Part of a shipment received today in the mail from the New Zealand family.
Thursday, May 6, 2004
Tops on my stereo lately has been the debut album by TV on the Radio , "Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes," a New York-based trio. Their sound is hard to describe, but it's almost like a kind of industrial doo-wop, or a clash between Radiohead and an a capella act. Lead singer Tunde Adebimpe channels Peter Gabriel in his stretching, yearning soul vocals, and the band's sound is heavy -- deep, throbbing guitars, bass and looping noises combine in a wall of rising sound, overlaid by the sweet, soulful singing.
I've been having the propulsive end-of-love anthem "Dreams" run through my head the last two days. It's a catapult of noise, with an addictive chorus, swelling guitar solos out of some great lost U2 track, and scat singing you feel compelling to join in. It's the best track on the CD for me so far, and a marvel. Also noteworthy are the opening track "The Wrong Way," a grind of beats overlaid with falsetto singing and hints of horns that reminded me of the band Morphine. "Staring At The Sun" is another winner, a moody, meditative ode to doomsday.
I'm also getting into the peppier "Ambulance," the only straight a capella track on the disc, with a witty chorus -- "I will be your accident if you will be my ambulance / and I will be your screech and crash if you will be my crutch and cast." And "Poppy" is a straight synthesis of all the band's sound, thumping beats, vocal solos and symphonic interludes crashing in a heap. The lyrics are often fascinating -- as a band that's 2/3 African-American but that doesn't fit into most "traditional" images of modern black music, TV on the Radio has a questing, thoughtful feel, shot through with musical confidence.
The band are also conceptual artists, and there's a lot of visual imagery in their songs. A few tunes skirt the edge of pretentiousness. I do think the album falls down some in the second half, with the songs good but lacking the drama and pulse of the first numbers. Still, Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes" " is addictive listening, and well worth seeking out.
I've been having the propulsive end-of-love anthem "Dreams" run through my head the last two days. It's a catapult of noise, with an addictive chorus, swelling guitar solos out of some great lost U2 track, and scat singing you feel compelling to join in. It's the best track on the CD for me so far, and a marvel. Also noteworthy are the opening track "The Wrong Way," a grind of beats overlaid with falsetto singing and hints of horns that reminded me of the band Morphine. "Staring At The Sun" is another winner, a moody, meditative ode to doomsday.
I'm also getting into the peppier "Ambulance," the only straight a capella track on the disc, with a witty chorus -- "I will be your accident if you will be my ambulance / and I will be your screech and crash if you will be my crutch and cast." And "Poppy" is a straight synthesis of all the band's sound, thumping beats, vocal solos and symphonic interludes crashing in a heap. The lyrics are often fascinating -- as a band that's 2/3 African-American but that doesn't fit into most "traditional" images of modern black music, TV on the Radio has a questing, thoughtful feel, shot through with musical confidence.
The band are also conceptual artists, and there's a lot of visual imagery in their songs. A few tunes skirt the edge of pretentiousness. I do think the album falls down some in the second half, with the songs good but lacking the drama and pulse of the first numbers. Still, Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes" " is addictive listening, and well worth seeking out.
Wednesday, May 5, 2004
Blogger Bill Sherman turns in a nice review of the first volume in Fantagraphics' phantasmagoric "The Complete Peanuts," the long-awaited reprinting in 25 twice-a-year volumes of the entire 50-year-run of what, I think I can fairly say, was probably the greatest comic strip of them all. The online reviews are glowing and just kill me as I still have to wait another week or so for my copy to arrive in my monthly shipment o' comics goodness. I'll definitely post my thoughts when I get it, but without a doubt, Fantagraphics' project is the best thing to happen in comics for a long time. When I was younger and a reader of the piecemeal, non-chronological and scattered collection of Schulz' cartoon, I would have idle dreams that one fine day, it could all be collected in order from start to finish (I know, I had very geeky idle dreams as a lad). It's the year 2004, and it's finally happening. I do believe in the Great Pumpkin, I truly do!
Well of course if both my wife and I like a comic, it will be cancelled. Mike Allred has announced that Marvel's X-Statix will be ending later this year in this interview.
Damn. As I think I'd posted before, X-Statix is the only "X-Men" book of the gazillions they publish I actually read. With writer Peter Milligan it's been a witty, vicious and subversive satire of celebrity, pop culture and comic books for the last few years. It's gone up and down in quality but when it's been on it's been a giddy pop thrill. I think the end was signified when Marvel developed cold feet about the creators' planned storyline that would return Princess Di from the dead and make her a member of the team (I am not making this up). The storyline eventually appeared but all references to Di were removed and a generic European pop singer was put in her place. That editorial mucking about kinda took the air out of "X-Statix," but I'll still be sad to see it go.
Damn. As I think I'd posted before, X-Statix is the only "X-Men" book of the gazillions they publish I actually read. With writer Peter Milligan it's been a witty, vicious and subversive satire of celebrity, pop culture and comic books for the last few years. It's gone up and down in quality but when it's been on it's been a giddy pop thrill. I think the end was signified when Marvel developed cold feet about the creators' planned storyline that would return Princess Di from the dead and make her a member of the team (I am not making this up). The storyline eventually appeared but all references to Di were removed and a generic European pop singer was put in her place. That editorial mucking about kinda took the air out of "X-Statix," but I'll still be sad to see it go.
Tuesday, May 4, 2004
...So I "acquired" recently a copy of the illegal album by DJ Danger Mouse, 'The Grey Album,' his art-collage mix of the Beatles and rapper Jay-Z. Curiosity drove me to check out this disc, which has been one of the more controversial releases of the year - even if you can't actually buy it anywhere. EMI, the Beatles' label, clamped down hard on Danger Mouse's unauthorized release and it's only available by searching the digital world.
Producer Dangermouse took the vocals from Jay-Z's "The Black Album" and mixed them with fragments and shards of music and vocals from The Beatles' "The White Album." The result is a trainwreck of styles -- the familiar tones of Beatles numbers like "Helter Skelter," "Glass Onion" and "Julia" turned into glittering beats and riffs for Jay-Z's authoritative rapping. It shouldn't work, yet it does, in a twisted kind of way.
I say this as someone who's not a big rap fan -- Eminem and Outkast are about all the recent hip-hop acts I listen to -- and who'd never heard a Jay-Z album. So I'm coming in with half the information -- I'm a certified Beatlemaniac, and can dig what Danger Mouse did to their tunes, but I haven't heard Jay-Z's "Black Album." Particular highlights of the "Grey Album" include "Encore," which takes "Glass Onion" and recasts it as the stuttering backdrop for Jay-Z's tale of thug life, or the winkingly romantic "My 1st Song," using Paul McCartney's disembodied voice from "Take Me Back" as a floating pulse. Another highlight is the anti-violent anthem "Justify My Thug," which takes a pounding beat and manages to name-check Madonna, "Rock Around The Clock," and the harmonica beat from "Rocky Raccoon." Jay-Z is less misogynist or violent than some rappers, and his booming voice makes a riveting counterpoint to the mellow Beatles sounds.
But is it art or a novelty act? You can make something new out of combining together two different things -- it's been done everywhere from collage to Andy Warhol's soup can art. Some critics have raved. Enjoyable as some of the alchemy is, I can't see "The Grey Album" replacing "The White Album" as a musical journey for me. There's the whole copyright angle to consider behind a work like this -- it's hard to ignore the valid concerns Paul McCartney might have about his work being sliced-and-diced like this. But does the work no longer belong to him, but to the culture, regardless of the law? Should art remain the artist's property forever? How would you feel if it was your work Danger Mouse sliced up?
One thing's for certain -- with the Internet and the ability to create, burn and remix music with the click of a mouse, this is just the beginning of a whole new way of thinking about music. There are many other "Grey Album" variations out there already (mixed with Pavement? "The Slack Album". Mix with AC/DC? The "Double-Black" album). The tiger is out of the cage, and it's doubtful all the record label lawyers in the world can stuff it back in.
Producer Dangermouse took the vocals from Jay-Z's "The Black Album" and mixed them with fragments and shards of music and vocals from The Beatles' "The White Album." The result is a trainwreck of styles -- the familiar tones of Beatles numbers like "Helter Skelter," "Glass Onion" and "Julia" turned into glittering beats and riffs for Jay-Z's authoritative rapping. It shouldn't work, yet it does, in a twisted kind of way.
I say this as someone who's not a big rap fan -- Eminem and Outkast are about all the recent hip-hop acts I listen to -- and who'd never heard a Jay-Z album. So I'm coming in with half the information -- I'm a certified Beatlemaniac, and can dig what Danger Mouse did to their tunes, but I haven't heard Jay-Z's "Black Album." Particular highlights of the "Grey Album" include "Encore," which takes "Glass Onion" and recasts it as the stuttering backdrop for Jay-Z's tale of thug life, or the winkingly romantic "My 1st Song," using Paul McCartney's disembodied voice from "Take Me Back" as a floating pulse. Another highlight is the anti-violent anthem "Justify My Thug," which takes a pounding beat and manages to name-check Madonna, "Rock Around The Clock," and the harmonica beat from "Rocky Raccoon." Jay-Z is less misogynist or violent than some rappers, and his booming voice makes a riveting counterpoint to the mellow Beatles sounds.
But is it art or a novelty act? You can make something new out of combining together two different things -- it's been done everywhere from collage to Andy Warhol's soup can art. Some critics have raved. Enjoyable as some of the alchemy is, I can't see "The Grey Album" replacing "The White Album" as a musical journey for me. There's the whole copyright angle to consider behind a work like this -- it's hard to ignore the valid concerns Paul McCartney might have about his work being sliced-and-diced like this. But does the work no longer belong to him, but to the culture, regardless of the law? Should art remain the artist's property forever? How would you feel if it was your work Danger Mouse sliced up?
One thing's for certain -- with the Internet and the ability to create, burn and remix music with the click of a mouse, this is just the beginning of a whole new way of thinking about music. There are many other "Grey Album" variations out there already (mixed with Pavement? "The Slack Album". Mix with AC/DC? The "Double-Black" album). The tiger is out of the cage, and it's doubtful all the record label lawyers in the world can stuff it back in.
Monday, May 3, 2004
In the spirit of last week's Pixie concerts and the live music thrills it inspired, here's a "classic" (if anything old is automatically classic) column from October 12, 2000's Sierra Sun newspaper. The postscript, sadly, is that Blue Mountain broke up not long after I saw them for that San Francisco show.
I confess: while I have been editor of two arts and entertainment papers, interviewed dozens of bands and written zillions of album reviews in my short career, I have never really been the music groupie type.
There are some people who follow certain bands around the country fanatically, catching every single show, analyzing every slight variation in guitar chords and lyrics with a scholar’s eye.
But I’ve never really been one of those folks. I’m an armchair music fan, liking the music best in the privacy of my own home where nobody can see my geeky white boy dance moves.
Still, there’s one band out there that I have seen at least two dozen times live – a band few outside of Mississippi have ever heard of, a rural rock trio called Blue Mountain.
Blue Mountain are mostly Cary Hudson and his partner Laurie Stirratt, and a rotating cast of drummers. They’re a Mississippi band all the way, with rich music that draws on both the Delta blues’ grit and rock-and-roll’s fire to make a gorgeously heartfelt sonic stew.
Cary and Laurie have been playing together for a good decade or so now, and when I went to college in Oxford, Mississippi, their frequent shows served as the soundtrack to the early ‘90s for me. I cannot count the number of times my friends and I saw them at bars with Southern college-town names like Proud Larry’s, Lafayette’s and The Gin.
Best of all, over the seven or so years I called Mississippi home I got to watch Blue Mountain grow and mature, to see their phrasing and playing become more accomplished.
We also all became friends off the stage – my pals and I were such a constant sight at their shows that they couldn’t help knowing who we were, but I was glad that Cary and Laurie and our little circle developed a relationship beyond just the music. They came to parties we held, we had damned fine venison for dinner at their country house, and we hung out with their big black dog Willie.
Often, Cary and Laurie would informally jam with other musical friends of ours. One of my signature memories of my days in Mississippi is of sitting on our front porch, full of beer and good food, and watching Cary and our friend Noah plucking out traditional folk tunes as the fireflies flitted in the night. Crickets accompanied the music, the evening had that velvety humid kiss of a Southern summer, and for a song or two, all seemed absolutely right with the world.
In my journalistic capacity, I admit I blurred the ethical lines a little and helped give Blue Mountain press whenever I could - one of my favorite moments was when I got to do a short profile on them for Billboard magazine during a summer internship in New York City.
But eventually, in college towns, the “scene” you’ve called your own drifts apart. People move on and go off into the real world, they stop renting and start buying and people start getting married. I decided to move back out to the West Coast in summer 1997, and one of the final things I did in Oxford was catch Blue Mountain live one last time.
It was a fine show, full of fire and grit, and I stood there right next to the amp, every hair on my body throbbing with the beat, and I sipped a beer and listened to my pals play for the crowd.
Blue Mountain’s career has continued on a gentle upward slope in the last few years, and their CDs are selling better and better and they’re touring more and more of the country.
Finally, the other weekend, their tour bus came into my neck of the woods. I drove 400 miles or so round-trip to catch Blue Mountain in San Francisco at Slim’s, the first time I’d seen my old friends in more than three years. I didn’t get back up to Truckee until 3:30 a.m. Sunday morning, but man, was it worth it.
I surprised Cary and Laurie at their show and hung out backstage with them for an hour or so before they played. We talked about their career, gossiped about old friends and caught up with the last three years of living.
Then it was time for them to play, and I took a spot as close to the stage as I could get. Seeing Blue Mountain so far from their Southern digs might have been odd, but their homespun music has won them fans even in urban San Francisco – to my shock, there were several other obvious longtime fans in the audience calling out favorite songs for the band to play.
The hometown college bar band I selfishly like to call “mine” has come a long way, and I couldn’t be happier for them.
And for that one night at Slim’s, mouthing each and every lyric with a fanboy’s passion, feeling the thrum of the guitar and drums skittering throughout my nervous system, seven years’ worth of memories of Mississippi unspooled in my head.
I can’t pack up my life and follow Blue Mountain all around the country like I might have when I was 22, but so long as the band comes within driving distance, I’ll be there front and center, watching them play and admiring my friends. Blue Mountain are good folks in a kind of strange business, playing honest songs about living life and the things we all feel to be true.
And in the end, that’s all any band can aspire to be.
I confess: while I have been editor of two arts and entertainment papers, interviewed dozens of bands and written zillions of album reviews in my short career, I have never really been the music groupie type.
There are some people who follow certain bands around the country fanatically, catching every single show, analyzing every slight variation in guitar chords and lyrics with a scholar’s eye.
But I’ve never really been one of those folks. I’m an armchair music fan, liking the music best in the privacy of my own home where nobody can see my geeky white boy dance moves.
Still, there’s one band out there that I have seen at least two dozen times live – a band few outside of Mississippi have ever heard of, a rural rock trio called Blue Mountain.
Blue Mountain are mostly Cary Hudson and his partner Laurie Stirratt, and a rotating cast of drummers. They’re a Mississippi band all the way, with rich music that draws on both the Delta blues’ grit and rock-and-roll’s fire to make a gorgeously heartfelt sonic stew.
Cary and Laurie have been playing together for a good decade or so now, and when I went to college in Oxford, Mississippi, their frequent shows served as the soundtrack to the early ‘90s for me. I cannot count the number of times my friends and I saw them at bars with Southern college-town names like Proud Larry’s, Lafayette’s and The Gin.
Best of all, over the seven or so years I called Mississippi home I got to watch Blue Mountain grow and mature, to see their phrasing and playing become more accomplished.
We also all became friends off the stage – my pals and I were such a constant sight at their shows that they couldn’t help knowing who we were, but I was glad that Cary and Laurie and our little circle developed a relationship beyond just the music. They came to parties we held, we had damned fine venison for dinner at their country house, and we hung out with their big black dog Willie.
Often, Cary and Laurie would informally jam with other musical friends of ours. One of my signature memories of my days in Mississippi is of sitting on our front porch, full of beer and good food, and watching Cary and our friend Noah plucking out traditional folk tunes as the fireflies flitted in the night. Crickets accompanied the music, the evening had that velvety humid kiss of a Southern summer, and for a song or two, all seemed absolutely right with the world.
In my journalistic capacity, I admit I blurred the ethical lines a little and helped give Blue Mountain press whenever I could - one of my favorite moments was when I got to do a short profile on them for Billboard magazine during a summer internship in New York City.
But eventually, in college towns, the “scene” you’ve called your own drifts apart. People move on and go off into the real world, they stop renting and start buying and people start getting married. I decided to move back out to the West Coast in summer 1997, and one of the final things I did in Oxford was catch Blue Mountain live one last time.
It was a fine show, full of fire and grit, and I stood there right next to the amp, every hair on my body throbbing with the beat, and I sipped a beer and listened to my pals play for the crowd.
Blue Mountain’s career has continued on a gentle upward slope in the last few years, and their CDs are selling better and better and they’re touring more and more of the country.
Finally, the other weekend, their tour bus came into my neck of the woods. I drove 400 miles or so round-trip to catch Blue Mountain in San Francisco at Slim’s, the first time I’d seen my old friends in more than three years. I didn’t get back up to Truckee until 3:30 a.m. Sunday morning, but man, was it worth it.
I surprised Cary and Laurie at their show and hung out backstage with them for an hour or so before they played. We talked about their career, gossiped about old friends and caught up with the last three years of living.
Then it was time for them to play, and I took a spot as close to the stage as I could get. Seeing Blue Mountain so far from their Southern digs might have been odd, but their homespun music has won them fans even in urban San Francisco – to my shock, there were several other obvious longtime fans in the audience calling out favorite songs for the band to play.
The hometown college bar band I selfishly like to call “mine” has come a long way, and I couldn’t be happier for them.
And for that one night at Slim’s, mouthing each and every lyric with a fanboy’s passion, feeling the thrum of the guitar and drums skittering throughout my nervous system, seven years’ worth of memories of Mississippi unspooled in my head.
I can’t pack up my life and follow Blue Mountain all around the country like I might have when I was 22, but so long as the band comes within driving distance, I’ll be there front and center, watching them play and admiring my friends. Blue Mountain are good folks in a kind of strange business, playing honest songs about living life and the things we all feel to be true.
And in the end, that’s all any band can aspire to be.
Sunday, May 2, 2004
Quick review: Superman #204
There've been some great Superman stories and many more bad ones. The last time I regularly read Superman comics was probably a decade ago. Supes is a character with infinite potential -- the first and still most resonant of superheroes -- but too often his comics are lame and uninspired. The monthly comics get "rebooted" every other year or so, nearly as often as Superman leaps over tall buildings, but usually they don't make much of an impact. The latest "reboot" is going on right now, and the title drawing the most hype is writer Brian Azzarello and artist Jim Lee's 12-issue run on "Superman." I picked up the first ish out of mild curiosity this week -- I admire Lee's dynamic art, but don't love it, and Azzarello is one of those acclaimed comic writers I just haven't gotten into, although I can see his appeal. His gritty, gory crime and horror work in titles like "Hellblazer" and "100 Bullets" would seem an odd fit for Superman, on the face of it.
However, reservations aside, I actually kind of enjoyed this first part of "For Tomorrow," even if it's more tease than meaty storytelling. Azzarello creates a classic mystery hook. It's been one year since a terrible "Vanishing" event in which a million people worldwide apparently disappeared. Superman failed to prevent it, and he's feeling guilty. That's really the "plot" of this issue, clearly geared to drag the reader into the next part. But it's handled quite well -- a moody, evocative issue, with Superman visiting a Metropolis priest for advice. Occasionally the dialogue is a bit stilted, but not painfully so. And some good quotes: Superman to the priest -- "My sin? Was to save the world." Lee's art is highly detailed and spectacular here, showing soaring architecture, great space landscapes and a perfectly iconic Superman. Azzarello uses a muted, restrained tone here, filling in the gaps in the story slowly. It's all kind of elementary "Chapter One" mystery storytelling and could easily fall to bits, but it does the trick for me this issue -- I'm sold on picking up part two to see if the solid aura of Gothic grandeur and mystery continues. This just might be proof a good Superman story can still be told. Grade: 4/5
There've been some great Superman stories and many more bad ones. The last time I regularly read Superman comics was probably a decade ago. Supes is a character with infinite potential -- the first and still most resonant of superheroes -- but too often his comics are lame and uninspired. The monthly comics get "rebooted" every other year or so, nearly as often as Superman leaps over tall buildings, but usually they don't make much of an impact. The latest "reboot" is going on right now, and the title drawing the most hype is writer Brian Azzarello and artist Jim Lee's 12-issue run on "Superman." I picked up the first ish out of mild curiosity this week -- I admire Lee's dynamic art, but don't love it, and Azzarello is one of those acclaimed comic writers I just haven't gotten into, although I can see his appeal. His gritty, gory crime and horror work in titles like "Hellblazer" and "100 Bullets" would seem an odd fit for Superman, on the face of it.
However, reservations aside, I actually kind of enjoyed this first part of "For Tomorrow," even if it's more tease than meaty storytelling. Azzarello creates a classic mystery hook. It's been one year since a terrible "Vanishing" event in which a million people worldwide apparently disappeared. Superman failed to prevent it, and he's feeling guilty. That's really the "plot" of this issue, clearly geared to drag the reader into the next part. But it's handled quite well -- a moody, evocative issue, with Superman visiting a Metropolis priest for advice. Occasionally the dialogue is a bit stilted, but not painfully so. And some good quotes: Superman to the priest -- "My sin? Was to save the world." Lee's art is highly detailed and spectacular here, showing soaring architecture, great space landscapes and a perfectly iconic Superman. Azzarello uses a muted, restrained tone here, filling in the gaps in the story slowly. It's all kind of elementary "Chapter One" mystery storytelling and could easily fall to bits, but it does the trick for me this issue -- I'm sold on picking up part two to see if the solid aura of Gothic grandeur and mystery continues. This just might be proof a good Superman story can still be told. Grade: 4/5
Saturday, May 1, 2004
Quotes like this are why we love Tom Waits, as he talks on Anti Records' web site about his new album due this fall (hurray!):
"I'm feelin' good about it all. Songs about politics, rats, war, hanging, dancing, automobiles, pirates, farms, the carnival and sinning. Mama, liquor, trains and death. In other words, the same ol' dirty business!"
"I'm feelin' good about it all. Songs about politics, rats, war, hanging, dancing, automobiles, pirates, farms, the carnival and sinning. Mama, liquor, trains and death. In other words, the same ol' dirty business!"
Ooooo... Entertainment Weekly's new issue has this first look at the new Batman, Christian Bale, in 2005's "Batman Begins." (Link courtesy of Newsarama). I've had my heart broken before by terrible comics movies ("Batman & Robin," I'm looking at you) but this one sure has the stuff to be good -- excellent casting including Michael Caine, Gary Oldman, Morgan Freeman, Ken Watanabe and Liam Neeson, and a grittier, more realistic premise that gets away from special effects gimmickry and focuses on the young Batman just starting his career. Best of all, it's directed by Chris Nolan, the guy behind "Memento" and "Insomnia." Crossed fingers -- the costume looks good...
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