It’s better on paper, but here it is on .pdf, if you’re so inclined.

I haven’t been playing drums for very long, and am way less of a gearhead than most (read: all) of my musician friends. But, regardless, here’s my kit.

Is there a name for that phenomenon when a celebrity dies, and repeated instances of tribute oversaturate and threaten to desensitize? If so, there needs to be a term for more tribute in spite of the glut—by the time you read this, Monday (or after), I’m sure you will have read as many MCA tributes as you’d like. I know this. But regardless:

There’s this parlor game that my friends and I have played for years: which celebrity, when s/he dies, would cause people to spill out onto the street, weeping? It’s harder than you think. Like we didn’t get Michael Jackson.
MCA—and the Beastie Boys—are so engrained in the psyches of everyone of a certain wide-sweeping age that his contributions are barely even noticed, so fundamental are they. The Beastie Boys were always impressive to me because not only did they have depth of reference—the Bad Brains AND the Ramones were sampled into their music with a winking cool, like “if you get the joke you’re okay with us”—but breadth, too. They paid attention to pop culture so widely that their references transcended genre and social groups equally. Go out, be curious, and dig what you dig, they seemed to be saying. It’s cool. It’s all cool.

With that said, I didn’t get Paul’s Boutique at all when it was released. It didn’t sound anything like Licensed to Ill. It was in 1993, after Check Your Head came out, that I got into it. My buddy John played the record every day of our summer camp employ at Wah-Tut-Ca, it seemed, so I learned the album through his gesticulations and pantomimes of the songs.

Paul’s Boutique (Full Album)

Of course, I didn’t get the record fully then. I probably still don’t now, to be honest. Almost twenty years ago, when I first dove in, I was too punk to acknowledge that there had been a band called the Beatles, much less that they were, and are, the best band of all time. So “The Sounds of Science” went right over my head. It was only years later that I caught the references. Public Enemy? Got it. But Trouble Funk? Curtis Mayfield? Funkadelic? I found all of ‘em years apart. They recontextualized the album, again and again. I’m sure that there’s still tons that I’m missing, that scholars haven’t been able to find or decipher yet. Like the Beastie Boys themselves, Paul’s Boutique was, and is, the Rosetta Stone of effortless cool.

The thought of the Beastie Boys not happening any more is unfathomable to me. I went out onto the street myself Friday in tribute. That was part of the magic: their music, with its references, is deeply personal, yet uniting. It’s this duality which makes Paul’s Boutique so rewarding: it’s a party record with depth, always rewarding because of its sonic and referential density. I can’t imagine that there will ever be a band able to simultaneously connect and transcend ever again.

Read more: http://365aay.com/y3d202/#ixzz1uQaOmWZR

Thanks to all who came to the Three Rooms Press blowout last night at Le Poisson Rouge.

Brooklyn Vegan has these shots, including this one:

The Vinyl District reviews the show here.

Another quick review/roundup here. 

Read more: http://365aay.com/y3d195/#ixzz1tZrF5GyY

Just in time for our show Saturday at O’Brien’s. Thanks to Luke O’Neill.

Until recently, the idea of the second act was inconceivable—artists and bands got one shot, did what they had to do, and that was it. That’s in the eyes of the big time, though. Fans of “indie”—whatever that means these days—know that bands can make a viable go of it without becoming blinded by limelight. But during the feeding frenzy that followed Nirvana, the idea of viability became skewed. Let’s face it: most artists, no matter their discipline, don’t make a living from their art. Doing so is a tremendous accomplishment. Yet the popular notion of success calls making a living into question, to the point where eking it out but not working a day job on the regular isn’t enough to qualify. There’s gotta be opulence, names in lights, articles, exposure—bullshit, basically.

The narrative surrounding Jawbox involves Making the Leap: they and DC brethren Shudder to Think both made the leap from Dischord to the majors at about the same time. I remember being really worried about these signings (and later, Jawbreaker’s) when I was twenty. Like really worried, to an extent that cracks me up, now that I’ve, you know, had a job and paid rent. I was worried because the party line told me I had to be. It was all part of the mythical land of Selling Out, which, honestly, is nobody’s business but the artist in question.

I’m sure we can all agree that the whole “sellout” discussion becomes less and less relevant as artists now have to acclimatize to a marketplace which is shifting its values— it’s now about the live show, and about selling songs where and when you can to make some dough. Commercials? No problem now—in fact, a target now, whereas in the past such behavior would cause frothing dissent from the crusties and the trusties alike. (We had scene unity the whole time and we just never knew it! X up, y’all!)

Absenter

What I’m getting at here, of course, is that in Jawbox’s case, the jump forced a shift in narrative. Such fuss was made over their leap that their music was lost in the shuffle. For Your Own Special Sweetheart, their 1994 Atlantic debut, got some press, and rightly so—with an increased budget, the band was able to overcome the muddy production which marred the great songwriting on 1992’s Novelty and put out a record which remains one of the best records of the nineties, a perfect combination of melody, dissonance, and unexpected songwriting twists.

But the second act—or at least the perception of such an act—kept the band’s eponymous swansong from getting the recognition it deserved. Because Sweetheart did so well–because the band, the narrative went, Beat the Odds and Maintained Their Integrity in the Face of the Corporate Ogre—following up their major label debut wasn’t part of the story.

The fact of the matter is that nothing changed. Sure, the band got a budget, and yeah, Zach Barocas replaced Adam Wade before Sweetheart came out. That’s not what I’m talking about. Despite the deal and the weird-but-cool window dressings that came with it—remember that photoshoot in Details? Or when they played on Conan O’Brien?—all the band did, throughout their career, was progress. That’s the real narrative, despite the way that the deal is often framed as being End of Act One.

Chinese Fork Tie

Like I said, Sweetheart is a complete stunner, and how do you follow up a complete stunner? In Jawbox’s case, you keep doing what you did before: relying on expected shifts, jagged edges, and the mast of tunefulness that unites the disparate elements together. In most cases, this mast comes vocally in the form of J. Robbins, whose lyrics and vocal lines propel the band through the rough seas they joyfully inflicted on listeners. Nowhere is this more evident than on “Chinese Fork Tie,” a smorgasboard of riffs and textures bound up by Robbins’ off-time tirade. The dual guitars and backing vocals of J. Robbins and Bill Barbot interlock throughout, as on “Spoiler,” presenting a whole greater than the sum of already substantial parts.

Progression also comes in the band’s full integration of Zach Barocas’s beats. He’s one of the most consistently inventive ‘90s punk drummers I can think of (along with Amy Farina of the Evens / Warmers and Sara Lund of Unwound), and on Jawbox he puts on a clinic: the aforementioned “Chinese Fork Tie” boasts an amazingly odd and insistent backbeat which largely manages to avoid emphasizing the “rock” hits. “Desert Sea” is another such number, a prototypically explosive exercise in difficult dynamism made easy. Bassist Kim Coletta not only manages throughout to make sense of Barocas’s neo-jazz thwack, but acts, as all good bass players to, as the translator, teaching the listener how to hear the rhythm.

Spoiler

Jawbox is an album which gets nowhere near as much attention as it deserves, partially because its precedent was heaped with so many accolades. But part of it’s the false narrative, the idea that following up an amazing record with another strong effort isn’t important because of the slaying of the corporate dragon or whatever lame story idea the glossies foisted on the public. It’s more the arc than the story around the arc.

Read more: http://365aay.com/y3d188/#ixzz1suOhnP50

gordonwithers:

Click through the link to read a rant about music-related Kickstarter projects from April 6. Someone posted this on Twitter today, and reading it left me with mixed feelings (full disclosure: I’ve run two successful vinyl Kickstarters and at least two KS employees follow this Tumblr).

The author brings up some points worthy of discussion. It is absolutely true (and tragic) that community-based “high” art funding is in crisis right now. As a society we should be ashamed for not valuing the arts more. Secondly, there are indeed many differences in the way people consume, interact with, and perceive art produced by bands, and that produced by those doing installations, one-off dance performances, etc. This can create a problematic juxtaposition when these two somewhat-similar worlds are lumped together in a context such as Kickstarter. Thirdly, while I tentatively agree with the author’s “pay your dues” argument to bands, I think it’s a separate issue that he/she incorrectly conflates with the community-art crisis.

A rising tide should lift all boats. Herein is my main problem with the author’s rant - he/she assumes a zero-sum game. I believe that excitement about the arts is infectious, with the ability to cross-pollinate and expand across artistic scenes. Last year, Kickstarter raised as much money as the NEA gave out in grants. Was this extra $150M diverted directly from peoples’ pre-existing arts budgets? Of course not. I believe the typical Kickstarter arts pledger probably spent more on arts-related items in 2011 than they would have anticipated. In the same vein, I highly doubt the author’s assertion that Philly band Kickstarters are cannibalizing community-arts funding. Certainly, not every band should launch a Kickstarter, and many who do so have poorly-conceived projects (Again, Kickstarter’s quality control is a subject for another time), and the same could be said about community-arts Kickstarters. But looking at this in a more positive way, there is an opportunity here. Excitement about the arts is infectious. If a community has a vibrant scene in one area, be it music or visual arts or dance or sculpture or anything, that excitement can spill over and fuel growth in any other artistic area. And it should! Some folks will have to pick and choose which projects and events to support, to be sure. But excitement and cross-pollination will bring more people into the arts and grow a city’s scene, benefiting everyone. There are a number of easy ways to start doing this - bands could message to their fans about worthy local community arts projects, and vice versa, for starters.

Art funding is not a zero-sum game. But perhaps more importantly, negativity and division within a region’s artistic community is insidious and destructive. Maybe not every band should be on Kickstarter. But the way to improve a local scene is to highlight the best projects that are being produced at that moment - not to nitpick the bad ones. Focus on the exciting, new things happening, and break down barriers between different artistic scenes! This will further the quality and vibrancy of your local arts scene. Harping on the “unworthy” will only set you back.

Thoughts welcome.

nervousacid:

Now that I’m forced to consider Levon Helm’s life and legacy — in the wake of the tragic news that he is currently in the final stages of cancer — it feels important to assert the fact that we really don’t need to go as far back as Music From Big Pink or The Last Waltz to be inspired by the man. In my mind, 1968 and 1976 may have been creative highs for Helm, but they weren’t exactly peaks. To use that word is to say that, since then, there has been a dip in either the quantitative activity or qualitative value of Helm’s work, and that simply isn’t the case. Artists who peaked in the 1970s don’t generally win Grammy Awards in 2008 and 2010 and then again this year; artists without creative fires don’t transform their homes into public venues every week for an opportunity to collaborate with peers and descendants alike. Levon Helm is nothing if not contemporary, and the only thing that might hurt my feelings more than his eventual departure is the idea that many of his eulogists will have already buried him with The Band.

I quit playing music for a living several years ago, but it was never my intention to quit playing music. To see Helm still playing the way he does at 71 years old is to see that it can be done. To see Helm building new musical communities in 2012 is to see a commitment to the kind of transformative social network that will never be realized by Facebook or Twitter. To see Helm collaborating with younger generations — as he does on this 2008 track by my favorite band Ida — is to see a man who recognizes the kinetic nature of music, and shuns the static bliss of nostalgia. He’s a flashlight-wielding shepherd in that regard, and I’d be blessed to follow him.

It’s easy, before the needle even hits the record, to not take Death seriously. That’s part of it nowadays, isn’t it? There’s such a barrage of band names—not even bands, but their names—competing for attention that a bum note nullifies any chance of drawing a listen. If you’re like me, you thought that an old Florida metal band had reunited or raided the vaults. If not, well: Death, you know? Nothing subtle about it, to the point of heavy-handedness. (Come to find out the band would’ve had a major deal if they’d changed their name when this stuff was recorded in 1973. Pretty punk.)

If you can get past the name, there’s the story, which works as a deterrent as well as an attraction: old band is “discovered” and moves forward to assume their rightful place in the __________ canon. In this case, the Detroit band is hyped as the missing like between the MC5 and the Bad Brains. I like both of those bands, don’t get me wrong, but it all seemed very calculated, you know? So much so, in fact, that I questioned the validity of the story. I’ve known bands who have come up with fake backstories—and have come up with a few myself, to be honest—so I couldn’t help but be wary.

Freaking Out

So, the confluence of seeing the name and the story all over the place made me react negatively. I feel like rather than finding or stumbling upon music I am now forcefed it more than I would like. Of course, back in the fanzine heydays ads and record reviews served the same purposes, but felt much more honest, somehow—perhaps in their passivity. Goddamn flash popups.

As is almost always the case, I listened to my friends rave about the record, then gave it a shot. And it’s great.

Where Do We Go From Here

So, pre-Florida metal, pre-naming your band with search engines in mind, Death got together and, as the headlines trumpeted, took the hard rock of their city—Stooges, MC5—and infused it with accomplished musicianship and more breakneck tempos. The stop / starts in “Freaking Out,” for example, are tight and timely, and “Where Do We Go From Here” will get stuck in your head for days. This is music that needs to be heard on its own terms, not in spite of their clunky name, and not because of any shoehorning of a band into a historical context.

Read more: http://365aay.com/y3d181/#ixzz1sFPH3TxG