Okay, this is how I think it’s going to go down: before the end of the year, a major player in the music industry will announce that it’ll no longer sign bands to make albums. It’ll institute ten-song deals versus three albums, the product to be delivered over a two-year period versus a contract tying up five to ten years. Each of the ten songs are to be considered singles, radio-ready, with at least a 65 percent probability of hit status, otherwise the band in question is liable to be dropped for fulfillment issues. If the losses are great, breach-of-contract litigation is not out of the question.

Sound ridiculous? Or does it sound like the obvious conclusion for an industry that continues to lose money and customer patronage, seeking to cut away anything that doesn’t promote profit — album tracks that may appeal to a creative sense but can’t be capitalized upon, extra production costs inherent in those tracks, and design, packaging, and promotion of a product the public only wants 10 percent of. Witness the next music-industry model circa 2010: the business model of 1961. A label executive now sees his competition focused solely on bankrolling hits, not album sides or expensive packaging, and has to mull over whether it’s better business-wise to chop his staff in half or chop his label’s output in half, retaining the profitable side for himself. Of course the second option is better. He follows suit, and the business model we know today ceases to exist.

Now, you as a music fan and album purchaser hear this news and are appalled — what about the creative angle, the cohesive whole, and the notion that an artist has the broadest canvas with which to work, expand, and grow? Well, what about it. It was recently reported that Apple’s iTunes is now the dominant provider of music in the world, bigger than electronics stores that stock CDs as loss leaders, bigger than even monolithic Wal-Mart, which itself was once the king of music retail. iTunes has made its bones on singles, pure and simple. Few of the portal’s primary users actually go for album sides; people with that mind-set are still likely to buy the physical product, but their numbers are dwindling fast. To say the public in general will miss the album is to ignore the obvious — not only won’t they miss it, they haven’t missed it for five-plus years and counting.

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Some people are just flat-out smart-asses.

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?

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I liked Nick Heyward before I ever knew I liked Nick Heyward.

In the hazy, lazy days known as the early ’80s, I was just as enthralled by MTV as everyone else, but I hadn’t yet begun my descent into music obsession, so I was basically just watching videos, enjoying the songs, and moving on. Because of this, I didn’t really know who was in what band…aside, of course, from the matinée names like Boy George, George Michael, and so on. Time passed, however, and the more I dove into my studies of alternative music (I have many a tattered edition of “The Trouser Press Record Guide” on my bookshelves), the more I learned about these various groups, and as the various bands broke up and found their frontmen going solo, I began to follow their careers as well…including, as you may have guessed, the former lead singer of Haircut 100.

My first introduction to Nick Heyward’s solo work was 1988’s easily-dismissed I Love You Avenue, and I’m clearly not the only one who felt that description was apt, given that I purchased my copy from a cutout bin, but just because it’s a slight album doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. It’s definitely a very, very ’80s-sounding album, but there are at least a pair of songs which continue to hold up for me: “You’re My World” and “Tell Me Why.” (Possibly not coincidentally, these tracks were both mixed by John Hudson, who also worked with a-ha and The Dream Academy.) As you may have guessed, I Love You Avenue was not a tremendous commercial hit, and Heyward proceeded to vanish for a few years, but when he reemerged in 1992, it was with an album which would - gasp! - earn him a bonafied hit!

Yes, not only did From Monday To Sunday offer up the instantly memorable “Kite,” it also proved to be the strongest album of Heyward’s solo career to date, finding him shedding himself of almost all of his keyboards and getting back to basics…or, more specifically, back to The Beatles. Better yet, the critical and commercial success of the album in the U.S. meant that Heyward going to get the chance to expand on this new sound on his next record…which he did.

Too bad you had to pay ridiculous import prices to hear it.

Inexplicably, Epic - Heyward’s label at the time - took a pass on releasing his 1994 album, Tangled, in America. This is not hyperbole; I really have absolutely no explanation for why they chose not to put it out over here. The guy was in an optimal position to build on the success of From Monday to Sunday, and he was completely denied that opportunity, which is - to be frank - fucked up. Did someone think that he’d already defied the odds once by having a hit with a breezy pop song in the middle of grunge, and that there was no way he could repeat it? If so, they clearly never actually listened to Tangled. It would be an overstatement to suggest that Nick really rocked out with his cock out or anything, but to hear his opening salvo, “Kill Another Day,” was to be aware that he’d toughened up his act at least a little bit.

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When I was a kid, my heroes were, at the very least, deserving of adoration. The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Cheap Trick, Dan Pastorini (the one non-musician of the bunch) — the one thing they had in common was that they were immensely talented at what they did. Some would say that they were among the very best, and thus, they seemed bigger than life to me and the millions who adored them. I was inspired by them and what I perceived to be their dedication to the craft. I also admired their shrewd understanding that a fair bit of marketing went a long way, too.

Of course, the music world is not just full of legendary artists such as those named above. For as long as there have been artistes, there have been those whose marketing overshadowed their artistic endeavors. I’m thinking along the lines of C.W. McCall, Taco, and — oh, what the heck — Sigue Sigue Sputnik.

Such one-hit wonders would invariably come out of nowhere, dominate the airwaves for every last second of their fifteen minutes of fame and then, thankfully, disappear into pop oblivion. The respectable artists who were temporarily swept aside to make way for this brief dalliance with the latest “here today, gone tomorrow” pop confection would then return to their rightful place on radio playlists and the ship would right itself.

I mean, acts like Tiffany, Sly Fox, After the Fire, and others had their success, but it was always understood that they’d go away. That’s what one- or two-hit wonders did. It was understood.

But then something weird happened.

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I like the power pop.

When done right, it can be a deceptively potent thing, like the best of Cheap Trick, or Jellyfish’s Spilt Milk. When it’s done wrong, there’s nothing worthwhile to be found. Trust me. I’ve heard some really awful bands who thought they were “pop pioneers for the modern age,” but sounded like brakes with no meat on the pads. Somewhere in between lay the Smithereens.

I can hear it now: “Little harsh there? They gave us ‘A Girl Like You’ and ‘Blood and Roses’… ” No, I cannot take anything away from those very catchy, very good tunes, but even though I enjoy their music, I can’t deny the merciless repetition therein. The prime illustration of this is the Green Thoughts album. There is probably not a hookier power pop album in existence, but you have to shut down the census bureau while listening to it. “House We Used to Live In” constantly repeats its title, and so does “Only A Memory.” “The World We Know” also invites copious counting fits. God help you if you use these songs in a drinking game — you’ll die of alcohol poisoning. In spite of my criticism, I like those tunes. What they do not reflect in lyrical sophistication, they make up in pure guitar-jangle exuberance. (more…)

The call came in the middle of the workday, sometime after lunch. Julie was fighting back tears as she drove home from Jacob’s pediatrician’s office. What we had feared was confirmed: Jacob’s failure to thrive at one month old was because he was born with cystic fibrosis (CF). Here is the definition of CF from the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation:

Cystic fibrosis is an inherited chronic disease that affects the lungs and digestive system of about 30,000 children and adults in the United States (70,000 worldwide). A defective gene and its protein product cause the body to produce unusually thick, sticky mucus that clogs the lungs and leads to life-threatening lung infections, and obstructs the pancreas and stops natural enzymes from helping the body break down and absorb food.

We were vaguely familiar with some of the CF facts after we brought Jacob home from the UCLA medical center. One of his doctors there had mentioned, in passing, that a CF test had been done, but for some reason it hadn’t. Immediately, we did some initial research on the disease, but not too much. Our son was home and out of intensive care — that was what mattered. “Everything’s fine,” we thought. But obviously it wasn’t. When Jacob failed to gain weight and his color continued to be very pale, our pediatrician became concerned. A wonderful, caring man, he wanted to rule out CF after we mentioned what the UCLA doctor had told us when he ordered a blood test.

I should’ve been there. That’s what I was thinking as I hung up the phone. I should’ve been there with Julie and Jacob when the test results were given. But I didn’t believe it was cystic fibrosis. I was optimistic it was a virus or something easily treatable. I should’ve been there.

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Yeah, yeah, we know what you’re thinking: “The Hooters? Are they even still together?” Well, actually, if you’d asked that question between 1995 and 2001, the answer would’ve been a resounding “No.” After the tremendous success of the band’s 1985 breakthrough, Nervous Night, their commercial success in the States began a gradual descent; simultaneously, however, their stock was rising overseas. When the band took a break in 1995, singer-guitarist Eric Bazilian proceeded to keep very busy as a songwriter, working with everyone from Midge Ure to Jon Bon Jovi, but when the gang got back together in 2001 he was right there with them. The Hooters did a fair amount of touring in Germany, Switzerland, and Sweden, but it wasn’t ’til 2006 that the band finally started doing some shows in the U.S. The next thing you know, the band was back in the studio to record Time Stand Still, their first album in 14 years. Popdose had the good fortune to speak with Eric about the history of the band as well as his solo career, touching on subjects like the Hooters’ omission from the Live Aid DVD, what it’s like to meet three out of four Beatles, and what a glorious gift it was to have Joan Osborne record “One of Us.”

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