It may or may not be true, but at this point, it seems like the Phillies are actually committed to change, and addressing complaints. First came the firing of Ed Wade. Now, they're planning to move back the left field wall at Citizens Bank Park.
This has been a subject of some debate in the two years played at the park, and as you may remember, I had my own theories about it as well. Considering that the attitude of Phillies management for about as long as I can remember has been "It's not a problem unless we decide it's a problem," who would have thought something would actually be done about it?
So I'm glad for that, even if Pat Burrell's home run total drops by five next season, and David Bell's total drops to zero. And I'll say this much too: I wouldn't at all be surprised if we go to the park next year and find the left wall exactly as I described in my previous post.
It's sort of cool to be sort of vindicated.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Thursday, October 27, 2005
A moment for Elliott Smith
If ever I take survey of how many Elliott Smith albums I have, I always have to remind myself to bump up the number by one, because I somehow always forget his posthumous album, From a Basement on the Hill. If there's any album in my collection I never really gave a fair chance to, that one is it, and since we just passed the one year anniversary of that album's release (October 19) and the two year anniversary of Smith's death (October 21), I figured I'd give it another chance to impress me, despite the fact that there are about 300 new releases from the past month that I want to hear.
Unfortunately, I don't really think any higher of it now than I did a year ago. The long layoff probably helped some of the songs stay fresh (it's probably been a good 10 months since I had it on), but some others sound worse with age.
First, the good parts: "Coast to Coast" and "Don't Go Down" are gritty rockers that seem much more appealing than they did before, with thunderous drumming courtesy of the Flaming Lips' Steven Drozd on the former. When I first these songs, I cringed because they "didn't sound like Elliott." At this point I'm ok with that, and if David Bowie can do all the things he's done and still be great, I can't really hold a decision to try to play some crunchy electric guitar-driven songs against Elliott.
The real problem is the ones that do "sound like Elliott." "Memory Lane" and "A Fond Farewell" can either be counted as self-parody or a lazy attempt to recreate old magic, and the same goes for "Pretty (Ugly Before)," "Strung Out Again," and "Let's Get Lost," especially the latter, with its introduction more or less stolen straight from "Color Bars," from 2000's Figure 8.
The really interesting aspect of this is trying to figure out if there's some reason outside of the music itself that I don't really like Smith's final album. Is it possible that no matter what was released, I would hear it and say that it wasn't what he wanted? That's a very distinct possibility, but I think the real reason is simply that I'm just not really a big Elliott Smith fan anymore. Even by the time Smith reached his unfortunate end two years ago, it'd been a couple years since I listened to any of his albums. I hung on to him for a little while after the Figure 8 fervor died down (in truth, I didn't really get into him until around when that album was released), but eventually moved on. I took note of the occasional updates on the progress of From a Basement on the Hill (which I think had a different working title and was originally to be 2 discs), but didn't really follow it with much interest. When he died, I briefly had another fling with Either/Or and XO, but neither of those nor any of the other ones get much play now. I'll always recall those albums fondly, and I still get enjoyment out of them the few times I do put them on (I actually have no idea where my copy of Either/Or is at the moment), but they'll probably hold more sentimental value than anything else.
My real "oops" moment was when I passed on what turned out to be my final opportunity to see him live to spend time with a girl I was dating at the time. We were both fans of Elliott (me more than her, even if she did hang on to my copy of XO for what seemed like a year), but she was in a different town, and Elliott was two miles away. If I'd known that the relationship wasn't going to last (although we are still good friends, and she still apparently admires my cat, as can be seen in the comments to the last post), and that Elliott Smith was going to kill himself four months later, I probably would have done things differently, but that's how things work out sometimes.
Unfortunately, I don't really think any higher of it now than I did a year ago. The long layoff probably helped some of the songs stay fresh (it's probably been a good 10 months since I had it on), but some others sound worse with age.
First, the good parts: "Coast to Coast" and "Don't Go Down" are gritty rockers that seem much more appealing than they did before, with thunderous drumming courtesy of the Flaming Lips' Steven Drozd on the former. When I first these songs, I cringed because they "didn't sound like Elliott." At this point I'm ok with that, and if David Bowie can do all the things he's done and still be great, I can't really hold a decision to try to play some crunchy electric guitar-driven songs against Elliott.
The real problem is the ones that do "sound like Elliott." "Memory Lane" and "A Fond Farewell" can either be counted as self-parody or a lazy attempt to recreate old magic, and the same goes for "Pretty (Ugly Before)," "Strung Out Again," and "Let's Get Lost," especially the latter, with its introduction more or less stolen straight from "Color Bars," from 2000's Figure 8.
The really interesting aspect of this is trying to figure out if there's some reason outside of the music itself that I don't really like Smith's final album. Is it possible that no matter what was released, I would hear it and say that it wasn't what he wanted? That's a very distinct possibility, but I think the real reason is simply that I'm just not really a big Elliott Smith fan anymore. Even by the time Smith reached his unfortunate end two years ago, it'd been a couple years since I listened to any of his albums. I hung on to him for a little while after the Figure 8 fervor died down (in truth, I didn't really get into him until around when that album was released), but eventually moved on. I took note of the occasional updates on the progress of From a Basement on the Hill (which I think had a different working title and was originally to be 2 discs), but didn't really follow it with much interest. When he died, I briefly had another fling with Either/Or and XO, but neither of those nor any of the other ones get much play now. I'll always recall those albums fondly, and I still get enjoyment out of them the few times I do put them on (I actually have no idea where my copy of Either/Or is at the moment), but they'll probably hold more sentimental value than anything else.
My real "oops" moment was when I passed on what turned out to be my final opportunity to see him live to spend time with a girl I was dating at the time. We were both fans of Elliott (me more than her, even if she did hang on to my copy of XO for what seemed like a year), but she was in a different town, and Elliott was two miles away. If I'd known that the relationship wasn't going to last (although we are still good friends, and she still apparently admires my cat, as can be seen in the comments to the last post), and that Elliott Smith was going to kill himself four months later, I probably would have done things differently, but that's how things work out sometimes.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
New Boards of Canada = Happy Tom
If I had to pick an artist or band in the last decade or so as my favorite, it would probably be Boards of Canada. I wouldn't necessarily call them the best in that time period, they're certainly not the most important by any definition, and if I had to pick one artist's body of work to take to the hypothetical desert island, it probably wouldn't be them, but nobody else in recent memory has made music so beautifully transcendent.
Boards of Canada are the quintessential group whose sum is greater than its parts. The parts can be described and analyzed, and influences can be heard, but the effect that is felt when the music meets the mind and soul is indescribable. The feeling of bliss brought on by the best of their music is truly otherworldly, and it simply cannot be described, which usually leads me to make pointless statements like, "If the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey was a DJ, it would play Boards of Canada."
Their new album, The Campfire Headphase, released on Tuesday, is not drastically different from their previous two (those being 2002's Geogaddi and 1998's Music Has the Right to Children). The only major difference is the addition of guitars, a sound that is jarring at first, but easy to get used to, and in the end, the guitars are only worth noting because they blend so seamlessly with the established and instantly recognizable Boards of Canada sound.
Those looking for a major artistic development in The Campfire Headphase will be disappointed. If anything, it sounds more like their landmark debut album than Geogaddi does. This may be a problem for some, but I'm perfectly ok with it. The best moments on any Boards of Canada album, The Campfire Headphase included, are so transcendent, so engulfing and soothing, that "artistic development" seems like a pointless concept, and whether or not something is "good" becomes meaningless. With a pair of headphones and the right mood, a song like "Satellite Anthem Icarus" doesn't seem like the work of artistic stagnation, it seems like the end result of all musical evolution. It seems like bliss in its purest form, timeless beauty that's impossible to dissect. And it seems impossible and pointless to try to go anywhere else with it, because it's already in the best place it'll ever be.
All of which is to say that Boards of Canada still may not be the best, most important, or most prolific group around, but they're still my favorite.
Boards of Canada are the quintessential group whose sum is greater than its parts. The parts can be described and analyzed, and influences can be heard, but the effect that is felt when the music meets the mind and soul is indescribable. The feeling of bliss brought on by the best of their music is truly otherworldly, and it simply cannot be described, which usually leads me to make pointless statements like, "If the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey was a DJ, it would play Boards of Canada."
Their new album, The Campfire Headphase, released on Tuesday, is not drastically different from their previous two (those being 2002's Geogaddi and 1998's Music Has the Right to Children). The only major difference is the addition of guitars, a sound that is jarring at first, but easy to get used to, and in the end, the guitars are only worth noting because they blend so seamlessly with the established and instantly recognizable Boards of Canada sound.
Those looking for a major artistic development in The Campfire Headphase will be disappointed. If anything, it sounds more like their landmark debut album than Geogaddi does. This may be a problem for some, but I'm perfectly ok with it. The best moments on any Boards of Canada album, The Campfire Headphase included, are so transcendent, so engulfing and soothing, that "artistic development" seems like a pointless concept, and whether or not something is "good" becomes meaningless. With a pair of headphones and the right mood, a song like "Satellite Anthem Icarus" doesn't seem like the work of artistic stagnation, it seems like the end result of all musical evolution. It seems like bliss in its purest form, timeless beauty that's impossible to dissect. And it seems impossible and pointless to try to go anywhere else with it, because it's already in the best place it'll ever be.
All of which is to say that Boards of Canada still may not be the best, most important, or most prolific group around, but they're still my favorite.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Thoughts about baseball... because thinking about the Eagles is no good right now
Baseball season in Philadelphia may be over, but we Phillies fans got some good news nonetheless, as General Manager Ed Wade was FINALLY fired. Unless Wade's right-hand-man and longtime Phillies insider/yes-man Ruben Amaro, Jr. takes his place, we can probably assume that personnel decisions will be made with some degree of authority, common sense, and confidence for a change, no matter who they hire to replace him. So with that in mind, it's time for me to do a little armchair general managing in preparation for next year, and offer some friendly advice for Wade's eventual replacement.
- Give Billy Wagner whatever he wants. He's the best closer in the game. He's coming off the best year of his career and actually wants less money next year (I'm reasonably sure that's the case but I will have to check that some other time). One of the thorny issues is that Wagner wants a no-trade clause and the Phillies didn't want to give him one. They should. Wagner is never somebody who should be traded by any team even close to being in contention (although the Astros made it work), and if the team is doing so badly that they want to trade him and rebuild, Wagner himself will be the first one to speak up and wave his no-trade clause, like Curt Schilling did awhile back. If the Phillies don't give him what he wants, someone else will. He's even talked about wanting to go to Washington, since he's from Virginia, and although this isn't as much of a possibility since the emergence of Chad Cordero (really, who saw that one coming?), I'd really hate to see Billy Wagner pitching for another NL East team (just think of what John Smoltz put us through all those years out of the bullpen).
- Unload Jim Thome to whoever will take him. Yes, this means the Phillies will probably have to take on some of his salary, but it's worth it. Ryan Howard is the real deal! The biggest reason I'm glad Wade is going is because he would never have traded Thome, no matter how badly hurt he was and no matter how good Ryan Howard plays, for two reasons: first, he was unbelievably stingy, and second, signing Thome was pretty much the only well-received, high-profile move he made the entire time he was here. If he trades Thome, what's his legacy? David Bell? The continuing presence of Mike Lieberthal? Actually, I guess it would be Wagner, but I'm sure Wade would have been more than happy to let him go. Luckily we don't have to worry about that.
All in all, I wouldn't say Wade was a terrible GM (I'm trying to remember if he was around when the Phillies traded for Bobby Abreu, which would upgrade him from "not terrible" to "decent," but I think that was shortly before he got here), just one who constantly found his team one step away from the playoffs, and who was content with that. And that's unacceptable.
Other baseball thoughts: I'm glad to see both the Yankees and Red Sox out of the playoffs. Maybe now we can all get over that overhyped rivalry and realize that there are other teams in baseball. And guess who's on the mound tonight for the Angels: could that really be Paul Byrd? I won't blame Ed Wade for letting that fish get away, because who could have seen him becoming a mainstay in the rotation on a World Series contending team? Weird how those things work out... what's next, Mike Timlin closing for the Red Sox? Nah...
- Give Billy Wagner whatever he wants. He's the best closer in the game. He's coming off the best year of his career and actually wants less money next year (I'm reasonably sure that's the case but I will have to check that some other time). One of the thorny issues is that Wagner wants a no-trade clause and the Phillies didn't want to give him one. They should. Wagner is never somebody who should be traded by any team even close to being in contention (although the Astros made it work), and if the team is doing so badly that they want to trade him and rebuild, Wagner himself will be the first one to speak up and wave his no-trade clause, like Curt Schilling did awhile back. If the Phillies don't give him what he wants, someone else will. He's even talked about wanting to go to Washington, since he's from Virginia, and although this isn't as much of a possibility since the emergence of Chad Cordero (really, who saw that one coming?), I'd really hate to see Billy Wagner pitching for another NL East team (just think of what John Smoltz put us through all those years out of the bullpen).
- Unload Jim Thome to whoever will take him. Yes, this means the Phillies will probably have to take on some of his salary, but it's worth it. Ryan Howard is the real deal! The biggest reason I'm glad Wade is going is because he would never have traded Thome, no matter how badly hurt he was and no matter how good Ryan Howard plays, for two reasons: first, he was unbelievably stingy, and second, signing Thome was pretty much the only well-received, high-profile move he made the entire time he was here. If he trades Thome, what's his legacy? David Bell? The continuing presence of Mike Lieberthal? Actually, I guess it would be Wagner, but I'm sure Wade would have been more than happy to let him go. Luckily we don't have to worry about that.
All in all, I wouldn't say Wade was a terrible GM (I'm trying to remember if he was around when the Phillies traded for Bobby Abreu, which would upgrade him from "not terrible" to "decent," but I think that was shortly before he got here), just one who constantly found his team one step away from the playoffs, and who was content with that. And that's unacceptable.
Other baseball thoughts: I'm glad to see both the Yankees and Red Sox out of the playoffs. Maybe now we can all get over that overhyped rivalry and realize that there are other teams in baseball. And guess who's on the mound tonight for the Angels: could that really be Paul Byrd? I won't blame Ed Wade for letting that fish get away, because who could have seen him becoming a mainstay in the rotation on a World Series contending team? Weird how those things work out... what's next, Mike Timlin closing for the Red Sox? Nah...
Monday, October 10, 2005
March of the Improbable Blockbuster
I finally got around to seeing the sleeper hit of the summer, March of the Penguins. Short of a full review, which has already been done a thousand times, I'll just offer some of my thoughts.
I found it to be good, but not great. If nothing else, it's a great example of how a typical National Geographic feature can be turned into a feature film with a little help from a smart musical score and the stately voice of Morgan Freeman.
However, it's very easy to see why March of the Penguins has struck a chord with so many people. The Emperor Penguin seems to offer an entire species of underdogs and ugly ducklings (in an almost literal sense). They are indeed imperial, as long as they don't move or attempt to do anything, at which point they appear to be the butt of a cruel evolutionary joke, as they trudge 70 miles inland for half a year despite being spectacularly ill-equipped to do anything other than swim. And I'll be darned if those little chicks aren't the cutest babies of any non-kitten species.
I'll admit it's very well made, and very nearly overcomes its own absurd level of anthropomorphism. A chick dies, and for the parents, "the loss is almost unbearable." I paused, not knowing whether to roll my eyes or laugh, and yet the loss did seem almost unbearable, as the adults' usual overtone-laden honk (I'm guessing only a music major would find the overtones interesting, or notice them at all) became more of a plaintive wail, and footage was shown of a mother, described as "bereft" and "grieving," attempting to steal another's chick. And so, despite the obvious silliness of ascribing human emotions to these birds, I can't help but be drawn in, and feel for the mothers. Which pretty much sums up how I felt about the whole film.
Regardless of whether or not it's really "good," however, I am immensely pleased with its success for two reasons:
1. It proves that people will pay money to see a documentary even when it's not Michael Moore spewing simplistic conspiracy theories. (Not to be a nit-picker, but I never considered Michael Moore a "documentarian" as much as a "propagandist" anyway, much in the same way that I consider Rush Limbaugh to be less of a "political commentator" and more of an "idiotic blowhard.")
2. It shows that if people have enough crap shoved down their throats, they will eventually stop eating it. Thus the failure of The Island and the success of March of the Penguins. I hadn't previously thought this possible, thinking that if so many people paid to see, well, every other movie Michael Bay made, they would surely sink $10 apiece in another of his cinematic travesties.
Combine these trends, and we can picture in our minds a world in which Steven Spielberg and Jerry Bruckheimer sit around wondering why nobody cares about their tedious special effects masturbations, and Errol Morris and Rob Epstein bask in the glow of widespread respect and recognition. Ridiculous? Absolutely, but a man can dream.
I found it to be good, but not great. If nothing else, it's a great example of how a typical National Geographic feature can be turned into a feature film with a little help from a smart musical score and the stately voice of Morgan Freeman.
However, it's very easy to see why March of the Penguins has struck a chord with so many people. The Emperor Penguin seems to offer an entire species of underdogs and ugly ducklings (in an almost literal sense). They are indeed imperial, as long as they don't move or attempt to do anything, at which point they appear to be the butt of a cruel evolutionary joke, as they trudge 70 miles inland for half a year despite being spectacularly ill-equipped to do anything other than swim. And I'll be darned if those little chicks aren't the cutest babies of any non-kitten species.
I'll admit it's very well made, and very nearly overcomes its own absurd level of anthropomorphism. A chick dies, and for the parents, "the loss is almost unbearable." I paused, not knowing whether to roll my eyes or laugh, and yet the loss did seem almost unbearable, as the adults' usual overtone-laden honk (I'm guessing only a music major would find the overtones interesting, or notice them at all) became more of a plaintive wail, and footage was shown of a mother, described as "bereft" and "grieving," attempting to steal another's chick. And so, despite the obvious silliness of ascribing human emotions to these birds, I can't help but be drawn in, and feel for the mothers. Which pretty much sums up how I felt about the whole film.
Regardless of whether or not it's really "good," however, I am immensely pleased with its success for two reasons:
1. It proves that people will pay money to see a documentary even when it's not Michael Moore spewing simplistic conspiracy theories. (Not to be a nit-picker, but I never considered Michael Moore a "documentarian" as much as a "propagandist" anyway, much in the same way that I consider Rush Limbaugh to be less of a "political commentator" and more of an "idiotic blowhard.")
2. It shows that if people have enough crap shoved down their throats, they will eventually stop eating it. Thus the failure of The Island and the success of March of the Penguins. I hadn't previously thought this possible, thinking that if so many people paid to see, well, every other movie Michael Bay made, they would surely sink $10 apiece in another of his cinematic travesties.
Combine these trends, and we can picture in our minds a world in which Steven Spielberg and Jerry Bruckheimer sit around wondering why nobody cares about their tedious special effects masturbations, and Errol Morris and Rob Epstein bask in the glow of widespread respect and recognition. Ridiculous? Absolutely, but a man can dream.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Architecture in Helsinki, Dr. Dog, Aqueduct live
The 8-piece juggernaut that put Australia back on the musical map! The rocking Philly quintet that revitalized power pop! The other band!
Ok, Architecture in Helsinki are less on the map of Australia than such hopeless poseurs as Jet, nobody's ever heard of Dr. Dog, and... well, I suppose Aqueduct is in fact the other band. And tonight I saw them live at the Trocadero (except Jet... hopefully I'll never have to see them).
Aqueduct started the night off. They came out to some ridiculous nerd-rap that sounded like Junior Senior if Junior Senior could only afford a Casio keyboard, then it was all syrupy upbeat pop from there. It sounded sort of like Mates of State without all the obnoxiously cute harmonies (sure enough, after some research it turns out that Aqueduct has toured with Mates of State). And not one, but TWO novelty covers. It's not showing a lot of confidence in your material when you say, "You know, maybe 'Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta' wasn't enough, we better play a Journey song too." Not that there's anything wrong with "Don't Stop Believin'." But I'm not sure those guitar parts were meant to be heard played with a cheesy synth sound that was probably outdated even by the time Journey made that song. Only cheesy guitars will do!
The lead singer (compared by an audience member to Jack Black because he was a large man with long hair playing music) also mentioned that he'd been told that Philly crowds were tough, but that we seemed great to him. That's right, you kiss our ass like that, we'll treat you right. But God help you if you ever show up in a Cowboys jersey...
Next were local boys Dr. Dog, who are apparently in the midst of their second tour with Architecture in Helsinki this year. I actually saw Dr. Dog play a free show in Rittenhouse Square about a month ago. I liked them then, and they were even better tonight. It's big, straightforward rock music, which I don't listen to a lot of these days, but they've got a great knack for melody and harmony. And their energy is through the roof. I'm usually the first one to point out that just because band members move around a lot doesn't mean it's a great show (see: Explosions in the Sky), but Dr. Dog's enthusiasm is contagious, because they just look like they're having such a great time. And that's what they're all about. Their music won't change the world, and it's certainly not innovative in any way, but it's undeniably fun. They also have a guitar player who looks like Tom Petty if he were about Tom Cruise's height, and another who's literally almost two feet taller. Even standing on opposite sides of the stage, they make the whole stage look like it's slanting to the left.
Another Dr. Dog side note: since I saw tonight's show for free (see two entries ago), and I downloaded their album, and the first time I saw them was a free outdoor show, I have now seen Dr. Dog twice and have their album to listen to whenever I want, and haven't paid a dime for any of it. If they all starve to death and never cut another record, I'm going to feel personally responsible. Hopefully if that happens I'll find out in time to mail them the $30+ I probably should have paid by now.
So out came Architecture in Helsinki. First let me say that their stage setup is as ridiculous as you'd expect if you've ever heard them. No less than six microphones were positioned at the front of the stage, for various vocals, brass instruments, flutes, mouth organs, and more percussion instruments than you can shake a stick at. LITERALLY! There was a thing that looked something like a broken broom lowered from the ceiling with pots, pans, triangles, a whistle, and what appeared to be a picture frame hung from it, which they explained were all items picked up at various thrift stores in every city they've toured in that they could hang on it and beat for another percussion instrument. Hmm.
Another thing about them: they are way too cute to be Australian. Even the guys. I had a nice stereotype in my head that every Australian was something like Steve Irwin or Crocodile Dundee. Obviously I knew it wasn't true, but think about how hilarious it would have been to hear Architecture in Helsinki sing their dainty little sing-song melodies, then step up to the mic after the song finished and bellow, "G'DAY MATE!" while chugging a Foster's.
Anyway, as far as their actual performance goes, it was merely ok. I was expecting better, to be honest. They hit some great highs ("Neverevereverdid," "Tiny Paintings," "What's in Store?" and the adorable "It'5!") and the rest were pretty much mediocre. First those highs. When the material is good, the band is more or less good, and on the songs listed above, they brought great energy, great dynamics, and were extremely tight, which is no small feat, considering the hairpin turns that a lot those songs make. But the rest weren't all that great. There was a lot of uninteresting screwing around that led into songs, which weren't really "jams" as much as "noisemaking sessions," for which I have so little patience these days (I've resolved to myself to run up to the front of the stage and hold my middle fingers aloft if I ever see a band end a set with an egregiously long spasm of feedback, but it hasn't really happened since the resolution was made).
The real disappointment was "Do the Whirlwind," which is one of the most fun songs I've heard this year, and which I figured would be a highlight. They saved it for last too, which built up my hopes even more, but ultimately it came out pretty flat, and minus the great saxophone break at the end. They couldn't have done that with the horns? Or synths? Oh well. It wouldn't have saved it anyway, since the rest of it was a muddled mess.
So overall, not really a great show, but not bad either. Dr. Dog's and 1/3 of Architecture in Helsinki's sets were great. And the whole thing was free. (Because I didn't pay to get in, I rationalized to myself that I could buy a beer in a plastic cup for $5 and not feel ripped off. I still felt ripped off.)
Ok, Architecture in Helsinki are less on the map of Australia than such hopeless poseurs as Jet, nobody's ever heard of Dr. Dog, and... well, I suppose Aqueduct is in fact the other band. And tonight I saw them live at the Trocadero (except Jet... hopefully I'll never have to see them).
Aqueduct started the night off. They came out to some ridiculous nerd-rap that sounded like Junior Senior if Junior Senior could only afford a Casio keyboard, then it was all syrupy upbeat pop from there. It sounded sort of like Mates of State without all the obnoxiously cute harmonies (sure enough, after some research it turns out that Aqueduct has toured with Mates of State). And not one, but TWO novelty covers. It's not showing a lot of confidence in your material when you say, "You know, maybe 'Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta' wasn't enough, we better play a Journey song too." Not that there's anything wrong with "Don't Stop Believin'." But I'm not sure those guitar parts were meant to be heard played with a cheesy synth sound that was probably outdated even by the time Journey made that song. Only cheesy guitars will do!
The lead singer (compared by an audience member to Jack Black because he was a large man with long hair playing music) also mentioned that he'd been told that Philly crowds were tough, but that we seemed great to him. That's right, you kiss our ass like that, we'll treat you right. But God help you if you ever show up in a Cowboys jersey...
Next were local boys Dr. Dog, who are apparently in the midst of their second tour with Architecture in Helsinki this year. I actually saw Dr. Dog play a free show in Rittenhouse Square about a month ago. I liked them then, and they were even better tonight. It's big, straightforward rock music, which I don't listen to a lot of these days, but they've got a great knack for melody and harmony. And their energy is through the roof. I'm usually the first one to point out that just because band members move around a lot doesn't mean it's a great show (see: Explosions in the Sky), but Dr. Dog's enthusiasm is contagious, because they just look like they're having such a great time. And that's what they're all about. Their music won't change the world, and it's certainly not innovative in any way, but it's undeniably fun. They also have a guitar player who looks like Tom Petty if he were about Tom Cruise's height, and another who's literally almost two feet taller. Even standing on opposite sides of the stage, they make the whole stage look like it's slanting to the left.
Another Dr. Dog side note: since I saw tonight's show for free (see two entries ago), and I downloaded their album, and the first time I saw them was a free outdoor show, I have now seen Dr. Dog twice and have their album to listen to whenever I want, and haven't paid a dime for any of it. If they all starve to death and never cut another record, I'm going to feel personally responsible. Hopefully if that happens I'll find out in time to mail them the $30+ I probably should have paid by now.
So out came Architecture in Helsinki. First let me say that their stage setup is as ridiculous as you'd expect if you've ever heard them. No less than six microphones were positioned at the front of the stage, for various vocals, brass instruments, flutes, mouth organs, and more percussion instruments than you can shake a stick at. LITERALLY! There was a thing that looked something like a broken broom lowered from the ceiling with pots, pans, triangles, a whistle, and what appeared to be a picture frame hung from it, which they explained were all items picked up at various thrift stores in every city they've toured in that they could hang on it and beat for another percussion instrument. Hmm.
Another thing about them: they are way too cute to be Australian. Even the guys. I had a nice stereotype in my head that every Australian was something like Steve Irwin or Crocodile Dundee. Obviously I knew it wasn't true, but think about how hilarious it would have been to hear Architecture in Helsinki sing their dainty little sing-song melodies, then step up to the mic after the song finished and bellow, "G'DAY MATE!" while chugging a Foster's.
Anyway, as far as their actual performance goes, it was merely ok. I was expecting better, to be honest. They hit some great highs ("Neverevereverdid," "Tiny Paintings," "What's in Store?" and the adorable "It'5!") and the rest were pretty much mediocre. First those highs. When the material is good, the band is more or less good, and on the songs listed above, they brought great energy, great dynamics, and were extremely tight, which is no small feat, considering the hairpin turns that a lot those songs make. But the rest weren't all that great. There was a lot of uninteresting screwing around that led into songs, which weren't really "jams" as much as "noisemaking sessions," for which I have so little patience these days (I've resolved to myself to run up to the front of the stage and hold my middle fingers aloft if I ever see a band end a set with an egregiously long spasm of feedback, but it hasn't really happened since the resolution was made).
The real disappointment was "Do the Whirlwind," which is one of the most fun songs I've heard this year, and which I figured would be a highlight. They saved it for last too, which built up my hopes even more, but ultimately it came out pretty flat, and minus the great saxophone break at the end. They couldn't have done that with the horns? Or synths? Oh well. It wouldn't have saved it anyway, since the rest of it was a muddled mess.
So overall, not really a great show, but not bad either. Dr. Dog's and 1/3 of Architecture in Helsinki's sets were great. And the whole thing was free. (Because I didn't pay to get in, I rationalized to myself that I could buy a beer in a plastic cup for $5 and not feel ripped off. I still felt ripped off.)
Monday, October 03, 2005
Super Furry Amazing
There have been a couple stabs taken at the meaning behind the title of the new Super Furry Animals album, Love Kraft. Here are my suggestions:
- Possible, but quite unlikely: The misused "K" is a tribute to George Herriman and his classic comic strip, Krazy Kat.
- Possible, and much more likely: The misused "K," while not being a direct tribute to Herriman (or a conscious reference at all), embodies his spirit. Along with all of the phonetically altered song titles on the album ("Lazer Beam," "Atomik Lust," "Psyclone"), it represents the different perspective toward art and life taken by the Super Furry Animals. This is a perspective that produces music that is decidedly different from most other things, with lots of peripheral reference points but no real comparable precedent, and yet still comprehensible by those of us willing to put in a little extra time. In other words, the musical equivalent of Herriman's Krazy saying lines like, "I wunda if it's sinful to be a mizzil twarta -- ?"
That is to say, the title is a sign of assurance that the ways of the Super Furry Animals have not changed. What's changed is the tone. The SFA are entering the most dreaded of career stages for rock artists: "maturity." But just as they've done pretty much everything up until now differently, they do maturity differently as well. There's simply no room for such conventions as introspective ballads about parenthood and domesticity (although as we well know, if they do a relationship ballad, it's as likely to be about Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky as any personal experience). Instead, we get the swirling psychedelic majesty of "Zoom!" complete with a full choir and string and horn sections. It's easily the most grandiose tune in their considerable catalog, and the lyrics are oblique as ever:
"Saw the Virgin Mary,
She was crying blood,
Tears congregate
Into a mighty flood,
Gave her some directions to a specialist,
An eye doctor to help her cyst,
She took the wrong turn to the family planning"
This all may not sound too different from what they've done already, but as I mentioned earlier, the change is more subtle. It's a change in tone, or in attitude. These Super Furry Animals still want to thrill and entertain, but they demand to be taken seriously, and by and large, they deserve to be. There are no manic genre-smashing bursts of insanity here ("Lazer Beam" aside, and even that one is straight-faced by the time it ends), there are no songs that end in psychotic drum and bass techno freakouts, there are no songs that drop 100-odd F-bombs that inexplicably get released as singles, and there are no songs that the band will play while wearing bigfoot costumes or Power Ranger helmets onstage.
Some people may miss the old, fun loving, rocking Super Furry Animals, but I'll never begrudge any band the right to start taking themselves seriously (except maybe Blink 182, who I think should always have to dress and act exactly like they did when they were 14, since they made it to their 30s while doing so), especially when the results are as breathtaking and worthwhile as Love Kraft. For the first time in their career, the Super Furry Animals have created an album that stays consistant in its tone and attitude, and thus sounds like a unified statement instead of a defiant middle-finger to anybody who would dare to slap the name of a genre on them. Who knew they were capable of calming down and still staying unpredictable?
And what's really amazing about their unprecedented coherence is that it's come just as different members of the band are starting to take on writing and singing duties (which may or may not be due to usual front man Gruff Rhys taking time off to make a mediocre solo album late last year). It would seem that spending all that time around Rhys has rubbed off on the remaining Furries, as some of the highlights, such as "Cabin Fever" and "Back on a Roll," are penned by members other than Rhys (although the best of the bunch is still Rhys' stuff).
So as far as I'm concerned, Love Kraft takes everything that made the Super Furry Animals great to begin with, and added to it without detracting anything. And (hyperbole alert!) that just may make them the best band in the world right now.
- Possible, but quite unlikely: The misused "K" is a tribute to George Herriman and his classic comic strip, Krazy Kat.
- Possible, and much more likely: The misused "K," while not being a direct tribute to Herriman (or a conscious reference at all), embodies his spirit. Along with all of the phonetically altered song titles on the album ("Lazer Beam," "Atomik Lust," "Psyclone"), it represents the different perspective toward art and life taken by the Super Furry Animals. This is a perspective that produces music that is decidedly different from most other things, with lots of peripheral reference points but no real comparable precedent, and yet still comprehensible by those of us willing to put in a little extra time. In other words, the musical equivalent of Herriman's Krazy saying lines like, "I wunda if it's sinful to be a mizzil twarta -- ?"
That is to say, the title is a sign of assurance that the ways of the Super Furry Animals have not changed. What's changed is the tone. The SFA are entering the most dreaded of career stages for rock artists: "maturity." But just as they've done pretty much everything up until now differently, they do maturity differently as well. There's simply no room for such conventions as introspective ballads about parenthood and domesticity (although as we well know, if they do a relationship ballad, it's as likely to be about Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky as any personal experience). Instead, we get the swirling psychedelic majesty of "Zoom!" complete with a full choir and string and horn sections. It's easily the most grandiose tune in their considerable catalog, and the lyrics are oblique as ever:
"Saw the Virgin Mary,
She was crying blood,
Tears congregate
Into a mighty flood,
Gave her some directions to a specialist,
An eye doctor to help her cyst,
She took the wrong turn to the family planning"
This all may not sound too different from what they've done already, but as I mentioned earlier, the change is more subtle. It's a change in tone, or in attitude. These Super Furry Animals still want to thrill and entertain, but they demand to be taken seriously, and by and large, they deserve to be. There are no manic genre-smashing bursts of insanity here ("Lazer Beam" aside, and even that one is straight-faced by the time it ends), there are no songs that end in psychotic drum and bass techno freakouts, there are no songs that drop 100-odd F-bombs that inexplicably get released as singles, and there are no songs that the band will play while wearing bigfoot costumes or Power Ranger helmets onstage.
Some people may miss the old, fun loving, rocking Super Furry Animals, but I'll never begrudge any band the right to start taking themselves seriously (except maybe Blink 182, who I think should always have to dress and act exactly like they did when they were 14, since they made it to their 30s while doing so), especially when the results are as breathtaking and worthwhile as Love Kraft. For the first time in their career, the Super Furry Animals have created an album that stays consistant in its tone and attitude, and thus sounds like a unified statement instead of a defiant middle-finger to anybody who would dare to slap the name of a genre on them. Who knew they were capable of calming down and still staying unpredictable?
And what's really amazing about their unprecedented coherence is that it's come just as different members of the band are starting to take on writing and singing duties (which may or may not be due to usual front man Gruff Rhys taking time off to make a mediocre solo album late last year). It would seem that spending all that time around Rhys has rubbed off on the remaining Furries, as some of the highlights, such as "Cabin Fever" and "Back on a Roll," are penned by members other than Rhys (although the best of the bunch is still Rhys' stuff).
So as far as I'm concerned, Love Kraft takes everything that made the Super Furry Animals great to begin with, and added to it without detracting anything. And (hyperbole alert!) that just may make them the best band in the world right now.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Carl Wilson's solo album stinks.
I went to a flea market today at Eastern State Penitentiary, which may be my favorite building in all of Philadelphia, because this is the experience of coming across it: "Row home, row home, coffee shop, row home, GIGANTIC MEDIEVAL FORTRESS."
Anyway, I went mostly to dig through the hundreds of used LPs, hoping to find a diamond in the rough ("the rough" in this case being dozens of Barbra Streisand and Phil Collins albums and all the other discarded MOR from a generation ago). And I found something that is indeed quite rare: Carl Wilson's self-titled debut solo album, dating from 1981 and probably listened to by several thousand people since then, if that. Being the Beach Boys nut that I am, I've always been vaguely aware of it, but didn't really know much about it, and figured that if it was really worth seeking out I'd have heard more about it. But when you're at a flea market and stumble across a copy of it for $4, you pretty much have to pony up the dough. It may not be the real Holy Grail of forgotten Beach Boy-related albums (that honor goes to Dennis Wilson's only solo album, Pacific Ocean Blue, which is not only exceedingly rare among non-eBay shoppers but supposedly very good as well), but it's rare nonetheless.
So I came across it, knew almost immediately that I would have to buy it, and continued my search for something else of value (which turned up XTC's English Settlement shortly thereafter), and eventually took it up to the guy selling it. Just out of curiosity, I asked, "Have you ever heard this?"
"What do you want to know?" he replied.
"Is it any good?"
"Well, if you're expecting Pet Sounds you'll be disappointed."
If you don't have enough knowledge of the Beach Boys to, say, pick your favorite song on Sunflower or explain who Ricky Fataar is, you may not understand why that comment is annoying. But let's put it this way: If I'd help up Ringo Starr's first album, would he have said, "Well, it's no Sgt. Pepper's?" If it was a Tin Machine album, would he have said, "It doesn't really compare to Ziggy Stardust?" If it'd been a Roger Waters album (and in fact I did see The Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking but passed on it), would he have said, "Dark Side of the Moon it ain't?" Of course not! So why is everything every Beach Boy has ever done a disappointment because it doesn't compare to one of the greatest albums ever recorded? His answer bothered me because it seemed to affirm the all-too-common belief that Pet Sounds is the only Beach Boys album worth checking out.
Either that or it was an accidental insult to my knowledge of all things Beach Boys (since he assumed Pet Sounds would be my only point of reference), which is much greater than most people would probably suspect.
Anyway, I thought about asking him if he had Dennis Wilson's album, realized that I might as well go into the art gallery over on Lancaster Ave and ask if they have any original Rembrandts, and decided not to. I bought the Carl Wilson and the XTC albums, and made my way back home past the Art Museum and over the bridge over the Schuylkill, and back into West Philly. I slipped the cover off my turntable, put on Carl's album, and sat back... And more or less forgot it was on until it was over.
Carl Wilson was an undeniably gifted singer, perhaps even more so than his older brother Brian, and that's saying something (if you tell me you can listen to "God Only Knows" or "Our Sweet Love" and not choke up a little, you're a filthy liar), and he had his occasional moments of composition genius with the Beach Boys ("Long Promised Road," "The Trader"), but his solo debut features some of the former and almost none of the latter. The songs and glossy production are the very definition of all the aforementioned MOR junk I had to wade through to find this in the first place. I would literally not notice it was on for several songs at a time. When the first side ran out, it took me a minute to figure out what had happened and flip it over to side B. Every now and then a great vocal line would jump out at me, and I'd nod and say, "That's the Carl Wilson I know and love," and then it would be back to generic 70s soft rock (it was released in '81... but 70s is the sound here).
I'll obviously have to give it some more time, and see if it starts growing on me, but it's looking like Carl's long lost solo debut may go in the "check out what I actually own!" section of my collection with The Concert for Bangladesh, the copy of Highway 61 Revisited that's too scratched to play, and the vinyl copy of the first Godspeed You Black Emperor! album, which I own on vinyl and CD for some reason.
In better news, I have been blessed with a pair of free tickets to the Architecture in Helsinki show at the Trocadero next Wednesday. The opener is my 2nd-favorite Philly band, Dr. Dog (my favorite is Espers, of course). So I'll be sure to write about that experience soon after. I was planning on actually buying a ticket and going, but now it be free! Somebody up there likes me. And by "up there" I mean "at WKDU." So I owe my friend Priya concert tickets, or pancakes, or a back rub, or... maybe a Carl Wilson album.
Anyway, I went mostly to dig through the hundreds of used LPs, hoping to find a diamond in the rough ("the rough" in this case being dozens of Barbra Streisand and Phil Collins albums and all the other discarded MOR from a generation ago). And I found something that is indeed quite rare: Carl Wilson's self-titled debut solo album, dating from 1981 and probably listened to by several thousand people since then, if that. Being the Beach Boys nut that I am, I've always been vaguely aware of it, but didn't really know much about it, and figured that if it was really worth seeking out I'd have heard more about it. But when you're at a flea market and stumble across a copy of it for $4, you pretty much have to pony up the dough. It may not be the real Holy Grail of forgotten Beach Boy-related albums (that honor goes to Dennis Wilson's only solo album, Pacific Ocean Blue, which is not only exceedingly rare among non-eBay shoppers but supposedly very good as well), but it's rare nonetheless.
So I came across it, knew almost immediately that I would have to buy it, and continued my search for something else of value (which turned up XTC's English Settlement shortly thereafter), and eventually took it up to the guy selling it. Just out of curiosity, I asked, "Have you ever heard this?"
"What do you want to know?" he replied.
"Is it any good?"
"Well, if you're expecting Pet Sounds you'll be disappointed."
If you don't have enough knowledge of the Beach Boys to, say, pick your favorite song on Sunflower or explain who Ricky Fataar is, you may not understand why that comment is annoying. But let's put it this way: If I'd help up Ringo Starr's first album, would he have said, "Well, it's no Sgt. Pepper's?" If it was a Tin Machine album, would he have said, "It doesn't really compare to Ziggy Stardust?" If it'd been a Roger Waters album (and in fact I did see The Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking but passed on it), would he have said, "Dark Side of the Moon it ain't?" Of course not! So why is everything every Beach Boy has ever done a disappointment because it doesn't compare to one of the greatest albums ever recorded? His answer bothered me because it seemed to affirm the all-too-common belief that Pet Sounds is the only Beach Boys album worth checking out.
Either that or it was an accidental insult to my knowledge of all things Beach Boys (since he assumed Pet Sounds would be my only point of reference), which is much greater than most people would probably suspect.
Anyway, I thought about asking him if he had Dennis Wilson's album, realized that I might as well go into the art gallery over on Lancaster Ave and ask if they have any original Rembrandts, and decided not to. I bought the Carl Wilson and the XTC albums, and made my way back home past the Art Museum and over the bridge over the Schuylkill, and back into West Philly. I slipped the cover off my turntable, put on Carl's album, and sat back... And more or less forgot it was on until it was over.
Carl Wilson was an undeniably gifted singer, perhaps even more so than his older brother Brian, and that's saying something (if you tell me you can listen to "God Only Knows" or "Our Sweet Love" and not choke up a little, you're a filthy liar), and he had his occasional moments of composition genius with the Beach Boys ("Long Promised Road," "The Trader"), but his solo debut features some of the former and almost none of the latter. The songs and glossy production are the very definition of all the aforementioned MOR junk I had to wade through to find this in the first place. I would literally not notice it was on for several songs at a time. When the first side ran out, it took me a minute to figure out what had happened and flip it over to side B. Every now and then a great vocal line would jump out at me, and I'd nod and say, "That's the Carl Wilson I know and love," and then it would be back to generic 70s soft rock (it was released in '81... but 70s is the sound here).
I'll obviously have to give it some more time, and see if it starts growing on me, but it's looking like Carl's long lost solo debut may go in the "check out what I actually own!" section of my collection with The Concert for Bangladesh, the copy of Highway 61 Revisited that's too scratched to play, and the vinyl copy of the first Godspeed You Black Emperor! album, which I own on vinyl and CD for some reason.
In better news, I have been blessed with a pair of free tickets to the Architecture in Helsinki show at the Trocadero next Wednesday. The opener is my 2nd-favorite Philly band, Dr. Dog (my favorite is Espers, of course). So I'll be sure to write about that experience soon after. I was planning on actually buying a ticket and going, but now it be free! Somebody up there likes me. And by "up there" I mean "at WKDU." So I owe my friend Priya concert tickets, or pancakes, or a back rub, or... maybe a Carl Wilson album.
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