rock

Small Source of Comfort

mandy — Sat, 26 Mar 2011 20:00:00 +0000

Full disclosure: Bruce Cockburn (COE-burn) is Canadian; I’m Canadian. There aren’t that many of us. We’re the world’s second largest country, with a population smaller than California. So we back our homeys when they’re world-class: Angela Hewitt, Frederick Banting, Sandra Oh, Denys Arcand, Jim Carrey, Diana Krall, Leonard Cohen, Karen Kain, Tom Thomson, David Suzuki, Cirque du Soleil.

Which returns us to Bruce. The world-class part, that is. He’s a musician’s musician with an extraordinary scope as a lyricist, guitar player, and singer. He can do jazzy gutbucket ("Mama Just Wants to Barrelhouse All Night Long"), a beautiful country hymn ("One Day I Walk"), a great road song ("Silver Wheels"), an anti-war descant equal to Dylan ("If I Had A Rocket Launcher"), a funny blues ("The Blues Got The World By The Balls"), a credible cover of a classic blues ("Soul of a Man"), a rocker ("Lovers In A Dangerous Time") and several other genres. He is one of the planet’s best finger-pickers, which is why he has swapped licks with guitaristas such as Ali Farka Touré. The years have been good to his voice. His lower register has deepened but he hasn’t lost much at the top.

Small Source of Comfort is the singer’s thirty-first album (!) since he began in Ottawa forty-some years ago. A generous album of twelve songs and a coda it is, too. “Called Me Back” is a wry, LOL tune that imagines why someone wouldn’t return your call, for example, “Maybe his mother ran afoul of the law” or “He coulda slid into a society scene.” The instrumental “Bohemian 3-Step” is way uptempo and alternates between complex descending chords and the quick, complicated finger-picking at which he is so adept. He shows off his musicianship in four other instrumentals on this CD that run from jazz-rock fusion, “The Comets of Kandahar,” (with superb violin help from Jenny Scheinman); to the Debussyesque “Parnassus and Fog”; to the spare, what-you-might-call-new-age “Ancestors.”

His lyrics are as original as his guitar work. “Each One Lost” is part threnody with undertones of a Scottish ballad. Bruce spent a week in Afghanistan and was present when a plane brought in the bodies of two Canadian soldiers. The song is also a celebration of the freedom for which the men fought and died; its theme, as the title indicates, is reminiscent of John Donne’s famous passage from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, which contains the phrase “for whom the bell tolls.” It’s destined to be classic Cockburn.

“Call Me Rose” is an instant classic as well. The song begins, “My name was Richard Nixon only now I am a girl/You wouldn't know it but I used to be the king of the world.” Yes, the singer imagines Richard Nixon reincarnated as a young woman—with two kids living in the projects, working out his penance, learning what it means to be poor and powerless, but also learning how to endure. These two songs are alone worth the price of admission, and you get eleven more to boot, all of them very fine.

So there you have it. One Canadian shilling for a fellow Canuck? Or one Canadian telling the truth about his brother’s tunes? Bruce is a member of the Order of Canada, one of the country’s two highest civilian awards for merit. That’s a clue. So Canuck, Aussie, Kiwi, Yank, or Brit, you should buy this CD if you love the best. I swear by the beaver and the maple leaf you’ll be glad you blew the fifteen bucks.

Written by: Neil Flowers, March 26th 2011

Elevator Art

alicia — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 20:00:00 +0000

By Elevator Art

For a band working without the backing of a label, Elevator Art has crafted a disc that has the sound of a group with a fountain of money at their disposal. Sure, money isn’t everything, but I can tell you from personal experience that it makes a huge difference when you are in a small band with nothing but sad, starving little moths in your pockets and a record that needs mastering, artwork, and printing.

Elevator Art obviously put a lot of work and a considerable amount of hard-earned bread into this recording—and every dollar and hour spent recording, mixing, and mastering has clearly been worth the effort. Really, if they are able to turn a profit, why even bother with label backing? They clearly have the artistic side of the industry figured out.

Elevator Art mixes and mashes various genres into a stew of epic proportions—a generous helping of ‘70s arena guitar-driven rock, a smattering of ‘60s anti-war psychedelia, a pinch of Mars Volta, and a dab of Weezer and the Beatles, and you essentially have their self-titled debut album. Heck, there is even a Jethro Tull-esque flute solo.

The album opens with an uptempo mixture of crunchy guitar rock and wacky lyrics (something about a pregnant baby, a dog on stilts, and a unicorn that died) and is propelled by Yes-inspired tracks like “Punch and Judy.” They also throw in some country influences on “Autumn Epitaph” and channel Pink Floyd on “How Does the Day Find You” which sounds like it could have been a track on Meddle.

I do have a small bone to pick with the drums and bass. There are moments that the drums sound like electric drums (most obviously in a section close to the end of “Matryoshka” and also on “Peter Rabbit”). I’m not sure if it was intentional, but I would have preferred a more natural sound throughout. Also, Mike Jonin is a great bass player, but I wish his sound was a bit fuller—his bass gets a bit lost with so much mid-range and so little bottom end.

These are really very small criticisms, as most of the sound on the album is superb. The guitar, in particular, is clear and precise on every track, reminding me a bit of the crispness of tracks like “Young Pilgrims” by The Shins. Overall, this is a worthy recording by a band that is clearly dedicated to their craft.

Written by: Emily S. Dunster, January 27th 2011

1,000 Years

mandy — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 14:00:00 +0000

By The Corin Tucker Band

Kill Rock Stars

Singer, songwriter, and guitarist Corin Tucker has been actively involved in music since the early 1990s when, as a teenager, she launched the riot grrrl band Heavens to Betsy. Around the same time, Carrie Brownstein was heading up queercore outfit Excuse 17. Eventually the two joined forces to form Sleater-Kinney in 1994.

Drummer Janet Weiss (Quasi) jumped on board with the 1997 album Dig Me Out. During their career, Sleater-Kinney released seven albums to ever-increasing critical acclaim—they were named “America’s best rock band in 2001 by “Time” Magazine—before it all came to a screeching halt with their declaration of an “indefinite hiatus” in 2006. I was one of the many fortunate souls to attend one of their last two concerts at McMenamin’s Crystal Ballroom in Portland, OR that August; it was easily the best show of my life.

Since then, we die-hard Sleater-Kinney fans have gobbled up whatever scraps these three have tossed our way. Weiss continues to work with Quasi, and has also been behind the drum kit of Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks. Brownstein has been all over the place. She wrote the NPR music blog Monitor Mix and joined up with Fred Armisen (Saturday Night Live) to form the comedy duo Thunder.Ant; the two will star in the IFC original series Portlandia, starting this month. She and Weiss have also hooked up with Mary Timony (Helium) and Rebecca Cole (The Minders) to form the band Wild Flag.

And Corin Tucker? In the midst of Sleater-Kinney, she married filmmaker Lance Bangs and had her first child. Post-band-breakup, she had a second child, then started working on new songs. This led to the formation of The Corin Tucker Band and the release of 1,000 Years on Kill Rock Stars, one of her alma mater labels. Tucker claims that 1,000 Years is a “middle-aged mom record.” In my opinion, it both isn’t and is.

It’s not an overt “mother album,” replete with songs about the transformative power of motherhood. There are hints at that, with lyrics on the title track like “who is that zombie/that is wearing Mama’s clothes?” Still, this is musical territory that has already been well-covered by other artists (including Sleater-Kinney, with album tracks and B-sides from 2002’s One Beat). Conversely, this is a “mom record,” insofar as it reflects the stereotypically more mellow—or at least more exhausted—stance of the middle-aged working mother.

Tucker is notorious for her astounding voice, known in operatic terms as a “spinto soprano” or a “dramatic soprano.” It was put to ferocious use in Sleater-Kinney, a band whose music addressed such topics as domestic violence, music industry sexism, and American politics. That vocal power rears its head only once on 1,000 Years, smack-dab in the middle of the album with the single “Doubt.” When Tucker belts out the line “Break up with the boogie/break up with the beat/but I just can't forget what it means to me/I tried, I tried/but I couldn't leave,” we hear that passionate devotion to her craft, and for a split second, share in what feels like her triumphant return.

Prior to and after that moment, however, a kinder gentler Tucker prevails. Overall, her voice could be characterized as a sweetly tamed keening. These songs exemplify lush, folksy, indie rock, full of handclaps and woodblocks, sleigh bells and string sections, with just a hint of psychedelia in the guitars. Personal favorites include “Half A World Away,” with a rhythm that sounds like Cut-era Slits, mid-career Raincoats, or The English Beat; and “Pulling Pieces,” perhaps the most telling track on the album aside from “Doubt.” There’s a bittersweetness to “Pulling Pieces,” especially with lyrics like “Tell me why did you close the door?/I can’t get in to where I’m supposed to go/I’m just a shadow of what I used to be.” I really wish I didn’t agree.

Written by: M. Brianna Stallings, January 10th 2011

1,000 Years

alicia — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 20:00:00 +0000

By The Corin Tucker Band

Kill Rock Stars

It is kind of strange listening to Corin Tucker with a bass player, and without the backing of Carrie Brownstein and Janet Weiss in riot grrrl band Sleater-Kinney. Admittedly, at first I found myself missing Brownstein’s guitar chops, and the rhythmic awesomeness of Weiss. This isn’t to say that Tucker is a guitar slouch, by any means, just that Brownstein is one of the best living guitarists out there, and Weiss delivers an amazing syncopated punch that other drummers just can’t match.

And so perhaps it is a bit unfair to compare 1,000 Years with the previous work of Corin Tucker with Sleater-Kinney. The truth is, though, that S-K defined my adolescence. For me, at least, Tucker will always be linked to my seventeen-year old self. As an example, is there any Sopranos fan out there who was able to watch Where the Wild Things Are without conjuring images of Tony driving down the New Jersey Turnpike? But, the fact is that Tucker is plenty talented without the backing of her former mates. Frankly, with the strength of her new tracks and musical cohorts, I (almost) don’t even miss Brownstien and Weiss.

There have already been many reviews of this album, talking about the relative restraint of Tucker’s voice as compared with her time in S-K. It’s true the operatic bellow is turned down. But damn if she still doesn’t have a fantastic set of pipes and a range that is a bit easier to appreciate without the characteristic aggressive ululations of her S-K days. I should mention that while she is a bit more restrained in places, (such as on “Dragon and “Miles Away” where there are way more violins and acoustic guitars than ever appeared on any S-K album) she nonetheless has moments of uptempo howl on tracks like “Doubt” and “Pulling Pieces” where she sounds quite a bit like circa-1997 Corin Tucker.

I suppose what defines her new band is the focus, which is squarely on Tucker. S-K had Tucker, of course, but there was also the oomph of Weiss’ drumming prowess, along with the meticulous guitar mastery and vocals of Brownstein to make each album feel like a grand exercise in teamwork. 1,000 Years feels more like The Foo Fighters’ The Colour and the Shape.

There is absolutely no question that this album is Corin Tucker’s, just like there was no doubt that Dave Grohl was the one responsible on his album. Tucker’s band does an amazing job of emphasizing Tucker’s vocal talents. “It’s Always Summer” and “Handed Love,” for instance, contain fairly little in terms of instrumentation, which isn’t terribly necessary anyway with the power of Tucker’s voice.

I am a huge Sleater-Kinney fan, but I have already grown to accept that they are no longer together. I would be upset if Corin Tucker was trying to recreate S-K in her new band. But thankfully, that is clearly not the case on 1,000 Years, but I actually wish she pushed herself a little bit more outside of the S-K comfort zone and into some more daring territory. Sure, she’s far more restrained here than on The Woods, but the giant shadow of her former band still looms.

Written by: Emily S. Dunster, January 9th 2011

Grinderman 2

tina — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Grinderman

Anti-/Mute

Being a female Nick Cave fan is perilous. I'd say that it's on par with being a female James Bond fan.

In both instances, women are depicted as vixens, victims, or passive receptors for sexually frustrated man-boys with clear objectives. In the case of James Bond, his objective has always been to triumph over various manifestations of Cold War-style evil in the name of God (or God's emissary, the Queen), gold, and glory. As a feminist, I know logically that Bond is misogynist tripe. Yet as an Anglophile and Cold War wonk, I simply cannot get enough of 007. Similarly, in the case of Nick Cave, his decades-long objective has been to triumph over the evil mediocrity of sub-par music in the name of God, girls, and (noisy) genius. As a feminist, I know logically that women are props in Cave's literate songs, propelling him along from one metaphor to the next. Yet as a discerning music fan with a penchant for the seedy and unseemly, I simply cannot get enough of him.

Aussie Cave started his music career in Melbourne as the front man for the Birthday Party. That group's badgering frenetic dissonance was difficult to sustain and they soon imploded under the weight. Before long, Cave launched Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, by far his most successful venture. Since The Bad Seeds, Cave has written books, screenplays, and scored a couple of searing Western films, including The Proposition and The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. Now he's fronting yet another band, the frightening, reverently shambolic Grinderman.

The first eponymous Grinderman release came out in 2007. Comprised of eleven gloriously cacophonous songs that could dislodge fillings if played loudly enough, Grinderman was a tongue-in-cheek tribute to the insecurities of the aging male rock star—one that could easily be mistaken for sexist noise. Example: “No Pussy Blues,” which starts with a clacking typewriter and the words "My face is finished/My body's gone/And I can't help but think/Standing up here in all this applause/And gazing down at all the young and the beautiful/With their questioning eyes/That I must above all things love myself." It then leads into the tale of one man's desperate attempt to get the attention of one such beautiful young coquette.

Now there's the sequel: Grinderman 2. The deluxe edition comes with an illustrated sixty-page booklet, as well as a fold-out poster. The poster depicts the band looking blasé while dressed in plastic gladiator costumes and lounging about on what appears to be a high school cafeteria stage. We clearly see them here as elevated men who have grown weary of the unrealistic expectation that they be deities.

The men in these songs are fed up with what they perceive as lives wasted on empty pursuits (cited as “booze, drugs, husbands, wives, and making money” on “When My Baby Comes”), especially in light of the crazed chaos being created by the ubiquitous and wicked “they.” The women in these songs have no names. They are all “her,” or are spoken of in a possessive context: “my girl,” “my baby”—relevant only in relation to each song's male protagonist. We are never made aware of the women’s responses to the questions posed/actions taken by the men addressing them.

This album’s nine songs act as a different manifestation of the midlife crisis shown on the first album. Where Grinderman was all sweaty frustrated id, Grinderman 2 teeters back and forth between the realism of ego and the moralizing of super-ego. Here be monsters—noisy apocalyptic crypto-zoological monsters, like the Loch Ness Monster and the Abominable Snowman—as depicted to great tragicomic effect with the song “Worm Tamer.” From its snarling wolf on the cover and its songs about “Evil” and a “Heathen Child,” Grinderman 2 feels vicious, choked with a brutish fatalistic beauty.

Written by: M. Brianna Stallings, October 31st 2010

Max's Kansas City: Art, Glamour, Rock and Roll

brittany — Sat, 16 Oct 2010 16:00:00 +0000

Edited by Steven Kasher

Abrams Publisher

The iconic New York club Max’s Kansas City was the art world equivalent of the equally iconic CBGB; it was where all of the beautiful freaks and geeks; aspiring, wannabe, and legitimate artists congregated to see and be seen. Editor Steven Kash has done a magnificent job of compiling photographs that features all of the glitz and grime, genius and depravity that was the New York art scene of the 1970s.

Max’s Kansas City is a photography book, but there are a few well-written essays sprinkled in by Lou Reed, Lenny Kaye, Lorraine O’Grady, Danny Fields, and Steven Watson. Watson points out that though some of the female artists in the scene like Brigid Berlin and Sue Hoffman (aka Viva) weren’t taken seriously by their male contemporaries, they weren’t “just girlfriends” either. They had their own identities and were forming their own careers and according to Watson, were “on the cusp of feminism.”

I’d argue that they were seen as “just girlfriends” and that this is a common occurrence in artistic movements. Take the beat generation for example. Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs—they’ve become icons and the women writers were their caretakers and meal makers, struggling to get published. Just think of brilliant writers like Diane di Prima and Hettie Jones, who are—to this day—treated as minor footnotes or oddities in a scene comprised of men. Sadly, not much has changed.

Gender disparities of the scene aside, the photos are all inclusive. I have a thing for 70’s fashion and music, so flipping through the pages of Max’s Kansas City was nearly overload. How many images of young and beautiful icons like Patti Smith, Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, Debbie Harry, and Tom Waits can a girl take before she drops? Oddly enough, what’s almost more interesting than the superstars are the images of the unknowns, the beautiful losers who appear to have just wandered in from off the street at the most opportune moment—when the cameras are flashing near Andy Warhol or Nico.

Some of the photographs are almost too up close and personal, like the one of a fresh-faced Janis Joplin sitting at a superstar populated table. What are they talking about and what kind of salad is that in front of them? And look, there’s an incredibly young and handsome John Waters holding a cigarette, the image so crystal clear you can almost smell the smoke.

What I especially love about Max’s Kansas City is that so many people associate the 70’s with polyester and bullshit disco music, but these images are proof that those on the outskirts of the city and on the fringes of society were creating groundbreaking art and music in dingy clubs tucked away in shady neighborhoods. To me, that’s so much more interesting than doin’ a little dance and makin’ a little love at a bullshit disco club.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, October 16th 2010

Salt

brittany — Mon, 20 Sep 2010 02:00:00 +0000

By The Locals

If The Locals were an item of clothing, they would be a neatly pressed pair of designer vintage “distressed” jeans—$200 pants with holes, bleach stains, and grease marks already worked in. The Locals have a crafted sound that has been tweaked and molded into a perfect pair of pre-worn pants. Steven Gillis, the producer of their album, has manufactured a sound that has every ounce of distortion honed into a meticulous arc; every howl from lead singer Yvonne Doll’s voice is finely tuned until it cracks in just the right way in all of the right places. Perhaps music this polished in production isn’t really my thing, but I have to give the band credit for putting a whole lot of time and trouble into a finished product. They are clearly very dedicated (despite being unsigned) with an arty CD cover design, professional website, and squeaky clean production values.

The Locals are a good band. They are passionate musicians who have spent a lot of time and energy making a product that has everything but a record label. But here’s where I have to criticize. They list three major influences in their band bio which are The Pixies, The Killers, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The Killers, perhaps. But the Pixies? The Yeah Yeah Yeahs? Really? If The Locals are a pair of distressed designer jeans, the Pixies are a sweat-stained t-shirt from a thrift store, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs are a sparkly space-ballet jump suit. The Locals are way, way too polished for a Pixies reference, and way, way too run of the mill to be compared to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

I’m not saying their music is bad. I’m just saying The Locals sound like they have radio-friendly hits that are so clean, crisp, and focused on slick production values that they could be on Top 40 radio right now. Think Matthew Sweet (another one of their cited influences, from their MySpace page) and you would be barking up a much closer tree. I don’t mind Matthew Sweet—the guy did have some catchy pop-sugar hits back in the mid-nineties—but he sure wasn’t singing about slicing up eyeballs, and his videos never featured little kids chopping off each other’s limbs. Somehow, I can’t see that kind of dark weirdness coming from The Locals, either. They’re good, they’re tidy, and they’re tight as hell. But Black Francis in a stained thrift store tee, they certainly are not.

Written by: Emily S. Dunster, September 19th 2010

Fables Of The Reconstruction (25th Anniversary 2-Disc Re-Issue)

admin — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 08:44:00 +0000

By R.E.M.

EMI/Capitol Records

Call it what you will: alternative rock, guitar pop, college radio. For better or worse, R.E.M. were responsible for making it—and making it big. Even a casual listener knows when they hear an R.E.M. song. Theirs has always been a definitive sound: Bill Berry's frenetic drums, Peter Buck's jangly guitar, those literate stream-of-consciousness lyrics, and, of course, Michael Stipe's vulnerable voice, leaping from plaintive wail to cooing croon to murmur (pun intended), often within the same song.

They started out weird. Pretty, sure, but still weird. Then they got famous and became dogmatic, showing up at award shows with serious faces and message t-shirts. R.E.M. relinquished their indie status long ago, leaving behind I.R.S. Records and signing with Warner Brothers in the late '80s. They're now a renowned cornerstone of contemporary American music. R.E.M. was inducted in the Rock N' Roll Hall Of Fame in 2007, and the 1981 song “Radio Free Europe” was recently added to the Library of Congress's National Recording Registry.

Yet just before super-stardom and the soapbox, there was Fables Of The Reconstruction. R.E.M. originally released Fables Of The Reconstruction in June of 1985. Today, it's back—as a 25th anniversary 2-CD re-issue. R.E.M.'s first two albums, Murmur and Reckoning, have both already received the deluxe treatment. Fables Of The Reconstruction is another shining example of R.E.M.'s early-career aesthetic.

The Athens Demos, included as the second disc on the re-issue, stand on their own as excellent alternates to the (now classic) originals. There's precious little variation from demo to album version, yet still just enough difference to be noticeable. They show a band, confident as a collective, fine-tuning these already well-honed songs. Stand-outs include “Can't Get There From Here,” which felt much more playful than the original; “Green Grow The Rushes,” with demo vocals that sounded warmer and more intimate; “Driver 8,” which, although a little off-key and possessing more prominent background vocals, was still charming.

Of the thirteen tracks on The Athens Demos, three were not on the original release. Two of them, “Bandwagon” and “Hyena,” went on to be released on other albums; “Bandwagon” was also a bonus track on the import version of Fables Of The Reconstruction. Then there's “Throw Those Trolls Away,” the much-hyped previously unreleased track that, sadly, is completely forgettable and altogether expendable. It's also worth noting that the songs on the second disc are both out of album sequence (not that odd), and curiously, listed in alphabetical order.

Over the last several years, re-releases have become standard among bands of R.E.M.'s status; deluxe edition re-releases are to today what box sets were to the '90s. Listeners are granted greater access to a band's oeuvre. Plus, if they're die-hard fans and/or music snobs, they're also granted a sense of collection completion—not to mention bragging rights.

Written by: M. Brianna Stallings, July 13th 2010

Mojo

admin — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 00:01:00 +0000

By Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

Reprise

Think of the word mojo in the classic sense (energy and zest for life) before Jim Morrison distorted it, and it's really the best adjective to describe this album. Having listened to Tom Petty—with and sans the Heartbreakers—since high school, I have to agree with fellow fans that the guy just doesn't make bad music.

Like many an artist going through major life changes—divorce, having a child grow into an adult, a new marriage—music tends to be worn on his sleeve. While his releases have varied a great deal in the past fifteen years or so—contrast the mellowness of his solo album Wildflowers with the sad, longing lyrics of the tracks from She's The One (a soundtrack from an Ed Burns movie), to the pissed-off rants on The Last DJ—it's been a long time since he's put out songs with any real, well, mojo. Needless to say, this listener is glad he has it back. The lyrics seem to come from one who has loved, lost, toughened up, and loved again.

Not one of the fifteen tracks on Mojo disappoints. Some, like “Jefferson Jericho Blues,” “I Should Have Known It,” and guitar-heavy “Running Man's Bible,” have echoes of classics like “American Girl” and “Refugee,” but don't sound the least bit recycled. Likewise, there are lyrics in songs like “The Trip to Pirate's Cove” that have the trademark Tom Petty trait of nearly making sense, but then failing to (think “Mary Jane's Last Dance”). I don't normally care for rock artists attempting reggae, but even the track “Don't Pull Me Over,” with its slightly sad riffs, is done in good taste. And no Tom Petty album could be complete without honest, slightly tear-jerking songs about love and longing, and “No Reason to Cry” and “Lover's Touch,” while musically quite different, fit that bill.

In sum, don't download it song by song. Longtime fans will want this album in its entirety.

Written by: M.L. Madison, July 12th 2010

Nobody's Daughter

admin — Wed, 12 May 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By Hole

Mercury Records

It can often be shocking to step back from one's own life and think in terms of how much of your time has been devoted to a particular thing. For instance, I have been writing since I was seven years old. That means that at this point, I have spent over seventy-five percent of my life with pen and paper in hand. Similarly, I have been a steadfast Hole fan for sixteen years. It is a little jarring to realize that I have loved (and continue to listen to) a band that long; the fact that Courtney Love has survived long enough for me to claim active fan status of both she and her group makes it that much more amazing.

You know how you can talk all the trash you want about your own mother when you're mad at her for something, but the minute one of your friends agrees with your tirade and chimes in with, “Yeah man, your mom's a PAIN!,” you immediately go into “defend Mom's honor” mode? That's how I feel about Courtney Love. Watching her erratic behavior over the years, it has admittedly been hard at times to call myself a fan. Yet the second someone slags off on her, my fangs come out. Don't step to me with that tired Courtney shit-talking, 'cause I ain't tryin' to hear it. I'll even go full-on Chris Crocker on your ass: leave Courtney alone.

A blind man could see the Sturm und Drang of this woman's life. I'm not stupid. I know what a mess she has been. During those lost coke-addicted years in the early aughts when Love was flashing David Letterman and being hauled off to Bellevue handcuffed to a gurney, I would Google her name at least once a week—just to make sure she was still alive. I often prayed under my breath that she would, to quote Hole's 1994 classic, live through this. She did.

Nobody's Daughter, the first album Love has released with Hole (well, this version of Hole) in a dozen years, is the proof. As ever, Love has come out on the other side of Hell, guitars a-blazing. Hole has been performing the first album single, the vicious “Skinny Little Bitch,” on every late-night chat show on which Love is still allowed to appear. All eleven songs are similarly acerbic, self-aware, and chock full of the kind of melodramatic language one expects from Love's songwriting: anguish, misery, sorrow, terror, filth, destruction, surrender.

The title track takes us into a world where family is a farce and salvation is a pipe dream. “Loser Dust” and “How Dirty Girls Get Clean” most openly address Love's struggles with cocaine, a substance that nearly destroyed her life and which Love once infamously characterized in an interview with “Access Hollywood” as “really evil coffee.” “Pacific Coast Highway” opens with the same guitar notes as “Boys On The Radio” from their last studio album, 1998's Celebrity Skin. They sound so similar that, in fact, “PCH” could be seen as something of a sequel to or continuation of “BOTR.” “Someone Else's Bed,” “Letter To God,” and “Never Go Hungry Again” are visceral poignant ballads.

One possible album cover leaked during the album's rough-cut days was an altered image from a series of photos taken by French fashion designer Hedi Slimane. It's a side shot of Love smoking, tinted dark blue with the cigarette's cherry highlighted red, in an homage to the album cover from Marianne Faithfull's critically acclaimed 1979 comeback album Broken English. Although not the final cover choice, it's still both an appropriate and telling image. Like Faithfull, Love (never one for false modesty, hence her willingness to compare herself to an artist of Faithfull's caliber) had been away from music for some time before returning with this collection of world-weary songs painting a beleaguered but still fiercely resilient artist back in the game for another round.

Written by: M. Brianna Stallings, May 12th 2010

When You're Strange: A Film About The Doors

admin — Fri, 09 Apr 2010 08:01:00 +0000

Directed by Tom DiCillo

Wolf Films, Strange Pictures

When You’re Strange is director Tom DiCillo’s loving yet flawed homage to The Doors. The film is comprised almost entirely of original footage of the band, shot between 1966 and 1971. It follows members John Densmore, Robby Krieger, Ray Manzarek, and Jim Morrison from their first performance to heated recording sessions, and ultimately, to Morrison’s tragic death at the age of twenty-seven. When You’re Strange survives on the momentum of the bands’ energetic presence and explosive sound. Footage of live performances prove entrancing, with Morrison’s unpredictable behavior and chaotic energy filling the stage.

The film portrays the band as the voice of a generation—musical innovators voicing the anxiety and hope of the 1960s youth movement. DiCillo places the personal narrative of The Doors against the national narrative of the United States, illustrating how The Doors’ music fed off of the violence of Vietnam, the hope of the Civil Rights movement, and the anxiety of a nation at war. DiCillo is perhaps too enamored with the idea of Morrison as a tragic hero, as the narration refers to Morrison as a “shaman” with a poet’s soul “trapped between heaven and hell.”

Unfortunately, the frenetic pace of the original footage is undercut by the stilted narration, provided by Johnny Depp. Even Depp’s thoughtful reading cannot surmount the series of bland factual statements and flowery metaphors that comprise the script. Throughout the film, the band (particularly Morrison himself) is visually and aurally described in relation to fire and flames—an obvious and groan-inducing reference to The Doors hit “Light My Fire.” These aural metaphors are reinforced by the image of an extinguishing flame.

Ultimately, When You’re Strange is an enjoyable and reverential examination of The Doors that accurately presents the zeitgeist of the time. The film sustains itself on the vibrancy and charisma of the original footage, which keeps the film from sinking under the weight of its fragmented narration. Doors fans will enjoy it for its rare glimpses into the band’s history, but the film itself lacks the verve of its subject.

Written by: Joanna Chlebus, April 9th 2010

Songs for a Sinking Ship

admin — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By April Smith and the Great Picture Show

Little Roscoe

Not many people have heard of April Smith, but I’ve become quite the enthusiastic fan. Her music combines elements of pop and rock, but her voice has more of a jazz quality that gives the end result a great mix and unique style. I loved her previous album, loveletterbombs, and I saw Smith perform live a couple of times, so when I heard she was raising money for a new album through Kickstarter, I signed right up to contribute. But then she posted the track listing for Songs for a Sinking Ship, and I already knew half the songs. Needless to say, I felt a bit let down. Sure, some were from her live EP, and I expected them to show up again, but one went as far back as her 2005 album!

I kept an open mind and eagerly hit play when I finally got my copy. Halfway through the album I was already swallowing all of my doubtful words. From the first song, “Movie Loves a Screen” (my favorite of the new tracks), the energy and style wakes you up and makes you pay attention. She sustains this throughout the album, even on the slower tracks that draw you in with her emotional words. The pleasant surprise was that tracks I already knew were mostly different, better versions of what I’ve heard before. By the time I got to the last track, I was sorry the album was finished and immediately started listening to it all over again.

What really impressed me was the song “The One That Got Away.” This ballad from loveletterbombs was one of the songs that made me a fan in the first place. The song has gotten a complete makeover for this album, and now I can’t decide which version is my favorite. The tempo is sped up, the minimal instrumentation is replaced with a carnival feel, and what once sounded like a brokenhearted plea now sounds like an embrace of her circumstances. I have complete confidence that if she re-released a new version of loveletterbombs, I’d pre-order that too.

For people who aren’t already fans, it’s hard to listen to April Smith without finding a song that piques your interest and makes you curious to hear more. But even somebody who already owns her other albums won’t feel let down by spending the money to get this one. This is one of the best albums I’ve heard in a long time, and I can hardly wait for the next one.

Written by: frau sally benz, March 30th 2010

The Runaways

admin — Sat, 20 Mar 2010 09:23:00 +0000

Directed by Floria Sigismondi

River Road Entertainment

There’s nothing quite like entering a movie theatre on a bright, sunny day and getting completely engulfed in both the darkness of the space you're in and the story being told. I was hooked from the opening scene of The Runaways, and after watching the film, I immediately send a text to my best friend, a girl I’ve known since I was twelve years old, that read, “I just saw The Runaways movie; I really think you should see it. It reminded me of when we were young, and it made me really happy.”

First-time feature film director Floria Sigismondi does an amazing job of not just telling the story of The Runaways, five girls who changed rock ‘n’ roll forever with their brash songs and pouty teenage dispositions, but of capturing the magic and the all-around electricity of what it's like to be a young girl who finds power in music and chances across other girls who live and die by the albums made by their rock gods. Sigismondi, who also wrote the script, doesn’t focus much on Lita Ford, Sandy West, or Jackie Fox; the story is all about Joan Jett and Cherie Currie, whose stories, though completely different, eventually intertwine so that they become superstars together. The two young women tour the world as friends, bandmates, and sometimes, lovers.

My only major compliant about the film is that it centers Currie, played by Dakota Fanning. Though the movie is based on the newest, more graphic edition of Currie's memoir, Neon Angel, she was the only girl in the band who didn’t know how to play an instrument and had no desire initially to be in a band. Currie was, essentially, plucked out of obscurity by maniac record producer Kim Fowley (played brilliantly by Michael Shannon) while at a Hollywood club because she looked like an edgy, jail bait version of Bridgette Bardot. Fanning lacked the "rock ‘n’ roll authority" Fowley demanded of the real life Currie, whose growl could own a stage like nobody else.

The real star of the film is Kristen Stewart, who expertly channeled everything badass about a young Joan Jett. From her sneer to her guitar-wielding stance, not only does Stewart have an uncanny resemblance to the icon, but she beautifully conveyed Jett’s intense love of music and the utter heartbreak she experienced when The Runaways disbanded. While Currie would go no further in the music world (excepting the kitschy, gimmicky album she recorded with her twin sister Marie), Jett went on to form another successful band, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, and experience a music career that has spanned over thirty years.

I loved this move because it has a killer soundtrack (hearing “Cherry Bomb” and “Queens of Noise” gave me goosebumps) that reminded me of being a completely crazy and sometimes reckless teenager whose life soundtrack was filled with bands whose way was paved by The Runaways (e.g., Bikini Kill, L7, and Hole). The Runaways illustrates the insanity of youth, the allure of rock ‘n’ roll, and the uncomfortable yet undeniable power and sex appeal of teenage girls. (Is that wrong to say? I don’t care.) Seeing The Runaways made me want to take back what I said in an earlier review. Girls being active participants in a good band is definitely the ideal, but I do think girls should form bands together regardless because we need an empowering alternative to all of the shitty music on the radio.

My niece, who I’m crazy about and very close to, turned seven years old on the day The Runaways was released. To honor this occasion, I bought her a neon pink electric guitar and an amp. Her baby sister, who’s turning six in two months, will be getting a drum set. Eventually, I want them to watch this film and come away with the earth-shattering images of girls who rock their hearts out, and sound damn good doing it. We definitely need more of that.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, March 20th 2010

Neon Angel: A Memoir of a Runaway

admin — Sat, 20 Mar 2010 09:00:00 +0000

By Cherie Currie

It Books

Neon Angel: A Memoir of a Runaway is kind of like Cherie Currie’s re-working of her first autobiography originally published in the 1980s and entitled Neon Angel: The Cherie Currie Story. That particular telling was geared towards young adults and this new one is less about lessons learned and more about battle scars obtained while on the road and leading one of the most badass girl groups ever: The Runaways.

Currie, along with original bandmates Joan Jett, Sandy West, Lita Ford, and Jackie Fox, were brought together by infamous record producer Kim Fowley in the '70s. Fowley, who rather perversely scoped these teenage girls out in popular, all-ages Los Angeles nightclubs, would help turn them into one of the biggest rock sensations of their time—though fame came at a huge price.

Currie, who was just fifteen at the time of the band’s beginning, seems rather disconnected to the sometimes horrendous scenes played out in the book. Each chapter is more of a retelling than a reflection. It’s recounted like a long, sad chain of events: this happened and then I was raped; this happened and then I joined The Runaways; this happened and then I was abandoned by my mother when I needed her most; this happened and then I became severely addicted to drugs. You get the picture.

Speaking about the process of writing such painful memories Currie told me, "Sometimes I would look at these experiences like I was on the outside looking in, watching it all happen. But there was no escaping the fact that I had to be there in my body reliving it so I could share the true experience, no matter how painful it was."

Unlike Currie, I never led an internationally acclaimed rock band, but, like her, I grew up too fast and would sometimes have moments in which I realized things had gone too far and were quickly spiraling out of control. As a teen, it’s sometimes hard to get a grip. This is especially true when you have a maniac managing your band and acting as your legal guardian.

Each Runaways member was abused by Fowley, who had their parents sign a contract waiving their parental rights while the girls were on tour. He promised strict adult supervision and tutors on the road, none of which ever panned out. He took great pleasure in verbally berating them. In one particularly hard to read passage, Currie describes basically being pimped out by Fowley to a famous male pop star at the time. Later while on tour, Fowley corners the girls in a hotel room and makes them watch as he has sex with a drugged, underage girl because he thinks it’s important that they “learn how to fuck.”

Fowley was quick to provide all of the underage girls with copious amounts of liquor, pills, speed, coke, or any other substance their young hearts desired. This, of course, would lead to Currie’s enormous drug habit that would nearly take her life several times and have her knocking at death’s door in her early 20’s when she weighed less than a hundred pounds and experienced heart palpitations because of her excessive cocaine use.

This misuse of power was financial, as well. At the height of their popularity The Runaways were playing sold out stadiums and touring internationally, but Fowley would only occasionally buy the girls cheeseburgers or throw ten bucks their way. It wasn’t until they sued Fowley in the '90s that any of them saw their royalties, though there’s no telling how much they lost in ticket and record sales.

Currie also had struggles outside of the band to contend with. She was sexually assaulted as a young girl by her twin sister’s boyfriend. Her mother didn’t speak to her for two years and moved to Indonesia just as Currie signed on as part of the band. She watched her father struggle with, and eventually die of, alcoholism. She survived a terrible ordeal in which a deranged fan kidnapped and brutalized her for six agonizing hours. Incredibly, at twenty-four years old, Currie soberly walked off into the sunset ready to regain her life after the hell-bound hayride that was The Runaways. Despite the difficulties, Currie still maintains fond memories of her time with her bandmates, "We grew up in the battlefields together. I will always love each member of the band."

Though Currie is currently fifty-one, it’s hard not to think of her as the long, lithe, fifteen-year-old Cherry Bomb stomping around on stage in a white corset and platform boots. It will only be more difficult to disassociate her from this image once people see The Runaways movie that opened this month. Currie is currently on a publicity tour for the film and Neon Angel. Reflecting on her life she says, "Anytime you have to go back and relive negative experiences, well, it's not fun. I spent many weeks, even months locked in that place of fear and anger. From where I sit now, I'm so glad we have such a compelling story to tell. It's a story of survival, tenacity, and the will of the human spirit, that you can survive anything."

Written by: Tina Vasquez, March 20th 2010

Don’t Act Like You Know Me

admin — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 09:00:00 +0000

By Ten Year Vamp

Daisy Rock Records

When I was a teenager, rock radio had its fair share of female voices. Shirley Manson, Gwen Stefani, and Courtney Love all wrote songs and fronted bands full of men, and gave us songs like “I’m Just a Girl” and “Celebrity Skin.” D’Arcy Wrentz played a mean bass for Smashing Pumpkins. On the indie front, Tori Amos, Liz Phair, and to some extent, Alanis Morrisette, all gave voice to the issues women face through guitar-heavy songs. They took over the tradition from the greats like Joan Jett and the Runaways, Blondie, and Tina Weymouth of the Talking Heads.

In the new millennium, female-fronted rock, like a lot of music, has been manufactured within an inch of itself. Avril Lavigne, a talented pop songwriter, became "punk" because she wore a hoodie with a skull on it. Kelly Clarkson attempted to get darker on My December, but when sales didn’t crack the multi-millions, she went back to disposable pop. Amy Lee, the powerful singer-songwriter of the pop-metal powerhouse Evanescence, self-destructed under the pressure of a follow-up album. Pink tried to be the rock voice, but her pop sensibility has overridden everything else. No new female-fronted rock music has stepped up to talk to the next generation.

All of this brings me to Ten Year Vamp. The Don't Act Like You Know Me album cover features only Debbie Gabrione, who is credited as singer, lyricist, and guitar player. She is a viable option for the next voice of female-fronted rock, even if this album is a bit more like Kelly Clarkson than Shirley Manson. Her lyrics speak of dissatisfaction with her life, needing to start over, and her inability to reach the person who she loves, but more importantly, she writes about her shortcomings. In particular, “Pleasures (That I Call Mine)” is a great rock song where she boasts that “I like to step it up/baby, to intensify/it’s just what I do/And it’s my choice what I do/And who I do it to.” Her attitude, her independence, and her enjoyment of her life are all a great example for young women, and the song's power chords and “whoa” chorus are wonderful.

The rest of album is not as strong, but still a good listen. “Rockstar” is a nice mediation on being a singer that “hates the sound of her own voice,” and “Call it” has some interesting thoughts about fate and destiny. Don't Act Like You Know Me has many of the limitations of other debut albums. The band is still working to find their own voice, but when they do, they will be unstoppable.

Written by: Taylor Rhodes, February 19th 2010