Gather round the fire, kids, let’s roast some chestnuts and let Uncle Mojo tell you a story: Back in 1990, he was a blithely ignorant intern at Billboard, so happy to get any byline in the rag that he joyously accepted the retail section’s “Christmas in July” preview so all the purchasing pros out there in subscriberland could decide which holiday CDs would be featured on their shelves.

That was a job for suckers, he soon found out. There is nothing worse than country and rock holiday piffle—except having to hear the garbage in July. Just like Janis had her man take another little piece of her heart, this so-called music took another little piece of your sanity away with each successive play. Don’t believe me? Just keep watching Popdose after Thanksgiving. The semisane people among the ranks have already packed their bags and headed for the hills as you read this. Mojo’s about out the door hisself. You won’t believe who’s left behind and what they’re planning on doing.

Anyway, back to the story. Flash-forward two summers: Using his Billboard clips to hook-and-crook his way into an editor’s job for a thin, biweekly newspaper tab catering to indie record stores that ran on apparently a thinner shoestring than the actual stores themselves (but paid more than Billboard, which was still about on par with Burger King, by the way), Uncle Mojo got branded as “The Christmas Music Expert.” For several consecutive Julys, he was forced to listen to “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” and “Let It Snow” rendered in Irish Folk, dumb contemporary country, old Jass, new wave, acoustic folk, glass harmonica, undignified blues, sweet harp, dirty bass clarinet, dogs barking, people farting, theremins wheezing, and who can ever forget the insidious Dr. Elmo and his homicidal reindeer?

It chapped more than Uncle Mojo’s lips.

Since those days, Uncle Mojo has avoided 99-44/100ths of all Christmas music, not quite having finished working all the recovery steps. The damage was extensive, causing him to sometimes write entire essays about himself in the third person. Occasionally, however–and we’re talking three or four times in the last 15 years–a holiday record comes out that helps reverse the damage, an antidote to the saccharine flotsam that plugs up loudspeakers in all U.S. commercial spaces from November 1 to January 1. Such records have distortion, and typically have original compositions–sorry, it’s impossible to make “Jingle Bells” good, even if you’re Fatboy Slim remixing Jello Biafra and the Amphetamine Reptile Players (although Uncle Mojo wouldn’t mind hearing that).

So Mojo presents to you that once-or-twice a decade Christmas record that won’t further chap your–you get what he means. Here are legendary garage rockers The Fleshtones doing “Super Rock Santa” off their new YepRoc release, Stocking Stuffer. And oh hell, because Uncle Mojo’s in the spirit, he’s also tossing out Henry Rollins’ 15-year-old, perfectly aggro reading of “The Night Before Christmas” from an ancient Christmas record of modern rockers titled A Lump of Coal–the only real antidote to the junk playing at the mall. Don’t get your chestnuts roasted; crank these up and rip off the knob.

Last Saturday, as the latest round of California wild fires burned on in cities nearby our home, we waited anxiously to see whether the Pasadena Marathon would be canceled. For seven months I’d trained for a half marathon, enduring physical pain, spiritual drain and trying to raise money for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation in a damaged economy. Halfway through the day, we learned that all direct routes to Pasadena from our house were shut down, blocked by the fires and the crews trying to contain and pt out the blazes. With the quality of the air in question, there was a good chance that the race would be postponed or even scrubbed altogether. One thing was for sure; we wouldn’t be driving to Pasadena and spending the night in that lovely city.

Sophie and Jacob were greatly disappointed, as they had looked forward to having a weekend getaway, even if it was just 20 miles south of our home. Yet, even if the half marathon was canceled, a sense of obligation told me that I would be running the next day, whether it was in Pasadena or in our own neck of the woods.

It wasn’t that I’d done all of the training; no, it was that I’d made a commitment to run for the CF Foundation and for all victims of the disease. I’d made a commitment to run for my son. Furthermore, the day the race fell on, November 16^th, was chosen because of its proximity to Jacob’s birthday. I felt it was a sign to be running for CF so close to his special day; it meant more to me. And the truth is I couldn’t go on training. My soul was tired and my shoes had literally broken down. They were on their last legs. So, I decided to map out my own 13.1 mile course, just in case there was no Pasadena Half Marathon the next day.

Jacob and I hopped in the car and drove around town, noting landmarks for each mile until a 13-mile course was created. As we drove around, Jake dozed off and I listened to some of the inspirational songs I had programmed into my iPod to help get me through the run, starting off with Eddie Vedder’s “Hard Sun.” If you’re unfamiliar it this number, it was written for Sean Penn’s moving adaptation of the Jon Krakauer book Into the Wild. The book, and the movie, follow the real-life adventures of Christopher McCandless, a college graduate who gave up all of his possessions and went up to Alaska to live off the land. Vedder’s song perfectly evokes the longing and searching of McCandless, as portrayed by Emile Hirsch in the film. The folksy approach he took to the score of the movie is no less potent than any of the hard rock songs Vedder writes with his band, Pearl Jam. His passion is what makes him on of the most dynamic singers of my generation and one of the most important songwriters of the past twenty years.

Yet, like any great song, “Hard Sun’s” meaning transcends its connection with the source material. Like any great song, its message feels more universal even though it was inspired by the book and the film. The first line of the song is what says it all for me:

When I walk beside her, I am the better man

I can only think of my wife Julie. Through 15 years of marriage, she has brought out the best in me. When I’m with her, I want to be a better man. As much as I had been training to find a cure for Jacob, I would also be running for Julie, to ease her pain. As much as I suffer from fear and worry, I know that she suffers more. If I could do just one thing for her, I would cure our son. But I’m no doctor; I’m no scientist. The best I can do is run.

Saturday night, we went to bed without any news about the Marathon. We learned that a mass e-mail would be sent out at 4:00 AM to determine if the race was still on. If it was still a go, we’d load up the family and drive to Pasadena (the roads had since opened). If not, I’d probably get a couple hours of extra sleep before running my own private race. At 4:15 Sunday morning, I stumbled down the hall, tripping over our damn cat and flipping on the light to the office. As my half-closed eyes slowly focused on the computer screen I read that mass e-mail: the marathon was canceled. With a slight nod, I wandered back to bed.

By 8:00 I was up again, going through my preparations to run my half marathon. There was no doubt in my mind that no matter how poor the air quality, no matter how hot the temperature, no matter how windy it would be, I would be out there running, earning every dollar that was donated for my fundraiser. Julie and the kids gradually made their way out to the living room as I donned my worn-out running shoes, adjusted my grungy shorts, and pulled on my Jacob’s Joggers hat. Around 8:30 we all drove over to the parking lot of the local Hollywood Video, my starting line. On the way over, I visualized the course Jake and I had laid out the night before, I began to recall precious moments to get me through the difficult moments of the run, and I imagined completing the run and collapsing into my family’s arms.

Up above, a big hard sun beat down and I found myself feeling anxious, as if surrounded by thousands of runners at the staring line of an actual marathon. And even though there wouldn’t be a starting gun or a medal waiting for me at the end, there would be a better reward: the excitement in my kids’ eyes and the smile on my wife’s face.

I was ready. I gave Sophie a hug, I squeezed Jacob tightly and I kissed Julie goodbye. Then, I listened to Eddie Vedder singing and took off running.

Over the next year Terje Fjelde has agreed to listen to nothing but David Foster on his iPod. He’s loaded the thing with over 1,200 songs produced, arranged, composed, and/or played by David Foster. A deal with the devil? He keeps wondering.

I received the new David Foster CD/DVD in the mail yesterday along with his autobiography, Hitman! Forty Years of Making Music, Topping Charts & Winning Grammys.

I wasn’t ecstatic in any way - I jumped up and down a couple of times and did a pirouette in front of my bewildered wife - nothing major. The CD concept was a bit of a disappointment — no studio recordings, merely a selection of audio files from the PBS Special Tribute Concert featured on the DVD. I didn’t expect this Vegas extravaganza to affect me in any way, and a small part of me didn’t even want to see it. After all, what could Eric Benet, Michael Johns, or Katharine McPhee bring to the table? Sure, I used to adore David Foster, but I’m not that guy anymore - I haven’t been for the past 15 years. David Foster’s syrupy ballads doesn’t move my heart these days; John Coltrane and Bill Evans do.

And even though I always tell people I’m so uncool, it’s really just a way to downplay people’s expectations. I’m secretly convinced that I’m about the coolest person on this side of the North Pole. I have a giant ego and no doubt a seriously disturbed positive self-image. And most importantly, David Foster, Peter Cetera or “I Swear” have no place whatsoever in this delusion. So, when I sat down to watch the DVD, I was prepared to laugh at Peter Cetera’s spasmodic performance jerks. I was prepared to tsk and groan in despair as this poperatic catastrophe evolved before my eyes and ears.

Then something funny happened. I was about to turn away as Kenny G entered the picture two minutes into the concert, but once again the seductive tones of “Love Theme from St. Elmo’s Fire” had me transfixed. I suddenly took in the beautiful autumn leaves flowing over the background screen, I found myself smiling at Foster’s playful glances at his audience. And good, old Kenny G — he looked pretty great for a 52-year-old, didn’t he? NO! I did not think that thought! But I did.

Bring on Idol contestant Michael Johns. Damn, those opening chords to “She’s A Beauty” sound good. And Johns’ voice fits the material. He’s good. Maybe I should have watched American Idol after all? What have I been missing out on? And look at session veteran John Robinson behind the drums; he’s having a blast. So good to see talented people doing what they do best.

Next: Brian McKnight and “Mornin’,” the old Jarreau chestnut. Ooh, beautiful tone, complete control. At least until he forgets the words. No matter, it’s all part of the fun. On to “After the Love Has Gone.” And this is what really knocks me out. All my defenses are down. McKnight is totally in command — a flawless, powerful performance. And it’s a joy to watch Foster getting a complete kick out of it. What a feeling that must be for him — performing “After the Love Has Gone,” an undisputed classic that he wrote for one of the greatest bands in the history of popular music and which he no doubt still enjoys performing, in front of thousands of people at his own tribute concert with a band as airtight as a submarine. Oh, man. When they’re approaching the climax, you know, where they’re taking the woo-woo’s to a whole other level, I’m watching with tears in my eyes.

At this point I’m completely won over. Bring on a video greeting from Babs ["she's a really talented gal, really, isn't she"], Katharine McPhee performing Sondheim’s “Somewhere” ["she's so beautiful, they're all so beautiful"], Blake Shelton ["what a commanding performer, a real man"], Cheryl Lynn ["oh yeah, she still has it"]. It’s all fodder for my sentimentality, and when Boz Scaggs and Peter Cetera finally enter the stage, my usual critical good (?) sense has taken an indefinite leave of absence. Once again, Scaggs moves me to tears with “Love, Look What You’ve Done To Me.”

I’m completely taken aback by how great Peter Cetera sounds on his medley. I’ve seen some recent concert clips on YouTube, and whenever he hits a high note he removes his microphone and cuts the note, so you get these really staccato versions of his old Chicago hits. Well, none of that here - he hits every note crystal-clear and he holds them all the way through. My subconsciousness speculates that Foster may have been playing around in the studio, overdubbing Cetera’s performance with some of his old Chicago tapes, but my overall cheery mood this night overshadows any of my doubts. What a great performance.

It doesn’t matter that Cetera is followed by Andrea Bocelli, William Joseph, Celine Dion, Babyface, Charice, Michael Bublé and Josh Groban - I’m taking it all in and I’m loving every second of it. The voices, the band and the kind words showered on David Foster - it’s a celebration, it’s a grand celebration and it’s the way every celebration should be. Sigh. And “The Prayer” isn’t that bad, really.

Now if you will excuse me, I have a book to read. And since this is my last post for 2008, let me take the opportunity to thank you all for reading this series. I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving and a Very Mellow Christmas.

“Eighty percent of success in life is just showing up.” – Woody Allen

For a few years there – as George Bush “won” a pair of shady elections and then repeatedly defied the Constitution, the will of the people and any decent measure of common sense – Americans disenchanted or disgusted by his reign could be forgiven for wondering if some sort of coup might be required to remove the Republicans from power. Such a measure seemed unlikely, of course, and not just because violent overthrow is about as un-American as, say, torture. It’s worth noting that, in order to stage a coup, a large number of us would have needed to get our asses up off the sofa and take to the streets! Instead, we spent seven years watching dejectedly, furiously – but, for the most part, passively – as Bush and his minions screwed up every single thing they touched.

In the end, however, electing Barack Obama and ending the Bush era didn’t require violence, or even civil disobedience. All it required was the force of our better ideas, the inspiration of a great young leader – and the resolve to stand steadfast against a stream of vitriol from politicians (and their dwindling core of followers) who couldn’t believe their house of malfeasance and misanthropy was at long last crumbling around them. American democracy finally proved capable of withstanding even Bush and the modern GOP – assuming, that is, that Bush and Dick Cheney actually vacate their residences on January 20.

We did stand with Obama this fall, and we did it in huge numbers. It’s been a big year for big crowds – big, peaceful crowds, fortunately. Since the beginning of this election cycle we’ve all marveled at the turnouts for Obama’s rallies, from 15,000 freezing souls at his announcement speech in February ’07 to a convention crowd of 90,000 in Denver, 100,000 in St. Louis, 200,000 in Berlin, and 250,000 in Chicago for his victory speech. Guesstimates of the turnout for his inauguration are already off the charts; officials are preparing for an onslaught of up to 4 million celebrants on the National Mall.

Of course, Obama’s big crowds were never a perfect measure of his qualities as a candidate. They certainly did bear witness to his charisma, and his strength as an orator. More than that, though, I believe they were a testament to Americans’ pent-up desire to express ourselves politically, to participate in the act of changing this country, simply by virtue of Showing Up. It was a spirit of urgency and, yes, patriotism that also led millions of us to click a button on the Internet and send Obama another $10 or $100 every couple of months, and led many thousands to volunteer in campaign offices, on the phone and around our neighborhoods.

I’ve been thinking about those crowds a lot lately – and not just because I’ve been weighing the question of whether or not to fly cross-country and join the revelers on the Mall. (I’m currently leaning against it, though if Clooney or Spielberg has a couple seats open on the Gulfstream I’m willing to rethink.) The real impetus has been my recent viewing of a wonderful documentary, The Singing Revolution, that is being readied for DVD release in early 2009. It recalls the people of Estonia’s inspiring efforts to keep their culture alive through decades of Soviet occupation and even genocide, and shows how they finally gained their independence without spilling a drop of blood – by expressing their national pride through song, and by simply Showing Up in large numbers, unarmed, to assert their right to freedom.

As a tiny nation with strategic access to the Baltic Sea, Estonia has struggled to maintain its unique culture through 800 years of invasions and occupations by Germans, Swedes, Danes, Poles and Russians; only twice during that entire period – between the World Wars, and since the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991 – has Estonia actually attained self-rule. The directors of The Singing Revolution, James and Maureen Tusty, use archival footage to explore the enduring political power of Estonia’s Laulupidu, or mass song festivals, which for 140 years have preserved long-threatened traditions by bringing hundreds of thousands of Estonians together for days of folk singing and cultural celebration.

When the Soviets lowered the Iron Curtain following World War II, they brutally imposed Communism upon Estonia, collectivizing agriculture and industry and forcibly indoctrinating the citizenry with Russo-centric culture and pageantry. But Estonians continued to gather in the capital city of Tallinn for the song festivals – and as early as 1947 they snuck a nationalist anthem into the Laulupidu program amongst the Soviet dreck. In 1969 they closed a festival by singing the song repeatedly, in open defiance of Soviet orders to stop. By 1988, Estonians were taking advantage of Mikhail Gorbachev’s glasnost policies to push the envelope of patriotic expression through music, even dragging long-banned Estonian flags from their attics for the first time in five decades.

Eventually this “Singing Revolution” morphed into an actual independence movement, with the formation of political parties and escalating provocations of the Moscow government. Events came to a boil in 1991, during the military coup that ousted Gorbachev, as Russian tanks and soldiers descended upon Tallinn to quell the movement. The flashpoint of the incursion was a radio/TV tower, where tens of thousands of unarmed Estonian civilians gathered in minutes to face down a Russian brigade until, back in Moscow, Boris Yeltsin had dissolved the Soviet Union and the coup had collapsed.

To an American glowing with pride over the events of 2008, The Singing Revolution plays quite differently than it might have a couple years ago. I certainly wouldn’t want to stretch a comparison of Bush’s government with the Soviets past its point of malleability. What I’m referring to is the impulse of a people to get on their feet and challenge the status quo, to create change (at least in part) via the sheer force of their presence and their willingness to work for it. The Estonians, at least, had a long history of coming together to perpetuate their shared culture and values. Hopefully, now that millions of Americans have finally risen to our feet, we’ll stay upright and play an active role in accomplishing the vast work that remains.

The Singing Revolution offers many lessons – not least of which is an admonition to those who are currently on their feet in California, to keep their protests positive and nonviolent. Gays in my home state have every reason to be disappointed in their fellow citizens who voted to take away their existing right to marry, and furious with the individuals and groups (religious and otherwise) who funded the campaign of lies that helped Prop 8 pass. However, too many of the actions and words at their post-Election Day protests have aimed to punish and insult, not to change hearts and minds. Supporters of gay marriage – gay and straight alike – need to put our anger aside, at least in public, and begin showing our fellow Californians all the love and humanity they have chosen narrowly to reject.

The arts – and music in particular – offer a powerful forum for doing just that. As California moves toward its inevitable next vote on gay marriage, it’s not difficult to imagine rallies that center on the singing of love songs – universal songs that reflect the yearning of all (well, most) people, and not just heterosexual ones, to connect with one another and find mates to share our lives. A massive rally of gays and straights, standing together and singing “Chapel of Love” at the top of our lungs – it just might work! Heaven knows we could change the hearts of 3 percent of the populace, and overturn a 52-48 margin…

Now that would be one revolution worth showing up for.

Pre-order The Singing Revolution DVD at Amazon.

Guggenheim Grotto - Happy the Man (UFO Music, 2009)
purchase this album (Amazon)

Its artwork has the sort of washed-out color tones that usually suggest an album from Jack Johnson or one of his buddies, but do not be alarmed by the beanie you see on the cover of the Guggenheim Grotto’s Happy the Man — this is not campfire music for college sophomores. Rather, it’s an album of electronic-laced grown-up pop music, firmly grounded with acoustic guitars and harmonies, and filled to the brim with graceful hooks and instantly memorable, partly-cloudy melodies that should appeal to fans of smart Anglopop bands like Crowded House and the Trashcan Sinatras.

It’s a very subtle record, in other words, made up of songs with very subtle charms — but damn if they don’t all gang up on you and rope you in. I often listen to an album a dozen times or more before writing a review, and that’s been the case here — but I could have taken it off repeat a long time ago; I just keep replaying Happy the Man because it’s so gently addictive. Not every song lands with the impact of the killer opening one-two punch of “Fee Da Da Dee” (download) and “Her Beautiful Ideas” (with its wonderful refrain of “Let’s get naked and get under the sheets”), but there’s plenty to love here, and very little not to like.

Lovely on the surface, the Guggenheim Grotto’s music is seemingly tailor-made for Starbucks and television soundtracks — and it has already surfaced in both locations — but don’t be deceived by its seemingly facile beauty: co-Grotto Kevin May says he and partner Mick Lynch “wanted to sing joyfully about sadness in the world” on this album, and they’ve succeeded in adding sweetly somber overtones to Happy’s head-bobbing refrains. The result is an album that feels lighter than air, but carries a weight that will linger after the final chord fades. Wait for the physical product to reach shelves in January, or download the mp3 album now; either way, if you have a weakness for unabashedly sentimental, artfully assembled pop music, you won’t want to miss Happy the Man.

As you may have heard by now, Rod Stewart confirmed last week that all the surviving members of his old band, the Faces (including current Rolling Stone Ron Wood and former Who drummer Kenny Jones), are planning to reunite for at least a tour next summer.

Could this be a case of Rod redeeming himself? Well, perhaps. I did mention in an earlier post that the best thing Rod could do at this point in his career was record a quick album with Wood and a tight rhythm and horn section. This is probably the next best thing to that. It sounds, too, from Rod ’s quotes that he’s quite into this reunion idea; maybe he was even the driving force behind it.

But before you or I get too vibed about this, I do think it is necessary to temper everyone’s excitement. After all, the man is now in his 60s, more than 30 years past the last Faces recordings and tours. What will be heard in 2009 is simply not going to be more than a good approximation of what occurred in the early 1970s. While Rod can still hit the notes with the same regularity as his did back then, the tone, the texture, the feel and the soul are not going to be the same. The voice is there, but it’s changed, no buts about it. Anyone interested in seeing the outcome of this possible reunion has to — like most band reunions — hope for the best but expect much less. Better to be pleasantly surprised by what happens than to feel that what you’ve just experienced was yet another sad coda to a historic band and a waste of money.

A second point that needs to be considered is that, while Rod seems to be genuinely excited about this reunion, he has been genuinely excited about lots of other things in his musical career that haven’t turned out to be what we, as fans, wished for. In the last couple of decades we’ve heard very good things about albums like A Spanner in the Works or When We Were the New Boys, and while they may have been the most solid works he’s laid down in the studio during that period, they were far from the “returns to form”
that many Rod fans may have built them up to be.

Additionally, Rod seems to have rarely been one to complain about turns taken in his career. The bad taste that many fans of Rod’s work during the first decade-or-so of his career currently have is often built upon the notion of him having “sold out”. Unlike someone like Elvis Costello or David Bowie, who often changed the sounds of their recordings in a way that didn’t seem to always reflect popular trends (and especially in Bowie’s case, may have set some), Rod Stewart is seen as gravitating towards the middle of the road. Worst of all to some people, Rod seems to actually enjoy what he’s doing, even if it means the umpteenth packaging of The Great American Songbook.

But is that really Rod’s “fault”? No it’s not. Doing what he does gives him pleasure, and still gets him enormous crowds to this day, especially in Europe and South America. He (like all other rockers of the ’60s and ’70s) may no longer be able to chart singles on the Hot 100 , but his last batch of albums have charted as high in Billboard as any other period in his career. So, he must feel he’s doing something “right.”

In a way, the problem is with us: the fans. We feel we “own” Rod. This is something unique in the world of entertainment. We may buy the jersey of a sports hero, but often we’re just rooting for laundry and statistics. We may see all the movies of an actor or director, but with the exception of certain iconic stars, we don’t normally track down everything about them, including “bootleg” copies of audition tapes or foreign printings of their films. In music, however, I would guess that there are many more instances of people feeling-through the music-that they have not just a personal bond with the singer or band, but that we are “robbed” in a way when the artist goes in a direction we don’t like, or makes a what we consider to be a subpar record with material that doesn’t to their strengths. This definitely plays to the emotional power and intensity of music, and the interrelationship with fan to both the music, and ultimately its creator.

In a way, this promised Faces reunion is another test for those who adhere strictly to the belief that there is a distinct “classic” period in Rod Stewart’s career that he simply moved away from. For the “classic” fans, his forays into mainstream pop, disco, adult contemporary stylings and balladeering is really an abandonment of what he should be doing, rather than a natural career progression. What most of the “classic” fans-the ones who never got to experience “classic” Rod firsthand, live or on record release day-need to do at this moment is pull the reigns back on both their excitement and/or judgment at this news. It’s still a few months to go before this tour is supposedly going to take place. Tours fall through all the time, and quite a few propsed ones for 2009 will never happen just because of the current state of the global economy. But if it does go off without a hitch, you have to realize, no matter how hard it may be to convince yourself, that these shows will not contain a magic elixer to transform a senior citizen into a 23-year-old, and make him sing with the same fire and intensity you wish he could again.

If you can set both your fanasties and prejudices aside, and leave it at that, Summer of 2009 may bring you an hour or two of enjoyable live entertainment from The Faces. And then, if Rod goes straight back to making the kind of music “everyone at work can enjoy”, don’t get angry. After all, we can own the albums, but we can’t own the Mod.

The Faces - Stay With Me

The Faces - Rock Me

November 19, 1985, is a Tuesday. Ronald Reagan and Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev are in Geneva, where they will hold their first summit meeting starting today. Other headlines in the morning papers: U.S. Navy intelligence agent Jonathan Pollard was arrested yesterday for passing classified material to Israel, and in the Monday night football game, the Washington Redskins beat the New York Giants 23-21, but lost their quarterback, Joe Theismann, to a gruesomely broken leg suffered when he was tackled by Lawrence Taylor of the Giants. The injury will end the quarterback’s career. Also announced yesterday, winners of the Cy Young Award for best major league pitchers: Dwight Gooden of the New York Mets and Brett Saberhagen of the Kansas City Royals. On the comics page in 35 newspapers across the country today, readers return to a new strip that debuted yesterday: Calvin and Hobbes. Lincoln Perry, better known as Stepin Fetchit, dies at age 83, and future Pittsburgh Steeler Patrick Bailey is born.

Top movie at the box office last weekend: the vampire comedy Once Bitten, starring Lauren Hutton and an unknown named Jim Carrey in his first starring role. TV shows on the air tonight include the detective series Riptide starring Joe Penny and Perry King, The A-Team, Growing Pains, and Moonlighting. The play I’m Not Rappaport opens on Broadway. AC/DC plays Washington, DC, and Dire Straits plays Stuttgart, West Germany. The Charlie Watts band continues a six-night stand at Ronnie Scott’s Club in London. At the China Club in New York City, a birthday party for rock drummer Steve Ferrone turns into a superstar jam when David Bowie, Iggy Pop, and Steve Winwood join Ferrone on stage. Needing a guitarist, Bowie makes a phone call, and 20 minutes later, Rolling Stone Ron Wood shows up to play. In Macomb, Illinois, a local radio announcer and his wife are packing to move from a one-bedroom basement apartment to a big house they’re renting.

Albums released this week include Radio by LL Cool J and Rock a Little by Stevie Nicks. The lead single from Rock a Little, “Talk to Me,” is the highest-debuting single on the latest Cash Box chart, at Number 48. The hottest record on the chart is “Say You Say Me” by Lionel Richie, moving from 39 to 32 in its second week on; nearly as hot is Number 60, “That’s What Friends Are For” by Dionne and Friends (Dionne Warwick, Gladys Knight, Stevie Wonder, and Elton John, who sounds in bad need of throat surgery). At the top of the chart, “We Built This City” by Starship jumps from Number Five to Number One, knocking “Miami Vice Theme” by Jan Hammer to Number Two. The video for “We Built This City” is a strange one, failing to use the images the song provides (most notably the radio reference in the middle), opting instead for shots of people staring. In years to come, the song will top a couple of lists of the worst records ever made.

Things have been hectic at the Test of the Boomerang headquarters: I just became a father, and things have been understandably hectic. I took a break from changing nappies, though, to put together a little mix. It’s a real mixed bag today, folks — I have Jarboe’s sweet cover of Blind Faith’s “Can’t Find My Way Home” from Swans’ out-of-print classic The Burning World, brooding folk from Neurosis guitarist Steve Von Till, King Crimson’s full “Providence” improv jam from the fantastic Great Deceiver live set, and a little taste of Merl Saunders (rest in peace, brother Merl) and Jerry Garcia. As well as some other musical goodies. Enjoy with some Fordham Scotch Ale and I’ll meet you back here in the New Year.

David Bowie, “Memory of a Free Festival,” from Bowie at Beeb: Best of BBC Radio 68-72

Grateful Dead, “Bird Song,” live August 27th, 1972 Veneta, Oregon

Jesu, “Why Are We Not Perfect?” from Why Are We Not Perfect? EP

King Crimson, “Providence Improv,” from The Great Deceiver Volume One

Swans, “Can’t Find My Way Home,” from (the long out-of-print) The Burning World

Steve Von Till, “To the Field,” from If I Should Fall to the Field

Merl Saunders and Jerry Garcia, “Space,” from Live at Keystone Volume One

Guns n’ Roses - Chinese Democracy (Geffen, 2008)
purchase this album (Best Buy)

Unless you’ve spent a lot of time in the company of William Shatner, Chinese Democracy will likely be one of the most ridiculous audio recordings you ever come across. It is sprawling and stupid and ludicrous and hilarious and will make you shoot milk out of your nose and cringe and it is not very good and sometimes extremely terrible, and just when you think things cannot possibly get any more extraordinarily strange, that’s when Axl Rose drops the MLK sample on you.

Originally slated for release in 1948, Chinese Democracy comes out Sunday exclusively for people shopping for Black Friday-sale plasmas at Best Buy, a wise promotional stunt and kind of an all-in proposition — if putting this record out this week doesn’t create interest or move units, nothing will. Because one thing is sure: the songs won’t sell it.

The final, finished, ostensibly archival version of Chinese Democracy is a fucking mess, a haphazard, stop-and-go Transformer of rap-metal parts, ideas, sketches, Chester Bennington riffs, lyrical crimes, la la las, and ridiculous electronic touches and twists that only occasionally resemble completed songs; in what will be the least surprising thing you’ll read all week, it sounds like what happens when you dicker around with something so long it stops making any sort of cohesive sense. Tracks like “I.R.S.” and the absurd “Riad n’ the Bedouins” barely begin accelerating before they veer into left-field guitar solos, tempo shifts, distracting vocal tricks, and Axl’s never-far-afield need to drop in something robotic. These songs build no momentum, create no wave. It’s more like Axl’s “A Day in the Life”; you feel like he cut up the tape, threw it into the air, and sticky-taped together the results.

There is some good news: Chinese Democracy is front-loaded with its best stuff. The title track is a long-percolating old-time stomp; sure, it starts basically exactly like “Rock You Like a Hurricane” and features 27 vocal tracks, but it’ll make you drive quickly. Same goes for the Rock Band 2-headed “Shackler’s Revenge,” one of a few tracks here that skillfully welds Axl’s synthetic ambitions to a couple moments of old-school, howl-at-the-moon rock ‘n’ roll. And the second single, “Better,” which has gone through more incarnations than Journey over the past seven or eight years, offers glimpses of the old, albeit midtempo GNR, before falling to pieces via an extended conclusion that goes on forever and includes a “na na na” part now.

After that, it’s Katie bar the door. “Street of Dreams,” which has never been a Springsteen title for some reason, is the first of what feels like 30 monster ballads that find Axl once again stealing Elton John’s piano for a walk down cliche road. “If the World” coughs to a start with fart sound effects and a mariachi guitar, and gets worse from there, mostly because of the constant swirl of important-sounding strings. “Sorry” has Axl ripping off Pink Floyd, reviving some of his unmissed old misogyny, and sounding like Borat for a minute. “I.R.S.” and “Riad” are jittery and ADHD and indulgent. Two songs — “Sorry” and “There Was a Time” — contain whispered or growled buried-in-the-mix mystery vocals you might expect listening to Avril Lavigne.

Possibly the biggest disappointment is “Madagascar,” another overmarinated power ballad (it hails from at least 2002, when Axl and Buckethead and God-knows-who-else brought it to an anticlimactic performance at the VMAs) that gets off to a solid start before exploding into a cacophony of samples that includes MLK and, surprisingly, the “What we’ve got here is a failure to communicate” business from “Civil War,” which, if you’re anything like me, will make you a little sad with nostalgia.

Chinese, when all is said and done, can be broken down into the following lessons:

1. Unchecked, Axl Rose is evidently controlled entirely by his egotastic ambitions. Even on the outsized Illusion discs, Izzy Stradlin was there to keep Cornrows in check. Unleashed and given a blank check, there’s no focus in there.

2. I have no idea how many people it takes to replace Slash, but it’s at least four. Guitar solos here — many of which are pretty great — could have been furnished by anyone from Buckethead to Bumblefoot to Robin Finck to Brian May, and they all sound like the old guy.

3. And for 14 years of work, Axl doesn’t sound any more comfortable twiddling around with his new electronic toys than Sammy Hagar does on his latest record. As a myth, as a legend, as a $13 million unreleased record, Chinese Democracy was a story, a mystery with a misanthrope whose oddness promised some sort of payoff. Once on the Best Buy shelves Sunday, it will very likely go down as one of music’s most lively deflations, something on the order of that last Who record, or the new Queen, or Bridges to Babylon. Some things are better left unreleased.

Ryan Adams & the Cardinals, Cardinology (2008)
purchase this album (Amazon)

It’s been fashionable for the last few years to slag Ryan Adams at every turn. There’s no doubt that he’s brought some of this animosity on himself by virtue of some less than discrete behavior, notably at his live performances.

I’ve always been one to believe that the proof is in the grooves, or whatever they call the equivalent on a CD. When judged by this criteria, it’s hard to think of another artist who has created the sheer volume of music that Adams has in recent years, while maintaining reasonably high standards. Sure, he’s shot and missed, but his misses are generally more interesting that a lot of other artists’ hits.

Word has it that Ryan Adams wanted this album to be billed as being by the Cardinals, without his name involved. In interviews he’s said that he is happiest just being a member of the band, and at live shows he has lined up with the other band members, and not claimed his spot as the frontman. It appears that a compromise was reached with his record company. The new album, Cardinology, carries the credit Ryan Adams and the Cardinals. Apparently Adams got his Cardinals, and Lost Highway got their Ryan Adams.

It’s not hard to understand why Adams loves his band. They are perfect foils for his songwriting. They play as a tight unit. No one tries to grab the spotlight, and despite Adams’ notoriety, it really does sound like a band, and not some guys backing up a singer.

It took me a few plays to really get into this album. At first, while I found several of the songs appealing, I found the album production by Tom Schick to be somewhat lifeless. Repeated listening allowed me to discover subtleties that weren’t obvious right off the bat, and the songs grew and grew in stature. Cardinology (Lost Highway) eventually revealed itself to be Adams’ strongest effort in quite some time, perhaps going back as far as 2000’s Heartbreaker.

Adams has a knack for creating exquisitely crafted songs, and he is so prolific that it can appear effortless, as if he’s just able to toss off songs at will. The truth is that his brand of workmanship requires not only great talent, but great dedication to his art. A perfect example is Cardinology’s second song, “Go Easy.” Chiming electric guitars and a committed vocal performance highlight this proclamation of undying love.

Other standout tracks include “Cobwebs,” and “Natural Ghost.” Adams has saved the best for last though:

I know a sickness
So ancient and cross
No crucifix
Could ever fix enough
In the basement of a church
These people, they talk
There is a line
That must be walked
If you wanna make it stop
Then stop

“Stop” is a career highlight. It’s a haunting meditation on addiction, a plea to a loved one (or perhaps the writer himself) to quit before it’s too late. Lyrically brilliant and musically beautiful, “Stop” is a song that will stay with you for a very long time.

So let’s make a deal. Ryan Adams has cleaned up his act. Let’s clean up ours. Let’s return to a time when we could greet each of his releases with an open mind, and a high level of expectation. He is one of our greatest songwriters, and it’s time that he gets the credit he deserves.