explained in short order. Buckle up and hang on to your ass.

As anyone who has been reading this for a while knows, I am literally insane for a number of British bands and two of my favorites, one a long-time favorite and the other relatively new, are the Manic Street Preachers and the Rifles. The Mancs’ “Journal for Plague Lovers” is on my short list for this year’s Top Ten and, after a period of reappraisal, so is the Rifles’ newest, “The Great Escape”. I was fortunate enough to be able to review U.K. copies when I originally covered these releases, but now everyone can enjoy. Both albums are now available in the U.S. as downloads on iTunes. I personally prefer hardcopies, but when it comes to albums and bands this good, I am just happy that any format is out over here.

The Mancs’ “Journal for Plague Lovers” is one of the three best albums they have ever made, even stronger than “Send Away the Tigers”, which I love. It ranks with “Generation Terrorists” and “The Holy Bible”. I would add to the list “Everything Must Go” on any given day as well. It is incredibly honest, harrowing and somehow triumphant. “Journal for Plague Lovers” is a vital addition to anyone’s playlist.

The Rifles’ “The Great Escape” is one that I missed the first time. I derided it for being good, ok, whatever. I was very wrong. This album may not have floored me initially as their debut album, “No Love Lost”, did. What it did do, however, is follow a path that the Chameleons U.K. (a band I will champion ‘til the day I die) did; it worked its way deep into my brain and stayed. The more listens I gave “The Great Escape”, the better it sounded, every time. “The Great Escape” is an awesome album and you should go to YouTube or the band’s MySpace site and see the video for “The Great Escape”, especially the first one that someone over here did not think was good enough. Sometimes, record company people are fools and this would be one of those times; the original is so much better but either one means you can hear the song and that is what matters . . .

There are albums that you need to hear. Let us get to them before the medication wears off and the bats return.

To begin, I stumbled upon the Corrections’ “Repeat After Me” and was highly intrigued. It is Radiohead-inspired, radio-friendly rock but it does not bore. It is probably more anthemic than I would prefer but overall this is a good listen and worth the time, which more than can be said for most of what I hear. To note, this is from 2008, so it is not exactly new but whatever . . .

Next up would be the Cribs’ “Ignore the Ignorant”, the newest effort from the band Q Magazine called “the biggest cult band in the U.K.”. Throughout their progression into said status, the Cribs have always been brothers Ryan, Gary and Ross Jarman. That is no longer the case, as they have welcomed Johnny Marr into the fold as an official member. Wow, that is quite the pick-up to add to an already seriously talented band.

“Ignore The Ignorant” is, in a word, superb. The Cribs’ rock/power-pop songwriting is top-notch as always (I want to talk about their prior effort, “Men’s Needs Women’s Needs Whatever”, next week) but what is striking in light of the line-up change is how Ryan Jarman’s guitar work stands toe-to-toe with Mr. Marr’s. It is something to hear indeed. Some songs find the vocals a bit strained but no one said rock stars were opera singers, so I got over it.

The Cribs’ “Ignore the Ignorant” out-sold all but two of the Beatles re-releases this past week, which is staggering really. Chalk that up to the “cult” being bigger than anyone could have guessed and growing daily. Give this one a listen and I believe you will join quite willingly.

That is it for this week. Next week I promise we will get into older Cribs’ efforts and other choice stuff. Chuck Barris, where are you?

Later taters.

As I type this on the eighth day of September 2009, the fifth (?) wave of Beatlemania to occur since I was born is upon us like some ne’er-ending Biblical plague. That uncertain count does not include the original waves in the U.K. and in the United States at the time of the Beatles breakout in the early 60s. Between the release of what we are once again promised WILL be the best re-masters of the Beatles catalogue to date AND the release of the videogame, The Beatles: Rock Band (which technically should be titled Rock Band: The Beatles), the manufactured nostalgia machine has cranked into high gear yet again for this lot. I have always found this interesting for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it works, every time. There could be a digital remastering of some analog tape consisting of Ringo breaking wind with the other three cracking up in the background and millions would line up worldwide to buy it.

Fair enough, I suppose. It is the consumer’s choice to buy it after all, except of course it really is not, as so much research into advertising and marketing has documented. The consumer may end up making a decision but not before a lot of unseen forces have pushed him or her one way or another.

Boring, I know, but I mention it specifically because of this newest triumph of marketing ties into a question that I am often asked. Which is, of course, “Why do you hate/not like the Beatles?” I feel it is a fair question, though I never said I hated the Beatles, for the record. Such a statement would be untrue, as I happen to enjoy most of the Beatles’ songs where Ringo sings lead. “Octupus’ Garden” and “Yellow Submarine” come to mind immediately.  

Let us set the record straight finally - I do not hate the Beatles; I do not LIKE the Beatles. I respect the ground they broke musically and culturally; they literally changed the landscape of popular music. Having said that, I never want to hear a Beatles song again, outside of the aforementioned Ringo stuff and one cover (Earth, Wind and Fire’s take on “Got to Get You into My Life”). I was a 1968 baby, so the Beatles were history by the time I could remember anything. Then there was the Beatlemania wave surrounding that horrid movie, “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”. I was ten and everybody had the Beatles on the brain. All four were still living, so rumours and idle talk about reunions still flittered about. The movie sucked; the EW&F cover rocked; and it took the introduction of the film to Poland for it to turn a profit. The Bee Gees, Peter Frampton, Aerosmith . . . the list of people who should have known better, yet appeared in this waste of celluloid is near endless. Research it for the full effect. I survived this wave of faux Beatlemania mainly via the Atlanta Rhythm Section, the Doobie Brothers (with Michael McDonald) and the Kinks. All were solid rock antidotes to this mass silliness over a piece of utter shite.

The next Beatlemania wave hit when John Lennon was shot. It differed from the earlier one in that it seemed to be heartfelt and spontaneous. Howard Cosell announced it on “Monday Night Football” and the baby boomers wept bitterly over one of their icons passing, in the most part for him and in some part for their own creeping mortality. I had no beef with this; I hate to see anyone’s life ended by a lunatic with a gun.

There were waves of Beatlemania for the 1987 release of all the Beatles albums on CD; the studio creations of “Free as a Bird” and “Real Love”, the first two new “Beatles” songs in 25 years; the death of George Harrison; etc. I resisted them all. Why? Because their music never spoke to me. I was a 70s kid with Valium in teething gel and a country trying desperately to forget how all the promise of the 60s and flower power had come to naught. “All You Need Is Love” seemed (and still seems) a cruel joke to me. NYC and Chrysler went broke. There were homes surreptitiously built atop toxic waste at Love Canal, NY. Naturally, the Clash and the Dead Kennedys made a lot more sense to me with songs of anger and frustration and a need to burn it all down. They were loud, fast, smart and mad as Hell. That combination spoke volumes to me. As time wore on and I heard Black Flag and the Jam and X and so many others, I started to be shaped by MY music, as I thought of it then. The bands of the 60s and 70s that still brought the thunder – the Who, The Kinks and few others – were welcome, but my tastes were narrow, yet expanding constantly as I heard new music.

There were many other musical obsessions as I aged – alt-country; blues; old, good country; rap and hip-hop; and Britpop, of course. I learned and had my musical identity shaped by each. I like to think that I took the best from each, though everyone’s definition of what the “best” is differs and many disagree with some artists/bands that I champion. That is fine; that is what this column is, a discussion of music via the proxy of a column that some are kind enough to take time to read every week. Thanks to everyone of who reads this. I do not say that often enough and a quick shout out to the staff at the public library (doing a lot with little . . . as always) and Dr. Richard Brackett, who does a wonderful job helping Red (my wonderful wife) and is my surprise reader of the week.

Anyway, let us return to the original idea. I never liked the Beatles because they were not MINE. Fear and Agent Orange and Steve Earle and Oasis (more on this, I swear) were all mine, artists of my time that said things in their music that spoke to me. The Beatles seemed quaint and dated, even in comparison to some of their contemporaries (the Who, the Stones, the Kinks), and did not rock nearly as hard as the Yardbirds or the Faces. Their music never made me tap my feet, head bang or scream along as I broke speed limits across this land. That is a deal breaker. Yes, they were immensely creative. Yes, they influenced an army of bands that came after them. Yes, they deserve every accolade they receive, I suppose. Yet I would still rather listen to the bands they influenced instead of them. I will not be handing out any accolades. I still prefer the good Wings singles to any Beatles song, any day. Brand me a heretic, if you must, but I do not and will not repent. I will NOT be assimilated by this newest wave of bullshit, and I will stand alone if I must. There . . . I feel better.

So now, you know the why behind the statement. Feel free to send hate mail or bitch at me about it in public. I meant to start a conversation with this and I will be disappointed if everyone pulls a Chattanooga and moves like a mute automaton through their lives, reacting to nothing, discussing nothing, being nothing beyond a drone in the hive.

Next week, who knows? I did not expect this one to turn out the way it did. I am sure next week’s will be the same way.

Later taters.

It has been a Hell of a week so far. Chattanooga and surrounding smoldering municipalities appear to be in for some relief, what with temperatures forecast to have highs in the lower 80s. That is just what the doctor ordered. As is the pattern for our summers, it has been too hot, too long. California has the hot Santa Ana winds; we just have stagnant ozone-laden air that feels like you are breathing through a sponge. That is a world of suck.

California has its own world of suck - the entire Los Angeles area is on fire and the flames have already caused the death of two firefighters (RIP). The state is broke and half of it is ablaze. I bet the governor is hitting those Austrian schnapps hard these days. “All the leaves are brown . . . “, my ass – they’re on fire.

Anyway, I bitch about the weather and L.A. combusts. I remark about reviewing Dolores O’Riordan’s newest album, “No Baggage”, and she announces she is canceling her tour. What the Hell? Is everything I write about going straight down the crapper? If that is true, I have a musical Dead Pool that had better get their affairs in order, because I WILL do a column consisting of nothing but names of acts that need to disappear forever.

However, Dolores’ announcement has a happy addendum. She has canceled her upcoming tour because the Cranberries have reunited and plan to tour soon with a new album being a distinct possibility. That rules. In their original go-around, the Cranberries were a musical force with Dolores on point, both vocally and creatively. She has gone on record as to the fact that the sudden fame and fortune almost broke her in half.  Subsequently, the band broke up and she retreated to her home and her family, reveling in her roles as a wife and mom. She also recorded an awesome solo album, “Are You Listening?”, that I cannot recommend highly enough.

This reunion, out of all the bands giving another go, has great promise. Quick aside - Blur may actually do something but I would not hold my breath were I you. Back to our regular programming - like the Verve’s Richard Ashcroft, Dolores O’Riordan has not been creatively idle since her band’s demise. Also like the situation with the Verve, the band’s driving force reached out to the other members and reached a rapprochement. The Verve’s reunion resulted in the album, “Forth”, that was/is fantastic and a Glastonbury set for the ages. Evidently, it also resulted in the band’s splitting for the third time. I hold out hope for that not being the case with the Cranberries. Hell, they have all had children together, much like the Sugarcubes. Maybe that fact will work in their favor.

This may sound like a bit from Oprah or some such thing but bear with me here. I feel that the problem the Verve appears to have staying together is the result of too many alpha males in the same room, cocksparring over just who exactly is in charge. That is a shame, because anyone can see that Ashcroft is the force of nature that drives the Verve and for the others to disengage from him because of that is a shame. It deprives the musical world of a top-notch band at a moment when there are few of those to go around.

Well anyway, the upcoming Cranberries tour is good news and definitely on my radar of upcoming events. Dolores has stated that the set list will include songs from “No Baggage” (and hopefully “Are You Listening?”) as well as Cranberries songs. This is going to ROCK, whether or not they play nearby. A band that reforms with more mature members and a better understanding of how to make all the ups and downs of being in a band work for them is a band that has chance to make their reunion a thing to see.

In total shite news, Noel Gallagher has left Oasis, citing verbal/physical confrontations with his brother, and Oasis vocalist, Liam. On a weird note, he also mentioned a lack of support from band mates and management. That lot must be on pills, Quaaludes, or something not to support the soul of the band. If they carry on as Oasis without Noel, they ought to be ashamed.

I really want to give the Oasis fiasco its due and break down just how fucking wrong this is. Sorry about the language but I am that pissed off about this. I am over bands, great bands, self-destructing. I will tackle this particular disaster next week.

Oh yeah, notice how Oasis-bashing has suddenly become the United Kingdom’s national pastime. What a bunch of wankers . . .

Listen to all the Oasis records you can get your hands on. When they were on, no one could touch them.

Later taters.

Just when you thought there might be a break in the weather, just when there was a night in the low 60s, it happens . . . every time. POW! The temps shoot right back into the high 80s/low 90s and the dog evaporates one day when out for a walk to take a leak. How the Hell exactly does one explain that to the significant other? One does not, that is how.

Maybe we should all get together in some big hippie circle and try and summon fall early, kind of like when the Yippies tried to levitate the Pentagon back in the late 60s. Nah, forget I even said that . . . heat does funny things to a man.

This week, I am going to run down two new and somewhat under-the-radar releases. First up, let us grok The Duke and The King with their debut album, “Nothing Gold Can Stay”.

The Duke and the King are Simone (Simon) Felice and Rob Burke, the band taking their name from two characters in Mark Twain’s “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”. The two characters are shady grifters. The band of the same name could not be more different. Their music is raw-boned, yet melodic, almost at a Brian Wilson level. With songs such “Union Street” and “Still Remember Love”, just to use these two examples, the band shines through with a very winning formula. It is not a formula like any Mutt Lange produced thing; it is natural and unforced.

Lines such as “in that part of town that Jesus forgot “ and “you were the prettiest girl in town but your mom was a druggie and kicked you around” from the song “Union Street” just jump out of the speakers or ear buds or whatever and slap the listener right upside the head. With the observation that “nobody gets out alive/but just as long as we got rock and roll/everything will be alright”, the Duke and the King cap off four minutes and fifty-one seconds that provide a better snapshot of being an older teen in the Reagan era than anything this side of a John Hughes film (RIP).

“Nothing Gold Can Stay” is a soft, swinging record that has a hidden edge to it. The lyrics have teeth, all the better to eat the listener with and it happens inconspicuously. Listeners will find themselves grooving along with the music, which is superb, and then rewinding or whatever the digital equivalent is to see if they heard what they thought they heard.

Simon Felice stepped away from the Felice Brothers to start up this side project that is laid back, softer sounding and completely captivating. “The Morning I Get to Hell” really sets the tempo as far as the “Did I just hear that?” factor. That fact that it is easy to sing along with says something about the song or me or both – I do not know.

The influences here range from the Hollies to America to the Band to early 70s soul. The Duke and the King manage to pull the best parts of all those disparate sounds out and weave them into something organic and completely ass kicking. I cannot remember a softer sound that rocked as hard as this, at least not as far as my addled memory will allow. Working with rock bands and stagehands takes its toll, you know.

Anyway, the Duke and the King is phenomenal. “Nothing Gold Can Stay” has to be in the running for 2009’s Top Ten and is a strong contender for Album of the Year. It sounds as if it was recorded in a bar with massive echo effect on the vocals. That may sound strange but no other sound would have done this vibe, this stone groove any justice whatsoever. It makes you want to take all the other CDs out of the carousel and play this one repeatedly.

Well damn, I wanted to get to the second album that I had lined up but time is tight and, to be honest, my ass and back are pitching a fit from the way I have been sitting in my computer chair, banging away at the keyboard, trying to summon the magic one more time. Something has got to give and it appears that thing will be me. So, tune in next week and we will get our heads around Dolores O’Riordan’s newest, “No Baggage”. I will give you a heads up – it rocks and her voice is as ethereal as ever. If you head to her website, www.doloresoriordan.ie (that is Ireland, y’all), you can download the first single, “Stupid”, or at least you could when this went to the presses. It is a hot tune. She has lost nothing.

Anyway, that last back/ass spasm was my cue. I got to go and drink iced tea and watch “Law and Order: Criminal Intent”, for I am the King of Suburbia.

Y’all be good and stay out of jail. That is what Labor Day weekend is for.

Later taters.

Well, people are still melting in the street, so it must not be late October yet. Damn. I swear Holly and I were watching an episode of Law and Order: Criminal Intent this past Sunday -every Sunday come 6PM ‘til whenever Bravo turns back to all bitchy, all the time, they run a serious CI mini-marathon - and it obviously was filmed in the winter. I have absolutely no idea what the plot was; I just stared at the snow. Not that we ever get any of that action down this way but I could handle one of those patented Chattanooga winter days where it is cloudy, rainy and breezy with a temp somewhere in the forties . . . all day, right now.

My out-of-the-blue musical score of the week is The Judybats’ “00”. This was released after their heyday in the late 80s/early 90s with albums such as “Down in the Shacks Where the Satellite Dishes Grow” and “Pain Makes You Beautiful”, and featured a different sound. I heard a track off “00” years ago from an Oxford American Music Sampler CD. If you are not hip to the Oxford American magazine, get that way quick; it is the real deal.

Anyway, the CD has Randy Newman’s “Louisiana 1927” and Kevn Kinney’s “Dirty Angels” and Kim Richey’s “I Know” (among others) on it, so it does not lack for great tunes but The Judybats’ “Break My Heart” just had me hooked from jump. A wonderful combination of smart-ass lyrics and smoking guitar licks made for the perfect alt-country/cow punk/whatever song. I found that it also evidently had been placed in witness protection; I could NOT find a copy anywhere. Truly, it was a world of suck . . .

Then, the other day I was killing some time talking with my mate Jamie the Brit and he happened to have his laptop open and on. The webpage that was loaded was Amazon and, on a whim, I asked him to plug in the Judybats’ “00”. Amazon had a copy listed for thirty-seven cents plus something like three dollars for shipping and handling. It came to a little under four dollars to own a CD that I had been ready to commit serious crimes for at various points during the preceding decade. Therefore, Dear Readers, never lose hope when searching for that once-heard musical nirvana that seems to have faded out of existence. You might find yours for a quarter.

On we go to this week’s take, which is Tower of Power’s “Great American Soulbook” (TOP Records). The concept of artists rejuvenating flagging careers and sales by recording “The Great American (insert whatever here)” is nothing new and most of those albums suck. SUCK. No quarter asked and none given.

However, this joint is different because, well, it rocks and funks and swings hard. One of the great things about being an original act like Tower of Power is that you age better than most of your peers because you are charting your own course. You should be able to resist the “great” ideas that come from on high at the record label, the ones that were supposed to be golden. Remember Wet Willie and “Keep On Smilin’”? Jimmy Hall was just wailing his lungs out with the band playing a stone groove. Now, remember the same band and “Weekend’?  It was like listening to a Wet Willie comprised of replacement players or some shite. It was HORRIBLE.

That is the difference between Rod Stewart’s “Great American Songbook Number 545” and Tower of Power’s “Great American Soulbook”. The soul is there. The twelve tracks on “Great American Soulbook” were well chosen, with “You Met Your Match” and “Star Time (Tribute to James Brown)” cooking quite nicely. “Loveland” is also a nice find. The kicker on this album is that Tower of Power, while having a fine vocalist, brought in a little help for this shindig. Of course, if you are Tower of Power, then the help you are able to call on might be just a little different from your average band.  “I Thank You” features Sir Tom Jones. Joss Stone does some wonderful work on “It Takes Two” and “(Heaven Must Have Sent) Your Precious Love”. However, the best guest spot comes from when Huey Lewis joins the band for “634-5789”. I think Huey has gotten a bad rap and this track is the first thing I would shove in the face of the unbelievers.

Tower of Power’s discography is deep and rich and their history is long. This album is a sterling addition to both. It is always heartening that when certain artists like Chris Cornell who seemed relevant just a few years ago are doing James Bond themes poorly (very few get that right), Tower of Power releases what is truly “aural pleasure”. This is in the CD player right now and will be there for a while to come. Find it, get it and play it now. That is as highly as I can recommend anything.

Next week, who knows? I might just get around to The Duke and The King or maybe new Dolores O’Riordan.

Later taters.

Well, here we are, halfway through August, the month that distinguishes the professionals from the amateurs in this area. If you can survive Chattanooga in August, chances are you can hang. I have seen August weather send hardened ultra-marathon-running types running for the Mason Dixon line. Days with a high temperature of 98 and humidity running about 90 percent or so, all leading to a heat index of 140,000 . . . those are not for the faint-hearted. Fall cannot arrive soon enough to suit me.

All the above has absolutely nothing to do with what is on our plate this week, the Up with the Joneses’ newest CD, “Over The Sound”. I have not had any local talent put anything in my hands for review purposes lately (excepting you, Dug), so this is a welcome change. Up with the Jones live shows are consistently very high energy, with some of them being flat-out legendary locally .

Recorded and mastered in a variety of places in Tennessee and Georgia, “Over The Sound” starts with the track “Filters” which has a Days of the New feel to it with the acoustic guitar opening leading straight into a hard rock tune with some ballad-like flourishes. It also is confessional, at least at the level of the song’s protagonist, and that is definitely in the style of Days of the New. Do not be mistaken – “Filters” is a fine song and kicks much ass . . . maybe the point is that I have always enjoyed Days of the New when the band has its act together and I have not heard anyone do much in that vein that I thought was worth a tinker’s damn until now. Good job, guys.

The second track, “As He Goes”, is all rock-boogie with the bass and drums just driving this song. It also highlights a trait that many bands never master – contrast. Contrasting volume and dynamics is always the sure sign of a band sure of their powers and confident of their ability to pull off what they have in mind musically. “Loss of Control”, the third song, is more of the same, maybe more of a flat-out guitar rave-up.

“My Mind Tonight”, the following tune, is more of an open-ended groove, wrapped in a jam thing. Combining stream-of-consciousness lyrics with some fine music, “My Mind Tonight” is the perfect musical change of pace at this point in the album. The fifth song, “Thing To Believe In”, continues the mellower groove. There are interesting musical influences flowing through this – Brian Wilson’s “Smile”-era experimentation; Blur; Foo Fighters; Filter . . . that is a truly eclectic roster of talent from which to draw.

“Anatomical Gift” touches on a tragedy the band had to endure, the loss of a band member, a brother in arms (or that is my take, at least). Up with the Joneses emerged from that shadow to create music again, a feat that in and of itself a triumph and to be able to channel some of the experience into such a rave-up as “Anatomical Gift” is yet another.

“Down This Road” brings some Kevn Kinney-style guitar and plaintive lyrics to the album, except Up with the Joneses do it better, for one song at least. Jason and the Scorchers or the Blasters would be proud to claim this. It is like hearing a long-lost Long Ryders studio outtake.

The next track, “Bricks”, rather lost me but I am addled and that happens often these days. I cannot decide whether I have discriminating tastes in music or that I am mentally all a flitter, often have no idea what I had for lunch. Oh well, "Bricks" IS good, wandering musically all over the place, grooving along in no particular hurry.

“Out Of Tune” reminds me of Clutch when they are not concerned with their image as musical hardasses. Some of Clutch's studio-jam tracks swing and so does Up with the Joneses' '“Out Of Tune”. Nice job, guys.

The next tune, “What Could Be Worse”, is where it finally hit me – this whole album has a Butch Walker tint to it. The willingness to go where the song takes you, the different musical styles/personalities that emerge as the album ebbs and flows - all of those traits are out in full force on Butch’s stuff, especially the earlier albums such as “Left of Self-Centered”.

“Play On Words” is some cool Buck Owens/Country Joe and the Fish amalgam, full of 4/4 foot-stomping and some fine punnery. The vibe continues on “Anything You Say”, which gets back to the Brian Wilson effect, where the song sounds wonderful and the lyrics float on by, not really important but nice to have around nonetheless.

The finale, “Switchyard”, is redolent of the rock/rap influences but rises above being a mere homage. It is a truly a psychedelic freak-out musically with the vocals channeling a weird Chris Cornell/Zach De La Rocha vibe. What a way to end the album - a stone killer of a song, hard-edged with sharp elbows and attitude.

That is not to say that “Over The Sound” is perfect. I could count the number of albums I consider worthy of that appellation on two hands, possibly involving my toes if I was in a generous mood. However, it is a very good album, and it is an Up with the Joneses album, not some local band’s pale imitation of whatever popular act that is stuck in their musical craw now. THIS is what I am looking for, local rock gods. Do YOUR thing and I promise to judge it on its merits alone, not on how close it comes to some Nickelback/Daughtry/insert piece of shite band’s name here formula.

“Over The Sound” manages to capture some of the live fury of an Up with the Joneses show and mix it in with an experimental mindset resulting in a product that is well worth repeated listening. Get this and get ready to swing hard.

Moreover, allow me to leave you with this one last thing – Holly and I are going to be parents, God willing. I am elated, terrified, joyous, and totally in the dark about how to work this Dad thing. I just know that I have the best partner for this gig that any man could ever have. I love you, Red.

Later taters.

Ponytail

Ok look, the band I am about to lay on y’all is truly beyond the pale. This is the weirdest shite I have heard since  . . . I do not recall, maybe since the first time I heard Pailhead. This bunch sounds like no one else on the circuit now.

Originally an art project formed in Baltimore, Maryland by Jeremy Sigler in 2005, Ponytail consisted of five people who had never met, thrown together to form a band. After much chaos, Ponytail arrived on the Baltimore scene with their unique synthesis of all sounds and strangeness that is America. The stage was set for their arrival as a force to reckon with when their debut album, “Kamehameha”, came out in 2006. The album's sound was a barrage of different and demented guitar sounds a la early Sonic Youth, but only if Sonic Youth had been fed a steady diet of anime soundtrack music to draw upon as their influences. The dual guitar attack of Ken Seeno and Dustin Wong ran wild, having no bass to constrain them. Original band member and bassist Michael Petruzzo left before the recording of “Kamehameha” but remains a close confidant and friend according to the band’s homepage. The drumming of Jeremy Hyman was astounding, forced to keep pace not only with the crazed guitars but he also had to tether vocalist Molly Siegel to the earth. Her vocal stylings were amazing, a hodgepodge of Bjork, early Bono and his stream of consciousness lyrics, and Patti Smith and her “I have no idea what I am doing, but I can do it better than you” attitude.

Their sound is a synthesis of commercial jingles, classic rock riffs bent and stretched beyond all recognition, TV show themes, game show sound effects, surf rock, Beefheart, Zappa, Waits . . . what was that old Prego slogan? “It’s in there”. If you can think of anything weird in American Music in the past forty years, there is some little musical tidbit of it in Ponytail’s music. This is amazing because I was ready to hate all over it but I cannot - this bunch is for real.

Their second offering, “Ice Cream Spiritual”, gets a bonus five points for the title alone. “Ice Cream Spiritual” has varied influences and accents throughout. There is some Adam and the Ants drumming, more Thurston Moore guitar-as-a-weapon sounds and Molly Siegel using her vocalizing as another instrument in the stew when not channeling Bow Wow Wow. There is no “I Want Candy”, just the channeled anima of the wild-child Annabelle Lee letting it all hang out, Primal Scream-style.

This is good art rock. This is not some stodgy prog rock, where there is a lot of noodling for the point of noodling. I am not condemning all prog rock but the offenders damn well know whom they are. This band is a grand experiment that is ongoing and improving. “Kamehameha” was good but raw-boned; the edges would probably have scraped or cut the unwary or unprepared listener.

However, “Ice Cream Spiritual” has the opposite effect; it seems to draw in anyone who hears even part of a song. For example, “Beg Waves” has almost a Middle Eastern feel to start, as the vocal trilling of Molly Siegel blends in with the smoking hot two-guitar attack. It then proceeds to drop in a very heavy sound for a few bars that Mastodon would be proud to claim as their own. Then, it gets even crazier as guitar riffs from all those late 80s-early 90s one-off hits seem to get rolled into one big noise bomb that is dropped right on top of the listener. It is hard to get my head around this, even after repeated listening. I grok the greatness but the weirdness behind it is just something I would have to experience in conversation with the members of the band, assuming I could even stay on the same page as them.

Play the damn thing loud and hear the changes in the musical dynamics at maximum effect. I would also recommend this for long drives. I think driving a car is the best way to judge an album. If you do not want to hear an album in a car, where your mind can wander through the woods musically so to speak, then that album has NO place in your collection. Use the damn thing for skeet shooting or something. Any album or song not enhanced by the freeway is wrong on a cosmic scale and may be even EVIL . . .

Anyway, there is the best strange album I have heard to date. Ponytail hits the mark with “Ice Cream Spiritual”, even if I have NO idea what the mark is. I am positive they do and will keep us guessing for quite a while to come, I hope. I need strange bands like Ponytail like a fish needs water. Yoko Ono has nothing on this bunch.

Stay cool, with the weather and the police both. It does not pay to mess with either.

Later taters.

Well, this past weekend was just about the bomb. The main man at HQEnigma, Dave Weinthal, was kind enough to let yours truly tag along to a killer show last Friday night at the Masquerade in Atlanta. The line-up consisted of Groove Stain (local ass-kickers extraordinaire); The Supervillains; The English Beat; and Reel Big Fish, who headlined and put on a Hell of a show.

However, I really must be honest – every other act on that bill was just gravy; I was there for the English Beat. That group completely changed the way I heard music in my head from the moment I first listened to them. I mean, my ears still handled the aural intake and all that but once it reached the grey matter, I heard music differently. I mentally probed and prodded whatever it was I was listening to, looking for layers of sound, depth and breadth sonically.

Anyway, I was lucky enough to be hanging around the joint as the English Beat went through their sound check. After they finished, I met one of the few musicians I have wanted to meet for a long while, Dave Wakeling, the head of the English Beat. The man who provided the vocals, along with Ranking Roger, for classic tunes such as “Mirror in the Bathroom” and “Tenderness” for the English Beat and General Public, was a true gentleman, finding time in his schedule to spare a moment for a middle-aged music writer who felt fifteen for just a few minutes. I gushed something about him being one of my few musical heroes and babbled some other verbiage of praise. He was very gracious, allowing me to get a photo with him, being the best example of how a musician should handle their fans that I believe I have ever seen.

Later that night, the English Beat took the stage and proceeded to shake the rafters for a good hour or so. Dave Wakeling has to be in his fifties, yet he rocked out like a man thirty years younger, always maintaining a rapport with the audience, all double entendres and humorous asides . . . God Almighty, y’all, it was incredible.

Listen to and buy all the English Beat and General Public that your depressed economic situations will allow. All of it is tremendously good and tragically unknown for the most part.

I promised my take on Phoenix’s “Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix” and I am good for it this week. The album is fantastic, all pop airiness and light.

I had no idea what to expect from a French pop band. M83 and Daft Punk blew my mind, so I was optimistic but no real idea as to who or what these cats were. Well, who cares? All I know is they are from France and they played SNL back in April (sorry, that show sucks now, so I missed it) and NPR’s music blog staff loves them. Now, they have me hooked as well.

“Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix” has a great pop for great pop’s sensibility that I have not heard in ages. The influences flitter in and out – Paul McCartney and Wings, ELO, Lindsay Buckingham – and somehow this album makes the memories of those acts, their influences, better than they were previously. This French band deals Great American Pop for the entire album and they do it better than any American band has managed so far this year, with the exception of Ponytail, but they are very different and we will discuss them next week. Make sure y’all bring pencils and notebooks for that bunch.

Anyway, “Love like a Sunset Pt. 1” is the best track on the album, an instrumental that summons up memories that you did not realize you had, or maybe they are just memories you wish you had. The difference is irrelevant in the end; the song is engulfs and overwhelms you, finally leaving you elated and exhausted as it fades into the distance.

This album, along with Jim Cheney’s two albums, has to be in everyone’s CD carousel. It is the summer road-trip, have fun, raise up album that everyone on this side of the pond has been afraid to make, a pop masterpiece that makes no apologies for its pedigree. What gives, American rock stars? Was everyone afraid to come up with something as ineffably COOL as this album? That is too damn bad. “Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix” is the most  . . . whatever group album of the year. Adjectives and adverbs fail me . . .

Buy this now. Do not sass me; do it. You will thank me later. Also, make sure to catch the Riverfront Nights series as it starts up this weekend. It has booked Webb Wilder. That is all I know and all I need to know. Webb kicks more ass than Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee COMBINED.

Try not to melt outside. That scares the day-tripper tourists.

Later taters.

All right, everyone gather in tight and listen up – THIS ONE IS PROBABLY GOING TO SUCK.  I mean even worse than previously thought possible. My mind is elsewhere; I did not sleep worth a damn last night; and nothing is really jazzing up my neural pathways, begging to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world. Having said that, I suppose we do what we must, marching in lockstep toward the land of habit.

Adam Yauch of the Beastie Boys has been diagnosed with cancer of the salivary gland. Wow. What a world of suck that is. However, I suppose that beats inoperable brain cancer or Ebola virus hands down. The video of the announcement showed him to be good spirits, clowning around with fellow Beastie Adam Horovitz  - the highlight being when he described his condition as “a pain in the neck” and then immediately mock-apologized with “had to say it” – as he announced his condition and plans to have surgery next week. He also expressed regret over having to cancel shows (including slots at Chicago’s Lollalapalooza and at SF’s Outside Lands) and at having to push back the release of the Beastie Boys’ newest effort, “Hot Sauce Committee Pt.1”.

He also stated that the cancer was located in a place where treatment should not affect his voice and with the proper treatment and a little luck, it should not be a recurring problem.

This news hits me on two levels. One, I love these guys and have loved their stuff from the jump. Their musical major label debut, “Licensed to Ill”, was the soundtrack for my first year in the Marine Corps and seemed to blast from every open window on weekends at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California. Later, when stationed in Korea, I laid my hands on “Paul’s Boutique” and immediately turned every DJ I knew in Korea on to how killer it was. It absolutely blew me away at how far they had come musically in the space of one album. The space between the two albums had to be measured in light-years. Then, along came “Check Your Head” in 1992 just as I was preparing to leaving Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children and see what the civilian world was all about. Once again, no open window and/or party where I was stationed was safe . . . 

This is very strange – up until I typed this out, I had never put together just how intertwined those two things are. My time in the Corps would not have been nearly as enjoyable without the Beastie Boys. Their first album was the soundtrack to every party for a year and a half; their second was the one only the hardcore fans heard about, at least at first; and their third was the one that broke them as bankable big hitters in the music biz. They had evolved from frat-boy videos and on-stage inflatable phalluses to making what I still consider one of the best psychedelic videos ever for their song, “So Whatcha Want”.

The Beastie Boys have gone on to top the charts three times – “Licensed to Ill” was the first Number One rap record ever – and in 2007 they were nominated for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, which they better make or that place should be razed into the lake. That is the first bit . . .

On the second tip, I was fortunate enough to work as a stagehand at a Beastie Boys show about five-six years back where the opening act was a dude and his all-star trick dog outfit, all of which (except for the dude, I guess) had been rescued from animal shelters. That freaking rocked, but that was not all. When it came time to eat, we all wandered into catering and grabbed a plate. We sat down and started to eat and then the Beastie Boys sat down with us. Not that we talked French cinema or anything (they had their thing to do and we were there to make that happen) but they were nice guys who happened to be busy as all Hell. If you did not know, the Talent never eats with mere mortals. That showed me a lot . . .

Then, the topper – the Beasties had one trailer that we unloaded that was two collapsible basketball goals and nothing else. We wheeled them out backstage and the Beasties and their boys set ‘em up and proceeded to play some two-on-two and horse for a couple of hours. That was it; I was hooked on them as being the Real Deal. That is the second bit . . .

It is strange. Usually I could give a damn as to whether rock acts stick around or not. I do not wish anyone ill; it is just I have seen enough acts that should have retired long before they did, enough to where I am not usually concerned about their futures.

This is not one of those times. I came to realize whilst writing this that I had somehow in my head locked in the Beasties getting old and me getting old together. I expected, and still expect, to be amazed at what three Jewish guys from NYC, working in a mainly black musical genre, come up with. It has never been anything less than fantastic and sometimes even illuminating. So, hey MCA, get well soon and I hope to see y’all out NEXT summer. And the one after that. And that.

Stay cool.

Later taters.

Why does the money-grubbing, remorseless and relentless father of the late Michael Jackson have to share a name with one of baseball’s all time greats and, more importantly in this case, with one of the Angry Young Men coming out of the U.K. music scene in the late 70s? Dear God, here’s some walking corpse, supposedly grieving for his late son, appearing on every news outlet that will have him, spouting nonsense about some entity (the media; Batman; the Masons; etc.) that “killed “ his son. It is like a nightmare that you are self-aware in and still it will not end; you CANNOT wake up.

I keep referencing Sam Raimi frequently of late – the “Evil Dead” films are probably his best-known works – because the real world demands it. The remnant Joe Jackson prowls the airwaves, much scarier than anything in his son’s groundbreaking and, ultimately, boring video, determined to squeeze the last penny out of Michael’s carcass. What an unforgivable ass.

Then, as I was prowling the kitchen for some lunch, I receive a call from a friend of mine who used to be the night manager at the O’Farrell Theater, describing how Jim Mitchell Jr. was the subject of a statewide manhunt, suspected of beating his ex-girlfriend to death with a baseball bat and abducting their daughter, Samantha Mitchell. Fortunately, the police nabbed his happy ass sometime late Sunday night/early Monday morning and hauled him straight to jail - do NOT pass go, do NOT collect $200.

Ok look, no one could write that as fiction; it is just too unbelievable. The son of Jim Mitchell (director of the ground-breaking “Behind The Green Door”), who shot his brother to death in an intervention going horribly awry and received a six-year – let that sink in, six-year – sentence for the crime, evidently snaps and takes matters into his own hands with a Louisville Slugger and a heart full of pent-up rage. My friend, who is writing a book about his experiences in this life, did not intend to write ANYTHING about his time at the O’Farrell, figuring that subject to have already mined out. Now, due to the rude interference of strange, brutal reality, he has no choice – he HAS to include material about that time and damn quickly at that. This kind of story springs to life in mass paperback book form almost immediately . . .

Now, what any of this has to do with music, excepting Michael’s dad and his weird zombie of Mammon gig, is beyond me; I just type out whatever gets through the shielding allowed me by my tinfoil hat. It is sort of like jotting down every word you can actually understand as the reception of the AM station that you are listening to fades in and out. Of course, with the advent of satellite radio and the alternatives offered on the internets, that analogy may have a shelf life of another two or three years, tops.

All other “Hard Copy”-style shite aside, the musical Joe Jackson was and is one of the most talented musicians to emerge in rock music in the past 35 years or so. Most people now would recognize him as William Shatner’s musical director on the Shat’s killer cover of Pulp’s “Common People” but the man is far more than that – he is THE REAL DEAL.

His debut album, “Look Sharp”, is spectacular, I mean, just incredible. Practically everyone alive on three continents has heard the big hit single, the Grammy-nominated “Is She Really Going out with Him?”, and many readers of this column will be familiar with the Anthrax reworking of “Got the Time”, another of the stellar tunes from this album. Finally, those devotees of college radio still left in this town (tough gig) will also recognize the title track and the sleeper that shows up on Sirius XM’s First Wave channel a lot, “Fools in Love”.

That is an impressive list of tuneage and many artists find themselves unable to cope with the ubiquitous pressure for that “second single”. The industry term, “sophomore slump”, has had more than its fair share of cannon fodder, far too many to even try to list partially here. If you want to get an idea of how many one-hitters there are out there, just try to remember what ever happened to Snow. Remember “Informer”? What is he doing now? Does anyone know or care? Artists like that are a dime a dozen.

However, Joe followed a classic album with, what else, a classic album. “I’m The Man” is rock solid, just like its predecessor. The songs explode from the vinyl like shrapnel, digging into the old grey matter for good. “On Your Radio” is a fine kiss-my-ass to everyone that ever tried to hinder Mr. Jackson and a great kick-start to the album.  The title track burns white-hot, with Graham Maby’s bass work just kicking ass all over the place. The lyrics for “I’m The Man” are a wonderful indictment of the overwhelming mass consumerism that has only grown since the album was released thirty years ago.

The song that snuck up on the alt-airwaves in the U.S. was “It’s Different for Girls”, Jackson ’s ode to the male’s total inability to understand his lady’s emotions and reactions. The song’s theme borders on being mundane, yet Joe Jackson presents a very honest and musically stunning take on the dilemma. It became a standard on college radio playlists where it remains to this day. It also happened to be the highest charting track in the U.K.

The moral to this morass of verbiage is that if you have only heard “Is She Really Going out with Him” and maybe “Steppin’ Out” (also Grammy-nominated, I might add), then for God’s sake, find someone such as me who owns these albums and get hip immediately. Joe Jackson’s grooves – straight-up rock, reggae, funk, swing . . . they are all there – cure everything from acne to impotence to xenophobia. He delivered the goods, song after song, on his first two albums. The 7-inch he released after “I’m The Man” that featured his take on Jimmy Cliff’s “The Harder They Come The Harder They Fall” along with “Out of Style” and “Tilt” was and is smoking. His output became more experimental with the third album, “Beat Crazy”, and some fans fell by the wayside as he continued to explore whatever musical whims caught his fancy. Those unfortunate souls have missed out because from soundtracks (“Mike’s Murder”) to modern-day homage to a classic artist (“Night and Day” to Cole Porter), Joe Jackson has never failed to deliver great songs. They may have gone over, under or around his audience’s heads sometimes, but whose fault is that, really?

 Listen to all the Joe Jackson you can find. It kicks ass.

Next week, it will be the French band Phoenix and their newest, “Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix”. Get ready . . .

Later taters.

Man, what a brutal week it has been. First (anyone that says “firstly” is thrown overboard immediately), Michael Jackson checks out on the verge of the tour and assorted ventures that were designed to put him in the black. I feel for his kids and God help them if Michael’s family has ANYTHING to do with rearing them from here on out; that bunch could f’ up an anvil.

It is too bad on another, more voyeuristic level because we will now never see any resolutions or revelations about all the charges leveled against Michael Jackson by various families and their legal representatives. I would have loved to have seen him eventually cleared off all that crap, not because I’m any huge fan - my greatest hits for Michael Jackson would include all that killer Jackson Five stuff, skip “Ben”, and wrap up with a couple of tracks from “Off The Wall”, which I still say is a great album – but because I grew very sick of seeing all the vultures disguised as parents circling an obviously troubled man, just drooling over the prospect of a “go away and shut up” settlement from Jackson’s legal team. Jesus, people, he gave Los Angeles television stations guaranteed programming on an almost monthly basis for a few years.

Then, as if the leaks from the coroner about Mr. Jackson’s condition at the time of his death were not bad enough, news comes from Nashville about the death of Steve McNair in the company of a woman not his wife. Great . . .  the first true Tennessee NFL hero, as in someone who had played most/all of his career for the Titans, shows up shot dead in some Nashville condominium. Have a nice day.

That is enough to throw my planned column into total chaos, so we will have to make do with what comes out of my addled mind this week, straight, no chaser. Be forewarned.

Jarvis Cocker’s latest effort, “Further Complications”, is just stark raving brilliant; it is also difficult lyrically for the average American listener, accustomed to being spoon-fed simple 4/4, ABAB patterned songs. Jarvis states in the title track “it’s a complicated boogie and I just don’t know any better”. I could not have stated it any more clearly if I had taken a running start.

Jarvis Cocker is part Elvis Costello (maybe it is the glasses), part Randy Newman, and – here is the twist – part Hunter S. Thompson. He has Costello’s incredible musical breadth combined with Newman’s eye for detail and narrative distilled through HST’s no holds barred approach to life itself.

Remember, Jarvis strolled straight up on stage at the 1996 BRIT Awards and gave the aforementioned Michael Jackson a boxer-covered mooning on the stage. Earlier in the show, the BRITs had presented Michael Jackson with a special “Artist of a Generation” award and he had performed “Earth Song” surrounded by children and a rabbi (?). Evidently, this did not sit well with Jarvis. Noel Gallagher said that Jarvis “is a star and he should be given an MBE”, and proceeded to allude to Jackson’s burgeoning legal problems concerning his conduct around children. Of course, the hermanos Gallagher were and are never at a loss for words or an opinion, for that matter.

Anyway, you get the idea. This is a man who does not back down from much of anything. “Further Complications” is a fine example of that ethos. The title track has an alt-metal riff running through the song as he tells the tale of trying to overcome his birth, detailing how he and life have been at odds from the onset. The second track, “Angela”, would sound right at home in 60s Swinging London, maybe the B-side to the new Kinks’ single. “Pilchard”, the next song, is an incredible almost instrumental, with distorted guitar interplay, some thumping drum work and chanted pseudo-intelligible lyrics. I really dig the Hell out of it and have absolutely no idea what it is about.

The patented Jarvis Cocker sense of humour shows itself again on “Leftovers”, where he compares himself to dinosaurs. He proceeds to explain to the object of his would-be-affections how his body is failing by the minute, how he wants to be her lover. The wordplay is exquisite and Jarvis somehow manages to throw the old slang “homes” into one chorus. That is wonderful; I laughed aloud. “Come and help yourself to leftovers/ got a little surplus love and affection”. That is Shakespeare for 2009.

Jarvis maintains the perfect balance of smartass to rock throughout the entire album with lines such as “I never said I was deep/but I am profoundly shallow”. I cannot get enough of this stuff, rock that is mature without being old, witty without being stupid. This man should be dipped in bronze and placed in the British Museum; we may not see anything akin to Jarvis Cocker in quite a while.

For the record, “Fuckingsong” is as hysterical as the title suggests, a paean to a girl that he will never have the opportunity to ravish. This song is for every person who just KNEW that there was no chance, zero, of ever getting that one person in the sack.

Buy this record. Do not equivocate or quibble. There is far too much shite in the music world presently and by buying this album, you too can do your part to make this a better world, possibly by driving Christina Aguilera to a serious dope jones, one bad enough to remove her from the public spotlight. Consider your purchase a public service.

Y’all get your ass inside away from these thunderstorms. Lightning hit out here the other night that made Captain Marvel’s “Shazam!” look like a sparkler.

Happy birthday, Red! I truly am the luckiest man alive to have you as my wife. You are beautiful, kind and funny and I love you with all my heart.

Later taters.

I sincerely hope that all of y’all that were bitching about the rain a month or so ago are now melting in the streets like something out of a Sam Raimi flick. I never understand people like that when we consistently have summers that make the inside of volcanoes seem temperate.

Anyway, I wanted to assure you that I will deal with Jarvis’ newest next week, and if you asked yourself “Jarvis who?”, then you have touched on the very reason for the delay. In certain crowds, in certain countries, it would not take nearly the amount of exposition that it would here not only to review “Further Complications” but to place Jarvis Cocker in the correct context as well. The same goes for Gomez. I feel that I may have not have done a proper job on the Rifles (who are talking U.S. dates later this year) and a few others from the U.K., so I want to nail this one because it is superb. Stand by for further updates.

What I AM going to do this week is pull a criminally underrated album out of the archives and try to give it its proper due. The flash of brilliance from the two U.S. hit singles blinded most everyone to how good the album was and still is.

In 1982, garbage filled the radio airwaves. Utter crap like Steve Miller Band’s “Abracadabra”, Asia’s self-titled, self-indulgent piece of shite, Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger”, etc. had a death grip on the local station’s heavy rotation playlist. Dear God, if not for Men At Work’s “Business As Usual” and Cheap Trick’s “One On One”, to name a couple of the year’s better works that managed to break through and be heard here, it would have been ten times worse.

One Saturday afternoon in late 1982, I remember watching “American Bandstand” and seeing this band come on the stage, smartly dressed and I noticed that they had a sax player in the lineup. Playing sax myself at that time, I tuned in a little more closely to what was going on. Lionel Richie had just lip-synched “Truly” and “You Are” and my attention had drifted during that train wreck

The band that came out was introduced as ABC and they proceeded to lip-synch (with much more gusto, I might add) two songs, “The Look of Love Pt. 1” and “Poison Arrow”. They hooked me immediately. The tunes were full of lush orchestral melodies intertwined with synthesizers and R&B/funk riffs. The lyrics were rhyming couplet wordplay about relationships gone terribly, theatrically wrong. Both songs sounded like parts of a story or maybe pieces from a good soundtrack. My mom was going shopping and I remember begging her as she left to please, PLEASE pick up “The Lexicon of Love” by ABC. That is how much attention I paid after Lionel’s ass went elsewhere – I wrote down the very information as it left Dick Clark’s lips.

My mom, obviously being the coolest mom in the world, returned a few hours later with a glorious vinyl LP that I thanked her for and immediately retired to my room to play for months.

I was too young to grasp all the nuances of the lyrics but I did get that the album was a story-cycle of songs about a relationship that ended poorly and that the lyricist wrote as if he was watching a movie of the whole thing in his mind whilst writing. Man, there was nothing cooler than that album in late ’82.

There is not much cooler now, either. ABC’s “The Lexicon of Love” has aged like fine wine. It opens with “Show Me”, the plea from lyricist/singer Martin Fry’s protagonist to his inattentive lover. Well-written and with all sorts of strings and horns and layers of synthesizers, it deserved to be a hit but never caught the public’s ear on either side of the pond.

Former Buggle Trevor Horn produced the album and used his bunch of ace studio musicians (some of whom went on to form Art of Noise) to fill out ABC’s sound. His approach and the band’s talent blended perfectly on the album’s second track, “Poison Arrow”. All keyboards and synthetic drums at the start, it really kicks in with the addition of a jumping bass-line and some choice saxophone work. The story of love lost swings and self-recriminations abound. This is just magnificent.

The third track, “Many Happy Returns”, is there to move the story along and, in lesser hands, would have been terrible. However, this one just rocks out; the fancy wordplay and some of the more noticeable guitar work on the entire album stand out here.

“Tears Are Not Enough”, a hit in the U.K., is up next. Once again, the Horn/ABC combination hit the mark with a stone-funk dance groove. The guitar work is very reminiscent of Andy Cox’s guitar work with the (English) Beat. The fifth track, “Valentine’s Day”, is more of the story, with horns and piano standing out distinctly.

“The Look of Love Pt. 1” is next and it is pitch-perfect. Synth-bass and bells/xylophone effects combine with some seriously lush backing strings and vocals to propel the song along perfectly. Martin Fry is in fine form here, as he is on the entire album. It amazes me still that no one picked up on how – yeah, I know they are pasty-white English guys – incredibly funk driven this album is. The production probably helped disguise that fact somewhat, but Teena Marie’s “Lovergirl” would not be out of place here with a suitable lyric re-write.

“Date Stamp” follows and is one of the most New Wave-sounding tracks here. Same as “Many Happy Returns”, this song fits here to further the storyline and it should have been a dance floor hit as well. It also features “Zoobie doobie doo doo doo” as a lyric, which is awesome.

“All of My Heart” is the ballad of the album, very airy and light. It is a perfect change of pace at this point in the album. The subject matter lyrically changes little but the musical arrangement makes it appear so. The song is darkly romantic but the production is a predecessor of “When Smokey Sings”, with its much lighter lyrics. “4 Ever 2 Gether” is the other notably New Wave-sounding song on “The Lexicon of Love”, with a great sing-along quality, wry lyrics and a great backbeat.

It all ends with “The Look of Love Pt. 4” , which might seem to be overkill but is an exquisite wrap-up of the whole story, sort of like the music playing over the credits of a movie you’ve just finished viewing. It also serves as a platform for Trevor Horn to wow you one more time – this is all the music that was in the background of “The Look of Love Pt. 1” that you were too busy to notice. The man believed in aural overload and did it well here.

Well, there it is, a forgotten great – ABC’s “The Lexicon of Love” – that I hope I have restored to your consciousness. It is not only a great exemplar of an era; it is one kickass album.

Later taters.

I sit here, typing this week’s musically inspired flight of fancy, listening to Ten Years After’s “I’d Love to Change the World”. Good Lord, what a song it is. For those not familiar with the tune, it is starts as a simple progression on an acoustic guitar with some choice electric guitar licks thrown in for good measure. Then, roughly halfway through the song, Alvin Lee (lead guitarist and vocalist) just goes off and the tune soars. It sounds all hollowed out and trebly. It rocks.

I love that late 60s/early 70s production that gave certain songs that “empty warehouse” sound, where everything sounds slightly removed and hollow. For the most part, the producers/engineers of that era mastered songs for play on AM radio. The upper end is amped up with the bottom end pulled back. The resulting sound jumps out of the speakers. No other “sound” from any era of rock and roll is like it; it is like Brian Wilson’s sound in that respect – you know it when you hear it and it is not mistaken for anything else.

Another perfect example of that era’s sound is Quicksilver Messenger Service’s “Fresh Air”. The 2002 digitally re-mastered version of the song is the one to lend an ear to, if you can find it. The digitalization really removes some sonic mud from the mix and allows you to hear the marvelous two-guitar point/counterpoint interplay. Buried in the original, the keyboard work also jumps out of the re-mastered mix. What a tune . . .

Do not get me wrong here – I love the analog sound of certain classic bands/albums. Black Sabbath immediately comes to mind. Using digital re-mastering to clean up “Black Sabbath” or “Sabotage” is just criminal; the sonic sludge is an essential part of the trademark Sabbath sound. It makes Geezer Butler’s bass parts sound flat out evil and Bill Ward’s drum work the cadence of Armageddon. Then, Ozzy’s wail and Tony Iommi’s guitar just run amok, the sound of the end of the world as we know it. The digital re-masters of the early Sabbath albums have really added nothing to the band’s legacy. Instead, they have stripped a number of Black Sabbath tunes of some of their ominous thunder and that is wrong-headed and plain dumb. Even if it is still Sabbath, it is not Sabbath without that sound. Y’all feel me?

As we wander together through the written wasteland in search of a point to all this babble, allow me to posit this thought from my musical back-brain – this time of ours, the first decade of the 2000s, lacks any distinctive sound. What with me bitching last week about the present lack of satire and the ability to understand satire, I know I sound like the typical geezer lamenting times past, all glory days and such . . .

I am getting older; we all are. That is not the point. The point is that we are living in a generic age musically and that should be unacceptable. There are some bands with a distinct sound - Radiohead, Kasabian, Glasvegas and Gaslight Anthem come to mind right from the jump - but this era’s aural landscape is littered with Beyonce sound-alikes; Coldplay sound-alikes; Green Day sound-alikes . . . you get the idea.

When this so-called music manifests itself in the CD format, the vast majority of it at the present is suitable for one use only – coasters. Period. That is it. This crap is disposable in the worst sense possible, what with the music being irrelevant from its creation through its production all the way to its end, consumption as product. What a dreadful waste of everyone’s time and money that is.

I am sorry, y’all. I really did mean to have a stellar new release lined up to tell y’all about and, hopefully, recommend highly. Instead, I am bombarded with product, generic mindless, soulless product. I can recommend none of it because none of it is memorable enough to stick in my head for a week, much less a month or a lifetime, for that matter.

Bill Hicks, where are you when we need you most?

Anyway, here is the moral to this screed – be passionate about your music, the soundtrack of your life. Do not accept any wooden nickels or any damn Nickelback either. Hold the artists you listen to accountable; expect them to be passionate about what they do. If they are not, kick their asses to the curb and find some other bands that ROCK. There is a reason the Jonas Brothers suck out your very soul when you hear them and it has to do with the infiltration of the rock airwaves by alien bastards from the planet Suck. They want to take over the Earth and they are starting by destroying good music. The whole plan is long and complex; it would kill billions of brain cells if I detailed in its entirety here. Just know that it is my paranoid conspiracy theory of this week and I am sticking with it.

I swear, next week I will hit up Jarvis Cocker’s newest one and maybe, just maybe, we will get to Gomez, a band no one here has heard that y’all NEED to hear. I will deliver good tunes and raving lunacy by the bushel. This week, however, it is nothing but the blues here.

If anyone in black suits and sunglasses come looking for me, I am over in Polk County, looking for clues.

Later taters.

Well, if y’all are reading this, then I suppose you survived the recent festival overload. Good for y’all and if you stayed out of jail (goodbye Bonnaroo, hello county jail), that goes double on you. Jeez, what possesses people transporting illegal substances into the belly of the beast, where you just know that every damn law enforcement agency is just drooling all over themselves, dying to get a shot at busting your ass? It is as bad as the people that are busted SPEEDING (speeding, for God’s sake – you have, HAVE to be kidding me) whilst transporting 100 pounds of weed across the fruited plain. It must be some form of drug dealer natural selection. Let the smart live to sell a quarter bag another day . . .

Okay, get the effigy of me that you are going to want to burn ready now. We are going to jump into big boy territory in just a second and some of y’all are going to be mad enough to spit. That is fine by me; satire aims to anger as well as to amuse, and any analysis of satire worth a damn will do the same. Therefore, with warnings given, let us go forward into uncomfortable territory. Here are monsters . . .

In this age of teen and American idolatry, the never-ending series of bands such as the Jonas Brothers and their ilk, where has the satire gone? There was a time when artists such as Frank Zappa, Zoogz Rift, Randy Newman, et al could be counted on to take the piss out of our popular culture, sometimes to extremes that made a bunch of people mad and/or uncomfortable.

Times have changed. Frank is dead; Zoogz is more focused on painting and professional wrestling nowadays; and Randy Newman is probably VERY comfortable financially from all the Pixar and Disney scores he’s done, but he hasn’t written anything like “Rednecks” (more on this tune in a second) in long time.

A statement that I hear often, and happen to agree wholeheartedly with, is that “You couldn’t make ‘Blazing Saddles’ today”. That is God’s truth, people. The groups that would line up to be offended would wrap around the block, not realizing that EVERYONE’S ox is gored in the movie. It is the main element, besides the inspired script, that makes “Blazing Saddles” a classic - it never relents for a minute; its scope is broad; and its aim is true, to borrow an Elvis Costello line.

In a culture of people who run to the nearest television station red-light camera at the scene of a disaster or tragedy, looking for that fifteen minutes that we were all promised by Andy Warhol, there are a multitude of people; trends; media; etc. that are practically begging to be satirized. Yet no one seems willing to pick up the gauntlet. What in the Hell is going on? I thought we are advancing as a society, becoming more informed and broader-minded with every passing moment, able to roll with the blows and take any punch.

Well, I call bullshite. If anyone released a song such as Randy Newman’s “Rednecks” in this Year of Our Lord, 2009, annihilation by backlash would ensue immediately. As for the tune, it is the first song on the concept album (remember those?) “Good Old Boys” written from the point of a various working-class people in the South and opens with the lines of “Last night I saw Lester Maddox on a TV show/with some smart-ass New York Jew/and the Jew laughed at Lester Maddox/and the audience laughed at Lester Maddox too”.

Wow, that got your attention, didn’t it? Maybe it caused an unpleasant sensation to burble up from way down in your psyche. Well, it then gets better or worse, depending on how well you understand satire.

Randy’s character lays out a chorus that Randy had to be sure would lead to random death threats and such. The chorus - all lyrics quoted here are all rights reserved to Randy Newman and copyrighted and all that jazz – lays it all on the line:

“We're rednecks, rednecks

 And we don't know our ass from a hole in the ground

 We're rednecks, we're rednecks

 And we're keeping the n*#gers down”

Put down the lighter fluid for a minute and listen.  Randy’s character proceeds to explain how “Now your northern n*#ger's a Negro/You see he's got his dignity” and points out the hypocrisy in the North by stating that “the North has set the n*#ger free/Yes he's free to be put in a cage/In Harlem in New York City . . . “. Hell’s bells, that got EVERYONE’S attention and isn’t everyone completely pissed off now? No one enjoys having their hypocrisies exposed, much less rubbed in their faces, but Randy is taking no prisoners on this one. Moreover, you can sing along with it. What could be more infuriating?

The album is magnificent, with standout tracks such as “Birmingham” and "Mr. President (Have Pity on the Working Man)” really jumping off the vinyl and burrowing deep into the listener’s brain. Written by a total outsider, “Good Old Boys” is somehow incredibly volatile and deeply poignant simultaneously, offending and comforting at different turns.

Where did the sheer balls to write something such as “Good Old Boys” go? Randy Newman never backed off on his vision and someone at Reprise Records green-lighted it. I wonder what happened to that person’s career path.

Rock music and our shared world media overload called “reality” need a savage skewering. Lester Bangs and HST would be having a field day with the garbage that passes for art today, but what we need, what would have a lasting impact is another artist with the ability and fearlessness to gore the ox. If I could turn on the radio one day and hear something as scathingly funny as Frank Zappa’s “Bobby Brown Goes Down”, I might have faith that there will be a tomorrow. If we as a society have decided that we cannot poke fun at ourselves as a whole and as individuals, then we are doomed; humorless people have shorter life spans and are usually lousy lays, so humanity is on the way out. Hope the apes have a good chuckle over that one . . .

Damn it, y’all, if we cannot take a joke, even one that bothers us as a society, what good are we? We might as well hang it up.

Glad y’all stayed out of the pokey last week. Keep up the good work.

Later taters.

I hope that everyone reading this has access to the HD channel “Palladia”. It is a strange amalgam of programming from VH1, MTV, CMT and a few other sources. The “Soulstages” and “Storytellers” shows and whatever is okay, but my money’s on all the programs/footage of music festivals in Europe, mainly the U.K. Seeing Paolo Nutini or the Fratellis or Snow Patrol work it for the home crowd is extremely cool. The Fratellis rocking out on “Mistress Mabel” (the 00s version of “Maggie May”) at Glastonbury is unreal and Gary Lightbody has an out-of-body experience when Snow Patrol performs “Shut Your Eyes” at the ’07 Isle of Wight Festival.

“Palladia” is uneven, with many Maiden live full-length videos in heavy rotation. That suits me just fine – I can watch “Rock in Rio” almost daily – but it may not be everyone’s cup of tea. The main allure of my newest video obsession is in the small triumphs of seeing a band you are very hip to on a “Live” or “Soundstage” show unexpectedly. It is a much more worthy waste of time than most; check it out.

I love the days/weeks when I receive an album from an artist that I consider a rare find, someone that almost everyone needs to hear repeatedly. That very phenomenon occurred today when Jim Cheney’s newest effort, “Song of Our Time”, showed up along with the bills and junk mail.

Long-time readers of this gibberish will remember that I just about lost my mind earlier this year over his debut album, “Caboose”, and rightfully so. It was/is a wonderful album by an artist probably considered a latecomer to the music business. I think that the time spent before he started recording is essential to Jim Cheney’s well-honed songwriting voice. The influences in his use of perspective and characters and situations vary from Chandler to Bukowski to Carver with many detours in-between, but they are never derivative. Jim Cheney’s tales are his and his alone and they are good . . .

“Song of Our Time” starts with a rollicking tune named “In A Hurry” that establishes a toe-tapping rhythm immediately. The lines about a “soul going slack and those beer cans at my feet . . . “ along with “I left in a hurry but the hurry wasn’t mine” had me hooked on the first listen. The song has serious keyboard and guitar work throughout, driving at a steady pace toward an ending that sees our stalwart singer ending up in “county detox”. That is closer to real life than is even funny.

The title track calls out for antidepressants repeatedly backed by a very early Dylan-sounding song structure and sound. That is not an insult at all; the problem is in the all of the times when artists of lesser ability attempt such a thing only to end up with inferior product. THAT is when you, Dear Readers, should run like Hell . . .

“South of France” is a very enjoyable tune but the fourth track, “Brittle Leaves”, is haunting, a tale of love and love lost, carried along on waves of acoustic guitar and some of the finest string accompaniment that I have heard in quite the while. I return to this track repeatedly. It feels so personal and real, another three-and-a-half minute short story that I will think about long after I have turned off the stereo . . .

“It’s a Friday night in Nashville/this town’s lost its soul” is just one of the finely crafted and exquisitely cynical lyrics from “Nashville”, a flat-out rave-up about . . . well, Nashville, what else? It has a very jaundiced eye casting its gaze on Tennessee’s capital and rendering a hilarious and barbed verdict. Robbie Fulks would be proud here.

“Unnamed” has a Quicksilver Messenger Service vibe to it that I cannot pin down. I love songs that do that to my mind. I will be processing that vibe and trying to trace the exact riff for days.

If the song “Booth”’s opening does not sound like something from Eric Burdon and War, I do not know what does. It is an offbeat take about the Lincoln assassination AND it is hummable. What more could you ask for? I love this tune, and the funky guitar playing and guitar tones does not hurt one bit.

“All Your Break Ups” is a hoot. I laughed aloud at a couple of the lines in this one. “First Class” recalls area heroes the Dexateens and has more of the great keyboard and guitar pairings that run throughout this album. Man, does this rock . . .

Then, Jim Cheney decides to end “Song of Our Time” with “Winter Song”, a true change-up along the lines of the Rifles’ “Down South”. “Winter Song” grabs you gently, never slapping you in the face but instead slowly drawing you into this sad, haunting tale of mistakes, missteps and misspoken words. This song is beautiful, and I do not use that word often, if at all.

I do not recall any artist of local, regional or larger scope EVER landing multiple albums on my desk in the same calendar year that are musical equals.. Jim Cheney’s accomplishment is stunning and significant; he has two albums that are in my Top 10 of this year and are on the inside track for my album of the year. The best music I am hearing in 2009 is coming out of small studios in Alabama or right outside of Nashville or someone’s basement. For an avowed Britpop/indie/punk/etc. guy such as myself, that is indicative of how lost the Big Business of music is now. The big boys preen about, all the while bitching about lost revenue and putting out “product” suitable for inducing vomiting in case of poisoning.

Yeah. I know – here I am raving about a person you have never heard of unless you happened by chance to read my review of his first album. So what? Jim Cheney’s songs are the real deal and better by half than most of what the radio is playing today. The fact that “Song of Our Time” is up on iTunes and not having cases of pre-ordered hard copies shipped everywhere is a sign of how screwed up Big Music has become. Jim Cheney may not be the future of rock and roll, as Jon Landau proclaimed Bruce Springsteen all those years ago, but he is a facet of my future of rock and roll and he ought to be in heavy rotation for y’all as well. This guy is the goods.

Later taters.

Well, here we are yet again, searching the vast aural wasteland for something worthy of tickling our eardrums. This never-ending quest for quality music makes me feel akin to a 49er panning for gold in some God-forsaken stream in 19th century-California, finding nothing worth a damn and waiting for a black bear to make a meal out of me. Yay team . . .

I am listening to Charlotte, North Carolina ’s Simplified as I type this and it is pleasant enough, I suppose. The Sublime/311/Dave Matthews Band/insertyourjambandhere sound is present and in full force, with acoustic guitar, bopping bass lines and appearances by various instruments as harmonica, organ and mandolin. It rolls right along toward the groove event horizon (you can picture a Simplified show full of lily-white college kids all Dead-dancing and nodding their heads to this). A Sister Hazel influence shows itself lyrically, which is a nice touch as I always felt that bunch to be better lyricists than most of their counterparts.

I could care less. Simplified’s “Smile” is competent, inoffensive, and completely forgettable. By the time I finish beating this week’s barbaric yawp into a printable form, I will have completely forgotten this album and group. I will consequently have to refer to these early paragraphs to recall the album I could not remember long enough to not like. Pretty messed up, huh? Do not waste your time or cash on this one. It would just blend into your CD rack, hiding like some mediocre musical chameleon and taking up space for no good reason.

Next up on this week’s hit list is the Last Waltz Ensemble’s newest release, “Easy Chair”. If you did not grok it from the name of this bunch, they cover songs by the Band and, delving back a little in the Band’s history, Bob Dylan as well.

Look, you know and I know that all of Chattanooga ’s scenesters lose their minds over cover bands. By God, we just LOVE us some cover bands, don’t we? 

Well, Hell no, I don’t. I cannot understand for the life of me why anyone would lay down some cold hard cash to see a band perform songs that you could listen to at the house. A person could drink cold beer, a strong mixed drink, some good coffee, or WHATEVER at his or her hacienda; flip on the stereo; and listen to the same tunes with better sound quality and no idiots jabbering on their cell phones throughout the entire show. Floggings sound good for that bunch. Can you hear me now?

Back to the matter at hand – people here pay to hear the KZ106 library (partially) performed live by the Velcro Pygmies. The Breakfast Club or Judd Nelson’s Disappearing Q Rating or whatever 80s cover band it is that graces a stage in our fair town never hurts for a decent turnout. Why is that? My “Pretty in Pink” CD sounds great at the house and I do not reek of stale smoke the next day. If I am getting secondhand emphysema, it had better be the Drive-By Truckers or some act of equal quality playing.

Anyway, let us gather ourselves and fill in the template here. The band (TLWE – I am NOT typing all that again) and their newest release (“Easy Chair”) are, what? They are talented, with some solid renditions of the Band and Dylan tunes, but ultimately it is all just musical tracing of someone else’s artwork.

 Please, someone tell me why I am listening to this and not “The Basement Tapes” or “Music from Big Pink”?

Ok. Go see the Last Waltz Ensemble if you want; after all, I truly cannot stop you. However, when it is finished, go home and listen to the real deal. If you do not have the originals (Infidels!), buy them and listen up. The sudden savage realization will spring upon you that you could have done the whole thing on your own, listening to the real thing and watching the Braves with the sound off.

Ah, my dyspeptic take on two bands that disappear before my very ears, composed and printed for your consumption. This evening, I have heard two CDs that I have problems naming, even as I listen to one of them whilst typing this. If that is not typical for Chattanooga ’s music scene, I will kiss your ass. Outside of some local talent busting its collective ass and putting out some great music -y’all know just who you are, so keep it up – the musical acts are almost completely cover bands and a string of has-beens and never-will-bes, all haunting the stages of our live music venues. Throw in monster trucks, Disney on Ice, and Kenny Chesney to complete the year’s musical calendar.

Nightfall used to be a refuge, but it seems that in recent years the urge to book eclectic acts because they are, well, eclectic has overwhelmed the ability to gauge what will draw music nuts such as me. There always is and probably always will be the “Have to Be Seen” crowd and the “Support Anything” crowd but Nightfall used to draw music fiends of all stripes. Not so much anymore, but those are completely different rants for other times . . .

Stay outta trouble. The economy is in the crapper, so bail money is scarce.

Later taters.