Compact music commentary about artifacts new and old: I enthuse, I don't accuse, but I do refuse–to review anything lukewarm or colder!
Author: philovereem
Music monomaniac, retired English teacher, resident of Columbia, Missouri, former correspondent for ANOREXIC TEENAGE SEX GODS, READY TO SNAP, HITLIST, SUGARBUZZ, THE WAYBACK MACHINE, ROCK THERAPY, and THE FIRST CHURCH OF HOLY ROCK AND ROLL, co-lead singer of the non-legendary Wayne Coomers and the Original Sins of Fayetteville, Arkansas.
(The following is an excerpt from a memoir I am writing about my career in public education. Music had a lot to do with it, believe me.)
I have taught many unusual lessons in my career. This one was not only successful (though even the best lessons are only partially so), but its history also incorporated a lot of the best and not a little of the worst of this profession.
I was teaching middle school at the time and was graced with a bunch of seventh graders who were game for anything interesting I proposed. They would go on to make me look great many, many times that year. In this case, their lesson grew out of a screw-up on my part.
Striving to realize our school’s challenging goal of integrating curriculum, our instructional team had tried to design an opening unit focusing on the idea of “culture.” For three weeks, each teacher—math, science, social studies, reading, writing, and special education—would design his or her instruction so that it addressed that common theme, with the unit output being a single assessment of learning, as opposed to five separate tests. Theoretically, it still sounds neat to me—in fact, it drew me away from my previous job just for the chance to try it. In reality, it’s a bitch to pull off. Just trying to talk about it caused my first teaching team to implode.
At this point in my middle school tenure, however, I was surrounded with comrades willing to give the idea a shot. We planned our culture unit very meticulously, and, of course, I, likely the most enthusiastic among us, zipped through my part of the unit quicker than necessary, quite possibly leaving a few students in the dust in the process. So, confronted with an additional three lessons to write before my fellow teachers were finished, I decided to give the young’uns a dose of Missouri culture and rock and roll, as well as an opportunity to be creative.
I have often said, only half-joking, that I teach to subsidize my record collection. But I have always reinvested what I’ve gained from music in the stock of U. S. public schools’ pop culture curriculum (even though that exists only in my mind), and, in this case, I thought it would be valuable for my students to study how one great rock and roll writer reflected his rich and complicated culture. I prepared, with one eye on Fair Use guidelines, a handout highlighting some of Mr. Chuck Berry’s most revealing lyrics (“Brown-Eyed Handsome Man,” “Too Much Monkey Business,” “Sweet Little Sixteen,” and “Back in the U.S.A.” among them), prefaced the lyrics with a quick artist bio, then guided the class through some close-listening of his music. As we proceeded, I led the kids in discussing what we had learned about U. S. culture circa 1955-1964, and advised them in taking a few notes. Then, over the next two periods, we put our shoulders to the wheel of the task: either write a song of your own, reflecting current U. S. culture, in Chuck’s style, or write a song about Chuck’s version of U. S. culture in your own style.
We had a blast, and, I must say, their work was very perceptive, witty, and—what do you know?—indicative of their having learned some valuable things! A couple students even brought guitars and played their songs. What we’d done leaked outside of our classroom (not surprising, in that my classroom was open to the hallways!), and we soon learned that our homeschool communicator’s college roommate had been Chuck’s lawyer at one point—and had his phone number.
One of the kids excitedly blurted, “Hey! Let’s send Chuck some of our songs!” You don’t say no to such a proposition, and soon the ex-roomie lawyer was on the horn to Chuck, asking him if he’d be up for reading some 7th graders’ tribute-songs to his bad self. Almost immediately, we received word back from Berry: send them on! We did a quick read-around, whittled our stack of 150 songs down to the best 30—we didn’t want to swamp ol’ Johnnie B. Goode!—slid them into a “vanilla envelope,” and put ‘em in the post. I didn’t really expect to hear from Chuck again; one of my long-time philosophies regarding ambitious enterprises is to expect absolutely nothing, which intensifies the exultation if things work out.
The next thing that happened was not a working-out.
A week after the culture unit’s conclusion—it worked nicely, but we were never to replicate its success beyond squeezing a birds-and-the-bees discussion into a “plant life cycles” unit—came our school’s “Back to School Night,” a late summer public ed staple during which parents are invited to meet their students’ teachers. These evenings usually prove a bit of a dog-and-pony show on our parts, but they are seldom high intensity, and, though the parents who most need to come don’t (usually they can’t—they are working), we usually at least mildly enjoy the opportunity to communicate to the grown-ups what we’re up to.
I didn’t expect to be called to the principal’s office. Via intercom.
When I stepped into her office, in front of Dr. Brown’s desk sat what I presumed to be a parent. On the parent’s lap lay her daughter’s English folder, open, with the Chuck Berry handout removed and unmistakably on display. I thought, “Oh shit—she’s a journalism professor and she’s got a copyright complaint. I knew I should have picked up those handouts after we finished writing!” I stood at attention, ready to be, perhaps justly, upbraided.
“This man does not have the moral fiber to be teaching my daughter!”
I take copyright seriously, but, well—wasn’t that a bit strong?
But this wasn’t about copyright. I could not have possibly guessed what it was about.
Remember that “quick artist bio”? I know what you’re thinking: no, I did not mention Chuck’s Mann Act scrape and accompanying prison stint, nor his naked photos with equally naked groupies, nor his tax evasion escapade, nor his exploits with video technology. Nor did this mother look those biographical tidbits up. (All idols have feet of clay, anyway.) Her concern was this: I was promoting violence in this unit.
She said that. Yes. And it was in the bio ‘graph I had written, branded into my memory since:“Berry’s machine-gun lyric delivery in songs such as ‘Too Much Monkey Business’ (see below) influenced none other than Bob Dylan, one of this century’s greatest songwriters.” She read that aloud, from the handout, to my principal and me, with supreme confidence and righteous indignation, as if it were irrefutable proof I was a warlock.
Wait—what??
Actually, I think that is exactly what I said. I looked at Dr. Brown—an excellent administrator I had purposely followed over to this particular school, and a human whom I was desperately hoping valued loyalty at the highest level—and stared in disbelief. The mother stood, read the passage aloud again, and punctuated it with this outburst: “It says right here—‘machine-gun lyrics’!!!” (As you can see above, it didn’t quite say that.)
I confess to being a lifelong smartass, but my reply was simply self-defense: “Do you understand figurative language?”
“Don’t try to slither out of this!” At that moment, I was the closest I have ever been to deeply understanding Kafka. And “slither”? Really?
Keeping my far eye pleading with the principal and my near one defiantly on my judge, I patiently explained the point behind the lesson. No sale.
I looked directly at my boss and said, in quizzical defeat, “Well, you could move her daughter to another team.”
The parent exploded. “She’s not going anywhere!”
I was stunned. I reflected for about an eighth of a second and said, to them both, “This is ludicrous. I have sane parents to speak to. Do what you must. I cannot explain more clearly what my valid and very moral intentions were. Goodbye.” Turned on my heel, went back to my class, and pictured two die spinning through the air.
That absolutely wonderful administrator, Dr. Wanda Brown, refused to budge in giving me full support—that’s one of the reasons why she still hangs the moon for me. The parent pulled her daughter from regular classes for homeschooling (I am sure, much to the daughter’s embarrassment), though she continued to send her over to us in the afternoon for French classes (that’s bullshit, if you ask me—you teach her French, lady). In spite of the whackiest—and wackest—parental guidance episode I had ever witnessed in my career, I proceeded to have a better year than Frank Sinatra’s in the song. The story of the Chuck Berry unit, however, had not yet concluded.
Spring. That lovable homeschool communicator rolled into my classroom—he did, in fact, roll—and motioned me over.
“Chuck’s coming to play at a local high school next week. [He lives in Wentzville, Missouri, just down I-70 from Columbia.] He loved the packet of songs, and he’s authorized you to bring over the ten student writers you think would get the most out of hearing and meeting him. I’ll take care of the bus.”
As the generation of teachers prior to mine would have exclaimed, “My goodness!” (That is not what I said; I repeated the title of a well-known Funkadelic title exclamation, but my moral fiber is too strong to repeat it here.) Though selecting the ten students proved an exercise in pure agony, we were soon filing into the choir room of the local high school, where the kids were given a front-row seat—
a mere five feet from the man himself, at that moment swiveling on a stool, his guitar on his lap.
My natural high was so intense, I cannot remember much of Berry’s talk, other than that Chuck gave rap lyrics his seal of approval (good man, and my kids beamed). However, when the afternoon turned to Q&A, I received an electric charge greater than a cattle prod’s when one of my students, Sekou Gaidi (whom I must name for posterity’s sake), stood to ask a question. Sekou, who often underperformed for me despite frequently being the smartest person in the room (including me), had actually been inspired during the Chuck Berry unit and written a killer song. He was also a combination of a cannon packed a shade too loose and Sun Ra (a jazz genius who uttered many a head-scratcher in his day). I admit, as the charge passed through me, that I was holding my breath.
Chuck: “Young man, what would you like to ask?”
Sekou: “I don’t know who in the heck you are”—Unadulterated claptrap! He was laser-focused through the entire three-day lesson!—“but my mom wants you to autograph this book.”
This request was delivered dry as toast, with arm toward the stage, Chuck’s recent autobiography at its fingers’ end as if it were trash recently plucked off the ground. Sekou’s expression? Slot-mouthed.
Three beats of silence. Excuse me while I break to present tense.
Chuck—Chuck Berry—is staring (glaring? I couldn’t tell!) at Sekou, then a pudgy, bespectacled little seventh-grader wearing mauve sweats. I am covering my hands, shaking my head, fairly sure that this is one of Sekou’s jokes, stunned by his unholy audacity if I am correct, and dreading what might rush into the resulting vacuum of silence.
Into the void rush explosive guffaws, straight out of the gut of The King of Rock and Roll. Then out of the audience’s. Then out of mine. My team teacher is laughing so hard she’s tearing up, and my wife Nicole, who’d come along and would later get her own copy autographed, is staring at me in stunned, gaping delight. In fact, I am tearing up a little right now, staring at this screen, mouth agape as I recall it.
Thus properly ends one of the best lessons I ever taught, embedded in the history of which, as with all the best lessons, are other very important lessons. I can only be thankful that the lessons did not come at me with machine-gun-like rapidity.
Bobby Rush signs student autographs after his show in Hickman High School’s Little Theater. (Photo by Notley Hawkins)
(This piece is part of a memoir-in-progress about my 30+-years of high school edumacating that may or may not appear some day in completed form.)
Sometimes great things fall into your lap, and you have to be ready for them.
In 2009, my wife and I had just returned from a trip to Memphis, and on the way down and back, we’d listened to a heap of Bobby Rush tracks. Bobby, a native of Homer, Louisiana, is the inventor of what he calls “folk funk”: music too funky for blues, too bluesy for funk, and designed for very down-to-earth people. He has also been incredibly durable. One could argue that not only his recordings but also his performances are more vital now than they were thirty years ago; currently in his eighties as of this writing, he shows no signs of slowing down. We’d barely unpacked when my phone rang. The caller was an associate of the Missouri Arts Council, and she’d gotten my name from an acquaintance who’d mentioned that I’d arranged rock and roll concerts at my high school.
“Would Hickman be interested in hosting a blues artist for a concert next month?”
That would seem to be a no-brainer, but as fans of the graphic novel and film Ghost World know, the wrong band or artist can give an audience the blues rather than relieve it of them. I wasn’t going to be held accountable for a Blueshammer-styled band, nor, I must be honest, a painfully sincere “bloozeman” of any stripe. Thus, I had to put on the brakes.
“Well, it depends upon whom. When we do these things, we like to do ‘em up all the way, and I’d hate to, you know, do up something anti-climactic.”
“Have you heard of Bobby Rush?”
I didn’t know whether to shit twice or die.
“Can you hear me ok?”
“Yeah, sorry, I was just a little overcome there. Hell, yes, we’ll do it! Give me the details!” Usually, I asked for the details before agreeing, but, in this case, I would have been a fool.
“Well,” she said, “It’s free of charge to you and the audience; a grant’s paid for it. Bobby’s got his own band and gear—you’d just need to provide a basic PA and monitors. And we’d like to schedule it for the evening so kids could bring their families if they wanted to. I tried to pitch this to Jefferson City Public Schools, but they wanted nothing to do with it.”
“You snooze, you lose. And this will be a huge loss for them. We’re A-OK on the equipment. And evening is great. But, regarding the kids and their families—is Bobby bringing the girls?”
I am sure this is a question anyone trying to book Rush is going to get asked. Bobby frequently performs with three triple-mega-bootylicious dancers to whom he often makes leering but strangely warm and charming reference throughout his shows, and a) I seriously hoped he was travelling with them, but b) I wasn’t sure the snug stage had room for them, and c) I was not sure a transition from high school performance stage to chitlin’ circuit showcase would be altogether without bumps (take that as you will).
She chuckled. “Oh no, he doesn’t have the girls on this leg.” I breathed a sigh of disappointed relief, as well as applied a mental Bobby Rush-like chuckle of lechery to her phrasing.
The next day, the kids of the Academy of Rock, our music appreciation club, and I revved into PR gear. We made and posted flyers, we networked the hallways and school nooks and crannies, and we set up visits to the American history classes, where we planned to show a brief “teaser” segment on Rush from Richard Pearce’s “The Road to Memphis,” an installment of Martin Scorsese’s The Blues series. Because I have been a serious nut about music since I heard “Then Came You” float out of a swimming pool jukebox, I have always been careful to find a solid justification for connecting any school use of it to curriculum—probably too careful, but I am like a Pentecostal preacher when I get going, and may the Devil take the curriculum. In this case, the justification too had fallen into my lap: it happened to be Black History Month, and, as dubious as I consider the concept (I prefer Black History Year), I was happy to exploit it. I was also happy that, in my long experience at Hickman, I’d seldom seen a major event staged that directly and intentionally appealed to our 25% black population. Not that I could take credit for anything but saying “yes” to the proposal; in fact, that could accurately serve as my epitaph: “He said ‘Yes’ to life.”
We also got word out to the local press—who were underwhelmed as usual, for the most part—and the Columbia music community, which resulted in my fellow music maniac Kevin Walsh and his young pal Chase Thompson showing up to make a film—as yet unreleased, but I have a dub—of Rush’s appearance.
The day of the show seemed to arrive in an instant. We promptly set up the stage and PA—but, for some reason, the monitors, not exactly top of the gear list in complexity of use, were malfunctioning. We tried everything we knew (admittedly, not much), to no avail. At least we had a computer properly jacked into the PA to record the show, which Bobby’d happily agreed to let us do. Still—one of the few things we’d been asked for we couldn’t deliver. I was also nervous about the turnout, as we had no way of knowing how many folks would arrive, since admission was free.
Bobby and his band (also known as the crew—they hauled and set up their own equipment, which is no unremarkable habit, especially for road vets) arrived right on schedule, and, after finding him and introducing myself and my wife Nicole, I cut right to the chase: “Bobby, our monitors are screwed. That’s about all you wanted, and we messed it up.”
“Phil, Bobby Rush got this! You OK! Been on the road for sixty years and ain’t nothin’ like that ever stopped us! You all just sit back and relax and let Bobby Rush take care of business.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Would you have?
We did as we were told and took a seat. The space was an old-style “Little Theater,” capacity 150, with nice track lighting, comfortable seating, and just enough stage for a five-piece band (Bobby had seven). I am assuming it was originally built for student theatrical performances, but, in the ‘Oughts, it was just as frequently a concert venue. As I write, I feel a pang of sadness in not being there to continue using it.
Bobby and his band genially integrated our small crew of students into their own set-up and soundcheck—they’d also quickly jerry-rigged the monitors and had them working—and were thrilled to find that we planned to have one of the kids run sound for the show. This had been our philosophy since the club was formed in 2004: move over and let some students do the popcorn! An element of risk always threatened proceedings as a result, but that’s life, learning happened, and it’s more fun riding on The Wall of Death, anyway.
I had been in a bit of a nervous trance when I suddenly broke it, looked around, and noticed that the house was almost packed. Not only that, but the concertgoers were predominantly black—with a considerable number of parents and grandparents among them. As is my wont, I quickly twisted my joy into worry as I began to recall certain bawdy Rush routines that might be revisited that very eve.
I needn’t have worried. Bobby Rush had this. 75 at the time, he must have set the record for pelvic thrusts in one show. The crowd went wild. He told raunchy stories, including one featuring his minister father. The crowd hollered. He plum-picked his sly repertoire: “Uncle Esau,” “I Ain’t Studdin’ Ya,” “I Got Three Problems,” “Henpecked” (“I ain’t henpecked!/I just been pecked by the right hen!”), “Night Fishin’,” “Evil,” “What’s Good for the Goose.” The crowd exploded. He produced a pair of size-75 women’s undies to demonstrate his taste in derrieres. The crowd went bonkers, and the grandmas stood up and shouted amen. He accused our sound man of being a virgin. The crowd—and our soundman—went nuts. He talked about visiting Iraq, about his prison ministry, about struggling up out of the Great Migration to Chicago, about being on damn near every black music scene for fifty years—and about coming through it all to vote for a black president who actually got elected. And the crowd hung, hushed, on his every word, as he delivered a brilliant, deeply personal history lesson we hadn’t even asked for. Even the jerry-rigged sound in that little room was hot as fire and deep as a well, with Rush playing harp like he was possessed by the ghost of Sonny Boy Williamson and snatching a guitar away from a band member to play some razor-sharp solo slide. As I continued to nervously scan what had become a congregation, I was thrilled to notice that the older the person was whom I spied, the wider his (or most definitely her) grin was. The students? They had clearly never seen anything like Bobby Rush before. Our soundman was so mesmerized he forgot to check the recording levels, so our aural document of the show is way into the red.
I know it’s a cliché, but it was, for damn sure, a religious experience. The audience, I think, was more drained than Bobby at show’s end, but not too drained to be shaking their heads in wonderment and giggling with glee. Several of those older folks swung by to tell me, “More of this, please!” The principal who’d drawn event supervision—lucky man!—asked me, “How in hell did this happen, and when’s the next one, ‘cause I’m calling dibs?” Of course, I’d liked to have met those demands with serious supply—but witnessing a bona fide, down and dirty, authentic-but-for-the-booze-smoke-and-BBQ chitlin’ circuit show at a Bible Belt high school, I’m afraid, is a once in a lifetime experience. God, I do love grants and art councils.
Nicole and I walked Bobby out into the February night, his arms around both of our shoulders. His eyes and jeri curls were shining, but he hadn’t seemed to have broken a sweat. “I want to thank you all for having us,” he offered, humbly. “I don’t know who had more fun, us or them!”
I quickly replied, “No, man, thank you! That show was so good you’d think you were playing for the president! And we’re just a high school in Missouri!”
He shook his head, smiling.
“I told you, Phil…Bobby Rush got this!”
See Columbia photographer Notley Hawkins’ classic shots from the show here, and do yourself a solid and grab Omnivore Records’ stellar four-CD career summation of Rush, Chicken Heads, here!
This post is dedicated to the very recent work of Allen Lowe, not only one of the most ambitious, prolific, and interesting jazz composers alive but also a talented saxophonist, an essential author for anyone wanting to deeply understand this country’s music, and a musicologist who can compile a 36-disc about the flexibility and mischievousness of the blues that, at this late date, is full of surprises, no matter how well-versed the listener is. Among musicians, only Swamp Dogg, Charles Mingus, and early Bob Dylan are his peers in piquantly and entertainingly writing one’s own liner notes. He toils away in the state of Maine, pursuing the “everlasting beauty of monotony” (Benjamin Britten) and–successfully, I would argue–pushing his work to speak in new ways about who we are. If that sounds complicated, it is, a little, but it doesn’t violate the law of diminishing returns, I assure you. He has recently released five new records that deserve praise; since, according to Roger Price’s Law, “if everyone doesn’t want it, nobody gets it,” the best way to grab ’em is to contact Allen directly at allenlowe5@gmail.com about the ones you’re interested in, or browse to http://www.allenlowe.com/for-sale/ Keep your eyes peeled for his upcoming Mary Lou Williams Suite, portions of which appear herein. Now, to the reviews, w/accompanying unscientific but deeply-felt ratings out of 10…
MATTHEW SHIPP PLAYS THE MUSIC OF ALLEN LOWE – 8.8 – Shipp, who’s made his pianistic bones in more abstract settings (notably with David S. Ware), is movingly earthbound here, often striking veins of dark, complicated romanticism that are, I think, at the heart of Lowe’s work. The composer’s alto will remind you of Dolphy’s angularity and Parker’s headlong expressionism–a pleasingly drier-toned version–and bassist Kevin Ray, who plays on most of these recordings, is a wonder: I seemed to learned more about Lowe’s writing following Ray on my third and fourth listen than from focusing on any other musician.
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From the IN THE DIASPORA OF THE DIASPORA*series :
WE WILL GATHER WHEN WE GATHER – 10 – One of the very best jazz albums of the year, with the baritone of Master Hamiet Bluiett shooting worship and subversion through Lowe’s blues- and gospel-colored compositions. Ava Mendoza’s guitar-skronks, Matt Lavelle‘s skittery trumpet (makes me miss Don Cherry even more–and you should mos def try his Monk record!), and Jake Millet’s turntable scrubs and scratches combine with Bluiett’s inventions to do the most justice to Lowe’s vision of any in the series. Pick to click: the first serious composition–to my knowledge–to honor and mourn the murdered Charleston churchgoers, “Theme for the Nine,” maybe my favorite and definitely my most-played track so far. I wish I could share a track with the #CharlestonSyllabus project. There is a way….
MAN WITH THE GUITAR: WHERE’S ROBERT JOHNSON? – 9.3 – Electronics and turntables are frequent voices in Lowe’s work, and here DJ Logic and Millett answer the title question: Johnson’s ghost haunts the spaces in our best music, as it certainly does on this record (though you won’t hear Robert sampled, you’ll be excitingly jolted out of your contemplation by flickers of Charley Patton’s rasp). Lowe plays tenor and operates electronics on this recording along with playing alto, and Gary Bartz sounds more alive than he has in years, testifying on alto on “Slave Rebellion,” “Delta Sunset,” and “Blues Forever After.”
WHEN A CIGARETTE IS SMOKED BY TEN MEN – 9 – A showcase for an exciting young clarinetist, Zoe Christiansen, with a nod to Pee Wee Russell, a wry jab at Howard Hunt, and two joyful tracks with desolate titles.
BALLAD FOR ALBERT – 8.5 – This is essentially a trio record, with Millet’s almost-subliminal murmurings of current providing some disruptive texture. I am not sure which Albert the record’s named for (could be Ayler, but, being a longtime fan, I don’t quite hear it), but I am sure that the ballads are lovely and deep–in fact, Lowe’s ballad playing is a shining thread that runs through all five records. Special shout-out to “Maui Shuffle,” which, like many of Allen’s compositions, can make you think the record’s advanced a track if you leave the room, which I adamantly advise you not to do on these records. Hit the WC ahead of time, grab a drink, get comfortable, and lock in–you will be rewarded.
If you are looking to get more deeply into Lowe’s work, advance directly to his masterpiece, MULATTO RADIO: FIELD RECORDINGS1-4, one of my very favorite records of 2014–so good I couldn’t write about it, if that makes sense. And explore his earlier work, which, unsurprisingly–ranges across the diaspora of the diaspora.
*Allen considers all of his work as fitting under this umbrella, which refers to the diaspora cascading out from the original music of the African diaspora–where, in Lowe’s own words (words, I suspect, that have gotten him in Dutch), “tradition becomes both a means of respectful worship and a matter of subversion…”–but these four records are specifically designated as such.
Not all of the below are 2015 releases–some were released earlier but are just now breaking the cyber-surface. But the thing is, for those who argue good music is dead (ho-fucking-hum), here’s 121 slabs that have given me pleasure this year. Not all are perfect, but I stand behind this statement: it’s all good. Also, if you’ve looked at the list and are thinking, “Where’s x? What about y?” and it’s not Taylor Swift, I probably haven’t listened to it yet–like you, probably, I follow my nose, and it’s attuned to certain, um, scents. Note: These are in alphabetical order, obviously. The grading scheme is borrowed from master critics Bob Christgau and Tom Hull. The asterisks next to each B+ indicate how close that record is to excellent. Fascinating, isn’t it? Note 2: See my official Top 20 in meaningful order, plus a list of great reissues, also in order, here.
Rock and Roll and Such
Laurie Anderson: Heart of a Dog (Nonesuch) A-
Aram Bajakian: There Were Flowers Also in Hell(Dalava) A-
Courtney Barnett: Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit(Mom & Pop) A
Alex Chilton: Ocean Club ’77(Norton) B+ (***)
The Close Readers: The Lines Are Open(Austin) A-
Coneheads: aka “14 Year Old High School PC–Fascist Hype Lords Rip Off Devo for the Sake of Extorting $$$ from Helpless Impressionable Midwestern Internet Peoplepunks L.P.”(Erste Theke Tontraeger) A-
Continental Drifters: Drifting—In the Beginning and Beyond(Omnivore) B+
Dead Moon: Live at Satyricon (Voodoo Doughnut) A
Dead Weather: Dodge and Burn(Third Man) B+ (*)
Drive-By Truckers: It’s Great to Be Alive! (ATO) A
Bob Dylan: 1965-1966–The Cutting Edge: The Bootleg Series, Volume 12(Sony) B+ (*)
Bob Dylan: Shadows in the Night(Sony) B+ (***)
Robert Forster: Songs to Play(Tapete) B+**
Girlpool: Girlpool(Wichita) A-
Hop Along: Painted Shut(Saddle Creek) A-
The Horribly Wrong: C’Mon and Bleed…with The Horribly Wrong(Shitcan) A-
John Kruth: The Drunken Wind of Life—The Poem/Songs of Tin Ujevic(Smiling Fez) A-
John Kruth: Splitsville(Gern Blandsten) B+ (***)
Jinx Lennon: 30 BEACONS OF LIGHT FOR A LAND FULL OF SPITE THUGS DRUG SLUGS AND ENERGY VAMPIRES(Septic Tiger) B+ (**)
Jeffrey Lewis & Los Bolts: Manhattan(Rough Trade) A
Los Lobos: Gates of Gold(429) A-
Low-Cut Connie: Hi Honey (Ardent) B+ (***)
Mountain Goats: Beat the Champ(Merge) B+ (***)
Natural Child: Live at The End—Freakin’ Weekend V(self-released cassette) B+ (**)
Nots: We Are Nots(Goner) A-
Obnox: Boogalou Reed(12XU) B+ (**)
Obnox: Know America(Ever/Never) B+ (***)
Obnox: Wiglet(Ever/Never) A-
The Paranoid Style: Rock and Roll Just Can’t Recall (self-released) B+ (***)
Public Image Limited: What the World Needs Now Is… (PiL Official) B+ (**)
Pussy Riot: Kill the Sexist(self-released) B+ (***)
Reactionaries: 1979(Water Under the Bridge) B+ (*)
Rocket From the Tombs: Black Record(Fire) B+ (**)
Boz Scaggs: I’m a Fool to Care(429) B+ (*)
Ty Segall: Ty Rex(Goner) B+ (***)
Sleater-Kinney: No Cities to Love(Sub Pop) B+ (***)
These posts originally appeared on Facebook, where my potential audience is much larger than here. My thinking behind the somewhat-weekly series was to help people sift through albums from the past that might easily be forgotten in the tsunami of information about new reviews–as well as occasionally commenting on significant newer items. That concept is dressed up like simple reportage about what I have actually been listening to, by choice as opposed to in an attempt to stay on top of new thangs. Which I am struggling, like you, to do.
8 BOLD SOULS – 8 – I am hooked on Edward Wilkerson, Jr.’s arrangements for this terribly underrated AACM-sprung unit. They’re always interesting and fun and funky. The otherwise-reliable PENGUIN GUIDE TO JAZZ RECORDINGS doesn’t see fit to even mention them. Bullshit. Every one of their records are good-plus to excellent, and Wilkerson needs to be recognized as a luminary of the past quarter-century. Also: their name fits their musical enterprise.
AFRICAN HERITAGE SYMPHONIC SERIES, VOLUME II (Chicago Sinfonietta, conducted by Paul Freeman): Ulysses Kay/George Walker/Roque Cordero/Adolphus Hailstork/Hale Smith – 10 – I don’t know doodley-squat about classical music, but I can hear majesty, tension, fear, and desire when gathered musicians successfully convey it, as they do here. This was just what I needed this week, cranked to 8 in my truck cab. Pick to click: Smith’s “Ritual and Incantations.”
Laurie Anderson/HEART OF A DOG – 8.5 – A winsome, quirky, and disarmingly deep meditation on mortality, following death of mom, dog, and man. Closed down–and redeemed–by song written and sung by said man.
Erykah Badu/BUT YOU CAIN’T USE MY PHONE – 8.8 – A concept mixtape that shoulda been packaged with Aziz Ansari’s MODERN ROMANCE. Ms. Badu is a bit like The Stones–she has a knack for staying relevant over time, and even if you hate “phone world,” she sings and writes nicely here, and the rhythms are bumpin’.
Billy Bang Quintet Featuring Frank Lowe/ABOVE & BEYOND – 9 – There aren’t that many jazz violinists, and Bang, a Vietnam vet, was one of the best, able to play inventively both “inside” and “outside.” This 2003 record finds him in a Grand Rapids club with his long-time playing partner, tenor saxophonist Frank Lowe, dying of cancer, down to a single lung, but playing with scintillating vigor nonetheless–a “horseman, pass by” performance! Bang himself had only eight more years to fiddle on this turf, and his equally stellar playing make this one of the most moving jazz documents of the new millennium.
BeauSoleil/HOT CHILI MAMA – 9 – Like Robert Cray, Dwight Yoakam, The Roots, and Tom Petty, THE Cajun band can seem so consistently good as to be underrated. Don’t fool yourself and ignore them. Michael Doucet’s lively, insouciant fiddle and earthy vocals, bro Michael’s Doc Watson-gone-swamp picking, and the band’s fearlessness in adapting outside material is the recipe for aural orgasm. Yes: I wrote that on purpose.
Don Byas/SAVOY JAM PARTY – 9.0 – This Okie from Muskogee is here the very happy medium between the twin towers of pre-WWII tenor sax, the laggard Pres and the vigorous Bean. Stellar support, too, from Charlie Shavers, Slam Stewart, and Max Roach.
Leonard Cohen/CAN’T FORGET–A SOUVENIR OF THE GRAND TOUR – 8 – One souvenir of three, but this one features a vastly different set of songs, including some worthy newbies. Except for conceptually, he doesn’t get away with “Choices”(Bettye LaVette beat him to that Possum cover in the first place), and his already-threadbare voice has lost a little grain, but from the disarming cover art to a closing where he hugs mortality tighter than ever, you have no choice but to contemplate whether this’ll be his last. Respect your elders!
Elizabeth Cook/GOSPEL PLOW – 8.5 – Spunky-tough C&W singer-songwriter takes on spirituals by Blind Willie Johnson, Lou Reed, and anonymous geniuses and delivers, no small thanks to her (now ex-) husband’s rowdy guitar.
Jacques Coursil (trumpet) & Alan Silva (double bass)/FREE JAZZ ART (SESSIONS FOR BILL DIXON) – 9 – Near-trance-inducing, Asian-tinted, marginally differentiated performances by two crafty veterans. The music doesn’t sound all that free, but that may be the art. A colleague wandered into my office and demanded I email him the recording info so he could get it post-haste. That’s a good recommendation in and of itself. Thanks to Isaac Davila.
The Dead Weather/DODGE & BURN– 7.5 – Moved only to eye-rolling by Jack White, I can’t resist this raving project of his, mainly because of Alison Mosshart’s howling. But despite the abundant riffage, propulsion and attitude, I am not sure it adds up to anything. Docked .5 for a toe-dip into minstrelsy.
Dexateens/LOST & FOUND – 9 – Finally found this literally “lost” (master?)piece of modern Southern rock, and did it please me! From earworm riffs (“Mary”) to caught-me-short details (box fans!) to sly tales (“Altar Blues”) to their oddly Stonesish way with vulnerability, this keeps hitting me where I love, I mean live. For Eric Johnson
DIRTY BOOGIE–THE FORTUNE RECORDS STORY– 9.0 – Though it wisely skimps on flagship geniuses Nolan Strong and Andre Williams, forcing you to pick up their own official compilations (but, wait, where are those, again?), this three-disker ably highlights the lesser-known of the two totally classic Detroit labels of the 1950-1965 Golden Age. Unsurprisingly for a company sprouting up in a Northern industrial hub, it offered r&b, rockabilly, doo wop, country, a touch of jazz, and plenty of the title medicine. Secret hero: Roy Hall, of “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On” fame.
Jim Dickinson/FISHING WITH CHARLIE – 9 – Running interference for both World Boogie and Mumbo Jumbo, Dickinson nails rumbling readings from such luminaries as Vachel Lindsay, Nick Tosches, and Larry Brown. Best in show: a haunting, vivid, loving cutting from Michael Ondaatje’s COMING THROUGH SLAUGHTER. Might be Dickinson’s unintentional epitaph.
Drive-By Truckers/IT’S GREAT TO BE ALIVE – 9 – A theme’s developing here. I didn’t think I needed a three-disc live Truckers set from our current year, but I must bow. A classic career summation, with numerous surprises (“Girls Who Smoke,” “Runaway Train”) and revisions (“Goode’s Field Road”), that lives all the way up to its title, mostly thanks to the irrepressible joy in Patterson Hood’s singing. Need I mention that the guitar is abundant, ragged, and lyrical? And that it’s one HELL of a bargain at $17?
Cliff “Ukelele Ike” Edwards/SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN (ASV Living Era Series, for those that love that line like me!) – 8.5 – There’s some extreme corn in tow, but Cliff was an early pop star for good reason. Most will know him as the voice of Jiminy Cricket on “When You Wish Upon a Star,” but I will take his spirited “Fascinatin’ Rhythm” and “Singin’ in the Rain” over all the other versions I’ve heard, and his “Paper Moon” almost beats Nat King Cole’s. There’s more, including one of the first recorded versions of “California, Here I Come” and some very charming extreme corn (“Paddlin’ Madelin’ Home”).
Duke Ellington and His Famous Orchestra/FARGO, NORTH DAKOTA, NOVEMBER 7, 1940 (Deluxe Golden Anniversary Edition) – 10 – The impossibly great but short-lived Blanton/Webster band, on a radio broadcast the fidelity of which is stunning for the time. And the band is ON. Hear Duke’s exhortations, steppin’ feet, and the radio broadcaster as part of the music, feel the glory in 29 songs’ worth of prime Ellingtonia, and get stunned by a murderer’s row of genius soloists. Plus: I’ve heard drummer Sonny Greer maligned, but, damn, the engine room is on fire.
Freddy Fender/TELL IT LIKE IT IS–THE BEST OF THE CRAZY CAJUN RECORDINGS – 8.5 – We are still waiting for the ultimate Fender comp, but I really like this memento from his days with fellow eccentric Huey Meaux ’cause it displays his amazing range (and I don’t mean his inimitable singing): from classic r&b to standards to Doug Sahm honky-tonk to chart-rock from The Who (yes, The Who). In a single performance, you can hear in Freddy East Texas, South Texas, West Texas, and, of course, Mexico–I hope that sounds seductive to you, because it sure as hell does to me. Plus he could write a good one, and guitar-sling.
Chico Freeman and Von Freeman/FREEMAN & FREEMAN – 8.3 – The son, Chico, plays like a cocky street kid just dosed with a tab of Trane. Pops sounds like no one else but himself–a sneaky-smart old pro who loves to squeak, creak, and reach into your chest at a moment’s notice, right when you think he’s not going to get out of a chorus intact. And should your attention drift, there’s Jack DeJohnnete to rattle you to attention. Recorded live at the NYC Shakespeare Festival!
Erroll Garner/THE ORIGINAL MISTY and BODY & SOUL– 10 – A weekend of Garner’s magic piano in my ear elevated him above God (aka Art Tatum) in my esteem. I am not a musician, so you can take that for what it’s worth, but for joy, invention, touch, and surprise, I’ll stake my rep on it. Thank you, Whitney Balliett for putting me right.
Roscoe Gordon/LET’S GET HIGH – 8.8 – Memphis weirdo pianist invents ska, only he doesn’t realize it until much later!
GymShorts/NO BACKSIES! – 7.9 – If the idea of the Country Teasers (the only band I’ve ever heard that could CREATE a hangover with its music) fused with The Jesus & Mary Chain (who too quickly abandoned their knack for beautiful feedback overload) appeals to you, you might want to check this Rhode Island combo out. Their noise is VERY adulterated. Live, they are less weird and more together. More weird and more together is the next step. Fingers crossed.
Brian Harnetty/BAREHEAD AND BLOODYBONES – 8 – What could be more fun on a holiday than to listen to old field recordings of country kids telling very damn disturbing stories to piquant electronic instrumentation provided by the credited artist? Pick hit: the title track–it freaked me out a little, and it’s an ooooold story. From those hardworking folks at Dust-to-Digital Records.
Michael Hurley, The Unholy Modal Rounders, and Jeffrey Fredericks and The Clamtones – HAVE MOICY! – 15 – Last week I was scandalized to learn that several of my music-loving pals hadn’t even HEARD of this record–one of those rare ones for which you need a backup copy. It is a lot of things: a guidebook for living dangerously, an inquiry into the nature of things, a celebration of life’s simple pleasures, an outline of sexual adventure. But it’s much more. All that information is delivered with such gusto, drollery, seductiveness, insanity, and–occasionally–menace that you may have whole verses memorized after the first listen, which, if you listen, will be the first of many.
“Yeah, but what kind of music is it?”
Unhinged. But easefully unhinged. As if unhinged is a way of life.
Please go find this and buy it. (Note: the sequel, just released and reviewed here last week, ain’t no slouch.)
HAVE MOICY 2–THE HOODOO BASH – 8.8 – If you don’t have the first volume, make it a priority: whacked-out but subtly philosophical songwriting delivered with insane enthusiasm (alternating with subversive seductiveness) by ’60s freak folk heroes. The sequel is honorable: though two members have since stepped on rainbows and the subversively seductive Michael Hurley passed on the project, it’s full of joy and camaraderie, with Peter Stampfel opening the proceedings with a genius repurposing of a Del Shannon song, Jeffrey Lewis providing a paean to nonsense and tweaking the nose of intelligent design, and Baby Gramps Grampsing around mysteriously and channeling pirates on “Crossbone Scully.” Also, some butts are hilariously on fire on the “projected single.”
Clifford Hayes and the Louisville Jug Bands/VOLUME 1, 1924-1926 – 8.8 – Hayes gets lead billing, but blower Earl McDonald is the true star. I doubted a recently-encountered claim McDonald could get jazz out of a jug, then this made me shut up. Great appearances by Sara Martin and Johnny Dodds, too, and Hayes is mos def no slouch. Now–to the other three volumes!
HERB JEFFRIES: A COLORED LIFE(directed by Kim Clemons and Kimberly Dunn, 2008)– 7.8 – Blue-eyed Sicilian-Irishman from Detroit goes south to Chicago and west to Hollywood, passes for “colored,” sings Duke Ellington to his first mega-hit, and becomes Hollywood’s first “black singing cowboy.” Jeffries: “My father is Portuguese, Spanish, American Indian, and Negro. How in the hell can I identify myself as one race or another?” Indeed.
Lightnin’ Hopkins/THE GOLDSTAR RECORDINGS, VOLUME 1 – 8.8 – I know: how many Lightnin’ albums does one listener need? Frankly, it might just be impossible to track them all down even if you wanted to, but these very early recordings are trance-enducing, trickily differentiated in masterfully marginal ways, and–just when you are in a zone that’s humming through your ears to your brain–he moves to organ for a zany and addictive change of pace that makes you laugh out loud.
The Horribly Wrong/C’MON AND BLEED WITH THE HORRIBLY WRONG– 8.8 – I bought this record out of duty, out of loyalty, out of love for the Nashville band Natural Child, simply because Natty C’s bassist Seth Murray plays and sings on it. Suffice it to say that duty, loyalty, and love have their payoffs, and this is one. One of the BEST punk/trash-rock rekkids I’ve heard in years (it’s a 2010 release), and it’s from Indiana, too (attention #ChuckEddy).
Soundtrack to the film THE HOT SPOT – 8 – I’ve never seen this Dennis Hopper film and somehow hadn’t heard much about the soundtrack until I read Charles Shaar Murray’s John Lee Hooker bio and discovered Miles, Hook, and Earl Palmer, the inventor of the rock and roll beat if anyone was, play together on MOST of the tracks. How bad could it be? Well, if you’re not expecting a masterpiece (super-sessions never are) you will dig it. The trumpeter and guitarist mesh pretty well, and the drummer holds the groove. And that’s what it is: a solid groove album featuring two of the most singular voices in our music. Even the lyrics are no disgrace.
Gregory Isaacs/EXTRA CLASSIC – 9 – First record I’ve ever bought on Keith Richards’ recommendation (see “Desert Island Discs”). Thought I had reggae’s Cool Ruler down cold, but only one of these songs, mixed in his classic lover man/social critic style, was previously known to me, and “Jailer” is the only one that overlaps my favorite Isaacs record, MY NUMBER ONE. He whispers in your eyes, then hips you to Babylon’s racket.
Vijay Iyer/MUTATIONS – 8.7 and rising – My first two spins left me distinctly underwhelmed–I love the man’s piano playing, but there’s a goodly portion of strings and electronics on this. He also runs with excellent drummers–and after three listens I am not sure there IS drumming on it. But before selling it, I tried it again at top volume in my lab (the cab of my truck) and I started getting Hassell/Eno aural mirages from it. I think I’ll keep it.
Joseph Jarman, Glen Horiuchi, and Francis Wong/PACHINKO DREAM TRACK #10 – 8.5 – This is mos def an AACM jazz recording: it ain’t linear, it ain’t prefabbed, it ain’t easy, it ain’t without conch shell and shakuhachi–but it’s very, very live indeed, the lead artist conjures a restless peace regardless of what he’s playing, and the spirit of the artists’ cooperation led me away from yesterday’s outrage for a minute.
Katey Red & Dem Hoes/MELPOMENE BLOCK PARTY – 8.3 – Don’t call it “sissy rap” in her presence, or you might lose an appendage. What it says it is.
Kelela/HALLUCINOGEN – 9 – I am stubbornly resistant to electronica (or whatever this stuff is called), but I try not to give up on any genre. This EP delivers on the exotic promise such music is supposed to regularly extend: rich, expressive vocals, complexly carnal lyrics, and rhythms ‘n’ FX that support each. Three plays in 24 hours, plenty willingly.
KHAT THALETH–THIRD LINE: INITIATIVE FOR THE ELEVATION OF PUBLIC AWARENESS – 9 – Arab Spring rap. The music holds its own, easily, but you can download the translations. Consult Bandcamp–for a 23-song comp, it’s a bargain.
B. B. King/BLUES IS KING – 9 – LIVE AT THE REGAL you probably know about; it’s justly famous. But this ’67 show is a hair from its equal–plus a completely different (and surprising) set list. If you miss him, you owe yourself.
Earl King & Roomful of Blues/GLAZED – 8.5 – King was one of NOLA’s great R&B triple threats, as well as a bit of a griot. He wielded a deceptively mean guitar, he could write a great song (“Big Chief,” anyone?), and he sang with the slyness of a Sonny Boy Williamson. The white boys stay out of his way on this one and lay down the horny bedrock he needs to take off from.
KORLA: A FILM BY JOHN TURNER & ERIC CHRISTENSEN (2014) – 8.5 – Black man from #ColumbiaMissouri goes west to Hollywood, passes for East Indian, and becomes an icon of ’50s musical exotica. And stays in character for the rest of his life. A history lesson if nothing else.
John Kruth/THE DRUNKEN WIND OF LIFE: THE POEM/SONGS OF TIN UJEVIC – 9.5 – Vocalist and mandolinist Kruth, the words of the poet, and the musicians–all clearly glad to be alive. Dylanesque (sorry–it’s better than that augurs) with Croatian flavor. This will cheer you without bullshitting you. How’s that?
Los Lobos/GATES OF GOLD – 9.3 – Title’s kinda meh, cover art looks low budget, album’s only a goddam tour de force. Impassioned singing, outstanding material, and–did I mention they can play just about anything? Touches of bluegrass and bottleneck may even surprise the faithful. In my top 10 for 2015 after a single listen–a single listen that moved me. Ever heard an autumnal bar-band record? That’s kind of whatit is. For Peter Feldstein–thanks for motivating me to get it listened to!
Booker T. Laury/NOTHIN’ BUT THE BLUES – 8.5 – First heard Laury on the soundtrack to the cinematic abomination GREAT BALLS OF FIRE, but was too distracted by Jerry Lee remakes (imagine that!) to notice. If you like rowdy 88-rollin’, partake. And he hollers great, too. Also, let me know if you have his out-of-print BLUES ON THE PROWL, on Wolf Records, because I NEED IT. Been playing this side by side with Otis Spann and, though it’s a case of apples and oranges, Laury holds his own.
Matt Lavelle and John Pietaro/HARMOLODIC MONK – 8.7 – I don’t care whose at the helm: I’ll sample anyone’s run at Thelonious Monk’s catalog. Though I’ve tried mightily, I don’t have a great grip on Ornette Coleman’s theory of harmolodics, but I can say with confidence that Lavelle, on horns, and Pietaro, on percussion, have fun using it to PLAY WITH Monktoons (something Thelonious would appreciate). The duo utilize “the freedom of two” to evoke damn near the whole of jazz in their interactions.
MEANWHILE IN MEMPHIS: THE SOUND OF A REVOLUTION(directed by Nan Hackman and Robert Allen Parker, 2013) – 9 – You might skeptical about the revolutionary claim, but not all revolutions are loud. In sound and style, this film does justice to its subject. Like all great docs, it raises a curtain on folks and moments even experts missed; for me, it’s Alicja Trout and the revelation that Tav Falco ‘s arrival on the scene was filmed. Plus: a terrific bonus disc. Please buy directly from Goner Records!
Jinx Lennon/30 BEACONS OF LIGHT FOR A LAND FULL OF SPITE, THUGS, DRUGS, AND ENERGY VAMPIRES – 9 – Irish force of nature needs just an acoustic guitar to wrestle the world to a draw. Dylanophiles strongly recommended to look into his oeuvre. But he ain’t no saint–even the Twin Towers’ collapse can’t avert him from Internet porn. Plus: a Christmas song for the ages.
Jeffrey Lewis/MANHATTAN – 9.8 – This eccentric, supposedly “anti”- folkie has never reached me, and I’ve only been to Manhattan once (and then I was distracted by 50+ junior high schoolers I was helping manage). However, when a peer from a Facebook forum I am fond of suggested that, with this new release, Lewis had picked up Lou Reed’s mantle if anyone had, I was piqued enough to lay down some cash. The best thing I can say is my peer is correct–if Lewis can keep this up. If you crave something like the “nice,” verbose, pre-TRANSFORMER Lou, or might want to try out a record that could be called a warmer, looser cousin to Reed’s cold-eyed, tight-rhythmed NEW YORK, pony up, I say.
Living Things/AHEAD OF THE LIONS and HABEAS CORPUS – 9 and 8.5 – Sorry to say, few reasons to be proud to be a Missourian these days, politically speaking, but this short-lived St. Louis brother band was one of the few rock units to unabashedly take on effed-up leadership, warmongering, and what I will call Christian hysteria in the heart of the ‘Oughts. These two are like the first two MC5 rekkids: the first explosive and expansive, the second compressed and relatively clean. But neither make apologies, nor take prisoners. Where ARE these boys?
Jerry McGill/AKA JERRY McGILL – 9.0 – Long-scattered and -squirreled-away recordings by an ur-“country outlaw,” including a very early “Desperadoes Waiting for a Train” backed by Mudboy and The Neutrons, some raw honky-tonk with Waylon Jennings on lead guitar, and some barely-together end-of-the-line howls from the hills (like “Wild Bill Jones”). Problem is, you gotta buy VERY EXTREMELY DANGEROUS (see below) to get yer hands on it. For me, that was not a problem. Tip: I got mine from Goner Records in Memphis.
Joe McPhee/SOLOS–THE LOST TAPES (1980 – 1981 – 1984)– 8.5 – What makes one blip-bleep-blat free jazz outing any different than the others? Well, imagination, conviction, and the savvy to mix in some great continuous improvisation with the pure sound.
Dan Melchior Broke Revue/LORDS OF THE MANOR– 7 – I’ve always found Melchior underrated in the garage punk pantheon, and he’s been quiet for awhile. At first I thought this was something kinda new: a garage punk GROOVE album. And it might be, but the extra-long cuts combined with the repetitive riffs eventually defeated my attention. Worth a chance, though.
NaturalChild/LIVE AT THE END–FREAKIN’ WEEKEND 5– 8 – The country’s best least-reported-on band gets all their moves together on this $5 live cassette. Not too jammy, not too faux-country, and with a perfect dab of their twisted garage beginnings.
Natural Child/SHAME WALKIN’–THE EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED SINGLES – 10 – This record does not exist other than in my iPod folder (and I suspect a few other folks’). But the erstwhile cannabis-cooled country rockers ought to do the world a favor and make it real. From the, um, unusually reluctant “title” song to the Dad’s nightmare of “Crack Mountain” to the paging-Neil-Young “Mother’s Nature’s Daughter” to the affectionately bleary “Don’t Wake the Baby,” it just might be that Natty C’s best work does not appear on their very entertaining long-players. Petition them on Twitter at @naturalchild420, @naturalchild666, or @NATURALCHILDFAN
Phineas Newborn, Jr./HERE IS PHINEAS – 8.5 – Memphis is known for the raw, but Phineas (pronounced FINE-us or pronounced FEEN-us) demonstrated such pianistic facility as to rank with the late ’50s-late ’60s greats. Phineas is to Bud Powell as Sonny Stitt is to Charlie Parker–think about it, baby….
Herbie Nichols/THE COMPLETE BLUE NOTE RECORDINGS – 10 – The music of the ill-fated pianist and composer Nichols dances. I know you’ve heard that before, but these dances are tricky, witty, and surprising while never failing to swing you. And believe me, the drummers (last names of Roach and Blakey) know the steps.
NUGGETS II: ORIGINAL ARTYFACTS FROM THE BRITISH EMPIRE AND BEYOND (1964-1969) – 9.5 – Lenny Kaye’s original U. S. NUGGETS comp gets most of the press, but the uncommon-even-for-Rhino care put into these four discs bring the set impressively close to its predecessor’s consistency. It’s interesting that the British Invasion giants cast a long shadow over both collections; where it’s the Yardbirds, Stones, and Beatles that haunt the U.S. version, it’s The Who whose presence dominates the British box. Or was it these bands that pushed The Who? It rocks, it trips, it gets a little twee or dotty at times–hey, it’s British!–but, mostly, it rocks. Recommended to seekers after the roots of Van Morrison, ELO, Yes, and many more. Secret weapon: The Creation!
Obnox/WIGLET – 8 – Lamont Thomas‘ music hits you like a runaway gar(b)age truck, like the Jesus and Mary Chain stripped of its candy. To my mind, you need a little of that every day just to feel really American, but Thomas’ reports are more specifically from Cleveland, which in the wake of Tamir Rice makes the medicine even more necessary. Surprise covers, too, from sources as diverse as Andre Williams and The Webs. I’ve said it before: Lamont’s the hardest-working man in punk rock.
Big Chief Juan Pardo and The Golden Comanche/SPIRIT FOOD – 8.8 – We are one day into Mardi Gras season, so let me advise you to buy a Mardi Gras Indian record every January. Currently, there are just about enough to get you to mid-century, and I’ve not heard one that’s bad, nor, despite the tendency for some chants to show up on nearly every tribe’s record, one that isn’t at least subtly distinct from the others. Such is the case here, where we get a vision of a Spy Boy rowing up the bayou in a pirogue and a guitar-touch of what Jelly Roll Morton called “The Spanish Tinge.” Speaking of, strong cases have been made that what we know and love as funk, soul, and r&b came straight out of this tradition, from a well maybe 215 years or more deep.
The Persuasions/SPREAD THE WORD – 8 – This ’72 gospel outing by the renowned a capella group is bookended by two halves of a bad pre-conversion Bob Dylan gospel song, but inside the sandwich are great examples of the irreverence for which they are too little known: a sly dig at a charismatic minister, an angry cry for a son lost to war and dope, a neat juxtaposition of flesh (“The Ten Commandments of Love”) and spirit (“The Lord’s Prayer”), an excavation of a prison song by The Larks, and a skeptical “Heaven Help Us All.” No surprise from a group that in the interim knocked Frank Zappa’s “The Meek Shall Inherit Nothing” out of the park. Every home needs a Persuasions rekkid.
Charlie Pickett & The Eggs/LIVE AT THE BUTTON – 8.5 – One very nasty Florida bar band. By nasty, I mean the attitude, the worldview, the guitar, and, sometimes, the sense of humor. 1982–needs a digital reissue.
Public Image Limited/WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS NOW IS… – 8.0 – Lydon’s grown into a Dutch uncle for the post-punk generation, unsurprisingly, and his new one is lifted by Mekon Lu Edmonds on guit and saz and new bassist Scott Firth. BUT–see ’em live on their current tour, and be astounded at how Edmonds and Firth pull together the wide-ranging sounds of Lydon’s post-Pistols career. Note: what the ellipsis leads to is…NSFW!
Pusha T/DARKEST BEFORE DAWN – 9 – From his thrilling sneer (thanks to Alfred Soto for that) to his lyrical inventiveness to his unerring flow, Norfolk, Virginia’s Terrence Thornton can blow away the most famous MCs like chaff. For the most part, he leaves the coke-rap behind (for the MOST part) and shares his thoughts about many contemporary concerns (my favorites are “F**k Donald and his pledge” and his vision of his mom maxin’ on vacation). And he’s only 38! Docked a point for being–too short.
Otis Rush/I’M SATISFIED: THE 1956-1962 COBRA, CHESS, AND DUKE RECORDINGS – 9.5 – The best collection of classic Rush currently available, though I will also point you to the excellent studio albums leading up to the stroke that’s taken him out. It’s got the annoyingly difficult-to-access “Homework” and (the original) “So Many Roads,” as well as the justifiably ultra-legendary “All Your Love (I Miss Loving)” and “I Can’t Quit You.” Thing is, they’re legendary for the string-bending, but Otis could sing out of the top of his head, with almost frightening passion, and his too-too relevant writing on “Double Trouble” might outlast all his tunes: “In this generation of millionaires/I can’t even find decent clothes to wear.”
Boz Scaggs/A FOOL TO CARE – 8 – God BLESS it, these comeback-cover exercises are so EASY even Don Henley can get away with them, especially when it’s the song-not-the-singer and the band’s crack. Boz’s degrees are not as silky as they usedta was, but he gets by on grit and feel, and with additional soul-dollops from women named Bonnie and Lucinda. Oh yeah, and the songs (originated by Mayfield, Green, Huey “Piano” Smith, and more good oles). But can we please call a moratorium on covers of Bobby Charles’ “Small Town Talk”?
Scarface/DEEPLY ROOTED– 8.5 – And he is. He is also a long-time practitioner of street psychoanalysis, and it’s clear from his perspective here that he is feeling the weight of twenty years of breaking down a g’s paranoia. And 2015 hasn’t helped. Get the BestBuy version with three worthy bonus tracks. For Brian Smarr.
Sonny Sharrock/GUITAR – 10 – One man, one guitar, who knows what effects, overwhelming beauty-in-chaos. Really, Hendrix’s inheritor–but his early death robbed our ears. In case you’re wondering, the guitar is PLUGGED IN.
The Sir Douglas Band/TEXAS TORNADO – 8.7 – It’s no secret I worship at Doug Sahm’s altar, and proudly, but somehow I’d overlooked this 1973 item he turned in for Jerry Wexler at Atlantic. This Rhino re-ish bumps the original releases’ 11 tracks up to 20, which, with the addition of a stellar cover of Ned Miller’s “From a Jack to a King,” some T-Bone blues, and the great lost single “I’m Just Tired Of Getting Burned,” turn a solid groove album to an intensely pleasurable really effin’ good one.
A SLICE OF SOUTHERN MUSIC– 9.5 – Never underestimate (or think you’re tired of) comps of Southern stuff. Here we have folks you know and folks you don’t, Booker T. Laury (see below) screwing the top off his hydrant-like piano, Jesse Mae Hemphill working her trance-y, Mississippi Hill Country magic, and Mose Williams demonstrating, what, the roots of Harry Partch?
Tyshawn Sorey/ALLOY – 8.8 – Easily one of the best jazz drummers and composers alive, he’s so committed to Morton Feldman and Zen that he almost (and sometimes literally) disappears from his own peaceful pieces. I mean that as a compliment.
Soulja Slim/THE STREETS MADE ME – 8.5 – Easily one of the best-produced albums ever to come out of NOLA’s Magnolia Projects (courtesy Beats By the Pound), it’s hard to listen to, knowing James Tapp didn’t live long enough to develop his already-unique flow further. Another claim: along with Mystikal, the only act under the Master P tent to hold up after a decade and a half.
Gary Stewart/GARY’S GREATEST – 9 – Forget Wayne Hancock–Stewart’s the closest to Hank we’ve seen in the last 50 years. This collection ain’t quite what’s advertised, but it is one of the few records that can induce me, at 53, to jump up and think I can sing. Then actually try. And fail. Inspirational Verse: “If someone else would tell me/What I already know in my mind/I’m afraid I’d start talkin’/With my fists….”
Sticky Fingaz/BLACK TRASH–THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF KIRK JONES – 8 – One of the most underrated concept albums in rap history, peaking with a desperate and deep conversation with God and featuring an early-career cameo from Eminem.
Cecil Taylor/THE WILLISAU CONCERT – 10 – Taylor dates are certainly not all alike. Here, the fidelity and piano are stellar, the intensity astonishing even for the supernatural then-70-year-old, the dynamic ideas his usual 53-card deck–and melodies that aren’t all micro. Not a bad place to start for the benighted.
Henry Townsend/MULE – 9.5 – In 1979, 50 years after making his first recordings, this blues multi-instrumentalist from Cairo, Illinois, and St. Louis, Missouri (by way of Mississippi), laid down the album of his life, with his vivacious, surprising, and rowdy piano holding off the staidness that has killed many such recordings over the last 40+ years. Good luck finding it, but, seekers, the quest will be worth it (I advise a browse to Discogs). And remember the words of Keith Richards: “It’s about the roll.” Which this has, in spades. As well as an inspired guest contribution from Yank Rachell.
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RIP ALLEN TOUSSAINT: SUGGESTIONS FOR THE BENIGHTED
Allen Toussaint/THE BRIGHT MISSISSIPPI – Toussaint ranges across jazz both from the Crescent City and elsewhere, with a nod to gospel. Great production by Joe Henry and absolutely crack accompaniment, not least by Allen’s own 88s. My only beef is that Henry didn’t include the classic “Tipitina and Me” that he got from Toussaint on the Katrina benefit OUR NEW ORLEANS (also a stone-stone-stone cold classic).
Allen Toussaint/SONGBOOK – It’s just Toussaint alone at the piano, rambling through his songbook, but here you get a great sense of his warm, peculiar, quiet personality, which matches his piano style, especially when he’s accompanying. Pick to click: A “Southern Nights” graced by a reminiscent reverie about his youthful home.
Lee Dorsey/YES WE CAN – Allen’s work with the great Lee Dorsey is fairly consistently amazing, but no release has gathered all the essentials (cross-licensing is a pain) to my satisfaction–Charly has made a good stab, and there’s an out-of-print, single-disc on Music Club that damn near does it. This one ain’t perfect, but it unites the winning singing of Dorsey, the inimitable funk of The Meters, and Toussaint’s marvelous piano, backup singing, some of his best tunes, and great arrangements.
THE MINIT/INSTANT STORY – Toussaint didn’t write, produce, or play on EVERYTHING here, but he was an influence on those he didn’t, and the bulk of the tracks define his seductive, good-humored, and gently soulful approach. The ultimate answer to the ill-considered theory that rock and roll died with Buddy Holly’s crash, Elvis’ enlistment, Chuck’s arrest, Jerry Lee-s black-balling, and Richard’s conversion. (If you can’t afford two discs, go for EMI’s single-disc FINGER-POPPIN’ AND STOMPIN’ FEET.)
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The Velvet Underground/THE COMPLETE MATRIX TAPES – 10 – This is why old farts like me are slow to rouse to new rock, punk, indie, or whatever bands. This, young farts, is the gold standard band, playing at the peak of its powers, with one of the greatest songwriters of all-time reveling in the midst of a period of amazing fecundity and making his guitar talk. For a four-disker, cheap. The sound is fabulous for a ’69 document, and even the stage patter is good. Pick a cool niece or nephew and gift ’em. Their lives might be changed by rock and roll.
VERY EXTREMELY DANGEROUS (directed by Paul Duane, 2012) – 8.5 – Sun Records-recorded Memphis reprobate Jerry McGill battles cancer, the director, his fiancee, his pharmaceutical demons and the rest of the world to a finish I can’t report. Difficult, but, like a car wreck, impossible not to watch. A must for fans of producer Robert Gordon’s IT CAME FROM MEMPHIS and William Eggleston’s STRANDED IN CANTON.
Sonny Boy Williamson/KEEP IT TO OURSELVES – 9.3 – The great harmonica player, singer, and bullshitter, not far from gone, recorded these tracks in 1963 in Denmark, with old pals Matt “Guitar” Murphy and Memphis Slim. The spare production pushes his verbal wit and instrumental genius to the fore–in fact, even if you ALREADY thought he could blow the hell out of a harp, you might easily recalibrate your amazement. As I was sharing with my wife the other night as we discussed how newer stuff stacked up to the old pros, if you’re strictly a Wolf/Muddy/Bo/Chuck/Buddy Chess Records listener, you best attend to Mr. Aleck Miller.
Wreckless Eric/AMEricA – 8.5 – The Brit who gave us the eternal “(I’d Go The) Whole Wide World” sounds as if little time has passed (instead of almost 40 years) on this wonderfully wry and sometimes troubled American travelogue. If you’re emotionally invested in boy bands or “white bread,” he may hurt your feelings–but has anyone else on the planet written a sad, beautiful song about “Sysco Trucks”?
X_X/ALBERT AYLER’S GHOST LIVE AT THE YELLOW GHETTO – 9.5 – Rude, crude, blunt, and socially unacceptable, this offering is more proof that Ohio is the secret capitol of rock and roll (paraphrasing my friend Ken, who knows). Their irreverent but loving title nod to Cleveland Heights’ own tenor giant makes Marc Ribot’s sound genteel; their farmer’s blows at Dylan and Young breath-takingly segue into unkempt rockers such as we ain’t heard much this year. And, before you know it, just like in the old days, it’s over.
JOE BUSSARD PRESENTS THE YEAR OF JUBILO–78 RPM RECORDINGS OF SONGS FROM THE CIVIL WAR– 9 – The world’s most enthusiastic old-time collector lays a social studies teacher’s dream at our feet. Discover the less-than-sober roots of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”–which also has roots in “John Brown’s Dream”! Celebrate (temporary) Emancipation not once but twice with two versions of “The Year of Jubilo”! Pass a whiskey bottle around and dance uncomfortably around the fire on “Rebel’s Hornpipe”! And thank whom- or whatever for Joe Bussard.
Seems like all I am doin’ is listing this year–many more things on my mind than writing. But I am listening, listening discerningly, listening hard, listening and dancing, listening around. One conclusion I have come to is that our citizens could coexist as intriguingly as these varied discs–maybe this list is a wish. Reader, give some of these a shot.
Jack DeJohnette: Made in Chicago (ECM)
Willie Nelson and Sister Bobbie: December Day (Legacy)
Kendrick Lamar: to pimp a butterfly (Aftermath)
Iris DeMent: The Trackless Woods (Flariella)
Africa Express: Terry Riley’s “In C”—Mali (Transgressive)
Kate Tempest: Everybody Down (Big Dada)
79rs Gang: Fiyo on the Bayou (Sinking City)
Nots: We Are Nots (Goner)
J. D. Allen: Graffiti (Savant)
Low-Cut Connie: Hi Honey (Ardent)
Mdou Moctar: Soundtrack to the film Akounak Tedalat Taha Tazoughai (Sahel Sounds)
Irene Schweizer and Han Bennink: Welcome Back (Intakt)
Sufjan Stevens: Carrie & Lowell (Asthmatic Kitty)
Heems: Eat Pray Thug (Megaforce)
The Paranoid Style: Rock and Roll Just Can’t Recall (self-released)
Courtney Barnett: Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit (Mom & Pop)
The Close Readers: The Lines are Open (Austin)
Tamikrest: Taksera (Glitterbeat)
Mammane Sani et son Orgue: La Musique Electronique du Niger (Sahel Sounds)
Shamir: Racket (XL)
Dead Moon: Live at Satyricon (Voodoo Doughnut)
Alex Chilton: Ocean Club ’77 (Norton)
Mbongwana Star: From Kinshasa (World Circuit)
Bob Dylan: Shadows in the Night (Sony)
Various Artists: Burn, Rubber City, Burn (Soul Jazz)
Henry Threadgill & Zooid: In for a Penny, In for a Pound (Pi)
Young Fathers: White Men are Black Men Too (Ninja Tune)
Big Chief Don Pardo and Golden Comanche: Spirit Food (self-released)
Coneheads: L.P. aka “14 Year Old High School PC–Fascist Hype Lords Rip Off Devo for the Sake of Extorting $$$ from Helpless Impressionable Midwestern Internet Peoplepunks L.P.” (Erste Theke Tontraeger)
Various Artists: The Red Line Comp (self-released)
Pop Staples: Don’t Lose This (Anti-)
Bob Marley & The Wailers: Easy Skankin’ in Boston, 1978 (Tuff Gong)
Sleater-Kinney: No Cities to Love (Sub Pop)
Leo Bud Welch: I Don’t Prefer No Blues (Big Legal Mess)
Mountain Goats: Beat the Champ (Merge)
Obnox: Know America (Ever/Never)
Vince Staples: Summertime ’06 (Def Jam)
Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard: Django & Jimmy (Legacy)
Bassekou Kouyate and Ngoni: Ba Power (Glitterbeat)
Vijay Iyer: Break Stuff (ECM)
J. B. Smith: No More Good Time in the World For Me (Dust-To-Digital)
Doomtree: All Hands (Doomtree)
The Sonics: This is The Sonics (Revox)
Kasey Musgraves: Pageant Material (Mercury)
The Falcons: The World’s First Soul Group—The Complete Recordings (History of Soul)
Sonny Simmons and Moksha Samnyasin: Nomadic (Svart)
Reactionaries: 1979 (Water Under the Bridge)
James McMurtry: Complicated Game (Complicated Game)
Continental Drifters: Drifted–In The Beginning & Beyond (Omnivore)
Swamp Dogg: The White Man Made Me Do It (S.D.E.G.)
Banging on the door: Kamasi Washington, Titus Andronicus, Beale Street Saturday Night reissue, and a Jason Isbell record that won’t leave me alone.
I apologize for not writing more this year–I’ve been distracted. But not too distracted to listen to a ton of great new music. I think there’s a little something for everyone here. Items are listed (roughly) in order of the quality I hear in them. That will change tomorrow, I am sure.
1. Jack DeJohnette: Made in Chicago (ECM)
2. Willie Nelson and Sister Bobbie: December Day (Legacy)
3. Kendrick Lamar: to pimp a butterfly (Aftermath)
4. Africa Express: Terry Riley’s “In C”—Mali (Transgressive)
5. Dead Moon: Live at Satyricon (Voodoo Doughnut)
6. Kate Tempest: Everybody Down (Big Dada)
7. 79rs Gang: Fiyo on the Bayou (Sinking City)
8. Nots: We Are Nots (Goner)
9. The Close Readers: The Lines are Open (Austin)
10. Low-Cut Connie: Hi Honey (Ardent
11. Sufjan Stevens: Carrie & Lowell (Asthmatic Kitty)
12. Heems: Eat Pray Thug (Megaforce)
13. The Paranoid Style: Rock and Roll Just Can’t Recall (self-released)
14. Courtney Barnett: Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit (Mom & Pop)
15. Bob Marley & The Wailers: Easy Skankin’ in Boston, 1978 (Tuff Gong)
16. Dwight Yoakam: Second Hand Heart (Warner Brothers)
17. Tamikrest: Taksera (Glitterbeat)
18. Shamir: Racket (XL)
19. Bob Dylan: Shadows in the Night (Sony)
20. Various Artists: Burn, Rubber City, Burn (Soul Jazz)
21. Henry Threadgill & Zooid: In for a Penny, In for a Pound (Pi)
22. Young Fathers: White Men are Black Men Too (Ninja Tune)
23. James McMurtry: Complicated Game (Complicated Game)
24. Big Chief Don Pardo and Golden Comanche: Spirit Food (self-released)
25. Swamp Dogg: The White Man Made Me Do It (S.D.E.G.)
26. Various Artists: The Red Line Comp (self-released)
27. Pop Staples: Don’t Lose This (Anti-)
28. Sleater-Kinney: No Cities to Love (Sub Pop)
29. Leo Bud Welch: I Don’t Prefer No Blues (Big Legal Mess)
30. Mountain Goats: Beat the Champ (Merge)
31. Obnox: Know America (Ever/Never)
32. Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard: Django & Jimmy (Legacy)
33. Bassekou Kouyate and Ngoni: Ba Power (Glitterbeat)
34. Vijay Iyer: Break Stuff (ECM)
35. Sonny Simmons and Moksha Samnyasin: Nomadic (Svart)
“When Pierre started this city He set the streets just for you and me But he never could have had all this in mind And if you’ve got the time, I’ve got the time….”
“I’m Your Mark,” (Will Saulsbery)
From his early days in the Frustrated Bachelors, through his days doing dirty work as a substitute high school teacher, to his current work in St. Louis’ Money for Guns, Will Saulsbery, the band’s principal writer and lead singer, has never yearned to get the hell out. As a nearly lifelong Missourian (like Will), I can testify that that is, in fact, a yearning one hears frequently, particularly from artistic types. I can definitely understand such a yearning; often, particularly when my mind drifts to our state’s legislature, I feel the state name should be spelled “M-I-S-E-R-Y.” What I like about Saulsbery and his band is that, in their music and words, they capture fairly vividly what it’s like to live here, without condescending, which, for all our growing resemblance to dubious states that shall remain nameless, would be a dick move.
Paradoxically, though, part of what makes one a Missourian is the desire to escape, however temporary that desire might burn. The album begins with “Dead, Drunk, and Pretty”‘s persona lost in a dream of New Orleans (are the referenced “gutter punks” from the dream, or on St. Louis streets?), and ends with a drawn-out, dope-sprung dream of El Dorado, in which a lover uncomfortably comforts his junkie paramour with the likely-doomed idea of cutting and running from St. Louis’ radiating gateway. It’s hard not to notice, though, the telling, unifying details that evince an admirable rootedness: of interstates out of Kansas, of hawks’ eyes, of trains (three references, not sure if one is a MetroLink), of the founding father Pierre Laclede, of cold-eyed live burials, and of straight-out declarations like “I can’t wait to see St. Louis again”–without its “TV or the gunmen.” I wonder if all of this is all that Missourian, or if it’s U.S.A. circa 2015. I think it’s Missouri. “The Catholic kids drowning this town” of “I’m Your Mark”–which, by the way, lead into another suggestion of leaving–might be the tip-off.
I don’t trust labels as far as music goes. They usually sell the creators short. 21st century Missouri seems most known for Nelly, Tech9 (sp?) and, vaguely, Americana. The former two rappers couldn’t be more different, though they are underrated in how of this place they are; the latter genre has to stretch a little to incorporate The Ben Miller Band, whatever Mark Bilyeu’s up to, Kentucky Knife Fight, and this group of ne’er-do-wells–just to name a few I know well. Kansas City, St. Louis, and Columbia all have their bohemias, but, from my experience, they don’t seem rooted in this place. What feels Missourian about Money for Guns is the touches of Americana, especially Dr. Todd Jones-Farrand’s mandolin, which doesn’t always do the usual things (check out his runs and comping on the at-times-punk-jazzy “Red High Heels”!), without the abandoning of a straight-ahead Midwestern kid’s love of straight-ahead rock and roll. Epitomizing this strategy (that seems like a cynical word, and I do not mean it that way) are the album’s two lead cuts, the title track, and the flat-out beauty quoted twice already, “I’m Your Mark.” I wouldn’t call a daringly extended piano-fueled coda “Americana”; I’d call it guts and growth. And vocals are sure enough music, as well; Saulsbery’s tenor has matured considerably from American Trash, where at times he seemed to be trying to catch the elusive (but fading) tail of Conor Oberst’s hyper-emotive star. On 21st Century Life, he’s content to let the natural tears (rhymes with “bears”) in his singing convey the matters of his Midwestern heart. I find that Kyle Kelley’s baritone changes of pace need a little work, a little nuance. But I don’t remember him taking verses or leads on the debut, so perhaps all he needs is time.
I really like this album. I can tell you from three listens that “Dead, Drunk, and Pretty” (the production of which shows up the rest of the album a shade), “Red High Heels,” and, especially, “I’m Your Mark”–a definition of the heart of the Midwest if anything I’ve heard is–are worthy of your downloading if you are just wanting to tire-kick or dip your toe in the Money for Guns pool. I would lay down a Jackson that the album will grow a layer of intensity performed live, so look for them in your town. And, thinking about the band’s (and the, um, auteur‘s) future, I will also wager that the opening out of this record into the wild air of the state’s streets, highways, and rails, from American Waste‘s dank and dangerous club interiors, indicates creative minds focused on more than just the song at hand. That is the sign of artistic endurance, folks.
Willie Nelson and Sister Bobbie: December Day (Legacy) – Still picks, sings, and writes better than professionals a quarter of his age. Nails down a concept album second only in 2015 to the next item–wait, maybe it is better. I can’t remember….
Kendrick Lamar: to pimp a butterfly (Aftermath)– Sprawling, manic depressive, multi-masked masterpiece seems to include voices of a whole city, plus 2Pac’s (from beyond the grave). Also, offers cautious consolation to the despairing and a quiet, level warning to the rest. What we were wanting from D’Angelo on Black Messiah, in a way, but didn’t really get. Bonus: Best employment of Robert Glaspar than even on Robert Glaspar albums.
Jack DeJohnette: Made in Chicago (ECM) – Never count an old jazzman out–never. Jack and Muhal Richard Abrams keep a loose lasso around reedmen Threadgill and Mitchell.
Kate Tempest: Everybody Down (Big Dada) – Skeptical about poetry with music? Me, too. Very. BIG exception that proves the rule.
79rs Gang: Fiyo on the Bayou (Sinking City) – 7th and 9th Ward NOLA Injuns join forces for one of the best Injun albums in years? Wait: there’s that many of them? YES. Also: support this label!
Low-Cut Connie: Hi Honey (Ardent) – Very weird, frequently funny indie roots band powered by sly boogie piano and an odd UK/US duo who always sport at least a Hollywood loaf.
The Close Readers: The Lines are Open (Austin) – New Zealand novelist-led band needs you only to do this to be hooked: click the link and follow along. “Hardcore” – Husker Du’s so loud… I can’t hear the engine failing Driving to your house Got a sense of trepidation/You tell me Bob Mould’s gay You read it in the paper But you say it in such a way Trying to cause me aggravation/I say I don’t care who he’s with Or if he does it upside down Zen Arcade’s still a gift it’s the record of our generation/So put on some Little Red Rooster Get some words from Thus Spake Zarathustra We’ll make another killer tape loop Our group is good Our group is strong Our group’s the greatest Group to come along/When you sat on the edge of my bed Leaned back against the wall Then you put your hand on my leg I said, Boy is that all? Boy, are you hard Are you really hardcore? Hardcore, hardcore, hardcore/Let’s put on some Minutemen Cos we need a change of pace You like Mike Watt’s laugh, George Hurley’s hair And D. Boon’s surprising, lovely, D Boon’s inviting, lovely D Boon’s kind, inviting face
Nots: We Are Nots (Goner) – Mean-mama punks from Memphis. I do mean “punk.”
Heems: Eat Pray Thug (Megaforce) – My favorite half of Das Rascist waxes a record that’s been needing to be made for 14 years.
Sleater-Kinney: No Cities to Love (Sub Pop) – They’re a bit too much of a sober, hectoring machine for me, but they give the drummer some, and does she give back.
Pop Staples: Don’t Lose This (Anti-) – They didn’t. Pops’ last session, and, yes, they got some shake on his guitar.
Ornette Coleman and New Vocabulary: New Vocabulary (System Dialing) – “New” means 2009, but we may not hear this certified genius again, and he’s in fine form bouncing off youngsters’ constructions, electronic and otherwise.
Bob Dylan: Shadows in the Night (Sony) – He’s my hero, but he’s a hustler. And this is a hustle. A very seductive one–and it ain’t no joke. Pick to click from Bizarro Ol’ Blue Eyes: “The Night We Called It A Day.”
The Paranoid Style: Rock and Roll Just Can’t Recall (self-released) – If you know who Wide Right was (Buffalo’s finest!) and Sally Timms is, and you’d like to hear a great song called “Master Jack,” step right up.
Courtney Barnett: Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit (Mom & Pop) – Clicked play gritting my teeth, came out of the last track charmed, delighted, satisfied. A smart, funny, and ebullient one from Oz.
Dead Moon: Live at Satyricon (Voodoo Doughnut) – It is not fair for me to review a Record Store Day exclusive, but maybe you can still get it. It’s only a well-recorded, intense live show from 1993 from the ultimate “family values” garage rockers of all-time–who happen to be playing some reunion dates. Long live the Coles and their drummers Andrew (Dead Moon) and Kelly (The Pierced Arrows).
Bob Marley & The Wailers: Easy Skankin’ in Boston, 1978 (Tuff Gong) – Do you need another live Marley record from this period, especially since the estate’s gonna release a bunch more? YES, when the times are like they are now, and when this concert opens with six intense calls to revolution that’d make 25,000 hackey sacks hit the ground and a legion of stoned frat boys turn tail.
Obnox: Know America (Ever/Never) – The hardest-working man in midwestern punk rock backs up his title command with nasty noise, wry imprecations, and music that’s seldom made like this by spades. His other (other?) 2015 album, Boogalou Reed (on 12XU), is only 1/119th less excellent. Don’t fight the raver who needs you (click here)!
Various Artists: Burn, Rubber City, Burn (Soul Jazz) – Akron: Future home of The Punk Rock Hall of Fame. Copies of this will be handed out at the grand opening. Yes, I know I have used the word punk several times in these descriptions–it’s deliberate and, as Roger Sterling would say about his mustache, “IT’S REAL!!!!” And it ain’t going away anytime soon.
Barry Hannah: i have no idea what tradition i’m in. don’t care. (The End of All Music) – It’s not a reading from one of Hannah’s many great stories. But his ramblings on sundry topics here are definitely rock and roll.
Note: I have been very inattentive to this blog. I do work two real jobs, but I have also been suffering from a lack of inspiration and the sneaking suspicion that it’s just not possible for me to capture the essence of a record as I would like. However, for some reason, I awakened this morning ready to peck and quip. I hope you see something you’re moved to hear.
It’s always tempting for the cooler-than-thou to think that the kids are out of touch with what’s really cool, but I would refer those misguided individuals to Local H’s “All the Kids Are Right,” and its warning line: “They won’t wear your t-shirts now.” Recently, the best thing about Kansas in this day and age, Woody Records, sent a package to Hickman High School’s Academy of Rock, hoping–daring–that some kids would sample the musical merch and find it…good. In fact, it happened. What follows is Hickman 10th grader Mackenzie Thomas’ take on Woody’s CD sampler–she makes the most of an opportunity I dreamed of at her age but had no way of making real (it was ’78–and neither the underground or technology had erupted)–and I think you’ll see a DECENT and fair music writer at work. Enjoy. And visit Woody Records. (The Editor.)
I am quite new to the lo-fi media scene, but the more I keep listening to the Woody Records Compilation disk, the more I begin to like it and understand the hard work put into it. This compilation contains fifteen tracks by various artists from the midwest area who are all a part of Woody Records, a small label out of Kansas. (Check out Woody Records’ Soundcloud page here to sample these artists yourself. – Ed.)
“If A Man Made A Machine” and “Mild Violence” by Fake Fancy, the first two tracks on the album, immediately caught my attention. “If A Man Made A Machine” has a sweet sound to it, and the rhythm moves to the same rate as my heartbeat. The song makes me feel alive. “Mild Violence” is a little heavier, with grooving bass and lyrics that are quick to the point, the singer stating that he has nothing, and no time for anything: “I’ve got nothing, I’ve got nothing, got nothing, but sunshine to keep me wide awake…” After hearing these two tracks, and assuming that a label would put the best of best on a compilation disk, I wouldn’t mind listening to more by Fake Fancy. Their songs seem to be short and sweet, and with fairly understandable lyrics.
It’s really hard for me to wrap my head around why a band would record and release a song where the vocals are so distorted that it’s impossible to understand what the singer is saying. For example, in “Salsa That One,” by Cucumber and the Suntans, the instrumental intro to the song started off nicely, but as soon as the vocals were added in, it became unenjoyable. All I could hear was “Wa, wa, wa ,wa…”– but that could possibly be the actual words to the song. Cucumber and the Suntans, however, redeem themselves with “Lifes,” a short, folksy tune that would be appealing to those listeners who spend their Sundays down at Cooper’s Landing south of Columbia, watching the muddy river flow by, a cold beer in hand and ears tuned into that weekend’s entertainment, usually something along the lines of country/folk/bluegrass/acoustic.
A doom rock/metal band by the name of Merlin takes their music a whole different direction than that of Cucumber and the Suntans. Their 11-minute instrumental track, “Christ Killer,” starts off with acoustic guitar for the first six minutes, then fades into eerie psychedelic rock. After listening to “Christ Killer,” I went on to listen to Merlin’s self-titled album , which consisted of “heavy hours of drinking, smoking, and worshiping the Dark Lord in a beer soaked, incense filled basement to produce our finest release to date. Implementing all the mystical, doomy, psychedelic, evil vibes from everything we’ve put out thus far, we have created a witches’ brew of all the Elements of MERLIN,” according to their Bandcamp page. Throughout their years of playing and making music together, they’ve seemed to maintain the same overall sound in their songs, while still creating new masterpieces each time.
I believe that Woody Records releases this lo-fi material because it’s cheaper on both the artist and the label, but it also sends out a creative vibe that is hard to find in albums by modern rock/pop artists. This album feels more natural because it hasn’t been auto-tuned and doesn’t consist of electronic beats and bass drops. There is definitely something special about lo-fi music–and this album. The Woody Records Compilation would be appealing to anyone who’s really open-minded about music and loves to support local musicians. This disk ranges from punk to electro-indie to psychedelic rock. It has something for everyone!
Mackenzie Thomas is a sophomore at David H. Hickman High School in Columbia, Missouri, the bass player in Graveyard Youth, and a member of that school’s Academy of Rock. This is her first professional review, and it’s five times better than my first one.
Living To Listen 