Weekly 20

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 Rosie Thomas Summer Of Love

Filed under: This Week's Wordage , This Week's Wordage

"Jesus Christ."

That's what I said to my friend Dennis, who'd bought me a ticket to see Rosie Thomas at the Turf Club earlier tonight, one song into her set. From the first notes it was apparent that Thomas was something like a descendent of Emily Dickinson whose sparse lyrics and angelic voice said more about love and the world we live in than any late-night beer-soddened blogger could ever hope to.

Continue reading "The Rosie Thomas Summer Of Love"

Posted by Jim Walsh at April 6, 2006 1:53 AM | Comments (2)

 

HOMIES ALONE: THE FIRST (OF HOPEFULLY MANY MORE TO COME) LOCAL MUSIC-ONLY MIXES

Filed under: Weekly 20

1. "Remember New Orleans," Barry Thomas Goldberg. I could have picked half a dozen of the songs from cantankerous roots- rocker Goldberg's latest The Last Guitar, but this one wails with an urgency that suggests it was written in the same moment as Kanye West's infamous blurt. I also heart "Lily Of The Field" and "Post Tart Girl" and "Miss USA," and, hell, suffice to say that the whole thing is good medicine for anyone disappointed by Devils & Dust or anyone who has ever hoped Curtiss A would get his shit together enough to make a record as angry, funny, and rockin' as his rants. Now then, why isn't B.T. Goldberg famous?

2. "History," The New Vintage. Led by esoteric rock-blues-punk vets Grant Johnson and Mike Nicolai, these cats come off as timeless as their moniker suggests ��" especially on this duet, which riff-rocks as hard and as melodically as any of the historians they influence��"drop. Dig the new breed, baby.

3. "Cheaper By The Ton," Missing Numbers. I love it when songs unfurl themselves and play hard to get, rather than throwing themselves at you. This one, from their new one No Anecdote and sung by that great cry-at-your-fear vocalist Jimmy Peterson, is a creeper that sneaks up on you slowly but also immediately, the way those Valet records do. Or John Doe's latest. Great stuff; push repeat.

4. "Altitudes," Wisely. Former Minneapolitan Willy Wisely has always had a knack for a pop hook, but this beautiful one soars so high -- on the wings of a buttery vocal and the ever-seductive civil union between a gentle acoustic guitar and a squalling electric guitar - it should come with a hit of Dramamine. From his new one Parador, which drops March 14.

5. "Stand Up (Let's Get Murdered)," P.O.S. Add it to the Bob Marley ("Get Up, Stand Up") and Public Enemy ("Fight The Power") canon, though an ex-skate punk rapping to his information-overloaded generation somehow carries more weight: it takes more to cut through, and hell if it doesn't.

6. "Unnoticed," Colonial Vipers Attack. Minneapolis turns out so much quality fuzz-pop (I'm thinking all things Susstones and Landing Gear and the whole Otto's Chemical Lounge thing), and these guys are no slouches, either. This is a terrific love-lost-and-found song, on par with the Church or some of the more anthemic early '90s Brits, with a crunchy guitar that pops out of the speakers and into the psyche.

7. "A Song Is More Than Just A Song," Stook. Stook is one Joshua Stuckey, an Indiana native who moved to town two years ago and released his basement-tape debut The Soundtrack To My Minneapolis last month. His bio says he moved here to pursue music, but from the sounds of things ("Deliverance From Your Eyes," "I Keep On Falling In Love With You," "One Blue Teardrop") dude got his heart broken into a million little pieces along the way. This, however, is pure redemption song -- the last one on the record, a buoyant country-shuffle that manages the neat trick of simultaneously celebrating itself and the power of all songs: "There are some of us who know it all too well/And those who laugh at us can all go to hell/'Cos you and me babe, we've known it all along: a song is more than just a song." Here, hear.

8. "Coquette On Horse," Malachi Constant. Difficult to choose just one from their trippy new one Pride (I'm also partial to "the Traditions" and "Telekinesis") but you can't go wrong with this raver, which rises and falls apart with frothing punk-gypsy élan, Television guitar-art, and whispered vocals that feel like the shudder before the shout.

9. "Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Scorned," Prince. The night before the Super Bowl on Saturday Night Live, the king of Detroit Rock City out White-Striped the White Stripes with this blues-drenched rocker, turning in a motherfucker of a guitar solo.

10. "Angel," Storyhill. This is a couple years old, but I just heard it the other night when a friend played it for me. The singer -- John Hermanson, the Twin Cities' answer to (name your undiscovered unheralded genius songwriter here) -- comes on like the narrator of Wings Of Desire or Clarence in It's A Wonderful Life, laundry-listing the travails of your life, but in the end tells you that everything's all right since he's here now. The thing is, his magic works. His magic heals. Nothing short of momentarily miraculous.

11. "Listen Joe," Golden Smog. Creepy to tease, but I've been listening to an advance of the Smog's new one, Another Fine Day all week, and this Louris/Tweedy tune is one of my faves. Along with a half-dozen others.

12. "Barb and Brad," House Of Mercy Band. The HOMB's monthly Sunday-night hootenanny at the Turf always feels like a cozy throwback to barn dances and live radio shows. This old-timey fiddle-fueled skipper (lyrical revelation: "ain't the moon shining bright tonight?/we push, we shove, we compromise, we love") from their new one Blesses Curses (or Songs From The Blood Washed Band) is that sweet vibe in a nutshell, and could make a believer out of an atheist.

13. "Seven Hours," Big Ditch Road. One of the best definitions of the blues I've heard is that the blues singer sings first and foremost to himself, with no consideration of audience or product or even the future of the song. He's simply putting it down, because it's all he can do to make sense of the world, to pull himself out of his own darkness. This confessional comes with the alt-country stamp, but take it to the bank; it's pure blues. With no drama or self-pity, singer Darin Wald lays it out there casually, chronicling how his depression landed him in an institution, and how "I was really close" to ending it all. Anyone who's been there will recognize the everydayness ��" definitely not desperation ��" of such a moment, and anyone who's pulled themselves out will hear the giddy-up of the brushes on the snare and be happy that shared beauty can come from such pain.

14. "Do What You Love," Beau Kinstler. In which the singer kicks off his new CD Ocean with a "follow your bliss" mantra that can't be said often enough. Or does he? At first it comes off as a simplistic upper, but then the harmonica solo kicks in and the kid starts questioning his own love-making and life skills, which gives it a wisdom that goes beyond "Don't Worry, Be Happy" territory.

15. "Touch It," Jelloslave. The rave and ambient music rages may have cooled to some degree, but if this hypnotic nine-and-a-half��"minute track off Jelloslave's debut CD is any indication, the back rooms and strobe-light cathedrals are still throbbing. At the core of this sound sculpture is cellists Michelle Kinney and Jaqueline Ferrier-Ultan, whose baroque squalling is layered under Tom Hambleton's tribal beats, found sounds, sonic dialogues, and a sensory rush that catapults the listener into the church of nature. Where's my incense?

16. "Real Light," The Jayhawks and 17. "Renaissance Man," Dylan Hicks. How cool is this music town? Some beautiful bootlegger out there puts together an 18-song compilation of his/her favorite Twin Cities live moments, and drops it in the mail for wretches like me. Thank you, stranger.

18. "Manners," Maps Of Norway. Like the bastard litter of Gang Of Four-Metric, these no-wave casualties create all sorts of tension and release with a bass that sounds like a furnace firing, a keyboard that should come with an asbestos warning, a drum beat that pushes against the frontal lobe with impudence, and an off-kilter singer who sounds like she's mean and means it. Yow.

19. "Where The Sinners Are," Brett Larson. This story-song -- amongst many good ones, from Larson's sophomore CD Blood Of The Faithful -- gives yet more credence to the idea that questions are always more interesting than answers.

20. "Beautiful Song," Dutch Oven. Yes, she was/is. From the just-released, eponymous, limited-edition, long-overdue long-player.

Posted by Jim Walsh at February 20, 2006 1:45 PM | Comments (1)

 

Ride Daddy Ride, Twenty Songs for Lovers, and a Letter from Pat Donnelly in Sin City

Filed under: Weekly 20

This is easy. Never mind the chocolate and lobster and "flirting expert" tips. For all your V-Day needs, go directly to the Electric Fetus and buy this:

I was there the other day, and they still had a couple dozen in the rack, begging to be plucked. Lucky pluckers: Every song's a nasty highlight, from vaudevillians, jump-blues pioneers, and blues bastards, all singing about the pleasures of pleasure. I recognized exactly one cut going in -- "It Ain't The Meat, It's The Motion," by the Swallows, which, as a young motion-loving man I was introduced to by Southside Johnny -- but every one of these 18 tracks is a horny revelation.

My fave at the moment is Bo Carter's "Let Me Roll Your Lemon," an antecedent of Prince's entire early catalog. Or Floyd Dixon's "Baby Let's Go Down To The Woods," the live recording of which sounds like foreplay to an outdoor orgy. Or The Hokum Boys' "I Had To Give Up Gym" (due to, um, exhaustion). Or the set-closer, Jimmy Preston's "Hucklebuck Baby," which extols the joys of a brick house woman and encourages, "ride Jimmy ride." Will do.

What's more, the pulp-y artwork and free-your-ass liner notes from Neil Kales alone could make Katherine Kersten unclench her goody-two-shoes and fuck like my girl Diablo Cody. An excerpt:

"Poets and philosophers have often been a miserablist bunch, queuing up to deride what they saw as the shallow nature of pleasure. On the subject of sex, both Hippocrates and Plato regarded carnal activity as a "squandering of seed" incurring an unnecessary loss of energy. Adolescent wet dreams were regarded as the precursors of insanity, among the other lesser inconveniences of fornication. "Those who are bald... during intercourse the phlegm in their heads is agitated and burns the roots of their hair so that the hair falls out."

"St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas seemed obsessed with bodily purity and sexual disgust, while the poet Dryden translated Lucretius thus: "Just in the raging foam of full desire, when both press on, both murmur, both expire, they gripe, they squeeze, their humid tongues they dart, as each would force their way to other's heart. In vain: 'they only cruise about the coast, for bodies cannot pierce, nor be in bodies lost.'

"Shame about that. Freud discoursed cheerily 'On The Universal Tendency To Debasement In The Sphere Of Love,' while Rousseau believed, equally unappetizingly, 'I really know of nothing more revolting than a terrifying face on fire with the most brutal lust.' Schopenhauer, meanwhile, perhaps foresaw the troubles ahead of Mussolini, Bill Clinton, and doubtless many others: 'Lust is the ultimate goal of almost all human endeavour, exerts an adverse influence on the most important affairs, interrupts the most serious business at any hour and does not hesitate to disrupt the negotiations of statesmen.'

"Our final killjoy testimony comes from Kant: 'Sexual love makes of the loved person an object of appetite. As soon as the other person is possessed and the appetite sated, they are thrown away as one throws away a lemon that is sucked dry.' (A writer of less renown, the singer Bo Carter represented on this album, would surely take issue with this comparison with his relish expressed as 'Let me roll your lemon, oh baby until your good juices come.'

"We are left, realistically, with Thomas Hobbes in the Carteresque corner, rather than the Kant one: 'The appetite which men call lust is a sensual pleasure, but not only that: there is also in it a delight of the mind, for it consisteth of two appetites together, to please and to be pleased.'

"Well said, Thomas, and it is a confident assertion that Fats Noel would have been on your side, too. A little-known jump blues artist sadly without a complete album solely devoted to him, Noel's endearingly rowdy performance on this rocking 1952 opening track makes a mockery of his obscurity."

And so on. On your mark, get set, go to the Fetus. In the meantime, here's this week's mix, for lovers only:

1. "Haunted," Sinead O'Connor and Shane McGowan. Probably the best duet about longing ever recorded. 'Course, that distinction might belong to "Fairy Tale Of New York," which my new friend Dan sang the shit out of in my new friend Christa's pad Saturday night, as I swung dance Dan's wife. We wuz all hopped-up on tequila and love and the moment -- Unlike Jon "never enough about me" Langford, whose History Of Punk Rock Walker performance I bailed on to party with a bunch of strangers. Thank God for spontaneity, showing-not-telling, music, strangers, and Minneapolis Weird. Here's a picture of Chad and Dan, inspired by Cuervo Gold:

2. "Kiss, Kiss, Kiss," Yoko Ono. Her plea for peace at the Olympics was rad, and "Imagine" is a wonderful prayer, but for some reason I prefer the sound of her having multiple orgasms. Can someone please tell me what "Mota!" means in Japanese?

3. "Skin," The Wannadies. Very basic, very delicious, very chewable. A ditty for the cannibal in all of us: "I love your skin/and what's within." Chomp.

4. "Smile," Beau Kinstler. The amber-voiced young man sang this Jayhawks' song at the funeral of Tom and Bill Sullivan's mother last week, and turned an already-magnificent hug into a chin-up love song that embraced the entire church.

5. "I'll Be Your Mirror," The Velvet Underground. Nico as the ultimate muse. Speaking of which, this is the coolest tattoo I've seen in ages, as spotted on the bicep of the coffee shop dish behind the counter at the very groovy Wilde Roast Café over northeast. And the coolest neighborhoodie I've seen in ages is the one with a quote from this cat, as spotted on the chest of the bookaholic dude behind the counter at the very groovy Ron's Market over south. Viva Minneapolis.

6. "Tear You Apart," She Wants Revenge. More anticipation, more flesh-eating, more, more, more.

7. "I Bet You Look Good On The Dance Floor," Artic Monkeys. I ask thee! Who among us hasn't stood across from another human biped in an ordinary day-time moment and wondered what the other guy would like in bed or in the throes of a transcendent dance experience or... oh fuck it, here's Bri.

8. "Bring It On," Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. The sound of one man standing in the place where he doesn't live, but is willing to let whatever happens happen. He rhymes "bring it on!" with "c'mon, c'mon," double-dog daring the love gods to do their worst and bring him the best he's ever had. In other words, the complete antithesis to "you can't always get what you want" and "be careful what you wish for" restraint.

9. "Tell Her This," Del Amitri. The song-equivalent of a boy passing notes to his girl's best friend: "Tell her what was wrong/I sometimes think too much but say nothing at all/Tell her I am ready now to fall."

10. "Broom People," The Mountain Goats. In which the beleaguered shut-in's woes disappear into her arms.

11. "Stay With You," John Legend. As pretty a declaration of love, as, say, "Let's Stay Together."

12. "In The Yard, Behind The Church," Eels. Great make-out spot, dude.

13. "Last Of The V-8's," Slaid Cleaves. I've got a lot of punk and hippie in me, but a big part of me is kissed by the '50s greaser who lights out with his fellow rebel girl, the way they did in...

14. "1955," Jim Roll. You can have your Blackberry this and your IM that, but it says here there is no more romantic connection than two lovers with nothing better to do than sit on the porch and watch the sun go down. Hit-you-over-the-head time: IF YOU DOWNLOAD ONE SONG OFF OF THIS LIST MAKE SURE IT IS THIS ONE. AND IT WOULDN'T HURT TO LEAVE A COMMENT NOW AND THEN. JESUS CHRIST ALREADY.

15. "Love Songs On The Radio," Mojave 3. The slide guitar feels like the curve of a woman. And: I love the idea of thousands of lovers cuddled around the hearth of Mark Wheat Tuesday night for more love songs on the radio.

16. "Sunflower," Tracey Spuehler. So sweet a celebration of one woman's love, you can almost smell the blossoms.

17. "In My Secret Life," Leonard Cohen. It ain't over 'til the froggy man sings, and sometimes not even then.

18. "She's Not Right For You," Macy Gray. Gotta love a woman who's got the ovaries to say it out loud and stake her claim.

19. "Come and Find Me," Josh Ritter. That one about the Northern Lights is thanksgiving for the perfect love; this is the yearning that came before.

20. "(I'd Go The) Whole Wide World," Wreckless Eric. From Erica Jong: "Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it... It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don't risk anything, you risk even more."

This week's guest Walsh Filer is Pat Donnelly, the great musichead, KFAI deejay, and freelance sports/feature writer who lit out for Las Vegas last year with his family. Give us the long-distance love, Patrick:

Ever since I traded the friendly, blue-tinted faces of Minnesota for the bright lights and blistering heat of Las Vegas, I've had momentary bouts with homesickness. After all, Minnesota was the only home I'd ever known. It's where I'd done my best work, made my best friends, dug in my roots.

But life's all about change and rolling with the punches, so here I am. And when I get nostalgic for my home state, here's what I listen to. I'll avoid the clichés and more obvious choices (sorry Prince, Dylan, 'Mats, et al), and some of these picks are more personal. But remember, this isn't a Minneapolis Greatest Hits list.

1. "Write My Ticket," Tift Merritt. Anybody who's ever been a transplant and dreamed of returning home would relate to this song. There is no way she could see/How much this cold rain gets to me/How much I've traded/For a picture in my mind.

2. "Thrice All-American," Neko Case. I've never heard a more honest, endearing, warts-and-all tribute to one's home. In this case, Neko sings of her adopted hometown, I found passion for life in Tacoma. Can you pay a place a better compliment?

3. "Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," Gordon Lightfoot. I think this was the first 45 I ever bought, and I remember being entranced by the haunting lyrics, creepy-mournful guitar and the story I vaguely recalled hearing as a tot. To this day, it continues to inspire awe in the dark majesty of Lake Superior.

4. "Hockey Song," Tragically Hip. You said you didn't give a fuck about hockey/Well I never heard someone say that before. They actually do have a minor-league hockey team out here and it's got a decent following. But nine out of 10 Las Vegans couldn't tell Bobby Orr from Benjamin Orr.

5. "Hornets! Hornets!," The Hold Steady. The whole damn album -- both of them, actually -- could have made this list, but this one stands out for its Edina-inspired title, as well as the number of times I saw skaters and hoodrats hanging out at Nicollet and 66th.

6. "Sky Blue Waters," The Glenrustles. From the opening lines -- Up in the land of Ely/Nobody noticed the sounds/Of the silence that surrounds you/And the leaves all rusted 'round you -- the song drives you on a tom-tom trek through the Land of Lakes.

7. "East Side Boys," Martin Zellar. The dead-end kids of Austin might as well have been hanging out on the sidewalks outside of New Ulm Junior High, mysterious, almost mythical characters you didn't dare cross on your luckiest day. Wonder what they're doing now.

8. "Prom Night at Hater High," The Long Winters. Of course, any time I start looking ahead to my next class reunion, this song slaps me back to a version of reality that is different from what John Hughes movies portray. Now my only ties to that old scene/Are the same mean people in pre-owned jeans/I used to love them all/But they burned me up, Goodbye.

9. "Southern Minnesota," Mason Jennings. Never saw a meteor in the prairie sky, but I do have lasting memories of star-gazing in the inky dark of the countryside, and seeing the Big Dipper over our garage roof from our back door.

10. "Hoover Dam," Sugar. Now that I've actually stood on the edge of the Hoover Dam, I don't know what to think. It's big.

11. "Screen Door," Uncle Tupelo. Sometimes the simple pleasures in life are the best, like sitting around on the porch with your banjo, fiddle and a jug of moonshine. Or, as it was in New Ulm, sitting in the Johnson Park grandstands after a baseball game with a cold Schell's , telling the same stories you've told a thousand times before and laughing just as hard as the first time you heard them.

12. "Percolator," Cajmere. Ever been to a Gopher women's basketball game (best value for your sporting ticket money in town, by far)? This is the song they play right before the anthem, and as the Gophers line up, you can't help but be caught up in the goofy "dancing" of some of the players, just eager to get the butt-kicking under way.

13. "Tilt-A-Whirl," Slobberbone. Remember that time when you took your gal to the amusement park, and she got mangled by a ride because a drunk carnie fell asleep at the wheel? Yeah, me neither, and yet, this still sums up damn near every Brown County Fair of my youth.

14. "Raspberry Beret," The Derailers. You just haven't lived until you've seen four Texans in full western dress playing the twangiest, sweatiest, funkiest version of Mr. Purple's hit at First Ave. I've heard it said that the first time ain't the greatest/Well I'm here to tell you I would not change a stroke. Indeed.

15. "72 (This Highway's Mean)," Drive-By Truckers. Southern Rock Opera is DBT's attempt to show another side of the south -- "the duality of the Southern thing" as they put it -- and for the most part it comes through in spades. But this song transcends the South and takes any small-town kid down a dusty road he knows like the back of his hand. I don't know why they even bothered putting this highway on the map/Anybody who's ever been on it knows exactly where they're at.

16. "My Wasted Friends," Ike Reilly. With a tip of my Twins cap to our gracious host, I'm one of many music lovers turned onto the brash Chicago bard by Mr. Walsh. From the Turf Club to the Entry to the Main Room, Ike's star seems to keep rising. And he's just the kick in the crotch this city needs. Maybe we could sneak him onto the bill with Wayne Newton.

17. "Bleeding Fingers," Lucinda Williams. I thought about including "Minneapolis" from the same album, but this song is purportedly written about Paul Westerberg, and that's all you need to know.

18. "Miss Teen Wordpower," New Pornographers. Not only did they put on the two finest shows I ever saw at First Ave, but this song conjures memories of every bespectacled English major chick I met at the U. God how I miss those days.

19. "Niteclub," Old 97's. Dallas to NYC is roughly the same distance as Vegas to MSP, and the heartache and homesickness in this song is universal.

20. "Sculpture Garden," Semisonic. They kick off their Live at First Ave CD with this song, which takes your brain on a stroll through the heart of Minneapolis, the nexus of Uptown and Downtown, the arts community, the lakes, Parade Stadium, the old Guthrie, the Walker ��" pretty much everything that's great about Minneapolis, in a tidy, three-minute journey.

Posted by Jim Walsh at February 13, 2006 3:17 PM | Comments (0)

 

BROTHER BILL TUOMALA TO THE RESCUE!!

Filed under: Weekly 20

I know I promised an all-local Walsh Files for this week, but I gpt busy doing the Mama Cass thing ("Make your own kind of music, even when nobody else is around") and I will not bore you with the details. I promise to return next week with all the P.O.S. and Baby Grant Johnson and all the rest.

In the meantime, thank goddess for my boy Bill Tuomala,
writer, musichead, hockey nut, and creator of the most excellent 'zine Exiled On Main Street. Go get it brother Bill:

1. "Snowblind," Black Sabbath. There was a great, wet snowfall last Tuesday night and I was trapped driving around south Minneapolis without my Sabbath Vol. 4 album. Oh well, the song isn't about snow anyway.

2. "Surfer Joe and Moe the Sleaze," Neil Young & Crazy Horse. Surfer Joe is a folk hero who first showed up in 1963 on the same slice of vinyl as the Surfaris classic "Wipeout." By the end of the tune it was assumed he was being shipped off to 'Nam. Poor Joe. Ever since, he pops up now and then in songs, for instance in 1990 he showed up in Paul Westerberg's dreams on the 'Mats last album. Here, in 1981 on the great lost Neil album Reactor, he hangs out with a hustler named Moe. They chase women and booze. Alright Joe!

3. "They Called It Rock," Nick Lowe. A hit-and-run description of a one-hit wonder. Played with the kind of desperation that makes you wonder if Lowe feared that one-hitdom would also be his fate.

4. "Tombstone Blues," Bob Dylan. Required listening for noted bullshit artist Pete Townshend, whose music I love. In the latest MOJO, he declared that circa '65: "Dylan's rock 'n' roll was silly rock 'n' roll, he couldn't play rock 'n' roll, he's never been able to play rock 'n' roll." Care to give another listen Pete?

5. "Armenia City in the Sky," Petra Haden. Included on the all-Who-covers CD that came along with the MOJO mag mentioned above. From her all-vocals remake of The Who Sell Out album from last year. She even does the psychedelic guitar noises vocally. Hypnotic in the best way possible.

6. "The Great Airplane Strike," Paul Revere and the Raiders. Fuzz-drenched Dylan imitation complete with Bob-like vocals. Great fun ��" and the opening riff was ripped off by the Dead Kennedys, who weren't nearly as funny or as cool or as punk as the Raiders.

7. "Charlie Freak," Steely Dan. Hats off to eBay, where you can buy quality used vinyl LPs like Pretzel Logic for ninety-nine cents all with the click of a mouse button. Hmmm, tell me more about this iTunes music store …

8. "Hair of the Dog," Nazareth. The Winter Olympics hockey tourney starts next week and I am told that the USA men's hockey team are 10-1 odds to win the gold. Canada is favored at 6-5, the Czechs are at 3-1, the Swedes are at 4-1, and the Russians are at 11-2. Hell, we have the same odds as the Slovaks -- who for some reason are more favored than the Finns (12-1.) Huh? (Note: these odds are for entertainment purposes only.) Here's hoping the USA youth movement featuring the likes of my man Jason Blake -- formerly of the University of North Dakota and Moorhead High -- acts like the pesky SOBs they are capable of being and pull off some upsets.

9. "Take, Take, Take," The White Stripes. The greatest rock 'n' roll band in the world. And any song that leads you to google images of Rita Hayworth is a must-listen. Holy moly...

10. "Lies," The Knickerbockers. James Frey, while being scolded by Oprah, should have just grinned, chuckled, and said: "I'm laughing all the way to the bank, lady."

11. "Pour Me Another," Atmosphere. The other night in Uptown a panhandler asked me for money, saying he wanted to buy a pitcher of beer and wasn't going to lie "like the others and say that I need money for the bus." As we beer drinkers don't have a union (yet), I slapped him a George and wished him luck. I love Minneapolis.

12. "Just Another High," Roxy Music. Is it a conspiracy? That they never tell you that Roxy albums three, four, and five are soul albums and not art- or glam-rock?

13. Theme song from "Cheers." Love those reruns on channel 45. My day job is as an accountant, I love beer. All the (fortunately female, sigh) servers at my favorite watering hole know my name. If I were Catholic, Norm Peterson would be my patron saint. Hell, I'm pretty sure he is anyway.

14. "I Wonder If I Care As Much," The Everly Brothers. A dreamy, trippy, 1968 remake of one of their earliest songs from ten years prior. Gorgeous. They wrote it also -- obviously using a time machine because everybody knows rockers didn't wrote their own songs until the Beatles came along.

15. "Monkey Man," The Rolling Stones. Dedicated to Pat Robertson and believers in "intelligent" design everywhere. When the Book of Genesis puts a man on the moon, let me know.

16. "Breakout," Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels. Speaking of the Stones, whose hare-brained scheme was it to put some Brits on the Super Bowl halftime show when the game is being held in Detroit, one of this country's greatest music cities? I put my TV on mute and played Detroit music on my stereo loud and proud during halftime.

17. "Multitude of Casualties," The Hold Steady. An all-time fave lyric: "At least in dying you don't have to deal with new wave for a second time."

18. "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys," Waylon Jennings. Latest Netflix obsession: The Wire. Great scene in season two: Detective Jimmy McNulty stays up late working on mischief meant to screw other police while this song plays on the radio. That dude has become part of my vernacular -- i.e. "pull a McNulty."

19. "I Do," The J. Geils Band. First a hit for the Marvelows in 1965 (thanks allmusic.com), later covered by soul revivalists Geils in one of those hand-clapping, doo-wopping performances that produces a grin every time.

20. "Sleeping My Day Away," D:A:D. Some days there is nothing sweeter than waking up at the crack of 4:30 p.m. to catch "Pardon the Interruption" on ESPN.

Posted by Jim Walsh at February 6, 2006 9:22 AM | Comments (0)

 

Dead Batteries and Dirty Looks at the Feist show; Phil and Julia Bither do the daddy-daughter dance at the Walsh Files karaoke party.

Filed under: Weekly 20

Just got back from the pretty amazing Feist show at the Fine Line. We (Jay, Fran, and I) got busted by Leslie Feist for laughing about my dead-battery digital camera (you and Mr. Tequila had to be there) during her magnificently buoyant version of Ron Sexsmith's "Secret Heart," but we were absolutely gobsmacked by her performance. One song in particular slayed.

"Intuition," off of her new forthcoming one. About the ending of a love affair, how both lovers know when its time to pull the plug on something and move on, and "even now, I don't know what's true or false."

What a voice. What a night. Big love goes out to the gang at O'Donovan's Irish Pub, the only bar left open 'til 3:30 on a Sunday night in the city that always sleeps. Yo, my karaoke all-stars: The big Anthony Peeler lookalike dude who gave us a killer "Purple Rain." C.J., the singer from Denver who tore up "Sweet Child O' Mine." Brother-dude who brought every "Hungry Heart" together. The Hard Rock Cafe staff by the fireplace who chatted over my miraculous "Seven Year Ache."

Next week, an all-local Walsh Files. Until then:

1. "2000 Funerals," Graham Parker. It should be FCC rule that those sentimental fucking U.S. Army TV commercials be followed by footage of all the poor minority kids coming home in caskets. Sing it, you angry Brit. Cover it, you sleeping on the job Bruce. Put it at Number One with a bullet, or write something even more timely.

2. "Uppers Aren't Necessary," Rocky Votolato. The whole of this record is terrific; one for all those who hear an actor at the core of Bright Eyes' story-songs.

3. "Wishing All These Old Things Were New," Merle Haggard. Haven't heard his new one, but until then, there's cold comfort in the sound of an old man looking back at the roaring '80s and not trying to hide his yearning for all the cocaine, women, and wildness. "Craggy" doesn't begin to do it justice.

4. "No Other Love," Chuck Prophet. If for no other reason than the every-single-damn-time magic-carpet ride of "mama, I'm flying."

5. "Butterfly," Crazy Town. Like, like, like... driving around Lake Of The Isles with the windows down and the baby-got-bass bumping into everything it hits.

6. "Telescope Eyes," Eisley. Heartbreak lyric of the moment: "I'm just like you so leave me alone."

7. "Don't Look (Back) and It Won't Hurt," Richmond Fontaine. It's what you say to your kids when they're getting a shot or stitches; put the "back" in there and it becomes an adult reminder to not lament the past. Something like this: "That people are unknowing does not mean that they are unknowing like cows or goats. Even ignorant people look for a pathway to reality. But, searching for it, they often misunderstand what they encounter. They pursue names and categories instead of going beyond that name to that which is real." -Digha Nikaya

8. "Love & Communication," Cat Power. I like the title more than the song, but there's moments where her voice and the guitar and words ("Can you memorize the scenes? It'll be different next week") come together at the intersection of Deepest Desires Drive and Simply Sated Street.

9. "I'd Like to Walk Around In Your Mind," Vashti Bunyan. Fine, but you might get really really really lost.

10."I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine," Thea Gilmore. Massive 'n' inexplicable 'n' to say anything more would be

11."My Life Is In Storage," Frank Black. In which the man with the cold-storage heart packs up all his pictures of permanent fixtures and locks it away. For safe-keeping. "Can we have a little fun?," he sings, finally, knowingly, happily, the way only a thawed-out heart can.

12. "Come Back to Camden," Morrissey. You can't go home again, just like you can't go back to a you you're not anymore.

13. "Why Can't I? (iTunes Originals Version)," Liz Phair. Anyone who thinks this song was a studio creation should hear the ache in her voice on this acoustic shot.

14. "On & On," Film School. Great song.

15. "It's Gonna Take an Airplane," Destroyer. Great song.

16. "Six O'Clock News," Kathleen Edwards. Great song.

17. "Fake Tales of San Francisco," Arctic Monkeys. Really, now; you can't have enough cathartic kiss-offs to fake rock stars and trendy corporate fucks.

18. "Socialist," Ernesto. Decadence and political incorrectness never sounded so funky.

19. "Beautiful Wreck of the World," Willie Nile. Until his new one arrives later this month, this pipes-fueled upper is the shit.

20. "On Your Porch (Acoustic)," The Format. Sitting next to the mailbox. Watching the cars go by. Legs touching. Dandelions on the hill across the street. Talking, just talking, and taking in what they both realize is a fleeting moment. Devastating.

This week's guest Walshfilers are none other than massive musicheads Julia and Phil Bither.

Ladies first. Take it away, Jules

1. "Brighter Than Sunshine," Aqualung. I first heard this in the movie A Lot Like Love. Pretty pathetic, I know, but I couldn't help falling in love with this song. It's especially helpful for those days where you just feel like you can't move unless you get a feel-good melody in your soul.

2. "Rebellion (Lies)," The Arcade Fire. I was first attracted to "Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)" like every sane human being should be, but when I decided to expand my horizons I found this great piece of work. Slightly Franz Ferdinand, but extremely original.

3. "It'5," Architecture in Helsinki. Eight people in one band? Somehow AIH made this work beautifully. This song just makes me so happy, plus it's great fun to wake up to.

4. "If She Wants Me," Belle & Sebastian. My dad tried to turn me onto these guys for a while but I refused. It wasn't until I stumbled upon this song on iTunes that I started to appreciate the lyrics:

I wrote a letter on a nothing day
I asked someone "Could you send my letter away?"
"You are too young to put all of your hopes in just one envelope"
I said goodbye to someone that I love
It's not just me, I tell you it's the both of us
And it was hard
Like coming off the pill that you take to stay happy
Someone above has seen me do alright
Someone above is looking with a tender eye
Upon your face, you may think you're alone but you may think again

If I could do just one near perfect thing I'd be happy
They'd write it on my grave, or when they scattered
my ashes
On second thought I'd rather hang around and get down with my best friend
If she wants me

5. "We're All In This Together," Ben Lee. It's Monday. And I'm pushing through the halls trying to find a friendly face.... or my next class. This song shows up on my Ipod and I feel my heart dancing. I begin to notice things. The eyes that linger, the hands that hold, the smiles that echo this illumination. EVERY thing is connected and that's the ONLY thing that matters.

6. "Hunter," Bjork. As much as she scares me, this song happens to be fascinating. Over this pulse-y beat her voice is eerie but somehow extremely powerful.

7."Bowl of Oranges," Bright Eyes...unbeatable. Although this song came out years ago, the tune hasn't aged one bit. The lyrics are incredibly bittersweet, just like the song itself. The lyrics are so skillfully written in fact, that you can't help that the last lines are still echoing in your mind: "But if the world could remain within a frame like a painting on a wall/Then I think we would see the beauty/Then we would stand staring in awe."

8. "In this Life," Chantal Kreviazuk. Although this song is hopeful, something about her raspy voice and truthful words strikes a chord in me. Just the first verse alone can make me tear up.

9. "Title and Registration," Death Cab for Cutie. Ah, Death Cab. What continues to amaze and amuse me is how they are able to turn logical lyrics into a raw, lonely love song.

The glove compartment
isn't accurately named
and everybody knows it.
So I'm proposing
a swift orderly change
Cause behind its door
there's nothing to keep my fingers warm
and all I find are souvenirs from better times
before the gleam of your tail lights
fading east to find yourself a better life

10. "Manchild," Eels. The eels, actually introduced to me by Jim, have totally captivated me from the beginning. I guess all I can say is this song is so beautiful. But I thought my best friend Sarah's reaction was pretty much perfect. After hearing it for the first time, she said, "See, if some guy came to sing outside my window, I'd want him to sing that song. I don't care if it's depressing, it's just so.....pretty."

11. "Here Comes The Summer," The Fiery Furnaces. My dad and I first heard these guys on the Current with the song Candymaker's Knife In My Handbag. Although repetitive, this song is catchy and original.

12. "All We Have Is Now," The Flaming Lips. This song always gives me an eerie epiphany about how SHORT life really is and how little time we have to be who we are.

13. "Le Garage," The Futureheads. The first 30 seconds of this song-it could be early Beach Boys. As the drums and singing kick in, you think you are listening to a modern Clash song. This combo happens to totally pump me up.

14. "Jezebel," Iron & Wine. This song is nothing but relaxing. Sam Bean's voice totally calms me especially on finals week!

15. "Do You Remember?," Jack Johnson. Jack Johnson is definitely one of my most favorite all-around artists. I love the soft voice he uses even while reporting tragedy:

I remember watching
That old tree burn down
I took a picture that
I don't like to look at

16. "The Gravy," Japanther. This song is from Don't Trust Anyone Over 30, one of my favorite Walker performances of all time. I am also addicted to this two-man band who can scream with the best of 'em.

17. "Anyone Else but You," The Moldy Peaches. I love these lyrics. Seriously. I spent an entire hour in Spanish writing all the words. I also LOVE Kimya Dawson's less-than-perfect voice.

18. "Holland, 1945," Neutral Milk Hotel. I know absolutely nothing about this band but this song is just perfect for blasting on a bad bad day.

19. "Potions for Foxes," Rilo Kiley. It was hard to pick which Rilo Kiley song was my favorite. But how can you resist a song with a chorus of " Baby I'm bad news"??

20. "Infiltration," Sam Phillips. Sam Phillips is one of the only artists that I love everything about and every song by. I have fallen in love with these disjointed almost- crying-for-help but still-upbeat lyrics.

21. "Your Ex-Lover Is Dead," Stars. Pretty much my current favorite song. Depending on the day it can make me completely ecstatic or it can make me cry. The voices are amazing. The lyrics are painfully close to home and the music is melancholy but original.

22. "Walking With A Ghost," Tegan & Sara. Besides Kimya Dawson, these girls have some of the most distinctive voices in my music collection. Maybe that's why love this song... or it could be the fact that it's constantly stuck in my head. Hmm.

23. "Just Traveling Through," The Thrills. I'm proud to admit , I'm one of those who didn't discover these guys from the O.C. (excuse my constant gagging). And although I have no idea what half of the Thrills songs are about, I heart them.

Go, brother Phil, go:

1."Cool Water," Laura Veirs. The understated slacker-voiced Seattlean combines soulful shuffle, organ, chimes, a touch of minimalism in her songs about natural phenomenon and odd creatures. The chorus of this one has hung in my head all week, "cool water" on hot day... a great metaphor for all kinds of unfulfilled desires all week.

2. "Enjoy Your Worries," The Books. What a great balancing act between experimental and accessible. They combine banjos and sampled voices, fiddles and electronics and somehow make it seem like the most natural thing in the world.

3. "Memory Song," Meredith Monk. Last week, I was in New York meeting with Meredith Monk (on a new project for the Walker) and we were reminiscing about the first project we worked on together -- The Games, a huge-scaled collaboration with Ping Chong in 1984(!) I was a know-nothing 25-year-old wanna-be curator (working at BAM as a line-producer) and she was under huge pressure to produce a major avant-blockbuster. We leaned on each other. I've been a huge fan, and we've been friends, ever since. When I got back home, I dug into my home back catalogue to listen to her beautiful "Memory Song," a stirring highlight of The Games.

4. "11 More Days," Carl Hancock Rux. Art renaissance man (playwright, actor, spoken word artist, musician) goes deep with poetry, electronic ambiance, urban despair and funk. Popped up the other day on the Ipod shuffle and grabbed me even more than the first time.

5. "You Ain't Going Nowhere," Bob Dylan. This week, a favorite moment was driving and singing this silly yet timeless song loud, out loud, with my 15-year old Julia. Feeling like I could use a few more flights "into the easy chair" these days. When is someone going to finally put out that definitive Basement Tapes box set?

6. "Changes," Seu Jorge. So unlikely but so perfect, this favella-raised, charismatic Rio singer uses his lilting baritone, acoustic guitar and gorgeous Portuguese language to somehow even top the Bowie original. I'd heard him live, but it is thanks to my nephew Mike for passing the Bowie disc along (from Wes Anderson film).

7. "Sinbad El Calipsico," Axel Kreiger. My favorite Argentine pop musician who no one in the States seems to know. Here he seems to be channeling Morricone, my favorite film-composer. Discovered him from some Buenos Aires-based dance-performance artists we brought here a few years back for Out There fest. Their friend Kreiger made for them a fantastic commissioned soundtrack.

8. "You Ought to Be With Me," Al Green. I saw him in Holland at a jazz fest last summer. His gorgeous falsetto still makes my spine tingle and brings me such joy, and Willie Mitchell's production from this era seems sent down by heavenly messenger.

9. "Everybody's Got to Learn Sometime," Beck. Such longing and sadness. Those strings swell and it fills my heart like Brian Wilson does at his best. It was an inspired choice for the Eternal Sunshine soundtrack (where I first heard it).

10. "The Plans that We Made," Jon Langford and Sally Tims. Mekons main man keeps reinventing himself, and here he and long-time songmate Sally squeeze the heartache and tragedy out of this country tune (by Lonesome Bob Chaney) that traverses adultery, murder and retribution (with great punk sense of irony, putting it on a disc to raise money to fight the death penalty).It is one of many highlights of Langford's first (and brilliant) performance piece The Executioner's Last Songs which arrives at the Walker in a week or so.

11. "Not Great Men," Gang of Four. I pulled my vinyl Entertainment! out of my attic record storage area last week to show Jules and her friend how ahead of their time Gof4 was...combining guitars that cut like a razors, staccato funk and quick-stop rhythm changes that sit like paternity papers proving Franz F. (and dozens of others) are their direct offspring. Maybe spreading around some good old Marxist punk can help re-balance the insane direction of our body politic, circa 2006.

12. "Senegal Fast Food," Amadou & Mirium. The brilliant and infectious Mano Chao's production meets the hard working, blind Senegalese couple's fantastic afro-rock head on ...and it's a beautiful marriage.

13. "Heard it Through the Grapevine," Bill Frisell. With patience and indirection, he weaves around the melody then finally deconstructs and embraces it all at the same time.

14. "The Way We Get By," Spoon. I've liked Spoon, but it was my pal Jules and who first played me this song last fall and it ended on my fave list of '05. Still love listening to it.

15. "Close Behind," Calexico. Caught them four nights ago at Joe's Pub in NYC. They were always something of a mystery to me. I assumed they were these older rough-edged, alley-lurking eclectic musicians who worshiped at the feet of Garth Hudson and Levon Helm. Then out come on to the stage these earnest, fresh-faced Arizona young-ish guys. Didn't make their music any less appealing, especially when those accordions and mariachi-horns kicked in. Here they too seem to be on a Morricone binge.

16. "Things Grandchildren Should Know," The Eels. It's like a Truffaut movie - Jim turns Jules who turns her dad onto the eels. "I'm turning out just like my father, though I swore I never would..." strikes a bit too close to home (occasionally anyway). Sometimes I too walk around my neighborhood averting eyes.

17. "Macho Woman," Ornette Coleman. Ornette was the (long overdue) awardee at a 4000-seat banquet of mostly mainstream "arts presenters" I attended in NYC last week. Many of those present didn't seem to know who he was. I took subversive joy in hearing this gentle genius mystify these folks over his 25-minute harmolodic recitation of his life, with lots of oblique pearls of wisdom. My personal living artist hero. The memories of our three-day festival to him at the Walker last year remains one of my moments of all time art ecstasy.

Posted by Jim Walsh at January 30, 2006 1:11 PM | Comments (1)

 

"I REALLY HOPE YER THERE. I HOPE TO GOD YER THERE." - TIM FITE

Filed under: Weekly 20

I ain't into it tonight. Writing about music. Explaining it all. Sunday night notes. Talk to me. Pity the fool.

This week's (1/23) mix:

1. "Spiritual High, Pt. 3," Amanda Vincent, J.F.T. Hood & Moodswings. Mark Morford may be right. There may be a sea change afoot. You can feel it: The town once ruled by garage logic is being pushed by Mischke's mind-time. More people watched Brokeback Mountain than the Alito hearings. Even more people saw Glory Road, about people of different backgrounds getting together and making a statement, and still more saw The New World, about people of different backgrounds falling in love. Youth is about to be served in Torino, because the young and young at heart are fed up with the old. Martin Luther King Jr.'s message of peace and love and equality for all, as heard on this trippy track, was everywhere last week. Hope.

2. "What's Under That Dress?"; "Up Tight Good Woman"; "That's a Man's Way"; "Groove Me" etc., Wilson Pickett. Throw a dart, can't go wrong. Sleep well, soul man.

3. "Faking the Books," Lali Puna. Some of my boy friends like this. I like the "everybody knows this isn't heaven" bit in the same way I like "Too Close To Heaven," but I also find it sort of cold, in the same way I hear Imogen Heap as mostly (only) clever. I'll check back when I'm in a better mood.

4. "What's Mine Is Yours," Sleater-Kinney. How am I supposed to rest my head on your heart when those guitars are telling me to get down on my knees and worship your thighs?

5. "World So Full," Jon Dee Graham. I love this fucking guy. I met him in the Entry basement one night, and you could just tell he'd been through the shit, but hasn't been sucked under. We talked about his song "Waiting For A Sign," and commiserated on how sometimes that's all you're left with - some sign from above that tells you you're on the right path. This is a similar prayer that starts "I get so lost, I get so down, inside out and turned around, that I turn away from the world so full," and concludes, "I know it's hard, I know it's sweet, complicated and incomplete, but I'm still in love with the world so full." Like I said, I love this guy.

6. "Hockey," Jane Siberry. Been taking the kids to the parks for skating lately. Cracked or bruised my ribs again tonight, got half a Vicodin in me. Here's a beautiful ode to the romance of pick-up puck, from a canuck who recalls Sunday afternoons on the frozen river, and using "your rubber boots for goal posts." Her song "Calling All Angels" crumples me into a girly paper man. Here's a photo of the ice rink, before the fall:

7. "Passenger Seat," Death Cab For Cutie. With my feet on the dash, the world doesn't matter.

8. "I Hope Yer There," Tim Fite. Been thinking about how artists cultivate their audience and seek pity. Come feel me tremble, etc. I suppose it's natural, because when you expose yourself - one songwriter friend of mine likened it once to being an over-the-hill stripper - especially in this small town, you risk a lot. Better to just go underground, go away, smart go crazy. Or you can suck it up quit whining and keep trying to connect.

9. "The Great Sound of Letting Go," Moodswings. Deep and tribal and universal and going, going, gone. Oneness, baby.

10. "O Happy Day," Edwin Hawkins Singers. Kicks my sore hockey-fool ass into the sunrise.

11. "Drowning," Langhorne Slim. This man has a bad crush on the lifeguard who takes care of his soul as it floats away on the sea. He is getting his heart broken. His insides are defiled. He is singing, "Truth is a lie and I'm trying lesser every day" and he is wondering if that is a good thing.

12. "Ultimatum," Long Winters. If this be shoe-gazing music, I will stare.

13. "I'll Not Contain You," The Microphones. If you really love someone, you let them go. Free. To the bar. Like a little butterfly. Or a cotton ball on the wind. Or a Q-Tip floating in a puddle. Or a snowflake over an open fire. Or nudists in the IDS. Or gandy dancers in a big conga line looking for the winter carnival medallion.

14. "It's Not Your Day To Shine," Smoosh. Buddhist theory, as sung by 'tweener emo-rockers.

15. "Factory Girls," Flogging Molly. With Lucinda Williams, the lot of whom sing with great empathy for people who actually work for a living.

16. "Colors and the Kids," Cat Power. When we were teenagers, we wanted to be the sky. Must be the colors and the kids that keep me alive, 'cos the music is boring me to death.

17. "Cherry Chapstick," Yo La Tengo. Smack.

18. "Drawing Curtains," Buck 65. A duet. Finally. I feel all the furies of love violently. Flowers in the rain, wild fires in the orchard. Singing through the pain, I beg to feel tortured. Sugar and chaos, everyone else is boring. Let's make dirty babies until the morning. Love sick, how much deeper still can this get? Show me where it hurts and let me kiss it. Je joue en l'envers de l'amour et toit. Je suis le mystere de l'amour pour tois. After the holy mess we make you wash my hair. While the smoke makes pretty designs in the air.

19. Via con Me," Paolo Conte. Chips, chips. Now appearing at a multiplex near you. In a really cool Coke commercial.

20. "The Good Life," Weezer. Always reminds me of this. Enjoy:

When You Wish Upon a Star
By Peter Van Dusartz III

When you wish upon a star... you're most likely setting yourself up for a kick in the gut from disappointment. This is the relentless painful lesson of truth for fatal optimists like me. I have long been accused of being overly optimistic, the condition I used to refer to as "the eternal optimist". But as I get older I have changed my title to "fatal optimist" because as life goes on it seems to me, if I don't find a cure this will eventually kill me.

It is still my initial impulse as a hopeless romantic to believe in dreams come true. But I've been doing my best to resist the temptation, to get steely cold and brush-off those magical "what if"s. My wife has been my teacher and my mentor, guiding me to change my foolish ways. She preaches and embraces the inherent value of cynicism with the mantra "expect the worst and hope for nothing and you may not only avoid heartache, but actually be surprised by a nugget of happy karma once in a while"

I swear, I'm doing my best. That's why when I heard about Weezer going on tour I immediately began a list of nay-says: I just saw them two years ago, I can't afford those tickets, I have to work that night anyway, we just got tickets to Bruce Springsteen's acoustic show for one week later, you can't see every show, let it go.

But I knew the forces of the universe were against me when I learned Weezer was doing a special tour of small venues only, a dozen shows in all of North America before jetting off to tour Europe and maybe then Japan, and one of the few shows was slated at First Avenue in Minneapolis.

Damn.

A dream show. Weezer at First Ave, 1500 people, their first album in four years.
The album and the tour are entitled "Make Believe".

It's hard to explain exactly why I like Weezer so much, but it has something to do with their endless mocking of everything sacred. The hallowed practice of mocking is severely underrated. They are the patron saints of nerds, intellectual geeks turned rock gods, champions of the underdog and skinny social-phobes everywhere. Everything they do seems to be tongue in cheek, self effacing, and hilarious while at the same time using raw, real, emotional lyrics and loud, brash, punk-pop songs that just beg to be cranked.

No. Get over it. Let it go. You'd never get tickets anyway. It took everything I had to refuse to even try. I immediately regretted that. Sure enough, the tickets sold out in less than two minutes. Their face value was $28. Within days they were selling on eBay for $125 apiece, and eventually close to $200. Nerds everywhere were in a frenzy. I was reduced to pathetic attempts to win tickets from the radio station like the rest of them. Let it go.

But like I said, my optimism is terminal. I saw a glimmer of a chance and began to concoct a plan. I have this friend who is "hep". Hep as in "hepcats". Chic. "With it". Keen. Notorious, renowned, cosmic. Cool. I'll call him "Morpheus". He and his hepcat wife own an art gallery and we were invited to a show. Morpheus told me that a certain "Star" was going to be "arranging the music" for the evening. This guy is a big fish in the Minneapolis pond of rock-and-roll, a true insider who knows "all the right people". I'll call him "Willy Wonka".

My sickness is bad. I secretly began to conjure a ploy, knowing if anyone could get me into that show, it was Willy Wonka.

I cranked Weezer in the minivan all the way into the city. We had decided to enlighten the kids and turned this into a night of forced family fun. They love Weezer too, they've been singing those songs for their whole life. I confessed my scam to my wife:

"I'm making it my goal tonight to become best friends with Willy Wonka, so he'll take me to see Weezer". I tried to pass off as if I was mostly joking. She raised an eyebrow and looked at me with a sad smile, as if to say:"Why do I even try?"

I bided my time, Morpheus was gracious and charming as always, and then I made my move, going right for Willy Wonka's heart:

"I made my goal tonight to become your best friend so that you would take me to see Weezer at First Avenue". Willy Wonka smiled, his wife rolled her eyes.

"Oh, when is the show? I really want to see them". I tried to banter politely and told him we had actually met once before at the R.E.M. show at Midway Stadium where a huge thunderstorm burst into torrents just as they were singing "It's the end of the world as we know it". Willy Wonka said:

"Oh yeah, I remember that show, that was awesome". I did my best to small talk, and then he stepped out of my reach with the phrase:

"I'll look around and talk to some people and if I come up with anything I'll look you up".

Let it go. As I drove the minivan out of the city I made a shot at reclaiming my dignity.

"That was one of those social niceties, things people say at cocktail parties to be polite, wasn't it". She smiled at me warmly and said

"Yes honey, that's what it was".

I felt better. I emailed Morpheus thanking him and his wife for the party and mentioned how gracious Willy Wonka was to humor me and not cringe. As the weeks went by I suffered silently about missing the show, entered contests online, speed dialing to the radio stations, imagining Weezer on that stage, but for the most part I was proud of myself. I had mostly grieved it, mostly moved on, it hardly bummed me anymore. I was letting it go.

Until exactly one-hour before the show. My wife called me at work.

"You won't believe this, Willy Wonka just called me and said you're on the guest list at the door".

"SHUT UP."

"I'm completely serious. He said he wasn't sure if it was a "plus one" or not, but you're on the list."

I was standing at my desk, 50 miles away, in another state. I had a scheduled meeting with clients in one hour, exactly the time the doors were to open. My mind raced. There was slim chance I could cancel, and even if I did, I'd have to forfiet the Bruce show next week. I needed to find out if it was a "plus one" or not. I had about 8 phone calls to make, and I immediately knew, I would be at that show.

"SEE?!"

"SEEE??!!"

"I knew it!!!"

What she could see was that I was going to be impossibly hopeless forever.

I quickly realized that "plus one" was big fish hepcat lingo for "and a guest". I called the First Avenue business office and actually got through. I tried to sound nonchalant:

"I'm on the guest list for tonight's show but I'm not sure if it is a "plus one" or not".

"Which list are you on?"

"I'm not sure, Willy Wonka got me on the list".

"Just a minute, OK, yeah it's a plus one".

It's the classic American father and son bonding dream. Dads working late again, but then he gets a phone call, free tickets for tonight, a chance to be a hero, just dad and the kid. Work will have to wait.

"I'll pick you up in 15 minutes, we're on the guest list to see Weezer at First Avenue."

"SHUT UP."

"I'm not kidding, Willy Wonka just called".

"So shines a good deed in a weary world." W.W.

OK, maybe the classic American dream includes a big league ballgame, but this is our big league. While some dads bring their kids to ball practice, I drive my kid to bass lessons at Willie's Guitar. While some dads might try to get an all-star autograph, I recognize John Munson at the x-treme sports skateboarding Expo, introduce my son to him as a budding bass player, and get his autograph on a Fobia bumper sticker which my son puts on the back of his bass. While some dad's idyllic evening is a game of catch in the backyard, we try to translate my guitar chords tab to his bass tab and jam to Weezers song "Say it and so". My son is 15. His bands are Nirvana, Green Day, Weezer, AC-DC, Pink Floyd, Boston, Led Zepplin and Deep Purple. God dammnit I love that kid.

Believe me, this was our big league ballgame. Bringing my son made it a dream come true.

We rocked out to as many tracks as we could on the way, parked in a ramp, and jogged through downtown to First Avenue. He was in awe. I pointed out the tour busses and told him stories of all the bands I had seen there. As we waited in line to get in, we overheard the bouncer tell the four teens in front of us that the tickets they had paid a kings ransom for on eBay were no good. The Oompa Loompa bouncers ushered out the spoiled rich kids (ala Veruca Salt). This magical night was not meant for them.

The teller asked "Which list are you on?"

"Not sure, but Willy Wonka got us on the list."

"Oh, then you're probably on Weezers guest list, yeah, here you are."

My son is also named Peter, and he said "Oh man, my name was sooooo on that list."

I gave him the tour telling him more stories of Semisonic and Soul Asylum and the mayor of Minneapolis stage dive when theFlops played the "Rock the Vote" show. We looked at T-shirts and he pointed out his favorite and then strategized our way around the staircase onto the main floor. He was floating, sparkling an endless grin, giddy. Me too.

The floor was packed as we watched the warm-up. Their music was good, but the bass was played on a sampler by a guy staring at a monitor who looked more self conscious than any kid at my son's Junior High school, and the eager Weezer true believers mostly only tolerated them. Soon the Oompa Loompa stage managers ushered out the techno dweebs (ala Mike Teevee). This magical night was not meant for them.

We were about 20 feet back, stage-left, in front of the bass player as the lights went up, when we were surged off our feet to about 12. It was chest-to-back, swaying out of control, and I did my best to create a pocket in front of me for him to breathe. My son inherited my "late bloomer genes" and is Rivers Coumo style in stature and I actually got scared. I hollered into his ear, "How you doin?" He looked up with the grandest of smiles and hollered back: "I'm doin great!"

Of course he was. It was perfect.

As it turns out, most of the worst of the rib crushing pressure was caused by a group of drunken frat boys determined to force their way through the true Weezer purists to the stage edge. I later found this post from one of the internet geeks on the Weezer website blog scoffing at the brutish band-wagoneers:

"This was my 4th time seeing the band, and they were great. but It also disgusts me how many meat heated jocks show up to the show and pummel their way up front when the green album jams are played. it was funny noticing them just bobbing their head to "Good Life" or "Getchoo", and not knowing the words."

There were no Oompa Loompas to usher them out, but this magical night was not meant for them either.

No, this magical night, at this magical place, was destined for the old man with the big mustache and the young boy with the floppy long hair.

Weezer rocked loud and the crowd rocked a lot louder with a chorus heard above the amps, shouting every word to all of the songs like a just-past-puberty boy's choir. After a few songs the crush loosened enough for the whole floor to pogo, my son included as he held the universal sign of Weezer high above his head with both hands.

Rivers Coumo outdid his enigmatic weirdo self as he carefully and meekly took center stage, shoulders hunched, with a quirky smirk, seeming bemused by the fervor the entire night. I swear he looks like an emaciated Ernie Douglas, rippling with understatement as he blares out his guitar solos with one finger, and smiles while singing his tragic ballads and wry parodies of superstars, dopeheads, and the privileged, mocking them all and his fans, as well as himself, as he feigns praise and sings anthems of pseudo homage. Man that kooky little weirdo cracks me up.

Everything about Weezer cracks me up. From their Spinal Tap-ish =w= logo in old-fashioned marquee lights, a glaring parody of Van Halen's legendary =v= , to the last show I saw when the drummers platform raised high over the crowd in a smoking/flashing final song solo... leaving the drummer stranded until the roadies rescued him with a two story step-ladder, as he slowly crawled down in full view, only to return five minutes later to slowly climb the same ladder for the encore. I had never seen anything so fucking hilarious, especially since the joke seems to have gone unnoticed right over most of the fanatic's heads.

Pay attention Alanis, this anorexic Ernie Douglas Rock God is the guru of irony.

For example, I know what you Republican'ts are whining out there, "How can this guy proffer a field trip to a bar with his son, to hear a punk band sing songs entitled "Hash Pipe" and "We're All On Drugs" as his consummate example of Americana father/son character building?"

Ay, there's the rub. For in that song of drugs lies the sardonic trope, Rivers ruse, that at first appears to glorify but actually ridicules: "When you're out with your friends/In your new Mercedes Benz and you're/On drugs/And you show up late for school cause/You think your really cool when you're/On drugs/And you put on your headphones/And you step into the zone when you're/On drugs/But the world don't care/If you're not there cause you're/On drugs".

In fact, the song actually becomes an anti-drug PSA anthem: "And you twitch in your seat cause/You wanna hit the street when you're/On drugs/And you cause such a fuss cause/There's no one you can trust when you're/On drugs/And the best of your days/Will all vanish into haze when you're/On drugs/And you wish you could quit cause/You're really sick of it but you're/On drugs"

But the beautiful irony finally fully blossoms when he manipulates the stoners themselves into complicity, to proclaim his message for him, by hooking them into chanting the catchy chorus over and over, "We're All On Drugs, We're All On Drugs, We're All On Drugs, We're All On Drugs..."

Brilliant. Maniacal. Too friggin funny. What a blast. Just listen to the song for yourselves, that line is an addicting earworm. C'mon, all the cool kids are doing it.

And the rocking mocking didn't stop there as he went on to lampoon:

the beautiful people in "Beverly Hills" - "Look at all those movie stars/They're all so beautiful and clean/When the housemaids scrub the floors/They get the spaces in between... I wanna live a life/like that/I wanna be just like a king/Take my picture by the pool/Cause I'm the next big thing!",

himself in "The Good Life" - "When I look in the mirror/I can't believe what I see/Tell me, who's that funky dude starin' back at me?/Broken, beaten-down can't even get around/Without an old-man cane I fall and hit the ground/Shivering in the cold, I'm bitter and alone",

and fatal optimists like me in "Island In The Sun" - "On an island in the sun/We'll be playing and having fun/And it makes me feel so fine/I can't control my brain... We'll run away together/We'll spend some time forever/We'll never feel bad anymore".

But I'm not suggesting Rivers is uncaring. At one pause between songs he leaned forward surveying the churning mayhem and muttered, "Gee, it looks kinda scary out there", which of course elicited a jubilant cheer, causing him to chuckle, shrug his little shoulders and reply, "Well I guess you're having fun anyway."

Again with the understatement. It was all fun, and the sound was great, the crowd never stopped singing and bouncing, even to the songs on the album yet to be released. The energy was gleeful and positive, even the air was clean and fresh, and it was all a little surreal. Like a dream.

When the screen finally came down, we pressed our way to the merch table, and I bought the kid that favorite shirt, tossing it to him like Mean Joe Green tossed his jersey in that old Coca-Cola commercial.

We strolled past the autograph seekers waiting by the busses as they tried to avoid the wino beggars. We read the bandnames "Stars" on the wall. I pointed out Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, he pointed out Green Day. We stopped in Schinders to buy a couple bottles of Coca-Cola and scan the comic book covers. We talked and laughed about the spectacle of it all and listened to more of the songs. When he got out of the car he gave me a hug much too long for his aloof teen age and said: "Thanks dad".

"For some moments in life there are no words." W.W.

The next morning reality snapped back as I watched a live news report, broadcast from outside the front of my son's Junior High school covering the story about two of his classmates. They were being held in police custody for creating and distributing a "Hit List" of names of 12 more of my son's classmates. We talked about it on the way, like we talk about everything every morning on the way to school.

He tells me which kids are the "popular" kids that were on the list. He tells me which kids are the stoners, which kids are the wanna-be stoners, which kids bring drugs to school, and which kids have offered them to him. I know I can't keep it away from him. But I can show him how to get high, how to get away from it all, how to find magic without the drugs and alcohol.

And I know he won't always tell him everything. But I believe in him.

And I obviously can't protect him from the dangers. But I'm optimistic.

So who is this Morpheus? Who is this Ernie Douglas? Who is this Willie Wonka?

"We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams." W.W.

As I watched him walk into his school, the magic of the night before seemed more dreamy than ever, and I was overwhelmed with gratitude. It occurred to me, that when you wish upon a star, if it's the right star, your dreams really will come true.

Willy Wonka: "Don't forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he'd ever wished for."

Charlie Bucket: "What happened?"

Willy Wonka: "He lived happily ever after."

Thank you Willy Wonka.

Weezer
First Avenue
Minneapolis Minnesota
May 3rd 2005

Setlist:
Tired Of Sex
In The Garage
Hash Pipe
No One Else
This Is Such A Pity
Buddy Holly
Photograph
Hold Me
Getchoo
Say It Ain't So
We Are All On Drugs
Island In The Sun
My Name Is Jonas
Peace
Beverly Hills
Haunt You Every Day
---
Undone - The Sweater Song
The Good Life

Posted by Jim Walsh at January 23, 2006 1:46 PM | Comments (0)

 

A Letter To Minneapolis; In Memory of Bob Feldman; Jay Walsh Names the 'Mats Tour; and Lou Wright's Top 20

Filed under: Weekly 20

Dear Minneapolis,

The other day a lovely Irish-British woman who married a Minnesota rock-boy said to me, "People from Minneapolis are the biggest music snobs in the world."

And...?

"When I first moved here, the first thing people asked me was, 'What kind of music do you like?'"

And...?

Anyway, I ain't no provincial son. I'm here to say I'm stoked for the we-are-the-world winter Olympics. Especially this year, because of all the hate 'n' war, but mostly because of don't-give-a-fuck-but-kick-ass-anyway characters like Bode Miller and the Donnas and the new "Fall Behind Me" commercial starring the U.S. Olympic Snowboarding team, which shows the world how hard American chicks rock. Seriously, if you were in some female-hating hovel of the Middle East and saw how much fun American women have with electric guitars and snow, you'd go a little nuts, too.

Speaking of rocking hard, I don't pretend to know much about Likehell. They're one of those local bands who didn't fit the brand-new-young-legend-in-the-making profile we've (I've) fostered and been led to believe and buy and whose name always only reminded me of something my friend Bill wrote a few years ago after getting home from the bar: "Like hell I'll ever go see Likehell again."

Bill would flip over Likehell. I saw their mockumentary the other night with my friend Mary Beth, because neither one of us wanted to watch anything sad or too serious, because it had been a sad and serious day, and it reminded me of the end of Steppenwolf, when Mozart says to the sad-sack protagonist Harry, who has spent his life gnashing about the meaning of life:

" 'Enough of pathos and death-dealing. It is time to come to your senses. You are to live and to learn to laugh. You are to learn to listen to the cursed radio music of life and to reverence the spirit behind it and to laugh at its distortions. So there you are. More will not be asked of you.'"

"Gently from behind clenched teeth I asked: 'And if I do not submit? And if I deny your right, Mozart, to interfere with the Steppenwolf, and to meddle in its destiny?'

"'Then,' said Mozart calmly, 'I should invite you to smoke another of my charming cigarettes.'"

Anyway, I missed it when it screened at Sound Unseen two years ago, but it's out on DVD now and all that will be asked of you is that you do everything you can to see it. (It ain't on Netflix. Yet.) I might have been high, but I laughed harder at this thing (subtitle: "The Unbelievably True and Amazingly Accurate Story Behind Rock's Most Legendary Supergroup") than anything I've seen in a long time, including The Office. It reminded me of a great Ween show, in that it's a wicked parody of rock's self-mythology in particular, artistic navel-gazing in general, and the Behind The Music-ization of everything. Plus, it mocks the shit out of stuff like these self-conscious twerps.

But don't believe me. Ask Brian Oake; he narrates it. Or go here and buy it and tell everyone you know to do the same. Somebody who knows somebody at HBO should get it on the air. Make these smart-asses so infamous they can tour to ironis