This band really is just that good
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Thursday, September 30, 2010
How many bands can kick your ass under a bridge?
Well, there was that one run-in I had with one half of Scorpions, but that was just a misunderstanding. Check out the video below, courtesy of http://www.blogotheque.net. This band really is that good.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Yours Truly,
Thanks to the fact that I follow one of my favorite bands, Land of Talk, on Facebook, I discovered something really interesting today. It's Yourstru.ly, a website dedicated to exposing some of the creators' (who are, themselves, artists of different, non-musical mediums) favorite artists through film and audio recording. The site has a solid design and, as far as I can tell, has some pretty cool music on it. I went in search of a live video performance of "Some Are Lakes" (thanks for explaining what that song's about, by the way), and left having watched an equally interesting and catchy video for Morning Bender's song "Stitches".
Hopefully, there's even more to come.
Hopefully, there's even more to come.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Jellico, TN ... what else can I really say.
Long, long ago, I was in a band called Ray and the Examples. We were an original band by trade (and you can look him up on myspace, still) but we paid the bills by playing cover gigs in remote lands filled with rednecks and things rednecks would like to live around.
A friend of the band's lead singer, Ryan, who primarily booked male revues decided to try and give us a hand with booking shows and got us a gig at a place called 'The Rooster Scratch' in Jellico, TN. So, we got our directions and headed out there on a Saturday afternoon. What we knew was that Jellico was likely a small town without much going on - we understood this as a requirement for any place that would hire a band that played nothing but bar songs. Tom Petty, Hank Williams, Zeppelin and the Stones were all prerequisites. What we didn't know is that our friend the booking agent had absolutely no idea where he was sending us, nor did he bother to invest even 5 minutes of his time to research the matter.
Jellico is about an hour or so north of Knoxville up I-75 and is situated in the Appalachian foothills just before you get into Kentucky. We had a good four hour drive from Murfreesboro to think a little about how we had gotten the gig and pretty much unanimously decided that the worst it could be was a hole in the wall pseudo-strip club and that everything would be fine.
Upon reaching the interstate exit for Jellico, we made our first mistake. We took a right off the exit instead of a left but, to our credit, we were in the middle of nowhere, we were confused and we were just a bit frightened about how far into the back country we were traveling. As we drove east from the interstate, we could tell relatively quickly that we were going in the wrong direction and decided it would be best if we turned around. Shortly after this realization, we noticed a gravel pull-around driveway in which we could make our course correction. Just passed the edge of the drive was a small trailer, which was obscured behind a mass of rusted, engineless and totally useless old cars. This, we would find, was mistake number two.
As we pulled around in our van, Ryan decided to stop and look at the map to see where we had gone wrong. I protested the idea of sitting in this strange driveway, in a strange town, in the middle of nowhere, that most likely belonged to a strange man, as much as I could, but Ryan was not interested. Just as Ryan was pulling out his map, out came the strange man in ownership of the previously mentioned driveway from behind one of the dilapidated vehicles. Overalls? Check. White shirt, a short haircut and, most notably, ears torn in a pattern that was once a series of piercings completed his look.
Upon seeing him ambling up in the side view mirror, I immediately asked Ryan to hit the gas and get out of there. Ryan, however, thought that it would be a great idea to ask this guy where 'The Rooster Scratch' was. So there we sat as the owner of the spot we were sitting on approached. He slammed his fist on the side door of the van twice as he walked up to my window. I rolled my window down, though I didn't want to, and the man said, "Ya'll need to get off of ma' yard. You can't turn around here." Ryan agreed to this request, but then proceeded to explain our predicament and asked whether he knew where 'The Rooster Scratch' was.
"I haven't been there since I was fifteen," said the man. Now there was some good news. "Seems like you'd be goin' the wrong way though. It's on the other side of the highway, in Jellico." Progress, at last. At least the man was much more friendly than appearances would lead you to believe. How do we get there? We all wondered. And he answered, "Hmmm ... How to explain this to foreigners ..." Yes, he said foreigners. The majority of the above exchange is less quotes and more 'the general idea'. That last bit is verbatim.
This kind gentleman eventually described to us, in detail, how to get to the Rooster Scratch. We were on our way.
There's really not much to tell of our journey for at least a little while. We went up a hill, and back down, and what we found was indeed a small bar called The Rooster Scratch.
All outward appearances were of a down-to-earth country bar where the good ol' boys and gals passed the time after a hard day of work. People were laughing and talking about gossip, of which we knew nothing. It was comforting to be somewhere normal as a change from the last hour of our lives which had seemed so bizarre.
We set up our gear. We ate. We drank a few beers with the bar owner, his wife and some of his friends. When we started playing, all seemed right at The Rooster Scratch. The people loved the music; they were even dancing, laughing and still probably gossiping about their neighbors (though in much louder tones due to the sweet sounds of CCR, Tom Petty, etc.).
The first set went off without a hitch and we took a short break and went into the other side of the bar where some people were staying to watch college football. The Vols were playing. This was a period during which they weren't doing so well and they were losing. Being in east Tennessee, I thought that this surely meant a rough night was ahead of us. People can get a little rowdy when their team is down, and UT fans are no exception with a few beers in them (or not). But wouldn't you know it, everyone there was a Kentucky fan. I thought to myself: surely this is a sign that the trouble is over and I have nothing more to worry about...
After the second set, we took a break outside. It was getting really cold, but it was good to get out of the bar and away from some of the other local characters, which included: a trucker telling us how to get to Pine Knot and how that would be faster than getting back to I-75, a drunken gay guy who was taking my picture every few minutes, and a man who insisted that he was cool and not backwards like the rest of Jellico whose only proof of this was that he knew who Green Day and Nickelback were. As we stood outside, we joked about how weird the gig had been and even ended up singing a few t-shirts and hats with The Rooster Scratch logo on them. We returned to the bar for what was to be our third and final set.
As we finished this set, the bartender walked up to us. He was of average height, well above average weight, and dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. He had a thick grey beard, thick grey hair, and a truckers hat on. Tucked into his shirt, it's tiny and whiskered head poking out, was some sort of toy terrier dog with fur to match the bar owners. He offered us another $150 to play for another hour (it was already midnight) and we agreed.
This is where it got crazy. First, there was a minor scuffle towards the back of the bar because one man felt his wife was being eyed a little too much by another patron. The man with eyes for a married woman was taken care of quickly and thrown outside. I'm not sure that he liked this very much because he came back in and picked a fight with a certain large gentleman who had escorted him out by sucker punching him in the jaw. This is something the bar owner simply could not tolerate. So he took out his pistol, pointed it at the man, and calmly asked him to leave his bar. There wasn't much protest in the eyes of the man on the other side of the gun.
This is something I'd never seen before. A gun in a bar is not necessarily a legal thing ... let alone a smart thing. I should say that during this astonishing turn of events we did not stop playing. Why? Because the man with the gun told us not to.
Minutes later, for no reason that I can tell you, my attention was turned away from my drumming as I watched the bar owner take out the pistol once more and chase a woman out of the bar with it. This warranted stopping. We soon heard a car door shut, followed by two gun shots. The bartender had shot the windows out of the womans car as she tried to leave the bar to drive drunk. The bartender's wife walked up to us quickly and told us we'd better start playing again. We managed through a few more songs, but it was already 1:30 a.m. and well past our time to leave.
The stop in the music must have been just one more thing the bar owner couldn't take. He strode up, pistol in hand, and said "You boys ain't done yet." Ryan explained that we had fulfilled our obligation and we had a long drive that we needed to get going on. The pistol quickly found its way straight into Ryan's chest and the owner reiterated, "You boys ain't done yet. I've got paying customers and they need music." Who could argue.
So there we were for another hour and a half. Held at gun point playing "Mary Jane's Last Dance" for what seemed to be the hundredth time. It was 3 a.m. and I physically couldn't play anymore. Six hours of music sitting in front of an open and unfinished fireplace that had been pushing the ice cold mountain air into me for about half that time. I started packing up my stuff. Ryan and the bass player, Steve, were so terrified by this that they went into an acoustic set of songs in hopes of distracting the bar owner from my decision. Soon though, all three of us had stopped and the bar owner approached once more. He informed us that he was pleased with our music, but that we could not leave the bar, nor could anyone else.
The police had blockaded the top of the hill after the gunshots were heard by a neighbor. There was no leaving. So there we were talking to a man holding a loaded pistol that had once been pointed into Ryans chest. Discussing his tours in Vietnam, looking at the degrees he had obtained from the University of Kentucky (he had a few), and looking at his certification as Justice of the Peace. As he saw it he was the law in 'The Hollow' no matter who thought differently. Finally, at some unknown hour of the morning, the bar owner disappeared into the bathroom. We quickly grabbed our money and headed for the van.
There was no wasting time. We could see blue flashing lights at the top of the hill and so we followed the old trucker's advice from earlier and headed down the hill to Pine Knot. We raced down the dirt road and followed the trucker's directions as fast as we could away from Jellico.
I'm sure I've forgotten a few things here and there. But you can probably see why my memory of Jellico isn't all that fond.
A friend of the band's lead singer, Ryan, who primarily booked male revues decided to try and give us a hand with booking shows and got us a gig at a place called 'The Rooster Scratch' in Jellico, TN. So, we got our directions and headed out there on a Saturday afternoon. What we knew was that Jellico was likely a small town without much going on - we understood this as a requirement for any place that would hire a band that played nothing but bar songs. Tom Petty, Hank Williams, Zeppelin and the Stones were all prerequisites. What we didn't know is that our friend the booking agent had absolutely no idea where he was sending us, nor did he bother to invest even 5 minutes of his time to research the matter.
Jellico is about an hour or so north of Knoxville up I-75 and is situated in the Appalachian foothills just before you get into Kentucky. We had a good four hour drive from Murfreesboro to think a little about how we had gotten the gig and pretty much unanimously decided that the worst it could be was a hole in the wall pseudo-strip club and that everything would be fine.
Upon reaching the interstate exit for Jellico, we made our first mistake. We took a right off the exit instead of a left but, to our credit, we were in the middle of nowhere, we were confused and we were just a bit frightened about how far into the back country we were traveling. As we drove east from the interstate, we could tell relatively quickly that we were going in the wrong direction and decided it would be best if we turned around. Shortly after this realization, we noticed a gravel pull-around driveway in which we could make our course correction. Just passed the edge of the drive was a small trailer, which was obscured behind a mass of rusted, engineless and totally useless old cars. This, we would find, was mistake number two.
As we pulled around in our van, Ryan decided to stop and look at the map to see where we had gone wrong. I protested the idea of sitting in this strange driveway, in a strange town, in the middle of nowhere, that most likely belonged to a strange man, as much as I could, but Ryan was not interested. Just as Ryan was pulling out his map, out came the strange man in ownership of the previously mentioned driveway from behind one of the dilapidated vehicles. Overalls? Check. White shirt, a short haircut and, most notably, ears torn in a pattern that was once a series of piercings completed his look.
Upon seeing him ambling up in the side view mirror, I immediately asked Ryan to hit the gas and get out of there. Ryan, however, thought that it would be a great idea to ask this guy where 'The Rooster Scratch' was. So there we sat as the owner of the spot we were sitting on approached. He slammed his fist on the side door of the van twice as he walked up to my window. I rolled my window down, though I didn't want to, and the man said, "Ya'll need to get off of ma' yard. You can't turn around here." Ryan agreed to this request, but then proceeded to explain our predicament and asked whether he knew where 'The Rooster Scratch' was.
"I haven't been there since I was fifteen," said the man. Now there was some good news. "Seems like you'd be goin' the wrong way though. It's on the other side of the highway, in Jellico." Progress, at last. At least the man was much more friendly than appearances would lead you to believe. How do we get there? We all wondered. And he answered, "Hmmm ... How to explain this to foreigners ..." Yes, he said foreigners. The majority of the above exchange is less quotes and more 'the general idea'. That last bit is verbatim.
This kind gentleman eventually described to us, in detail, how to get to the Rooster Scratch. We were on our way.
There's really not much to tell of our journey for at least a little while. We went up a hill, and back down, and what we found was indeed a small bar called The Rooster Scratch.
All outward appearances were of a down-to-earth country bar where the good ol' boys and gals passed the time after a hard day of work. People were laughing and talking about gossip, of which we knew nothing. It was comforting to be somewhere normal as a change from the last hour of our lives which had seemed so bizarre.
We set up our gear. We ate. We drank a few beers with the bar owner, his wife and some of his friends. When we started playing, all seemed right at The Rooster Scratch. The people loved the music; they were even dancing, laughing and still probably gossiping about their neighbors (though in much louder tones due to the sweet sounds of CCR, Tom Petty, etc.).
The first set went off without a hitch and we took a short break and went into the other side of the bar where some people were staying to watch college football. The Vols were playing. This was a period during which they weren't doing so well and they were losing. Being in east Tennessee, I thought that this surely meant a rough night was ahead of us. People can get a little rowdy when their team is down, and UT fans are no exception with a few beers in them (or not). But wouldn't you know it, everyone there was a Kentucky fan. I thought to myself: surely this is a sign that the trouble is over and I have nothing more to worry about...
After the second set, we took a break outside. It was getting really cold, but it was good to get out of the bar and away from some of the other local characters, which included: a trucker telling us how to get to Pine Knot and how that would be faster than getting back to I-75, a drunken gay guy who was taking my picture every few minutes, and a man who insisted that he was cool and not backwards like the rest of Jellico whose only proof of this was that he knew who Green Day and Nickelback were. As we stood outside, we joked about how weird the gig had been and even ended up singing a few t-shirts and hats with The Rooster Scratch logo on them. We returned to the bar for what was to be our third and final set.
As we finished this set, the bartender walked up to us. He was of average height, well above average weight, and dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. He had a thick grey beard, thick grey hair, and a truckers hat on. Tucked into his shirt, it's tiny and whiskered head poking out, was some sort of toy terrier dog with fur to match the bar owners. He offered us another $150 to play for another hour (it was already midnight) and we agreed.
This is where it got crazy. First, there was a minor scuffle towards the back of the bar because one man felt his wife was being eyed a little too much by another patron. The man with eyes for a married woman was taken care of quickly and thrown outside. I'm not sure that he liked this very much because he came back in and picked a fight with a certain large gentleman who had escorted him out by sucker punching him in the jaw. This is something the bar owner simply could not tolerate. So he took out his pistol, pointed it at the man, and calmly asked him to leave his bar. There wasn't much protest in the eyes of the man on the other side of the gun.
This is something I'd never seen before. A gun in a bar is not necessarily a legal thing ... let alone a smart thing. I should say that during this astonishing turn of events we did not stop playing. Why? Because the man with the gun told us not to.
Minutes later, for no reason that I can tell you, my attention was turned away from my drumming as I watched the bar owner take out the pistol once more and chase a woman out of the bar with it. This warranted stopping. We soon heard a car door shut, followed by two gun shots. The bartender had shot the windows out of the womans car as she tried to leave the bar to drive drunk. The bartender's wife walked up to us quickly and told us we'd better start playing again. We managed through a few more songs, but it was already 1:30 a.m. and well past our time to leave.
The stop in the music must have been just one more thing the bar owner couldn't take. He strode up, pistol in hand, and said "You boys ain't done yet." Ryan explained that we had fulfilled our obligation and we had a long drive that we needed to get going on. The pistol quickly found its way straight into Ryan's chest and the owner reiterated, "You boys ain't done yet. I've got paying customers and they need music." Who could argue.
So there we were for another hour and a half. Held at gun point playing "Mary Jane's Last Dance" for what seemed to be the hundredth time. It was 3 a.m. and I physically couldn't play anymore. Six hours of music sitting in front of an open and unfinished fireplace that had been pushing the ice cold mountain air into me for about half that time. I started packing up my stuff. Ryan and the bass player, Steve, were so terrified by this that they went into an acoustic set of songs in hopes of distracting the bar owner from my decision. Soon though, all three of us had stopped and the bar owner approached once more. He informed us that he was pleased with our music, but that we could not leave the bar, nor could anyone else.
The police had blockaded the top of the hill after the gunshots were heard by a neighbor. There was no leaving. So there we were talking to a man holding a loaded pistol that had once been pointed into Ryans chest. Discussing his tours in Vietnam, looking at the degrees he had obtained from the University of Kentucky (he had a few), and looking at his certification as Justice of the Peace. As he saw it he was the law in 'The Hollow' no matter who thought differently. Finally, at some unknown hour of the morning, the bar owner disappeared into the bathroom. We quickly grabbed our money and headed for the van.
There was no wasting time. We could see blue flashing lights at the top of the hill and so we followed the old trucker's advice from earlier and headed down the hill to Pine Knot. We raced down the dirt road and followed the trucker's directions as fast as we could away from Jellico.
I'm sure I've forgotten a few things here and there. But you can probably see why my memory of Jellico isn't all that fond.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Something old (99 problems) and something new
First the new:
I'm watching National Treasure on television while waiting for a few friends to arrive in Nashville. Early on in the movie, it's established that they're somewhere north of the Arctic circle. You know, a mostly-barren wasteland of ice and ice. Eventually, things get a little crazy and explosions happen, causing a fire on a big wooden boat they've found. Our genius antagonist then says "let's get out of here before someone sees the smoke." Well, good news Rutger Hauer, or whoever you are ... no one's going to see the smoke because you're in the Arctic circle where no one in their right mind lives. Oh, wait. Nicholas Cage says there's an Inuit village nearby. Well ... shit.
So, that old thing I was telling you about ... yeah. I wrote this on July 10th of 2004 and thought I might as well recycle it somewhere it might be viewed. Its previous hiding place was on Myspace, no longer a place for friends by most accounts. Okay - and, go.
I'm watching National Treasure on television while waiting for a few friends to arrive in Nashville. Early on in the movie, it's established that they're somewhere north of the Arctic circle. You know, a mostly-barren wasteland of ice and ice. Eventually, things get a little crazy and explosions happen, causing a fire on a big wooden boat they've found. Our genius antagonist then says "let's get out of here before someone sees the smoke." Well, good news Rutger Hauer, or whoever you are ... no one's going to see the smoke because you're in the Arctic circle where no one in their right mind lives. Oh, wait. Nicholas Cage says there's an Inuit village nearby. Well ... shit.
So, that old thing I was telling you about ... yeah. I wrote this on July 10th of 2004 and thought I might as well recycle it somewhere it might be viewed. Its previous hiding place was on Myspace, no longer a place for friends by most accounts. Okay - and, go.
let's discuss shall we?
first the evidence:
If you're havin girl problems i feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one
[Verse One]
I got the rap patrol on the gat patrol
Foes that wanna make sure my casket's closed
Rap critics that say he's "Money Cash Hoes"
I'm from the hood stupid what type of facts are those
If you grew up with holes in your zapitos
You'd celebrate the minute you was havin doe
I'm like fuck critics you can kiss my whole asshole
If you don't like my lyrics you can press fast forward
Got beef with radio if i don't play they show
They don't play my hits well i don't give a shit SO
Rap mags try and use my black ass
So advertisers can give em more cash for ads...fuckers
I don't know what you take me as or understand the intellegence that Jay-Z has
I'm from rags to ritches nigga I ain't dumb
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one Hit me
[Chorus]
99 Problems but a bitch ain't one
If you havin girl problems i feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one Hit me
So, if you have 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one - let's do some math:
First of all ... a bitch is not equal to 1 ... lets get this out of the way. Also problems will be represented by (x)
scenario one:
You could get a bitch, giving you 100 problems. Except if, for instance, problem 46 was indeed not having a bitch, which would make you have 99 problems again. If a bitch is not equal to (1), then [99 + (a bitch) = x ] From this we conclude that jay z's problems - or (x) - cannot equal 100. Through modern linguistics, it is also possible to rule out that 'a bitch' = 0, as 'a' clearly states there is one of something. Also there can't be a negative quantity of bitches, as that would be stephen hawking style science we don't understand.
So here's where we are ... (a bitch) > 1. From this, we can now establish some key facts:
1) Jay Z has no fewer than 101 problems ( because 99 + (x) > 100 )
2) there are no fewer than 2 bitches in the world ( x > 1 as shown in the examples above)
3) Jay Z clearly paid no attention in science or math ... specifically algebra
Okay, so I had to do some editing to make this fit my more modern writing style. I guess it's to be expected on a blog that is almost five years old. Wow. That puts nothing in perspective at all.
first the evidence:
If you're havin girl problems i feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one
[Verse One]
I got the rap patrol on the gat patrol
Foes that wanna make sure my casket's closed
Rap critics that say he's "Money Cash Hoes"
I'm from the hood stupid what type of facts are those
If you grew up with holes in your zapitos
You'd celebrate the minute you was havin doe
I'm like fuck critics you can kiss my whole asshole
If you don't like my lyrics you can press fast forward
Got beef with radio if i don't play they show
They don't play my hits well i don't give a shit SO
Rap mags try and use my black ass
So advertisers can give em more cash for ads...fuckers
I don't know what you take me as or understand the intellegence that Jay-Z has
I'm from rags to ritches nigga I ain't dumb
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one Hit me
[Chorus]
99 Problems but a bitch ain't one
If you havin girl problems i feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one Hit me
So, if you have 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one - let's do some math:
First of all ... a bitch is not equal to 1 ... lets get this out of the way. Also problems will be represented by (x)
scenario one:
You could get a bitch, giving you 100 problems. Except if, for instance, problem 46 was indeed not having a bitch, which would make you have 99 problems again. If a bitch is not equal to (1), then [99 + (a bitch) = x ] From this we conclude that jay z's problems - or (x) - cannot equal 100. Through modern linguistics, it is also possible to rule out that 'a bitch' = 0, as 'a' clearly states there is one of something. Also there can't be a negative quantity of bitches, as that would be stephen hawking style science we don't understand.
So here's where we are ... (a bitch) > 1. From this, we can now establish some key facts:
1) Jay Z has no fewer than 101 problems ( because 99 + (x) > 100 )
2) there are no fewer than 2 bitches in the world ( x > 1 as shown in the examples above)
3) Jay Z clearly paid no attention in science or math ... specifically algebra
Okay, so I had to do some editing to make this fit my more modern writing style. I guess it's to be expected on a blog that is almost five years old. Wow. That puts nothing in perspective at all.
Friday, June 12, 2009
You missed out, Nashville
While most of you were at Bonaroo, standing in mud and being pelted by rain as if some innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of a battle between earth and sky, some of us were lucky enough to see St. Vincent perform in the warm (too warm - damn you Mercy Lounge turn on the AC), dry confines of one of Nashville's finer music venues, Mercy Lounge.
Before this starts reading like some review of the show/St. Vincent's (Annie Clark, formerly of The Polyphonic Spree and Sufjan Steven's backing band) music, let me just say this: It is not. This band is great. Unequivocally, undoubtedly, un-some-other-word-that-I-won't-take-time-to conjure-up-in-this-sentence.
This band grooves like Spoon and then throws a film scores-worth of string arrangements and woodwinds at you and expects you not to blink. The funny thing is that the songs are so well written and are so cohesive that you actually don't. Annie Clark has a smooth voice that makes you think she learned to sing walking the yellow brick road with Judy Garland (okay, so the only reason I make this reference is because it gives me an excuse to show you this interview - I'm not really that smart, but the interview is a good one) and her skills on guitar are certainly not lacking. Just as you get used to the aforementioned beautiful string lines and solid indie pop structures, the band could just as easily melt down into noise and bedlam, frequently ending songs with turgid guitar feedback obscuring the once-beautiful melody.
So many bands try to take pop sensibility and turn it on its head. Usually, this ends up in some pretentious, hard-to-grasp concept album that sounds like an equation for a unique sound more than the actual product. This is where St. Vincent excells, and the fact that they pull it off in the live show is something to behold. But you probably didn't.
Don't consider this a review. Consider it me telling you about how you missed out, think about what I've said and, next time, be there when St. Vincent comes around.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
For shame ...
I can't seem to find the time to blog lately. Luckily, I'm not exactly leaving the world hanging not doing so. It's not even that I'm so busy that I can't get on here - this is purely laziness on my part.
I've been listening to a ton of really good new music, so maybe I'll just give you a rundown of that, for now:
Sam Roberts, Love at the End of the World - Check out the song "Them Kids" for some good rock 'n roll, but "Lions of the Kalahari" is equally compelling.
Dredg, The Pariah, The Parrot, The Delusion - Dredge doesn't really ever disappoint. There's not just one song to listen to; just start on one and get your money's worth all the way to track 18 (still only an hour of music).
Ash, Meltdown - The perfect blend of pop and hardrock. Probably the most fun album on this list.
Neko Case, Middle Cyclone - It's Neko Case. She's good. I'd recommend "The Pharoahs".
That's all I'm going to put down for now, but consider it your homework to check out those bands. You can always do it for free at lala.com.
I've been listening to a ton of really good new music, so maybe I'll just give you a rundown of that, for now:
Sam Roberts, Love at the End of the World - Check out the song "Them Kids" for some good rock 'n roll, but "Lions of the Kalahari" is equally compelling.
Dredg, The Pariah, The Parrot, The Delusion - Dredge doesn't really ever disappoint. There's not just one song to listen to; just start on one and get your money's worth all the way to track 18 (still only an hour of music).
Ash, Meltdown - The perfect blend of pop and hardrock. Probably the most fun album on this list.
Neko Case, Middle Cyclone - It's Neko Case. She's good. I'd recommend "The Pharoahs".
That's all I'm going to put down for now, but consider it your homework to check out those bands. You can always do it for free at lala.com.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
A rediscovered Youth
As a kid, I was always encouraged musically. I started playing piano when I was five. I started learning percussion when I was eleven because I had trouble reading rhythms in my piano studies. I battled with practicing these two instruments until I was twenty years old. Drums won.
Despite all of this musical activity and encouragement, I totally missed out on a lot of music growing up. I really didn't start listening to the music of my generation until it was tailing off, and even then, I just wasn't in to a lot of it. Nirvana didn't hold a lot for me. I did love Soundgarden's Superunknown and Stone Temple Pilot's Purple.
Now, in my adult life, I'm rediscovering all sorts of good music I missed out on back then. One of the biggest revelations to me has been Sonic Youth. I have an excuse for not having listened to Daydream Nation - I was only seven when it was released - but this band was a major piece of the musical puzzle when I was in my formative music-listening years.
The crazy thing is that this band, formed in 1981, is still creating music. They recently left Geffen Records and signed with Matador Records who plans to release the band's latest effort on June 9th.
I think that, if for no other reason than the repose of my teenage soul, I may just check this one out.
Despite all of this musical activity and encouragement, I totally missed out on a lot of music growing up. I really didn't start listening to the music of my generation until it was tailing off, and even then, I just wasn't in to a lot of it. Nirvana didn't hold a lot for me. I did love Soundgarden's Superunknown and Stone Temple Pilot's Purple.
Now, in my adult life, I'm rediscovering all sorts of good music I missed out on back then. One of the biggest revelations to me has been Sonic Youth. I have an excuse for not having listened to Daydream Nation - I was only seven when it was released - but this band was a major piece of the musical puzzle when I was in my formative music-listening years.
The crazy thing is that this band, formed in 1981, is still creating music. They recently left Geffen Records and signed with Matador Records who plans to release the band's latest effort on June 9th.
I think that, if for no other reason than the repose of my teenage soul, I may just check this one out.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Aman Iman: Water is Life
So, I stumbled on to this band today ... Tinariwen. I've always loved bands who fused world music in to popular western music - The Police, Paul Simon, et al - but I've never really explored the ethnic music that was at the heart of that influence on these great songwriters.
Besides just writing really beautiful music, Tinariwen has a deep story behind it that really just brings home the importance of music to the human soul.
Check out the track Mataraden Anexan here on YouTube.
Besides just writing really beautiful music, Tinariwen has a deep story behind it that really just brings home the importance of music to the human soul.
Check out the track Mataraden Anexan here on YouTube.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Ezra Furman and the Harpoons
I need to talk about this band for a second. Yes, this is the second time that I've mentioned them in my blog but, as explained in a previous blog, the first one was kind of a technological mishap. Anyway, on to my story ...
Ezra Furman and the Harpoons showed up in Nashville yesterday to play a show at The Basement with Nashville's own Harrison Hudson and Detroit trio The Hard Lessons. Harrison Hudson was great as usual and The Hard Lessons were a great surprise, but Ezra Furman - the man and the band - were just something else entirely.
I don't know if I'm saying that I believe that they're the next big thing. They really probably aren't. What they are is incredibly honest, catchy and energetic rock 'n roll music. The music itself is punk-influenced indie rock, complete with hand claps and gang vocals, with somewhat of a folk influence. Ezra Furman's voice is high and slightly whiny, but it's his onstage (and offstage) persona that really grabs you.
He's like that kid you befriended in third grade and every time you asked your mom if he could come over you had to give her that extra But, mom ... to make it happen. It's not that he ever broke anything, and he definitely said thank you. He's just barely oozing this frenetic energy, making wild claims and mischeivous. You can hear it in his music, but you only really get it if you see it happen in person.
Check out the track Take Off Your Sunglasses and get hooked. Or harpooned. Whatever.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Measuring Up
I always find it awkward when I'm approached after playing a show by someone telling me how good a drummer I am. So, part of it is definitely that I don't know how to take a compliment, but another part of it is that I'm not sure that I believe them all the time.
There's a part of me that is searching for that point at which I feel like I'm worthy of praise as a drummer, and it doesn't matter to me who else is impressed until I reach that point for myself. As a test for myself, I decided to throw my hat in the ring to be the next drummer of Smashing Pumpkins. It's an opportunity to see how I stack up against other drummers and to see if what I do stands out. I recorded a video of myself playing the song Cherub Rock as part of the audition process and it turned out pretty okay, all things considered.
I wouldn't say I set out to make this blog some official account of what I've been up to, but I'm not sure I have anything else to blog about at the moment.
The Appleseed Cast is at The End tonight and I think it's safe to assume this might be the only chance I have to write something. The Blog Challenge must go on ...
Oh, also ... You might want to check out To Die For by Hell is for Heroes.
Good stuff.
There's a part of me that is searching for that point at which I feel like I'm worthy of praise as a drummer, and it doesn't matter to me who else is impressed until I reach that point for myself. As a test for myself, I decided to throw my hat in the ring to be the next drummer of Smashing Pumpkins. It's an opportunity to see how I stack up against other drummers and to see if what I do stands out. I recorded a video of myself playing the song Cherub Rock as part of the audition process and it turned out pretty okay, all things considered.
I wouldn't say I set out to make this blog some official account of what I've been up to, but I'm not sure I have anything else to blog about at the moment.
The Appleseed Cast is at The End tonight and I think it's safe to assume this might be the only chance I have to write something. The Blog Challenge must go on ...
Oh, also ... You might want to check out To Die For by Hell is for Heroes.
Good stuff.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Down to the wire ...
What to talk about tonight ...
Okay. From the looks of things I haven't discussed music here yet. I don't really want to overdo things in my first post on the subject, but it wouldn't be a bad thing to introduce early on, as it consumes the better part of my brain's function.
Art, in general is an interesting thing. When you create it, you're expressing some inner thought or feeling that no one else on this planet can replicate. People can get close, but they can never be exactly the same as you. This gives every artistic expression an inherent value. But, who decides what's good and what's not? Painters are only good if they die, or are crazy or are some virtuoso kid who might not really be painting at all. So what about music? What makes music good or bad? This is where things get crazy for me and music ...
Music has become a commodity. As a musician, your art has been monetized in a way that people who don't create can understand. They see your notes bobbing down a conveyor belt in a factory and they try to determine if what's going on there is efficient enough to make a profit. Then, they market the music, and they place it on a shelf and they do their best to convince us - the masses - that we should agree that the music they're putting out there is the best the world has to offer.
So many people stop right there in their search for music that it scares me. And I'm not directing this solely to people that frequent the Top 40 section at Best Buy because this applies so often to so-called music snobs as well. People who like a band like Arcade Fire, Animal Collective or The Decembrists only because it's not what's in *the mainstream*. Tell me why you like them. What makes them so special and better than any other artist? Do you honestly believe that there's not a marketing or management team that positioned all three of these artists in that way just to catch your eye?
I would guess that the only reason they got record deals over a host of other talented acts that neither you nor I know of is that someone saw money. They knew you'd buy in and that you, as a dissenter to the mainstream, would identify yourself as someone with *good taste* by telling all other dissenters about how great Arcade Fire is.
So, like I was saying an hour and four paragraphs ago, what do good and bad really mean when it comes to music? It's probably the most subjective question possible, to ask someone if a song is good or bad.
And success musically doesn't mean your good! What's that about? The Backstreet Boys sell record-setting numbers of albums, make all that money and it takes years for people to wake up and realize they're terrible. An artist like Jeff Buckley toils away in relative obscurity for a while, gets drunk and jumps in the Mississippi, and only then do people jump on the bandwagon?
Maybe my problem is that I feel that you should be good to be successful and that being bad shouldn't be rewarded. The Backstreet Boys will live on, and on, and on, and they will be remembered as a success, and some people will say that they were good. The same is true of Jeff Buckley. The only real difference is that only one of them is an artist.
At least, that's my opinion.
Okay. From the looks of things I haven't discussed music here yet. I don't really want to overdo things in my first post on the subject, but it wouldn't be a bad thing to introduce early on, as it consumes the better part of my brain's function.
Art, in general is an interesting thing. When you create it, you're expressing some inner thought or feeling that no one else on this planet can replicate. People can get close, but they can never be exactly the same as you. This gives every artistic expression an inherent value. But, who decides what's good and what's not? Painters are only good if they die, or are crazy or are some virtuoso kid who might not really be painting at all. So what about music? What makes music good or bad? This is where things get crazy for me and music ...
Music has become a commodity. As a musician, your art has been monetized in a way that people who don't create can understand. They see your notes bobbing down a conveyor belt in a factory and they try to determine if what's going on there is efficient enough to make a profit. Then, they market the music, and they place it on a shelf and they do their best to convince us - the masses - that we should agree that the music they're putting out there is the best the world has to offer.
So many people stop right there in their search for music that it scares me. And I'm not directing this solely to people that frequent the Top 40 section at Best Buy because this applies so often to so-called music snobs as well. People who like a band like Arcade Fire, Animal Collective or The Decembrists only because it's not what's in *the mainstream*. Tell me why you like them. What makes them so special and better than any other artist? Do you honestly believe that there's not a marketing or management team that positioned all three of these artists in that way just to catch your eye?
I would guess that the only reason they got record deals over a host of other talented acts that neither you nor I know of is that someone saw money. They knew you'd buy in and that you, as a dissenter to the mainstream, would identify yourself as someone with *good taste* by telling all other dissenters about how great Arcade Fire is.
So, like I was saying an hour and four paragraphs ago, what do good and bad really mean when it comes to music? It's probably the most subjective question possible, to ask someone if a song is good or bad.
And success musically doesn't mean your good! What's that about? The Backstreet Boys sell record-setting numbers of albums, make all that money and it takes years for people to wake up and realize they're terrible. An artist like Jeff Buckley toils away in relative obscurity for a while, gets drunk and jumps in the Mississippi, and only then do people jump on the bandwagon?
Maybe my problem is that I feel that you should be good to be successful and that being bad shouldn't be rewarded. The Backstreet Boys will live on, and on, and on, and they will be remembered as a success, and some people will say that they were good. The same is true of Jeff Buckley. The only real difference is that only one of them is an artist.
At least, that's my opinion.
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