Rob Smith explores Jackson Browne’s three finest albums in “The Vinyl Diaries.”
The best of the worst of movie and TV cliches. If you’ve seen ’em once, you know ’em all!
Rob Smith reviews sounds that sustained him in 2015, in his new “Vinyl Diaries.”
Rob Smith explores the expansive live box set by electric jazz pioneers Weather Report.
Rob Smith remembers his father, in his new “Vinyl Diaries” column.
Rob Smith reviews the new Shelby Lynne album, a slice of southern country/soul deserving of a large audience.
Rob Smith explores some fine 2014 vinyl releases.
Popdose is giving away R.E.M.’s new vinyl box set, “7IN – 83-88”!
Rob Smith pens a love letter to indie record stores, and the “American Hustle” soundtrack.
Popdose is giving away three new Alvin Lee reissues!
Popdose gives away the new Joni Mitchell box set.
The Popdose staff discusses Pink Floyd’s swan song.
Popdose gives away the greatest t-shirt ever, and a copy of Neil Diamond’s new CD.
If you dig Seventies music, you’ll dig the massive DVD box set celebrating “The Midnight Special.” Rob Smith reviews.
Popdose is giving away “The Beatles in Mono” vinyl box set!
Popdose gives away a copy of The Midnight Special 11-DVD Collector’s Edition!
“The Vinyl Diaries” and Popdose GIVEAWAY: Allman Brothers’s new box set!
This article can be summed up in one quote: “I will pay someone to shoot you, Walsh.”
Rob Smith declares his love of Air Supply in his new “Vinyl Diaries” column.
Remember when Aerosmith’s Music from Another Dimension was supposed to be the band’s return to rockin’ form, a Seventies-style throwback to the groovin’, Stonesy, Yardbirdsy, slap-happy lewdness of Toys and Rocks, complete with the full-album return of Jack Douglas, who’d been behind the boards for those early high-water marks? Remember when, with the exception of Douglas’ return, it wasn’t any of those things? Did we believe them? How could we believe them? How could we believe that Perry, Tyler, and the other three dudes (who don’t get to wander the catwalk), could channel their most triumphant moments as young men, into the creepy, over-slick mannequins they’ve become in their dotage? How could fans view the record as anything other than a cash-grab in the wake of Tyler’s American Idol experiment, or as an excuse to light out upon another headlining shed tour? And how could fans view the ballad “Can’t Stop Lovin’ You”—a duet with Carrie-freakin’-Underwood—as anything other than a thumb in the eye, a knee to the groin, and a full-body coating of methanethiol …
If these records could talk … 1. Jason Isbell, Southeastern The last time I saw her, she was standing in a doorway, about to go inside and do something—something, that is, in addition to transitioning from a physical presence to a figure in memory. An embrace, a “see you later,” a wave from the doorway, and gone. We missed each other the next day, a breakfast date canceled at the last minute, the click on the phone was pretty much final, though neither of us knew that then. In the ensuing months, there were attempts at meeting, weak though they were (mine were stronger by far, but no matter), but there was physical distance too wide to bridge, and distinct lives to return to, and work of the sort that causes too many disconnects, too many wires severed and cauterized at their ends. We hadn’t been together long, but our togetherhood was impressive for its intensity, for our intensity, the intensity of us. Ultimately, though, we weren’t together long enough. Over the years, I’d …
A journal entry, October 28, 2013, evening (later amended). It figured, the last sound you made for others would be a drone, 20 minutes of drone and guitar and poetry (half spoken, half somewhat sung), after 70 minutes before that of misshapen sound, noise and words that never quite melded, barely even intersected, your compatriots in the endeavor just as confused about your intentions as anyone who would, in the ensuing months, stumble into listening to the mess. The mess you made, the mess you made them make. Dissonance, without being dissonant. The poetry made sense to you, though. The poetry in the words, yes, but also the poetry in the drone, in the sound, in frequency and volume, in the ability to resonate. To make sound, to sympathetically vibrate and cause others to vibrate as well. You did this and it all made sense to you. The poetry of resonance. The poetry within the resonance. It moved through you, moved through your body, your bruised, shrinking body, eaten from within by parts of itself …
If you were looking for me the last few months and couldn’t find me, it’s very possible that I was off somewhere, curled up inside “Pick Me Up,” the title track of the new Truth & Salvage Co. album (Megaforce Records). Behind its “Like a Rolling Stone” organ figure, expertly placed melody modulation, and positivity-exuding lyric, “Pick Me Up” is a breath of fresh country air at a time when so much seems stale and stagnant. In a day and age in which hearing “You are not alone” usually provokes a bit of trepidation and a nervous backward look or two, Truth & Salvage wrap the listener in a much-needed cover of Southern sunshine. I drank the Kool Aid for this band three years ago (it tasted like sweet tea and kicked like a triple Cuervo), after seeing them live and digging the fine songs on their debut (my album of the year in 2010, for those keeping track). I thought then and think now that what Truth & Salvage Co. is, is a classic …
Since maybe late February (when it leaked online), my favorite record of the year has been the Flaming Lips’ The Terror. The record’s unyielding tone of desperation and desolation appeals to me. Its abstraction and noise play nicely with the cacophony one might experience in one’s head, particularly when one finds him- or herself in a particularly despairing mood, for whatever reason (or no reason at all), in which every voice encountered, every sentiment expressed, every attempt made at connection, everything slips down a hole somewhere inside one’s heart and disappears. Everything tastes sour. Everything sounds like static, like Psychocandy and Loveless, with melodies extracted from them, turned up way too loud. The Terror finds space in the fuzz, like a seed in soil, germinating in all directions. Still, The Terror is merely an acknowledgement, proof of life inside and outside the noise. What it isn’t is a balm—an agent of comfort. For that, one might turn to new records by Americana artists I have long revered—Steve Earle (The Low Highway), Patty Griffin (American Kid), …
Rob Smith ruminates on high school, time, energy, and U2.
Rob Smith reflects on R.E.M. in the latest “Vinyl Diaries.”
Rob Smith takes the guilt out of guilty pleasures and proclaims his love for Juice Newton.
Rob Smith meditates on memory, music, and the Beatles in “The Vinyl Diaries.”
Rob Smith’s “Vinyl Diaries”: Billy Joel, “The Nylon Curtain”
Rob Smith reviews Nine Times Blue’s debut album, “Falling Slowly.”