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.