Dan Wilson (Trip Shakespeare, Semisonic, solo artist)

Okay Darren, here are my picks! I’m sure if I thought about it more I’d only come up with a bunch more bonus picks, so I’m sticking to these.

Joni Mitchell’s Hejira album. If it were one song I’d say “Hejira” — there’s something so heartbreaking about Jaco Pastorius’ bass melodies intertwining with Joni’s lyrics. And the song is about love, travel, the temporary fixes of modern life, and the quest for something lasting. What more could you ask for in a song? (more…)

There are few artists whose music evokes the coming of autumn more than Ray LaMontagne. Thus, it seemed only fitting that as I walked from my car to the venue, I should take note of the first turning of leaves and a chill in the air that signals the true end of summer.

Despite having lived in Chicago on and off since 1986, this would be my first concert at the esteemed Chicago Theatre; a venue so beautiful in its regal elegance as to invite comparisons to Michaelangelo.

Once inside, I drew my first gaze and felt myself exhale. Home.

Moments later, I would momentarily wish I’d never left home.

There’s nothing worse than attending a concert and having the opening act take a complete shit onstage, to the extent that if there were a dentist in town that could fit you in at a moment’s notice, you’d schedule a root canal (necessary or not) rather than subject yourself to further musical nonsense.

And, thus, there I was having the life sucked out of me by opener Leona Naess.

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This past weekend, drummer Steve Foley passed away at the age of 49. Foley, of course, is best known for replacing Chris Mars in the Replacements for their final tour in 1991 after years spent gigging on the local Minneapolis music scene. Upon hearing word of his passing, I found myself revisiting a thought — a concept, if you will — that’s been vying for more space in my mind as of late.

My thought, of course, is that there’s really no less flattering sight than that of the aging rock ‘n’ roll musician. Now, before you respond with a sarcastic “boo-hoo,” hear me out. It’s one thing to show your age in a grey cubicle — as long as they make Dockers in your size, truth be told, you’re still good to go — but a rocker hitting his 40s is a whole ‘nother bag of hammers.

Rock ‘n’ roll’s very inception — or conception, if you will — was a reaction to the stodgy “grown-up” music of the day, and while its first real star, Bill Haley, was already pushing 30 (!) by the time “Rock Around the Clock” appeared in the closing credits of the film Blackboard Jungle and changed the face of popular music forever, rock ‘n’ roll still enjoyed an immediate and irrevocable connection to youth.

For teenagers in America who had long been stuck listening to the same music as their parents, rock ‘n’ roll was something they could call their own. Haley was a huge star, of course, but the proverbial elder statesman soon gave way to much younger idols with whom teenagers could more closely identify, including Elvis Presley, Frankie Avalon, and Ricky Nelson.

Presley, of course, is probably the best example of rock ‘n’ roll’s celebration of youth. After all, while talent surely had something to do with it, it was his youthful bravado and untamed sexuality that made him a star. He had the swagger of a young man who had no idea what he couldn’t do, and America’s teenagers loved every controversial shake of the hips and snarl of the lips. He, more than anyone, made sure that rock ‘n’ roll belonged to the young: he was young, the millions of adoring fans were young, and they saw something in each other that made for a beautiful relationship.

As he grew older, though, he lost touch with his audience and watched as bands like the Beatles and Rolling Stones stole his thunder. His final days were spent as a tired Vegas act going through the motions, lost in a drug-induced haze and utterly alone in a world that, for the most part, had moved on from him years ago. He was 42.

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Preconceptions can be a bitch.

Lemme give you an example. Back in 1981, I bought an album by a band called The Tourists, whom I knew nothing about, and, upon first listen, promptly became the hugest Tourists fan in southwestern Michigan. Okay, competition wasn’t exactly fierce.

Still, I never read a word about the band in the many rock magazines I devoured, nor did I see them on MTV (their video for “I Only Want To Be With You” may have aired a few times, but since I didn’t have cable, I never knew it) and, thus, they joined the growing list of obscure bands I loved, but knew little about.

A couple years later, former Tourists Annie Lennox and Dave Stewart, having begun recording as Eurythmics, were enjoying worldwide stardom on the heels of their second album, Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This). Even though their music and faces were everywhere, I had not yet made the connection to their past.

Truth be told, by the time I did realize that they had been members of the Tourists, their singles had been played so often on the radio, Friday Night Videos, and the like that I didn’t think actually hearing the rest of the album would reveal any new surprises. I’d heard their music, thought it was decent enough, but just wasn’t compelled to join them for this ride.

Here’s where the preconceptions come in. (more…)

Okay, let me just say right off the top that I’ve always had a bit of a problem with Trent Reznor. This was purely from an artistic POV. As a huge fan of Ministry’s early industrial output (the landmark records Twitch and The Land of Rape and Honey), I saw Trent’s Pretty Hate Machine as a homogenized version of the Ministry aesthetic. It was as if someone had sawed off all the harsh, jagged edges of a Ministry record. No, let me rephrase that. It was as if someone had taken a basic rock record…you know, verse/chorus/verse stuff…and added a little industrial window dressing.

That the suburbs, malls, and amusement parks were soon littered with suburban kids with NIN logos on their chests and backs was proof positive that Trent Reznor had succeeded in making industrial music palatable for the suburbs. After all, suburban kids wanted to feel “bad-ass” too, but those Ministry records were some scary shit. NIN, on the other hand, was no more frightening than watching The Crow for the hundredth time.

So, yeah, I thought Reznor was a poseur.

That opinion did not change when I saw him have a mini-meltdown at Lollapalooza when his pre-programmed keyboards wouldn’t work. Seriously, Diana Ross, Liza Minnelli, and the rest of their ilk have nothing on this guy.Of course, along the way, the guy actually managed to write “Hurt,” which I heartily believe is a fucking great song, but doing so only made me expect more from the guy. If he was capable of that, then why did we keep getting albums that were, by and large, huge steaming piles of unfulfilled promise?

Because his fans accepted those albums as symbols of musical brilliance, that’s why. (more…)

This is the first in a series that I call Random-onium!, for lack of a better term. The premise is that I go to a friend’s house and pick a few CDs out of their collection — completely at random– and review them for your reading and listening pleasure.This week, my buddy John was kind enough to allow me access to his collection, making sure to point out in advance that the Natalie Merchant and Bangles CDs belonged to his lady, who thought it would be cool to merge their respective collections soon after she moved in.

“What?” he exclaimed defensively, noticing the expression on my face. I could have said any number of things and laid him out like a punch drunk boxer decades past his prime, but my sly grin and silence said it all. Of course, my insatiable adoration for “the obvious joke” overpowered my restraint and I let loose with a “whip crack” that would have made Michael Winslow proud, for which I paid the ultimate price as John thumped me in the shoulder. Not just my shoulder, though, but the exact spot on my shoulder that hurts like a mother when you knuckle punch it.

After “walking it off,” I promptly closed my eyes and blindly reached into his stack of tracks, pulling out… (more…)

There are those artists who get a couple releases into their career before they feel the pressure from the suits at the label to “have a hit,” and then there are those artists who sell out right from the get-go.

Ministry certainly falls into the latter category and their debut longplayer smacks of blatant commerciality…blatant, misguided, and downright silly commerciality.

Hailing from the urban mecca of Chicago, Alain Jourgenson and Steven George formed Ministry in 1981 as a funk-tinged synth duo, scoring a couple minor dance hits before inking a deal with Arista Records.

Despite a pedigree that included a stint in the hard-edged alt-rockers Special Affect (a band that also included future My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult founder Groovy Mann), Jourgenson’s vision on With Sympathy was single-mindedly aimed at the charts.

(Ministry circa 1983: Al Jourgenson, left, and Steven George)

How else does one explain such tracks as “Work For Love” and “What He Say?” — the latter a laughably kitschy blend of synth-pop and, uh, world music…I think. (more…)

So much of our lives are shaped by how we carry ourselves — our self-confidence, if you will. Yet I have come to believe that confidence is actually an indicator of:

a) the ability to convince people you have confidence when, in fact, you don’t, or

b) severe narcissism and a delusional belief in one’s self.

As luck would have it, I once befriended a co-worker, with whom I shared some musical interests, who fell very much into “column B.” He was a guitarist who fancied himself a singer/songwriter and, while his songs were pleasant enough, he had an uncanny knack for writing tunes that keenly captured the essence of songs that already existed. When he played a show and a girl came up afterwards and said that one of his songs sounded like something she’d heard on the radio, but she couldn’t remember what, he took it as a supreme compliment.

I had never met a guy who took such shameless pleasure in talking about himself. At first, I just thought it was because we shared an office and quickly ran out of other things to talk about, but when we ventured out for a night on the town at one of L.A.’s many hotspots where aspiring (and expiring) actresses gather, the night would invariably go a little like so:

He’d spot a couple tramp stamps, wander over, introduce himself, and then challenge the women to get a word in edge-wise over the next couple hours before escorting one “lucky lady” back to his place. (more…)

Girlfriends, I was sitting on my diamond-encrusted toilet the other day thinking that ya’ll probably had no idea what kind of music to buy. Judging by your willingness to accept my book choices as gospel, I realize the power I wield and the idea of sending a couple million sheep tumbling off the nearest cliff does tickle me, child, but I digress.

So, without further a-do-do-do-de-da-da-da, here is this week’s pre-cease-and-desist-order Oprah’s Rock Club pick:

Bolt Thrower, Those Once Loyal (2005)

This one has been out awhile, but, hey, I’m Oprah. I get there when I get there. These lovable boys from Birmingham (England, not Alabama) deliver the goods on their ninth (and final?) long player, which sees the return of original vocalist Karl Willetts.

Like a dependable dog with a mean case of rabies, Bolt Thrower not only fetch the paper, but tear the sumbitch to shreds and lay the saliva-drenched pulp at your feet while unleashing pure skull-fucking fury on standout tracks “At First Light” and “Those Once Loyal”.

I personally thought they had done it all and said it all on Who Dares Wins from ’94, but Oprah stands corrected.

Those Once Loyal is a four-on-the-floor, Marshall-stack-powered full frontal assault on the senses that will leave your favorite Victoria’s Secret thong in a crumpled heap and smelling of motor oil on the floor of your Ford Freestar (right next to a Starbucks cup that seems to have been MacGyver’ed into a makeshift …oh, nevermind, child…Oprah’s already said too much).

Now, drop the kids off at soccer practice already and haul ass over to Borders and special order this one from the cute guy with the nose ring that works on the second floor. Like you needed an excuse, Honey.

I don’t wait by the phone like I used to
I don’t hope for kind words you might say
You don’t prey on my mind like you used to
But you can still ruin my day

I’ve always been amazed, amused and, ultimately, saddened by the importance of perception in our romantic interludes. In the span of days, or minutes (as the case may be), one can go from floating on air, dropping their guard completely, and falling head over heels for someone to being sickened by the sight of them.

It isn’t that the person who once caused our heart to skip a beat each time we saw them has changed, mind you, but that our perception of them has. We’ve all probably been on the receiving end of such changes in perception and, truth be told, it would be disheartening to know what minor detail brought about such a dramatic change in perception.

In one such instance, a friend of mine who’d been unreachable for the past couple weeks, caught up in the throes of passion with someone they described as “the one,” called me out of the blue and asked if I had any dinner plans. When I asked why they weren’t spending every available minute with ‘the one,” they rolled their eyes and informed me that they’d broken it off. “Too needy,” they replied with a shrug. You or them, I asked? “Not funny,” they shot back, punching me in the arm.

See, it was only when “the one” seemed aloof and unattainable that my friend had dropped everything to pursue them. Only after “the one” reciprocated the affection and then went one further by displaying a sense of vulnerability did my friend decide they weren’t really “the one” after all. The idea that my friend might go the rest of their life repeating this chain of events struck me as incredibly sad. What was sadder is that I knew I’d been guilty of much the same thing at various points in my life. (more…)