For a short time in a year I can't remember at the end of the 20th century, I became a huge fan of Spacehog. This happened directly because of Arlene Grocery. Don't ask me how because I cannot recall. Word reached me that Spacehog would be playing a special set at Arlene Grocery under the name 'Resident Alien' or 'Alien Pig Farmers' or 'Resident Farmers of Alien Pigs'.
I went. In the little empty space at the center of my brain I went solo but I am pretty sure that I had company. Liam? Quasi Uncle Andy? As I said, there is a blank up in the old sagging gray matter.
The things I do remember? A house packed beyond all reasonable comfort or adherence to fire laws. Impossibly tight jeans and t-shirts on all of the members of the band. Over-sized sunglasses on a few. A crowd of hipsters that I've not witnessed since, unless you count the few snippets of 'Swingers' that I've caught over the years without actually seeing the film.
If you are unfamiliar with Spacehog they are fronted by Royston Langdon, a diminutive Brit with serious guitar chops and an obvious Bowie fascination. Throw the square English boogie of The Kinks into the mix, pepper with glam-rock harmony for a bit of spice, and you've got yourself a late '90's alterna-party in Lower Manhattan.
There were faux-fur coats, real fur coats, tattoos peeking out from just above thongs, high heels at the end of tapered jeans, lipstick shades of exotic to goth extremes, and minuscule leather vests barely pulled over wonder bras overflowing with God's gift to man.
Let's just say that Spacehog had a large and faithful following that reversed the ratio normally seen in rock clubs when all-male rock bands play. At the center of this delicious inversion was a pre-Lord of the Rings Liv Tyler.
Can you imagine that there was actually a time when I could point out Liv Tyler to someone and have to explain to them who she was?
'See that ridiculously gorgeous girl at the lip of the stage staring up at Royston Langdon as if he were on a chariot of gold driven by unicorns? That is Liv Tyler, daughter of Steve Tyler, she's been in a couple of movies...etc. etc.'
Amazing what the passage of time can do.
The great thing about the show was that Spacehog DESERVED the adulation of the most gorgeous woman on the planet except for my girlfriend. They were worthy of starlet worship. They blew the doors off of that stage and club. There were no doors to be found from Ludlow to Delancey.
And the most delicious part? It was a SECRET show. They were playing under an assumed name. They were outlaws on the run from the boring music squad who might burst in at any moment and try to get us all to listen to grunge some more. What would they think when they came in and couldn't find a flannel shirt or ponytail? We'd all get busted and thrown in hipster jail where they would make us listen to Stone Temple Pilots and pump Patchouli in through an air vent.
All I know is that I had trouble deciding what to focus on, the band on stage or Liv Tyler shaking her booty at their feet. There aren't too many bands who could render that choice even mildly difficult to make.
Her fame has grown to epic proportions. She and Langdon have a young child together, preserving the image I have of her worshipping equally at his feet.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Arlene Grocery, Pt. 1: Parker Who???
Down in the depths of lower Manhattan is a club called Arlene Grocery. It is so-named because it was actually a grocery at one point. It is tucked away in between Ludlow and whatever is a block over from Ludlow. When it opened it was only one room but it has since expanded to include the next door premises which now functions as a bar/escape from the music.
In the beginning, it was free. It had that kind of New York buzz that happens from time to time. For whatever reason, Arlene Grocery opened and the entire underground music scene paid it full attention.
It was February. I'd just moved out of the Park Slope condo that Maria and I had bought the summer before. I had rented the closest cheapest apartment I could find which was essentially an airless box of a basement apartment in Windsor Terrace. It had two bedrooms but very low ceilings and only the teeniest of windows. I loved and continue to love this apartment with all my heart.
Cousin Timothy was coming through town in the middle of the tour he was on. He was traveling the country in a tricked out van demonstrating digital cameras for Kodak. This was 2000. Hard to fathom that Kodak was trying to convince people to go digital that recently, especially now that they've decided to completely discontinue Polaroids.
Timothy was going to be meeting some of his other friends out on the town and I suggested we all meet at Arlene Grocery. There were always 5 or 6 bands on the bill; it was cheap; and if no one liked the music we could easily duck out and hit one of the 87,343 bars that were in the general vicinity.
I'll never forget this night.
I remember there being snow coming down. But that whole time has snow layered over it because the first night I spent out of the relationship it snowed and snowed and snowed. Arlene Grocery was packed. It had that strange kind of sweaty coziness unique to live music venues in the winter in the Big Apple. Every time the door opens a refreshing blast of cold air comes in. You show up in a coat and end in a t-shirt. I got there before Timothy and watched a band and had a beer. I also smoked cigarettes like they were going out of style, which, in fact, they were, as NYC would ban smoking in bars shortly thereafter.
Timothy arrived and there was much shouting and posturing. I filled him in on what was happening in my life. You have to understand, Timothy was sort of the cousin that got away in the O'Malley clan. His father, my father's brother Joe, passed away from leukemia at age 29. Timothy was 7. His parents had already divorced and his mother remarried by that point so the tenuous connection to the O'Malley clan was essentially severed for the next decade or so.
While I saw the other O'Malley cousins every Christmas, Thanksgiving, 4th of July, etc. etc., Timothy, Marianne, and Joshua crossed my radar on much rarer occasions. This night in New York was to wipe all of that out forever.
Timothy's job was crazy. While living in Boston, he'd auditioned for the gig. The tour was scheduled to hit almost every state and last at least until the following fall. He had put his things in storage at his parents bed and breakfast in Old Orchard Beach and given up his apartment in Boston. He was essentially a nomad.
I asked him if he wanted to rent the second bedroom from me and move to New York once the tour was over. He paused for a millisecond and said, "Yes."
In my memory we didn't belabor it. We toasted to it and knew it was a done deal. Then we set about some serious drinking. A band called 'Parker' was tearing up the stage. I actually called Timothy right before I started writing this to see if he could remember the name of the band. Of course he could.
'Parker' was a multi-racial outfit with a hot black female lead singer and a hybrid sound of R&B and punk and hip/hop. During their 45 minutes, Timothy and I became absolutely convinced that this band was going to skyrocket to stardom. We bought their CD.
Later we listened to it and it was terrible. But they sure put on a great show.
Little did they know they were scoring the beginning of the Pimp Fu/Bomer-B bizarro collaboration that would change how I wrote music, listened to music, recorded music, musicked music.
I'll never forget the look in Timothy's eyes as he pondered his future and said "Yes" to New York City.
In the beginning, it was free. It had that kind of New York buzz that happens from time to time. For whatever reason, Arlene Grocery opened and the entire underground music scene paid it full attention.
It was February. I'd just moved out of the Park Slope condo that Maria and I had bought the summer before. I had rented the closest cheapest apartment I could find which was essentially an airless box of a basement apartment in Windsor Terrace. It had two bedrooms but very low ceilings and only the teeniest of windows. I loved and continue to love this apartment with all my heart.
Cousin Timothy was coming through town in the middle of the tour he was on. He was traveling the country in a tricked out van demonstrating digital cameras for Kodak. This was 2000. Hard to fathom that Kodak was trying to convince people to go digital that recently, especially now that they've decided to completely discontinue Polaroids.
Timothy was going to be meeting some of his other friends out on the town and I suggested we all meet at Arlene Grocery. There were always 5 or 6 bands on the bill; it was cheap; and if no one liked the music we could easily duck out and hit one of the 87,343 bars that were in the general vicinity.
I'll never forget this night.
I remember there being snow coming down. But that whole time has snow layered over it because the first night I spent out of the relationship it snowed and snowed and snowed. Arlene Grocery was packed. It had that strange kind of sweaty coziness unique to live music venues in the winter in the Big Apple. Every time the door opens a refreshing blast of cold air comes in. You show up in a coat and end in a t-shirt. I got there before Timothy and watched a band and had a beer. I also smoked cigarettes like they were going out of style, which, in fact, they were, as NYC would ban smoking in bars shortly thereafter.
Timothy arrived and there was much shouting and posturing. I filled him in on what was happening in my life. You have to understand, Timothy was sort of the cousin that got away in the O'Malley clan. His father, my father's brother Joe, passed away from leukemia at age 29. Timothy was 7. His parents had already divorced and his mother remarried by that point so the tenuous connection to the O'Malley clan was essentially severed for the next decade or so.
While I saw the other O'Malley cousins every Christmas, Thanksgiving, 4th of July, etc. etc., Timothy, Marianne, and Joshua crossed my radar on much rarer occasions. This night in New York was to wipe all of that out forever.
Timothy's job was crazy. While living in Boston, he'd auditioned for the gig. The tour was scheduled to hit almost every state and last at least until the following fall. He had put his things in storage at his parents bed and breakfast in Old Orchard Beach and given up his apartment in Boston. He was essentially a nomad.
I asked him if he wanted to rent the second bedroom from me and move to New York once the tour was over. He paused for a millisecond and said, "Yes."
In my memory we didn't belabor it. We toasted to it and knew it was a done deal. Then we set about some serious drinking. A band called 'Parker' was tearing up the stage. I actually called Timothy right before I started writing this to see if he could remember the name of the band. Of course he could.
'Parker' was a multi-racial outfit with a hot black female lead singer and a hybrid sound of R&B and punk and hip/hop. During their 45 minutes, Timothy and I became absolutely convinced that this band was going to skyrocket to stardom. We bought their CD.
Later we listened to it and it was terrible. But they sure put on a great show.
Little did they know they were scoring the beginning of the Pimp Fu/Bomer-B bizarro collaboration that would change how I wrote music, listened to music, recorded music, musicked music.
I'll never forget the look in Timothy's eyes as he pondered his future and said "Yes" to New York City.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Free Naked Ladies, Bare
I've been to Madison Square Garden three times, I think. Once to see Prince, once to see Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus with Cashel, and one hilarious outing to see Barenaked Ladies.
Melody had moved to New York City and we'd started dating. Needless to say this was an intense time for both of us. I was new to juggling the demands of parenthood and divorce with a new love. She was new to big city life and the competing demands of finance and art. She landed a job at Shiseido, a Japanese cosmetics company. The perks included Melody walking around like she stepped out of an Estee Lauder ad. And every now and then free stuff came our way.
Like tickets to see Barenaked Ladies at Madison Square Garden. Now, look, in all seriousness, I never liked Barenaked Ladies all that much. The rap song with the line about chicken was cute and my sisters swear that their albums are great but I just could never summon up interest.
When I look back upon this particular night out, I wish I could give myself a swift caring kick in the ass.
Melody had to twist my arm to get me to go along, in spite of the fact that we had free tickets and Melody looked, as usual, like a photo shoot. My state of mind was so put-upon that I could barely look at this as anything but an imposition, as if the universe were taking up my time. I blush at this ingratitude now and even in looking back on it want to find the corners of joy that I was able to sense.
As is the case with most of the concerts I go to, my memories are blurry, one memory I'm unable to separate into distinct moments. I can see Barenaked Ladies spangled purple matching shirts, something they dared each other to do. I remember thinking that they weren't half-bad, that their sound actually deserved the size of the arena. I also remember thinking there was no way I would last the whole show.
There was a couple sitting almost directly next to us that developed a fascination with Melody. They seemed to be almost arguing about whether or not Melody had been augmented surgically. Needless to say this caused a bit of hilarity to ensue between Melody and I and almost extended my patience towards the Canadian band that was giving their all down there on the MSG stage.
Alas, I insisted that we leave after the chicken song, you know the one I mean. I think we went right home. In an alternate world, the world in which I wasn't overwhelmed by so many aspects of my life, we stayed through both encores and Melody flashed the band to give that curious couple a glimpse of the real things.
Melody had moved to New York City and we'd started dating. Needless to say this was an intense time for both of us. I was new to juggling the demands of parenthood and divorce with a new love. She was new to big city life and the competing demands of finance and art. She landed a job at Shiseido, a Japanese cosmetics company. The perks included Melody walking around like she stepped out of an Estee Lauder ad. And every now and then free stuff came our way.
Like tickets to see Barenaked Ladies at Madison Square Garden. Now, look, in all seriousness, I never liked Barenaked Ladies all that much. The rap song with the line about chicken was cute and my sisters swear that their albums are great but I just could never summon up interest.
When I look back upon this particular night out, I wish I could give myself a swift caring kick in the ass.
Melody had to twist my arm to get me to go along, in spite of the fact that we had free tickets and Melody looked, as usual, like a photo shoot. My state of mind was so put-upon that I could barely look at this as anything but an imposition, as if the universe were taking up my time. I blush at this ingratitude now and even in looking back on it want to find the corners of joy that I was able to sense.
As is the case with most of the concerts I go to, my memories are blurry, one memory I'm unable to separate into distinct moments. I can see Barenaked Ladies spangled purple matching shirts, something they dared each other to do. I remember thinking that they weren't half-bad, that their sound actually deserved the size of the arena. I also remember thinking there was no way I would last the whole show.
There was a couple sitting almost directly next to us that developed a fascination with Melody. They seemed to be almost arguing about whether or not Melody had been augmented surgically. Needless to say this caused a bit of hilarity to ensue between Melody and I and almost extended my patience towards the Canadian band that was giving their all down there on the MSG stage.
Alas, I insisted that we leave after the chicken song, you know the one I mean. I think we went right home. In an alternate world, the world in which I wasn't overwhelmed by so many aspects of my life, we stayed through both encores and Melody flashed the band to give that curious couple a glimpse of the real things.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
I'm Late, I'm Late...
Sitting off of Flatbush Avenue, the Brooklyn Academy of Music seems like a fortress bent on liberating the locals with blasts of aggressive performance. Even the acronym (BAM) reeks of combat. As is common with invading armies, the locals view the occupation with an uneasy mixture of appreciation and hostility. Most of the folks who live in the vicinity can't afford to go and probably wouldn't want to if they could.
The first time I went to BAM I was still living in Manhattan. Maria and I had moved into a one-bedroom on 103rd street a block away from gorgeous Riverside Park. The seed of our eventual breakup had long been sown but dying plants often flower beautifully. We did our best to enjoy New York and what it had to offer.
We found a Chinese restaurant down on the edge of Broadway and 103rd that could get food to our door within 10 minutes, delicious food that we incorporated into our routine until I bit into what seemed to be a small bit of wire meshed screen buried in my noodles. We ate at the Metro diner around the corner until I saw an Indian man put his finger inside the ketchup bottle and lick it clean before going back for seconds. Disgust, it seemed, was always right around the corner.
We fought viciously from time to time, eviscerating each other in public. Shame reunited us and we apologized to each other and the world for each other. City life didn't seem to agree with Maria the way it did me and I put pressure on myself to combat this undeniable fact with activities that might up her enjoyment level.
But our first visit to BAM was of her own design. Tom Waits had collaborated with avant-garde theater impresario Robert Wilson on a version of 'Alice in Wonderland' using a troupe of German carnival actors. Waits' songs combined with Wilson's vision laid over the ultimate head-trip of 'Alice'? Seemed like a winner.
To add to the attraction, there was still the lingering memory in both of our heads of Maria's performance as Alice in a production in Rhode Island. She'd been quite good in it. However, the creative circle that spawned the show had fractured since we'd lived there. There was some sort of strange umbilical connection between the show we were going to witness and the past that we'd participated in.
Waits and Wilson concocted a nightmare roller coaster ride of a play. At one point Alice is about to go through a door and through the use of light the door grew to an immense size. The caterpillar sat on a cushion and while singing the Waits original inflated into a blimp like creature. It was like being trapped inside of a graphic novel with songs.
Our seats were way up high in the balcony which was enervating to Maria. This led to tension between us which escalated to the point that we barely spoke at intermission and rode all the way from BAM back to the Upper West Side in silence. Our conflicts often dovetailed with subway rides and silent transport.
The next time we went to BAM we took Cashel to see an animated film festival for children. We'd split up by this point and the echo of the musical hallucination we'd seen had long since ceased to ring. The silence of the post show ride home had ultimately prevailed.
The first time I went to BAM I was still living in Manhattan. Maria and I had moved into a one-bedroom on 103rd street a block away from gorgeous Riverside Park. The seed of our eventual breakup had long been sown but dying plants often flower beautifully. We did our best to enjoy New York and what it had to offer.
We found a Chinese restaurant down on the edge of Broadway and 103rd that could get food to our door within 10 minutes, delicious food that we incorporated into our routine until I bit into what seemed to be a small bit of wire meshed screen buried in my noodles. We ate at the Metro diner around the corner until I saw an Indian man put his finger inside the ketchup bottle and lick it clean before going back for seconds. Disgust, it seemed, was always right around the corner.
We fought viciously from time to time, eviscerating each other in public. Shame reunited us and we apologized to each other and the world for each other. City life didn't seem to agree with Maria the way it did me and I put pressure on myself to combat this undeniable fact with activities that might up her enjoyment level.
But our first visit to BAM was of her own design. Tom Waits had collaborated with avant-garde theater impresario Robert Wilson on a version of 'Alice in Wonderland' using a troupe of German carnival actors. Waits' songs combined with Wilson's vision laid over the ultimate head-trip of 'Alice'? Seemed like a winner.
To add to the attraction, there was still the lingering memory in both of our heads of Maria's performance as Alice in a production in Rhode Island. She'd been quite good in it. However, the creative circle that spawned the show had fractured since we'd lived there. There was some sort of strange umbilical connection between the show we were going to witness and the past that we'd participated in.
Waits and Wilson concocted a nightmare roller coaster ride of a play. At one point Alice is about to go through a door and through the use of light the door grew to an immense size. The caterpillar sat on a cushion and while singing the Waits original inflated into a blimp like creature. It was like being trapped inside of a graphic novel with songs.
Our seats were way up high in the balcony which was enervating to Maria. This led to tension between us which escalated to the point that we barely spoke at intermission and rode all the way from BAM back to the Upper West Side in silence. Our conflicts often dovetailed with subway rides and silent transport.
The next time we went to BAM we took Cashel to see an animated film festival for children. We'd split up by this point and the echo of the musical hallucination we'd seen had long since ceased to ring. The silence of the post show ride home had ultimately prevailed.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Zat Ees A Scary Man
My first CD purchase in France was not 'Smells Like Teen Spirit'. It was actually the Red Hot Chili Peppers blockbuster 'Blood Sugar Sex Magic'. I listened on headphones at FNAC in downtown Orleans a stones throw away from the statue of Joan of Arc that sits in the center of the city.
I had been on the fence with the Chili Peppers up until that point. I thought they had an interesting SOUND, sure, but none of their songs really moved me. They did Stevie Wonder to the max on 'Higher Ground' but nothing they had written could even come close to that.
But I could tell from the first that this album was different. This album had SONGS. It wasn't surprising to me that the mainstream embraced the band on the heels of this collection. Anthony Kiedis was stretching his vocals out to include actual melody instead of manic barking; tempos varied greatly which increased their sonic palette; and the melancholy/sexy content of the lyrics was also a sign of great growth.
It was produced by Rick Rubin who must have sold several souls to different devils over the years. His list of collaborators is mind-boggling. Johnny Cash, The Beastie Boys, Neil Diamond, System of a Down, The Dixie Chicks, Justin Timberlake, AC/DC, Slayer, Metallica, Kanye West, Shakira, Sheryl Crow, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Mick Jagger, Run DMC, The Cult,and Weezer.
Take a second and go back over that list please.
Not only do I want to be him I want him to produce my album. Just putting that out there in the universe.
In any case, the 'Blood Sugar Sex Magic' album was some sort of zeitgeist moment. The Chili Peppers were underground but they weren't rock. They took elements of funk, rap, hip/hop, and soul and put it all on steroids and surfboards. The sound of the album is open...it is as if you are in a giant comfortable room with the band scattered to the corners, their sound meeting right over your couch.
Turns out the Chili Peppers were immediately going to tour the world and explode this album out to its farthest incarnation. This tour turned them into international superstars instead of catchy oddballs. They played Paris and a few of us made the trek from Orleans to catch their act.
They played a cavernous old club to a mostly teenage French crowd that seemed to identify more with an American aesthetic than whatever French rock scene was the order of the day. But none of them seemed prepared for the opening act.
Henry Rollins is something of a demi-god to the punk movement. Childhood friends with Ian MacKaye who virtually invented American hardcore with Minor Threat, Henry Rollins parlayed his status as most intense fan into a singing slot with the West Coast hardcore giants Black Flag. Their singer had disappeared in a puff of smoke, or been shot, or had joined the Marines. Their tour was only half over. Henry Rollins jumped onstage and promptly made everyone forget Dez Cadena.
Once Black Flag imploded for the 87th time, Rollins set out on his own, doing 750 push ups before the Army even thought about shooting those commercials in the morning. Rollins Band was a punishing conglomerate of jazz precision and angry angst.
Rollins Band took the stage minus Henry and started grinding music to a pulp. After a few minutes of this assault, out strolled Henry himself. Clad only in black workout shorts, he looked like a block of granite lathered with Vaseline. His tattoos seemed to be barely contained by his skin and each muscle articulated his anger separately. He then took both hands around the microphone and attempted to choke the life out of it for the next 45 minutes.
You could feel the crowd hush like a bunch of kids confronted by a bitter substitute teacher.
They were all psyched to get on the Red Hot Chili Pepper bandwagon and along came the Anti-GI Joe to obliterate all memory of that fun-time band and replace it with the power and drudgery of a piston pumping pile-driving factory of steel.
Oh sure, the Peppers eventually took the stage and did their best to return the equilibrium that had been sent to work camp and abused. But make no mistake, Mr. Rollins left his mark. I felt lucky to have escaped his notice.
I had been on the fence with the Chili Peppers up until that point. I thought they had an interesting SOUND, sure, but none of their songs really moved me. They did Stevie Wonder to the max on 'Higher Ground' but nothing they had written could even come close to that.
But I could tell from the first that this album was different. This album had SONGS. It wasn't surprising to me that the mainstream embraced the band on the heels of this collection. Anthony Kiedis was stretching his vocals out to include actual melody instead of manic barking; tempos varied greatly which increased their sonic palette; and the melancholy/sexy content of the lyrics was also a sign of great growth.
It was produced by Rick Rubin who must have sold several souls to different devils over the years. His list of collaborators is mind-boggling. Johnny Cash, The Beastie Boys, Neil Diamond, System of a Down, The Dixie Chicks, Justin Timberlake, AC/DC, Slayer, Metallica, Kanye West, Shakira, Sheryl Crow, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Mick Jagger, Run DMC, The Cult,and Weezer.
Take a second and go back over that list please.
Not only do I want to be him I want him to produce my album. Just putting that out there in the universe.
In any case, the 'Blood Sugar Sex Magic' album was some sort of zeitgeist moment. The Chili Peppers were underground but they weren't rock. They took elements of funk, rap, hip/hop, and soul and put it all on steroids and surfboards. The sound of the album is open...it is as if you are in a giant comfortable room with the band scattered to the corners, their sound meeting right over your couch.
Turns out the Chili Peppers were immediately going to tour the world and explode this album out to its farthest incarnation. This tour turned them into international superstars instead of catchy oddballs. They played Paris and a few of us made the trek from Orleans to catch their act.
They played a cavernous old club to a mostly teenage French crowd that seemed to identify more with an American aesthetic than whatever French rock scene was the order of the day. But none of them seemed prepared for the opening act.
Henry Rollins is something of a demi-god to the punk movement. Childhood friends with Ian MacKaye who virtually invented American hardcore with Minor Threat, Henry Rollins parlayed his status as most intense fan into a singing slot with the West Coast hardcore giants Black Flag. Their singer had disappeared in a puff of smoke, or been shot, or had joined the Marines. Their tour was only half over. Henry Rollins jumped onstage and promptly made everyone forget Dez Cadena.
Once Black Flag imploded for the 87th time, Rollins set out on his own, doing 750 push ups before the Army even thought about shooting those commercials in the morning. Rollins Band was a punishing conglomerate of jazz precision and angry angst.
Rollins Band took the stage minus Henry and started grinding music to a pulp. After a few minutes of this assault, out strolled Henry himself. Clad only in black workout shorts, he looked like a block of granite lathered with Vaseline. His tattoos seemed to be barely contained by his skin and each muscle articulated his anger separately. He then took both hands around the microphone and attempted to choke the life out of it for the next 45 minutes.
You could feel the crowd hush like a bunch of kids confronted by a bitter substitute teacher.
They were all psyched to get on the Red Hot Chili Pepper bandwagon and along came the Anti-GI Joe to obliterate all memory of that fun-time band and replace it with the power and drudgery of a piston pumping pile-driving factory of steel.
Oh sure, the Peppers eventually took the stage and did their best to return the equilibrium that had been sent to work camp and abused. But make no mistake, Mr. Rollins left his mark. I felt lucky to have escaped his notice.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Prince, Pt. 2: Madison Square Sponge Bob
Prince is a cartoon. I described him at Jones Beach as a special effect, as if he'd been computer generated. With any other artist I might have feared a letdown with seeing him for the second time, but I had no such fears with the midget dynamo from Minnesota.
Can we take a bit of a detour here? How odd is it that Prince is from Minnesota? Of all the urban landscapes that could have spawned the premier R&B funkster of the end of the 20th century and the beginning of the 21st, is there a more unlikely spot?
For whatever reason, R&B is considered an urban art form. Atlanta, Detroit, New York, Chicago...these hubs all have their own exalted place in the history and evolution of our national music. But Minneapolis?
R&B conjures up images of a decked out populace partying til the sun comes up. They are wearing slinky dresses, sharp suits, glittering accessories, and fine smelling perfumes or colognes.
It most certainly does not conjure up parking lots outside of music clubs with freezing people in rubber boots, mittens, gloves, hats, and hooded parkas scraping 2 inches of snow off of their windshields.
But from this milieu Prince Rogers Nelson came. By 17 there was a bidding war over who would release his first album. He signed his record contract on the condition that he be allowed to compose, perform, and produce every sound on the album. So when you hear Prince sing 'I Feel For You', the song that Chaka Khan would take to the top of the charts, you are hearing Prince and only Prince. Every sound is made by that little purple dude.
I imagine him as a teenager shaking off the snow and getting down to the business of being a musical prodigy. How do you find the time to learn how to play, among others, guitar, piano, bass, drums, keyboards, trumpet, and saxophone? All while playing varsity basketball? And preparing for a giant career that you've already got mapped out? About which no one who knows you has any doubt? How does this happen? Did I mention the dancing which is as forceful and capable as any Broadway showboy?
To illustrate how bizarre I find this location of talent to be, close your eyes and picture the Coen Brothers classic film 'Fargo'. Now splash Prince circa 'Purple Rain' all over that dreary snow blown whitewashed silence. To quote millions of tech savvy texters, WTF?
Well, it happened. We all have the evidence to prove it, from the DVD of 'Purple Rain' to last year's transcendent Super Bowl performance, to Coachella which goes down this weekend.
My second live experience with Prince came at Madison Square Garden, the only time in my 8 years there that I paid to see a concert. I saw Barenaked Ladies for free but that's another story entirely.
Ever the showman, Prince first appeared to the panting masses via some sort of underground hatch which he rose out of all in white in a blinding white spotlight. He was wailing away on his guitar while the band snapped immediately into some sick funk 100 yards away on the MSG stage. He then sunk back into the floor and reappeared on stage.
I won't even try to describe this performance in comparison to the one at Jones Beach because when it comes to Prince, there is no off night. He is Prince 24/7, sometimes more than that according to those who know him. He barely sleeps in order to pump out the volume of music that rushes through that teeny body.
Go back and watch the Super Bowl again if you can find it on YouTube. Remember that the man you are watching has an artificial hip from dancing for 30 years in high heeled boots.
Who else could pull this shit off? And he's from Minneapolis!!!!
Can we take a bit of a detour here? How odd is it that Prince is from Minnesota? Of all the urban landscapes that could have spawned the premier R&B funkster of the end of the 20th century and the beginning of the 21st, is there a more unlikely spot?
For whatever reason, R&B is considered an urban art form. Atlanta, Detroit, New York, Chicago...these hubs all have their own exalted place in the history and evolution of our national music. But Minneapolis?
R&B conjures up images of a decked out populace partying til the sun comes up. They are wearing slinky dresses, sharp suits, glittering accessories, and fine smelling perfumes or colognes.
It most certainly does not conjure up parking lots outside of music clubs with freezing people in rubber boots, mittens, gloves, hats, and hooded parkas scraping 2 inches of snow off of their windshields.
But from this milieu Prince Rogers Nelson came. By 17 there was a bidding war over who would release his first album. He signed his record contract on the condition that he be allowed to compose, perform, and produce every sound on the album. So when you hear Prince sing 'I Feel For You', the song that Chaka Khan would take to the top of the charts, you are hearing Prince and only Prince. Every sound is made by that little purple dude.
I imagine him as a teenager shaking off the snow and getting down to the business of being a musical prodigy. How do you find the time to learn how to play, among others, guitar, piano, bass, drums, keyboards, trumpet, and saxophone? All while playing varsity basketball? And preparing for a giant career that you've already got mapped out? About which no one who knows you has any doubt? How does this happen? Did I mention the dancing which is as forceful and capable as any Broadway showboy?
To illustrate how bizarre I find this location of talent to be, close your eyes and picture the Coen Brothers classic film 'Fargo'. Now splash Prince circa 'Purple Rain' all over that dreary snow blown whitewashed silence. To quote millions of tech savvy texters, WTF?
Well, it happened. We all have the evidence to prove it, from the DVD of 'Purple Rain' to last year's transcendent Super Bowl performance, to Coachella which goes down this weekend.
My second live experience with Prince came at Madison Square Garden, the only time in my 8 years there that I paid to see a concert. I saw Barenaked Ladies for free but that's another story entirely.
Ever the showman, Prince first appeared to the panting masses via some sort of underground hatch which he rose out of all in white in a blinding white spotlight. He was wailing away on his guitar while the band snapped immediately into some sick funk 100 yards away on the MSG stage. He then sunk back into the floor and reappeared on stage.
I won't even try to describe this performance in comparison to the one at Jones Beach because when it comes to Prince, there is no off night. He is Prince 24/7, sometimes more than that according to those who know him. He barely sleeps in order to pump out the volume of music that rushes through that teeny body.
Go back and watch the Super Bowl again if you can find it on YouTube. Remember that the man you are watching has an artificial hip from dancing for 30 years in high heeled boots.
Who else could pull this shit off? And he's from Minneapolis!!!!
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
The Element of Danger
What is that strange quality that a band or artist has to have to put them in the 'pay attention until they or I die' category?
The remastered Replacements albums have gotten me to thinking...as a fan I categorize music in several ways, ways that are often convoluted and contradictory.
Tom Waits is a good example. He's a genius in my mind but I've also completely stopped paying attention to him. His quirkiness has gone too far for me to stay engaged. There was a period of several years in the '90's when I might have proclaimed him to be my favorite artist.
Elvis Costello, same thing. His prolific nature has made following him something of a chore, like a homework assignment that you are actually interested in but don't give 100% on because you might care about the history of Belarus but there's that party on Saturday...
Bjork at one time held a sacred spot in my Hall of Fame. Whenever I hear her voice now I get the urge to be nasty to old handicapped ladies. Enough with the quirk. Enough with the 'we recorded this on an iceberg using didgeridoo, theremin, a saw, 243 kazoos played by the entire prison population of a small suburb of Reykjavik, and a deaf Barbershop quartet'. Seriously. I have HAD IT WITH BJORK.
How do some people not fall into the scorn pit of my derision? I don't know. I almost turned on Paul Westerberg after 'Eventually' came out. I left a concert of his well before it was over. I didn't buy the first Grandpaboy EP. I flirted with moving on. I'm actually ashamed of that now. It wasn't him, it was me. I was the one who was flawed and wrong, not him or his music.
There are very few artists who are safe. The Beatles, Paul Westerberg/The Replacements, Bob Dylan, Eminem, Ray Charles, Rufus Wainwright, Sonic Youth, Prince (although he can be EMBARRASSING so often), etc. etc.
My good friend Justin was in Vienna recently on a UN trip. He had a bit of free time and went to see U2 3D. He called me on his cell phone from across the pond to leave me a message that essentially said, "Why doesn't U2 do it for me? Larry, The Edge, Adam, Bono, and I'm just like, (imagine a disinterested shrug accompanied by the sound) EH."
This message started me thinking and led to this post. To my mind, what keeps U2 from grabbing my attention/love and hurtling it into obsessive favorite status, is that they are essentially GOOD. They don't scare me. And that illusory quality is important in rock music, yes, but also in any art. There should always be the sense that the everyday equilibrium is threatened.
To me, U2 are literally preaching to the converted. When they try to be sexy and rock-star-ish I get a little embarrassed for them. When they get topical and political I agree wholeheartedly but I can get that from parsing the New York Times. In fact, the only thing about U2 that fully engages me is, oddly enough, their religious music. Perhaps because I'm not an overtly religious man this seems like the most dangerous stuff in their canon.
My favorite song of theirs is called 'Wake Up Dead Man' off their widely panned 'Pop' album. It is basically a call to Jesus to come back and finish what he started.
See? Now that scares me.
The remastered Replacements albums have gotten me to thinking...as a fan I categorize music in several ways, ways that are often convoluted and contradictory.
Tom Waits is a good example. He's a genius in my mind but I've also completely stopped paying attention to him. His quirkiness has gone too far for me to stay engaged. There was a period of several years in the '90's when I might have proclaimed him to be my favorite artist.
Elvis Costello, same thing. His prolific nature has made following him something of a chore, like a homework assignment that you are actually interested in but don't give 100% on because you might care about the history of Belarus but there's that party on Saturday...
Bjork at one time held a sacred spot in my Hall of Fame. Whenever I hear her voice now I get the urge to be nasty to old handicapped ladies. Enough with the quirk. Enough with the 'we recorded this on an iceberg using didgeridoo, theremin, a saw, 243 kazoos played by the entire prison population of a small suburb of Reykjavik, and a deaf Barbershop quartet'. Seriously. I have HAD IT WITH BJORK.
How do some people not fall into the scorn pit of my derision? I don't know. I almost turned on Paul Westerberg after 'Eventually' came out. I left a concert of his well before it was over. I didn't buy the first Grandpaboy EP. I flirted with moving on. I'm actually ashamed of that now. It wasn't him, it was me. I was the one who was flawed and wrong, not him or his music.
There are very few artists who are safe. The Beatles, Paul Westerberg/The Replacements, Bob Dylan, Eminem, Ray Charles, Rufus Wainwright, Sonic Youth, Prince (although he can be EMBARRASSING so often), etc. etc.
My good friend Justin was in Vienna recently on a UN trip. He had a bit of free time and went to see U2 3D. He called me on his cell phone from across the pond to leave me a message that essentially said, "Why doesn't U2 do it for me? Larry, The Edge, Adam, Bono, and I'm just like, (imagine a disinterested shrug accompanied by the sound) EH."
This message started me thinking and led to this post. To my mind, what keeps U2 from grabbing my attention/love and hurtling it into obsessive favorite status, is that they are essentially GOOD. They don't scare me. And that illusory quality is important in rock music, yes, but also in any art. There should always be the sense that the everyday equilibrium is threatened.
To me, U2 are literally preaching to the converted. When they try to be sexy and rock-star-ish I get a little embarrassed for them. When they get topical and political I agree wholeheartedly but I can get that from parsing the New York Times. In fact, the only thing about U2 that fully engages me is, oddly enough, their religious music. Perhaps because I'm not an overtly religious man this seems like the most dangerous stuff in their canon.
My favorite song of theirs is called 'Wake Up Dead Man' off their widely panned 'Pop' album. It is basically a call to Jesus to come back and finish what he started.
See? Now that scares me.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
2 Words: The Replacements Reiusses Come Out Today!!!!
Replacements reissues.
I can't really even articulate what I'm feeling today. We've had some server issues at work which are going to prevent a full post which is just fine because my brain is out of control.
The first 4 Replacements albums (Sorry Ma, Forgot To Take Out The Trash, Stink, Hootenanny, Let It Be) are all being re-released today, re-mastered, bonus material, etc. etc.
I just read an interview with Paul Westerberg in Billboard about the whole thing, then a similar interview with Tommy Stinson.
I am so excited I'm having a hard time thinking straight.
I can't really even articulate what I'm feeling today. We've had some server issues at work which are going to prevent a full post which is just fine because my brain is out of control.
The first 4 Replacements albums (Sorry Ma, Forgot To Take Out The Trash, Stink, Hootenanny, Let It Be) are all being re-released today, re-mastered, bonus material, etc. etc.
I just read an interview with Paul Westerberg in Billboard about the whole thing, then a similar interview with Tommy Stinson.
I am so excited I'm having a hard time thinking straight.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Studebakers Revisited
A while back I wrote about the chain of events that led to my writing a tribute song to Paul Westerberg. His song about Alex Chilton + They Might Be Giants song 'We're The Replacements' = My song 'Blame It On Paul'.
However, there was a link in that equation that had gone missing. Justin and I had tried to write a tribute to They Might Be Giants one fateful day in his backyard. There are probably about 8,746 entries to come about that backyard but for now let's just say that he had a river on one border of his house and a turf farm on the other and a lot of loud musical equipment.
We wrote a great deal of material out on that turf farm, beers packed in ice, acoustic guitar on Justin's arm. This was before I'd learned to truly play the guitar myself so I was still the singer. I used to be the lyricist but Justin was quickly becoming a lyricist in his own right. He also started wanting to sing. I was starting to feel like Van Halen inverted.
But I'm a dedicated fan as well as a performer. So it was quite an easy transition to make. We still collaborated from time to time, most famously on a cassette tape that is now buried on a median strip in France for reasons that Justin and I cannot recall.
The following lyrics were to be sung in a counterpoint duet, a la They Might Be Giants. We may have actually sung it a couple of times but it disappeared into the ether. Or, at least, the music did.
The words? I found them. On my recent trip home I was burrowing in the attic. I found roughly 75 notebooks filled with scribbling torrents that more often than not rhymed.
Buried deep inside these treasures (ahem), I found the following...
They Might Be Studebakers
She was a studebaker she drove me crazy
It amazed me that a studebaker could
Grow so big
A pig with charms that alarmed
The gas station attendant
A dependent chile could not grow so wild
As she - the studebaker
She was a studebaker her high beams
The extremes that always seemed to
Grow so big
S-T-U-D-E-B-A-K-E-R
S-T-U-D-E-B-A-K-E-R
No car from the mar (that's the sea to you and me)
Could grow so large as the studebaker
She was a studebaker
studebaker
She could eat all the stu the baker made for me and you
But stu many bakers
Spoil the broth
Time to change the oil
My blood began to boil
At the thought of the coil of her tail fins
Tho her name was Marge by en larged she was a barge
We called the studebaker
----------------------
I can't tell you the depths of hilarity that this assumed in the moment of creation. If our enthusiasm were the only gauge this song vaulted right into the pantheon of novelty/tribute songs far above 'fish heads' and just shy of 'turning japanese'.
Things can get a little weird out there in Usquepaugh.
However, there was a link in that equation that had gone missing. Justin and I had tried to write a tribute to They Might Be Giants one fateful day in his backyard. There are probably about 8,746 entries to come about that backyard but for now let's just say that he had a river on one border of his house and a turf farm on the other and a lot of loud musical equipment.
We wrote a great deal of material out on that turf farm, beers packed in ice, acoustic guitar on Justin's arm. This was before I'd learned to truly play the guitar myself so I was still the singer. I used to be the lyricist but Justin was quickly becoming a lyricist in his own right. He also started wanting to sing. I was starting to feel like Van Halen inverted.
But I'm a dedicated fan as well as a performer. So it was quite an easy transition to make. We still collaborated from time to time, most famously on a cassette tape that is now buried on a median strip in France for reasons that Justin and I cannot recall.
The following lyrics were to be sung in a counterpoint duet, a la They Might Be Giants. We may have actually sung it a couple of times but it disappeared into the ether. Or, at least, the music did.
The words? I found them. On my recent trip home I was burrowing in the attic. I found roughly 75 notebooks filled with scribbling torrents that more often than not rhymed.
Buried deep inside these treasures (ahem), I found the following...
They Might Be Studebakers
She was a studebaker she drove me crazy
It amazed me that a studebaker could
Grow so big
A pig with charms that alarmed
The gas station attendant
A dependent chile could not grow so wild
As she - the studebaker
She was a studebaker her high beams
The extremes that always seemed to
Grow so big
S-T-U-D-E-B-A-K-E-R
S-T-U-D-E-B-A-K-E-R
No car from the mar (that's the sea to you and me)
Could grow so large as the studebaker
She was a studebaker
studebaker
She could eat all the stu the baker made for me and you
But stu many bakers
Spoil the broth
Time to change the oil
My blood began to boil
At the thought of the coil of her tail fins
Tho her name was Marge by en larged she was a barge
We called the studebaker
----------------------
I can't tell you the depths of hilarity that this assumed in the moment of creation. If our enthusiasm were the only gauge this song vaulted right into the pantheon of novelty/tribute songs far above 'fish heads' and just shy of 'turning japanese'.
Things can get a little weird out there in Usquepaugh.
Friday, April 18, 2008
The Saints, or Une Voyage Bizarre
This is as hazy a memory as I could possibly dredge up.
I was living in France and several months into my new approach to life hors des etats-unis. I'd completely ceased attending class...I'd made a tight circle of French friends and felt as if I was learning infinitely more about the language by actually speaking it with natives instead of sitting in classrooms with other English/non-French speaking exchange students. Of course, I probably could have been doing BOTH and learning a great deal more, but the call of the wild was too strong.
Life seemed to have devolved into an endless series of dares to be met. We borrowed a car and drove the equivalent of Rhode Island to North Carolina. We stole pallets to start bonfires. We jumped onstage with local rock bands. We shamelessly used our accents to flirt.
When I say that this memory is hazy, I am not kidding. I don't remember who I went with, where we went, how we got there, how long it took, how long it took to get back, what the name of the joint was, what month the show was in, what day it was on, what songs were sung, how many cigarettes I smoked, how many bieres I buveed.
In fact, at the moment I am writing this, I don't know the name of the artist we went to see. I only know that he was the lead singer of The Saints and someone had managed to convince him to come to France to play this show. Pardon while I go Google...
His name is Chris Bailey. The Saints were (are) an Australian band that plays straight forward rock and roll. I had never heard nor heard of The Saints before this night.
I have an image of a ramshackle restaurant in a forest just adjacent to an arced moss covered stone bridge over a small stream. A windmill perhaps? A pointy shingled building with old-fashioned windows held together by the trees that surrounded it. I have no image in my head of another building anywhere near it. It is as if we'd been brought to some Hobbit hideout.
I know it was a bit of a drive from Orleans where I attended school. Who got me to go to this concert? I don't remember. It wasn't anyone in the circle I knew so well so it must have been one of those 'take the American!' kind of hospitality experiences that exchange students always find themselves in.
I seem to remember being in a round little orange car for a good long while. In French I got the lowdown on The Saints. Perhaps this is why I can't remember it.
Once at the Hobbit inn we ate some French food, mostly ham dunked into melted cheese. Chris Bailey would be coming out to sing later on. There was no stage, no microphone. I imagine this was some French version of a bed and breakfast. Again, my memory fails me. I see nooks at the top of short stairwells, arched crannies shoved up against ceilings...
Everyone hushed once Bailey began to sing. The show seemed to go on forever, in a good way. His voice has that gruff storyteller quality and he seems to know how to play every song ever written. There was one zealot there who'd obviously arranged this unlikely concert. He kept shouting out Frenchly pronounced titles of Saints songs. Other people shouted out Motown classics, Beatles tunes, whatever the hell came into their heads.
Thus the concert had a schizophrenic quality, like a lurching drunk virtuoso expatriate trying to appease a group of local politicians. He stood on tables and exhorted sing-alongs, he serenaded blushing girlfriends, he probably sang the Marseillaise for chrissakes.
We stayed until the bitter end, which seemed to be 5 days later. I know the restaurant emptied and whoever the hell dragged me all the way out there and I sat and drank and raved with Chris Bailey, whose name I just had to Google. I have no memory of what we discussed but I'm pretty sure it involved outrage, hilarity, anti-Frenchiness, anti-Americanism, anti-Australianism, and long burps.
He put on a hell of a show, did that Saint, in the Hobbit hideout in the uncharted wilderness of the France of my memory.
I was living in France and several months into my new approach to life hors des etats-unis. I'd completely ceased attending class...I'd made a tight circle of French friends and felt as if I was learning infinitely more about the language by actually speaking it with natives instead of sitting in classrooms with other English/non-French speaking exchange students. Of course, I probably could have been doing BOTH and learning a great deal more, but the call of the wild was too strong.
Life seemed to have devolved into an endless series of dares to be met. We borrowed a car and drove the equivalent of Rhode Island to North Carolina. We stole pallets to start bonfires. We jumped onstage with local rock bands. We shamelessly used our accents to flirt.
When I say that this memory is hazy, I am not kidding. I don't remember who I went with, where we went, how we got there, how long it took, how long it took to get back, what the name of the joint was, what month the show was in, what day it was on, what songs were sung, how many cigarettes I smoked, how many bieres I buveed.
In fact, at the moment I am writing this, I don't know the name of the artist we went to see. I only know that he was the lead singer of The Saints and someone had managed to convince him to come to France to play this show. Pardon while I go Google...
His name is Chris Bailey. The Saints were (are) an Australian band that plays straight forward rock and roll. I had never heard nor heard of The Saints before this night.
I have an image of a ramshackle restaurant in a forest just adjacent to an arced moss covered stone bridge over a small stream. A windmill perhaps? A pointy shingled building with old-fashioned windows held together by the trees that surrounded it. I have no image in my head of another building anywhere near it. It is as if we'd been brought to some Hobbit hideout.
I know it was a bit of a drive from Orleans where I attended school. Who got me to go to this concert? I don't remember. It wasn't anyone in the circle I knew so well so it must have been one of those 'take the American!' kind of hospitality experiences that exchange students always find themselves in.
I seem to remember being in a round little orange car for a good long while. In French I got the lowdown on The Saints. Perhaps this is why I can't remember it.
Once at the Hobbit inn we ate some French food, mostly ham dunked into melted cheese. Chris Bailey would be coming out to sing later on. There was no stage, no microphone. I imagine this was some French version of a bed and breakfast. Again, my memory fails me. I see nooks at the top of short stairwells, arched crannies shoved up against ceilings...
Everyone hushed once Bailey began to sing. The show seemed to go on forever, in a good way. His voice has that gruff storyteller quality and he seems to know how to play every song ever written. There was one zealot there who'd obviously arranged this unlikely concert. He kept shouting out Frenchly pronounced titles of Saints songs. Other people shouted out Motown classics, Beatles tunes, whatever the hell came into their heads.
Thus the concert had a schizophrenic quality, like a lurching drunk virtuoso expatriate trying to appease a group of local politicians. He stood on tables and exhorted sing-alongs, he serenaded blushing girlfriends, he probably sang the Marseillaise for chrissakes.
We stayed until the bitter end, which seemed to be 5 days later. I know the restaurant emptied and whoever the hell dragged me all the way out there and I sat and drank and raved with Chris Bailey, whose name I just had to Google. I have no memory of what we discussed but I'm pretty sure it involved outrage, hilarity, anti-Frenchiness, anti-Americanism, anti-Australianism, and long burps.
He put on a hell of a show, did that Saint, in the Hobbit hideout in the uncharted wilderness of the France of my memory.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
