Perhaps you’ve heard their story. A bunch of GIs find themselves stationed in Germany in the mid-’60s. They decide to form a band, which they call the 5 Torquays. The Torquays are really nothing special, playing covers of Chuck Berry songs and other popular music of the day in rowdy German clubs.
After they are discharged from the Army, they stay in Germany, hook up with a couple of wacky guys from the West German avant-garde movement, and the Monks are born. The two West German managers, Walther Neimann and Karl Remy, set out to position the Monks as the “anti-Beatles,” as they are not fans of the British band’s lightweight pop sensibilities. They dress the Monks in black, with long capes, and ropes around their necks serving as ties. Musically, a crucial change is made when guitarist Dave Day moves to electric banjo, in search of a more percussive sound. One day, on a lark, drummer Roger Johnston and Day get their heads shaved into monk’s tonsures. The other members follow suit, and the look is complete.
That’s the basic outline, but little of it is what’s really important. What’s important, this being a CD review, is the music that the Monks made. Along with a few other bands, like the Sonics, the Monk’s pretty much invented what we now call garage rock. They were punks years before we used the term to describe a genre of music. (more…)
Last week I told you about the Hold Steady’s new DVD, A Positive Rage. You may recall that it is strictly a lo-fi affair, and really more of a documentary about the band on tour than a concert film. All of that works very well for the Hold Steady, a bad still pushing their way to the top.
This week, we have pretty much the polar opposite of that experience in the new DVD from Wilco, called Ashes of American Flags. This is a beautifully shot, recorded, and edited film that shows the band on stage in five quintessentially American venues during its 2008 tour. It was released this past Saturday to celebrate Record Store Day. Jeff Tweedy had this to say about the occasion:
“My introduction to a lot of great music and to the ‘music business’ came from hanging around and eventually working at independent record stores in Belleville, IL and St. Louis many years ago. It’s the life I know. Nothing beats browsing in your favorite store, listening to music, finding something new or old that you’ve been searching for, being ignored by the store clerks, all that. And without these stores, there’s no way Wilco would still be around. They’ve been with us from the very beginning, through thick and thin. Even if I wasn’t in a band, I’d still support Record Store Day. It’s a great thing and I’m glad we could do something special with them.”
And that something is very special indeed. Beginning with a show at Cain’s Ballroom in Tulsa, OK, we watch as the band moves across the country, arriving next at Tipitina’s in New Orleans, followed by the Mobile Civic Center in Alabama, the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, and ending up at the 9:30 Club in Washington, DC.
Ashes of American Flags was produced and directed in HD by Christoph Green along with Fugazi’s Brendan Canty, who says that the film “was captured completely on the fly with a terrifying lack of planning. ” The resulting 88-minute film brings us 13 songs from the Wilco repertoire, and nicely showcases the band’s brilliant musicianship, and Tweedy’s adept way with a song. (more…)
Uncle Donnie gets pissed very rarely, but when he does he can certainly lay into you. I wonder what Scott Weiland thought when he got this. —RS
TO: Scott Weiland
FROM: Don Skwatzenschitz
RE: Career advice
I get mad at you, Scott Weiland, and I don’t get mad at many people. There you are, genius songwriter, rock god, wearer of mascara, and the same hair dye my wife, Mitzi, swears by. Yet you constantly, constantly sabotage yourself. Stone Temple Pilots could have been the biggest band in the world, but you wanted to get high instead. So you break up. You clean up. You work with Daniel Lanois. You practically join Guns n’ Roses. Contraband: best hard rock record of the decade. Libertad: not so much. You get yourself fired from Velvet Revolver, you rejoin STP, you put on some really good shows. Then you put on some really bad shows, stumbling around, ranting and raving.
What’s wrong, Scott? I’m worried about you. Remember the cookout we had up in Kennebunkport back in ‘94, when Mitzi took off her housecoat to show you the STP tattoo on her hindquarters? Remember the hootenanny we had that night around the bonfire, when you took the guitar and played “Interstate Love Song” for us? Remember how much you laughed when Mitzi and I played the All in the Family theme right afterward? I wish you’d think about that night next time you get the urge to secure some China White or act abominably in some other way.
Yes, I’m mad at you, Scott, but I also have some ideas that could help you redeem yourself. Want to hear them? Here you go:
Rename your new solo record.“Happy” in Galoshes? You’re kidding me, right? This isn’t a Garanimals ad, it’s a record by a rock star. A genuine rock star. Possibly the last of your breed, man. Rename the thing. It’s not too late — no one has bought it yet. You debuted at #97 with, what, three thousand copies? Six thousand? In any event, it’s basically your mom and your fan club, so you can still change the name without too many people noticing. Only this time, name it something cool — Reanimator, or Defibrillator, or something else with “-or” on the end. Smackinator. Or just call it Scott Weiland II. But “Happy” in Galoshes? It’s almost like you don’t want a career.
Produce the next Limp Bizkit record. Speaking of shitty titles, you couldn’t talk Fred Durst out of Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog-Flavored Water? Either way, Durst put his ball cap back on and Wes Borland apparently found a bunch of badger costumes and face paint he likes, so Limp Biz is getting back together again. Get in on it, Scott. Produce the record. Sing on it. Tour with them. It’ll be the biggest thing going in the next year, when all the late-’90s kids realize they can’t get jobs anymore and need something to remember their childhood with.
Stop doing drugs. Jimi Hendrix did Electric Ladyland under all manner of narcotics. Jim Morrison produced Morrison Hotel and L.A. Woman while stoned, drunk, or both. Dylan wrote Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, and Blonde on Blonde on speed. Lou Reed did Transformer on some combination of cough syrup and bat urine. All great records. Scott, you cannot do the same thing. You don’t have it in you. Drugs make you do stupid things. Stop taking them. Please.
Fake your death. If you really can’t stop dosing yourself for your art, you can still probably pull off a really faux demise. You’ll be lauded in the press. You’ll be missed by your bandmates. You can move somewhere with whomever is close to you and leave the rigors of rock god-dom behind. Do it healthily — don’t take a stash with you. Watch as people come up with all sorts of good things to say about you. Slash might even be moved to do it, too. Heck, people might even buy “Happy” in Galoshes.
If you’re a guitar guy, then all I have to do is write the name “Phil Keaggy” and you’re probably already prepared to offer up praise for his abilities. The man’s prowess with the guitar is legendary, so much so that he can’t turn around without someone bringing up the longstanding urban legend that no less an authority than Jimi Hendrix once declared him to be the best guitarist of all time. It’s been pretty well decided that such words never came forth from Hendrix’s lips…or, at least, Keaggy’s pretty sure of it, anyway…but God knows that plenty of other axe men have offered compliments along those lines.
The reference to the almighty is an intentional one. Although Keaggy started in the more traditional rock world as a member of the band Glass Harp, he’s been a staple of the Contemporary Christian music industry since the early 1970s. But, c’mon, don’t freak out, okay? I’ve always been mystified about how music fans can be totally psyched to hear about an album, only to dismiss it because there were lyrical references to religious beliefs. It’s music, people. No-one’s saying you have to embrace the lyrical content as the truth…but you can certainly enjoy the tunes.
My buddy Chris Commander is the person who was responsible for introducing me to the music of Phil Keaggy. This was in the early ’90s, when the members of my circle of friends were…you’ll forgive the expression…worshiping at the altar of Jellyfish and Crowded House. Chris said, “Dude, you’ve got to check out the album,” and he handed me a copy of Phil Keaggy and Sunday’s Child. I’m sure he mentioned that Keaggy was a Christian recording artist, but that’s not the sort of thing that would’ve turned me off, anyway, and, besides, I knew Chris’s tastes and he knew mine, so if he thought I’d like it, he didn’t have to tell me twice. And, of course, he was absolutely on the money. From the Beatles homage on the cover art to the plethora of pop hooks, this was very much my kind of album.
Last summer, I gave y’alls a Cephas & Wiggins Cold Shot that had no news peg, no current-events hook that made it relevant to that time, just a nice little cut to get you through the day and toss some props to one of my favorite traditional blues acts.
I am saddened to report that now, I’ve got that news peg: Guitarist John Cephas passed away this week. He was 78 years old.
John Cephas, in 1989
Cephas & Wiggins weren’t electric guitar heroes, they weren’t rock slaves. John Cephas played acoustic guitar in the Piedmont style, with the touch of an extraordinary folk talent and the love of a most devoted fan. Who were his biggest influences? Let him tell you in the spirited, autobiographical—at least he told me it was autobiographical in an interview I did with him once—song “I Was Determined,” from C&W’s Alligator album, Homemade. (more…)
Hey, you! You dig the Beatles, right? ‘course you do! That’s because you belong to some subset of the umbrella group Human Being With A Soul. So, enjoying the music of the Fab Four as you do, you rushed right out to theaters to catch director Julie Taymor’s gonzo Beatles fantasia Across the Universe, right? ‘course you didn’t! That’s because you also belong to some subset of the umbrella classification The Movie-Going Public; and nobody from that demographic appears to have bought a ticket.
Well, not exactly nobody. The movie, which cost $45 million to make, did a worldwide gross of $25 million, playing on les than a thousand US screens at the height of its release. So, at a guess, it managed to scare up an audience of terrifying Beatles lifestylers, the friends and families of its cast and crew, and possibly Ringo (although he’s been pretty busy of late, apparently). Peter Frampton was allegedly ejected from a matinee engagement for shouting at the screen: “Ha! It’s not so easy, is it?”
You see, Across the Universe is an attempt to uncover — or impose — a narrative thread on a string of beloved standalone pop songs. Or, as the DVD box coyly puts it, avoiding the B-word altogether, “Within the lyrics of the world’s most famous songs lives a story that has never been told… until now.” It’s a bit like Mamma Mia, or (God help us) that legendary, coke-addled career-killer that was 1978’s Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band.
It would be bad form to speculate on what kind of drugs Julie Taymor is on, but she is surely possessed of the kind of batshit visual imagination that gets a director labeled as “visionary.” She came out of experimental theater before being tapped to bring Disney’s The Lion King to Broadway; that show was a commercial and artistic triumph, assimilating the techniques of the avant-garde — masks, puppetry, mime — into a mainstream family entertainment. Her first film, Titus, was a bloody, perverse revenge tragedy with eye-popping visuals. (more…)
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?
Eric Clapton – guitar, vocals Steve Winwood – Hammond organ, guitar, vocals Chris Stainton – keyboards Willie Weeks – bass Ian Thomas – drums
I’m convinced that any great concert experience requires an interesting precursor — the company around you, the trip to the venue, the small details that elevate something to do on a Tuesday night into a memory. I’m equally convinced that while it might make a great experience, it might not make a great story. More often than not, one person’s good time is another person’s drab tale, even if the center of the trip is the reunion if the nucleus of famed supergroup Blind Faith, Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood. Then again, with such a draw, one might have to rethink all those presumptions, as there was nothing more dramatic on February 26th than the performances of two legendary players.
Opening with “Had To Cry Today,” Steve Winwood and Eric Clapton took the stage with guitars strapped on and loaded with confidence. The three-night MSG residency may have surprised fans when they heard it was going to happen, but the interplay between the two makes clear just what a natural fit they are. The other surprise is how the players were arranged: I originally expected Winwood to open the show, play some songs, then have Clapton come out for team-ups, then Clapton would hold forth for the rest. That all participants stayed onstage during the full show (excepting one solo turn each) was a treat. (more…)
Last week I told you about the Hold Steady’s new DVD, 
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?
Eric Clapton – guitar, vocals