Show Review: Wilco at the Agganis Arena



It’s official. Wilco are the greatest band working today.

Okay, maybe there are a few out there who would tie for first place, but they’re definitely up there. The band’s de facto leader, Jeff Tweedy, has gone from alt country poster boy to Brian Wilsonesque power-popster to experimental noisemaker, while all the while keeping his sense of melody and lyrical mastery intact. Their most recent album, A Ghost Is Born, is a far cry for A.M., their 1995 debut, but it doesn’t take a lifetime of listens to hear similarities.

Their delicate balance of songwriting prowess and avant-noise was on full display last Friday at Boston University’s Agganis Arena. Singer/songwriter/guitarist Tweedy, bass player John Stirratt, drummer Glenn Kotche, guitarist Nels Cline, keyboard player Mikael Jorgensen and multi-instrumentalist Pat Sansone favored new songs over the old (ten songs from A Ghost Is Born and none from the debut album, if that’s any indication), but made them all seem timeless. Hitting the stage with “Airline to Heaven,” from Mermaid Avenue, Vol. II (their second Woody Guthrie tribute collaboration with Billy Bragg), the country/folk followers of Tweedy’s older days were appeased. The rollicking “I’m the Man Who Loves You” followed, and while quiet, brooding numbers like “Muzzle of Bees” and “Jesus, Etc” weaved in and out of the show, they were tempered with dissonant numbers like “Handshake Drugs” (with its cathartic feedback coda) and the epic drone of “Spiders/Kidsmoke.” Guitarist Cline has been something of a secret weapon of late, incorporating his manic experimental guitar stylings into Wilco’s shows and also dialing down the theatrics in order to pick up a lap steel guitar on the more roots-oriented numbers.

Besides his constant desire to experiment musically, Tweedy has been uncharacteristically good-humored lately, imploring the audience to incorporate the word “Boston” into the sing-a-long portion of “Kingpin,” calling their current stretch the “arena tour” with tongue firmly in cheek, and even walking onstage for the encore wearing a BU hockey jersey with “Tweedy” emblazoned on the back. As he’s said in recent interviews, Jeff Tweedy is the happiest he’s ever been.

Regardless of the ongoing maturity of Wilco’s music, they never seem to forget that they’re a rock group and are more than happy to indulge in fun, harmless clichés -- the wild light show was a supreme guilty pleasure, and Sansone’s Pete Townshend-style windmills during the raucous “I’m A Wheel” were straight out of Rock Star 101.

Power-pop crowd pleasers like “Heavy Metal Drummer” and “I’m Always In Love” were featured (and the term “crowd pleaser” should not be considered derogatory – the Wilco crowd has pretty damn good taste in music), and one of the night’s nicest surprises was the closing number, a sublime cover of Bob Dylan’s “I Shall Be Released.”

My Morning Jacket, a band I’ve been suggested to check out, opened for Wilco and clearly had fans of their own in the crowd, judging by the enthusiastic support. Their music is definitely worth a listen. Kind of roots-rock, with a definite 70s feel (lots of long hair bobbing back and forth, complete with Gibson Flying V’s and rock star poses), their look is misleading, since their songwriting is stellar. This is the rare case of me witnessing an opening act and making a mental note to check them out the next time they tour solo.

Wilco is a rare band in today’s climate – they refuse to ride trends, they’re not hopelessly derivative, and they play all their instruments and write their own songs. Even at the height of their powers, they refuse to rest on their laurels, constantly moving forward. They sound better than ever. Do not miss a chance to see them.

For a full setlist of the Boston show, go here.

You Didn't Ask For It, But...My Favorite Music of 2004


This one almost made the top ten.

If you know my taste in music and who some of my favorite artists are, you may feel that this year’s list is somewhat of a cop-out. Almost everyone who made my “top ten” is a personal favorite of mine, whose work I would probably enjoy no matter what they chose to do. But these are all albums I enjoyed greatly. I have to admit that I didn’t really discover too much “new” music this year, in terms of new artists and whatnot. I spent a fair amount of time diving into a lot of classical music, so that’s probably where all my efforts went. In fact, a 2004 “classical” list may be coming your way shortly. In the meantime…

First of all, I have to give my standard obligatory warning: I do not necessarily consider these the “best” albums of the year. I’m sure there’s a lot of great stuff out there that I never got around to hearing, and just because I like it doesn’t necessarily make it great; these are ten albums released in 2004 (along with honorary mentions and a “reissues” section) that I happened to enjoy a lot (in alphabetical order by artist, if you must know). Also, I apologize for not making links for any of these albums. That would take me forever. Okay. Let’s roll.

The Beautiful South - Golddiggaz, Head Nodders and Pholk Songs: Covers albums can often seem like the ultimate admission of writer’s block. Executing this type of project successfully, in my opinion, requires a two-pronged attack: make interesting cover choices, and avoid standard arrangements. Hull’s famous sons (and daughter) have accomplished both quite nicely with their first-ever covers album. And while their famous lyrical bite may be missed, it’s hard not to smile at a ballad version of “You’re the One That I Want” or a latin-soaked “”Don’t Fear the Reaper.” Paul Heaton’s falsetto on “Stone In Love With You” is a pretty beautiful thing, too.

Elvis Costello and the Imposters – Delivery Man: Easily the best thing Elvis has done in years. While 2002 signaled a return to rock and roll with the visceral When I Was Cruel, this time, he’s truly letting loose and having fun. A quasi-concept album recorded in the Deep South, Elvis and the Imposters (his famed Attractions backing band with Davey Faragher replacing Bruce Thomas on bass) embrace loud, distorted country rock. The witty wordplay is intact (check out the priceless “Bedlam”), but this time around he truly seems to be having a blast. It’s quite possibly the most effortlessly catchy work I’ve heard from the guy. Loud volume recommended.

Steve Earle - The Revolution Starts…Now: There are plenty of poseurs out there pretending to be country music’s “bad boys.” Steve Earle could kick their collective asses in his sleep. Long abandoned by the country music mainstream after drug addiction, countless personal battles and a refusal to pander to the lowest common denominator, Earle has emerged as an intelligent, left-leaning troubadour, whose causes are almost as bracing as his ability to sing and play his heart out. On his latest album, he mixes anti-war songs (“Home to Houston,” “Rich Man’s War”) with freedom of speech tributes (the Ramones-meets-Springsteen “F the CC”) and heartbreak (the gorgeous “I Thought You Should Know”) with lusty reggae-fused pleas (“Condi, Condi,” a hilariously catchy ode to Bush’s Secretary of State). It’s loud, distorted, infectious, makes you think, makes you dance and at just under 40 minutes, there’s not an ounce of filler.

John Wesley Harding – Adam’s Apple: There are basically two different John Wesley Harding albums. He either releases witty, funny, catchy acoustic albums (often concert recordings), or witty, funny, catchy full-band albums. Adam’s Apple is the latter, an album first intended for release in 2002 before his record label went out of business and Wes was forced to shop around the tracks until the tiny DRT label picked him up. With albums like this, you get the best of both worlds: there’s the Wes Wit, but with a great Beatlesque/Brian Wilson feel as well. As much as he admires the folk vibe, Wes is a power popster of the highest order. Tight instrumentation makes songs like “Nothing At All,” “Sleeper Awake” and “She Never Talks” shine like long-lost AM radio favorites. And “Sussex Ghost Story” is a brilliant, moving collaboration with contemporary classical composer Gavin Bryars. There’s also “Sluts,” the funky nod to hedonism, and “Protest Protest Protest,” wherein the singer lampoons his own folky persona. Not his best album, but a great place to start.

Mike Keneally – Dog: I extol the virtues of Keneally so much that I sometimes feel like I deserve a commission from his manager. But how can you not love a guy who writes brilliant music, is an absolute jaw-droppingly talented musician, and his funny as hell to boot? Sort of a more optimistic, slightly more accessible version of his mentor, Frank Zappa (in whose band Mike played in 1987 and 1988) Keneally’s been making wild, twisted, utterly uncategorizable albums for a dozen years. This one, his latest, is basically a solid rock album, backed by a crack group of stellar musicians (Bryan Beller on bass, Nick D’Virgilio on drums and Rick Musallam on guitar). The lyrics seem to make little to no sense (to me, at least), but have a whimsy to them that’s hard to resist. These lyrics are framed by a guitar-heavy sound, particularly in the faux-Metallica riffs of “Louie” and the dizzying “Choosing to Drown.” Gears are shifted for more reflective, dynamic numbers like “Splane” and “Bober” (although the latter track contains a priceless guitar meltdown finale), as well as the completely goofy “Gravity Grab” and the low-key funk of “Panda.” But let’s not forget the trippy, psychotic 15-minute “This Tastes Like a Hotel,” which sounds like the work of a musical prodigy with both multiple personality and attention deficit disorders. Not a bad collection of music.

Brad Mehldau – Live in Tokyo: Brad Mehldau is, in my humble opinion, one of the most innovative, interesting, creative and eclectic artists on the jazz scene today. He excels at standards, oddball rock song covers, as well as his own original pieces. While he works exceedingly well in the standard trio format, this live album is actually a solo piece, with Brad playing songs by Nick Drake (“Things Behind the Sun,” “River Man”), Thelonious Monk (“Monk’s Dream”), George and Ira Gershwin (“How Long Has This Been Going On?”) and Radiohead (“Paranoid Android”), among others. The sheer talent and imagination required to pull off something like this is mind-boggling. And he makes it seem so easy. Brad’s ingenuity and ability to make music completely on his own terms is sadly lacking in today’s world.

Morrissey – You Are the Quarry: Morissey fans (and I’ve been one since his Smiths days, back in the Eighties) have been waiting for the Pope of Mope to release a new album since Maladjusted was released seven years ago. Waiting that long can spell doom for most artists -- fickle fans can give up on you much quicker -- but Morrissey has clearly recharged his batteries, as evidenced by this album. Quarry is one big blast of terrific songs, with Morrissey’s voice sounding better than ever, the lyrics as witty as always, and his band tearing through the songs with gleeful abandon. Producer Jerry Finn has helped Moz craft what I feel to be his best album since Viva Hate, his classic 1988 solo debut. Songs like “I Have Forgiven Jesus,” “You Know I Couldn’t Last,” “The First of the Gang to Die” and “Come Back to Camden” are among the finest he’s ever made.

Geraint Watkins – Dial “W” For Watkins: This album came out of nowhere and totally won me over. Welsh oddball singer/songwriter/instrumentalist opened for Nick Lowe on his recent fall tour and charmed the pants off the crowd with a winning set that combined R&B, boogie-woogie, ballads, gospel and whatever else he could sic on Nick’s audience. On this album, Watkins performs most of the instruments himself, and the songs are almost all originals (except for his excellent version of the Beach Boys’ “Heroes and Villains”), but most of them sound like long-lost standards, a mixture of Jerry Lee Lewis piano and Van Morrison Celtic gospel. There’s some pretty far-out stuff in here as well, that can’t really be compared to anyone (I can’t even begin to describe “Turn That Chicken Down”).

Paul Weller – Studio 150: What is it with my favorite artists making covers albums this year? Fortunately, Weller excels at this type of thing, despite the fact that he’s a marvelous songwriter in his own right. As usual, he covers some rare songs, and adds originality to the better-known tracks. Gordon Lightfoot’s “Early Morning Rain” is given a wonderful acoustic flavor with a nice fiddle break, Neil Young’s “Birds” contains some beautiful piano and female backing vocals, Allan Toussaint’s obscure “Hercules” is a muscular funk workout, as is the cover of Gil-Scott Heron’s “The Bottle.” Weller’s cover of the Carpenter’s “Close to You” (yeah, you heard me) could have been a disaster, but Weller’s soulful voice raises the song up from the schmaltz and gives it a classic R&B flavor. This guy could sing the phone book and it would sound great. My only complaint: the world does not need another version of “All Along the Watchtower.” Still, a great album.

Wilco – A Ghost is Born: Releasing an album two years after your previous one is one thing; when the previous album is Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, you could definitely say there’s a lot on the line. Wilco’s 2002 masterpiece was hailed by critics and fans alike, a dizzying masterpiece of brilliant songs and groundbreaking production (and also suffered a minor, ridiculously unfair backlash). How do you top that? The simplest answer is, you don’t. Ghost is not better than its predecessor. But it’s still very, very good. The idiosyncratic production techniques are replaced by a more organic sound that sometimes reduces the songs to a whisper (“Muzzle of Bees”). The soft/loud dynamic is never used as a cliché; rather, it enhances the overall listening experience. The opening track, “At Least That’s What You Said,” starts with quiet, almost inaudible piano. Before long, singer/songwriter Jeff Tweedy has his amp on “11” with cathartic guitar solo recalling vintage Neil Young. “Spiders (Kidsmoke)” veers back and forth from almost catatonic repetition to a heavy guitar-and-piano monster riff. Give co-producer/unofficial band member Jim O’Rourke a good chunk of the credit for allowing this supremely talented band to continue experimenting while still keeping the songs hummable. This is an album that gets better with every listen.

Honorable Mentions:

Badly Drawn Boy – One Plus One is One: I feel horrible about the fact that I snagged a free promo copy of this a few months ago and haven’t given it much of my attention. Especially considering how much I love Damon Gough. I’m going to assume that this belongs on the list.

Beastie Boys – To the Five Boroughs: No, I am not much of a hip-hop fan. But the Beasties’ dorky white boy persona has always made me smile. This love letter to New York City has lots of great moments. Another one I need to devote more attention to.

Elvis Costello – Il Sogno: As far as rock songwriters writing classical music goes, Elvis does a pretty good job (not surprising, considering his eclectic nature). I don’t think he should quit his day job, but would you rather listen to Billy Joel’s classical music?

Jamie Cullum – Twentysomething: That sound you just heard is my “street cred” flying out the window. I like this guy. So sue me. I like his voice, he’s a great pianist, and his arrangements are interesting. It may be jazz marketed for MTV, but it still sounds good to me.

Iron & Wine – Our Endless Numbered Days: While so many bands out there fall over themselves in an attempt to be cool and “alternative,” Sam Beam (a.k.a. Iron & Wine) quietly goes on making indescribably beautiful Nick Drake-inspired music. This one missed the top ten by a hair.

Mike Keneally and Metropole Orkest - The Universe Will Provide: I’ve barely listened to this since I got it a couple of months ago. Why? Because I’m an idiot. While Costello makes some pretty nice classical music, Keneally excels at it. This is crazy, dissonant, beautiful, mad stuff. Undoubtedly, Mike’s affiliation with Frank Zappa has paid off in spades. Remind me again to listen to this more.

Reissues that made me very happy this year:

Elvis Costello -- Almost Blue/Goodbye Cruel World/Kojak Variety: Rhino’s latest batch of Costello reissues includes a much-maligned 1981 country covers album, an even more maligned keyboard-heavy 1984 album (that sounds utterly 1984), and a decent 1995 covers album. Not his best crop, but I’ll take Costello’s worst over whatever horse manure is being shoveled over on TRL. Most of this trio of albums has aged well, and Rhino’s bonus discs alone are worth the price.

Echo and the Bunnymen – Ocean Rain: If I’m not mistaken, all of the Bunnymen releases were reissued this year, with fancy o-card packaging and a bunch of bonus tracks. Ocean Rain would easily fit on my list of top 20 favorite albums of all time, so despite the fact that the bonus tracks here are only so-so, this is still a welcome reissue.

Brian Eno – Music for Airports: Eno’s another artist whose the subject of a massive reissue project. This is the only album of his that I’m intimately familiar with, and if you don’t know of it, you should. Four long instrumental tracks of pure ambient beauty.

Harry Nilsson – Nilsson Schmilsson: Nilsson, a late great singer/songwriter of the highest order (who counted the Beatles among his biggest fans) made a string of albums in the seventies, and this is the crown jewel. Picture Randy Newman rocking out a bit, and you’ve got the general idea. A classic. With some nice bonus tracks, and liner notes by Nilsson uber-fan Curtis Armstrong (also known as the guy who played Booger on “Revenge of the Nerds”).

Rockpile – Seconds of Pleasure: Nick Lowe, Dave Edmunds, Billy Bremner and Terry Williams – the group responsible for Nick’s solo album Labour of Lust -- released this album in 1981 and basically disappeared forever. Now’s your chance to hear this long-lost classic of rockabilly fury. You need this in your collection, trust me.

Talking Heads – The Name of this Band is Talking Heads: While even the casual Heads fan will admit that Stop Making Sense is an amazing live document (both the film and the soundtrack), purists will insist that this 1982 live album is better. I agree. Their early days playing gigs that were not much more than living rooms, in addition to the early eighties when they began exploring more exotic musical forms are all represented here. It’s frantic, catchy, insane stuff. Lots and lots of bonus tracks, too.

The Wailers – Burnin’: I was a diehard Marley fan in the early nineties but began to listen less and less once frat boys began singing his praises. But you can’t go wrong with this early masterpiece, now paired with a bonus disc of live material. Those of you who think that the overplayed Legend is the ultimate Bob Marley document need to get your head screwed on right and pick this up immediately.

Weezer – the Blue Album: I’m biased, of course. Weezer, in my opinion, can simply do no wrong. That’s why this reissue of their debut album makes me so happy. The original disc is paired with a bonus disc of demos, live tracks, b-sides and lots of other crunchy goodness. And lots of liner notes for a liner notes freak like me.

Yes – Drama: Rhino also reissued Tormato and 90125 this year, but I don’t care for those two albums. Drama is an underrated work from those prog-rock demigods. Singer Jon Anderson had been replaced (temporarily) by future-legendary producer and onetime Buggles leader Trevor Horn, and while Trevor can’t hit all those high notes that Anderson was known for, he does an admirable job and the songs are quite good.

Show Review: Brad Mehldau at Scullers
Jazz music's unlikely young hero



There are jazz artists, and then there’s Brad Mehldau. Not content to sit back and rest on his laurels as an accomplished pianist and master improviser, Brad pushes the boundaries of jazz without falling into the usual trappings of “sellouts” or “crossover artists.”

Brad’s solo performance Wednesday night at Scullers Jazz Club in the Doubletree Suites Hotel confirmed his status as a supremely talented musician who insists on doing things his way.

There’s a lot of people out there who approve of Brad’s way of doing things, judging by the sold-out crowd in the luxurious, intimate room. Arriving on stage with little fanfare, wearing an un-tucked, black button-down shirt and brown corduroys, Brad greeted the audience in his usual friendly-yet-shy manner and began the set with one of his many odd cover choices – “Junk,” from Paul McCartney’s debut solo album.

Coaxing the pop-rock world into the jazz universe has always been a favorite pastime of Brad Mehldau. This is the man who, after all, has recorded his own versions of at least three Radiohead songs. What he seems to do time and time again – something other jazz artists can’t seem to get a handle on – is cover something by Radiohead, or the Beatles, or the late folk legend Nick Drake – and not only make it sound devoid of gimmickry, but also transform it into a jazz standard all its own.

Sitting at the piano, creating a swirling kaleidoscope of sound and swaying back and forth (with eyes often closed and feet pumping away at the pedals), Brad’s approach to the songs he plays – either his own, or in well-chosen covers – is to start with the song’s standard melody and then drop some engaging dissonance into the mix, followed by a unique brand of soloing – at times sweet and tender, and often brutal and cacophonous. There was really only one occasion Wednesday night where I noticed Brad sticking to a conventional jazz approach – during his performance of Thelonious Monk’s “Monk’s Dream” – and while there was little dissonance and envelope-pushing during that particular song, its elegance was disarming.

Undoubtedly promoting his latest album – the solo Live in Tokyo – Brad played two songs from that album, “Monk’s Dream” and Nick Drake’s “Things Behind the Sun.” He also played standards (“On the Street Where You Live”), originals (“Los Angeles II”) as well as the obligatory Radiohead song (“Knives Out”) and closing out the set, the Beatles’ classic “Martha My Dear.” A transcendent performance, no doubt, but really just business as usual for Brad Mehldau.

Show Review: Nick Lowe at the Paradise
Rock's most legendary obscurity plays a winning set



It’s hard to see your musical heroes grow old, mainly because a good deal of them don’t know how to do it gracefully. Fortunately, Nick Lowe is not only aging gracefully, he seems to be having the time of his life, and his singing, playing and songwriting are as sharp as ever.

That was the conclusion I reached Saturday night as I stepped out of Boston's Paradise Rock Club, after Nick performed for about 90 minutes to a delighted, appreciative crowd.

Nick’s name may not be altogether familiar to the average music fan, but if you’re a student of punk and power-pop from the late seventies, not knowing who he is should be a crime. Nick gained notoriety as a staff producer at Stiff Records, where a young Elvis Costello was first signed in 1977. Nick produced many of Elvis’ early albums (and subsequently had his hand in a few of the later ones, including Brutal Youth and Blood and Chocolate). In addition to Elvis, Nick produced works by the Damned, Graham Parker, the Pretenders and more.

He also found the time to write and record wonderful albums of his own, including Jesus of Cool and Labour of Lust (the latter album contained his only U.S. hit, “Cruel to be Kind”). His music was part new wave, part rockabilly with a streak of black humor. His side project with guitarist extraordinaire Dave Edmunds, Rockpile, yielded a fantastic 1981 album called Seconds of Pleasure (which was reissued earlier this year -- you should really own it).

Over the last decade or so, Nick’s quietly assumed the role of middle-aged elder statesman, playing more sedate, rootsy music with a crooner’s voice, while still keeping the black humor just under the surface. Albums like The Impossible Bird, Dig My Mood and The Convincer are hardly what you’d expect from one of punk’s premiere architects, but if you follow the trail of Nick’s career, it seems a natural transition, and one that doesn’t at all seem forced.

Opening for Nick on this tour, and accompanying him on keyboards at various times during the show was Welsh singer/multi-instrumentalist Geraint Watkins. Normally I’m not a big fan of opening acts, but Watkins was terrific. A frequent collaborator of Nick’s for the last several years, he can best be described as a combination of Van Morrison, Brian Wilson, Jerry Lee Lewis and Tom Jones. Banging away at the keyboard, Watkins conjured up zydeco, rockabilly, boogie-woogie, rhythm and blues and gospel. It’s a rare treat to have a support act who sounds great and isn’t just an excuse for the crowd to wander to the bar and restrooms. He performed mostly original material (except for his stellar version of the Beach Boys’ “Heroes and Villains”), but the songs were so good they almost sounded like standards (and his latest album, Dial “W” For Watkins, is readily available in stores if you’re interested).

Nick took to the stage with an acoustic guitar and treated the audience to a wide range of songs from his rich repertoire. Old songs were revisited (“Cruel to be Kind,” “Half a Boy and Half a Man,” “I Knew The Bride When She Used To Rock and Roll”) in addition to a few numbers from last few albums (“Lately I’ve Let Things Slide,” “Soulful Wind”). The songs often took a rollicking, upbeat turn, but Nick also dialed it down to a near whisper with gorgeous versions of “The Beast in Me” and “Lover Don’t Go,” two of his most beautiful ballads.

Nick was in a winning mood, bantering occasionally between songs about subjects such as the Paradise (which he claims to have played “267 thousand times”) as well as previous venues on the current tour (Portland’s Aladdin Theater, which he informed us was “a decommissioned porno theater”). He was completely gracious and seemed to be thrilled at the packed house.

Although not a particularly political artist, Nick did in fact end the set proper (before a couple of well-received encores) with a sublime rendition of (“What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding,” which was popularized by Elvis Costello but actually written by Nick. Accompanied by Watkins on piano, Nick’s impassioned singing (which sounds better than ever, by the way) gave the song great urgency, particularly given the current state of world affairs.

No fog machines, no lip-syncing, no Jumbo-tron TV screens, no self-centered divas. Just an incredibly talented singer/songwriter – hell, a legend – playing great music.

The Beautiful, Twisted World of Frank Zappa
Put something daring in your music collection



There’s nothing quite like a preconceived notion to block out an experience that could make your life so much richer. Consider, if you will, the strange case of Frank Zappa.

Zappa was a composer, singer, guitarist, arranger, bandleader, would-be politician, and all-around enfant terrible. Nothing in his art was ever really conventional. He hated what was considered “traditional.” He broke barriers. He worked in all genres and created new ones. He invented the concept album (his debut album with the Mothers of Invention, Freak Out, was apparently one of Paul McCartney’s inspirations for Sgt. Pepper), he probably invented jazz fusion, and composed classical music so brilliant that legendary French composer/conductor Pierre Boulez agreed to perform it.

Still, he’ll always be the guy who wrote “Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow” and “Valley Girl.”

How frustrating is this for me, who’s been a fan for more than 20 years? More than a little. I’ll admit, when I first heard Zappa’s music, it was the toilet humor that drew me in. Hey, I was in junior high school. Sue me. Over the years, through my older brother’s endless acquisition of Zappa vinyl (both official and bootleg titles), in addition to front-row seats at a 1984 Zappa concert (my first rock concert), the creation of countless Zappa mix tapes (for myself as well as Zappa acolytes), the acquisition of Zappa’s ever-growing CD titles, and deep sadness at hearing of his passing in 1993, Frank’s music has been a constant in my musical upbringing since the age of 13.

Why does this music speak to me? For one thing, the man was a complete and utter genius. His eclecticism floored me – he could write brilliant pop music (usually with tongue firmly-in-cheek) and then turn around and give you some dissonant chamber music. Or a sax-drenched jazz workout. How about a semi-parody of heavy metal? An instrumental for synthesizer? Sure, why not?

Frank did all this and made it so easy. The only common thread in his hundreds of compositions is probably the ridiculous titles he would give his songs. A transcendent duet for bouzouki and violin is titled “Canard du Jour.” One of his knottier instrumental numbers is called “Alien Orifice.” Classical pieces are not spared these idiosyncracies, either. How about a piece for orchestra (performed by the London Symphony Orchestra) called “Bob in Dacron?”

If you’re interested in diving into the Zappa archives, you’ve got your work cut out for you. Fortunately, the wonderful folks at Rykodisc have remastered virtually the entire FZ catalog on CD, and it all sounds wonderful. My own personal preferences for the ultimate Zappa starter kit would include “We’re Only In It For the Money,” “Hot Rats,” “One Size Fits All,” “Lather” and “You Can’t Do That On Stage Anymore, Vol. 2.” There’s also some fine DVD product to peruse as well (Baby Snakes, Does Humor Belong in Music, a long-awaited imminent release of the Roxy & Elsewhere concert).

I could go on with a long-winded biography, but this is just a starting point. This is music that has affected my life very deeply, and has done the same for countless others. See what the fuss is about.

The Beautiful South
A modest plea from me to you to embrace this band of Brits



There’s really no reason to bow to convention, unless you’re trying to impress your date’s parents. Unfortunately, some of the most unconventional music slips under the radar because its risky nature is not being adequately financed by the major labels. Or maybe everyone’s saving their money for the upcoming Paris Hilton album. Whatever.

This could be why the Beautiful South, while achieving reputable status in their home of England, have barely registered in the United States. Sure, they have their share of American fans (myself included), but a mere mention of their name will most likely garner confused looks from Yanks.

To be fair, their lack of popularity is somewhat understandable. Let’s examine the lyrics, for example. One of the most interesting and unique aspects of this band is their juxtaposition of sweet melodies and caustic, biting words.

They say always use a condom, I say always use a whip
They say be careful where you come at night, I just shoot straight from the hip
When it comes to loves great fountain, I won't just take a sip
I'll swallow and I'll gulp until the fountain makes me sick.

The song, “Mini-Correct,” is from the band’s 1994 album, Miaow, and is told from the point of view of a chauvinistic, sadistic bastard. Often, the band’s lyrics are like theater, with the two male vocalists and one female vocalist acting out the parts. Singer/lyricist Paul Heaton enjoys writing about relationships and seems to take a particular interest in the sometimes cruel and thoughtless nature of men. The women in his lyrics know this behavior all too well.

A woman goes to heaven, it's not important when,
As soon as she arrives, God has to send her down again.
"You've got an extra five years to clean up after men."
"I mean no disrespect, God...but you'd better make it ten."

(from “Gates,” on the album Gaze)

But the lyrics can also be sweet, unironic, and unapologetically romantic:

I once had a friend who I loved from my heart
But I went on and left her 'fore I'd made a start
Now I'm moaning the blues like the rest of the charts
Take me back

So I'll cry with a limp
Just get by on a limb
Till these blue eyes of mine they are closed
So here's to an old fashioned peck on the cheek
And farewell my sweet Northern Rose

(from “One Last Love Song,” on the album Carry On Up the Charts: the Best of the Beautiful South)

The Beautiful South, which formed in 1989, rose from the ashes of the Housemartins, a mid-eighties band where Heaton served as singer/lyricist (and whose bass player was a gentleman named Norman Cook, now better known to the world as Fatboy Slim). The best way I can describe the Housemartins is if the Smiths attended a gospel revival. The band made two excellent albums and released a greatest hits collection (featuring lots of rare tracks) before breaking up. Heaton soon formed TBS with the Housemartins’ drummer, Dave Hemingway, joining him on lead vocals. Soon a female vocalist (Briana Corrigan) was added, in addition to guitarist/songwriter Dave Rotheray, bass player Sean Welch and drummer Dave Stead.

Over the years, TBS have released a slew of albums (Welcome to the Beautiful South, Choke, 0898, Miaow, Blue is the Colour, Quench, Painting it Red, Gaze) rich with melody and biting wit. In the process, they’ve gained a huge following in the U.K., and have gone through three female vocalists (Briana Corrigan and her replacement, Jacqueline Abbott, have both quit due to personal conflicts with the band; their latest singer is Allison Wheeler, who, at this writing, is still with the group).

If you trust my Housemartins description, perhaps you’ll go along with my TBS description – actually, a friend who attended a TBS show with me in 2000 actually came up with the description, but I think it works: Elton John meets Squeeze. It’s pop music, all right; but teeming with sophistication that a thousand Britneys could never muster up. The vocals are always gorgeously arranged and sung (particularly by Heaton, whose voice is utterly amazing) and there are many traditional touches in the arrangements (lots of piano, for example), but they’re not afraid to throw in a subtle drum machine here or there, or even an odd sitar riff to give a tune a unique color. They pay homage to favorite songwriters by way of subtle imitation (“Pretty” copies an Elvis Costello line, “newlyweds and nearly-deads”) or even the traditional way, cover songs (their versions of “Everybody’s Talkin’” and “Dream a Little Dream of Me” are sublime).

In my experience as someone who enjoys introducing friends to new music, it’s worth noting that most people I know who hear TBS for the first time almost always like the music and subsequently seek it out. Every once in a while someone will lose interest once they hear the lyrics. But if you have beautiful music and boring lyrics, what fun would that be?

TBS has two best-of collections, Carry On Up the Charts (1995) and Solid Bronze (2001). The first one is a good place to start (the second one is a little redundant, if you ask me). I suggest getting the individual discs. My personal favorites are 0898 and Quench, but really, they’re all good. Get them now. Knowing the lack of imagination displayed by your friendly neighborhood record company executive, it may not be long before all Beautiful South albums fall out of print after a while.

Greg Kot, "Wilco: Learning How To Die"
Picking apart the legend of Jeff Tweedy


Rock bios are generally full of sex, drugs and rock & roll -- unless they're about Wilco. Here we have virtually no sex, not much drug taking (apart from some early tales of alcohol and a relatively insubstantial painkiller addiction), but plenty of rock & roll. And in the end, isn't that what it's all about?

Chicago Tribune music critic Greg Kot lays out the story of Wilco in this detailed, informative biography. Actually, it's more the story of Jeff Tweedy than anyone else. Born and raised in the southern Illinois town of Belleville, Jeff met singer/guitarist/fellow music nut Jay Farrar in junior high school and eventually formed a band, the Primitives, with him. Their sound was deeply rooted in American country and folk, but fused with the raw power and nihilism of punk rock. Think Johnny Cash meets Black Flag.

Kot's book takes the reader through the Primitives' days and nights living in shithole apartments and playing shithole clubs. Eventually the Primitives become Uncle Tupelo and gain and even larger following, resulting in recording sessions, contracts, albums, tours -- making it it out of Belleville and beyond. The band recorded three critically hailed albums and virtually spawned the "alt-country" genre, but Farrar left the band suddenly, forcing Tweedy to reconstruct under the name Wilco. Farrar's follow-up band, Son Volt, gained the initial upper hand (their debut album, Trace, fared much better than Wilco's debut, A.M.), but Tweedy, determined to push Wilco unto more and more adventurous territory, had the last laugh.

Despite A.M.'s mediocre performance with fans and critics, Tweedy pushed ahead with the sprawling, ambitious Being There (he deferred a good deal of his songwriting royalties in order for the album to be released as a double CD at no extra cost to the customer), followed it up with the twisted studio wizardry of Summerteeth (aided in large part to Wilco's latest secret weapon, multi-instrumentalist Jay Bennett) and became a cautionary tale for boat-rockers everywhere with the dense, difficult, beautiful, and briefly unreleasable Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

Almost everyone with a passing interest in contemporary rock music over the last three years knows the story behind that album. Tweedy, Bennett, utility player Leroy Bach, bassist John Stirratt and drummer Glenn Kotche pushed the envelope about as far as it would go, creating beds of noise and dramatic arrangements for the gorgeous songs of YHF. Their label, Warner/Reprise, wouldn't accept it, Wilco took the album to the smaller, more adventurous Nonesuch Records, it received boatloads of acclaim, and now Wilco are the coolest kids in the school while Warner Brothers come off as clueless corporate suits.

This isn't the first time Wilco was snubbed by execs. When Summerteeth was brought to the record company in late 1998, the powers-that-be complained that there was no "hit" to extract from the album. Hotshot producer David Kahne was asked to help mix "I Can't Stand It," in an effort to beef it up for airplay. Of course, airplay never followed. Wilco on the radio, as delightful a prospect as that is for discriminating music fans, carries the same probability as Philip Glass on a reality TV show.

Kot tells the story in amazing detail, drawing from an exhausting pool of interview subjects (it seems as though everyone involved in Wilco's history was interviewed). The book isn't merely a linear telling of how the band got together and went on to prosperity; a good deal of music-business politics is discussed and dissected as well.

Whenever speaking of Wilco and its history, it's always crucial to note how they've become symbolic of music business bullshit and how genuinely talented artists fall victim to almighty dollar. Tweedy is a singer, a songwriter, a musician, but certainly not a corporate ass kisser. He didn't get into music for the money and makes that fact clear throughout the book. Kot constantly hammers home the point that once upon a time, record companies were interested in artist development, whereas now it's just a matter of who can score a hit. Here today, gone tomorrow. No wonder one-hit-wonders are more popular today than ever before.

Tweedy's fickle nature with band members is also evident in Wilco's history. Kot does a good job of remaining objective, and although you get the stories from all sides, and Tweedy basically seems like a nice guy, you can't help feeling that the myriad personnel changes in Uncle Tupelo and Wilco may have something to do with Tweedy's stubborn nature in dealing with people who fly in the face of his overall musical vision. Guitarist Bob Egan was gradually phased out with little sympathy, as was outspoken drummer Ken Coomer (replaced by Kotche after Tweedy was introduced to him by noise-rock guru Jim O'Rourke, who would end up having a huge effect on Tweedy's musical experimantalism). Jay Bennett's dismissal from the band in 2001 was not only acrimonious, it was a substantial subplot of "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart," Sam Jones' 2002 documentary on the making of YHF.

Reading interviews with Bennett, Tweedy and the rest of the band members, in addition to hearing Kot telling the story from the beginning, it's easy to see how Bennett's studio domineering and general head games got in the way of the band. Was Tweedy feeling threatened? Perhaps. Was Bennett nudging Tweedy out of the spotlight? Maybe. But as difficult as it is for a Tweedy fan like myself to admit, Bennett's prowess as both as a musician and a studio engineer were crucial to YHF's sound. The band may be happier, but Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is a peak that they may never surpass.

This is indeed a great story about a musician who loves music, and will compromise nothing for his vision. Fans of Wilco and Uncle Tupelo will be in heaven. Casual fans who just want a good story about making music on your own terms will learn a few lessons. Readers looking for stories about groupies, heroin addiction and dressing room debauchery will have to look elsewhere.

The Tragically Hip, "In Between Evolution"
An offering from our neighbors to the North

By Tom Johnson, Delicious Media Contributor

Canada's other big musical offering (besides Rush, not to mention Neil Young), the Tragically Hip, have been turning out high-quality rock for nearly two decades now. A staple in their homeland, the Hip is hardly known in the US. Their latest effort, In Between Evolution, seems to be a concerted effort to break through to a little more exposure in the states. Unfortunately, as with most efforts to break through, it suffers from a few flaws. Minor as they may be, it's unfortunate to see a band struggling to get attention. Explaining that the Hip deserve the attention should be unnecessary - but as with all things truly good, it generally misses the attention of the public at large who seem to need things more watered down and generalized.

The problem with In Between Evolution is that it sounds, in a way, like two separate pieces - a short section of "different" material (for the Tragically Hip, at least) followed up by a too-short album of traditional Hip material. The album kicks off in high gear with the raw, almost-punk energy of "Heaven Is A Better Place Today," singer Gord Downie straining to reach the upper echelons of his vocal range. In some respects, it's as if the Hip made a conscious effort to resurrect a bit of the "hard rock" sound they shed after their first couple of albums Up To Here and Road Apples - with mixed results. It's not as if these first three songs are bad songs - they just seem to lack some of the heart this band pours into their music. There's an odd transition between "Gus The Polar Bear From Central Park" and "Vaccination Scar" that illustrates the change that happened in the band between the classic Day For Night and the follow-up Trouble At The Henhouse - from a rock band with thoughtful lyrics to a thoughtful band that happens to rock. Between tracks three and four, the tempos change, the attitude changes, the song structures change, and that's a good thing - I don't think I would have gotten that much out of an entire album filled with that many out-and-out rockers, to be honest. What I've come to love with the Hip is an ability to straddle folk-rock and hard rock, favoring just slightly the folk-side of things due to Downie's intriguing, oft-humorous, but always thoughtful lyrics.

Maybe the blame lays with producer Adam Kasper - known most significantly for his work with the Foo Fighters' last two albums, both of which possessed a decidedly harder edge than their predecessors. Throughout the album the guitars are turned up loud, panned hard left and right, drowning out Downie's voice that floats right down the center of the soundstage. I find myself straining often to make out what Gord is singing - a shame with lyrics as impressive as his always are. This is likely a purposeful effect to play down the band's true signature, Downie's trademark tuneful, choked warbling. It's no secret that the Hip have struggled to take off in the US while enjoying massive success in their homeland. Where the Hip are basically Canada's answer to Pearl Jam, in the States the Hip have barely made a dent in the market. The band frequently sells out arenas at home, but it's nothing unusual to find them playing small clubs stateside. When I've played the Hip for the unitiated it's always been Downie's soft barkings that draw the most comments. "You get used to it," I say frequently, but I don't believe it - I've always enjoyed Gord's voice and have never understood how it turns people off. What is there to "get used to?" Gord's slightly nasal delivery is no less characteristic than Michael Stipe's voice, yet it
somehow manages to stand out just enough to throw off newcomers. Perhaps it's because it's unfamiliar and unusual - when it comes to the unfamiliar and unusual it appears that US listeners are most hesitant. American audiences need their rock verified - maybe we got burned on too much meaningless, throwaway rock the labels threw at us for so long, who knows. All I can say is that before most Americans can commit to something, we need to know the music is good by seeing it endorsing commercials, backing action sequences and love scenes in movies, or hawked at the end of meaningless teen dramas. Without that, sorry guys, we just can't determine if it's any good. (But we have no problem downloading mp3 after mp3 of pop pablum. We've got no issues spending hours downloading the latest sound-alike tune from Nickelback - they did, afterall, have a track in Spiderman a couple years back. But parting with our hard-earned cash for something that might be different sounding? No way, we're not having it.)

The identity issues evident early on in the album are erased quickly with multiple listens as the album finds its own groove and pacing. I probably won't ever be able to hear it as a single, solid piece, but upon inspection, I can't find a better place for the three oddballs on the album than right up front - get 'em out of the way so they don't throw off a good flow later on. Placing them at the end would blow the emotional closer, another Hip trademark. Regardless of whether it's an up-tempo or down-tempo number, the Tragically Hip has managed to end on a note of beauty with a track that always leaves you wanting more. "Goodnight Josephine" is no different. An upbeat ballad of sorts to a young girl lost, as far as I can tell, in the distractions of teenage life, dating, and maybe abuse, "Goodnight Josephine" somehow manages to beat the odds its subject matter might impose on other bands to actually wind up sounding hopeful. And that's the thing that really keeps the Hip from making it in the US. There's nary a song in their catalog about suffering, hurting others, drowning sorrows - if you haven't been paying attention to what sells today, these are sure-fire hit material. If the American music-buying public can't openly sulk to their purchases, it has no place in their collections. Downie writes not out of a need to heal his own scars, but in hopes of getting everyone else see the good and the beauty that's out there. That's too bad - it's hard to place happy, thoughtful songs in movies with lots of explosions and over-emotive teens. We just can't get enough of that crap.

Tom Johnson likes corn, but only if it's popped. Accomplishments include being crowned "belch king" for the first half of 6th grade. He also enjoys writing his own bios.