The Rotation

March 2011

Let the real games begin. Here's what's been in my ears the past month:

Abigail Washburn

Washburn plays banjo-based American roots and Chinese folk music. Sometimes in the same song. You have to hear it to get it, or at least you have to hear it.

Sonic Youth / Rather Ripped

Guitars as rhythm, guitars as noise, noise as soundscape, but only as the means to a rock-and-roll end. "Ripped" isn't their most recent, but nearly so: released in 2006, it brings both the band's spartan ligament-and-muscle propulsion and freakout noise explosion tendencies under a mellower umbrella, as if it were mixed down a notch at the last moment to spare someone's tinnitus. It's still loud, but not, like, fucking LOUD. There's melody in the snaking guitar lines and in the slightly slouching street-poet lyrics. Even the feedback orgies end responsibly, as in "Sleeping Around," when the 20-second electric-shriek intro slides right into a rather agreeable grunge joint. Sharp shards of metallic downtown cool that even your dad would like!  

Spoon / Transference

The weird beauty of Spoon is the cognitive dissonance between the gravelly, macho throwback voice of singer Britt Daniel and the wobbly, twitchy backing of the band. A capella, Daniel's two-pack-a-day yelp makes me think of Denis Leary doing standup comedy. But Spoon's odd time signatures and punchy loops frame Daniel's minimalist lyrics -- lots of phrases repeat, lots of stark images stick out like slippery rocks through a churning surf -- and you end up with a collection of songs that leave you unsettled, a little edgy. Transference does not rock, though once in a while my toes tapped.  

The Supremes / "Baby Love"

Before the danger of rock-and-roll occurred to me, the Supremes and "Baby Love" in particular were the essence of sweet music. 'Bubble gum' was never so apt a phrase. Then, a bit later, AC/DC defiled my ears, then George Clinton, David Bowie, Prince, Bob Dylan, Talking Heads, all these weird adults, and I heard the Supremes as a scrubbed polished thing to scoff at, the whitest side of black music, and the moldiest of the golden oldies.

And yet, all through these years, inside the jaunty briskness of "Baby Love," the sparkling vocals, the burbling baritone sax solo, something else stirred. I knew the lyrics were sad -- a woman pleading her lover to return -- but I dismissed them. Heartbreak is everywhere, kid. Deal with it.

Earlier this week, eating lunch in a deli, trying to read a paper on cancer genomics, I heard the song and finally figured it out. The trick of the song, the secret recipe that turns bubble gum to deep melancholy, is the slight lag, first in Diana Ross's vocals, then elsewhere. There is the canter of the beat, and then there is slippage, as if Ross were exhausted but putting on a brave face, not quite able to skip along in time. Put into your mind's ear the iconic chorus: "Baby love/My baby love/I'm missing you/Miss kissing you." How she trails ever so slightly, the slide nudged back even more by the backup vocals. There is a sigh, in effect, at the end of each line, and in each one, the heartbreak is not to be dismissed.

Somewhere out there on the InterWebs is a file of Supremes material, vocals only, and it's stunning.

I love the technology that isolates specific tracks, leaving us to marvel at the massive talent of certain musicians. Like this.

January 2011

One quick nonmusical note: Join me in congratulating reader Jeremy on his new daughter, Aubrey. Yep. She'll soon be boasting of being the best athlete on the team. More details and an adorable photo in Jeremy's Guest Post.

One's ability to find and enjoy new music shrinks dramatically with the arrival of Monkeypantses, as Jeremy is now learning. My rotation this month consists of old favorites reconsidered, new offerings from old familiars, and something utterly new to my ears. As always these days, I rely on the kindness of friends and strangers to point me in new directions.

Cowboy Junkies / Demons

I have an embarrassing story to tell on myself. Many years ago, the Cowboy Junkies were playing San Francisco's Warfield, and I was doubly psyched because I heard Tindersticks were slated to open. I'm not sure if it was my mistake, my delusion, or if there was a last-minute switch, but when we got to the theater, the marquee read "Vic Chestnutt" under the Junkies' top billing. Uh-oh, I thought. Who the hell is Vic Chestnutt. We got to our balcony seats, the lights went down, and a guy in a wheelchair came out with a guitar. Oh no, I cried out loud, it's some guy in a wheelchair! I didn't mean it that way, but a lot of people sitting near me didn't take kindly. I heard Chestnutt's name through the years and knew his reputation as a songwriter's songwriter, brutally honest about his own failings and misgivings, but I never managed to listen. I still haven't heard much from him directly, but Cowboy Junkies have released a tribute album to Chestnutt, who committed suicide in 2009, and it's their strongest in years. Funny how the Junkies were known as dark and depressing when they first arrived, what, twenty years ago? Ha. Those early songs of cold dark winters, failed relationships and trailer-park goth sound like Mary Poppins when stacked up against Chestnutt's songs, where the misery runs so deep it turns at times psychedelic ("Supernatural"), at times tender and familiar ("Flirted With You All My Life"). It's a fine musical match.

John Coltrane / A Love Supreme

Now on heavy rotation in the car, it's the first time I've listened to it straight through for at least a decade. Listen to it loud, and all the way through. It's not dinner jazz; it's music that made people decide to form a church that regards Coltrane as a saint. I don't mean the music is perfect, or unassailable, or holy, but it is all-embracing. To understand is to give yourself over, even for a short amount of time.

The Specials 
 
The best of the Two Tone ska revival albums, hands down. I heard it for the first time in years Saturday night, played live by a group of locals paying tribute -- but not a tribute band. No one tried to be The Specials. (Based on this pathetic video, not even The Specials should try to be The Specials anymore.) They just played the material, which as always balanced precariously but perfectly between old-school ska (ie, before it slowed down into reggae) and late-'70s livewire post-punk, sometimes leaning one way ("A Message to You, Rudy"), sometimes the other ("Do the Dog"). Produced by Elvis Costello, by the way. It was a revelation to my 15-year-old ears in the mid-'80s, and Saturday night I was shocked how good it all was from top to bottom.  
 
7 Worlds Collide / Neil Finn and Friends (Live)

I was never much of a Crowded House fan, if you can remember back that far: too bland for my teenage ears, with the strummy guitars and Neil Finn's high earnest voice as far as possible from what turned me on. More recently, I've re-heard the two big hits from their debut -- "Something So Strong" and "Don't Dream It's Over" -- and I still don't like the former but take a bit more kindly to the latter for its languid moodiness, its odd line lengths. So I was skeptical when a friend (@MWeditpod, if you tweet) hipped me to this live album. It's from 2001, Neil Finn and friends playing mostly his and his brother Tim's songs, but not exclusively. It's damn good, though I'm still not a huge fan of his voice. It's perfectly acceptable, well in tune and plaintive, but lacking personality. The lack shines through when the band, which includes former Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr, covers "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out." The album's extra kick comes from other singers. Eddie Vedder takes the mic for several spins, and Neil finds a groove as harmonic accompaniment or in duets with Lisa Germano, a longtime session player (remember the fiddle on John Mellencamp's "Paper in Fire"?).

Iron & Wine / Kiss Each Other Clean (live)

Departure is a hoary term, but if like me you mostly know the whispery fingerpicky acoustic solo stuff of Sam Beam, Mr. Iron and Wine, this album feels like a plane taking off. Fasten your seatbelts. Especially live, as the muscular sound put me in mind for some reason of Bob Dylan's Rolling Thunder Revue of the early '70s, though Beam's crew is a lot smaller. The studio version is here, track by track. I recommend the live podcast first, with the connective tissue of Beam's interstitial banter and the enthusiastic audience noise.  
 
December 2010

Komeda / Pop Pa Svenska

Every blue moon or so a pop record comes along with depth. Deep, deep depth. Sergeant Pepper's. What's Going On. I'm sure there are more. I'm not convinced Pop Pa Svenska is on that level, but it has the rare quality of giving more upon every listen: a treasure trove for the ears. And it rocks in a smart delightful way. Using a typewriter as percussion? Sure. And it's all in Swedish. Imagine how I'd feel if I understood what they hell they were saying, except for the line where the female singer name-checks both Peter Frampton and Albert Einstein. (I asked a Swedish friend what the title of the opening track "Oy Vilket Liv!" meant, and she said, "Oy, vat a sound!" which makes me think that Komeda are Swedish Jews.)

After flagging a bit in the late-middle songs, Pop rebounds with four or five tracks that sound like long-lost Velvet Underground jams, brightened up with chimes, harps, and oboes. It's a majestic slow-motion sprint to the finish. I like long songs with droning, rhythmic repetition (the Velvets, Feelies, Smog, "Found a Job"-era Talking Heads). The end of Pop -- which, OK, cheating a bit, actually includes an EP that was tacked onto the US release -- is all about exploring spacey, jangly rhythm, but with elegant flourishes  that you'd never hear from, say, the Velvets pounding away in a junkie fog at Max's Kansas City. If you've heard Komeda's English-language work and thought, meh, be advised that Pop Pa Svenska is a different kettle of lutefisk. 

Rolling Stones / "Gimme Shelter" (deconstructed)

[[Argh, the files have been removed from Dangerous Minds because of copyright claim. If anyone knows where to find them, let us know.]]

Speaking of pop masterpieces...how rare to hear a song for the zillionth time over three decades and still catch a chill. I feel it up my spine when the opening swampy swirl resolves with Charlie Watts' double-flam on the snare and the engine of Keith's reverb riff carries the song toward the first verse. So imagine my delight when I found this deconstruction. I wasn't surprised to find the real heart of the song is Keith's guitar work, but also Nicky Hopkins' aggressive, percussive piano. You can also hear Watts' famous ever-so-slight lag, a real treat. Perhaps the most surprising element was at long last hearing how bad Mick Jagger's harmonica chops are (I'm assuming it's Mick); unmixed, he's smeary and blown-out, thankfully fixed in the final mix. It's just a kiss away. 

NPR's All Songs 24/7 Channel

Sometimes I crave the randomness of music on the radio, but without the crappy music and the commercials. Internet radio hasn't satisfied my jones. Pandora feels like a precious specialty shop -- when I can get it to work at all. KEXP has too much hipster DJ blather. I've finally found my Internet radio home: NPR's 24/7 stream of every song they've ever played during "All Songs Considered." It's vast, it's eclectic, it's music-only (no commercials, no DJs, only an occasional 5-second ID spot). I could do without quite so many clever kids and their slashing guitars (Vampire Weekend, TV on the Radio, Franz Ferdinand all in the past hour or so) and more jazz, soul and hip-hop, but there are still plenty of diverse diversions -- modern ambient orchestrations, Hawaiian slack key, Fats Waller, traditional Chinese, Leonard Cohen, and West African high life.

"In Treatment" soundtrack

I never thought half-hour episodes of other people's therapy sessions would make for riveting TV, but Mrs. Malo and I are in the midst of season two and addicted. If you watch, make sure to stay through the credits, because composer Richard Marvin's one-and-a-half-minute outro pieces are instrumental marvels of mood and tempo. They probably wouldn't work without the context of the episodes, which fade into the pieces like this. Not all are so melancholy; Marvin often mixes in electronic beats and some knob-twiddling. Once in a while the piece will be jazzier or a bit unsettling. As far as I can tell, there's no soundtrack available for sale.
  
April 2010

With all the off-days this month, and all the quality in my front four, I'm skipping the fifth starter. Do you hear me, Bruce Bochy?

Allen Toussaint /The Bright Mississippi

Sometimes you can't improve upon an original, sometimes new interpretations in new contexts make a huge difference. Toussaint and Friends play old New Orleans jazz and blues in the post-Katrina world, and you can't help but stop and listen.

latentrecordings.com

Come for the Junkies, stay for a lot of other things. This is the site of the Cowboy Junkies' record label, and it has a treasure trove of live shows, outtakes, and other stuff from their 20+ years of recording and touring. But it also features full streamed albums from lesser-known acts (unless you're Canadian, perhaps), and some are quite good. I especially recommend some of the tracks on the Huron and Skydiggers recordings. Barbara Lynch is too much of a Tom Waits ripoff, and the very young Ivy Mairi is worth waiting for as she gains a little existential weight.

Chuck Prophet / Let Freedom Ring

In a world bereft of guitar heroes, Chuck Prophet comes to the rescue. How many people still work in the guitar, bass and drums idiom, maybe a little keyboard thrown in, without weird skinny pants? Somehow Chuck never hit the national big time; well, not somehow. There are reasons. For one, he doesn't quite craft the perfect pop record, and I love him all the more for it. He's been an inconsistent writer in the past, but he leads off Freedom with a grand line: "I'm a man of few words, baby / And I think by now you've heard 'em all." It's his best album since the nearly flawless Homemade Blood.

Bill Frisell / Nashville and Good Dog, Happy Man

Not quite country, not quite blues, and a mere flirtation with jazz, these two albums are of a piece to me, floating just beyond grasp when you don't listen closely. It took me several listens to pay close attention, as the songs are airy and never insistent, building their space mainly without vocals, though Nashville has a wonderful cover of Neil Young's "One of These Days." It's easy without being easy listening. The songs make sense when you're 40 in the way Ry Cooder's theme to "Paris, Texas" made sense when you were 24, and you drove across the desert at night, a lightning storm crackling over a far-off mountain range, and a lot of questions burning in your head.