When people ask why I’ve moved to Louisville — twice — from bigger cities, I explain that, partly, it’s because of the local music universe. I say “universe” because “scene” is such a small, juvenile word for something so beautiful and weird.
Slint and My Morning Jacket were the highlights for me this year. Even in a town that loves to shout jokes and insults at anyone whose head might get too big, the skill and passion in each — especially Slint drummer Britt Walford and Jacket singer Jim James — was undeniable and thrilling.
In the clubs, Lucky Pineapple delighted with their inventive, exciting blend of styles and rhythms. Joe Manning stunned with his amazing voice and lyrics that are already being taught in universities and bars.
Others that always delivered include a.m. Sunday, Ayin, Elephant Micah, Jamie Barnes, The Photographic, Rachel's, Ronnie Mack and the I'll Beat Your Back Out Band, Scott Carney, Sean Garrison & the Five Finger Discount, Shipping News, Verktum and Your Black Star.
Freakwater finally returned. The Children are missed. Dick Sisto, Harry Pickens and Todd Hildreth fed my love of jazz piano. Tanita Gaines gave me the blues, and I thank her.
2006 promises new records by Follow the Train, Johnny Berry and the Outliers, Liberation Prophecy, The Merediths, Sapat and Second Story Man, plus the lost Pennies album!
There’s not enough space to write about each, or about two dozen other excellent groups. Go see and hear them all, as often as possible. There’s a universe happening here.
c. 2005 LEO Weekly
Friday, December 30, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Which Christmas records suck this year?
This is the season that never ends (it goes on and on, my friend)
Christmas never ends, even for those for whom it never begins. Although the monsoon of pointless gift offerings only saturates every inch of the Western world for two long, dreary months, in this essay I will focus my adorable rage on a handful of compact discs that you really shouldn’t buy, consider buying or … actually, don’t even read this. I get paid either way.
So much is asked of your attention these days, I ask — nay, beg — as a citizen of this great nation, as a seeker of truth and justice who loves our freedoms and salutes all those who have given of themselves so that you may fight over Beanie Babies or whatever else your kid will have forgotten about two months from now, I beg of you, please stop reading this now and go spread peace and love to your family, friends and pizza delivery guy. (The latter only applies if you’re a stoner, porn actor or both.)
The history of Christmas music is very long, and even longer if one focuses on all the misguided attempts to cash in on the American public’s shockingly consistent habit of buying annoying, phoned-in records that sound no better than the others already bought over the years.
Out of all of the embarrassments brought on by Christmas music, there are at least two types that are at the top of the bottom of the barrel: Jewish entertainers (Neil, Barbra, Barry, et al.) chasing after the same holiday dollars while celebrating a different holiday, all the while downplaying their own culture and beliefs and doing nothing (worse than nothing, actually) to educate and entertain people with their own catchy-but-tired anthems.
Then there’s the good, the talented, the inspired music makers who can do better — who only do better — slumming, either for what they perceive as a quick buck, or to announce that they are so established that they pretty much have to make a lame, pointless Christmas record that adds absolutely nothing new to the genre. What’s your favorite James Brown record? Ernest Tubb? Low? I didn’t think so.
Let’s get to some of what makes each of this year’s crop suck, individually:
The Brian Setzer Orchestra: Dig That Crazy Christmas CD/“Christmas Extravaganza” DVD (Surfdog)
If there’s one musician who makes me earn my pay, it’s Brian Setzer. Though I might say you couldn’t pay me to listen to his so very incredibly annoying shtick, I like getting a chance to remind potentially thousands of readers about just how unenjoyable his existence on this planet is. What Jim Belushi has contributed to comedy, Setzer has given to music. As a guitarist, he has a distinctive tone and his playing has improved over the years (how could it not?), but his Johnny Rockets/“Happy Days” retro show apologizes for every lazy, mediocre, safe aspect of modern life. Only Rupert Murdoch might be able to enjoy something so soulless.
Diana Krall: Christmas Songs (Verve)
Goodness, some targets are just so easy to hit it’s hardly worth it. Diana Krall’s main albums are already, basically, the literal embodiment of what’s wrong with Christmas records: tasteful, predictable, soothing to the point of numbness. Even the name of her Christmas songs album is uninspired. She’s been blessed with a deep, smoky voice (the voice that Joni Mitchell had to smoke for 40 years to earn), and has solid taste in collaborators (here she’s backed by the ever-solid Clayton-Hamilton Jazz Orchestra). While there isn’t much bad about Krall’s music, there isn’t anything great about it, and that’s terrible.
Marah: A Christmas Kind of Town (Yep Rock)
This generic bar band is best known for sounding so much like a band that sounds like a mid-1990s Bruce Springsteen record performed with late-’80s Springsteen energy, or alternately as a favorite of middle-aged pop critics who lost touch many years ago. This falls into the category of bands announcing their arrival, but it’s a premature announcement. Smartly, the band has made one of the shorter Christmas records around. I was even starting to get used to how much time I was wasting listening to it when it ended. While a handful of songs benefit from a melding of Polka beats and Celtic-punk rhythms — and isn’t that what you’re looking for this holiday season? — the rest is about as interesting as watching golf on TV on a pretty day.
New Grange: A Christmas Heritage (Compass)
Joining Diana Krall in the Starbucks-ready pile is this collection of talents for whom traditional bluegrass is too intense, but who lack enough imagination to improve upon it (including Darol Anger, Alison Brown, Tim O’Brien and more). It’s all very polite and competent, but fades into the background within seconds.
Umixit: U-Sing-It Christmas (Webster Hall NYC)
Finally, one disc that offers something: Load this into your computer, and use it as a karaoke disc! Now that’s fun for your whole talentless family!
Various: Taste of Christmas (War Content)
You know how teens can be really grating? Dumb, loud, completely self-absorbed? Not the cool ones, the ones with brains and potential — no, I just mean most of them. Imagine the most moronic of the lot trying out Christmas songs — Funeral for a Friend, Skindred, The Used, etc. This is just inexcusable.
Finally, I’m here to remind you that there’s only one Christmas record worth buying and worth listening to. Bing Crosby? If you must. Nat King Cole? Possibly. No, I’m talking about Vince Guaraldi’s "A Charlie Brown Christmas". If you know someone who doesn’t have one yet (deaf? foreigner? deaf foreigner?), be a friend, indeed. Spread peace and joy this holiday by giving them the only CD they’ll need to get through this, the most obnoxious time of year.
c. 2005 LEO Weekly
Christmas never ends, even for those for whom it never begins. Although the monsoon of pointless gift offerings only saturates every inch of the Western world for two long, dreary months, in this essay I will focus my adorable rage on a handful of compact discs that you really shouldn’t buy, consider buying or … actually, don’t even read this. I get paid either way.
So much is asked of your attention these days, I ask — nay, beg — as a citizen of this great nation, as a seeker of truth and justice who loves our freedoms and salutes all those who have given of themselves so that you may fight over Beanie Babies or whatever else your kid will have forgotten about two months from now, I beg of you, please stop reading this now and go spread peace and love to your family, friends and pizza delivery guy. (The latter only applies if you’re a stoner, porn actor or both.)
The history of Christmas music is very long, and even longer if one focuses on all the misguided attempts to cash in on the American public’s shockingly consistent habit of buying annoying, phoned-in records that sound no better than the others already bought over the years.
Out of all of the embarrassments brought on by Christmas music, there are at least two types that are at the top of the bottom of the barrel: Jewish entertainers (Neil, Barbra, Barry, et al.) chasing after the same holiday dollars while celebrating a different holiday, all the while downplaying their own culture and beliefs and doing nothing (worse than nothing, actually) to educate and entertain people with their own catchy-but-tired anthems.
Then there’s the good, the talented, the inspired music makers who can do better — who only do better — slumming, either for what they perceive as a quick buck, or to announce that they are so established that they pretty much have to make a lame, pointless Christmas record that adds absolutely nothing new to the genre. What’s your favorite James Brown record? Ernest Tubb? Low? I didn’t think so.
Let’s get to some of what makes each of this year’s crop suck, individually:
The Brian Setzer Orchestra: Dig That Crazy Christmas CD/“Christmas Extravaganza” DVD (Surfdog)
If there’s one musician who makes me earn my pay, it’s Brian Setzer. Though I might say you couldn’t pay me to listen to his so very incredibly annoying shtick, I like getting a chance to remind potentially thousands of readers about just how unenjoyable his existence on this planet is. What Jim Belushi has contributed to comedy, Setzer has given to music. As a guitarist, he has a distinctive tone and his playing has improved over the years (how could it not?), but his Johnny Rockets/“Happy Days” retro show apologizes for every lazy, mediocre, safe aspect of modern life. Only Rupert Murdoch might be able to enjoy something so soulless.
Diana Krall: Christmas Songs (Verve)
Goodness, some targets are just so easy to hit it’s hardly worth it. Diana Krall’s main albums are already, basically, the literal embodiment of what’s wrong with Christmas records: tasteful, predictable, soothing to the point of numbness. Even the name of her Christmas songs album is uninspired. She’s been blessed with a deep, smoky voice (the voice that Joni Mitchell had to smoke for 40 years to earn), and has solid taste in collaborators (here she’s backed by the ever-solid Clayton-Hamilton Jazz Orchestra). While there isn’t much bad about Krall’s music, there isn’t anything great about it, and that’s terrible.
Marah: A Christmas Kind of Town (Yep Rock)
This generic bar band is best known for sounding so much like a band that sounds like a mid-1990s Bruce Springsteen record performed with late-’80s Springsteen energy, or alternately as a favorite of middle-aged pop critics who lost touch many years ago. This falls into the category of bands announcing their arrival, but it’s a premature announcement. Smartly, the band has made one of the shorter Christmas records around. I was even starting to get used to how much time I was wasting listening to it when it ended. While a handful of songs benefit from a melding of Polka beats and Celtic-punk rhythms — and isn’t that what you’re looking for this holiday season? — the rest is about as interesting as watching golf on TV on a pretty day.
New Grange: A Christmas Heritage (Compass)
Joining Diana Krall in the Starbucks-ready pile is this collection of talents for whom traditional bluegrass is too intense, but who lack enough imagination to improve upon it (including Darol Anger, Alison Brown, Tim O’Brien and more). It’s all very polite and competent, but fades into the background within seconds.
Umixit: U-Sing-It Christmas (Webster Hall NYC)
Finally, one disc that offers something: Load this into your computer, and use it as a karaoke disc! Now that’s fun for your whole talentless family!
Various: Taste of Christmas (War Content)
You know how teens can be really grating? Dumb, loud, completely self-absorbed? Not the cool ones, the ones with brains and potential — no, I just mean most of them. Imagine the most moronic of the lot trying out Christmas songs — Funeral for a Friend, Skindred, The Used, etc. This is just inexcusable.
Finally, I’m here to remind you that there’s only one Christmas record worth buying and worth listening to. Bing Crosby? If you must. Nat King Cole? Possibly. No, I’m talking about Vince Guaraldi’s "A Charlie Brown Christmas". If you know someone who doesn’t have one yet (deaf? foreigner? deaf foreigner?), be a friend, indeed. Spread peace and joy this holiday by giving them the only CD they’ll need to get through this, the most obnoxious time of year.
c. 2005 LEO Weekly
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Bear Vs. Shark
Terrorhawk
(Equal Vision)
In the painful movie New York Minute, one of the Olsen Twins (the one who’s now sniffing away her fortune, not the one who’s dating a different greasy older guy every week) winds up at one of those MTV-coordinated concerts featuring some loser “punk” band (if not the one whose singer is dating Hillary Duff, then one whose singer should be).
That’s what came to mind as I forced myself to listen to this pablum.
In the wake of Nirvana’s success, I realized that their success was not breeding 15 more bands as good as them. No, instead it was breeding 15 terrible bands who tried to summon their spirit without understanding where the inspiration came from. Stone Temple Pilots, they’re elegant bachelors. Bush… Silverchair…
The pointless, pubescent whining of Bear Vs. Shark probably sounds fresh to a 15-year-old. This is the kind of music made by bored suburban boys. Not the ones who are anguished over the cruel nature of life, just the ones who feel like they don’t get enough attention from their parents.
Song titles include “I Fucked Your Dad” and “Rich People Say Fuck Yeah Hey Hey”.
c. 2005 LEO Weekly
(Equal Vision)
In the painful movie New York Minute, one of the Olsen Twins (the one who’s now sniffing away her fortune, not the one who’s dating a different greasy older guy every week) winds up at one of those MTV-coordinated concerts featuring some loser “punk” band (if not the one whose singer is dating Hillary Duff, then one whose singer should be).
That’s what came to mind as I forced myself to listen to this pablum.
In the wake of Nirvana’s success, I realized that their success was not breeding 15 more bands as good as them. No, instead it was breeding 15 terrible bands who tried to summon their spirit without understanding where the inspiration came from. Stone Temple Pilots, they’re elegant bachelors. Bush… Silverchair…
The pointless, pubescent whining of Bear Vs. Shark probably sounds fresh to a 15-year-old. This is the kind of music made by bored suburban boys. Not the ones who are anguished over the cruel nature of life, just the ones who feel like they don’t get enough attention from their parents.
Song titles include “I Fucked Your Dad” and “Rich People Say Fuck Yeah Hey Hey”.
c. 2005 LEO Weekly
Friday, September 16, 2005
Woody's Tavern
Address: 208 E. Burnett Ave. (at Brook), Old Louisville.
Small print: Open daily, 4 p.m. to 4 a.m.
Why you should go: If you've been driving through Old Louisville, seen the Woody Woodpecker cartoon sign outside and wondered what product was being sold, come on in. You might think it's a comic-book shop, or perhaps some other fun place.
It is, but it's fun for those 21 and over. Woody's Tavern is a place for like-minded adults to meet and get to know one another better over a few cold ones.
The bar was previously known as a rowdy offshoot of the neighboring Mag Bar, but it has been reborn. Too much rock ‘n‘ roll attitude has been replaced by a cleaner, more sedate and fabulous bar for men who would rather kiss other men than fight them.
PHOTOS BY DAVID P. HARPE
The live music has been replaced by extra pool tables, a fine opportunity to observe a new partner in motion. The carpet looks brand new, a bit of a shock initially but a welcome improvement.
"I would feel safer passing out here now than I would have before," slurred my drunken companion Hazel.
(I didn't go to Woody's with Hazel and Sally just to assert my own orientation, but it was nice to be able to socialize with female friends who weren't being ogled by anyone besides me.)
The drinks are reasonably priced and well-made. The service is prompt and friendly, and occasionally lacking in clothing.
The jukebox has been predictably overhauled; gone is the raucous underground rock music, replaced by Mariah and Cher and, well, you get the idea.
Bottom line: The best feature is the back patio area, retained from the previous incarnation and spiffed up with some very Miami-lookin' plant life. This fall, it should be a comfortable place to drink, talk and hear songs such as "You Sexy Thing" and "One Night in Bangkok."
Small print: Open daily, 4 p.m. to 4 a.m.
Why you should go: If you've been driving through Old Louisville, seen the Woody Woodpecker cartoon sign outside and wondered what product was being sold, come on in. You might think it's a comic-book shop, or perhaps some other fun place.
It is, but it's fun for those 21 and over. Woody's Tavern is a place for like-minded adults to meet and get to know one another better over a few cold ones.
The bar was previously known as a rowdy offshoot of the neighboring Mag Bar, but it has been reborn. Too much rock ‘n‘ roll attitude has been replaced by a cleaner, more sedate and fabulous bar for men who would rather kiss other men than fight them.
PHOTOS BY DAVID P. HARPE
The live music has been replaced by extra pool tables, a fine opportunity to observe a new partner in motion. The carpet looks brand new, a bit of a shock initially but a welcome improvement.
"I would feel safer passing out here now than I would have before," slurred my drunken companion Hazel.
(I didn't go to Woody's with Hazel and Sally just to assert my own orientation, but it was nice to be able to socialize with female friends who weren't being ogled by anyone besides me.)
The drinks are reasonably priced and well-made. The service is prompt and friendly, and occasionally lacking in clothing.
The jukebox has been predictably overhauled; gone is the raucous underground rock music, replaced by Mariah and Cher and, well, you get the idea.
Bottom line: The best feature is the back patio area, retained from the previous incarnation and spiffed up with some very Miami-lookin' plant life. This fall, it should be a comfortable place to drink, talk and hear songs such as "You Sexy Thing" and "One Night in Bangkok."
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Bejeezus 7 micro reviews
Alexander Hacke
“Sanctuary” (Kool Arrow)
Middle-aged German men shouldn’t try to make sound collages or industrial music, it’s way too expected of them. I bet he wears leather chaps when he goes to the ATM or when he pick up a pizza.
Boyracer
“Happenstance” (Happy Happy Birthday to Me)
More fast, short, sweet English indie punk pop from Boyracer. More Heavenly than The Fall. More Blur than Suede. Very Very English.
The Channel
“Personalized” (C-Side)
These guys are named Brent Pennington and Colby Pennington. That’s gotta be the preppiest thing I’ve ever heard. Wait, they cover Will Oldham’s “Black”? Maybe I should listen to this.
Well, here we are again. I’m reminded of a scene on BEAVIS AND BUTT-HEAD when the boys are stunned by the completely average competency of the video they’re watching. Unable to come up with anything especially harsh or praiseworthy to say, they mumble a bit before getting up to do something else.
Oh, and then their version of “Black” suggests that they lack any depth or understanding of life whatsoever.
Crystal Skulls
“Blocked Numbers” (Suicide Squeeze)
Crystal Skulls is all about immediately catchy, mid-tempo indie rock a la The Shins, and also some of the best early ‘80’s pop, like Men at Work. I’ve listened to this over and over again. They are so much more impressive than many other current baby bands simply because they’re not trying too hard to impress. Highly recommended if you enjoy music.
Del Cielo
“Us Vs. Them” (Lovitt)
Oh boy. They’re a bit slick. Corporate rock still sucks. The singer can’t sing very well. This would’ve been on a major label in 1993. Uh, did I mention that they have a song called “Joe Goth”?
DMBQ
“The Essential Sounds from the Far East” (Estrus)
Not NRBQ, and thankfully not anything to do with Dave Matthews. This, the Dynamite Masters Blues Quartet, is classic ‘70’s rock played by 2004 Japanese guys. It’s pretty good. Not too noisy, not too generic, but ultimately not too interesting. This would sound pretty good in the background at a mildly enjoyable party.
French Toast
“In a Cave” (Dischord)
Jimmy Canty of The Make-Up and Jerry Busher of Fugazi. Together they are French Toast. Together they are obviously still deeply in love with early ‘80’s post-punk: The Wipers, Devo, Joy Division, Mission of Burma… It gets softer and more modern indie along the way – light, airy keyboards, warm emotive vocals. Hopefully they’ll perfect the balance next time out. Oh, and there’s a D.C. dub groove thrown in, just in case you forgot about their Fugazi associations. Recommended.
Goon Moon
“I Got a Brand New Egg Layin’ Machine” (Suicide Squeeze)
Get yr head around this one: Twiggy Ramirez of Marilyn Mason, Zach Hill of Hella, and QOTSA producer and Masters of Reality leader Chris Goss… The good news is that Hella’s kookily inventive instrumental assault wins out over the bloated cock rock of Mr. Ramirez and the subtler cock rock of Mr. Goss. It was good at first until the Kraftwerk-ish piece with the vocoder voices chanting, “Rock weird, weird rock.” Yeah, thanks, dudes, I didn’t get it until you pointed it out to me. And then the next one is about mashed potatoes and cream. The best thing Frank Zappa ever did wasn’t music, it was dying.
Guapo
“Black Oni” (Ipecac)
The ‘70’s ponytail prog sounds of King Crimson, Yes, etc. played with modern aggression. Also a very good soundtrack for a psychological thriller movie. Good to drive to.
Hanin Elias
“Future Noir” (Fatal)
A Marianne Faithfull for the Digital Hardcore generation, Hanin Elias has grown beyond her early association with Atari Teenage Riot and is beginning to emerge as a promising singer/songwriter, part PJ Harvey but still part dated trip-hop singer. This is what Jennifer Connelly’s character is DARK CITY should’ve sounded like. Still, I can’t really recommend this one.
The Jessica Fletchers
“Less Sophistication” (Rainbow Quartz)
Good but derivative. Midwestern power pop (Cheap Trick with only 1 testicle) / late 60’s British Invasion pop; oft-bouncy, perfectly enjoyable sunny summer fun time music. Probably wouldn’t be so easy to typecast if the singer wasn’t a nasally, trying-to-be-John-Lennon type. I guess I’d recommend it if there weren’t dozens of better versions of this stuff already available.
Oh, and thanks for lowering the bar on band names, guys. That’s gotta be the lamest ‘80’s reference yet.
Lydia Lunch
“Smoke in the Shadows” (Atavistic)
It’s shocking, just how terrible this is. This might be the worst record ever made. Imagine if your grandmother thought she was Raymond Chandler and Miles Davis at the same time. Then imagine her rapping.
Mixel Pixel
“Contact Kid” (Kanine)
This is some pretty nice bedroom indie pop/rock. Not much more to say about it – fuzzy guitars, dashes of keyboards, dude sounds like he’s around 22. I like Pavement, too.
The Paper Chase
“God Bless Your Black Heart” (Kill Rock Stars)
Shit sandwich.
Pit Er Pat
“Shakey” (Thrill Jockey)
This keyboard-driven pop band, which only owes every moment of their existence to Blonde Redhead, had the good sense to name their record properly. Due to the prominence of the keyboards and the lack of a guitar, this made me feel like I was on a ship, and I needed to drink something pink to make my tummy feel better.
The Sharp Ease
“Going Modern” (olfactory / Soft Spot)
Only the debut record by the best band in L.A. (Not that there’s a lot of competition). They’re young and female, they’re smart and bratty and know what they’re doing. The record doesn’t capture the crazy chaos of their frenetic live shows, but instead highlights their surprisingly poppy songwriting skills and tight-knit rock telepathy. It’s not the huge leap that the Germs accomplished with “G.I.”, but I hope 25 years from now people will still be listening to The Sharp Ease.
Some Girls
“The DNA Will Have Its Say” (Three.One.G)
San Diego spazz noise rock. 7 songs in 7 minutes. The vocals are shouty like hardcore but I bet they all have stylish haircuts.
Z’s
“Karate Bump” EP (Planaria)
Free Jazz.
Either you live for it or it’ll bug you.
“Sanctuary” (Kool Arrow)
Middle-aged German men shouldn’t try to make sound collages or industrial music, it’s way too expected of them. I bet he wears leather chaps when he goes to the ATM or when he pick up a pizza.
Boyracer
“Happenstance” (Happy Happy Birthday to Me)
More fast, short, sweet English indie punk pop from Boyracer. More Heavenly than The Fall. More Blur than Suede. Very Very English.
The Channel
“Personalized” (C-Side)
These guys are named Brent Pennington and Colby Pennington. That’s gotta be the preppiest thing I’ve ever heard. Wait, they cover Will Oldham’s “Black”? Maybe I should listen to this.
Well, here we are again. I’m reminded of a scene on BEAVIS AND BUTT-HEAD when the boys are stunned by the completely average competency of the video they’re watching. Unable to come up with anything especially harsh or praiseworthy to say, they mumble a bit before getting up to do something else.
Oh, and then their version of “Black” suggests that they lack any depth or understanding of life whatsoever.
Crystal Skulls
“Blocked Numbers” (Suicide Squeeze)
Crystal Skulls is all about immediately catchy, mid-tempo indie rock a la The Shins, and also some of the best early ‘80’s pop, like Men at Work. I’ve listened to this over and over again. They are so much more impressive than many other current baby bands simply because they’re not trying too hard to impress. Highly recommended if you enjoy music.
Del Cielo
“Us Vs. Them” (Lovitt)
Oh boy. They’re a bit slick. Corporate rock still sucks. The singer can’t sing very well. This would’ve been on a major label in 1993. Uh, did I mention that they have a song called “Joe Goth”?
DMBQ
“The Essential Sounds from the Far East” (Estrus)
Not NRBQ, and thankfully not anything to do with Dave Matthews. This, the Dynamite Masters Blues Quartet, is classic ‘70’s rock played by 2004 Japanese guys. It’s pretty good. Not too noisy, not too generic, but ultimately not too interesting. This would sound pretty good in the background at a mildly enjoyable party.
French Toast
“In a Cave” (Dischord)
Jimmy Canty of The Make-Up and Jerry Busher of Fugazi. Together they are French Toast. Together they are obviously still deeply in love with early ‘80’s post-punk: The Wipers, Devo, Joy Division, Mission of Burma… It gets softer and more modern indie along the way – light, airy keyboards, warm emotive vocals. Hopefully they’ll perfect the balance next time out. Oh, and there’s a D.C. dub groove thrown in, just in case you forgot about their Fugazi associations. Recommended.
Goon Moon
“I Got a Brand New Egg Layin’ Machine” (Suicide Squeeze)
Get yr head around this one: Twiggy Ramirez of Marilyn Mason, Zach Hill of Hella, and QOTSA producer and Masters of Reality leader Chris Goss… The good news is that Hella’s kookily inventive instrumental assault wins out over the bloated cock rock of Mr. Ramirez and the subtler cock rock of Mr. Goss. It was good at first until the Kraftwerk-ish piece with the vocoder voices chanting, “Rock weird, weird rock.” Yeah, thanks, dudes, I didn’t get it until you pointed it out to me. And then the next one is about mashed potatoes and cream. The best thing Frank Zappa ever did wasn’t music, it was dying.
Guapo
“Black Oni” (Ipecac)
The ‘70’s ponytail prog sounds of King Crimson, Yes, etc. played with modern aggression. Also a very good soundtrack for a psychological thriller movie. Good to drive to.
Hanin Elias
“Future Noir” (Fatal)
A Marianne Faithfull for the Digital Hardcore generation, Hanin Elias has grown beyond her early association with Atari Teenage Riot and is beginning to emerge as a promising singer/songwriter, part PJ Harvey but still part dated trip-hop singer. This is what Jennifer Connelly’s character is DARK CITY should’ve sounded like. Still, I can’t really recommend this one.
The Jessica Fletchers
“Less Sophistication” (Rainbow Quartz)
Good but derivative. Midwestern power pop (Cheap Trick with only 1 testicle) / late 60’s British Invasion pop; oft-bouncy, perfectly enjoyable sunny summer fun time music. Probably wouldn’t be so easy to typecast if the singer wasn’t a nasally, trying-to-be-John-Lennon type. I guess I’d recommend it if there weren’t dozens of better versions of this stuff already available.
Oh, and thanks for lowering the bar on band names, guys. That’s gotta be the lamest ‘80’s reference yet.
Lydia Lunch
“Smoke in the Shadows” (Atavistic)
It’s shocking, just how terrible this is. This might be the worst record ever made. Imagine if your grandmother thought she was Raymond Chandler and Miles Davis at the same time. Then imagine her rapping.
Mixel Pixel
“Contact Kid” (Kanine)
This is some pretty nice bedroom indie pop/rock. Not much more to say about it – fuzzy guitars, dashes of keyboards, dude sounds like he’s around 22. I like Pavement, too.
The Paper Chase
“God Bless Your Black Heart” (Kill Rock Stars)
Shit sandwich.
Pit Er Pat
“Shakey” (Thrill Jockey)
This keyboard-driven pop band, which only owes every moment of their existence to Blonde Redhead, had the good sense to name their record properly. Due to the prominence of the keyboards and the lack of a guitar, this made me feel like I was on a ship, and I needed to drink something pink to make my tummy feel better.
The Sharp Ease
“Going Modern” (olfactory / Soft Spot)
Only the debut record by the best band in L.A. (Not that there’s a lot of competition). They’re young and female, they’re smart and bratty and know what they’re doing. The record doesn’t capture the crazy chaos of their frenetic live shows, but instead highlights their surprisingly poppy songwriting skills and tight-knit rock telepathy. It’s not the huge leap that the Germs accomplished with “G.I.”, but I hope 25 years from now people will still be listening to The Sharp Ease.
Some Girls
“The DNA Will Have Its Say” (Three.One.G)
San Diego spazz noise rock. 7 songs in 7 minutes. The vocals are shouty like hardcore but I bet they all have stylish haircuts.
Z’s
“Karate Bump” EP (Planaria)
Free Jazz.
Either you live for it or it’ll bug you.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Bulldog Cafe
Address: Bulldog Cafe, 10619 W. Manslick Road, Fairdale.
Small print: Generally open Mondays through Thursdays from 5 until 11 p.m. or so, with bluegrass jam sessions on Mondays and Thursdays and country music on Wednesdays.
Why you should go: Fans of Christopher Guest's movies need to be targeted by the organizers of the Bulldog Cafe's bluegrass nights. Authentic folk music, as depicted in Guest's movie "A Mighty Wind," is intertwined here with unique characters.
On a recent Monday night I had the pleasure of meeting a man cradling his tiny white dog, a la Paris Hilton.
My fellow music lover and drinker, Sally, complimented the tiny white dog. This led to a lengthy monologue on the subject of dog shows (as seen in Guest's movie "Best in Show").
PHOTO BY CHRIS HALL
The musicians were indeed friendly and welcoming, and shifted from old mountain songs to baby boomer favorites like the Beatles and Queen ("Fat Bottomed Girls" is even better played by men with white hair on acoustic instruments, if you didn't already know).
I have good reason to suspect that they began performing pop songs to please Sally, a younger woman.
Occasionally, the venue is host to loud rock concerts. A weekly goth night ended after a very brief run; it's not really that sort of neighborhood, you see.
The room is big and smells of many nights of drinkin', smokin' and rockin' (though smokin' is no longer permitted inside).
The video games haven't been updated in 20-some years, and if you're looking for a drink that isn't a beer -- well, I already told you it's not that sort of neighborhood. Did you forget already?
Bottom line: Beer, music, friends … what are you waiting for? A written invitation? Well, here it is. Fairdale's just around the corner. You tell me a better way to spend a Monday night.
Small print: Generally open Mondays through Thursdays from 5 until 11 p.m. or so, with bluegrass jam sessions on Mondays and Thursdays and country music on Wednesdays.
Why you should go: Fans of Christopher Guest's movies need to be targeted by the organizers of the Bulldog Cafe's bluegrass nights. Authentic folk music, as depicted in Guest's movie "A Mighty Wind," is intertwined here with unique characters.
On a recent Monday night I had the pleasure of meeting a man cradling his tiny white dog, a la Paris Hilton.
My fellow music lover and drinker, Sally, complimented the tiny white dog. This led to a lengthy monologue on the subject of dog shows (as seen in Guest's movie "Best in Show").
PHOTO BY CHRIS HALL
The musicians were indeed friendly and welcoming, and shifted from old mountain songs to baby boomer favorites like the Beatles and Queen ("Fat Bottomed Girls" is even better played by men with white hair on acoustic instruments, if you didn't already know).
I have good reason to suspect that they began performing pop songs to please Sally, a younger woman.
Occasionally, the venue is host to loud rock concerts. A weekly goth night ended after a very brief run; it's not really that sort of neighborhood, you see.
The room is big and smells of many nights of drinkin', smokin' and rockin' (though smokin' is no longer permitted inside).
The video games haven't been updated in 20-some years, and if you're looking for a drink that isn't a beer -- well, I already told you it's not that sort of neighborhood. Did you forget already?
Bottom line: Beer, music, friends … what are you waiting for? A written invitation? Well, here it is. Fairdale's just around the corner. You tell me a better way to spend a Monday night.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
South San Gabriel
"The Carlton Chronicles: Not Until the Operation's Through"
(Misra)
I thought I liked this record, but now that I've had to think about what I want to tell you righteous people about "The Carlton Chronicles: Not Until the Operation's Through," I think that I don't. How sad.
"The Carlton Chronicles" is a concept record. About a sick cat. I like cats. Concept records ... not too often. At least the cat doesn't play pinball.
South San Gabriel, the more-popular-in-Europe spinoff group from shambling Texas indie rockers Centro-matic, fuses aspects of quiet folk/Americana strumming with the even slower atmospheric textures of bands like Low and Codeine, bands whose names at least tell you what you're getting into.
Though South San Gabriel is still playing in the indie leagues, one of the songs ("The Dark of Garage") suddenly breaks out into an electro-pop beat reminiscent of the Postal Service. The whole thing smacks of a bossman begging them to come up with "a hit, just gimme a single I can work at radio!"
Then there's "Stupid Is As Stupid Does," the title of which will be familiar to anyone who's seen "Forrest Gump." This whole record is such a tragically bad idea that it might sound like a classic 30 years from now. If that happens, we'll enjoy it then.
South San Gabriel made a record a couple of years ago called "Welcome, Convalescence." It's real pretty. Skip this one; this cat doesn't need you.
(Misra)
I thought I liked this record, but now that I've had to think about what I want to tell you righteous people about "The Carlton Chronicles: Not Until the Operation's Through," I think that I don't. How sad.
"The Carlton Chronicles" is a concept record. About a sick cat. I like cats. Concept records ... not too often. At least the cat doesn't play pinball.
South San Gabriel, the more-popular-in-Europe spinoff group from shambling Texas indie rockers Centro-matic, fuses aspects of quiet folk/Americana strumming with the even slower atmospheric textures of bands like Low and Codeine, bands whose names at least tell you what you're getting into.
Though South San Gabriel is still playing in the indie leagues, one of the songs ("The Dark of Garage") suddenly breaks out into an electro-pop beat reminiscent of the Postal Service. The whole thing smacks of a bossman begging them to come up with "a hit, just gimme a single I can work at radio!"
Then there's "Stupid Is As Stupid Does," the title of which will be familiar to anyone who's seen "Forrest Gump." This whole record is such a tragically bad idea that it might sound like a classic 30 years from now. If that happens, we'll enjoy it then.
South San Gabriel made a record a couple of years ago called "Welcome, Convalescence." It's real pretty. Skip this one; this cat doesn't need you.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Twista / Nappy Roots
The possibilities and the realities of mainstream America were on display Friday night at the state fair.
While Wonder Bread poster teen Hilary Duff was at Freedom Hall, proving that cartoons can sometimes come to life, Twista and Nappy Roots came to Cardinal Stadium to show what can happen when hard work is applied to basic, occasionally inspired talent.
Nappy Roots, the pride of Bowling Green's hip-hop community, hit the stage after a stirring introduction -- which had to be repeated after they comically missed their cue.
They almost didn't need music. Between consistent shout-outs to Kentucky and especially Louisville, one might think that they were natives of Louisville instead of Bowling Green.Nappy Roots worked hard at being the most popular guys at the block party. While Twista sold himself as a benevolent "classic pimp," Nappy Roots were confident enough to just be real.
When you've got a handsome R. Prophet in a cowboy hat, taking off his shirt to reveal a muscular chest, dripping with sweat in near 100-degree temperatures, the ladies don't care what song you're playing.
If, at the same time, you've got the heaviest member of the group, Big V, taking off one of his dripping shirts, assuring the male portion of the audience that they're not in such bad shape after all… well, we can all relax.
Their stage show was well-paced, though occasionally contradictory. Some tunes seemed to require the type of choreography usually seen performed by pop boy bands, while others required random wandering.
A freestyle portion of the show, seemingly well-scripted, served mostly to highlight the abilities of the preppily attired Skinny DeVille, the most likely candidate for solo stardom.
The rousing song "Roun' the Globe" had the majority of the large crowd on their feet, bouncing and shouting along to the sort-of locals done good.
All that, and they even risked losing the momentum of their non-stop to set to stop for a few minutes and promote literacy.
And proud we are of all of them.
Twista, crowned the world's fastest rapper by the Guinness Book of World Records, is enjoying the late-blooming success he's found in recent years. The 15-year Chi-town veteran commanded the stage and continued to receive the love that the crowd had shown his openers, despite being in the second hour of a very hot -- in more than one meaning of the term -- concert.
Twista rapped extremely fast. He rapped moderately fast. He performed "Slow Jamz", his hit tribute to the subgenre known to get you in the mood. The crowd, both young and old, responded with dance moves appropriate (and, in some cases, not so appropriate) for their age groups.
He also paid tribute to fallen hip-hoppers. He sampled Ozzy Osbourne and Luther Vandross. He pulled out some old school material. Then he pulled out another jam "for the ladies," "So Sexy."
Despite using an unimpressive bullet sound effect between songs, Twista kept it mostly family-friendly. In fact, the whole show was an impressive display of how to give a large range of people a fun night of dancing and singing without having to rely on shock value – or on a manufactured TV star better known for her smile than for her musical talent.
While Wonder Bread poster teen Hilary Duff was at Freedom Hall, proving that cartoons can sometimes come to life, Twista and Nappy Roots came to Cardinal Stadium to show what can happen when hard work is applied to basic, occasionally inspired talent.
Nappy Roots, the pride of Bowling Green's hip-hop community, hit the stage after a stirring introduction -- which had to be repeated after they comically missed their cue.
They almost didn't need music. Between consistent shout-outs to Kentucky and especially Louisville, one might think that they were natives of Louisville instead of Bowling Green.Nappy Roots worked hard at being the most popular guys at the block party. While Twista sold himself as a benevolent "classic pimp," Nappy Roots were confident enough to just be real.
When you've got a handsome R. Prophet in a cowboy hat, taking off his shirt to reveal a muscular chest, dripping with sweat in near 100-degree temperatures, the ladies don't care what song you're playing.
If, at the same time, you've got the heaviest member of the group, Big V, taking off one of his dripping shirts, assuring the male portion of the audience that they're not in such bad shape after all… well, we can all relax.
Their stage show was well-paced, though occasionally contradictory. Some tunes seemed to require the type of choreography usually seen performed by pop boy bands, while others required random wandering.
A freestyle portion of the show, seemingly well-scripted, served mostly to highlight the abilities of the preppily attired Skinny DeVille, the most likely candidate for solo stardom.
The rousing song "Roun' the Globe" had the majority of the large crowd on their feet, bouncing and shouting along to the sort-of locals done good.
All that, and they even risked losing the momentum of their non-stop to set to stop for a few minutes and promote literacy.
And proud we are of all of them.
Twista, crowned the world's fastest rapper by the Guinness Book of World Records, is enjoying the late-blooming success he's found in recent years. The 15-year Chi-town veteran commanded the stage and continued to receive the love that the crowd had shown his openers, despite being in the second hour of a very hot -- in more than one meaning of the term -- concert.
Twista rapped extremely fast. He rapped moderately fast. He performed "Slow Jamz", his hit tribute to the subgenre known to get you in the mood. The crowd, both young and old, responded with dance moves appropriate (and, in some cases, not so appropriate) for their age groups.
He also paid tribute to fallen hip-hoppers. He sampled Ozzy Osbourne and Luther Vandross. He pulled out some old school material. Then he pulled out another jam "for the ladies," "So Sexy."
Despite using an unimpressive bullet sound effect between songs, Twista kept it mostly family-friendly. In fact, the whole show was an impressive display of how to give a large range of people a fun night of dancing and singing without having to rely on shock value – or on a manufactured TV star better known for her smile than for her musical talent.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Kern's Korner
An ol' charmer
Kern's Korner is a home away from home
Address: Kern's Korner, 2600 Bardstown Road, across from the amazing Homemade Ice Cream & Pie Kitchen.
Small print: Open daily from 9 a.m. to around midnight, later if the crowd is good. Forget the Bambi Walk -- if you really want to impress and/or scare me, spend all 15 hours here one day!
Why you should go: Do I have to tell you why you should go home? No, you go because you love your family and they love you, even though you're a no-good screw-up who hasn't given them grandkids to dote on yet.
Just like at home, they'll feed you at Kern's; it ain't gourmet cookin' here, no no no, but it sure does taste good, like when you were 10 and all you cared about was playing basketball in the driveway with Nick and Charlie and Momma called you in for supper.
The sign outside reads, "Kern's Korner Sandwiches," but I pity the salesman traveling through who misses out on the burgers or the chili. Now isn't that Louisvillian of them, to throw you off track and be humble about their claim to fame? Your meal just might come back on you 20 minutes later, but that's part of the fun … right?
PHOTO BY CHRIS HALL
Being locally owned for decades, they love the horses, as we all do. The proud display of old photos led my dining companion, Jefrey, to announce, "The picture of the horse being washed is kinda sexy. …" Seeing the reaction upon my face, he added, "Not to me, though," with a nervous weasel laugh.
The clock behind the bar tells you one thing about the regulars: I'm not sure why Viagra made a bunch of clocks and distributed them, but it gave me something to ponder.
At Kern's, I feel like a child again, not just because of the home-cooked charm of the food, but because most of the lunch crowd is old enough to be my father. I don't think Ed Asner and Norman Mailer were in town recently, but their doppelgangers were.
At night the crowd gets younger … but not by much. Friendly thirtysomethings not quite ready to try their pick-up lines at Jim Porter's practice them here on the weekends. If your hair's not too big, don't worry, they'll let you be.
Bottom line: Kern's Korner is an ol' charmer, a li'l slice of Germantown for those closer to the southern end of Bardstown Road. If anything I said about it sounds like anything less than high praise, well, that's your fault. I'm just glad they didn't name it "Kern's Korner Kafe."
Kern's Korner is a home away from home
Address: Kern's Korner, 2600 Bardstown Road, across from the amazing Homemade Ice Cream & Pie Kitchen.
Small print: Open daily from 9 a.m. to around midnight, later if the crowd is good. Forget the Bambi Walk -- if you really want to impress and/or scare me, spend all 15 hours here one day!
Why you should go: Do I have to tell you why you should go home? No, you go because you love your family and they love you, even though you're a no-good screw-up who hasn't given them grandkids to dote on yet.
Just like at home, they'll feed you at Kern's; it ain't gourmet cookin' here, no no no, but it sure does taste good, like when you were 10 and all you cared about was playing basketball in the driveway with Nick and Charlie and Momma called you in for supper.
The sign outside reads, "Kern's Korner Sandwiches," but I pity the salesman traveling through who misses out on the burgers or the chili. Now isn't that Louisvillian of them, to throw you off track and be humble about their claim to fame? Your meal just might come back on you 20 minutes later, but that's part of the fun … right?
PHOTO BY CHRIS HALL
Being locally owned for decades, they love the horses, as we all do. The proud display of old photos led my dining companion, Jefrey, to announce, "The picture of the horse being washed is kinda sexy. …" Seeing the reaction upon my face, he added, "Not to me, though," with a nervous weasel laugh.
The clock behind the bar tells you one thing about the regulars: I'm not sure why Viagra made a bunch of clocks and distributed them, but it gave me something to ponder.
At Kern's, I feel like a child again, not just because of the home-cooked charm of the food, but because most of the lunch crowd is old enough to be my father. I don't think Ed Asner and Norman Mailer were in town recently, but their doppelgangers were.
At night the crowd gets younger … but not by much. Friendly thirtysomethings not quite ready to try their pick-up lines at Jim Porter's practice them here on the weekends. If your hair's not too big, don't worry, they'll let you be.
Bottom line: Kern's Korner is an ol' charmer, a li'l slice of Germantown for those closer to the southern end of Bardstown Road. If anything I said about it sounds like anything less than high praise, well, that's your fault. I'm just glad they didn't name it "Kern's Korner Kafe."
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Todd Hildreth with Craig Wagner & Chris Fitzgerald
Todd Hildreth Accordion Trio
(Groovy Todd)
Yeah, that's right, accordion.
Todd Hildreth, the pianist renowned for his jazz performances, has two new recordings. One’s a piano jazz trio, but this one is what it says it is.
This is lady and the tramp sharing spaghetti music. This is cotton candy at the State Fair music. Post-modern cartoon music. Comparisons are unavoidable, albeit unfortunate. This is serious music, played with whimsy and a lack of inhibition.
Bassist Fitzgerald provides nimble, consistent support, especially on Blue Monk". Wagner stands out on guitar: almost as good as Django, if not quite AS beautiful.
The trio speeds through "You and the Night and the Music", landing somewhere between polka and bluegrass. Hildreth's accordion playing on "The Days of Wine and Roses" suggests a saxophone, Dexter Gordon alone in Paris. All three shine equally on a contemplative “Stella by Starlight”. Crowded House's “Don’t Dream It's Over” is a nice try, but suffers without vocals. "Body and Soul" might have been better served by a piano but is still romantic.
c. 2005 LEO Weekly
(Groovy Todd)
Yeah, that's right, accordion.
Todd Hildreth, the pianist renowned for his jazz performances, has two new recordings. One’s a piano jazz trio, but this one is what it says it is.
This is lady and the tramp sharing spaghetti music. This is cotton candy at the State Fair music. Post-modern cartoon music. Comparisons are unavoidable, albeit unfortunate. This is serious music, played with whimsy and a lack of inhibition.
Bassist Fitzgerald provides nimble, consistent support, especially on Blue Monk". Wagner stands out on guitar: almost as good as Django, if not quite AS beautiful.
The trio speeds through "You and the Night and the Music", landing somewhere between polka and bluegrass. Hildreth's accordion playing on "The Days of Wine and Roses" suggests a saxophone, Dexter Gordon alone in Paris. All three shine equally on a contemplative “Stella by Starlight”. Crowded House's “Don’t Dream It's Over” is a nice try, but suffers without vocals. "Body and Soul" might have been better served by a piano but is still romantic.
c. 2005 LEO Weekly
Friday, August 05, 2005
Boozseller at the Executive West
Living up to its name
Hotel's Boozseller is a charming throwback
Address: The Boozseller at the Executive West, 830 Phillips Lane
Small print: Open daily from around 2 p.m. until midnight or 1 a.m., depending on the crowd.
Why you should go: It's like going back to the womb … the sexy, sleazy, drunken womb.
The Boozseller has been inside the Executive West for 30-odd years. Apparently it's retained the original furnishings, making it equally thrilling for lovers of architecture and design and lovers of vintage kitsch. It's like a ski lodge, but if you go outside you'll see our airport instead of the mountains of Ketchum, Idaho.
The chairs are old, thick, plush and red. There's a fireplace -- it's fake, but when the Boozseller was considering removing it, the regulars complained.
That's right, the bar in the hotel next to the airport has regulars. I think I'm becoming one of them.
PHOTO BY JAMIE RHODES
I haven't even seen Randy Meyers yet. Apparently he's a one-man band who plays on a stage behind the bar. The setting brings to mind the Country Bear Jamboree, only this is Charles Bukowski's Disneyland.
The room is large -- big enough for a wedding, bar mitzvah or Lebowski Fest.
If you want to get romantic, there are some booths tucked away in the back that are very good for getting to know someone better, or planning a coup (or, if you're extremely romantic, both).
The service is excellent. As I sat down, the bartender offered me the TV remote, something that that sullen character at Freddie's would never consider. When his replacement came on, she immediately announced that she was having a bad day: "I was about to kill my man."
Regardless, it did not affect her performance.
Bottom line: The Executive West is a family-owned business surrounded by chains. The hotel's Web site brags of visits from everyone from Foghat to Patrick Swayze to President Nixon. The Boozseller is as weirdly enjoyable as the name suggests. It's an awesomely American institution that deserves another visit.
Hotel's Boozseller is a charming throwback
Address: The Boozseller at the Executive West, 830 Phillips Lane
Small print: Open daily from around 2 p.m. until midnight or 1 a.m., depending on the crowd.
Why you should go: It's like going back to the womb … the sexy, sleazy, drunken womb.
The Boozseller has been inside the Executive West for 30-odd years. Apparently it's retained the original furnishings, making it equally thrilling for lovers of architecture and design and lovers of vintage kitsch. It's like a ski lodge, but if you go outside you'll see our airport instead of the mountains of Ketchum, Idaho.
The chairs are old, thick, plush and red. There's a fireplace -- it's fake, but when the Boozseller was considering removing it, the regulars complained.
That's right, the bar in the hotel next to the airport has regulars. I think I'm becoming one of them.
PHOTO BY JAMIE RHODES
I haven't even seen Randy Meyers yet. Apparently he's a one-man band who plays on a stage behind the bar. The setting brings to mind the Country Bear Jamboree, only this is Charles Bukowski's Disneyland.
The room is large -- big enough for a wedding, bar mitzvah or Lebowski Fest.
If you want to get romantic, there are some booths tucked away in the back that are very good for getting to know someone better, or planning a coup (or, if you're extremely romantic, both).
The service is excellent. As I sat down, the bartender offered me the TV remote, something that that sullen character at Freddie's would never consider. When his replacement came on, she immediately announced that she was having a bad day: "I was about to kill my man."
Regardless, it did not affect her performance.
Bottom line: The Executive West is a family-owned business surrounded by chains. The hotel's Web site brags of visits from everyone from Foghat to Patrick Swayze to President Nixon. The Boozseller is as weirdly enjoyable as the name suggests. It's an awesomely American institution that deserves another visit.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Jamie Barnes
"Honey from the Ribcage"
(Silber Records)
When Jamie Barnes appeared on this year's "Louisville Is for Lovers" compilation, some local music fans were surprised. The disc featured Valentine's Day-themed songs by many familiar local acts, but Barnes wasn't one of the better known. Many feel that he stole the show.
Turns out he already had one disc out, "The Fallen Acrobat." There's nothing new about his approach — the whispered, intimate, confessional sounds of Iron and Wine and Simon & Garfunkel, Elliott Smith and Nick Drake; it's the sound of a teenager placing a midnight phone call to the girl he likes, hoping not to get caught by a strict parent.
At times, Barnes purposely toughens up his sound by layering junkyard percussion, toy keyboards and Muppet banjo. The effect answers the previously unasked question, "What would John Denver have sounded like if he had followed Tom Waits' career path?" (I should probably clarify that, unlike some music critics, I like John Denver, though not as much as I like Tom Waits.)
Barnes is still finding his way; his experimental urges might be an attempt to cover self-consciousness about how pretty and dreamy his songs actually are. While such tendencies are to be commended, he might benefit from letting some songs go naked. Lyrically, he goes the easy way too often. An original lyric like "Pearly Gate & Son Pest Control" stands out in contrast to the pained metaphors found in "Snow Angel" and "Oil Rig."
Barnes is maintaining a prolific performance schedule locally while he works on his next record. Further experience and maturity can only deepen and expand on his lovely, necessary music.
(Silber Records)
When Jamie Barnes appeared on this year's "Louisville Is for Lovers" compilation, some local music fans were surprised. The disc featured Valentine's Day-themed songs by many familiar local acts, but Barnes wasn't one of the better known. Many feel that he stole the show.
Turns out he already had one disc out, "The Fallen Acrobat." There's nothing new about his approach — the whispered, intimate, confessional sounds of Iron and Wine and Simon & Garfunkel, Elliott Smith and Nick Drake; it's the sound of a teenager placing a midnight phone call to the girl he likes, hoping not to get caught by a strict parent.
At times, Barnes purposely toughens up his sound by layering junkyard percussion, toy keyboards and Muppet banjo. The effect answers the previously unasked question, "What would John Denver have sounded like if he had followed Tom Waits' career path?" (I should probably clarify that, unlike some music critics, I like John Denver, though not as much as I like Tom Waits.)
Barnes is still finding his way; his experimental urges might be an attempt to cover self-consciousness about how pretty and dreamy his songs actually are. While such tendencies are to be commended, he might benefit from letting some songs go naked. Lyrically, he goes the easy way too often. An original lyric like "Pearly Gate & Son Pest Control" stands out in contrast to the pained metaphors found in "Snow Angel" and "Oil Rig."
Barnes is maintaining a prolific performance schedule locally while he works on his next record. Further experience and maturity can only deepen and expand on his lovely, necessary music.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
The Flaming Lips
The Fearless Freaks
(Shout! Factory)
This is the last new pop/rock story left to tell on film: 1) band works hard, 2) band members get weirder, better and more beloved 20 years after their humble beginnings, and 3) everyone in the band lives happily ever after.
The Flaming Lips' story is not completely free of clichés, but you won't see them on "Behind the Music" or "Hit Me Baby One More Time."
The Fearless Freaks, a movie assembled over 15 years by friend and collaborator Bradley Beesley, is closer in spirit to Crumb, the documentary about artist R. Crumb and his tortured brothers.
Charismatic leader Wayne Coyne and charisma-free bassist Michael Ivins started the band with a rotating cast in Oklahoma in 1983.
Initially too-inspired by the Southwestern acid-fried country punk of the Meat Puppets and the Butthole Surfers, by 1991 the Flaming Lips' art project turned into something bigger and better.
While Nirvana and Lollapalooza were redefining the potential of goofy, freaky pop music, Coyne and Ivins recruited percussionist Steven Drozd, a multitalented multi-instrumentalist.
Butthole Surfer Gibby Haynes, who shows up mostly to accuse Coyne of stealing his act, is asked what Coyne's greatest asset is. He laughs and replies, "Steven."
Despite the common perception of the band members as druggies, Coyne is revealed to be a sober workaholic, able to live up to the Butthole Surfers' early potential in part by not succumbing to the drugs that hobbled the latter band.
While Coyne is the voice, persona and ringmaster, Drozd is shown as the truly inspired music maker.
For several years, however, Drozd was addicted to drugs. Filmmaker Beesley's intimate relationship with the band allowed him a trust no one else could've achieved, culminating in a frank discussion with Drozd about his sickness as he prepares to inject heroin.
In addition, we meet the families of Coyne and Drozd. Both were raised in poor families in which drugs were prevalent, a setting that led brothers of both men to addiction and jail time.
Despite the sometimes bleak problems, the band continues to revitalize itself and evolve into the happiest show on Earth.
Ninety minutes goes by without even mentioning their appearance on Beverly Hills, 90210, but there's enough gripping material even without it.
(Shout! Factory)
This is the last new pop/rock story left to tell on film: 1) band works hard, 2) band members get weirder, better and more beloved 20 years after their humble beginnings, and 3) everyone in the band lives happily ever after.
The Flaming Lips' story is not completely free of clichés, but you won't see them on "Behind the Music" or "Hit Me Baby One More Time."
The Fearless Freaks, a movie assembled over 15 years by friend and collaborator Bradley Beesley, is closer in spirit to Crumb, the documentary about artist R. Crumb and his tortured brothers.
Charismatic leader Wayne Coyne and charisma-free bassist Michael Ivins started the band with a rotating cast in Oklahoma in 1983.
Initially too-inspired by the Southwestern acid-fried country punk of the Meat Puppets and the Butthole Surfers, by 1991 the Flaming Lips' art project turned into something bigger and better.
While Nirvana and Lollapalooza were redefining the potential of goofy, freaky pop music, Coyne and Ivins recruited percussionist Steven Drozd, a multitalented multi-instrumentalist.
Butthole Surfer Gibby Haynes, who shows up mostly to accuse Coyne of stealing his act, is asked what Coyne's greatest asset is. He laughs and replies, "Steven."
Despite the common perception of the band members as druggies, Coyne is revealed to be a sober workaholic, able to live up to the Butthole Surfers' early potential in part by not succumbing to the drugs that hobbled the latter band.
While Coyne is the voice, persona and ringmaster, Drozd is shown as the truly inspired music maker.
For several years, however, Drozd was addicted to drugs. Filmmaker Beesley's intimate relationship with the band allowed him a trust no one else could've achieved, culminating in a frank discussion with Drozd about his sickness as he prepares to inject heroin.
In addition, we meet the families of Coyne and Drozd. Both were raised in poor families in which drugs were prevalent, a setting that led brothers of both men to addiction and jail time.
Despite the sometimes bleak problems, the band continues to revitalize itself and evolve into the happiest show on Earth.
Ninety minutes goes by without even mentioning their appearance on Beverly Hills, 90210, but there's enough gripping material even without it.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Frankfort Avenue Beer Depot
Address: Frankfort Ave. Beer Depot, 3204 Frankfort Ave.
Small print: Open 10 a.m. until 1, 2, 4 a.m. … depends on the night and how busy it is.
Why you should go: Beerhalla!
I'm not sure if this is a legally binding term, but this is what anyone who knows anything will say if you mention this place.
How does one review a bar when the subject in question is hardly a bar? The question isn't posed as an insult; I'd recommend the Beer Depot to pretty much everybody, but I often forget that it's a bar.
They have beer, yes, fear not. Situated as they are in a moderately well-off residential neighborhood that's more St. Matthews than Crescent Hill, the owners of the Frankfort Avenue Beer Depot made their best decision when they installed a nine-hole miniature golf course and pingpong table in the back. Where else can you go for such activities late at night?
PHOTOS BY DURELL HALL JR.
The pingpong table dominates the back, where it becomes a focal point for all who wish to play or observe. Unlike some bars, where one pool table can turn a big room into a claustrophobic traffic jam, here the pingpong table is a benevolent king. It allows for enough room to sit and enjoy, but that is all.
You can play miniature golf, but prepare to feel like a red-headed stepchild. No one cares about your silly little game, even if there's no table tennis to watch.
Why you should think twice: Walking into the front room, the bar room, always reminds me of walking into a South Florida tourist trap, especially during the summer. Men older than you and I (and even less in touch with current fashion developments) hold court, loudly discussing those topics that are discussed only by men of a certain age, including but not limited to politics, football and "gitting-R-done".
As much as I enjoy a cold beer, sometimes I want something else. Sometimes I need something that will dull the pain of everyday life in a Red State just a little bit. The Beer Depot offers only beer. This, to me, is an offense similar to listening only to the Beatles' early records. Sure, they're pretty good, but there's even greater greatness out there.
Bottom line: You like to play sports, but you're hanging out at a bar in Louisville so you're probably not quite as good as Babe Ruth or Magic Johnson. At least you can play some pingpong while you suck down that reasonably priced beer.
Small print: Open 10 a.m. until 1, 2, 4 a.m. … depends on the night and how busy it is.
Why you should go: Beerhalla!
I'm not sure if this is a legally binding term, but this is what anyone who knows anything will say if you mention this place.
How does one review a bar when the subject in question is hardly a bar? The question isn't posed as an insult; I'd recommend the Beer Depot to pretty much everybody, but I often forget that it's a bar.
They have beer, yes, fear not. Situated as they are in a moderately well-off residential neighborhood that's more St. Matthews than Crescent Hill, the owners of the Frankfort Avenue Beer Depot made their best decision when they installed a nine-hole miniature golf course and pingpong table in the back. Where else can you go for such activities late at night?
PHOTOS BY DURELL HALL JR.
The pingpong table dominates the back, where it becomes a focal point for all who wish to play or observe. Unlike some bars, where one pool table can turn a big room into a claustrophobic traffic jam, here the pingpong table is a benevolent king. It allows for enough room to sit and enjoy, but that is all.
You can play miniature golf, but prepare to feel like a red-headed stepchild. No one cares about your silly little game, even if there's no table tennis to watch.
Why you should think twice: Walking into the front room, the bar room, always reminds me of walking into a South Florida tourist trap, especially during the summer. Men older than you and I (and even less in touch with current fashion developments) hold court, loudly discussing those topics that are discussed only by men of a certain age, including but not limited to politics, football and "gitting-R-done".
As much as I enjoy a cold beer, sometimes I want something else. Sometimes I need something that will dull the pain of everyday life in a Red State just a little bit. The Beer Depot offers only beer. This, to me, is an offense similar to listening only to the Beatles' early records. Sure, they're pretty good, but there's even greater greatness out there.
Bottom line: You like to play sports, but you're hanging out at a bar in Louisville so you're probably not quite as good as Babe Ruth or Magic Johnson. At least you can play some pingpong while you suck down that reasonably priced beer.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
David Mead
Wherever You Are
(Eleven Thirty)
There’s a difference between passion and self-absorption. Both involve shouting, but, usually, only one deserves it. David Mead is self-absorbed.
His most recent record, Indiana, showed that he can improve with age. On this EP, recorded in 2002 and delayed due to a corporate merger, he continues to pump out more middle-of-the-road corporate pop; he’s one of the better contributors to this genre, but the operative word here would be "middle". While more notable than college freshmen favorites like Dave Matthews or Jack Johnson, Mead lacks the more inventive, literary qualities of Death Cab for Cutie and the emotional overflow of early U2.
It's hard to get too upset by Mead's music. He could, technically, be duller. He tries, and deserves a little bit of goodwill for that. He probably feels pretty good about how earnestly – and often – he shares and shares his internal rollercoaster with whoever wishes to listen. He probably has something to share with someone, though he doesn’t have anything new to say. I haven’t seen that Kirsten Dunst tennis movie, but I’d bet that some of these songs would be not too obtrusive in a romantic montage in a Kirsten Dunst tennis movie. However, I need more.
c. 2005 LEO Weekly
(Eleven Thirty)
There’s a difference between passion and self-absorption. Both involve shouting, but, usually, only one deserves it. David Mead is self-absorbed.
His most recent record, Indiana, showed that he can improve with age. On this EP, recorded in 2002 and delayed due to a corporate merger, he continues to pump out more middle-of-the-road corporate pop; he’s one of the better contributors to this genre, but the operative word here would be "middle". While more notable than college freshmen favorites like Dave Matthews or Jack Johnson, Mead lacks the more inventive, literary qualities of Death Cab for Cutie and the emotional overflow of early U2.
It's hard to get too upset by Mead's music. He could, technically, be duller. He tries, and deserves a little bit of goodwill for that. He probably feels pretty good about how earnestly – and often – he shares and shares his internal rollercoaster with whoever wishes to listen. He probably has something to share with someone, though he doesn’t have anything new to say. I haven’t seen that Kirsten Dunst tennis movie, but I’d bet that some of these songs would be not too obtrusive in a romantic montage in a Kirsten Dunst tennis movie. However, I need more.
c. 2005 LEO Weekly
Friday, June 10, 2005
Bentley's
Address: Bentley's Restaurant & Lounge at the Holiday Inn, 120 W. Broadway.
Small print: Open 11-1 a.m. daily. Happy hour is Monday through Friday, 5 to 7 p.m.
Why you should go: In a town where some people frequent the same bars every night, Bentley's is a cozy hideaway where you're guaranteed not to run into your ex or that guy you just kicked out of the band.
Plus, if you're looking to meet someone new -- having already dated every ear X-tacy clerk and Lynn's server -- you just might meet a sexy, bored young sales rep from Tacoma, Wash., who's here for only two days.
Why you should think twice: It's a fairly basic room. No billiards or jukebox or lizards under glass here, just cable TV. If you just want to drink and watch Comedy Central, maybe you should buy a six-pack and stay home.
Why you should still go: It's an oddly attractive room; one can imagine that the production designer of "The Brady Bunch" drew up the plans. With a little imagination you might be able to trick yourself into believing that you're on vacation.
PHOTO BY DAVID HARPE
It might seem like a safe, predictable environment, but on my second visit I found myself being counseled by a Vietnam War veteran on -- how do you say this? -- what I needed to learn if I wanted to keep my woman happy. He also told my companion, Sally, that she reminded him of his late wife, except that Sally wasn't "wearing Daisy Dukes and a tube top."
When our new friend became too much fun, the friendly bartender, Mike, was quick to usher him out of the establishment without causing a scene.
Bottom line: If you're looking for something a bit off the beaten path, but right in front of your nose, or if you're looking for something obvious that might contain hidden treasures for those willing to look, Bentley's is an above-average hotel bar.
I hear they serve some food, too, but that's beside the point. Why anyone would go to the Holiday Inn for a steak is beyond me, but I suspect that some people wouldn't think to go there for a Bourbon & Ginger, either, and they'd be missing out.
Small print: Open 11-1 a.m. daily. Happy hour is Monday through Friday, 5 to 7 p.m.
Why you should go: In a town where some people frequent the same bars every night, Bentley's is a cozy hideaway where you're guaranteed not to run into your ex or that guy you just kicked out of the band.
Plus, if you're looking to meet someone new -- having already dated every ear X-tacy clerk and Lynn's server -- you just might meet a sexy, bored young sales rep from Tacoma, Wash., who's here for only two days.
Why you should think twice: It's a fairly basic room. No billiards or jukebox or lizards under glass here, just cable TV. If you just want to drink and watch Comedy Central, maybe you should buy a six-pack and stay home.
Why you should still go: It's an oddly attractive room; one can imagine that the production designer of "The Brady Bunch" drew up the plans. With a little imagination you might be able to trick yourself into believing that you're on vacation.
PHOTO BY DAVID HARPE
It might seem like a safe, predictable environment, but on my second visit I found myself being counseled by a Vietnam War veteran on -- how do you say this? -- what I needed to learn if I wanted to keep my woman happy. He also told my companion, Sally, that she reminded him of his late wife, except that Sally wasn't "wearing Daisy Dukes and a tube top."
When our new friend became too much fun, the friendly bartender, Mike, was quick to usher him out of the establishment without causing a scene.
Bottom line: If you're looking for something a bit off the beaten path, but right in front of your nose, or if you're looking for something obvious that might contain hidden treasures for those willing to look, Bentley's is an above-average hotel bar.
I hear they serve some food, too, but that's beside the point. Why anyone would go to the Holiday Inn for a steak is beyond me, but I suspect that some people wouldn't think to go there for a Bourbon & Ginger, either, and they'd be missing out.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Joe Manning
The Chapel of the Bear
(Roller Rink Rampage Records)
You probably lost faith in music long ago. Yes, it's become harder than ever to find something that'll make your hairs stand up. If you'd been in Tyler Park one night last summer, though, you could've found religion in the music of one man, Joe Manning.
As he sang songs in the park's tunnel, Manning assumed several archetypes: preacher, prophet, gambler, seducer, lover and mourner. His music seems to have been born at the weird American crossroads where the blues, folk and bluegrass meet and merge after a few drinks. Recording outdoors for the resulting album, The Chapel of the Bear, was a great idea; the creatures constantly chirping in the background will appeal to some but might prove too distracting to others.
Manning is in his late 20s but aware of what has come before him. An a cappella version of a folk song, "A-Roving on a Winter's Night," compares well to earlier versions although it takes a confident singer to go where the likes of Doc Watson have gone before. His deep voice is rugged and weary, an uncommon beauty unafraid of exposure and judgment. Bruce Springsteen's "Nebraska" album is a clear inspiration, sharing an inventive storytelling style as well as a hushed, sepia-toned sound.
"Fall Easy," a Sunday song, falls short of the Velvet Underground's "Sunday Morning," but not by much. Second Story Man's Carrie Neumayer duets on the opener, "The Storm King & the Queen of Burning Little Hearts," providing the perfect partner for Manning. The sparks generated by the heat between the pair is enough to maintain a campfire all night long.
Louisville owes a debt to whichever time traveler went back to the Gold Rush era and found this guy.
(Roller Rink Rampage Records)
You probably lost faith in music long ago. Yes, it's become harder than ever to find something that'll make your hairs stand up. If you'd been in Tyler Park one night last summer, though, you could've found religion in the music of one man, Joe Manning.
As he sang songs in the park's tunnel, Manning assumed several archetypes: preacher, prophet, gambler, seducer, lover and mourner. His music seems to have been born at the weird American crossroads where the blues, folk and bluegrass meet and merge after a few drinks. Recording outdoors for the resulting album, The Chapel of the Bear, was a great idea; the creatures constantly chirping in the background will appeal to some but might prove too distracting to others.
Manning is in his late 20s but aware of what has come before him. An a cappella version of a folk song, "A-Roving on a Winter's Night," compares well to earlier versions although it takes a confident singer to go where the likes of Doc Watson have gone before. His deep voice is rugged and weary, an uncommon beauty unafraid of exposure and judgment. Bruce Springsteen's "Nebraska" album is a clear inspiration, sharing an inventive storytelling style as well as a hushed, sepia-toned sound.
"Fall Easy," a Sunday song, falls short of the Velvet Underground's "Sunday Morning," but not by much. Second Story Man's Carrie Neumayer duets on the opener, "The Storm King & the Queen of Burning Little Hearts," providing the perfect partner for Manning. The sparks generated by the heat between the pair is enough to maintain a campfire all night long.
Louisville owes a debt to whichever time traveler went back to the Gold Rush era and found this guy.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
The Photographic
The Photographic
(self-released)
The first recording by The Photographic is something to behold. The duo, Louisville's newest in an increasingly long line of thrilling instrumental wanderers, may be the most promising new local band to emerge this year.
The college-age pair play simple-seeming riffs which they build and then build some more, creating a warm swirl of sound that envelopes the listener in a violently happy hug. This is the kind of music that encourages you to do some of the work, a soundtrack to a movie that hasn’t been filmed yet. I like to imagine corpulent politicians chasing frightened unicorns, but you might see a loving couple sailing to Barbados. Either way works.
Two songs are based around guitars/bass/drums, but a third, "An Oceanographer's Lament", utilizes an offbeat keyboard instead of a guitar, suggesting a baroque classical music inspiration in addition to the expected post-rock influences. Drummer Chad Blevins's rock style, powerful when necessary, complements partner Jamey See Tai's more cerebral approach to his various instruments.
Local fans of Parlour and The Children are advised to seek out The Photographic. Best, try to see them live around town.
c. 2005 LEO Weekly
(self-released)
The first recording by The Photographic is something to behold. The duo, Louisville's newest in an increasingly long line of thrilling instrumental wanderers, may be the most promising new local band to emerge this year.
The college-age pair play simple-seeming riffs which they build and then build some more, creating a warm swirl of sound that envelopes the listener in a violently happy hug. This is the kind of music that encourages you to do some of the work, a soundtrack to a movie that hasn’t been filmed yet. I like to imagine corpulent politicians chasing frightened unicorns, but you might see a loving couple sailing to Barbados. Either way works.
Two songs are based around guitars/bass/drums, but a third, "An Oceanographer's Lament", utilizes an offbeat keyboard instead of a guitar, suggesting a baroque classical music inspiration in addition to the expected post-rock influences. Drummer Chad Blevins's rock style, powerful when necessary, complements partner Jamey See Tai's more cerebral approach to his various instruments.
Local fans of Parlour and The Children are advised to seek out The Photographic. Best, try to see them live around town.
c. 2005 LEO Weekly
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Instant Camera
Alive on Departure
(Wall to Wall Records)
Instant Camera is a Louisville band with plenty of potential. Like fellow locals VHS or Beta, they sound like they might have emerged in New York or in a large, stylish European city. The band's sound has much in common with New York fashion rockers Interpol and The Strokes, as well as British dance rockers Franz Ferdinand and Bloc Party.
Instant Camera is a rock band without any obvious debt to blues music, but there are echoes of 1980s music. Bouncy American New Wavers like Devo and Oingo Boingo pop up at times, as well as gloomy English buzzkillers such as Peter Murphy or Killing Joke.
What gives Instant Camera an edge on similar groups is its ability to draw inspiration from yet another source: hints of the theatrical German cabaret style emerge in the last songs, "Terrorvision" and "Hearing Is Disbelieving."
As the fashion and dance-rock scenes fall into the dustbin of our recent history, let's hope this band continues to evolve and surprise.
(Wall to Wall Records)
Instant Camera is a Louisville band with plenty of potential. Like fellow locals VHS or Beta, they sound like they might have emerged in New York or in a large, stylish European city. The band's sound has much in common with New York fashion rockers Interpol and The Strokes, as well as British dance rockers Franz Ferdinand and Bloc Party.
Instant Camera is a rock band without any obvious debt to blues music, but there are echoes of 1980s music. Bouncy American New Wavers like Devo and Oingo Boingo pop up at times, as well as gloomy English buzzkillers such as Peter Murphy or Killing Joke.
What gives Instant Camera an edge on similar groups is its ability to draw inspiration from yet another source: hints of the theatrical German cabaret style emerge in the last songs, "Terrorvision" and "Hearing Is Disbelieving."
As the fashion and dance-rock scenes fall into the dustbin of our recent history, let's hope this band continues to evolve and surprise.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
X
The Unheard Music
(Image)
X was one of the great rock groups of the 1980s but probably doesn't mean anything to music fans under 30 today. The band emerged in the L.A. punk scene of the late '70s that also produced faster, louder and scarier bands such as Fear and the Germs, but X was different.
X added poetry, rockabilly riffs and vocal harmonies; where other bands were driven by suburban frustration and run-ins with police, X was inspired by religious guilt and real-life tragedy. They exist today, occasionally, playing the old songs, but if you want to know them — or know why you should — you owe it to yourself to see The Unheard Music.
Most X fans consider the band's first four albums to be its only "true" records. This funny, loving DVD documentary captures that period, 1980-1984, when John Doe, Exene Cervenka, Billy Zoom and D.J. Bonebrake were young, beautiful and on their way to the top.
The film succeeds as more than just a Valentine to the band because it also takes time to reveal how off-track, irrational and self-destructive the music industry was then — almost as sad as it is now. Interviews with one top executive show how tough it is to make independent, passionate music in a world of shareholders and accountants.
This film is only half of the story. A haunting time capsule of early '80s L.A., it ends before the band takes a major misstep toward pop stardom; before band co-leaders John and Exene's star-crossed marriage ends in divorce; before the band breaks up and its members go off to unsatisfying solo careers, only to reunite and return to a much smaller, much older audience than, for example, the reunited Pixies attract today.
X were artists, lovers and barroom philosophers, old souls treated like kids by a world that was too slow to understand the wild gift that X was leaving.
(Image)
X was one of the great rock groups of the 1980s but probably doesn't mean anything to music fans under 30 today. The band emerged in the L.A. punk scene of the late '70s that also produced faster, louder and scarier bands such as Fear and the Germs, but X was different.
X added poetry, rockabilly riffs and vocal harmonies; where other bands were driven by suburban frustration and run-ins with police, X was inspired by religious guilt and real-life tragedy. They exist today, occasionally, playing the old songs, but if you want to know them — or know why you should — you owe it to yourself to see The Unheard Music.
Most X fans consider the band's first four albums to be its only "true" records. This funny, loving DVD documentary captures that period, 1980-1984, when John Doe, Exene Cervenka, Billy Zoom and D.J. Bonebrake were young, beautiful and on their way to the top.
The film succeeds as more than just a Valentine to the band because it also takes time to reveal how off-track, irrational and self-destructive the music industry was then — almost as sad as it is now. Interviews with one top executive show how tough it is to make independent, passionate music in a world of shareholders and accountants.
This film is only half of the story. A haunting time capsule of early '80s L.A., it ends before the band takes a major misstep toward pop stardom; before band co-leaders John and Exene's star-crossed marriage ends in divorce; before the band breaks up and its members go off to unsatisfying solo careers, only to reunite and return to a much smaller, much older audience than, for example, the reunited Pixies attract today.
X were artists, lovers and barroom philosophers, old souls treated like kids by a world that was too slow to understand the wild gift that X was leaving.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Jens Lekman
When I Said I Wanted to Be Your Dog
(Secretly Canadian)
I never want to enjoy music that goes out of its way to be poppy.
Poppy music suggests bright, bouncy, optimistic feelings. Rare is the artistic expression conceived in a period of happiness. Happy people don't need to express their state to consumers or other strangers. However, I can't deny the pleasures offered by a songwriter who is aware of the emotions assumed by poppy music and subverts them with lyrics that are dark, confused or satirical on the subject of human relationships and other follies.
Jens Lekman, a young singer/songwriter from Sweden, is so young that he could be Conor Oberst's little brother, which means that his New York Times and NPR profiles are still a few years away. While everyone from your pre-pubescent niece to your middle-age dentist is discovering Oberst's "new band," Bright Eyes, give Lekman's When I Said I Wanted to Be Your Dog a listen.
Lekman is self-consciously self-conscious (post-pop?). In "If You Ever Need a Stranger (to Sing at Your Wedding)," he offers his resume: "I know every song, you name it/by Bacharach or David/Every stupid love song/That's ever touched your heart/Every power ballad/that's ever topped the charts."
In "The Cold Swedish Winter," he quotes singer Cliff Richard's opinion that Sweden only offers "porn and gonorrhea" and sounds quite bemused. Like Leonard Cohen, Lekman is supported by women cooing backup vocals, but his persona sticks more closely to the bumbling, early Woody Allen. He sets one love song against the backdrop of a WTO riot.
Lekman offers enjoyable proof that not all young people have forgotten the past. His music is reminiscent, at times, of a mid-70s talk-show band's, filled with arrangements sweeping and cinematic although obviously home-recorded. He is respectful of tradition but can rarely resist winking at it. Discover him now while he's still having fun.
(Secretly Canadian)
I never want to enjoy music that goes out of its way to be poppy.
Poppy music suggests bright, bouncy, optimistic feelings. Rare is the artistic expression conceived in a period of happiness. Happy people don't need to express their state to consumers or other strangers. However, I can't deny the pleasures offered by a songwriter who is aware of the emotions assumed by poppy music and subverts them with lyrics that are dark, confused or satirical on the subject of human relationships and other follies.
Jens Lekman, a young singer/songwriter from Sweden, is so young that he could be Conor Oberst's little brother, which means that his New York Times and NPR profiles are still a few years away. While everyone from your pre-pubescent niece to your middle-age dentist is discovering Oberst's "new band," Bright Eyes, give Lekman's When I Said I Wanted to Be Your Dog a listen.
Lekman is self-consciously self-conscious (post-pop?). In "If You Ever Need a Stranger (to Sing at Your Wedding)," he offers his resume: "I know every song, you name it/by Bacharach or David/Every stupid love song/That's ever touched your heart/Every power ballad/that's ever topped the charts."
In "The Cold Swedish Winter," he quotes singer Cliff Richard's opinion that Sweden only offers "porn and gonorrhea" and sounds quite bemused. Like Leonard Cohen, Lekman is supported by women cooing backup vocals, but his persona sticks more closely to the bumbling, early Woody Allen. He sets one love song against the backdrop of a WTO riot.
Lekman offers enjoyable proof that not all young people have forgotten the past. His music is reminiscent, at times, of a mid-70s talk-show band's, filled with arrangements sweeping and cinematic although obviously home-recorded. He is respectful of tradition but can rarely resist winking at it. Discover him now while he's still having fun.
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