Listening to Jackson Browne's Running On Empty this evening, I'm struck by a few things.
First, the copious references to "white lines," which make for excellent wordplay on an album all about the road - a cliche, but at least Browne made the interesting move of assembling a road album of recordings from the road, not just onstage but in hotel rooms and on the freaking bus. But good lord, are there this many coke references on any other '70s L.A. album?
Second, although "The Load-Out" is a classic rock radio staple, and although I've heard the song fifty bazillion times and know the words, I stopped to think and found these lyrics extremely alienating tonight:
We've got to drive all night and do a show in Chicago
Or Detroit, I don't know
We do so many shows in a row
And these towns all look the same
We just pass the time in our hotel rooms
And wander 'round backstage
Till those lights come up and we hear that crowd
And we remember why we came
I mean, what a way to demean your audience and then turn right around and milk them for applause! I was immediately reminded of the story from earlier this fall of Bob Dylan being arrested for wandering around, exploring the neighborhood before a show. Just as a contrast, y'know?
Finally, I've been mostly avoiding Running On Empty for the past couple years, having really latched on to his earlier and better work. I can't say I've missed it too much, although I loved the album growing up. The problem, though, is that there's nothing to it. It's not as funny as it wants to be, and a lot of the jokes just seem sad now. I suddenly feel like I'm assessing a comedy album. But how else to take a song like "Rosie," which is about a roadie who's unsuccessful with the ladies and is stuck jerking off again, except as a joke?
In an effort to not end every paragraph with a question, I'll say that the title track remains one of Browne's best songs, a grown-up stuck with a bunch of adolescents on this dated record.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Eric Woolfson (1945-2009)
My lengthy assessment of a half-dozen Alan Parsons Project records, which ran on PopMatters all the way back in April, might have been my writing highlight of the year. I haven't really listened to much of that music since then, with the exception of Ammonia Avenue, which I'm increasingly inclined to believe is one of the underrated records of my lifetime.
So in the context of having spent way, way more time with the APP this year than I had in the last dozen or more, I'm actually kind of shocked that Eric Woolfson, Parsons' chief collaborator, just died. I'm thinking tomorrow's commute might have to be a tribute. Even if the APP were occasionally cheese, often much too pretentious, and in possession of exactly zero sense of humor, I sincerely love some of their records. Like this one:
And this one:
This one too:
The lead vocal on all three of those songs? Eric Woolfson.
So in the context of having spent way, way more time with the APP this year than I had in the last dozen or more, I'm actually kind of shocked that Eric Woolfson, Parsons' chief collaborator, just died. I'm thinking tomorrow's commute might have to be a tribute. Even if the APP were occasionally cheese, often much too pretentious, and in possession of exactly zero sense of humor, I sincerely love some of their records. Like this one:
And this one:
This one too:
The lead vocal on all three of those songs? Eric Woolfson.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
I thought I'd never need to hear this song again
And the Muppets prove me wrong:
Thanks, Andrew Sullivan, for posting this.
I'm knee deep in grad-school application stuff, hence the slow blogging month.
Thanks, Andrew Sullivan, for posting this.
I'm knee deep in grad-school application stuff, hence the slow blogging month.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Revisiting Rufus Wainwright's Want
Catching a few snippets of Rufus Wainwright's Want Two from the other room over the weekend was enough to make me break out that record today, probably for the first time since its release date five years ago. Actually, I listened to Want One and Want Two in succession, and I'm certain that's the first time I've done that.
It's kind of funny. Want One didn't exactly blow me away in 2003, since it didn't quite stack up against Poses. But I sure did listen to it a lot. Want Two was supposed to come out the following spring, but was delayed something like six months - at the time it felt like an eternity - and didn't arrive until the fall. I even saw him in Iowa City around that time, a solo acoustic show at the student union, and while it was a really good show, it didn't make me very excited to engage with the new album.
Since then, I've paid about zero attention to Rufus Wainwright, correctly assuming that he'd never make another album that would affect me like Poses did. That album was in constant rotation for a couple years; to this day, it transports me to 2001 and 2002, and to the driver's seat of my car (R.I.P.), passing through all those wee little towns between Kirksville and St. Louis.
So the funny part is that the Want albums, when listened to back to back, seem to have switched places for me. Want One still has at least a few really great songs ("I Don't Know What It Is," "Go Or Go Ahead," "14th Street"), but it's kind of a drag overall. On the other hand, I found myself really excited to listen closely to Want Two, enough that I did so twice. I'm a little torn about "Agnus Dei" (I always knew he was pretentious), but I'm really digging "Old Whore's Diet," which is crazy because I wanted to pull a Van Gogh the first time I heard that one. (Someday I'll write about Antony. I really will.)
Maybe Want Two just felt like extra salt on the wounds when it came out, and I needed to get over Rufus Wainwright before I could appreciate it. It seems that time has come.
It's kind of funny. Want One didn't exactly blow me away in 2003, since it didn't quite stack up against Poses. But I sure did listen to it a lot. Want Two was supposed to come out the following spring, but was delayed something like six months - at the time it felt like an eternity - and didn't arrive until the fall. I even saw him in Iowa City around that time, a solo acoustic show at the student union, and while it was a really good show, it didn't make me very excited to engage with the new album.
Since then, I've paid about zero attention to Rufus Wainwright, correctly assuming that he'd never make another album that would affect me like Poses did. That album was in constant rotation for a couple years; to this day, it transports me to 2001 and 2002, and to the driver's seat of my car (R.I.P.), passing through all those wee little towns between Kirksville and St. Louis.
So the funny part is that the Want albums, when listened to back to back, seem to have switched places for me. Want One still has at least a few really great songs ("I Don't Know What It Is," "Go Or Go Ahead," "14th Street"), but it's kind of a drag overall. On the other hand, I found myself really excited to listen closely to Want Two, enough that I did so twice. I'm a little torn about "Agnus Dei" (I always knew he was pretentious), but I'm really digging "Old Whore's Diet," which is crazy because I wanted to pull a Van Gogh the first time I heard that one. (Someday I'll write about Antony. I really will.)
Maybe Want Two just felt like extra salt on the wounds when it came out, and I needed to get over Rufus Wainwright before I could appreciate it. It seems that time has come.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Opening shots in defense of the 1970s southern California scene
It recently occurred to me that, on the rare occasions I have in-depth conversations about music, I often wind up finding myself in the somewhat unenviable position of defending the music coming out of southern California in the 1970s. It's an unenviable position because most people aren't willing to hear anything positive about a group like the Eagles, who I defended a couple years ago on the old blog. Hotel California, the album and the title track, came in for some pretty harsh criticism a couple weeks ago.
Honestly, where does the enmity come from? I mean, I can understand if there's some opposition to the lifestyle promoted (and often exemplified) by the Eagles, but why, when that same lifestyle is referenced in the context of, say, Led Zeppelin, is it (god help us all) praised or playfully laughed off as though it were something charming? There is zero slack cut for the Eagles. Does it come down to the music? Were the Eagles not sufficiently serious ("Take It Easy," "Already Gone"), or were they oppressively serious ("Hotel California," "The Last Resort")? When did Led Zeppelin ever have a sense of humor?
Sorry. I guess I can't blame anyone for focusing on the lifestyle element, all the "cocaine cowboy" stuff, because truthfully, anything I ever read about the Eagles and their ilk focuses on that. The literature on that scene and the individual bands is nothing but tabloid journalism, who OD'd when, who slept with so-and-so during the making of such-and-such album. The music itself may as well have never existed.
And yeah, I'm not an idiot. I know why punk happened - why it needed to happen - and why there's virtue to be found in messy, angry music created by people with no money. But that doesn't mean we can't also find it in the meticulous, contemplative music created by rich people.
What's gotten me thinking of the perception of the L.A. scene in the '70s is that I've discovered two knockout albums recently: Fleetwood Mac's Tusk back in August, and Warren Zevon's self-titled record just last week. Perhaps "discovered" is the wrong word, but my point is that I feel like I've discovered them. I feel like I used to feel years ago, when I'd buy an album and listen to it over and over right away. I've listened to the Zevon six or seven times in the last week, and Tusk occupies 20 of my top 25 most-played songs on iTunes (I've listened to it something like 15 times in its entirety, and a handful of tracks even more often).
It's becoming clearer to me that the narrative of '70s California rock needs to be revisited, in-depth, from a musical perspective. Allow me to think off the top of my head for a moment...
The story begins sometime around 1968. The Byrds went through a couple major changes, first with David Crosby's departure and again after Sweetheart of the Rodeo, when Gram Parsons and Chris Hillman formed the Flying Burrito Brothers and gave Roger McGuinn eternal control of the Byrds. Buffalo Springfield broke up, freeing Neil Young and Stephen Stills as well as Richie Furay (who formed Poco, who somehow don't really fit into the rest of the narrative as I see it, despite their Eagles connections). And the Mamas and the Papas split, too, which probably doesn't get enough catalytic credit. But Cass Elliot's solo records are fascinating, and her role in the formation of Crosby, Stills and Nash is the stuff of legend. Also around this time, Joni Mitchell released her debut album (produced by none other than David Crosby).
Fast forward to 1979, when Joni goes off the deep end with Mingus, the Eagles release their bloated, soulless final album (not counting reunions), Neil makes his best album (Rust Never Sleeps, also his last great record for almost a decade), and Fleetwood Mac close the door on the '70s with Tusk.
In between, the highlight reel. The first CSN album. The Flying Burrito Brothers' Gilded Palace of Sin. The latter-day Byrds albums, uneven as they were. Little Feat, who probably fit in here somewhere even if they sounded like no one else. Everything by Joni Mitchell, especially Blue. Any of Neil Young's albums, but particularly the commercial high-water mark of Harvest, and what might be the definitive statement on the times, On the Beach. Early '70s Beach Boys albums like Sunflower and Surf's Up, and the excellent compilation Endless Summer. Two of the biggest-selling albums in the history of the universe, Fleetwood Mac's Rumours and the Eagles' Greatest Hits. The early Tom Waits catalogue. Under-recognized solo albums by folks like Gene Clark, David Crosby, Graham Nash, Cass Elliot, John Phillips, and Dennis Wilson, and practically-ignored ones by Judee Sill and Jackie DeShannon. Records by Linda Ronstadt that doubled as good PR for all the local songwriters. The first couple Warren Zevon albums. Jackson Browne, all of whose albums captured something essential for good or ill. And yeah, the Eagles, too.
It was a fascinating scene, with a spirit of collaboration that certainly led to some high sexual drama but also to gorgeously-realized, mature, socially-aware records. Anyone who thinks these folks were blissfully unaware of what was going on in their community or the world needs to open their ears. And someone needs to write about something other than the sex and drugs. You know, focus on the third sinful pillar of rock and roll. Perhaps it will have to be me. I'm game.
Honestly, where does the enmity come from? I mean, I can understand if there's some opposition to the lifestyle promoted (and often exemplified) by the Eagles, but why, when that same lifestyle is referenced in the context of, say, Led Zeppelin, is it (god help us all) praised or playfully laughed off as though it were something charming? There is zero slack cut for the Eagles. Does it come down to the music? Were the Eagles not sufficiently serious ("Take It Easy," "Already Gone"), or were they oppressively serious ("Hotel California," "The Last Resort")? When did Led Zeppelin ever have a sense of humor?
Sorry. I guess I can't blame anyone for focusing on the lifestyle element, all the "cocaine cowboy" stuff, because truthfully, anything I ever read about the Eagles and their ilk focuses on that. The literature on that scene and the individual bands is nothing but tabloid journalism, who OD'd when, who slept with so-and-so during the making of such-and-such album. The music itself may as well have never existed.
And yeah, I'm not an idiot. I know why punk happened - why it needed to happen - and why there's virtue to be found in messy, angry music created by people with no money. But that doesn't mean we can't also find it in the meticulous, contemplative music created by rich people.
What's gotten me thinking of the perception of the L.A. scene in the '70s is that I've discovered two knockout albums recently: Fleetwood Mac's Tusk back in August, and Warren Zevon's self-titled record just last week. Perhaps "discovered" is the wrong word, but my point is that I feel like I've discovered them. I feel like I used to feel years ago, when I'd buy an album and listen to it over and over right away. I've listened to the Zevon six or seven times in the last week, and Tusk occupies 20 of my top 25 most-played songs on iTunes (I've listened to it something like 15 times in its entirety, and a handful of tracks even more often).
It's becoming clearer to me that the narrative of '70s California rock needs to be revisited, in-depth, from a musical perspective. Allow me to think off the top of my head for a moment...
The story begins sometime around 1968. The Byrds went through a couple major changes, first with David Crosby's departure and again after Sweetheart of the Rodeo, when Gram Parsons and Chris Hillman formed the Flying Burrito Brothers and gave Roger McGuinn eternal control of the Byrds. Buffalo Springfield broke up, freeing Neil Young and Stephen Stills as well as Richie Furay (who formed Poco, who somehow don't really fit into the rest of the narrative as I see it, despite their Eagles connections). And the Mamas and the Papas split, too, which probably doesn't get enough catalytic credit. But Cass Elliot's solo records are fascinating, and her role in the formation of Crosby, Stills and Nash is the stuff of legend. Also around this time, Joni Mitchell released her debut album (produced by none other than David Crosby).
Fast forward to 1979, when Joni goes off the deep end with Mingus, the Eagles release their bloated, soulless final album (not counting reunions), Neil makes his best album (Rust Never Sleeps, also his last great record for almost a decade), and Fleetwood Mac close the door on the '70s with Tusk.
In between, the highlight reel. The first CSN album. The Flying Burrito Brothers' Gilded Palace of Sin. The latter-day Byrds albums, uneven as they were. Little Feat, who probably fit in here somewhere even if they sounded like no one else. Everything by Joni Mitchell, especially Blue. Any of Neil Young's albums, but particularly the commercial high-water mark of Harvest, and what might be the definitive statement on the times, On the Beach. Early '70s Beach Boys albums like Sunflower and Surf's Up, and the excellent compilation Endless Summer. Two of the biggest-selling albums in the history of the universe, Fleetwood Mac's Rumours and the Eagles' Greatest Hits. The early Tom Waits catalogue. Under-recognized solo albums by folks like Gene Clark, David Crosby, Graham Nash, Cass Elliot, John Phillips, and Dennis Wilson, and practically-ignored ones by Judee Sill and Jackie DeShannon. Records by Linda Ronstadt that doubled as good PR for all the local songwriters. The first couple Warren Zevon albums. Jackson Browne, all of whose albums captured something essential for good or ill. And yeah, the Eagles, too.
It was a fascinating scene, with a spirit of collaboration that certainly led to some high sexual drama but also to gorgeously-realized, mature, socially-aware records. Anyone who thinks these folks were blissfully unaware of what was going on in their community or the world needs to open their ears. And someone needs to write about something other than the sex and drugs. You know, focus on the third sinful pillar of rock and roll. Perhaps it will have to be me. I'm game.
Monday, October 26, 2009
This item has been discontinued by the manufacturer.
Over the past few weeks, I've been taking 15 minutes every once in a while to look up CDs I own on Amazon. I realize this might strike some as obsessive, and that might not be all that far off. But what I'm finding seems to be evidence that the CD is, in fact, dying. All the discussions center around sales; far more telling, to me, is what is simply not in print anymore.
- The trio of thoughtful Elvis Presley box sets released between 1992 and 1995. Granted, there might be some massive 75th birthday reissue plan in the works, but those boxes are great. They're listenable and comprehensive, and they'll be tough to top.
- The Buffalo Springfield box set. Flawed, but certainly among the best boxes of 2001.
- The Otis Redding box, which I'm kicking myself for not getting last year when I was thinking about it. (Those last two, by the way, might also be further bad signs from Rhino.)
- That high-profile Bee Gees Number Ones CD from a few short years ago? Gone.
- Kate Bush's classic Hounds of Love, The Dreaming (which, I'm sorry, is now technically available as an import for $52) and, for the compilation-inclined, The Whole Story. Glad I got those for cheap!
- I tried to order Jerry Jeff Walker's Ridin' High several times, as far back as 2005, and it took forever for it to show up in my then-employers' computer systems as out of print. Finally found it used in Austin last year for something like five dollars. Too bad I never got A Man Must Carry On, which, since it was released as two separate CDs, is now very cost-prohibitive in its out-of-print state.
- Yeah, we're talking smaller markets now, but the twofer that combined Pure Prairie League's first couple albums is now out of print as well. I have kicked myself repeatedly over the last couple months for never ordering it.
- Not to mention all the discs Amazon shows as "discontinued," but which have actually just gotten new UPC stickers and prices lowered to six or seven bucks. (This is how I got six or seven Leonard Cohen albums last summer for about $30. Search for Billy Joel or Willie Nelson for other examples. Those 2008 "release dates" reflect the new UPC and price point.) It's a long overdue price reduction on catalogue titles, but it's probably too late.
Of course, you can also make some sort of counter-argument that other long-unavailable-on-CD stuff is coming back. Last year we saw Waylon Jennings' The Taker/Tulsa given a cheap re-release. Joe Ely's missing third and fourth studio albums are just recently back on the market. Oh, and we can't forget the lovely reissue of Dennis Wilson's Pacific Ocean Blue. (Look at those search results, though, and tell me you aren't confused. Why are there, like, four different versions of the same damn thing?)
Sorry, but this is really fascinating to me. As you probably know, I went through a period of rather extensive CD-buying from, well, from about 1997 to 2007. The drop-off last year was precipitous and swift. Unfortunately, I'm now re-examining many of my favorites and wanting to dig deeper into catalogues, which will only work out if can actually get the music I'm looking for. Sometimes I can't. But when I can, it's usually cheaper than it used to be. I'm really not sure how I feel about all this just yet.
- The trio of thoughtful Elvis Presley box sets released between 1992 and 1995. Granted, there might be some massive 75th birthday reissue plan in the works, but those boxes are great. They're listenable and comprehensive, and they'll be tough to top.
- The Buffalo Springfield box set. Flawed, but certainly among the best boxes of 2001.
- The Otis Redding box, which I'm kicking myself for not getting last year when I was thinking about it. (Those last two, by the way, might also be further bad signs from Rhino.)
- That high-profile Bee Gees Number Ones CD from a few short years ago? Gone.
- Kate Bush's classic Hounds of Love, The Dreaming (which, I'm sorry, is now technically available as an import for $52) and, for the compilation-inclined, The Whole Story. Glad I got those for cheap!
- I tried to order Jerry Jeff Walker's Ridin' High several times, as far back as 2005, and it took forever for it to show up in my then-employers' computer systems as out of print. Finally found it used in Austin last year for something like five dollars. Too bad I never got A Man Must Carry On, which, since it was released as two separate CDs, is now very cost-prohibitive in its out-of-print state.
- Yeah, we're talking smaller markets now, but the twofer that combined Pure Prairie League's first couple albums is now out of print as well. I have kicked myself repeatedly over the last couple months for never ordering it.
- Not to mention all the discs Amazon shows as "discontinued," but which have actually just gotten new UPC stickers and prices lowered to six or seven bucks. (This is how I got six or seven Leonard Cohen albums last summer for about $30. Search for Billy Joel or Willie Nelson for other examples. Those 2008 "release dates" reflect the new UPC and price point.) It's a long overdue price reduction on catalogue titles, but it's probably too late.
Of course, you can also make some sort of counter-argument that other long-unavailable-on-CD stuff is coming back. Last year we saw Waylon Jennings' The Taker/Tulsa given a cheap re-release. Joe Ely's missing third and fourth studio albums are just recently back on the market. Oh, and we can't forget the lovely reissue of Dennis Wilson's Pacific Ocean Blue. (Look at those search results, though, and tell me you aren't confused. Why are there, like, four different versions of the same damn thing?)
Sorry, but this is really fascinating to me. As you probably know, I went through a period of rather extensive CD-buying from, well, from about 1997 to 2007. The drop-off last year was precipitous and swift. Unfortunately, I'm now re-examining many of my favorites and wanting to dig deeper into catalogues, which will only work out if can actually get the music I'm looking for. Sometimes I can't. But when I can, it's usually cheaper than it used to be. I'm really not sure how I feel about all this just yet.
Friday, October 23, 2009
I reviewed the new Leonard Cohen live album
And people are already commenting on it!With Leonard Cohen’s star in the ascendant after the Came So Far For Beauty concerts, the Leonard Cohen: I’m Your Man documentary, the remastered early albums, his induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, more than a year of well-received and artistically successful shows, and the Live in London CD and DVD, it’s no surprise that Cohen’s performance at the 1970 Isle of Wight Festival has been dusted off. It makes an awful lot of commercial sense, and the story surrounding the show is certainly compelling: Cohen took the stage in the dead of night in front of half a million people, and, to quote the press materials, “tamed the crowd”. So yes, it’s no surprise to see this CD/DVD package hitting the stores. But it’s also entirely justified by the fact that it’s a great concert and it’s well presented. [read more at PopMatters]
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