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December 30, 2005
The Year in Music, Part 1
Despite 2005 being a year of financial fear and loathing, I seem to have managed to acquire quite a few CDs. So I figure I might as well write about them. I may be able to use them as a deduction.
Today’s selections are two albums that just seem to go together: Gimme Fiction by Spoon and Get Behind Me, Satan by the White Stripes. They share, for one thing, a color scheme; Gimme Fiction’s cover could just as well be the cover of a White Stripes album, which by law may contain only red, black, and white. They also share a certain dryness of sound, which comes across as perversely retrograde in the digital era, and a reliance on piano on the low end. And while I can’t call either one a bona fide classic at this point, both hint at depths that may reveal themselves more fully in the future.
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Spoon
Gimme Fiction
After years of being intrigued by the occasional Spoon song, I finally decided to take the plunge on their latest album. All the signs were right: great cover, great title, great song titles. Did I mention the great cover? This is one of those that makes you yearn for the age of vinyl, that brings you at least three dollars worth of pleasure before you even open it. But sooner or later the shrinkwrap comes off and the moment of truth arrives. Or the moment of fiction, as it were.
Gimme Fiction leads off powerfully with “The Beast and Dragon, Adored,” an all-time great opening track: slow-burning, majestically taut, suggesting infinite potential. The rest of the album doesn’t quite live up to the promise, but then again it’s hard to see how it could have. There are numerous highlights, including “The Two Sides of Monsieur Valentin,” “I Turn My Camera On,” and “The Delicate Place.” Even “My Mathematical Mind,” which was never a favorite, sounded damn good when I heard it at the cafe down the street today.The problem is that all these songs put together tend toward the monochromatic; it’s all dark gray, all unresolved tension. And while there’s definitely something sexy about so much tension, it translates to foreplay with no payoff. Which is OK, I guess, if that’s what you’re into. But for me personally, Gimme Fiction is likely to be more valuable as mix fodder than as an entity unto itself.
Still, I have to admit, if I ever wrote something as great as “The Beast and Dragon, Adored,” it should be a cause for very great—possibly terminal—celebration. So I don’t expect the boys in the band to lose any sleep over what I have to say.
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The White Stripes
Get Behind Me, Satan
Jack and Meg’s latest isn’t as viscerally satisfying as Elephant; there’s nothing here on par with the primal stomp of “Ball and Biscuit,” for instance. But give the White kids credit: They’re not afraid to risk alienating their audience by trying something new instead of just making the same album over and over again. Satan finds the White Stripes exploring some odd corners of their own musical universe, and if I can’t always wholeheartedly get behind it, at least it’s never boring.
As if to ease the listener into this new world, Satan opens with “Blue Orchid,” a relatively straightforward rocker—albeit one with an undercurrent of unsettling drum rolls and guitars distorted to just this side of the pain threshold. From there it just keeps taking left turns, keeping you constantly disoriented. Many of the songs have a recognizable twang or swing, but it’s always a little off; the phrasing or the rhythm are warped somehow, or unexpected sounds suddenly pop up in the mix.
Some of the strangeness may come from the instrumentation, which de-emphasizes electric guitars in favor of marimba, sustain-heavy piano, and the occasional acoustic guitar. This opens up a lot of space in the sound, giving the shadows a place to creep in. When they bring the noise again in “Instinct Blues” or “Red Rain,” it comes as a shock to the system, and one is tempted to flee.
Or it could be the lyrics, which center around loneliness, ghosts, color imagery, and Rita Hayworth. I’m not quite sure what Jack White is trying to get at here, but the vibe is that of the itinerant rural preacher, or the sinister carny; something to do with moonshine whiskey and funhouse mirrors. It’s Night of the Hunter with Robert Mitchum, or the midget from Twin Peaks. Yeah, that’s the ticket: If David Lynch was a rock band in 2005, he would be the White Stripes. The result isn’t always pretty, but you can’t look away.
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December 28, 2005
Vigoda Outlives Another One
I am saddened to report that we recently lost one of the great character actors, Vincent Schiavelli, who died of lung cancer on Dec. 26.
You may think that you don’t know who Vincent Schiavelli was, but you’re wrong. Study the photo above and you’ll recognize him from such movies as One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, and Night Shift (or from such lesser work as Death to Smoochy, 3 Ninjas Knuckle Up, or The Gong Show Movie). He also had an extensive TV resume, including an especially memorable role as Latka and Simka’s priest on “Taxi.”
Because of his lopsided looks and size (nearly 6-foot-6), Schiavelli was generally cast as weirdoes and heavies. In real life, he was something of a renaissance man, equally renowned for his skills as a chef as for his acting. A few factoids from IMDB:
• In 2001, he received the James Beard Journalism Award.
• His grandfather, whom he grew up with, was a cook for an Italian baron before moving to the United States.
• His character Peter Panama on “The Corner Bar” (1972) was the first sustained gay character on American network television.
So long, Vincent. We shan’t see your like again.
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December 23, 2005
The Ache in Spades
There’s a quality in certain music that I like to call the Ache. Those who have a gift for it can express all the delicious complexity of human life—the love, the loss, the longing, and all those things starting with “L”—in a three- or four-minute song. Sinatra had it. Billie Holliday had it, and Hank Williams, just off the top of my head.
I’m in the mood for the Ache these days, so it’s a damn good thing I recently acquired the 4-CD boxed set called The Immortal Soul of Al Green. Al has the Ache in spades. It’s only one of his modes, of course, alongside the preacher and the swaggering sex god. But when Al really reaches for the Ache on a song like “Simply Beautiful”…well, time stops, space disappears. It’s magic.
I can’t think of any other singer in whom the different kinds of love are so intermingled. Romantic love, sexual love, love of God, love of life—with Al there’s no strict line between them, they’re all coming from the same wellspring. The Reverend is just so full of love that if he didn’t express it he would explode, showering everyone in the vicinity with viscous, sticky love juice.
But I did not sit down today to write about Al Green’s love juice. Resuming my belated discussion of some of the best albums of 2004,* I’d like to look at three modern-day practitioners of the Ache.
*(That’s not a typo. I’m a year behind. So sue me.)
Beulah
Yoko
I first learned about Beulah when I worked with one of the guys in the band a few years back. I picked up their 2001 album The Coast Is Never Clear just to hear what they sounded like, expecting it to be lame, which is what happens 95% of the time when you meet people in bands. Imagine my surprise, then, to discover that I didn’t just like it, I loved it. (Please read that last phrase to yourself in a Gene Shalit voice.) In fact it’s become an all-time favorite.
Yoko is the follow-up, and also by design their last release before breaking up (hence the title). It’s a smaller album than The Coast Is Never Clear—only 10 songs, but each one is a highly polished little gem, making this a nearly perfect listening experience. Beulah are (were) masters at deploying sunny melodies, noisy guitars, and ingenious arrangements in service of a melancholy agenda, and the Ache factor here is amplified by the foreknowledge of the band’s demise. Which seems a bit premature, in all honesty. This is a great swan song, but I think I speak for all the listeners when I say: Boys, we’re willing to forget that the whole thing ever happened and buy your next album.
Air
Talkie Walkie
Times sure do change. I never thought I’d find myself heaping praise on a mostly electronic album by a couple of stubble-wearing Frenchies, but I cannot tell a lie—this is great stuff. The French as a people have a special affinity for the Ache, and Talkie Walkie is dripping with it from the opening notes.
I have to deduct a couple of points for spotty English accents, but at least they do have the courtesy to sing in English most of the time. The best song might be the instrumental “Alpha Beta Gaga,” which combines banjo, whistling, and synthesizers into something almost ridiculously catchy. Then again it might be “Surfing on a Rocket,” which is so damn good that I’m going to go into the other room and put it on right now.
Martina Topley-Bird
Anything
This album by Tricky’s ex-muse/collaborator/babymama is way better than anything the Trickster himself has done in the last nine years. In fact it’s quite possibly the best album of 2004, one of those that grows on you every time you hear it, just keeps getting better and better.
Anything opens with the title track, an epic, swoony, Aching love ballad that’s worth the price of admission by itself. From there Martina jumps around to numerous styles, and is never less than completely successful at any of them. “Need One” is an honest-to-God rock song with electric guitars and a soaring chorus, and “Soul Food” is neo-soul worthy of Macy Gray at her most coherent. “Ilya” and “Sandpaper Kisses” are good old-fashioned trip-hop circa 1995—and I say, what’s wrong with 1995?
Speaking of which, Tricky makes an appearance on a skittery drum’n’bass number called “Ragga.” The redoubtable David Holmes also turns up, lending his production talents to the swaggering “Too Tough to Die.” And then the album closes out with another heartbreaker, the bittersweet “Lullaby.”
So what are unifying elements to all this? Well, excellent songwriting—and I’m talking actual, musical songwriting here, not just cut’n’paste stuff—crafty instrumentation, and razor-sharp production. And of course Martina’s voice, which is a true wonderment, matching the Ache of Billie Holliday to the raw power of Aretha Franklin. Is that possible? Am I nuts? Have a listen for yourself and find out.
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December 21, 2005
Fu: Winter Solstice, Awakening
The pulsing of thunder deep down in the earth is hardly noticeable.
The circle is closed. The end and the beginning meet one another in the winter solstice. The thunder, hidden in the earth, indicates that movement is coming. It cannot yet be heard, only felt. So it is also with the return of light, symbolized by the strong bottom line. Days are lengthening again, but this is noticeable only after the seventh day.
Fu is about the triumph of life, created by the interaction of heaven and earth. Light will always defeat darkness, which is why progress will be guaranteed with every movement.
The wise rulers of the past interrupted all activity on this day. This is a time of silent awakening.
-Frits Blok, I Ching: A Spiritual Guide, Chapter 24
(For another interpretation of hexagram 24, see the Pink Floyd’s Piper at the Gates of Dawn.)
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December 16, 2005
The War on Christmas Music
There’s a lot to like about the holiday season: time spent with family and friends, plentiful food and drink, groovy twinkling lights. But one thing I hate about it, and don’t seem to be able to avoid, is Christmas music.
My policy on this is very simple. If it’s a holiday, then it’s meant to be celebrated and enjoyed, and that means listening to good music, not sucky music that happens to be seasonally appropriate. There is holiday-themed music that doesn’t suck, but not much; “Blue Christmas” by Elvis Presley, Louis Armstrong’s version of “Winter Wonderland,” and precious few others make my list. Of course you can get into the parody or anti-Christmas genres—or you can listen to “Santa Doesn’t Cop Out on Dope” six or seven times—but on the whole I’d rather just forget the whole thing and listen to whatever I’m going to enjoy the most.
With that in mind, I’m thinking I’m going to spend some time focusing on the year’s best music. But first, I’d like to talk about a few albums from 2004 that I was a little late in gaining appreciation for.
The Blues Explosion
Damage
On their last album, Plastic Fang, the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion sounded tired. There were a couple of great songs, but for the most part it sounded like they’d run out of ideas and fallen back on the old Rolling Stones playbook.
So when I saw that they had released Damage—with their name now truncated to just the Blues Explosion—I was not optimistic. Fortunately, I was wrong. It is an authoritative, you might even say startling, return to form for a band that we really need. Because despite their name, and despite their fondness for hip-hop and electronica, the Blues Explosion are a good old-fashioned rock band at heart. The world needs a few of those around—and real, living rock bands, not just nostalgia acts.
Songs like the title track, “Burn It Off,” and “Mars, Arizona” are as satisfyingly noisy as anything the Blues X has ever recorded. The carnage is set off nicely by a few slower songs, and even the anti-war song (“Hot Gossip”) is pretty good. (When even Jon Spencer feels obligated to write a political song, you know things must be bad.)
With their mentor R.L. Burnside having passed away this year, the Blues Explosion are now elder statesmen of a sort. If this album is any indication, they are ready to rock into old age with youthful vigor.
Camper Van Beethoven
New Roman Times
Camper Van Beethoven split up back in…1990 I think it was. Very long ago, by certain ways of reckoning. On the 10-point scale of acrimonious rock-band breakups, this one was at least an 8, so it was quite surprising when they started playing together a couple years ago, and doubly surprising when they announced they were recording a new album. A concept album, no less; the idea frightened me, and that’s why I couldn’t bring myself to buy New Roman Times for many months after it came out.
Surprise, surprise: It’s excellent. Camper plays rock’n’roll (“The Long Plastic Hallway”); they play country music that references Twin Peaks (“That Gum You Like Is Back in Style”); they play that crazy world music they always loved so much (“The Poppies of Balmorhea”); they cover Steve Reich’s “Come Out.” They do it all, and they do it with confidence, style and—what’s that word, now?—élan.
Sure, the concept of the album is pretty loose and hard to follow. It’s probably just as well. I am led to believe that the story ends badly, but puzzling that out from the textual evidence would require a highly developed sense of irony. And irony is so 1990.
To be continued
…
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December 4, 2005
And now, a brief seasonal message
I recently came across this piece, which beautifully sums up how I feel about Christmas, in the pages of Playboy magazine, of all things. I bought it because it had Marilyn Monroe on the cover. I have very little interest in the fake plastic women that populate the magazine’s pages these days, so after Marilyn I found myself reading the articles.
Anyway, it is entitled “A Christmas Sermon” and was written by the agnostic thinker and speaker Robert Ingersoll in 1981. I recommend that you print it out, put it in your wallet, and pull it out and read it whenever holiday stress starts to get you down.
The good part of Christmas is not always Christian; it is generally pagan—that is to say, human, natural.
Christianity did not come with tidings of great joy but with a message of eternal grief. It came with the threat of everlasting torture on its lips. It meant war on Earth and perdition hereafter.
It taught some good things—the beauty of love and kindness in man. But as a torchbearer, as a bringer of joy, it has been a failure. It has given infinite consequences to the acts of finite beings, crushing the soul with a responsibility too great for mortals to bear. It has filled the future with fear and flame and made God the keeper of an eternal penitentiary, destined to be the home of nearly all the sons of men.
Long before Christ was born the Sun God triumphed over the powers of darkness. About the time that we call Christmas the days began perceptibly to lengthen. Our barbarian ancestors were worshippers of the sun, and they celebrated his victory over the hosts of night. Such a festival was natural and beautiful. The most natural of all religions is the worship of the sun. Christianity adopted this festival. It borrowed from the pagans the best it has.
I believe in Christmas and in every day that has been set apart for joy. We in America have too much work and not enough play. We are too much like the English.
I think it was Heinrich Heine who said that he thought a blaspheming Frenchman was a more pleasing object to God than a praying Englishman. We take our joys too sadly. I am in favor of all the good free days—the more the better.
Christmas is a good day to forgive and forget—a good day to throw away prejudices and hatreds—a good day to fill your heart and your house, and the hearts and houses of others, with sunshine.
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December 1, 2005
NaNoWriMo Wrapup
Even though I broke all of NaNoWriMo’s rules, and didn’t come anywhere near their desired word count, I’m going to go ahead and call November a success—because progress was made, and that’s all I care about.
I had forgotten how hard it is to write fiction (or semifiction, anyway); you have to like, make stuff up, and that takes time. When it goes poorly, it’s like pulling teeth; but when it goes well, it definitely improves the day.
Anyway, if anyone is interested in seeing the story continued, I’d like to hear from you. And be honest, because at this rate it’ll probably take me five more years to finish, and I’d just as soon not be bothered. Muchos gracias, anyway, if you’ve been reading.
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