art-throb

LISTEN TO THIS DUDE. "Don't think twice, it's all right."

burning out, bumming out

Though I’ve smoked my share of cigarettes, I’m not a smoker. I recognize that it’s harmful, disgusting and has no place in nearly all public settings. But I still think it, and those who partake in it, have been unjustly vilified. The Oregon legislature passed a law in the 2007 session, to take effect on January 1, 2009, that bans smoking in all public places, including GASP! bars. Smoking in bars, I’ve always thought, is as inherent a component of bar culture as the alcohol. More power to an establishment that chooses to disallow smoking, it’ll likely attract patrons regardless. But enacting this law and taking that choice away from all establishments is unfair, uncool and…totally for the greater good. I’ve tried to write something to this effect before but always ended up trashing the drafts. Enter Chuck Thompson--he wrote the following in Esquire magazine.

I don’t smoke. Never have. Never will. I believe everything I’ve ever heard about the dangers of cigarettes. But bars are supposed to be subversive. Uninhibited, noisy, smoky. This was the atmosphere that put you in such a panic to grow up. Once you did, you appreciated the bar even more as one of the few places where the freedom to be an adult--in your behavior, contemptible opinions, hookups, vices--was never seriously curtailed.

Yeah, it’s nice to come home with clothes that don’t smell like an ashtray, but I miss the grime. I miss our history together. This country was founded on the tobacco trade; our Revolution was planned between swigs and puffs in musty places like Boston’s Green Dragon Tavern; Bogie wouldn’t have been Bogie without the coffin nails (to say nothing of Keith Richards); and Joe’s Corner Tap isn’t as fun when half the working-class regulars--the real target of this antismoking jihad--have to bail out midargument to huddle in the rain just to get in a relaxing huff. By kowtowing to yet another milepost on the road to American pussification, we might be saving our lungs, but we’re killing our seditious hearts.

Dusty in Memphis

Dusty Springfield left the comforts of her British homeland and the pop music that made her famous to record this classic album in Memphis with Atlantic Record’s all star production team and The Memphis Cats, some of the hottest session players around. Somewhat of a departure for her, the soul and R&B tunes supposedly gave Dusty a bit of trouble, of which the record provides no evidence. Producer Jerry Wexler was also surprised, given Dusty's talent, by her apparent insecurity. An admitted perfectionist, she later attributed her initial unease to a very real anxiety about being compared with the musical titans who had recorded in the same studios with the same personnel. And even though she ended up recording most of her parts in New York and demonstrating her vocal versatility on the eclectic range of songs, the album, released in 1969, still retains the southern, Memphis soul sound that Atlantic Records helped define in the sixties.

While the album is cohesive enough to be considered wholly soulful (due in large part to Dusty’s robust, dynamic voice), there exist key tracks that exemplify her mastery of the varying styles present in the selections. “I don’t want to hear it anymore,” written by relative newcomer Randy Newman puts Dusty’s voice on display. It’s mixed way up front and it sounds so distinct, husky and gently subdued, when balanced with the smooth, downy vocals of back-up singers The Sweet Inspirations. The album’s also got “son of a preacher man,” easily her most well-known tune and arguably the highlight of her career. “In the land of make believe” finds Dusty treading fairly familiar waters, cooing softly through the sitar-flavored Burt Bacharach composition. Starting slow and building to a string-laden, orchestral conclusion, “the windmills of your mind” is very theatrical and textured with flamenco guitar while “don’t forget about me,” a Goffin/King-penned song, threatens to bring the house down. On it, the band bides its time before charging ahead in full-tilt, brass glory as Dusty, sounding loose and confident, sets aside her reservations and turns the song into a sweaty, uninhibited affair. A CD reissue includes some bonus tracks, one of which, “Willie & Laura Mae Jones,” is so damn good that it begs the question: why was it scrapped in the first place? Dusty gets down as she sings about cotton fields, barbecue, and living in a shack while Reggie Young of The Memphis Cats contributes some deft blues guitar. The album ends with “I can’t make it alone,” a fitting song when taking into account that this album was somewhat of a leap of faith and an effort to connect with new audiences and reinvigorate her foundering career in the US. But despite the hard work put into it, the record barely charted. I imagine though, that it did boost her credibility among her musical peers.

Quicksilver Messenger Service

Debut album, 1968. Kinda typifies the SF scene around this time but certain elements help distinguish it from the music of other like-minded contemporaries. There's some really cool guitar playing from John Cipollina and a good range of tunes that serve as a fitting representation of the psychedelic era. It's got the expectedly melodic folk-rock, some jazzy explorations and one seriously outer-spacey acid jam ("the fool"). I don't know if you can find it on CD, but the vinyl's not too hard to come by--check the bargain bins.

put your Wray gun to my head

Link Wray explored uncharted territory and pushed the then-limited boundaries of the electric guitar in the early 1960s, opening the door for many players to come. With simple chord progressions over sublimely muted bass and drums, the guitar is clearly the focal point of his tunes. The menacing sound he makes blares from an overdriven amplifier with holes in the cone and sounds so mean and heavy that you can’t help but feel cool, and a little uneasy, moving to it. Most of his songs sound pretty much the same: he lets the instrument rumble in a sinister fashion while picking out high notes to lay over the top in basic phrases. It sounds kind of like surf music but it seems more like driving music to me, perfect for cruising with the wind in your face on the way to a remote saloon for a chain fight. It’s supremely effective as soundtrack music too, conjuring images of sneering dudes with greasy pompadours in dusty leather jackets and well-worn boots. I can see it creating a certain mood in a showdown scene or being associated with a character who's got that effortlessly cool personality. I guess it’s just tough-guy music.

LISTEN TO ACE OF SPADES OR FAT BACK OR BLACK WIDOW

...like I do.

THROW A PLATTER PARTY.

LISTEN TO CARLA THOMAS & OTIS REDDING SING "LOVEY DOVEY."

can't stand me now

In a relationship reminiscent of the magical alchemy of Lennon and McCartney, Pete Doherty and Carl Barat joined forces to create a fresh sound and inject some much-needed energy into the early 21st century British rock scene. Originally lumped in with the 'garage rock revival' groups including the Strokes, Hives, Vines and White Stripes, the Libertines soon proved themselves to be a different animal altogether. While Barat put forth a raw, punk vibe, Doherty tempered it with a pop sensibility and a keen way with words. They rounded out the group with bassist John Hassall and settled on drummer Gary Powell, who had a jazz background that shone through in his on-point precision. Their chemistry as songwriters attracted the Clash's Mick Jones, who agreed to try and tame the beast that was the Libertines and produce their first album. Reportedly, he just put them in the studio and pushed record in an effort to capture the sound of their shambolic live shows. Equal parts hip mod rock, spitting punk rock and beautifully unhinged britpop, they appealed to a wide variety of audiences who helped their debut album Up the Bracket reach a respectable #35 on the British album charts. But commercial success was less a measure of their renown as concert attendance and media attention were. As they continued to play sell-out shows to feverish crowds, NME magazine, the foremost British music authority, named them Best New Band of 2003 and Best UK band of 2004 and 2005. With their growing popularity, Doherty, who had been dabbling in drugs, soon found himself in the depths of addiction as Barat, eager to capitalize on the band's repute and finish some new material, grew frustrated with his friend. They argued, fought and separated like quarrelsome lovers throughout the recording of their second album, a self-titled release again produced by Mick Jones that reached the top of the UK charts, before slowly dissolving the band to pursue new musical ventures. Doherty formed Babyshambles and became a tabloid fixture while Barat and Powell formed Dirty Pretty Things. Both bands are good and representative of Pete and Carl's respective tastes and styles but I still wish the two could've gotten along well enough to continue as Libertines.

Up the Bracket is a prime example of the musical connection between the two guys. Songs like "death on the stairs" and "time for heroes" from the debut album are a testament to the potential that was regrettably never fully realized. Filled with ebbing lyrics and flowing melodies, you can hear how well Pete and Carl complement each other. And like a heady lager rising to the edge of a pint glass before spilling and making a mess on the bar, "horror show" is two and a half minutes of roiling distortion and ringing cymbals brimming with ardent delight. Their beatitude is also evident on "vertigo" as the two compete for lead vocal duties, haphazardly slurring in cockney slang that's punctuated by crisp snare cracks. “Tell the king” finds the boys in a thoughtful state, wondering aloud about the complexity of relationships. Many tracks in fact touch on this subject with lyrics suggesting the love/hate symbiosis between Doherty and Barat. “The good old days” almost sounds like a warning or even a death-march toward certain doom as Pete blurs the words and sings,

If you’ve lost your faith in love and music
Oh the end won’t be long
Because if it’s gone for you then I too may lose it
And that would be wrong

I've tried so hard to keep myself from falling
Back into my bad old ways
And it chars my heart to always hear you calling
Calling for the good old days
Because there were no good old days
These are the good old days

That’s an astute observation for a young man on a first album and on paper, the lyrics just might come off as celebratory when in fact, they're cynical and pessimistic. Too, the tone of the accompanying music is anything but joyful. There’s an impending sense of ruin or adverse and unavoidable fate that implies that they knew, even then, that these were the “good old days” and that their relationship was already too damaged to repair. It’s sad to think that they may have actually resigned themselves to this and given up on each other before the album was even released. Imagine what could’ve been… Maybe it was for the best.

LISTEN TO UP THE BRACKET IN ITS ENTIRETY

Obamamania grips Oregon

DRINK THE KOOL-AID. YOU'LL BE GLAD YOU DID.

flaccid rock

When did U2 become classic rock? Do I really have to endure another Bachman Turner Overdrive or Peter Frampton song in my pursuit of legitimately CLASSIC rock?

Aside from being released in the sixties or seventies, rock becomes classic when the artist’s entire body of work not only remains relevant to both the old and young, but when it still influences and inspires people to make music. I’m talking about CLASSIC classic rockers, bands whose names can be shortened and still be recognized. Bands like Zeppelin, the Stones, Pink Floyd, Creedence, the Who and countless others. I don’t even like the term ‘classic rock;’ it’s become a dumping ground of tired old songs that burnouts used to dig ‘back in the day.’ I mean really, do you actually know anybody who likes listening to Joe Walsh?

Granted, a lot of these so-called classic rock bands aren’t entirely worthless. They may have one or two decent songs. That, however, is not enough to warrant the inclusion of their entire recording output and to bestow upon them the coveted descriptor ‘classic.’ Conversely, someone may have achieved the status of rock and roll superstar with an extensive catalog of great material to boot but all you hear from them on the radio is “cocaine,” “cinnamon girl” or “the boys are back in town.” It seems that there are classic rock bands and classic rock songs. Either way, the term is horribly broad and entirely subjective; I’m making arbitrary judgments right now.

Look at your average classic rock radio playlist and the Eagles seem to come up the most. Sure they sold a ton of records but come on…Jeff Lebowski (the dude) said it best and I echo his sentiment when I say, “I hate the fucking Eagles, man.” George Thorogood, Bad Company, Foreigner and all that other bullshit is the crap that the Homer Simpsons of this nation dig--the music that appeals to average, often dim-witted Americans.

I sigh and shake my head when I say, because it's totally true, that Homer is the quintessential modern American man. Wikipedia says:

Homer embodies several American working class stereotypes: he is crude, overweight, incompetent, clumsy, thoughtless and a borderline alcoholic. His personality is one of frequent stupidity, laziness and explosive anger. Homer shows immense laziness towards work, is overweight and "is devoted to his stomach.” He suffers from a short attention span, following only his dominant impulse, which complements his short-lived passion for various hobbies and enterprises, but then changes his mind when things go badly. Homer is prone to emotional outbursts; he is very envious of his neighbors, and is easily enraged. While Homer's thoughtless antics often upset his family, he has also revealed himself to be a surprisingly caring father and husband.

The quintessential modern American man indeed. Sigh...

LISTEN TO WHATEVER YOU WANT--IF YOU LIKE IT, IT'S COOL.

marching to the beat of a different bum

I've been listening to the Brian Jonestown Massacre as of late. It's not remarkable stuff but it's still pretty cool. It's very derivative, but in the best possible way because it cribs tunes from some of my favorite old music dudes. "Straight up and down" rips off Donovan's "season of the witch" and "starcleaner" is eerily reminiscent of the Beatles' "it's only love." "Mary please" has a nuggets feel with a little bit from "I feel fine" by our favorite Liverpudlian foursome worked into the main riff while "maybe tomorrow" is a lot like the Rolling Stones' "wild horses." Seriously, if you listen closely to any of the songs, you'll hear something that sounds familiar. One of them, I can't remember now, has a Tom Petty melody. It all works though, and the material they bite is cool so it doesn't really bother me. Copying other people's stuff, even just barely, is a fine line to walk. On one hand, you want to have credit given where credit is due. On the other, paying homage can be an understated, yet sincere form of respect.

Anton Newcombe was the main guy in the band. That's him there with the old Porsche. He was kind of a volatile person, almost bipolar or something. Check out the documentary "Dig" that came out awhile back for proof. They say crazy folks are often responsible for some of the best pieces of artistic expression. That's probably true to an extent; I can think of many writers, musicians, painters, etc. that fit the mold. As an artist, Newcombe was pretty prolific. It was like he had all this music balled up inside and he'd just let it seep out of him sometimes. He certainly wasn't afraid to blatantly show his influences and didn't do too much to disguise them in the interest of a more original finished product. I bet he's got a killer record collection.

I really like their song "servo." It sounds like it could have been the soundtrack to some 1967 Haight-Ashbury whirlwind tripout tour with its lilting never-grow-up peter pan-style flute, sedated guitar, loping pace and lazily sung lyrics. I can't be sure, but I recall Hunter S. Thompson writing something about people thinking they could buy hope for a dollar a hit (or something like that). Those people might like to listen to tunes like this because the music and words have a sense of hope in them. The song's got kind of a flowing, surfer vibe too. I can picture a whole scene flickering on grainy 16mm film with some shirtless short-short dude, blond hair blowing in the coastal wind, cruising on a little skateboard down the boardwalk as the waves lap at the calves of beachgoers in the background. Now that I think about it, I guess this song is pretty dynamic. It's not groundbreaking but it still grooves. Cool, eh? I'm under the influence.

LISTEN TO "SERVO" OR "MAYBE TOMORROW."

expecting to fly

This is too cool to me. Michael Sieben drew it.

TURBONEGRO: princes of the rodeo

Self-described as deathpunk, this Norwegian six-piece has been rocking in excess for over ten years now. Picking up what the Misfits, T.Rex and Van Halen put down, they utilize a basic lo-fi riff-rock aesthetic, throw in a little glam glitter for good measure, and waste no opportunity to melt a face with an over-the-top guitar solo.

Turbonegro’s early days found them toiling in Oslo obscurity, overlooked by fans and critics alike. In an effort to stand apart from the ultra-dark doom and gloom metal scene that was beginning to define Scandinavian rock, the band adopted a homosexual image complete with songs about erections, poop and plenty of blood. Styling themselves as threatening gay men, they wore sailor's hats, military regalia, women’s makeup, denim jackets and tight blue jeans ("the only textile that was actually designed for kicking ass," claims bassist Happy-Tom). Audiences didn’t know what to make of them--here were six overweight (and underweight) dudes kicking out the rockingest of jams in the silliest of costumes while singing about the strangest of things.

With the release of their 1997 masterpiece Apocalypse Dudes, Turbonegro were at the top of their game. They toured Europe, recruiting new fans to join their club, the Turbojugend, and gained quite a following stateside as well. It all proved to be too much too soon as drug problems put the band on indefinite hiatus in the late nineties. In the meantime and on the strength of a limited amount of material, the band's legend multiplied to fever pitch.

When three European festivals offered them pots of cash to reform for summer shows in 2002, they got their shit together and duly tore it up in front of 100,000+ fans. Since then, they’ve been recording new tunes (which are sadly getting progressively worse) and touring. But though they’ve been unable to recapture the magic of their past records, their live shows are still said to be totally spectacular. Embracing theatrics, the band has been known to parade dwarf doppelgangers of themselves on stage while frontman Hank Von Helvete burns sparklers between his butt cheeks. Pyrotechnics, props, lasers and fog can make a show look cool but the rock still has to roll. Luckily for them (and us), Turbonegro’s certified 100-proof brand of fist-pumping, head-banging, ass-shaking deathpunk still moves a crowd.

There was a period in my life when five beers and Apocalypse Dudes or the following album, Scandinavian Leather, could transform me into a wild animal--an untamable, pale, bony beast flailing to the shrieks of Euroboy’s guitar and Hank’s shouting until hoarse, dizzy and exhausted. Andrew Perry said it best: “In a global climate of fear, fundamentalism and repression, Turbonegro reminds you that rock & roll exists to be fun, liberated and oblivious to its own consequences.” This was the first picture I saw of them and I think it's pretty representative of the band. It’s sweaty, shreddy and soaked in booze and lipstick. This is what they look like now: ..............LISTEN TO THEM DO "SELFDESTRUCTO BUST"..............

making sense, not dollars

Look at this chart…think how many stereotypes you could make. I know I could make judgmental generalizations of listeners of every one of these genres but I won’t stoop that low. Not today, thank you kindly. I’m sure we all understand that your average country fan is a republican and that the majority of reggae listeners are democrats. Mostly Latinos listen to Latin music and they tend to lean left while people who listen to religious music align themselves, more often than not, with the conservative right. That all makes sense. But I know as well you do that there are always exceptions. Consider classic rock, it’s right in the middle. Equal numbers of republicans and democrats listen to classic rock. And even though I have a big problem with the term ‘classic rock’ and all the junk that has now been labeled ‘classic rock,’ it’s easy to understand how classic rock and roll can transcend party lines. Everybody grew up with it and so everybody can identify with it. That’s why so many campaign theme songs are from the classic rock genre; they’re instantly recognizable and appeal to just about everybody.

Nancy & Lee

Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood teamed up in the swinging sixties with arranger Billy Strange to concoct some seriously potent musical potions. Casting groovy spells while taking a page from the tried-and-true book of Johnny and June Cash, the two sang suggestive songs full of winking innuendo. The status of Nancy and Lee’s relationship though, was left to the imagination. Some think that made their music more compelling. Indeed, an air of mystery is certainly attractive to some. Not me--I just dig the tunes. They’re kind of psychedelic-country-lounge-pop. Initially, Hazlewood just wrote and produced Sinatra’s material, singing with her on only a handful of tracks. But sensing their chemistry, they ended up collaborating on several records and making two albums together as Nancy & Lee. Major success eluded them but, over the years, the music gained a cult following. This could be due to the dynamic between the two, which was curiously peculiar. Hazlewood, a country boy, played the role of weary cowboy, sounding as if he’d just smoked a pack of unfiltered cigarettes or gargled with gravel while Sinatra convincingly played his naïve, young counterpart. In sharp contrast to his leering, assured growl, her supple voice purred with a breathy, come-hither tone. Their appearances differed greatly too. He had a shaggy mane and bushy moustache and dressed simply; she wore hip, urban clothes and had flowing blond locks and feminine curves. Next to the coy, delicate beauty, Hazlewood sounded like he reveled in their differences. Even though the two were as unlikely a pair as any, together they made endearing music that highlighted their respective traits, resulting in a markedly unique finished product. Songs like “Some Velvet Morning” and “Summer Wine” were bathed in Strange’s lush orchestration and tinged with Hazlewood’s country inclinations. Coupled with Nancy and Lee’s lyrical tone and style of singing, the tracks could be interpreted as either light and innocent or highly sexual. It’s cool stuff, man.

LISTEN TO SUMMER WINE, SOME VELVET MORNING AND DID YOU EVER or CHECK OUT NANCY’S EARLY LEE-WRITTEN/PRODUCED STUFF