Posts Tagged ‘Rob Smith’

Unsolicited Career Advice for … Courtney Love

Uncle Donnie has a soft spot for lost causes, and there are none more lost than Ms. Love. This recent missive outlines his concerns, and his plans to help her rise again. -RS

TO: Courtney Love
FROM: Don Skwatzenschitz
RE: Career Advice

You know, dear Courtney, we all feel a little lost sometimes. I remember the two and a half years between Jackson Browne’s Running on Empty and Hold Out records—you were just a kid, but trust me, they were long, lean years with no new JB poetry to get us all through. Jimmy Carter was in the White House, and you could just see the effect Browne’s absence had on him. Everything seemed to go straight to hell, without passing “Go,” without collecting $200 in worthless cash.

But we all snap out of it. In the summer of 1980, I turned on the radio and heard those wonderful words—”Down on the boulevard, they take it hard / They look at life with such disregard.” I wept. Openly. Mitzi and I were in the old Impala, cruising down Highway 1 at night, looking for a place to pull off and have a little shtup, you know? And then I heard the song and all thoughts of shtupping vanished, disappointing Mitzi horribly. But the voice was back, and his new words had … well, they had very little meaning, but I clung to them anyway. Didn’t help Jimmy Carter, though.

But you, Courtney, have taken feeling lost to a whole new level. We all had such hopes for you, too—the brave widow, newly single mom, protecting her husband’s legacy while establishing one of her own. That was before the anus wax meltdown in 2003, and the feud with Dave and Krist, and the Pam Anderson roast, or any of the other numerous breakdowns. The latest breakdown, though—the whole Kurt/Guitar Hero/Bon Jovi thing—is the last straw. We were merely worried about your safety before, dear—now we’re concerned about your sanity. You simply must turn it around—and I have just the plan: (more…)

CD Review: Built to Spill, “There Is No Enemy”

Built to Spill, There is No Enemy (2009, Warner Bros.)
Purchase this album (Amazon)

If Doug Martsch sang like Dave Grohl, Rivers Cuomo, or even Thom Yorke, Built to Spill would be huge, arena-packin’ gunslingers and rich bastards, to boot. In a parallel universe, Martsch might have killed Chris Martin in some combination one-on-one basketball game-cum-minor celebrity death match, ridding us of Coldplay and winning the hand of Gwyneth Paltrow, only to discard her upon hearing her Oprah-fied tips on beauty and spiritual wellness. Built to Spill might’ve then invaded some minor republic like Kalmykia, slaying its meager armed forces with nothing but the brute volume of their amplification and building a towering monument to the band’s undisputed leader, made entirely of reconstituted Fender and Gibson products and melted-down copies of Coldplay’s X&Y. The new nation’s national anthem would have been Neil Young’s “Love and Only Love”—a ten-minute distorted guitar manifesto, the kind King Doug loves and would insist upon being added to state radio playlists.

The Idaho-born Martsch, in other words, is a fucking god, but his reedy, nasally singing voice—a hallmark of every Built to Spill album—is the very thing that keeps his band from being the kind of international proggy juggernaut those cutie-pies in Muse currently are. Things are not bound to change with There Is No Enemy, good as it is, as Martsch’s elastic whine once again blends into the overall sound of the band, becoming, in effect, another instrumental layer you either grasp or you don’t. Even without many immediately discernible lyrics, though, the album’s songs still satisfy, displaying the full and mighty power of Built to Spill in all its parallel universe-shakin’ glory. (more…)

Death by Power Ballad: Foreigner, “Out of the Blue”

“It’s always that one song that gets to you. You can hide, but the song comes to find you.”
— Rob Sheffield (Love Is a Mix Tape)

I dislike Rob Sheffield for many reasons—his writing comes off as pompous, hipper-than-thou snark (and that’s just for the stuff he likes); his greasy, perpetual grad student look smacks so obviously of affectation; his voice on those VH1 shows sounds like he’s gargling bathwater with a tampon shoved up each nostril; and he made music writing safe for a whole army of people just like him (read Spin lately?). I also dislike him out of insane jealousy; in spite of all the above, he wrote one of the most moving books about music and music fans I’ve ever read. The bastard done really good. Go to Amazon now and purchase a copy, or borrow one from your local library, that most wonderful of socialist institutions.

A song I’d relegated to the leaky, cobwebby space in the back of my mind recently came to find me. I’d been in the mood to listen to some vinyl, and one of the hundred or so LPs I had standing at attention on a shelf in my living was Foreigner’s 1987 album Inside Information. Immediately, I knew which song I would drop the needle on first; I flipped the thing over to Side Two, and let my trusty old turntable do its thing. (more…)

CD Review: David Gray, “Draw the Line”

The popularity of David Gray’s White Ladder nine or so years ago was a fluke, an accident, a total surprise, never should have happened. The man had been plugging away for seven years at that point, making little leeway in the wider pop consciousness, when something clicked—was it that blend of acoustic instruments and electronic flourishes? Or that reedy voice with the blasting upper register? Or maybe those songs that mined personal depths to find universal truths?

It was quite possibly all of the above, and in spite of the unlikelihood of the bobblehead troubadour as pop hero, he followed up Ladder with two more equally fine records before coming to the inevitable career crossroads—he fired his band, hired a new one, started a family, recharged, and found a new creative energy in all this change.

The first results of this renewal are the 11 songs on Draw the Line, perhaps Gray’s finest work yet. Largely eschewing the electronic counterpoints to his music’s acoustic foundations, Gray for the first time leans on and allows himself to be propelled by a band, to appreciable effect in all aspects of the record.

The change is evident from the first bars of “Fugitive.” Drummer Keith Pryor makes the martial tempo sound unexpectedly loose, and Gray follows through with a loping piano figure and a lyric that extols one to live for the moment (”Hey better realize my friend / Lord in the end now you can’t take it with / Gotta live”). His way with a melody is undiminished, livening even the darkest corners of the album’s title track, which ticks off a list of social and personal ills against which we must defend ourselves (All this talk can hypnotize you and / We can ill afford / To give ourselves to sentiment / When our time is oh so short / … Have to draw the line”). (more…)

Unsolicited Career Advice for … Def Leppard

According to Lev, Uncle Donnie served in some capacity in the Def Leppard camp during the recording sessions for Adrenalize, and wound up going out with them on one of the U.S. legs of their ‘92 tour. Became quite close with the band, apparently, though for unknown reasons was never asked back after that leg. This memo, however, reveals they still hold a place in his heart. -RS

TO: Def Leppard
FROM: Don Skwatzenschitz
RE: Career Advice

First of all, yes—I wanna get rocked. Ha! Remember that, back in ‘92? Man, those were good times. I mean, not great times—Clarky was dead, and everyone felt bad, but didn’t we have a good time hazing poor Vivian? I’ve never had a better time on tour with a rock and roll band. Thanks for including me, and for putting up with Mitzi lifting up her shirt in the front row for 64 shows. It couldn’t have been easy for you, particularly Joe, who would invariably be trying to sing to a babe on one side of Mitz or the other.

Anyway, since we go back a ways, I feel compelled to talk with you about a serious issue, namely, your recording career. It needs to stop. Now. The last two albums prove it, if the previous two or three didn’t. A covers record is typically a sign of desperation, and Yeah! was no exception. Face it, people would rather hear All American Rejects do your songs, or Taylor Swift, or some anonymous kid, or even you, 20 years ago, than to hear you do T. Rex or Bowie covers. Not to mention David-effin’-Essex. “Rock On?” Ain’t no rock to be found there, buddies. (more…)

The Popdose Interview: David Gray

I recall in the late ’80s reading a Rolling Stone review of Richard Thompson’s Amnesia that began “Ho-hum, another first-rate Richard Thompson album.” The uniform excellence of Thompson’s work, particularly in that period, could indeed lull one into complacency, to the point where that excellence could easily be taken for granted.

I thought something similar in 2005, about the work of another UK singer/songwriter, David Gray. That year, he released Life in Slow Motion, a devastatingly gorgeous collection of songs that extended a winning streak begun with White Ladder, his breakout record of six years previous (you remember “Babylon,” don’t you?), and continued through 2002’s New Day at Midnight. Each of them set Gray’s reedy, plaintive voice against a musical backdrop that melded acoustic instrumentation with electronic flourishes, in the service of deeply personal, deeply resonant songs. Combined with a compilation of the best early tracks from his decade-plus career (Lost Songs, 2001), these exceptional discs alluded to a talent whose excellence we could take for granted.

Four years have passed since Life in Slow Motion, and, if anything, Gray’s new record, Draw the Line, raises the bar even higher. Sporting a new band with a fuller, richer sound than he’s managed previously (as well as guest turns from Jolie Holland and Annie Lennox), Gray has written a record that easily stands with his best work, perhaps even surpasses it. You get the feeling he knows it, too—he’s put on a full-court promotional press in advance of the record’s release (September 22), including a ton of interviews (a metric ton, actually—he’s British, after all), showcase gigs, and an appearance on Letterman, and will be returning to the U.S. this fall for a more extensive tour.

Gray was doing promo work in London when I spoke with him on the phone, about two and a half weeks before Draw the Line’s release. (more…)

Death by Power Ballad: Boston, “Hollyann”

Sixties nostalgia is a curious thing—make-a one man weep, make another man sing. Tom Scholz—the guitarist/mastermind/evil genius behind Seventies arena rock behemoth Boston—is one of those people for whom the Sixties never quite ended. I mean, yeah, he can see all of us with our turbo rocket backpacks and Martian girlfriends and such, and recognize it’s not 1967, but in his mind, it’s the Summer of Love, year-round, every year.

Eight years elapsed between Boston’s second and third albums—a longer period of time than the span between Please Please Me and Let It Be—and fans of Scholz and company were left to wonder what Tommy and his band of merry New Englanders were up to. Rumor had it that Scholz had joined a hippie commune and had spent the fortune he’d earned from music trying to discover the best way to rotate marijuana and rutabaga crops in upstate Massachusetts. In reality, though, he had spent the time in various other, non-hippie-related pursuits, namely a) litigation with his record company, b) developing a way to cram a Marshall stack into a box he could wear on his belt, and c) making fun of his contemporary Meat Loaf, who had gone from Bat Out of Hell to Loaf Out of Luck in just eight short years.

Alas, the period of quietude was certain to end, and end it did, in 1986, when Scholzasaurus and the mighty Boston Rawk Party finally managed to crap out Third Stage. Now, the band’s first album had been introduced to an unsuspecting world by “More than a Feeling”—a tremendous, anthemic song, don’t you agree? Don’t Look Back came out of the gate with “Don’t Look Back”—another tremendous, anthemic song. Third Stage—eight years in the making—opened with none other than “Amanda,” a tremendously schmaltzy, limp-wristed ooze of a ballad.

Boo.

Hiss. (more…)

Jesus of Cool: Popdose Picks the Beatles’ Best

Sick to death of Beatle hype? Too bad! Today’s the one before the one before 9/09, and you’re just gonna have to shine it on a little longer.

This weekend Entertainment Weekly came out with a vaguely interesting, vaguely infuriating list of the Fabs’ “50 best songs,” selected (it seems) by a panel of 10 EW writers (including that other, probably better-paid but infinitely less worthy Jeff Giles). The magazine’s crew did such a lousy job separating the Strawberry Fields from the Norwegian Wood that I figured, I can do better than that … heck, I’ll bet we all can!

And so here we are. Several of my Popdose colleagues have contributed their own lists, but this is no Popdose 100 – we weren’t organized enough this time to compile a comprehensive survey of our Beatle tastes. Still, there are a few generalizations to be reached, particularly on the popularity of such tracks as “A Day in the Life,” “Here Comes the Sun,” “Revolution,” and the Abbey Road medley. Please feel free – no, feel compelled – to offer your own best-of list in the comments, or at least to take potshots at ours. Me first, though (with each song’s EW ranking, if any, in parentheses): (more…)

Unsolicited Career Advice for … Barry Gibb

For all the correspondence from Uncle Donnie that we have on record (or in piles in Lev’s basement), it’s worth noting that he could, on occasion, fall out of touch with people.  The trick was to reconnect with those folks before they died.  Barry Gibb was one of the fortunate ones. -RS

TO: Barry Gibb
FROM: Don Skwatzenschitz
RE: Career Advice

Barry, old pal, how have you been?  It’s been so long since we last saw you at your brother Robin’s birthday party in Miami—what was it, five years ago?  Nine?  I don’t remember much about that night, but I do recall thinking the nude caterers were a bit much.  The spinach balls were lovely, though; Mitzi’s been trying to recreate them in our kitchen ever since.  I tell her the nudity had nothing to do with the quality of the food, but she never listens.

Speaking of my beloved, the other night, she was watching repeats of French television (this satellite TV gets damn near everything), and came upon a performance of “To Love Somebody” by a couple singer/songwriter types, and we got into a discussion about you.  You did such a good job on American Idol a couple years back (though I didn’t quite get the Dr. Zaius costume—was that supposed to be ironic?), yet never capitalized on it.  That’s a shame, particularly if you want to have a place at the table in pop culture these days.  With such an enormous back catalog of hits, you should be out there reminding people of your greatness, and getting new fans to bask in that greatness.  I think I can help you, if you take my advice in several key areas: (more…)

Death by Power Ballad: Winger, “Headed for a Heartbreak”

Everything you’re about to read is apocryphal. No proof exists that anything that follows is true. But I heard it from someone, who heard it from someone, who likely heard it from yet another someone, who should know. Here goes:

When then-Alice Cooper bassist Kip Winger met model Rachel Hunter in the late ’80s, at a party for some long-forgotten leather codpiece manufacturer, the clear blue mid-afternoon southern California sky darkened in seconds. Lightning touched down thither and yon, drifting toward the party, eventually making a rough circle around the pair about ten yards in diameter. Klieg lights materialized out of thin air, training their intense beams at the couple. Someone (probably Paul Stanley) produced a disco ball and tossed it high in the sky, where it was struck by a bolt of lightning, sending tiny shards of mirrored glass down toward them, shards that turned into sparkling glitter dust as it entered their new, unique atmosphere. The party for the long-forgotten leather codpiece manufacturer was over, but the party for Kip and Rachel had just begun.

They rented a room at the Continental Hyatt House on the Sunset Strip for a long weekend, enjoying three days of room service and round-the-clock study of the Kama Sutra, as well as free HBO. In fact, Kip was the only one of the two who left the room all weekend, on a run to the local apothecary to purchase additional 24-packs of prophylactics. (Imagine being the poor housecleaning attendant emptying that wastebasket after they checked out.) (more…)