Michael Jackson, 1958-2009

He was a certified nut, burned by the limelight, the product of an abnormal upbringing, an object of intense scrutiny and understandably, a total freaky weirdo. But dude could dance, dude could sing--his talent and contribution to pop music and culture will continue to be undeniable.

Doctor Murdered in Kansas

The senseless murder of a doctor in Wichita, Kansas has highlighted the fanaticism of anti-abortion activists and effectively weakened their argument for the preservation of life.

Dr. George Tiller, 67, ran one of the nation’s few women’s clinics that performed late-term abortions. He was shot and killed while serving as an usher during morning services Sunday at Reformation Lutheran Church. The gunman fired one shot at Tiller before threatening bystanders who attempted to stop him.

The suspected killer, 51-year-old Scott Roeder, was arrested three hours later. Roeder was a fierce opponent of abortion, posting passionate diatribes on sympathetic websites. One post read: “Bless everyone for attending and praying in May to bring justice to Tiller and the closing of his death camp.”

Another of the few remaining late-term abortion clinics is in Boulder, Colorado, where Dr. Warren Hern denounced Tiller's killing as the "inevitable and predictable consequence of decades of anti-abortion" rhetoric and violence. "Dr. Tiller's assassination is not the lone and inexplicable action of one deranged killer," Hern said Sunday. "This was a political assassination in a historic pattern of anti-abortion political violence."

How upsetting that the group that condemns a woman’s right to choose and demonizes the doctors who help them feels the need to resort to violence. How painfully ironic that the group whose views are based on the sanctity of life and whose opinions are often informed by religion includes a man who took a life in a house of God.

As profoundly different as people’s opinions are in regard to abortion, expecting them to be resolved through violence, even murder, is terribly unrealistic and short-sighted. I just hope incidents like this hobble the pro-life movement instead of galvanizing its most ardent supporters.

King Khan & The Shrines storm Portland

Following his blistering set at Sasquatch last weekend, King Khan brought his Shrines to Dante’s last night for a feverish evening of blood, sweat and beers.

A Canadian by way of India, KK got his start playing with Montreal’s The Spaceshits before pairing up with Mark Sultan, aka BBQ (who incidentally opened the show and later joined KK for a song during the Shrines’ set), as The King Khan & BBQ Show.

In 1999, KK found himself in Berlin, where he ended up planting the seeds of the Shrines. Collecting players who shared his manic passion for ass-kickin,’ the band grew from humble roots into the ultra-tight monstrosity it is today. Along with nine other musicians and a go-go cheerleader, it would come to include Ron Streeter, an experienced percussionist who has played with everyone from Ike and Tina Turner to Curtis Mayfield, and Fredovitch, whose wrath-of-God church organ colors much of the group’s material.

Their garage-y sound fits somewhere between the freakbeat of Sun Ra and the empowering funk of James Brown with a bit of self-deprecating humor thrown in for good measure. They were in fine form last night. Though the weather outside the venue was mild, inside could be found a storm of mayhem with soul-power lightning as the band stewed a heady brew of psychedelic soul complete with reverb-soaked guitar, punchy horn blasts and gut-rumbling bass.

Regarded by some as the hardest working man in go business and sometimes named as the rightful heir to THE James Brown’s throne, King Khan has made a name for himself as a soul-stirring, half-naked wild-child with a penchant for theatrical showmanship. Taking the stage in a get-up that could only be described as tribal-chieftain-jungle-chic and launching into “Land of The Freak,” it became apparent that nothing could be more true.

The group ran through some familiar cuts, working the crowd into a frenzy with “Outta Harm’s Way” and “I Wanna Be A Girl,” which got more guys singing and dancing than expected. “Welfare Bread,” a smoothie-groovy tune about government aid, found Bamboorella (the Go-Go Queen of the Underworld) shaking gold glitter onto those closest to the stage.

As good as the band was, KK was still the main attraction: throwing furtive glances into the audience, laughing menacingly through an echoing microphone during “Shivers Down My Spine” and pausing at one point to command everyone to “freak the fuck out.” Obediently, all but the staunchest of too-cool kids complied.

He cut short “Burnin’ Inside,” interrupting the band for a super-South soul-sermon centered around the tale of him climbing inside his woman (taking off his shoes, of course) before crawling out like a “mucky watermelon.” Prowling the stage like a possessed pastor, KK converted the non-believers while reaffirming the faith of his followers. Indeed, if this show were a religious service, it’d be safe to consider the entire room saved.

But then things got weird during the encore. After leaving the stage to thunderous applause, he and the band returned. He had traded his cheetah print sport coat and tribal headdress for little more than a gold cape and a Darth-Vader-Death-Race helmet/mask. Awkward girls made their way to the stage too, dancing halfheartedly as if they were more concerned with being seen than enjoying the music. As if their presence wasn’t already a distraction, they began throwing handfuls of cake into the crowd and shoving it into the faces of band members. It didn’t quite add up. Then again, much of King Khan & The Shrines’ act doesn’t make much sense. Their appeal though, is undeniable.

Queen of Soul

It was a clear day. Steely Dan was playing “Hey Nineteen” in my head. I heard Donald Fagen deliver the eye-opening line to the song’s uninformed subject, the line that leads him to realize that he’s growing old and losing touch.

“She don’t remember the Queen of Soul.”

Thinking for a minute, something dawned on me: I don’t own any Aretha Franklin records. Though the generation gap between me and those who were around when She (that’s right, I’m capitalizing it) was releasing genre-defining records is large enough to excuse my negligence, I was embarrassed all the same.

Aretha Franklin is royalty. She is an institution. Her pipes are some of the most famous in music history, at once earth-shaking and spine-tingling, comforting and uplifting, able to leap naturally from breathy delicacy to gale-force power.

Her gift might be most evident on “I Never Loved a Man (The Way I Love You).” The warm tone of Her voice nestles in producer Jerry Wexler’s arrangement, concealing the ticking time-bomb of soul power waiting to overheat and explode from Her chest.

“Call Me” features a somewhat meek, passive coo that slowly morphs into a pleading but controlled holler that demands a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Franklin’s command of Her range is exemplary. She has an uncanny ability to let Her robust voice seep in and connect to your subconscious, even when She’s really setting it loose. Just try and stave off the tingles around the three-minute mark of “Ain’t No Way;” there really er, ain’t no way.

Her version of “I Say A Little Prayer” is much more affecting than Dionne Warwick’s. The melisma that so often bogs down other singers’ attempts to prove their talent is used sparingly by Franklin, adding more texture and emphasis. Even when Her voice reaches the point where the power of other singers’ voices peak, you can tell She could go further, She’s got power to spare. What’s more, it all sounds natural. Nothing that comes out of Her mouth sounds forced or overly rehearsed.

She is truly a living legend, as Her track record makes clear: twenty number 1 singles over twenty years, seventeen Grammies and an induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. More than those quantifiable things are the lasting impressions She’s left on culture and music--an enduring legacy, bound to live on in the hearts, ears and voices of generations to come. Indeed, Fagen was on to something. Impossible to forget, I’ll always “remember the Queen of Soul.”

Time Life Music

Flipping through cable channels, often late at night, early in the morning or in the middle of the day, has yielded some highly entertaining paid programming over the years. From Vince and the ShamWow towel to Billy Mays and his miracle cleaning products; from Ron Popeil’s kitchen contraptions to George Foreman’s arsenal of grilling gadgets (sadly, I could go on), the litany of extended ads with their horrible hawking salesmen are ripe for ridicule. Still, for as long as I can remember, I’ve always enjoyed the Time Life music commercials. Thoroughly.

For at least two minutes and sometimes as many as thirty, some wrinkled and washed-up forgotten star tells viewers about time and life and the songs that accompanied those memorable times and lives. Whether it was the folk music that tempered the turbulent ‘60s or the jukebox jams at the ‘50s soda shop; whether it’s Country Superstars or AM Gold, the good folks at Time Life music are banking on you finding a connection to one of their many wonderful compilations and picking up the phone to make that first of four easy payments.

The commercials always appealed to me because I was a music lover with a short attention span. In the interest of brevity, the ads played snippets of as many songs as they could, trimming the fat and playing the catchiest part of the tune before moving on to another. Where else in TV-land could I go to hear the best ten seconds of a great old song followed by the best ten seconds of another great old song?

Though I never accepted the offer of six CDs or cassettes containing all my ‘favorite songs together at last in one collection,’ I still really liked watching and listening to the infomercials. I even went so far as to take notes on songs and artists so I could find their work later on.

If anything, the advertisements exposed me to some musicians who enjoyed a little time in the limelight before retreating into obscurity. Now, with few outlets for bygone music aside from some oldies radio stations, these commercials and the compilations they push might be one of the last remaining means of exposure for some of the songs that time forgot. I’m just glad that Time Life remembered.

The Killers the band

I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with this band. When Hot Fuss came out in 2004 and slowly climbed the charts on the strength of its great singles, my faith in record-buyers was somewhat restored. Here was a band with talent, ambition and a sound that, while biting ‘80s synth-pop, was all their own at the time. To boot, they were selling enough records to rival the familiar pop, rap and country acts that tended to dominate the top spots.

I even remember seeing the band’s video for “Somebody Told Me” late at night on MTV2 before their debut even made a ripple (let alone a wave) and thinking “this band is going to be big.” Sure enough, four years and two other albums later, they are among the best-selling American groups and one of the bigger concert draws, counting both hipster elitists and TRL junkies as fans.

It comes as no surprise to me. They are a band of gifted songwriters and fine musicians. The production on their records is top notch and they seem to hold themselves to a high standard.

However, their shtick is becoming tiresome. With Sam’s Town, their second album, the band relied heavily on the epic grandeur of Springsteen’s open-road ballad sound. Though the release took them from the club to the arena, its derivative material did little to set them apart and make an original statement.

Their new LP, Day and Age, is another cut-and-paste exercise in style-biting. Perhaps an homage to the cheesy adult-contemporary sound of another (dare I say) Day and Age, it’s layered with synthesized grooves, tacky saxophone accents and more overdubbed tracks than a bustling rail terminal. The result is an over-the-top album that, while populated with catchy tunes, recalls a sound that was left to die decades ago and makes another weak case for the band’s originality.

As if their music’s overt sentimentality (now beginning to feel contrived) wasn’t enough, frontman Brandon Flowers’ ego is inflating. In the press, he is often quoted saying things like ‘my band is the voice of a generation,’ ‘we’re awesome,’ and so on. This point though, is moot. I don’t want to judge a band’s music by the people who make it—I’d rather let it speak for itself.

Either way, it’s speaking loudly and it’s telling me that it’s drowning in self-indulgence.

MULCH

Whether or not anyone noticed my absence from GimmeDanger, I'll explain it. I've been working on a zine for a good while and I'm finally looking at a short stack of the finished product. After all the writing, laying out, photo-hunting and laboring over different designs and color palettes, I realized that it'd cost me nearly $7 to reproduce a full color copy. With that, I've decided to issue it in black and white. The content is what you may have come to expect, "a collection of moot musings and mumbo-jumbo, MULCH is just that: a mixed blend of matter."

You can find MULCH in Portland at the downtown Powell's on Burnside while supplies last. Or you can get in touch with me and I'll mail you one. And yes, that is my cat on the cover.

on animal farm

In a move guaranteed to rile wannabe zookeepers, the Oregon Senate has approved a measure banning private possession of certain exotic animals as pets.

The measure would prohibit ownership of lions, tigers and bears (oh my) as well as monkeys, apes, and alligators. Lawmakers contend that it would protect both human safety and animal welfare.

I couldn’t agree more.

Under current law, people get permits from the state Department of Agriculture to keep exotic pets. The Senate bill would not force people to give up those pets but it would prevent people from obtaining new ones.

Sponsors of the bill said that often the exotic pets grow too large and too difficult to handle and they either escape or are let loose by their owners.

Even though the Oregon legislature is poised to dash my hopes of stocking a menagerie with animals that are better suited to lives in the wild than in my backyard, I suppose I’ll get by with a little Beezer cat.

The bill, which now advances to the House, would not affect wildlife rehabilitators, wildlife sanctuaries, zoos, circuses or research or educational facilities.

THIS JUST IN

This just in: City of Albany to revitalize downtown area, refurbish crumbling schools and construct Oregon’s first legit Nascar track.

Well, probably not.

But, since the Albany City Council voted to sue a subsidiary of PepsiCo for more than $100 million over the company's decision not to build a Gatorade and Propel Fitness Water factory in the city, it stands to collect some loot.

The city council voted 4-0 Monday to authorize the lawsuit, which alleges breach of contract.

Under a 2006 agreement, a PepsiCo subsidiary said it would build a $165 million beverage plant and a separate $85 million bottle-making factory on 241 acres the company bought.

Last November the company notified the city that because of market changes it had changed its mind.

With the country’s every state and municipality in dire economic straits, one has to wonder if the Council’s unanimous decision to sue was motivated by the city’s own lack of money.

To be sure, this legal battle will be costly and hard fought. PepsiCo is a giant organization with a team of skilled attorneys on its side. If the City of Albany doesn’t win the sum for which it is suing, this lawsuit may cost it more than it can muster and further compound its financial predicament.

Still loopy

I went to the 32nd annual Newport Seafood and Wine Fest today. It was great. In addition to the typical weekend warriors, I saw sluggish wine slobs drifting aimlessly and bead-draped cougars on the prowl, speaking in shrieks and wearing enough makeup to shame Tammy Faye. All gathered peacefully in a giant tent to drink copious amounts of vino, eat shrimp cocktails and cheer emphatically at the shattering of a glass.

Though I'm no connoisseur, I enjoyed several delicious wines from all over the Willamette Valley. Still, it was amusing to watch the clueless dorks pretending they could tell the difference between a spicy cab and a mellow syrah with a fruity finish.

When in Rome, make lemonade, eh?

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when life gives you lemons...

The nation’s economy is in a recession. Stocks and markets continue to falter, unemployment is on the rise, the dollar’s value is dropping and foreclosures are still mounting. While our elected officials struggle to balance budgets and decide which programs get funding and which don’t, our President has done little to rally the people and buoy spirits.

Consumer sales are at record lows, folks are worried about their jobs, investor confidence is waning, and some people are holing up and hording what little they have.

It’s clear that the country’s situation is dire. The last thing we need is the fluffy, happy talk reserved for a child: “there, there, it’ll be okay.” I, for one, find that insulting.

At the same time, the real talk that we’re getting from Obama is terribly gloomy. Though he’s taking care to treat the economic crisis with the utmost seriousness, he’s speaking too solemnly with a furrowed brow about the long slog ahead of us. I, for one, find that overwhelming.

So what’s needed? Obama obviously can’t please everyone. I think a mix of speech and action would serve him, and the population, well. The real talk should be given to us straight but it should be tempered with a sense of optimism and a mention of what we, as citizens, can do to help.

In his defense, he has expressed confidence that the nation will bounce back. These statements though, are delivered with the consternation and stiff body language that leaves me feeling more worried than comforted.

Bill Clinton echoed these sentiments in a recent television interview. "I like trying to educate the American people about the dimensions and scope of this economic crisis," he said. "I just would like [Obama] to end by saying that he is hopeful and completely convinced we're gonna come through this."

Side note: imagine the pressure. All eyes are on Obama. His every move is being dissected by critics, his most ardent supporters are expectantly waiting for him to fix everything, and guys like me are straddling that line, just hoping he can make the lemonade.

Fight

A fight at a skatepark in Tualatin that left four injured will end up being yet another thorn in the side of the movement to construct new skateparks across the state.

The fight, in which one person was stabbed, happened last night around 7 p.m. and has prompted the all-too-familiar stereotyping of skateboarders.

“Just more proof that skateparks attract the wrong crowd. Fill the darn thing in and make it a basketball court or another playground,” commented one reader on The Oregonian’s website despite the fact that none of the fighters have been identified as skaters.

While business owners complain about the destructive, dangerous and noisy presence of skateboarders on their property, residents fight skatepark construction in their neighborhoods. ‘Not in my backyard,’ they say, citing skaters’ tendencies toward substance abuse and general delinquency.

Still, the past decade has seen Oregon and the greater northwest become an internationally-renowned destination for skaters due to its abundance of world-class skateparks.

The most recent wave of new construction began in November 2002 when Portland voters approved a parks levy which, among other things, provided for two new skateparks at Pier and Glenhaven Parks in north and northeast Portland. The Portland Parks Foundation helped secure funding for a skate spot in the new Holly Farm Park in southwest Portland. Thanks to special funding approved by City Council in 2006, a new skatepark opened July 2008 in Gabriel Park in southwest Portland and a skate area is almost completed in Ed Benedict Park in southeast Portland.

Now, with plans to build another, much larger skatepark in the city’s Old Town near the west ramp of the Steel Bridge, skaters will likely see increased opposition to the construction and/or increased police presence when the project is finished. It’s also likely that the entire project will be postponed indefinitely due to the nationwide economic crisis and the city's financial woes.

Letterman vs Phoenix

David Letterman hosted actor Joaquin Phoenix last night. Together, the two engaged in what was surely one of the most unforgettable and uncomfortable exchanges in Late Show history.

Phoenix, hiding behind dark shades and a full, unkempt beard, was awkward and distant. Appearing on the show to promote his new movie, he mumbled one and two word answers to Letterman’s questions and prompted the host, himself truly gifted at moving conversations from mundane to memorable, to exploit the situation’s potential for comedic value. Letterman soon began mocking Phoenix, playfully ribbing the actor with sarcastic one-liners, until Phoenix grew contemptuous of the host, the co-host, and even the audience.

The whole exchange culminated when Letterman remarked, “Maybe I'll come to your house some night and chew gum." Phoenix responded by taking the gum out of his mouth and sticking it to the host’s desk.

Whether or not Letterman was actually irritated and whether or not Phoenix was really on another planet, it was some damn entertaining television, and surely sent millions of viewers off to bed wondering whether they just witnessed a stoned actor falling apart before the cameras, or a daring performer tearing apart the very conventions of the late night TV talk show.

Here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HXpYk7WGN5Y. We'll see how long it lasts.

Beaver Cleaver

Beaver Cleaver and his television family were the iconic nuclear unit of post-war suburban America.

RAVE ON

Fifty years ago today, Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens played a show in Clear Lake, Iowa.

Their short Upper Midwest tour was billed as the Winter Dance Party and predated the mega-festival super-tour concert scene of today. The lucky few that braved the bitter winter weather to see these young men perform were in the presence of a greatness that was soon to be prematurely snatched away.

Just hours after the show, the three were killed in a plane crash in the early hours of the day that came to be known as “the day the music died.”

Holly was only 22 years old but had already left an indelible mark on the developing rock-and-roll sound. Paul McCartney recalled singing and playing his songs with John Lennon when they were boys. Indeed, the first song the pair ever recorded with a young George Harrison was a cover of “That’ll Be The Day.”

One could speculate that had there been no Buddy Holly, there might be no Beatles. To me, that’s more devastating of a thought than the loss of Holly at such a young age. As sad as his untimely death was and is, at least we can be thankful that he was around long enough to leave a small but lasting body of influential work.

LISTEN TO WORDS OF LOVE, OH BOY!, RAVE ON and MAYBE BABY