Extra ! Extra ! –

The Paperboy Delivers Today’s Grooves

By Jeff Katz

Soul with balls. Eli “Paperboy” Reed brings it with Come and Get It, his first big time release courtesy of Capitol Records. Reed, the most soulful sound ever to come out of a Boston high school band, is part Wilson Pickett part Otis Redding, sometimes a shouter, sometimes a crooner, and that ain’t bad. Not bad at all.

From the joyous opening horn riff of “Young Girl” (no, not the Gary Puckett and The Union Gap “Young Girl”) to the frenzied anarchy of “Explosion,” Eli and his super-tight band, The True Loves, knock out the competition with the most enjoyable album of the year. It’s a retro romp that brings back the sounds that made AM radio of the late ‘60’s and early ‘70’s a treat. Influences abound, but Eli Reed’s music is fresh and his biography unique.

How many musicians take this route to stardom: start at a New England high school as a lousy tenor saxman, head southwest to a Mississippi Delta blues joint, then follow Louis Armstrong’s journey upriver to a South Side Chicago church to play a little Sunday morning organ. But don’t stop there. Venture back East to Brooklyn hipster clubs and, finally, do a Horace Greely and “Go West Young Man” on a cross country sojourn to Hollywood and the home of The Beatles and The Beach Boys. Only one guy I can think of, and it’s not Rand McNally.

Eli learned a lot down in Clarksdale. Not only did he discover how an 18 year old could make it on his own in the hotbed of the blues, but how to deliver a tune. The Delta Bluesmen never play it coy with their ladies. Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Son House – they weren’t asking, they were telling. When the “Paperboy” (dubbed so by the veteran players who dug the old timey newsboy hat he sported) sings to the womenfolk, he lays it down for real – he is the man they want, he is the man they need. In “Name Calling,” which sounds like a lost Jackson 5 classic, Reed informs his latest conquest that she went “from name calling to calling my name.” He takes great relish in her comeuppance.

College was no place for the “Paperboy,” and though he gave the University of Chicago a chance, it was in the sounds of the city that he earned his degree, spinning southern soul for his college radio station between bites of greasy fried chicken. (Don’t smudge those LPs). A devotee of performers famous and unknown, Reed tracked down Mitty Collier, a former Chess Records artist who was now preaching the gospel. She brought him in to play and sing at her Sunday service. Finding the Mitty Colliers of the world has been a way of life for Eli. “I’ve definitely made it a point to seek some of these people out who’ve inspired me.” Towering groovemeisters like Mel & Tim (“Backfield in Motion”) and Tyrone Davis (“Turn Back the Hands of Time”) may have been long forgotten by a public that finds Lady Gaga sublime, but they’re never far from the mind of Eli Reed.

A return to Boston jump started his recording career. Sings Walkin’ and Talkin’ and Other Smash Hits! and Roll With You got the boy some notice in the press. Rolling Stone named Reed a “Breaking Artist,” and, in the UK, he was nominated for a 2009 MOJO Award as Breakthrough Artist of the Year. With that the old music industry took note, and, there you have it, a contract with Capitol Records. Now back to Come and Get It, Reed’s most polished effort yet. The additional horns and strings add to the authenticity of his sound.

The title track is the standout, with the greatest harmony heard since The Friends of Distinction (“I Can Dig It, He Can Dig It, She Can Dig It, We Can Dig It…”). “Come and Get It,” the song, was recently BBC Radio 2’s “Record of the Week.” In “Tell Me What I Wanna Hear,” Reed turns the impossible, taking the melody of Ray Stevens’ cornball classic “Everything is Beautiful” and making it swing. His gospel grooming comes through in the thumping hand clapper “You Can Run On.” There’s no praising the good Lord here. The religious grounds: Eli’s irresistibility to the helpless female.

Reed is a big fan of the ultimate musical expression, the 3 minute pop song. “For me,” says Reed, “it’s all about writing pop songs. Soul music was the greatest pop music of the 20th century and its influence is so far-reaching.” Write on, brother.

The penultimate track, “Pick Your Battles,” takes the album down several notches. It’s a breather, folks, for the insane horns of a Medieval celebration run amok. “Explosion” is a fuzzy treat, crazy man, just crazy. Part James Brown, part Eli Reed. Prepare for the countdown. BOOM!

The cover of Come and Get It shows a generic supermarket, its shelves crammed with packages labeled meat sauce, bleach, crackers… You get the idea. Smack in the middle is the always sharp Eli “Paperboy” Reed. His pompadour (absent in off-hours) rises high, his leather suit shines, his black boots gleam. When you visit your local store, pick up a copy of his latest. but don’t head to the “7 items or less” line. All 12 cust on Come and Get It are part of a well-balanced and musically nutritious diet.

http://www.elipaperboyreed.com

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Illustration by Nate Katz

One-Trick Pony Thirty Years Later

By Jeff Katz

Nineteen-eighty was a tough year for ‘60’s rock icons. January found Paul McCartney in a Tokyo jail, forced to sing “Yesterday” repeatedly by fellow inmates after being busted by customs officials for possession of marijuana. In May, Macca released a logic defying embrace of synth-pop on McCartney II, the cover bearing a striking similarity to a mug shot. Bob Dylan was in the middle of his “praised be Jesus” period, releasing one of the worst records in his catalog, Saved. The Rolling Stones were well into self-parody, and Emotional Rescue, their summer release, was a weak collection, the best songs a hollow mimicry of their sound, the worst unlistenable. No one had a worse year than John Lennon, gunned down in December by a lunatic.

The new decade saw a new face on the silver screen – Paul Simon. One-Trick Pony, both the movie and album, were the first missteps of Simon’s remarkably successful career. After a cute cameo in Woody Allen’s Annie Hall, and a hilarious donning of a turkey suit on Saturday Night Live, Simon spent three years writing the screenplay and the songs for his first and only starring role as one-hit has-been Jonah Levin (Levin’s “Soft Parachutes” is including in the CD release). Levin is the “there but for the grace of God” version of Simon. Simon in the lead role is difficult to watch, his range lying somewhere between sleepwalker and corpse. A smoldering sex symbol he is not.

The film has many redeeming scenes: Jonah shaving while his little son pretends, a two-man baseball game between father and child in Central Park, and Levin’s band playing a naming game called “Rock and Roll Deaths” in the van between gigs, arguing whether they should separate the plane crash victims from the overdosers. One-Trick Pony is worth tracking down. Not only do you get to see Paul Simon’s miraculously lush head of hair, most recently seen thinning and combed over on 1977’s Greatest Hits, Etc., but you can also marvel at Lou Reed as a scumbag record producer.

Critics hated the movie and audiences stayed away. It was a resounding flop. But, hey, acting was not Paul Simon’s forte, cut him some slack. Music, now that’s where he ruled. After all, there hadn’t been one solo album of Simon’s that wasn’t better, by far, than anything Simon & Garfunkel produced. That the vinyl version of One-Trick Pony was erratic was a shock to the ears when it hit record store racks on September 6, 1980.

Simon the actor showed no spark, no fire, but at least he was consistent. Simon the singer-songwriter was positively schizophrenic. The cuts are of two varieties: Jonah Levin performances and Paul Simon commenting on Jonah Levin. Maybe the Levin songs are Paul’s best bit of acting, because the tunes are flat and false, but, after all, Jonah is a mediocre performer. Could Paul Simon have intended to write half-assed songs for his onscreen doppelganger? Doubtful, though it’s worth considering. “Late in the Evening,” though propelled by a Latin horn section, is an empty experience, and when Jonah/Paul sings, “I went outside to smoke myself a ‘J’,” it is pandering of the highest order. The sly little guitar line by Eric Gale punctuates the quasi-hip reference that is sure to get the obligatory cheer from the crowd. Side 2 begins with a mirror image of the leadoff track. “Ace in the Hole” may be Paul Simon’s worst song, and that includes, “The Dangling Conversation,” which reeked of sophomoric pseudo-intellectualism. The title track lays somewhere in between these two in quality, equally as slick and devoid of real emotion.

The real songs, the songs that speak of relationships, personal angst and wistful nostalgia are top of the line Simon. “That’s Why God Made the Movies,” “Oh, Marion” and “Nobody” (especially “Nobody”) are stellar works of genius. There are more. It’s a difficult album, well worth your time three decades later as the touchstone of an artist in transition.

Even more interesting is what followed. One-Trick Pony was Simon’s first studio album as a solo performer that didn’t crack the Top Ten (though “Late in the Evening” did). It was disappointing news to Warner Brothers, who had signed the hit maker to a three-album deal worth between $10-15 million. For Simon, the one-two combination of movie failure and weak sales propelled him into a place he had resisted: a reunion with Art Garfunkel. Garfunkel’s acting and recording career were in the toilet and, he too, was up for a moneymaking uniting of forces.

The overwhelmingly popular Central Park concert, attended by half a million strong was followed by a national tour.  Paul was put back on his confident feet, so much so that he unilaterally erased Artie’s vocals from the planned-for new Simon & Garfunkel record. Now simply another solo effort, 1983’s Hearts and Bones made One-Trick Pony look like a smash hit. It sputtered out at #35 on the album charts.

It didn’t matter now. Paul had completely freed himself of trying to understand what the movie-going and music-listening audience wanted from him. So, if he wanted to record his lyrics atop the swinging mbaqanga sounds of South African musicians backing him, well, then that’s what he was going to do. Graceland, the product of his newly found liberation would become his biggest success, selling 14,000,000 copies and garnering the Grammy for Album of the Year in 1986. “Graceland” the song would win 1987’s Song of the Year Award.

­One-Trick Pony is the pivot point to the third phase of Paul Simon’s career, when he brought world music to the popular consciousness of American record buyers. For that, it should be remembered, revisited and celebrated on its 30^th anniversary.

A Howlin’ Wind Still Blows

By Jeff Katz

Back to Schooldays

I admit I wasn’t on board with Graham Parker, or any of the punk scene, until 1980. During the second half of the ‘70’s, I was still filling my collection with Beatles, Dylan, Who and Stones, catching up on a lot of records that were essential to a growing boy’s musical development. A few outriders may have appeared, a stray Elvis Costello album. Maybe. It really wasn’t until I got to college that I opened my ears.

I’m guessing that my first aural encounter with Parker was on WNEW, the New York classic rock station, and it’s almost certain that “Endless Night” was my entry point. What grabbed me, at first, were the straining harmonies of Mr. Bruce Springsteen. Well, if Parker was worth The Boss’ time, who was I to argue? I rushed out to buy The Up Escalator. Parker’s snarl, his nasty yet sensitive lyrics, hit me where I lived back then. It was who I was, at least in my own mind. The outwardly cynical, bitter me covering the inner, shakier me. I was hooked.

Quickly, or as quickly as money would allow, I caught up. Howlin’ Wind, Heat Treatment, Stick to Me, and Squeezing Out Sparks the amazing quartet of albums that preceded The Up Escalator are the solid foundation on which Parker’s entire canon rests. Remarkable records, really, with his backing band, the nonpareil Rumour. A new sound, fresh, fierce, yet like all classics, having a timeless quality as if they’ve been heard before. Powerful rock with more than a hint of ‘60’s soul coupled with Parker’s distinctively nasal voice. He immediately became a top tier, go to listen for me.

The early ‘80’s found Parker taking a more mellow turn. He dropped The Rumour, got married and settled down. Another Grey Area, The Real Macaw and Steady Nerves projected a content Parker, unfamiliar, but resoundingly real. This second chapter of his career was met with a shrug by the record buying public. They missed out; these three albums are wonderful. For the early 20s’ version of me, they hit sporadically, but as the decade went on, and I met the girl of my dreams and married her, Parker was, once again, providing an intimate soundtrack to my own life. Then, after The Mona Lisa’s Sister in 1988, I stopped buying Graham Parker records. Just like that. Why? I don’t know. He was an integral part of my decade.

And now, as Music Editor for ragazine, I found myself in the position of interviewing the great Graham Parker. I had a lot of catching up to do. I didn’t want to be one of those “loved your album from thirty years ago” guys. So I bought most of the CDs I’d missed, listened in a hurry, and got ready to call one of my musical heroes.

Between You and Me

“Graham, here.”

It was him! Curiously enough, he sounded just like Graham Parker. All I had to do was say “hi” and he was off. The man can talk, and talk, and talk. It was hard for me to get my questions in, and, you know what, I didn’t want to. It was fun listening to him, but, hey, I’m a professional (wait, that would mean I’m getting paid!) and I knew I had to cover some ground if I was going to get any kind of interview done.

A self-confessed “nature freak,” Parker has lived in America since 1988. Though most articles place him in Woodstock, which makes for a nice musical connection, he’s in the Catskills, closer to the much less romantic burghs of Kingston and New Paltz and a good 45 minutes from hippie heaven.

He hasn’t forsaken England, keeping a place in London that he rents out (it’s “quite a good earner”). But buying a house in merry old? Out of the question. “You can’t buy a house and land in England unless you’re a member of royalty…or Sting.” Now, that’s a Graham Parker answer – funny, biting, true. In his mountain hideaway, he looks out the window to the trees and ponds that surround him.

Though Parker has railed against American commercialism (listen to “Disney’s America” on 12 Haunted Episodes), he has nothing but affection for the place. America is “THE country, everything goes on here.” Not so in his homeland. Britain is too small minded, a cynical nation marked by a too cruel sense of humor; Americans are more generous. But Parker is under no illusion that his artistic temperament will permit him to settle down. He’s by no means locked in to his present home, his life too fluid for something like that. But, he gladly admits, America is in his blood.

While I tried to avoid the pitfalls of dwelling on his initial breakout records, Parker brought up his time as a “minor pop star” in England. 1976 was his year, the year that he created the angry snarling singer/commentator of the punk movement that Elvis Costello, Paul Weller of The Jam and Joe Strummer of The Clash followed. But when he split from The Rumour after disappointing sales for The Up Escalator, the UK press murdered him and his middle-period, 1980s’ works. I mentioned I loved those records and he was pleased. His only regret for those works was the ‘80s’ production sound, the loud snare drum that particularly marked Steady Nerve.

Parker recognizes that critics saw The Mona Lisa’s Sister as a rebirth, but he doesn’t view it that way. He’s never had a “slack period” in his estimation. It’s just that rock writers tend to be close-minded, stuck on early songs like “Fool’s Gold”. Isn’t that always the case, for reviewers and non-reviewers alike? The music you hear at a formative time in your life, most likely between the ages 15-18, coincides with an overall awakening to new things. It’s no surprise that for John Lennon, Chuck Berry was, and always would be, his favorite artist. You never get past what you hear at a certain age.

Parker covered Sam Cooke on more than one occasion in the late ‘80s (“Cupid” on The Mona Lisa’s Sister and “A Change is Gonna Come” on Live Alone in America). I’d been listening to Sam myself lately and asked him about American soul music. With this question, Parker was off and running on his musical past and influences.

Music happened for Graham Parker at 12 years old. It was The Beatles and The Stones; that was it. It all began when he heard “Love Me Do.” At 15, he turned mod, complete with skinhead haircut, dapper suit and red braces (suspenders). It would seem obvious that he would love The Who, but except for “Substitute,” he didn’t care much for them. It was a strict diet of soul music. By 1965, the music at the local discotechques was exclusively black or Jamaican ska. The clubs were packed with skinheads and their taste ruled. A few white artists made the cut. Len Barry’s “123” got played (much to my surprise). The Spencer Davis Group, The Box Tops’ “The Letter” and “Cry Like a Baby,” also got some spins. Alex Chilton’s recent death had Parker reflecting on his iron clad belief that Chilton was a “black guy” until very recently.

We returned to the subject of soul and Sam Cooke. I mentioned I had been looking at Sam for a future Maybe Baby story. Otis Redding was Parker’s man growing up. Remember when I mentioned the sensitive man beneath the cynic? Well, Redding’s Otis Blue used to make Parker cry, it moved him so. Like Chilton, there was a bit of racial confusion. Obviously Otis was black, but the cover of the album was of a gorgeous platinum blonde, her very appearance at odds with that conclusion.

By the late ‘60s, early ‘70s, Parker was, to my shock, a hippie, before returning his attention to American black music. Then back to soul. Dipping his feet in psychedelic waters led to his musical epiphany. Why not combine the heartfelt, emotional, even danceable gut sounds of soul music with the intricate, smart lyrical sophistication of Bob Dylan? And he pulled it off ! No one was better than Graham Parker when he hit his stride starting in 1976.

At Mercury Records, he encountered real trouble. They didn’t know what they had in their innovative young talent and, as expected in a short-sighted business, spent no money on marketing Parker.  If you’ve never heard “Mercury Poisoning” you should. It is Parker teeing off on his first label. His difficulty with Mercury led to what Parker refers to as “a bit of mythology that he had label problems.” It was only at Mercury. In fairness, he points out there was no audience for his music in America circa ’77. Even when he moved over to Arista, and “Squeezing Out Sparks” became a hit, he did three concert dates with Journey!

Parker isn’t complaining about his career path. From 1975 when Radio London played two of his demos, catching the ear of a record company executive, which lead to his first record deal and an escape from his job at a gas station, Parker has been “very lucky.” Each new contract resulted in more money, good money. He never was in danger of going broke. It was luxury, limos and Letterman, until the early 1990s. Looking back, he finds it quite unbelievable that he had all that.

Those days are long gone. Not that he minds. Since starting solo tours in 1989, he’s become his own tour manager, travelling from venue to venue, working with local sound men. He enjoys it much more, in full control of his situation. That’s how a musician makes a living these days. As to records, he makes them and presents them as is to his company. (These days that company is Bloodshot Records out of Chicago). That’s always been the way he’s done it. It’s his music – he gets final word.

His new album Imaginary Television is a concept album, a series of TV themes for shows that exist in the mind of Parker. After attempts to write real themes for real series, only to be rebuffed, GP took things into his own hands and wrote songs for programs populated by conjoined twins, Asians obsessed with snow and father and son car thieves. The songs are typical Parker, from poignant (“Broken Skin”) to reggae tinged (“See Things My Way”). He’s very pleased with the new disc, and for good reason.

Adhering to the strict 25 minute deadline I was given by PR at Bloodshot, I said my goodbyes. He remembered my name at the end, a big ego boost. Now, totally obsessed with Graham Parker, it would be a frustratingly long month until I’d head west to Homer, N.Y., to see his solo show.

Pourin’ It All Out

Center for the Arts in Homer, NY

It’s an almost two-hour drive from Cooperstown to Homer. In daylight it’s tedious (except for a surprising detour in Truxton, the birthplace of legendary Giants’ manager John McGraw. I excitedly pulled off the road for a picture of the monument to the great Muggsy, smack dab in the middle of town). At night it’s pitch black, scary and skunk-scented.

There’s something happening in Homer. What it was wasn’t exactly clear, but it turns out that Cortland State is a mile away, so there’s some college town spill over. The Center for the Arts of Homer is a beautiful red brick church. As co-chair of Cooperstown Concert Series, a great organization without a home base, I was immediately envious. The sign out front proclaimed the appearance of Parker, referred to as a “Rock N Roll ‘Legend.’” Why the quotes around “legend?” Did he not really qualify? Were they being sarcastic?

Inside the church, benign figures etched in stained glass looked down on the proceedings. No vengeful icons with crazy eyes staring with scorn at middle-aged music fans. Graham Parker in a church? An odd juxtaposition. While the altar bore no trace of past ritual, flying high above the stage was a painted white dove.

Parker strolled on stage, a rock and roll ninja in black pajama top and black jeans. Though close-cropped, Parker seemed the same as when I saw him last, in the fall of 1983 at Cornell. He was always an ordinary looking guy, his physical features never so striking that age changed his presentation.

He is clearly a man aware and content with who he is and where he is in his career. Introducing “Pollinate,” he cracked wise about his 50-something audience, driven to passion by this tune. “It’s not a pretty sight.” “Sock ‘N” Sandals” was a gentle poke at the attire of his demographic. Even when Parker played older numbers, he has no desire to look back, either in anger or nostalgia. He’s at ease with his past, comfortable in his present and hopeful for his future.

When we spoke, Graham made a point to mention that he’s a funny guy. The night was filled with humor. He riffed on the severe British voice on his GPS, who threatened a severe spanking when he missed a turn. He assumed Homer was named for the Greek poet, not the cartoon character. A hysterical bit, almost a skit, revolved around “Bring Me a Heart Again.” Parker wished he’d been a guitar hero, a Clapton or Jeff Beck, and struck the proper poses: slow motion guitar thrashing, mouth wide open, tongue lolling. Alas, he realized he’s stuck with passable lead guitar skills, BUT, he was willing to take a solo if the crowd would agree beforehand, to go crazy when he was done. They obliged.

“Hotel Chambermaid,” a Heat Treatment classic, was its own chapter of the show. Turned out, it was covered by Rod Stewart on one of his poorest selling albums, When We Were the New Boys. Graham was determined to get a swimming pool out of the deal, but since it was just his luck that he’d be covered on one of Rod the Mod’s weakest records, the pool ended up very tiny, though incredibly deep. “Only a young guy could write this,” he noted about the sex-soaked song, “unless you’re The Stones writing about mating with teenagers.”  That wasn’t the only nod to his early heroes. During the encore, Parker conducted his own celebration of the recent re-release of Exile on Main St. with a killer take on “Shake Your Hips.”

It was a brilliant show, 22 slices carved from a marvelous body of work, in a venue acoustically deep and rich. But Homer, take off those quotes!

Nothin’s Gonna Pull Us Apart

How did I allow 20 years to go by without buying a new Graham Parker album, after all he meant to me? It’s both strange and hard to believe that I could drop him just like that. Well, I’m catching up. As the man says himself, “You better stick to me.” And that’s what I’ll do now.

Jeff Katz & Graham Parker

Websites:

Graham Parker http://www.grahamparker.net/Home.html

Maybe Baby blog http://maybebabyoryouknowthatitwouldbeuntrue.blogspot.com/

Homer Center for the Arts http://www.center4art.org/

Candice Watkins

Candye Kane, 2009

Building the Cultural Bridge

Candice Watkins

ragazine.cc: As an organizer of the annual Comfest Street Fair, among numerous other items listed on your resume in the About Candice Watkins graf in your blog, you’ve done about everything and anything a person can to promote the arts in and around Columbus. What motivates you to participate?

CW: There is an inner need to work toward a better world, a place where people of all kinds are equal and talent is nurtured so everyone can be the best they can be. The arts and humanities have been venues for me as they translate well to community work and bridge cultural and economic gaps allowing for public opportunity to participate in sometimes heretofore unaccessible activities.

rag: You’re a visual artist engaged in neon and other light studies, but you’re also a musician and photographer. What’s your ‘favorite medium’?  The one that puts you in the driver’s seat of expression?

Roger Wilson, The Majestics, High Beck Tavern, Columbus, Ohio, 2008

CW: I enjoy being flexible, working in light is like working in photography so if I had to choose it would be both neon and photography. Both are the result of manipulation of light. Thought I also really enjoy event production, in that it allows me to share a vision with thousands of people at a time.

rag: You take a lot of photographs of musicians …

CW: I am a music historian or what is sometimes called an ethnomusicologist, as well as a collector of historical photos and documentation for mid-western artists. I continue to document performances myself and have a collection ranging from the 1960s through 2010.

rag: Is this a special subject for you, or one of many?

CW: I also shoot a lot of beaches and flowers – favorites for me. Check out my myspace.com/jazzneonfestivals4u and facebook albums.

rag: If you could sit down for a couple of mojitos with any musician at all, who would it be, and why?

CW: I  would like to drink with Rahsaan Roland Kirk and Art Tatum – both favorites of mine that I did not get to meet. Of course, I did get to hang with many folks who are gone but whom I loved, like Royal “Rusty” Bryant, Hank Marr, Jimmie McGriff and Frank Foster, and still do hang with Gene Walker, Sean Carney, Bobby Floyd, Derek Dicenzo and Shaunt Booker, among many, many more I am blessed to know.

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A recording done at Jazz & Eggs Jam Sessions, The River Club, Columbus, Ohio, in 1998, titled “Jam For Jitney” in honor of Candice Watkins’ father, Jitney, who had just passed away. The piece was a small part of the Jam’s ongoing music that day. Based in Horace Silver’s “Song for Our Fathers”, it sailed on for more than half an hour.

“Jam For Jitney”

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ABOVE: Derek DiCenzo, top, at the Rahsaan Roland Kirk Scholarship Fundraiser in 2008, in Columbus. Sean Carney, bottom left, of the Sean Carney Band, winner of the International Blues Alliance award in 2008. Taken at Blues for a Cure. Danielle Schnebelen, lower right, of Trampled Under Foot, at the 2009 Blues for a Cure concert in Columbus.

Willie Pooch Johnson 2008

Marcie Vaughn 2010

Harold Smith, The Lobby, Columbus, Ohio 2009

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Comfest Street Fair:
Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, June 25, 26, & 27, 2010

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Watkins, with her ”time travel buddies”, is the author of a book from Arcadia Press titled “Columbus: The Musical Crossroads”.  The premise is that travel in the early to mid-20th Century was overland; the national road and major train lines went thru Columbus, and the music did too. “It was a major player,  just like those cities that have capitalized on it more.” The book is available online at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Target and other booksellers.

Candice Watkins can be reach at comfeststfair2@cs.com.

Rust Never Sleeps, but Sometimes It Naps

By Jeff Katz

My ambivalence towards Neil Young is mirrored by my mixed emotions to go to Albany’s Palace Theatre for the first show of his “Twisted Road” solo tour. The idea of driving over an hour in the rain, followed invariably by the pitch black and sleepy late night return home takes much of the fun out of the event. But off we went, my 17-year-old son and me.

We got there early enough, we thought, a full two hours before the 8 o’clock start. Walking out in the cold rain for a place to eat proved to be a challenge. It would’ve been easy to eat off site, and then drive to the Palace, but the anxiety of searching for a parking spot as show time (or game time) approaches is one of my least favorite feelings. Gotta get there early and park, food be damned! We ended up sitting at a bar. Good enough.

Young’s opener on this tour is Bert Jansch. Jansch is no two-bit unknown. He’s a pivotal figure in 1960s’ British folk, part of the great Pentangle and huge influence on Donovan and Jimmy Page. You know that acoustic bit on Zeppelin’s first album, “Black Mountain Side”? Well, it’s such a rip-off of Jansch’s recording of “Blackwaterside” that Bert was encouraged to sue the band. He probably would have won (as Willie Dixon did when he sued for credit and royalties, and settled out of court, for the band’s lifting of his tune “You Need Love” for their own “Whole Lotta Love”), but Jansch just didn’t have the funds to go up against the deep pocketed metal men.

On the road with Neil

During Jansch’s opening set, some dude kept yelling “Neil!” at every opportune moment of low volume. It was a strange call and would vary: “Where’s Neil?” “Come on Neil,” “Neil.” It wasn’t your standard taunting; it had a sense of desperation and confusion, like a baby perplexed by a game of peek-a-boo. Without the clear presence of the headliner, this screaming nut job seemed truly fearful that Neil wasn’t there. Was he mentally disturbed, rude or drug-addled?

I’ve found Neil Young fans to be certifiably crazy. There was the one who told me, “When you think about it, Neil Young is better than Bob Dylan.” That’s like stating, unequivocally, that mud tastes better than pizza. Then, there was the guy next to me at a December 2008 show, who out of the blue loudly announced, “I came for the sugar cookies.” (More on that via the link below).

Jansch put on a solid performance and, after an inexplicably long delay (after all, there wasn’t much of a set change with Jansch sitting in a chair alone with a guitar), Neil Young strolled on stage slowly and took a seat. After a series of false starts, the show took off in earnest with an acoustic version of “My My, Hey Hey (Out of the Blue),” followed by “Tell Me Why” and “Helpless.” Then, a trio of mind-numbingly awful new songs sucked the enthusiasm from the proceedings. Young’s recent originals just plain suck. The last of this mini-set, “Love and War” brought some excitement back.

It was drugs. Mid-way through “Love and War,” the Event Staff came and got the yelling dude, who had continued to cry for Neil, even after he appeared. His female companion was ticked off, struggling and fighting off security, who were more than happy to carry her away. They both paraded by me, she pissed off, he on another planet. There’s $260 down the drain.

Neil's Garage

Is there another major figure of the rock era with such an abundance of crap in their catalog as Neil Young? It’s gotta be 50 percent lousy. The 1980’s were a full decade of awful records, until the brief resurgence in 1989 and 1990 with the double shot of Freedom and Ragged Glory. Then, mostly garbage. His best albums of the last twenty years came in 2006 and 2007 and were releases of early 1970’s concerts.

Momentum was regained with a switch to electric guitar and rousing versions of “Down by the River” and “Ohio,” but when Young sat down at the upright piano and pounded out “Leia,” a song for his granddaughter (I assume), I wished I was somewhere else. I couldn’t even muster polite applause. Dreadful, but the stoned and ‘shroom-filled went wild.

Again, redemption came with a classic, “After the Gold Rush,” played on a small pump organ. The staging was lovely with keyboards spaced from left to right, cigar store Indian looming between. Pianos and organ were under the glow of  the best lamps I’ve seen the Talking Heads “Stop Making Sense” tour.

At this point, even Neil Young got fed up with the incessant calling of his name and songs.

“I know, I know,” he said with exasperation and, with a nod to a song he didn’t play, “64 and there’s so much more.” Then he launched into my own favorite, “Cortez the Killer,” and all was right with the world. A scorching “Cinnamon Girl” and that was all she wrote for the show proper.

His encore began with, “Walk with Me.” Do you remember Dan Aykroyd’s old SNL character Leonard Pinth-Garnell? He was host of “Bad Cinema” and used to say things like, “That wasn’t so good, was it?” Well, that came to mind. Then, as on the original album Rust Never Sleeps, he ended where he began, “Hey Hey, My My (Into the Black)” electrified. Nicely done.

As he strummed his Gretsch White Falcon at the onset of the encore, Neil Young spoke.

“It’s amazing how they’re all exactly the same. It’s the same song over and over again.”

That sums it up for me. There’s brilliance and boredom, original songs and formulaic songs. As always a mixed bag and I ended the night the same as I began, not quite sure what I make of Neil Young.

http://katzkomments.blogspot.com/2008/12/semi-comfortable-old-rocker.html

By Jeff Katz

“… Socks it to you so hard”

Zooey Deschanel & M. Ward

Who doesn’t love Zooey Deschanel? Big blue eyes, cute little nose, a kewpie doll framed in killer bangs. And she’s a great songwriter with a beautiful voice? As George Harrison said, “It’s all too much.”

Most of us first caught Zooey’s singing in Elf. Her delightful duet with Will Ferrell on “Baby It’s Cold Outside” was a knockout scene. She met musical maven M. Ward during the filming of 2007’s The Go-Getter. A pretty good indie film, which suffers mostly because ZD appears via her cell phone for much of the flick, it maintains a solid place in history as the origin of She & Him. M. was working on the soundtrack and hooked up with Zooey, who, it turned out, was a secret songstress. They turned out She & Him, Volume One, the absolute, hands down best album of 2008. It’s no celebrity ego-trip. (For one of those, go here: (http://katzkomments.blogspot.com/2009/03/why-i-listen-to-terrible-celebrity.html)

With Volume Two, the pair builds on that solid foundation. Zooey’s voice is sweet, a bit of a country twang and a hint of breathiness. There are moments when you can hear her inhaling; it’s precious but not cloying. The songs are irrefutably fresh, indisputably retro, utterly timeless. The Wall of Sound that greets you on the opening cut “Thieves” sets the Phil Spector-y tone, with a dash of Sam Cooke’s “Cupid” thrown in.

It’s impossible to recapture that first hearing and discovery of Volume One. Zooey’s writing is not as strong on this sophomore effort, though her “Over It Over Again,” is one of the three best songs on the album. Only Zooey Deschanel can sing “Why do I always want to sock it to you hard?” and get away with it without sounding dopey. The other two highlights are, “Gonna Get Along Without You Now” and “Ridin’ In My Car,” both written by outsiders. The latter showcases M. Ward as a vocal equal. On most songs he is decidedly lower case. That tune also has a very nice quasi- “Dear Prudence” riff. The only drag is the final cut, “If You Can’t Sleep,” a creepy sounding lullaby with background droning that made me think of the hum surrounding the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

On my initial go-round, I found the songs not as immediately catchy and memorable as the first batch that appeared in ’08. I don’t believe that any more. It’s a great album, nearly the equal of Volume One. There’s a line in “Me and You” that grabbed me. “You’ve got to be kind to yourself.” Words to live by and something I seriously need to hear once in a while.

Go buy both She & Him CDs. It’s one way you can treat yourself well.

By Jeff Katz

Night in Manhattan with Nodzzz

Saw Nodzzz. From San Francisco. Opened for The Soft Pack. At Mercury Lounge. Tiny club. Lower East Side. Near Katz’ Deli. Had pastrami. And a knish. And a hot dog.

At club. Long narrow bar space. Too tight. Lots of kids. Could be their father. A little uncomfortable.

Awesome show. Geeky trio. Double lead singers. Cool guitar interplay. Quirky pop tunes. Kinda like The Feelies. Or The Voidoids. Lots of fun.

Bought CD. From singer with Clark Kent glasses. Ten bucks. Ten songs, fifteen minutes total. Haven’t stopped listening. For days. Very catchy.

I’m hooked. You should be too. Go here —à Nodzzz on MySpace:

http://www.myspace.com/nodzzz

Valleys of Neptune – Jimi Hendrix

What is it that makes Jimi Hendrix an object of fascination? Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison, two notable dead peers, have had their occasional resurrections, but Hendrix is a consistent source of fascination. Here’s why I think. Janis, in screechy pursuit of her man, is simply not good enough to remain in limelight. Morrison, with his Lizard King rap and the self-absorption of a poet manqué, is too full of shit to maintain a constant hold. But Hendrix, in his three plus years in the spotlight, redefined what it meant to be a rock guitarist, put out four colossal albums, and defined his era with iconic performances at the signature happenings of Monterey and Woodstock. That’s why, four decades later, we still care.

Much hoo-hah preceded the release of the new Valleys of Neptune CD. I won’t get into the politics of the Hendrix estate and Sony’s deal with said organization. I don’t find that interesting at all. I do find it amazing that in his short burst on the scene, Hendrix created so much music that in 2010 there are still hours and hours of unreleased material. Credit The Beatles. It was The Fab Four’s desertion of touring and devotion to the studio that paved the way for Jimi to exist in a world where creation became a recordable event. No longer did a pop artist come to work to simply lay down a track. Now, the studio was the place for creation. Roll tape.

Valleys is all peak. Sure, there are some psychedelic museum pieces, damn good ones, like the sweet and comfortable groovy title track and “Ships Passing in the Night,” (where drummer Mitch Mitchell is at his frenetic best), but it’s when Hendrix rocks out, or gets into down and dirty blues, that the sound is as fresh as the newest music. From the opening twang of guitar strings on a radically revamped “Stone Free” to the last gallop of “Crying Blue Rain,” I was at aural altar of God. (What made Hendrix tear up about the weather, from blue rain to wind that cried Mary, I don’t know).

Jimi rips into an Elmore James tune, “Bleeding Heart,” with an aping of his great hero, which cracked me up,  but turns it into something that is only Hendrix. An original blues, “Hear My Train A Comin,’” leaves no doubt that the original Experience, with Mitchell on drums and Noel Redding on bass, were born to play together. Their completeness, their cohesiveness is undeniable. (Hendrix’ Army buddy and later member of Band of Gypsys Billy Cox plays bass on the first three cuts). Hendrix’ vocal and guitar are often one, reminiscent of Erroll Garner’s vocalizing while playing piano. The real burning of Hendrix’s Monterey guitar can’t compete with the heat he generates on this track.

But “Red House,” a Hendrix penned blues that was excised from the American version of Are You Experienced? and surfaced on 1969’s Smash Hits, steals the whole damn show. At 8:20, it’s both the longest and the tastiest work. If you want to know where Eric Clapton took both his singing and his playing from to record Derek and The Dominoes Layla album, look no further. If you are one of the younger generation that download songs rather than complete albums, plunk your 99 cents down on this one.

There are plenty more fun here. “Mr. Bad Luck,” is in the style of funky goofs like “Crosstown Traffic.” The version of “Fire” is sloppier and more fun than the original; the guitar pitched higher, the backgrounds vocals pleasantly kooky and a bit whiny. And Jimi’s playing is, as they say in rock critic-land, incendiary. The cover of “Sunshine of Your Love,” displays the effortless brilliance that scared the shit out of Clapton when he first saw Hendrix play in London.

There are very few new purchases that I will not listen to first on my computer. The Beatles remasters, both mono and stereo, were deserving of an initial spin on my best hi-fi. Valleys of Neptune was, I thought, deserving of such lofty status. It did not disappoint.

By Jeff Katz

Holy Grail Acquired

When I heard Sting sing “Turn on my VCR, same one I’ve had for years/James Brown The Tammy Show/Same tape I’ve had for years,” I was flummoxed. I did know what a VCR was. After all, it was the fall of 1980 and we’d had a bulky Quasar model at home for almost a year. What was that other line about? Was it James Brown on The Tammy Show? Who was this Tammy? Did she have to do with the Debbie Reynolds/Sandra Dee movies? Or was it James Brown, comma, The Tammy Show? But that would make it two tapes, wouldn’t it?

It took a few years, but I got to the bottom of it. It was T.A.M.I. The Teenage Awards Music International; think the Nickelodeon’s Kids’ Choice Awards without the slime. The “show” was a full-length feature film, released at the end of 1964 with a roster that would blow you out of your socks. Keep on reading to find out who the performers were.

There had never been an official release not on video, or laserdisc, or DVD, or CD or any other medium since the mid-‘60’s. So how did Sting have a copy for years? Hmmm. Lucky for us, the DVD of the entire concert, complete with the oft-missing Beach Boys segment, can now be yours to own. I’ve got mine right here and just spent two glorious hours watching.

Jan and Dean are the hosts and the opening sequence is way cool. There’s the SoCal twosome singing the narrative theme and biking towards the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. There’s Lesley Gore on one of those playground spinning rides. Motown artists come running out of their L.A. hotel, Gerry and The Pacemakers riding a bus. Jan and Dean sing about the “Stones from Liverpool.” Fact checker, please! (They’re from London). There are The Supremes getting all dolled up, as is James Brown. Jan and Dean switch to skateboards, then go-karts, then skateboards again as they roll onstage. No “Deadman’s Curve” for these boys; it’s a straight shot to their seats.

Chuck Berry leads off accompanied himself on guitar while smothered in obligatory sixties swinging dancers who will appear throughout the show. Fabled studio musicians, The Wrecking Crew, sit stage right, out of view though not out of earshot. Berry’s footwork is only matched by his exaggerated eye movements. The Go-Go girls and guys launch into the herky-jerky dance moves that Ann-Margret made famous (at least to me) in Bye Bye Birdie. Chuck plays “Maybelline” and the camera pans over to Liverpool’s Gerry and The Pacemakers who begin their own take on the classic. It’s not a flattering segue. The gap in talent is too huge, an ocean’s worth.

Gerry and lads come into their own with “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying.”A bit of back and forth between the two acts shows off the strengths of each, but when Berry launches into “Nadine,” the bikini clad girl behind him took all my attention away, her breasts flopping furiously, suggestively and, somewhat shockingly. And I’m talking by 2010 standards, not 1964 mores. The Pacemakers clap along, appreciating the great master and the wonderful rack.

Northern England gives way to Detroit as Smokey Robinson and The Miracles take their place. Oh, that Smokey. There’s none better. The foursome is spiffy in their dark jackets, light slacks and white shoes. Smokey’s got on huge cufflinks! Almost overshadowing the great voice is some funky dancing. During “You Really Got a Hold on Me” the group of crouching Detroit tigers squats down as if shooting dice. Nice. All bets are off during the wild gyrating during “Mickey’s Monkey.” Ties come off, except from the cool neck of Smokey, jackets are dropped and it’s time to get down to business. They dance around the pile of dropped coats, with Miracle big man Bobby Rogers, his thick black glasses removed for safety, going wild. A bit of see-no-evil, hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil pantomime ensues and Robinson is a dynamo. I always think of him as stoic and smooth. Not here. No, not here. Oh my! I thought my head was gonna ‘splode.

Marvin Gaye has always been tops with me, the number one main man out of Hitsville, USA. Oddly, he has no stage presence. Sure, there’s a finger snapping bit, a little hitchhiker thumb action, but, man, Marvin is a downright terrible dancer. So what. That voice, that voice rules. The T.A.M.I. Show is so chock full of talent that Darlene Love, the great Darlene Love, barely stands out as one of a trio of Marvin background singers.

I’ve always had a weakness for Lesley Gore, probably ever since I saw her on Batman. She was “Pussycat,” one of Catwoman’s henchgirls. Man, she was cute, in her little cat ears and tight pink sweater. As a teenager I bought The Golden Hits of Leslie Gore and I played that record as much as any. She’s so cool and she rocks! Lots of attitude with this chick. Arms crossed, a head bob here, a finger wag there. I was utterly transfixed and so want the “Go Go Gore” sweatshirts that Jan and Dean wore when they introduced her. Lesley was only 18 when she strutted onstage and belted out her hits. As she delivered “It’s My Party,” singing from a very crooked mouth, all the previous stars came out to join the bash. An awkward handoff of the mike to the surfing hosts, who tower over the barely five-foot Gore, and it’s off to the second half of the set.

Jan and Dean go from hosting to singing and if their MC’ing was insipid, their stage performance is stiff, bland and boring. It’s the only downer of the show. When they croon their paean to skateboarding, the execrable “Sidewalk Surfin’,” (The Beach Boys’ “Catch a Wave” with curb-appropriate lyrics), it’s time to move on and, mercifully, we do. Boys, make way for the kings!

The Beach Boys appear and, having seen Brian Wilson twice in concert in the last few years, I was moved by the utter happiness on his face as he took the center position and wailed on his bass. It’s easy to forget how wonderful he was. Paul McCartney has mentioned how Brian taught him a thing or two. When he hits those crystalline high notes, it’s ethereal, delicate enough to break, and when the opening strains of “Surfer Girl” begin, the crowd gets eerily quiet. It’s a transcendent moment and the coda calls of “little one” are a glimpse of heaven itself.

Another group of Scousers, Beatle compatriots Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas follow. Their dark suited visage cast a funereal pall coming on the heels of The Beach Boys’ bright stripedness. I have a weakness for Kramer, though not for “Little Children.” His string of Lennon-McCartney throwaways – “Bad to Me,” “From a Window” and “I’ll Keep You Satisfied” (especially “I’ll Keep You Satisfied”) are the best songs the Fab Four never cut. While aware of these faded gems, I did learn something. Billy J. Kramer had a unibrow problem.

I could always take or leave The Supremes. That may be heresy, but it’s so. They do groove, though Diana Ross is no Lesley Gore. Not by a long shot. Wait, there is one thing the girls do better than anyone. No one, NO ONE, can shake their shoulders like Diana, Mary and Flo.

How did The Barbarians get an invitation to this show? “From their cave in old Cape Cod,” these garage rock archetypes blast through “Hey Little Bird.” They’re the type of mid-60’s caricature that cartoon bands like The Way-Outs, the mod band on The Jetsons, were patterned after.

One thing about this group. Their drummer, Moulty, a whirling blur of hair and sticks, has a famous niche in rock lore. On the classic album Nuggets, the 1972 compilation of forgotten garage rock, there’s a tune called “Moulty.” In it, the lead singer talks his way through his life, a sad case of losing his hand in an accident, feeling lost, and then finding music. I always thought it was a goof, truly ridiculous. (You can find it on YouTube). Turns out to be totally true! So there’s Moulty himself, his left hand replaced by a drumstick prosthesis. With his stickhook, he bangs away in fine style.

Dean sprays Jan with a fire extinguisher as a lead-in to James Brown and The Flames. Get it? It’s a riot! When JB is done, the whole auditorium needs a hosing down. Nothing tops this.

Highly pompadoured, in checked coat, satin shirt and short peg pants, Brother James combines voice, music and dance into a frenetic, heart attack inducing tour de force. Those feet, those feet have a “sole” of their own. They move independently of anything happening above knee level. True fury, with the occasional glide and hints of a moonwalk thrown in to change the pace a bit. After a slow ride on “Prisoner of Love,” JB drops to his knees (doesn’t that hurt?). You know the act. His handlers come out, drape the sweat-covered singer in a flowing cape and escort him off stage. But wait – James isn’t going. “I’m not comin’ off,” and he returns to the mike. Over and over, the same – drops, drapes, walks, returns. “Can you do it some more, brother?” Oh yes he can. JB is in top form, showing these little kids how it’s done. I‘ve seen that shtick a million times and it’s still thrilling.

“Night Train” ends the set, but not before some fierce dancing, Brown’s scuffed pants are on display as he gets in line with The Flames for a few moves, then, on one leg, slides his way across the stage. With a split, he’s gone. Nah, he’s not. A few more splits and gyrations, a brief exhausted sitdown at stage side, and then some more moves thrown in for good measure. Even the band erupts in applause for the “Hardest Working Man in Show Business.”

The poor Rolling Stones. They have to follow this. They knew it would be a problem and begged to go on before James. The executive producer would have none of their backtalk and sent Mick and the boys out last. By their third tune, “Time Is On My Side,” I finally had Brown out of my mind and I could appreciate the Stones. They are so young; Keith Richards has a chipmunk cuteness to him that has long passed. Mick dances around, and daring though that is after the master has put on a clinic, Jagger cuts his own unique figure. Bassist Bill Wyman is absent from the screen for minutes on end, but ends up squeezing in. I love how he holds his bass like an upright. It’s the style I’ve adopted for my forays into Rock Band.

With “It’s All Over Now,” the great guitar interplay between Keef and Brian Jones is front and center. It’s always been their finest moment of, in a sense, a double lead guitar. By the end, Mick has gained control of the audience, not through force of music, like JB, but by his personal magnetism. The show ends with every performer, every dancer, letting it all hang out for a run through “Let’s Get Together.” Mick and Diana do a little hip bump, which is pretty neat and a nice cap to the film.

How often are the greatest of expectations exceeded? Never, right. Except, during the two hours I watched my very own copy of The T.A.M.I. Show. My holy grail, my ark of the covenant, is finally mine and the having far outpaces the wanting.

“It Might Get Loud” Doesn’t

When I saw that Davis Guggenheim, the director of An Inconvenient Truth, was also the man behind the rockumentary It Might Get Loud, an immediate sense of dread came over me. I’m not saying I don’t believe in global warming, or that I don’t wish Al Gore had been President for the first eight years of the decade, I’m just saying that An Inconvenient Truth is boring as fuck and has the same dramatic pull as the lectures I slept through in college.  

The problem with the Gore flick is the problem I have with the guitar god story of It Might Get Loud, but, hey, I’m not ragazine’s film critic, I’m the music editor, so on to my supposed field of expertise. 

 Jimmy Page, The Edge and Jack White are the three lords of the six-string chosen to represent their respective generations and, according to producer Lesley Chilcott, these were the top choices. Really? Jimmy Page over Eric Clapton? You sure about that, Lesley? Now let’s be clear, everyone is going to choose based on their own taste, but The Jeff Beck Group invented the Led Zeppelin sound a full year before Zep’s debut and Rod Stewart is an infinitely better singer than Robert Plant. Page didn’t discover anything.   

I’ve always had a hard time with Zeppelin’s iconic status because of that, but I played along with the conceit that Page is the jumping off point. I’m glad I did, because Jimmy comes across as the most real of the lot. Page, with his long gray hair, sure looks the part of a Founding Father, although when he rolls it up in a bun a thinner Mrs. Doubtfire comes to mind.   

Page has an ease of position the others don’t share. Walking through the manse at Headley Grange and casually explaining how Zeppelin’s fourth album was recorded comes across as a tour of Buckingham Palace with the Queen as your guide. Page is royalty, no doubt.  

Years ago I enrolled in The Bloom School of Jazz in Chicago. I was new to the alto sax and wanted to play jazz, which I knew well. What I learned there was that effective solos can be broken down into simple categories: dynamic range, tempo changes and rhythmic variety. With my limited skills, I was able to create quality music. Page, even with his obvious virtuosity, still keeps it down to those basics. His playing of “Ramble On” is a powerhouse of volume shifts with no special effects. One of the two highlights in the movie is Page placing Link Wray’s 45 of “Rumble” on the turntable and bursting into a big smile and laugh as he air guitars to Wray’s vibrato. It’s a joy to behold Page in heaven.   

It’s easy for me to quibble over the Page choice, less so about The Edge. In this scattered music culture we live in, U2 may be the last big band. Or, as Springsteen says, at least the last band whose members we can all name. Now, I also have my problems with U2, but I understand their place. They are the big dogs in town and have been for nearly three decades. To my ears, Bono is too histrionic, always a bit too much to take, and, yet, even with his over-the-top wailing, U2’s music is light on the soul, heavy on the machinery.   

The Edge makes no bones about that. He is an effects wizard, his signature sound the result of simple riffs all teched out. He clearly ponders where the guitar stops and the technology picks up. A little “emperors’ new clothes”, to be sure. Even when he explains how he plays an E chord with fewer notes than normal, I was struck less by innovation than with gimmickry. And when his panel of effects is shown in detail, that he taps until he gets to the correct programmed sounds for each song, it’s so odd and distancing, a veritable lip synch of guitar.   

When The Edge talks about the daily bombing during the “Troubles” in 1970’s Northern Ireland where he grew up, I wondered if the horrors of that existence didn’t result in a defensive pullback of emotions that seem to define his personality and playing. Though he speaks of how punk bands like The Jam and The Clash changed his life, those bands had a passion and fury in their music that U2 lacks. Even when he plays The Ramones’ “Glad to See You Go,” it lacks a certain intensity.   

Recalling the punk scene, The Edge aligns himself with the movement’s rejection of the self-indulgence of mid-1970’s rock (The Edgar Winter Group is submitted as evidence, and, by implication, so is Led Zeppelin and Page). You gotta be shittin’ me! The Edge condemns self-indulgence! Has there ever been a more pompously self-important, holier than thou band than U2?  Please. When The Edge plays a demo cassette of an early 4- track recording of “Where the Streets Have No Name,” it leaves me unaffected. The segue to a giant concert where the band play a full blown version is supposed to show how that little tape became this legendary song. Yeah, I guess.   

Jack White is the upstart, the novice who hopes he can trick the older guys into teaching him a thing or two. What’s clear is that White is the link to Page, and The Edge is the odd man out. Jack connects with Jimmy: the blues of Zeppelin and the blues of The White Stripes are one. Say what you will, but there are no signs of the blues in U2.   

White tries the hardest to earn his place, talking a lot of juvenile trash. “Technology is a big destroyer of truth.” Hmmm. “Ease of use is a disease you have to fight.” OK.  His repudiation of The Edge’s style can be summed up thusly — “so processed [it’s] not real anymore.” Perhaps because of Jack’s youth, he is the subject/victim of the movie’s biggest pretension, that of driving his 9-year-old self around and explaining to little Jack all the things he’s learned. That doesn’t work at all. What does work is Jack building a guitar with hammer and nails, using a board, a wire and a coke bottle.  Watch those hands! When he plugs in and plays, surrounded by a scene from the cover of Pink Floyd’s Atom Heart Mother, it’s a small miracle.    

The movie does a fine job telling the individual stories of the trio, but where it fails, where the opportunity is missed, is in the relatively sparse time devoted to the three together on set. For everything I said before about U2, when Page, The Edge and White play “I Will Follow,” it’s way cool. “In My Time of Dying” is a slide guitar-fest that kicks ass. Though Jack was looking to be taught, he has a lot to impart. As he steals the song, they all laugh.   

The single greatest shot occurs when Page, alone, tears into “Whole Lotta Love.” The looks on the faces of the other two are a mixture of awe and true love. Whether that adoration is for the song, the riff, Led Zeppelin, Jimmy Page, or the power of the instrument, I don’t know. My guess is all of the above.   

The bonus materials give more of what I hungered for. The Edge inquires about “Kashmir” and Jimmy shows the tuning he played around with. I’m no expert on Zeppelin, so it was news to me that the “Kashmir” riff shows up at the end of “Swan Song,” an outtake. The two observe Page, but not with the same joy as in “Whole Lotta Love.” It’s not that sort of song, but still fun to hear.   

There’s some serious shop talk as The Edge asks what strings everyone uses. Page makes it interesting, explaining the use of banjo strings back in the day because British strings were notoriously thick and hard to bend.  Page asks White about “Seven Nation Army,” when Jack says a pal of his thought the riff was just OK, The Edge laughs.  Ol’ Edge is more open and engaging in these bits. I have to tell you when the three play The White Stripes’ classic, it stands up with any song in all their catalogs combined. “That’ll be five dollars,” says Jack, when done giving his lesson.   

What’s missing from the body of the film is this group dynamic. What did they think of each other, how did they influence each other? Again, in the bonus materials, The Edge tells a story of a classical guitar teacher in school asking him if The Edge-ling could teach him “Stairway to Heaven” so he can instruct the kids, all of whom wanted to learn the song. I would like to have seen more interplay and conversation.   

The Edge comments that every time it seems that the guitar is at an end as the primary instrument in pop/rock, it flares up again. Why does it endure? He doesn’t know. I do. People pick up guitars and learn to play and they all believe that, with a break or two, they’ll be Jimmy Page, king of the world, or The Edge, escaping from a little school surrounded by explosions, or Jack White, leaving his poor Mexican neighborhood in Detroit and breaking big. Then, all of a sudden, you got the dough and the booze and the drugs and the chicks and everything is cool.

Review: Crooked Still

Crooked Still

Sugar-Coated Sinister 

Do you know Crooked Still? You should. They are hard to peg. It’s easy to call them bluegrass, but that’s not entirely accurate. They could be a folk music band from The Anthology of American Music school, but that’s not it either. Maybe they’re a blues band? As I said, hard to peg.

When I first heard them a few years back I was gripped, but I wasn’t sure exactly why. Watching them live in Cooperstown made it clear. They send a jumble of mixed messages out to the audience. Two beautiful women, three good-looking men, seemingly as sweet as can be, playing the most sinister shit, old crazy American tales of drowning girls, fiddles made of bones, you get the picture. At intermission, I mentioned my new found insight to the band and cited Dock Boggs’ “Sugar Baby” as an example. Lead singer Aoife O’Donovan was, I think, a little surprised that I knew ol’ Dock. When she told me they were opening the second set with Boggs’ “Calvary” I was very pleased with myself, you can imagine. Some bands bring exceptional musicianship that can lead to technical coldness, but Crooked Still comes at you from the soul. They are like an evil Dexy’s Midnight Runners, without the overalls and dirt.

What makes their sound deliciously dark and creepy is the upfront role of the cello, brilliantly played by Tristan Clarridge. Rushad Eggleston, the band’s first cellist who helped create Still’s unique sound, left the group in November of 2007. Some bands would crumble when an integral member flies the coop, but it’s clear when you read between the lines that the chemistry of the new lineup, with Clarridge and fiddler Brittany Haas, is world’s better than in Eggleston’s time. If you read between the lines, this band would’ve gone by the boards without the lineup change. That would have been tragic.

Now don’t get the idea that all this darkness of which I speak means you’re ready for a wrist-slitting after a Crooked Still show. The band is clearly having a ball and so is the audience. The between song patter is funny and real. Bassist Corey DiMario relished playing in the home of the Baseball Hall of Fame and launched into knowledgeable banter about vintage baseball, recent inductee Jim Rice of the Red Sox and pleaded Pete Rose’s case to any Hall employees who may have been in the crowd.  Before “Lonesome Road,” DiMario told how a fly had landed on him during the previous tune and stayed there, no doubt enjoying Crooked Still’s version of “The Golden Vanity.” Then it alit on Clarridge, causing O’Donovan to sing “hang your head and fly.” She stopped the song because she should’ve sung “cry,” not “fly.” The insect became a fixture for the rest of the show, the band bursting into hysteria as they ended with a sing-along “Shady Grove.”

I’ve waited a bit on the other two members of the band, because they deserve some extra attention. Aoife (pronounced ee-fa) O’Donovan is, hands down, the best singer I’ve ever heard. Outrageous, right? It’s impossible to write what you hear, but she is pure crystal, other worldly almost. But not mechanical, no sir. When she sang Robert Johnson’s “Come On In My Kitchen,” she was a gut-busting blues woman. I’ve been listening to a lot of Janis Joplin lately and Janis couldn’t hold a candle to Aoife. Her folk stylings are as timeless as the songs themselves. She is absolutely mesmerizing and unforgettable.

Greg Liszt. Let’s see, he invented a 4-finger banjo technique. Technically speaking, the 4-finger method is one more than the 3-finger style. His proficiency led him straight from Crooked Still to Bruce Springsteen’s Seeger Session band. If that’s not enough for you, he has a PhD in molecular biology from MIT. Is that not the coolest resume in music? He’s like a comic book superhero! His banjo solo on “Kitchen” was a singular sound; think Eric Clapton meets Earl Scruggs.

An audience member told me after the show that Crooked Still were the best musicians he’d ever seen. OK, I’ll take that.  What I can tell you is that they have a new album coming out this spring, giving you a decent amount of time to catch up.

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Contributing/Music editor Jeff Katz authors a different take on rock and roll history, with new stories on backbeat Fridays, the 2nd and 4th of every month. Check him out at: http://maybebabyoryouknowthatitwouldbeuntrue.blogspot.com/

Model citizens by day, ideal citizens by night:

Colorado City’s ‘Ideal Citizens’

 By Jonathan Evans

The ‘Ideal Citizens’, Colorado City’s premier (and only) punk rock band is one of the area’s best-kept secrets.  As there are few opportunities to play music in this locality, the band plays mainly in Pueblo where they say, they have played every venue, every bar and every dive at least ten times and still keep being asked back.  They’ve played parties, weddings and bar mitzvahs but at this point, say that they are ready to expand their assault on the Colorado youth front and want to work further afield.  The College circuit up north is one obvious place for them to go, as options down south are very limited.

I caught up with them in a large garage next to Dean Agee’s house in the west of Colorado City where they were rehearsing one night.  Outside there was a blizzard as the third storm in two weeks struck hard; inside, a blizzard of sound assaulted me as I ducked inside to escape the heavy snow.

 The band, a foursome consisting of Dean on drums, Louis Wirth on guitar, Jimmy Macdonald on bass guitar and Jeremiah Perez on main vocals, was set up by a warm wood stove in front of a mud-splattered Jeep.  They were running through their set list, grouped together on their makeshift stage, Dean smashing fast rhythms on his drum kit, Louis bashing out chords, Jimmy pinning it all together with throbbing runs up and down the neck of his bass and Jeremiah facing in towards the musicians, his voice rising and falling above the music.  They varied the tempo of their songs, alternating between fast boogies, hardcore punk rocker shout-outs and softer numbers.  They write all their own material and song writing duties are shared equally.  Not all their songs are fast punk rockers although the band is adamant that they are a punk band.  ‘Hallways’, written by Louis, is an outstandingly melodic number with a rich chord sequence and intriguing words.  The ‘Ideal Citizens’ have an engaging way of taking a relatively conventional pop song like this and smearing it with feedback, rhythm and attitude so that the basic structure of the song is almost unrecognisable. The band is capable of playing a sugar-sweet melody but merging it with filthy distortion and head- shattering rhythm.   They produce music which is often poignant and always danceable and this is a rare quality in a genre which, to an oldie like me, is often repetitive and monotonous. All the members of the band sing so that even the hardest numbers have harmony. They have the ability to tether meaty classic rock hooks with a sludgy, rumbling bass and martial drumming;  combining this heavy sound with sharp melodic vocals results in an often attractive hard rock sound which can transcend the implied violence of their punk attitude.  I came away from the rehearsal session feeling that the ‘Ideal Citizens’ might rough you up a bit but would then want to kiss and make up!  It’s an appealing combination and really, I thought, these are sweet young guys.  Above all, the music is rhythmic and is driven along by Dean Agee’s polyrhythmic drum energy; there is no doubt that he is a strong asset to the band.

However, most interesting to me is that all the group members are normal guys in real life.  Away from the rock n’ roll stage, they say, they all dress properly, have occupations, homes and families.  They feel keenly that they come from this community and are part of this community; they pay their taxes, although the accident-prone, bass-player Jimmy says that he mostly pays hospital bills.  He is currently recuperating from a serious knee injury although I couldn’t see that it was cramping his style too much.

Louis, a fourth year Psychology major at university in Pueblo, is as near to being the leader as the democracy of the band allows. It is he who keeps the equipment together, conducts the band’s business and is perhaps most ambitious for the band.  He feels keenly that it’s vital for the band to get a CD of their music out and to expand the area of their gigging.

 The music industry is in the midst of a technological revolution in its distribution right now; CDs don’t sell much anymore as music is circulated and acquired through downloading and all bands are facing changing times and this same problem.  How a band is to make money and earn a living through music is currently a debatable issue; like most bands, the ‘Ideal Citizens’ have to rely on live performances in an area where venues are scarce and getting scarcer and where pay is generally poor.

But money is the least of the issues the band faces.   They say

“Our goal is not to get rich but to achieve true originality; in general we lose money by plowing all we make straight back into the band anyway.”

And says Louis,  “We’re not here for a long time, we’re here for a good time!”

When they play, their transformation from regular guys to party animals is striking; these guys are committed to their music and have never missed a gig.  They would like to thank E Man for his constant support of the band and his invaluable help in recording their music. To all their loyal fans too, they would like to say a big Thank You!  Ten of their songs may be heard on the Net at Myspace.com/IdealCitizens and their itinerary can be found by emailing the band at theidealcitizens@yahoo.com.  They are looking for a manager who will show them the way to the next step in the rock n’ roll ladder; anyone who thinks he can help should get in touch with the group. 

For these four young men, success is being able to pay the bills and to move onto the next gig; after more than two years on the road, the ‘Ideal Citizens’ are in for the long haul.  It takes all kinds to make up our community and, in my book, the ‘Ideal Citizens’ live up to their name.

Ed note: With this issue, ragazine.cc begins a search for what’s happening in the far reaches of America, and the globe. We’d like to know more about theater, art events, musicians, etc. We’re looking for quality writing/reporting from the heartland and the hinterlands to share with a growing global audience. If you write about music, theater or art, take photographs, record poetry and song, or have an idea for an article that highlights something special in your world, from the arts to politics to economics, keep us in mind. We need all the help we can get!

Inner Sleeve Confusion

            Records are my weakness. I never gave up on them. When the masses turned to those new-fangled little discs, I didn’t balk. Far be it from me to look down on new technology. CDs were fine, and I bought ‘em up. Still do.

            But get rid of LPs? I didn’t understand that sentiment. Vinyl was deeply engrained in our musical culture and, God knows, everyone had a record player. What was the hurry to ditch collections of much loved platters? When our second son was born, I didn’t have the urge to dispose of our first because he wasn’t as fresh as the new kid.

            Like the children that I love, my records are a subject of my devotion and care. They are neatly categorized by genre (rock, jazz, country). Alphabetically sorted, of course. That goes without saying. I dreaded thumbing through other people’s stacks of wax when they weren’t properly ordered. How could you have an Elvis Costello record followed by one by the reviled Yes? Then, ten discs further, THERE WAS ANOTHER ELVIS COSTELLO RECORD! Come on, how can you expect one to function under such conditions.

            I take it further. Each artist is lined up chronologically. It all makes sense. Bands are easy to find, and any particular record is right where it should be. There is one extra step I take, one that is the subject of great arguments among friends who care, and, happily for me, most of my friends still have albums. Actually, not surprising, since someone who is likely to have kept their record collection is more than likely to share other similar tastes, in music, movies, and books. This is no fluke.

            For those who know a world populated exclusively by CDs, or, Lord help us, mp3s (having no physical substance they are unworthy of discussion), might need a brief lesson. Every record came with an inner sleeve. You had the cover, simple enough, then, inside, the record was wrapped again in paper. From simple white to photo heavy, some with lyrics, some without, the inner sleeve was important and needed to be treated in such a way.

            Nearly every sleeve would have a taller side. My system is this: side one of the disc always faces the higher side, which is slid into the cover facing front. Obsessive, sure. Compulsive, without a doubt. Necessary, absolutely not. Purposeful, absolutely. Here’s why: I always know what side I’m putting on the turntable without looking, and that over three decades, has saved me hundreds, if not thousands, of seconds, time put to good use, no doubt, picking the next selection.

            In 1988, we moved from our Chicago high rise to a brand spanking new suburban development. My college pal Jimmy, who’d preceded us on the trek west, was living in the city and was keen on taping. I figured, why not let Jimmy have all my records for a while, making cassettes at his leisure. Then, he could drive them up to our new house. He’d gain a huge addition to his music collection, I’d save moving costs. Man, boxes of albums are friggin’ heavy.

            What originated as a simple loan has become a twenty year running gag. Why? You guessed it, Jimmy didn’t put the records back properly! How do I know? Well, because I’ll pull out, say Graham Parker’s Heat Treatment, plop it on the spinning felt pad to hear the title track, side 1, track 1, and what starts playing? “Pourin’ It All Out,” the opener to side 2. Dammit Jimmy!

            And I would call him, or email him, or, now, write on his Facebook wall and tell him what happened. His response is always the same: “So, wait, you’re telling me you haven’t listened to Heat Treatment  in over 20 years?” I have thousands and thousands of records; I can’t be expected to give them an annual, or a once a decade, listen.

            Lately, though, sinister theory has developed among my pals, who scoff at my process. Maybe side 2 should face the larger flap. Ever think of that, wise guy? Paul posed an interesting theory as to why he thought the smaller side of the inner sleeve should face forward. It looks like a t-shirt. Small strains of doubt began to appear. Could I have been wrong all along? Would I have to go through every record and flip them over?

            Nah. I owe my confirmation to Graham Nash and David Crosby. Their first solo album, called, oddly enough, Graham Nash/David Crosby, has provided the answer. Printed on the bigger side of the inner sleeve is side 1 information – song titles, lyrics, etc. There! See! Now I’m on the prowl for more records to validate my theory. I’m on the right side of this inner flap flap, side 1, facing forward towards the high side.

Copyright Jeff Katz. Used with permission of the author.

European Tour 2009

Eric Ross in Concert, Guggenheim-Bilbao

The Ultimedia Experience

October 2009 took Eric and Mary Ross on an autumn tour to France, Spain, Germany, and Portugal for concerts at the Bauhaus Theater in Dessau, then in Freiberg with T-bone virtuoso, Guenter Heinz (photo below), and a big solo concert for 2500 people at the Residenz Palace in Wurzburg.

Freiberg performance, with Guenter Heinz

Ross at the palace in Wurzburg

In November, the Rosses were back in France and Spain, which included performing at the Guggenheim-Bilbao (top photo, and below).

Ross on Theremin

The final leg of the tour, December 1-10,  includes a series of concerts in Portugal (Casada Musica).

Trip Note:

HI M: Just in from France & Spain. Guggenheim concert very nice. Had some time to compose in Madrid and Pyrenees. Next up Portugal Dec.1-10. Should be fun. Talk to you soon, best, E

Electrify Yourself …

Related Sites:

http://www.ericross.info/videosamples.htm

http://www.guenter-heinz.de/theremins_drowning_trombones.81.html