Turkey Waltz

What better holiday than the one focused on taking stock of our blessings? No gifts, no pressure, no feigned excitement; just all of us expressing thanks for gifts already received. But, before the thanking begins in earnest, we all know that there is a little down time. It starts around 9:50 a.m., once we've had breakfast but before preparations for the Big Meal begin. It's too late for coffee and too early for beer. The relatives aren't in town yet. Football doesn't start for hours and the turkey isn't even in the oven yet. I know, I know, there's Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. But whatever its (dubious) historical merits may be, is watching overly made-up actors lip sync stale songs whilst frolicking amongst giant inflatable comic book characters and super-happy elves your idea of entertainment?

For a more enriching Thanksgiving down time tradition, consider The Band's opus masterpiece, The Last Waltz. A full discussion of their brilliance is for another time. Jumping forward to the end, by 1976, they were spent. Star-driven egos (Robertson), addictions (Danko), infirmity (Manuel), and exasperation (Helm, Hudson) had reduced the former Hawks to a less functional state. The Greats have an instinct for knowing when the end is near. They know when to pull the Plug. So it was in November 1976 for the Band. A simple press release was no fitting end. Instead, on November 25, 1976 (your author's first birthday; Karma), they packed the old Winterland Arena in San Francisco with 5,000 fortunates and had a Bill Graham orchestrated Party. It was Thanksgiving Day. "Mom, I'm not going to make it home this year."

In a twist, the concert did not start immediately; Thanksgiving dinner was first served to the assembled mass. This surely was the most raucous Thanksgiving dinner in history; a supercharged throng of post-hippie Woodstock vets dining patiently on turkey and salmon while waiting for their Heroes to take the stage. To have been a centerpiece on that table! Once satiated, the mass saw a show for the ages, with a Hall of Fame parade of guests ranging from Muddy Waters to Neil Young to Neil Diamond to Bob Dylan. It is not known to be their greatest live performance (for a superior live recording, see Rock of Ages, which documents their excellent 1971 New Year's show), but its historical significance is outsized. Rolling Stone has described the Martin Scorsese directed video documentary as the greatest Rock film ever. (I would place it somewhere around number 2, with the Rolling Stones' Gimme Shelter being a clear 1). It is a marvelous and artful portrayal of legendary musicians as idols and human beings, jamming for their last time together. It is the Citizen Kane of Rock documentaries, an essential study for any Music Fan. So, as you sit around twiddling your smart phone at 10:00 a.m. this Thanksgiving, or next, do yourself and your family a favor. Show them The Last Waltz. You will all be enriched.

An Early Evening Thanksgiving Reminder. We are ALL blessed. This Earth is a wonderful place, full of color and laughter. We are lucky to be here together. For those of you dealing with trials and tribulations this Thanksgiving, we are all pulling for you. There are better days ahead. Hang in there! If health and good fortune are the order of your day, then the blessings are more apparent. Do not take them for granted. No matter what, if you are reading this, then you have reason to give thanks. Take a moment tomorrow. Think about it. Be thankful. Count your blessings. One. By. One.        

SOTW - October 13, 2012 - John Prine

John Prine is an understudied legend. His decades-long catalog is a Transcendentalist portrait of Americana. Perhaps best known for 1971's "Angel From Montgomery," Prine broke out of the Chicago folk scene in the late 60's (what is it with the Midwest and its folk singers?) and has built his 40-plus year legacy working in modest obscurity. Never experiencing the popular forces that tear so viciously at the Bob Dylans of the world, he has maintained vigor and perspective. I saw Prine at the Fox Theater last winter and it was mystifying. Sitting deeply in my pitch dark seat watching him and his guitar under a single pillar of light, I felt confident he could give me the Key to Universe if given another hour.

Ever noticed David Allen Coe's reference to Steve Goodman in 1974's farcical hit "You Never Even Called Me By My Name?" Well, that's only half the story. Prine actually co-wrote the song with Goodman, but (smartly, I think) declined songwriting credit. Prine's share of the take ended up being a jukebox from Goodman purchased with the resulting royalties.


For the uninitiated, start with his eponymous 1971 debut or 1976's early-career compilation, Prime Prine. For a late career highlight, 2005's Fair and Square is an hour well spent.  

The late '00's brought a Prine revival of sorts as current popular artists expressed their appreciation. A series of performances with Prine and My Morning Jacket's Jim James (or, at the time, alter ego "Yim Yames") culminated in 2010's superior tribute, Broken Hearts and Dirty Windows. With an artist lineup ranging from Justin Vernon of Bon Iver to the Avett Brothers to Old Crow Medicine Show to Mike Cooley of the Drive By Truckers, Broken Hearts is that rarest of species, a tribute record with artistic vitality. It's like a group of youngsters opened a closet at grandma's house and found a dusty old toy that, while different, was of such quality and significance they couldn't resist getting it out and playing with it. The highlight of the record, My Morning Jacket's richly-textured cover of Prines touching All the Best,  is your Song of the Week for October 13, 2012. If you have no John Prine, there is a hole in your collection. Fill it.   

SOTW - September 22, 2012

Fall approaches! Outside, things change ever so slowly. The oppression of the heat eases. The morning air is crisp. Sleeves become necessary for the first time in months. The sky is less hazy and the afternoon light takes a longer angle off the leaves. As we all know, fall Saturday mornings are best. Whether you are walking through the woods, towards a stadium, or simply around your yard, an early fall Saturday is just inviting.

To Your Writer, the Early Evening Song of the Week for September 22, 2012 feels like a fall morning. Nashville eminence and Berklee College product David Rawlings is one of the world's most gifted guitarists. Historically serving as accompaniment to the brilliant Gillian Welch, Rawlings was less known for his vocals. That changed with the formation of the Dave Rawlings Machine in 2009 and the release of the timeless A Friend of a Friend. That album's first and best track, "Ruby," is so chock full of imagery it sounds like Wordsworth written for the early '00's country-folk set. Enjoy, and have a great weekend.



      

SOTW - September 7, 2012

I admit it. I am a sucker for a cover. Tasteful covers are good. Smartly-chosen cross-genre covers are even better. Think the Gourd's unforgettable take on "Gin and Juice." Anybody ever heard Phish insert themselves into un-jam Warhol-era NYC via The Velvet Underground's "Rock and Roll?" How about the 'Stones going straight Motown with a late 70's take on the Temptations' "Just My Imgination?" In my favorite recent example, hear the Futurebirds channel mid 80's VH1 (minus Helena Christensen) with a scorching take on Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game."

We could play this game all day, but I will instead suggest an inviting recent example of the cross-genre cover. In your Song of the Week for September 7, 2012, non-trippy indie smugsters The Decemberists dust off a sacred passage from ... The Grateful Dead of all people. This non-Skeletons from the Closet Dead classic was a sure-fire crowd pleaser and is a welcome addition to any setlist (the '73 vintage is choice to this listener). The Decemberists give it a light-hearted take that encourages the rolling down of windows on a not-so-hot September Friday. Have a great weekend, and stay safe out there!


  

Old Crow Medicine Show - album review

Old Crow Medicine Show

Carry Me Back 
ATO Records 

Nobody ever accused the Old Crow Medicine Show of being a bunch of phonies. Drawing from a bottomless pit of energy and smiling all along, this modern folk acoustic experiment branded the music world with their old-time Americana beginning with 2004's superb O.C.M.S. With perfect focus, they plug the listener into their hand-blown tales of the new/old South. In terms of subject matter, think Bill Monroe meets Drive By Truckers. After lighting off the mid '00's Folkgrass revival with their debut, they rode a wave through 2006's superb Big Iron World. On those first two albums, we hear a band of telepathically-linked troubadours gathered around, and pouring their full souls into, a single microphone stand. The days of busking on the sidewalks of Boone were never far behind, until now.

2008's Tennessee Pusher represented a welcome change of pace. The raw material of the early output was there, but in a more refined form imposed by producer Don Was. Sprinkles of electric instrumentation added a charge to the presentation. More serious themes (addiction and assassination) were interspersed with their typical tongue-in-cheek bootlegger comic book material. Pusher hummed. 

A four-year break in recorded material followed while the band toured tirelessly. By August  of 2011, burnout set in and Old Crow went on hiatus. The big shock to the system came in early 2012 with the news that Willie Watson was out of the lineup. [Sigh.] While Ketch Secor is rightfully the Captain of this ship, Watson was the unshakable First Mate. The Wee One's pristine wail vividly painted essential early material such as "Tear it Down" and "Down Home Girl." 

Enter Old Crow's fourth studio effort, the listenable but unspectacular Carry Me Back. The post-Watson era finds a band less willing to take risks. The synergistic fire of the early records is diffused, an apparent a result of our troubadours being sent into separate foam-padded rooms with their instruments during recording instead of playing as one. What you hear are highly-competent professionals playing it safe. Opener "Carry Me Back" is rollicking folkgrass, but misses the spitfire of Pusher's "Alabama High-Test." Album co-highlight "We Don't Grow Tobacco" is about the only number that would find itself at home on O.C.M.S. "Bootlegger's Boy" and "Mississippi Saturday Night" are competent but strain thematically, leading the educated listener to long for the simplicity of Big Iron's "New Virginia Creeper." Even the slow numbers fail to fully connect. Carry Me Back's "Levi" is a simple cousin of Big Iron's "James River Blues" and "Ain't it Enough" is a less-earnest stepsister to "I Hear Them All." Pardon the comparisons, but they are hard to escape when listening to the mighty Medicine Show play it too close to the vest.     

While Watson's departure leaves the manic energy of the earlier albums in short supply, the re-introduction of original DNA in the form of Critter Fuqua and new blood in the form of Chance McCoy is welcome. Fuqua's "Sewanee Mountain Catfight" is a back-to-basics energy flash that propels the back half of the album. McCoy's co-highlight, "Genevieve," is stirring country, if slightly out of place in this context. 

Carry Me Back reaches for the past indeed, just not quite far enough. 

SOTW - July 27, 2012

As the summer drags towards its bitter end and the days become ever so shorter, the earth seems to hold accumulated heat like a giant cosmic sponge. There are no brisk mornings. Even when the great burning ball of helium and stuff has been out of sight for 8 hours, heat radiates off the pavement in waves. The humidity out there at 7:00 a.m. is enough to choke you during vigorous exercise. Forget 3 in the afternoon, the pre-dawn is painful when August comes in Georgia!

Need a way to beat the heat but already taken your beach trip(s)? Head down to the Normal Bar in Athens, GA on a Thursday happy hour for a fresh squeezed citrus cocktail (the Salty Dog is a good start, or finish). I swear it's 10 degrees cooler in the parking lot behind that place when the Farm cart is set up, ablaze with Christmas lights and Phish bootlegs, serving grass-fed double "cheesy burguhs" (as my dear Wellie calls them). The recently added post-Navy Supply School sundown amplifications of "Taps," "Reveille," and a full-length "National Anthem" (no Rusty, not the Radiohead version) add charm. It's very local and a good way to spend an evening.

Speaking of summer and citrus cocktails, your Song of the Week for July 27, 2012 is a near-perfect piece of swinging indie rock that always makes me feel like I'm staring out over the ocean, wind in my face on a breezy July afternoon. Here, we find Jeff Tweedy at his mellow best; contemplative yet hopeful, with a dose of post-Uncle Tupelo space. Have a beautiful and blessed weekend, and stay cool however you have to do it!      

About the Velvet Underground

It doesn't matter whether we define Rock and Roll as attitude or art; the Velvet Underground were unqualified Masters. But fame and fortune do not always accompany mastery. Lou Reed, John Cale, Sterling Morrison, and Maureen Tucker comprised the most under-appreciated band in the genre's history. Their legacy is one of influence instead of album sales. To the few that know and appreciate their music, they are Giants, artists' artists. Peter Buck said it best: "The first Velvet Underground album only sold 10,000 copies, but everyone who bought it formed a band."

They were the original purveyors of aggressive East Coast chic rocker cool. Ever seen a stoic cooler-than-thou garage band rocker in all black with wraparound shades and boots (pants tucked in, of course)? The Underground did it first. Ever heard a punk band ride a 2 or 3 chord drone to glory and wonder who invented the mode? I've got your answer. Ever heard (great underrated American Ballad) "Sweet Jane?" That's a Velvet Underground song. Ever seen this Warhol piece?

It's the cover of a Velvet Underground record. That takes us to the beginning, in mid 1960's New York. Dylan wrecked his motorcycle in '66 and moved to Woodstock to recuperate. He had become such a global commodity by that point I doubt the locals still viewed him as their own. There was thus something of a hole in the mid-60's New York music scene. Simultaneously, Andy Warhol's star was exploding. After his first major display in the City in 1962, Warhol moved on to set up the cultural and artistic supernova known as the Factory. Every legendary scene needs a house band and 1965 was a big year for legendary scenes. It was then that Warhol became the Underground's manager and wove them into the fabric of his ongoing artistic project at the Factory. Simultaneously, on the Left Coast, Ken Kesey served as cosmic midwife to the Grateful Dead at the Acid Tests. (Coincidentally, both bands originally performed under the name "Warlocks" before switching monikers). Realizing that he was on to something, Warhol brought supermodel Nico into the flock, made them the centerpiece of his deep space "multimedia" extravaganza, the Exploding Plastic Inevitable, and took them out on the road in 1966.

It was during the Expolding Plastic era that the band recorded their first, most famous, and most influential album, The Velvet Underground & Nico. Legend has it that the album was recorded in a mind-boggling four days at a rundown studio in New York at a total cost of $1,500 to $3,000. It's influence has reverberated ever since. Owing to the metropolis where the band cut its teeth, it paints a stark urban landscape of drugs, S&M and prostitution. This was not your everyday mid-60's Rock subject matter. The album is musically and lyrically brilliant; frank and hard-hitting. Here, you see artists doing exactly as they intended. No words are minced. To borrow a favorite line from my scholarly uncle, Tom McIntyre, Nico demands to be listened to. This is an album for driving down a dark highway, alone and in a serious frame of mind. I am a late comer to Nico. I bought it for the first time recently on a long drive and listened to it twice without stopping. I would have listened a third time, but I ran out of road. It's that good, but you have to be patient. This album appeared at number 13 on Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Albums of All Time list and is essential material for any serious music fan's catalog.     

Though their vitality never faded, the Underground's post Nico era became a typical Rock story of artistic differences, in-fighting, course shifts, and evolution. After firing Warhol and seeing Nico quit, the band released White Light/White Heat in January of 1968. Those who were shocked by Nico were surely appalled by White Light. None of the sporadic elegance of Nico is present here. With the volume increased beyond clarity, the music is sharply angular and piercing; the themes more abstract ("Lady Godiva's Operation") and disturbing ("The Gift"). The signature piece here is the bleak chaos of "Sister Ray," which takes the listener through 17 plus minutes of fuzzy droning gutter poetry that plays like "A Day in the Life" for junkies. It's a must-listen for serious fans only and is guaranteed not to leave you in high spirits.

A single step into the abyss beyond White Light would have robbed the band of its legacy and relegated its following to a small population of noise freaks. Instead, the Velvets did what Legends do when a wall approaches. They shifted gears. A listener bothered by White Light will find herself smiling comfortably at the summer afternoon yard music of 1969's The Velvet Underground. Per Wikipedia, the shift we hear here from abstraction to sing-along was driven by the resolution of the artistic rift between Reed's pop instincts and Cale's art deco compulsions. Reed prevailed, and Cale left the band in 1968. The result was a palette of earnest and accessible near-pop. Highlights are the growing-up revelations of "Beginning to See the Light," the jubilant rolls of "What Goes On," and the late-night lonely lover's mediation, "Pale Blue Eyes."

After a year spent largely on the road in 1969 (see The Velvet Underground Live), the band returned to the studio in 1970 under a new label (Atlantic). By that point, Country had begun its percolation through Rock, fueled by the late 60's Ry Cooder/Graham Parsons influenced 'Stones material (see "Country Honk" and "Dead Flowers"). Not even New York based art rockers like the Velvets were immune. They made a slight course alteration, embraced just enough Country, and reeled off their most accessible record, 1970's Loaded. If you don't have Loaded and you buy it, you'll wonder what took you so long. It's pure classic, like someone took the Flying Burrito Brothers and turned them into country-rock superheroes. The Americana of "Sweet Jane" and "Rock & Roll" (anybody else at 3/1/03 Phish in Greensboro?) plays like On the Road for post-hippies. Lock into the bass line on "Cool it Down" and try not to bob your head. "Head Held High" is the perfect soundtrack for a movie bar fight scene. The whole thing ends with the spiraling mellow elegance of the greatest song you've never heard, "Oh, Sweet Nuthin'." It's "Can't You See" for Hipsters!

As we've discussed before, the truest legends know exactly when to quit; it's a component of their greatness. Thus, Loaded was the Velvets' parting shot. (We do not count here 1972's counterfeit hijacking of the VU badge, Squeeze.) They never found commercial success as a band. But as between mountains of money and a giant Legacy, which would you prefer?