Teenage Rocking

I wasn't going to post this as it seems too much vicarious parental pride to do so. But I just can't resist. Teenage rocking is fun.

this is not a show review

I had the best of intentions to go listen to Ross Etherton sing his songs at the Meadowlark last Thursday, but I just couldn't make it. Well, I made it to the show, just not to hear Ross, which is pretty lame as he was billed to go on second, but I couldn't make it a minute more. I hope it works out better next time.

There were four or five acts on the line up and none of them had started yet. Okay. I had been working two shifts at the book store, filling in for two different people. First shift in the basement in the children's section, then second shift closing the coffee shop. I was achy and tired. I thought perhaps I should probably skip it and just go home, but I telephoned JZ, who was already at the place and he told me that the show hadn't started yet. I went.

I arrived at the Meadowlark a little after 9:30. Nobody had begun to play. I contemplated whether or not I wanted to get a drink with the following internal conversation: I'm really tired and drinking alcohol will only make me sleepier but then I am feeling thirsty and, well, a little edgy. Edgy? Yes, rather edgy in fact. Come to think of it, I thought to myself, I always get kind of uncomfortable at the Meadowlark. I've noted this before and chalked it up to other things, but this time I decided to try to analyze it. I looked around at the stone walls and remembered when this bar first opened. It was a quiet unfinished basement bar that was useful for escaping the Larimer Lounge. It was good for wanting to have a conversation with a friend or just use a clean bathroom. This was before the LL remodel. I would sometimes get a drink there when I arrived a little too early for a show. But that was a couple years ago. Since then, little by little, it started getting fixed up. Heavy wooden furnishings, mood lighting, animal heads, ultra-bright metallic bathrooms. It became less of a get away from the Larimer kind of bar and one of its own identity. But what is this identity? The best way I think I can describe it is "new yuppie artsy bachelor pad" or at least how I imagine one might be. It has the appearance of comfort, but way too self-consciously to actually be comfortable. At least it's that way for me.

Okay, now I've sorted out that question in my mind and got it off my chest. I can get on to the action of the evening and why I didn't make it to the second act. The first act, called, I think, The Radical Knitting Society, took the stage armed with an upright bass, a rather pretty semi-acoustic electric guitar, keyboards and drums. It looked like a potentially intriguing line up of instruments to me. I listened to several songs start out nice and quiet and a little interesting and then build into something more strident and somehow twist toward grating. I wondered if it was the music or the environment getting to me. I again thought about getting a drink. But decided that wouldn't be enough to calm my agitation. I needed to get outside. Fresh air. JZ agreed he could use a smoke, so we trudged up the stone staircase and stepped out into the brisk night air.

It was barely a few moments before the real entertainment of the evening came ambling, nay, weaving down Larimer Street. A tall black man named Ronnie with a 40 in his left pocket, and a forty in his right fist, arrived at the corner and introduced himself. He rapped some dope rhymes. But I forgot them. He told animated nonsensical tales of adventures in hotels and their pools, women and security officers. His eyes were red and watering. He related comedic family stories about his sister and brother and uncle and nephews and nieces and aunt. He was courteous and pretty well behaved for someone as clearly mashed as he was. I didn't have any change for his bus fare, but he left us with the encouraging words that it ain't over 'til Jesus comes down from the sky and tells us it is. All right? Okay.

I didn't feel all agitated anymore though, unfortunately by this time I was so tired I was about to fall over and really really needed to get home, so we went back inside to offer apologies to Ross. There was also a new songwriter in town, hailing from Illinois I think, going by the name of The Dowry, who introduced himself earlier. I'll keep an eye peeled for another chance. But that was all I could take.

I told you this wasn't a show review. It is a failed-attempt-at-making-a-show review. But kids, that's just how it turns out some nights. Lame, but true.

Oxford American's 10th Southern Music Issue

Yesterday I opened the mail and found this image of a grinning Jerry Lee Lewis standing there, donning a baby blue plaid suit, spectacularly white shoes against vivid red shag carpet and drapes. I grinned back. I was holding my copy of the new Oxford American magazine. I generally don't get too excited these days, much less over a magazine. But as I pulled the new OA out of its plastic wrapper I felt like a kid opening a pogo stick shaped birthday present. (I always wanted a pogo stick but never got one.) At that moment, I truly felt truth in the hackneyed saying: "it's the little things that matter."

Now, any issue of the Oxford American magazine is a treat for me, but this one particular issue each year is my very favourite. It is the MUSIC ISSUE. If you are already familiar with the past OA sampler discs, you know what I'm talking about. If not, lemme let you in on a treat.

The annual OA music issue is the best mix-tape you'll get all year. Especially if you have more than a passing interest in Southern and Southern-inspired music. Even in these internet days of it being easy to find just about anything you can name, when you don't have to dig through dusty record bins and endure cooler-than-you store clerks, you'd likely still not come up with this comprehensive a collection of tunes. Many of the tunes are cooler than one might expect at first glance. Some of them might not even like at first, but many of them grow on you and get down in the recesses of your brain, maybe evoking something you might've heard, or maybe just dreamed. The songs span from 1928 to 2008. From Blind Willie McTell to Richard Hell, The Residents and the Hampton Grease Band, Alabama Sacred Harp Singers, Big Star and Jerry Lee Lewis. And, as they say, so much more.

This issue, being their 10th anniversary, the folks at Oxford American have treated us to a double CD with 28 songs on each, and there's not a dud among them. I'm sure of this because I've just listened through it twice even though it's been less than a day since I peeled the cellophane off. Some of the songs, naturally, you'll like more than others, but all are worth a listen. Some of the stuff I can near to guarantee that you've not heard before. Not even on the coolest Radio 1190 show or whatever nifty little indie radio station you happen to have within your airwaves. Then, mixed in with the obscure is the relief of some familiar favourites like Lucinda Williams, Neko Case and R.E.M.

And, as if the discs weren't enough, there's the magazine! Some of the best music writers around (and I say that in true sincerity as I really don't like much music writing anymore) treat us to some genuine, smart and funny writing on the artists. I forget it's music writing. I've just started Jack Pendarvis' article on Neko Case and maybe it's not that funny, but I've already laughed my stomach muscles sore.

Just when I was falling into a numb, music-saturated, oh so sick of all the peripheral static of keeping up with a music scene and all its neurotic stuff phase, just when all I craved was silence, the Oxford American leaned over the muddy waters with a steady hand to pull me out.

Resurrection of the Elvis Tent Revival

Or, this is how we do things in Kentucky.

I am so happy to see my all-time favorite public access offering back up for public viewing (albeit now in ten parts.) These folks here are some old friends of mine from back in the day in Lexington. It's from them and some others that I learned all about punk rock shows at the VFW and the community center, skating, 'zines, and making your own damn fun. It's pure fun for me to watch this stuff again.



Thanks to 64mm Chris for resurrecting this video and stuff.

This ain't no Little Miss Sunshine

But it is a Denver band doing the film scoring thing.

I am really looking forward to hearing what Bad Luck City came up with for the what has to be some of the most elaborate and terrifying clay animation films I've ever seen.

Saturday 15 November 2008, 2:45 pm, I will be at the STARZ Film Center to see An Evening with Bruce Bickford. One of the films, CAS'L', runs as a silent film and will feature live musical scoring from Bad Luck City. Dark music--played in the dark.

If 2:45 pm is too early in the day for you, they'll do it all again on Sunday at 9:45 pm.

I may just go to both.

show review: Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Disclaimer: It's nearly false notice to title this post as a show review, because I don't feel like this is going to turn out like one. But here goes.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
Bambi Lee Savage
Ogden Theatre
Denver, Colorado
26 September 2008

I like Nick Cave's music. Quite a lot. But still, I wouldn't call myself a super-fan. I can't recite his catalogue like I can my honest faves. But in spite of my Nick Cave ignorance, I appreciated that I was in for a treat on this September evening. Though I don't know the names of but a few of the songs, I definitely recognize that voice when I hear it. And I dig those songs. But my copy of Best of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds has sufficed as almost enough Nick Cave for me. That's just how it is. So super Nick Cave fans, judging from my little contact with y'all last night, unless you are a friend of mine curious what I thought of the show, you're probably just going to get annoyed at my ignorance. You are warned.

The Ogden was packed to capacity. And where I was standing, actually over capacity. It was a sweaty energetic crowd who knew these songs by heart. It was overwhelming, both from the emotion of the crowd and the heat. I thought I might faint.

Not having heard but one song off the newest release, Dig Lazarus Dig, I reckoned I wouldn't recognize many songs, but it seemed like about half to more of them are on my best-of disc.

I had heard that there was a problem with their gear making it from Seattle to Denver and that the band had to rent near to all their gear for the show. That seems like it'd have to rattle anybody, but the Bad Seeds are truly professionals. I wouldn't have known there was a problem. Except for Nick Cave's temper tantrum over some monitor problem where he apparently couldn't hear the keyboard he was playing. So he kicked it over. Tech guys scrambled and ducked glares and what not from Mr. Cave. One might surmise it was simply rock n roll dramatics, but even if this was the case, it was a fine performance. From inviting a call-and-response session of singing with the crowd to the artful arrangement of the set list, Nick Cave knows what his crowd will appreciate. And I always appreciate a good performance.

Bambi Lee Savage and her backing band for the evening, Denver's own o.g. line-up of Red Cloud West, gave an enjoyable and solid performance. You might know that I am more than a bit biased here, but I'll try to keep it objective. There were some vocal Bambi Lee and Red Cloud fans giving a few shout outs, many recognizing the Bambi Lee Savage song from the Slingblade soundtrack, and others recognizing a Red Cloud song (sung as a pretty duet between Ross Etherton and BLS,) but truth is, much of the crowd was antsy to see Nick Cave, and no opening band could really make those folks happy.

By the end of the evening, I'd decided a couple things. I was really glad to have been at the show. All the way through. It had that feeling of one that I'd be sorry I had missed if I hadn't gone (like PJ Harvey, or John Cale, or Daniel Johnston, or... well you know the type of show I mean.) And two, the energy of these die-hard Nick Cave fans, paired with the energy of the performance has spurred me to give more of the Nick Cave catalogue a closer listen. And that's a longer list of stuff to look forward to. Which is why I keep listening.

The Future is Unwritten

I heard a little snippet of the new Joe Strummer documentary on Radio 1190 a couple weeks ago and upon hearing the sound of Joe Strummer’s confident and sharply honest voice I set the movie near the top of my Netflix queue. To tell the truth, lately I haven't wanted to listen to anything. The deadening of music has been creeping up on me little by little for months and it is a truly terrible loss. Always, at my lowest times, I’ve been able to turn my ear to music and feel alive again. Not so lately. I haven’t felt alive at all. And music has been no help. Even music I love and have turned to before sounds drowned by the imitations that followed them. When I listen, it sounds wrung out and tired and I have to turn it off. Nothing new fires up my senses either. It’s all deadening. With no input that can make me feel confident I am really alive, I've had no fuel for output. Writing has been out of the question.

So, last night, with only half the heart I would’ve had in the past, I sat down to watch The Future is Unwritten. And I almost remembered how it felt when I first discovered the Clash. For me it’s a very fuzzy deal pulling memory from over twenty years ago. I forget things. But I should remember this. The Clash, and especially Joe Strummer made my life feel livable at a time when I didn’t think that could ever happen. Better than that, listening to The Clash, following along lyrics written on album sleeves, I felt that some things mattered, and mattered a whole lot. I knew I existed because I could feel it and was unshakably confident in that. It’s one of the few times I’ve ever held that sort of confidence. That confidence may have been a bit borrowed from how I perceived Joe Strummer, and how I tried to imitate him at that time, (wish I still had a picture from those days) but somehow it felt more real than mere copying. It felt like recognition of something I knew was true, and how I wanted to be. I wasn’t looking up to Strummer because he was cool (he was but that was not the common sentiment at Christ the King or Tates Creek, places where I went to school at that time—I assure you quite the contrary.) Joe Strummer was cool to me because he was the real deal. Things he said resonated with a vital-ness and truthfulness that registered in every sense I had.

Now I know, obviously, I was hardly the only kid being inspired by the Clash. Books and reissued discs with copious essays in the liner notes abound. The people they've inspired could populate a large metropolis. Even people who don't care too much one way or the other about the Clash recognize "the only band that matters." But back when London Calling came out and I was playing it over and over, I was unaware of so many other listeners and was astounded when I met someone who had even heard of the Clash (this is what it was like growing up in Kentucky.) The few times I did meet a fellow Clash fan it was an instant recognition of a like-minded friend. I guess Combat Rock changed that. Not that it was the band's fault but after that record The Clash, the band began to be lost to The Clash, the product. I guess both exist, but the documentary I can't help but at least partially see as just another way to profit off a bit of history that's bound to sell. Watching it didn’t change and recharge my life, but it did stir a memory and remind me that, yes, those things can happen. Life can be shaken and you can really feel alive. Especially if you weather the downs and keep listening, and reading, and paying attention. Don’t shut off the input, and eventually something will fire.