No Longer A Big Inner

I have a not so hard and fast rule about avoiding multiple performances by a band or musician during the same album cycle. This is partly to keep my schedule from quickly spiraling out of control and partly to maintain a freshness in relation to their musical performance. It can be a little disappointing to discover that that spontaneous moment that levitated the audience was actually carefully calibrated. A concert that is less than completely satisfying, however, trumps the rule whenever possible. Back in the day, I saw Siouxsie & The Banshees three times over the course of a year, hoping for a performance as stunning as their records. Never happened, although one show was so stunningly loud that all I heard were overtones. For a week. Somewhere in my ears are some blackened goth hair cells - but that's another story.

White: Big Inner No More

In the case of Matthew E. White, when I saw him at Mercury Lounge last summer, it was one of his first gigs outside his hometown of Richmond,VA, and it showed in the sometimes tentative performance. Granted, White's stunning debut album, Big Inner, features layers of horns, strings and backing vocals, and serving the songs with a more stripped down ensemble took some doing. Percussionist Scott Clark was a canny choice to enrich the sound but he appeared a little out of his depth that night, and the sound mix on his instruments was not always effective. Still, I left the club with a warm glow and the firm expectation that a few months on the road was going to turn this group into a monster.

Stepping Right Along

 

I'm happy to report that my hopes became reality at the Bowery Ballroom last Tuesday when White and band returned after many dates in Europe and America. As I told him after the show, they did everything right. They stretched out further into the songs, increased the dynamic range, added a cover song (a gritty take on Waylon Jennings' Are You Ready For The Country) and two new songs, and just plain GELLED. Clark and drummer Pinson Chanselle played as one, providing a dense undercurrent of polyrhythms, and bassist Cameron Ralston proved himself the heart of the band, whether providing a deep groove or working the upper notes on the neck of his instrument. White ripped off guitar licks with the expected economy but less reticence than the last time I saw them. His laid-back voice showed a few more gears, although that could have been the steroids talking - White explained that a shot had brought his voice back from the brink. He also apologized for any surly behavior at the merch table caused by the side effects (he needn't have).

The band is filled out by Trey Pollard, who fills in the gaps on pedal steel, piano and guitar, and Gabe Churray, also known as Snow Panda, who adds layers of atmospherics and dubbed out sounds from behind a bank of keyboards and effects boxes. He may have been doing the same stuff last August, but it was only this time around that I thought, "This guy's gear is set on stun."

Snow Panda: Set On Stun

 

The only thing that didn't add up this time around is that the room wasn't jam packed. I'm expecting that will also be different next time.

The show was opened by Helado Negro, an affable enough guy with some bass-heavy programmed tracks and an okay voice. His sound seemed promising at first, but quickly grew tedious due to the lack of melodic variety. It's always hit or miss with opening acts...

Matthew E. White's tour continues - make sure your aware of when he hits your area.

 

A Bronx Cheer For RSD

My approach to Record Store Day is both serendipitous and practical. If I'm going to a favorite store like Other Music, I know there will be many people with more burning desire for particular special releases than I have, so I prefer to see what I see. That way, I feel lucky with whatever I end up buying. In 2011 I picked up an awesome Fela 7" and a limited edition cassette from Numero Group, along with a couple of other goodies. Last year, I had an event at a Knights Of Columbus near Westwood, NJ (all in a day's work) and let my GPS do the driving to Music Merchant, which turned out to be an excellent store run by dedicated fans. I scored a beautiful Lee Perry vinyl box and a number of used albums at great prices.

This year I was seriously pressed for time so I plotted a course to the nearest RSD participating store, which turned out to be Harmony Records in the Parkchester section of the Bronx. My daughter and I headed out there in the morning, planning to arrive when they opened at 10:30. It's a good thing we weren't completely on schedule because it turned out to be more like 11-ish when to owner, Glenn Velger, came and rolled up the gate. Harmony has been operating since 1956 and if it's not the oldest record store in NYC still at its original location, I'd like to know what is. The small narrow space is decorated by accretion, like a cave that has been transformed by millennia of drips, floods and geologic events. Dion's fingerprints are probably somewhere under the grime and accumulated stuff.

Quick observation made it clear that Harmony was not stocking any RSD special editions so I didn't even ask. I asked Glenn how long he'd been there and learned that he bought the store from the original owner in the 90's and that they still talk a couple of times a month. Before giving me the lay of the land, Glenn delivered a practiced spiel about how downloading was ruining the music business, the kids today don't want to pay for records, etc. Moving on...
Besides a few new release CD's, most of the stock at Harmony consists of well worn LP's and 45's, with a strong concentration in soul, disco and hip hop. Some of the inventory has come from DJ's liquidating their collections and it shows in the number of promo copies and white labels. Serious crate diggers might find some long-sought items here, but they best have deep pockets - I discovered that the base price for LP's and 12" singles is $14.99, even in rough condition.
It was entertaining to flip through the albums - my daughter was incredulous that anyone would want to dress like Don Johnson on the cover of the Miami Vice soundtrack - but some other would-be patrons weren't so happy when they found out there were limited editions in stock. One dude, in expensive head to toe black, came in with his phone to his ear saying "I'm building the house mainly for my records," and asked for the McCartney single.

He looked like he was sucking a lemon when Glenn said he didn't carry any of those things, after all who wants a bunch of kids lined up to fight over a copy of something and downloading is ruining the music business and the kids don't want to pay for music... Expensive Black was clearly not interested in debating the contradictions inherent in Glenn's rap and repaired to his car - a BMW so new I've never even seen it before (license plate FAB4LP) - to try to track down the Sir Paul 7". Between the car, the house full of records, and the attire, I had to ask him if he was in the music biz. "Used to be," he replied, telling me he was a DJ in California - but that's all he wanted to say.
After the sticker shock, I ended up making a few token purchases in the spirit of the day. I took a chance on George McCrae's 1976 album Diamond Touch, partly because I've always like the TK sound and partly because he looked so sad on the album cover. He might have been depressed because the record wasn't recorded at TK HQ in Miami, home of Rock Your Baby, Rock The Boat, Rocking' Chair (by George's wife Gwen), and a dozen hits by KC & The Sunshine Band. Diamond Touch was instead made in NYC under the supervision of Gregg Diamond, known for taking More More More by former porn star Andrea True to the top of the charts.

Diamond Touch is a gleaming edifice of high disco style that surely got them on the floor at 54 but leaves little space for George's sweet vocal stylings. I'm sure it will spice up a mix tape or two, once I rip it to digital, as will the frankly amazing Disco Mix of the South Shore Commission's Free Man. It's a Tom Moulton Mix of a Bunny Sigler production - need I say more? Finally, Don't Take My My Kindness For Weakness Is a sentiment I can get behind, and I'm always a sucker for Stax, so I threw the single by The Soul Children on the pile.
I'm glad we made the trip as our little adventure took us to a part of NYC I'd never seen before, although I've lived here all my life. While I may never go back to Harmony it's definitely a spot any record store aficionado should visit at least once, although maybe not on Record Store Day.

The Replacements: Daring For Slim

 

In 1984, about three years after their first record, news of The Replacements rippled out from Minneapolis. Let It Be was their third album and I read enough about it somewhere that I was convinced to buy it sound unheard. The magnificent I Will Dare is the first cut and before it was over I was hooked. Let It Be occupied the turntable for a whole semester, only occasionally replaced by This Is Spinal Tap. In fact, my roommate Andy played Let It Be so much when I went on vacation that the vinyl didn't sound right anymore and he had to get me another copy. We had never heard anything like it - shambolic yet delicate, punk yet pretty, perfectly crafted songs alternating with pure chaos. This was diamond in the rough stuff and there were some heavy carats waiting to be exposed for all the world to hear.

With each new record I was ever more convinced that The Replacements were going to be HUGE, like REM big. That never quite happened - excessive drinking tends to get in the way of world domination. Nevertheless, they released many good records before imploding in 1990. Chief songwriter Paul Westerberg has carried on, as iconoclastic as ever and constantly taking a stand against too much roughness being polished away. One of my favorite things by him was from a few years ago and called 49:00 - 49 minutes of cheap cover songs, balls out rockers and beautiful ballads, all running into and over each other in an aural collage. It's a work of art and he sold it on Amazon for 49 cents for about a month.

In February 2012, Slim Dunlap, the lead guitarist from the band's second phase, suffered a massive stroke that left him in need of round the clock care for the rest of his life. So Westerberg did what you do in rock & roll when a situation like this crops up: you get the band back together (sort of) and raise some money. It's a testament to the legendary status of The Replacements that an eBay auction of the initial release from the Songs For Slim project raised over $100,000 for Slim and his family.

I did my part to drive up the auction bids but couldn't go the distance and ended up buying it from Amazon. Consisting of five songs, the EP is a bit of a hodgepodge and doesn't quite represent a reconciliation of the surviving and active members of the band. Westerberg appears on four of the songs, along with original bassist Tommy Stinson (who's been all over the map, including a time in Guns N' Roses), while drummer Chris Mars ( now a successful painter) only shows up on a solo track, a cover of one of Slim's own songs.

Overall it's never less then a heartfelt affair and there's a lot of fun to be had. The opening cut, a delightful take on Slim's own Busted Up, is the most fully realized and Westerberg sounds in fine form presiding over the louche Bo Diddley beat. He and Stinson also bash through Gordon Lightfoot's I'm Not Sayin', Leon Payne's Lost Highway (made famous by Hank Williams), and Everything's Coming Up Roses from the musical Gypsy. Slim's Radio Hook Word Hit is catchy and streamlined in Mars's hands and, along with Busted Up, has renewed my interest in Slim's solo work.

The love and affection come through loud and clear and one can only imagine how all this sounded to Slim and his family in his time of need. The project is continuing with further auctions and exclusive recordings - get in on it.

Here's Unsatisfied, a stunner from Let It Be, and Busted Up.

 

 

Napoleon's Legion

I first heard the band Napoleon when they played with Mystical Weapons at Santos's Party House earlier this year. I ended up befriending Julian Anderson (vocals, bass) and Julien O'neill (guitar, vocals) and was eager to hear more of their tight, rhythmically sharp, and impassioned songs, so when they invited me to their show at Legion Bar I made my way out to a gritty end of Williamsburg last Saturday night. Even though Julian had told me they were going on after 11, I was curious about the four other bands on the lineup so I got out there early.

The back room at Legion is about the size of an average living room and it was completely empty when I arrived, with no sign of any music about to be made. I had a fine time waiting with my drink, especially when the bartender put on Let It Be by The Replacements and just let it play. Eventually, I heard something coming out of the other room and headed back there just in time to catch the last song of Rob Karpay's set. That was all I needed to hear of a guy shouting over pre-programmed tracks from his tiny keyboard. I will say that he has guts, and that can go a long way in rock & roll.

The next band was billed as Jizzmoppers, either the best or worst band name of all time, and my expectations were low. I perked up momentarily when I thought the guitarist was Julien from Napoleon, but then I realized it was another guy with perfect lead-guitarist looks. They turned out to have a good (but not slavish) driving psych power-pop sound and well-crafted songs, holding my interest with growing enthusiasm for the length of their set. Speaking of looks, I wouldn't expect a drummer under these circumstances to be wearing headphones - click track? line-in from the PA? - and it gave them a slightly provisional look. Are we witnessing a rehearsal, sound check or demo session? The rhythm section was locked in, though, with the drummer driving everyone on, so whatever works, I suppose. They would do well to fill out their songs with some harmony vocals on the choruses, but they are otherwise well on their way.

They're actually called Spires

Before Jizzmoppers left the stage, the vocalist muttered something about their manager and said they were actually called Spires - much better! Get a free sample of their sound here, and keep an ear out for more.

Spires broke down their equipment, the next band set up, and suddenly the room was packed. "That's our friend," the guy next to me crowed at his girlfriend, gesturing toward Sam Cooper, who was leading the trio. The first song was like three songs in one, but in a jumbled way that didn't appeal to me. I tried one or two more but the focus improved only slightly and his nasal voice failed to become more charming. Since I had been standing for a while, I cut out back to the barroom where I found a full-blown sweaty dance party in progress. There was more joy in that room for me as there is never a bad time to hear Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough. Sam Cooper must have a good network, though, as I saw a group of folks leaving the back room when his set was over.

Visuals

Visuals were up next, a twosome of Marshall Ryan (drums/electronics) and Andrew Fox (guitar/vocals). I had checked out their cool song Levitation in advance and was intrigued. They got off to a rocky start, the perils of no sound check evident in their difficulties in getting the balance of instruments right. Things improved when a helpful member of the audience told the drummer to turn up the electronics - if he hadn't, I would have. Things got better once again when the guitarist broke his cheap instrument, which was tuned only in theory, and borrowed a beautiful axe from Napoleon. The last three songs went off without a hitch, giving a clearer impression of their tense post-punk sonic landscape. No shame if Visuals is more suited to the studio for now, and I'd like to hear what emanates next from their quirky world.

Napoleon had to work fast

Visuals vanished and Napoleon began squeezing their five pieces onto the tiny stage. They worked in a hurry, as it was nearly 12:30 and they only had until 1:00am. Nice guys not only finish last, but they also get the shortest set! Napoleon has bigger stages in their future, but they sounded great in the tiny room, whipping off album-opener Sarafan with polish and passion. Their new keyboard player cut a striking figure, even if they're still figuring out where her instrument figures into the expert two-guitar dialog. Five songs, including at least one new one, and they were done - way too short, but I have no doubt that I'll get to see them again. They packed up so fast you would've thought the wolf was actually at the door.

Napoleon gave their all in their short set

I said my goodbyes and began the long trek back to my bed. It was an invigorating night but I was ready for sleep. The blue and silver exes on the back of my hand would remind me in the morning of all I had heard and seen one long night at Legion.

 

Wire Not Withered

A short while ago, I posted a review of Parquet Courts in concert and called it "Buzz Buzz In Your Eardrum," after the Wire song Eardrum Buzz from 1989. Anyone catch the reference? After all, it was (I just learned) their highest charting single and Wire gets a mention in nearly every Parquet Courts review, mainly thanks to the extremely short songs on each band's debut album. However, even after over 35 years of music and their continuously fascinating travels just under the radar, no one really sounds like Wire.

As with Bowie, Dylan, and other artists with legendary careers, when presented with new output I prefer to deal with the matter at hand and avoid delving too deeply into history and comparisons. Suffice it to say, if Wire had never recovered from the spectacular flameout which followed on the heels of being dropped by EMI after the release of their third album, 154, in 1979, they would still be considered one of the most significant bands of the post-punk era.

But the fact is that they did regroup - twice, first in 1985 and again in 1999 - and now show no signs of slowing down. Even the loss of founding guitarist Bruce Gilbert in 2004 was merely a bump in the road for the band, which now consists of Colin Newman (vocals, guitars, keys), Graham Lewis (bass, vocals, most lyrics), Robert Grey (drums), and Matthew Simms (guitars).

Change Becomes Us is their new record and I snapped up on of the 1,000 copies of the special edition, which comes in a book form including essays by the band and Mike Barnes, as well as photos, lyrics and complete credits. It's a beautiful object, though not excessively precious, and is well-served by the band's overall intelligence and awareness of their process. Though it is not required reading, anyone who loves the sounds on the record will find them enhanced by the words in the book - the first sentence of which forces me to break my rule slightly, as it makes clear that their history is deeply intertwined with this new release.

"The first question any knowledgeable Wire fan might ask about Change Becomes Us is whether it's a new album or a 'project,'" theynwrite and the short answer is both. Several of the songs arose out of revisiting material that was essentially unfinished (or at least undercooked) when they first broke up in 1979. So in a way, they are completing a circle, but there's a tail on the circle, a way out and forward, like on the letter Q. An appropriate image as Q must be one of their favorite letters, encompassing such words as quirky, questing, questioning, and querulous, all of which can be used to describe Wire.

Other words often used are chilly, disconnected, cerebral, which are certainly apt as well, but some of the songs on Change Becomes Us have me thinking that they are often describing those states rather than necessarily embodying them - which is a long way of saying that there is emotional content on this album and I connect to it. I think it's always been there, but it's just been getting more and more accessible. That's not due to any kind of softening, as they can still spray chords and drill rhythms like few other bands, but more the result of continuous honing and artistic (and possibly personal) growth. Change becomes them, indeed.

Graham Lewis can be an incisive lyricist or a conceptual one, and sometimes both simultaenously as on one of the album's best songs, Re-Invent Your Second Wheel: "Your outer skin it will not peel," he sings, "Give me a hint of how you feel/Please raise your face, put down your shield/Then re-invent your second wheel." It's hard to imagine a more direct plea for rejuvenating a relationship, but then the chorus, sung in a croon both seductive and arch, is, "VBFC HOQP TMNY JUXD/UASU RYLI VBFC HOQP." You'll want to join in even if you didn't know that "The basis of the refrain is still an attempt to use all the letters in the alphabet and make it sound good. I kept the letters because it reminded me of R&B and Tamla Motown, like the Jackson Five's 'ABC'."

Wire are a music critic's dream and I could go on like that ad infinitum. But I won't. Change Becomes Us is just too good a record and I wouldn't want my prattle to stand in the way of the experience. I will simply say that every song perfectly combines craft and refinement with the energy and immediacy of live performance. You'll catch some of the words, but they are worth reading (and look great on the page), and close listening will reveal the immersive depths of the layers of guitars and keyboards. This is as good as rock music gets in 2013 and the fact that it represents only the latest example of Wire's long tradition of excellence is merely a dewdrop on the petal (I could've said "icing on the cake" but Lewis's lyrics inspired me to reach beyond cliché). Wire will be touring the U.S. extensively in July - I will be catching them at Bowery Ballroom on July 16th.

 

The Book Of Hook

Art is often the expression of the ineffable, and no art form is this more true of than music. Why does a chord sequence or a melody have the power to elicit an emotional response? Why does rhythm make our bodies move? Why do the lyrics of often very young people continue to illuminate our lives? You can analyze and deconstruct to your heart's content, but sometimes it's best to let mysteries remain mysteries. Of course, that doesn't stop us writers from finding something to say about anything that catches our attention.

And these days, it doesn't stop musicians from writing books about themselves and their music, exposing the inner workings of that which we fans hold so precious. I have avoided some of these books, either because they seem self-serving or because as I just don't want to know too much.

When I heard about Unknown Pleasures: Inside Joy Division by their bass player Peter Hook, I was going to put it in the category of books to avoid. I still find something fragile in their short career, and in Ian Curtis's short life, for one thing, and for another, Hook sometimes seems to be a right bastard in interviews. On further reflection, it was precisely for the latter reason (and an interview with Hook on WNYC's Soundcheck) that I decided to read it. I figured Hook's ability to be unvarnished and even unflattering about himself meant he could be trusted.

Also, Joy Division's music is so intertwined in my very soul that nothing could change my fundamental relationship with it. I can still remember buying my beautiful ruby red vinyl copy of Closer, which was easier to find than the first album, and being instantly captivated. We all were, and even though Ian Curtis's suicide stopped their career in its tracks, it didn't freeze the music in amber: in the world it continued to grow in stature, and in my own life it has grown with me to become one standard by which all music is judged.

Whether it was wisdom or emotion that led Peter Hook to wait more than 30 years before writing this book, there is no doubt that the distance of time is to its benefit. His point of view is disarmingly clear and his recollections ring true throughout. His love and admiration for Joy Division's musical achievement is never in doubt and there is a sense that even though he was a participant he is not entirely sure how he and his rambunctious friends created it. He can describe it, but he can't unravel it.

While Unknown Pleasures is not overtly literary, it is well organized and does not fall prey to the breathless "and then this, and then that" structure of many "as told to" books. Hook also knows how to build drama and excitement as the scrappy group originally known as Warsaw works their way up the music scene in Manchester, to London and beyond. It was a fecund time and place and he does a great job conveying the sense of possibilities and how he and his compatriots in Joy Division, and at Factory, their label made it all up as they went along.

Hook never puts Curtis on a pedestal, but he does recognize his extraordinary talent, which went beyond just singing and writing lyrics. In one telling passage, he describes the essential role Curtis played in the songwriting process: "...he had that ear - he thought like a musician. The way it worked was that he'd listen to us jamming, and then direct the song until it was...a song. He stood there like a conductor and picked out the best bits." He is also unhesitating in his praise and respect for the other band members, guitarist and keyboard player Bernard Sumner and drummer Stephen Morris. He never loses sight of their originality and growing musical prowess. Admirably, even though his relations with them are currently at a low ebb, he never indulges in gratuitous character assassination. The fact that Sumner comes off as essentially a cold and self-involved person seems based in fact rather than hurt feelings. Hook, who lists Closer as one of his top five albums, doesn't let personalities stand in the way of the pleasure of the music itself and nor should we.

The structure of the book is well-balanced between the nuts and bolts of the music itself, the work that went into making it and the often-entertaining antics of the players involved. The fact that these were basically kids acting the way most young rock musicians act also takes nothing away from the indomitable quality of Joy Division's music. The timelines and track by track analyses break up the narrative nicely, with the latter especially being worth the price of admission. His recognition of the greatness of Joy Division's music is not bound up in his ego; he recognizes that they were a fast developing but very young band. I am in full agreement with him that Closer is the stronger of their two albums (although not by much) and that there were still opportunities for growth.

As someone who is not a fan of New Order, I will always feel that those opportunities were wasted. I'm probably not alone in that - Hook himself might agree, but we'll have to wait for his book on his second career to find out. Based on the musical erudition, emotional connection and engaging personality on display in Unknown Pleasures: Inside Joy Division, I just might pick up Hook's next volume.

 

Bowie: Where Is He Now?

When I was 16 I discovered both David Bowie and Burning Spear. I remember writing to a friend that Spear made me feel grounded, at one with the earth, while Bowie made me feel above it all, a god's-eye view, where troubles and joys had the same value. Spear lives in Queens now, not the loamy hills of Jamaica, but when I saw him in concert a few years ago I still got that rich, natural feeling. And how am I feeling now that Bowie is back? Pretty damned tall.

The story of The Next Day has been told in detail by so many publications that I don't feel the need to go into it here. I will say that I come down on the side that Bowie's comeback was, and continues to be, one of the most remarkable public relations coups of recent years. From the "cone of silence" over the recording sessions themselves, to his own continued silence ("He's letting us do all the work," as bassist and vocalist Gail Ann Dorsey put it), Bowie has proved that he is still a master manipulator of media. Remember, this is the man who created Ziggy, a superstar persona that resulted in actual superstardom, after about a decade of trying.

When the song and video Where Are We Now? burst into the consciousness of the world on his 66th birthday, some commented that Bowie looked and sounded frail. But it was instantly clear to me that he was still the actor, with every blink and swallow carefully enacted. Using only his attenuated face, Bowie gave as precise a performance as his legendary run on Broadway in The Elephant Man. The song itself was gorgeous and witty, a wry and romantic look back at Bowie's Berlin days. Nostalgic, yes, but far from cliched. Admit it: you never heard the word Dschungle in a song before, certainly not sung so casually. Produced by Tony Visconti, the sound was lush yet spare, a small ensemble masterfully employed.

Andre Bazin, the French film theorist, created the idea of doubling, where what we know of a film actor's real life informs their performance of a character that is not them. In Where Are We Now? Bowie makes use of this "Bazinian doubling" to lend depth to our experience of the song. He knows what we know about his time in Berlin and allows us to fill in blanks - but that doesnt mean that it is Bowie himself who is singing the song. Bowie is not a confessional songwriter, after all. The "old Bowie" persona in Where Are We Now? may be one of his canniest creations yet, one which gives us access to the emotions of the song rather than distancing us from them. Then the album arrived, with its brilliant cocked snook of a cover, and it was clear that Bowie would not be wallowing in his past but simply standing on it to get to a new place in his art.

The title track kicks the album off with a dry thwack, snarling guitars matched by Bowie's swaggering sneer. While it has a similar swing to Repetition from Lodger, The Next Day is driving and confident with phantasmagoric lyrics based in Bowie's medieval studies. It's an etching of an execution repurposed by The Starn Twins. Cleverly sung from the POV of the slain ruler, the line (by now much-quoted) "Here am I/Not quite dying'" savagely puts paid to the rumors of Bowie's ill health in true Bazinian fashion.

Dirty Boys, ugly and ungainly like its subjects, comes next and solidifies the sense that Bowie is fully engaged as an artist and unafraid to challenge himself. The spacious sound gives room for the three-guitar knife-fight of Gerry Leonard, Earl Slick and Visconti to compete for dominance. Aided and abetted by Steve Elson's baritone sax, the herky jerky rhythm of Dirty Boys is the perfect lead-in to the sweeping onrush of The Stars (Are Out Tonight).

Instantly in the pantheon of Bowie's greatest songs, with a fascinating video to match, The Stars is a dark look at the relationship between the famous and their fans, but instead of the latter parasitically leaching off the former, the roles are reversed: "They burn you with their radiant smiles/Trap you with their beautiful eyes." Leave it to Bowie to find something original to say about our celebrity-obsessed culture, and to wrap it up in such a seductive package, with David Torn's processed guitar lending depth and atmosphere.

There have been some comments (complaints?) that Visconti is not doing enough as a producer on The Next Day. In some senses, he and Bowie employed an old-fashioned approach by having musicians play together in a studio, shuffling players in and out as each song demanded. It is also true that there is little of Brian Eno-style treatments and everything pretty much sounds like what it is. But listening to Love Is Lost and then checking the credits to see that its grandiose sound is the product of just four musicians, with minimal overdubbing (except for the layered vocals), is to realize that all is not as simple as it seems. One of Visconti's greatest achievements, after all, is the gleaming perfection T.Rex's The Slider, which is more the result of the organization of sound and the deployment of resources than any studio wizardry. The same is true of The Next Day.

Valentine's Day also features a small group sound with a complex vocal arrangement, and is one of Bowie's compassionate portraits of an outcast, this time a high school loser who imagines "...how he'd feel/If all the world were under his heel." Maybe all will be well if he meets the girl with the mousy hair from Life On Mars - but I doubt it. It's no accident that Valentine's Day is followed by the overwhelming power of If You Can See Me, with its prog rhythms and shattering vocals from Gail Ann Dorsey soaring overhead. This is Valentine become "the spirit of greed, a lord of theft," and at the head of an rampaging army, his divided self embodied by Bowie's processed singing. It's the kind of song you can imagine on Buffalo Bill's iPod and it sounds like nothing else in Bowie's catalog.

I'd Rather Be High is a Sixties-infused slice of anti-war greatness, with a chorus of Bowies providing the perfect backdrop for the swooping melodies. It's a fantastic song, informed by Apocalypse Now and Generation Kill, and one that John Lennon himself would likely welcome as the b-side of Rain. Like The Stars, it's a bitter pill with a creamy coating and the pure expression of a genius songwriter at the top of his game. One can only wonder at the renewable font of creativity on display.

Boss Of Me and Dancing Out In Space are probably the weakest songs here, redeemed by sheer pop craft, committed singing and unexpected lyrical twists. Bazin welcomes us to contemplate Bowie and Iman's long and happy marriage while listening to Boss Of Me, and Dancing Out In Space is filled with Torn's glorious soundscapes and perhaps the only reference to Georges Rodenbach, the 19th century Belgian symbolist, in a rock song. Both songs are a little silly, but Bowie seems in on the joke and they'd be easier to dismiss if they weren't so catchy.

How Does The Grass Grow? evokes Europe in the throes of a post-war rebirth fertilized by the blood of young men. In a nod to sampling culture it contains an "interpolation" of Jerry Lordan's Apache (a huge hit for The Shadows in 1960), which although I am unable to tease it out leads to the song being co-credited to Lordan. Perhaps this is Bowie's meta reference to his roots in bombed out pre-Beatles England, or it could be a way for Lordan's heirs to get some income. Coincidentally, Lordan went to Finchley Catholic High School, so maybe he was one of the "dirty boys" who stole a cricket bat at Finchley Fair in the earlier song. Or maybe I'm just on a Wikipedia-fueled tangent while Bowie chuckles in the corner.

I'm no fan of Jack White but I recognize the influence of his fractured riffs in the punky intro and hard-rocking verse of (You Will) Set The World On Fire. It's essentially a song of encouragement, unexpectedly set in the Greenwich Village folk scene of the 60's, with the narrator pledging to do whatever it takes to bring the talents of another to fruition. If you're having trouble accomplishing something, consider programming your alarm clock to wake you each morning with this song's explosive energy.

With its Hearbreak Hotel title and Leonard Cohen melody, You Feel So Lonely You Could Die has the form of another Bowie ballad, but its theme is vengeance: "Oblivion shall own you/Death alone shall love you/I hope you feel so lonely you could die." This is Bob Dylan bleak and a long way from the consolations of Rock'n'Roll Suicide. Like much of The Next Day, the contrast between form and content is enthralling.

Bowie's love and high regard for the music of Scott Walker has been well known at least since he covered Nite Flights on Black Tie White Noise in 1993. But album closer Heat is a much more fitting homage, with a sepulchral vocal and the chilly refrain of "My father ran the prison." One way Bowie is most unlike Walker is that while he likes to appear alienated (and maybe he is), he never wants to alienate. So Heat is still beautiful to listen to, unlike one of the room-clearing tracks from Walker's more recent albums, like 2012's monumental Bish Bosch. Nite Flights was the title track of the last album by The Walker Brothers and contained four songs by Scott Walker, which, along with Harmonia's Deluxe, were the biggest influence on Lodger, so this is a debt well-paid.

Bowie is obviously at a prolific place as the deluxe edition of The Next Day comes with three bonus tracks and, while perhaps not essential, they are worth the extra couple of bucks. So She is a short and twisted pop gem, while Plan is the brittle instrumental heard at the beginning of the video for The Stars (Are Out Tonight). I'll Take You There is a fast-paced rocker in the mold of How Does The Grass Grow, though not as fully realized.

Any time we listen to music, it's filtered through our expectations and experiences. With an artist as legendary as David Bowie these two factors are cranked up nearly to the breaking point. Is it even fair to judge The Next Day next to his nearly flawless RCA years, as great a run of albums as there has been in recorded music? Considering that contemporary critics often misjudged those albums as they were released, I would hesitate to compare The Next Day to one of Bowie's 70's classics. Time will likely be the best judge of that. I think there are better questions to ask: Does this album speak to me and move me today? Has it withstood close listening and scrutiny of the music and lyrics? Does it reveal growth and change in Bowie's artistry?

I can answer all of these queries with a resounding YES. The Next Day is a nearly a complete triumph, and one that is far less dependent on Bowie's artistic capital than his last two albums, Heathen and Reality, which were both quite good. As a singer, songwriter and arranger he shows enough variety of inspiration so as to be almost protean, an astonishing feat for an artist in his 60's. He sounds excited and energized and is an inspiration to those of us who plan to continue believing in rock & roll for the rest of our days. Don't wait until tomorrow: The Next Day is today.

Lee Perry: Black Ark Man at 70

I lay in bed, 14 or 15, waiting for sleep to come. I switched over to the AM dial and caught the soothing voice of reggae DJ Gil Bailey, whose show on WLIB I had enjoyed before. Even the commercials, often for local businesses in Queens and Brooklyn (such as Paul’s Boutique, immortalized by the Beastie Boys), were entertaining. 

Then I heard something hard and beautiful: a brutal drum intro followed by a reedy wavering voice: “Welllll, a wicked man I know will live forever...” What WAS this? Then the chorus: “When Jah Jah come, he make hellfire burn/When Jah Jah come, all Babylon have fe run.” The bass line, even coming out of the mono Radio Shack speaker, cut through me, a sound as serious as your life. That bass had a physical quality, a sculpture in sound, and formed an unstoppable groove with the ticking of the high hat, which had been processed into a gleaming chain of mechanical noises. I was wide awake now. Clearly this was reggae of a different order than the Bob Marley I knew or The Harder They Come. I never wanted the song to end, but I also couldn’t wait to hear Gil Bailey say who it was - I HAD to get that record. 

The next day, after school, I was on my way to J&R Music World to buy a record called Scratch and Company: The Upsetters Chapter 1.

This was my introduction to the world of Lee “Scratch” Perry, who had been an apprentice to Sir Coxone Dodd, the founder of the legendary Studio One and one of the creators of the Jamaican recording industry. Perry eventually went on his own, building the Black Ark studio, the source of some of the most fascinating sounds ever committed to tape, and working with nearly every important singer in the roots reggae era. As the avatar of dub reggae, where sounds are manipulated with echo and other effects and instruments and vocals drop in and out of the mix, Perry was a central figure in the “Jamaica-fication” of popular music. Thanks to his innovations, and those of other Jamaican wizards, the producer became preeminent, recording musicians in the studio only the beginning of making a record, and a song can be the subject of endless remixes. 

Most of all, however, he made fabulous record after fabulous record, a river of music  barely contained by the many discs I have. Any serious collection should have Heart of the Congos, Police & Thieves and at least one collection of Perry's work with Bob Marley. Sometime in 1979, either due to a mental breakdown or in an attempt to extricate himself from punishing business relationships, Perry torched the Black Ark and left Jamaica. For most of the last 30 years, he has been residing in Switzerland, still making the occasional records and guest appearances. In fact, he will be appearing at Le Poisson Rouge with Adrian Sherwood and others on May 30th as part of NYC in Dub.

Whether he’s truly nuts or just crazy like a fox, Perry deserves to rest on his laurels as someone who changed music in seismic ways - the aftershocks are still being felt today. I never go anywhere without 20 or 30 Perry-related songs on my iPod. Thanks to labels like Pressure Sounds, there is inexhaustible stream of new material to absorb. 

I am still in touch with that visceral reaction that I had that night, listening in bed. The liner notes on the back of Scratch and Company put it very well (all grammar from the original): “The Emotional Thrust The Burning intensity and the expressive feel in his recording stream; Here is a small drip of what I am talking about...listen in depth and you will hear what I mean and love it." 

The Black Ark man turns 70 today. It's more than time to "listen in depth" if you haven't already.