Let me assure anyone out there who gives a damn that i do not write this way out of laziness, nor out of ignorance.  I’ve taken and passed (with flying colors, i might add) all of the UC and CSU required writing courses for Humanities Majors, and i am most capable of writing in the Strunk and White, grammatically-correct style if and when such a thing is required of me.  The reason why i write the way that i do is because i have very strong opinions in regards to the wheat and the chaff of Traditional Grammar, and since this is my place to be myself, the happy home of my most personal prose, here i write in the way that i think that all English writers should write.  This isn’t a case of l33t contamination, or text-message/instant-messaging style leaking into my views on syntax as much as it is my way to comment subtly about some of the grammatical rules that i think are utter bullshit.

Capitalizing “I” for example.  Why?  Why do we do that?  We don’t capitalize “A” when it’s by itself, do we?  Unless a letter (vowel or no)  is at the front of a proper title, is at the beginning of a sentence, or is being capitalized for emphasis, i see no reason to give it special treatment.  “I” is a letter like any other.  You’ll find no outdated and arbitrary grammatical segregation here.  I get that the rule may be a way of implying that “I” is like a proper name in some sort of weird, Dali-esque, pronoun-centric sense, but fuck that.  If there’s ever to be a real revolution in The World of Grammar, this silliness with the letter “I” will be at the heart of it, guaranteed.

As for punctuation as it relates to quotations, my objection is more superficial.  I think that the way i do it looks cleaner and clearer than the text-book method.  I don’t like crowding a quote with unnecessary commas and capitalization and the like.  I try to let whatever i’ve put in quotes stand strong by itself with a clear meaning, message, or intent, and i feel that slipping extra punctuation in at the end is illogical and muddies-up the sovereignty of the quote.  Sometimes, of course, the traditional rules regarding these kinds of things are absolutely in-flow with how i think it should look/sound.  Thus, at times i punctuate quotes correctly, and at times i do not.  In either case, it is purposeful.

Most of the other grammar mistakes you’ll find here (sentence fragments, run-ons, sentences beginning with prepositions, incorrect use of ellipsis, improper indenting, comma splices, etc) are also intentional, though certainly one or two will slip through unintentionally as well (i’m only a big, hairless monkey, after all . . i’m bound to make some mistakes).  I try to write with an emphasis on how it “sounds” and not on how much red ink my old Lit professors would throw on it, and i think that there is a strong American tradition from some of our most brilliant writers to back me up (not that i’m including myself in such a group in any way).  Just look at how the Vonneguts, the Keseys, and the Palahniuks of the world write if you don’t know what i’m talking about (and really, if you don’t know what i’m talking about then you desperately need to read more).

Anyways, it’s not that anyone’s been giving me crap about my grammar or anything.  I just thought it was high-time for a disclaimer.  Now move along, move along.  There’s nothing to see here.

“Elwood Blues: What kind of, uh, music do you usually have here?

Claire: Oh, we got both kinds. We got Country AND Western.”

A question i’ve been asked more than a few times in my life, in one form  or another:

“Do you listen to Country Music?”

The correct answer, invariably, is “That depends.  What do you mean by ‘Country Music’?”

The answer i’ve given the most, however, runs more along the lines of “Country?  Uhhhmm . . .  Not so much.  No.”

Why the disparity?  Embarrassed by my taste?  Compulsive liar maybe?  IF ONLY THAT WERE THE CASE.  The truth is, I maintain that it’s a neigh unanswerable question due to the complete and utter failing of one of mankind’s most persistent and ubiquitous cognitive devices: the concept of The Genre.

Given: Genres, as they apply to film, literature, music, or anything else, are weird, outdated, and only moderately useful (at best) at accomplishing what they are designed to accomplish (namely the classification and general description of various media).  I get that.  I think that i’ve understood, roughly, the limitations of Genre for years now, and yet that doesn’t stop me from pondering the exact nature of its failure.  You could say that it’s a bit of an obsession.

Certainly i can step back from any given discussion of where X song or band falls, or why Y Genre “sucks” or “is where it’s at” or “is dead” and say something like “This whole debate is moot.  Genre is a joke, and to assume otherwise is to invite madness!” (as you may or may not know, i’m fond of hyperbole), but i don’t do that very often, because the sad truth of it is that i love those kinds of discussions.  Why would i love something that invariably bugs the crap out of me?  Mostly, i suppose, because i enjoy discourse on art in any context, even if that context involves the dreaded Mobius Strip of (il)logic that is Genre Classification.

[Pause]

Hold up.  I’m getting way too verbose here.  If i expect anyone to read this, i’d better re-evaluate my mode of presentation.  Methinks visual aids will help make my point abundantly clear.  Streaming video for the win! [Apologies ahead of time if any of the videos have been pulled.  I'll try my best to update the links and keep it all in working order.  Anyways . . .]

So, my point beginneth:  THIS IS WHAT I LOVE ABOUT COUNTRY MUSIC -

Willie is Amazing.  I saw him play back in 2002, and it was easily one of the best shows i’ve ever seen anyone put on.  The guy is all about The Music.  No light show, no flash, no adornments, just lots and lots of original and brilliant (and heartfelt) tunes  performed by seriously badass musicians (seriously badass).   He and his band played for a solid two hours that night, and i don’t think they stopped at any point for more than one minute at a time.  Half the songs segued into each other, and as such they must’ve covered a good 25-30 tunes, all awesome.

And let me ask you something: Do you hear a “Country Accent” while he’s singing?  I don’t.  Dude grew up in West Texas, and has continued to live down there for most of his (very) long life, and yet i don’t hear an accent when he sings.  When he talks?  Sure, a bit . . but not when he sings.  Not really.  Almost all of the “color” that he puts into his singing is vibrato, not twang.  Take note of that.  That’s important.

If you haven’t listened to any of Willie’s records, you owe it to yourself to find a copy of Red Headed Stranger or Shotgun Willie toot sweet, and throw that shit ON!  It’s great great stuff, it really is.  It’ll surprise you.

*

AND THIS IS WHAT I HATE ABOUT COUNTRY MUSIC -

Good lord, do i even need to say anything?  Toby Keith is just an abomination in every way.  There’s literally nothing about him that isn’t trash.  Note that he sings with a heavy accent.  Note the overt flag-waving at every turn (even on his fucking guitar).  Note the oh-so-classy sleeveless outfit.  Note the cowboy hat (is Toby a cowboy?  Does he make his living riding a horse, wrangling steers, driving cattle, or whatever else it is that cowboys do these days?  Uhhhhhh, nope.  No he isn’t, and no he does not).  Note the glorification of dropping bombs on the poor, huddled masses of our political enemies.  Note the incredibly vanilla music.

And who else did i put in there . . oh yes, Mr Chesney, my favorite.  This guy, like Keith and a hundred others, absolutely exemplifies what is grotesque about What-Has-Become-Known-As-Country-Music.  I mean, listen to this song for a minute (if you can).  “She thinks my tractor’s sexy”?  A chorus about his farmer’s tan?  Really dude? Really?!  That’s the best you can do?  That’s what you think art should sound like?  That’s what resides deep down in your soul?  Writing that song must be a real source of pride for ol’ Kenny.  Consider the extremely heavy (hammed-up) accent that he’s singing with.  Consider the (fake) cowboy routine, again.  The glorification of Hicktown USA.  The incredibly vanilla (and shrill, and abysmally poor) music.  I get that “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” is supposed to be humorous.  I do.  But the glorification of ignorance doesn’t tickle my funnybone.  Sorry.  Doesn’t do it for me in any way.  I THINK WE CAN DO BETTER, KENNY.

Not one ounce of art is to be found anywhere near either of these songs, and they were both big hits for their respective “artists”.  No feeling, no originality, and on even the most basic and superficial of levels, they don’t even sound good!  They aren’t even pleasant to the ears!  That Chesney track, in particular, is just unlistenable.  Lyrics aside, it’s a sad attempt at a song. Whoever produced that number should be strung-up in the middle of Nashville by his toenails and mocked ceaselessly by fruit wielding vagrants, hooligans, romans, countrymen, and random passersby.

*

AGAIN, WHAT I LOVE ABOUT COUNTRY MUSIC -

GOD i love Johnny Cash.  There’s a reason why the man’s a legend, and it doesn’t have anything to do with his looks, how he was marketed, or his guitar skills (dude could barely play, a fact that he readily admitted).  Obviously something about his voice is just plain magical, so that helped (alot), but there are a lot of terrible country singers with good voices (Faith Hill and Carrie Underwood come to mind), so the voice couldn’t have been everything, right?  I’ve thought about this quite a lot, i really have (too much, i’m sure), and after much pondering and listening and reading and discussing and re-listening, the conclusion that i’ve come to is that what made Johnny special is what makes a lot of great great artists special: the honesty.  Listening to him, watching him, you can tell he was being genuine.  His stuff was/is/continues to be original and catchy and haunting, yes, all good qualities, all things that help explain his fame and untold influence, but even when he sang a cover (like Sunday Morning Comin’ Down, the second of those videos, or Hurt, the third video) it could grab you where it counts and not let go.  How do you manage that when it’s not even your song?  Kris Kristofferson (who i like) wrote Sunday Morning, and his version pales in comparison to Johnny’s.  Too, Trent Reznor (lead singer and songwriter for NIN, who i also like, or at the very least respect the hell out of) never caught my attention or moved me with Hurt, but that Cash cover brings me to tears every time i hear it.  It’s not just the voice, it’s what’s behind the voice.  An artist.  Genuine, soulful, original, brutally honest.

And let’s listen, too, at what isn’t there.  Johnny grew up in Arkansas during The Depression.  ARKANSAS.  Working the fields; dirt poor!  It doesn’t get more real than that.  It doesn’t get any more country than that.  And do you hear an accent when he sings?  Nope.  Why not?  Think about that for a second.  Who’s “more country”, Johnny Cash or Kenny Chesney?  Food for thought.

If you haven’t listened to At Folsom Prison by Johnny Cash, or any of his American Recordings albums from the ’90s that he did with Rick Rubin, you’re missing out on some of the best recordings ever made.  I mean that.  Fully.  Go.  Listen.  Love it.  Thank me later.

*

AND WHAT I HATE ABOUT COUNTRY MUSIC -

Here we have two of the heavier Heavy Hitters of Modern Country Music: Tim McGraw and Alan Jackson.  They’ve each sold a bazillion records, and are pretty much household names.  I”m not sure there’s much that i have to say here either (though i’m sure i’ll figure something out).  Listen to the tracks; i think they speak for themselves.  “Vanilla” doesn’t even begin to describe this crap.  Do you hear a lot of soul in this music?  Or any at all for that matter?  Listen to how Tim sings the word “down” around the :35 second mark.  This is an example of what i want you to consider.  Does that sound like singing to you?  Is that melodic?  Is that artistic or musical?  Is it original, or do you think maybe (just maybe!) he’s purposefully trying to sound like someone else (George Strait, Clint Black, Hank Williams, etc, etc)?

As for Alan Jackson, well . . i have a few barbs reserved for him a bit later-on, so i’ll keep it short here.  This isn’t even one of his worst songs, but i think it serves as a fine sample of the musical loogies that this guy hocks on the world year-in and year-out.

Do you get the impression that these guys and their ilk just write the same incredibly tired song over and over and over and over and over again?  And what’s worse, they’re proud of it!  They think that that’s admirable!  I wouldn’t care a whit about any of it, really, if it weren’t for the money and fame and accolades that these people rake-in for this pap.  By being big-name “Country Music Stars”, they bring down the legacies of the Johnny Cashes and the Willie Nelsons.  Sing your terrifically bad songs all day and all night, i don’t care as long as you’re just some dill-hole yodeling a bad song on an anonymous street corner in Nashville.  Once hundreds of millions of dollars and titles like “music superstar” start getting thrown around, then i start to care.  Maybe i shouldn’t, but i do.

I care about music, abstractly and realistically, nostalgically and continually, and since the early 20th century music has largely been defined (and redefined, and redefined, and redefined) by what’s popular, what’s selling, what’s on the radio, what’s on the charts, what’s selling-out Madison Square Garden 2 or 3 nights in a row, etc.  Not for everyone, of course.  There are connoisseurs and throwbacks and audiophiles and musicians of all kinds, and on the other end of the spectrum there are people who don’t hear or turn on or play a single tune in an average week (they scare the crap out of me, those people).  Too, there are those for whom music is defined by what they listened to in high school, and that’s it, the vault is sealed, nothing gets in and nothing comes out.  I feel bad for those people, but that’s for another blog altogether.

Point being, in the gaping middle ground between the poles, there are the Jim Johnsons and Susie Smiths and Ryan Everymen of the world, and statistically, in a historical sense, those people are sheep to some degree or another, and for those people, music is what’s on, what’s hot, what’s selling, what’s in our tv commercials, what’s playing in the background on the new episode of Gossip Girl.  This is why the Tim McGraws and Toby Keiths bug me so much.  I shouldn’t care; i’m not in their target audience, and (thankfully) no one is forcing me to listen to their stuff.  But i do care.  I care because they will be remembered as landmark artists of their era, and that sickens me a little bit.

Of course the person i should have a problem with (and very much do have a problem with) is the person that’s doing the remembering, but there are too many of those people to address individually, and even if i had the time, will, and means to do so, it would be pointless for many reasons, the primary among them being that they would actually have a leg to stand on.  Album sales, ticket sales, merch.  Those are tough to argue with.  Toby Keith and Tim McGraw and all these dopes ARE giants of their eras.  That doesn’t mean that they’re good, not by a long shot.  There have been awful superstars of music in every decade of the modern era, from Barry Manilow to Creed, from Poison to The Black Eyed Peas.  But, unfortunately, it does mean that they have earned a spot at the table, a bit of credibility, a lasting place in the annals of what we call Music.  And that.  Fucking.  Drives.  Me.  Nuts.

As for the accent gripe, let me take a a different tack: Did The Beatles ever sing with an accent?  Not often, huh.  How about The Who, or Led Zeppelin, or U2, or The Police, or Dire Straits?  Not so much.  Occasionally, perhaps, a bit would slip through, but for the most part they all just sang straight-up, with the emphasis on the musicality of the inflections and phrasing, and not on the regionality.  Those bands i just named are all famously from the UK, and yet more often than not they sing in a clearer “American-English” accent than the Alan Jacksons of the world.  Why?

There are a lot of answers to that question, and i’m sure that more than a few of them are right.  My take is that what Toby Keith and Kenny Chesney and Alan Jackson and the rest of these guys are doing isn’t singing as much as it’s imitation, not unlike an impressionist at a comedy club.  They are trying to sound like someone or something else.  Maybe they’re trying to sound like Clint Black, who in turn was trying to sound like Hank Williams.  I don’t know.  Maybe they’re trying to sound like that tired lap-steel guitar that makes its way into the background of every one of their songs (*it should be noted here that outside of the context of country music, i actually have a great deal of love for the lap steel guitar).  That would make sense, i guess, as i can hear similarities between vocal twang and lap-steel twang.  But whatever they’re doing, it’s inauthentic.  I feel that deep-down inside me, without fail, every time i come within earshot of one of these songs.  It vibrates in my bones, and that vibration screams “Inauthentic” and that’s unforgivable.

I mean, to be fake ON TOP OF sounding inharmonious and unmelodic (is “unmelodic” even a word? . . fuck it, it is now) . . well . . i just don’t know why anyone would do that on purpose (other than the money), and you know full well that this is a purposeful effect.  They sing in that style intentionally.  One can even fully realistically envision a scenario wherein a Nashville producer cuts in to the recording booth with an “Uh, Tim, one more time from the top, if ya’ could.  And really lay the twang on thick this time, alright pardner?”  That happens.  You know it happens, i know it happens, Tim knows it happens, and it should disturb the hell out of everyone involved.

So, in a very real way, these clowns are Sell-Outs.  Not that they’re all necessarily talented or artistic to begin with (ie. the things that one would be “Selling”), but what art they did/do have in them they are throwing away in favor of “sounding country”, which plays well with a certain (tone deaf) segment of the population, thus making them oodles and oodles of cash when pushed by the right agency across the right mediums.  It’s all quite dirty, isn’t it.

To be clear, there are some people that manage to walk that fine line between singing with an accent and singing with soul, no doubt.  I will show you examples of a few later in this post; people who have a bit of a southern accent in their tone but still put out very beautiful and original and touching music.  Thus, the accent (or lack thereof) isn’t paramount, necessarily.  It’s not a death sentence.  I just get riled-up about it because it’s an obvious red flag; something that SO many of the very worst of the worst share among them.  But, yes . . moving on.

*

LOVE -

This is John Prine.  In 1971 John put-out what is unequivocally one of the greatest singer-songwriter albums ever recorded; an album eponymously titled John Prine.  It was a country record, as John is a country singer.  If you don’t own that record, then you are woefully incomplete as a human being, and when your time comes you won’t be getting into musical heaven.  It’s sublime, and that’s all there is to it.

In these clips from 2004, he’s still looking and sounding pretty damn good.  Is he wearing a cowboy hat?  A denim vest?  A big rodeo belt buckle?  Do you see any American flags anywhere?  No you don’t, and you won’t.  Why?  Because John respects himself, respects his audience, and respects the music.  Sure, John sings with a bit of an accent, but naturally as opposed to overtly, and tastefully (with respect to melody) as opposed to constantly (with no respect whatsoever for melody).  In the first clip, Angel From Montgomery, listen to how he sings the phrase “burnt down” at the 1:16 mark.  Is there regional inflection?  Sure.  A bit.  But if Alan Jackson were singing this, that would’ve been “Buhrn-ehurnt Dayoyowwwn”.  Shades of grey, people.  Shades of grey.

*

LOVE -

Foggy Mountain Breakdown is a Bluegrass masterpiece.  One of my best friends once described it as Speed Country (as opposed to Speed Metal).  And yes, that’s Steve Martin.  Pretty good, isn’t he?  This is in here because it’s a great example of extremely rural and rootsy country music (in the same ballpark as Dueling Banjos of Deliverance fame i would say), and yet it’s chock-full of musicality.  These guys are fucking virtuosos, they really are.  Incredible musicianship going on here.  And, again, do you see any American flags?  No sir, and you won’t, because Earl Scruggs is a class act (as it goes).  Other than the one guy in faded jeans and a t-shirt (which makes him stand out, and surely was an embarrassment to him when he saw the telecast later-on . . wait, is that Vince Gill?  I think that’s Vince Gill, fuckin’ A), it’s tastefully presented.  The emphasis is where it should be, on the face-meltingly good music.

*

LOVE -

This is Allison Krauss and Co from the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack.  It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?  I’d post the whole soundtrack if i could.  Fantastic stuff, the lot of it.  If you haven’t seen the movie, do so.  It’s beautiful and hilarious and quirky and creative and all other things good in the world.  And it has a killer soundtrack too, of course : )  Duh.

And, although i’m definitely beating a dead horse at this point, note the distinct lack of accent or artifice in Allison’s voice.  Stunning vocals, really.  On top of her naturally impressive tone (which youtube isn’t really helping me show-off here, alas), you can really hear the control and craftsmanship in her singing.  Extremely precise.  Breathtaking.

*

LOVE -

And here we are at Brandi Carlile.  I adore this chick.  Both of her albums (as well as the live EP) rate quite high on my Most Favoriteist Records of This Decade list.  And yet, here’s an obvious sticky point, right?  She sings with a pretty heavy accent.  Not “Kenny Chesney Heavy”, but in terms of the stuff that i like to listen to, quite heavy.  A lot of regional inflection.  So why do i like her?  Why do i let her get away with it, so to speak?

A few reasons:

1) Musically, she’s the real deal.  She writes and plays and sings (Autotune free) all of her stuff.  That goes a long way with me.  Blue notes and real voices are important.  Singing and playing from the heart is important. (Musical talent)

2) Because she is the author and master of her own tunes, i believe that there is a real authenticity that comes out of her when she’s singing.  It’s subjective, sure, but i believe that it’s there, and to me it’s almost tangible. (Authenticity)

3) In terms of her singing, she isn’t trying to imitate anyone.  At all.  Brandi has her own style, her own sound (all a part of that “authentic” quality), and i’ve never heard anyone quite like her.  Almost reminds me a bit of when Macy Gray got all big for a minute several years back . . except, you know . . good   (Originality)

*

CAN’T FUCKING STAND -

This isn’t a particularly offensive track, and yet  i don’t think i’m going out on much of a limb to say that this stuff isn’t just what’s wrong with Country Music today, it’s what wrong with Music In-General today (boy, does that make me sound like an old man, or what).  This hyper-vanilla, super-mega overproduced shite is just appalling, isn’t it?  This may as well be a Nickleback song, or Creed (is Creed still around?), or Miley Cyrus/Hillary Duff/*Insert Pretty-Faced Tween Idol Here*.  This is the musical equivalent of Painting By Numbers.  Very much representative of the Jessica Simpsons of the world.  Autotuned all to hell and completely bereft of talent and creativity.  ‘Nuff said.

*

AWFUL -

Just to show you that i don’t only have it in for today‘s country stars, here’s a little Brooks and Dunn for you.  These guys have been around for quite a while now, and apparently they’re still quite popular (this was off of their platinum record from ’05).  Is this mind-blowingly bad?  Not in comparison to some of the other clips i’ve put up, but maybe that’s just the busty vixen in the video warping my mind.   It may not be the worst of the worst, but it’s not good either.  Not.  At.  All.

And really, all it is is a shameless celebration of what i’ve been railing about for the last 3,500 words (thank you WordPress word counter).  Right at the beginning of the song there’s that “Said, ‘I’m a whiskey drinkin’, cowboy chasin’, helluva time.  I like Kenny, Keith, Alan and Patsy Cline’” line.  For those of you that are keeping score at home, that’s Kenny Chesney, Keith Urban, and Alan Jackson she’s talking about.  Pasty Cline was amazing, sure, but i’d bet dollars to pesos that she rolls over in her grave when they play this song within’ 100 miles of Winchester.

And “Cowboy chasin’?”  Really?  Where, prey-tell, are these cowboys that they’re speaking of?  Do they have whips and spurs and callus’ and kickin’ Sam Elliot mustaches, or are they wearing loafers and tweeting on their Blackberries.  Gimme a fucking break.

Other than a decent little honkey-tonk guitar riff (which in-and-of itself could probably have been the foundation for a nice little tune), this song consists of nothing new, nothing original, nothing artistic.  It fails damn-near every test.  Oh, and they’re singing with a very heavy hammed-up accent to-boot.  Nail in the coffin, ladies and gents.  The verdict is in, and it’s not pretty.

*

AWFUL-ER -

“Well i love her, but i love to fish.”  The man that wrote those words is not concerned with such trifles as “artistic integrity” and “lyrical depth”.  Is it a funny song?  Yeah, as it goes, it’s a pretty funny song.  And i understand that it doesn’t take itself seriously, and that i should adjust my expectations accordingly.  But here’s the thing; here’s why this is Awful-er:  This guy, Brad Paisley, he can REALLY play guitar.

As in, this guy is a talented and practiced musician of note, and as such he should be better than this (even lyrical depth aside, it’s a pretty horrid song).  This shouldn’t be acceptable to him.  Look, it’s perfectly ok to write a song that isn’t serious.  The Beatles did it, and if The Beatles did something, then that makes it OK.  I like They Might Be Giants. I love The Barenaked Ladies.  I adore Tenacious D.  Goof-songs are acceptable if (here’s the catch), IF they have the added bonus of also being of high quality.  That’s a big “If”.

Brad is a crazy-good guitarist, yes, but this song is a prime example of his entirely mediocre (on the day he wrote this one, worse-than-mediocre) songwriting and singing skills.  And guess what, he’s one of the biggest superstars on the planet right now.  To a certain crowd, he’s Jesus, Ben Franklin, and David Beckham rolled into one, and that makes me a sad panda.  As much as i’d like to, i can’t call him a “Talentless hack” because the dude has talent.  But what good is talent if you put out songs like this?  Thus: Awful-er.

[Also, notice the heavy twang in his "singing".  I'm just sayin'.]

*

AWFUL-EST -

These are the songs that really sneak up on you if you’re not paying attention.  It’s a pretty tune, and Martina McBride can sing.  Mos def.  Lady can absolutely sing.  Furthermore, there’s little-to-no twang, so top marks for that.  But, seriously, if you can’t spot the problem with this one, then you Fail Entirely at Having Good Taste.  If the title (God’s Will) is a warning sign (which is most certainly IS), then the first verse is the cliff she’s about to drive us clear over.

“I met God’s Will on a Halloween night
He was dressed as a bag of leaves
It hid the braces on his legs at first.“

She’s talking about a disabled kid in her neighborhood.  Named Will.  I shit you not.  It gets worse, but i won’t reprint that unholy gobbledygook here.  If you really want the full extent of this piece, you’re just going to have to listen to the whole thing yourself, or, i dunno, Google the lyrics or something.  I shan’t do it for you.

Listen folks, i’m going to confess something.  As an (extremely) amateur songsmith, i have written a few doozies in my day (in this case, “Doozie” equates to “Song that sucks fetid donkey nuts”), and so i speak from experience here.  When you’re writing a song, sometimes you start with a riff.  Sometimes you start with a chord progression that you fancy.  Sometimes you may even start with a couple of lyrics that you can’t let go of, and you make music to fit those lyrics.  Most of the time whatever you come up with is just miserably uncool, and it is you-the-songwriter’s job to sniff that stuff out and either work on it until it’s unrecognizable (for the better), or (more likely) toss it and start anew.  I can’t tell you how many times i’ve jotted-down something in the middle of the night thinking that it was “really deep” and “killer material” and when i looked at it next i realized that it would barely pass as bad, emo, junior-high binder-poetry (see: The Goth Kids in South Park).  This stuff ends up in the round file.  I’m not embarrassed to have written it, because i know that all songwriters, great and small, write a ton of trash for every gem they’re lucky enough to piece together.  In our attempts to be honest and eloquent, it’s not unusual to let slip nuggets of creative sewage along the way.  But there is a line there, a line of taste, a line of decency, a line of quality assessment.

Martina McBride knows no such line, apparently.  Perhaps the line is red, and she suffers from Red-Blind Colorblindness.  Perhaps English is a second language to her and she doesn’t fully understand the words that she’s singing.  I dunno.  Whatever the cause, this song is irredeemable.  Pretty voice (albeit, once more, set to very vanilla music), but no artistic value beyond that.  Which, like with Paisley, is sad, is it not?  Talent gone entirely to waste, and truly Awful-tastic.

*

BEYOND AWFUL -

I know, i know.  This song is ridiculously popular, and thus i’m an ass for even suggesting that it’s not amazing because by doing so i’m personally insulting tens of millions of people, including some people that i respect and care about deeply.  But, you know what, that’s an albatross that i’m gonna to have to learn to bear, ’cause this song is just complete garbage.

Again, like the last two, here we have a pretty talented individual.  Chick can sing.  You can’t tell that by listening to this particular song, since this is the album cut, and is positively dripping with Autotune and over-production (see: Every other mainstream pop record in the last 6-8 years).  But i think that with Carrie in particular, we, America, have had the opportunity to have heard her sing live enough times to know that she’s got quite a voice on her.  Not a Holy-Crap-Her-Singing-Just-Melted-My-Soul kind of voice, but good.  Very good.  But, to me (in case you  haven’t picked-up on it yet), hearing bad music out of talented musicians is exponentially more offensive than hearing it out of hacks.  Hacks are supposed to make drivel.  That’s inherent in the title “Hack”.  People with talent have absolutely no fucking excuse, whatsoever.

To her credit, this song was written by Brett James, Hillary Lindsey, and Gordie Sampson, and not by Miss Underwood.  They are big-label, hit-machine, 21st-Century-Brill-Building hacks.  The hacks in this equation have been spotted and tagged.  Fine.  Does that let the artist off the hook though?  Not for me it doesn’t.  If Elvis doesn’t get off the hook for all those fluff movies (and attached soundtracks) that he did back in the ’60s (and he doesn’t), then Carrie Underwood doesn’t get off the hook here.

Musically this song is (dare i repeat myself even further) excessively vanilla.  Obnoxiously so, even.  The first time i heard it i felt like i’d heard it 2,000 times already, and that’s not because it “has that rare and timeless quality that you know just has to be genius”, but rather because I ACTUALLY HAD HEARD IT 2,000 TIMES ALREADY.  See: Celine Dion.  See: Mariah Carey.  See: Whitney Houston.  See: Martina McBride.  See: Vanessa Williams.  See: Faith Hill.  See: Every other Pop/R&B/Country “Diva” of the last 20 fucking years.  That’s strike one.

Throw in the Autotune and the offensively bad production, and you’re down in the count 0-2.

Hear:

“Jesus take the wheel
Take it from my hands
Cause I can’t do this on my own
I’m letting go
So give me one more chance
To save me from this road I’m on”

And you’ve just struck-out looking.  Never even got the bat off of your shoulder.  Remember when  i was discussing the late-night lyric sheets that end up in the paper shredder because they’re so bad?  Well this right here is worse than anything i’ve ever written at any hour, and trust me, that’s really saying something.  When i think of all the millions of people who belt that out when they hear this song come on the radio, my spirit shrivels up and dies a little bit.

In other words, it’s best not to think about it at all.

*

SO AWFUL THAT THEY DON’T EVEN HAVE A NAME FOR HOW AWFUL THIS IS -

Alan Jackson again.  How did i know we would end up back here, gazing into the soulless, mulletted, mustached mug of this motherfucker again before it was all over?  You know, actually, i’m not sure that there’s anything i can say about this douchenozzle and this song that South Park didn’t already say (click through to see the clip in question on the South Park website; couldn’t find a postable version, sorry).

http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/104229/?searchterm=A+Ladder+to+Heaven

Alan Jackson is the Rudy Giuliani of the music industry, if you will, and i don’t mean that as a complement.  As if he wasn’t already a pitiful singer, songwriter, guitarist, and human being in general, he gets further points deducted for this kind of malarkey.  Seriously, is there anyone who ISN’T offended by this song?  Point, set, match.

*

So, to begin the wrapping-up process, let me get into a bit of minutia  here; a small disclaimer, if you will.  I feel like some explanation is in order, otherwise this whole thing just becomes “Tony Pointlessly Bitching About The State of What Is Known As Country Music And The Existence of Genres”.

Don’t get me wrong, there is some real talent in what i would call “Crap Country”.  I mean, Carrie Underwood has a great voice, and Brad Paisley and Keith Urban are killer guitarists.  But talent and taste are not the same thing.  Shit, Henry Kissinger and Dick Cheney might well be geniuses, but their intelligence doesn’t exactly excuse them for their actions, does it.  A Sell-Out is a Sell-Out, regardless of talent.

Think about all those terrible hair bands of the 80′s.  Most of those guys had truly talented guitarists, no joke, yet the music they were churning-out was completely forgettable and without merit.  Steve Vai may well be the most technically perfect guitarist alive, but the guy’s never made a record that i can bite into (not of the ones that i’ve heard anyways).  Elvis Presley himself, beloved icon, “Founder of Rock and Roll” and hero to millions, had one of the most unbelievable voices anyone’s ever heard, but the man spent the majority of his best years making atrocities like Blue Hawaii and Clambake.  Dude might have been the first Sell-Out in modern history, and his talent does not make up for that (though, really, the tragedy that is Elvis will have to be a topic for another blog).

Back on point: Now, the natural reaction at this stage in the discussion is often to move deeper into the genre game by breaking-out Sub Genres!  In other words, you may be saying, “Well, Tony, it appears that you like ‘Outlaw Country” and dislike ‘Radio Country’” and that kind of thing.

But . . “Outlaw Country”?  What does that even mean?  Does that mean that i’ll probably enjoy Waylon Jennings and David Allen Coe?  ‘Cause let me tell you, i’m not the biggest fan of either of those guys.  I like the idea of Waylon Jennings, i’ve read Waylon Jennings’ fucking autobiography (which isn’t bad, by the way), yet still the man’s music doesn’t do a whole lot for me.  It’s not awful, but it’s not going to find much elbow-room on my iPod any time soon, either.

And would that mean that i won’t ever like the stuff that gets on country radio?  That’s a possibility, as i loathe what all non-student broadcast radio has become anyways, but weren’t Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson country radio staples at one point (for decades and decades)?  “Oh,” you may say, “But those are ‘Alternative Country’ stations, or ‘Classic Country’ stations, and not representative of ‘Real’ Modern Country’”

OK.  Am i, then, likely to dig Faron Young, Conway Twitty, or Hank Williams?  Does that preclude me from liking Keith Urban because he’s “Modern”?  And, hey, where does Bluegrass fit in?  Is that “Classic Country”, or does it pre-date “Classic Country”?  What about “New Bluegrass” or “New Alternative”?  Is that “Country” at all?  What about folk?  Is folk country?  “For the love of Simon and Garfunkel, help me out, here!”  i scream as i plummet deeper and deeper into the maddening abyss that is this chain of reasoning (i’ll cut this line of rhetoric here for your sake, but let me tell you, i could go on like this for a long long while).

I maintain that trying to solve the Genre Dilemma by introducing more and more splinter genres is exactly the wrong approach.  That our brains seem to require classification at any cost to the truth does not mean that we must be slaves to such delusion.  And yet, at this point in the discussion, it should be mentioned that voyaging into the realms of complete individualistic subjectivity is also dangerous and equally unrealistic.  In other words, to say that the words “Country Music” are so obtuse that they’re meaningless is as much a fallacy as the tendency to sub-genre ourselves into the sanitarium.

The foundation of language is communication, and, clearly, if you say “Country Music” to someone you are communicating something very real.  What comes to their mind is undoubtedly different than what comes to your mind, but it is communicating a certain block of ideas and experiences to the other person.  So the phrase has meaning; it communicates a “real” set of images, sounds, names, memories, and emotions.

And there are grey areas, aren’t there.  Examples are abundant.  Is “Country Music” an accent?  Is it steel guitar in the background?  Is it “rootsy” lyrical content?  Is it a chord progression?  A sparkly jacket?  A cowboy hat?  A belt buckle?  An American flag?  A Confederate flag?!?  Is it where you were born, or where you grew up?

IS THIS COUNTRY MUSIC?

HOW ABOUT THIS?

THIS?

TOTALLY, RIGHT?

CLEARLY

BUT HOW ABOUT THIS?

OR THESE?

EH?

SURELY

GRATUITOUS, I KNOW

THIS TOO?

HOW ABOUT THIS?

Ok, that may be stretching it a tad   But i think you get my point.

HOW DO I RECONCILE THIS

AND THIS

being in the same genre? I love both songs, but i defy you to make a case that they belong next to each other.  And yet i would classify all of those songs as “Country”, even if they don’t all come from “Country Artists”.

I think i’ll leave you with one last clip.  He may be from Liverpool, but you can’t tell me that this guy doesn’t know “Country Music”, whatever that is.  Maybe i should ask him to explain to me what “Country” is supposed to mean.  I’m not sure i quite get it, after all:

:shrug:

Anyhoo, i’ll try to be better about my consistency in the future.  I really do enjoy writing these an awful lot, and i ought to try harder to keep up.   It’s not like i have a dearth of random complaints, rants, and recommendations to offer to you all.  Ask anyone i associate with regularly; i run at the mouth so frequently that my friends nicknamed me Jesse Owens.

:drumrollrimshot:

No but seriously folks, i’ll be here all week.  And don’t forget to tip your waiter.

Alright, enough of this tomfoolery.  Here’s a classic for you all for the holidays.   Can’t go wrong with The King, baby.  Merry Wintereenmas, or Ludachristmas, or Mithras Day, or Winter Solstice, or whatever you traditionally rock at this time of the year.

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry;

tony

“You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last.
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast.
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun,
Crying like a fire in the sun.
Look out the saints are comin’ through
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.

The highway is for gamblers, better use your sense.
Take what you have gathered from coincidence.
The empty-handed painter from your streets
Is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets.
This sky, too, is folding under you
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.

All your seasick sailors, they are rowing home.
All your reindeer armies, are all going home.
The lover who just walked out your door
Has taken all his blankets from the floor.
The carpet, too, is moving under you
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.

Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you.
Forget the dead you’ve left, they will not follow you.
The vagabond who’s rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore.
Strike another match, go start anew
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.”

- Bob Dylan – “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue” – Bringing It All Back Home (1965)

*

Fucking perfection.  And that’s all i have to say about that.  Enjoy.

This was at the Rocklin High School Halloween Concert/Variety Show/Fundraiser-thingy, Rocklin being a smallish, newish, reasonably upscale suburb in the foothills east of Sacramento, and the home of my beloved Aunt Julie, Uncle Joe, and their two kids, Jacob and Mallory.  My cousin Jacob currently attends Rocklin High, which accounts for my appearance at this event.  Jake is a very nice kid; extremely smart and absurdly talented.  He plays in the orchestra, the jazz band, the choir, and god knows what else, in addition to being tasked with high-level academia, and playing goalie on the soccer team.  He’s been wowing us (the family) with his piano skillz since he was too small to reach the pedals, and we always jump right into a musically centered conversation when we see each other.  Like i said: Great kid.  Thus i was happy to show up for his concert tonight, to support him and to listen to whatever he and his peers had to offer-up.

The event was full of highs and lows.  Lows included amplification issues (the levels were all over the place, act to act, and it had a real impact on a few of the performances . . they clearly did not do a thorough soundcheck), inexplicable confusion with the schedule (the jazz band’s performance, which i was really looking forward to, was almost completely ruined by an ill-timed and apparently unplanned intermission), having to wait in line for a solid half-hour just to get in (WTF?), impossible seating (whomever’s idea it was to hold the event in the gymnasium SANS CHAIRS needs to be replaced as events coordinator, or at least given a stern talking-to), and inconsistency in the level of preparedness and quality in terms of the performances (a few of the acts were pretty terrible and out of place, and any reasonable director would have cut them out without hesitation).  Oh, and it was looooonnnnnnggggg.  Like, uber-long.  WAY too long.  Especially when you’re sitting on hardwood bleachers.  However, it’s a high school production, and thus i am very willing to overlook a lot of that.  It comes with the territory, does it not?

Oh, and of course, there is one last low, one i can not forgive: They didn’t bother to hand out a program.  That’s a first for me.  Here we have a newish school, in a reasonably affluent neighborhood, that clearly is overflowing with materials and resources (paper, computers, and copy machines included, i would have to imagine), and they didn’t give us a fucking program.  Why is this a big deal?  Well, first of all, it’s customary.  I was in the concert and jazz bands when i was in school, and there was always a program.  Even our crapptastic grade school concerts came with programs.  It’s standard.  Secondly, it’s a big deal because with no program you have no way of timing the event.  You can’t figure out when your kid, or relative, or friend, or whomever is going to be on, and you have no idea, during the course of it, how much longer it’s going to take, etc.  That’s annoying, to say the least, as pacing is key at these kinds of things.  Lastly, and most importantly, no program means that you don’t know WHO is playing WHAT.  I knew the name of exactly one performer tonight, that of my cousin.  That means that unless you already knew the person performing, the performer was not, and did not, get any credit whatsoever for their performance, good or bad.  Obviously the less-than-stellar acts are happy to remain anonymous, but here i am blogging away about this event, which means that there were certainly noteworthy and commendable aspects of it, and i have no idea who to give credit to.  And to think, all this because some dumbarse director or coordinator couldn’t figure out how to make a copied and folded piece of paper to distribute at the door.  That’s a Major Fail, right there, and if i’d have been one of the student performers tonight, i’d be livid about it.  Ok, ok . . maybe not livid, that’s a bit over the top.  But pissy!  Definitely pissy.

Moving on.

The highs were, indeed, lofty.  First and foremost, Jake did very well, as we knew he would.  The choir did a pretty awesome rendition of one of the songs from Sweeney Todd and the jazz band (from what i heard through the talking and general disarray that took place during their performance) was quite good on their tune.  Also, there were several acts that were easily performing on a nearly professional level, and really, who expects that out of kids?  A couple of the dance groups were VERY impressive (and this from someone who doesn’t like or generally appreciate dance, at all).  There was a lovely orchestral piece at the beginning of the show that was gentle and well-played, and touched the whole thing off wonderfully.  A very talented young man played an original piece on the keyboard (there’s another thing that ticked me off: They couldn’t wheel the damn piano into the gym?  What the fuck is that all about?!  When i was a teenage band kid i was regularly called-upon to help haul pianos up and down stairs, in and out of gyms/theaters/auditoriums/etc, and a keyboard does NOT a piano make . . but i digress).  A few of the Halloween-themed skits by the Emcees were funny and entertaining (many were not, but i felt they got better as the night went on).  There was a stunning (yes, STUNNING) duet by a couple playing The Frankenstein Monster and His Bride serenading each other that literally gave me chills (those two kids are destined for stardom if they seek it, and i really mean that . . they were better singers than several professionals i’ve seen live over the years, and they even walked and moved according to the zombified roles they were playing, while singing magnificently all the while).  And, of course, there was this girl.

They didn’t hand out programs, so i can’t tell you her name.  When i asked my cousin afterwards, he didn’t even know who she was (and he, presumably, knows everyone associated with the music department to some degree), which reminds me of a short anecdote that i shall recount in a minute.  The lobby, after the show was over, was full of parents, relatives, and students, talking to/congratulating the performers, and i heard the buzz all around me, in every corner of the room.  It was the same general conversation going on 50 times at once in the lobby alone, and it went something like this:

Parent/Relative/Friend [big smile on their face] – You did a great job!  I loved your part!  Were you happy with how it went?

Performer [tired but also smiling] – Yeah, thanks!  I’m glad you came!  I thought it went . .

Parent/Relative/Friend [interrupting excitedly] – Yeah, yeah!  So, listen, who was that girl?  You know, the one with the guitar?  She was amazing!  I just couldn’t believe how good she was!

Performer [unsure but also excited] – Uhm, yeah, i’m not sure.  She was really good though, huh.  I’ve never seen her before.  But yeah.  Did you like my song?

Parent/Relative/Friend [oblivious to the feelings of their principle] – Yyyyeahhhh.  It was good honey/dude/man/babe!  Really good!  But, yeah, i could’ve listened to that girl sing all night!  She was unbelievable!

I shit you not, that conversation must have taken place 800 times or more in the last 3 hours.  That’s how special this girl was, and she only sang two songs!  TWO!!!

The anecdote i promised a moment ago:  I don’t know how it went at your high schools, but at mine, the band played at graduation.  We sat in the orchestra pit at The Memorial Auditorium every spring, and we watched that year’s class of seniors walk the walk as we played “Pomp and Circumstance” until our lips and embouchures threatened to mutiny and flee the building with or without us.  Now, every year it was a tradition at graduation for a few bold seniors to take the stage mid-ceremony and sing something (a capella, or otherwise).  It was as traditional as the valedictorian’s speech, and the principal’s toupee’, and nearly every one of these performances was . . well . . not fantastic.  Don’t get me wrong, they usually weren’t terrible, but for the most part i wasn’t too blown-away.

Then came my junior year, which marked my third graduation as a pit-dwelling “Pomp and Circumstance” performer.  I knew the kids in that class very well . . maybe even better than i knew the kids in my own class.  A lot of my closest friends were walking that year, and i watched as a few of them went up and made speeches and played tunes.  Anyways, so the ceremony was in full-swing, proceeding nicely, when, to everyone’s surprise, up walks this guy that we all knew, but that none of us knew to be a musician of any sort.  He was a popular kid, affable and athletic, and i think he might have been involved with a drama production at some point, but never in a musical capacity.  I was puzzled beyond puzzlement, as were my friends all around me in the pit, as to what business he could possibly have on the stage at that point.  He wasn’t class president, nor was he a special academic award winner of any sort.  We all immediately grabbed our programs (SEE!?!  PROGRAMS ARE OUR FRIENDS!), and after a glance down, our gazes shot right back up to the stage in shock, horror, and disbelief.

You see, in the program, it said that our buddy, the non-musician, was about to sing “Can You Feel The Love Tonight” by Elton John.  Our horror was doubly inspired, of course.  1) We didn’t want our friend to make a damn fool of himself in front of thousands of people, including his entire class and family.  And 2) We were not at all looking forward to hearing ANYONE’s rendition of that particular tired and overplayed number.  What happened next is, in the context of my post, easy enough to figure out.  Dude KILLED it.  A cappella.  I mean, he sang that song so well that somewhere out in jolly-ol’ England, Elton John himself got a fat chubby and didn’t even know why.  The performance was SO good, that it reminded every person in that hall exactly why they USED to like Elton John, and why they USED to think that The Lion King had one of the best soundtracks ever.  It gave us chills.  It dropped our jaws.  It made us cry (seriously, it did, a little bit.  What.  Graduations are emotional, dude).  And the most amazing part was that NOBODY knew that this kid could sing a lick.  Well, i suppose someone knew.  But i was pretty close to the guy, and i had no idea, and my fellow bandies were in the same boat as I.  We stared at each other in disbelief, and when he finished every person in Memorial Auditorium shot up out of their seats in a frenzy of applause.  It was unreal.

So, as you have already figured, that memory came fresh and immediate to me this evening, and for good reason.  There was no standing ovation for the girl, her voice, and her guitar, but i think that’s largely because of the seating arrangements.  With all of us old fogies packed into the gym bleachers like oh-so-many sardines, i’m not sure it would even have been physically possible to give her such an ovation.  Too, i sensed a great deal of shock in the crowd as she wrapped-up, shock at the supreme quality, at the sheer TALENT that had made itself known to us all out of nowhere, and i think that shock hampered some in the audience in the volume and ferocity of their praise, ie. there were definitely people in my field of vision that were too visibly stunned by what they’d just heard to react until it was too late, and the girl had already, swiftly, bowed and walked-off, making room for the next act.

Have you ever seen a thousand people drop their jaws at once?  I have.  I’ve seen it at two different kinds of places: Sporting events (the Niners/Packers Wildcard Game that i attended in 1998 comes to mind, Young to Owens for the win with 3.6 seconds to go, booyah), and musical events (Tim Reynolds soloing on “All Along The Watchtower” at the Dave Matthews Band show on the 6th of last month comes to mind, playing with his teeth).  And i saw that same thing again tonight.  The difference, i think, between those other times and this evening, is that people go to an NFL Playoff Game or a DMB concert expecting magic.  A high-school Halloween variety show that the kids have only had six weeks or so to prepare for?  Not so much.

This girl didn’t write the two songs she sang.  I didn’t know either tune, but i’m confident that she didn’t pen them.  But you know what?  I’m equally confident that, given enough time and effort, someone with that level of talent can write albums worth of material.  The vocals were PERFECT.  Like, crystal clear, soft-yet piercing, enunciated-yet-melodious, soul-wrenching perfect.  And that was through a terrible mic, hooked-up to a crappy little amp!  It was just unREAL.  A moment of surpassing beauty and soulfulness.  The guitar work was simple rhythmic changes, not-flashy, but at the same time it was definitely better than i could have done, and i’ve been playing for 11 years, with 9 years of theory and musical performance experience before that.  She could be a professional.  Like, right now she could be in the studio, singing and playing and touring to packed houses, making a name for herself on the national stage (and beyond).  It wouldn’t suprise me to see her on Oprah tomorrow, right after the Korean nine-year-old that can play Chopin backwards and with his eyes closed.  She exudes that intangible gift that so many of us envy, and too few of us are born with.  That thing we call Talent, with a capital “T”.  All those other kids, with their years of violin tutors, and dance lessons, and tailored outfits, and pricey instruments that they’ll likely abandon within a few months of their graduations . . they were shown-up tonight by a girl in jeans, Converse All Stars, a stripey green t-shirt, and an acoustic-electric that couldn’t have cost more than five or six hundred bucks (believe it or not, that’s cheap for a guitar).  A girl that isn’t in the band, or the choir, or the dance squad, or the drama program.  An unknown.

I only wish i could tell you her name.

***

[The event was videotaped by a standing camera, so there is a slim chance i may be able to wrangle a tape or a youtube vid of this girl's performance, and if such a thing occurs, i will, of course, post it here immediately.]

These moments are some of the very real and quite legitimate reasons why i have been so fired-up for the last 10 months.  I am a historian at heart, and we are in the midst of history.  And not the nasty Crusades-Spanish Inquisition-genocide of the Native Americans-Holocaust-Great Leap Forward kind of history, either.  Instead, Barack’s incredible rise to prominence and popularity through the power of his eloquence seems to hearken back to the histories of Pericles, Abraham Lincoln, John Adams, and John F. Kennedy.  What will be written about the events of the 4th (not to mention the next 8 years) is beyond our current knowledge, but at this moment, it is hard to feel anything but inspired and enveloped by the events surrounding the election, and i have succumbed as much as anyone.

Still, it’s a tiring subject, isn’t it.  Tiring to write about, tiring to read about, tiring to converse about, tiring to think about.  Of course, that it is taxing should not be used as a pass to be intellectually lazy and to avoid the subject altogether.  Every one of us who is eligible to vote has a real responsibility to research and consider, to debate and to decide, and, ultimately, to vote, on (or before) the 4th.  However, it is tiring, and as I’ve already voted (absentee for the win), i’m now trying desperately to forget about it entirely until that fateful day a week and a half from now.  I have done my research, and fulfilled my responsibility, and now it’s time for me to pop my head out of the my hole and take a look around at what else is going on.

In my case, that means taking a look (or a listen) at new music.  As it says on my “About” page, i’m obsessed with all things musical, and i feel like these last couple of months i’ve been somewhat stuck in neutral on that front, which is a discomforting feeling.  Sure, there were the 3 Dave Matthews Band shows at The Greek in September (which were mindblowingly glorious), and there have been a smattering of other notable musical experiences as well (a few decent jams, the DJ Z-Trip mix that i posted about earlier, the Me First and The Gimme Gimmes show i saw back in August), but really, i haven’t been “feeling it” all that much in recent days, and i think that it’s largely due to my focus on the deadly-serious nature of the election.  Well, as i’m now vowing to take a respite from all that for a few days, i thought this might be a good opportunity to discuss some of the new albums that i’ve been able to sneak-in in between the political rants and hoopla.  After all, music is, literally, the most important aspect of my universe, and this page really ought to start showing that to be the case.

So here: I give you my take on two new(ish) releases.  There are more to come (may this be the beginning of a long series of music-related posts here, as i certainly have a lot to say on the topic).  Enjoy.

*

JENNY LEWIS – ACID TONGUE

Ok, so the first thing i need to state here, upfront and with full-disclosure, is that i am an enormous and unabashed Jenny Lewis fan.  Rilo Kiley, the band that Lewis has made a name for herself with, may well be my favorite band of the decade (if not they’re really close to it), and that’s even after taking into consideration their less-than-fantastic 2007 release, Under The Blacklight, which did not set my soul afire.  That is just how incredibly good their other work has been.  The Execution of All Things (2002) is a damn-near perfect record, as is her solo debut Rabbit Fur Coat (2006), with Takeoffs and Landings (2001) and More Adventurous (2004) not too far behind.  And when i say “perfect”, i mean exactly that.  So keep in mind that this is not an unbiased review.  Music, like all art, is a subjective beast, and to try to tame it objectively is entirely futile.  Trust me, i’ve tried.

So, as a fanboy, the release of this record was a matter of much anticipation on my part.  I waited and waited, ticking off the days and weeks with growing impatience, and finally, on my birthday of all days, it was released (incidentally, the last time my birthday fell on a Tuesday, which is the typical day that new albums are released in the U.S., was 2003, and no less a record than Dave Matthews’ solo debut Some Devil, a fantastic piece of music, was released . . but i digress).  I had already heard a few of the tracks from Acid Tongue before the release, so i didn’t come into the first listening blindly.  NPR records and shares an impressive number of sets every year from the 9:30 club in Washington D.C. on their All Songs Considered program, and a few of the tracks from this record can be heard in their infancy on just such a recording (made in 2006 on the Rabbit Fur Coat tour).  Check it out here.  The whole show can be freely and legally downloaded by clicking on the link on the bottom of the left sidebar panel that says “Download Jenny Lewis”.  It’s a fantastic show, and will soon become a prized gem in your music collection.  Guaranteed.  It pays to keep up with NPR.  Those guys are almost as awesome as their TV corollary, PBS.

Anyways, i’d heard a few tracks already, so between the NPR show and the tracks that Jenny upped on her Myspace page, i knew roughly what to expect, and those expectations were sky high.  So, how did the actual record match up?  Well, to be brief about it, pretty damn well.

It’s a varied record, and it doesn’t seem to have much flow or cohesion (case in point, the first two tracks are both repetitive B-Sides that somehow found their way into those all-important first two slots instead of being mid-album transitions or being cut altogether).  So, in that way, it’s not as good as Rabbit Fur Coat.  But, honestly, even as someone whose expectations for this LP would have been nearly impossible to live up to, i’m quite happy with it as a whole.  It’s a very good record.  After the first two clunkers (“Black Sand”, and “Pretty Bird”), the listener is treated to an impressive run of startlingly touching and impassioned tunes delivered in Jenny’s trademark breezy L.A. style.

“The Next Messiah” is a wonderfully idiosyncratic eight and a half minute romp that, like the best of Jenny’s songs, doesn’t have to mean a damn thing if it doesn’t want to (not that i’m saying that it’s meaningless, not at all, but rather that the music is good enough to carry it past such trivial constraints as lyrical depth).  The title track is perhaps the best song on the whole album, and, frankly, i’ve had it stuck in my head for about 3 weeks now.  Where that would normally annoy the shit out of me, in this case it’s been a pleasure.  That song KILLS.  “See Fernando”, “Godspeed”, “Trying My Best to Love You” . . all instant-classic Jenny Lewis.  Elvis Costello guests on another beauty, “Carpetbaggers”, and “Jack Killed Mom” is almost as good as it was on that NPR show that i linked earlier (which is actually a complement, if you can believe it).  Never before has matricide sounded like so much fun.

So, yeah.  This is a pretty great collection that Miss. Lewis has given us.  It’s not as incredible as Rabbit Fur Coat, or The Execution of All Things, but hey, what is?  You can’t make a perfect record every time out.  No one does.  Not The Beatles.  Not Zeppelin.  Not Dylan.  Not Petty.  Not Paul Simon.  It doesn’t happen.  But what we get here, while not perfect, is still full of wonderfully crafted, memorable tunes.  Songs that i will be singing for the rest of my life. It’s not every day, or week, or month that i get to hear an album like that, and i’ll be on the edge of my metaphorical seat waiting the next installment of the Jenny Lewis catalog, just as excited as i was for this one.

["Acid Tongue" at the Herbst Theater in San Francisco]

*

LISA HANNIGAN – SEA SEW

Those of you who listen to or are at least familiar with Irish singer/songwriter Damien Rice (that should be every single one of you, such is the sheer and undeniable awesomeness of his two albums O (2002), and 9 (2006)) will recognize Lisa.  She sang backup on those two outstanding records, even taking a few lead bits in the latter, and in that capacity she absolutely shined.  When Damien suddenly announced last year that they would no longer be working together (the rumor being that they had a romantic relationship, the termination of which was the cause of their professional split), it may have signaled the end of his relevance, THAT is how good they were together, and how important i believe she is to his sound.  I hope i am wrong about Damien, as i love his music, but only time will tell.  Too, when that sad announcement was made public, there was no doubt at all that this, Lisa’s first solo work, would be coming sooner or later.

Yet there was no publicity.  Zero.  Not even in this, the internet age, where publicity is easier to drum up than a lynch mob in 19th Century Mississippi, was there even a hint that this would be coming now.  Sure, there was probably a bit of buzz in Ireland, where she and Damien hail from.  But not here, not even to someone who was listening.  This is why i didn’t find out that this album even existed until today.  Feverishly, i ran around (figuratively, as not much actual running was called for) trying to get my hands on it, thrilled that this woman who i admire so has already put together a whole record full of originals, and pissed at myself that the release had slipped under my radar (apparently it was released in Ireland five weeks ago).  Well my search was successful, and, nervously, i plugged in my headphones and pushed Play.

It turns out I had no reason to be nervous.  Even though this is her first solo effort, not a single song here betrays that fact.  I haven’t had nearly the time to digest it that i have had for Acid Tongue, thus this will be a much less detailed review, but don’t mistake a lack of specificity for flippancy or dissatisfaction.

This is one of those records that starts off mellow, but in a satisfactory way.  Damien’s songs are often mellow, and so i expected the same from her, and that’s what we’re greeted by, but it’s only the beginning of a wondrous progression.  At first it’s, “Oh, this is nice.  A little vanilla, but nice,” and the next thing you know you’re bobbing your head and completely caught-up in tune after tune after tune.

You can hear the Joni Mitchell in her melodies and mildly-funky rhythms, but this stuff is a lot more palatable than Joni’s (for the record, i think Joni Mitchell is amazing, but “easily consumed” is not as fitting an adjective for her music as are “eclectic” and “complex”).  Also, you can definitely hear Damien’s influence in there, yet the differences are substantial.  I’ll tell you this much, Damien Rice sure as hell never wrote a song as upbeat and poppy as “I Don’t Know”, and while i might normally use “poppy” as a negative, here it holds none of that connotation.

The arrangements are exceptional on nearly every track, as is the backing instrumentation.  The horns are perfect, and track by track, it really keeps you guessing.  I don’t know who produced it or helped with the arrangements, but it’s a very mature record, and i have absolutely nothing negative to say about it.  Here i am, a notorious nitpicker (even of the things i love); i’ve listened to this album through four times now, and i simply can’t bring myself to be negative about it.  It’s a thoroughly pleasant and well-crafted piece of work, especially for a debut.

She has a naturally whispery singing style, which might have worked against her in any kind of solo effort, but not here.  On this she manages to be soft and strong at the same time.  The dynamic shifts are impressive and well-placed, possibly a lesson learned from her former partner.  “Teeth” sounds like something he might have written, and yet it manages to be clearly HER song.

Alright, i think i’ve made my recommendation clear.  Get it.  It may be a sonofabitch to find, as it’s only been released in Ireland to date, but it’s worth the search.  And hey, if you can’t find it, leave me a message.  I may be able to help you out.

Now away with you all!  I’m going to go put it on again

[A performance of "Teeth" from December, 2006]

On that day, i couldn’t have cared less about DJ Z-Trip.  I thought then, as i think now, that he was a poor choice to open that show, and he was no-doubt less-than thrilled by the lukewarm reaction that he received from the crowd that day.  It was an odd fit, and i did my absolute best to completely ignore his set (which seemed to drag on to no end).  In fact, i’d almost forgotten his name entirely . . until a few days ago.

A few days ago i read an article (i don’t remember where, exactly . . Pitchfork maybe) that was discussing musical news as it relates to the election, and they dropped a link and mention to Trip’s website, saying that he’d created an “Obama Mix” and was giving it away for free.

Well, being both a supporter of Senator Obama, and a lover of free music, i was intrigued.  “DJ Z-Trip?” i said to myself.  “Isn’t that the guy who bored the crap out of me before that DMB show?  Huh.  Interesting.  I wonder what that’s all about?” i mumbled to noone in particular.

Clicked the link.  Chuckled at the graphics on the front page.  Saved said graphics to my desktop, as they amused me.  Downloaded the mix.  Proceeded to listen.

“An hour?!  Who’s he kidding?  I’m not going to listen to an hour of some fucking DJ,” I groused.  “Ah well, no harm in checking it out anyways.”

It doesn’t take the director of CERN to figure out where i’m going with this.  Clearly i liked what i heard, or else i wouldn’t be writing about it, now would I.  In fact, it would be a gross understatement to say that i “liked” what i heard.  I fucking LOVED it.  I ADORED it.  I was impressed by it on every level.  It is, dare i say, perfect.  I would marry it and have sweet little digital babies with it if i could.  It is, as the title implies, an absolute must listen.

Here’s the site:

http://www.djztrip.com/obama/

GO.  DOWNLOAD.  LISTEN.  YOU WILL NOT REGRET IT.  GO.  NOW.  IT’S FREE.  YOU HAVE NO EXCUSE NOT TO.  DO IT.  GROOVE.

I have spoken.

A few days ago i woke up feeling like a cat had just slept on my face (as you may guess, i’m allergic to cats).  The wind had been blowing mightily all night, the windows were open (because i’m a genius like that), and when i rose from bed my pillows were covered in what used to be the skin around my eyes.  In general, my face was as red and poofy as one of Richard Branson’s reddest and poofiest hot air balloons.  The back of my throat, my nose, my eyes . . not pretty.

I stumbled to the medicine cupboard, and grabbed the little plastic container of Zyrtec.  Why?  Because it was there, and because only last year it was still prescription, and i tend to put great faith in meds that were recently prescription but have now been deemed safe for the masses.  I figure, if it used to be forbidden, then it’s stronger and fancier than the other stuff, and thus must be better, right?  Never mind the gaping holes in logic that can be found in that statement.  I’m a funny creature when it comes to meds.

So, did the Zyrtec help?  Am i back to feeling peachy keen?  Well it’s days later, and i’m writing about how much allergies suck.  That ought to tell you all you need to know.

So you start feeling stuffy and runny, or itchy and sneezy (it’s starting to sound like the seven dwarves for chistssake) . . what do you do?  You take an allergy med.  Maybe you also wash your sheets, and dust your dustables, and vacuum your car, and try like hell to clean any and all potential irritants out of your living areas, but that’s roughly the equivalent of pitching a shutout ninth inning when you’re down by 10 runs.  It could help, but the real damage has already been done, and the game is lost regardless of your cleaning aptitude.  So what the hell do you do?  You hope and pray that whichever med you could get your hands on works, and works fast.

Here’s the thing that really kills me; here is god’s punchline (he’s such a joker, that one):  The allergy meds are likely to make you feel even worse than the fucking allergies. I mean, COME ON!!  That’s just not fair.  I’ve seen the ads.  Formerly miserable people tra-la-la’ing through fields of pollen, now unfettered and joyful beyond their wildest hopes and dreams.  Like all ads, this is a baldfaced lie (duh).  The meds don’t make you feel good, nor do they help you forget about the original malady.  What they do is make you feel loopy, and sort of clammy, and detached, and cracked-out, and . . well . . still pretty miserable.  A slightly different brand of misery than you were dealing with before, but misery nonetheless.  In short, they make you feel like you’re sick.  You go from feeling itchy and sneezy and runny, to feeling like you are in the middle of a cold.  Except it’s worse than a cold, because you get over a cold.  With a cold you can go to the doctor and get antibiotics, or nom some chicken soup and feel comforted, or call-in-to-work-get-a-couple-of-sick-days-drink-some-NyQuil, and pass the fuck out until you feel better.  With a cold you can guzzle OJ, and eat a banana, and mix some Airborne (i LOVE Airborne), and in a few days (give or take) you will no longer have a cold.

But it’s not a cold.  It’s allergy meds.  You can stop taking the meds (which i shall be attempting on the morrow), but then you still have to deal with the original problem, and, sadly, it’s a problem that has no solution outside of patience.  Oh, and you now have to deal with that chest full of mucus from the cold that you never contracted.  Have fun with that.  Here’s some Robitussin.

We have cured polio.  We have cured malaria.  We have cured smallpox.  We have cured many kinds of cancer.  We are making enormous breakthroughs on HIV every day (there are some fellas out in Houston who think they’ve got it licked, and i’m told that we shall likely be seeing a practical treatment from their research within the next few years).  But mold spores and mulberry trees lay us out like the Bubonic Plague.  Tall grasses and dandelions dress up like Apocalyptic Horsemen once or twice a year, and dance merry jigs on our heads.  Oak trees and a strong autumn breeze can topple the otherwise stalwart ramparts of our immune systems like they were made of cardboard and fairydust.  There seems to be very little we can do about it, and that pisses me off to no end.

I repeat: This is not fair.  A choice between “Argh!” and “Eck!” is not a choice that i’m prepared to deal with.  What about door number three?  Why, in this age of medical and technological miracles, must we suffer so?  I think i’m about three-more-days-of-this away from constantly sporting one of those masks like the throngs of Asian pedestrians that they show now and again on the BBC news.  It may look stupid, but dammit, i can’t spend the entire month of October feeling like this.  I’m choked up and can’t breathe.  I feel like i have a fever even though my temp is running at a standard 98.6.  There’s a tickle in the back of my throat that hasn’t dislodged itself in four days.  FOUR!  DAYS!!!  I smell nothing but bleck, and my sinuses refuse to clear under even the most insistent of blowing and coaxing and assorted sweet talk.  I’m hot, then cold, then hot, then cold.  If i weren’t 29 years old, and a dude, i’d swear that i was going through menopause.

Fuck this business.  I’m moving to Antarctica.

.

Miserably Yours,

Tony