A Little Love from the Local Media

Yours truly received some ink from the Columbia Missourian this week. It's mostly true...though I am NOT EVEN CLOSE TO SLIGHTLY BALD, and the reporter is a little too impressed with me. Still, it might entertain you. A very funny photograph in the slideshow, too, of my early rockin' days in Springfield.

Yours Truly's Jackin' Pop '07 Ballot

The pop music website Idolator released the results of their 2nd annual "Jackin' Pop" poll, which surveys a mighty lot of music writers regarding their fave raves. View my list and also fellow Columbia scribe Pete Bland's and post a comment if you feel the urge.

Sliding Knees First into Second Base

Been battling labyrinthitis since July 10. Taught all semester with only five missed days. Thought I was a stud. Once school was out, went into somnambulent state: wake up at 8 (my usual is 5), drink coffee, read, nap, nap, nap, eat dinner, nap, watch Stewart/Colbert if I am lucky, repeat. After three days of zombie-ism, finally righted myself yesterday, woke at 7 and powered on all day (Philly soul, Bloody Marys, valium, tamale-makin', and good company helped). I guess this is called old age, but really 45 is young, though Coltrane, King, and Kennedy were already dead (just watched a skewed History Channel "case closed" doc on the Kennedy assassination--come on fuckers, you have to do more than parade out Oswald's family and peripheral Warren Commission and CIA experts to put it to rest!).

I see Christmas time non-religiously. Just a time to be thankful for what I got: totally cool spouse, library of music, film, and lit, supportive close friends, intelligent peers at work, living and vital parents. One lucky SOB, I tell ya. My last ten years have been waiting for the other shoe to drop. "The first days are the hardest days/Don't you worry anymore/When life looks like easy street/There is danger at your door." The Grateful Dead...soft? I don't think so, at least until Pigpen died.

I still have faith in human nature, but we've gotta see through the relentless shit that's rotting our guts and minds and make like a master fencer and parry. Not a bad definition of life if I do say so myself.

Keeping me alive:
READING: Dominic Piore's RIOT ON SUNSET STRIP, Harvey Pekar and Heather Roberson's MACEDONIA, new Gram Parsons bio, DOOM PATROL early '90s collections.
MUSIC: Coltrane, Lil' Wayne, Sinatra, Sharon Jones, Todd Snider, the Spinners, Ghostface, Burnt Sugar, Horace Silver, Southern Soul, '50s vintage Staples Singers.
FILM: NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN. NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN. NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN. And, as always, Errol Morris' FIRST PERSON (also, his fascinating NEW YORK TIMES essays.)

Tentative Music Best of for 2007

No exact order yet. Still thinking there.

1. Gogol Bordello - SUPER TARANTA
2. Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings - 100 DAYS, 100 NIGHTS
3. Swamp Dogg - RESURRECTION
4. Apples in Stereo - NEW MAGNETIC WONDER
5. Arcade Fire - NEON BIBLE
6. Various Artists - HYPHY HITZ!
7. Balkan Beat Box - NEW MED
8. Blitzen Trapper - WILD MOUNTAIN NATION
9. Bettye Lavette - THE SCENE OF THE CRIME
10. David Murray and the Black Saint Quartet (featuring Cassandra Wilson) - Soundtrack to the film BANISHED (documentary from True/False)
11. Public Enemy - HOW YOU SELL SOUL TO THE SOULLESS?
12. Various Artists - Soundtrack to the film I'M NOT THERE
13. Various Artists - WHY THE HELL NOT? A TRIBUTE TO THE SONGS OF KINKY FRIEDMAN
14. Porter Wagoner - WAGON MASTER
15. 7L and Esoteric - A NEW DOPE
16. Los Straitjackets - ROCK EN ESPANOL, VOLUME 1
17. Animal Collective - STRAWBERRY JAM
18. Elizabeth Cook - BALLS
19. The Dirty Projectors - RISE ABOVE
20. The Mendoza Line - 30 YEAR LOW + THE FINAL REMARKS OF THE LEGENDARY DISCONTENT
21. Mavis Staples - WE'LL NEVER TURN BACK
22. Turf Talk - WEST COAST VACCINE
23. Sonny Rollins - SONNY, PLEASE
24. Ornette Coleman - SOUND GRAMMAR
25. Various Artists - MOTEL LOVERS
26. Merle Haggard - THE BLUEGRASS SESSIONS
27. Lil' Wayne - DA DROUGHT III (mixtape)
28. The Fall - REFORMATION POST-TLC
29. Fanfare Ciocarlia - QUEENS AND KINGS
30. Imperial Teen - THE HAIR, THE TV, THE BABY, AND THE BAND

Reissues:
1. Gram Parsons - ARCHIVES, VOL. 1: LIVE AT THE AVALON BALLROOM 1969
2. The Staple Singers - BEST OF THE VEE-JAY YEARS
3. Jimmy Reed - BEST OF THE VEE-JAY YEARS
4. Various Artists - A DATE WITH JOHN WATERS
5. Various Artists - A JOURNEY INTO PARADISE: THE LARRY LEVAN STORY
6. Ed Sanders: BEER CANS ON THE MOON and SANDERS' TRUCKSTOP
7. Various Artists: TOP SHELF 8888

Singles:
1. Animal Collective - "Reverend Green"
2. Todd Snider - "They Ain't Makin' Jews Like Jesus Anymore"
3. Lil' Mama - "Lip Gloss"
4. Queens of the Stone Age - "Sick, Sick, Sick"
5. Tokyo Police Club - "Your English is Good"
6. Elizabeth Cook - "Times are Tough in Rock and Roll"
7. The Replacements - "Pool and Dive"
8. Dwight Yoakam - "Rapid City, South Dakota"
9. Swamp Dogg - "We Crowned an Idiot King"
10. J Dilla (featuring MF DOOM) - "Mash's Revenge"
11. Levon Helm - "Feelin' Good"
12. Randy Newman - "A Song in Defense of Our Country"
13. Mac Lethal - "Jihad!"
14. Steve Earle - "Way Down in the Hole"
15. John Doe - "The Golden State"

Checking in...

Obviously, I have been so overwhelmed with grading, planning, teaching, thinking about my pre-service teachers, gritting my teeth through dizziness and fatigue, and opening enough cans of beer to bring the rest of my body into synch with my inner-ear-tortured head that I have had little chance to post for the benefit of the four people (liberal estimate) who are reading this. But, as usual, some great music and reading that has filled the gaps and the background has been pulling me through. Here's a list:

MUSIC:
Dead Moon--the most underrated rock and roll band of the last 30 years. AC/DC as demented garage band. Or Neil Young if he hadn't been "discovered."
Busdriver--hyperverbal even for a rapper, hyperintellectual despite being an entertainer...where has he been all my listening life?
Elmo Hope--short-lived piano master of the '50s and '60s. Powellesque, but lighter and quirkier (of course, a little slower).
Rolling Stones: Sticky Fingers: That piece o'crap "Wild Horses" aside--whatta band. Mean, tough, smart, lyrical, funny...what else do ya want?
Sonny Rollins: Saxophone Colossus: The title says it all. Great calypso, great ballads, great tongue-in-cheek covers...and Max Roach conversational down in the engine room.
Miles Davis: A Tribute to Jack Johnson: Miles is just the mint in this julep. The bourbon's two guitarists--John McLaughlin playing knife-edge blues, Sonny Sharrock inventing sotto voce avant-garde asides--and a rhythm section (Billy Cobham and Michael Henderson) LOCKED INTO a rock and roll beat. Unpretentious fusion with bite.
READING:
The World Don't Owe Me Nothin': The life and times of one of the last living country bluesmen, Honeyboy Edwards.
Hell's Angels, by Hunter S. Thompson: Thompson before his gonzo style erupted. Fascinating, disturbing, prophetic, it's the work of one helluva diligent, precise reporter more than sober enough to check the facts behind the assumptions.

Night Music: Yes--That Was on TV!

To the left on my video link you have access to performance footage from the late-'80s music variety show Night Music. Check it out. You will, I bet, be amazed that such a performance made it to national television (NBC, to be exact). The show was originally hosted by Jools Holland, who's doing something similar now in the UK that's not nearly as surprising, who then handed the reins over to major geeb David Sanborn. Concept: expose unsuspecting American night owls to great musicians on the margins. Partial list: Sonic Youth, Pixies, Sun Ra, Al Green, Diamanda Galas, Leonard Cohen, Sonny Rollins, the Kronos Quartet, the Residents. After each artist got to play a couple of their own pieces (which were separated by vintage black and white video footage of folks like Louis Jordan, Nellie Lutcher, and Aretha), they teamed up at show's end for the final piece, which resulted in bizarre pairings like Conway Twitty and the aforementioned Residents. Not surprisingly, the line-ups were put together by Hal Willner (Wikipedia him, please). Anyhow, my favorite performance ever, master tenor saxophonist Rollins and Sweet Pea Atkinson of Was Not Was spurring on Cohen's deathly "Who By Fire," is captured on the link. Check it out. Dig Sonny's improv and Converse, and Sweet Pea's encouragements. This show needs to be on DVD now!

Records That Got Me Through the Week

I have been bound up with increasing dizziness, more doctor visits, grading, and taking naps. But this week offered (as all weeks have done since I was 17) some recordings that kept me moving forward. I am going to try to make this a regular post--we shall see.

Merle Haggard: The Untamed Hawk Edit--This is a comp I burned from a huge Bear Family box of Merle's early recordings. Besides capturing the purity and subtle ache of his early singing, it includes some cool forgotten songs of his ("Life in Prison," "You Don't Have Very Far to Go," "I Must Be Somebody Else You've Known) and a treasure trove of his Lefty Frizzell covers--always interpreted with precision, passion, and love.
Mamas and the Papas: Gold--Not the group anyone who knows me would think I would like, but I dig the harmonies and strange rearrangements ("Do You Wanna Dance?" as a seductive ballad, Lennon-McCartney's "I Call Your Name" as a '30s chestnut, "Dedicated to the One I Love" as a spooky harmony showcase) and specific, out-of-left-field slice o' Sixties life originals ("Straight Shooter," "Creeque Alley," "Do What You Wanna Do"...and the eternal "California Dreamin'"). Denny Doherty and Mama Cass were way up there among the most underrated pop singers of the Sixties.
Marvin Gaye: The Ultimate Marvin Gaye CD--Another burn job. It's hard to get all the best Marvin in one place. So overrated he's underrated; also--smooth and rough, charmingly simply and intriguingly complex, waxing perfect pop and flawless funk--the man was a walking paradox. Fave Raves: "Stubborn Kind of Fellow" (with that great break in his voice when he sings "I have kissed a few/Honey, a few have kissed me too-uh-hoo!"), "You're All I Need to Get By," and especially "Trouble Man," which is just an audacious display of everything his voice could do couched in one of his greatest rhythmic inventions.
The Staples Singers: The Best of the Vee-Jay Years--FINALLY, a legit collection of these sessions is on the shelves. A monumental sound: Pops Staples' electric guitar, a water moccasin in the service of the Lord and learned at the feet of Charlie Patton, supporting the deepest gospel harmony ever waxed by teens (highlight: Mavis Staples, who at 66 is making her own waves these days), taken at an even, deliberate, almost stalking pace. A MUST for anybody who wants to understand the evolution of rock and roll in the 1950s, enough to convert Sam Harris to the Gospel, and the source of a myriad of allusions and straight-out steals galore (Funkadelic, Willie Nelson, Dr. Dre, the Rolling Stones, Dylan...those name sound familiar? Fave raves: "Uncloudy Day," "I Know I Got Religion," "Swing Down, Sweet Chariot," and "This May Be the Last Time"...but it's all good, folks.

Here's to Hampton Hawes

I came home today exhausted from my battle with labyrinthitis (an inner ear inflammation that causes me to feel as if I have just stepped off the Zambezi Zinger from the minute I wake until the minute I doze). I needed a serious nap (I am not nappy in any way, shape, or form), and needed a delicate, pianistic touch to put me out fast. Put in The Charles Mingus Trio, which just happens to feature Hampton Hawes on the ivories. Hawes was a less intense, less jaw-dropping, but exceedingly surprising and delightful West Coast version of Bud Powell. Despite doing time for horse (was that a prerequisite for West Coast boppers?), he had productive careers on both sides of the bust, and though he died in '77 at 49, left some exquisite recordings behind. Oddly, many of them are touched with gospelly flourishes.

For the readers out there, Hawes' memoir Raise Up Off Me is one of the best musician-written books on jazz (out of many). Very hard to find, though.

Have Moicy!: The Healing Power of Absurdity

Recently, this house suffered the loss of one helluva dog. His name was Lobo; he was a devilish blue heeler with more than his share of personality, and only eight years old. My wife and I were crushed, and for the first few days after, the only song I could hear in my head, even if others were playing outside of it, was "Old Dog Blue," first made famous in this country by the Memphis songster Jim Jackson:

"I’m goin’ back to where I’m come
I’m goin’ back to where I’m come
I’m goin’ back to Giles County
My wife died and left me a bounty
Way them pretty girls ganged around
That’s the reason why I’m goin’ to Giles County

I had an old dog whose name was Blue
You know that Blue was mighty true
You know Blue was a good old dog
Blue treed a ‘possum in a hollow log
You know from that he’s a good old dog

Blue treed a ‘possum out on a limb
Blue looked at me and I looked at him
Grabbed that ‘possum and put him in a sack
“Do fer me, Blue, ’til I get back.”

“Here, Ring! Yeah, Ring Here!
Here Ring! Hey, Ring here!”
Who’s been here since I been gone
Little bitty girl with the red dress on
Who’s been here since I been gone
Little bitty girl with the red dress on

Old Blue’s feet was big and round
Old Blue’s feets was big and round
Never ‘lowed a ‘possum to tech the ground
Me and Blue went out on a hunt
Blue treed a ‘possum in a hollow stump
You know that Blue was a good old dog
Blue treed a ‘possum in a hollow log
You know from that he’s a good old dog

Old Blue died and I dug his grave
I dug his grave with a silver spade
I let him down with a golden chain
And every link I called his name

Go on Blue you good dog you
Go on Blue you good dog you
Blue laid down and died like a man
Blue laid down and died like a man
Now he’s treein’ ‘possums in the promised land

I’m goin’ to tell you this jes’ to let you know
Old Blue’s gone where the good dogs go
When I hear old Blue bark
When I hear old Blue bark
Blue’s treed a ‘possum in Noah’s ark
Blue’s treed a ‘possum in Noah’s ark."

The track's on the amazing Anthology of American Folk Music, if you want to look it up and listen to it. Anyway, the point is, if I'd kept hearing it, I would have been driven mad. So I turned rather blindly to a CD titled Have Moicy!, by three crazed hippie entities (the forefathers, as it were, of Animal Collective and the other freak folk crew, though by comparison they haven't even got the freak flag above half-mast): Michael Hurley, the most eccentric songwriter Pennsylvania's ever produced; Jeffrey Frederick and the Clamtones, fatalist funnymen from Oregon; and the (Un)Holy Modal Rounders (Steve Weber and Peter Stampfel), whose cockeyed, disrespectful-thus-respectful approach to traditional American music has been catching listeners by surprise since '65. The record features songs about the following, and I am not making this up: bohemian madness in Paris ("You wear my beret/And I'll use your bidet, Cherie/I'll be clean, you'll be free!"); a paean to crime that stretches from Argentina to Alaska ("Lord, I love poachin' chickens!"); making, eating, cleaning up after, and excreting food--potatoes, perch, tortillas, beans, spaghetti, to be specific ("We fill up our guts/Then we turn it into shit/then we get rid of it!"); freshly disattached and bleeding ears on the floor; a "meaning of life" conversation between a crow and a newt ("I don't really care too much if'n I die," sez the newt while in the crow's beak); philosophical inquiries into the disappearance of hamburgers and the source of heart attacks; a "hoodoo bash" complete with magic mushrooms; the seduction of young Griselda ("learnin' the lessons/Nature taught us!"); jealous curses from beyond the grave ("Don't you monkey with my widow when I'm gone!"); and much, much more. The music's downhome but slightly off-kilter British Isles balladry cum bluegrass; the singing can only be described as embued with flaming experience, though Stampfel (one of the Rounders) sings with more crazed enthusiasm than any non-singer in American history. Needless to say, listening to this record (plus the Rounders' Too Much Fun--which IS--and Last Round) got me out of the mourning rut and onto the road to perfect mental health (of which a touch of insanity is an essential part).

Ahmad Jamal Entertained Columbia High School Students...

...for five consecutive class periods in my British Literature class today. Students work on quarter projects every Friday. This work usually is done with intense concentration and silence. However, silence sounds to me like Jimi Hendrix solos sounded like to 90-year-old grannies in '67. I begged them to let me at least provide some (what I called) "ambient noise" while they worked, so I unleashed Jamal's early '50s Epic recordings on them. No complaints. Though the stuff toes the easy-listening line, it's beautiful, deceptively complex, and perfect for concentration. I even saw toes tapping. I gave 'em a little background on Jamal's impact on Miles' thinking--but you can't bring any music gods up without providing about 15-20 minutes of background. Some of my 17- and 18-year olds haven't heard (of) the Beatles.

Jenny Lewis Has Finally Weakened My Knees

Because I am an old fart, I remain stoic in the face of "Next Big Things." Because I am an old fart with almost 6,000 records and CDs in the house, I am usually wise in doing so. The hype surrounding Jenny Lewis set off my bullshit detectors for two reasons: she is by most definitions (not necessarily my own) hot, which fucks with listeners perceptions, and she's indie, and--I do not make this observation flippantly, but after much research--indie lowers the bar for hot, breathy chicks that write or perform a little idiosyncratically. If I were a nihilist, Regina Spektor and that harp-playing scar on the face of rock and roll (I cannot even utter her name) would be six feet under in some swamp. So...though I have to admit I liked some of her Rilo Kiley lines...I kept Miss Lewis at arm's length. This despite a student's passionate exaltations--a student obviously inspired, in her writing and guitar playing, by Miss Lewis herself.

Well, against my better judgment (I thought), I put Lewis' solo Rabbit-Fur Coat disc in the pickup CD player to just assure I was being fair, and had my hat knocked in the creek. Mostly, it's her writing--damn near free association, but logical and rhyming and specific and imaginative and funny and evocative. Her voice is richer; I have an unrestrained hatred for Anglo geishas, but she doesn't push that button much (a few times, yes), but rather relies on a rich, really sexy, soulful delivery that doesn't need coos and whispers to make a man pay attention. I hear she's bringing sexy back with the new Rilo Kiley, but--late as it is--I can tell you she's sold me, and I WILL be paying attention from now on.

Porter Wagoner

Got the new Porter Wagoner record in the mail today. I had been skeptical; the music press falls all over itself pretty much anytime an oldster puts a new record out, and, beyond his weird writing, I'd never been all that convinced of The Thin Man from West Plain's legendhood. And Johnny Cash is gone and there's no one to go all soft and reverent about. Well, I have to say that Wagonmaster, produced by the often blindly enthusiastic Marty Stuart (that's mean--the fucker loves pure country music and pushes it every time he has a chance), is a strong offering from end to end. Porter never had a fantastic voice--often, he was more moving talking than singing. And here he's actually written some new ones that are as weird as the old ones, covered a Cash song that is like a precursor to Wagoner's legendary "The Rubber Room," and carried off the vocalizing and talking as good if not better than the other recent senior citizens (Charlie Louvin, George Jones, Bobby Bare) who've been resurrected. I expected 4-5 cuts would be dead in the water, but actually, I liked every one of 'em. Now...if they can get Jones in the studio with someone tough and imaginative and get one great record out of him before he finally drops...I myself can die in peace.

Marc Ribot

If I need peace after a long day of noise and heavy activity, for some reason I turn to skronky, chaotic music, and it blisses me out. Today I am listening to Marc Ribot's tribute to alto sax skronk god Albert Ayler, SPIRITUAL UNITY. Ribot is best known to the general public as Tom Waits' studio and tour guitarist during the RAIN DOGS/FRANK'S WILD YEARS years, but the man can do purt-near everything interestingly and never stoops to acoustic mellowshit. His sound is metallic, vibrato'd to the max, humorously off-kilter (like Thelonious Monk, whom he's often covered), and embued with swelling emotion. It's also ALIVE; hard to predict where he's going from moment to moment. This album really does justice to Ayler's commitment to simplicity, feeling, and freedom. That's the great triumvirate I need right now.

Check out the best DJs in Columbia, Missouri...and they ain't outta high school yet!

Laugh along with Jon Hadusek and Grant Portell during the second season of the off-the-wall podcast "The Carl Winslow Show." A product of KEWP 98.3 FM, the radio station of David H. Hickman, Columbia, Missouri's irreverent rock and roll high school.

The "Rock Therapy" Podcast

Sample the "Rock Therapy" Podcast! More than 20 programs to further addle malcontented souls! Emanating from the guts of Columbia, Missouri's ultimate rock and roll high school, David H. Hickman, DJ Phil Overeem leads you through sixty-to-eighty minute programs that are sometimes thematic, sometimes genre explorations, sometimes chaotic, but always guaranteed to surprise, enrage, and delight. New podcasts are published quasi-monthly--subscribe now through iTunes: http://feeds.feedburner.com/RockTherapy

Jerry Lee...back from the dead...AGAIN!

Jerry Lee Lewis: The Palomino Recordings
The improbable excellence of The Killer's new release, Last Man Standing (in which he kicks ass on Led Zeppelin's "Rock and Roll," roars spendidly with fellow old-timers B. B. King, George Jones, and Merle Haggard, and generally rises from the dead for about the 4th time in his career, has sent me back to other great moments in his never-safe career. This 2-cd set was recorded live at one of California's rowdiest honky tonks, and, despite being saddled with an electric piano, the man TAMES it with indomitable versions of "Meat Man" ("I got jaws like a bear trap/Teeth like a razor/A Maytag tongue with a sensitive taster....), "Big-Legged Woman" ("I bet my bottom dollar/There ain't a cherry in this house..."), and "Don't Put No Headstone on My Grave" ("I want a fucking monument!!!"). Plus, the inventor of swamp guitar and the teeth in Ricky Nelson's Hollywood rockabilly attack, James Burton, is in nasty support.

Is it just me...or did that Springsteen "Storytellers" suck?

I haven't posted in awhile. Nothing but an appearance by the Drive-By Truckers at my school has moved me to fight for the time to write in the middle of a work 'n' school shitstorm--and I didn't even post on that. But somehow Broooooce's appearance on VH1's "Storytellers" series aggravated and disgusted me so much I can't help speaking out.

First of all, after 15 years of pretty devoted attention and admiration, I got off the Springsteen bus after Tunnel of Love. Though his writing continued to occasionally impress (The Ghost of Tom Joad in particular), his performance just...bogged down. Boring, spiritless, overly considered, weighted down by its own seriousness. Then I saw him in St. Louis--on an E-Street Band reunion tour, I think--after having watched Local H kick everybody's ass the night before in Columbia, and the whole 3-hour extravaganza seemed hokey, unimaginative, self-congratulatory, and a waste of fucking time. I wrote a long, fairly savage piece on my website (see below), and wrote the fucker off for life.

Somehow, when I read a CNN article on the VH1 appearance, I thought, well, he's gonna talk about the songs, so it could be funny, and...I've never been prone to COMPLETELY give up on a rock and roll life. Then I watched it.

Gawd. Besides the solemnity delivered with an increasingly phoney Okie twang, he actually DISSECTED his own songs LINE BY LINE. Jeezus. Yet another artist ruined by Greil Marcus; if Bruce hasn't read and re-read Marcus' overly excited pieces on his own work, I'm Dave Marsh. He actually believes his press! Thoroughly. And sooooooooo snore-inducing. Sure, any call to take up arms against the Bush administration is welcome--at least two songs were so designed--but do you have to be a gearhead version of Joan Baez in doing so? Even his relationship song (where he called his wife out to sing surprisingly faint and spare backup vox--considering the song, "Brilliant Disguise," what was the fucking point?) and his beautiful loser-mythos song were sodden by his seeming uncritical acceptance of his own myth. Only on "Spirit in the Night" did he break loose, and then only slightly. The story behind the song was funny, and lyrics are so loosey-goosey that even his stiffness couldn't staunch them.

It was an awkward, painful embarrassment, one I wouldn't have dreamed in '75, but at 12 I was pretty stoopid. The man is trapped inside of five layers of wet paper bag. Can he punch himself out, like Dylan? I'm sorry, but I don't care.

Below is the text of the article I mentioned above. The sad truth is...he's gone downhill from there.

BORING STORIES:

Springsteen Live at Kiel Center, St. Louis

Sitting at a booth in a Bob Evans, the tension was ping-ponging between the four of us. Morning-after concert discussion--somebody finally asked the question I was fearing: "So what did you think of the show?" One might well wonder why it had taken nearly twelve post-show hours for someone to bring it up.

It had all started when, during a drunken evening, one of us had suggested a road trip to St. Lou to take in a Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band extravaganza. Nicole and I, long-time fans (perhaps an understatement in my case: Bruce was one of the reasons this music is my life), had never witnessed one of the great Rawk spectacles, and our two friends were among the benighted, but ready to dive in, in part as a birthday present for one of 'em.

I labored hours over a 3-cassette comp to prepare them, and, in the making, I found myself pretty damn re-amazed at the Mighty Greaser's hard-fought hacking through lots of dark forests to keep his audience honest and his own bad self lean, mean and relevant. Not for him the fate of the protagonist of "Glory Days"; he's long displayed a gift for getting inside beautiful losers to show us how to keep winning, or at least hold life to a draw. So I was primed to finally be there, and had every reason, given what his work had to say, to expect, well, more progress. Progress: a tangly concept any serious Rawk-lifer has to grapple with daily. Either it's the end-all be-all in the face of rot, anathema to the Rawk ethic, or it's the fucking hemlock that kills the basic feels-so-right urges that legions of garage rockers and die-hard rockabillies strive to strangle out of their axes. Where was Springsteen?

Motorheads don't generally have ten guitars waiting in the wings, each on labelled stands with different tunings for different songs. On the other hand, Springsteen's musical set-up--"big" horn, a willingness to use synthesizers and Spector-operatic piano, an odd aversion to expressing himself consistently, particularly through riffs, on guitar--doesn't exactly lend itself to primitive noise (Wouldn't it be fascinating, though, to hear him really strip his shit down, not like a Nebraska or The Ghost of Tom Joad, which were "folk" albums, but like, say, Pink Flag, or Ramones, or even New York? It'd certainly cut down on the pomp 'n' corn--if he's reflective enough to notice, it's, uh, shtick). That leaves writing. Surely he'd been writing. And there's been no shortage of raw material for a working class hero to mold into an epater le bourgeousie for his increasingly comfortable, always snow-white audience, not in these here times.

So what'd we get? Sitting in the mezzanine, lined up straight-away center stage (a $45 ticket that would have been more than a third of his typical protagonist's weekly salary--a very optimistic estimate, at that), we got:

1) Muddy sound: 4 guitars (it's nice to get the gang together, but come on: platoon some o' the bastards!) doing nothing much but strumming and grinding those plodding, unfunky-white-guy rhythms. Even Bruce's and Miami Steve's occasional solos were either arena-rocky or out-of-tune.

2) Umpteen VERY marginally-differentiated "Big Man" solos--the show/tour may be about loyalty and friendship, but my god, hasn't the motherfucker grown a few chops? Maybe jazz and '50s r&b has spoiled me (not to mention Randy Newman's devastating parody on Trouble In Paradise's "Life is Good"), maybe they are a bar band, but millionaires get paid to make some hard decisions.

3) 90% 1985-and-earlier catalog, arranged exactly the way they were played 1985-and-earlier. Even a bottlenecked "Born in the USA" was a by-the-numbers recreation of the demo version on Tracks. The only faintly new song was a Weavers-esque Guthrie-rewrite called "This Train," which might be described as Springsteen's "Forever Young," one of the worst things in Dylan's ouevre. And since I've mentioned the grouchy old fart, who spent years in limbo squeezing dollars from his back catalogue only to come roaring back again--heard "Things Have Changed," from the Wonder Boys soundtrack yet, or Time Out of Mind? Nicole and I took a smoke break with a suspiciously large segment of the upstairs concertgoers and came to a mutual appeciation of Uncle Bawb, who, with the previously mentioned exception, hasn't really ever given a shit about giving the public what it wants. OK, he's disgusted, but, hey, who isn’t? And with about 10 years on Bruce, he sure isn't showing signs of taking a fall-back position.

4) A dearth of spontanaeity. The only two moments that raised my short hairs to half-mast were the only radical rearrangement, of Tunnel of Love’s "If I Should Fall Behind," where 3 E-Streeters got a verse, including Mrs. Bruce, who sounded a lot like Ronnie Spector--the chick should definitely sing more--and a weird Springsteen somersault in the middle of the third encore, as if to say, "OK, can I go now?" Actually, the old man didn't really move too much throughout the 3-hour show--yep, he still does 'em, and he did sing pretty well, I admit. But a rock and roll show must be alive. Working hard ain't enough. I'm sure Phil Collins sweats.

So, to crystallize it, he had nothing to say, other than, "These are my boys" (and they definitely got more props than the woman) and "I'm still here, but the Muse is all gone." Where can he go from here? Hell, lots of places. How about a four-piece, or even a trio? How about taking on the WTO? How about collaborating with Patti, his wife (ala Double Fantasy)? Can his kids play yet (remember Old Skull)? He could get back to his roots--amazingly, he's never done that before (perhaps to his credit, but it sure worked for McCartney). Or duet with Ed Hamell. The possibilities are much more open than he may think.

Back to Bob Evans. I said my piece (see above). One of our guests turned to the other and said, "I don't feel like sharing right now...we'll talk when we get home." Pissed my ass off--nobody can disagree anymore, and they don't know what they're missing. True argument is the road to enlightenment. Perhaps Bruce won a new fan--albiet a 25-year-old that wasn't familiar with him in 2000. Where's she been? Is it unfair to expect the former "future of rock and roll" to at least function in the present, even if he is still donating major proceeds to our country's food banks? Doesn't he look in the mirror and sometimes realize that he's fallen victim to Blue Oyster Cult Syndrome--becoming what he used to shake by the lapels? He used to hope he wouldn't sit around thinking about 'em, but all he seemed to be beseiging his audience with at this show was boring stories from his glory days.

Tubb: Flat but fantastic....

"Driftwood on the River"

Under the unfluence of Budweiser and struggling to grade Catcher in the Rye essay exams, I was caught short by Ernest Tubb's '40s honky-tonk classic, "Driftwood on the River." I'd programmed about 30 Tubb songs for Nicole and me so we could concentrate on edumacational stuff yet still enjoy toonage, and, though I'd heard this song several times, I was frankly amazed at how it dovetailed with my general life-state. Tubb had one of those early country vocal styles where you say, "Hell, I could sing that," then you try and fail (to hear a successful attempt, listen to Merle Haggard's autumnal The Way I Am). His best stuff is warm and real--where in today's country music can you hear a regular guy's voice just soulfully putting across home truths of life? Here's the complete lyrics:

DRIFTWOOD ON THE RIVER

I'M JUST DRIFTWOOD ON THE RIVER FLOWING DOWN THE TIDE
I DON'T CARE WHERE THIS OLD RIVER CARRIES ME
I KEEP DRIFTING JUST BECAUSE MY HEART IS BROKEN INSIDE
AND I'M TIRED OF WISHING FOR WHAT CANNOT BE.

I MAY MEET A BIT OF DRIFTWOOD LOST THE SAME AS I
SHARE A HANDSHAKE AND A TENDER TEAR OR TWO
BUT IT'S JUST GOOD LUCK, PAL, WE'VE GOT TO SAY GOODBYE
I MUST WANDER ON TO KEEP MY RENDEZVOUS.

THOUGH I DRIFT THROUGH TOWN AND CITY, I CAN NEVER STAY
'TIL I FIND A PLACE TO CALL MY HOME SWEET HOME
I DON'T ASK FOR HELP OR PITY, I JUST GO MY WAY
I JUST PRAY FOR PEACE TO DRIFT AND DREAM ALONE.

I'M JUST DRIFTWOOD ON THE RIVER AND I'M DRIFTIN ON
'TIL THE WEARY RIVER MEETS THE DEEP BLUE SEA
WHERE THE DEEP BLUE SEA MAY HELP ME TO FORGET SOMEONE
JUST THE CARELESS ONE WHO HAS FORGOTTEN ME.

IN MY HEART I DON'T FEEL BITTER OVER WHAT HAS BEEN
I FEEL SORRY FOR THE ONE I MUST FORGET
AND INSTEAD OF BEING SOMEONE WITH THE WORLD TO WIN
I'M JUST DRIFTWOOD ON THE RIVER OF REGRET.

Deep, or what?

"The Velvet Fog" Can Envelope Your Family

The Parents

It's always a challenge when I'm on a trip with my parents and I want us all to enjoy music along the way. I met the challenge this weekend on a drive to Hannibal, Missouri with Mom, Dad, and my wife Nicole. With the possible exception of the post-'65 model George Jones, has a squarer-looking individual ever been blessed with more euphonious pipes than Mel Torme? I found myself totally riveted--to the extent that I wasn't even hearing conversation or really seeing the road (and I was driving!) by Torme's versions of "Born to Be Blue," "A Stranger in Town," "'Round Midnight," and "Blue and Sentimental," from Verve's Compact Jazz comp. The man wasn't nicknamed "The Velvet Fog" for nothing! "Born to Be Blue" in particular is a performance where Torme seems to be able to add the audio version of soft focus to his interpretation to add a deeper layer of meaning to the fairly corny lyrics; it's hard to imagine even Sinatra topping it. Another highlight of the trip was the second disc of Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Duke Ellington Songbook (also on Verve), on which Ella's vocals ride the tricky rhythmic ripples of Ellington's compositions like a state-of-the art kayak, with Stuff Smith's sedutive violin and Ben Webster's breathy, lusty tenor sax following every contour and shift. She also duets with guitarist Barney Kessel on stark versions of "Solitude," "In a Sentimental Mood," and "Azure" that are brief sand-bar respites under a shining--but very blue--moon. On the return trip, I managed to squeeze in the recent budget-priced 2-Lps-on-1-disc reissue of Willie Nelson's early-'80s duet albums with soon-to-be-departed legends Webb Pierce and Hank Snow (In the Jailhouse Now and Brand on My Heart, respectively, on Sony Music Digital Compact Classics). Not a single merely good track out of 20, and "In the Jailhouse Now," "I Don't Care," "Heebie Jeebie Blues" (with Pierce), "I've Been Everywhere, "Carribean," "Golden Rocket," and "Brand on My Heart (with Snow) surpass the original versions. It's simply miraculous to hear three cagey old singers with very little in the natural gifts department think their way through these old chestnuts. I was gratified repeatedly throughout the trip when Dad was moved to pick up the cases of all three of these discs and peruse them carefully. Anybody else have some sure-fires to recommend for parent weekends?

And another thing....

My buddy Mark Anthony (former webmaster of Nashville's The Rawk and bassmaster of the Creeping Cruds) has a theory that the shittier the political times, the better the music produced by those times. Thinking about CCR's best work, which articulated the joys, sorrows, and frustrations of the regular guy (not to say the poor man, really), you'd think there'd be current artists articulating the same now, but the most recent slab o' music coming over the musical horizon, The Future Soundtrack of America, just voices the, uh, semi-elite upper middle class (Bright Eyes, Fountains of Wayne, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Death Cab for Cutie) whining--nice as it sometimes is--about the stumblin' state of the union. After hearing it, and basically enjoying it, I got to thinking, is this what the ideal alternative is? Nah. So...anybody want to weigh in and prove Mr. Anthony's theory by selecting undeniable platters from 2000-2004? I'm betting you can't.

John Fogerty--What happened?

Cranked up CCR's Willy and the Poorboys today (more fallout from the Cobain book--one of the photos shows a messy ol' rockpad of Kurt's with a Creedence record sticking out of a crate), having programmed its great lost threesome ("It Came Out of the Sky," "Don't Look Now," and "Effigy"), I began musing on the great Fogerty quandary: where did that lyrical edge go? A few decent toons came after Willy, but his first two solo albums of the '70s were almost all covers (not badly rendered at all, especially the Charms' "Hearts of Stone"), and since the overrated "comeback" of Centerfield he's really been good for, well, nothing...other than cannibalizing his old group's inimitable musical style. Fogerty's writing genius seemed so uncomplicated that, as long as regular guys kept getting screwed, he could last for ever--especially with that voice. And with the resurgence of roots-rock over the past 20 years or so, you'd think he would have been inspired, regenerated, nay, compelled into relevant action. Haven't heard the ominously titled Deja Vu All Over Again yet, but the man ranks up there with Sly Stone, Rod Stewart, and Johnny Rotten as guys with prodigious gifts who just...lost 'em. Maybe getting disconnected from the band rattled him out of his rhythm, or maybe the band contributed the special fuse that made the machine really hum. Or maybe (excepting Johnny Boy) there was something about '72-'73 that took it out of these guys. Any theories out there?

"Time held me green and dying...." (the blogger at 20, under the influence of wine, Black Flag, the Razorbacks, and the tutelage of Mark Anthony)

In easier days....

Nirvana Fixation

Just finished Charles Cross' Heavier than Heaven. Initially asked myself, "How much do I need to know about Kurt Cobain?" Had already read Mike Azerrad's Come as You Are and tons of articles and such, but came across a review of the Cross bio that made it seem pretty tantalizing. Finished it in about a week (365 pages--I teach during the day and plan and read school stuff at night, so that's tells you how compelled I was), and I'd say it's the literary version of Cobain's scarifying howl through "Where Did You Sleep Last Night?" on Unplugged. You come away wondering how many little kids are as deeply psychologically wounded like Cobain, how long they carry it, and how in hell they cope. Not to say the author explains it all away that way; it's just as likely, I suppose, that the guy was fatally self-involved. But you'll be hurt yourself when you follow the story arc of a kid who wouldn't go to bed because he had so much fun being with Mom and Dad who grew up to so desperately court death in his final weeks you're afraid to turn the next page. Also, if you're like me, you may come away with a new appreciation (and almost certainly a different perspective) on Courtney Love. I'm convinced she didn't have anything to do at all, even psychologically, with his death. In fact, if it hadn't been for her, he'd have kicked the bucket after the first SNL gig. The ultimate compliment I can extend to Cross is the book literally drove me into a Nirvana listening fixation that has just gotten deeper since I finished the book last night. It's hard to believe we're already 15 years past their big moment, but, I'm telling you, the shit holds up--naw, it's grown. As I've listened from Bleach through a bunch of rarities and outtakes I cadged from the Internet, I've found myself constructing Robert Johnson analogies. Driven, tortured, naked yet fascinatingly allusive in their writing, frighteningly intense in their singing, and possessed of a self-effacing gallows sense of humor, they most certainly must be fellow travellers now. I hope some of my student rockers will read this book, because there's a bit of a Nirvana backlash snaking through the ranks ("shitty guitar player," "lyrics are stupid," "self-involved junkie," and "sell-out" are the common--and, for three of the four, ignant--complaints). I'm not sure reading this will change their minds. But it will enlighten them regarding the man's complexity.