What once was hurt
What once was friction
What left a mark
No longer stings
Because grace makes beauty
Out of ugly things

Welcome to the world, Grace Catherine...

(h/t and thanks, to Chris, brother of Andrew, who once promised to buy Grace's mother a nursery school.)

Labels: u2

Labels: beck, musical douchebags, the SUCK

It's been a very musical week for me, I have to say. I started last Saturday at Independent Record Store Day, and came home with both freebies and stellar purchases (see yesterday's review for a sample). Tuesday night was Bruce, and that was, well, what it always is--a party. I'm ending the week at Travis with my high school friends, and I'm looking forward to seeing the new House of Blues complex in Boston. Granted, it's going to be a bit of a nightmare getting in there, as it's a Sox/Yankees weekend, but it will still be fun in the city. And in between all of that, there have been many, many conversations about music--what I've been listening to, what we were going to see live, what we as a group liked and didn't like, which gave birth to today's topic. Musical douchery.

It started Tuesday night, riding the adrenaline high after a fantastic concert, sitting in a bar, on round two, talking about top five musical bands. One member of our group was being particularly ass-hat-ish, calling everyone's taste shit but offering no definitive selections of his own, refusing to commit to a band with lasting influence and instead rattling off smaller, current acts that four people know about. Musical douchery. Now, I fully admit to engaging in this myself, when I said all R.E.M. albums post -Automatic For The People, with the exception of Accelerate, were crap. I even offended my friend with that statement, as noted by his chagrined face when I made that statement, but he's wrong. ;) Moving back to musical douchery, when engaging in acts of musical douchery, the offender tends to cite the following as "influences" or "the only good artists in modern music/worth listening to" or some variation of the argument that essentiall, summed up, is, "your opinion is wrong": Velvet Underground, Talking Heads, Tori Amos, Beck, Bjork/Sugarcubes, or Laurie Anderson.

STFU.kthxbai.

So, looking at this list of musical douchebags, the challenge this morning is to determine WHICH of these bands evokes the most "douchery", the most overrated, undeserved fandom. And I know who my choice is; I've always known my choice, but I'm going to highlight little bits of each before I throw it down.

Ok, Velvet Underground. All these little Brooklyn hipsters in skinny jeans and holey sweaters and hair that hasn't been washed in a decade LOVE to cite VU as their "favorite" band. Stop. You love to cite The Velvet Underground and Nico as your favorite, because Lou (KING of the douches, but that's another story) sang about heroin and Nico wailed through All Tomorrow's Parties and Warhol did the cover. So what? Good album, but I'll cite some of their work without Lou as better. See the High Fidelity soundtrack for great examples.

Talking Heads, everyone's art school darlings, but I give them a pass. Byrne has his douchey moments, but I'll cite Stop Making Sense as one of the greatest concert films and live albums to come out of the late 20th century. Right up there with The Last Waltz, and I'm being completely sincere here.

Tori Amos. Only douchey when MEN cite her as their favorite. Just wrong. Although, she's a little full of herself.

Beck is that kid in your high school English class that made stupid snarky remarks that even the nerdy kids didn't get and ridiculed. He's just an ass. Deal with it and move on; there's nothing redeeming about Beck.

Laurie Anderson, everyone has that same song "O Superman", and gushes about it. Name one other Laurie Anderson song. Without Google. I DARE you.

Leaving, for me, the Queen of Musical Douchery. Bjork, and the Sugarcubes for good measure. Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, what was the big deal with this band? And with her? SERIOUSLY people. She sucks. They sucked. Even when looking through an "avant garde" lens, there is nothing redeeming about her Icelandic squealing and screeching and unstructured song writing. If you want to know a good band from Iceland (and saying that statement out loud, in any country other than Iceland, makes you a borderline douche), go listen to Sigur Ros. Leave Bjork and her bird dresses and airport freakouts and generally shitty music out of the equation. No one really likes Bjork; stating you like her makes you seem cool, in all the wrong circles. Bjork is the biggest musical douchebag, generally admired by people who are also douchebags.



I hate to even expose you to this song, but it's the perfect example. Makes me want to poke other people's eardrums out with a dull spoon. There. End rant. Enjoy the weekend.

Labels: bjork, musical douchebags, the SUCK

In 2007, long-time Drive-by Truckers bassist, Jason Isbell, split with the band to pursue his own career. Some of my favorite songs on those DBT albums are written by him; to the band's credit, equity among three extremely talented songwriters must be hard to maintain. He released an album in 2007, a live EP in 2008 (both of which I must pick up now), and this year, his self-titled full album, which I have not stopped listening to since purchasing it six days ago. It's one of "those" albums, one that gets right under your skin and takes up residence almost immediately. Bringing some of the best from DBT's sound, along with some power pop, 70s arena, and sweet tears in the beers ballads, these 11 songs are some of the finest alt-country-modern rock compositions I've ever put my ears to. It's not often these days that I drive around in my car refusing to get out until the next song comes on, and then continually saying, "Oh, my GOD..." as each song switches over. But that was my Saturday afternoon.

As I was saying to Nick Sunday night, I keep flirting with country music, but not modern country music. Nick happily reclassified it as "roots music", and whereas TRUE roots music goes much further back, I'll give him that descriptor. It goes back to my fascination with the twang, which I'm discovering goes back to Gram Parsons for me. Gram, who also influenced all that 70s era California rock, and indirectly, many of the bands I've grown to love. Which then goes back to Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, and Patsy Cline. But this flirtation, I think, is turning in to something serious. Or maybe I'm just finally seeing the webbing of the net these older artists have thrown over my favorites. And Isbell pulls it all together on this album. From the pop structures and chords of, "Good", to the startling, "No Choice In the Matter", which is dripping with the sound of 60s soul era horns, as smooth and melancholy as Otis Redding himself, and the bluegrass twang of the guitar on "Seven Mile Island", there's something here to make everyone happy.

"No Choice in the Matter" is truly one of the most gorgeous rock songs I've ever heard. As mentioned, that beautiful Muscle Shoals, AL, horn sound in the chorus, and the mournful Hammond organ, brings up visions of beachside pool halls, Madras, and sultry summer evenings designed to break your heart. Wilson Pickett or Otis SHOULD be singing this tune; it just captures that mood so clearly and wonderfully. And "Cigarettes and Wine" could have been written by Gram Parsons himself. Isbell knows where his roots lay, and with who, and channels them beautifully for a modern ear. And he has this wonderful, slightly muddy but melodic vocal style that bends itself to each of these different types easily. It's warm, gentle in places, even when he sings of disappointment and loss. Sometimes, when an artist moves from style to style like this, it can sound jarring or disjointed, but this album flows like a river. The gentle twang, mid-tempo rockers, country ballads, and straight up pop rock, Isbell shows us it all flows from the same places; the styles are just bends in the same stream.

Labels: jason isbell and the 400 unit

From the self-titled album.

Labels: jason isbell and the 400 unit

From the self-titled album.

Labels: jason isbell and the 400 unit

by crau1971.

Not in the pit; we missed the lottery by 20 people. BUT, they let us in right after the pit, so we were leaning against the barricade to it all night. Giving us a completely unobstructed, "front-row" center view of the show. I took this during the encore.

Other shots here.

Oh, and Nick has the set list here.

Labels: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, live music

Labels: flaming lips, throw down

In honor of this being the tenth Friday in a row that we've stuck with this feature, AND an actual publishing schedule (props to the PIC), today's segment is about our iTunes collections. Now, I came up with this idea at 10:00 last night (ooh, yet another "ten" link...spooky), after what can only be described as a insane work week. We're both fried. We both also have very varied iTunes collections, and are frequently amused by what pops up when we put them on shuffle.

NOW, I'll admit, I have two iTunes libraries. My home one is the main one, and spans the musical spectrum. My work iTunes library is select favorites, and not nearly as expansive, mostly because I'm too busy to upload anything to it. So, I put both on shuffle this morning to see what I came up with, and both made me very happy.

Home = "Gentlemen" by the Afghan Wigs. Nice angry undertones, good 90s alternative vibe.



Work = "Miss You In a Heartbeat" by Def Leppard. Which just makes me love the fact that both of those would appear in a collection of mine.



Live versions of both appear here. I'm on vacation next week; it's entirely possible I may write something that isn't a throwdown with my dear co-conspirator here. Cheers to you all.

Labels: iTunes, throw down

Imagine my surprise this morning when trolling the music blogs I normally read to find not only tracks from the very Bob Mould show I referenced in my review of his album this past week, but a link up to my own review from the venerable Brad from Bradley's Almanac himself!!

Thank you for the shout out, Brad! I do believe that giggle you hear briefly at the beginning of "I'm Sorry Baby..." is, in fact, me, as I was sitting right behind you all night.

Check out the exact version I gush about for yourselves. And if you're interested in the local Boston music scene, I HIGHLY recommend Brad's site. Great reviews, concert updates, live recordings, and general fun all around.

Labels: Bob Mould, hook ups

Labels: john cusack, movie soundtracks, throw down

John Cusack, although he has been in many great, good, and so-so movies over the course of his career, and I've loved him in almost all of them (Must Love Dogs is just so not ok, but he remains loveable there as well, so, go figure), clearly has three movies people automatically think of when they think of him as an actor: Say Anything, Grosse Pointe Blank, and High Fidelity. His "big three", as MJ and I have termed them. The other notable point about each of these movies is that they had killer soundtracks.

Music is so integral to the story lines in each of those movies, it's really hard to separate the songs from the images. I mean, the iconic image from Say Anything is Lloyd with the boombox, and we all know what song is playing there. But Grosse Pointe and High Fidelity are equally married to the music. So, of these three, which movie has the "best" soundtrack?

Movie soundtracks serve many functions--set a scene, move a story line along, create mood, inform a character's actions, even. A good soundtrack will evoke the spirit of the story every time you hear it. A GREAT soundtrack, in my opinion, is one you can listen to independently of the movie, and have it be a really cohesive album on its own. One that translates into your own life as much as the screen.

The soundtracks to each of these movies all have gems of songs on them that make each of them near and dear to my heart. Say Anything includes the phenomenal, little-known Replacements song, "Within Your Reach", which I first heard on my infamous mix tape from Matt, but I'm never going to sit down and listen to Say Anything straight through. That overall soundtrack is disjointed, somewhat dated, and there's not enough "killer" songs there to sustain it. And Grosse Pointe Blank's soundtrack, although a fantastic collection of mid- to late-80s post punk and alternative rock, is merely background for most of that story, and might as well be my personal iTunes. And seriously, they left "Ace of Spades" off of it. Criminal. This is not to say that my iTunes (and John's for that matter...hmm. Must pursue this somehow.) doesn't completely rock the house, and that this soundtrack didn't lose by a mere hair in my book, as those songs are all classic, classic songs, I just thought about my criteria for "best", and had to go in a different direction.

When you think about the movie High Fidelity, the character Rob Gordon, and the function of the music in this movie, it's the obvious top choice, for me, anyway. The songs there are fully integrated into his character, the story, and flow together almost seamlessly. Considering he spends most of the movie musing over lost loves, and attempts to under take the "great biographical reorganization" of his record collection, and further considering the many "deep cuts" from the artists that appear on this collection, this soundtrack is almost another character in this film. And it's a soundtrack that I have sat and listened to straight through (as I am right now), independently of the movie. It's a collection of songs that illustrates both of my points about soundtracks, as well.

Plus, this movie has informed so much of the things MJ and I have tried to emulate on this list, I felt compelled to show you this clip. When the movie and the soundtrack songs sneak into your every day existence that regularly, you have to give it Number One With a Bullet.

Labels: john cusack, movie soundtracks, throw down

In November of 2007, Bob Mould did a small club tour to promote his Circle of Friends DVD. During that show, in the really intimate Paradise Lounge, in front of about 100 people, he played the embryonic version of, "I'm Sorry Baby, But You Can't Stand In My Light Anymore". As he told the crowd that night, he had just written that song the previous summer, while laid up with a broken ankle. I have thought about this song often since hearing it for the first time, and the finished version on Life And Times, does not disappoint. Although, any song that sings your own life so succinctly wouldn't.

Usually, Ani takes the distinction of consistently singing "my" life. After all, we're contemporaries, women, moving through similar stages. Bob has definitely written songs that have informed my perspective, been similar to experiences of mine, songs that have become part of the fabric of my memories of certain people and places, but he's never written a song that could have been completley "about" me. As I sat there that night, listening to him and the acoustic guitar, I was thinking about the last six months of my life, and the relationship I'd just ended, and the phrase, "I'm sorry baby, but you can't stand in my light anymore," absolutely and utterly summarized why I needed that person gone. I was tired of the shadows, tired of feeling cold, tired of being shrouded from everything I knew. He lyrically moved through a list of all the reasons I broke off with Dale, every single one. After the set, as we were talking, I told him exactly this, and he just smiled, as if he knew this song would haunt me until he saw fit to release it.

The rest of the compositions on Life And Times are a similar slow burn through the highs and lows of adult relationships. The concessions we make, willingly and unwillingly, for we know that everyone comes with their own matched baggage at this point in life. The really hard truth that sometimes love alone just doesn't cut it. The unique joys of finding someone who can still spark some semblance of your long-forgotten ideals. As he sings on "Lifetime", so when you're old and broken down/and you can't conjure up a sound/don't despair, my darling/the tubes will glow and fill the room/with the scent of burning dust/that's the lifetime we have. He sings about how imperfect we are, but even with those imperfections, bad past relationships, manipulative pasts and unsteady present, we are still capable and deserving of love.

Far from "adult-oriented rock", this album is guitar heavy, lyrically sophisticated, and raw in places. Many places. Raw emotion, graphic sexual imagery, and raw introspection about who we are, who we attract, and why love for thinkers will always be a challenge. His last two solo efforts have been well produced, possibly a little heavy with the auto tune, but this one stays muddy in spots, extending the lyrical metaphors into the mix. And yet even as raw and open and bitter in places as some of these song feels, Bob still manages to bring us back to the central tenets, that our history informs our present and without these experiences, we can't really experience love. "These simple things, LET your heart feel/these quiet times, LET your heart sing".

Let yourself love. This album can be your map.

Labels: Bob Mould

From the album, Life and Times.

Labels: Bob Mould

From the album, Life and Times.

Labels: Bob Mould

Labels: throw down

For those of you who have read my writing over the years, you know I've seen my fair share of live music. Maybe more than my share, but that number is subjective. I wrote about the best live shows once before; although, the site no longer exists, its archives do, and you can read the article here. You'll even notice my dear partner in crime there in the comments. In fact, please, go examine that list with all due diligence before I bring out today's throw down topic. I need you all to remember that I DO IN FACT HAVE CRED before you read the rest of this entry.

Today's throw down is not about the best live concert we've ever seen, although, I'm sure we'll get there one of these Fridays. No, today's topic is about the worst. So, again, referring to that list, my worst isn't on that list, and I included BOTH INSTANCES of Huey Lewis and the News on there. But, I'll be honest, Huey puts on a really great, honest, rock and roll show. No complaints there. You get your money's worth, and a fine evening of family entertainment. So, if Huey Lewis and the News doesn't raise any red flags for you about my worst concert experience, you must becoming increasingly nervous about what I'm about to admit. I mean, it was so bad, I don't even include it on my list of concerts seen.

Let me take you back to my college years, sophomore year at BC, to be exact. I was at a showcase there, three unbelievable local Boston bands, Bim Skala Bim (ska, obviously, and they would just tear a joint up in grand fashion), Tribe (power pop with a female singer, loved their sound), and O Positive, quite possibly my favorite Boston band ever, and I'll throw them up against the Cars, Aerosmith, AND Boston any day of the week. Solid show, clearly. Lots of indie, local fans, college scene, all the "appropriate" buttons being pushed there. I'm alone at the show, and I meet a lovely lad named Sean. We talk after the show, exchange numbers, meet for coffee on campus the next week, and decide we're digging each other. So, that weekend, he and I go out for dinner in the city.

I wish I could remember the restaurant, because I'll tell you right now, it was the best part of the evening. After dinner, we're walking up Berkeley Street and he asks, "you up for a show? I got concert tickets." Considering the show I met him at, I answered of course. "Do we need to get on the subway," thinking we needed to head toward Kenmore Square, where most of the good clubs were. "No," he replies, "we're headed to the theater district." Now, at the time, there weren't any clubs in the theater district, not music clubs anyway. So, I immediately become suspicious. As we walk over to Tremont Street, I notice we're heading toward the Wang Center. "Sean, who are we going to see?" "Yanni. Have you ever heard of him?" At the time, I could honestly say I hadn't. We walk in, with all the 50+ somethings and I start to feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. When I noticed the blow out and Burt Reynolds moustache on the promotional poster, I began to feel sick to my stomach. I wish the nausea had actually been real, as I could have vomited my way out of the evening.

As if the hair wasn't enough, the TOWER of keyboards was almost too much to take. And then, when he strode out, all smiling and hair blowing (from no natural breeze, mind you, we WERE indoors for this), I slumped in my seat and tried to think of every punk rock song I could to keep me entertained during it all. It was, was... well, look for yourselves.



I'm copping to Yanni, folks. Maybe now you understand where the psychosis comes from. No, I didn't enjoy it. No, we didn't date long. I spent the rest year and a half at BC trying to avoid him at all costs. It was harder than you might have imagined.

Yanni. I'm telling you, it really doesn't get much worse than that.

UPDATE: Yanni, apparently, is returning to the Boston area this May. Remind me to be out of the country that weekend.

Labels: bad live music, throw down