The Contrarian

Why I Don't Play Live (Often).

But when I did, it looked a lot like this.

My co-worker Chhaya just published a really thoughtful post about touring (and traveling for work) over at Liquid Sunshine. Unlike Chhaya, I never felt called to a life on the road, but I certainly understand outgrowing something you previously held dear. For me, it's live performance, which so many people associate with the music, but I now find tedious. And it's not all about travel, although I definitely did my share of that back in the band days.

The driving was fine, and the company was occasionally tolerable, provided I'd had enough coffee/booze/sleep. What always got me was the waiting around. I really hated dragging my shit into the club and being basically trapped there between soundcheck (if you were lucky to get one) and set time. Sure, you could walk around town, but there's always the need/compulsion to get back to the venue. You could sit at the bar and drink, but if you have the relationship to alcohol that I have, that isn't always the best idea. (I'm a perfectly jovial drunk, but the problem is if I start, I just keep right on going. This can lead to messy performances, which I really can't stand.) So mostly you just roam around bored, every sticker on the walls confirming your understanding that there are simply too many bands out there.

You don't really meet the best and the brightest on the road, either. Soundguys will talk you ear off about their new compressor and how they once ran front-of-house for Whitesnake. That's if they talk to you at all; often they just mumble monosyllables. Until you spill beer into their monitors, that is. Then they demonstrate a quite colorful vocabulary.

Audiences, while often appreciative, are typically soused. They shout ridiculous shit at you (especially if you're the frontperson). Sometimes they even get up onstage and step all over your pedals. Believe me, I've been tempted to react like Jay Reatard does in this here clip. Actually, I do recall getting a little testy back in the day. (If I caused any unanticipated dental work, you have my sincerest apologies.)

Also, the pay pretty much sucks for playing live. I've found I can much more easily subsidize my gear habit by mixing/mastering other people's work. Don't get me wrong, I have been paid pretty well for shows, but I always had to split it with other people! (Plus it was the old days.) Hmm, maybe I'm just selfish.

It's true that there's something exciting about the chemistry between the right players. I've been there before, and some pretty incendiary shit came out of it. Unfortunately, it's a lot like relationships: the volatile ones usually produce the most passion, but are the hardest to sustain. Intensity can so easily slip into mutual antagonism.

The only downside to studio life these days is that there's less value to recorded music. Pricing is pretty well fucked, with major stars setting out the online begging cup. But as Don Van Cleave of the Coalition of Independent Music Stores told me just yesterday, we're only about seven years into the Digital Disruption. It will eventually stabilize. Or so we hope.

Another problem with studio work is that it really brings out your perfectionist tendencies. I still write what I consider to be interesting music that's well-played, but since I have essentially endless amounts of time to revise and re-envision, I can take forever to release anything. I thought my new record, Northern Lights, was done, but now I think I'm gonna make some further alterations. I'm like Axl Rose but without the hair extensions. And I can play everything myself, ha! 

Wow. That's a lot of blathering. But I guess that's what blogs are for.

Record Stores.

Tomorrow is Record Store Day (remember those?), so if you're lucky enough to still have one in your 'hood, be sure to swing by and say "Wow, I didn't know you guys were still here! Where do you keep your Coldplay?" Trust me, the clerks will love it.

The wackiest, most carefree years of my life were spent working in a storied indie shop. Yet I find now myself purchasing almost all of my music online. And what I don't buy, I "rent" via Rhapsody. I am the modren man, as Styx once sang. (Can't believe I just typed that.)

Yet I sometimes wish I could return to the good old days. Many of—ahem—today's generation are doing just that, by purchasing vinyl LPs like they're going out of style. Again.

I'm hoping to interview Coalition of Independent Music Sellers honcho (and FMC advisory board member) Don Van Cleave in the coming weeks. I've been talking to a lot of very smart people about the future of digital music, so I figure I should check in with the old-school record-slingers to get their take on where shit's heading.

In the meantime, here are some links about brick 'n' mortar music retailers:

Enjoy Your Local Record Store While You Can [Idolator]

Record Stores Fight To Be Long Playing [New York Times]

A Tour of DC Record Shops [Washington Post]

Thurston, McKaye & Watt in Record Store Documentary [Pitchfork]

Their Satanic Majesties Request.

So you're probably aware of the new Martin Scorsese concert movie about the Rolling Stones. It's playing in IMAX theaters here and there, which is great if you wanna see Keith Richards' wrinkles in Grand Canyon-esque proportions. I think I'll skip it.

I have no idea why I'm writing this particular post on this particular day. Sometimes you just gotta follow the whims of The Great Magnet. So please indulge my exegesis on the perpetually misunderstood Stones LP, Their Satanic Majesties Request.

Conventional wisdom holds that the Stones should never have attempted a psychedelic album. Conventional wisdom is partially right. Truly, Mick and co. had no business going lysergic, other than to escalate their pop-cultural Cold War with the Beatles. The Fab Four had just released Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, which was the psych-pop shot heard 'round the world. You think the Stones were just gonna roll over?

They probably should've. Provocative title and famously goofy album cover aside, most of of the record fails to capture the whimsical trippiness of the era, instead offering a hodgepodge of half-baked musical motifs and self-consciously fanciful lyrics. Sitars, tremolo and hard panning do not a great psych record make.

Which isn't to say there's not some interesting music on TSMR. "Citadel" is fairly groovy, but Jagger's paisley melodies just don't fit his musical personality. He's great as the sexually knowing über-cad, a guy with a forked tongue and designs on your daughter. Here, he just sounds silly. They should've sold this one to the Zombies, who know what to do with a trip-fop number.

Surely you've heard "2000 Man" in whatever Wes Anderson movie it appears in. I can't listen to it without thinking of the Butterscotch Stallion or Jason Schwartzman. And I've had enough of that, thank you.

I'm sure the failures of this record aren't for want of proper drug use. Maybe it was the wrong kind of drugs. Because only "Sing This All Together (See What Happens)" comes close to a proper outer-limits jam. 

"She's a Rainbow" features string arrangements by one John Paul Jones, who later anchored the low end for Led Zeppelin. His contributions don't make the tune any better.

But "The Lantern," with its shuddering guitars and spacey vocals, is excellent. Check it out for yourself. 

It's not like the Stones can't get psychedelic — it just needs to be part of the periphery, rather than front-and center. "Moonlight Mile," from 1971's near-perfect Sticky Fingers, shows what the band is capable of when they employ psychedelia in service of a solid song.

You can't really call Their Satanic Majesties Request  a complete failure — it inspired Brian Jonestown Massacre. I think that's a good thing. And dismal reaction to the album forced the Stones to focus on their real strengths— namely, hoary pop-rock with blues and country overtones.

End Transmission.

Tonight's the Night.

Will Jason Bonham's kick drum feature his Dad's locked-rings symbol? Hope so.

I know, I know: you've had it with my Led Zeppelin reunion posts. Well, tonight's the big night across the pond, which necessitates at least another entry.

Although the recent Rolling Stone cover story was encouraging, there seems to be some last-minute trepidation from the boys geezers in the band. Jimmy Page, for example, doesn't want fans to compare tonight's performance with their epic shows of yore. According to NME:

"I'm not going to compare anything to anything," he said. "Before you know it people will be asking how this [reunion show] compares to the '70s."

For reasons I previously discussed, Zep have had to rearrange their tunes to accommodate for age and rustiness. I pray this doesn't mean an Egyptian chamber group backing them up like on Page & Plant's '90s performances. But it's hard to tell from this article:

Page added, "When we did [1994 MTV performance with Robert Plant] 'Unledded' we totally changed the format of he songs. It was revisiting, but it wasn't a facsimile reproduction."

The always reputable FOX News suggested that Page was even getting cold feet:

There was still some talk Monday at the rehearsals that Page wasn’t absolutely certain about joining Robert Plant and John Paul Jones for the reunion. But Led Zeppelin will go on, and the word is that their two-hour set will be a precursor for their first tour since bell bottoms were in fashion.

Even Robert Plant, who previously flat-out denied the possibility of further shows, is hinting at a new campaign. Sort of, anyway. From a recent interview:

Despite previously saying that tonight’s (December 10th) show at the O2 Arena would be a ‘one-off’, Plant told the Sunday Times that “it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to play together from time to time.”

He was quick to explain what he said later in the same interview, however, claiming that it was “somebody else inside me was saying that."

“Not the bloke from Wolverhampton,” he added. “The bloke from the land of the ice and snow, the bloke with his shirt unbuttoned down to his waist  — and he can shut up. We’re not having any more of that. It was great, but I’ve got to go down the highway now.”

It pains me to admit it, but even if they tour the US with wheelchairs and respirators, I'm going. Better clear out some space on my credit cards.

In other news, I had a dream last night that I saw Ben from Farm playing on the National Mall with a different band. They/he were pretty good.

One song left to record for my album Northern Lights. Maybe it'll be done by Christmas?

Rihanna and Other Crap. . . By Jebson Interlandi

Spot International Correspondent Jebson Interlandi in the audience  and win, well, nothing.

It's been difficult for me to write anything lately. I'm missing a few brain cells, and I attribute this to the recent Rihanna concert I caught, free of charge, thanks to an old friend of mine who is now her guitarist.

I was hoping to meet her backstage, but no such luck. Has anybody seen that episode of Saxondale where Tommy goes backstage to party with the Queen cover band and they're all out of their wigs, drinking smoothies, eating tangerines and playing on their laptops?  Not that Rihanna is anyone's idea of an actual band, but it nevertheless seems to me that even most "real" rockers are getting soft. I've long dreaded the day when standard backstage behavior would consist of snorting lines of crushed vitamin C pills, sipping green tea and playing Scrabble™ with Jesuit missionaries.  Well, I'm afraid the hour is upon us. Call me old-fashioned. I still believe in whiskey and coke(™).

In contrast to the lack of proper debauchery exhibited by today's fresh-faced superstars, I've been catching up on theories of genius from the 18th century. Interestingly, the normative language of the day for describing traits of "genius" — particularly in the case of Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart — coincided with an emergence of travel literature describing shamanic personalities. All of a sudden, artistic theory was being modified by the discoveries of the shamanic performer and his/her behavior: irrational, mad, eccentric, possessed, wild, ecstatic, etc. This romantic notion diverged from the "adulthood male" approach to art, which was rational and disciplined. [ED - We riders on the storm call it Apollonian v. Dionysian]. Apparently, these road journals discussing Siberian and Amerindian shamans gave the top music scribes of the day some of their most colorful lexicon. And henceforth, genius was synonymous with the "androgynous child."

Perhaps I'll stop there. I'm not sure how much nerdiness I'm allowed to exhibit in one entry.

I hope everyone was able to catch this excellent Guardian UK blog featuring a post by Moz, or Morrissey, as he's more commonly known. The piece was in response to his "provocative" interview with New Musical Express. You know, the old "create-a-racist" shtick. NME seems to employ hacks who aren't even familiar with Bowie. Maybe Casey should be writing for them. Casey actually asked me once if Dave Bowie (as he actually called him) was "that guy" who wrote "Major Tom."

"No," I told him. "That's Peter Schilling." 

"Oh," Casey replied.  After a pause and an awkward smile, he continued: "I love that song! 4, 3, 2, 1."

[ED - I must clarify that I am an expert on "Dave" Bowie, and was listening to Peter Schilling's synth-pop tribute to the Thin White Duke back when Jebson was but a spark in his father's drunken, leering eye].

Synergy Is For Suckers.

Save Journey from the poorly-pixelated hamburgers!

It's common knowledge that I don't much care for the Guitar Hero series of videogames. And I'm doubly pissed that the fake "Rock Band-Band" keeps hijacking my precious VH1 Classic. You wanna hang out with your friends and bash out classic rock songs? Buy some cheap gear and clear out the basement, like real human beings.

I know, I know, it's a goddamn special thrill to wield a crappy piece of plastic and pretend that you're (a decently-rendered avatar of) Slash. But Guitar Hero and its spawn aren't the first electronic games to feature popular musicians. Back in the early '80s, I thrilled at the Atari 2600 game featuring everyone's favorite Sopranos scene-stealers, Journey. And there were more, too. Anyone remember the Aerosmith arcade game where you fought fascist overlords with a gun that fired CDs?

Maybe you don't. That's cool: Wired has kindly published an overview of the most memorable rock star-themed games ever released. And by memorable I mean, worthy of a few post-ironic guffaws.

In other news, we're about to entertain a few family members for the holiday. If there's an unusual lull in posts, that's why. Hell, maybe I'll make my mom write something. As a regular reader, she's probably got our tone down cold.