To many parents out there, Dan Zanes is a life-saver. He records music for kids that doesn't incite feelings of violence. His rock and roll pedigree, lead singer of the well-loved Boston rag tag roots rockers The Del Fuegos, is more nightlife than day care center. His albums for kids don't spring from some focus group idea of high pitched giggle shit. It sounds like a tired rock and roll singer trying to get through the day by entertaining his kids the only way he knows how.
Obviously I relate.
For several months in 2002, Cash and I were obsessed with a couple of his albums. I also knew that he lived in Park Slope and did much of his recording there. This added a sense of connection to the music for both of us. We had They Might Be Giants recording under Cashel's bedroom and Dan Zanes right down the street somewhere!
The songs he chose were very evocative for me as they were songs my mother had often sung to us on her guitar. For a woman who claims to prefer silence, she sure is a crack musician. 'Erie Canal', 'Oh Susanna', 'Wabash Cannonball'...these ancient folk songs are inextricably tied to my childhood.
The Dan Zanes recordings are loose and easy. People laugh in the background, he talks to the other musicians, it feels like a hootenanny. His voice is a bit bland which ultimately keeps these from being in the canon of great music, but it certainly kills The Wiggles without breaking a sweat.
I heard that Dan Zanes and Friends would be appearing at, of all places, Warsaw. I got tickets ASAP.
What a strange scene it was. A beautiful sunny Sunday Williamsburg morning. Still a bit bleary eyed and clutching Starbucks cups, the parents all seemed a bit sheepish, as if their split personalities were now uncomfortably facing each other in a mirror. One went out to rock clubs like this AT NIGHT and got drunk and danced and sweated and swore. The other pushed a stroller, changed diapers, tried to shoehorn everyday experience into lessons and character builiding, and wondered who the hell let them be in charge of another human being.
Maybe that was just me.
Cash was still more at ease with adults at this point. He could carry on an in-depth conversation about any number of things, but he had difficulty connecting with other kids. When we came onto the ballroom floor, the noise was defeaning. Little beings darted back and forth tackling each other, falling down, hurting themselves, hurting each other, generally creating a ruckus. If Cash had been a turtle, you'd have seen nothing but his shell.
Soon Dan Zanes took the stage. He wore a white suit and his hair semed suspended by wires. His presence was much like on the albums, relaxed, good natured, almost opaque. He had a small band with him to fill in the blanks.
The stage is raised about waist high. For a good portion of the show, Cash knelt directly up against the wood, invisible to the musicians on stage. Kids on either side of him stood on tiptoe to try and join in. Not Cash. He giggled back at me, acknowledging that he was being a goofball but still too overwhelmed to truly give over.
I feared for him at that moment. What if he was always once removed from what he witnessed? What if he never felt the ecstasy and release that I'd found through music?
After a few minutes of this, I was able to let it go. Why? I wish I could say it was out of some philosophical attitude. Nope. It hit me that Dan Zanes wasn't THAT great. The other kids would have reacted that way if they'd been at Chuck E Cheese. They were just that type of kid.
Don't get me wrong...Cash enjoyed himself and the music. But it wouldn't be until he saw John Williams at The Hollywood Bowl three years later that he would be swept away. And John Williams deserved it.
We actually had more fun wandering around Williamsburg after the show. Lesson learned.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Onomatopeia: More Morphine, Please
According to Wiktionary, onomatopeia is defined thusly: the coining of a word in imitation of a sound.
This word has always fascinated me. The idea that our language would create words that approximate the thing itself seems crude and brilliant at the same time.
Today I write about Morphine. Now, I've never taken morphine. As far as I know, the drug doesn't make a sound. So the creation of the word does not provide an example of onomatopeian influence.
But then there is the band. For the uninitiated, what follows is a brief history of one of the most unique sounds you'll ever come across.
There was a Boston blues band called Treat Her Right. They had two singer/songwriters who traded off leading the band. They weren't the kind of blues band that takes up residence at your local bar and pounds 'Mustang Sally' to death and put colorful handkerchiefs in their vest pockets. No, the vibe was much more underground rock/punk but the sound was clearly a blues sound.
If you've never heard of Treat Her Right don't sweat it. I grew up in Rhode Island and never heard of them. They broke up before they could make much of a dent.
While in college I started hearing bizarre tales about this band called Morphine. The lineup was as follows...
They were a trio. The lead singer played a TWO STRING BASS. He simply took the higher two strings off of the bass. Saxophone player. Drummer. A power trio??? With no guitar??? Only two strings??? What the hell were these guys thinking?
The lead singer/bass player's name was Mark Sandman. Sandman? Are you kidding me? He truly seems to embody the name. His music is a call to dreams.
And then there was the name. The drug morhpine had held a curious fascination for me ever since I'd played a morphine addict in a high school production of 'A Hatful of Rain'. It semed to come from ancient times. The idea of injecting myself with anything has always been abhorrent to me but I can't deny that I suffer from the romanticization of this particular drug. The music Morphine began releasing did nothing to change that.
If you've never heard Morhpine I would rather you stop reading right now and go out and purchase some of it. It doesn't matter which album you buy, they are all outstanding.
How can such limited instrumentation sound so full? Full to bursting? I've been listening to Morhpine for almost 20 years now and I still can't figure it out.
Mark Sandman died onstage in Italy in 1999. I was lucky enough to have seen them in concert while I lived in Providence in the early '90's. I saw them at Lupo's Heartbreak Hotel which isn't my favorite club of all time (I've already written about The Living Room) but it is still quite special.
The lights went down so low you had a hard time seeing your hand in front of your face. Then this deep rumbling started slowly rollicking from the two strings left on Sandman's bass. The drums thundered softly behind. Then the sax drifted in on top, distorted into some strange psychic broadcast. At one point the sax player played two saxophones at once, each filtered through effects pedals so they were clearly distinct.
Now, as I stated earlier, I've never taken morphine. But this performance was narcotic. I stood there in the dark unable to move. I could barely think. It was as if simply naming themselves Morphine had given their music hallucinogenic properties.
Onomatopeia. The word 'morphine' doesn't sound like what happens in your brain on morphine but I'm pretty sure Morhpine does.
This word has always fascinated me. The idea that our language would create words that approximate the thing itself seems crude and brilliant at the same time.
Today I write about Morphine. Now, I've never taken morphine. As far as I know, the drug doesn't make a sound. So the creation of the word does not provide an example of onomatopeian influence.
But then there is the band. For the uninitiated, what follows is a brief history of one of the most unique sounds you'll ever come across.
There was a Boston blues band called Treat Her Right. They had two singer/songwriters who traded off leading the band. They weren't the kind of blues band that takes up residence at your local bar and pounds 'Mustang Sally' to death and put colorful handkerchiefs in their vest pockets. No, the vibe was much more underground rock/punk but the sound was clearly a blues sound.
If you've never heard of Treat Her Right don't sweat it. I grew up in Rhode Island and never heard of them. They broke up before they could make much of a dent.
While in college I started hearing bizarre tales about this band called Morphine. The lineup was as follows...
They were a trio. The lead singer played a TWO STRING BASS. He simply took the higher two strings off of the bass. Saxophone player. Drummer. A power trio??? With no guitar??? Only two strings??? What the hell were these guys thinking?
The lead singer/bass player's name was Mark Sandman. Sandman? Are you kidding me? He truly seems to embody the name. His music is a call to dreams.
And then there was the name. The drug morhpine had held a curious fascination for me ever since I'd played a morphine addict in a high school production of 'A Hatful of Rain'. It semed to come from ancient times. The idea of injecting myself with anything has always been abhorrent to me but I can't deny that I suffer from the romanticization of this particular drug. The music Morphine began releasing did nothing to change that.
If you've never heard Morhpine I would rather you stop reading right now and go out and purchase some of it. It doesn't matter which album you buy, they are all outstanding.
How can such limited instrumentation sound so full? Full to bursting? I've been listening to Morhpine for almost 20 years now and I still can't figure it out.
Mark Sandman died onstage in Italy in 1999. I was lucky enough to have seen them in concert while I lived in Providence in the early '90's. I saw them at Lupo's Heartbreak Hotel which isn't my favorite club of all time (I've already written about The Living Room) but it is still quite special.
The lights went down so low you had a hard time seeing your hand in front of your face. Then this deep rumbling started slowly rollicking from the two strings left on Sandman's bass. The drums thundered softly behind. Then the sax drifted in on top, distorted into some strange psychic broadcast. At one point the sax player played two saxophones at once, each filtered through effects pedals so they were clearly distinct.
Now, as I stated earlier, I've never taken morphine. But this performance was narcotic. I stood there in the dark unable to move. I could barely think. It was as if simply naming themselves Morphine had given their music hallucinogenic properties.
Onomatopeia. The word 'morphine' doesn't sound like what happens in your brain on morphine but I'm pretty sure Morhpine does.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Viva Dead Ponies: Long Lost Masterpiece
While in France I picked up a copy of an album called 'Viva Dead Ponies' by Fatima Mansions. Fatima Mansions take their name from a housing project in Dublin built in the 1950's. By all accounts, the place is a nightmare.
I seem to recall having a long distance phone talk with my Dad from France where he told me where the name came from. I hadn't heard the group before I bought it so I was running blind. I do this occasionally, buying something solely on the aesthetics of the packaging. I've made a couple of great discoveries and just as many duds. This is by far the best shot in the dark I ever took.
'Viva Dead Ponies' is almost impossible to take in. Stylistically it refuses to be pinned down, '80's synth throwing itself into the gnawing buzz saw of '90's distorted guitar, Irish tenor crooning suddenly dashed upon the rocks of nihilistic punk bellow. Cathal Coughlan, lead singer/songwriter/visionary, takes us on a tour of modern Dublin and it is terrifying.
Here is a track list.
1. Angel's Delight (4:32)
2. Concrete Block (0:16)
3. Mr. Baby (2:53)
4. The Door-to-Door Inspector (4:13)
5. Start The Week (0:25)
6. You're A Rose (3:31)
7. Legoland 3 (0:27)
8. Thursday (3:38)
9. Ceaucescu Flashback (0:13)
10. Broken Radio No.1 (4:38)
11. Concrete Block (0:27)
12. Farewell Oratorio (0:59)
13. Look What I Stole For Us, Darling (3:05)
14. The White Knuckle Express (04:15)
15. Chemical Cosh (01:42)
16. Tima Mansio Speaks (0:17)
17. A Pack Of Lies (02:52)
18. Viva Dead Ponies (05:13)
19. More Smack, Vicar (0:52)
I lost my copy of the album somehwere along the line and it went out of print. Melody tracked it down on eBay and bought it for me. Someday I might have to dedicate a daily post for each of the above songs.
For now I'm going to concentrate on 'You're A Rose', 'A Pack of Lies', and 'Viva Dead Ponies'.
'You're A Rose' is reminiscent of a Bruce Springsteen song played by Duran Duran wasted in a pub. Lyrically it is filled with the kind of paradoxes that litter the landscape of the album. The singer praises his lover for being a 'rose in a crown of thorns' but as the music mounts he describes her attributes as if they are contained in some laundry list of atrocity...
'You don't mind the queues, the burning trains
The squalid, mute despair
You don't mind deceiving lovers
You ignore the stinking air
Well, now accept you're just a person
Not the touchstone, not the face
of the ages past, their grandeur
and the death-wish of the Master Race
You're a rose'
The pop majesty of the backing track makes for very strange listening. It is one of those pounding anthems of love and devotion that are the backbone of rock and roll. But look a bit closer and Cathal Coughlan eviscerates what stands for loyalty and commitment in 3 minutes of sing-along depravity.
'A Pack of Lies' uses a rolling trill of a piano riff to give us a false sense of security. As this confection bubbles, Coughlan tells the story of a dying woman seduced into a marriage by a foreigner. He brings her back to his homeland and leaves her to die chained to a railing on the ferry. Returning to her country he is now exalted and held up as a leader. The song ends thusly...
'The moral of this story is: This land's a victim-farm
Don't you ever feed a beggar here, he'll eat your fucking arm
and don't blaspheme the strong ones if you want to stay alive
Now smile and give them thanks when they say, "Here's a pack of lies!"'
All of this takes place over what vaguely resembles an Elton John/Bernie Taupin song stripped of all '70's bombast. The keyboard is ALMOST like a real piano, the voice swoons and growls, but all is contained and perfectly okay. In short, it sounds like a lie.
Except for the snippet 'More Smack, Vicar', 'Viva Dead Ponies' is the last straw on the broken back of the album. It is a desert howl funneled through a Dylanesque ghost town. As I listened, I connected it to a tradition. We'll call it the apocalyptic evil epic dirge. The Rolling Stones 'Sympathy for the Devil'. Guns 'n Roses 'Civil War'. The Bands 'The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down'.
These songs tend to have a sort of folk song quality to them. 'Viva Dead Ponies' is no exception. Built mainly around an acoustic guitar, you picture the singer on a cobblestone street with a battered hat upturned and empty. The instrumentation sounds like a hostile invasion, as if the modern world is encroaching upon the purer artistry of another time. I'll reprint these lyrics in full...
(Retail groceries...)
Do you know how Jesus feels
when he's behind his sportscar wheel
and the windscreen glass is all gummed up with blood?
Do you know how old Jesus feels?
For he walks the Earth again
but not in Mecca or in Jerusalem
No, he sells papers and beer in a shop in Crouch End [London, England]
For he walks the Earth again
So-
viva dead ponies
Come out and fight me
Viva dead ponies
Customers: Drop dead
I have switched the fridges off
and I will burn down this whole stinking shop
I will get drunk and I will break every little Islamical law
for I have switched the fridges off
So-
viva dead ponies
Come out and fight me
Viva dead ponies
Customers: Drop dead
"Haven't made love for a while.
It's the best way to make a child,"
said Jesus to the disciples. He then further said, "If you can't shift this crate of Brillo pads by Friday, vengeance will be mine!"
So viva dead ponies
You're afraid to fight me
Customers--pay what you owe!
Viva dead ponies
back from the circus
They lunched with Jesus
Fire in their noses all gone, all gone...
Sadly, Fatima Mansions broke up before I could ever see them live. They released several other albums, one of which I own. But something about this album in particular strikes me so deeply that it almost defies articulation. Cathal Coughlan's voice is an ungodly mix of rasp and velvet, brass and whisper. Nothing can be taken at face value. Almost relentlessly desperate and depressing lyrically, the music counteracts those valleys with almost maniacal heights of release.
If you give over and sing along, you feel as if you are tumbling down whatever walls of Jericho surround you. Only to come face to face with a new unnamed much higher wall. Built out of material you cannot recognize.
This is one for the time capsule.
I seem to recall having a long distance phone talk with my Dad from France where he told me where the name came from. I hadn't heard the group before I bought it so I was running blind. I do this occasionally, buying something solely on the aesthetics of the packaging. I've made a couple of great discoveries and just as many duds. This is by far the best shot in the dark I ever took.
'Viva Dead Ponies' is almost impossible to take in. Stylistically it refuses to be pinned down, '80's synth throwing itself into the gnawing buzz saw of '90's distorted guitar, Irish tenor crooning suddenly dashed upon the rocks of nihilistic punk bellow. Cathal Coughlan, lead singer/songwriter/visionary, takes us on a tour of modern Dublin and it is terrifying.
Here is a track list.
1. Angel's Delight (4:32)
2. Concrete Block (0:16)
3. Mr. Baby (2:53)
4. The Door-to-Door Inspector (4:13)
5. Start The Week (0:25)
6. You're A Rose (3:31)
7. Legoland 3 (0:27)
8. Thursday (3:38)
9. Ceaucescu Flashback (0:13)
10. Broken Radio No.1 (4:38)
11. Concrete Block (0:27)
12. Farewell Oratorio (0:59)
13. Look What I Stole For Us, Darling (3:05)
14. The White Knuckle Express (04:15)
15. Chemical Cosh (01:42)
16. Tima Mansio Speaks (0:17)
17. A Pack Of Lies (02:52)
18. Viva Dead Ponies (05:13)
19. More Smack, Vicar (0:52)
I lost my copy of the album somehwere along the line and it went out of print. Melody tracked it down on eBay and bought it for me. Someday I might have to dedicate a daily post for each of the above songs.
For now I'm going to concentrate on 'You're A Rose', 'A Pack of Lies', and 'Viva Dead Ponies'.
'You're A Rose' is reminiscent of a Bruce Springsteen song played by Duran Duran wasted in a pub. Lyrically it is filled with the kind of paradoxes that litter the landscape of the album. The singer praises his lover for being a 'rose in a crown of thorns' but as the music mounts he describes her attributes as if they are contained in some laundry list of atrocity...
'You don't mind the queues, the burning trains
The squalid, mute despair
You don't mind deceiving lovers
You ignore the stinking air
Well, now accept you're just a person
Not the touchstone, not the face
of the ages past, their grandeur
and the death-wish of the Master Race
You're a rose'
The pop majesty of the backing track makes for very strange listening. It is one of those pounding anthems of love and devotion that are the backbone of rock and roll. But look a bit closer and Cathal Coughlan eviscerates what stands for loyalty and commitment in 3 minutes of sing-along depravity.
'A Pack of Lies' uses a rolling trill of a piano riff to give us a false sense of security. As this confection bubbles, Coughlan tells the story of a dying woman seduced into a marriage by a foreigner. He brings her back to his homeland and leaves her to die chained to a railing on the ferry. Returning to her country he is now exalted and held up as a leader. The song ends thusly...
'The moral of this story is: This land's a victim-farm
Don't you ever feed a beggar here, he'll eat your fucking arm
and don't blaspheme the strong ones if you want to stay alive
Now smile and give them thanks when they say, "Here's a pack of lies!"'
All of this takes place over what vaguely resembles an Elton John/Bernie Taupin song stripped of all '70's bombast. The keyboard is ALMOST like a real piano, the voice swoons and growls, but all is contained and perfectly okay. In short, it sounds like a lie.
Except for the snippet 'More Smack, Vicar', 'Viva Dead Ponies' is the last straw on the broken back of the album. It is a desert howl funneled through a Dylanesque ghost town. As I listened, I connected it to a tradition. We'll call it the apocalyptic evil epic dirge. The Rolling Stones 'Sympathy for the Devil'. Guns 'n Roses 'Civil War'. The Bands 'The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down'.
These songs tend to have a sort of folk song quality to them. 'Viva Dead Ponies' is no exception. Built mainly around an acoustic guitar, you picture the singer on a cobblestone street with a battered hat upturned and empty. The instrumentation sounds like a hostile invasion, as if the modern world is encroaching upon the purer artistry of another time. I'll reprint these lyrics in full...
(Retail groceries...)
Do you know how Jesus feels
when he's behind his sportscar wheel
and the windscreen glass is all gummed up with blood?
Do you know how old Jesus feels?
For he walks the Earth again
but not in Mecca or in Jerusalem
No, he sells papers and beer in a shop in Crouch End [London, England]
For he walks the Earth again
So-
viva dead ponies
Come out and fight me
Viva dead ponies
Customers: Drop dead
I have switched the fridges off
and I will burn down this whole stinking shop
I will get drunk and I will break every little Islamical law
for I have switched the fridges off
So-
viva dead ponies
Come out and fight me
Viva dead ponies
Customers: Drop dead
"Haven't made love for a while.
It's the best way to make a child,"
said Jesus to the disciples. He then further said, "If you can't shift this crate of Brillo pads by Friday, vengeance will be mine!"
So viva dead ponies
You're afraid to fight me
Customers--pay what you owe!
Viva dead ponies
back from the circus
They lunched with Jesus
Fire in their noses all gone, all gone...
Sadly, Fatima Mansions broke up before I could ever see them live. They released several other albums, one of which I own. But something about this album in particular strikes me so deeply that it almost defies articulation. Cathal Coughlan's voice is an ungodly mix of rasp and velvet, brass and whisper. Nothing can be taken at face value. Almost relentlessly desperate and depressing lyrically, the music counteracts those valleys with almost maniacal heights of release.
If you give over and sing along, you feel as if you are tumbling down whatever walls of Jericho surround you. Only to come face to face with a new unnamed much higher wall. Built out of material you cannot recognize.
This is one for the time capsule.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Blame It On They Might Be Giants
I distinctly remember the first time They Might Be Giants crossed my radar. They released their debut album 'They Might Be Giants' in 1986 and their first single 'Don't Let's Start' actually caused quite a sensation on late night MTV.
My friend Mike (he of the U2 front row seats and Sonic Youth concert) had a long New Year's Eve party. It seemed to last a week and I got into a bit of trouble with my parents because I was gone for 3 days. And in high school. And I had the car. Oops.
We sat at Mike's house and listened to music and flirted with whatever girls were brave enough to show up and drank beer and watched tv. We were all several sheets to the wind when the weirdest little band we'd ever seen came popping out of that mass culture machine.
An edict was then imposed. MTV would remain on until we saw the video again. People took turns 'on watch', meaning they couldn't mingle with the rest of the partygoers or go to the bathroom. They had to watch for the video of 'Don't Let's Start'.
Great song, great video.
In a seemingly unrelated move in the summer of 1987, The Replacements released their masterpiece 'Pleased to Meet Me' which contained the single 'Alex Chilton'. Leave it to The Replacements to make their catchiest most radio ready song about an obscure cult musician who had recently been washing dishes in New Orleans. If this song had been called 'John Fogerty' or even 'Peter Frampton' it would have been a # 1 smash. Thank god it wasn't.
What does this tribute to Alex Chilton by The Replacements have to do with They Might Be Giants?
Well, in late 1987, They Might Be Giants released a tribute of their own called 'We're the Replacements'. This took the idea one step further and actually had a seed of approximation in the music. It sounded like The Replacements, in a goofy funny way. Lyrically it also aped The Replacements penchant for self-reference/deprecation.
Example:
'Hey where's Tommy? Someone find Tommy, we're out on the road
Moving equipment, where's the equipment, soon we're going home
Hi, we're The Replacements!'
Replete with a guttural scream right before the chorus, this song was perfect parody in that it took its subject seriously. I was thrilled that ANYONE was paying attention to The Replacements enough to immortalize them in song. It legitimized my ravings.
Later that summer, Justin and I were roving around the grounds of his rock and roll Colonial mansion armed with his acoustic guitar and some illicit plant material. We decided that we were going to return the favor to They Might Be Giants. We set about writing a song called, if memory serves me correctly, 'They Might Be Studebakers'. If Justin still has that scrap of paper lying around with these lyrics on it I will post them eventually. We had a tune and everything but I don't think we ever recorded this lost classic.
Time passes. I learn to play guitar in France because I need to be writing songs. I move to Providence, then New York, writing all along. The Replacements have long since broken up. Even today as I write this I must acknowledge that the reason I ever picked up a guitar in the first place was thanks to Paul Westerberg.
So I wrote my own ode. It is called 'Blame It On Paul' and these are the lyrics...
Blame It On Paul
Paul called all of the shots
Paul made all of the deals
Paul was the one who planned it all
Blame it on Paul
Paul was my man
Paul was my hero I guess
But if you asked Paul why he kept me around
He'd say to clean up that fucking mess
Always saying 'Clean up that fucking mess'
It was Paul's idea
It was Paul's baby right from the start
He didn't even tell me the goddamned plan
He just told me my little part
The pantyhose were tight on my head
I could barely see at all
And when the flashing lights arrived
I couldn't see Paul at all
Couldn't scale that son-of-a-bitchin' wall
I was Paul's right hand man
I guess you could say I was second in charge
I was the one who took the fall
Now that bastard's still at large
I said that bastard's still at large
So I blame it
Blame it on Paul
I blame it
Blame it on Paul
I blame it
Blame it on Paul
I blame it on Paul
Even though there is nothing in this song about They Might Be Giants or Alex Chilton or my best friend Justin, somehow it contains all of them for me. I've played this song at various shows over the years with very little in the way of explanation and it tickles me to see it taken at face value.
Again, time passes.
Brooklyn, 2001. My ex has a condo on Prospect Park in Park Slope. I live within walking distance. Maria (my ex) decides to try and rent out the basement space to an artist in the neighborhood. She doesn't need the space, it has a separate entrance, and it is an easy way to offset the cost of the mortgage. She writes a hand made sign and puts it on the little metal fence that serves as a gate to the basement.
Who comes walking by not 10 minutes later? John Linnell, one of the two Johns of They Might Be Giants. What do you know, he lives next door and needs a rehearsal/writing space? So within an hour They Might Be Giants is writing songs underneath my son's bedroom.
What are they in the process of finishing? 'NO!', their classic album of songs for kids. Or parents. It might be their finest moment and I got an advance copy handed me by Mr. Linnell himself.
Should I have taken him aside and made him listen to all of the above? Don't let's start.
My friend Mike (he of the U2 front row seats and Sonic Youth concert) had a long New Year's Eve party. It seemed to last a week and I got into a bit of trouble with my parents because I was gone for 3 days. And in high school. And I had the car. Oops.
We sat at Mike's house and listened to music and flirted with whatever girls were brave enough to show up and drank beer and watched tv. We were all several sheets to the wind when the weirdest little band we'd ever seen came popping out of that mass culture machine.
An edict was then imposed. MTV would remain on until we saw the video again. People took turns 'on watch', meaning they couldn't mingle with the rest of the partygoers or go to the bathroom. They had to watch for the video of 'Don't Let's Start'.
Great song, great video.
In a seemingly unrelated move in the summer of 1987, The Replacements released their masterpiece 'Pleased to Meet Me' which contained the single 'Alex Chilton'. Leave it to The Replacements to make their catchiest most radio ready song about an obscure cult musician who had recently been washing dishes in New Orleans. If this song had been called 'John Fogerty' or even 'Peter Frampton' it would have been a # 1 smash. Thank god it wasn't.
What does this tribute to Alex Chilton by The Replacements have to do with They Might Be Giants?
Well, in late 1987, They Might Be Giants released a tribute of their own called 'We're the Replacements'. This took the idea one step further and actually had a seed of approximation in the music. It sounded like The Replacements, in a goofy funny way. Lyrically it also aped The Replacements penchant for self-reference/deprecation.
Example:
'Hey where's Tommy? Someone find Tommy, we're out on the road
Moving equipment, where's the equipment, soon we're going home
Hi, we're The Replacements!'
Replete with a guttural scream right before the chorus, this song was perfect parody in that it took its subject seriously. I was thrilled that ANYONE was paying attention to The Replacements enough to immortalize them in song. It legitimized my ravings.
Later that summer, Justin and I were roving around the grounds of his rock and roll Colonial mansion armed with his acoustic guitar and some illicit plant material. We decided that we were going to return the favor to They Might Be Giants. We set about writing a song called, if memory serves me correctly, 'They Might Be Studebakers'. If Justin still has that scrap of paper lying around with these lyrics on it I will post them eventually. We had a tune and everything but I don't think we ever recorded this lost classic.
Time passes. I learn to play guitar in France because I need to be writing songs. I move to Providence, then New York, writing all along. The Replacements have long since broken up. Even today as I write this I must acknowledge that the reason I ever picked up a guitar in the first place was thanks to Paul Westerberg.
So I wrote my own ode. It is called 'Blame It On Paul' and these are the lyrics...
Blame It On Paul
Paul called all of the shots
Paul made all of the deals
Paul was the one who planned it all
Blame it on Paul
Paul was my man
Paul was my hero I guess
But if you asked Paul why he kept me around
He'd say to clean up that fucking mess
Always saying 'Clean up that fucking mess'
It was Paul's idea
It was Paul's baby right from the start
He didn't even tell me the goddamned plan
He just told me my little part
The pantyhose were tight on my head
I could barely see at all
And when the flashing lights arrived
I couldn't see Paul at all
Couldn't scale that son-of-a-bitchin' wall
I was Paul's right hand man
I guess you could say I was second in charge
I was the one who took the fall
Now that bastard's still at large
I said that bastard's still at large
So I blame it
Blame it on Paul
I blame it
Blame it on Paul
I blame it
Blame it on Paul
I blame it on Paul
Even though there is nothing in this song about They Might Be Giants or Alex Chilton or my best friend Justin, somehow it contains all of them for me. I've played this song at various shows over the years with very little in the way of explanation and it tickles me to see it taken at face value.
Again, time passes.
Brooklyn, 2001. My ex has a condo on Prospect Park in Park Slope. I live within walking distance. Maria (my ex) decides to try and rent out the basement space to an artist in the neighborhood. She doesn't need the space, it has a separate entrance, and it is an easy way to offset the cost of the mortgage. She writes a hand made sign and puts it on the little metal fence that serves as a gate to the basement.
Who comes walking by not 10 minutes later? John Linnell, one of the two Johns of They Might Be Giants. What do you know, he lives next door and needs a rehearsal/writing space? So within an hour They Might Be Giants is writing songs underneath my son's bedroom.
What are they in the process of finishing? 'NO!', their classic album of songs for kids. Or parents. It might be their finest moment and I got an advance copy handed me by Mr. Linnell himself.
Should I have taken him aside and made him listen to all of the above? Don't let's start.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Warsaw, Pt. 2: How He Became Paul
This concert at Warsaw marked a new phase in my musical obsession. Like most fans of The Replacements, I never quite got over the break-up of the band. I am not exaggerating when I say that the demise of that band heralded the end of my childhood.
Even so, I did my best to embrace the idea of Paul Westerberg on his own. I rooted for him to become a mega-star in his own right. To my way of thinking, he deserves the kind of canonical reverence of a Dylan or a Neil Young. He is not merely good, he is important.
But even with that kind of fanhood, the shift was difficult. As the head of a gang of outlaws, he had a crazed kind of cock of the walk majesty. That energy has nowhere to go with a single spotlight. And he didn't seem interested in trying to fabricate it on his own. Which turned out to be a smart move in the long run.
I have come to love each of his solo albums. The first, '14 Songs', seemed like a good-spirited play for the top of the charts. The production was pristine, there were big ballads, rave-ups about naked girls, and even a joke song about plastic surgery. The lead single 'World Class Fad' did well, but it certainly wasn't a mega-blockbuster.
After that album came 'Eventually' which I initially did not enjoy. I can't quite put my finger on why I didn't connect with the material, but I really did not. In fact, on this tour, my ex and I went to see him with his band at Irving Plaza in New York and we left early. I'd almost had to drag her to the show and while I might have gotten into it with another big Paul Westerberg/Replacements fan, I didn't have enough interest for the both of us.
His third solo effort was released while I was in North Carolina and is called 'Suicaine Gratifaction'. This should give you an idea of the accessibility of this music. The words novocaine, suicide, gratification, and satisfaction all chopped up and remixed. At first I thought, 'That's it, I'm finally over Paul Westerberg.'
I've come to think it is perhaps his finest, but that is another story. In any case, as his fans will tell you, this album marked the end of an era for him. He'd been signed to his label by a bigwig who was forced out the day the album was mastered. This is akin to a DeMedici paying for the painting and then putting it in his attic while he goes in search of the lost continent. Paul's bid for mainstream success ended.
He went back underground and started recording songs by himself in his basement. Crude drumming, rustling papers, matches being snapped into fire, these were a far cry from the crack musicianship of the sessions players on his first couple of efforts. He played everything by himself.
With the proliferation of home recording equipment and lo-fi pop stars, this might not seem so strange these days. But for a man considered by many to be the GREATEST LIVING SONGWRITER, it is a stunning reversal of tactic. He basically treated his albums as open diary entries instead of honed and crafted short story collections. This turned some people off but it eventually was what brought me back to his fold even more ferociously than before.
These records were almost obscenely personal. You got the sense that he himself would listen to the song and know exactly what he'd been doing before and after recording it. His son can be heard babbling and banging on a keyboard. There are obvious mistakes, both in the playing and recording. Songs stop abruptly as if tape ran out. Guitars drop in and out.
All of a sudden, he wasn't even Paul Westerberg to his fans anymore. He was simply Paul.
When he came to Warwaw in 2002 on the 'Come Feel Me Tremble' tour, it was the first time he'd ever toured on his own as a solo act. No drums, no bass, no other guitar, no band. Just him and his guitar.
The show was as ragged as the albums. And as beautiful as a result. He had couches lamps and coffee tables set up onstage as if the stage were his living room. I got the feeling that it might be his own actual furniture. To hear these songs that mean EVERYTHING to me stripped of all trappings was astonishing.
There was nothing missing even though I knew most of these songs had searing electric leads or thunderous drumming. I colored all of that in myself and I'm sure the rest of the crowd did as well. The wave of voices chanting these songs threw the music back up at Paul as he played.
For his encore, he invited as many people as could fit onstage to sit with him. He sat on a ratty old couch surrounded by strangers and sang as if they'd just popped over for coffee. Melody and I weren't close enough to the stage to get up there but it didn't matter. We were included. People patted him on the back, reminded him of the words to an old chestnut that he couldn't remember, and loved him as hard as they could.
In an age of prefabricated fan/artist interaction it brought me to tears. This Midwestern shy guy with a searing talent who'd kept his fans at bay for almost two decades with a big noise that they could lose themselves to was letting himself be showered with love.
He also began a new tradition on this tour. He sat on the steps of his tour bus down the street from Warsaw and shook hands and spoke with anyone who waited. Anyone and everyone.
If the world were a just place, this wouldn't have been possible. Imagine Mick Jagger persoanlly greeting everyone who'd come to Dodger Stadium. To openly acknowledge that you have the time talk to every one of the fans who stays? That takes both humility and pride.
And that was how Paul became my favorite artist, right ahead of The Replacements, that band he used to be in.
Even so, I did my best to embrace the idea of Paul Westerberg on his own. I rooted for him to become a mega-star in his own right. To my way of thinking, he deserves the kind of canonical reverence of a Dylan or a Neil Young. He is not merely good, he is important.
But even with that kind of fanhood, the shift was difficult. As the head of a gang of outlaws, he had a crazed kind of cock of the walk majesty. That energy has nowhere to go with a single spotlight. And he didn't seem interested in trying to fabricate it on his own. Which turned out to be a smart move in the long run.
I have come to love each of his solo albums. The first, '14 Songs', seemed like a good-spirited play for the top of the charts. The production was pristine, there were big ballads, rave-ups about naked girls, and even a joke song about plastic surgery. The lead single 'World Class Fad' did well, but it certainly wasn't a mega-blockbuster.
After that album came 'Eventually' which I initially did not enjoy. I can't quite put my finger on why I didn't connect with the material, but I really did not. In fact, on this tour, my ex and I went to see him with his band at Irving Plaza in New York and we left early. I'd almost had to drag her to the show and while I might have gotten into it with another big Paul Westerberg/Replacements fan, I didn't have enough interest for the both of us.
His third solo effort was released while I was in North Carolina and is called 'Suicaine Gratifaction'. This should give you an idea of the accessibility of this music. The words novocaine, suicide, gratification, and satisfaction all chopped up and remixed. At first I thought, 'That's it, I'm finally over Paul Westerberg.'
I've come to think it is perhaps his finest, but that is another story. In any case, as his fans will tell you, this album marked the end of an era for him. He'd been signed to his label by a bigwig who was forced out the day the album was mastered. This is akin to a DeMedici paying for the painting and then putting it in his attic while he goes in search of the lost continent. Paul's bid for mainstream success ended.
He went back underground and started recording songs by himself in his basement. Crude drumming, rustling papers, matches being snapped into fire, these were a far cry from the crack musicianship of the sessions players on his first couple of efforts. He played everything by himself.
With the proliferation of home recording equipment and lo-fi pop stars, this might not seem so strange these days. But for a man considered by many to be the GREATEST LIVING SONGWRITER, it is a stunning reversal of tactic. He basically treated his albums as open diary entries instead of honed and crafted short story collections. This turned some people off but it eventually was what brought me back to his fold even more ferociously than before.
These records were almost obscenely personal. You got the sense that he himself would listen to the song and know exactly what he'd been doing before and after recording it. His son can be heard babbling and banging on a keyboard. There are obvious mistakes, both in the playing and recording. Songs stop abruptly as if tape ran out. Guitars drop in and out.
All of a sudden, he wasn't even Paul Westerberg to his fans anymore. He was simply Paul.
When he came to Warwaw in 2002 on the 'Come Feel Me Tremble' tour, it was the first time he'd ever toured on his own as a solo act. No drums, no bass, no other guitar, no band. Just him and his guitar.
The show was as ragged as the albums. And as beautiful as a result. He had couches lamps and coffee tables set up onstage as if the stage were his living room. I got the feeling that it might be his own actual furniture. To hear these songs that mean EVERYTHING to me stripped of all trappings was astonishing.
There was nothing missing even though I knew most of these songs had searing electric leads or thunderous drumming. I colored all of that in myself and I'm sure the rest of the crowd did as well. The wave of voices chanting these songs threw the music back up at Paul as he played.
For his encore, he invited as many people as could fit onstage to sit with him. He sat on a ratty old couch surrounded by strangers and sang as if they'd just popped over for coffee. Melody and I weren't close enough to the stage to get up there but it didn't matter. We were included. People patted him on the back, reminded him of the words to an old chestnut that he couldn't remember, and loved him as hard as they could.
In an age of prefabricated fan/artist interaction it brought me to tears. This Midwestern shy guy with a searing talent who'd kept his fans at bay for almost two decades with a big noise that they could lose themselves to was letting himself be showered with love.
He also began a new tradition on this tour. He sat on the steps of his tour bus down the street from Warsaw and shook hands and spoke with anyone who waited. Anyone and everyone.
If the world were a just place, this wouldn't have been possible. Imagine Mick Jagger persoanlly greeting everyone who'd come to Dodger Stadium. To openly acknowledge that you have the time talk to every one of the fans who stays? That takes both humility and pride.
And that was how Paul became my favorite artist, right ahead of The Replacements, that band he used to be in.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Warsaw, Pt. 1: Court and Sparklehorse
When Melody first moved to New York, she settled into an apartment with two gay roommates. This seems to be some sort of unwritten law for young actresses, the 'queen of your very own gay kingdom' syndrome, the 'they live vicariously through my makeup and shoes' rite of passage. This is a very curious thing for a boyfriend to go through. Where does the jealousy go when the guy doesn't want to sleep with your girlfriend but wants to BE her?
Melody was like the Pied Piper-ette of Gays. She walked the streets of Williamsburg and light-stepping men fell out of tea shops flipping their scarves and apologizing for gushing over her pumps and the dress cut on the bias. They would rave about her hair, ask to caress her hips, pledge undying love. Occasionally they mistook me for a fellow worshipper instead of the king of the castle.
During her time in that hip-tropolis, a club opened that has since become a fixture. It is called Warsaw and it is the former Polish meeting house or some such. You go see a rock show and the fluorescent lit white tile kitchen pumps out kielbasa and sauerkraut. The main room is a big square wood floor space with giant paintings of Polish men riding horses in breeches and boots. One can't help but picture a sparsely attended meeting of the Polish Businessmen's Association as they wrestle with the question of how to compete with spaghetti joints and Korean grocery stores.
Whoever opened Warsaw was shooting for the moon. The room seems to drink in sound and give it back to you. It is almost a perfect square and there are no obstructions to viewing the stage. Melody had introduced me to a band called Sparklehorse who were coming to town...
My memories of New York are strange to me...it is as if it was one long fever dream, 8 years of swimming upstream, worn raw but defiant. The specifics of the Sparklehorse concert have disappeared behind me in the current. I know I went. I know I must have stood in the throng with Melody on my arm. I know her wardrobe by heart so I can even picture the different things she might have worn.
But that is the problem. I would be inventing my own memory. As it is, the only picture I posess upstairs is the lead singer, tall and bearded, swaying slightly off balance behind his microphone stand. I remember thinking about how heroin had nearly killed him. I don't remember walking to the show, eating pierogis, kissing Melody, although I know I did all of those things.
It is much like the old tree-in-the-woods question. If a man goes to a concert and doesn't remember it, was he ever actually there in the first place? I must have been because I even have the ticket stubs somewhere.
So today when I thought of beginning a Warsaw trilogy with the Sparklehorse concert, all I could think of was Melody trailing gay-postles down the streets of Williamsburg. Which, when you think about it, might be a better memory anyway.
Melody was like the Pied Piper-ette of Gays. She walked the streets of Williamsburg and light-stepping men fell out of tea shops flipping their scarves and apologizing for gushing over her pumps and the dress cut on the bias. They would rave about her hair, ask to caress her hips, pledge undying love. Occasionally they mistook me for a fellow worshipper instead of the king of the castle.
During her time in that hip-tropolis, a club opened that has since become a fixture. It is called Warsaw and it is the former Polish meeting house or some such. You go see a rock show and the fluorescent lit white tile kitchen pumps out kielbasa and sauerkraut. The main room is a big square wood floor space with giant paintings of Polish men riding horses in breeches and boots. One can't help but picture a sparsely attended meeting of the Polish Businessmen's Association as they wrestle with the question of how to compete with spaghetti joints and Korean grocery stores.
Whoever opened Warsaw was shooting for the moon. The room seems to drink in sound and give it back to you. It is almost a perfect square and there are no obstructions to viewing the stage. Melody had introduced me to a band called Sparklehorse who were coming to town...
My memories of New York are strange to me...it is as if it was one long fever dream, 8 years of swimming upstream, worn raw but defiant. The specifics of the Sparklehorse concert have disappeared behind me in the current. I know I went. I know I must have stood in the throng with Melody on my arm. I know her wardrobe by heart so I can even picture the different things she might have worn.
But that is the problem. I would be inventing my own memory. As it is, the only picture I posess upstairs is the lead singer, tall and bearded, swaying slightly off balance behind his microphone stand. I remember thinking about how heroin had nearly killed him. I don't remember walking to the show, eating pierogis, kissing Melody, although I know I did all of those things.
It is much like the old tree-in-the-woods question. If a man goes to a concert and doesn't remember it, was he ever actually there in the first place? I must have been because I even have the ticket stubs somewhere.
So today when I thought of beginning a Warsaw trilogy with the Sparklehorse concert, all I could think of was Melody trailing gay-postles down the streets of Williamsburg. Which, when you think about it, might be a better memory anyway.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Hollywood Bowl, Pt. 3: Indiana Star Jones Close Encounter Wars!
My son is still at the age when most music bores him. Sitting still long enough to take in a piece of music is just not important. There are some exceptions.
He knows Green Day's 'American Idiot' album by heart. I highly approve of this mania and we have spent many a moment in the traffic of LA singing along to 'Holiday', 'Jesus of Suburbia', and 'Boulevard of Broken Dreams'. The next time they tour, Cashel and I will be in attendance.
He's always loved The Beatles, who I believe to be the first/best children's music artists.
He shook his little diapered rump to the Billy Bragg/Wilco/Woody Guthrie 'Mermaid Avenue' album just as he was starting to walk.
He called music 'doo-doo wa-doo' after a bit of nonsense singing on Dr. Mars first album. The song 'Then She Says' has those sylabbles and Cash would say 'doo-doo wa-doo' when he wanted to listen to music.
But Cashel's musical hero is of course a product of the movies. John Williams. He has all the soundtracks to the Star Wars films, he prefers Williams' work on the Harry Potter films to his successors, and he can identify a Williams' piece immediately.
For his first piano recital he played the 'Death Star' theme. He also entered the stage with his arms thrust in the air in triumph as if he were a lead singer addressing an arena of adoring fans, but that is another story.
Every year in the fall, John Williams comes to The Hollywood Bowl and performs music from the films that he has worked on and also music from the film composers who most influenced him. I bought tickets and decided to surprise Cash.
I'd forgotten however that Cashel takes after his mother when it comes to surprises. They do not fill him with excitement. They make him grumpy. Poor kid gets control freak genes from both sides.
You would have thought I was taking him to the dentist. I had gone too far along on the surprise bit to break and it became a test of will. He sat in the back seat mumbling and asking pointed questions about how long it was going to be and why couldn't we just go to the movies instead. And it better not be too loud whatever it was and what if he couldn't see over the people in front of him. By the time we pulled into the parking lot he was about to have a Close Encounter with my temper.
For those of you who haven't been to The Hollywood Bowl, you sometimes wind up parking a good ways away. Down a hill.
Mr. Grumbly-pants kept up an incessant monologue about how tired his legs were and how far we had to go. He was like Sam and Frodo climbing Mt. Doom fer chrissakes. By this point I was blatantly saying things like, "You are going to feel like an idiot for acting this way when you find out what this god damn surprise is. And if you weren't being such a twit I'd have told you what it was by now."
There on the marquee in front of us were the words 'John Williams At The Movies' or something to that effect.
To Cashel's credit, he immediately apologized and began to positively gush with excitement. I shifted gears along with him even though he'd been a royal pain in the butt.
We got to our little section of bench and snuggled up against the chill.
What followed was pure entertainment. I had been concentrating on what this would be like for Cash, seeing music from 'Star Wars', 'Indiana Jones', etc. But as the orchestra wove its way through all of this music, I realized it was like a soundtrack of my past.
All of a sudden I was back seeing 'Empire Strikes Back' at a drive-in with all of my cousins on my mother's side. I was seeing that text scroll across the stars. I was gasping at the size of the space ship. I was pretending to be Han Solo in the backyard. Hell, I was 10 again.
And so the surprise that I'd sprung on Cash was actually on me. And, just like Cash, it wiped my grumpiness away. There was John Williams, in his 80's, waving that baton and bringing all those stories to life through his music.
On the walk back to the car, Cash didn't even notice how far he'd gone.
He knows Green Day's 'American Idiot' album by heart. I highly approve of this mania and we have spent many a moment in the traffic of LA singing along to 'Holiday', 'Jesus of Suburbia', and 'Boulevard of Broken Dreams'. The next time they tour, Cashel and I will be in attendance.
He's always loved The Beatles, who I believe to be the first/best children's music artists.
He shook his little diapered rump to the Billy Bragg/Wilco/Woody Guthrie 'Mermaid Avenue' album just as he was starting to walk.
He called music 'doo-doo wa-doo' after a bit of nonsense singing on Dr. Mars first album. The song 'Then She Says' has those sylabbles and Cash would say 'doo-doo wa-doo' when he wanted to listen to music.
But Cashel's musical hero is of course a product of the movies. John Williams. He has all the soundtracks to the Star Wars films, he prefers Williams' work on the Harry Potter films to his successors, and he can identify a Williams' piece immediately.
For his first piano recital he played the 'Death Star' theme. He also entered the stage with his arms thrust in the air in triumph as if he were a lead singer addressing an arena of adoring fans, but that is another story.
Every year in the fall, John Williams comes to The Hollywood Bowl and performs music from the films that he has worked on and also music from the film composers who most influenced him. I bought tickets and decided to surprise Cash.
I'd forgotten however that Cashel takes after his mother when it comes to surprises. They do not fill him with excitement. They make him grumpy. Poor kid gets control freak genes from both sides.
You would have thought I was taking him to the dentist. I had gone too far along on the surprise bit to break and it became a test of will. He sat in the back seat mumbling and asking pointed questions about how long it was going to be and why couldn't we just go to the movies instead. And it better not be too loud whatever it was and what if he couldn't see over the people in front of him. By the time we pulled into the parking lot he was about to have a Close Encounter with my temper.
For those of you who haven't been to The Hollywood Bowl, you sometimes wind up parking a good ways away. Down a hill.
Mr. Grumbly-pants kept up an incessant monologue about how tired his legs were and how far we had to go. He was like Sam and Frodo climbing Mt. Doom fer chrissakes. By this point I was blatantly saying things like, "You are going to feel like an idiot for acting this way when you find out what this god damn surprise is. And if you weren't being such a twit I'd have told you what it was by now."
There on the marquee in front of us were the words 'John Williams At The Movies' or something to that effect.
To Cashel's credit, he immediately apologized and began to positively gush with excitement. I shifted gears along with him even though he'd been a royal pain in the butt.
We got to our little section of bench and snuggled up against the chill.
What followed was pure entertainment. I had been concentrating on what this would be like for Cash, seeing music from 'Star Wars', 'Indiana Jones', etc. But as the orchestra wove its way through all of this music, I realized it was like a soundtrack of my past.
All of a sudden I was back seeing 'Empire Strikes Back' at a drive-in with all of my cousins on my mother's side. I was seeing that text scroll across the stars. I was gasping at the size of the space ship. I was pretending to be Han Solo in the backyard. Hell, I was 10 again.
And so the surprise that I'd sprung on Cash was actually on me. And, just like Cash, it wiped my grumpiness away. There was John Williams, in his 80's, waving that baton and bringing all those stories to life through his music.
On the walk back to the car, Cash didn't even notice how far he'd gone.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Hollywood Bowl, Pt. 2: Radiohead Is Not There
Somehow I am at The Hollywood Bowl and Radiohead is about to take the stage. It is a crisp fall night in Los Angeles. How the one-hit wonders of 'Creep' turned themselves into the greatest and most subversive popular rock act in history is something I will never be able to truly comprehend.
When I first heard 'Creep' I was singing along by the second chorus. In an era of spearhead, zebrahead, myriad-other-heads, another band ending in -head seemed destined for the scrap heap of marginalia. Even the heavy chunk of the guitar kicking in right before he says 'I'm a creep' seemed TOO of the moment. This riff was so spot on it threatened itself with cliche. I wouldn't have been surprised if we'd never heard from these fellas again.
And then came 'OK Computer'. Oh, I know they released 'The Bends' before it and 'Fake Plastic Trees' was on the 'Romeo and Juliet' soundtrack, but for me, Radiohead truly came into being the first time I heard 'Paranoid Android'.
Unsettling. Gorgeous. Terrifying.
Listening to Radiohead for me is like being trapped inside a camera on the nose cone of a missile that will one day descend to earth and wreak utter destruction. Before it makes that awful fall it endlessly circles the planet revealing the true nature of existence through sheer observation.
To truly demonstrate the disparate natures juxtaposed within their music, I used to sing 'No Surprises' to my son as a lullaby. He would have been less than one year old so the lyrical content couldn't keep him awake and petrified.
They are (as close as I can tell...)
A heart that's full up like a landfill,
a job that slowly kills you,
bruises that won't heal.
You look so tired-unhappy,
bring down the government,
they don't, they don't speak for us.
I'll take a quiet life,
a handshake of carbon monoxide,
with no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises,
Silent silent.
This is my final fit,
my final bellyache,
with no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises please.
Such a pretty house
and such a pretty garden.
No alarms and no surprises (get me outta here),
no alarms and no surprises (get me outta here),
no alarms and no surprises, please.
When I started singing it to Cashel, I made up the words as I went because I didn't know them. Mine were as follows...
This is the final act
I'm going nowhere fast
No alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises
This is the pit of love
Fantastic from up above
But when you're down in it
You're flying
When you're down in it
You're flying low
Now, it doesn't rival 'Rock A Bye Baby' for sheer creepiness, but that is how Radiohead helped my little boy get to sleep.
Radiohead transformed themselves into a juggernaut of iconoclastic melody and bombast. The fact that such a complicated message struck such a widespread core has been a comfort to me. Their artistry articulated something very profound about the new ways in which we related to each other as human beings. Or didn't relate to each other as the case may be.
Again, somehow I am at The Hollywood Bowl and Radiohead is about to take the stage. And no pristine setting can counterbalance the primal force of decay and despair that roars forth from this collective. They obliterated us. Their sound expanded to fill the canyon. It was as if some Terminator had been created far in the future, all technology and records of human brutality and beauty had been fed into a genesis machine, and then the machine had been given old tapes of The Clash and The Beatles. The result? The collected output of Radiohead.
During their encore, they began looping their instruments and combining them with a found radio broadcast. As the layers grew, the sound now included aspects that were NOT actually present. The song morphed into some twisted actualization of humanity...there were sticks being smashed against animal skins and fingers plucking cat guts stretched into strings there were ones and zeros in the air funneled through silicon steel plastic and ozone.
One by one Radiohead left the stage. The music continued without them. It was out of their hands. Radiohead was no longer there.
When I first heard 'Creep' I was singing along by the second chorus. In an era of spearhead, zebrahead, myriad-other-heads, another band ending in -head seemed destined for the scrap heap of marginalia. Even the heavy chunk of the guitar kicking in right before he says 'I'm a creep' seemed TOO of the moment. This riff was so spot on it threatened itself with cliche. I wouldn't have been surprised if we'd never heard from these fellas again.
And then came 'OK Computer'. Oh, I know they released 'The Bends' before it and 'Fake Plastic Trees' was on the 'Romeo and Juliet' soundtrack, but for me, Radiohead truly came into being the first time I heard 'Paranoid Android'.
Unsettling. Gorgeous. Terrifying.
Listening to Radiohead for me is like being trapped inside a camera on the nose cone of a missile that will one day descend to earth and wreak utter destruction. Before it makes that awful fall it endlessly circles the planet revealing the true nature of existence through sheer observation.
To truly demonstrate the disparate natures juxtaposed within their music, I used to sing 'No Surprises' to my son as a lullaby. He would have been less than one year old so the lyrical content couldn't keep him awake and petrified.
They are (as close as I can tell...)
A heart that's full up like a landfill,
a job that slowly kills you,
bruises that won't heal.
You look so tired-unhappy,
bring down the government,
they don't, they don't speak for us.
I'll take a quiet life,
a handshake of carbon monoxide,
with no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises,
Silent silent.
This is my final fit,
my final bellyache,
with no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises,
no alarms and no surprises please.
Such a pretty house
and such a pretty garden.
No alarms and no surprises (get me outta here),
no alarms and no surprises (get me outta here),
no alarms and no surprises, please.
When I started singing it to Cashel, I made up the words as I went because I didn't know them. Mine were as follows...
This is the final act
I'm going nowhere fast
No alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises
This is the pit of love
Fantastic from up above
But when you're down in it
You're flying
When you're down in it
You're flying low
Now, it doesn't rival 'Rock A Bye Baby' for sheer creepiness, but that is how Radiohead helped my little boy get to sleep.
Radiohead transformed themselves into a juggernaut of iconoclastic melody and bombast. The fact that such a complicated message struck such a widespread core has been a comfort to me. Their artistry articulated something very profound about the new ways in which we related to each other as human beings. Or didn't relate to each other as the case may be.
Again, somehow I am at The Hollywood Bowl and Radiohead is about to take the stage. And no pristine setting can counterbalance the primal force of decay and despair that roars forth from this collective. They obliterated us. Their sound expanded to fill the canyon. It was as if some Terminator had been created far in the future, all technology and records of human brutality and beauty had been fed into a genesis machine, and then the machine had been given old tapes of The Clash and The Beatles. The result? The collected output of Radiohead.
During their encore, they began looping their instruments and combining them with a found radio broadcast. As the layers grew, the sound now included aspects that were NOT actually present. The song morphed into some twisted actualization of humanity...there were sticks being smashed against animal skins and fingers plucking cat guts stretched into strings there were ones and zeros in the air funneled through silicon steel plastic and ozone.
One by one Radiohead left the stage. The music continued without them. It was out of their hands. Radiohead was no longer there.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Hollywood Bowl, Pt. 1: Gayboy at the Hollywood Bowl
Rufus Wainwright will always hold a very special place in my heart. Melody introduced me to him right after we met in 1999. I am used to being the one with the hot album in my pocket so I was pleasantly shocked to hear undeniable genius issue forth. In her Ford Taurus on the way to the Raleigh/Durham International airport, we listened to impossibly romantic and simultaneously vastly sad song after song after song.
In another post I'll articulate why this perfectly matched what was going on between Melody and I, but suffice it to say Rufus became the soundtrack to my life. He influenced my songs, the way I sang, the way I wrote lyrics, the way I listened.
I've been lucky enough to see him perform three times in wildly different settings.
Rufus # 1: CBGB's
Which is now closed. I don't remember how I heard about it but an AIDS benefit was happening at CBGB's. All sorts of queer bands were going to try to put up with the filth that was CBGB's. I know everyone is all nostalgic about CBGB's but to my mind it had long outlived its storied past. Clean the fucking bathroom already. David Byrne is not coming back to pick up his shit.
A boatload of horrible music happens and then a grand piano is wheeled out onto the stage. It looks like a tophat on a hobo.
Rufus shrugs his way onto the stage wearing what looks like a chain mail shirt and girl jeans. He sits at the piano and is visibly aghast. This piano pains him, like fringe on a suit jacket. But it is for a good cause so he summons his will and begins to play.
No frills, no accompaniment. He is staggering. He plays a new song 'Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk' which I take as some kind of omen because I'd very recently had a meltdown after spilling some while smoking the other. He does a few of the songs from his first album, which is by now a classic in my mind, as familiar as anything in my collection.
He grimaces at the noises the piano makes while he plays, small irregularities of sound that we can't hear but are unbearable to him. He is clearly thrown by the force of adulation rushing at him from the crowd. He seems to almost resent their love, like the aging high school jock who blows up at his friends when they start reliving the big play.
Overall it is a night of contrasts; the cesspool of CBGB's put against the refinement of Rufus' music; the pull of the masses vs. the lone singular voice of their hero.
Rufus # 2: With Tori
By now Melody has moved to NYC and we can finally openly enjoy Rufus, not weep in private to him separately.
He is opening for Tori Amos at The Beacon Theater. For Melody, seeing Tori Amos for the first time is akin to me seeing The Replacements for the first time. Add Rufus and 9/11 to the mix and it became a Holy Grail kind of deal.
Rufus seems to have relaxed into the spotlight a bit. He is much more at ease which could also have something to do with the gorgeous piano he gets to play. He also has a guitar on stage. At one point in his set he is wearing a Future Farmers of America hat and joking about how odd that is. The whole show has an intense feel because it is October 2001 and every event in NYC has an extra edge.
Maybe the size of the room relaxes him, makes him feel less under a microscope. Maybe he hated the dirt at CBGB's. Maybe he just got happier. Maybe 9/11 had opened him up in a new way. He later wrote about it in an amazing song called 11:11 where he notes that 'everything really does happen in Manhattan.'
I don't know what had changed, but the chip on Rufus' shoulder was gone. Let's just say that Tori had a tough act to follow.
Rufus # 3: Gayboys at the Hollywood Bowl
When I heard that Rufus was bringing his Judy Garland Carnegie Hall Tribute show to the Hollywood Bowl, I knew I had to take Melody. Her love of Tori and Rufus pales in comparison to her Wizard of Oz fascination. I know, I know, all girls love the Wizard of Oz, but Melody in her usual fashion always took it a step further.
She insisted on dressing up as Dorothy to go to the supermarket as a child. She actually has red slippers. Now I don't want to paint her as one of those annoying kooks who latch onto something and use it to define themselves. The very fact that she introduced me to Rufus Wainwright should be a testament to her taste and wisdom.
But this is a girl who didn't dream of being a princess, she dreamt of being Dorothy. So there was no way we were going to miss Rufus singing Judy Garland at The Hollywood Bowl. In addition, Melody was still relatively new to LA and hadn't been to the Bowl yet. I love killing many birds with one stone so I snapped up tickets.
Let me set the scene for you. A gorgeous Los Angeles night. An outdoor arena. A modern gay icon recreating THE performance of THE gay icon of all time.
There were picnic baskets, monogrammed. Watercress and cucumber sandwiches. Chardonnay. Bowties. Cologne. Not a single unironed shirt. Silk socks. Lisps. Purely cosmetic eyeglasses. Cufflinks. Tasteful pleats. Decorative sliced fruit laid out on checkered tablecloths. Squeal after squeal in response to Melody's ruby red slippers.
I was an interloper. An outsider. Oh, the looks I got! If it hadn't been for Melody's shoes I would have been ostracized completely. As it was my presence was merely puzzling, as if I were a machine shop gearhead at a Latin club meeting.
Rufus didn't disappoint them. The tribute element of the show allowed them to fantasize right along with him. They were Judy. They were playing The Hollywood Bowl. They were the apex of culture and refinement.
I fought the urge to smell my armpit and grunt.
Instead I sang along to 'Chatanooga Choo Choo' and took a picture on my cell phone of The Bowl lit up like a rainbow. I was the luckiest one of all. I got to take Dorothy no place like home.
In another post I'll articulate why this perfectly matched what was going on between Melody and I, but suffice it to say Rufus became the soundtrack to my life. He influenced my songs, the way I sang, the way I wrote lyrics, the way I listened.
I've been lucky enough to see him perform three times in wildly different settings.
Rufus # 1: CBGB's
Which is now closed. I don't remember how I heard about it but an AIDS benefit was happening at CBGB's. All sorts of queer bands were going to try to put up with the filth that was CBGB's. I know everyone is all nostalgic about CBGB's but to my mind it had long outlived its storied past. Clean the fucking bathroom already. David Byrne is not coming back to pick up his shit.
A boatload of horrible music happens and then a grand piano is wheeled out onto the stage. It looks like a tophat on a hobo.
Rufus shrugs his way onto the stage wearing what looks like a chain mail shirt and girl jeans. He sits at the piano and is visibly aghast. This piano pains him, like fringe on a suit jacket. But it is for a good cause so he summons his will and begins to play.
No frills, no accompaniment. He is staggering. He plays a new song 'Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk' which I take as some kind of omen because I'd very recently had a meltdown after spilling some while smoking the other. He does a few of the songs from his first album, which is by now a classic in my mind, as familiar as anything in my collection.
He grimaces at the noises the piano makes while he plays, small irregularities of sound that we can't hear but are unbearable to him. He is clearly thrown by the force of adulation rushing at him from the crowd. He seems to almost resent their love, like the aging high school jock who blows up at his friends when they start reliving the big play.
Overall it is a night of contrasts; the cesspool of CBGB's put against the refinement of Rufus' music; the pull of the masses vs. the lone singular voice of their hero.
Rufus # 2: With Tori
By now Melody has moved to NYC and we can finally openly enjoy Rufus, not weep in private to him separately.
He is opening for Tori Amos at The Beacon Theater. For Melody, seeing Tori Amos for the first time is akin to me seeing The Replacements for the first time. Add Rufus and 9/11 to the mix and it became a Holy Grail kind of deal.
Rufus seems to have relaxed into the spotlight a bit. He is much more at ease which could also have something to do with the gorgeous piano he gets to play. He also has a guitar on stage. At one point in his set he is wearing a Future Farmers of America hat and joking about how odd that is. The whole show has an intense feel because it is October 2001 and every event in NYC has an extra edge.
Maybe the size of the room relaxes him, makes him feel less under a microscope. Maybe he hated the dirt at CBGB's. Maybe he just got happier. Maybe 9/11 had opened him up in a new way. He later wrote about it in an amazing song called 11:11 where he notes that 'everything really does happen in Manhattan.'
I don't know what had changed, but the chip on Rufus' shoulder was gone. Let's just say that Tori had a tough act to follow.
Rufus # 3: Gayboys at the Hollywood Bowl
When I heard that Rufus was bringing his Judy Garland Carnegie Hall Tribute show to the Hollywood Bowl, I knew I had to take Melody. Her love of Tori and Rufus pales in comparison to her Wizard of Oz fascination. I know, I know, all girls love the Wizard of Oz, but Melody in her usual fashion always took it a step further.
She insisted on dressing up as Dorothy to go to the supermarket as a child. She actually has red slippers. Now I don't want to paint her as one of those annoying kooks who latch onto something and use it to define themselves. The very fact that she introduced me to Rufus Wainwright should be a testament to her taste and wisdom.
But this is a girl who didn't dream of being a princess, she dreamt of being Dorothy. So there was no way we were going to miss Rufus singing Judy Garland at The Hollywood Bowl. In addition, Melody was still relatively new to LA and hadn't been to the Bowl yet. I love killing many birds with one stone so I snapped up tickets.
Let me set the scene for you. A gorgeous Los Angeles night. An outdoor arena. A modern gay icon recreating THE performance of THE gay icon of all time.
There were picnic baskets, monogrammed. Watercress and cucumber sandwiches. Chardonnay. Bowties. Cologne. Not a single unironed shirt. Silk socks. Lisps. Purely cosmetic eyeglasses. Cufflinks. Tasteful pleats. Decorative sliced fruit laid out on checkered tablecloths. Squeal after squeal in response to Melody's ruby red slippers.
I was an interloper. An outsider. Oh, the looks I got! If it hadn't been for Melody's shoes I would have been ostracized completely. As it was my presence was merely puzzling, as if I were a machine shop gearhead at a Latin club meeting.
Rufus didn't disappoint them. The tribute element of the show allowed them to fantasize right along with him. They were Judy. They were playing The Hollywood Bowl. They were the apex of culture and refinement.
I fought the urge to smell my armpit and grunt.
Instead I sang along to 'Chatanooga Choo Choo' and took a picture on my cell phone of The Bowl lit up like a rainbow. I was the luckiest one of all. I got to take Dorothy no place like home.
Monday, March 3, 2008
A Silent Moment
My routine has been thrown off a bit today and I didn't get my post out by morning. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I am a creature of habit. This change has left me unable to narrow down my list of topics to choose.
I toyed with the idea of performance in huge arena spaces versus more intimate gatherings. I remembered Prince bouncing from instrument to instrument at Jones Beach on Long Island and briefly started a post called 'The Special Effect' because he seemed computer generated. I remembered a band I loved in college called That'll Learn Ya and how I actually witnessed their break up on stage at Club Baby Head.
Nothing seemed to warrant the full treatment.
I'll be back tomorrow with something that I feel strongly about.
I toyed with the idea of performance in huge arena spaces versus more intimate gatherings. I remembered Prince bouncing from instrument to instrument at Jones Beach on Long Island and briefly started a post called 'The Special Effect' because he seemed computer generated. I remembered a band I loved in college called That'll Learn Ya and how I actually witnessed their break up on stage at Club Baby Head.
Nothing seemed to warrant the full treatment.
I'll be back tomorrow with something that I feel strongly about.
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