The American music industry has never been particularly interested in — or good at — pursuing slow, sustainable growth models. Americans in general are obsessed with speed, and that’s reflected in our rock folklore — from Elvis striking God’s perfect chord during his first Sun Studios take to Taylor Swift writing hit songs while she was still in high school, we love a fast, out-of-nowhere success story on the pop charts. There’s a whole world outside the spotlight, however, and even though it doesn’t seem to happen as often as it used to, the major labels have occasionally functioned as impatient and/or semi-unwilling incubators for artists who, for one reason or another, take a little extra time to achieve mainstream success.
Like, say, Kansas.
Needlepoint violin solos aside, pretty much everything about Kansas is slow. The first of the band’s many lineups formed in 1970, but it was 1974 before they got around to recording an album, which flopped, as did the two that followed. It wasn’t until their fourth album, 1976’s Leftoverture, that Kansas was able to claw a toehold in the marketplace — and by 1982, when original singer Steve Walsh took a hike and the band briefly morphed into a terrifying CCM/prog hybrid, they had already slid back into commercial irrelevancy. Kansas’ last major label release, In the Spirit of Things, came out in 1988, and their last overall studio effort, Somewhere to Elsewhere, was released almost ten years ago.
While contemporaries like Boston, Styx, and REO Speedwagon managed to retain various degrees of dignity during their commercial dotage, Kansas has given off a sad, flat-footed vibe for the last 25 years or so — Walsh’s departure kicked off an era of multiple breakups, grimy club tours, and long silences punctuated by bargain-priced archival live albums. During the mid ’90s, Kansas attempted a comeback with Freaks of Nature, an album recorded for Intersound, a label widely believed to be a Mafia tax shelter; three years later, they were recording live symphonic covers of their greatest hits for another shady indie outfit, River North. During an interview to promote 2002’s live CD/DVD project Device – Voice – Drum, drummer Phil Ehart admitted that the band had been dumped by not only its last label (prog champions Magna Carta), but its booking agent — a horribly galling admission for a band with evergreen AOR hits in a touring marketplace that always has room for everyone from Air Supply to whatever jiveass live package Alan Parsons happens to be peddling. (more…)
In the comment section of last week’s White Label Wednesday column on ABC, Ted lamented that I didn’t beat mix the songs together. Today, he gets his wish.
I made roughly 15 to 20 beat mixes during my time as a DJ in college (1987-1991). I didn’t own any gear, so I either made the mixes after hours at the clubs where I worked or I used the gear of a fellow DJ friend, who was brave enough to have his gear in his dorm room. Since the mixes were all recorded on cassette, very few have made the jump to the digital realm. Easy CD Creator had an add-on earlier in the decade that enabled people to input analog sources into their computer, and it would record the tracks and break them down. The program was clearly designed for vinyl, thinking that it would create a new file whenever a song ended or faded out. With beat mixes, this was a little more complicated, since the idea is for there to never be a break. I’d end up with one 12-minute file, and then 15 ten-second files. I would then take this .wav file editor and put the songs back together. Wheee.
The worst thing about uploading the tapes was that the digital recording was really quiet, so I would have to amplify the tracks exponentially, which of course amplified the tape hiss as well. You don’t really hear it when things are jumping, but when a song got quiet…whoooooosh! I should just break down and get one of those USB turntables that can convert vinyl and cassettes, but there is just one problem: I have no money, and with two kids, no time. So most of my tapes are still tapes. (more…)
It’s the second week of artists whose names begin with the letter S, as we continue to look at songs that charted no higher than #41 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart in the 1980s.
John Schneider
“Still” — 1981, #69 (download)
“Dreamin’” — 1982, #45 (download)
“In the Driver’s Seat” — 1982, #72 (download)
Well, you probably know how much I’d really like to rip into Bo Duke, but for the most part I can’t. However, this man’s man from Hazzard County came right out of the musical gate pretty limp. If he wanted to do country music, that’s fine. A song like “In the Driver’s Seat” is actually kind of good. But “Still” is terrible, terrible adult contemporary crap. But, his music career was certainly targeted towards women who thought he was dreamy so I guess I understand why he went to the softer gentler side. If nothing else, most of his music was better than the self-titled debut from Luke Duke (Tom Wopat, 1982).
Eddie Schwartz
“Over the Line” — 1982, #91 (download)
Eddie Schwartz released three albums in the 80s and a half-dozen or so singles with minimal success. He had more success writing for others as he wrote or co-wrote Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me with Your Best Shot’ as well as the Doobie Brothers’ “The Doctor” and Paul Carrack’s “Don’t Shed a Tear.” All three are much better than “Over the Line.”
For as long as I have known The Brother Kite, starting when my old friend Matt Rozzero became their drummer in 2004, I have been waiting impatiently for TBK to make a west coast appearance. After seeing them perform at a small club in 2006 in their hometown of Providence, Rhode Island, it became my favorite question to ask Matt. The excellent, shimmering Waiting for the Time to Be Right was about to be released, and with regard to their next album, I suppose they’re still waiting. But they’re getting closer…
Before TBK could get closer to the west coast, however, I made it out to the east coast again to connect with them at their custom-built studio atop guitarist Jon Downs’ father’s garage in Mason, New Hampshire.
Matt picked me up at my parents’ place in Rhode Island, and on the drive up to New Hampshire, he played for me just about all of the new songs that are due to appear on the next Brother Kite album, Isolation. (more…)
With the season finale of Mad Men a couple of weeks ago, I lamented to my wife about the fact that many of my favorite shows — shows I would essentially make appointment to watch — either have extremely short seasons, or they are off the air. It’s odd, but shows like Big Love, Lost, Mad Men, and a whole host of others aren’t on the air for very long. It seems I’m just getting into a groove with these shows, and then … it’s over. Or, like Lost, the season is truncated in such a weird way that I have to wonder if the programming geniuses at ABC are playing some meta-programming game with the viewers by making the show, like the island, disappear and reappear at odd times. Or maybe the demise of good TV programming is all because of that creature from Hell: the reality show.
Well, let’s bracket my gripes for a moment and concentrate on the music for six shows that have pretty cool theme songs, shall we? As I was assembling these songs, I realized that, like the soundtrack scores I tend to gravitate toward, these theme songs are much more atmospheric and less symphonic. Also, as standalone pieces of music, they’re pretty frickin’ awesome! (more…)
Have you ever played that game with your friends where you cherry-pick musicians from various bands to create your own hypothetical supergroup? Them Crooked Vultures come right out of those rock and roll fantasies to knock you on your ass, teabag you into submission, and leave you begging for more. The combination of Josh Homme, Dave Grohl, and John Paul Jones sounds just like you’d expect, if what you expect is the sound of those blurry moments between last call and first orgasm. It’s dark, dirty, tastes like sweat, and smells like cigarettes. It’s sex you know you shouldn’t be having, somewhere you shouldn’t be having it.
Them Crooked Vultures is all about the rhythm, which makes the 13 tracks on their debut perfect for those late night after-bar booty calls, cruising with the windows down and the subwoofer cranked, or even just a night at home with bong rips and headphones. Homme has always been at his best working in riffs, and with this dream team rhythm section behind him, the trio locks into a groove and dares you to try to hang on. I wish I was a rapper, because I’d be sampling the shit out of this album, especially the beginning of “Elephants” or the moment in album opener “Nobody Loves Me & Neither Do I” when it seems like they kick everything up to 11 and march the song into a different realm for the second half before turning things over to Grohl to finish it all off with an insane John Bonham-esque finale. The Hammer of the Gods references are inevitable with Jones on board, but T.C.V. isn’t your momma’s Led Zeppelin, unless your momma likes to mix shrooms with her 8 balls and whiskey, take off her top, and dance way too fast to “No Quarter.” (more…)
Please read to the end for information about how you can win a copy of this album.
The Village in question is Greenwich, and 429 Records has gathered together an accomplished cast to celebrate the music that shook the world from that corner of New York City in the Sixties. Lest you think my use of phrase “shook the world” is an overstatement, I offer the first three songs on the album as evidence. Bob Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues” finds Rickie Lee Jones putting a pin in the balloon of pretension that surrounds Dylan these days. Though not of his making, it marks his every movement. Jones jabs at it with, of all things, a slide whistle, returning the humor inherent in the song.
Songs two and three are Dylan covers too, albeit more serious in tone. There’s nothing funny about “It’s Alright Ma I’m Only Bleeding,” and Winnipeg band the Duhks perform it with requisite intensity and respect. Lucinda Williams makes Dylan’s bitter rant “Positively 4th Street” her own by bringing it from a less angry, more heartbroken place, and very few people do heartbreak like Lucinda Williams.
Sixpence None the Richer contribute a wonderfully inventive take on the traditional “Wayfaring Stranger,” and John Oates’ retelling of another traditional song, “He Was A Friend of Mine,” is something of a revelation. The extremely underrated Philadelphia singer/songwriter Amos Lee closes out side one with a typically understated, soulful version of Fred Neil’s “Little Bit of Rain.” (more…)
Hey, everyone! It’s time for the second course of Dysfunctional Family Thanksgiving! I hope you enjoyed the first course, The Myth of Fingerprints, though I’m guessing it might have been a little obscure for some people’s tastes. This week we have another film from 1997, albeit one that’s set in 1973: The Ice Storm. (I promise next week’s course isn’t another depressing movie produced by James Schamus.)
I saw The Ice Storm in the theater and remember being really affected by it. In fact I couldn’t get it out of my mind for days after, so I had to go see it again. Then I had to buy the book by Rick Moody, which I also loved.
Exquisitely directed by Ang Lee, The Ice Storm is about two neighboring, dysfunctional Connecticut families and their attempts to deal with the tumult and changes happening in their lives — and the world in general — through alcohol, drugs, and sex.
Many is the pop star who harbors a dark secret beneath his wholesome façade. Michael Bublé’s is that he is an evil death robot from the future, sent back in time to annihilate mankind.
I’ll admit that I lack ironclad proof of Bublé’s status as a remorseless genocidal automaton, but there is circumstantial evidence aplenty encoded into his — its — latest release, Crazy Love. Careful listening can leave no doubt: This so-called “Bublé” is in fact a B.U.B.L.É. — a Binary-logic Undercover Bio-Life Eliminator, With The Accent On “Eliminator,” an emissary from some dystopian robocratic hell, and if he is not stopped he will bring humanity to extinction by ensuring that no one ever gets laid again.
Perhaps the most frightening aspect of this is the sheer arrogance of the plan. The mechanical entity they’re passing off as a big-band singer isn’t even a particularly convincing AI; performance clips and interviews suggest that the Bublé-creature would not pass the Turing test, let alone the more rigorous Voight-Kampff inventory. And this weakness extends also to the musical component of Bublé’s cover story. Without reading the filenames, compare and contrast these two performances of well-known pop songs. Can you tell which one is being performed by a computer? (more…)
So, Aerosmith is breaking up. Or, depending on which websites you trust or whose tweets you’re following, they aren’t. They haven’t been able to get it together enough to make an album of original material since 2001, or finish a tour without multiple members ending up in the hospital, so it’s no surprise that they can’t even do this right. Perhaps they need counseling, eh, Metallica? At this point, all we know is that Steven Tyler doesn’t want to be in Aerosmith, or maybe he does, just not now. He apparently wants to focus on “Brand Tyler,” which today seems about as hip and necessary as focusing on “Brand George W. Bush.” Though I suppose it isn’t as asinine as trying to continue on with brand Aerosmith without Tyler, as Joe Perry claims he’s going to do, if in fact Tyler is quitting, which apparently now he’s not. WTF, Aerosmith? WTF?
Aerosmith, more than any other rock band, is an enigma. How can the same band have given us “Back in the Saddle” and “Pink”? “Last Child” and “Girls of Summer”? “Mama Kin” and “Amazing”? Given every opportunity to succeed in pure rock awesomeness, they’ve found ways to fuck it up. Maybe when you create something as immediate and phenomenal as the Toys in the Attic album or Rocks, you gain license to shit on your legacy? I’d go so far as to say that maybe they deserve to. But just when you’re ready to count them out, they pull a Hulk Hogan on you and come out on top, yet again. Aerosmith is harder to kill than Jason Voorhees. In fact, the only reason they’re still around today is that they’ve been lucky enough to cheat death.
I can almost guarantee that the Rock Gods had planned for Aerosmith to self-destruct sometime after 1978, and they almost did. It’s surprising no one died. Hell, acting in Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band should have been worth a smiting alone, but even all the coke and STDs in the world couldn’t kill the Toxic Twins. It’s not lost on them, either. They named an album Nine Lives, for God’s sake (and what a turd of an album that was). Sometimes you don’t deserve a second chance, or a third, or a fourth. Sometimes you just want to bury the fucking thing and move on. Unfortunately, Aerosmith has never subscribed to that theory. They’ve been making questionable decisions longer than I’ve been alive and still come up roses every now and again; why should we expect anything different? (more…)
John Schneider
![51F85-jSR3L._SCLZZZZZZZ_[1]](http://popdose.com/wp-content/uploads/51F85-jSR3L._SCLZZZZZZZ_1.jpg "51F85-jSR3L._SCLZZZZZZZ_[1]")
Please read to the end for information about how you can win a copy of this album.
![Aerosmith_-_Amazing[1]](http://popdose.com/wp-content/uploads/Aerosmith_-_Amazing1.jpg "Aerosmith_-_Amazing[1]")
So, Aerosmith is breaking up. Or, depending on which websites you trust or whose tweets you’re following, they aren’t. They haven’t been able to get it together enough to make an album of original material since 2001, or finish a tour without multiple members ending up in the hospital, so it’s no surprise that they can’t even do this right. Perhaps they need counseling, eh, Metallica? At this point, all we know is that Steven Tyler doesn’t want to be in Aerosmith, or maybe he does, just not now. He apparently wants to focus on “Brand Tyler,” which today seems about as hip and necessary as focusing on “Brand George W. Bush.” Though I suppose it isn’t as asinine as trying to continue on with brand Aerosmith without Tyler, as Joe Perry claims he’s going to do, if in fact Tyler is quitting, which apparently now he’s not. WTF, Aerosmith? WTF?