Click to buy if your elevator’s speakers are out-of-order and you need something to reduce the anxiety on the ride to the 54th floor. Avoid otherwise.

Predictability is a funny thing when it comes to music. 12-bar blues, for example, is obviously predictable in terms of structure, based on I-IV-V chords typically arranged in an I-IV-I-V pattern. Any idiot can follow the chords to a 12-bar blues song. What makes blues exciting is either the passion of the singer or the creativity of the soloist: the artist uses the convention as a foundation to express fresh ideas.

Structure doesn’t have to kill creativity; in fact, it often enhances it by forcing the artist to find those new ideas in the same old place. The Shakespearian sonnet has lasted for centuries with a similarly stable structure. Sometimes a poet or a blues singer will mess with the structure to shake things up and heighten the meaning or the feel, like dropping a syllable in a sonnet line or shortening or lengthening one or more of the twelve bars (Robert Johnson did that frequently), but there is always the return to the basic structure that serves to give the reader or listener the comforting feeling of coming home.

Some musicians take a different approach and eschew the predictable. Brian Eno, Robert Fripp and The Vicar immediately come to mind, but a more instructive lesson comes from what Miles Davis did on Kind of Blue. He abandoned scores and even chord progressions for the modal sketch (you can learn more about modes here). Each musician was given a set of scales to play with that defined their boundaries, but not much beyond that. In Ashley Khan’s book Kind of Blue: The Making of the Miles Davis Masterpiece, the event is described as controlled chaos: the musicians essentially showed up at the studio one day with little idea of what they were about to record. Miles gave them a few tips and off they went. The result was one of the greatest jazz albums ever recorded.

With rock and pop music, the issue of predictability is a bit more complex. There are conventions, to be sure, but more possibility for variety than in the blues. Still, there are limits as to how much you can do with chord structures and discover something fresh in these genres while avoiding the bizarre and losing the rhythm. Oasis was onto something in Dig Out Your Soul with its frequent use of half-step chord changes (B to Bb, for example), creating a knockout kick-ass rock song in “Shock of the Lightning,” but, as has been their pattern since inception, they imploded in another tiresome battle of the brothers. The Dahlmanns work wonders with very traditional, predictable chord patterns because of their energy, enthusiasm and commitment to let it rip.

I will confess to a general preference for explorers searching for something beyond the tried-and-true. The person who best described my preferred approach to pop and rock music was none other than Paul McCartney, who became a reliably predictable bore in his post-Beatles career. In an interview with NME in 1966—during the period between Revolver and Sgt. Pepper—McCartney talked about how change was essential to The Beatles’ continuing success:

We have always changed our style as we went along and we’ve never been frightened to develop and change.

I think this has been the reason for our continued success. We could have stopped thinking up new things and brought out ‘Son Of Please Please Me’ or ‘The Son Of Love Me Do,’ but that was not on. We work on one song, and record it, and then get tired of it. So we think up something very different. The strength of any act is doing something that you wouldn’t associate with them.

For instance, I feel that the Supremes are too alike with most of their discs. If they did something good and you said, ‘Who’s that?’ and were told ‘The Supremes’ and you hadn’t identified it with them, you’d be pleasantly surprised. That would add to the strength of their appeal.

All of which brings us to the latest release of Camera Obscura, the Glaswegian indie pop darlings who rode to fame on the same wave of love for all things Scotland that gave us Belle & Sebastian and horny women obsessing over men in kilts. The issue of predictability came up like this: in the first round of my required three rounds of listening, my evil side took over halfway through the second track, a song that definitely sounded like something I’d heard before. I gave myself a challenge: that I could predict every chord change from the third track on.

I nailed five songs in a row, had a little hiccup (I was probably getting cocky) then scored with the next three, ending up with a score of 98%. The bottom line: from a musical perspective, Desire Lines is a complete bore. I had a hard time distinguishing some songs from the others, and when playing the album on my iPod, I had to check to make sure that I hadn’t accidentally activated repeat mode.

In addition to the predictable chord changes, Desire Lines continues Camera Obscura’s continuing march down the path to overproduction, unnecessarily crowded arrangements that add little of interest, and way, way, way too much reverb and echo on Tracyanne Campbell’s vocals. Her vocals earlier in her career were more intimate and introverted; here the production turns her sweet voice into something reminiscent of all those losers on American Idol. I was astonished to read that Neko Case did background vocals on Desire Lines; the arrangements are so mushy I had to strain my ears to identify her rather distinctive voice.

When the chord patterns are predictable and the production questionable, the only places to turn to find something of value in a record are the groove or the lyrics. Forget about the groove here: il n’existe pas. It’s happy pop slop for the most part with a very slight nod to jazz in one song and a dash of country in another. The production doesn’t help much, as any faint hints of rhythm are buried in the muck. However, I had great hope for the lyrics, for I’d often found Tracyanne’s lyrics interesting and witty.

Not this time. The lyrics are pretty pedestrian, with hints of past cleverness but really no there there. Here’s a snippet from “Do It Again” (hardly an original title):

Call my number: twenty-six and three-quarters

Turn all the lights down

Let’s do it again

You were insatiable

I was more than capable

And you fought in my corner

Would you do it again?

You, you’re walking around

Can you see tears on this clown?

One more time around

Let’s do it again

Let’s do it again

Let’s do it again

Let’s do it again

Perceptive readers will note the nod to Smokey Robinson. One feeling I had listening to Desire Lines was that many of the songs echoed melodic lines and styles of artists from the pre-Beatles 60′s era like Connie Francis and Rosie and the Originals. This is not a bad thing in itself, but they took that tendency a bit too far with the song, “Every Weekday.” Whoever controls Rick Nelson’s estate would be very interested in that track, as the melody is clearly lifted from “Traveling Man.” The title track gives a nod to Carson McCullers; fortunately, I can find no evidence that Ms. McCullers ever penned a pop song, so her estate’s attorneys are out of luck.

A desire path is what humans create when they want from Point A to Point B and take a shortcut through the woods. If the desire path here was to create more conventional, predictable pop that would offend no one, Camera Obscura has succeeded completely. I wish them well on their journey but will take my delicate ears elsewhere to satisfy my preferences for more depth and originality.

Fortunately, I don’t have to look far in Bonny Scotland: Glasgow’s Admiral Fallow combines striking lyrics, novel arrangements, remarkable power and yes, originality.

Click to buy this Alt Rock Chick-recommended collection of retro sounds, solid rhythms and super-duper vocals.

In the first part of my interview with Robert Morrow, he asked me what I listen for when sampling new music. I stuttered, stopped, changed my mind, contradicted myself and did all the stereotypical blonde things until I hit on a word: commitment.

What I mean by commitment is that the artist has a crystal clear idea of what they want to accomplish and goes all out to realize that vision, often taking some artistic risks in the process. Commitment is something you can sense in the sound, in the energy, in the connectedness between vision and execution. A good example is Songs from the Wood: if Jethro Tull had produced an album consisting of same-o, same-o Tull songs wrapped in a few superficial trappings of Merrie Olde England, the album would have been a dog. Instead, they made a commitment to integrate many conventions of British folk music into both the lyrics and the arrangements while spicing up the music with contemporary sounds. It represented a departure and a significant risk, but they made the commitment to get it right . . . and they did.

I also tried to describe what turns me off, and I did a really lousy job of it, probably because I was thinking about how nice Robert Morrow’s mustache would feel brushing up against my clit. How can you think about what turns you off when you’re thinking about what turns you on?

Anyway, after I listened to Beach Day’s Trip Trap Attack the requisite three times and reflected on the experience over the next couple of days, I re-engaged my brain to tackle that weighty question. Why is Trip Trap Attack so damned good and most everything else I sample absolute crapola? I finally had my “aha” moment when that irritating bitch Adele appeared on someone’s office radio. I even came up with a theorem, just like in Geometry! Here it is:

“The size of the production must correlate to the essence of the music.”

Today, most popular recordings are “big.” The vocal is enlarged by maximizing reverb and echo. The instruments are enlarged by distinct digital panning, noise reduction and volume, volume, volume. The effect of bigness is to make the listener feel like they’re listening to something important, like a breaking news bulletin.

I have a secondary theory that all mainstream music today is specifically engineered for the television commercials that the music will eventually support, but it’s not ready for publication until I do more research.

What’s interesting is that the most powerful music is often underproduced, or “small-sized.” It creates a sense of shared intimacy with the listener. Think of  ”Waterloo Sunset,” “Suzanne,” or Hank Williams’ “I’m So Lonesome, I Could Cry.” The arrangements are marked by subtlety; the production restrained. All are exceptionally powerful songs.

The vast majority of popular recordings today have the intellectual depth of a puddle two days after a rainstorm. The lyrics are full of clichés that can easily be transformed into advertising jingles. The essence of the music simply does not justify the drama (size) of the production. Today’s music is largely designed for thrill-seeking morons vulnerable to superficial stimuli seeking escape from their dreary lives. The experience is one of fake intimacy, like porn star sex films. Pretentiousness rules the day.

Beach Day’s début album is anything but pretentious. The musical style is a combination of pre-Beatles girl group, non-falsetto surf music, power pop and classic rock. The production is pure 45 rpm, straight out of the early days of rock. The energy is irresistible and the lyrics contain flashes of brilliance. Beach Day had a clear idea of what they wanted to accomplish and they pulled it off. They made the commitment and saw it through.

My theorem works!

Trip Track Attack opens with a song called “Walking in the Streets.” In reality, it opens with a tiny laugh, followed by a combination of drums and what sounds like a guiro (fish). Even before the power piano chords and unadorned guitar come in, you get a strong sense of Phil Spector in his salad days before he became a murderous weirdo loser. Kimmy Drake’s voice seals the deal: it’s a rich, slightly nasal voice with a sexy mix of attitude and sweetness perfect for the genre. The lyrics begin in girl-chases-boy mode, shifting in the second verse to boy-chases-girl mode: these are two confused ships passing in the fog of young adult relationships. An instrumental segment closes the track, featuring Kimmy’s dead-on classic whoa-oh-oh’s and a beautifully reedy organ. What’s interesting is that this track is drenched in reverb, as was the norm in early American recordings, but the track doesn’t sound “big” and cold in the least. That’s because recording technology in the early 60′s was quite limited, the studios quite primitive and the recordings largely monaural. Bigness was impossible; reverb was used to compensate for technological and architectural limitations. The effect in girl-group songs ironically served to enhance the intimacy: it felt like your girlfriend had pulled you into the girls bathroom to tell you a secret. That’s the sound they’ve managed to duplicate in “Walking in the Streets.”

Before you get the idea that this is going to be a 21st century update of either The Shangri-Las’ Myrmidons of Melodrama or The Very Best of the Ronettes, Beach Day takes a sharp turn into power pop with “Boys” (not Ringo’s “Boys”). A straight-ahead rocker with some nice melodic variations and hotter organ bursts (ooh, I like that phrase!), “Boys” shows us that the band knows how to rock while reminding us that sex, sex, sex is at the core of rock ‘n’ roll.

Beginning with a tom roll that awakens memories of The Ventures, we shift to surf music with “Beach Day.” I’ve always loved how life seemed so accessible back in the early 60′s when gas was 27¢ a gallon, making it possible for teenagers everywhere to lug Nehi bottles back to the mom-and-pop to get enough cash to fuel that night’s date:

It’s a beach day, baby and I’m comin’ to pick you up

I’ve got some change in my pocket and I’m comin’ to pick you up.

Today pop bottles come in disgusting plastic and change is this annoying thing you can’t wait to get rid of in the coffeehouse tip jar. What’s different in this song is (if the Gidget movies I’ve watched are accurate representations of the era’s socio-cultural norms) that it’s the girl doing the driving and calling the shots. As it should be! The song fades with a nod to The Beach Boys and the best harmonies on the album. ”Stay” (no, not a Maurice Williams cover) comes next, opening with the kind of staccato attack that opened The Supremes’ “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” (no, not the Vanilla Fudge cover). This track adds more contemporary guitar distortion in spots, but also features a repetitive riff-based guitar instrumental that would have been right at home on Shindig.

My favorite song on the album is the definitely-girl-group melodrama “Seventeen.” Drummer Skyler Black opens the song with a bass drum lick that probably required a great deal of discipline not to try to rush it. He’s joined shortly by sweetly strummed guitar chords and the solid grounding of Natalie Smallish’s bass. My reaction to what comes next was “My fucking god, this woman has a beautiful voice!” To say that Kimmy Drake nails this one is an understatement. It would have been very easy to overdramatize this performance, but she avoids overacting and delivers the goods with genuine feeling. The guitars, bass and drums work exceptionally well throughout, and the lyrics are a tiny poetic gem (according to my transcription, anyway). The theme is the timeless American theme of escaping parental programming and finding your own way in life, with “no particular place to go”:

He was only seventeen

When he’d broken all his mother’s dreams. (2)

He was learning how to speak

By watching all the kids on the TV.

Did he know which way to go?

His friend took him where the wind blows,

He said, “I’ll be back someday.”

I was only seventeen

When I met him playing sleigh bells on the street

I was learning to how to be discreet

But my heart always followed its own beat.

Did I know which way to go?

My feet took me where the wind blows,

I said, “I’ll be back someday”

I was only seventeen

When I’d broken all my mother’s fancy dreams.

Tough one to follow! Lucky for us, they’ve got just the song, “Trip Trap Attack,” a bouncy little number that tells a story that will resonate with countless numbers of women who have dated a loser. An annoyingly chatty, full-of-himself and name-dropping reviewer on Pop Matters by the name of Zachary Houle wrote one of the dumbest comments I’ve read in a review in a long time in relation to this song: “Despite the fact that some of the tracks are just plain silly (what is, in fact, a “Trip Trap Attack”?) . . . ” With that gem, he identifies himself as one of the many males in modern society with exceptionally poor listening skills who are terminally oblivious to the world around them, especially to the women that inhabit that world. And that’s the subject of the song! Kimmy is stuck in a car with a guy who’s full of himself and completely unaware that he’s giving his date the creeps, the yawns or a combination of both. Let’s spell it out for poor Zachary. The woman is riding in a car with a guy (a trip) feels trapped (“I’m stuck in a car with you again.”) and experiences an anxiety attack (“And the things that you said to me/Make me feel like you’re my enemy.”) Got it? Sheesh! Did you ever think of actually listening to the music you’re reviewing?

Sorry, but irresponsible reviewers piss me the fuck off.

“Little Weird” is a good antidote for anger, as it’s a kick-ass rock song supporting the blessed notion of individuality and finding someone who can actually accept that in another person. Full of hand-claps, pounding drums and ringing cymbals, this is an under-two-minutes mood lifter that has to make you smile. “Come Back to Me” takes us back to girl-group mode with an appropriately melodramatic lead vocal and high school romance imagery (I want him/nah, I don’t want him). There’s a nice Shangri-la-ish conversation between the two girls that’s only missing the sound of snapping gum to confirm its authenticity.

“Wasting All My Time” is a song with a dominant line that should be the mantra for the billions of stressed-out people trying to negotiate their way through the complexity of modern life: “I’m sick of wasting all my time worrying about things that I have no control of.” The harmonies and guitar counterpoint work well, and the throbbing drums echo the intensity of that “I’m sick of this shit” message. It’s followed by the slightly dissonant chords that open the melodic “Am I the Only One,” a melancholy driver where the power pop feel contradicts lyrics that describe symptoms of loneliness and depression. The album closes with the sexy bass-driven groove of “We’ve Gotta Go,” reminiscent of some of the better stuff the Go-Go’s did in their prime.

After what seemed like an endlessly long period of listening to new releases that weren’t worth the time and energy for a review, Trip Trap Attack has restored my sagging spirits. Florida’s Beach Day is a tight and energetic group with a solid début album that will immediately appear in my list of recommendations. They’ve taken tried-and-true conventions and infused them with contemporary sentiments and genuine feeling, making the music sound as fresh as it must have felt blasting out of those pocket transistor radios perched next to all those beautifully tanned bodies stretched out on the beach at the peak of summer.

Alt Rock Chick Review of Trip Trap Attack by Beach Day (PDF)

I feel like watching Golden Girls reruns tonight . . . but feel free to click if you’re in the mood for something darker.

Sigur Rós is a group whose music is usually characterized as “ambient,”  a genre reserved music that is really boring unless it’s part of a movie soundtrack or a modern dance performance. I rather liked the three pieces they did for Merce Cunningham’s dance company, “Ba Ba Ti Ki Di Do,” but then again, modern dance is one of my favorite art forms. It’s relatively easy for me to imagine the possibilities of choreography when I hear a piece of music.

However, I rarely bother with modern films, as Hollywood has decreed that movies should be loud, violent and preferably sequelizable rather than subtle, intelligent and original. I still haven’t forgiven the people who dragged me to see Avatar and the first movie in the new Star Trek series. I would describe the modern film industry as a purveyor of cheap thrills, and I have zero interest in vampires, zombies, comic books, video games, wizards or any of the other escapist fantasies people seem obsessed with these days. I have seen only one major movie in the 21st century that I enjoyed: The King’s Speech.

I don’t think they considered Sigur Rós for the soundtrack.

Kveikur is the latest from Sigur Rós, an album described as “darker” by the critics. This means the movie needs to be about ghouls, black mages or psychotics. If you like that kind of thing, you’ll love this album (though you’ll have to skip the track “Rafstraumur,” as that piece calls up images of good fairies). Kveikur could also work for D&D and Warcraft fans to spur them on in their orc-killing frenzies.

Personally, I was astonished at how musically unimaginative the album turned out to be. The basic chord structures are obvious and sonorous, particularly to someone who has been immersed in Miles Davis and John Coltrane for the past month. The rhythms vary little from the funereal beat of a dirge. The Icelandic skat (“Vonlenska”) the band often uses in place of words gets rather tiresome after a while. What makes it “dark” is a heavy use of minor chords, distorted bass and big, often sudden drum thumps combined with occasional bursts of white noise, static and a host of other annoying noises . . . in other words, nothing that would tax the imagination.

What’s interesting is that “dark” is usually a foreshadowing of “pretentiousness.” Curiously, I don’t think Kveikur is particularly pretentious . . . but I won’t know that until I see the movie, will I?

It’s not a movie that I want to see, but I always love to let my readers draw their own conclusions. Here’s the video for the opening track . . . consider it an unrated film preview:

And now . . . back to Golden Girls.

The perfect antidote to the summertime blues. Click to buy.

In all the excitement surrounding the move to France, I forgot, ignored or blocked from my mind the fact that my carefully crafted relocation plan meant that I’d be stuck in Paris during the summer.

The place sucks in summer. Invaded by thundering herds of Texans, whose braying accents can be heard clearly above the chatter of the millions of other visitors who descend ravenously on La Ville Lumière, one of the most beautiful cities in the world turns into a chaotic, cacophonous mess, making the natives who either have to stay to feed the tourists or lack the means to get the fuck out one very, very grumpy bunch of people.

And it gets hot. Sticky hot. Smelly hot. Don’t-get-fucking-near-me hot. In dressing for sex, the sophisticated girl’s options are limited to belly chains, nipple clamps and g-strings. Forget the leather collar, forget the leather harness and forget the leather boots. It’s going to be too fucking hot for the full meal deal.

The prospect of two months without leather makes yours truly a very, very grumpy bitch.

Having grown up in San Francisco (where summers are colder than a Minnesota winter) and having then lived in Seattle (where summer lasts as long as it will take me to write this review), I’m programmed to perform in cooler climes. The thought of a hot, sweaty body dripping perspiration all over my sensitive skin turns me off faster than a photograph of Wayne LaPierre. I don’t have to worry about the NRA here, but I do have to concern myself with the fact that I’ll be facing two months of unpleasant heat—and during that time, I’m going to have needs, people! The only air conditioning I can access is in the office, and I’m certainly not going to transform my office into a playroom! What I need to overcome my aversion to hot and sticky is something to reprogram my brain so that I can convince myself that hot and sticky can mean . . . hot and sticky.

I need Sasha Dobson.

Sasha Dobson is a jazz singer recently reclassified as a singer-songwriter. That sounds like we’re filling a filing cabinet, and as is often the case with genres, it completely fails to capture the experience of her music. It’s more accurate to say that she is a singer with an exceptional ability to find the groove of a song and create the magic we call mood. Her jazz experience makes her aware of possibilities in melody and phrasing that elude the average singer, and she is blessed with a voice that reminds me of a sweet alto sax or the feel of Chambord as it slowly coats the throat and warms the cockles. She is sultry and sexy but not in the manufactured Madonna style. The combination of her essential sincerity, an amazing voice and a supporting cast of musicians who also know how to find the groove makes Aquarius a perfect album to put you in the mood, whatever the weather.

Aquarius opens with “Couldn’t Let You Go,” a song that captures the feeling of intense desire that burns brightly despite physical or metaphorical distance. I love the opening line, “Once we danced along the diamond sky,” but I love even more how Sarah’s voice oscillates between woman and child, from experience to innocence. The backing music establishes the general mood of the album, one of consciously chosen restraint, like the prolonged tension we experience in great foreplay. The rhythm is basic but intense; the guitar is limited to two-note chords on the lower strings; the bass mirrors the steady pounding of the heart as the heat slowly rises.

“Always Be Mine” begins almost a “come with me to the Casbah” feeling in the verse, with the guitar notes stretching to create unexpected chord combinations through single-note picking. The verses reflect a feeling of trying to get one’s head around something and taking a roundabout route to get there, but all doubt is removed when Sasha finds a mantra  in the chorus: “All I ever wanted/all I ever need . . . ” You don’t need to fill in the blanks with anything explicit to get the meaning. “Full Moon” follows, a song with a film noir story line that mirrors the smoky sultriness of that genre:

Red in her eyes

red in her hand

blood in her mind

Lovers making out

It’s a full moon out

Your tongue’s in his mouth

He didn’t even try

Tongue in his ear

gun in her hand

Lovers making out.

The tension continues on slow burn with “Make It Alright.” I love Joel Hamilton’s lead guitar on this song: so subtle, restrained and sweet, and flavored with just the amount of reverb so that when it moves to the fore from the counterpoint the transition is as smooth as scented silk. One of the lovelier songs on the album, Sasha’s vocal is both plaintive and steady as she tells the story of love gone sour. It’s followed by “Take My Heart,” an ode of longing for a simple life and Sasha’s desire to “feel the love surround me.” The vocals on this track are simply amazing, as Sasha introduces some fabulous harmonies and subtle scat to liven up the soundscape. The only problem I have with this song is I wish it would have ended with a long fade of Sasha using that gorgeous voice as the beautiful instrument it is . . . but I’ll take whatever she can give:

“The Day We Met” is a lovely, softer number where the acoustic guitar is the central instrument and where the scat is subtle and a tiny bit playful. More soothing than sultry, it serves to ease the delicious tension of Aquarius just a tad—a necessary shift because the next song, “Burn,” is one of the hottest songs on the album. The feel of this song reminds me of Peggy Lee’s “Fever,” but with good, solid electric bass and drums instead of double bass and finger snaps. The muted guitar two-note guitar chords occasionally catch the higher notes on the fretboard, indicating that the tension is about to burst. When Sasha does her “ooh ooh ooh” lines on the bridges to the chorus, all I can say if that doesn’t make you wet (ladies) or hard (gentlemen), check your pulse or call the mortician:

The song that really gets my fluids dripping comes next. “Answer Me” is a song with a darker feel and a vocal loaded with glides, blue notes and shifts from simmering heat to kittenish vulnerability that recalls some of the best of Billie Holiday, updated for modern sensibilities:

Any song that comes after that mini-masterpiece would come as a letdown, so that probably explains why I find “José” relatively unsatisfying, despite Sasha’s technical ability. “I Could Be Happy” also lacks the intensity of some of the stronger songs, but the drum roll that opens “Sex Degrees” re-engages the attention and leads to one of the more interesting combinations of melody and lyrics on the entire album, describing a situation where sex is seen as both an expression of essence and something all-too ephemeral:

Sex degrees of separation

It’s just a matter of time

We’ll screw our way to salvation

until we find

You’re always saying goodbye

love

holds the key

In to a space that we went once

Let love be (2)

“Family” ends the album with a longing for the continuity of family, the experience that creates little family members or both. Certainly the bounciest number on Aquarius, it works because the melody is catchy, the band is tight and Sasha could probably sing the phone book and I’d be perfectly content.

Sensuality aside, what I appreciate most about Sasha Dobson is that her music feels genuine. When I listen to Aquarius, I hear a person finding herself and becoming who she wants to be. With her natural talent, commitment to her art and fundamental sincerity, I look forward to following her on her musical journey as it unfolds over the coming years.

Alt Rock Chick Review of Aquarius by Sasha Dobson (PDF)

CLICK TO BUY THE BEST ROCK ALBUM IN YEARS!

Last week was a drag. All the shit going down at the job was weighing me down, and even with my honey back in my arms again, I still felt antsy, anxious and out of sorts. After a fitful sleep, I awoke as usual to the sound of my iPhone at 5 a. m. and did my usual routine: grab the iPhone, check the blog, check Twitter, grab my cigarettes, go to the kitchen, make coffee, take a sip, light a cigarette and think about the day ahead. I checked my Reminders app to see if I had anything planned and my note read, “Connection.” At first, I didn’t know what the hell that meant, so I sipped some more coffee, took a few more drags and finally realized it was a reminder to listen to the new album by The Connection, which I’d downloaded the night before. “After work,” I promised myself, then went to the bathroom, peed, showered, gave my hair a few blasts of heat, wrapped it in a towel, grabbed my makeup kit and thought about the colors I’d wear that day as I walked over to the makeup table. After some hemming and hawing, I selected the complementary makeup, then gave my face a once-over in the mirror.

I looked like hell. Tired, droopy, blah. I was not happy. I looked down at my makeup kit and told it, “You can’t fix this face today.” I got up and went back to the kitchen, lit another cigarette and unlocked my iPhone. It opened to the Reminders app and the word “Connection.” “Fuck it,” I said. “Maybe it’s a sign.” I still had to wait for my hair to dry anyway, so I put my cigarette in my teeth, walked over to my little music corner, slipped on my headphones, woke my computer from its sleep, got settled, opened iTunes, found the playlist for Let It Rock and clicked the play icon. Wham! Geoff Palmer filled my ears with the most glorious guitar riff I’d heard in what seemed like centuries, riding the waves of an irresistible beat before settling down to rhythm chords. Then Brad Marino filled my ears with a lead vocal that shook me to the core as he belted out a set of beautiful, anti-conformist, fuck-it-all lyrics:

I don’t do dishes no more,

Well I just throw ‘em away.

And I don’t answer my phone

‘Cause I got nothin’ to say.

Well, I don’t need no more friends,

‘Cause they just get in the way.

I don’t care about nothin’ at all

Except myself these days.

I’m on the wrong side of twenty-five,

Just tryin’ to stay alive,

All work and no play,

Another wasted day.

People always said it would be this way,

But I always said I’d never live to see the day.

I can’t even begin to describe the feelings of elation, joy, relief and excitement that came over me in waves . . . it was like the song set off a chain reaction of soul-level explosions urged on by The Connection’s relentless attack. I fucking cried! No shit! Then I listened to it again and this time I started giggling and dancing and shouting out the fragments of the chorus that I’d managed to master. I howled in ecstasy when they did the stutter-beat on the phrase “can’t calculate my wage” in the second verse, waking up my partner, who just popped her head into the room and smiled at me. When “Wrong Side of 25″ finished, I paused the playback because I knew I had to go to work, but I wasn’t dreading it anymore . . . and I had something to look forward to that would help get me through it all: the rest of Let It Rock. And from time to time over the course of the day, a couplet from an old song my mother loved kept popping into my head, bringing a little smile to my now-recovered face:

Oh, gimme the beat, boys, and free my soul,

I wanna get lost in your rock n’ roll and drift away.

Dobie Gray understood. There is nothing like rock ‘n’ roll to clean out the stupid bullshit in your head and get you back in touch with who the fuck you are. Great rock ‘n’ roll has more healing, sensual and liberating power than any form of music I know, because the fundamental message of rock is “Goddamnit, let yourself go!” And there is no one—no one—on the scene today that does rock ‘n’ roll better than The Connection. Their music takes us back to the early days of rock innocence and exuberance when people like Eddie Cochran, Chuck Berry, The Rolling Stones and The Fab Four sang songs that affirmed the uncontaminated perceptions of youth that a.) sexual desire was nothing to be ashamed of and b.) the system is a joke, so don’t let it get you down. Even more importantly, Let It Rock is not just a trip down Nostalgia Lane. The Connection prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that rock still has its vibrance, its power and its relevance in the 21st century.

Boy, this post is already pretty long and I’ve only covered one song! I’d better get off my beautiful ass and get to work! The first thing you notice about Let It Rock is that The Connection have jacked up the power since New England’s Newest Hit Makers. That album featured the thinner sounds of British Invasion 60′s singles, while Let It Rock has a fuller, fatter sound. What’s cool is they manage to accomplish this transition without falling into the trap of overproduction and taking the life out of the music. It’s still great dance floor music, but with more oomph.

If you can pry your ears away from “Wrong Side of 25,” you’ll find that the rest of the album is chock full of rock ‘n’ roll delights that cover a wide range of styles in this most flexible medium. “She’s a Keeper” opens with that Rickenbacker-Vox guitar tone that characterized the pre-progressive years of the British Invasion, leading into a bouncy, power-driven melodic rocker that takes advantage of the full chord palette of the era, shifting between the majors and minors while never losing the flow. Touches of hand-clapping and harmony add to the flair, and Geoff Palmer continues playing the hot hand with a fabulous lead guitar solo. The coda with its vocal interplay between Brad and the fill vocals is certainly Beatle-esque, but the energy and commitment the band brings to this song raises it way, way above the crap from official Beatles imitators. The Connection take the conventions of the era and breathe new life into them—and hey, great melodic, harmonic rock never gets old.

So, that’s two killer songs to open the album, but fuck it—let’s make it three! “The Way Love Should Be” is another melodic rocker that features more great vocals, an exciting roll-filled drum part from Zack Sprague and a nifty little piano piece from Kris Rodgers, best known in these here parts for his work with the Fabulous Baker Boy (Kurt, that is). The chorus, with its call-and-response vocals off the classic rock mantra “come on” is to die for, and I love the way the song ends with the singers holding a steady note over changing complementary chords before rising to the closing “oooh,” much like the horribly underrated “It Won’t Be Long” that opened With the Beatles. It doesn’t get much better than this.

Wait, it does! Just when I thought it was time for the typical filler material found on most records these days, they give me “Crawling from the Wreckage (On a Saturday Night).” Well, bring it on, boys—this chick can take it! This is a no-bullshit, party-song rocker driven by solid bass from Bobby Davis and The Connection’s endless reserve of pure energy. This is one of those songs that confirm the wisdom of my decision to forgo undies and dress in skirts, a fashion choice that makes it very convenient for a girl to slide her fingers down to the G-spot and release a little sexual tension from time to time. Why let stress mess with the vibe? Goddamnit, let yourself go! And I did! Several times! Here, try it for yourself!

Cigarette!

And damn if they don’t knock me on my ass again with the next song, “Nothing About Me.” If there’s one song that demonstrates the growth of The Connection since New England’s Newest Hit Makers, this is it. A mid-tempo song that flows like a gentle stream, the lyrics deal with the tension that emerges in a relationship where one party (in this case, the girl) assumes that after the initial excitement has worn off that the other party will settle for good old-fashioned convention, channeling sexual urges into the acquisition of material goods just like every other drone in the U. S. A. In this sense, the internal dialogue expressed in the chorus brilliantly describes the frustration of the person who senses repression lurking in the future: “She thinks she knows . . . she knows nothing about me.” That is a powerful and often painful revelation for someone longing for authenticity: it’s like the other person has stripped away all of your individuality and turned you into a frail stereotype ready to be packaged into one of the “Little Boxes” that Malvina Reynolds wrote about in the early 60′s. The arrangement on the song is subtle, complex and sensitive, with understated but effective drumming, splashes of piano (the opening run is stellar), bits of slide guitar and harmonica, and those always fabulous vocals. Going into the experience of Let It Rock, I was hoping that The Connection’s lyrics would measure up to the recent standard set by Sugar Stems, who proved that power pop can handle more complex stories without getting bogged down and burying the energy in abstraction. On “Nothing About Me,” the boys came through big-time.

Despite all the excitement so far, I have not lost touch with my acute critical sensibility, so I have to say that “Susan” didn’t quite hit the mark for me. A country-tinged tune with a catchy melody, I think I would have liked it more with a two-part Everly Brothers harmony and a less choppy rhythm. The band gets back into the groove pretty quickly with the straightforward rocker, “Thinking About Leaving.” Geoff Palmer’s lead is notable for not overplaying his hand, breaking up the listener’s expectations with sudden pauses in the flow of the solo that have the effect of increasing the listener’s interest. I also love Zack Sprague’s work on the ride cymbal, the kind of subtle touch that drives me wild.

Speaking of wild, my fingers go wandering south once again with the amazing “Girls in This Town,” where The Connection prove they can do R&B rock with the best of them, which in this case means The Rolling Stones. Of course, I’m referring to the real Rolling Stones of the days of Sticky Fingers and not whoever that motley group is on what, their fifth farewell tour? “Girls in This Town” actually sounds more like the style on Exile on Main Street, an album I don’t particularly care for because The Stones mucked up the recording process with too much heroin. The Connection don’t make that mistake: the vocals are clear, the mix balanced, the piano sharp, the Jagger-Richard-like harmonies in sync. Though I would have liked to hear a bit more growl and volume from the sax, the piece fucking works. The first shift into the chorus elicited another banshee howl from yours truly and triggered the telltale sign that a great rock number is on the air: involuntarily undulating hips. This is such a strong dance number that even the most self-conscious and awkward geeks on the planet will be forced to get up and boogie. Goddamnit, let yourself go!

“Haze” is a song that grew on me over my three pre-review passes through the album. The music reminded me of two quite disparate numbers: Eric Burdon’s “When I Was Young” and Penelope Houston’s “Secret Sign,” but “Haze” is more melodic and delivered with more tightness than either of those numbers. ”Day by Day” is an energetic piece, to be sure, but doesn’t quite live up to the standard of hit-the-road outlaw songs established by Fastball in “The Way” and by the blessed Richard Thompson in “Shane and Dixie.” Much better is the harmonically rich “Not How It’s Going to Be,” where the percussion sometimes mirrors the sound of a ticking clock, supporting the lyrics that describe the wasting experience of waiting for someday to come. The quirky lead guitar riff adds spice and color to the mix, making this a very intriguing piece indeed. It’s followed by one of two cover songs on the album, The Rolling Stones’ “Connection,” featuring great harmonies and energy but somewhat diminished by overly busy drumming in a song that really calls for something more in the style of Charlie Watts.

“Melinda” is another fascinating song that demonstrates The Connection’s growth into new areas of musical expression. The lyrics present an artfully ambiguous slice-of-life story of a fragmented relationship and psychological decline:

Melinda had her second baby,

I haven’t seen the first—someday, maybe.

Well, if I make it into that part of town,

You know it’s kinda hard for me to get around . . . all right,

I write the songs, she sings along,

I write all of her favorite songs.

I thought I had it all together

Until the mood changed like the weather

Well, yes she used to be my kind of girl,

But now she lives in a whole ‘nother world.

We can’t tell if the guy is a jerk for abandoning this girl after knocking her up twice or if he’s a sensitive soul trying to relate to someone who has plummeted into melancholy and depression, making it difficult to connect except through the unconscious messages of music. The best part is that the tension remains unresolved, as do many uneasy situations in life. The music is fabulous, from Geoff’s licks to Bobby’s bass, and Brad delivers yet another first-rate lead vocal. The real test of a great lead singer is that even after a dozen songs you look forward to hearing his voice on the next track, and Brad Marino passes that test with flying colors.

The album sadly ends (“NO! NO!” she screamed.) with Chuck Berry plagiarizing Chuck Berry, dropping the chorus on “Johnny B. Goode” for a set of guitar riffs and retitling it as “Let It Rock.” The band nails this sucker, hitting all the right notes and driving that beat home to the finish line.

Whew! I’m exhausted! The good kind of after-a-great-fuck exhausted! Cigarette! Let’s play it again!

Even though I’ve entered a ton of words on the page, I don’t think I’ve even begun to describe what a revitalizing experience it is to listen to Let It Rock. When I was listening to Sigur Rós’ latest work a week or two ago in preparation for that review, there was something about the experience that I couldn’t find words for until now. You know what? I’m fucking sick to death of “dark” music. I’m tired of all the pseudo-intellectual, self-obsessed, let’s-crawl-into-our-assholes-and-die music that my generation buys in droves. The pretentiousness and artistic arrogance inherent in such music creates sheltered cul-de-sacs where self-absorbed people can pat themselves on the back for being intellectually superior and for having disconnected themselves from the pettiness of the real world. We live in a time where people are depressed because it’s fashionable to be depressed, so you can show everyone how fucking sensitive you are to the existential gloom that surrounds us.

Fuck that. I’ll assume I’ve only got one life to live and I intend to live the fuck out of it. Let me remind the dark forces of artistic pretense that many of the truly great artists who changed the course of music history (Louis Armstrong, Buddy Holly, The Beatles, to name a few) infused their music with a joy that lifts the listener’s spirit.

Let It Rock does just that. It is a glorious expression of the sheer joy of unabashed rock ‘n’ roll, the music that never dies.

Alt Rock Chick Review of Let It Rock by The Connection (PDF)

My review of New England’s Newest Hit Makers

Conscience and concern for the delicate ears of my readers prohibit me from adding the usual click-to-buy link on this unmitigated disaster.

Oasis was my band during my teenage years and Liam Gallagher was as close to achieving teen idol status as anyone during that period of my life. Not being particularly susceptible to idolatry, I didn’t swoon every time I heard his voice or carry around his picture in a heart locket, but Liam was more helpful than most when it came to achieving self-induced orgasms during those moments when I didn’t have anyone to play with.

After Definitely Maybe and Morning Glory, Oasis and Liam spent the next several years pissing me off with sub-standard stuff. They suddenly and unexpectedly came to life with Don’t Believe the Truth and followed it up with a solid effort in Dig Out Your Soul, then really disgusted me by getting into yet another boring brotherly feud and killing the band. Noel went off with his High Flying Birds and put out a yawner of a record while Liam formed Beady Eye with ex-Oasis mates Gem Archer and Andy Bell. Their first record, Different Gear, Still Speeding, was a delightfully promising and exuberant effort with some great melodic rock and a few vocals from Liam that certainly twiddled my diddle.

So I anxiously awaited Be, hoping that the trajectory would continue on its upward path. I was sadly disappointed by the cover, despite the nipple . . . it’s so Goo Goo Dolls, another band whose promise wilted in the face of mainstream popularity.

My first reaction to the opening song, “Flick of the Finger” was “What the fuck is all that fucking noise?” Horns blasted in my ears in what would prove to be a seriously over-the-top arrangement as crowded as Grand Central Station at rush hour. The melody was reminiscent of several Oasis songs, though I really didn’t want to bother with the research necessary to identify the specific patterns. Somewhere in the middle there’s a foreign-accented spoken voice who sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger who goes on and on and on quoting a quotation that leads back to Peter Weiss’ Marat-Sade about how the powers that be can get rid of us in a flick of a finger. What the hell? Liam Gallagher. Political consciousness. Do those two phrases go together? Jesus, what a fucking awful opener!

Thankfully they seem to quiet down with “Soul Love,” but unfortunately the predictable melody isn’t made any more interesting by the faux-artistic dips into dissonance. The simplicity of the arrangement is soon devoured by layers of New Age noise, creating a dark and dismal landscape that has no connection to the lyrics, which are pure cliché-love-song. I guess it might have value as a soundtrack if they ever make a movie called “Date with a Creep.”

Ah, finally! Beady Eye is going to rock! At least that’s what I thought when the opening chords of “Face the Crowd” crashed over my headphones . . . but, no, it’s another ridiculously busy arrangement with bizarre rhythmic changes leading to the kind of hand-clapping that a shit band will revert to when the crowd’s just staring at them with a decided lack of enthusiasm. “Come on, let’s rock and roll!” they shout in vain. Beady Eye then goes faux-African with “Second Bite of the Apple,” once again piling on the superfluous noise and burying Liam’s voice under an onslaught of depressing proportions. At this point, Liam’s singing hasn’t moved me and inch and my fingers have not once had the irresistible urge to moisten my lower lips.

“Soon Comes Tomorrow” is another one that begins in a promising manner . . . I guess. Liam’s voice still doesn’t sound right and the attempts to liven up the rhythm by cutting the bars short just sounds flat-out clunky. I’m delighted when he sings “This song is over/So look past the end,” but then the fucking song doesn’t end! After more creepy noise (Did someone have nightmares during the recording sessions? Too much spicy food?), the song takes forever to fade into “Iz Rite,” a weird combination of “Who Feels Love” from Standing on the Shoulder of Giants and a garden-variety pop song. Again, the arrangement sounds like they were trying to break the Guinness record for “How Much Shit Can We Pile onto a Record?” It’s followed by another attempt to excite the crowd, “I’m Just Saying,” but the crowd is still staring at them, and by this time, getting pretty hostile.

As is this reviewer.

“Don’t Brother Me” made me nervous before I ever heard it, thinking, “Oh, shit, they’re doing the John and Paul bit and putting their feud on record.” If this song is attack on Noel, he’s probably wondering what the fuck Liam is talking about (as usual), for the lyrics seemed they were pasted together like a hostage demand made from magazine cut-outs. The fact that he takes almost eight minutes to say nothing at all is more than mildly irritating, as once again Beady Eye takes advantage of yet another opportunity to fill our ears with sissy New Age sound.

I think this review may wind up being a negative review! Whadd’ya think?

“Shine a Light” opens with kind of a toy-piano sound over dramatic strings as if we’re about to watch a 1930′s movie with a bad soundtrack. I would have preferred to see the movie rather listen to this bomb, another muddled mess with three-word lines that say absolutely nothing at all. Jesus fuck, can’t you give me at least one decent song, guys? “Ballroom Figured” begins blissfully quiet, just Liam and an acoustic guitar, and my dread of the inevitable oncoming noise proves to be unfounded, if justified, paranoia. It’s not as strong as some of his Oasis compositions that surprised everyone with their naturally flowing melody, but at least there’s one song on this sucker that I can save for the iPod rotation.

“Start Anew” ends the album, also beginning promisingly and acoustically with slow arpeggiated chords and a minimum of background noise, er, music. Then, out of fucking nowhere comes what sounds like a Mike Pinder Mellotron, dropping into the arrangement like a bad dream . . . then they return to the slow part again, which is now getting repetitive . . . then they let it all out in one last burst to try to break that Guinness record. Go for it boys! There’s no saving the Titanic now!

Lately there have been rumors that Oasis might be considering a reunion of sorts. You know what? I don’t care any more. Be is the worst album I’ve heard this year, and that includes records I have absolutely savaged, such as David Bowie’s The Next Day and Nick Cave’s Push the Sky Away. Any reunion is unlikely to produce anything of value, but would simply be an attempt to keep the Gallaghers rich and filling the pages of that music industry gossip rag known as N. M. E.

Ah, Liam, ya gave me a few good ‘uns, mate . . . ‘ave a nice life.

Don’t miss this gem from a soul-level performer. Click to buy.

In the interests of full disclosure (as if the naked pictures of me adorning this blog did not clearly demonstrate my commitment to full disclosure), I need to tell my readers that the artist herself requested this review. Regular readers of this blog and Liam Gallagher know full well that I would never cut anyone a break or compromise my objectivity under any circumstances. I have an ironclad commitment to maintain a professional distance from the artists I review and I follow an unbreakable policy of refusing gifts, free tickets, meeting requests, drinks or offers of mutual sexual satisfaction from any artist or entity in exchange for a favorable review or future consideration.

However, I have a special sub-policy (section 7. a.1.(c), to be exact) that states that I will never use the blog to blast the crap out of a budding artist who is still finding his or her way. Established artists who are getting rich from their loyal fans are fair game when they produce a lazy effort or flat-out garbage (can you hear me, Liam?). When it comes to new artists, though, one must take a more sensitive and civilized approach. If I receive a request from a new artist and find the music unappealing, I’ll write them a little note of apology and politely decline the opportunity to do the review. If the artist asks for feedback, I will provide it in as helpful a manner as possible.

More discerning and intelligent readers may therefore conclude before reading another word that my review of Bess McCrary’s For Happy will be favorable, or I wouldn’t be writing one. Give yourself a gold star for that brilliant display of logic and your ability to pay attention! For Happy is a wonderful record and a stunning début: a jazz/R&B album that keeps to the groove with depth in the lyrics and magic in the music.

Bess McCrary has that indefinable quality that you can’t attribute to one particular thing. Yes, she displays an appealing and expressive voice enhanced by superb phrasing skills. As a composer, she’s miles ahead of what you hear on the typical début album; as a lyricist, she combines surprising boldness with delightful wordplay. As a musician, she has the quality of all great jazz musicians, one that was probably noted on her elementary school report cards: “Bess plays well with others.” What makes her so special is that thing called “The It Factor,” a term first attributed to that sexy, liberated firebrand of the 1920′s, the remarkable Clara Bow. Clara achieved her status through visuals; Bess achieves hers by creating moments within her songs when you feel that all the layers of pretense have been stripped and what you are hearing is not so much her voice but the deepest expressions of a passionate soul. It’s vulnerability, but a vulnerability tempered by inner strength. It’s emotional honesty expressed with intelligence and wit. It’s paradoxical, indescribable and “it.” It also makes for an amazing listening experience.

For Happy is structured as a series of odes to various life experiences. The first is “Incomplete Me,” (Ode to Blind Love) and begins with a bit of sleight-of-hand: when you first hear the opening bars on the piano you think that the song might be a rather formal pop ballad along the lines of something Mary Hopkin might have done in her day: it sounds almost like you’ve stumbled into a piano practice room. Then Bess enters with blue note bends on the vocal, creating a compelling contrast. The combo appears at the start of verse two, confirming the record’s status as a jazz record, and the rest of the song alternates between classic lounge combo and that simple, insistent piano run. I don’t like comparing one vocalist to another, but in this case I think the comparison is helpful. There were times when I heard faint echoes of Dinah Washington in Bess’ voice . . . possibly echoes of common Southern roots. The purpose of the comparison is this: Dinah had a couple of hits with Brook Benton, whose vocalizations are deep, rich and relaxed. Bess would blow poor Brook out of the studio: she’d need a more energetic, expressive partner like Sam Cooke or Bill Withers, who were also soul-level singers.

Though I don’t believe in blind love unless it has something to do with blindfolds, the lyrics to “Incomplete Me” are a fascinating variation on the WTF experience of trying to figure out what the hell is going on with a partner whose participation in the relationship is underwhelming, especially in relation to intimacy. The undertone of the lyrics is a combination of witty, snitty and sassy, mirrored in Bess’s sensuous and playful delivery:

Well to-do, well-begot and you’re certainly well-fed.

Well, well, what’re you gonna do instead?

It ain’t together, it don’t make sense, and it won’t work out.

Production’s failing, morale has slipped—says word of mouth.

“Every Time I Love You” (An Ode on Devolving) opens with a strong swing blast from the band leading into a piano run that introduces Bess McCrary, torch singer. Once again Bess sings about a less than optimum relationship in a vocal somewhere between the smooth sweetness of Doris Day in her big band days and Julie London’s smoky silk. It’s pretty obvious that after two songs that Bess gets it when it comes to jazz; her feel for the groove and ability to vary the pattern from the predictable are both first-rate. The next track proves she can do heart-stopping confessionals with the best of them. “Cry So Good” (An Ode to Knowing Your Strengths) is a powerful experience propelled by that quality of emotional honesty I mentioned above. What she does with her voice is remarkable, but what she does with the feel of the song is absolutely breathtaking: despite the pain she is feeling, she never gets maudlin or sentimental. She has the tone of a woman learning a hard, regrettable and humbling lesson, and the thing that is her strength is ironically exhibit #1 in the case against “weak” females: we cry spontaneously when we feel loss. My only wish for this song is that it had been piano-only; sometimes the arrangement interferes with Bess’ voice, and her voice makes me want to be close to her in her time of need.

“Cry So Good” is followed by “An Astral Project” (An Ode to a Very Final Leaving), a track that begins with the sound of trying to tune in to an old radio. The first vocal line is recorded in lo-fi, leading to a swirling, semi-mystical introductory passage that devolves into a slow, bluesy jazz for the final two lines of the first verse. A rising synth leads to another shift in rhythm to funk, where Bess gives another knockout performance that I will politely describe as “seriously fucking hot.” We fade back to the swirling passage so Bess can deliver the closing verse, which she does with a combination of grace and resignation:

Like it’s not even my life, like it’s happening to somebody else.

I turned off my heart so it wouldn’t work, couldn’t feel, couldn’t hurt.

But it’s done just the same,

Who knows who’s to blame?

“Life’s Work” (An Ode to the Addicted) has a classic bluesy doo-wop feel, but who needs a doo-wop quartet when you’ve got Bess McCrary belting it out? Definitely a crowd-warmer in terms of building excitement, the lyrics cleverly point out that the addict is not only a victim, but also the one in control, particularly in terms of the effect the addiction has on those closest to the addict:

You know you can’t resist

being lost, confused or missed.

So baby, don’t you lose your wandering shoes,

your heartache, your torment, your bliss.

“I Just Refuse” (An Ode to Epiphanies) begins with standup bass and drums, like Peggy Lee’s “Fever” with more oomph. The horns come in with a bluesy urban swing and I can’t wait for Bess to appear in a black dress loaded with glitter. Sure enough, she delivers a sexy, steaming performance highlighted by her syllabilization of the word “refuse” as in “I just refu-woo-woo-woo-woo-wooze” to sing the blues,” and a nifty, hard-plucked upright bass solo by Jeff Hanley. The horns and piano are pretty damned hot, too.

We cool off a bit with the introduction to  ”Solidarity” (An Ode to Irony), which shifts to a hip-undulating Caribbean feel for the main part of the song. It’s a nice little break like a cool drink on a hot day. This leads to “One-Woman Band” (An Ode on Modern Dating), a track that is perfect for finger-snapping especially during Dave Cook’s piano solo. It’s followed by “Moving Forward,” which contains some wild, woolly and wonderful trumpet and saxophone interplay along with some of the strongest lyrics on the album:

And the only thing I hate about the city

is that I can’t take a walk and be alone.

So I try to close my eyes and fly but the noise

is so gritty, my wings get dirty and heavy

and come undone.

We broads inhabiting big cities can seriously relate to those lines.

“Crazytown” (An Ode to Prospects) opens with mute-altered trumpets, developing into a fascinating arrangement with a fab acoustic lead guitar solo from Al Street over a strong bluesy beat that puts you and leaves you in the mood. Bess’s lyrics are enticing, to say the least: “And if I give you just one chance to make it right/will I come back wet, rode hard and hung up nice?” Capping it off, Bess’ vocal here is so damned sexy that I feel an overwhelming urge to take her out on the dance floor and do a slow strip together as the tuxedo-and-evening gown crowd in the speakeasy melts away into irrelevance . . . did I mention she’s a seriously hot redhead?

I will now return to my appropriately professional demeanor.

“You Like It” (An Ode to Familiarity) is classic big band tune with a stop-time lyric kick in the lines of the verses that allows Bess to play with some double entendres, like “You like it when I lick . . . your stamp.” This one’s really a great dance number full of plenty of opportunities to for partner-twirling and limbo bends. We return to the Caribbean for “My Body Betrays Me” (An Ode to Instincts) where Bess indulges in 40′s-era lyric word play (“nicely, twicely”) describing the endless struggle between reason and desire with an almost guilty tone in her voice that I just adore.

For Happy regrettably has to end, in this case with “Jason’s Song” (An Ode in Honor of Jason Kenneth Finch and for Kathryn Lee Powell Finch Rulapaugh). A fascinating song framed between funereal church bells playing behind Bess’ vocal and church bells in the fade (where they surprisingly reappear after several seconds of silence), the groove to this song is one of the strongest on the record—somewhat surprising since the subject matter is grief and loss. When you remember that jazz is the music of New Orleans funerals, you begin to appreciate both the healing power of the music and the timing of the bells: when you think you’re over it, the feelings return. Seen from that perspective, “Jason’s Song” is a very moving and courageous piece of music.

For Happy is dedicated to Bess’ late mother, Happy McCrary. I love her dedication in the liner notes (“I fucking finished it, mom!”) and appreciate her love for her mother that fueled her spirit to bring this project through to completion. Bess told me that she’s returning to live performance after recovering from throat surgery, and if you hear she’s playing in your neck of the woods, don’t hesitate to grab some tickets. Bess McCrary will touch your soul and make your spirit soar.

Visit Bess McCrary on Facebook.

Alt Rock Chick Review of For Happy by Bess McCrary (PDF)

It’s been a great month for women on altrockchick.com! Click to buy an experience that will leave you begging for more.

For this review, I did something I’ve never done before. I asked the artist if she would like me to do a review.

We had both been on Twitter for a while, our tweets passing in the night. One day she sent a nice message to me about a review tweet I’d published so I decided to check out her profile, which led me to her website. There I heard some very interesting music, certainly more compelling than most of the crap that fills my ears on New Release Day every Tuesday. It was also different from the kick-ass rock ‘n’ roll I’ve been immersed in lately, and I really thought I could use a change of pace before I started dreaming of group sex with Little Richard (in his prime, of course) and Joan Jett (any time). So, I made the request and she said yes.

This review covers a genre I rarely bother with: Singer/Songwriter. With the sole exception of Ani DiFranco, whose work I cherish, I find the genre . . . limited. My feelings about it have been precisely expressed by Michael Crossley of French Letters in the poem, “When It Mattered” from their wonderful début album In Tongues:

So thirty came . . . but the record deals didn’t.

Scrambling for a Plan B, frantic before you retire from the MTV demographic,

So we assigned ourselves new titles of self-importance to get laid,

And rock star became singer-slash-songwriter.

When I sample singer/songwriters on New Release Day, the gestalt is “drippy, whiny and faux-moody.” Self-absorption rules the day. I get the feeling from most that they want me to feel terribly sorry for them for what they’ve been through. Now, I don’t mind someone singing about personal experience: that’s why I listen to the blues. But I like songs that talk about real experience, not superficial intellect regurgitating itself into something that pretends to be meaningful but is really empty drama. If you’re going to tell me about yourself, don’t give me any bullshit and have enough respect for me to show some vulnerability.

She said, obviously piqued.

Lucky for me, my instincts about Sammy Witness proved to be correct. She’s not drippy, whiny or fake. When she gets pissed, she’s seriously pissed. She’s not afraid to admit the mistakes we all make in life and she’s not afraid to show some vulnerability. So, now that she’s made it through The Alt Rock Chick Infallible Phony Detection System™, what about her music?

Sammy Witness has a voice that seems to float effortlessly over the scales, landing wherever she wants it to land. Her melodies are often interesting and memorable. Her lyrics are exceptionally vivid and strong. You hear hints of jazz, rock, country, blues, folk . . . and I love people who defy the genre machine. Sammy also worked with a band who knows their way around the studio (Boston’s The Luxury), and when they’re pumped, she gets really pumped and absolutely flattens you with her performance. Sammy Witness is the real deal, folks.

“Pretty Bird” opens with a disarming acoustic guitar that scarcely prepares you for the intensity of the arrangement, which leads off of a drum roll to a strong mid-tempo beat, then moves effortlessly through several shifts in tension and complexity as the song proceeds. This is a song of contrasts, both lyrically and rhythmically. The slower sections describe the fragile, pretty girl who sings sweetly but “bruises like a peach” and is obviously an airhead with zero experience in the real world. The double-time, drum-bashing sections describe the contrasting archetype of the girl who’s not classically pretty but has lived hard enough to earn the right to tell a few tales. The imagery describing the darker persona is remarkable, calling up images from Sammy’s youth in swampy Florida:

Raised in The Everglades, I’m made of crocodile scales

the cypress trees and sawgrass modeled me of complex trails

and you’ll never find your way back cause my night is made of pitch black

oh, meet me in the mangroves if you dare

Despite the shifting rhythms and varying intensity, this is a song that blows me away with how well it flows, demonstrating up front that Sammy is a woman who knows a thing or two about music. A killer opener!

“Brazilian Pepper Tree” has an Allman Brothers feel (very sweet guitar work here), but the best thing about this song when Sammy takes off and lets her voice fly; the timbre of her voice is such a delight! “Everything to Lose” opens with a slightly muffled acoustic guitar and vocal passage that has the intimacy of a small club. That phase ends when a quickly arpeggiated chord cues the band to get off their asses and start moving! The song is a “what if” song, as in “what if I had lived through the Tohoku earthquake and everything I knew was wiped out by a tsunami?” The image can be interpreted as real or as a metaphor. Sammy’s response to disaster is improvisational, nomadic and committed to living life to the fullest instead of falling for the illusion that comfort makes us safe:

So I packed my bags and I quit my job for good

and I said I’d never stand too long where I stood

because the end is something you can’t choose

but when it happens I want to have everything to lose . . .

Are you comfortable are you comfortable keep going

if you uproot from the ground could you keep growing

are you comfortable now? are you comfortable now keep going, keep going

if you uproot from the ground, does your voice cut through the sound

are you comfortable with dying without knowing

when the end is isn’t something that you choose

when you get there will you have everything to lose?

My favorite song (okay, I have lots of favorite songs on this album, so get the fuck over it) is “Follow Close,” where Sammy talks of her generational contemporaries in less than flattering terms. Both genders have been thoroughly programmed and lack the slightest hint of original thought or feeling. Let’s start with the fairer sex:

These amateur girls they sing about fire

wolves in the woods and how they desire

bad bad boys with self-esteem higher than God

And now we’ll move onto the Young Neanderthals:

These amateur boys they sing about brass bars

bitches and hoes and fatally fast cars

with no sense or knowing of how to be a man

The arrangement is slightly dark with the feel of an R&B ballad, allowing Sammy to tell her story in that rich and remarkable voice. The theme of disgust for people who don’t get how hard life can be echoes “Pretty Bird,” but rather than coming off as repetitive, “Follow Close” makes the urgency of the theme stronger. People! Get your heads out of your asses before it’s too late!

“Heel to Toe” is a hot, upbeat mover, with a touch of country and a touch of blues. I’m tempted to adopt a certain couplet as my personal anthem: “My kiss tastes like smoke but my touch takes your pain and I deliver you from darkness but I can’t receive the same.” It’s followed by the more acoustic feel of “I Love My Enemies,” which breaks my heart with the lines, “And I’d be fine, if I could write these songs all my life and never ever make a dime but I’d be lying.” Damn, I get so frustrated when I hear people as talented as Sammy have to sing lines like that.

A heavy bass line and pizzicato guitar open the hard-driving “In Spirals,” a song that belongs on any decent sex party mixtape. It also has another motto I’m considering, “I’m a bloodthirsty bitch and the deadliest catch.” C’est moi! The softer acoustic number “Faces on Boxes” follows, a pretty tune of separation that gives you a chance to catch your breath and enjoy the loveliness of Sammy’s voice. The contrast between “Faces on Boxes” and “Skeleton,” both songs of past relationships, couldn’t be greater. The first is somewhat wistful, while “Skeleton” (as in skeleton in the closet) is serious I-ain’t-taking-your-shit stuff:

That’s it, I quit, and I’ll break every bone in your sorry spine

If you fuck with my heart one more time

And I don’t need your whiskey and I don’t need your pity and if we’re racing to death then you win

But I still got my voice, skeleton.

Sammy sings it like she means it, guys—I mean, really fucking means it. Fuck with this woman at your peril!

“Slaying Dragons” is another song that flows particularly well over a rather complex arrangement that Sammy manages to pull together with a voice that commands attention. I think I might have preferred simplifying the mix somewhat to give her voice more room to fill the space, but it’s one of those songs that gets better each time you listen to it. The title track comes next, with lyrics full of natural imagery that are more opaque and mysterious than what we’ve heard up to now. Proving again that the little things matter in music, what gets my rocks off on this sock is Sammy ooh-ing at just the right moments. Gorgeous!

“Whiskey Well” follows, a song about the risk of commitment and the unfortunate attractions we sometimes develop to people who don’t deserve the love in our hearts. Featuring one of Sammy’s more passionate vocals, she allows herself to channel her emotions more forcefully, and while that sometimes can be a sign of “Singer overboard!” it really works here . . . and the sudden ending amplifies the emotion by a hundredfold. Tiger Lily ends (alas!) with the light-hearted “Sweet Dreams in Williamsburg,” a song supported by kazoos and clapping that leaves you wondering if Sammy would really be attracted to such stereotypical modern males.

Tiger Lily is Sammy’s first full-length album and I hope it’s far from her last. This is a young woman whose voice and stunning lyrical depth deserve a long and successful career in music. While success today seems to depend more on marketing and having the right connections than any evidence of talent, every now and then a few gifted people break through the emptiness and make it. I’ve listened to works by three remarkable women in the past month who deserve to be in that group: Sasha Dobson, Bess McCrary and the amazing Sammy Witness.

Damn, I left Seattle too soon! Sammy will be playing at one of my old haunts, The Crocodile, on August 9. Don’t miss her!

Visit Sammy Witness.com.

Alt Rock Chick Review of Tiger Lily by Sammy Witness (PDF)

Click to buy this thematically-strong and beautiful debut.

My recently fruitless search for decent new music ended thanks to Sammy Witness . . . who created the last new music I reviewed, almost four fucking months ago. Sammy tweeted me that I might like a certain Seattle folk-pop-alt-country-whatever singer by the name of Kate Lynne Logan.

I love artists who help other artists rather than thinking only of themselves. Sammy, you rock! People! Go read my review and buy Sammy’s fabulous record, Tiger Lily!

Anyway, I bought Kate’s most recent album, Awakening, and after the first run-through I could tell she was very different from the artists who ruin my day every New Music Tuesday:

• She’s sincere.
• She actually has talent.
• She doesn’t try to dress up her music in funny clothes that don’t fit.
• I’ve never met her, but her music left me the strong impression that she isn’t trying to be anybody but herself.

Awakening seems a rather ironic title for an album of songs that often express doubt, uncertainty and a certain restlessness. In truth, that’s how life works: we’re raised to attach ourselves to certain expectations and beliefs about self and society and are often disappointed to learn that things are not all they were cracked up to be. We then go through a painful process of detaching ourselves from both the myths we believed and the person we created to fit into those myths. The true self that had been buried inside struggles to get out, and like all human births, it’s a painful process. The funny thing is that some of the things from our past that we’ve been trying to clear out sometimes turn out to be essential to who we are and who we are becoming; it would be so much easier to make a clean break and restore our sense of certainty! Recalling the wisdom that “Life’s a bitch” is appropriate here.

In that sense, Awakening is an expression of the awareness that the journey is the destination, and the hope that the journey itself gives us a clearer idea of who we are. It may not be a concept album per se, but it has more thematic unity than most so-called concept albums (as I am painfully reminded every time I listen to Tommy in preparation for my upcoming review).

“Strong” is a captivating opener, a truly beautiful expression of vulnerability, hope and loving commitment. Opening in relative stillness with guitar and finger-snaps before the bass, drums and counterpoint guitar come in, Kate’s voice is the real attraction, a warm and understated voice with genuine appeal capable of moving up and down the scale in a way that fills you with delight. The lyrics describe that moment when the love you feel for another is ready to burst but you speak in faltering words as you try to balance risk and emotion. The arrangement is very clean and supportive of both the melody and the mood; all in all a very promising start.

“Driving” introduces a more electric sound with slide and slightly distorted guitars, good accompaniment for the classic Kerouac wish to just keep heading down the road, something nearly everyone wishes they could do from time to time. Here the horizon Kate seeks is symbolic of the clarity she seeks that can’t be found in her current environment:

spend most of my life living in a strange light

don’t know if it’s sunset or sunrise

and in my dreams i’m lost at home

drifting down the back, the back roads

but i’m not going home this time

got my eyes fixed on that horizon line

i’m gonna keep driving

“Goodbye, Baby, Goodbye” is a mourning song, in this case for a lover who chose to go elsewhere. The mourning is mingled with more than a touch of bitterness, for the commitment to love that Kate refers to in “Strong” has been violated, and “it don’t seem right, no, it don’t seem right.” Later, she gets a little snarky with the line, “I won’t waste your sweet time anymore.” I hope the lesson here is that trying to hold someone accountable for a commitment in a loving relationship makes no sense, for if you truly love a person, you want them to be wherever they choose to be, whether that’s with you or without you . . . but I’m not sure . . . the song ends more ambiguously, like she’s having a hard time letting go. It happens.

Up to this point, the songs have been on the quiet side with fairly traditional folk/country arrangements and chord-based harmonies. That changes dramatically with the pounding rhythms and dark e-Bow sounds of “All That I Should Say.” This is where we first notice that Kate’s struggles with the Seven Deadly Sins primarily have to do with pride:

could have saved a lot of time

if i’d walked a straighter line

i was running blind with nowhere to go

i’m so tired of hearing my pride

telling me i’ve got to be strong

when i know it’s so god-damn wrong

to watch you walk away

This is the darkest song on Awakening and one of the best, as Kate expresses gut-level emotion without going overboard (something I appreciate, as most singer-songwriters seem to use their music as an emotional dumping ground instead of balancing emotion with a touch of artistic discipline). The theme of getting words caught in her throat that we first heard in “Strong” reappears here, and is one of the things I love most about this record: the story of Awakening is a tapestry woven by strong threads, and the journey to discover ourselves always involves the challenge of trying to express the contradictions and confusion that boil inside.

Apparently the most popular song on the album is “The River & the Rain,” a folk gospel tune where Kate yearns for resolution of the tension of awakening. Once again she beats herself up for being prideful:

spent a few years angry

spent a few years lost

spent a few years learning

pride ain’t worth what it costs

Her response to her history of haughtiness is to find solace in both nature and in Christianity:

can you hear that sweet sound

rising with the river and the rain?

carry me home now

in the arms of the angels and the saints

i’ll be letting that sweet song

carry my worries away

oh like the river

the river and the rain

While I can’t relate to the teachings or concept of Christianity, this isn’t my song, it’s Kate’s—but I do know people who have found either comfort or a sense of enlightenment in religion or other spiritual pursuits. What I can relate to is the desire for respite from the worries and anxiety of modern life, and in that sense, “River & the Rain” works for me. It’s also a goddamned (oops!) beautiful piece with a very catchy refrain. Here’s a live acoustic-only performance at Seattle’s Triple Door (ah, how I miss my old stomping grounds). I love the way Kate performs this song: no frills, no ta-da, just guitar and her beautiful, genuine voice:

By contrast, I find it harder to latch onto something in the song, “Hallelujah,” but perhaps people who are more religiously-oriented might. The next song, “The War,” with its opening passage of acoustic guitar and piano giving way to a light pop arrangement, is a beautiful display of melody and poetic economy that describes our tendency to allow internal struggles to temporarily blind us to the love another person is willing to give. Kate’s vocal here is both sincere and strong, and the melody flows like water down a gentle stream.

“Rose Colored Lenses” is the song that best defines life’s journey: it’s an adventure into the world of paradox. Kate mentions the apparently irresolvable conundrum in the Tao Te Ching that George Harrison used in “The Inner Light” (“the more I see the less I know/the further I travel, the further to g0″). She also confesses to her greatest weakness, a challenge that has beset many a traveler on life’s open road: self-doubt, especially the self-doubt that interferes with our ability to trust our native intelligence or our gut.

i still expect for you

to tell me which way i should go

i’m still afraid of everything

i think that i should know by now

I love the arrangement on this piece; the percussion and beat combine to approximate the sound of a ticking clock and the instrumental counterpoint is sweet and supportive.

Kate continues to struggle with paradox on the melancholy beauty, “Long Way Down,” where she sings, “it’s a strange scene when truth ain’t a good thing/when it’s love that brings somebody pain.” I’ll assume that she is not referring to the BDSM paradox and interpret the lines to mean that “unrequited love can bring somebody pain” or “sometimes when you tell someone the truth and they don’t want to hear it, it hurts.” She goes on to describe a relationship of highs and lows, but also a deep attraction to the excitement of the extremes. I love the sheer honesty of this piece and her choice to leave the situation unresolved (“sometimes a little red wine/helps me get through thoughts of you/I’d rather leave behind.”) Ah, but the thoughts are still there, with passion attached! Part of the enormous appeal of Awakening are these little slices of life that teach us that realization does not always mean resolution. Kate’s vocal vibrato is absolutely gorgeous on this song, and blessedly restrained. The low male-voice harmonies are the freshest on the album and reinforce the depth of feeling here.

The album closes with the most up-tempo song of all, “Rainmaker.” I would have done without the banjo (I must have been frightened by a banjo player when I was young, because the sound makes my skin crawl). Putting that personal quirk aside, I rather like the melodic movement and variation in rhythm. Here she’s singing about a lover similar to the one in “Long Way Down”: very tempting but very much a piece of bad news.

you bring the rain

i’m just fine

’til someone says your name

i see them big black clouds

on the horizon

and the water-line starts rising

Like Erin Passmore in Rah Rah’s “Prairie Girl,” Kate turns to the bottle (“all i got is whiskey/killing off the cold”), and we know that the “cold” doesn’t come from the Seattle drizzle but from the cold lover who plays the field. Banjo aside, “Rainmaker” is a solid ending, though I wished it had lasted maybe one verse longer.

I understand that Kate is working on a new album, one that’s apparently taking longer than she expected. I don’t like giving advice, but if I did, I’d tell her to take all the time she needed until it felt right. Although adopting music as one’s profession is a risky proposition in a world where talent matters far less than connections and gimmicks, Kate Lynne Logan possesses both a wonderful voice and an instinct for simple yet powerful lyrics that give me the hope that she’ll be able to grace us with her wonderful music for a long, long time.

My Chick Riff, “The Unfavorites: The Truth About Beets” has attracted a lot of attention and several pointed comments, both here and on Twitter. If you haven’t read the post, I compare and contrast my love of beets to the general loathing of beets, and use that as a segue to explain how my tastes in music also differ from the tastes of the general public. I then list a number of famous and honored artists whose music I can’t stand.

Most of the comments have attacked me as an airhead for my lack of musical sensibility and critical acumen. As a blonde, I’m used to the accusation of brainlessness, so I’m not offended in the least. The general tone and substance of the feedback is ”How can you call yourself a music critic and not appreciate Elvis Costello, The Band, Bruce Springsteen . . . ” I appreciate that my readers realize that sado and masochism are separate functions and that they are willing to go out of their way to fulfill the masochistic needs that cannot be satisfied in my role as a dominant female.

Much to my delight, however, one person picked up on the twin theme of the post and replied by confessing his deep love and respect for this most misunderstood vegetable. Not only that, but he followed it up with a song! Imaginatively titling the piece “The Beet Song,” Mr. Ayrton Mugnaini, Jr. has written what will surely go down in musical history as the definitive ode to the beet. Furthermore, I believe his creation is worthy of an entire new genre, which we will designate as “beet music.” The genre is easily identified by the slight Brazilian flavor manifested in Mr. Mugnaini’s accent and in a guitar style best described as Joao Gilberto attempting to emulate the rhythmic style of Django Reinhardt. These major influences are integrated with echoes of Eric Clapton (particularly the song “Cocaine”), the Go-Go’s and The Beetles—sorry, Beatles—of the Rubber Soul period.

The lyrics to this particular song validate the philosophy of female domination, as the narrator is motivated to eat beets primarily to please his mother, his “lady,” and the hordes of female admirers he encounters as an outcome of the age-defying physical stamina that results from regular beet consumption. I predict that men who find themselves addicted to a certain little purple pill will find it much more effective and much cheaper to buy sacks of the little purple vegetable to maintain their manliness. I have instructed my broker to buy up shares of the stocks of the leading beet companies stock to capitalize on the upcoming spike in worldwide demand. The Beet Bubble is right around the corner!

Mr. Mugnaini is well-versed in beets, correctly identifying the betalain pigment that give the beet its royal purple color, but avoids using his superior knowledge of the magical vegetable to judge those who choose not to indulge (“I will never say/ ‘Don’t you eat no meat’/Or ‘I’d like you more/If you tried to eat some beet’”). I can only assume that his claim that he paints himself with beet is metaphorical—a passionate expression of deep purple appreciation. If so, that particular line would have been better accompanied by 200 decibel electric guitars and a drum kit manned by a gorilla. Mr. Mugnaini is also an accomplished musical historian, as his many painful lyrical puns clearly demonstrate.

Enough yammer! Listen for yourself and prepare to be dazzled. The lyrics have been reprinted below for your singalong convenience. Simply click the play button to launch an experience you won’t soon forget!

THE BEET SONG

by Ayrton Mugnaini Jr.

Beet, beet, beet, be it pickled

Or in a soup, it gets me tickled

For health and happiness

A beet I never miss

Mama says “take care,

Watch out what you eat”

Now she’s glad to know

That one thing I love is beet

I abhor white sugar

My life’s very sweet

With my lady’s kisses

And, for sure, a dish of beet

Beet, beet, I never miss a beet

I walk and prance

Run and dance

People going “wow

Not too bad

For a lad

Who’s nearly sixty now”

She don’t lie, she don’t lie, she don’t lie, betaleine

I will never say

“Don’t you eat no meat”

Or “I’d like you more

If you tried to eat some beet”

But I mind my business

On my own two feet

I practice what I preach

Eating lots of beet

Beet, beet, I never miss a beet

And it’s not illegal

Not immoral

And not fattening

When I’m out

Girls wanna shout

It’s really flattering

I got the beet, we got the beet

What I think it’s right

I do and I’m proud

I think for myself

And I never mind the crowd

I hear a different drum

I walk to that beat

Be it red or any colour

Yes, I paint myself with beet

Beet, beet, I never miss a beet

Beet, beet, I never miss a beet

Beet, beet, beet, beet, yeah

© 2013 Ayrton Mugnaini Jr./Mugayr Music

Click to buy, and give generously to the indie movement.

It seems like everything’s going right for Seattle these days. The Seahawks are World Champions! The economy is movin’ on up! Macklemore won four Grammies!

Guess which one of those three impresses me the least.

The Grammies are noted for recognizing no-talent losers, and this year was no exception. Macklemore’s hip-hop silliness and puppy poop hairstyle charmed brain-dead Grammy voters for reasons that future anthropologists may never be able to discern. My theory is that his success is another demonstration of  the massive dumbing down of American culture, a sure sign that the empire is in serious decline. But what really pisses me off is that I spent five years in Seattle immersing myself in the music scene, I still follow the artists long-distance, and I know there are artists 1,000 times more talented than Grammy Guy who don’t get the attention they deserve. Dark Hip Falls. French Letters. Sammy Witness. Kate Lynne Logan. And a very unique indie folk band by the name of Hallstrom.

There are two qualities that distinguish Hallstrom from the others vying for attention in Seattle’s hot folk scene. The first is that they’re a family-and-friends outfit where people drop in and out of the ether to play along, sort of like a modern version of Delaney & Bonnie. Their motto is “We make songs with our family and friends,” which is certainly better than the current motto of The Rolling Stones, which is “We make music with the rich and famous when they magically appear at our shows on our farewell—really, we mean it this time—farewell tour.” There’s a genuineness about Hallstrom that comes through loud and clear, and after suffering through eight months of listening to overproduced synthetic crap every New Music Tuesday, a slog that has failed to yield one single album worth my time and energy, the sincerity I hear in Hallstrom is delightfully refreshing. The liner notes list several Hallstroms and a host of others, and as one with fond memories of my family and friends getting together to play and sing during the holidays, I know from personal experience that there is nothing like music to make you feel kinship with relatives and non-relatives alike.

The more important quality is that Hallstrom plays folk with unusual passion and power that’s reminiscent of one of my favorite new folk bands, Scotland’s Admiral Fallow. The recording quality is exceptional, despite their claim that “This album was recorded more than once over too long a time worth defining. It was made in a cabinet shop that became a studio. The songs were written on the #435 bus, in a vocal booth with a patient engineer, on two pianos that were rescued from the dump and in a cabin near the Yakima River.” That tells me a lot of work and an incredible amount of patience went into the mixing and mastering, and the result is a warm, clear and well-arranged recording that never distracts you from the music.

The music consists of ten original songs, all performed with great spirit and all with thought-provoking lyrics. Imagine that! “Tallest Tree” gets things started with an absolutely stunning arrangement that begins quietly with Tom Hallstrom’s vocal accompanied by strummed chords on a mandolin. Kate Hallstrom enters the mix with sweet “oohs” in deep background while Tom covers the melody with “ohs,” a lovely little diversion that completes a very strong introduction. Full acoustic guitar and hand claps enter the mix, and even as more voices and an organ join in, you never get the feeling that the arrangement is too crowded or over the top. I could have done without the banjo towards the end, but my readers have learned to accept that my banjophobia is a lifelong condition for which there will never be a cure. What’s wonderful about the songs on this album is that frequently there’s a couplet or a verse that stands out; in this case, the lines, “We’d circle ’round each other with plans or with knives/I’ll bet we keep it up for the rest of our lives” really resonated with me because my daily world is filled with pointless competition and the “weapons” people use are often ideas and strategies.

“Borderlands” is a fascinating little tale about the one in your family or circle of friends that is hell-bent on dancing to his or her own drummer, even if it’s unnecessarily self-destructive. This one introduces the electric guitar to the soundscape, manifested in sweet little fills and comps that give the song a definite and satisfying edge. It’s followed by “Wild Horses,” which is not a cover of The Stones’ classic but a musical manifesto of Hallstrom’s raison d’être: the belief that the power of music is magnified when it’s a shared experience, with players and audience alike. The couplet that moves me here is “If melody could break the fear in your heart/You know I’d sing it at the top of my lungs.” I’ve written elsewhere about the healing power of music; while Hallstrom recognizes that quality, they also emphasize the bonding power of music, something that has become a lost art in a world where we’re all separately connecting to music through iPods and earphones.

“The Time I Wasted” has a little too much banjo for me to really love the song, and the concept that we might get screwed after death for wasting time on Earth is an alien thought to me. We French girls have a fervent belief in “Je ne regrette rien!” I do like the insightful observation about how big plans can actually have the effect of paralyzing us in the present, though. “Fire in the Bones” a bit is more my style, a slow-tempo number with support from the electric guitar and more interesting melodic movement. It’s also the only song with a video I can post, one that demonstrates the bonding power of music quite beautifully:

“The Waltz” is a very pretty duet with Kate and Tom taking turns in the opening verses, coming together in harmony in the chorus, then reversing order before reconnecting. It’s a quiet, sweetly-played number with an extremely sensitive arrangement featuring some nice guitar fills. It’s followed by “Reckoning,” the second dream number on the album (the first being “The Time I Wasted”). This one brings in a harmonica that leads into a fuller band arrangement with bass, drums and guitar, and it really pays off when they shift to a stop-time sequence and sing over a good solid drum-and-cymbal bashing. Hallstrom has a superb sense of dynamics, and that talent really makes this song work.

“Ebenezer” is a repurposing of the Scrooge story, continuing the theme of regret for wasted time. The beauty of this track is in the background vocals, soft but satisfyingly full. The follow-up “Geometry” has more of a country feel in the strum but the low-end piano notes give the song an unusual contrast and more depth. Both of these songs are good lead-ins to the strong closer, “We Need You in the Valley,” with its memorable piano riff, layered build and quiet, beautiful moments of suspension. The lyrics are open to many interpretations, but at the core, they deal with the tension between those who have separated themselves from society (those on the mountain) and those who live in the real world (those in the valley). The up-down dichotomy could also describe the arrogant and the humble; the bitter and the forgiving; the rich and the common folk. What I absolutely love about the song is that Hallstrom refuses to turn it into an overly-dramatic American Idol number with overdone vocals and thousands of strings. It’s a human song with an accessible arrangement, reinforcing the underlying theme that we all need each other to help us through this thing we call life.

In the end, this is a warm, sensitive and surprisingly powerful album with solid musicianship and lyrical depth that makes you wish for more. The open membership structure of the band gives the music a unique mix of camaraderie and looseness as well as that wonderful sound of musicians who have come together to create a thing of beauty. I think they would benefit from more complex harmonies and richer chord structures, but that’s something to consider for the next album. Above all, the experience of Hallstrom reminds us of the old saying, “out of many, one” which I believe is still technically the motto of the United States. Out of the Borderlands, Down in the Valley shows us that people are still capable of doing wonderful things together, and that music has a magical ability to facilitate that unity.

I’m only reviewing the main album, but the box set is worth it if you’re as passionate about Richard Thompson as I am. Click to buy.

In this case, the cover says it all.

Richard Thompson is at the top or near the top of two of my mythical Favorites Lists. He’s my absolute favorite songwriter and he’s also one of the finest guitarists to ever put fingers to a fretboard. The cover of Electric tells you that this album is primarily a showcase for his guitar skills; if you’re looking for songwriting excellence up to his usual standards, you’re not going to find it here. The songs on Electric are vehicles for his guitar skills instead of remarkable displays of his lyrical talent.

I’m good with that. Among the many deficits in today’s music, one of the most glaring is that there are few artists out there who know how to play a fucking instrument. The mass of crap I listen to every New Release Tuesday shows that most contemporary artists have either delegated the task of instrumentation to software, or play predictable, catchy, recycled riffs designed to stimulate the limited aesthetic capabilities of the moronic sheep who flock to buy their new releases. With a very few exceptions, if you want to hear music crafted by sensitive human hands instead of indifferent algorithms, you have to look to the older folks: Sonny Landreth, Martin Barre and Richard Thompson.

Don’t get me started on today’s singers. Okay, I’m started! Today’s singers fall into three categories: those who can’t survive without auto-tune; guys who sing off-key in the low registers because women who rarely get laid have been programmed to find that sexy; and chicks with thin voices you can barely hear over the noise of the mix, a strategy that makes them sound unattainable and therefore more desirable. It’s obvious on Electric that Richard Thompson avoided the first two and is obviously incapable of emulating the third. Age has slightly diminished his vocal range, and at times you can hear him straining a teeny bit to hit the high notes.

I’m good with that, too. I’ll take real over fake any day.

This is a challenging album to review, which is why I’ve put it off for so long (it came out six months ago). The risk is that I might overstate the excellence of his guitar work because I’m hearing it in the context of a musical wasteland. When you’re horny, the homely one looks pretty damned hot when he or she is the only one available on a Saturday night. I finally decided that since I recognize that the songs themselves are not at the level of songs like “Beeswing,” “Cooksferry Queen” or “Hope You Like the Real Me,” I have retained my critical acumen and can forge ahead with an objective and measured response to the music.

The man is on fire!

The dynamics of this album become clear in the opening track, “Stony Ground.” The music is similar to “MGB-GT” from Mirror Blue. The lyrics, which tell the tale of a horny old bastard who thinks exclusively with his dick, are playful and certainly competent, but hardly represent his best work. But my fucking God, the guitar! Combining the bite of rock with flavors of British folk, blues and bagpipe, the counterpoints, fills and solos are to die for. The extended fade solo features playfulness with precision as his left hand dances over the fretboard while his right hand picks, plucks and dampens with amazing ease. He makes engaging complexity sound so effortless that I haven’t used my major stress releaser in weeks: my cheap-ass Strat with Pignose amp. While I’m pretty nimble on the flute, I’m a guitar klutz, and I primarily use the set-up to create noise, since that’s pretty much all I’m capable of doing. After listening to Electric, I feel rather silly and embarrassed, so I’m going to have to go back and listen to George Harrison’s clunky lead solos from the early Beatles albums to regain my confidence.

Re-reading that passage about my competence with the flute gave me some insight as to why I give better blow jobs than hand jobs. Apparently I have strong oral gratification needs that the flute satisfies but the guitar does not. Maybe if I did the Ronnie Wood/Keith Richard cigarette-in-the-mouth trick my guitar skills might improve.

Then again, maybe not. I’ve tried that with hand jobs but the guys always come in thirty seconds. Makes for a short evening.

Getting back to Richard, he displays his exceptional picking skills in “Salford Sunday.” He’s one of the few guitarists I know who is equally competent at acoustic and electric styles, which certainly pays dividends in this piece, where he plays his Fender in a more acoustic style. He also adds a touch of mandolin that brightens the mix, and his choice of Siobhan Maher Kennedy as his harmonic companion on vocals enhances the beauty of the piece. What I love about his guitar here is that he keeps it subtle and simple so as not to bury the lovely main riff and melodic line in a frivolous display of pyrotechnics.

“Sally B” is a tough song to figure. I don’t know which Sally B he’s talking about: a.) the skin care company; b.) the B-17 with the full nude on the fuselage; c.) a lady of unknown origins. There are indications that her politics or style will play well in the American south (“Now they talk way down south/Without moving their mouth/And the houses are old antebellum/There you’ll find supporters/Revolutionary daughters/Who’ll believe everything that you tell ‘em.”) It’s all very intriguing, but what makes the song work is once again the guitar solo, this one a touch more avant-garde with out-of-scale explorations. Next comes “Stuck on the Treadmill,” a song with fairly pedestrian lyrics describing the working class cycle of economic dependence and unexpected job loss. Again, what matters is the guitar: here it’s more single string work with superb note attack that makes it fly. Both of these songs sound a bit muffled, indicating a commitment to avoid slick production values, but I think a touch more mid and high EQ might have cleaned things up a bit.

“My Enemy” features a fascinating melody with semi-operatic octave leaps and Siobhan’s excellent and subtle harmonizing. The lyrics don’t leap out at you with stunning metaphors, but the insight into human psychology is brilliant. Richard Thompson expresses the realization that the human need for opposites (championed by Blake and symbolized by yin and yang) can make for strange bedfellows when the need is distorted by competition:

Now we’re just two old men on the brink

Each waiting for the other to blink

If I should lose you, I’d be left with nothing but fate

As I see your life fall apart

I should smile but I don’t have the heart

At the end of the day, it’s still too much effort to hate

The most immediately accessible and catchy song on Electric is “Good Things Happen to Bad People.” The groove here is so compelling that you can ignore the simple lyrics just like you do with “Louie, Louie” or James Brown’s “I Feel Good.” The lyrics work with the music, and here that’s all that matters. The Rickenbacker-like tone he gets out of his Strat to open the piece is marvelous, but for the main solo, Richard flips the switch to get a more classic rock tone and gives us a ripping performance. Keep your eyes on his right hand while watching this fan video of a live performance; it’s a fabulous demonstration of the pick-and-fingers hybrid technique he does so well and I can only dream about:

Before I go any further, I feel the need to make a qualifying statement for those who are accustomed to “either/or” reviewers (fawning or sadistic). While Richard Thompson’s lyrics on Electric aren’t of the level of quality of much of his previous work, Richard Thompson on an off-day is a hundred times better than most. Here he’s chosen to simplify the lyrics and pay more attention to their sonic context than their depth.

I’m good with that.

Back to our story—-next up is the bittersweet but exceedingly lovely “Where’s Home?” This is a song that I strongly identify with, having been driven by the violent mindlessness of my home country to move to a place on the other side of where my values aren’t so far out of sync with the majority. The lyrics are even more applicable to my earlier departure from San Francisco, a city that has gone down the shithole in the pursuit of mindless wealth, health nazism and devaluation of the arts. I remember walking in my old stomping grounds on 24th Street in Noe Valley during one visit home and feeling the same sense of stranger-in-a-strange-land that Richard Thompson describes here:

I used to know this street

someone changed the name

signpost turned around

and nothing looks the same

but I belong somewhere,

I belong somewhere.

I guess that somewhere is Paris or Nice, and you’re probably saying, “Then what the hell does she have to bitch about?” The truth is I had a very strong attachment to my home and my city, and there will always be an empty place in my heart for what was. This song does make me tear up a bit, and while I know that all change involves loss, the loss part always sucks.

Acoustic guitar opens “Another Small Thing in Her Favour,” a vignette about a divorce or separation. This is one of the finer songs on the album in terms of lyrical quality and insight regarding the peculiar dynamics of human relationships. Richard Thompson has always been a master at sad and bitter irony, and he is spot-on here. Told from the male half’s perspective, the story makes you smile and feel the pain at the same time:

She said she felt bad

For the home that we had

And the effort I’d wasted to save her

She told me as much

As she slowly let out the clutch

That’s another small thing in her favour

And omigod the lead solo. Too brief! Too brief! The combination of sparkling runs and pizzicato bits is pure delight. Richard’s voice is particularly full and deep here; no one sings the sad song as well as he.

By contrast, “Straight and Narrow” sounds like a cross between Al Kooper and The Doors: straightforward sixties organ rock with a Richard Thompson touch. The sound here is also a bit muffled, making it sound more garage, like an old 45 without the scratches. The juxtaposition between “Another Small Thing in Her Favour” and “The Snow Goose” makes sense, because it serves to break up two contemplative numbers. “The Snow Goose” is pure acoustic, something I always look forward to on Richard Thompson records because he has a feel for the acoustic guitar that can’t be taught . . . the relationship is synergistic instead of man-using-tool. The imagery he chooses here stands in rough contrast to the softness of melody and accompaniment:

Northern winds will cut you

Northern girls will gut you

Leave you cold and empty

Like a fish on the slab

Allison Krauss does a nice job with the harmonic touches, but this is song is all about Richard Thompson’s voice and guitar, and the magic that combination creates.

Electric ends with a song driven by acoustic guitar, the reflective, country-tinged “Saving the Good Stuff for You.” The touch of fiddle from Stuart Duncan and the harmonies provided by Sioban give the song a definite bluegrass tinge, but the execution is much smoother than you find in typical bluegrass. The emotional dynamic of this song is exquisite, as it’s a dramatic monologue from a guy who has been an abusive loser all his life and has finally mellowed out now that his “old head is peppered with grey.”

Now I’m glad that you never did know me

When I was out of control

I was hollow right there in the middle

Some people get sucked in the hole

But I cut myself loose from the old ways

And you’re all that I’m clinging to

All the time oh I didn’t know it

I was saving the good stuff for you.

I wish we had heard from the lady in this couple to find out if this was a true turnaround or more bullshit from the black hole . . . the narrator’s continual recounting of his sins tells me he’s still messing up and seeking forgiveness from self and other. Even when he’s not dazzling you, Richard Thompson still has enough songwriting talent to engage and challenge the listener, as this last song clearly demonstrates.

Electric is now one of my favorite Richard Thompson albums because it is an absolutely delightful listening experience. Some of his other albums (Amnesia is a good example) feature songs that blow you away with the songwriting craftsmanship but also contain tunes where he gave it a good shot but fell short of excellence. The quality on Electric is much more consistent and the well-structured flow of the songs makes the experience intensely enjoyable. Any time you want to listen to a true guitar artisan at work, Electric is definitely one album you’re going to want to hear.