Posts Tagged ‘God’

  
Friday, July 17th, 2009

Bootleg City: Prince in Paris, June ‘87

by Robert Cass

I’m not going to lie to you — even though I’m the most powerful figurehead in Bootleg City, I don’t have all the answers. That’s why I often turn to other mayors of other imaginary cities so we can talk shop, compare mistresses, and swap cookie recipes. Recently I called Mayor P.R. Nelson of Erotic City to find out what he’s learned at the top of the municipal food chain.

Me: Mayor Nelson, thank you for taking the time to do this interview.

Nelson: I would die 4 U.

Me: Why, thank you! It’s rare to have that kind of support from another politician. Now, Mr. Mayor–

Nelson: My name is Prince. And I am funky.

Me: Good, I was hoping we could skip the formalities right up front. You can call me Robert. Now, Prince, your critics have accused you of — and I’m quoting here — “doing something close to nothing but different than the day before.” Of course, you’ve been in office since the mid-’80s, so clearly you’re doing something the people of Erotic City appreciate, but does criticism like that ever get under your skin?

Nelson: I just can’t believe all the things people say. Am I black or white? Am I straight or gay? Do I believe in God? Do I believe in me?

Me: So it does get to you. I’m glad to know I’m not the only one. And for the record, I always thought you were black and straight. But speaking of God, in recent years you’ve been referencing him more and more in your speeches. Do you ever worry that you might alienate some of your more liberal supporters with your religious views?

Nelson: Am I the weaker man because I understand that love must be the master plan?

Me: I don’t think so, but let’s not pretend elected officials don’t have to hug the middle of the road sometimes to get the votes they need.

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Wednesday, March 11th, 2009

Pop Goes the World: Attic Lights

by David Medsker

Welcome to my brand-new column Pop Goes the World, which aims to serve as an antidote of sorts to the sad, sad, sad world of Mope Like Me. (That scream you just heard is Ted Asregadoo, who loved to watch me wallow in self-pity. Sick bastard.) The column will focus primarily on newer acts that have yet to get their big break, though I’ll be sprinkling in some lesser-known songs from big-name bands to add a little variety. Ready, Freddies and Bettys?

The hyperbole machine went into overdrive earlier this year over a new Scottish group that was going to be the next Band That Matters. That band, of course, was Glasvegas, and their debut record is fine, but it’s the kind of album that’s easier to dispassionately admire than it is to love. You might look like a hipster if you own it, but if you play it at your next party, prepare to see a bunch of your guests start glancing at their watches.

As it turns out, the hype machine had the right country. They just had the wrong band.

If, instead, you had popped on Friday Night Lights, the debut album from Glasgow quintet Attic Lights, you’d have been peppered with questions. “Is this Teenage Fanclub?” “Are the Beach Boys singing backup?” “What decade is this from?” That last question stings a little, but it’s fitting; most bands just don’t do the four-part harmonies on top of jangly, sun-kissed guitars anymore – it takes too much effort, I’m guessing – and the ones that do sell about six records. There was a brief resurgence in harmonic rock songs when the Feeling’s (awesome) debut album Twelve Stops and Home blew up in the UK, and we’re guessing it was their success that led Island UK to take a gamble on Attic Lights (well, that and the fact that Attic Lights are amazing, of course). But amazing doesn’t always mean million-selling, and sadly, these guys are no exception. Friday Night Lights peaked at #151 (!) on the UK chart, none of their singles have charted, and there are currently no plans to release the album in the US.

Ugh.

I’m not surprised that Attic Lights are having trouble finding an American audience. We’re beyond hope, lost in a landscape where people think Conor Oberst should be allowed within a hundred yards of a recording studio. I did, however, think the album would fare better on the other side of the pond. Any place that welcomed bands like the Lightning Seeds with open arms would surely embrace these guys, right? Look at how economical “Walkie Talkie” is with its hooks. It’s already starting the second verse at the 40-second mark, and sports a chorus stuffed to the gills with a good old fashioned “Bop bada dadat, bop, ba dada dada.” (Remember those?) The band’s “other” singer, Colin McArdle (Kev Sherry and his impossibly high tenor do the honors on “Walkie Talkie”), tends to sing the band’s rootsier songs – fans of the Jayhawks and early Wilco should check out “Nothing but Love” at once – but on “Late Night Sunshine” he unleashes another massive, lighter/cell phone-waving chorus, the kind the Oasis always gets credit for writing but never actually writes. There really isn’t a bum note to be found on this record. Not one.

What is probably going to happen with Friday Night Lights is that the power pop community will rally around it, and when that happens, Attic Lights are toast. Now, I happen to own a slew of power pop records, so I know of what I speak: the kiss of power pop fans is the commercial kiss of death. (Ask Taxiride, Evan and Jaron, Owsley, Swirl 360, and anyone tangentially related to Jellyfish.) So all you power pop fans out there, for the love of God, I’m begging you, stay away from these guys. If no one’s caught on to them by their second album, they’re all yours. But for now, please, back the fuck off.

As further proof of Friday Night Lights‘ awesomeness, I’ve included links to the five videos of songs from the album (embedding disabled, grrrr), plus one very amusing short film about them and their influences. Buy the record, save the world.

Attic Lights – Bring You Down
Attic Lights – Late Night Sunshine
Attic Lights – Wendy
Attic Lights – God
Attic Lights – Never Get Sick of the Sea
A Short Film about Attic Lights

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Thursday, January 15th, 2009

Death by Power Ballad: Stryper, “Honestly”

by Rob Smith

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

The problem most listeners had with Stryper during their brief heyday (aside from those hideous black and yellow-striped spandex outfits — seriously, would Jesus have thought them cool? “Well praise me, boys, them’s is some mighty awesome threads”) was the ambiguity they wrote into their hits (all three of them), namely, were their songs about God or chicks? Granted, the bulk of the stuff on their albums came right out and screamed praises to the Almighty, but thumpin’ the little New Testaments they threw into the crowds at their shows would not fly on MTV. And in ‘86-’87, these guys were all over MTV.

Take their hit “Calling on You” — a cool little pop-metal confection that could, in theory, be about a girl, but you had to wonder. “I can’t explain just what you do to me,” singer Michael Sweet cooed. “My love grows stronger every day.” Replace “you” with “yo’ booty,” add a couple grunts and a silky bass line, and you’ve got 60-70 percent of R. Kelly’s oeuvre. Definitely about a girl, right? But watch Mikey in the video, and every time he says “You” in the chorus, he’s pointing to the ceiling, givin’ props to the G-man, who lives on up there above the soundstage roof.

There’s a slight twist with “Honestly,” the biggest hit off ’87’s To Hell with the Devil. Sounding like Dennis DeYoung fronting Poison, Sweet opens the song floating over a down mattress of Stygian keyboards. “Honestly, I believe in you,” he bleats. “Do you trust in me?” Fairly generic beginning, to be sure, and he follows it by declaring he’ll stand by “you” faithfully and be a friend for always and forever, etc.

Then the chorus pounds in on big, reverbed drums (courtesy of Robert Sweet, Michael’s Vince Neil-lookalike brother) and muted power chords (from the excellently named guitarist, Oz Fox), and Sweet’s voice, which has thus far barely managed to be heard over the instrumentation, bursts forth with commanding presence:

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