March 2006

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Letter From Grand Champeen

Hi Jim.....

My name is Channing Lewis and I'm writing
from Austin, Tx. on behalf of my band, Grand Champeen.
We are scheduled to play at the Entry on April 14 in
order to benefit the Karl Fund, and will be performing
a lengthy set entirely of Soul Asylum covers (with a
couple of covers they were known for playing),
spanning from the Loud Fast Rules days, up through the
"Horse."

Our plan is to bust out some of the old gems
from their heyday as a local band, and raise some
money for the fund. We have the best of intentions,
as all four of us grew up idolizing the band, and we
just hope to do Karl proud.

Obviously, any press we can drum up would help
make the gig a success, and I know from having read
your stuff that you know and remember those days
fondly. We would certainly appreciate anything you
can do to that end. If you get a chance, we're at www.grandchampeen.com and www.myspace.com/grandchampeen.

Sincerely,

Channing

Posted by Jim Walsh at March 31, 2006 11:27 PM | Comments (5)

 

"Homebodies (Don't Be Careful With Your Love)"

Happy spring, my peeps! Here's a song I wrote. It makes me feel good. A sunshine-y bird-chirping spring song. Hope you dig it. Download it here.

Vocals: Jim Walsh, Henry Heyer-Walsh, Jeaneen Gauthier, Rusty Jones, Terry Walsh, Jay Walsh
Guitar: Jay Walsh
Piano: Terry Walsh
Bass: Rusty Jones
Drums: Jim Tollefsrud
Violin: Jeaneen Gauthier

Posted by Jim Walsh at March 28, 2006 4:19 PM | Comments (6)

 

'Mats '06

Filed under: This Week's Wordage

Here's a new picture of the Replacements and Josh Freese (thanks to 'Mats' fan John Wolf for the link). Brothers got together at Ed Ackerson's studio recently to record a new tune for the forthcoming 'Mats box set, which has been delayed for who knows why. Maybe my liner notes for All Shook Down sucked too much.

Posted by Jim Walsh at March 28, 2006 9:56 AM | Comments (45)

 

HOW MY DAUGHTER CLEO LOUISE MERCURY TOOK DOWN PAUL RODGERS

Filed under: This Week's Wordage

Essay and photos by Dave Krejci

Freddie Mercury channeled a message to Paul Rodgers last night, via my eight-year old daughter's beautiful face. I kid you not. But I realize such a loft claim necessitates explanation. If you can bear with me. . .

I got my first LP in 1976, when I was eight -- Queen's Sheer Heart Attack. At age 11, I saw Queen at the St. Paul Civic Center Arena. I took punches in fourth grade defending their honor and later fought on Freddie's behalf against an army of KISS fiends. In my twenties I painted my left-hand fingernails black in homage to Mercury and have kept a Heineken label for 15 years from the beer I had when Freddie died (his brand of choice). All the while, of course, I have listened to Queen for so many hours that the band built a small home in my skull due to their repeated visits.

Then, I grew up. Got married and had a child. It happens. We "mature." Except, I didn't entirely make that transition. Skipping to 1997, when my wife and I had our child, we named her Cleo Louise Mercury.

Why name your child after a dead rock star? Fair question. My wife is obviously infinitely tolerant of my insanity and obsessions. But for me Freddie Mercury represents the living at its highest form: exploding with creativity, love and daring. His talent was immense, but his soul was even more so, inhaling so deeply it created a vacuum in its wake. What better vibe to convey on your child than the vibe of life itself?

Cobain included a reference to Freddie in his suicide note that sums it up pretty well:

"For example, when we're backstage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begin, it doesn't affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love, relish in the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy."

Bad grammar forgiven due to his poor state of mind I thought, hell yes, that's the power of Freddie. But it raises the point of my whole glorious experience last night and ultimately gets us closer to that compelling lead I introduced at this article's outset: few can love, inspire and connect with a people like Freddie Mercury. Indeed, Freddie can do it even in death.

And so eight-year old Cleo Louise Mercury went to see Queen (with Paul Rodgers) last night, with her ready-to-fight-for-Freddie father in tow. It was her first concert, to see who wrote "Tie Your Mother Down" and "We Will Rock You," and perhaps to learn a little more about that freakily dressed, mad-toothed madonna with whom she shares a name.

We started out the evening at the T-Shirt stand where she said to the man behind the table, "Do you have any that don't say Paul Rodgers on them?" Apparently my preconception about Rodgers as Freddie's replacement was concreted in my daughter's head as well. "Bad Company Makes Bad Queen," I think I heard myself saying a couple times at the house. Shame on me.

Let's sum up the problem with Rodgers as Queen frontman by using a comparative literature analysis of two of their songs: Rodgers' "Feel Like Making Love" and Mercury's "Get Down Make Love." We can agree, I think, that the two songs are about the same subject. Rodgers' song is a gender-centric ID trip and uses the music to simulate the singer's thrusting machismo during the implied act:

du dut DUH
du dut DUH
du dut DUH
I feel like making love

Clearly, the song is all about Rodgers (or, worse, a specific part of Rodgers). He feels like making love and indeed what we hear is the sound of him doing just that.

Mercury's "Get Down Make Love" takes a wildly different approach.

I suck your mind
You blow my head
Make love inside your bed
Everybody Get Down Make Love.

Freddie makes it a reciprocal act (I suck, you blow), does it in their bed and then calls for everybody to make love. A much more encompassing and communal approach to love-making than Rodgers' narcissistic pursuits. The music itself is a psychsensual joyride that makes even the dumbest gay-bashing pissant curious about Freddie's expertise.

It wasn't Rodgers' wretched bluesy-scat interpretation of "We Are the Champions" that got to me, or his unbelievable fashion mishaps, or his getting the name of "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" wrong ("this is a crazy little song... it's called 'Crazy Little Love'"), or his playing the intro to that song completely wrong on the guitar, or even his attempt at Live-Aiding the mic stand in a wife-beater T-shirt. It was his utter inability to connect with the crowd.

Even in death, Freddie was more present than Rodgers. Quickly into the evening Brian May walked to two chairs to the end of the stage runway, and sat down. Devout Queen fans knew he was about to sing "Love of My Life," a live duet he once shared with Mercury. May, an infinitely humble and precious arch of a man, spoke quietly about Freddie's absence but that he was always with us and if we joined in singing with him, Freddie would be listening.

Cleo and I were less than twenty feet from the stage and not only heard but saw the sincerity bleeding from May's face. He quietly began to play the ballad and sing the beautiful song in his hallowed voice. Next to him was the empty chair where, in a better world, Freddie would have sat awaiting his turn to sing. When the moment came, we took over for Freddie’s missing voice. Time for a cliché: it was a moment I will never forget. Whether I imagined that May looked close to tears I do not know. But it's what I saw.

About an hour later, in a completely dark arena we heard the ever-recognizable sound of Freddie's piano. A massive screen above the stage lit up to show Freddie performing in concert, at the piano. And then he sang. Mama, just killed a man. Put a gun against his head. Pulled my trigger, now he’s dead. Forget that this was a 25-year-old video recording pumped through PA speakers in a hockey arena. It was haunting, ethereal, magical... pick your word of choice.

The live band backed up Freddie through the piece, cutting to more live footage through the infamous operatic segue. Seeing Mercury's face sing arguably his greatest song, and hearing Brian May and Roger Taylor back him up beyond the grave, was stunning on every account. Even Cleo, who leans far more toward the May rockers than the Mercury melodramas, found the moment sad, happy and heavy.

For me, there could have been no better way to show my daughter who this man was than seeing him up close, hearing him loud and beautiful, and witness the way the crowd was held in his hand, even after death. If there ever was a doubt in her mind that Freddie Mercury holds a certain greatness, I like to think it has been erased.

Many other songs were nothing short of fabulous. "Tie Your Mother Down" and "Fat Bottomed Girls" blew our heads off just as prescribed. "Under Pressure" came off remarkably well without either singer present, and May's 10-minute guitar solo was everything I remembered it was 25 years ago. Cleo says her highlight was "We Will Rock You" which was certainly something to behold. Anytime you get thousands singing along with a primal beat (and not motivated by the collective desire to have a team score a goal, point or run) it raises the adrenaline high.

Brian, Paul and Roger took their final bows together at the end of the stage runway, less than 15 feet from Cleo and me. Roger looked like a gracious, handsome and tired Judy Densch -- and somehow I mean that nicely. Brian looked like he was transcended, appreciative of the crowd's affection. Cleo agreed he looked kind, a little old, and in the right place. I thought the highest thing I could think -- he looked like kind of man you’d trust with your daughter.

But Paul, he continued looking cock-sure, like he felt he still needed to prove to the crowd just how adept at making love he really was. Not really stopping and looking into anyone's faces, just superficially gliding right on by.

But then he looked our way and saw Cleo waving passively and standing on her chair as she had been doing for two and a half hours. Rodgers froze. His face instantly changed in every way, melting into the look of a father seeing his daughter. A look of complete good and connection. His eyes said hello, he smiled unlike any way he'd smiled all evening, and he blew her a kiss. He looked at her for another second and then turned away.

A girl named Mercury took down Paul Rodgers and raised him to a place Freddie would have been the moment he walked on the stage, not while walking off. And it took a girl named Cleo to remind me that love is everywhere -- even in places I don’t want to see it.

Dave Krejci is a Minneapolis-based musician and inventor of the Cleophone. He played in the experimental band Green Machine and currently leads the similarly sonic Reverend Strychn Trio

Posted by Jim Walsh at March 28, 2006 12:18 AM | Comments (7)

 

KATE THE GREAT

Filed under: This Week's Wordage

Cripes, I miss reading the L.A. Weekly's Kate Sullivan in City Pages. Her report from South By Southwest reminded me as much. Kate, come home. For a vacation, at least. Minneapolis rock needs/misses your sense and sensibility. Do a "rock 'n' roll love letter" to/from Minneapolis. Pretty please?

Jeff 'n' Kate

Posted by Jim Walsh at March 25, 2006 11:54 PM | Comments (1)

 

FUCK ART BRUT AND THE ARCTIC MONKEYS LET'S DANCE

I am so bored with the Arctic Monkeys-Art Brut feud already. Don't get me wrong: I like a good rock fight, but this one is as contrived as that other "war." Or, "Uptown gripped in fear."

Besides, Arctic Monkeys are The Sex Pistols and Art Brut are The Knack. Arctic Monkeys had their lives changed by The Strokes and White Stripes the way The Ramones changed the Pistols and England, and the fact is (not opinion), it's happening again. With or without you or me.

As you may have guessed, I hung out with Brianna and her roommate Cynthia tonight, and we listened to more Arctic Monkeys. She played me amazing songs by Sia (see below) and The Gossip (UNBELIEVABLE SMART STRONG ALIVE FEMINIST PUNK at the Triple Rock on April Fool's Day), and I played her "Oxygen" (see below). Oh, and Lindsey Thomas assigned me to write a piece on The Goddamn Gleam, which I'm thrilled about.

Spring is in the air, I am (supposedly) on vacation, March is mad and I am not ("Always Love," Nada Surf), and this is what i wrote for an upcoming "Best of the Twin Cities" issue:

Best Show With No Visible Human Beings

Minneapolis Vs. St. Paul Smack-down

Dear Joe: Despite the tired old yarn you continue to proliferate, there is no civil cultural war going on between the Twin Cities. Only provincial idiots who don't know that there is worth in both the Turf Club and the Triple Rock, Dubliner's and O'Donovan's, Denny's and Bunny's, Soucheray-Keillor and Lucia-Cody would whip up such bullshit. We just don't think it exists. We think you made it up. Christ, this is the Midwest, not the Mideast.

Are the cities different? Definitely; from this side it's pretty basic: St. Paul is a hockey town and Minneapolis is a basketball town. Go Islanders.

Some of us like both hockey and basketbal, and --grab your heart-- both cities.

Fact is, some of us old-timers here at City Pages remember a proposed piece in the early '90s, which was going to be penned by one of our St. Paul writers: "Why St. Paul is better than Minneapolis." Two years ago, an editor here proposed another: "Why St. Paul sucks." Neither got written, because no one cares that much.

I say stop the presses; vive la difference; quit your fucking whining, and find some commonalities between us all before we different each other to death.

Posted by Jim Walsh at March 24, 2006 1:25 AM | Comments (4)

 

HEROES BILLY BRAGG HEROES GOLDFRAPP HEROES JIM MEYER HEROES YOU 'N' ME

Filed under: This Week's Wordage

Andrea over at Minneapolitan Music has a cool riff on heroes this week. I can relate. I''ve got so many heroes, I should start a church with stained glass windows to all the writers, readers, rockers, and everyday Joe and Josephine Blows I'd like to blow. Here's some photos of me and my boy-hero Billy Bragg from last night's gig at the Fine Line.

Click on the photos to enlarge:

  

  

The Brothers Bragg/Walsh

Photos like these sometimes remind me of the great Robyn Hitchcock song "Trash," a deadpan anti-groupie beauty that begins and ends with the line, "So you're photographed with Charlie Watts."

Well, yeah. Embarrassing and uncool and all that. But photos like these are also a talisman against the dark forces that would make us not do shit and not celebrate connections, moments, etc. These pictures remind me that after all these years and lives and stories, Braggy and I and all of us are still alive, and the world is unfinished.

His gig last night validated us much, too. His voice was shot because of his double-overtime hootenanny at South By Southwest over the weekend, so we had to sing "There Is Power In A Union," and "Upfield," and "Just because you're better than me doesn't mean I'm lazy/Just because you're going forward doesn't mean I'm going backwards" for him. Hell, yes; his best song of the night was a new one that said, over and over, "I've got faith in you."

From the sounds of it, South By Southwest validated a lot of the same things this year. (Goldfrapp was there, and I am totally addicted to that "Ooh La La" song). I wanted to be there because it feels like something's happening (is it just me, or does it feel like something big is coming 'round the bend again?; I've got that bizarre sixth-sense feeling I had in the weeks leading up to 9/11, though gulp I have no handle on whether it's a positive or negative) and that at the epicenter will be yet another new explosion of new music, and that it could start with all the energy that was exchanged in Austin last week. Alas, my broke ass had to bail on my trip at the last minute, but I'll be there next year.

My brother rules. He and his band will kick Van Morrison's bloated ass any day of the week, including next month at the Target Center. If it hadn't been for my brother, I wouldn't have met Jim Meyer back in the day, and we wouldn't get to read his guest Walsh Files today. Go get it, Southside:

by Jim Meyer, surferjimm@aol.com

MUSIC THERAPY

It's been 10 years since I left CP's art team, eventually winding up at a corporate music magazine that was fun while it lasted, but also left my ears scorched and brain scrambled. During a three-year exile from music, I got married, moved twice, and ended up living King of Queens style in Farmington, blissfully hidden from a music biz gone down the tubes in more ways than one.

But when a knee injury forced me to lay-up over Christmas, recorded music crept back into my life, more slowly and gently than ever before. No deadlines. No review pressure. No limits. That, and the desire to find local music more beautiful and courageous than the juvenile noise I keep reading sooooo much about, is the basis for this list: Cherished CDs possessing a magic spirit that lifts them out of dusty moving boxes to a place they belong.

1."Sittin' in my Room," Hang Ups. I don’t think I reviewed So We Go (1996)at the time. Many of the songs were on the band's first "black tape" demo five years early, so the disc seemed like a retrospective on arrival("Greyhound Bus," "Top of Morning"). Ten years later, the songs sound better than ever, with the startling revelation of Jeff Kearns' beautifully hushed cry
for a little help in a confused time.

Sittin' in my room waitin' for your call
Lookin’ at the wall
and it's just like me to think... that... way.
Tryin' to figure out what I want to do.
Should I take this job and work too much,
should I…call... you…a friend.

2. "Ngakso," Choying Drolma and Steve Tibbetts.
I always loved the Cho CD (Hannibal, 1997), but my former life pace rarely allowed me to make it past track three in one sitting. Things have changed. Now I live 5 minutes from Watt Munisotaram Buddhist Temple in tiny Hampton, Minnesota, and 58 minutes of entrancing Tibetan nun chanting seems all too brief.

3. "When Heart is Open," Van Morrison. I keep coming back to Morrison's ultra-elongated Common One. Often dismissed as dull and indulgent, it's first of his meditational '80s works, and owes much to Miles Davis' In a Silent Way. Mark Isham, trumpet. Pee Wee Ellis,saxophone.

4. "Perceptual," Brian Blade Fellowship. Long live Elvin Jones. Now make way for one of the most beautiful, sensitive
jazz drum visionaries around today.

5. "Walk With Me My Love and Dream," John Klemmer.
In my CP days, the older sister of Marg (C.S.I.) Helgenberger was bouncing around the West Bank. Back in L.A. she’d been jazzman John Klemmer’s assistant during his lost years. I’m not sure what made me dust off this $5.95 copy of his 1975 masterpiece, Touch, but I discovered a blissful reminder of when
smooth jazz was fresh, cool, sensual and therapeutic. Float away on Klemmer’s echoplex sax riffs, and Dave Grusin’s buttery Fender Rhodes melodies. For Ann.

6. "Slug’s Beat." Casino Royale (Keston, Fratzke, Bolen, Fultz). During my Klemmer reawakening, I became sad that there was no such gentle beauty in our own jazz underground. Then I remembered, there is. Keyboard dream weaver John Keston is now working in Keston/Westdal, with a sophomore album due soon. (Kest/West and Fultz are still holding it down in Dinkytown.) Casino’s
debut Hank Mobley’s Sound of Love (1996) is a beauty that helped nurture our mid-‘90s soul-jazz-hip-hop fusion era, even as it transcended that scene. For the record, Slug is not on "Slug’s Beat"; he’s on the opening track, "Pea King."("I’m at the end of my rope again/ searching for patterns within the fray.")

7. "Let’s Go Crazy," The Clash. Life on the mend afforded me the chance to revisit the Clash’s three-album epic, Sandinista! I was drawn back by the dub tracks, but was floored anew by this sounds explosion of a song. Steel pan riffs ricochet off rubbery rockabilly guitar lines while the late Joe Strummer shouts a joyous call-and-response about the sights and sounds of London’s Carnival time. Today’s rock press cites
a lot of Clash disciples, but the new groups always sound like the ‘77-‘78 Clash, never the world-wise, musically omnivorous ’79-‘80 Clash. How can a band from a back-to-basics era 30 years ago sound years ahead of today?

8. "Look Here," The Clash. Staying on the subject of Sandinista! for a moment, I was spooked, and saddened how relevant and timely the album remains today: Tales of entrenched
poverty, urban violence, global war games, tabloid antics, and freakiest of all, Mose Allison’s "Look Here," a hip rumination on the purpose of life and our own unpredictable mortality. "Look here/what’chya think you’re gonna be doing next year?" (Joe Strummer, R.I.P.).

One last thought on Sandinista! Promise. While listening to Strummer take on the world’s problems, I wondered who will carry that dying torch into tomorrow. Kanye West and Bono come to mind, both recent Time cover stars (with Kanye also profiled on the inside of the PotY issue). U2’s music puts me to sleep (in a bad way), but hats off to ‘em for mixing the Rolling Stones corporate efficiency with some degree of social realism. God bless old Joe, but let’s face it:

Grabbing face-time with world leaders and kickin’ it with Bill Gates might do more to change the world than bickering with Sony, making bad Alex Cox films, recording future cut-out albums for Epitaph. Kanye was praise for saying "George Bush doesn’t care about black people." Bush-buddy Bono gets almost no street love for (possibly) wrangling a couple billion from Congress for something called the Millennium Challenge. Unfortunately, it all feels like so much Bono branding, but I could be wrong, and I hope so.

10. "Ransom," Haley Bonar. Sorry I missed your CD show Friday. Friends tell me it was a near-religious experience, where a room full of assorted strangers vibed as one to the greater possibilities of comtemplative pop. Hey slow girl, you go girl!

Back after these commercial messages:

10. "Unpeemp ze auto" Volkswagen commercials.
A series of ads that mock and celebrate corporate America’s desperate (and I mean desperate) attempts to co-opt hip-hop culture ("Ghermuhn, engineerrink,in da haus.") After about 43 TiVo backtracks, my mind was as warped as the pimp cars they destroy in each spot. Peter Stormare (Fargo, Prison Break) on lead vocals, but some leggy blonde goddess makes a cameo to unleash the lyrical shut-down of the year: "Eet’s dayfuhnitely sucking!"

11. "Takin' it to the Streets," "Livin’ for the City," Taylor Hicks, American Idol, 2006. After totally avoiding the first three seasons, I now surrender, for two good reasons. Local gospel princess Paris Bennett would be reason enough. The second is prematurely gray Taylor Hicks, 29, my body double, representing for old soul geeks everywhere.

 

Taylor Hicks (left) meet your soul-man doppelganger: Ann and Jim and E.T. Meyer

12. "Music of Stella, Reno 911," Craig Wedren.
When you stop listening to CDs, you can really enjoy the music of television. Wedren’s band Shudder to Think was awful and his downcast songwriter CD Lapland just doesn’t work. However, the theme of Reno 911 and the bumpers and bridges in "Stella" are the most delightfully creative music I’ve heard in years.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled program.

13. "In Sh'Allah," The Violettes. Pakistani pixie Sarah Khan and her band aren’t the greatest self-promoters,
so this gorgeous, groundbreaking marvel of shoegaze-raga rock had a brief press shine, then disappeared. Congrats to Khan for passing the bar. Hopefully she’ll still play in one.

14. "Yu Le Sheng Ping (Peaceful Happiness)," Belladonna Baroque Quartet featuring Gao Hong. All the young kids are into the idea of baroque indie rock, so the time seems just right for our own Baroque supergroup, with pipa master Gao Hong on board
this year. I believe it was Pete Townshend who said a good rock song is 2:50. Many of the pieces on Hui: Folk Melodies from China and 17th Century Europe are shorter than that, jam-packed with beauty, energy and grace. CD concert April 28, Sundin Hall, Hamline Campus. www.belladonna-baroque.com

15. "Jive and Claims," Coach Said Not To (from Mini-series, due April,2006).I was beginning to think it had all been done in local music, then I encountered this St. Paul foursome, which has no obvious precedent locally and few
peers worldwide -- unless Amy Rigby gets married again, weds John S. Hall from King Missile and gives birth to some Roches. Singer Eva Mohn is a rising star in local dance. Sister Linnea is the devilish co-star from local cult comedy Nate on Drums. With all that going for them, it’s possible they view CSNT less like their ticket to sleep on dirty floors and more like a fun pet they love to come home
to, and take for slow walks. But after 10 songs that break all the rules in all the right ways, the quirky Mini-series ends with Eva’s most naked track of the set, a confession that puts the audience first, and puts critics on temporary lay-off.

You should believe me when I say I don't know how to sing.
It is a couple of melodies that happen between breathing.

I don’t write songs. I write letters in tune.
Some are in major, some are in minor, some are in seven.

But the one who writes the greatest songs is you.
So I tell you what, in these songs is the only single place I don’t get it all wrong.

In these songs, there are a couple of lies, but there are a couple of
truths.

Well, the lies could be the part about not playing guitar, singing, or
writing real songs. The truths? Who knows. Like all of her pieces, 23-year-old Eva means no harm, no offense, and doesn’t deliver them with any unnecessary attitude. Frankly, all her songs are polite pleas for the chance to turn spare underground rock into a ballet of the mind. This one’s just a little more overt.

16. "The Local Show with Chris Roberts" featuring Marlee MacLeod, 89.3 the Current, March 5, 2006. In which the recently AWOL songwriter revealed her need to remove herself,
rest, replenish, and plot a return on her terms, in her own time. I never get tired of that story, each with its own inspiring twists. Her lyrics can be delicious, or dizzyingly dense at varying times. But as she proved on the music breaks, she still has a voice like no other in town.

17. "A Sky of Honey" (Disc 2 of Aerial), Kate Bush. Disappear for about 12 years, then sneak back into the music world with a double-disc set, the second of which is a song cycle about one day in a life, highlighted by a trip to see an oil painter in action before enjoying the birdsongs at sunset. Only a megastar who was established long before Napster was conceived could come back and even attempt something so bold, just one reason it's
great to have her back.

18. "I Wish I Knew (How it Would Feel to Be Free)," Derek Trucks Band. Is that former Pioneer Press general assignment guy Mike Mattison on vocals? Indeed, dude. Just think: From those Freeloaded Wednesdays at the Front at Ground Zero to festivals near and far. From the Loring Bar to Bonaroo. Dream big all you young dudes... but it does help if you can actually sing. For J.G. Everest,
and any local musician I had the pleasure to see and hear in the Clinton years. We partially built this city, or at least remodeled it.

19. "Dedicatory Piece to the Geophysical Year of 1957," Gil Melle. Hard to believe in this age of info overload there is still an underrecognized genius of modern music. Baritone saxophonist Melle was the first white artist on Blue Note Records and also designed numerous covers there. In addition, he was an electronic inventor, painter, pilot, microscopist, auto collector and soundtrack artist (TV's Night Gallery, and the movie Andromeda Strain, sampled on Rhino’s Brain in a Box sci-fi music set). I assume Donald Fagen’s "IGY (What a Wonderful World)" was an extremely subtle tribute to that man who pioneered a cool, intellectual brand of East Coast post-bop, and who totally blew my mind when I visited his Malibu home in 2003. He died from chain-smoking in 2004. His Complete Blue Note Sessions never trades for less than $50 on eBay. This cut is from the 1991 Prestige twofer,Primitive Modern/Quadrama.

20. "Chague heure est un depart," Fat Kid Wednesdays. Speaking of local boys gone worldwide. On those rare occasions when I'm NOT seeking something slow and low, this rumbling, racing opening track ��"- composed by Krystof Komeda -- gets me dancing and whistling more than any dance or pop single. From the earthshaking bass intro to the tightly knit harmonies of Greg
and Michael Lewis on trumpet and sax, to the exhilarating section changes, it's irresistible. From the wonderfully accomplished The Art of Cherry CD.

21. "Out There in the Night," The Only Ones. It's not always good to learn the meaning of the songs: Enjoy this tearjerking rocker…about the singer’s lost cat. Our last selection of the evening goes out to the Walsh Files skipper himself. Thanks for inviting me to write a few words on 20 favorite things. More than that, thanks for inviting me to write about a million words 20 years ago at old Murphy Hall. A little push turned this wanderer in a whole new direction; skyward. Eventually, life takes us in different directions, on different searches, in different circles. But I’m sure
you know... sometimes I think of you...

Posted by Jim Walsh at March 20, 2006 8:51 AM | Comments (0)

 

SNOW! SNOW! SNOW! SNOW DAY!

Filed under: This Week's Wordage

1. "Snow Day," Kevin Kling. The last time there was a Storm Of The Century around these parts, a little thing called iTunes did not exist. I've been up for 15 minutes this morning; the tree branches and streets are caked with white, and already I've downloaded five "Snow Days." This is the perennial, the piece de reistance, as delivered by the Kirby Puckett of spoken-word story-tellers.

2. "Snow Day," Matt Pond PA. A pause in the hurtling-along ever-after, in which we find ourselves hanging out on a lazy morning and taking stock of "the people we have become." A nice respite, but after a while Brother Matt concludes, "We can want more." Speaking of which -- hey, iTunes, why can't a brother get Trip Shakespeare's "Snow Day"?

3. "Snow Day," Lisa Loeb & Nine Stories. "You're my medicine," she sings, sounding like a lover who's snowed in and can't get to the office or classroom or parking lot where her other half lives and so, of course, "it's a bad day... it's a long ride… miles to go."

4. "Snow Day," Trout Fishing In America. Corny, campy, and cool. Everything's closed, not a thing we can do, so let's spend the whole day together. Fun! Um, yeah. Well. Redrum. Redrum.

5. "Snow Day," The Honorary Title. So claustrophobic and so rich in adolescent-angst detail, you can almost feel the walls closing in.

6. "Sunday," Michelle Featherstone. The Sabbath may be the day of rest, but not for a restless-hearted pop waif (Tanita Tikaram, anyone?) who misses her lover all week until this holy day, which comes and goes too quickly. Here's to a month of Sundays.

7. "Keeping Me Awake," Tarkio. The Decemberists are getting too clever and/or ornate for me, but this ��" and about 20 others off the new 27-song compilation Omnibus -- are raw, literate things of emo-country beauty that find singer/songwriter Colin Meloy at his basic best.

8. "Breathe Me," Sia. I wrote a column this week about a guy who met a girl at a bar one night two years ago and fell in love with her on the spot. I've told a few people the story, and most were skeptical about what his definition of "love" is; contending that a version like his isn't "real love" or "healthy." Maybe so, but sometimes all it takes is a breath, a scent, and you're gone. This wispy anti-ballad, with a piano that sounds like the bag blowing in the wind at the end of American Beauty is the perfume called "Something To Remember Me By."

9. "Birmingham 1982," Maria Taylor "Do you still remember flashlights under covers?/Raindrops on our tongue?/When life had no distractions?/And love wasn't hurting anyone?" Ouch.

10. "That Teenage Feeling," Neko Case. I don't know anything about Neko Case's love life, except for what I hear in her voice, but it's pretty clear she's never known -- or even desires -- "comfortable as an old shoe" love. On her brilliant new one Fox Confessor Brings The Flood her friend says, "I'm holding out for that teenage feeling."

And Neko agrees, and who can blame her, what with all that pulse-racing and get-to-knowing-each-other and telepathy that goes with it; heaven help her, and anyone who falls for the likes of her, because…

11. "Girls Can Really Tear You Up Inside," A Girl Called Eddy. My 'tweener son and his buddies have just discovered girls. I'm tempted to play this Magnolia-style warning for them, but they're already figuring it out for themselves.

12. "How Can I Protect You?," Alabama 3. A parent-child summit in an uneasy universe that concludes, Marley-magnificently, everything's gonna be alright.

13. "In The News," Kris Kristofferson. The best summation of how it feels to be alive right now, off the best folk-rock record since John Prine's latest.

14. "Oxygen," Willy Mason. Just when you think you're alone in this fucked-up world, someone comes along and sings a pep-talk that becomes your three-times-a-day medicine. Sing it, my peeps:

I wanna be better than oxygen
So you can breathe when you're drowning and weak in the knees
I wanna speak louder than Ritalin
For all the children who think that they've got a disease
I wanna be cooler than t.v.
For all the kids that are wondering what they are going to be

We can be stronger than bombs
If you're singing along and you know that you really believe
We can be richer than industry
As long as we know that there's things that we don't really need
We can speak louder than ignorance
Cause we speak in silence every time our eyes meet.

On and on, and on, and on it goes
The world it just keeps spinning
Until i'm dizzy, time to breathe
So close my eyes and start again anew.

I wanna see through all the lies of society
To the reality, happiness is at stake
I wanna hold up my head with dignity
Proud of a life where to give means more than to take
I want to live beyond the modern mentality
Where paper is all that you're really taught to create

Do you remember the forgotten America?
Justice, equality, freedom to every race?
Just need to get past all the lies and hypocrisy
Make up and hair to the truth behind every face
That look around to all the people you see,
How many of them are happy and free?

I know it sounds like a dream
But it's the only thing that can get me to sleep at night
I know it's hard to believe
But it's easy to see that something here isn't right
I know the future looks dark
But it's there that the kids of today must carry the light.

On and on, and on, and on it goes
The world it just keeps spinning
Until i'm dizzy, time to breathe
So close my eyes and start again anew.
If I'm afraid to catch a dream
I weave your baskets and I'll float them down the river stream
Each one I weave with words I speak to carry love to your relief.

I wanna be better than oxygen
So you can breathe when you're drowning and weak in the knees
I wanna speak louder than Ritalin
For all the children who think that they've got a disease
I wanna be cooler than t.v.
For all the kids that are wondering what they are going to be
We can be stronger than bombs
If you're singing along and you know that you really believe
We can be richer than industry
As long as we know that there's things that we don't really need
We can speak louder than ignorance
Cause we speak in silence every time our eyes meet.

On and on, and on, and on it goes
The world it just keeps spinning
Until I'm dizzy, time to breathe
So close my eyes and start again anew

15. "Plaything," Tim O'Reagan. My favorite song from my favorite singer of the moment, from his debut CD out soon.

16. "I'll Follow You Into The Dark," Death Cab For Cutie. A Catholic school survivor who got his knuckles cracked by the nuns who told him "fear is at the core of love," promises to the lonely listener, "If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks, I'll follow you into the dark." So I got that going for me.

17. "Love Love Love," Mountain Goats. Some things you do for money, some things you do for love, love, love. Some moments last forever, but some flare up in love, love, love.

18. "Not Just Sometimes But Always," Idlewild. An ode to individualism ��" the one that eschews the voices of the leaders and pundits for the inner voices and the voices on the radio. By the way, why are the Vines singing the archaic sentiment, "Don't listen to the radio" at a time whin pretty much the only sentiments that make any sense are coming out of the (music) radio?

19. "I Hope You Had The Time Of Your Life," Green Day. Alicia Corbett and her angels of mercy put together a sweet Katrina benefit at Grumpy's Saturday night, and Dave Boquist finished the evening with his rich baritone and gorgeous guitar playing, and a set highlighted by a longing version of J.J. Cale's "Magnolia." The cherry on top was Dave's teenage son Shane, who performed this Green Day classic. I've heard it at weddings and funerals over the past few years, but rarely has it been so hopeful.

20. "What A Wonderful World," Louis Armstrong. Bob Stinson's favorite song ��" it was played at his funeral ��" filled the Metrodome with sweet sorrow last night at another funeral of another Minnesota-made icon. It was so balming to see Martin DeVaney, a baseball-loving Minnesota kid with wet eyes, backing up Jim "Mudcat" Grant, a Minnesota baseball legend with weary-wise eyes, on Louie's stop-and-smell-the-pine-tar ode to the healing nature of beauty.

Posted by Jim Walsh at March 13, 2006 10:14 AM | Comments (1)

 

TWENTY FOR KIRBY

Filed under: This Week's Wordage

1. "Bad News From Phoenix," Curtiss A
2. "The Day They Take The Twins Away," Vinnie & The Stardusters
3. "Puckett's Farewell," Peter Oshtroushko
4. "Empty Baseball Park," Whiskeytown
5. "A Dying Cub Fan's Last Request," Steve Goodman
6. "First Breath After Coma," Explosions In The Sky
7. "In The Sun," Joseph Arthur
8. "Hayday," Replacements
9. "Mr. Ambulance Driver," Flaming Lips
10. "Minnesota Polka," Gear Daddies
11. "Center Field," John Fogerty
12. "Everyday Boy," Joan Armatrading
13. "The Greatest," Cat Power
14. "Fixin' To Die Blues," Bukka White
15. "My Ride's Here," Bruce Springsteen
16. "One Of These Days," Neil Young
17. "Thank You Friends," Big Star
18. "Chicago Breakdown," Louis Armstrong
19. "Harmon Killebrew," Jeff Arundel
20. "When You Walk On," Eliza Gilkyson

Posted by Jim Walsh at March 6, 2006 9:44 AM | Comments (7) | TrackBack

 

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