Category — Music

“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.