Music scenes are usally thought of in very straight-cut, grey terms...especially when that scene happens to be Detroit's. When the White Stripes' popularity exploded into the national consciousness, every music writer and publicist began to formulate a very simple equation: Detroit + Garage Rock(2) + (5)(Trendiness) = $$$$$. And while that equation has led to some very misinformed reviews, releases, and music fans, it also led to a lot of attention being lavished on a city and a scene that deserved all of the attention it could get. Though, ironically, two of the very few actual garage bands in metro Detroit (see the Hentchmen and the now-defunct Riots) didn't become much more popular than they already were, some bands which captured that older aesthetic and modernized it became more and more prominent, while in the meantime, the more traditionally indie-sounding and more explicitly "modern" bands began to fall to the wayside. Everyone fell in love with that "old-rock" feel.
Even while writing somewhat critically of this feeling, I myself am a victim of it. There's an undercurrent of excitement in the Detroit rock scene which thrives under the idea that anything at all could happen. Going to a show at the Magic Stick or the Lager House or even the Blind Pig makes people hope that perhaps they're seeing the next Stooges, the next MC5, hell, even the next Go or White Stripes. But at the same time, this feeling leaves the idea of "indie rock" behind. Who are Detroit's big indie bands? The Hard Lessons are gaining in popularity, but their sound, while updated, still has a lot in common with the archetypal Motor City rock'n'roll. A Thousand Times Yes had a great indie aesthetic, but they've disappeared. So who really is most likely to make it into the virtual pages of Pitchfork and the hearts of modern music lovers everywhere?
The answer would probably have to be The Silent Years. Their eponymous debut album (which won't be released until late this October on No Alternative records) is not filled with theatricality, sexuality, or the past. But sometimes, unbridled excitement and potential can be overrated. The Silent Years is a comfortable record which drapes around a listener like a comfortable sweater. It may not be entirely unique, but it is what it is. The album has more in common with sitting at home, drinking a mug of hot chocolate, and relaxing than going out and fucking some shit up. Even rock and roll needs a break sometime, and the Silent Years deliver a breath of fresh air and a bottle of aspirin with their swooping soundtracks, whispery soundscapes, and occasional feedback. They may not rock as hard as we're used to, but my god, if Iggy Pop needed to relax once in a while, we certainly can too.
So if you're looking to try something a little different, do yourself and Detroit a favor, and check out the Silent Years' performance at the Magic Stick this Wednesday. They're playing with the French Kicks and Sound Team; tickets are only eight bucks. Check it out.
Starting next Friday, the Silent Years will be setting off on a tour of the US, beginning in New York City with a performance on Fearless Music. Check their MySpace for details, and be sure to look out for their debut LP on October 24th.
I expected to hate Overnight Sensational, the star-studded comeback bid by legendary Sam & Dave co-vocalist Sam Moore, and that's a very different thing from wanting to hate it. When a critic wants to hate an album, he greets its arrival with a morbid kind of glee, sharpening his most vicious barbs weeks in advance for a verbal onslaught that will prove not only the reviewer's contempt for his subject, but his own innate superiority over the record and the poor schmuck who made it. In short, when a critic wants to hate an album, the notions of "non-bias" and "critical distance" go right out the proverbial window. So as a preface to the following diatribe, I'd like to say that I've never come into an album wanting to hate it - not even that two-for-one package of pretentious horseshit Bright Eyes crapped out at the beginning of last year - and even if I had, I would never take such an attitude toward Moore, a Southern soul legend whose incredible vocal performance on "I Thank You" alone is enough to earn my lifelong respect. And yet, as I said before, I did expect to hate Sam Moore's new record, and sure enough, I do with a passion; it's just that the confirmation of these darkest suspicions has a hell of a lot more to do with a weary knowledge of the modern music business than with any fault of Moore's own.
See, I knew coming into this record about the banality of the average comeback album, and more to the point, I knew about the dearth of musical options made available to "old school" R&B artists like Moore in today's glitzy, youth-obsessed industry. I knew that if Sam Moore was going to make any kind of a "comeback," he would have exactly two choices: either make an artistically honorable, raw (but NPR-friendly) record for the blues market (like Mavis Staples' recent Have a Little Faith), sell a handful of records, and win a Grammy; or release an overblown, tarted-up extravaganza with a superstar producer and an incoherent coterie of guest stars for the pop market (see: Carlos Santana's career since 1999), sell a gaggle of records, and win a Grammy. And while I can't entirely fault Moore for going after the cash, the result is a bargain which would give Dr. Faust himself pause. Because Overnight Sensational finds our hero sharing the spotlight (barely) with none other than Oreo-hawking, Journey-sessioneering American Idol judge Randy Jackson, as well as a list of "special guest" singers and songwriters who seem to have been selected more for their prominence in Jackson's phone book than for any known affinity with Moore's music. Hence the album's first of several nadirs, a duet with Jackson's Idol protege Fantasia on Diane Warren's "Blame It on the Rain."
Yes, you read that correctly: it's 2006, and Sam Motherfucking "Soul Man" Moore is sharing the mic with a reality TV star on a song made famous by Milli Vanilli. It gets worse, too - just to add insult to injury, Moore's version is actually inferior to the hit by those infamous Euro-pop moppets, shouldered as it is with a flaccid Muzak arrangement that finds Moore serving as little more than a back-up singer for the competent but forgettable Fantasia. Granted, not all of the tracks on Overnight Sensational are quite so egregious as "Blame It on the Rain," nor are all of the guest stars (or material) quite so ill-suited to the singer. The opening cover of Don Bryant and Ann Peebles' "I Can't Stand the Rain" features a surprisingly soulful Wynonna Judd on guest vocals, and it's a collaboration that complements, rather than overpowers, Moore's still-vital voice. As a matter of fact, it's the country singers in general who fare best alongside Moore on this disc, like Travis Tritt on Seals and Crofts' (!) "Ridin' Thumb," whose gritty performance hints at the deeply-rooted relationship between soul and country even as Jackson's "soul-lite" production grinds both venerable musical styles into a mealy, tasteless mush.
And it's a damned shame, because as impressive as Moore's chops remain - and goddamn, for being over 60, the dude can still sing - the real star of this album is Randy Jackson without a doubt. This is no compliment; Jackson may know ad jingles and corporate pop/rock, but a soulman he ain't, and that fact is painfully obvious with every blare of synthesized "horn sections," every slick, processed beat. Equating musical power with star power, he overloads each song with big names: from Eric Clapton to Steve Winwood to Mariah Carey, who, in the record's most surreal moment, sabotages the chorus of "It's Only Make Believe" with wordless, ear-piercing vocal histrionics. But Jackson forgets that when Moore recorded his classic material with Sam & Dave, the magic came from just those two artists: Sam and Dave. "You Got Me Hummin'" didn't need an embarrassingly out-of-his-league Bruce Springsteen bellowing like a white Jesse Jackson ("brother man, brother man!") - it had Sam and fucking Dave, two incredible voices meshing together over a backing so funky and raw it seemed to have seeped out of the Memphis soil itself. And judging from what little I can appreciate of Sam's voice between the Nashville stars, noodling sessioneers and squawking back-up singers assembled for this disc, even just one of those great voices, singing with that same kind of power and urgency, would have made for ten times the record Overnight Sensational is.
As it is, however, we can only grasp at what little subtlety the album has to offer, and try to treasure it as best we can. The closing version of Billy Preston's "You Are So Beautiful," performed with the late singer and organ player himself, comes like a breath of fresh air after 11 tracks of exaggerated, Vegas-style emptiness. Sure, it's without a doubt Preston's most maudlin song, and the lightness of touch is only relative, packaged as it is with overbearing background vocals, strings, and a showboating Clapton; but on an album which by and large seems more like a self-serving celebrity karaoke session than a "comeback" for Sam Moore's benefit, this moving tribute to a musical contemporary of Moore's (who still hasn't gotten his due, even after his death this year) is a true highlight.
One can only hope that Overnight Sensational isn't the last word on Sam Moore as a 21st century recording artist; I, for one, wish it would be successful enough that next time around he can actually get an album deal without Sting or Jon Bon Jovi attached to the project. In the meantime, I hope Sam takes the money and runs...after more than 40 years in the business, he's definitely earned it. It's just too bad that we ever had to see one of the giants of soul music produce something quite so soulless.
The Monkees (1966) More of the Monkees (1967) (Rhino)
Forget N.W.A. Forget Judas Priest, Eminem, Marilyn Manson, and please, forget all about Axl Rose. The real most controversial act in pop music history were "four insane boys" who shared a beach house and a red 1966 GTO, had bizarrely preteen relationships with a succession of twinkly-eyed Marlo Thomas lookalikes, and seemed to spend a lot more time grappling with pirates, mobsters and Russian spies than playing music. But then, the Monkees weren't exactly your average band; they were a kiddie television show on NBC that happened to put out records, and when they became rock'n'roll pariahs after outselling legitimate acts like the Beatles and the Stones - without even having the decency to write their own songs or play their own instruments - the controversy was pretty much the only "real" thing about them.
Of course, any attempt to make sense of the great Monkees controversy must also take into account its context: the years 1966 and 1967, in other words the very height of pop's Dylan- and Beatles-fuelled ascension to a full-on art form, with all the self-important emphasis on creative authorship that status implies. It was never unheard of for an artist to seek the help of studio musicians or staff songwriters - Motown did it all the time - but that mode of working was increasingly passe for the rock crowd, who saw it as a remnant of the distastefully commercial musical assembly line practices of Tin Pan Alley, fit only for bubblegum flashes in the pan and washed-up crooners like the Rat Pack. Ironically, such brazen distinctions between art and commerce would themselves seem quaintly anachronistic in today's music industry; with transparently prefabricated acts like the Pussycat Dolls regularly topping the charts without incident, there's reason to believe the Monkees would do just fine in 2006, TRL appearances, commercial spots, Rolling Stone cover stories and all. But suffice to say that 40 years ago, a non-writing, non-playing band reaching number one on the Billboard album chart with two consecutive records was something of a big deal...and not in a good way.
And frankly, the "real rock" cognoscenti had plenty to worry about. Not that our prefab heroes' eponymous 1966 debut was going to give Blonde on Blonde, Aftermath or Revolver a run for their money; this is, no matter what rabidly revisionist Monkeephiles will tell you, strictly kid's stuff. But as far as kids' stuff goes, The Monkees is the absolute cream of the crop: songs like "Saturday's Child," "Last Train to Clarksville," and of course the indelible "(Theme from) The Monkees" demonstrate a natural charisma, evergreen melodic sensibility and effortless aping of mainstream musical trends (with just enough individuality to set them apart) that puts almost any other teenybopper act in history to shame. The production work - mainly by veteran bubblegummers and frequent Monkees songwriters Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart - is also surprisingly hip, with touches of psychedelia that give "Take a Giant Step" and "This Just Doesn't Seem to Be My Day" an exotic Eastern feel far more sophisticated than the typical TV soundtrack fodder.
What really makes The Monkees work, however, is the fact that there was some real talent in this crew - whether their handlers knew it or not. Lead singer/"drummer" Micky Dolenz happened to possess one of prefab pop's most expressive voices, capable of lending excitement, emotion and even a subtle sex appeal both to soaring love songs like "Giant Step" and to quasi-ravers like "Let's Dance On." And then of course there's Michael ("Mike") Nesmith, whose abilities are already recognized among those in the know thanks to a pioneering early '70s solo career in country rock, but whose contributions to the Monkees' records are themselves among the most crucial and distinctive of all. Admittedly, he was no Gram Parsons, but the country twang exhibited on "Papa Gene's Blues" was one of the most important factors in making the Monkees a bona fide "American Beatles" rather than just a Beatles rip-off; and thanks to his production and co-writing credit on the truly bizarre "Sweet Young Thing," the Monkees can lay claim to one of the most mind-melting psych-pop nuggets this side of "Pictures of Matchstick Men" - with fiddle provided by Western swing notable Jimmy Bryant and guitar by Elvis sideman James Burton, no less!
But remember, this is the "music as merchandise" business we're dealing with, and so it should come as no surprise that both of these vital elements to the Monkees' sound were at one point questioned by the suits who had tossed them together. In "Monkees historian" Andrew Sandoval's liner notes to the Rhino reissue, he recounts the story of how the "band"'s original producer, Snuffy Garrett, auditioned the boys and pinned Davy as the lead singer rather than the more talented Micky - doubtless because of his marketably English good looks. And then there are the quotes from infamous Colgems svengali Don Kirshner, who describes the sessions he granted Nesmith as a "peace pipe" meant to keep the most malcontent Monkee out of his corporate-approved formulas. Reading the story behind the Monkees' turbulent early days, and discovering how typical and bland the businessmen behind the phenomenon wanted their product to be, one wonders how an album as warm, organic and musically solid as The Monkees could have been made under such circumstances.
And yet, it was - and even more surprisingly, the rushed follow-up (in everything including name) More of the Monkees turned out to be a pretty damned worthy successor. On almost every count, More of the Monkees should have been a massive artistic failure: it was recorded when the Monkees were at their most overworked and beleagured, with songwriting and production duties on its 12 tracks split between no less than five separate teams, and if that isn't enough, it was issued a flabbergasting four months after the debut. Somehow, though, the record holds together; it sounds nearly as cohesive as The Monkees, and thanks to the inclusion of genuine classics like "(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone," "She," and "I'm a Believer," it might be the better album overall.
Frankly, though, judging between two such cold-blooded and haphazardly assembled records is something of an arbitrary pursuit. Sure, Kirshner and company hit more than they missed on this one, but when you're throwing darts with your back turned and a blindfold over your eyes, is that really much of an achievement? For every compelling experiment - such as Nesmith's country/soul track "Mary, Mary" or Jeff Barry and Jack Keller's Latin-flavored "Hold On Girl" - there's a half-baked novelty like "Your Auntie Grizelda," a Peter Tork solo spot which makes his claims to musical legitimacy look about as weak as his rusty pipes. And while Davy's blatant "I Wanna Be Free" sequel, "The Day We Fall in Love," is a welcome entry in the mid-'60s spoken word kitsch ballad hall of fame otherwise inhabited by tracks like Paul Revere & The Raiders' "Melody for an Unknown Girl," it isn't exactly the most satisfying song on its own merits.
So where does this all leave us, really? What I can say with some certainty is that the Monkees as rock controversy has never felt more distant to me than when I listen to these reissued albums; what I hear, rather than four untalented hacks who can't play their own instruments, is some of the most expertly crafted - and yes, performed - pop music of its decade or any other, a monument to be admired completely apart from the context of the Beatles, the Stones, et. al. After all, had the Monkees performed on their first two releases themselves, the result would probably have been all but indistinguishable from the work of (slightly) more respected acts like Herman's Hermits and the Hollies; but with crack session musicians like the Wrecking Crew behind the scenes, even the most throwaway of album cuts (see: More of the Monkees' "Laugh") sound pretty damn good to these ears.
And that's just it: the greatest controversy of all, especially in this era of critical rehabilitation and high-profile reissues, is that there was no Monkees controversy, or at least there shouldn't have been. Some have pointed out that the Monkees' use of session musicians did nothing to set them apart from, say, the Beach Boys, but that's missing the point: Boyce and Hart put together don't equal one Brian Wilson, and as much as I like these records, they ain't no Pet Sounds. What's more important is that the Monkees never needed to compete with the Beach Boys to be hip in the first place - they were the first postmodern pop group, and that's plenty hip enough. Listen to the transparent self-reflexivity of The Monkees' "Gonna Buy Me a Dog," and the prospect that this is some kind of a "real" band at work becomes downright laughable; it doesn't matter what instruments the sleeve says they play, Davy and Micky are clearly riffing over a prerecorded backing track. The vocals and instrumentation are even at drastically different volumes!
Taken together with an alternate mix of More of the Monkees' "Look Out (Here Comes Tomorrow)" which features Peter's deadpan introductions of each instrumental break in the song (including a lengthy stretch which exists because if it didn't, "the record would be 17 seconds too short, and we'd have to do an interview at the end"), "Gonna Buy Me a Dog" brings out a strange, unintentionally arty subtext of the early Monkees, a knowing comment on the brazen cynicism behind the music's construction; if these guys had been assembled by Andy Warhol and not Don Kirshner, they would probably be on every boho scenester's MySpace profile even as we speak. Indeed, one could even argue that the real dupe didn't occur until 1967's Headquarters, an album recorded and released after the Monkees' ousting of Kirshner whose basic concept - the Monkees play their own instruments! - was somewhat undermined by the fact that producer Chip Douglas had to splice together multiple takes to get a decent drum track out of Micky. Sure, they were puppets, but who was really pulling the strings?
But there I am, getting ahead of myself. Rhino's reissue of Headquarters hasn't hit shelves yet, at least not in the super-expanded double-disc royal treatment given to the first two releases. Neither has Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn and Jones, the record in which the Prefab Four further mined their innate rock/bubblegum dichotomies by re-hiring the session musicians and tinkering with a Moog synthesizer - although if you're intrigued, I'd recommend keeping your eyes peeled; these packages are just too good to be the last word on the Monkees. And if it seems strange that we're here 40 years after the fact, talking about a group of actors who had the (mis)fortune of being packaged with a hit TV show in the '60s, well, just listen to the music: when it's this good, do we really need to worry about who's playing it?
At the 2006 Pitchfork Music Festival Union Park, Chicago - July 29, 2006
When I get there I'm thinking, what's the dif? Last year's Intonation festival mirrored this year's Pitchfork. Same concept: independent artists, bands, local businesses unite and throw this orgy for tight-pants bohemians. Local artists are selling knick-knacks under a tent, local vendors are trying to make a profit, and it just so happens a heat wave is in the process.
The Hot Machines are playing as I enter the park so, naturally, I think, Chicago pride? I mean, the first band on the roster is a local band as I walk down the vendor's street with local restaurants' tents lined up along the curving road. Kinda like Taste of Chicago, but smaller and without the McDonald's. If I wasn't the Chicago native that I am, I would have been a bit upset with all this city pride. That couldn't be the message Pitchfork was trying to send, could it? That Chicago is the best and coolest and indiest place in the country?
I'd like to think so, but of course I'm continuously proven wrong time after time. And sure enough, watching a band from Philly and not the Windy City makes me rethink that question. But first I wait out in the sun, a bit skeptical (psh, Philly?). "They're like a band that sounds like they bought their instruments at a Salvation Army," I was told. It was intriguing enough to keep me waiting out in the open - in the middle of a heat wave.
The audience begins to chant, "Man Man, Man Man..." over and over again. Energy channels throughout the crowd, picking up more to sing their opera. Despite the afternoon sun glaring down at us, the sight of the five band members in their white uniformed look walking on stage was enough for the already-knowing fans to inch forward, leaving the unknowns - like me - slightly further away then we were before. Things get a bit cramped, and sweat from the shirtless guys showing off their chest hair soaked into the clothes of those too modest to let strangers get any skin-on-skin nipple action.
The chant continues, and the beads of sweat on the backs of those around me multiply. The guys onstage assume their positions. Dressed in white shorts and white shirts and sporting white and red face paint, they begin to blow, hit, pinch their instruments. Creating a noise that pulses out from the huge speakers near the stage, the audience jumps in excitement. What sounds like chaotic instrumental warm-up soon finds its rhythm and its beat; three minutes later, a song is complete. I stand there clapping for more.
One guy in the band hops around the stage grabbing a bag full of colored feathers, and starts to fill the air with pretty, pretty colors. Throwing spoons into a metal bowl and gorilla impersonations are another way the band tries to incorporate new sounds into their music, and also another way to entertain the audience. The playful, emasculated back-up vocals completely contradict the rough, hungry vocals coming out of the frontman in the fashion mullet. How could you take this band seriously? Playful is what they are. You listen to five different duck-whistles for an entire minute, and if you aren't horribly annoyed by how obnoxious it is, you'll find out how they'll turn that racket into a well-composed song soon enough. You'll find yourself moving and shaking along to the music they're beating life into, and watching them with a smile on your face, knowing that if given another chance you'd go see them live again, just so you can chant, "Man Man, Man Man..." before the show.
The midday sun is hovering over the park; it's that time of the day that people warn you about, telling you that the sun is extra harsh and that you should stay in if you don't need to leave the house. The park has picked up a few hundred more attendees; they swarmed the festival, ignoring the warnings. For the most part, people are taking the time to relax, have a few beers, get something to eat, and perhaps pick up a knick-knack over at the artist's tent. I lay on the grass with a friend staring at the beautiful blue sky, Tyondai Braxton our soundtrack. It's the kind of music we want to smoke a joint to, relax, smile and take "it" all in. Apparently, people nearby thought the same thing as they lit up.
What was Pitchfork? It was that. Laying on the grass, listening to new music, appreciating it. Wishing you knew what others knew when they chant the name of the band you know nothing about.
The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name: The Modern Pea Pod's August 2006 Mixtape
It happens to the best of us. At the beginning of this summer, I was listening to Bob Dylan and Miles Davis and preparing a senior thesis on Surrealist cinema...by mid-August, I suddenly realized that my desktop wallpaper was a picture of Paul Stanley from KISS. There's something about these summer months that makes our innermost pop culture demons come to the fore; something that makes us settle for second (or third) best when normally we would demand the cream of the crop. Why else would summer be the season of the blockbuster movie, the reality TV show, the half-baked '80s reunion tour? Why else would otherwise reputable music critics always find themselves debating the anthemic 'song of the summer' by August's end, with the recipients of this dubious honor invariably being the likes of Gwen Stefani, Kelly Clarkson and Mariah Carey? Maybe it's the whole "dog days" syndrome, making our intellects and our aesthetic preferences as sluggish as our overheated bodies. Maybe it's all that sun. But in any case, one thing's for sure: summer is the season of the guilty pleasure.
You know what I'm talking about. It's the song that will make you roll your windows up and turn your volume down on even the sultriest of summer days. But will you change the station? Hell, no. Because like the other simple joys of summer - sprinklers, wading pools, ice cream trucks, etc. - the guilty musical pleasure is irresistable, no matter how embarrassing it might be. Of course, now, in late August, summer is almost behind us; our guards are coming back up, and by the fall we'll be scholars and wannabe jazz enthusiasts again. But for now, here are some of our personal vices, ready to be relished in private until next summer comes along. And maybe, with a little courage and a good pair of headphones, you'll be able to admit to yourself, however shamefacedly, that you actually enjoy them year round.
Side A
0:05 - Hillary Duff: "Come Clean" (3:34) And lest you think we're kidding around, we begin our musical confession with arguably the most embarrassing track featured on our website thus far: a 2003 teen-pop confection from a singer best known for starring in Disney's Lizzie McGuire and, later, dating the equally cringeworthy Benji Madden of Good Charlotte (we'll leave out the catfights with Lindsey Lohan, since in this genre, let's face it, they're obligatory). But dammit, no matter how lame the singer, David Koenigcan't resist the song. And the fact that it's called "Come Clean" just makes it that much more appropriate for this month's theme: "It's a damn shame about modern preteen girl pop. The hooks are among today's best; it's too bad that the production is usually boring, the lyrics vapid, and the singers bland and interchangeable. Sometimes hooks are enough, though - Sufjan Stevens wishes he could write a melody this emotional." (Available on Metamorphosis)
3:39 - The Fugees: "Killing Me Softly" (4:58) Why is an offensive hit cover tune by a respected 1990s hip-hop group a guilty pleasure? Let me put it this way: remember that scene in About a Boy when Toni Collette and her onscreen song sing the original version together...with their eyes closed? Laura Misjakelaborates: "Who doesn't love 'Killing Me Softly?' And the Fugees' remake of the 1973 Roberta Flack classic sets amore modern, urban tone to the already passionately sorrowful ball-breaker. Some might not consider this song embarassing to be caught listening to, but the dour demeanor mixed with the soulful lyrics create a contagious concoction, causing listeners to croon on cruise-control. Hence, listening to the Fugees' 1996 'Killing Me Softly' generates a deep desire to sing along, unloading any qualms, puerile or significant, for Lauryn Hill and co. to squelch, making this song the dark chocolate center of a raspberry truffle. It makes you just want to delve in." (Available on The Score)
8:37 - Dio: "The Last in Line" (5:47) Zach Hoskins: "There are few genres as guilty - or as pleasurable - as heavy metal. And we're talking the good stuff: shredtastic solos, 40-piece drum kits, and lyrics as likely to draw from juvenile Dungeons & Dragons sessions as from juvenile sexual fantasies. And in this hallowed pantheon, there are few rock warriors as enduringly awesome as Ronnie James Dio. The man's been singing his 'songs of wildebeests and angels,' as Jack Black put it, since 1972, when his first band of note, Elf, released their Roger Glover-produced debut LP; the 30-plus years since have seen the diminuitive frontman work his black magic on Ritchie Blackmore's Rainbow, the post-Ozzy incarnation of Black Sabbath, and of course, his own indelible (and ongoing!) solo career. So in other words, this guy's metal credentials are pretty much without peer - he even invented the two-fingered "horns of the devil" salute, for Christ's sake! But the question is, when you're dealing with an indisputable musical giant, how does one select a single track to best illustrate His supreme heaviosity?
"My answer, after much deliberation, has to be Dio's 1984 classic 'The Last in Line.' And here's why: maybe the song starts slow, with a ponderous opening mini-verse over gently picked electric guitar, but it's less than a minute before the metal godfather has you punching your fist in the air, as he lets loose with a ferocious roar over a wall of guitars and synths. And he doesn't let up from there. In short, this song rocks - from its uber-portentous (and suspiciously Christian) lyrics to Vivian Campbell's mind-blowing flurry-of-notes solo. And while Dio might have lent his sacred vocal chords to better-known or more iconic songs ("Stand Up and Shout," "Rainbow in the Dark"), how many of those other songs had a video which featured the man himself grabbing a lightsabre and bashing a Fasco-demonic villain in the nut sack? ROCK!!!" (Available on The Last in Line)
14:24 - Justin Timberlake: "Rock Your Body" (4:31) If our list so far - or, okay, maybe just the Fugees track - has proven anything, it's that a song needn't be a bad song to be a guilty pleasure. Sometimes, it can just be the way it makes you humiliate yourself by singing in public, or getting into heated one-sided discussions about whether Viv Campbell or Eddie Van Halen was the better shredder (for the record, it's Campbell by a mile). And sometimes, it's because the singer is such a completely repellant, embarrassing human being, his music will forever be tainted by association. Megan Giddingshas the perfect example: "Listen Justin, I know you're not black. You know you're not black. And really, do you actually want to be Michael Jackson? But whatever, Justin. Whatever. You made the number one indie guilty pleasure of 2002. Everyone remotely cred-conscious tried to make it seem cool. They tried to blame it on the Neptunes. And sure, sure, sure, that Neptunes production is almost always fucking hot. But listen to those lyrics, those desperate attempts at being flagrantly sexy, the word 'NEKKID,' the atrocious beat boxing... And how about the fact that you can literally hear him sing, 'Doot Doot da doo?' This is not a cool song. But, dammit, not even I can walk away from this shit." (Available on Justified)
18:55 - Alanis Morissette: "Head Over Feet" (4:27) More than anything, though, the guilty pleasures we hold dearest are the ones we once loved without guilt - those albums we bought when we were 11, 12, 13, and which moved further and further away from the rest of our collection with every passing year. Now they're somewhere in the bottom of the closet, collecting dust and mold with the rest of our dirty laundry, but we still can't bear to throw them out, sell them or give them away. So when Lauraconfesses of her abiding love for the Alanis Morissette of Jagged Little Pill, she speaks for every girl who was young and impressionable in 1995...and for all of us: "I was an Alanis Morissette fanatic throughout middle school, with the phase beginning when I got one of my first CDs, Jagged Little Pill, for my 11th birthday. I knew every word of every song, even the secret track. I was a coldstone feminist, and I wasn't even 12. Once I reached high school, Alanis and I kind of drifted apart, but we rekindled our relationship when my brother told me he was dating someone who's like second cousins with her, and all the feelings came rushing back. I admit it's cool to have liked Jagged Little Pill then, but to still listen to it, as I do sometimes, and even to listen to her other stuff, is a bit embarrassing I think. It doesn't stop me, I just don't let anyone know. Until now. But I'm sure that every other premature badass does the exact same thing." (Full disclosure: Laura didn't specify a particular track when she submitted her entries. So what you're now hearing is Zach's favorite song from Jagged Little Pill. Yes, he has one.) (Available on Jagged Little Pill)
23:22 - Jay-Z: "99 Problems" (3:54) Zach: "As anyone who's watched the opening credits sequence of Office Space would agree, there are some perfectly good songs which can turn suddenly into the guiltiest of guilty pleasures, all depending on the person who's listening to them. '99 Problems,' a back-to-basics hit for Jay-Z off his 2003 Black Album, is a perfectly good song. In fact, it's a great one, with a thunderous Rick Rubin production that takes you right back to the days when Run-DMC were grafting the big riffs and bigger beats of rock music to the streetwise rhymes of hip-hop. But just picture some mop-headed indie rocker in Elvis Costello glasses and an ironic T-shirt, bumping down the street in his father's Sebring to lyrics like these: 'Now once upon a time not too long ago / A nigga like myself had to strong arm a hoe / This is not a hoe in the sense of having a pussy / But a pussy havin' the goddamn sense to try and push me.' Need I say more?" (Available on The Black Album)
27:16 - Bright Eyes: "Bowl of Oranges" (4:48) Most of the songs on this tape so far, quite frankly, haven't been what you would call 'hip.' But let's not make the mistake of assuming that a guilty pleasure must necessarily be unhip to be embarrassing. In fact, sometimes it's precisely an artist's infuriating hipness - and that of his admirers - which will make you hate yourself for loving him.Meganexplains: "Most people wouldn't consider Bright Eyes a guilty pleasure, but personally, I hate him. I hate his stupid hair, I hate his stupid tragic artist posturing, and I hate his trembly 'bitch just saw Bambi's mother get shot for the first time' voice. Oh, and P.S. Conor, YOU ARE NO BOB DYLAN. But at the same time, I have even had dreams with 'Bowl of Oranges' playing in the background. The melody is addictive. I like the words. He's not crying. And I don't know why...but Bright Eyes, baby, you + me forever. Like a bowl of oraaaaaaaaanges. Like a story told, baby." (Available on Lifted, or The Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground)
32:04 - Def Leppard: "Photograph" (4:08) Zach: "I have about as many reasons to hate Def Leppard as I have musical tastes. As an occasional indie snob, I hate them for their reliance on big hooks, big production, big ballads and big stadium shows. As a more than occasional connnoiseur of rock'n'roll, I hate them for their often sucked-dry, overly processed, pussy-ass sound; they were 'hard rock' made explicitly for the teenage girls they wanted to get backstage, no ifs, ands or buts about it. So yes, I hate Def Leppard. But I don't hate 'Photograph.' Something about this song just works for me: the simple, catchy opening riff, the glam rock strut of Joe Elliott's vocals. Sure, the chorus is pure '80s schlock rock, the kind Def Leppard spent most of the rest of their careers perfecting; but everything else in 'Photograph' makes me want to cut the sleeves off my Union Jack T-shirt, tie a bandana around my neck, and start practicing my high kicks...in private, of course." (Available on Pyromania)
36:12 - Foreigner: "I Want to Know What Love Is" (5:03) David: "The last time I heard this '80s hair ballad, I was hanging out in a small group. We all sang along and rocked out. Half a bottle of absinthe later, nobody was wearing clothes. From then on, I have associated 'I Want to Know What Love Is' with irresponsibility and decadence. Which is perfect, really, for such a shameless pomp rocker. You know that when Foreigner weren't picking out new spandex, they were probably banging underage groupies. When a life like that sounds awesome, there's this song. When it sounds unfulfilling and immoral, I can always go back to Scott Walker." (Available on Agent Provocateur)
41:15 - Letters to Cleo: "I Want You to Want Me" (3:25) Okay, before we close out Side A with this song, let's get one thing straight: the original 'I Want You to Want Me,' by Illinois post-glam power pop forefathers Cheap Trick? Not a guilty pleasure. The 10 Things I Hate About You soundtrack, overemotive girl singers, and handclap breakdowns? Guilty as charged. Proceed, Megan: "Look, we can't all appreciate high art and be jazzmos and shit. I like the song 'I Want You to Want Me.' I like to sing the song 'I Want You to Want Me' with one of my friends when no one else is around. We know all the words. Once, we performed it in front of a busload of people. They were so embarrassed for us that they pretended that we weren't even there. It was pretty awesome." (Available on the 10 Things I Hate About You OST)
Final Runtime: 44:40
Side B
0:05 - The All-American Rejects: "Move Along" (4:00) The definition of the guilty pleasure is a simple one: a song (or movie, or TV show, etc.) that you know you should hate, but love in spite of yourself. And if it were up to me, right next to that definition in the dictionary would be a picture of Abby Stotz' next contribution: "I know they represent the worst of emo - clean-shaven pretty boys barely breaking a sweat as they wax rhapsodic over inner turmoils in a slick MTV video. But 'Move Along' by the All-American Rejects is the guilty pleasure of my summer. Every time it comes on my car radio, I give it my best emo wail, singing along with the ridiculous echoes and redundant lyrics. 'Move Along' is melodramatic and overproduced - and I love it." (Available on Move Along)
4:05 - Deee-Lite: "Heart Be Still" (4:10) In this era of irony as nostalgia and "one-hit wonder" as a marketing term, there's no shame in having a few Quiet Riot or Flock of Seagulls MP3s on your iPod. But what if you don't just have an MP3...what if, indeed, you purchased the entire discography by a mainstream but little-heard footnote in musical history? On that note, Zachhas a confession to make: "I own every album by Deee-Lite. Proper albums, that is; I don't own their Best Of or the Sampladelic Relics & Dancefloor Oddities disc of remixes, though the fact that I know of these records' existence should tell you something about the thoroughness of my buying habits. But yes, I love Deee-Lite, and to tell you the truth, I don't know why. I could tell you that they're better than any other '90s dance act, and indeed their natural funkiness and eclecticism (aided by the appearance of P. Funk legends Bootsy Collins and Maceo Parker on the first two albums) does put them head and shoulders above the likes of Everything But the Girl and La Bouche, at least in my mind. But deep down, I know that they're really just a great song with a band and three unnecessary full-lengths attached; they'd be just as great, if not greater, had 'Groove is in the Heart' come out as a 12" and they'd crumbled immediately afterward. But that didn't happen, so here it is, a lesser but worthy album track from their diminishing-returns 1992 sophomore release Infinity Within. All the trademark elements are present and accounted for: a driving snare and hi-hat beat. A looped piano melody. Lady Miss Kier's soulful voice and absurd lyrics. Bootsy yelling things. In short, it's Deee-Lite being Deee-Lite, roughly two years after the rest of the world stopped caring. But I still care, guys. And for the record, World Clique and Dewdrops in the Garden are pretty damn good too." (Available on Infinity Within)
8:15 - Dashboard Confessional: "Don't Wait" (4:03) David: "Music critics have seriously lightened up about guilty pleasures. These days it seems that everyone freely admits to loving 'Toxic,' 'Since U Been Gone,' and the Young Jeezy album. The one exception to this lovely trend is rock music. Dance, rap, and even boy bands can now be critic-approved, but bands like AFI or Yellowcard remain off limits. Maybe it's because rock is nerdy, or maybe it's because most critics were raised on rock music. Whatever the reason, 'Don?Äôt Wait' would have been the guilty pleasure du jour this summer if rock guilt were more fashionable." (Available on Dusk and Summer)
12:18 - The Monkees: "A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You" (2:51) Zach: "Everybody's got some musical skeletons in their closet, and if this tape has proven anything, it's that I'm no exception. But while others' musical mishaps, especially the childhood ones, can be explained away by any number of factors - radio oversaturation, peer pressure, a blind urge to piss off one's parents - with me things were never so simple. When I was between the ages of 13 and 15 years old (maybe longer - I may be suppressing), I loved the Monkees. Like, loved them. I listened to their music constantly, I quoted at great length from the liner notes of Rhino's late '90s reissue editions, I loved both Head and 33 1/3 Revolutions Per Monkee, and though I never got around to mentioning them in the same breath or the Beatles or anything, I did have a dream about meeting Micky Dolenz and having him sign my Hey Jude shirt, so maybe that's a sign of what would have been had I not nipped my obsession in the bud. And nip I did; I moved on to other musical loves (much to my parents' relief, who perversely would probably have rather I developed a taste for punk or heavy metal than keep blasting Headquarters at all hours), and within a few years, I'd traded in all seven (!) of my Monkees CDs for cold, hard cash.
"At the time I was mortified that my Monkees fandom had ever run as deep as it once did; but now, while you're unlikely to see me in a green wool cap anytime soon, I like my Monkees just fine. The first two albums (and, with reservations, the third and fourth) are sublime bubblegum pop, probably the best you're likely to hear. And whenever 'A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You' pipes into my local supermarket, I break into a big, goofy grin. So kids, just remember: your guilty pleasures won't always make you feel like a musical moron. Once you turn 20, they'll just become kitsch, and you can start happily listening to your Monkees albums and singing along to those sublime teenybopper melodies all over again." (Available on The Best of the Monkees)
15:09 - Howie Day: "Collide" (4:09) Laura: "I'm sorry. I'm a girl. I have a vagina. I like this song. Oh Howie Day, how you make me want to hide and listen to your preciously girlified songs as I pretend to tousle your long, sort of spikey, manic depressive hair." (Available on Stop All the World Now)
19:18 - The Rolling Stones: "Dance (Pt. 1)" (4:23) Zach: "As a Rolling Stones fan, I should hate Emotional Rescue. As a rock'n'roll fan, I should hate Emotional Rescue. Hell, even as a human being, I should probably hate Emotional Rescue. This was the album, after all, when the Stones' late-'70s disco obsessions finally reached the tipping point; when they dropped all pretense and became the groove-oriented pop act they'd been threatening to become since Goats Head Soup, their rockers growing hopelessly flaccid and non-threatening in the process. It's the true beginning of the end for the classic Stones, pretty harsh words considering their 'last great album,' 1978's Some Girls, already pales in comparison to landmarks likeSticky Fingers, Exile on Main Street and Beggars Banquet. But the thing is, I kinda like the disco Stones. To my mind they were the most convincing rock dinosaurs of their era to make the leap to dance music - and, lest we forget, they were certainly not alone - with Charlie Watts' impeccable sense of rhythm, Bill Wyman's loose, funky bass lines and Keith Richards' organic, economical guitar work forming a solid backbone for plenty of overlooked minor classics. And 'Dance (Pt. 1),' off the dreaded Emotional Rescue, is the best of these minor classics. Now granted, this is hardly the Stones doing what they do best. For that you'd need to see Exile, Fingers, Banquet, hell, even Let It Bleed. But when it comes down to it, given the choice between 'Dance (Pt. 1)' and spineless 'Brown Sugar' rewrites like 'Start Me Up,' I'll get up, get out and get into something new...every time." (Available on Emotional Rescue)
23:42 - Carl Douglas: "Kung Fu Fighting" (3:15) Over the course of this mixtape, we've tried to make a case for some of the songs we hate to love. Some of our attempts have been more successful than others, but by and large, we think you've gotten the point. There are some songs, however, which are beyond mere explanation; songs so abhorrent, so ridiculous, and yet so insidiously catchy, that you can only accept your perverse love for what it is: completely, even insanely irrational. You all know a song like that. And now, Meganwill introduce us to the most irrational of them all: "I hate it when someone pretends that every lousy song they listen to is a brick of musical gold shat out by Mozart on a sunny June afternoon. There are songs which can't be defended, which defy any attempt at a pretentious face-saving pedestal. And, I give you the king of those songs: Carl Douglas' 'Kung Fu Fighting.' There's plenty here to make even the most ironclad of unselfconscious musical sensibilities squirm. There are the several attempts at making kung-fu grunts. There is the fake Asian-style music put over a funk backing. And then there's the pretentious orchestration at the beginning of the song; the phrase 'Funky Chinamen from Funky Chinatown,' and of course, the monumental cry of, 'Here comes the big boss - let's get it on!' But at the same time, despite all of its faults, 'Kung Fu Fighting' is the horribly awesome song you want to hear at a wedding reception. You want to see all of your uncles embarass themselves with an awkward kung-fu dance that they made up spur of the moment. You just don't want anyone else to know that you do the same dance in your room every time the song pops up on your iTunes playlist." (Available on The Best of Carl Douglas: Kung Fu Fighting)
Aaron Commandeers the Mixtape:"At first glance, this month's mixtape seems tailor-made for yours truly. After all, I regularly write at length on this very website about my love for television kitsch like Degrassi Junior High, and my secret enjoyment of Bollywood films. I have talked, at length, about a great love for bands like the Spice Girls, and for the last mixtape, I submitted Cyndi Lauper's 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.' Hell, I'm even the token punk-rock writer among a group of people who tend to greatly frown upon such genres. This is precisely the problem, though. I have no problem admitting these tastes of mine on a regular basis. And why not? If you ask me, the whole 'guilty pleasure' concept is a bit flawed.
Guilt, shame, fear, and self-loathing are not things we should be striving after. Hedonism, truly, is the answer. There is nothing wrong with pleasure. Ever. One should have no problem admitting his or her pop culture loves. If it makes you happy - go for it. This is what I try to do. I am not embarrassed that I sometimes love things that are a bit sugary sweet and poppy, full of silly teenage angst, or just meaningless. I have no problem admitting this publicly. I do not run from my happiness.
And so, as a protest of what I view to be a philosophically flawed tape theme, I submit the following 15 minute and 41 second block of music devoted to the pursuit of pleasure. These are songs which have no problem declaring the glories of vice and the virtues of sin. As long as it feels good, they will let you do it. And frankly, I have no problem admitting I like them too."
26:57 - Compute: "Dance with Me" (3:11) "First up is a song which revels in a simple enough pleasure: the art of dance. Indie synth-popper Compute begs the listener in 'Dance With Me' to do just that. To resist the music, is to deny yourself a moment of joy. True to its word, the song itself will bring you out on the floor before you know it." (Available on Hello! Surprise!)
30:08 - Donna Summer: "Hot Stuff" (3:51) "And speaking of dancing, I present to you the queen of the Disco Era. Donna Summer's 'Hot Stuff' is brutally frank in its design. She knows what she wants, and she's going to demand it. It's a declaration of the enjoyment of passionate, sweaty, hot, hot sex - right down to the breathy moans that Summer was so famous for." (Available on The Journey: The Very Best of Donna Summer)
33:59 - The Reverend Horton Heat: "Bales of Cocaine" (2:11) "While the body, clearly, is equipped to offer a variety of natural physical pleasures, chemical aid is sometimes a great help. Rockabilly revivalist Rev. Horton Heat has sung extensively on this issue. There have been tracks praising the values of beer, marijuana, and a variety of different cocktails. One of the special highlights, however, is 1993's 'Bales of Cocaine.' Here is a song that not only celebrates a top-rate narcotic, but also the world of quick money and illegal dealings. Fantastic." (Available on The Full-Custom Gospel Sounds of the Reverend Horton Heat)
36:10 - Social Distortion: "Pleasure Seeker" (3:33) "There is, however, only one song that could truly cap off this descent into orgy. To quote Mike Ness: 'Who wants to fight temptation, that's no fun / C'mon and play the games, don't you feel no shame / That's what Eve said to Adam before she came / ...There's damnation and disgrace, and guilt rears its ugly face / Yet you beg for more, just a little more.' 'Nuff said." (Available on White Light, White Heat, White Trash)
Zach Wrests Back Control:"Okay. We get it. We shouldn't feel guilty for loving the music that speaks to us, blah, blah, blah. But think about this for a minute: if there was no such thing as a guilty pleasure, where would we be? What if every mixtape you ever received from a friend or potential suitor was full of terminally uncool (but secretly lovable) tracks by Gordon Lightfoot, Kip Winger and the Lovin' Spoonful? What if your favorite band came onstage and announced that they wanted to perform a straight cover by 98 Degrees? And seriously - if you hadn't been afraid that the record store clerk was going to give you shit for buying Kick by INXS, would you really have bought that Pixies album? What I'm trying to say is, mental functions like guilt - or, more neutrally, conscience - are what keep us from spilling over into complete chaos; the Superego is as crucial an element to the human psyche, individually and socially, as the Id. And just as social taboos keep us from raping and pillaging our neighbors, so musical guilt keeps us from committing equally egregious pop culture sins.
"So go ahead, turn your iPod volume down when the S Club 7 track comes on. It's a perfectly natural instinct that will keep you striving for better music - because while guilty pleasures are as sugary sweet as a candy binge or a McDonald's breakfast, no one can live on pleasure alone. Sometimes, we need meat and potatoes, music that sustains our minds as well as our ears. But in the meantime, let's finish our celebration of the guilty pleasure, with a song I'm willing to bet few of you would ever admit to liking before at least two drinks..."
39:43 - Journey: "Don't Stop Believin'" (4:10) Zach: "Now, before you decide that the Modern Pea Pod has officially lost all credibility, let me just say this: I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a Journey fan. 'Wheel in the Sky' and 'Open Arms' both bore me to tears, thank you very much, and 'Separate Ways' is basically only notable as the Holy Grail of Cheesy Music Videos. But I've secretly liked 'Don't Stop Believin'' ever since my senior year of high school. Why? Because that was the year when I played in a Journey cover band. I'm dead serious.
"Now, obviously, I wasn't the one in charge of our musical destiny here. Again, I was not a Journey fan, then or ever. But my friend was, and I played drums, and so I joined the band. We had exactly one performance - a high school Battle of the Bands, which I regrettably had a hand in arranging and promoting - and our set consisted almost entirely of Journey cover songs, the show-stopping centerpiece of which was (you guessed it) 'Don't Stop Believin'.' And being a dutiful friend and bandmate, I learned the fucking song. I rehearsed it over and over again, I listened to it in my spare time, I knew it intimately from the opening piano line to the triumphant fade-out. And somewhere along the line, I began to love it. I loved the way the guitar and drums slowly built up before the first chorus. I loved the guitar solo. And on the night of the show, under the lights at my high school auditorium as we hit that final refrain and I began to wail on my ride cymbal, I realized: this fucking ROCKS. This is a GREAT SONG. Now of course, that wasn't entirely true; 'Don't Stop Believin'' is by and large a thoroughly mediocre, melodramatic piece of AOR shit. But there's some kind of magic in the mix that makes it transcend such easy write-offs; somehow, it's better than any other cornball 'victory rock' anthem you can name. It is, to my mind, a shining example of the guilty pleasure - perhaps the greatest of all time. So folks, let's put aside our petty prejudices, join hands, and board the midnight train going anywhere. Hold on to that feeling. And yes, just this once, you have my permission to belt along to the most oddly sublime song ever associated with Steve Perry." (Available on Escape)
Mason Jennings' voice is comparable to your grandma's old crocheted afghan. It's relatively simple and not very attractive, but it's cozy, warm and familiar in a way that few things are. It's absolutely unique, and whispers from a soul that seems as kind and understanding as your own grandmother's. In his sixth release, Boneclouds, Jennings' words have a way of wrapping themselves around your nerves and stifling them in each of the ten slow, lovely songs. The music's essence is smooth, pure and rustic, reminiscent of the Midwest with its modestly tender flow. The tracks vary in meter and rhythm, but all are identifiable with Jennings' humble style.
Boneclouds is also a quick listen, 38 minutes all together, which is almost a travesty considering how much I enjoyed what I heard. "Moon Sailing on the Water" is the most comforting of the songs, with four and a half minutes of placating lyrics that come across as incredibly calm and depressing, but thoughtful, like an accepted defeat. Female backup vocals aid Jennings along, with a perfect mix of a light beat, piano and acoustic guitar. "Be Here Now," the album's lead track, is comparable to "Moon Sailing on the Water" in that it soothes with repetitive lyrics and rhythm. The song has much more of a beat than "Moon," however, and although on the verge of annoyance, the simplistic melodies of both songs come across more in a nurturing light, like someone petting your head over and over, in a good way.
I didn't immediately enjoy the more upbeat songs on the album, mainly because they remind me of church hymns. I don't know if it's Jennings' voice, the lyrics or the way the instruments are played - it's probably a combination of all three, but listening to "Gentlest Hammer" brought me right back to the stained glass windows and hardwood pews. After I got over that initial impression, I enjoyed "Gentlest Hammer," but it brought my attention to a slightly religious feel throughout the entire album, most obviously with the closing track, entitled "Jesus Are You Real." Admittedly, "Jesus" is of a downer song that I doubt would ever be played in church, but it still kind of took me off guard as Jennings directly addresses Jesus. Even so, I warmed up to the melancholy melody within the first minute; Jennings' ability to tell stories through his songs is showcased especially in "Jesus" and in "If You Ain't Got Love," an astoundingly beautiful song to his child that grapples with mortality. Philosophical undertones are certainly carried throughout the album, and many times Jennings can spit out the most simple-sounding lyric, but the weight with which it hits your ears is surprising.
The sunny songs, which carry a different expression and jambalaya-like beat, aren't my favorites either, though they aren't bad. "Jackson Square" has a honky-tonk feel to it, "Some Say I'm Not" has a strange shangri-la vibe, and "Where the Sun Has Been" feels completely alien compared to the rest of the CD, but these songs just add to the album's character, and hardly take away from its quality. The only real qualm I have with Boneclouds, oddly, has to do with Jennings' organic voice: although incredibly comforting, it hardly ever shows emotion. I'm not sure if it would hurt the album, but it piques my curiosity to see what would happen if Jennings could belt out more of a ballad from time to time. Still, with or without overt emotion, Mason Jennings' voice pours through each of these songs with such subtlety and care, you're a robot if his old-fashioned charms don't draw you in.
In his Ars Poetica (The Art of Poetry), the Roman poet Horace recommended a technique which many a modern-day teacher would also suggest for beginning writers: a grace period before public release, wherein the poet's work is cultivated, allowed to settle, and shared only with mentors and close confidants in the interim. Unlike modern techniques of "letting it sit," however, Horace's program wasn't a matter of days, weeks or even months. "Let them not come forth," he wrote, "Till the ninth ripening year mature their worth. You may correct what in your closet lies / If published, it irrevocably flies."
Take a look at the mountains of lousy, underwritten poetry (or, for that matter, rushed, middling rock albums) released in the 2000 years since Ars Poetica, and it's immediately apparent that Horace had a point; but when a Canadian singer-songwriter named Chad VanGaalen released his 2004 "debut record" Infiniheart, it seemed as though the young upstart was taking the old codger's advice a mite too literally. Less a proper LP than a compilation of (you guessed it) ten years' worth of private home recordings, Infiniheart had all the joy of discovery one finds in a really great mixtape, but little of the cohesion or flow one expects from a professionally released album. Sure, its wildly varied 16 tracks at their best felt like the tip of a truly unique musical iceberg, but at their worst, they felt exactly like what they were: samples, drawn almost at random from a decade-long discography, never intended for public consumption. And as much as I loved it for the odd little gem that it was, even I had to ask myself, does Chad VanGaalen's unique artistic approach really come out of Horacean self-isolation, or would he get even better if somebody gave him a kick in the ass and made him deliver a follow-up?
The answer, if you haven't already guessed, is decidedly the latter. Released a mere two years after Infiniheart (or just one, if you hopped on the bandwagon after last year's Sub Pop reissue like I did), Skelliconnection must have felt like the equivalent of a rush-recorded cash-in to a bedroom craftsman as solitary and meticulous as VanGaalen. Fortunately, though, urgency suits him - a fact which becomes immediately apparent once excellent opening track "Flower Gardens" takes shape out of electric keyboard blips into a crunchy, driving hard rock riff. Yes, you read that correctly...two years on the road have put some color into Chad's pale Canadian flesh, and this time he's coming out rocking. But before you worry that our indie underdog has gone all Comets on Fire on us, take heart: from its icy electronic/warm acoustic textural dichotomies to its impressive 15-track sprawl, Skelliconnection is every bit the endearing, freakishly beautiful oddity its predescessor was; just tighter, better-executed, and more cohesive in every way.
As a songwriter, VanGaalen is still the same idiosyncratic mix of Franz Kafka and a seven-year-old, equal parts childlike wonder and detached, alien unease. But this time, song for song, his work has the substance to support his persona: the eerie narrative of "See-Thru Skin" (which is about exactly what the title suggests) is certainly bizarre, but its underlying sense of innocence and discovery is enough to make anybody relate, regardless of your feelings on the visibility of your veins or the expansion and contraction of your lungs. VanGaalen the performer, too, has grown immeasurably since last we met, steadily developing his own voice on an album whose fast-paced numbers ("Burn 2 Ash") sound less and less like the Arcade Fire. And as for those Neil Young comparisons, while they're not entirely avoidable, at least this time they're well-earned; just listen to "Mini T.V.'s," where VanGaalen is an absolutely magnificent dead ringer for the Shakey one, from the descending chord sequence to that broken, quavering falsetto.
Finally, let's not forget about VanGaalen the arranger, who blends cold, Gary Numanesque cityscapes with organic indie-pop vocals better than anybody named Gibbard or Tamborello on "Red Hot Drops." And for those who like the complete package, it all comes together wonderfully - writing, performance, and production - on the climactic "Dead Ends," a gorgeous, epic pop song about love gone bad with a chorus that makes the singer scale some startlingly passionate heights, pitched somewhere between Ryan Adams and Bono (!). All in all, it might just be the best moment of what might just be the best record of 2006 so far.
Indeed, the only disheartening thing about Skelliconnection is the sense one gets that Chad VanGaalen will be as reluctant as ever to pursue his muse where he ought to. Recent interviews have seen him suggesting that his latest work is "overproduced," that he'd rather go back to the sprawling instrumental compositions he did before Ian Russell of Flemish Eye Records coerced him into putting out Infiniheart, and in general that he's more interested in getting high, playing with keyboards and toying with the idea of a hip-hop record than continuing in this direction. And as funny as the idea of a stoned Chad VanGaalen busting rhymes over improvised electronics sounds, I have to say, this is one listener who'd rather keep hearing wonderful records like this one than craftless, underwritten "experimentation." So Chad, maybe Horace was right after all: you can write those epic instrumentals. You can even record that hip-hop album. But do us a favor, and keep 'em to yourself until you can come up with something that matches Skelliconnection. Even if it takes ten years.
Music scenes are usally thought of in very straight-cut, grey terms...especially when that scene happens to be Detroit's. When the White Stripes' popularity exploded into the national consciousness, every music writer and publicist began to formulate a very simple equation: Detroit + Garage Rock(2) + (5)(Trendiness) = $$$$$. And while that equation has led to some very misinformed reviews, releases, and music fans, it also led to a lot of attention being lavished on a city and a scene that deserved all of the attention it could get. Though, ironically, two of the very few actual garage bands in metro Detroit (see the Hentchmen and the now-defunct Riots) didn't become much more popular than they already were, some bands which captured that older aesthetic and modernized it became more and more prominent, while in the meantime, the more traditionally indie-sounding and more explicitly "modern" bands began to fall to the wayside. Everyone fell in love with that "old-rock" feel.
