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 one 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,'" they write, 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.

Crossing Into Night: Dinnerstein & Merritt

Simone Dinnerstein stunned the world of classical music in 2007 when her self-produced recording of Bach's Goldberg Variations shot to the top of the Billboard chart. Wherever her version ultimately ranks on the list of the many, many recordings of these popular pieces, it was immediately obvious that the record introduced an artist with an uncommon ability to communicate. Fortunately,while her playing may have been slightly over-romantic, this was in no way a dumbing down of Bach. Since then, she has continued to seek ways to inject freshness in the music of Bach, Schubert and Beethoven, among others.

Dinnerstein's expressive playing and down to earth approach made her ripe for a full-on classical crossover project like Night, the new album she made with Americana/alt-country singer-songwriter Tift Merritt. Released by Sony Classical on March 19th, Night is a moody and well-programmed collection which includes originals by Merritt, classical selections, traditional songs and songs by Billie Holiday, Brad Meldhau, Patty Griffin, and Johnny Nash.

It is likely that one of the larger contributions to the success of Night is its long gestation. Rather than being thrust into the studio and being forced to create, Merritt and Dinnerstein first met in 2008 and soon found a musical affinity. Working together meant a push out of comfort zones for each of them but their friendship ensured a mutual support system rather than an attempt to defend their own territories as can sometimes happen with such collaborations.

Of course, the pleasures and intentions of the artists are secondary to the experience of actually listening to the music. So what have they delivered on Night? In keeping with the title, this is a dusk-imbued album with a hushed quality that avoids drifting into preciousness. The rich involving sound of the record belies the spare instrumentation, which features only Dinnerstein's piano (played like a zither on at least on song) and Merritt's guitar and harmonica.

Merritt is rare among many current female singers in that she sings without affectation or overt mannerisms. That said, she is well aware of the parameters of her voice and knows when to push and when to restrain. A perfect example of this is the stunning interpretation of When I Am Laid In Earth (here called Dido's Lament), an aria from Henry Purcell's opera Dido and Aeneas. Demonstrating a real flair for theater, Merritt for a few minutes becomes the vanquished queen of Carthage. But this is a Dido shorn of baroque and operatic finery and the rough edges Merritt finds in her voice are electrifying.

Dido's Lament is certainly a standout piece on Night, but not so much that it doesn't fit beautifully between Holiday's Don't Explain and Meldhau's bluesy I Shall Weep At Night, which was written specifically for this album. Besides the Purcell, the other classical contributions are Night and Dreams, a lovely arrangement of Schubert's Nacht und Traum, a short Bach Prelude, and the world-premiere recording of Daniel Felsenfeld's The Cohen Variations, based on Leonard Cohen's iconic Suzanne. The latter two are both instrumentals, and, while I wouldn't mind hearing Merritt sing Cohen, they do a nice job of breaking things up.

Felsenfeld's piece is reflective, like the song it's based on, and avoids capital-V virtuosity, which can be said for Dinnerstein's work overall on Night. Her playing is direct, flexible, and uncluttered, and blends beautifully with Merritt's guitar when they play side by side. The more I listen to Night, the more I am struck by how much of a meeting of musical minds it is. Rather than a shotgun wedding, this is a true collaboration without either hipster self-consciousness or condescending stiffness.

While I was not overly familiar with Merritt's songs before listening to Night, I have enjoyed getting to know them. Based on the four Merritt originals on the album, including two remakes, she is a very solid songwriter, with searching, emotional lyrics and well-shaped melodies. Her songs feel fully realized in the stripped down presentation here, but I'm looking forward to exploring her back catalog in more depth.

Perhaps the only faltering moment on Night is the album closer, which is Dinnerstein and Merritt's own arrangement of Johnny Nash's pop-reggae classic, I Can See Clearly Now. The wistful exuberance of the song is not very well served by the spare arrangement, which sounds distinctly like a demo. While I like the idea of an upbeat ending to this occasionally somber album, what we end up with is betwixt and between and never quite finds its footing. It's not unpleasant, but just doesn't quite hit the sweet spot, unlike the rest of this gorgeous album. Night deserves to gain new fans for both Simone Dinnerstein and Tift Merritt, and to leave those fans looking forward to more from the duo.

Tickets are still available for their appearance at Merkin Concert Hall this Thursday, March 21st. After that they will be appearing around the country, so keep an eye out in your area. Dinnerstein returns to Le Poisson Rouge in NYC on June 9th with the Goldberg Variations.

Sly Stone: Funky 7-0

To my mind, there are three overwhelming geniuses of funk in the history of music: James Brown, Sly Stone and George Clinton. All of them are among my favorite artists but I would hazard that Sly is the most misunderstood. The 60's Sly - he of Woodstock and taking you higher - and the 70's Sly - he of blown concerts and "running away to get away" - are almost two different people. The culture embraced the former and, over time, rejected the latter. Perhaps that, more than the tragedy of his addictions, is what drove him into exile.

By the late 70's and early 80's, his later records were out of print and either maligned or forgotten. It was ironic because as his star waned, bands like the Ohio Players and Kool and the Gang had major success serving up an uncomplicated (if wonderful) version of what Sly had pioneered. In the early 90's, a friend sent me a copy of Fresh. I called him in California while it was still playing and asked why no one was talking about this record, why it was out of print (except on pricy and quasi-legal imports) and, most all why wasn't it in the canon? "I don't know, Jeremy, sometimes I think it's because it's just TOO funky." It is hellaciously funky, but after listening a few more times, I decided it was really because it was too personal.

Unlike a lot of funk and soul artists, starting with the masterpiece of There's A Riot Going On, Sly seemed to singing about specific people and situations instead of abstractions. Family Affair used to scare me slightly as a child - it was so real, so human. But as I got deeper into his catalog I just found more to love - and more to be sad about, since (aside from the odd appearance - sometimes very odd)  he seems to still be mostly in exile - from us, from his talent and from himself. Whatever his demons, from 1967 to 1980 he produced a remarkable catalog of work.

Fortunately, by now his catalog is in pretty good shape, with expanded versions of almost all of his albums easily available and a new box set on the way. Get it all.

James Brown is the giant, and George Clinton came from the Mothership on high, but Sly was the man who walked among us, dealing with his family, his past, and his worries. He gave of himself in a unique way over some of the most amazing grooves of all time. Here's a few of them to celebrate Sly's 70th birthday.














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Buzz Buzz In My Eardrum

It was the most buzzed about show of the...week? Month? Day? Either way, the buzz for me was only about one of the three bands playing at Bowery Ballroom last Thursday: Parquet Courts. In fact, I had bought the tickets with nearly complete ignorance of the other two bands on the bill, Nude Beach and The Men, the ostensible headliners.

I had fallen hard for Parquet Courts back in January, when What's Yr Rupture reissued their debut album, Light Up Gold. Their songs distill early Pere Ubu, Wire and Velvet Underground, with a little of The Strokes and The Walkmen tossed in, into a fresh, driving sound. The accomplishment of the music, with it's tight rhythms, canny guitar interlock and contrasting voices, is nicely contrasted by the slacker aimlessness of some of the lyrics. Many of the songs are short, so Stoned & Starving at 5:11 stands out. At whatever length it would be an instant New York anthem: "I was walking through Ridgewood, Queens/I was flipping through magazines/I was so/Stoned & starving." Just try not to sing along.

Everything pointed to Parquet Courts being a great live band, too, so I put them in my Songkick, hoped for the best, and snapped up the first tickets I could. Before the show, I did my due diligence and listened to Nude Beach and The Men. The former is a shockingly traditional band. Tom Petty is often mentioned, and he is definitely present, along with The Replacements and Stiff-era Elvis Costello. Their second album, II, is not bad at all, with some catchy tunes. The Men I initially found confusing as they've made some whiplash shifts, from wall-of-noise meta-punk on their earlier albums to the sometimes more pastoral sounds on their latest New Moon. The vocals are not very distinctive and I can't say I found any of it terribly convincing but I would at least be walking into Bowery Ballroom with some measure of what to expect - and with open ears.

The show was sold out and, while the room didn't fill up for Parquet Courts, everyone who did get there early enough to see them was devoted. They set up without fuss, with singer/guitarist Andrew Savage and singer/guitarist Austin Brown flanking bassist Sam Yeaton, and drummer Max Savage at the back. The name of the band comes from Yeaton's hometown, where the Celtics play on parquet courts in the famous Boston Garden (who wants to call it TD Garden? Not me), and songs often began with his emphatic bass setting the tone. Andrew Savage is an expert at the Lou Reed single-string + controlled feedback solo and his sinewy lines were consistently engaging, while Brown mostly played chunky rhythm guitar. Max Savage is a great drummer and his attentiveness to his band mates allowed them to shift from one tempo to the next without hesitation.

They doled out the short songs expertly, often creating vertiginous portmanteaus of two songs with one ending on the upbeat and the next starting on the down. The way No Donuts collides with Yr No Stoner on Light Up Gold gives a good idea of what was a thrilling effect in an overall thrilling set. It was a spare 45 minutes, due to them being first on the bill, and could have perhaps used a touch of chaos. I plan to be there when they start headlining and (hopefully) pushing their music to the edge in a much more crowded room.

The three members of Nude Beach took the stage next - Chuck Betz on guitar, Ryan Naideau on bass, and Jimmy Shelton on drums. As promised by their album, they were tight and fun if maybe missing that one standout song and the indelible singing that could separate them from the pack. I found much to admire in Betz's guitar solos - each one told a concise little tale with a beginning, middle and end. I stayed for the whole set and wouldn't be surprised if more exciting stuff comes from them down the pike.

It was coming up on 11:00pm on a school night and I decided to leave it to The Men to convince me to stay later than advisable. I got my coat from the coat check and moved to the back of the room, which was now jammed to capacity. Anticipation was running high in the crowd and while I was not untouched by its contagion, I remained an outsider. The band eventually took the stage, minus their drummer, and started up one of their big noisy intros, with a sax wailing away in the mix. Eventually, the song proper kicked in when the drummer joined them and the audience went nuts. I remained unmoved and when one of the guys went into an ill-fitting amateur-hour monologue about Jimi Hendrix, I gave up and left. I am grateful to The Men for one thing: their utter mediocrity kept me from being severely sleep deprived for a very demanding schedule the next day.

Classicism: Possibilities and Pitfalls

The Free Dictionary defines classicism as "a term that, when applied generally, means clearness, elegance, symmetry, and repose produced by attention to traditional forms." Just as in other art forms, some musicians are classicists, steeping themselves in the music of the past and using it to fuel new adventures. Three new releases exemplify this idea, two of them with great success.

Amor De Dias - The House At Sea When the first album by this collaboration between Alasdair MacLean of The Clientele and Lupe Nunez-Fernandez of Pipas came out in 2011, it had the feel of an extra-curricular one-off. Though it took three years to make, it went by like a breeze, with sun-kissed pop abutting tender songs redolent of British folk and bossa nova. It was an addictive combination ended up on my top ten for 2011. However, there was always a little part of me waiting for the next album from The Clientele. Now that we have The House At Sea, I'm not so sure. If MacLean is anything, he's a classicist, with a deep engagement in 1960's rock from The Beatles and (early) Pink Floyd, to The Zombies to The Monkees. One of the problems with classicism is that it can become a cul de sac, leading to art that turns in and in on itself until there's no room for it to breathe. This is a pitfall that The Clientele flirted but never succumbed to as their albums grew progressively more refined.

It may be that with Amor De Dias, MacLean has found the perfect exit from that particular conundrum. By collaborating with Nunez-Fernandez, he's able to cut ties to the band format and freely employ the settings that best serve the songs, and they are beautiful songs. While all the compositions are credited to Amor De Dias, it seems safe to assume that Voice in the Rose, the title track, and especially Jean's Waving, are essentially MacLean songs - in fact, they feature The Clientele's rhythm section and wouldn't sound out of place on one of their albums. But there is a lightness that was not always easy to access on some of those Clientele records, delightful as they are. Also, Nunez-Fernandez contributions are stronger this time, setting off MacLean's work perfectly.

The House At Sea is an exquisite album, it's rich sound and detailed arrangements belying the nine-day recording cycle and small number of players. As with all of MacLean's work, the influence of slightly lysergic surrealism introduces a welcome element of darkness. There are definitely shadows in the sunlight. The final track, Maureen, is one such piece, a haunting Morricone-esque beauty that may hint at another direction for MacLean, another way out should he find himself in one more cul de sac: soundtrack work. Wherever he goes, and with whom, I'll be sure to follow.

P.S. I'll be following Amor De Dias to Hoboken when they play at Maxwell's on March 21st. They'll also be at The Knitting Factory on March 22nd, before hitting Philly and then the west coast.



Jenny O. - Automechanic I first encountered the former Ms. Ognibene when she opened for Jonathan Wilson last May. She performed solo and I was immediately struck by the craft behind her intriguing yet sturdy songs, a few of which were instantly memorable. Her voice was high, a little pinched, and could seem slight, except when she startled me with remarkable breath control, perfect phrasing or unexpected range. That night, when she mentioned she was working on an album with Wilson, my hopes were high.
Now Automechanic is here and it has met, and sometimes exceeded, those expectations. 

The songs are as well made as I remembered, with propulsive verses, catchy choruses and lyrics that can be tough and gimlet-eyed or sunny and positive. You get the sense of a young woman proud of her self sufficiency ("Made all my own tools/Yeah I can machine," she sings on the title track), but longing for connection ("Good company is hard to find," she allows on the jokey, Ringo-esque Hey Neighbor), while being knocked off balance by the demands of relationships ("I flipped my lid off/went to far," she confesses on Opposite Island). This all adds up to a winning, engaging and very human presence, a person you can imagine getting to know.

Wilson, who has done superb work as a producer on his own Gentle Spirit and on Father John Misty's Fear Fun, sets each song like a little gem. Though he's known for embodying the sound of Laurel Canyon and California in general, he's not locked into any one sound. The hooks on Come Get Me, for example, come courtesy tuned tom toms, a fat synth, and perfectly placed tambourines. The solo section on the same song features a few licks from an electric sitar followed a spray of space rock from Benji Lysaght's guitar. None of this detail is gimmicky, however, just in service of the songs. Other songs touch on funk and southern rock swagger (I can imagine Good Love showing up on the soundtrack of Justified).

Some of the songs are quite short, and the album as a whole goes by quickly, but that should be an invitation to slow down and pay closer attention. There's a lot of emotional and musical detail packed in on Automechanic and not a lot a wasted space. Jenny O. has done her homework well grafting DNA from Lennon, McCartney, Stills, Nash, Nicks and other "classic rockers" into her own distinctive style. I think we'll be hearing more from Jenny O, but right now I'm just looking forward to seeing her perform these terrific songs with a full band. While there are no dates in my area yet, others have plenty of opportunity.

Listen to Come Get Me
Come Get Me

Johnny Marr - The Messenger Thanks to the many, many interviews Marr has done to promote this album, we have more details on the classicist impulses of his first band, The Smiths. From emulating the sound of The Shangri-Las, to having definite ideas about the color of the label on their first single, Marr and co-conspirator Morrissey turned a decade of in-depth study of their forbears into what became the finest English rock band of the 80's, and one of the best of all time.

As endlessly stunning and inventive as Marr's work is on those Smiths records, I have found his latter career quite underwhelming. Yes, there have been a few terrific gun-for-hire moments like The Right Stuff, his co-write with Bryan Ferry. Before giving The Messenger another full listen, I spent the day listening to Electronic, his band with New Order's perpetually weedy Bernard Sumner (embarrassing stuff), the album he did with Modest Mouse (Isaac Brock is awful and Marr makes little impression), Talk Talk's Mind Bomb (aiding and abetting Matt Johnson's pretentious twaddle), and the album he did with The Cribs (pretty good, but they also do fine without him).

Unfortunately, after all the publicity, The Messenger turns out to be a highly mediocre effort that too often cranks up the energy levels to obscure the colorless production, characterless singing and sophomoric lyrics. There are some nifty guitar sounds and arrangements, but nothing that surprises or tantalizes like How Soon Is Now, or entrances like Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now or Ask. On the whole, The Messenger sounds like the work of someone hung up on his own hype, and stuck in the past. Not only has he turned his classicist tendencies toward less interesting source material than he used in The Smiths, but those tendencies seem to have gotten the best of him on this airless album.

I would say it sounds like it could been have made 10 years ago, but the fact is Marr made a better record 10 years ago. Though The Messenger is being touted as his first solo album, in 2003 he released Boomslang (terrible title, I know) under the name Johnny Marr & the Healers. He sings more naturally on Boomslang, there's more variety to the production, the rhythm section (including Zak Starkey) feels more flexible and the songs are more dynamic. He also does a nice job of incorporating other influences from the past, including a warm psychedelia that's unexpected. It's in no way a classic, but looking back, it pointed toward a future that had the potential to be more interesting than what has actually happened in Marr's career. Message received: As good a guitarist (and interviewee) as he is, Marr's album is a dud.

More to come - I have pre-orders of Atoms for Peace and Wire in the works, and just received an advance of the new album from Nicholas Cords of Brooklyn Rider.

How's 2013 shaping up for you so far?

Richard Wagner: Tod und Hassliebe

"As a human being he was frightening. Amoral, hedonistic, selfish, virulently racist, arrogant, filled with gospels of the superman (the superman naturally being Wagner) and the superiority of the German race, he stands for all that is unpleasant in human character." (Harold C. Schonberg, The Lives of the Great Composers, 3rd Ed.) 

Like it or not, we live in Wagner's future.

His ideas about how to delineate characters through musical themes is the foundation of film scoring since the silent era. Also, his vision of opera as a "gesamtkunstwerk" (unified artwork) encompassing music, visuals, narrative, dance and staging has had a tremendous influence on all performance-based endeavors. His scholarly work on mythologies preserved some of the central motifs of human storytelling for posterity.

In addition, he is an inspiration to all artists for his belief in himself and how incredibly hard he worked  to become the composer he wanted to be. "His early works showed no talent," says Schonberg, and Wagner's family was not shy about letting him know that. But he persevered through poverty and humiliation, and succeeded completely, becoming the most famous composer in the world and immensely wealthy. He built Bayreuth, a temple to himself and a hall custom-designed solely to perform his works. In a final expression of his self-belief - and arrogance - performances of his final opera, Parsifal, were restricted to Bayreuth for 30 years after its premiere in 1882 (although the Metropolitan Opera only waited until 1903). Bayreuth continues to present solely Wagner's operas 130 years after his death.

None of this would matter if he had not created some of the most sheerly beautiful music ever written, and some of the most exciting stage stories as well. Perhaps because he presented himself as godlike, yet likely knew that inside he was all too human, his ability to get in the heads of the gods and goddesses of the Ring cycle transformed a tale that could have been mere swords and sorcery. All of his characters, in fact, are simultaneously iconic and down to earth, which may be the dramatic key to the endurance of his works in the opera house.

But it all comes back to those endless melodies and mesmerizing harmonies, creating a framework for spectacular singing and marvelous orchestral sounds. The question about the relationship of the art and the artist is age-old and not going anywhere. In his time Wagner promoted some truly despicable philosophies, which made it all too easy for the Nazis, 50 years after his death, to co-opt his music for their own nefarious purposes. Wagner challenges us to look beyond his pathetic human frailties and to see the splendor of his art. 

How beautifully appropriate that the man responsible for the indelible Liebestod, which tells of a love that can only be consummated in death, breathed his last on the day before we celebrate Valentine's Day. As you sink your teeth into chocolates tomorrow, why not immerse yourself in Wagner's glorious and complex sound world.

Getting Mystical at Santos

After working for over 10 years in the non-profit world, one of the wisest pieces of advice I ever got about fundraising was "It's always a bit of a mess." Fortunately, I was also given a corollary to help me maintain my optimistic outlook: "It always works out in the end." These aphorisms were borne out on Thursday, January 31st, at Feed The Kids Art, the America Mambouka foundation's launch event at Santos Party House. The headliner was Sean Lennon and Greg Saunier's Mystical Weapons and, having missed their last show, I made it my business to get there. In the weeks leading up to the gig, I also became acquainted with Napoleon. Not the exiled French emperor, but rather an up-and-coming psych-rock/pop band - the best in NYC according to the readers of The Deli.

So that's how I ended up on Lafayette street below Canal, one frigid night after a quick bite of squid at Excellent Dumpling House. Here's the report as it happened...
My first time to Santos and, having been slightly spoiled by the tight ship of shows run by Bowery Presents, I'm slightly taken aback by the disorganization. Even after trying to be fashionably late, I'm still early. Whatever - after waiting in the cold for a bit, and then again at the box office, I'm finally shown downstairs. I open the door and...it's going to be a long night. The room is nearly empty, although the fog shot through with colored pin spots is creating more than enough atmosphere. 

One of the young DJ's featured in the America Mambouka calendar is spinning and the groove sounds good so I order a drink and settle in.

The room was atmospheric but empty when I arrived.

Sean Lennon is by the bar so I say hi. We met years ago, at Mike D.'s infamous scavenger hunt birthday - "The best ever!" declares Sean. I also mention the concert by his band, The Ghost of a Saber Tooth Tiger, that I took my daughter to at South Street Seaport a couple of years ago. He is gratified to hear that we still talk about it. "Oh yeah, I felt good about that one," Sean says. When I ask if they might tour again, he says "So much work with that band. This (Mystical Weapons) is easy - we just improvise." Easy, maybe, but only after you've spent years becoming master musicians like Lennon and Saunier.

Eventually the amusingly named "Sarah Tone In" takes the stage and thanks us all for coming. True to her word, she and her DJ Alanna Raven play one track - serrated electronic beats over which she raps rhymes about a misfit. The line about not taking advice from Bobby Brown garners some knowing cheers before the song ends with a convincing a cappella.

Santos has invested well in their sound system and the Missy Elliott song that drops next sounds fantastic. Timbaland's vintage but still futuristic beats also feature in Alanna Raven's solid and funky DJ set.

Kenley Collins of Project Runway welcomes us in a slightly more formal fashion before inviting Sarah Tone In back for another song. She's a trouper, gamely rapping to the small crowd and not taking indifference for an answer. Truth be told, she has serious potential and its good to hear a female rapper immune to that Gucci Gucci Kesha Kitty Pryde bullshit.

The rhythms take a slightly different turn when the organization's founder Devi Mambouka herself spins for a few minutes, edging into DJ/Rupture territory, before Bijoux's turn on stage. Bijoux comes with a rock edge thanks to her pink hair, 4/4 beats and anthemic choruses. Fat Tony inserts a lighthearted rap and their genuine chemistry is obvious. They're one and done and Mambouka starts rocking her laptop again. She's the real deal and may very well be one of NYC's best kept secrets - at least to me.

I can't lie - the nonprofit professional in me cringes slightly when a live auction of original artwork is sprung on the sparse crowd. Fortunately, the auctioneer is unflappable and it's over quickly. Mambouka is next to the stage and she and her brother give a little background on the mission of the foundation, which is rooted in their experiences as artistically inclined immigrants from Gabon being raised in the Bronx. The funds raised tonight, and through their IndieGogo campaign, will provide after-school art and music programming to the kids at the West Harlem Residence. Good people, good intentions, and I'm sure they'll do good things.

Speeches done, the five members of Napoleon fill the small stage and launch into their set. Having only listened to their album once, I am immediately struck by how many songs I recognize. The bright, dense treble of Julien O'neill's Gibson SG meshes nicely with the sparser sound of Jared Walker's hollow body guitar while Julian Anderson's taut, spacious bass lines keep things moving. Harrison Keithline's drums are locked in tight and the sound is filled out by their new keyboard player who makes the biggest impression on the last song, a new one they plan to record next week.

Napoleon

I like Napoleon's approach, which is slightly reminiscent of The Walkmen with a healthy dose of new wave and a sprinkle of psychedelia, ska and reggae. They have several strong songs and, like The Walkmen, are not afraid to wear their hearts on their sleeves. I'm looking forward to more from them.
I step into the foyer to try to get a better cell signal and chat with Julian and Julien for a while - nice guys - and when I walk back in I am confronted by a topless woman on stage. She's singing in a monotone over programmed tracks reminiscent of Suicide. This must be No Bra. While her music is not entirely uninteresting, the complete lack of humor - or any kind of emotional modulation - quickly grows wearying.

She finally finishes and another young DJ takes over, laying down a devastating mix that includes noise rock, Led Zeppelin, Tame Impala, and The Slits. It's refreshing and brings me back to a night over 30 years ago on Laight street, just a few blocks from Santos, when I first danced to I Heard It Though The Grapevine.

Now, Sean Lennon may think Mystical Weapons is an easy gig, but it's anything but easy for his roadie who takes quite some time getting everything in order. Saunier's kit is basic, but Lennon's rig includes a couple of guitars, a bass, some keyboards and a mind-boggling array of effects pedals and other electronics. There is no ado - they get on stage and begin. Unlike their terrific album, there are few moments of space or contemplation: the music goes from fury to rage, the volume from loud to louder. Lennon is all over the stage, expertly making use of all that stuff, and the roadie proves to be an honorary third member as he remains completely available to Sean, whether to tune the bass, hand over a guitar, or keep the stage relatively clear so Lennon doesn't trip over something.

Minutes into the set, the slightly larger audience is mostly pressed up against the stage, soaking up the glorious noise. I go into tunnel vision, my focus becoming absolute on Lennon and Saunier's hairpin turns and juddering stops and starts. My hyper-attentiveness is completely rewarded, and while I acknowledge Martha Colburn's visuals on the small screen, the real movie is in my mind. Saunier is likely one of the best drummers in America right now and his ability to make everything groove is one of the elements that make Mystical Weapons work so well. He can pursue abstraction but is rarely far from finding the backbeat or funk in whatever Lennon throws at him - which is a lot. From motorik loops to screaming wah wah and feedback drenched solos, and from grungy bass lines to swooping electronic washes, Lennon is blissfully all over the map.

Sean Lennon

Greg Saunier and that hard-working roadie

They play continuously for about 40 minutes before doing an encore of sorts by switching positions, Sean at the drums, but we're all pretty much spent. Whether Mystical Weapons is an ongoing project or just another byway in Lennon's fascinating career, I'm very glad to have had a chance to witness one his and Saunier's brilliant excursions.

More power to Devi Mambouka and the America Mambouka foundation. Yes, it was a bit of a mess, but it all worked out in the end. As I hail a cab on nearly-deserted Canal Street, I'm thinking that when word gets out about the kind of party they throw, it's highly unlikely that there will be many more half-empty rooms in their future.

Bob Marley

It seems fashionable in some hipster circles to dismiss Bob Marley, as if he didn't make REAL reggae, like  Augustus Pablo or Linval Thompson or Burning Spear or Junior Murvin. I can sort of see why some people might feel that way. He wasn't the most innovative of the reggae greats and, while he could sing sweetly, he didn't have the deliciously light touch of Gregory Isaacs or Dennis Brown.

None of that matters, however, because by the time he died, Bob no longer belonged to reggae, he belonged to the world. Through his incredible songwriting and otherworldly personal magnetism he became a global superstar, some even said a prophet.

Even that doesn't matter to me, though, because I have my own personal relationship with his music. Rarely have I taken such deep pleasure and succor from an artist. When I was 16 I got the Exodus album and listened to it every day for the summer. Since only the lyrics to the title track were printed, I painstakingly wrote the rest out. Through that process, I learned about Marcus Garvey and Paul Bogle, and was led to an in-depth study of Jamaican history and culture, which continues to this day.

Years later, a song from Exodus got me through one of the hardest nights of my life, when my son was in post-surgical pain and I sang him to sleep with Three Little Birds. The song came unbidden to my lips and worked like a charm.

Exodus was followed by the somewhat underwhelming Kaya, and then by Survival, which I've always felt was underrated. I downloaded it after not listening to it for a few years and when So Much Trouble In The World spilled into my headphones I thought "The world needs Bob Marley" - and I still feel that way. My daughter and I listen to Survival every morning on the way to the ski area and I can see that Marley has become part of her soul, too.

I have my own hipster moments when I think the weirder, rawer stuff he recorded with Lee Perry is his best work, but I love it all. I was lucky enough to see him (it was quite a night) at his second-to-last NYC concert and he was beyond charismatic, neither his singing nor his dancing humbled by his fatal illness. Think what he could have accomplished if he had lived for another 36 years - at the very least. Happy 68th birthday, Robert Nesta Marley.

Anxiety of Influence

A website with the URL www.influentialalbums.com has been making the rounds, asking folks to take a survey of how many of the 100 listed albums they own. The taunting tag line is: "Very few people own 70 or more. How many have you got?" When this cropped up in my Facebook newsfeed, my first thought was: "Influential? Sez who?" So I did a Whois look up on the domain name but came up dry - the owner's name is privacy protected. Based on how quickly the quiz has spread, and my knowledge of how much social media integration can cost, I figure it has to be a company with some marketing dollars behind it.

Update: In comments that he later deleted, the creator of the list had this to say: "This is hilarious! "I figure it has to be a company with some marketing dollars behind it". The rest of it is quite accurate. I didn't really put a great deal of thought into it. I didn't foresee this thing getting as big as it has. I just wanted to have a go at a Facebook app. It is really a 'best albums' thing compiles from other lists and some of my record collection. I couldn't find a decent domain name so stuck with 'influential'. Nice article/blog, though." See below for more of his thoughts.

While I certainly think a discussion of influential albums is a good idea, if only to carve out some space for music that distinguishes itself by something other than sales, one has to ask what the agenda behind this list is. Upon even a cursory look, it definitely has a "rockist" bent, some might even say a white bent. Of the 100 albums listed, only four are what might be called black music: What's Going On, Innervisions, It Takes A Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back and Blue Lines. If I wanted to be generous and include bands led by African-Americans, the number would increase to six, with the inclusion of Axis: Bold As Love and Forever Changes. But that's a stretch.

Whoever put this list together should be ashamed on that count alone. Where is the Robert Johnson, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Ray Charles, Ike & Tina, The Isley Brothers, James Brown, Smokey Robinson, Marvelettes, Aretha Franklin, Otis Redding, Albert King, Sly Stone, P-Funk, Bob Marley, Michael Jackson, Lee Perry, Isaac Hayes, Curtis Mayfield, The Meters, Chic, Donna Summer, Prince, Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five, Run DMC, Tupac Shakur, Notorious B.I.G., OutKast, Mobb Deep, Missy Elliott, 50 Cent, R. Kelly, Dr. Dre, D'Angelo, Jay-Z, Kanye West - I have to stop now because I'm just getting angry. Do these people even listen to music?

Also completely ignored is the world of Jamaican music, which, between the production innovations of dub and the idea of "toasting" over music, has transformed the world of popular music over the course of the last 40 years. Jazz is pitifully represented by a single album, Take Five by the Dave Brubeck Quartet. Good thing Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker, Billie Holliday, Charles Mingus, Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane, and, oh yeah, Miles Davis have good old Dave's cocktail hour classic to represent their 100 year tradition of innovation and syncopation. Classical music is not on the radar either, even though Terry Riley's In C, Steve Reich's Come Out, and Phillip Glass's Glassworks, not to mention the 1,000 years of music from Hildegard von Bingen to Gyorgy Ligeti, are in the DNA of much that followed.

Some of these sins of omission are due to the myopic time frame of the list. The oldest record on there is Bert Jansch's self-titled debut from 1964.That brings up a host of issues as it disinherits such minor characters as Elvis Presley and Buddy Holly, not to mention Jerry Lee Lewis. The blues and early country music, widely recognized as the very foundations of rock music, are also absent.

One thing they get sort of right is the idea that an album doesn't have to sell a lot to be influential. To some who have commented on the list, I would say that just because you haven't heard of it doesn't mean it's not influential. Perhaps the list will do some good by turning people onto some things they were unaware of. Remember, the classic line on influential music is that only 100 people bought The Velvet Underground's first album but each one of them started a band. Naturally, the "Influential Albums" people screw that one up by including the third VU album instead of the first. And that's not the only time they make an error like that, either. Including Donovan is debatable, but I think you could make a better case for Sunshine Superman over A Gift From A Flower To A Garden - and I could go on.

Seeing Gerry Rafferty's City To City on the list caused a passing thought that I was being punked.

Finally, as much as I applaud their effort to include more recent music (Radiohead, The Strokes, Arcade Fire and Bon Iver certainly deserve to be there), that it comes at the expense of hugely important artists like the ones listed above - not to mention The Yardbirds, The Who, The Doors, Black Sabbath, Elvis Costello, The Specials, Metallica - is NOT OK. But then little about this cheesy list is OK. Back to the drawing board, people!

Now, did I take the quiz? Of course I did, I'm as much a sucker for these things as anyone else. I clocked in at 48 out of 100. Out of the 52 that I don't have, there are some where I have another record by the same artist, some that I need to get, and many more that I have no interest in owning. Frankly, I thought 48 was a solid number - if you have many more than half, I might start to wonder how discerning your taste is, or if you ever pay for music. But that's a rant for a different day.

 More thoughts from the creator of the list:

“If I'd called it 'my record collection and a few more that some other people might like' then I don't think it would've succeeded as much."

"Maybe it has got so big because of the controversy surrounding the 'influential' tagline. I think if I do something like this again, I'll think a bit more about what I should I call it."

"The reason the domain name is hidden is because it was bought from namecheap.com and they give you a free thing to hide your domain information. I wouldn't have bothered if it didn't come free with it. I could reveal my identity but I'm not sure that would be a good idea now. I think I've pissed off a lot of people with this thing."

Based on what he says, I'd hire him for social media consulting!

Best of the Rest of 12: Out of the Past

Each year, while I spend most of my time trying to tame the tsunami of new music coming my way, I also can't ignore the flood of reissues and other older sounds. Here are a few that caught my ear.

High Temperature Soul

The Real Gone label has done something on the order of a public service with their Little Willie John collection, Complete Hit Singles: A's & B's. First of all, until now, no one except for John, the musicians, and the engineers have heard his songs sound so good. These are definitive remasters, crystal clear enough to hear the air in the horns, but still with the warmth of feeling that John infused into all his music. John ruled the charts and the Chitlin Circuit from 1955-1961 with such songs as All Around The World, the original recording of Fever, Talk To Me, Talk To Me and Sleep. His style was controlled and articulate, descending from Nat "King" Cole and Charles Brown, but with an injection of rawness that was very new. His persona was equal parts swagger and vulnerability - in his songs he was often controlled by his desire for the female object of desire and begging for relief or release. While some of the arrangements are made slightly cheesy by the overuse of backing singers, most of these songs are fresh and completely engaging.

John was a complex character, devoted to his family but also enamored of proving his toughness and manhood. This latter behavior got him in deep trouble and he died in prison at the age of 30. In his short career he charted 14 times and provided crucial inspiration to James Brown, who commemorated him on a 1968 album. Thanks to Stevie Wonder, who has worked with John's son Keith for years, he was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 1996. As much as I dislike Jack White, I give him a nod for covering I'm Shaking, hopefully leading some listeners back to the original. This is an essential collection that pays due respect to an American original. If you want to know more, Grab the excellent book Fever: Little Willie John; A Fast Life, Mysterious Death and the Birth of Soul by Susan Whitall with Kevin John.

I'm now eagerly awaiting Real Gone's reissue of Freddie King's complete King and Federal singles.

Still Celebrating

I went off on this when it was released, but I'm now even more convinced that Celebration Day by Led Zeppelin is firmly deserving of a place in their legendary canon, alongside other the other posthumous releases How The West Was Won and BBC Sessions. In the world of classical music, we're used to multiple interpretations of pieces, often many years removed from their composition. In a way Zeppelin bring that idea to classic rock, presenting the songs with all the passion and brilliance we expect but without nostalgia, demonstrating the continuing relevance of their work. In this way, I suspect it is unique in the history of rock music and will likely remain so for quite a while.

Their Mission, Your Trance

A recent feature in Mojo Magazine made it quite clear that even Jim Kerr and his fellow Simple Minds realize that their best material is contained on their first five albums. Or maybe they just wanted to sell a few more copies of X5, which puts all those records, with extensive bonus tracks, into to a nice (and nicely priced) little package. Combining a tough rhythm section with atmospheric keyboards and guitars and Kerr's warm but stentorian baritone, the music on these albums defines the sound of the post-punk and new wave eras and is free of the arena-ready posturing that mars much of their later work.

Uncanned and Uncanny

The amazing thing about The Lost Tapes, the staggering three CD set of previously unreleased music from Can's peak years (1968-74) is that the ratio of jaw-droppingly great tracks to frustrating and self-indulgent ones is exactly the same as it is on their classic albums. Do not hesitate.

Manchester Movement

Not many people know that Factory Records, known for such exemplars of post punk and dance music as Joy Division, New Order and Happy Mondays, was also briefly the home to a reggae band. X-O-Dus only released one 12" but it's a doozy, containing two long tracks, masterfully produced by dub specialist Dennis Bovell. The long-awaited English Black Boys collection beautifully presents those two songs as well as tracks from an unreleased follow-up album, most of which are excellent. They were developing into a band that could come hard with politically-minded cuts like the two on the 12" and also bring a deliciously light lover's rock touch to songs like If You Need My Lovin. It seems like the band atomized around the same time Factory lost interest in releasing any more reggae! but we can enjoy it now - except for the last three songs, which are real scraps and should have remained on the factory floor.

Versions of Versions

Another year and another great Lee Perry compilation from Pressure Sounds. The Sound Doctor holds 24 killer cuts, direct from dub plates and 12" singles. The sound is dense, hissy and addictive. Perhaps some of the vocalists are not the best Perry worked with, but this is in no way the bottom of any barrel. Also, thanks to Other Music, who also tipped me to the X-O-Dus reissue, I recently learned of two other Perry-related releases that demand investigation: Disco Devil and Presents Candy McKenzie, both on Trojan. The first collects 12" mixes from 1977 and the second is an unreleased album, also from 1977. Perhaps Trojan rejected it at the time because their attention was taken up by deathless masterpieces like Heart of the Congos and Police and Thieves, which Perry also recorded in that annus mirabilis.

2012 also saw fascinating collections focusing on groundbreaking work by Laurie Spiegel, whose severe electronic music was memorably featured in The Hunger Games, and Leslie Winer, one of those uncategorizable denizens of the NYC scene. However, I'll merely point you in their direction as I haven't had a chance to digest them. Besides, with the end of January on the horizon it's time to throw myself fully into the 2013 and the wonderful year of music ahead.