It’s May 15 as I write. By the time you read this, I will be dead. By the time you read this, we’ll know with absolute certainty who the Democratic candidate is. By the time you read this, we’ll know if the Indiana Jones franchise has been turned into utter crap by the series’ first film in 19 years, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. The rumblings in the underground aren’t positive. George “Yippee!!” Lucas, the film’s executive producer (he also gets credit for the story along with Catch Me If You Can’s Jeff Nathanson), has already started up the spin machine, saying that fan expectations could never ever ever be satisfied with the reality of the moviemaking process, and that unfair disappointment is sure to happen. This is, of course, patently untrue. But let’s step back a moment …

I have never been on board for “Indy IV.” My status as a royal geek is in jeopardy, I know, but I always thought Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989) ended just right, the book closed on the last page of the story with grace and a ride into the sunset. (For those who’ve been in a coma the past 27 years, the series began with 1981’s Raiders of the Lost Ark and continued with 1984’s Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.) In the intervening years everything changed, not the least of which was the director of the Indy films himself, Steven Spielberg. Gone was his movies’ simplistic yet entertaining worldview of good guys versus bad guys. The world no longer crested to happy endings; instead, the rightly cynical topics of World War II, the Munich murders, and what it means to be human as opposed to being a machine that is programmed to want to be human demanded nuance, pathos, and a lingering sense of darkness. That darkness has been aided by longtime Spielberg collaborator Janusz Kaminski’s moody and textural cinematography ever since Schindler’s List (1993).

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Mind if I freak you out here? Yes? Too bad; I have nothing else to write about. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have a lot to write about, judging by all the files I’ve put up on the handy-dandy Popdose FTP.

1) No, you cannot have access to the Popdose FTP.

2) I mean it, NO, you cannot have access to the Popdose FTP.

See, when you write for a forum such as this, you can overload yourself fairly early, clogging the works with all those notions you’d like to tackle, restraint be damned. Then life gets in the way and you find yourself getting all topical and current and, very quickly, your digital cabinets runneth over. So I think it is time to do a little spring cleaning, with an added bonus of providing outlet for democracy.

(Get to the point, damn it!)

There are a few candidates on my list that I’m just not going to get to. As much as I love the music from these artists, it just seems more and more unlikely that they’re going to get their day. That’s where you come in. Your petty little vote may not mean much when compared to a mighty Superdelegate, but it means something to me. I swear, and not just because I’m trying to get to second base with you. I’ve decided to give you a choice for whom I next tackle. Simply drop a comment with your choice from the following artists and the act with the largest popular vote gets an expanded column. It’s that simple, and you’ll respect yourself the morning after. And yes, you have lovely eyes.

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Okay, this is how I think it’s going to go down: before the end of the year, a major player in the music industry will announce that it’ll no longer sign bands to make albums. It’ll institute ten-song deals versus three albums, the product to be delivered over a two-year period versus a contract tying up five to ten years. Each of the ten songs are to be considered singles, radio-ready, with at least a 65 percent probability of hit status, otherwise the band in question is liable to be dropped for fulfillment issues. If the losses are great, breach-of-contract litigation is not out of the question.

Sound ridiculous? Or does it sound like the obvious conclusion for an industry that continues to lose money and customer patronage, seeking to cut away anything that doesn’t promote profit — album tracks that may appeal to a creative sense but can’t be capitalized upon, extra production costs inherent in those tracks, and design, packaging, and promotion of a product the public only wants 10 percent of. Witness the next music-industry model circa 2010: the business model of 1961. A label executive now sees his competition focused solely on bankrolling hits, not album sides or expensive packaging, and has to mull over whether it’s better business-wise to chop his staff in half or chop his label’s output in half, retaining the profitable side for himself. Of course the second option is better. He follows suit, and the business model we know today ceases to exist.

Now, you as a music fan and album purchaser hear this news and are appalled — what about the creative angle, the cohesive whole, and the notion that an artist has the broadest canvas with which to work, expand, and grow? Well, what about it. It was recently reported that Apple’s iTunes is now the dominant provider of music in the world, bigger than electronics stores that stock CDs as loss leaders, bigger than even monolithic Wal-Mart, which itself was once the king of music retail. iTunes has made its bones on singles, pure and simple. Few of the portal’s primary users actually go for album sides; people with that mind-set are still likely to buy the physical product, but their numbers are dwindling fast. To say the public in general will miss the album is to ignore the obvious — not only won’t they miss it, they haven’t missed it for five-plus years and counting.

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I always get a little thrill when Danny Elfman decides to step back in front of the microphone or, more bluntly, when Tim Burton decides to let Danny Elfman step back in front of the microphone. His last actual studio recording with a band was 1994’s ill-fated Boingo, an attempt to drag wacky and macabre party rockers Oingo Boingo into the ’90s, yet the dire and very pointed rock sound of the album accomplished two unwanted things: it alienated the original fans who wanted the music to be more fun and less funereal, and it failed to attract new fans thanks to its alignment with the moody, grungy times. After a live farewell concert, documented on a final band release, Elfman and longtime collaborator Steve Bartek went back to the scoring stage.

It makes perfect sense. Elfman had carved out a wildly successful and respected niche in film scoring, and his signature polkas from hell and minor-key romanticism have become immediate signals to an appreciative audience. Still, whenever there’s a reason to sing and Elfman accepts the challenge, it gets me charged up. That it takes Tim Burton’s strange visions to do it ensures that such occurrences aren’t altogether frequent. Remember that Burton’s last musical partner was some dude named Stephen Sondheim, whoever the heck that is; when it’s Elfman’s turn I start to get those old heebie-jeebies back. His music for The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993) leaned heavily on his film-music sensibilities, but his tracks for Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005) as well as a jazz number from Corpse Bride (2005) drew from his more contemporary side.

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Depending on who you ask, Janet Jackson may not actually be in need of fixing. Her latest album, Discipline, is a hit and so is the first single, “Feedback.” Things should be pretty good in Nasty-land, but a quick peek under the numbers reveals a different story. Although the album debuted at #1, Discipline is actually not selling as many copies as her previous releases. It’s a case of new math and relativism: 20 Y.O. and Damita Jo sold more, but did so in a more robust music sales market and could only eke out the #2 spot on Billboard. Discipline looks strong only because the market is so very weak.

The album also continues a disturbing trend with Miss Jackson where a real spark of excitement, inspiration or fun is replaced by a demented sexuality feeding off of shock. She may attempt to project empowerment, but all she seems to reveal is that she can’t be anything in her creative world other than some contented plaything or, even worse, a little kid that likes to shout out the dirtiest words she knows because it makes the adults in the room quake. It was that perverse acting-out that ruined The Velvet Rope. The fans rejected it and she attempted some poppier fare afterward. Seems that she’s treading into old, shallow waters once again. The digital workout of famed producer Jermaine Dupri can’t save her from the same old schtick. (more…)

As of this writing it is the wrinkly end to the middle of March (the 21st, for those who hate metaphor) and rumor and tempers are rumbling in the camp of Velvet Revolver. Yes indeed, Velvet Revolver, that bastion of rock ‘n’ roll dedicated to the pursuit of … well, the pursuit of … uh … you know, I’m not really sure what they’re in pursuit of. Slash isn’t hurting for cash, as I’m sure he’s getting a little money out of his Guns ‘N’ Roses tenure. Surely someone distracts Axl with a hunk of chum on a dangling string while someone else spirits away the rest of the band’s dues. And even if that wasn’t so, he must have some kind of back end for his Guitar Hero appearances. Lead singer Scott Weiland, fresh from his zilteenth rehab stint, couldn’t possibly have gotten so ripped that all his funds are gone. Duff McKagan and Matt Sorum shouldn’t be hurting either, so the only victim may be Dave Kushner (who?) and perhaps anyone who spent money on the band’s last bland effort Libertad. The most interesting track on the album (a cover of E.L.O.’s “Can’t Get It Out Of My Head”) wasn’t even theirs, and was interesting only because someone, presumably Weiland, thought it would be brilliant to change most of the lyrics. That alone should have been an indicator that someone wasn’t thinking this outing through clearly.

So here is a band that really has nothing to prove and nothing to earn. Their mutual pedigree has afforded them an instant audience that they only marginally honored with the Contraband debut. And there’s no reason that there should be friction since there’s really no pressure here, right? Aside from the crushing weight of massive ego threatening to obliterate anything that should crawl beneath it. We can’t forget that. Weiland’s slagging off Sorum who, apparently, wanted to sing along. Weiland’s argument: hey, I’m the singer, drummer boy! Yes, he is. He’s the singer. He’s also the unreliable frontman who has derailed many a plan with his addictions. In his defense, addiction to anything is a hard fight, relapses are considered probable and not merely possible and no one has a right to take up arms against someone who is trying to stay clean. By the same token, that person trying to stay clean must be humble enough to recognize the damage his actions have done, not castigate others to deflect the burden of guilt.

I actually called it back in October when the sales figures for Libertad started coming in, tellingly on the low end of expectations. Weiland was intimating that a Stone Temple Pilots reunion was imminent and the rest of VR seemed conspicuously absent. I said that it appeared a collapse of Audioslave proportions was on the horizon. Sadly, I was right — for you see, dear reader, I was actually pulling for Velvet Revolver to buck the trend. Sure, their music never truly rose from the uncomfortable mash-up of GNR and STP, but it wasn’t like they had a talent deficit if they tried. I don’t think they tried. As I said previously, they milked the inheritance they had and that was that. When Audioslave splintered, we got Chris Cornell farting up a brown funk and calling it fresh baked cookies and (yuck) Rage Against the Machine reunited. (more…)

Some people are just flat-out smart-asses.

It’s not necessarily a bad thing to be at times, mind you, but a good smart-ass pulls it off with a modicum of grace and might give you a chuckle for it. In the music world, there are relatively few of the latter. Instead of a wink and a nod, they just about knock you unconscious and then ask if “you saw that.” You can tell one from the other by their choices in the realm of cover songs.

A word of note to anyone who is not a music nerd accidentally finding themselves at this site: a cover song is when an artist records another artist’s song, hence covering it. The term ‘remake’ fits as well. The term ’smart-ass’, at least relative to this article, refers to those who decide to go all hipster and record something that bears no relevance, charm or wit toward their own sensibility. I’m thinking of Madonna’s cover of “American Pie” or that godawful A Perfect Circle CD where the songs weren’t just reworked, they were worked over, until all that was left was roadkill disguised as tribute. Then there’s the Bluegrass Tribute to Pink Floyd’s The Wall. More notoriously, I’m thinking of the late-’50s pop songs from black artists covered by teen idol white artists because, you know, if it comes from a white guy in a sweater, the subtext can’t be about sex. Right? Pat Boone? Tutti Frutti?

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Sometimes the cherished memories of youth are so compelling and so elemental to the person you’ve become that you must revisit them. You seek out the music and movies, even the junk food you used to eat when you were young, if only to yank back that feeling they once gave you.

Sometimes it’s just as you remember, like when you pop in Raiders of the Lost Ark, but now you revel in every wonderfully cheesy effect that once terrified you. And sometimes it just ain’t the same, like cramming your face full of Pop Rocks or blueberry-flavored Bubblicious, the gum that’s so sugary you could smell it a mile away in a previous life. And sometimes it’s best to just leave it alone altogether, because facing the truth that you weren’t as hip as you thought you were way back when is far more painful. Super painful. Buck Rogers in the 25th Century painful.

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I like the power pop.

When done right, it can be a deceptively potent thing, like the best of Cheap Trick, or Jellyfish’s Spilt Milk. When it’s done wrong, there’s nothing worthwhile to be found. Trust me. I’ve heard some really awful bands who thought they were “pop pioneers for the modern age,” but sounded like brakes with no meat on the pads. Somewhere in between lay the Smithereens.

I can hear it now: “Little harsh there? They gave us ‘A Girl Like You’ and ‘Blood and Roses’… ” No, I cannot take anything away from those very catchy, very good tunes, but even though I enjoy their music, I can’t deny the merciless repetition therein. The prime illustration of this is the Green Thoughts album. There is probably not a hookier power pop album in existence, but you have to shut down the census bureau while listening to it. “House We Used to Live In” constantly repeats its title, and so does “Only A Memory.” “The World We Know” also invites copious counting fits. God help you if you use these songs in a drinking game — you’ll die of alcohol poisoning. In spite of my criticism, I like those tunes. What they do not reflect in lyrical sophistication, they make up in pure guitar-jangle exuberance. (more…)

Instincts run hot and cold, depending on who is relying on them. Some artists go against the grain and it works out fantastically for them. Some make last-minute choices that, while not haunting them forever, certainly don’t help them a hell of a lot. Ben Folds runs somewhere in the middle.

His biggest successes came early on as the namesake of the Ben Folds Five trio. That first eponymous disc was eminently buzz-worthy, whipping indie kids into a frenzy much as we’ve seen with Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Arctic Monkeys and, more recently, Vampire Weekend. The second disc, Whatever And Ever Amen, made a strong case for the resurgence of piano pop, and indeed we hadn’t heard something so pretty (and at the same time vitriolic) since Joe Jackson’s punk period. It didn’t hurt that “Brick” suddenly became an unexpected hit. After one more studio disc and a b-sides/live cuts compilation, though, the three in the Five were reduced to one. (more…)