Emma Blowgun's Last Stand

whither the Limeys of yesteryear?

2006-03-10T14:49:00.000-08:00

So while watching Robyn Hitchcock last week, I came to the conclusion that in my personal pantheon, XTC's Andy Partridge is the wise Father, Elvis Costello is the snarky Son, and Robyn is the ineffable Holy Ghost. Pretentious but true - those three artists, all born within a year of each other, are without a doubt my favorite songwriters of all time. (Yes, even including Jeff Tweedy.) They've got it all - great tunes, great voices, a willingness to experiment stylistically, and lyrics which can make you laugh and tear your heart out, sometimes in the same song.

I don't think it's a coincidence that all three artists are also British. The Brits have a rich legacy of combining catchy pop and clever, insightful lyrics, dating back to the Beatles, of course, but also (and especially) the Kinks. Andy Partridge hails Ray Davies as a forebear; I don't know if Robyn and Elvis do too, but the influence is there. The Kinks' legacy has lingered in British music for a long time - I definitely hear it in the Smiths, for instance, and Belle & Sebastian. But maybe I'm just not listening to enough British music nowadays, because I don't hear much Kinks-ness anymore. In fact, I hear very little British music that interests me at all, regardless of influence.

It seems like every British band nowadays is based on one of three templates. Either it's swoony, "Bends"-era Radiohead (Coldplay), Strokes-style pseudo-garage rock (The Libertines), or fidgety Gang of Four post-punk (Franz Ferdinand). The latter two are newer styles, but nevertheless, every time a trendy new British band comes along, I can predict exactly what they'll sound like. The much-hyped Arctic Monkeys, for instance (and imagine how we'll be laughing at that name in ten years), follow the garage-rock template. I'm not making a wholesale dismissal of any of these bands, by the way - they don't suck, but it's like... jeez, let's hear something different for once. Maybe this sameness is an artifact of the slobbering, "hype them and forget about them" British music press. Maybe these types of bands are just what makes it over to the States. I don't know, but it's getting pretty boring.

The only new British band to catch my attention in the past five years has been Clinic, just because they sound... weird (and definitely different) - although admittedly I lost interest in them after one album. I've also been meaning to listen to more Super Furry Animals and Mogwai. But neither of those bands are new, and they'd probably resent being called British, being Welsh and Scottish respectively. (Yes, I know, Belle & Sebastian and Franz Ferdinand are Scottish, too.)

So is British rock really a vast wasteland? Give me some recommendations, folks. I don't want to give up on ol' Blighty quite yet.

Robyn Hitchcock is...

2006-03-04T23:10:00.000-08:00

A three-month hiatus since my last post? Pfft, it's not like we're talking seven years between albums here (ahem, Andy Partridge). I've got several show reviews and other backlog to post, but first of all let's discuss Mr. Robyn Hitchcock, who played at the Doug Fir Lounge last night.

So this was my 9th time seeing Robyn - a paltry number compared with folks who've been going to Robyn shows since the mid-80's, some of whom were with me at the show. Nevertheless, I've seen more loud shirts and ugly trousers than you can shake a stick at. Last night's show was a little more sartorially tame - a black-and-white polka-dotted shirt and purple trousers. It was Robyn's 53rd birthday, and he was feelin' the love, in his British kind of way. He was more cheerful and mellow than I've ever seen him, though he was sort of taken-aback when the audience started singing "Happy Birthday" to him. "Aw, let 'em sing," said, Scott McCaughey, whose ubiquitous Minus 5 was serving as Robyn's back-up band.

The show started with Robyn playing solo acoustic, unfortunately somewhat drowned out by noisy talkers in the audience. (Typical.) I'd been going around humming "The Speed of Things" (off Robyn's 1994 album "Moss Elixir") for a few days previously, and was hoping Robyn might play it, but with a nearly 30-year back catalogue, I thought this was unlikely. And what do you know - he played it! I love moments like that. He dedicated the song to "his father's bones," and explained that he tends to get morbid on his birthday.

Following the acoustic set, Robyn was joined by Scott, Peter, and co., as well as Harvey Danger's Sean Nelson singing back-up harmonies, and the show kicked into high gear. The setlist was terrific, ranging from Robyn's old band the Soft Boys to some new, unreleased songs which, unlike much of Robyn's recent output, actually weren't half bad. He also did several covers - a couple of George Harrison songs, Dylan's "Visions of Johanna," and the Byrds' "Eight Miles High." A number of songs were from "Moss Elixir" and 1988's "Element of Light" - maybe they're favorites of his? Anyway, it was great to hear oldies but goodies like "If You Were a Priest" and "Beautiful Queen" - the latter dedicated to "Colin and Carson Meloy, who just had their baby." (Huzzah!) I was also thrilled to hear "Madonna of the Wasps," "Flesh Number One," "Acid Bird," "Chinese Bones," and especially "Driving Aloud (Radio Storm)." I decided that the sound of Peter Buck's Rickenbacker is the most beautiful sound in the world. I think it could cure lepers or raise people from the dead.

As usual, Robyn's surreal comments were out in force. At the encore, someone brought out a big cluster of green and purple balloons. "Oh, a bunch of dark alien eggs," said Robyn, as Peter Buck tied them to his guitar strap. He explained that "Flesh Number One" and "Alright, Yeah" were "spiritual leveling songs" - "They leave you as they found you, but subtly different - you'll find that your emotional problems are vacuumed away." He also dedicated the Soft Boys' "I Wanna Destroy You" to Karl Rove. "The man's a Sagittarius!" he said in horror, "like Jim Morrison. If I had any faith in humanity, I'd lose it." But the song - a glorious anthem of spite and revenge - ended the show on a high note, and I went away very happy indeed.

This was the best Robyn show I've seen since the Soft Boys' reunion in 2001. My love for Robyn - which had been faltering after a series of lackluster solo albums over the past few years - has been restored. Yay Robyn, and happy birthday!

Wilco is...

2005-12-04T13:45:00.000-08:00

Courtesy of an articulate soul on the Wilco board:

Wilco is a feeling, a soft spring breeze that can turn direction the next day and freeze you where you stand. Wilco is a leaf collection, it is the look in a bird's eye upon coming to after hitting a plane glass window. Wilco is the awkward empathy you have for the old lady fumbling for change at the coffee counter.

Wilco is that same damn electric shock every time you touch your car on certain days. Wilco is that little halt in time between the time you set down your beer mug and the satisfied "Ahhhhhh......"

Wilco is that little girl with the big eyes that you can just tell is going to be something else when she grows up. Wilco is the grey area where a word means the same thing in several languages. Wilco is that uneasy feeling where you're SURE you have a flat tire cause the truck's driving funny, but it's not really flat.

Wilco is that first cigarette, that old lost toy, that dog who looks familiar. Wilco is a mother in curlers. Wilco is stroller locks, dentures, x-ray specs. Wilco is cool marbles, Viewmaster, adolescent urban myths and toast. Wilco is an old friend you forgot about, and find you still love.
Wilco is a scar that won't go away. Wilco is bone and blood and mud and stones. And sometimes essential.

It's hard to sum up the appeal of your favorite bands, but I think this does it nicely.

find him, bind him...

2005-11-05T10:20:00.000-08:00

There's really no such thing as a bad Decemberists show. Unless my memory fails me (as it often does), last night was my 8th time seeing them - if you include Colin's solo shows - and I have yet to be disappointed.

The show was at the Roseland Theater, where I saw Wilco last year - an impersonal venue where they frisk you at the door and run you through a metal detector. (WTF?) But the first thing I noticed as I went through the door was a sign saying that the show was a live video shoot. Sweet! I ended up standing almost immediately behind the huge camera boom, a spot which gave me a mostly unimpeded view of the stage except when the cameraman decided to zoom in on the keyboards.

I didn't know the name of the first band, a bunch of mild-mannered indie-poppers who had us all sing along with a song whose chorus was "I love you." (Really living on the edge there...) The second band was the Minus 5, whom I had previously seen backing up Robyn Hitchcock. As a back-up band, they're great, and I always enjoy the goofy stage presence of Scott McCaughey, with his frizzy hair and silly hats. As a main act... they're not so good. I've seen them a few times before and it always takes about 20 minutes for them to go from "Hey, these guys aren't so bad, I've been giving them a bad rap" to "Are they done yet?" They put a lot of energy into their unimaginative garage pop for a bunch of old guys, I'll give them that. They also did a cover of the Soft Boys' theme song, "Give It to the Soft Boys" (I squealed) and the Sonics' "Strychnine." The Decemberists' John Moen (whom I think used to be in the Minus 5) came out and enthusiastically played sleighbells for one song, which was also fun.

So then it was time for the much more exciting main act. Colin wore his trademark stripy jacket, Crutchy had a goofy hat and loud tie, and Nate was wearing a trilby hat and a suit. There was a clipper ship on the amp and bird decorations everywhere (this was the last stop on the "Flight of the Mistle Thrushes" tour). The first song was "The Tain" - a 20-minute prog-rock epic which most of the audience had never heard. Ballsy! The intrepid sextet then rocked on through the rest of a fairly usual set, enlivened by (eeee!) my favorite Decemberists song, "July, July!" and a solo Colin performance of "Every Day is Like Sunday." Only one other Castaways and Cutouts song ("Leslie Anne Levine") and nothing from 5 Songs, but oh well. It was particularly fun hearing "On the Bus Mall"... on the bus mall, where the Roseland is located.

Naturally, the showpiece of the set was the lengthy "Mariner's Revenge Song," which I've never seen performed live. The band pulled out all the stops for this one - the climax being when Crutchy ran through the crowd with a set of giant whale jaws made of cardboard (for the part where the protagonist and his enemy are eaten by the whale). Then it was time for several more Decemberists showstoppers - "The Chimbley Sweep" and "I Was Meant For the Stage." Scott McCaughey came out and attempted to jam on Colin's guitar during "Chimbley Sweep," and at one point Crutchy was waltzing wildly around the stage with Jenny, Nate, and Petra. At the end of the show, Jenny threw all the bird decorations in the audience and Crutchy threw the giant whale jaws. It was funny seeing an audience member come out of the venue afterwards holding one of them.

Now, if you're thinking, "Gosh, I wish I coulda seen them Decemberists" - fear not, for the video footage is going to be used for a live DVD! I don't know when it will be released, but it's definitely something to look forward to. Wheee!

speaking of Okkervil River...

2005-10-28T00:24:00.000-07:00

... there's nothing like an amusing band bio to pass the time between homework assignments.

"College droned on. Each of my nervous breakdowns fell away when I made the most important decision of my life: to be a total failure. A professional failure. I relocated to Austin, as did Seth, and Okkervil River was born. The name comes from a story by Tatyana Tolstaya, and it's a real river outside of St. Petersburg. At our first gig, they misspelled our name as "Okkerut River." Later, Electric Lounge advertised us as"Occerville River." The failure had begun. We were elated.

Gigless ciphers, we nonetheless retired to our friend Jeff Hoskins' downtown Austin studio to set to tape our First Major Statement to the world. We emerged a few days later and presented the product of our labors, entitled Stars Too Small to Use, in the hands that stretched out beneath our tearstained eyes. The record struck the earth with such force and precision that it resounded against the surrounding sky like a clapper in a gigantic bell, and we gained one new fan. We promptly added him to the band."

"you should wreck his life the way that he wrecked yours"

2005-10-26T19:44:00.000-07:00

I almost didn't go to see Okkervil River. My show-going enthusiasm has increased somewhat over the last couple of months, but I'm still not really into going to shows by myself. But I had a ticket that I had purchased back in August, so I figured I'd better get my ass out there. I'm not regretting my decision.

I arrived late on purpose - I'm too old and decrepit to be standing up through two opening bands - so I missed the first band, Low Skies. The second band was listed as Band of Horses, but they introduced themselves as Horses. (I wonder if Patti Smith insisted on a name change.) There was a lot of facial hair and tattoos on the stage, and I wasn't sure what to expect. But they turned out to be a plaintive country-ish band much in the same vein as the headliner, and the singer had a great wailing high voice. Me likey. And it was fun to see Okkervil's frontman Will Sheff rocking out over by the side of the stage, with his bedhead and thick glasses. He's certainly one of the cutest dorks in indie-rock.

The stage rapidly became a forest of mic stands and other equipment (two keyboards, an accordion, and a pedal steel guitar) as Okkervil River got ready. One of the keyboardists set up so close to me that I could've played the keyboard, which was a little weird. Soon the band ambled out and Will, in a baggy white shirt with a tie and a hand-knitted scarf, announced that they'd just played twenty-two dates in Europe, he'd gotten strep throat but the doctor gave him steroids and antibiotics, and "now I'm almost half the man I used to be." Everyone cheered. He also explained that the band's supply of Maker's Mark had mysteriously vanished between their arrival and the show, and asked for shots. "It's for medicinal purposes," he explained.

Will then removed his glasses - I guess he's afraid of losing them while rocking - and the band proceeded to kick ass. Okkervil River has always struck me as being a little bit uneven - when they're on, they're really on, especially with the upbeat tunes, but their slow laments in 3/4 time tend to blend into each other. I didn't feel that way last night. Especially because they had a trumpet player. I've decided that horn sections are the MSG of rock. Whether it's the Decemberists' "16 Military Wives" or Wilco's "I'm the Man Who Loves You" or anything by Neutral Milk Hotel, or even my favorite Beatles song "For No One," horns make everything sound better. Okkervil River's trumpet player was no exception, and I actually got a little weepy during some of his solos.

The setlist included pretty much all of my favorite songs - "The War Criminal Rises and Speaks," "Seas Too Far to Reach," "Blanket and Crib," "For Real," and a particular highlight, "Black" - one of the best songs off their latest album, "Black Sheep Boy." As they were banging their way through that song - Will jumping around the stage, the keyboardist in front of me grinning his ass off - I had one of those euphoric moments that you only get when a great band is playing a great song and everything is absolutely perfect and you can't stop smiling or dancing. The last time I felt that way was when I saw Wilco playing "Late Greats" in Oakland last year. It's a rare thing, and one to be treasured.

The set went on, someone brought shots for the band, I feared for Will's pretty Martin guitar because he kept swinging it around, and the guy next to me left and I invited a young girl even smaller than me up to his spot at the front of the stage. "I have to watch out for short people," I explained to her. She was really, really excited and every so often we'd just grin at each other. The band played some songs that I didn't know, but everyone else seemed to know, which made me feel a little chagrined, but they were great songs so I didn't care. During one of them, the trumpet player played a tape recorder, holding it up to the microphone. For the encore, they played two more songs that I didn't know - a slow one ("because you guys are too hyped up") where Will played harmonica, and a rocker where he kept jumping around even though he was still wearing the harmonica stand. By this time he was thoroughly hoarse and shouting his way through the lyrics. I gotta love a band that really gives their all like that.

So that's all that happened. I'm certainly not sorry I went. Since I may be moving to Austin next year, I hope to be seeing Okkervil River a lot more often. I can only hope.

I belong to the - generation

2005-10-20T21:54:00.000-07:00

... and I can take or leave it each time.

When I was young and full of grace, back in 1994 or thereabouts, my friend Colin made me a mix tape called "Proven Conclusively That The Late 70's Are Where It's At!!!" It included tracks by Television, the Buzzcocks, Elvis Costello, Richard Hell and the Voidoids, the Dead Kennedys, Sparks, Blondie, Patti Smith, Kraftwerk, Can, the Germs, and other luminaries of those times. Needless to say, having been unaquainted with these artists previously, this tape precipitated a massive shift in my musical taste. Pretty soon I was listening to "Singles Going Steady" and "Marquee Moon" every day, becoming deeply obsessed with Elvis Costello, and wishing I had a time machine so I could go back to 1976 and see shows at CBGB's.

Ten years later, I still firmly believe that the late 70's are, indeed, where it's at, and I'm still working on getting that time machine. So I was really excited to read in the weekly paper that none other than Richard Hell was doing a reading at Powell's Books. OK, so he wasn't going to sing "Blank Generation" or tell stories about hanging out with Johnny Thunders, but still - Richard Hell! One of the cornerstones of punk rock, co-founder of Television, the guy whose style Malcolm McLaren ripped off shamelessly when creating the Sex Pistols. Of course I had to go.

There was a respectable crowd at the bookstore when I showed up - ranging from young music geeks clutching copies of "Blank Generation" to old punks wearing CBGB's pins on their leather jackets. Pretty soon, the man himself made his appearance. Now, Richard Hell was once a rather sexy young man, but now, predictably, he looks kinda old. Actually, he looks really Jewish now - I'd read somewhere that he was one of my people, and it's pretty easy to spot these days.

He started off by praising Portland for being "seedy," enthusiastically describing the neon signs and strip clubs of Old Town. Then he read a few passages from his new novel, "Godlike," about an older poet who befriends and eventually has sex with an arrogant young admirer. It wasn't bad, but I squirmed a bit when I noticed that there was a young kid in the crowd, maybe about ten years old, who looked uncomprehending as Hell described a graphic sex scene. Hell mentioned that everyone thinks he's gay because he writes about gay sex, then added cheerfully, "You know what I always say to that? Sex is gay, man. Real men don't have sex."

Then it was question and answer time. An older guy asked if he still talks to Tom Verlaine. "Ahh, I don't wanna reminisce about the old rock n' roll days. Yeah, we still talk sometimes." A teenager asked, "Is Tom Verlaine gay?" and everyone laughed. "Not that I know of." Someone asked about going out and touring again, a suggestion which was summarily rejected. I couldn't think of any questions, but wished my fellow Portlanders' questions hadn't been so stupid.

So I ended up grabbing a copy of the book and getting it signed, and still couldn't think of anything to say. But I did shake the hand of a punk rock legend, and I guess that's what counts.

eeewwwww

2005-10-19T13:42:00.000-07:00

So my friend Brianne has been trying to spread the gospel of U2 (whom I have always disliked). She made a great mix of U2 songs that don't sound like U2, which almost had me convinced. Then, today, I saw this:

Remember when I was talking about how you have to separate musicians' personalities from their music? It's getting harder and harder these days.

conversation with a "music fan"

2005-10-15T14:52:00.000-07:00

"Oh yeah, I'm a huge music fan. I'm really into music. I have a really big record collection and I dig all kinds of stuff. I'm really open-minded and knowledgable about music."

"Oh, cool. Hey, I just found this Glenn Branca record at -"

"Is that one of those 'avant-garde' guys? That's not music."

"Um, OK... Hey, I wanted to check out some records by Astor Piazzola, he's a classical -"

"Classical? That stuff's boring."

"Oh, and I got a Public Enemy album, finally. It's pretty awesome."

"Oh, 'rap music.' Crap music, you mean."

"Uh... right. So I was listening to the radio the other day, and they were playing this awesome music from Mali and Burkina Faso..."

"Come on, who wants to hear that stuff? You can't even understand what they're saying."

"Whatever. Well, you must like jazz, at least."

"Well, sure, if it's old. That new stuff is just too weird."

"Do you like anything else? Since you're such a big music fan and all."

"I like rock n' roll, man!"

"Oh, so did you know that Sonic Youth are starting work on their new -"

"That's not rock, that's just noise!"

"Hmm, do you like Ted Leo? He's pretty ass-kicking."

"Isn't that indie-rock? I hate that stupid hipster music."

and so on and so on and so on...

here in the buffet car...

2005-10-08T23:20:00.000-07:00

I first heard of Colin Meloy when he posted on the Fegmaniax list about a Robyn Hitchcock tribute show he was organizing in my newly adopted hometown of Portland. Back in those days he was a mere wandering troubadour, playing his hurdy-gurdy on the street corner for pennies. My friends and I formed an ad hoc band called the Spacecats and performed along with Colin, his uncle Paul, and a variety of other local artists. Five years later, Colin Meloy and his fellow Decemberists are globehopping superstars, but I always associate him inextricably with Robyn Hitchcock. Thus, it was fitting (and very exciting) that last month at Portland's annual MusicFestNW, the two finally performed on the same bill. The event was sufficiently momentous that several Robyn/Colin fans flew across the country to witness the grandeur.

The first act was Eric Bachman of Crooked Fingers - an artist I enjoy to a certain extent, but whose music always depresses me deeply. We arrived halfway through his set, which was just him solo, and were a bit too excited to pay much attention to him. Robyn himself was playing second - which seemed totally wrong to me... the guy who's had a 25-year career and influenced everyone from REM to Rhett Miller, was opening for Colin? But I remembered that he had played an early show the last time he was here - maybe he just wants to go to bed early.

At any rate, the grand old man of the absurd hit the stage wearing his usual incredibly loud shirt, his now-silver hair for once not hanging in his eyes. He played a variety of his old hits, including several I'd never heard live before. In the chorus of "I Often Dream of Trains," instead of singing, "I'm waiting for you, baby," he sang, "I'm waiting for you... Colin." I imagined Colin wetting himself backstage. Halfway through the set, Robyn was joined by three other grand old men - the members of the Minus 5, namely Scott McCaughey of the Young Fresh Fellows, Bill Rieflin, formerly of Ministry (!), and none other than Peter Buck of REM. Peter added his signature jangly guitar arpeggios to "Birdshead" and a few new songs, while Scott sang harmony and played the bass rather badly. Naturally, being in the Pacific Northwest, they had to play "Viva SeaTac," which was received joyfully by the crowd.

During the interval, Colin's uncle Paul, who'd been hobnobbing with the rock stars backstage, came out to say hi to us and I asked him for permission to release the recordings of that long ago Robyn tribute show. He said that was OK, so hopefully soon you'll all get to hear Colin singing "Flesh Cartoons" and other Robyn favorites.

Colin came out, looking a bit nervous, and confessed that sitting backstage with Robyn, Scott, and Peter was his "fifteen-year-old wet dream." He put on an admirable show, though, including a rapturous performance of "On the Bus Mall" (written about Portland, by the way) and a cover of a Brian Jonestown Massacre song, since Anton Newcombe and co. were performing across town at the same time. He was, as always, extremely charming onstage, with a dry, rather arch manner which I believe he picked up from Mr. Hitchcock. My well-travelled friends were very satisfied by both sets.

After the show, I asked Colin if he had gotten an opportunity to change his trousers yet. He replied, "I'll never change them again."

Googlism action

2005-10-04T21:40:00.000-07:00

Inspired by my friend Brianne, I decided to find out what Googlism thinks of my favorite rock stars.

Thurston is president of Thurston
Thurston is in love with color
Thurston is active in the practice of obstetrics
Thurston is already high
Thurston is a good sport
Thurston is terrific
Thurston is the owner and chief instructor of Darkstar martial arts

Jim is tired and formulaic
Jim is all confused
Jim is alive and well
Jim is dead
Jim is a comic mastermind
Jim is forced to crashland on the strange world of Ibberspleen IV
Jim is gay (no, he's KING!)
Jim is available for stud service (!!!)
Jim is not "obligated" to do anything
Jim is an ordinary earthworm from Texas who gets caught up in a galactical conflict of epic proportions

Crutchy is on drugs
Crutchy is adorable swirly
Crutchy is the "crip" of the group
Crutchy is my grandfather
Crutchy is acting a little strange and scaring the heck out of people

Jeff is da man
Jeff is the type of person who will go 100% for you
Jeff is here to pump you up
Jeff is a squid
Jeff is a gangsta rapper
Jeff is very hot
Jeff is a classical presentation of diabetic ketoacidosis
Jeff is an ordained minister in the christian church
Jeff is probably an adulterer
Jeff is seriously the nicest guy ever
Jeff is making my life easier

torrent till it hurts!

2005-09-26T16:09:00.000-07:00

Well, I've had a few musical adventures since my last post, but I'll save my stories for later... right now I'd like to alert the technologically-minded to three recent torrents on dimeadozen.org, to wit:

Gastr del Sol, live 5/6/95 - Jim n' David open for Tortoise, accompanied (presumably) by the iron thews of John McEntire. The performance (including "Dictionary of Handwriting," "Black Horse," and other angular faves) is great, but what's even more amazing is how silent the audience is, at least while the band is playing. No stage patter from the dynamic duo, but then, David doesn't strike me as the "hello, Cleveland!" type.

Gastr del Sol live in Atlanta, 9/23/05 - DVD - I haven't finished downloading this yet, but I reckon some thrift-store blazers, bad haircuts, and thick glasses will be on display. According to the seeder, it includes Jim's cover of John Fahey's "Dry Bones in the Valley," which on record is magnificent and is no doubt even better live.

Jim O'Rourke live in London, 6/27/00 - the only live recording (that I know of) of Jim playing his Drag City material. Accompanied by a full band, including brilliant cornetist Rob Mazurek, Jim sounds nervous but genial and the songs sound terrific. Unfortunately, the recording is fairly crappy and the final track is irredemably glitchy, but enough comes through to make the download worthwhile. "Is my popcorn done? It was supposed to be in for 5 minutes and I've left it in for 40 minutes..."

Coming up soon: How I met Richard Hell and how Colin Meloy lived out his wet dream... next on EBLS!

Everything sounds like Coldplay

2005-09-10T18:08:00.000-07:00

I was alerted to this hilarious Coldplay parody by the good folks at Stereogum. Not only is the song spot-on, but the collection of cliches that comprises the video is perfect - I especially like the guy walking backwards on the city street.

yup... I am still Drag City's bitch

2005-09-07T05:36:00.000-07:00

You'd better believe it!

This month, our friends in Chicago have graced us with an ever swelling smorgasboard of treats. First of all, remember when David Grubbs used to ROCK? Neither do I, but those glory days have been preserved for posterity, as previously noted in this very blog, in the form of Bastro's "Antlers: Live 1991," which was released earlier this year for about five minutes and has been repressed for a second release in October. Listen to the extraordinary bad-assity of Hirscheneck.

Secondly, feel free to dig this video for Smog's "I Feel Like the Mother of the World. Bill makes a surprisingly authentic-looking newscaster. Also, remember when I was talking about Bill's, uh, interesting stage presence? Yeah.

Gastr del Sol > > > > Belle & Sebastian

2005-09-06T17:30:00.000-07:00

You're Avante Garde Indie. You listen to abstract
music like free-jazz and Krautrock. You drink
too much coffee and you scare the fuck out of
the rest of us. We're afraid to call you
pretentious because we know that we all just
don't get it. There are few of you out there,
and most of you will probably die soon.

You Know Yer Indie. Let's Sub-Categorize.
brought to you by Quizilla

births and deaths

2005-08-29T22:35:00.000-07:00

EBLS would like to extend a slightly belated "happy birthday!" to Jeff Tweedy and Elvis Costello, both born August 25th. (Jeff turned 38, Elvis turned 51.) The coincidence of two such immensely talented songwriters being born on the same day almost makes me believe in astrology. But on the other hand, you have a 1 in 365 chance of being born on someone else's birthday, so the odds aren't that great. Whatever. Happy birthday.

Also, an RIP to musique concrete pioneer Luc Ferrari, who died on August 22nd, aged 76. Moog and Ferrari within two days of each other - is there some sort of plot against creative music going on? Again, it's a coincidence, but a sad one.

From freeform station WFMU's blog, David Grubbs eulogizes Luc Ferrari. And from The Wire's website, Jim O'Rourke talks about Ferrari, among other things, in an old "Invisible Jukebox" interview. "The one thing I've noticed about all of them that I've met, like [Pierre] Henry and Ferrari... they're all, like, total womanizers. They surround themselves with women, it's crazy. So for a while, I was like - musique concrete is the way to go! Didn't quite work for me... but it sure worked for them. They're, like, 60 and it's working for them... 'Come on over and watch me splice some tape, baby!'"

I'll dress sexy at your funeral, Bill...

2005-08-28T15:25:00.000-07:00

I love Smog for so many reasons. Bill Callahan's deep, dour voice. His terse, morbidly funny lyrics ("It's our anniversary, and you've hidden my keys / this is one anniversary you're spending with me"). The fact that he's worked with two of my other favorite musicians, Jim O'Rourke and John McEntire. And, of course, he is extremely hot. Mm-hmm.

The first opening band was Portland's own Corrina Repp, a folky singer-songwriter with a pleasantly husky voice. I'd seen her once before, opening for the Decemberists... and speaking of which, the young lady accompanying her was none other than ex-Decemberist Rachel Blumberg. Not only was she rocking the drums as usual, but also simultaneously playing keyboards. She's got mad skills, that Rachel. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the second opening band, Heavenly States. I was expecting another Smog-like acoustic band, but these guys were very loud, high-energy power-pop. The energy - and a bad-ass violinist - were the only things going for them. They were pretty bad. The singer's awkward stage patter didn't help.

After a rather excessively long wait (technical troubles, I think), Bill and his band finally made their appearance. The squat hairy drummer, whom I believe is Jim White of Dirty Three, was wearing the same ink-stained shirt he was wearing the last time I saw Smog, last November. It looked like it hadn't been washed since. There was also a tall skinny female bassist and an electric guitarist who was a dead ringer for Bill Gates. (Perhaps Mr. Gates has many talents we know not of.) Bill himself was wearing a cowboy shirt, unbuttoned enough to show some chest hair (hubba hubba) and jeans. He wore his acoustic guitar up by his chest, as usual.

The first part of the set was all songs from Smog's latest, "A River Ain't Too Much to Love." I like this album, but I have to say that performed live, it's not very exciting - all the songs are slow and have the same country strum. I was hoping they'd play "The Well" (one of the few non-strummy songs on the album), but no such luck. Jim White is an extremely bad-ass drummer - a little too bad-ass, as his pyrotechnics tended to drown out the simple song structures. Still, he was entertaining to watch. The Bill Gates guitarist is a good addition to the live band, adding little accents and harder sounds when the songs got more rocking…. which they did, as the second part of the setlist was all older songs, including a revved-up versions of "Dress Sexy at My Funeral" and "Cold-Blooded Old Times" and the finale, a long jamming rendition of "Let's Move to the Country." "Blood Red Bird," "Vessel in Vain," and "Anniversary" were some of the other older songs on the setlist. I would've liked to hear some of his even older stuff, like "37 Push-Ups," but I reckon Bill might have eschewed the "lo-fi" part of his back catalogue.

Throughout the show, Bill favored us with a full array of his patented weird stage moves, doing little dances, going down on his knees, duck-walking, kicking the support on his guitar stand so it twirled around, pacing around the stage. All of these activities were performed with an extremely solemn demeanor, without acknowledging the audience, as if he was practicing rock star moves in his bedroom. He screwed up his face as if in pain while singing some lyrics, ignored some annoying hecklers, and eventually actually smiled a bit, both at the audience and his bandmates. He has a great smile.

The audience probably would have wanted a second encore, but there was a "disco" scheduled for midnight, so we didn't get one. As we were walking out, my friends - who had been sitting in the back - excitedly pointed out Britt Daniel of Spoon, who was leaving the venue with a lady friend. And that's all that happened.

Ryan Adams sings Sonic Youth?? / RIP

2005-08-22T14:52:00.000-07:00

Continuing in the "weird covers" theme, here's Ryan Adams singing "Expressway To Yr Skull." It's actually not half bad.

In other news, electronic music pioneer Robert Moog has passed away at age 71. All hail the master, and thank you for the music.

Death Cab and them Decemberists sing Fleetwood Mac

2005-08-21T16:28:00.000-07:00

For your delectation, here's a video of Colin, Ben, and the gang singing "Go Your Own Way" at Summerstage in New York. Lovely!

Download soon because I don't know how long this is going to be available. Warning: it's 250 megabytes.

I'm so sorry

2005-08-18T19:56:00.000-07:00

Benefit for Beth Ditto of the Gossip

2005-08-16T17:05:00.000-07:00

Beth Ditto is one of the awesomest, sassiest frontladies in rock. This show was to raise funds to help pay for her emergency gall bladder surgery - a very worthy cause. The show was at the Doug Fir, one of Portland's newer venues, with faux-timber walls and a large hipster clientele, who fortunately were less annoying than usual on this occasion.

I arrived too late to see the first band, Die Monitr Bats, so I never figured out whether that's "die" as in "cease to live" or "die" as in the German feminine article. Never mind. The next act was Sarah Dougher, who's one of those artists whose name I'd heard a lot, especially since I moved to Portland five years ago, but I'd never heard her music. She turned out to be a fairly competent folk-rock singer with a strong voice and a really cool guitar (an orange Epiphone hollow-body with a single cutaway, for you gearheads). She wasn't really doing anything new, but she did it well, and told a cool story about Beth Ditto chewing out the British press for making fun of the size of Missy Elliott's ass.

So then it was time for the main attraction - the Decemberists, playing their last show in Portland before embarking on their fall tour. After a long wait, John Moen came onstage and began thundering out the intro to "The Infanta." This is the first time I've gotten a good look at him, and without his indie-rock glasses, he looks kinda like a burlier version of Nels Cline. This is a good thing. The rest of the band soon followed, along with a four-person horn section (two saxes, two trumpets) and the rockitude began. The band was obviously in high spirits and the set was punctuated by a lot of goofing around, rambling monologues, and general shenanigans. Colin decried the pathetic state of healthcare coverage in the U.S., and a very excited Jenny interrupted his speech to announce that she'd gotten her stolen accordion back. Apparently they'd found a bunch of their nicked gear at Portland Music Company. Don't shop there.

The setlist was a mix of songs from all of their albums, plus several covers. I had been thinking at the beginning of the show that I'd never heard "Angel, Won't You Call Me?" (one of my favorite Decemberists songs) performed live, and to my delight, they played it - a "countrified" version, said Colin. Another highlight was Petra's solo rendering of Fairport Convention's "Tam Lin," which she was very nervous about but pulled off splendidly. She did hippie-style "noodle dances" during the instrumental breaks. Crutchy played the hammer dulcimer dramatically during "For My Own True Love" and everyone sang along with "16 Military Wives." "I Was Meant for the Stage" culminated with the usual complete chaos, and then it got even more ridiculous as the band covered an ELO song and Colin jumped into the audience and sat down on the floor to tell everyone the tale of Jeff Lynne and his band with two cellos. (Meanwhile, Nate was playing his bass lying on his back.) The last song was the Outfield's classic "Your Love," sung by Crutchy in a falsetto. Colin came out to the edge of the stage, directly in front of me, to solo - I stepped back in alarm, thinking he was going to stagedive, but fortunately he didn't. Eventually Nate was standing on top of his upright bass, Petra appeared to be trying to save her violin from being stepped on, and Colin had blood all over his fingers, presumably from his intense rocking out.

Apart from that, nobody was hurt and everyone went home happy, including me. In fact, I've seen the Decemberists six times now and this was definitely the best show of the lot. Since all proceeds from the show went to Beth Ditto, hopefully she now has a tidy lump of cash to pay for her surgery - or maybe one or two stitches, considering how expensive this stuff is. In conclusion, please support universal healthcare. The end.

musical tourist spots

2005-08-07T00:58:00.000-07:00

So I recently went on a vacation to Chicago, St. Louis, and my home town of Ann Arbor. Naturally, I saw the usual tourist sites - Chicago museums, the Arch, and so forth - but I also visited (or happened upon) a few musical spots of note.

While roaming around Chicago, I noticed many streets - such as Fullerton, Damen, and California - mentioned in various Gastr del Sol songs. (David Grubbs seems a bit hung up on geography.) I got a glimpse of the Marina Towers, as seen on the cover of Wilco's "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot," and a friend dared me to press the buzzer at Soma Studios. Fearing that John McEntire would pummel me, I declined. I also stopped by the top secret location of the Wilco loft, where the band practices. Wild horses couldn't drag the address from me - actually, I don't remember what it is. No band members were around, which is probably just as well. Not far from the loft was the not-so-top secret location of Bloodshot Records, musical home of Neko Case and other alt-country superstars, where my Jedi apprentice used to intern. I helped put together some Waco Brothers promo CD's and got a discount on a shirt and a complimentary Bloodshot bottle opener keychain.

In St. Louis, my friends and I ate lunch at Blueberry Hill, which used to be Cicero's, where Uncle Tupelo got their start. We also took note of many billboards advertising the Casino Queen, the riverboat memorialized in Wilco's song of the same name. ("I've been gambling like a fiend on your tables so green.") As for Ann Arbor, my friend showed me the railroad bridge where the Stooges scraped off the top of their van when they tried to drive under it. The scrapes and dents are still there. I'd seen that bridge many times, of course, but not till I read Please Kill Me: The Oral History of Punk last year did I realize its... uh, historical significance.

Naturally, I also picked up a bunch of new music in between visiting all these notable sites. I haven't listened to everything yet, but so far the winner is the debut album by the Wingdale Community Singers, consisting of David Grubbs, author Rick Moody, and songstress Hannah Marcus. Moody wrote most of the lyrics, and Marcus - who has a dry alto rather reminiscent of Liz Phair - supplies most of the vocals. The songs are mostly about everyday life in New York and are just as literary and evocative as you might expect. My favorite track is Bike Shop Boy, featuring Grubbs as the voice of the eponymous character. This album is definitely a candidate for my obligatory top 10 of 2005.

Another candidate is an album I picked up in Ann Arbor, Archer Prewitt's "Wilderness." For those of you jonesing for Cat Stevens to put out more music, this album is for you - Prewitt's voice is a dead ringer, and the music has a warm 70's songwriter feel to it, without sounding overly retro (unlike Prewitt's previous solo release, "Three," which was a bit much for me to stomach). I fell asleep listening to it on the plane, which is actually a compliment - I used to do the same with Galaxie 500's "On Fire".

I got a bunch of other CD's too, but I'll review them later.

devastating revelation!

2005-07-19T23:44:00.000-07:00

Separated at birth... Johnny Depp as Willy Wonka and Detroit's favorite pugilist, Jack White.

ode to Bob

2005-07-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

(This was originally written for a zine called Staggering Bob. My friend Marc and I had big plans for it, but it never got off the ground.)

We, the editors of Staggering Bob, would here like to pay tribute to one of several Bobs who influenced us in our wanton youth. If you grew up in the 70's in southeast Michigan, and listened to the radio at all, you probably know the Bob whereof we speak: Bob Seger, along with Mitch Ryder the Motor City's only homegrown celebrity, in the eyes of the AOR world, at least. ("Iggy who?" "Funka-what?") Now, we all know Bob is no musical genius, and - unlike many 70's revisionists - we're not about to claim otherwise. But we grew up with him, and his influence must be acknowledged.

Everyone in Ann Arbor who doesn't have an Iggy story, has a Bob story. For instance, my uncle was supposedly Bob's best friend at Ann Arbor High School. My mom used to tell me this with pride, even though she never listened to the radio. I listened to the radio all the time, though. "Wow, Bob's from Ann Arbor, and he's on the radio!" I'd think, apparently unaware that the station was playing him precisely for that reason. I listened to WIQB, which used to be an alternative station and currently plays hard rawk and 10th-generation grunge. But before that, back in the 70's and 80's, it was the true home of white boomer rock. Lots of John Cougar (not yet Mellencamp), Bruce Springsteen, Led Zeppelin, the Doors - basically, Midwestern hesher stuff, designed for Wayne and Garth as well as their parents.

So us little Midwestern kids lay awake at night listening to this, and the voice of Bob would come on, symbolizing what Iggy also symbolized: escape. "She was a black-haired beauty with big dark eyes, with points all her own, set way up high. . ." We were oblivious to the fact that Bob was singing about tits. It just sounded cool in the dark, as cool as when Jim Morrison sang, "There's a killer on the road, his brain is squirming like a toad," or Robert Plant sang, "In the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair. . ." Except Bob was one of us, sort of - he grew up where we grew up, hung out with our relatives, and went to our schools, and then he got famous. That made him even cooler.

So we grooved upon Bob, even though we didn't know what he was talking about most of the time, until we got older and realized he wasn't so cool after all. We moved on to music that had more of a hipness factor, changed from WIQB (or "WIMP" as some called it) to the college radio station, WCBN, and learned that the 70's contained more than gravelly-voiced Midwestern laments. But just because Bob wasn't hip doesn't mean he wasn't an important part of our childhood. Bob Seger is as integral to our youth as Proust's madelaine, that turned his thoughts back to his childhood. The sound of Bob's voice singing "Like a Rock" on those Chevrolet ads can bring back the endless summer nights of ignorance, lying in bed with the radio turned low so Mom and Dad wouldn't hear, thinking that someday, too, we would be big and famous, and they'd play us on the radio, and kids would listen at night to our voices ringing out in the warm dark.

Tony Conrad extracts sludge from your brain with his violin bow

2005-07-10T23:17:00.000-07:00

My favorite Ebay seller "mercatorp" has a new goodie for sale that caught my eye - an advance copy of a "new" Tony Conrad album, Bryant Park Moratorium Rally, 1969.

"An October afternoon in 1969. Midtown Manhattan. A rally in Bryant Park against the Vietnam War. Down 42nd Street towards Times Square, Tony Conrad is adjusting microphones in his 5th floor loft, one directed at the TV set - where it will pick up live local news coverage -- the other pointing out the window, where the echo of speeches and crowd noise mingles with the oceanic rush of crosstown traffic. As the event is about to begin, he rolls tape. Thirty-four years later, we hear what he heard."

This is the sort of record that makes avant-garde hatas say, "That's not music!" Obviously, I haven't heard it yet, but based on this description, I'm inclined to agree - although I don't think that's a bad thing. I might call it a "sound piece" or something like that - I would definitely say it's "art" - but perhaps not "music" per se. I'm not really sure, but like John Cage, presenting something like this as "music" makes us start thinking about what the meaning of music really is, which is an important statement in itself. Conrad perpetrated a similar conundrum (or possibly just a practical joke) with his album "Thuunderboy," consisting of recordings of his two-year-old son messing around with turntables. However, these types of recordings may be interesting conceptually, but often aren't that much fun to listen to. I'm not sure if I'm going to pick this one up.

At any rate, looking at mercatorp's other items for sale, I see that he's selling John Fahey's "Womblife" and Arnold Dreyblatt's "The Sound of One String" for $20 apiece. Both of these albums I purchased used for $8.50 apiece. This makes me feel smug inside. I have my eye on Tony Conrad's "Slapping Pythagoras," though - a friend sent me a burned copy of it, so I've heard it already, but I'd like to have the real deal, complete with Table of the Elements' usual gorgeous packaging and liner notes. This album is more in the Tony Conrad style that I've come to know and love - long, long, long violin drones, in this case accompanied by buzzing noise and thumping percussion supplied by the gallant boys of Gastr del Sol and others. The hatas might say this "isn't music" either. I don't really care, I just think it's awesome.