Category: Music

NY Times, CNN, BlogCritics, Plastic, and others: Johnny Cash passes on, from respiratory failure (stemming from a complication of diabetes), and Shy-Drager syndrome, and probably some lingering after effects of his bout with pneumonia. It took all that to bring down the Man in Black.

I’m sad but unsurprised; Johnny has been preparing for death for years, since his diagnosis of Shy-Drager syndrome, and his last album (Cash IV: When the Man Comes Around) sounded like it was recorded from the other side. Still, I somehow thought he’d outlive all of us, until June Carter Cash passed. Then I knew, with his rock gone, it would only be a matter of time.

And they were so in love. This, I think, is part of the enduring greatness of Johnny Cash: that as much as he was a great outlaw (giving the finger to the music business, abusing himself and his associates), so much was he in love with his unlikely savior and lifelong soulmate, June. And so much was he steeped in conversation with his God.

And I think that his eternal struggle, his eternal toughness, his refusal to wear the rhinestones of Nashville even as his songs plumbed the deepest depths of this country’s psyche, explain his universal appeal. I’ll never forget sitting across from a gay friend of mine in a Dupont Circle bar one evening: when “Folsom Prison Blues” came on, we both started singing along:

I hear that train a-comin’, it’s rollin’ round the bend
And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when
I’m stuck in Folsom Prison, and time keeps draggin’ on
But that train keeps a-movin’ on down to San Antone.

Johnny Cash’s train has come and taken him away. Hallelujah, amen.

I might finally have a chance to see the Pixies live, if this MTV.com news item is correct. God, I hope so. Of course, there’s always the chance that the band’s members, after years of toiling in obscurity (or drugged out exile) will turn in a Spinal Tap-esque parody of their glory days, but there’s a big part of me—the part that can sing along with all of Doolittle AND Trompe Le Monde—that hopes not.

John “In the Morning” Richards thinks so too, if this morning’s playlist (one of the few things about being in the car after 9 am) is any indication.

On the sad side: Warren Zevon passed away Sunday, losing his battle with cancer just two weeks after shipping his last album. Rest in peace.

On the happier side: New Talking Heads box set, Once in a Lifetime. Deltas from their prior two-disc best of collection: “Uh-Oh, Love Comes to Town (Alternate Version),” “New Feeling (Alternate Version),” “Pulled Up,” “Artists Only,” “Tentative Decisions,” “Stay Hungry,” “I’m Not In Love,” “The Book I Read,” “Thank You for Sending Me An Angel,” “Found a Job,” “A Clean Break (Live),” “The Big Country,” “Cities (Alternate Version),” “Life During Wartime” (album version), “Air,” “Drugs (Alternate Version),” “Born Under Punches (The Heat Goes On),” “Listening Wind,” “Houses in Motion,” “Making Flippy Floppy,” “Girlfriend Is Better” (the best-of had the live version), “Slippery People,” “Creatures of Love,” “The Lady Don’t Mind,” “Love for Sale,” “People Like Us,” “Puzzlin’ Evidence,” “The Democratic Circus,” “In Asking Land (Alternate Take).” That’s 28 tracks difference. No word on price.

At Waxy.org: Double Dee and Steinski’s “The Lesson.” Masterworks of sampling from the early 80s, done by Doug DeFranco (Double Dee, a sound engineer in a commercial studio) and Steinski (Steve Stein, a TV producer who worked for an ad agency). The article helpfully points not only to a Village Voice article from 1986 about the pair, but also MP3s of all three classic “Lessons,” which are notorious for being basically one sample from beginning to end and therefore having no chance of being released legally. The pair were so influential that there are Lessons 4, 5, and 6, recorded by DJ Shadow, Cut Chemist, and Jurassic 5.

I think I remember hearing Lesson 2 or Lesson 3 in middle school on the bus—they certainly punch some buttons in my memory. But mostly the lessons are just jaw droppingly amazing, including Lesson 3’s transition from Mae West’s injunction to “pucker up and blow” into the Human Beat Box. Go get ’em before they disappear…

After Jeff and Wilco had left the stage, we waited anxiously for the set to change over. While I was waiting, I heard the teenage girl behind me saying, “I’m going to call my mom as soon as a song comes on that she’ll recognize. I remember hearing her play all those albums when I was growing up. I hope it’s a greatest hits type show.” I turned around and said, “Actually, I heard they’ll be playing all the songs off their new album.” “Oh,” she said; “well, that’d be cool too.”

Soon the stage was full. Michael Stipe, wearing a jean jacket over a pink polo shirt and wraparound sunglasses, bounded out followed by the rest of R.E.M. in 2003: Peter Buck, Mike Mills (with a white cloud of hair), and guests Scott McCaughey of the Young Fresh Fellows and the Minus Five, Ken Stringfellow of the Posies, and Barrett Martin on drums. The band wasted no time, jumping right into “Begin the Begin” (from Life’s Rich Pageant) as though the song were written yesterday. Michael was all over the place, tilting the mic stand to the floor like Joe Strummer, doing the spastic dance that earned him derision and a thousand spastic teenage imitators in the late 80s (including, of course, myself and my one-time roommate), shedding the jacket and then the polo to reveal a t-shirt that read, “I am vibrating at the speed of light.” The band moved immediately into “Finest Worksong,” and then, improbably, “Maps and Legends.”

While Peter Buck and Mike Mills were workmanlike (though Mike grinned from ear to ear during most of the numbers), Michael was chatty (he introduced the band by saying, “Except for me and Mike Mills, the whole band tonight is from Seattle, either native or transplanted”), grinning like crazy, joking around (he told a long story about performing “I Got You, Babe” as a joke at a charity gig headlined by U2’s Bono (“because you never pronounce his name Boh-noh”) and having “fucking Cher!” walk on half way through to do a duet), and of course dancing. In between the jokes and posing, the band worked through a tight set of old and new songs, including “Animal” and “Bad Day,” from the forthcoming greatest hits album (oh yeah—that’s what I meant when I told the teenager about the set list. Hope she forgives me someday), “Fall On Me,” “Drive,” “Exhuming McCarthy” (!), “Electrolite,” “New Test Leper,” “Imitation of Life,” “I’ve Been High,” “Losing My Religion,” “The One I Love,” “At My Most Beautiful,” “Daysleeper,” “Nightswimming,” “She Just Wants to Be,” “Walk Unafraid,” and “Man on the Moon.”

Through it all, Michael joked, danced, did dramatic interpretation, saluted, marched, and generally had a blast, but it was increasingly clear that the real musical leaders of the band were Mike and especially Peter, who without saying a word to the crowd managed the many changes of instruments, songs, and keys, and rocked hard doing it. Many of the later songs benefitted enormously from live performance, particularly “Imitation of Life” and “Walk Unafraid,” which transformed into a rocking affirmation.

With the crowd screaming itself raw, the band returned and played “Everybody Hurts,” “World Leader Pretend” (with Michael starting by saying, “This will be the second time we’ve played this since 1989; the last time, I blew a few lyrics, so I’m going to have to read it” before glancing once at the music stand and doing the rest from memory), “Get Up,” and closing with “It’s the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine).” I slipped out of the crowd during “Get Up,” not wanting to wait for hours in the parking lot, and as “End of the World” floated over the stadium walls I watched young and old kids dancing on the sidewalk.

R.E.M. may have fans that grew up listening to their songs as well as those of us who first heard them in middle school, but their live performances are as vital and inspiring as ever, and all the better for Michael’s loose, joking spontaneity. I hope another studio album follows In Time, because the band still rocks too hard to fade away.

After the New Pornographers show, I made my way around to the stadium where I had seen Sonic Youth at the 2002 Bumbershoot festival. This time the line was loose and moving at a brisk trot, so it wasn’t more than five minutes before I was inside and finding my way to the front. The security was pretty hard core at this show, much more than for any festival I’ve been to so far. Several times in the hour before the show they came around and made everyone in the front sit down, and removed everyone who had pressed to the front without a seat so that the stage front would stay clear.

A few minutes after I got in, about 6:10, Jeff Tweedy was on stage tuning some of his guitars. After that brief glimpse, we had to wait until 7 (and an intro from the roundly booed corp-rock station sponsoring the act) for Jeff and his bandmates to return to the stage. Wearing a green checked jacket and jeans, Jeff was pretty uncommunicative—at least, between songs—only stopping every now and then to say things like “This is an old one.” He started with a number from A.M. (confession: I’m still not all that familiar with that album, so I can’t give track title), then moved directly into “A Shot in the Arm” from Summer Teeth. The song was driving, the repeated chords building in a crescendo into the chorus, which was if possible even more spine tingling than on the album. That was the only song in the set from Summer Teeth, but if the show had ended there I wouldn’t have felt cheated.

After blowing everyone’s mind, Jeff moved into further uncharted territory with a set from Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, starting with “I’m the Man Who Loves You,” moving on into an epic version of “Poor Places,” which Jeff performed as the poem it is (albeit set to acoustic guitar, lots of feedback and industrial noise, and the familiar “yankee, hotel, foxtrot” spoken loop), continuing directly into an achingly delicate reading of “Reservations,” and wrapping the mini-set with the junkyard singsong of “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart.” All the while, Jeff was articulating clearly into the mike, staring wide eyed at the audience, and grinning this wild shit-eating grin—clearly having the time of his life, and just as clearly delighting in confounding all the R.E.M. fans who were there. I don’t think he saw the two young girls ahead of me, just about five feet back from the crowd barrier, who were pogoing and singing along enthusiastically to the whole set.

After that he moved into some stuff largely drawn from Being There: “Say You Miss Me,” “Far, Far Away,” “Misunderstood” (which he introduced by saying, “This next one sounds much better if you sing it. So go ahead. You have my permission; you don’t need it”), a brief YHF interjection with “War on War,” “Kingpin,” “California Stars” (from the Billy Bragg collaboration of unrecorded Woody Guthrie Lyrics, Mermaid Avenue), and wrapping up with “Outta Site (Outta Mind).” The guy behind me who had been sarcastic about Wilco before the show started was yelling for more and we were all yelling “encore,” but the show had to go on and Jeff left, blown and satisfied minds in his wake.

I got back at 3:45, enough time to get in another enormous line for the New Pornographers. It was a difficult choice between this Vancouver indie supergroup, Daniel Lanois (who was playing the venue next door), or the Long Winters (who started a half hour later). But one thing made my decision easier: none of the other acts had Neko Case (in addition to her stellar voice, Neko was voted indie rock star Playboy readers would most like to see naked) sharing lead vocal duties.

I got into the hall and experienced my first misgiving: a big underground exhibition hall with no windows, cinderblock walls, and pillars obstructing the view throughout. I made my way to the front and found a spot near a pillar, cursing myself for forgetting my earplugs. Twenty minutes later the band came on, and the sound problems started.

Possibly because of my proximity to the left speaker stack, or maybe the cinderblocks, the sound was muddy and the vocals were buried. It didn’t seem like the vocalists could hear each other either—individually they sounded fine (especially Neko, who even when she’s a “robot” in someone else’s band does amazing vocals), but together it added up to cacophony (and not a pleasant one, either). The only songs that really came together for me were the ones with Neko on lead—“The Laws Have Changed,” “All For Swinging You Around”—and “Testament to Youth in Verse,” whose “the bells ring ‘no no no’” chorus is one of the most audacious pop moments of the ’00s so far. But all in all I’m not 100% sure that I was better off missing Daniel Lanois.

I arrived at Bumbershoot yesterday about twenty minutes before the gates opened. The line for the gate stretched over a city block. I picked up my ticket (quietly ruing the purchase of a four day pass, since I was only able to attend the last day of the festival) and joined the back of the line. It was brisk and I was feeling underdressed (and too old) in my shorts and t-shirt, watching the “Impeach Bush” booth across the street. I was also feeling rushed. I had to pick up my wristband for the evening’s headliner act, turn around, and head back home to run some errands with Lisa before I returned in the afternoon. (She flew this morning to New Jersey for a few days work.) Once I got inside, I waited in two longer, slower lines (shades of Soviet food shortages? reflections of the tragedy of the commons? or just poor organization?) before I got my wristband. At one point I changed lines only to find myself worse off than when I started. People were queuing up without knowing what was at the other end: potatoes? Toilet paper? Maybe a wristband for the evening’s show? All things considered it wasn’t too bad: 45 minutes start to finish. But I hated turning around and leaving, even if I was coming back in four hours.

I’m swimming in so much music these days, between the iTunes Music Store and eMusic, that I occasionally have to remember to stop and think about what I’ve heard recently that I liked. Quick notes on two recent finds:

Lounge and Dance: There are three collections available from Miami DJ Ursula 1000 (eMusic carries two of them), including Kinda Kinky (which features what must be the most nakedly ironic reading of the line, “Now that is kinky”), the remix album All Systems are Go-Go (with a phenomenal lead track remix of ECD’s “Direct Drive”), and my new favorite,
The Now Sound of Ursula 1000, which has such surreal moments as an aerobics instructor’s direction to “Breathe in” dissolving to a lounge organ mix and a call and response chant of “I am not a pleasure unit.”

Alternative: This week’s iTunes Just Added listing included a new “single” from Jeff Buckley: a live cover of Led Zeppelin’s “Night Flight.” Sadly, like much live Jeff that I’ve heard, the truly astonishing vocal moments (like one sustained full-voice high note right at the end of the song) are matched by an equal number of off-pitch melismatic moments. But it’s still good stuff—and, according to the official web site, is going to be on the reissued double-cd release of Live at Sin-é in the fall, featuring the full sessions from which emerged that staggering early live recording of “Mojo Pin.”

Krist Novoselic, nee Chris Novoselic (but Nevermind), has laid down his bass for the last time, according to Rolling Stone and a news post on the Eyes Adrift website. After a disappointing start for his band Eyes Adrift (with Curt Kirkwood from the Meat Puppets), he’s decided to get out of music entirely, citing his unhappiness with the business side of the business.

And he wants to get into politics. Hey, Krist, Gary Locke is stepping down. Wanna start close to home? If Minnesota can have a pro wrestler, the least Washington can do is one-up with a kick-ass bassist.

(Incidentally, Eyes Adrift’s album is available on eMusic. And with that note, I really need to go grocery shopping before I fall over.)

BBC: Elvis producer Phillips dies. One of those headlines you really wish you could rewrite. How about, “Sam Phillips, secret father of rock and roll, dies”? Because surely Phillips’ role in encouraging Elvis’ recording sessions away from bad ballads and towards “That’s All Right’ is among the founding moments in the creation of the music, as is his role in starting the careers of Roy Orbison, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Johnny Cash.

When I toured Sun Studio back in 1997, on our pre-honeymoon in Memphis, I felt Sam’s presence around every corner of this unremarkable little building in a gravelly parking lot. The old recording equipment, shockingly primitive compared even to the tiny studios I’ve been in, and the unadorned plainness of the space told a different story than the pictures in the entranceway (also reproduced on the home page for Sun), showing Elvis at the piano and Jerry Lee, Johnny, and Carl Perkins (composer of “Blue Suede Shoes”) leaning over and singing along. The picture has the feeling of iconography, but the studio was set up for hard work and inspiration, the piece that Sam brought to the mix.

Sleep well, Sam.

George Clinton turns 62 today. And he’s still funkier than almost anybody else alive. I saw the P-Funk All-Stars in DC a few years back with Craig and it was a mind-blowing show. If you’ve never heard it, it’s definitely worth your time to check out “Mothership Connection,” and “Funkentelechy vs. the Placebo Syndrome.” And remember, if you fake the funk your nose will grow…

It’s much, much easier to look cool on your blog than it is in real life.

By which I mean: look at my past listening page (lots of images, but don’t worry, I’ll wait until you come back). Now, if I had actually been hip to each of those albums when they came out, I’d be so hip that I’d have difficulty seeing over my own pelvis. In reality, most of those albums have been, for years, either “I’ve been meaning to get around to listening to that, but…” or “Sounds fun, but I can’t possibly right now…”

What’s changed all that is legal downloaded music. I can pay $0.99 a song at the Apple store and pick up all the songs I’ve ever wanted to listen to from college, high school and before, including the Sugarcubes, some Mazzy Star, Sinéad O’Connor, some Bauhaus, 10,000 Maniacs, American Music Club, etc. Or find all the stuff that I’ve discovered over the last few months listening to KEXP, including the Pernice Brothers, My Morning Jacket, Yo La Tengo, the New Pornographers, Loose Fur, Cat Power, the Reindeer Section…

And then there are all the guilty pleasures that can’t be gotten out of my head. Evidence point # only for tonight: the Ready for the World/Jets double album, Back to Back, inexplicably available from the Apple Music Store. Including “Oh Sheila,” “Crush on You,” “You Got It All (Over Him),” and of course “Digital Display.” You remember “Digital Display,” right? “Excuse me if I start to play… with your digital display…”

But I can choose not to put Ready for the World and the Jets on my blog. Except, of course, that I just did. So much for being hip.

That’s “I’m old” in Latin, for those of you playing along at home. Old enough to think that maybe I should have thought twice about going to the Pernice Brothers show last night, since it started at 9 and there were four bands on the bill. Rolling in at 2 am last night, with ringing ears, an aching back, and falling eyelids, my only thought was: totally worth it.

The Tractor is one of those real joys of a music venue: big square empty room with bare brick walls, split in two with the bigger rectangle for the stage and the floor. Intimate, in a “put your drink on the stage next to the set list and dance” kind of way. Even in the intimacy, the first act, Jose Ayerve of the Portland (Maine) band Spouse, looked small up on stage by himself, strumming his electric—until he started singing. Big voice this guy has. Some of the vocal licks on his English songs reminded me of a less arty Bono. Good songs too.

The second band, Sparrow, hailed from Canada by way of (apparently) Belle and Sebastian. With a nebbishy lead vocalist who sang barely audibly hunched over the keyboard, every song played in a mid-tempo 6/8, and a cellist who played five lines a song (you could only tell by watching her bow), I wasn’t too impressed. In fact, the best part of the evening was the bassist’s joke to the sound man: “Can we get a little more guitar in the monitors? And a lot more cello? … And can you give me a bigger penis, please? … And how about some more stage presence over there?” (this last directed at the vocalist). (Hmm: If Jessamyn is right, I’ll now find my site unreadable at libraries, particularly in Toppenish.)

Warren Zanes and his trio, on the other hand, had stage presence to spare. Ex of the Del Fuegos, most recently of a PhD program at Rochester, his trio was tight and rocking, with a bouncy backbeat to kill for, killer guitar, and tight three part vocal harmonies over these insanely catchy pop songs. Definitely worth seeking out the long-delayed album.

And speaking of insanely catchy pop songs… the Pernice Brothers. Where their music, great though it is, can occasionally sound thin and precious on disc (see the downloads at EMusic), in person Joe and the band rocked hard. With three guitars and a bass, the group pulled off beautiful precise sounds that you’d expect to take months of overtracking in the studio—and made it sound easy. And Joe Pernice, despite looking a little like a shorter Philip Greenspun, comes across more like Elvis Costello when he steps up to the mic, at least in terms of sheer intensity. What a killer set—and a great Pretenders cover in the encores, as well as a dusted off Scud Mountain Boys song with an unprintable name.

Now as I sit at our patio table with a cup of tea, hugging the dwindling shade and looking up at the sky-blue sky (yes, the satellites are out tonight), I think, maybe there’s no such thing as too old to stay out until two am at a great rock show. Just, too old to get up before 10 am the next day.

(Postscript: I had forgotten how good Nightwatch Dark Amber is. Worth a full tasting note if I can find some more.)

Jake at 8-Bit Joystick writes about used CDs, and the fact that you can buy them—quite legally—without the RIAA ever seeing a red cent. Right on.

I used to buy quite a few CDs used from Plan 9 in Charlottesville, but have had only spotty luck finding a good place to shop since then—with one notable exception, a store in Vienna, VA, whose name I can’t remember but which provided me with a copy of the CD single of Lamb’s “Gorécki.” I still think my favorite used cd story, though, is the time that I sold a stack of sad selections at the end of a semester to Plan 9—for gas money so I could go home to see my parents. Yes, this was well before business school, but even then I could see the irony of my having invested in an asset that depreciated by 66%.