Three Remedies

An instant rush of cold chill sweeping up your spine.

All it takes is the split second between plectrum striking
guitar string and unholy howl screaming from the amp.

We're talking about guitar solos. And not just any guitar solos.

Definitely not bland solos. Or careless ventures up and down the
pentatonic scale embodied by cheesy, ripped off blues riffs
that would fit perfectly with a 16-bar break in the
middle of an equally ripped off three-chord shit show of a
drunken barroom romp.

We're talking about something altogether more electric and
expressive, something that tugs at the most vulnerable
points of our souls without ever verbalizing it.

Now those are truly great guitar solos.

In my previous blog post I wanted to discuss the three different lead
guitarists I've seen play with The Black Crowes.

Since the band's inception in 1989 The Crowes have had five different
guitarists, and like many people who repeatedly get married, The
Crowes have been married to a particular lead guitarist twice (and twice
broke up with him because of his "drug problems").

The first ill-fated leadman, Jeff Cease, was booted from
the band after the first album because his playing wasn't
up to snuff. Paul Stacey had a recent stint but wasn't much
more than a touring utility player.

Then there was Marc Ford, the man whose distinctive style added layers to the
band's music, seamlessly weaving the rhythm and lead guitar parts together.

I saw him during his second stint with the band (marriage #2) at
the McDowell Mountain Music Festival in 2006. His soloing was
something that borders between primal and majestic, bending notes more
than 1 1/2 steps and striking the strings like an electric charge was
emanating from his body.

He draws influences from the likes of Hendrix and expands upon the conventions of
the dreaded pentatonic, the fallback for every lead guitarist in
rock 'n roll. But for whatever reason, Ford's playing is something
more tasty and delicately flawed than the rock player's scale of choice
can confine.

Marc's a player who's all about feel. It's the feel that's endearing.

It's impassioned playing, sometimes to the point of being "noodly,"
but nonetheless it's distinct and adds a very raw yet precise element
to the music that takes it beyond what it would be with a single
guitar player and no solos. In a sense the songs are better for his
playing.

Three albums go by and The Crowes get rid of Marc. They make "By Your
Side" with Rich Robinson doing lead and rhythm parts. Not bad, but not
great solo work.

Enter Audley Freed, ex-lead guitarist from Cry of Love.

I saw him play with The Crowes at The Aragon Ballroom in Chicago in
2001, my first ever Black Crowes concert. Audley's style is
markedly different than Marc Ford's, but it's impressive nonetheless
(listen to "Highway Jones" by Cry of Love and tell me
he isn't masterful).

But Freed abandoned much of the quick-fingered fiery blues soloing
that became his trademark in Cry of Love when he joined The Crowes.
His interpretations of Marc Ford solos were pretty decent and he
played well weaving his parts with Rich Robinson, yet it felt at times
like he was purposely trying not to "overplay."

You see, "overplaying" was a point of contention during Ford's
later days.

(Rich Robinson claims Ford would be so drugged out of his mind during
his final tour with the band that he often would just start spacing
out and playing the wrong songs.)

Needless to say, seeing Audley Freed play with The Crowes was a good
experience. Seeing Marc Ford play with The Black Crowes was the
equivalent to turning back a page of history and reliving it.

Ford always felt more like a full-time member. Freed always had the
vibe of a touring musician.

During last week's concert at The Riviera in Chicago I had a chance to
check out Luther Dickinson during my third Crowes concert.

Three concerts, three lead guitarists...

Dickinson is best known for his playing and singing with the North
Mississippi Allstars.

I have to say his country-blues slide guitar work fits in with The
Crowes' latest two albums, and it should, because he played on them.

Yet it's limited and lacks a certain gritty quality that's become
associated with "the most rock 'n roll band in rock 'n roll."

Dickinson plays a Gibson SG, uses slide most of the time
and plucks with his right-hand fingers. It's called the
Duane Allman book of soloing.

And it's fantastic (when Duane Allman played it in the early
1970s).

The Crowes have been called derivative too much in
the past and fought that misnomer fist and nail for two decades. To
regress because of a new lead guitarist's desire to emulate the past
would be shameful.

Marc Ford's guitar playing organically meshed with Rich Robinson's to
give The Crowes a distinctive sound that worked like a perfect
marriage.

Bring him back. Now.

The Black Crowes cover The Velvet Underground

The Black Crowes take Chicago

Anyone who’s ever seen The Black Crowes knows they’ll leave the venue with a greater appreciation for a band that truly plays well live.

And leave smelling like Nag Champa and reefer.

But unlike many jam bands and their 60s influences, The Black Crowes aren’t one of those groups that takes to the far-out soloing over an extended version of the original song. Instead, they take that song somewhere else, inviting the audience along in the passenger seat and passing a joint.

The extended versions breathe life to the live music experience, revitalizing a lost form of art that today is often forsaken by people who have three-minute attentions spans and bland, unchallenged consumerism.

The Black Crowes blasted through a more than two-hour set at The Riviera in Chicago on Friday in front of a sold-out crowd.

The sound was impeccable. Chris Robinson’s voice never faltered and the band’s energy and precision never failed.

The concert opened with “Good Morning Captain” from the Crowes’ latest album, “Before The Freeze,” moving swiftly into “Cursed Diamond” from “Amorica” and “Bad Luck Blue Eyes Goodbye” from “The Southern Harmony And Musical Companion.”

Luckily for the crowd, the Crowes showcased the better parts of their 20-year-history while including fan favorites (rather than performing a Greatest Hits gig).

Highlights included “Ozone Mama,” “Good Friday,” “(Only) Halfway To Everywhere” and “No Speak No Slave.”

An unsuspecting crowd was also treated to guitarist Rich Robinson taking the lead vocals on a cover of The Velvet Underground’s “Sweet Nothing.” A band known for having a rich array of cover tunes at its disposal (who could forget Bob Marley’s “Time Will Tell” or The Band’s “The Weight), their version was flawless, complete with three-part vocal harmonies and extended jam solos.

The set also included about a half dozen tracks from the latest album, which was to be expected.

If they’re coming to a city near you on this concert tour, check them out. The only thing that perplexed me is they neglected to play anything from their debut album, “Shake Your Money Maker,” or 1999’s “By Your Side.”

All in all, a great show.

Now it's time to let my hair down and imbibe.

In the words of the Brothers Robinson, "I'm only halfway to everywhere."

The continuing saga of The Black Crowes

No band likes to be called "derivative." It's synonymous to being
classified as "unoriginal."

It's a label The Black Crowes have struggled to overcome since the
release of their debut album, "Shake Your Money Maker," in 1990. Since
then they've drawn comparisons to The Rolling Stones and The Faces
because of their blues-based riff rock that grooves along with '70s
swagger.

Ironic, then, that every album they've released sounds like a
conscious effort to veer from that comparison with the band
screaming for their lives away from musical expectations
and the sound of the albums that came before. Never the
darlings of critical acclaim but always finding a strong fan base, the
Crowes have always been one of those bands that stylistically changes
their hat with each album.

Where "Shake Your Money Maker" was straight ahead bluesy rock, "The
Southern Harmony And Musical Companion" took on a harder edge with
some funkier moments and allowed them to shine through the element
known as "jamming." Longer songs, longer solos, more intricate
acoustic parts. The songs were a little more sophisticated without
losing their visceral edge.

"Amorica" offered more ballads and drug-induced freak-outs while
"Three Snakes And One Charm" felt like coming down. Exit guitarist
Marc Ford and enter backup singers. "By Your Side" was a return to
those bluesy origins with a hell of a lot more soul and even a bit of
gospel. It was like an old school R&B album thrown together with slide
blues.

"Lions" was a cosmic hodgepodge more akin to a Parliament album and
"Warpaint" gave us the band's first true country rock effort.

Caught up yet? Good.

Now let's get to the point. With each move in a new direction, you'd
be hard-pressed to call the band "uninspired." How could you? They
change styles about as often as I change underwear, yet they never
lose their roots, that uncompromising heart-on-your-sleeve honesty.

Well I think I've changed my mind after hearing "Before The
Frost...Until The Freeze." For the first time in my life, I wonder why
they even bothered making a new album. It sounds like leftovers from
"Warpaint" re-heated and served up to their audience in an effort to
justify touring without another "Greatest Hits" album.

It's country rock. It's slow, there are no standout tracks and it
sounds, quite frankly, uninspired.

Where's the excitement?

Lead singer Chris Robinson said of "Warpaint" that the band had
finally found the sound they'd always wanted. The problem is, there
are no dynamics. Like most country music, it all starts to blend
together after a while, and like all of the worst parts of acoustic
folk music, it tries painfully to verge on the melodic without quite
reaching it.

The album was recorded live at Levon Helm's Woodstock studio (he was
in The Band, you know, the one that backed Dylan) before live
audiences on about four different nights.

The sound quality is there. Unfortunately, the songs sound burned out
and forced, like the life's been sucked out of them with a Dyson.

Here's to hoping their concert at The Riviera in Chicago will be
better this Friday. Stay tuned to check out a review after the show.

The Pains of Being Pure At Heart

It pains me to admit that I only recently (today) discovered a band that released its first album in February.

We’re approaching October’s end, so maybe this review is a bit after-the-fact. Well, better late than never.

The Pains of Being Pure At Heart’s self-titled debut album was a suggestion of the Manic Street Preachers. Their Web site, www.manicstreetpreachers.com, hails it as one of the best albums of 2009.

Turns out they were dead-on.

The band has been hailed as sounding similar to The Jesus And Mary Chain, and has even drawn comparisons with The Smiths (some deem them the American version of Morrissey et al).

“Contender” is feedback-laden with a quick-paced shoe gaze chord progression. If you close your eyes for a moment, you might find yourself transported back to Manchester in the late 80s.

The vocals lilt with the same quality of Morrissey’s distinctive style, yet I would hesitate to condemn the group as “derivative.”

“Hey Paul” finds the band in a bit more rollicking mood. The heavy guitar parts, coupled with female harmony vocals, keeps the sound interesting.

Pardon the clichéd analogy, but it’s like taking the best ingredients of your favorite soups and throwing them in a blender, putting it on the highest speed and drinking the liquid through a silly straw.

One part The Smiths. One part The Jesus And Mary Chain. One part Ride. And finally, one part The Stone Roses.

Yet the taste is something altogether its own, the combined ingredients creating a flavor that can only be described as The Pains of Being Pure At Heart.

If you love late 80s and early 90s pre-Britpop, this band is right up your alley.

Check out The Black Atlantic

The Black Atlantic’s “Reverence For Falling Trees” should be in your musical library.

Trust me.

“Fragile Meadow” shifts its tender vocal line between plaintiff and pastoral, bordering at times on melancholy but with a touch of hopeless optimism.

Backed by a tenderly plucked acoustic guitar and soft harmonies, it embodies the style of songwriting on the group’s 2009 album, “Reverence For Fallen Trees.”

Like a dying man’s last gasps, gently vindicating his existence through the beauty emanating through a hush, the album has the potential to be one of the best released this year.

The style is minimalist, yet each note planned to fade in ephemeral beauty. But it’s also one that requires some attention. Nuances are lost if you listen to it with “background music” intentions.

“I Shall Cross This River” sounds somewhere between CSN’s “Our House” and the best bits of the Beatles’ “White Album.”

Wistful, it builds beautifully.

The album doesn’t offer a lot of variety in style, but like a “real looker” you pass on the sidewalk, a shared glance is sometimes enough to fall in love.

Some might find the music understated and boring. But if you’re looking for something with depth and clarity, check out The Black Atlantic.

Manic Street Preachers take on Chicago

I’m soaking wet with a stomach full of Irish Whiskey, fish and chips. My ears are still ringing a little bit.

And I can’t wipe off the grin on my face after witnessing what I can only describe as sheer delight.

From the very first time I heard Manic Street Preachers when I was 19, I knew this was the type of band I wanted to see live since I first started listening to music.

Tonight I got my chance.

The Manics started their set with “Motorcycle Emptiness” off their debut album, “Generation Terrorists.” It was a solid start, and a proper kickoff as James Dean Bradfield announced that it had been nearly a decade since the band had played this country.

The band launched into a set that lasted more than an hour and a half, with minimal chit chat and banter. Bradfield, Nicky Wire and Sean Moore delivered with an energy that would not relent.

Songs skipped around from album to album, from “No Surface All Feeling” on 1996’s “Everything Must Go” to “Gold Against The Soul” favorites like “La Tristesse Durera” and “From Despair to Where.”

Several songs from their latest release, “Journal For Plague Lovers,” were interspersed throughout with Bradfield and Wire pausing before the newer songs to announce the lyrics were penned by original rhythm guitarist Richey Edwards (who mysteriously vanished in 1995 after his car was abandoned near the Severn Bridge in Wales).

Even at the end of the set as Bradfield introduced the band members with snarky descriptions of their various personas and personalities, he introduced Edwards in spirit - as if he was still on the stage - with a sense of reverence.

If one thing was evident, the Manics have been able to overcome the trials of losing one of the greatest lyricists in rock history without bemoaning the past. Instead, like truly great Welsh artists, they celebrate in elegy.

The set slowed down in the middle with Bradfield taking to the stage solo with only an acoustic guitar. High point of the concert? Bradfield singing “This Is Yesterday” from “The Holy Bible” after hushing the crowd and crooning as if in a mournful lullaby.

It sent shivers up my spine.

The band would have been remiss had it not ended the set with the DIY ethos-bearing punk numbers of their formative years. “Motown Junk” and “You Love Us” had the front 10 rows of the audience pogo jumping along with the band.

It was truly a great show and one of the few where you'd be hard pressed to hear a song you didn't instantly like. Whether they will find fan bases in other cities will remain to be seen, but a man in his late 30s standing in the fifth row summed up the sentiments of many who attended the Chicago show at the Metro. As the opening band, Bear Hands, was about to close, they told the audience it wouldn’t be long before the Manics took the stage.

“It’s been too long!” the man in the fifth row exclaimed.

Bradfield promised the crowd at the beginning of the concert that the Manics would make it up to them for waiting so many years. The following hour and a half more than did so.

Hopefully we won’t have to wait ten more years to hear them again in Chicago.

Alice is Back!

Fourteen years is a long time to wait for an Alice in Chains album. Then again, I suspect most people never expected to hear from the band under that moniker after Layne Staley died in April 2002.

It’s hard to review this album because I’m such a fan. Alice in Chains were the understated grunge band of the 1990s. They also provided the soundtrack to my high school years.

The new album “Black Gives Way to Blue” is due out on the 29th. It’s been streaming online for some time now. It’s also leaked, so if you are predisposed to downloading from torrents, you’ll find quality versions of it at the usual locations.

But I highly suggest buying this album the minute it’s released. Play the first track, “All Secrets Known,” and tell me AIC isn’t back together, that they haven’t done the impossible by conjuring the spine-tingling, haunted “perfect fourth” harmonies of yesterday.

Skeptics might say it’s basically Jerry Cantrell’s third solo effort, only this time he has his old band behind him. While the songs are Cantrell-heavy in terms of the singing, newcomer William DuVall does a pretty decent job of filling out the harmonies.

He’s no Layne Staley. So if you’re expecting a Layne sound-a-like, you’re barking up the wrong tree. But if you’re looking for a band that hasn’t sold out, changed its sound and tried to be commercially viable by mimicking the latest auto-tuned trend (ahem…AHEM! Chris Cornell) or release the same album they’ve released for the past decade (I’m thinking of a band that starts with “P” and ends with “earl Jam”), then this is worth it.

Grunge never sounded so dangerously relevant 15 years after its day in the sun.

“Last of My Kind” harkens back to the days of “Dirt,” minus the heroin-induced lethargy. But still, you wouldn’t know the difference between the dope days and now. The riffs are heavy, the vocals disturbing, the droning distortion and bass-heavy rhythms never closer to 1994. Yet it doesn’t sound like a recycled outtake. It’s new, it’s reflective of a lost age, and it's just damn great.

“When The Sun Rose Again” sounds like it could be an outtake from SAP. It has that dark, echo-laden acoustic sound that AIC conjured with during their “Unplugged” album.

“Acid Bubble” and "Take Her Out" are everything you’ve always wanted to hear from AIC. "Acid Bubble" has the weight and sludge of a song like “Hate to Feel” and the heaviness of “Them Bones,” yet it keeps a vibrancy in its chorus. "Take Her Out" powers through with morose melody, catchy enough to be buzzing in your head, the guitar intro weaves through it with Cantrell's penchant for solos that sound simple but are expertly executed with an ease that would make most guitarists scratch their heads.

The new AIC album will be out in a matter of days. It’s a perfect example of a band that had realized its voice all along, and has somehow found a way to keep it fresh and relevant for a new generation without losing its momentum or identity.

Buy it.

When Top 40 Radio Steals From My Heroes, Things Might Get Ugly

There's a song on the radio probably everyone knows, even if you don't know it by name.

That is, of course, unless you've been living in a barn. Or working nights for a year and a half, never venturing to hipster dance clubs, spending most of your free time with a very select library of music that is either classic or snobbishly obscure.

I think I'll plead no contest to the latter option.

Anyway, I was inside a bar the other night and there was no music, just the sounds of flip-collared turds trying to hit on some very nice girls who apparently had run out of clean laundry and opted for lasciviously styled bed sheets that barely covered their butts.

I'm not complaining. Typical Springfield bar scene. Typical reason why I only go out with a select group of friends.

Tirade apart, I decide to put on some "good music," as if a majority of the people in the bar would know it if it bit them on the ass.

Song selection number one: "If I Should Fall From Grace With God" by The Pogues. If you haven't heard it, it's basically a punk version of an Irish jig.

Needless to say it went over like a lead balloon.

Song selection number two: "Straight To Hell" by The Clash. People start looking over as soon as the intro starts. They start letting loose, about to unleash their Groove Thangs.

Unbeknown to me, apparently MIA sampled that particular song for the song "Paper Planes." If you haven't heard it, it's the one with the chorus "All I wanna do is..." followed by several gunshots in rhythm with the bass drum.

I was floored.

Here's a tribute to talentless hacks who rip off truly inspired music, with the top five that infuriate me most:

1. The Clash's "Straight To Hell" used for MIA's "Paper Planes"
2. Parliament's "We Want The Funk" was used in Snoop Dogg's "What's My Name"
3. The Clash's "Rock The Casbah" was used in Will Smith's "Will 2K"
4. Stevie Wonder's "I Wish" was used in Will Smith's "Wild Wild West"
5. Stevie Wonder's "Pastime Paradise" was used in Coolio's "Gangsta's Paradise"

Noel leaves Oasis...again

Have you heard the news? Oasis broke up.

Again.

Seems this time Noel's walking out because of a fight in Paris with
his brother and lead singer, Liam.

But is anyone surprised?

Remember when the band broke up in 2000 because Liam got piss drunk
and made remarks about Noel's daughter? They were back together by
July of that year.

It's amusing to see how surprised everyone seems to be at the
"newsworthiness" of this break. Yeah, they're the champions of Britpop
in that they've actually stuck it out longer than any other band.
They've reinvented the same basic rock 'n roll mold every record they
put out.

Not to complain. I love hearing them ape T. Rex's "Get It On" in the
form of "Cigarettes & Alcohol" on their debut album "Definitely
Maybe."

By the way, isn't that album celebrating 15 years this week? Huh.
That's strange.

Could it be *gasp* a publicity stunt?

Even at the height of their career just as "(What's The Story) Morning
Glory" was making waves in the U.S., the Mancunian band was seemingly
breaking up and getting back together on a yearly basis back in the
mid-1990s. And it's never been one of the two brothers who has always
left the band. It seems both Gallaghers are equally ill-tempered,
abrasive and moody.

So on this one, I'm calling bullshit.

Noel has expressed interest in a solo career. That doesn't
matter. Noel-rock efforts won't stand up without his brother. Chris
and Rich Robinson of the Black Crowes learned that the hard way during
their many breaks and solo efforts.

Solo albums often lead to narcissistic, self-indulgent efforts that
are undermined by the arrogance of the estranged band member eager to
prove they're better on their own.

Bands typically keep each other in check.

News flash, Noel: you're shite without Oasis, mate.

News flash, Liam: your clothing line, Pretty Green, wouldn't exist if
you never sang "Rock 'n Roll Star."

And this all seems a bit too closely timed to Blur's comeback this
summer after guitarist Graham Coxon left the band in 2002. They were
more than warmly received at every major festival they played in
Britain this summer, but they have since decided to disband so they
don't become "cynical" toward the band again, singer Damon Albarn has
said in interviews.

So let's backtrack for a moment: It's August of 1995. Blur and Oasis
are set to release new singles on the same day, Aug. 14. It's billed
as "The Battle of Britpop." Blur's "Country House" outsells Oasis'
"Roll With It" 274,000 copies to 216,000 during one week.

I think Oasis may be trying to once again prove their relevance in
contemporary pop music by breaking up. In many ways it seems they need
to prove it to themselves more so than anyone else.

Rolling Stones guitarist's death reviewed

One of the many rock stars to die at age 27, Brian Jones' death on
July 3, 1969, is being reopened and investigated once more by police,
reported NME and BBC News on Sunday.

Sussex detectives are re-examining the case after being handed
relevant new documents, reports BBC News.

Jones was found dead at the bottom of a swimming pool at his house in
East Sussex. The cause was "death by misadventure," but police are
reopening the case to determine whether he was murdered.

While BBC News and NME haven't reported much on the particulars, this
is what I'm assuming, as a self-described Rolling Stones afficionado.

Part of the reason for recent speculation may be that Jones'
girlfriend, Anna Wohlin, claimed he was alive and had a pulse when
Jones' body was pulled from the pool. By the time doctors arrived, it
was too late and he was dead. Wohlin also said in 1999 that Jones had
been murdered by a builder who had been renovating the house the
couple shared.

Some accounts suggest the builder, Frank Thorogood, allegedly
confessed to the murder on his deathbed to the Rolling Stones' driver,
Tom Keylock. Keylock has since denied the claim.

I, however, greatly doubt Jones was murdered. For one, he was kicked
out of his own group because he was too incoherent to play music
because of a debilitating drug addiction.

And as a side note, you must be on death's doorsteps if Keith Richards
kicks you out of his band because you're too high to play music.

So why wasn't he murdered?

Jones' attendance at rehearsals were erratic, at best, just before his
death. Where once he had been the band's de-facto leader, his musical
contributions became more infrequent from 1967 until 1969.

So is it so hard to believe that he took too many drugs and drowned?
Or that he had a lethal combination of drugs and alcohol and passed
out in the pool before drowning?

Or, even more grimly, that he committed suicide because he had just
been kicked out of the band he helped form, which had become one of
the biggest bands in the world?

All of these options seem more plausible than murder.

The Bangles: More Than A Nostalgia Act?

It had been a trek to see The Bangles play at the Illinois State Fair on Saturday, in no small part due to a lack of signage at the fairgrounds.

It left my family and me convinced that the mentality must be, “if you’re not from Springfield and you’re lost, you’re shit out of luck.”

After arriving at the fairgrounds and being handed a map that made as much sense to me as if I were a monkey doing a math problem, I wandered with my parents and brother to a long line of people outside what was conceivably some sort of concert venue. The line was far back enough at 6 p.m. - exactly two hours before The Bangles were scheduled to open for Heart - that it made sense this would be the group queued for what had been billed as the biggest grandstand act this year.

Turns out I was wrong.

An hour and fifteen minutes later we’re inside, looking for our seats and wondering when the demolition derby would end. My dad even wondered aloud how they were going to assemble a stage before 8 p.m. Then it dawned on us that we had heard Susanna Hoffs doing a sound check less than 15 minutes ago.

Suddenly the puzzle pieces fit. Shit.

After scrambling to the real grandstand - after an unsuspecting demolition derby worker had already torn our concert ticket stubs, leaving us again to wonder if we’d ever get in to see the show - we finally made it to our seats in the nosebleeds of the fairgrounds’ grandstand area.

The group - currently a trio instead of the four-piece all-girl group from its 80s heyday - came on stage just after 8 p.m. and launched into a rollicking, romping version of Simon & Garfunkel’s “Hazy Shade of Winter.”

As with any group, a reduction in band members and a lapse of two decades from their pinnacle often raises doubts about sound quality. From the opening riff of “Hazy Shade of Winter,” the grandstand crowd was captivated.

Although lead singer (and my fantasy, would-be girlfriend) Susanna Hoffs struggled occasionally throughout the set with some of the higher notes, the group played the songs almost flawlessly. There were some jittery moments on “Hazy Shade of Winter” and the second song, the Prince-penned “Manic Monday,” but after that point it was smooth sailing. These ladies hadn’t missed a beat.

(Enter rim shot).

Like most groups who are known for substantial FM radio play in the 80s, The Bangles book ended their set with the hits and put a few lesser known and newer tracks in between. Drummer Debbi Peterson even joined Hoffs and sister/guitarist Vicki Peterson on guitar for “Going Down To Liverpool,” “Eternal Flame,” and the closer, “Walk Like An Egyptian.”

And like many groups trying to keep the music fresh, The Bangles even threw in a few new tricks: a synthesized sitar solo opening “Hazy Shade of Winter,” a seemingly drug-laden harpsichord effect to open “If She Knew What She Wants,” and quite possibly the highlight of the show, a segue into The Who’s “Magic Bus” where the whistle solo should have been halfway through “Walk Like An Egyptian.”

It was a great show for Springfield, and one that proves nostalgia acts can still keep it fresh for themselves and the audience.

The set list was as follows:
Hazy Shade Of Winter
Manic Monday
Restless
If She Knew What She Wants
Some Dreams Come True
September Gurls
Going Down To Liverpool
Eternal Flame
Ride The Ride
In Your Room Tonight
Walk Like An Egyptian

The Bangles are coming to the Illinois State Fair

In two days I, along with my parents and brother, will be standing before 80s greatness (er, probably more like nostalgia).

The Bangles are coming to the Illinois State Fair on Saturday and I couldn't resist getting tickets, partially because my mum's been harping on about how she never goes to concerts with me, my dad and my brother (she opted out of seeing Aerosmith, The Stones and The Black Crowes). But part of me can't resist seeing a band that was constantly on the radio during my formative years.

That's all a load of bullshit, really. I just want to see Susanna Hoffs.

Stay tuned for a review of the show right here Saturday night.

UPDATE: Manic Street Preachers concert in Chicago

My brother and I snagged tickets to the Manics' concert in Chicago, slated for Oct. 1.

Barring they cancel that show, we'll be there and blogging about it after the concert's finished. Check back here for more developments as the date approaches.

What I've Been Listening To Lately

The Gutter Twins - Saturnalia
The Afghan Whigs - Black Love
Love and Rockets - Love and Rockets

Dead Musicians: The Image of Celebrity

When one of the greatest innovators of the electric guitar died on Aug. 13 at the age of 94, not many people took notice, apart from the so-called "serious musicians."

And to be honest, a lot of people probably don't know why Les Paul is a significant cultural figure. Apart from being credited with pioneering the creation of the electric guitar, he was also a well-known jazz musician without whom the world arguably would not have overdubbing, delay effects and multi-track recording.

Still don't know recognize him?

He created the Les Paul model guitar. The one made famous by Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin, Slash from Guns 'n Roses, Joe Perry from Aerosmith, and many others. Essentially, without his guitar we would not have that heavy, balls-to-the-wall guitar sound that has become synonymous with Hard Rock.

Without Les Paul, rock 'n roll as we know it would not exist. Period. His legacy is that of helping to shape a style of music that continues to live on and spawn different sub-genres as quickly as rabbits...well...you know.

About two months prior on June 25, Michael Jackson - The King of Pop - died suddenly at the age of 50. One of the most celebrated celebrity pedophiles (allegedly!) since Lewis Carroll, no one will shut up about every aspect of the man's mysterious death, his family affairs and the legacy he leaves behind.

He inspired generations of dance moves, people say. He redefined pop music, they argue to no end.

So why is it I can't open any of the major music magazines or turn on the television without being beat over the head with images of a man who couldn't decide if he was "Black or White," yet the same attention isn't given to Les Paul?

Because Les Paul didn't make headlines. Because Les Paul was a serious musician who was never a "celebrity," at least not insomuch as defined by the MTV Generation.

And essentially because Les Paul’s contributions were much more subtle than Michael Jackson’s.

The point of this little diatribe?

If I have to hear one more “breaking news” item on a television “news” channel about Jackson’s estate or legacy, I’m going to shit blood from my ears.

Les Paul will continue to live on through a legacy with tentacles directly and indirectly attached to every facet of popular music. The world has lost an amazing man and musician.

On a side note, if there was any band that should be hung from the gallows for their indirect effect on popular culture, it would have to be Pearl Jam, the group we can blame for influencing the musical style of stellar acts such as Nickelback and Creed.

Will the Manics finally find a U.S. audience?

Manic Street Preachers.

Mostly unknown in this country, the Welsh rock trio have been taking the U.K. by storm for more than a decade. From their roots as DIY pop/punk group with the visceral snarl of a Guns 'n Roses record as heard in Generation Terrorists (1992) and Gold Against The Soul (1993), to the stripped down caustic caulderon of meloncholy and forboding that was their pinnacle album, ironically named The Holy Bible (1994), to more mainstream rock efforts such as their latest album, this year's Journal For Plague Lovers, the group has never been able to make the proverbial leap across the pond.

And for no bloody good reason apart from a case of bad timing, argues author Simon Price in "Everything (A Book About Manic Street Preachers)."

Price argues their first efforts at heralding a U.S. audience fell short of the mark in 1992 due mostly to the very same thing that killed off hair metal (for those readers who have a musical knowledge akin to our former president's verbal rhetoric, I'm talking about grunge).

Taking to the states at a time when hair metal was about as desirable as a full-body cavity search, they suffered bad concert attendance. When they finally hit the musical trend in 1994 with the most horrifying and doom-laden album of all time, their lyricist/rhythm guitarist, Richey Edwards, disappeared. He hasn't been seen to this day.

Needless to say, that tour never happened.

But at the time, perhaps America wasn't ready for the Manics. With titles such as "Ifwhiteamericatoldthetruthforonedayitsworldwouldfallapart," it might be sufficient to say 1990s American youth were not THAT disaffected. Or at least if they were, it was directed more inwardly with the angst of grunge, and they certainly didn't want a load of Brits taking the piss out of their country.

That argument has already been made. I'm glad those who have never heard of this band are caught up to speed.

Now, I believe, America is finally ready for the Manics. And it's not because their sound has become a bit more what one might term Mainstream Rock. It's because, unlike British bands such as Coldplay that make college girls want to down a Bud Light Lime and drop their panties, groups like the Manics typically have to rely on something much more despairing to garner a U.S. audience:

A new generation of American bands shamelessly aping their style. Most of them are shite New York indie bands that spend more time on their hair and eyeliner than learning how to give energized performances.

So there you have it. America is finally ready for the Manics. Let's just hope their tongue-in-cheek Welsh subtlety isn't lost on a nation of music fans that needs to be beaten over the head with straightforward Springsteen-esque lyrics (or even worse, those dreaded hipsters who have a greater sense of self-importance than any human being should).

Anyway, here's the dates:

Seattle, WA Neumo’s (September 21)
Vancouver, Canada The Commodore Ballroom (22)
San Francisco, CA The Fillmore (24)
Los Angeles, CA The Avalon (25)
Denver, CO The Bluebird Theatre (28)
Minneapolis, MN The Varsity Theatre (30)
Chicago, IL The Metro (October 1)
Detroit, MI The Majestic Theatre (2)
Toronto, Canada The Phoenix Concert Theatre (4)
Philadelphia, PA World Café Live (6)
New York City, NY Webster Hall (7)
Boston, MA Paradise Rock Club (8)

Misunderstood songs: "Coffee & TV"

Considered by most Blur fans to be one of the group's greatest songs, "Coffee & TV" is probably best known by American fans as "that video with the milk carton walking around."

Yank or Brit, who doesn't live Milky?

But it's not the music video's protagonist that I want to discuss.

I've been listening to this song since high school and I always thought I knew what the lyrics meant. It's not that the lyrics are particularly difficult to discern (my friend Roberta recently confessed to me that she spent the better part of a decade believing Mick Jagger was singing "I never smelled your pizza burning" rather than "I'll never be your beast of burden.")

It's just that Blur made their intentions known from the get-go. They were always a band that championed British culture and criticized the banality of late 20th Century life (It's not too difficult to figure out if you glance at the title of their sophomore effort, "Modern Life Is Rubbish"). They were trying to make a statement and combatting the world's obsession with Grunge because bands like Pearl Jam, Nirvana and Soundgarden didn't say anything at all to musicians who were forming bands across the pond in the early 1990s.

I always assumed guitarist and sometimes-singer Graham Coxon was disenchanted with modern life, fame and the London scene that, by the mid-1990s, was birthing bands who wanted a piece of Britpop's golden ticket to fast album sales and loose women.

Coxon sings in the song, "I've seen so much, I'm going blind and I'm braindead virtually," before emploring, "take me away from this big bad world and agree to marry me so we can start over again."

Pretty clear cut?

It turns out Coxon was actually reeling from an attempt to give up alcohol. Ever the angry drunk from some accounts (John Harris' now out-of-print "The Last Party: Britpop, Blair and the Demise of English Rock," for one), the song was Coxon's way of dealing with sobriety:

"Your ears are full but you're empty, holding out your heart to people who never really care how you are"

Just think about these lyrics, literally, and you might listen to the song in a different way:

"Your ears are full of their language
There's wisdom there, you're sure
'Til the words start slurring
And you can't find the door

So give me coffee and TV..."

There you have it folks. Disenchantment with modern life, perhaps, but most definitely Graham was trying to cope with giving up the bottle. What was the remedy?

Coffee & TV

How Phil Collins killed Genesis

Unknowingly, Peter Gabriel called his band’s shot in 1969 with the release of their debut album, “From Genesis to Revelation.”

Within six years, the English prog-rock band Genesis’ authenticity would collapse under the guise of drummer Phil Collins’ direction toward a more financially savvy and artistically devoid musical style that appealed to the masses while overlooking the band’s beginning as a burgeoning progressive powerhouse.

From the humble beginnings of catchy hooks and Bee Gees-esque melodies, the band continued to grow during its first six years with increased musical techniques, odd time signatures and a lyrical prowess that only Gabriel could pull off. “Nursery Cryme” (1971), “Foxtrot” (1972) and “Selling England By The Pound” (1973), to name the string of records preceding the group’s epic double album “The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway,” showcased Gabriel’s increasing leadership with the group and unfailing ability to paint mental landscapes with his visceral, often epic and introspective lyrics.

Gabriel’s hushed husky vocals climbed to realms that encapsulated the sheer emotions of its singer within lyrical lines that evoked imagery similar to many post-modernist writers of the 20th century. Gabriel’s musical direction, as evidenced on the band’s most ambitious venture, 1975’s “The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway,” created atmospheric anthems and musical interludes that would comprise the band’s most adventurous and musically intellectual work to date.

After completing the tour for “The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway,” Gabriel left the band feeling estranged from his band mates and in the midst of familial issues. For many it was a disquieting departure just as the group was expanding its musical horizons far past the poppy beginnings of its debut album.Enter drummer Phil Collins’ stint as lead singer.



Genesis shifted from an almost art-rock songwriting format to a period in which well-polished pop anthems evoking Collins’ never-failing ego brought the band immense commercial success during the next two decades. With intellectually devoid lyrics and a penchant for mainstream success, Collins traded Gabriel’s trademark eccentricity for something more financially viable, eventually turning the band into nothing more than an elevator music-producing sham.

Garnering more hits than ever, Genesis was suddenly a world-wide phenomenon with a string of hits including “Follow You, Follow Me,” “Turn It On Again,” and “Invisible Touch.”Some critics went so far as to say Collins sounded more like Gabriel than Gabriel did. But Collins’ penned tunes lacked tenacity and integrity.

His voice was, and still is, whiny and annoying, and lacked the emotional relentlessness of his predecessor.

Instead, they were derivative of Gabriel’s genius combined with tried-and-true 60s rhythm and blues format in a more listener-friendly format. It was more accessible to the masses.

Boil it all down and Genesis under Collins' direction was a trio of talented musicians pandering to the musical taste of a light-rock generation that wanted nothing more than something to listen to in the background.

In essence, it was Muzak.

Collins’ style, while not completely ephemeral, gained Genesis more exposure and a slew of hits, but at what price? Perhaps unwittingly, Gabriel provided the band’s genesis while Collins fueled the band’s artistic demise by trying to fix a horse that wasn’t broken.

While Gabriel sang about the lamb lying down on Broadway, Collins killed the lamb by pandering to a geriatrics-friendly fan base that probably didn’t know the difference.

Former MOJO editor's book about The Clash is hit-and-miss

Few rock 'n roll bands have sustained such a degree of musical originality and a refusal to sell out at the price of their fan base as The Clash.

And then again, how many bands have fired their drummer and lead guitarist only after scoring one of their biggest commercial hits?

Pat Gilbert's "Passion is a Fashion: The Real Story of The Clash," which was published in 2004, takes the reader through a chronological account of the band's career, beginning with the turbulent childhoods of guitarist and singer Joe Strummer, guitarist Mick Jones and bassist Paul Simonon, and ending with The Clash's drawn-out dissolution, which, according to several observers, was anything but pretty.

The accounts given in the book are recollected through a series of interviews with the band members and nearly every person who came into contact with them throughout their lives. Nor surprisingly, Gilbert, the former editor of MOJO magazine, uses a journalistic approach to his narrative style.

Many of the people interviewed for the book have conflicting opinions about the band members' working relationships and how each member interacted with their managers, the road crew and record company officials. By using this approach, Gilbert provides a balanced account of nearly every argument or anecdote, as well as providing a unique insight into the lives of four men who seldom shared their personal lives with the public.

Despite that seemingly balanced approach, Gilbert's shortcoming throughout the book is not giving Mick Jones enough of a voice. Throughout "Passion is a Fashion," the guitarist is portrayed as the creative genius of the group, and is often seen as being moody and selfish.

Fair enough.

Jones' own voice is often overshadowed by perceptions of his personality, mostly told by The Clash's ever-changing entourage. Most of them couldn't stand him, or so it would seem if Gilbert's accounts are to be believed.

Perhaps they felt slighted, or perhaps Jones truly was and still is a difficult person. By that same token, Strummer is championed as being more likable and amiable by the people who knew him.

The musical limitations of both Simonon and Strummer are lauded as being the backbone of The Clash's musical aesthetic.

Again, fair enough, but the band members themselves rarely discuss in detail the events as they unfolded. In a sense, a bunch of roadies are spilling the direct about the band members. The band members themselves are given less say than a barrage of hangers on.

It's as if Gilbert allows his sources to play favorites.

The journalistic approach also has its shortcomings in the multitude of voices. People are introduced early in the book, and each individual relationship with the band is described in full.

A little too full, for this reader's liking.

It is difficult to keep up with each name, and when one of Joe Strummer's old childhood friends is reintroduced 200 pages later, the reader is expected to pull that name out of a bag containing God knows how many."Passion is a Fashion" is undoubtedly a masterpiece when it comes to the zeitgeist of late 1970s/early 1980s Britain. The time period, London and the underlying attitudes of a generation are painted vividly.

When the band members are given a say, the reader gets a sense of what emotions or thoughts were behind the musical decisions that defined their aesthetic. That say is minimalized far too often. The music itself is underplayed by too many "insider" perceptions.

At the end of the day, would we rather read about some drunken incident recounted by a roadie nearly 20 years after the facts, or would it perhaps be more prudent to describe in more detail the writing and recording processes of a handful of seminal punk albums?