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.
"If my words did glow, with the gold of sunshine ..." I have a confession to make, and I want you all to Hear it. I love music. In so many ways, it has formed and informed my life. I owe it so much. Why not write about it?
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Friday, September 7, 2012
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!
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!
Thursday, August 16, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, July 27, 2012
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!
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!
Friday, July 13, 2012
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?
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 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?
Friday, June 29, 2012
SOTW - June 29, 2012
[Publisher's Note: For my (3 or 4) loyal readers, I'm sorry to have been asleep at the switch for the last month. Busy times plus vacation plus lost loved ones cut my creative writing time to zero. More on that later.]
Returning to our recent conversation on Supergroups, you apparently cannot form one these days without John McCauley. The fast-rising Deer Tick front man is finding his way into some quality side projects. This week saw him join local hero Hardy Morris and the rest of the Diamond Rugs on Letterman for a hot take on "Blue Mountains." The new 'Rugs disc is worth repeated listening. Check it out.
McCauley is equal parts bombastic Rock and Roll hero and tortured poet of the Kurt Cobain vein. He is alternately caustic and soulful. I left a recent Deer Tick gig at the Georgia Theater blown away by his stage presence and dexterity, at least when he wasn't trying to make out with girls in the front row or drink 16 ounce Coors lights at an ounce per second. There is a harmless self-destructiveness about him. You find yourself pulling for him to keep it together while harboring zero confidence that it will happen. In a short 8 year career, he has released a deep catalog of honest power folk that demands hearing.
Your Song of the Week for June 29, 2012 is from one of McCauley's recent side projects, Middle Brother. Here, he is joined in fine spirits by Taylor Goldsmith of Dawes and Matt Vasquez of Delta Spirit. The band's eponymous debut of hyper-accessible country-tinged indie pop is carried by instant classics like "Blue Eyes" and "Portland." The bubblegum catchy Paul Simonesque bounce of the title track is what hooked me. Need an instant good mood? Check out some Middle Brother. Have a great weekend, and stay out of the Great Outdoor Georgia Microwave!
Returning to our recent conversation on Supergroups, you apparently cannot form one these days without John McCauley. The fast-rising Deer Tick front man is finding his way into some quality side projects. This week saw him join local hero Hardy Morris and the rest of the Diamond Rugs on Letterman for a hot take on "Blue Mountains." The new 'Rugs disc is worth repeated listening. Check it out.
McCauley is equal parts bombastic Rock and Roll hero and tortured poet of the Kurt Cobain vein. He is alternately caustic and soulful. I left a recent Deer Tick gig at the Georgia Theater blown away by his stage presence and dexterity, at least when he wasn't trying to make out with girls in the front row or drink 16 ounce Coors lights at an ounce per second. There is a harmless self-destructiveness about him. You find yourself pulling for him to keep it together while harboring zero confidence that it will happen. In a short 8 year career, he has released a deep catalog of honest power folk that demands hearing.
Your Song of the Week for June 29, 2012 is from one of McCauley's recent side projects, Middle Brother. Here, he is joined in fine spirits by Taylor Goldsmith of Dawes and Matt Vasquez of Delta Spirit. The band's eponymous debut of hyper-accessible country-tinged indie pop is carried by instant classics like "Blue Eyes" and "Portland." The bubblegum catchy Paul Simonesque bounce of the title track is what hooked me. Need an instant good mood? Check out some Middle Brother. Have a great weekend, and stay out of the Great Outdoor Georgia Microwave!
Thursday, May 17, 2012
SOTW - May 18, 2012
It seems last week's post created a bit of confusion. After "The Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World, Part II" went to press, I received a series of misplaced Spence-has-finally-seen-the-light-and-is-in-the-Beatles-camp now emails. C'mon guys. You know better. An explanation is in order. I do not have permission from Derek Wildstar to disclose his identity and may never. The true origins of GRRBITW, II will likely remain a secret for the Ages. However, let's assume for the sake of this discussion that I did have some creative input. As a lawyer, a critical skill is the ability to see and argue both sides of the same coin. Sometimes, in furthering a client's interests, I must argue a position that I do not necessarily agree with. Agree or disagree, I must be able to put myself in the other side's Cole Haans.
Over the years, for purely academic reasons (of remote interest to about 0.056% of the populace), I've put on my advocate's hat and tried to defend some unpopular musical positions. On that fateful night back in the spring of '95 in Room 18, did I actually believe that the Goo Goo Dolls were better than Phish? No, Cliff, of course not. I was just trying to make an impossible argument. Post Partridge Inn at Kirk's place back in '99 did I really consider Matchbox Twenty's Rob Thomas to be Eddie Vedder's superior? C'mon Katie! That's borderline treason against the Seattle Crown. It was those Sunday before Monday Practice Round "Strong Island Iced Teas" from Somewhere talking. We've all heard of "the sake of discussion." The phrase means nothing if it's not employed from time to time.
But let's not lose sight of one immutable fact. I am a Stones man. Always will be. Their music is engrained in me. It's there in those cherished slivers of time: Mary Katherine at Wes's Rapper Mansion deciding one "Tumbling Dice" wasn't enough (thus violating Music Commandment 3: Thou shalt never voluntarily play the same song more than once in a night.) At least two different times in my life, having an uninitiated Stones fan look directly at me with an impossible smile on his face and exclaim something close to: "I don't know what this is, but it is bad as hell!" in reference to a Stones album. (Jason Hill about half way between Americus and Cordele on highway 280 at 12:48 a.m. in the back of Mitch's red Sunbird after a Get Yer Ya Ya's Out version of "Sympathy;" James Versaggi back in Room 18 part of the way into Track 3 on Exile during a late night "jam session.") Sitting Indian style on the floor of the Country Club Apartments in Americus with Mitch and Pheil exploring England's Newest Hitmakers like middle schoolers on their first trip to Six Flags. The weight of these experiences is pleasantly overwhelming. They keep me anchored to the Truth. I am a Stones man.
Your Song of the Week for May 17, 2012 is one of their masterpieces. Lyrically, it's chock full of stirring imagery laid against the hazily interspersed instrumental layers so prevalent on Exile. The song substitutes piercing shots of piano for guitar ornamentation as it builds to the greatest mid-song Crescendo in Rock history. On a long ago night in Buckhead, we were at Wes's apartment at the Manor. It was late. Very late. There was a party in progress. Sensing a moment, my dear (and incredibly open minded) friend Jason Wallis pulled a vinyl chair in from the porch and positioned himself, alone, directly in front of the 5,000 whatever watt speakers. For a reason we will never know, he had on sunglasses. This song was playing loud enough to be heard from there to the Disco Kroger. Jason was singularly engrossed. He was seated with his back to all other revelers. It was him and the speakers. As the Crescendo was reached, he felt motivation from deep within, the kind that brilliant music inspires. In a measured display of sheer joy, he balled his hands into two tight fists and slowly raised them as far above his head as he could reach.
"What a beautiful buzz!"
Over the years, for purely academic reasons (of remote interest to about 0.056% of the populace), I've put on my advocate's hat and tried to defend some unpopular musical positions. On that fateful night back in the spring of '95 in Room 18, did I actually believe that the Goo Goo Dolls were better than Phish? No, Cliff, of course not. I was just trying to make an impossible argument. Post Partridge Inn at Kirk's place back in '99 did I really consider Matchbox Twenty's Rob Thomas to be Eddie Vedder's superior? C'mon Katie! That's borderline treason against the Seattle Crown. It was those Sunday before Monday Practice Round "Strong Island Iced Teas" from Somewhere talking. We've all heard of "the sake of discussion." The phrase means nothing if it's not employed from time to time.
But let's not lose sight of one immutable fact. I am a Stones man. Always will be. Their music is engrained in me. It's there in those cherished slivers of time: Mary Katherine at Wes's Rapper Mansion deciding one "Tumbling Dice" wasn't enough (thus violating Music Commandment 3: Thou shalt never voluntarily play the same song more than once in a night.) At least two different times in my life, having an uninitiated Stones fan look directly at me with an impossible smile on his face and exclaim something close to: "I don't know what this is, but it is bad as hell!" in reference to a Stones album. (Jason Hill about half way between Americus and Cordele on highway 280 at 12:48 a.m. in the back of Mitch's red Sunbird after a Get Yer Ya Ya's Out version of "Sympathy;" James Versaggi back in Room 18 part of the way into Track 3 on Exile during a late night "jam session.") Sitting Indian style on the floor of the Country Club Apartments in Americus with Mitch and Pheil exploring England's Newest Hitmakers like middle schoolers on their first trip to Six Flags. The weight of these experiences is pleasantly overwhelming. They keep me anchored to the Truth. I am a Stones man.
Your Song of the Week for May 17, 2012 is one of their masterpieces. Lyrically, it's chock full of stirring imagery laid against the hazily interspersed instrumental layers so prevalent on Exile. The song substitutes piercing shots of piano for guitar ornamentation as it builds to the greatest mid-song Crescendo in Rock history. On a long ago night in Buckhead, we were at Wes's apartment at the Manor. It was late. Very late. There was a party in progress. Sensing a moment, my dear (and incredibly open minded) friend Jason Wallis pulled a vinyl chair in from the porch and positioned himself, alone, directly in front of the 5,000 whatever watt speakers. For a reason we will never know, he had on sunglasses. This song was playing loud enough to be heard from there to the Disco Kroger. Jason was singularly engrossed. He was seated with his back to all other revelers. It was him and the speakers. As the Crescendo was reached, he felt motivation from deep within, the kind that brilliant music inspires. In a measured display of sheer joy, he balled his hands into two tight fists and slowly raised them as far above his head as he could reach.
"What a beautiful buzz!"
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