It’s rather pointless to review an AC/DC box set—you either love the band and have the thing already ordered or on your Christmas list, or you’re not going to bother. Since I am nothing if not a sucker for lost causes, I therefore direct this review to the uninitiated—those who might not “get” how a hard rock band can parlay a single, simple equation (4/4 rhythm + cool riff + screaming vocals x songs about sex) into a 35-year career. Please let me explain. Also, since the band is the collective king of the double-entendre, and such wordplay may be a bit confusing, I shall translate the song titles contained herein, so the uninitiated may better grasp of the meat of the music.
AC/DC songs live and die by the riff—that distinctive, distorted, wicked cool Angus Young guitar figure, roughly the aural equivalent of a he-wolf stalking his mate while thinking about all the other mates he’s going to do later on that night, after he and the other he-wolves have a few beers. Young got better at coming up with these riffs over the years, which leaves lacking some of the previously unreleased Bon Scott-era material collected here on Disc 1.
“Poster I Use for Masturbation” (i.e., “Stick Around”), for example, is built around a snoozer; only Scott’s leering vocal keeps the thing interesting. “Leave Me Alone So I Can Masturbate” (”R.I.P. [Rock in Peace]“) bears no riff whatsoever, unless you count the basic I-IV-V blues chords that chug behind the singer. (more…)
Any good label manager would tell you: don’t name your album something a reviewer could turn into a catchy, snarky counterpoint. But as we know far too well, most of the labels are hanging by a thread, the management inside reduced to bean counters versus quality controllers and, heck, if Hollywood keeps naming their movies in blindly self-insulting ways, why can’t the record industry follow suit?
Besides, we’re talking about Kiss here, who have built an iron-clad and insular fanbase that views such flaunting of common sense as an act of rebellion. Who cares if the new album Sonic Boom, the first since 1998’s Psycho Circus, opens itself up to opening paragraphs such as this, begging the question, “Boom or Bust?” What really matters is if the band has spent the decade-long downtime productively or not, and luckily for you, the Popdose staff has gone through the work of sussing it out so you don’t have to. Strap on your steel dragon-face boots, smear on your kabuki greasepaint and shake off your love gun. It’s time to rock and roll.
Rob Smith: I mentioned in my Overnight America Popdose segment a couple weeks ago that I cannot name a single Kiss studio album that’s great from start to finish (I hate “Beth,” so suck it all you Destroyer fans). After listening to Sonic Boom, I can still say I cannot name a single Kiss studio album that’s great from start to finish.
That said, I like “Never Enough” a lot, though the verses remind me of Poison’s “Nothin’ But a Good Time” a little TOO much. Â Wasn’t Paul Stanley supposed to produce that album, too? (more…)
Last week marked the final edition of Tom Werman’s run on our Producers column and, in the course of his finale, he mentioned a special mixtape disc he made for his family and friends. Many readers replied wanting to know which songs he chose as his most indicative productions, the work he was most proud of. We’re hoping maybe to get Tom’s input for a future Friday Mixtape based on those requests.
But overall, it’s not a bad idea, is it? A mix themed not so much on a topic, artist or concept, but on the producer involved in the project gives insight to that producer’s choices, inclinations and “sound” and there hasn’t been a producer of recent time as prodigious as Brendan O’Brien.
His first high-profile job came with Stone Temple Pilots’ debut disc Core. After that he became Pearl Jam’s de-facto producer for life, starting with Vs., their second offering. He also mixed The Jayhawks’ Hollywood Town Hall and Soundgarden’sSuperunknown. Recently he has found himself behind the boards for Mastodon and Bruce Springsteen. Music fans are mixed on O’Brien, some believing he’s the quintessential producer of the ’90s into today, while others are put off by his signature ‘dry’ sound, lacking reverb and sparkle. This miniature capsule of a very small part of his output serves as an opportunity to decide for yourself. (more…)
For the past few weeks — and because of my job managing a promotions department at a radio station — I’ve been inundated with Woodstock. The film Taking Woodstock, the director’s cut of Woodstock, TV specials, and special radio programming dedicated to Woodstock have all, in one way or another, crossed my desk this month. From the way Woodstock is marketed, it’s as if 1969 was the beginning and end of live music festivals. But we all know better. Where I live (the San Francisco Bay Area), the Outside Lands Music and Arts festival just wrapped up. It was a lower key event this year — owing in no small part to The Great Recession– but still, a crush of people descended on Golden Gate Park to enjoy band after band, substance after substance, and being with friends who love live music. Now we all know (or at least I hope most of those who read the music section of Popdose know) that some bands are just sublime live. Other bands, alas, suffer from ProTools-itis. That is to say, their limited musical abilities are masked by the plug-ins and other bells and whistles that come with digital multi-track recording. I’m happy to report that the bands and performers featured here have probably all used Pro Tools, but not for the reasons stated above. One disclaimer: before you get started sampling this mix, the song by Westbound Train is not a live recording, but I have seen crappy You Tube videos of them, and they are a tight, talented group.
Things should have been going swimmingly for The Cult. Their album Electric had succeeded in becoming the biker-rock record they hoped it would be – raw, straight-ahead and helmed by a fledgling production wunderkind named Rick Rubin. It gained some necessary traction in the sales and recognition departments as well, based in part on the single “Love Removal Machine.” By the time the band went on the road, however, the future for the Cult looked grim. By most accounts, the blame fell squarely on the shoulders of frontman Ian Astbury, his hedonism and earth-child eccentricities becoming far too difficult for the rest of the band to absorb. The Japanese leg of the tour was nixed as Astbury’s proclivity toward destroying the instruments every night was becoming too costly to continue.
That they returned in 1989 with the album Sonic Temple is, then, some sort of miracle. That they were able to wrest some noteworthy rock anthems from the process is even more remarkable. Longtime bassist Jamie Stewart recorded on the album, but quit the band not long after completion. Guitarist Billy Duffy, having been stripped of his guitar pedals and sonic tricks by Rick Rubin, was relieved not only to have Sonic Temple’s producer Bob Rock reinstate the pedals, but add string sections, walls of reverb and Iggy Pop, essentially undoing all the retrofitting Rubin placed on the band previously.
And Ian Astbury? Well, this is the man who would be Jim Morrison’s successor, so certain things remain consistent in his ouevre. The shamanistic posturing, the biker-bar swagger, his ability to pad a short and sweet lyric with nonsensical ad-libs and attaching a “baybeh” to almost any sentiment: they’re all on the album, but don’t knock it, because for the most part, it works. The reason it works is because when added to the hard-rock kick that most of the songs possess, the two halves become a whole that logic can’t divide. For instance, the big single of the album, “Fire Woman,” is not so far removed from AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long.” Astbury doesn’t really need to go into deep, psychological detail about why his junk is on fire. It just is; she’s just turning him on, and that’s all there needs to be said. Does that diminish the song in any way? Not really because, after all, this is prime stripper-approved rock ‘n’ roll, itself only a euphemism for mattress endurance testing. (more…)
Bands like Rush and AC/DC wear as a badge of honor the fact that they’ve never written or performed a power ballad. I love them both, but they’re pussies. The power ballad is to rock and roll what Al Pacino in Scarface is to acting. The artist has little use for subtlety or restraint — emotion is laid bare, put forth in the most emotive manner possible. In power ballads, the tempo slows; the guitars come to the fore; the notes the singer sings echo and elongate for miles and miles. When done well, the result is beautiful in its pure, overblown glory, enabling the audience to say “hello” to the band’s leetle friend, usually with lighters held aloft.
Every two weeks or so, I will pay tribute to the finest examples of the genre. Together, we will find this death by power ballad to be an exquisite one, indeed. — RS
My vote for greatest rock and roll song of all time goes to the Scorpions’ “Rock You Like a Hurricane.” It’s got it all: its guitars are loud and its lyrics filthy, sung in broken English by a bunch of long-haired yet still balding German dudes with names like Klaus and Matthias. The album it came from, Love at First Sting, was chock full of likewise loud, enormous-sounding, German-accented rawk songs like “Big City Nights,” “I’m Leaving You,” and “Bad Boys Running Wild” (cuz the Scorps were not good boys; good boys would never do such a thing).
The same record also contained “Still Loving You,” one of the great power ballads of the ’80s — one you typically see on Volume 2 of the typical multi-disc set of Hard Rock Ballads” or “Metal Hits” or other bargain bin product. Rarely does it make the cut for the first volume, which is typically crowded with Whitesnake, Warrant, and Winger shit. More about them some other time.
“Still Loving You” is six and a half minutes of slow-building rock ballad pleading, the kind of groveling that guys only do when they’ve fucked up really bad. Really bad. Bad, as in you sleep with your girlfriend’s best friend, in the bed you share with your girlfriend, on your girlfriend’s side of the bed, using your girlfriend’s “toys” and her brand new candle from Bath and Body Works, and instead of cleaning up the sticky, smelly, waxy mess afterward, you just throw the comforter over it and leave your girlfriend a note, asking her to please throw the sheets in the wash when she gets a chance. That kind of bad. (more…)
Because I’m in a giving mood (and because no one, and I mean no one, ever comes to our house for candy on Halloween), I thought I would load up the musical candy bowl and liberally hand out the goodies to those who come knocking at the Popdose door.
Well, as an albino who’s also a rocker, Edgar was pretty much made to create a song called “Frankenstein.” I’ve never really been a fan of this group, and know very little about them, but our friends at Wiki had some nice tidbits: 1. Winter loves his Scientology; he’s made no public comments on what he thought of John Travolta’s performance in Battlefield Earth. 2. Dan “I Can Dream About You” Hartman was in the band at one point. 3. This song was featured in Guitar Hero — which I’ve never played. (more…)
Did that sound screamy enough? Be honest. Okay, lemme try it again …
Uhh-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!!!! Yep, that’s the one. I’ll stick with that one.
Bootleg City is back! Or, rather, you’re back in Bootleg City. (You sure did skip town in a hurry last year. Now where’s that $5,000 you still owe us?) So open yer yaps, boyos, and prepare to take in AC/DC’s “Live in Concert” bootleg, taken from an August 21, 1978, performance at Boston’s Paradise Theatre that was broadcast on WBCN. At one point the disc jockey refers to the Australian hard rock band’s lead singer as “Bon Tyler” instead of Bon Scott. Mr. DJ, stop dreaming about Boston’s pride and joy, Aerosmith! But it’s not like he could dream about Steven Tyler’s movie-star daughter Liv instead — in the summer of ‘78 she was only 13 months old.
I was ready — so ready — and fired up to tear into the new AC/DC album like a grizzly bear on chubby hikers. These old guys have been cranking out the same album all career long, including a jump from deceased lead singer Bon Scott to longtime and current singer Brian Johnson. The AC/DC pattern is simply a thudding stomp of a beat, a concise riff, often dumb lyrics based on substances, debauchery, lust and mayhem and a voice that could never work in any other setting. Add in the predictability of material, a chunk of years off, another one of these cheesy Wal-Mart distribution deals and the AC/DC logo becoming a fashion statement as bland as the Nike Swoop and there should have been no reason for me to be kind to Black Ice.
Ah, the fourth quarter. It isn’t as much of an event as it used to be, but even as the music industry crumbles to dust before our very eyes, artists and labels continue to focus on the last few months of the year for the biggest glut of high-profile releases on the calendar, and 2008 is no exception.
Rather than punishing your eyes with a comprehensive fall music preview, or soliciting input from everyone on the staff, I decided to put together a list of the titles I’m either looking forward to (Lindsey Buckingham, Brian Wilson), need to hear to satisfy some dark, unexplained urge (Gym Class Heroes, Queen), or simply find interesting for some reason (Todd Rundgren, AC/DC). If you’ve been waiting for someone to tell you how to spend the “music” portion of your discretionary income for the next few months, look no further — without further ado, here’s my list of 21 fall releases to watch for.
In which one of country’s most freewheeling (read: consistently interesting) songwriters hooks up with Yep Roc for a song cycle that, if the press kit is to be trusted, is “about women.” You can be certain the songs do more than just live up to that simple billing, especially with titles like “The Rise and Fall of Intelligent Design” — and as an added bonus, our pal Joe Henry was behind the boards (and does a duet with Crowell on one track, “I’ve Done All That I Can”). What, you don’t like country? Yeah, me neither. But I’m buying this. (more…)
It’s rather pointless to review an AC/DC box set—you either love the band and have the thing already ordered or on your Christmas list, or you’re not going to bother. Since I am nothing if not a sucker for lost causes, I therefore direct this review to the uninitiated—those who might not “get” how a hard rock band can parlay a single, simple equation (4/4 rhythm + cool riff + screaming vocals x songs about sex) into a 35-year career. Please let me explain. Also, since the band is the collective king of the double-entendre, and such wordplay may be a bit confusing, I shall translate the song titles contained herein, so the uninitiated may better grasp of the meat of the music.
Any good label manager would tell you: don’t name your album something a reviewer could turn into a catchy, snarky counterpoint. But as we know far too well, most of the labels are hanging by a thread, the management inside reduced to bean counters versus quality controllers and, heck, if Hollywood keeps naming their movies in blindly self-insulting ways, why can’t the record industry follow suit?
, opens itself up to opening paragraphs such as this, begging the question, “Boom or Bust?” What really matters is if the band has spent the decade-long downtime productively or not, and luckily for you, the Popdose staff has gone through the work of sussing it out so you don’t have to. Strap on your steel dragon-face boots, smear on your kabuki greasepaint and shake off your love gun. It’s time to rock and roll.
fans). After listening to Sonic Boom, I can still say I cannot name a single Kiss studio album that’s great from start to finish.
. After that he became Pearl Jam’s de-facto producer for life, starting with Vs., their second offering. He also mixed The Jayhawks’ 
and Soundgarden’s 
. Recently he has found himself behind the boards for Mastodon and Bruce Springsteen. Music fans are mixed on O’Brien, some believing he’s the quintessential producer of the ’90s into today, while others are put off by his signature ‘dry’ sound, lacking reverb and sparkle. This miniature capsule of a very small part of his output serves as an opportunity to decide for yourself. 
Things should have been going swimmingly for The Cult. Their album Electric had succeeded in becoming the biker-rock record they hoped it would be – raw, straight-ahead and helmed by a fledgling production wunderkind named Rick Rubin. It gained some necessary traction in the sales and recognition departments as well, based in part on the single “Love Removal Machine.” By the time the band went on the road, however, the future for the Cult looked grim. By most accounts, the blame fell squarely on the shoulders of frontman Ian Astbury, his hedonism and earth-child eccentricities becoming far too difficult for the rest of the band to absorb. The Japanese leg of the tour was nixed as Astbury’s proclivity toward destroying the instruments every night was becoming too costly to continue.
My vote for greatest rock and roll song of all time goes to the Scorpions’ “Rock You Like a Hurricane.” It’s got it all: its guitars are loud and its lyrics filthy, sung in broken English by a bunch of long-haired yet still balding German dudes with names like Klaus and Matthias. The album it came from, Love at First Sting, was chock full of likewise loud, enormous-sounding, German-accented rawk songs like “Big City Nights,” “I’m Leaving You,” and “Bad Boys Running Wild” (cuz the Scorps were not good boys; good boys would never do such a thing).
I was ready — so ready — and fired up to tear into the new AC/DC album like a grizzly bear on chubby hikers. These old guys have been cranking out the same album all career long, including a jump from deceased lead singer Bon Scott to longtime and current singer Brian Johnson. The AC/DC pattern is simply a thudding stomp of a beat, a concise riff, often dumb lyrics based on substances, debauchery, lust and mayhem and a voice that could never work in any other setting. Add in the predictability of material, a chunk of years off, another one of these cheesy Wal-Mart distribution deals and the AC/DC logo becoming a fashion statement as bland as the Nike Swoop and there should have been no reason for me to be kind to Black Ice.
