Icon

T for Texas

I don’t know what it is about Upstate New York that causes people to grow bushy beards, abandon electric instruments, and settle into deep, weird, soulful Americana, but I can’t tell you how thankful I am for it.  I talked about Levon Helm and the Band yesterday, and while I certainly love Helm solo and the Band, I can’t tell you how excited I am right now about the Felice Brothers.  Three of the members — Ian, Simone, and James — are brothers (duh), there’s a washboard/fiddler named Farley, and — no joke — a former traveling dice player named Christmas.  They did Bonnaroo this year and are making the folk fest rounds now, including Newport.  Like the Weary Boys before them, these guys okay this stuff straight-up, with a serious love and tenderness, but with all of the energy of a great punk band.  Here they are doing “Division St.” into Jimmie Rodgers’ “T For Texas.”  

Filed under: Uncategorized , , , , , , , ,

R’n'r Confessional: Letter to an Indie Nation

Rock ‘n’ Roll Confessional, Dec 07
Letter to an Indie Nation

Through convenient revisionist history, Bob Dylan lives in our minds just as he was in 1965: skinny, wild haired, hidden behind dark glasses, and smoking; jittery on methamphetamines and singing about morality; criticizing society while trying his best to find his place in it.  At some level, this is the person that we all want to be.   If nothing else, Bob Dylan in 1965 is the prototypical hipster of 2007.
Warts and all.  Don’t Look Back, D.A. Pennebaker’s acclaimed documentary of Dylan’s ’65 acoustic tour across the U.K., shows us the other side of the coin.  For ninety minutes, Dylan refuses to cooperate with reporters.  He spends a good ten minutes strumming his guitar and playfully haranguing journalist Terry Ellis (future co-founder of Chrysalis Records) while his friends and hangers-on giggle and play piano.  It’s uncomfortable to watch the 24 year-old genius refuse to explain himself to people, particularly after Pennebaker cuts in footage of Dylan two years prior playing a humble voter registration rally in Mississippi from the bed of a pickup truck.  In ’63, Dylan wasn’t cool, not in the same sense as the hipster Dylan of ‘65.  He was just another guy wearing flannel and strumming an acoustic guitar.  Part of what made Dylan seem so cool in ’65 was that he could write these incredibly passionate songs without coming across as a terribly passionate guy himself.  It’s the same reason that everyone hates Bono so much.  Would Dylan have such a lasting mystique had he, say, participated in the civil rights marches in Selma, Alabama, in March of that year?
Well, probably, but my point is this: why is it cool not to care?  When did it become a desirable character trait to be an elitist?  We like to criticize how the Paris Hilton culture has somehow made it desirable to be a diva (read: I’m a snotty, spoiled brat); how can we turn around and approve a culture that lives on the thin line between elitism and literal obscurity?  Who really wins here?  Other than, you know, David Fricke and Chuck Klosterman?
My job here at ANTIGRAVITY is very interesting to me.  Generally speaking, I hate the way that the indie world works, the fact that mediocre bands can be picked up by some minor news source and blown way out of proportion.  In their earnestness to find the Next Beatles, the mainstream British press does this all of the time.  But in America, we do it in a perpetual game of one-upmanship that places more value on a group’s ability to further an image than anything else.  I hate the way that music has become fashion, the fact that we (me included, me included, me included) select which bands we like for the same reasons we pick out a pair of shoes.  I think this makes us more evil than the Brits; at least in their vanity they’re trying to get back to the proverbial garden.  We’re just trying to look good.
We critics are all constantly digging, trying to find something obscure yet relatable, and once we’ve told you about it, we make sure to bring it up in conversation.  Look how many band names I’ve unnecessarily dropped over the past few moths.  Then, three months later, you’re left asking yourself why in the hell you ever bought that Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!/Sound Team/Beirut/Cold War Kids record.  And I like the Cold War Kids, but that’s just my point.  Everyone crapped on them at a moment’s notice because, hey, they didn’t live up to the hype.  And they don’t deserve that; they’re a decent band.  You can fill in the blanks there with a hundred other groups.  Does anyone truly care about what the Fiery Furnaces are up to?  Does Animal Collective actually have any fans?  We claim to be a counterculture but we’re trendier than slap bracelets, baby.
At the same time, though, I love what I do.  I love to listen to music and to think about music and to tell my friends why they’re wrong when they say that “Like a Rolling Stone” is a better rock ‘n’ roll song than “Born to Run.”  Sitting around and thinking about rock ‘n’ roll is something that I’ve done since I was able to think.  And you know what?  I know that there are people who genuinely love the Fiery Furnaces, and I love those people. They were the people at the Arcade Fire show a few years ago who were jumping up and down in the front row, screaming all the words back at Win Butler.  They were the people who not only showed up when the bassist from the Smiths did a DJ set at Twiropa but actually danced to the crap that he spun.  They gave Neko Case custom-printed t-shirts on Halloween; they giggled relentlessly at Modest Mouse.  True fandom is simultaneously the coolest and the most uncool place to be.
I don’t know, maybe you’re not like this.  Maybe it’s only me who thinks his taste entitles him to – something.  But, somehow, I doubt it.  I know I’ve said it before; hell, I’ve been trying to convince myself of all of this for two or three years now.  But it’s hard.  It’s hard to remember that you don’t have to like anything – not even Bob Dylan.  And really, once you’ve seen King Bob dodge honest questions from normal people for an hour and a half, the whole thing starts to unravel.
So that’s it.  That’s the end of the tape.  I’m through being cool.

Filed under: Uncategorized , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Wish List 2007

Wish List 2007

1.    To lighten up a little bit; go read my column this month and you’ll understand.
2.    I know it’s not out yet, but that new My Morning Jacket record is going to be killer.
3.    The Other Side of the Mirror: Bob Dylan Live at the Newport Folk Festival 1963-1965. DVD.  Wherein Mr. Dylan plugs in his Fender Stratocaster and greatly offends Pete Seeger
4.    Acadiana Self-Reliance T-shirt in Louisiana Blue; Dirty Coast.  Ahh, the Louisiana seal, complete with bundles of money in the pelican’s clinched talon. The mix of pride and self-deprecation that laces Dirty Coast’s shirts makes me think that they understand what it means to be from Louisiana.
5.    The duck plate at Dick and Jenny’s, Tchoupitoulas.  Living in Baton Rouge, nothing even begins to compare.  Seriously, there’s no restaurant in the city where you can get gourmet food without putting on long pants.  Translation: good food trumps stuffy atmosphere every time.  God bless New Orleans.

Filed under: Uncategorized , , , , , , , ,

I’m Not There OST

Various Artists – I’m Not There
Columbia; 4 stars

To try and sum up I’m Not There, the thirty-four song soundtrack to the Todd Haynes Dylan biopic of the same name, is about as futile as trying to draw a conclusive summary of Dylan himself.  Haynes took a shortcut by casting six lead actors as seven different “personalities” (none of whom are technically named Bob Dylan, but, well, come on), and, by all accounts, has succeeded in portraying the life of the 20th Century’s Walt Whitman.  It’s only fitting that a poet would be portrayed with such poetic obscurity.
In much the same way, the I’m Not There album is almost as noteworthy for what it’s missing as it is for what’s there.  Nobody dares to tackle “Like a Rolling Stone,” which is probably a wise move; not even live takes of the song from 1966 capture the same thunder that Dylan and company lay down on Highway 61 Revisited.  Also absent is former “Next Dylan” Conor Oberst, who has been known to cover “Girl From the North Country” in concert.
Backing about a third of the album’s electric tracks is indie supergroup the Million Dollar Bashers, composed of Television’s Tom Verlaine, Sonic Youth’s Lee Ranaldo and Steve Shelley, Wilco’s Nels Cline, and John Medeski of Medeski, Martin, and Wood.  The group comes close to matching “that thin, that wild mercury sound” that Dylan so-famously demanded in the Blonde on Blonde sessions, particularly when tearing through the Stephen Malkmus-fronted “Maggie’s Farm.”  Here, Malkmus’ slurry speak-singing finds its sonic forebear in the Bringing it All Back Home track.  Eddie Vedder fronts the Bashers in a predictably furious performance of “All Along the Watchtower” that comes close to topping the famed Jimi Hendrix version.  Casting Ranaldo, Verlaine, and Cline as the group’s guitarists was a particularly inspired choice; no other guitarists have captured the bitter liquid of Highway 61-era Dylan since Michael Butterfield laid down the original tracks forty years ago.  Having one of the most dynamic organists in music in Medeski certainly doesn’t hurt, either.
Elsewhere, the Hold Steady turn in a version of Blonde on Blonde B-side “Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?,” a track whose preachy organs and drawling pleas for love seem to have been custom-written for Craig Finn and co.  Yo La Tengo win the Cate Blanchett Award for sounding exactly like the Man in “I Wanna Be Your Lover.”  “I Wanna Be Your Lover” is the only song here that sounds as if it were recorded and engineered on ancient reel-to-reels, a quality that lends alarming authenticity to the track’s piano rolls and half-leads.
But this record succeeds most when it’s at its quietest.  Following Los Lobos’ stunning Texas polka version of “Billy” is Jeff Tweedy’s take on Blood on the Tracks’ “Simple Twist of Fate.”  Tweedy’s voice, which, like Dylan’s, has never been his strongest point, cracks in all of the right places as he leads Glenn Kotche’s drums and David Mansfield’s fiddle through the song’s turns.  Sufjan Stevens and John Doe each redeem some of Dylan’s much-maligned gospel material, Doe being particularly successful with Saved’s “Pressing On.”
Of course, there are stumbles here.  Jack Johnson turns “Mama, You’ve Been On My Mind” into, well, a Jack Johnson song, and Iron & Wine’s take on “Dark Eyes” is a bit too New Age-y for my taste.  And the Black Keys, for all of their talent, seem to have had trouble moving their sound forward; “The Wicked Messenger” is a failure only because their style has grown tired.
By virtue of its length and scope, I’m Not There drags at times.  But when viewed as a whole, it’s a remarkable testament to the man who wrote all of these songs that such a varied group of musicians can count him as a primary influence.  It’s at times easy to remember that these songs are all Bob Dylan’s; his material seems to lend itself to interpretation.  And, in the spirit of the film I’m Not There, the poetic license that is taken with Dylan’s songs (particularly by Richie Havens, who turns the ramblin’ “Tombstone Blues” into a hell of a folk jam) does a better job of telling the story of the songwriter than a straight-up tribute record possibly could have.

Filed under: Uncategorized , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,