May 2006

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Return Of The 20!!!

Filed under: Weekly 20

1. "Do You Want To Come With?," Stephen Fretwell. I heard Fretwell's CD Magpie for the first time last month, and I've played it at least once a day since. For songwriter lovers, this is a drop-everything-and-get-it proposition. A mannerism like Donovan's, a soul like Dylan's, a voice all his own. It's hypnotic, sad, and truth-telling. From Manchester, England, his songs remind me why we listen so intently to others: To know something about another, and to discover something about ourselves. When he asks Do you want to come with? to a place where the waves crash on the shore, you say why not? -- so long as he leaves you alone once you get there.

2. "Flags Of Freedom," Neil Young. Kevin Spacey's DOA muse has recently only been able to get it up for a biopic on Bobby Darin (?!), and the mocking of Young's heartfelt��"careless-killer-from-the-gut Living With War on the season finale of Saturday Night Live. I'm pretty sure I've quoted this before, but whenever I see someone go out on a limb the way Neil has this time, and hear some snarky cheap-seater dismiss it, I remember what Greil Marcus wrote about Sinead O'Connor, when she ripped up a picture of the pope on SNL: "Don't knock her until you've done something half as brave."

3. "Talent Show," The Replacements. Safe to say, someone covering this jangly ode to the judge-artist circle-jerk is the only thing that could ever get me to watch American Idol. Knock yourself out, but I swear I'd rather sit in a quiet room listening to "the music of silence," as Thomas Merton put it.

And, just in case you need more proof that this country is totally -off its rocker, consider the fact that, at a time when more good music is being made, recorded, and played than at any other time in history, many very smart people and critics are talking about a TV show and virtually ignoring original music that actually says something about these times (and no, I'm not talking about the Dixie Chicks' boring "boldness" that Keith Harris so eloquently unpacks here).

I mean, just imagine if that sea of column inches and talking heads that were devoted to American Idol had been aimed at Living With War? Think we'd be living in a different world? I do.

I know. I know. I should lighten up. But calling American Idol a much-needed "escape" is the kind of lazy thinking and passive listening that, yes, it can't be said enough, got more people to vote for Taylor or Paris or whoever the fuck than the president, and I don't mind saying that that kind of mass mind-lull frightens me.

4. "I Wish I Was," The Twilight Singers. Have you ever had an out-of-body experience, the kind where you're floating above the city and its bridges and waterscapes and smokestacks and silos and the Northern Lights and back doors and classic dimly-lit kitchens and smoky hammocks and the secrets of the universe discovered in the single blink of a pedal steel guitar, watching yourself and your life, and it is both dark and beautiful, so much so that you never want to come down? Well, now you have. Come down, that is.

5. "Monster Ballads," Josh Ritter. A slippery coming-of-age ballad that's equal parts "Done Got Old" (Heartless Bastards), "Please Don't Ask Me To Smile" (You Am I) and "Heavy Metal Boyz" (Gear Daddies), from an Idaho kid who's more popular in Ireland��"a country that knows a little something about shattered-hearts-and-stop-and-smell-the-ashes than little ol' here.

6. "Donald and Lydia," John Prine. On the bus on the way down to Prine's show at the Orpheum earlier this month, I sat next to a couple of musicheads who couldn't have been more than 16 years olds. The girl was schooling the boy in the genius of Prine, and deemed this "the greatest song about love ever written." I was struck by her passion, and by the fact that she didn't call it the "greatest love song ever written" -- the distinction being between love as a wading pool (known and shallow) and love as a swimming hole (wild and scary-deep).

7. "Since You've Been Around," Rosie Thomas. Her show at the Turf a couple months ago still haunts; I look back at what I wrote��"about her being a shaman��"and about it being a special night and I try to figure out why. Then I hear her singing about the rush of connectedness, Elliot and E.T. connectedness, and I remember.

8. "End Of Love," Clem Snide. The first half of this tune is too clever for it's own good, but when he brings it down and sings, "Maybe you should just release the doves, because no one will survive the end of love," it soars, and the message that endures is the one that tells the heart to stop keeping track, let go, no grudges, no agendas, no distrust of thy neighbor, no calibration, no pragmaticism, just love. Which, rumor has it, the world needs more of.

9. "Man Of God," Neil Diamond. From his new one. The next best thing written of late about faith and flesh and how everyone's voice is the voice of their own god this side of Mason Jennings' "Jesus Are You Real?"

10. "Be Here Now," Mason Jennings. The triumph of this sentiment, which Ram Dass first coined back in the '60s, is how it sticks with the listener long after the music ends. That is, the singalong chorus is a meaningful mantra throughout your day, and a tool for bringing yourself back into the moment -- which is what dude sang in "Living In The Moment," and what all those angels in church are hipping everyone to when they sing, "Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me."

11. "Steady As She Goes," The Raconteurs. Great Joe Jackson riff. Sounds good on the radio. Quintessential brown bohemian bikini summer single.

12. "Poncho and Lefty," Townes Van Zandt. Netflixed the Townes documentary Be Here To Love Me the other night, the best part of which was Guy Clark and Willie Nelson talking about the invulnerabilitty of this strange song, and the vulnerability of its maker, who said, "There's heaven, hell, purgatory, and the blues. The blues is the worst. I'd take purgatory over the blues anyday." Yessir, that's my baby.

13. "Personality Crisis," The New York Dolls. I've pretty much had my fill of old punks talking about the glory days, like so many Deadheads gathered 'round Jerry's entrails. So I was pleasantly surprised by New York Doll, the doc on Dolls' bassist Arthur "Killer" Kane, a sweet survivor if ever there was one. Um, even though he didn't survive.

14. "World Spins Madly On," The Weepies. Went to a man's funeral yesterday. He was hard-headed Irish Catholic beer lover. His kids didn't talk to him, or each other, much. They stood around the casket in front of the altar, in a church packed with other hard-headed Irish Catholic beer lovers who don't talk to each other much because of one grudge or another, looking like they'd never met. People were crying, and once again I didn't. It all just sat in me -- all that pain, regret, muted love, and silence -- like a summer cold waiting to get sneezed out here.

15. "Temperature," Sean Paul. Turn that junk off, son. If all the other kids jumped off a bridge, would you? Yes, girls are beautiful. Do we have to have that talk again? No, not all nightclubs are like that. Turn it back to one of my stations. Better yet, find something by the Archies or something. Maybe the Christian music station. Disney. Smooth jazz.

16. "Turn Into," Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Potential is a bitch, be it love, or life, or calling, and this four-minute warning finds the singer praying she can live up to everything fate has mapped out for her. Or... maybe she just likes singing that killer hook.

17. "Chase The Feeling," Kris Kristofferson. A soft scolding, but a scolding nonetheless, from one hungry soul to another. The difference from the rest of us is that he's learned something along the way; how to tame his demons and recognize what's at stake. Reason #20,000 why we listen to our elders.

18. "That Summer Feeling," Jonathan Richman. Mary Lucia perfectly played "Roadrunner" the other day to her windows-down heat-baked city. Then there's this, the perennial of all summer-song perennials, and as I write, the Memorial Day weekend humidity has lifted, leaving only the fecund green of these prairie towns, and the smell-in-the-air promise of an urban orgy.

19. "Pay Me My Money Down," Bruce Springsteen and the Seeger Sessions Band. From my D.C. boy Dave Pasternak, late yesterday:

GO SEE SPRINGSTEEN AND THE SEEGER SESSIONS BAND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It's expensive but well worth the price - certainly a much more satisfying show than the Devils and Dust Tour.

Saw 'em last night - wow, what a wonderful show. Eighteen to twenty musicians (depending on whether there were four or six horn players, it varied), all acoustic, making a HUGE joyous racket. Everyone onstage got a couple of moments in the spotlight and the band just kicked a**. It rolled more than it rocked - not to say it didn't have punch because it most certainly did but the whole thing had a real New Orleans feel to it. Bruce looked like he was having a ball. They all looked like they were having a ball. When they were ending 'Pay Me My Money Down', the entire band marched off the stage like a New Orleans brass band except the tuba player and drummer, who both kept playing, with the crowd continuing to sing (the audience was great - they sang much of the night, all in appropriate places!) Bruce finally "had to" come out and fetch them - he herded the tuba player off, then came back for the drummer - as Bruce escorted him off, he kept breaking away and coming back to exhort the crowd to keep singing. It was lots of fun.

They did most of the Seeger Sessions (thankfully skipping 'Shenandoah' and 'Froggie Went a Courtin') They were great - pretty much like they are on the album but the energy level was ramped up a notch or two. He also did 'How Can a Poor Man Stand Such Times and Live?" with three new verses that he wrote specifically about New Orleans - it was up on his web site for awhile, don't know if it's still there - great version. 'When The Saints Go Marching In' was not the way I've ever heard it before - rather than the Dixieland stomp you always hear, it was done like a spiritual - slow and mournful and appropriate to the words. 'Bring Them Home (If You Love Your Uncle Sam)' is a Seeger song that wasn't on the album - it was certainly appropriate for a show in the Washington D.C. area on Memorial Day Weekend.

And what he did to his own songs - wow! 'Johnny 99' was a rolling, New Orleans backbeat version. 'Cadillac Ranch' was all rhythm with the chorus removed and replaced with the chorus of 'Mystery Train' - it sort of reminded me of the stuff Tom Waits has been doing in recent years. 'If I Should Fall Behind' was done as a country waltz. 'Ramrod' was done as a zydeco stomper. But the absolute highlight of the entire evening as far as I was concerned was the really, really long Texas swing version of 'Open All Night' complete with Patti, Soozie and Lisa doing a sorta Andrews Sisters intro - that was fantastic.

20. "Bad Day," Daniel Powter. The most popular song on the radio at the moment. I love it for its bigness and sadness and keepituppityness. They played it at the Dome the other night, and whenever I hear it from here on out I will think of Mark Zupan, the star of Murderball,

who we ran into (apparently he used to live here; he's a Twins fan) and snapped the picture of below. Girl with Mark is my daughter; dude in back is my boy Erik Lundegaard, the film critic who topped his list of favorite movie moments of 2005 with this:

1. Tap tap... Tap tap...
Mark Zupan gives a fellow quadriplegic a reason to live in “Murderball.”

Mark Zupan is one of the highly competitive quadriplegic rugby players competing in the Paralympic Games, in the documentary "Murderball." Besides filming the characters and stories that grow out of the sport of full-contact wheelchair rugby ��" notably American champ Joe Soares defecting to coach the Canadian team ��" filmmakers Henry Alex Rubin and Dana Adam Shapiro also follow Keith Cavill, recently injured in a daredevil motorcycle accident, as he recovers in a hospital and returns home. In his bedroom and newly modified bathroom, the permanence of his condition sinks in, and he sinks into depression. Until, that is, he meets Mark Zupan, the poster-boy for “Murderball” and one tough little S.O.B. (he’s got something about James Cagney’s energy about him). Between international competitions, Zupan gives a talk to interested quadriplegics and brings along a rugby wheelchair ��" designed for action and contact and mayhem. Cavill gets into it. They only have one such wheelchair so he can’t slam into anyone else, but the desire is there; you can tell he’s itching to do it. Instead he merely bumps into another wheelchair. Tap tap. Tap tap. In that moment, as Zupan watches with pride in the background, you see a life being reborn.

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 29, 2006 10:18 PM | Comments (1)

 

The late greats: Diane Arbus at Walker June 17

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 26, 2006 8:38 AM | Comments (0)

 

Hey Ho

Sometimes you think you're doing a half-assed job as a parent. You can't keep the world and all its bullshit at bay, and you're flawed to begin with, so what chance do they have? Then you stay up late one Friday night with your 11-year-old son to show him a movie you saw in a St. Cloud theater 25 years ago with your old friend Paul, who's wife is fighting breast cancer.

Rock & Roll School, on a double bill with This Is Spinal Tap. We were two of maybe ten people in the theater. Now it's on DVD, and so I sit down with my boy and you can't explain what the Ramones meant, because you suppose they sound thin and alien compared to Green Day or whatever. So you don't. You just let it roll, and in the back of your mind/heart there are all these people you ran with, some dead, some alive, some getting married, some having kids, some falling afuckingpart.

I thought about the night Joey Ramone died. I knew he'd been sick. It was a Sunday night, and I walked into the newsroom at the St. Paul Pioneer Press. Someone told me the news, and I wrote this in a hurry:

April 16, 2001
Section: Local
Edition: City Page:
4B Column: JOEY RAMONE 1951-2001
Memo:OBITUARY: For Joey Ramone's obituary, see Page 5B

REMEMBERING THE ONE WHO BROUGHT FUN BACK TO ROCK
Jim Walsh, Pop Music Critic

The Ramones played their first Twin Cities concert in 1976 at the old Kelly's Pub in downtown St. Paul. The Suicide Commandos, the local band that formed around the same time as the New York rockers, opened. The afternoon of the show, a couple of underage kids from Minneapolis, one of whom wore a Ramones T-shirt, drove across the river and parked in front of the bar.

The kids had never been to a bar of any kind before, but they were gonna give it a shot. ''We love the Ramones,'' the kid with the T-shirt told the bouncer at the door. ''We just want to see the band. We won't drink or anything. Will you let us in? Please?''It was 5 p.m. The Ramones wouldn't be on stage until almost midnight. The bouncer gave the lads the once-over, propped the door open, and barked ''Get out of here.''

Which is what the kids did. But they didn't stop listening to the Ramones. They drank quarts of Mountain Dew and played endless games of foosball while listening to the Ramones' classic debut album and their follow-up, ''Rocket To Russia.'' A couple of years later, the kid with the Ramones T-shirt wore it under his gown when he graduated from high school. A couple of years after that, the kid found himself hauling gear into Sam's (later First Avenue) for one of the many Ramones gigs the kid would see over the years.

The kid's big brother's band, the Neglecters, was opening the show along with the Replacements. When the 'Mats finished their set, singer/songwriter Paul Westerberg primed the crowd for the Ramones by saying: ''The best band in the world is up next. If you don't think so, f--- ya.''

Now the kid is writing a column about the death of Joey Ramone, 15 minutes after he heard the news, 45 minutes from deadline. He is thinking about what Paul said. He is thinking about how damn much fun the Ramones were, how insanely fresh they sounded in the mid-'70s.

He is thinking about what it felt like, pogoing to exhaustion, being lifted off his feet at those shows, about the crush of flesh, the shout-along choruses, and the fact that SPIN magazine got something right when, in its latest punk special edition, named ''Ramones'' the No. 1 punk record of all time.

He is hoping that Zippy the Pinhead somehow acknowledges Joey's passing, because the Ramones brought pinhead culture to the masses, and humor back to rock 'n' roll. He is thinking about all the people who will be crushed when they hear the news - the musicians, record store clerks, and people like his friend Mary B. Good, the biggest Ramones fan he knows - who once upon a time were all united under a flag that bore the Ramones' unofficial battle cry: ''Gabba Gabba Hey!''

He is thinking about the beginning of the Ramones' shoulda-been-classic ''Rock 'n' Roll Radio,'' which crackles with static, and a radio dial searching for something that crackles, something real, and Joey's nasally opening line, ''Do you remember rock 'n' roll radio?''

The kid is thinking about how much fun it would be to hear that blasting out of the radio today, but he knows that that is not about to happen anytime soon.

More than anything, the kid is thinking about how Joey Ramone always made him feel like a kid, and how he probably always will.

Gabba-gabba-hey.

Near the end of the movie, my son saw the kids in the crowd holding signs. He asked me what "Gabba-gabba-hey" meant. I did my best.

Like I said, you don't know if anything gets through, or if you're too permissive, too tough, too lame, too Failure Father. The weekend and all its activities passed. We didn't talk about the movie again. But just now, as I'm getting ready to go off on a field trip with him and his class to the riverbank, I noticed a serious letter from school taped up on the fridge. In black ink at the top, there's a scribble of, "Gabba-gabba-hey!"

It made me laugh out loud.

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 16, 2006 8:54 AM | Comments (1)

 

Lovers Rock

"Some things you do for money, some you do for love, love, love."
--The Mountain Goats

"Love releases us into the realm of divine imagination, where the soul is expanded and reminded of its unearthly cravings and needs. We think that when a lover inflates his loved one he is failing to acknowledge her flaw --"Love is blind." But it may be the other way around. Love allows a person to see the true angelic nature of another person, the halo, the aureole of divinity.

"Certainly from the perspective of ordinary life this is madness and illusion. But if we let loose our hold on our philosophies and psychologies of enlightment and reason, we might learn to appreciate the perspective of eternity that enters life as madness, Plato's divine frenzy.

"Love brings consciousness closer to the dream state. In that sense, it may reveal more than it distorts, as a dream reveals--poetically, suggestively, and admittedly, obscurely. If we were to appreciate truly the Platonic theory of love, we might also learn to see other forms of madness, such as paranoia and addiction, as evidence of the soul's reaching toward its proper yearnings. Platonic love is not love without sex. It is love that finds in the body and in human relationship a route toward eternity.

"In his book about love, 'Convivium'--his answer to Plato's 'Symposium'--Ficino, who is credited with coining the phrase, "Platonic love," says concisely, "The soul is partly in eternity and partly in time." Love straddles both dimensions, opening a way to live in both simultaneously. But incursions of eternity into life are usually unsettling, for they disturb our plans and shake the tranquillity we have achieved with earthly reason."
--Thomas Moore

"Whether we fall in love with a human demigod or with a deity, we feel that they can return us to a primordial state of oneness, that then our inner electric can run its full circuit, that we can at last be whole. Only the thinnest rind of skin stands between us, only events slender as neurons.

"Only the fermenting mash of personality keeps us from crossing the boundary that organisms cherish to become one appetite, one struggle, one destiny. Then, when we finally reach that pinnacle, we feel more than whole: we feel limitless."
--Diane Ackerman

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 15, 2006 9:53 AM | Comments (0)

 

Myspace Poem

I've got more friends than you
Do
So I don't have time for
You
And now a little more about
Me

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 12, 2006 8:41 AM | Comments (0)

 

The Six-Minute Orgasm

This guy is my hero.

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 11, 2006 11:05 AM | Comments (1)

 

DJ ESP To The Rescue

Filed under: This Week's Wordage

DJ ESP to the rescue.

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 11, 2006 8:31 AM | Comments (0)

 

Here Come The catholic Boys

lookin' for a fight

Photo: Andrea Myers.

cath*o*lic (kath-lik,** kath-lick ilyfad +++++) 1. Universal; general; all-inclusive. 2. Broad and comprehensive in interests, sympathies, or the like; liberal. Including or concerning all humankind: “What was of catholic rather than national interest” (J.A. Froude).

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 8, 2006 10:12 AM | Comments (0)

 

Lilacs!

Back by popular demand.

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 6, 2006 12:39 PM | Comments (6)

 

Brenda Weiler Kicks Ass and My Brothers Rock

Brenda Weiler kicks ass and so do my brothers.

Walsh Brothers plus Rusty and Tony at Wellstone World Music Day II, Turf Club. Photo by Mary P. Gibney.

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 5, 2006 9:43 AM | Comments (0)

 

Raine Snyder Kicks Ass

Raine Snyder kicks ass.

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 4, 2006 7:23 AM | Comments (0)

 

Magic Happens

Filed under: This Week's Wordage

Magic. That's the only word for last night's Rift Magazine songwriter showcase at the Bryant-Lake Bowl, wherein Rift's Rich Horton assigned a bunch of local songwriters to write a song about...

Coffee.

In 36 hours.

Everybody came through like champs -- Luke Zimmerman, Eva Mohn, Mike Brady, Ellis, Martin Devaney, Brad Senne, Ben Glaros, Tony Thomas, Sam Keenan, Future Lisa, Chris Koza, Chris Harrington, Terry Eason, Patrik Tanner, and Rob Meany. The set concluded with a stunner from Big Ditch Road's heroic Darin Wald, who sang something like, "That look you gave me was stronger than anything you poured in my cup."

Mmm. It was the most memorable night at the BLB I've had since I saw Dan Wilson and Slim Dunlap engage in a similar hootenanny years ago, which found Wilson debuting the audience-singalong "Made To Last" and Dunlap playing a song he wrote before the gig: advice to a young songwriter/fan who'd written him a letter.

(Did we mention that Slim is rumored to be recording a new album starting this summer? I say call it Nevermind the 'Mats Reunion, Here's Slim Did we also mention that Chris Riemenschneider reports that Slim and Curt are playing every first Thursday --tomorrow!-- of the month at Famous Dave's in Uptown? C'est vrai and hallelujah. Oh, and the Belfast Cowboys , featuring ace songwriter Terry Walsh (my brother, and a former member of Slim's touring band opening for Son Volt)are doing a set of original tunes at the Acadia the same night. An embarrassment of riches here, musicheadies).

Anyway, aside from the quality of the writing, much of the magic stemmed from the fact that it was homegrown and ORIGINAL MUSIC. Good news: Brianna Riplinger is feverishly writing her review of last night's fever as we type. She had to work this morning, so it'll be posted here tonight or tomorrow.

As so many things do these days, the whole thing had a feeling of MINNEAPOLIS/ST. PAUL RISING, in that anyone on that stage could've gotten the nod from the judges in Ross Rahalia's recent poll.

What's more, the collective tilling sound in the room reminded me of the two would-be lovers harvesting their field after a tough winter in Ali Salim's beautiful Sweet Land, and every soul there seemed to be living out the great Pearl S. Buck quote that a dear friend sent me a while back:

"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death.

"Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating."

P.S. Encore, please. Weekly. Call it Rift's Thursday Night Hootenanny.

Luke Zimmerman

Eva Mohn

Chris Koza

Ellis

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 3, 2006 8:23 AM | Comments (0)

 

Rick Reilly To The Rescue

Rick Reilly to the rescue.

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 1, 2006 9:00 PM | Comments (2)

 

Helen 'n' Me

Watching Stephen Colbert's brilliant Bush rip (thanks, Molly) and homage to Helen Thomas, I was again inspired by the memory of Ms. Thomas presenting me with a journalism award/communion ten years ago. At the ceremony in a St. Paul hotel, she shook my hand, handed me the plaque and said, "Congratulations; good work." I asked her what her most memorable headline of her career was. "'Nixon Resigns,'" she said, instantly. Something tells me she's got more memorable ones coming soon.

Posted by Jim Walsh at May 1, 2006 9:04 AM | Comments (0)

 

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