1980s Music Part 1 (It Wasn't All Bad)

Below is a video accompaniment to the post about 1980s music, which you can read here.

BAD BRAINS

X

MINOR THREAT

DEAD KENNEDYS

HUSKER DU (Interview)

MARINE GIRLS

FELT

DEXY'S MIDNIGHT RUNNERS (Before their '80s hit, "Come On Eileen")

BEAT HAPPENING

5:50 PM ET | 08-27-2008 | permalink

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1980s Music Part 2 (It Wasn't All Bad)

Here are some videos/music from some of the bands mentioned in the post about 80's music. The majority of these groups are from New Zealand. The others hail from Australia, Scotland, and England.

THE CHILLS

THE CHURCH

THE BATS

THE CLEAN

THE VERLAINES

DOLLY MIXTURE

LOOK BLUE GO PURPLE

FIRE ENGINES

JOSEF K

ORANGE JUICE

5:38 PM ET | 08-27-2008 | permalink

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Was It Really That Bad?

Yesterday, Monitor Mix teamed up with the NPR Music dream team (Bob Boilen, Robin Hilton and Stephen Thompson) to discuss the music of the 1980s. I wanted to fill you in on the discussion in the hopes you might have something to add.

The whole thing started when the All Songs Considered blog conducted a poll asking people to choose the best year for music. It turns out that hardly anyone chose a single year from the '80s. Sure, when compared to the musical juggernauts of 1969, 1977 or 1991, the '80s might not fare so well. But were they really that bad?

The first thing that comes to mind for me, when considering '80s music, is nostalgia. As Stephen pointed out yesterday, we were barely into the 1990s before people were ready to look back. From new-wave-themed dance nights to John Hughes retrospectives, the desire to recapture the look and sound of the '80s continues to this day. And despite a tacit agreement that the musical production values were cheesy -- a veritable act of sonic sterilization -- most of us can't help but want to dance when we hear Depeche Mode or Duran Duran, and Bon Jovi or Great White can be heard at any given karaoke bar seven nights a week. For those of a certain age, nostalgia for the '80s has overridden decency to such an extent that what might have started as an act of irony has shifted toward genuine affection. (For more on this, wait for Robin Hilton's contribution to next Tuesday's show.)

Yet, nostalgia aside, when asked to think back on '80s music, I found plenty to love -- maybe because what I appreciate about the '80s has very little to do with my own experiences. (Which, to be honest, consisted of ass-grabbing slow dances to Expose and El DeBarge songs in junior-high, and wanting to tear the shirt off Jordan Knight at a New Kids on the Block concert.)

Though I certainly credit the '80s with advancing my love of music via MTV and large doses of Casey Kasem, I don't think they did much to advance my taste in good music. After the decade ended, however, I discovered that those years were actually full of vital and incendiary underground music scenes. From The Replacements, Husker Du and Soul Asylum in Minneapolis to the hardcore scenes of Boston, DC and LA; from Olympia, Athens and Glasgow to the sparks of brilliance emanating from New Zealand via Flying Nun Records and from the UK on Cherry Red Records, many artists and communities waged tiny battles against the grandiosity and excesses taking up the radio waves. Even if the music wasn't meant as an intentional "f--- you" to the mainstream (though some of it was), these scenes managed to produce sounds -- unlike a lot of Top 40 music from the '80s -- that sonically and melodically stands the test of time.

Perhaps it's no coincidence that the best music from the '80s, despite a few exceptions, was not the popular music. In a decade that predates the Internet -- that wonderfully democratizing technology that conflates underground and mainstream by making both obsolete -- there were plenty of unknowns, or barely knowns. If you weren't in a big city or a major media center, your access to new music came in the form of fanzines, word of mouth or, if you were lucky, a college radio station. But a lot of the aforementioned scenes remained insular, an isolation that likely helped them avoid the pitfalls and influence of that horrendously plastic '80s sound.

So when I think of the '80s now, I think of the mainstream music as a giant neon sign that's alluring, obnoxious and certainly hard to ignore; it never seems to fade out completely. And those underground or punk bands -- Felt, Orange Juice, The Chills, The Clean, The Verlaines, Tall Dwarfs, The Bats, Delta 5, Bush Tetras, Beat Happening, The Church, Bad Brains, Minor Threat, Black Flag, X, Social Distortion, The Misfits, JFA and countless others -- were small fires set in countless cities around the globe. Maybe they weren't big enough to join forces and overtake the status quo -- the way bands did in '69, '77 and '91 -- but they were certainly bright enough to keep a spark alive until some other artist came along who knew how to set the place on fire.

What do you think of when it comes to '80s music? Would you include a year or moment from the '80s as one of your all time musical favorites? Or, despite the presence of U2, REM, Prince, and the Talking Heads among others, have cheesy hair-metal and over-produced pop songs ruined music's reputation from that decade?

And make sure to check back to the NPR Music site to hear our discussion on All Songs Considered. It goes online Tuesday.

5:25 PM ET | 08-27-2008 | permalink

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Juvenilia

Last week, I received an interesting suggestion for a post. I was asked to ponder whether one's relationship to music -- either strictly as a fan or as both a fan and a musician -- keeps one in a delayed or perennial state of adolescence.

So, does music keep us young? And is that a good thing?

My initial reaction is that there's an inherent immaturity to the notion of fandom. Being a fan, sometimes an obsessive one, entails anticipation. And hardly anything is more apt to make you feel like a kid than awaiting the arrival of something -- a show, an album release, the ability to start sharing new songs and your opinion of them with your friends. Anticipation is for the youthful; it's the antithesis of cynicism and apathy, because it implies a world sprawled out ahead of you. As music fans, we harness that anticipation, that eagerness; we drink it down like an elixir, which sates us until the next moment of discovery.

From anticipation comes enthusiasm, also an infectious characteristic associated with the young. Enthusiasm wears down the curmudgeons. Even if your own opinion of an artist has become coupled with a large dose of skepticism, it's difficult not to be lifted and renewed in the face of blind adoration.

Yet the aforementioned are abstract reasons why music keeps us young. There's more tangible evidence, as well. Not everyone in your age group or in your office is currently constructing a mix based on the words "north," "east," "south" and "west" and laboring over the space in between songs. Nor does everyone think that a mix CD is pro forma on a third date, that pulling the car over to talk about a drummer's snare sound constitutes a safe driving maneuver, and that arguing about Beatles vs. Stones only to compromise with The Kinks sounds like a fun evening. And other people might not agree that working as a barista or waiter so that you can go on tour whenever you want represents a stable or mature existence. Let's face it: To the outside world, fandom might look like it's keeping us locked in, or even stuck, as opposed to being the one thing that keeps us feeling sane, free, inspired and alive.

For most of us, our love of music isn't getting in the way of work, family and relationships. At least I hope not. I'm not a therapist. I don't know what to tell you if you keep breaking up with people because they've never heard of Os Mutantes or Scott Walker. Nor do I have advice for you if your marriage is on the rocks because you'd rather see The Hold Steady than have dinner with the in-laws.

It's a delicate balance, for sure, between puerility and youthfulness. But music fandom is not so much a roadblock to adulthood as it is a bridge between our young selves and our current selves. It's a steadiness to counter instability. Music keeps fluidity in our lives as we try to buck up against rigidity. Does this make us immature? Sometimes. But maybe that's not such a bad thing.

2:35 PM ET | 08-25-2008 | permalink

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MM Meets D2D

Just a heads up that I'll be reading a version of the "Battle of the Bands" blog post tomorrow, Friday, on NPR's Day to Day.

6:39 PM ET | 08-21-2008 | permalink

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Battle Of The Bands

If I mentioned that I was about to see the recently reunited band Rage Against the Machine play a show that featured the legendary Wayne Kramer (MC5) on guitar, you'd likely wonder what music festival I would soon be attending. We've gotten used to expecting stellar and surprising line-ups at any number of summer music events, who up the ante each year by bringing back My Bloody Valentine or Slint, or who get Sonic Youth to play Daydream Nation in its entirety.

But those fans lucky enough to see Kramer shred, Motor City-style, along with the agitprop rock of Tom Morello and Zack de la Rocha's Rage won't be at a music festival. No, they'll be playing during the week of the upcoming political conventions. With Cold War Kids, Silversun Pickups, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Moby and Death Cab for Cutie, the conventions sound as if they could be Coachella or Lollapalooza.

It might have something to do with Barack Obama. It's no secret that Obama has great taste in music, liking everyone from Kanye West to Wilco, and artists have made playing his rallies and benefits comparable in importance to, say, performing on Letterman -- or, in this day and age, getting a lot of hits on YouTube. So it's no surprise that the Democratic National Convention is chock full of eager and earnest acts, each there to lend support not just musically, but also politically, because they actually believe in the candidate.

So, you're probably wondering, who's playing the Republican National Convention? Well, brace yourself: It's The Beach Boys and The Charlie Daniels Band. Okay, there are some younger acts, too: Leann Rimes and Smash Mouth. Remember their song "All Star"? And, if you're lucky, you might catch Mike Huckabee's band, Capitol Offense, also playing that week.

Alas, I guess I wasn't expecting the Republican convention or John McCain, ABBA enthusiast that he is, to magically wrangle the indie bands Arcade Fire or Fleet Foxes. But still, he could have tried to get ABBA to reunite; that would have generated some excitement and garnered McCain some respect among drag queens, my parents and other ABBA fans.

But then I remembered that ABBA themselves are actually upset at McCain for using their songs at his rallies. If the RNC and DNC were a talent show, the DNC would be kicking proverbial butt. The problem is that a lot of hip young artists just aren't lining up behind McCain, unless you count American Idol alumnus Kim Caldwell. Who? Something tells me that her loyalty to McCain may not be the driving force behind her decision to play. Hey, you take exposure where you can get it.

I want this battle of the bands to be more evenly matched, so I'm going to dole out some advice: There is a golden opportunity here for a new, up-and-coming band composed of young Republicans. Form today, call the McCain campaign tomorrow and use the Republican National Convention as your launch pad to success. Your main competition, as it stands right now, is the song "Kokomo" and the former Arkansas governor on bass. No contest. You'll have a record deal by the end of the week.

Right now, the difference between the acts at the Republican National Convention and the Democratic National Convention are as different as, well, the candidates themselves. And maybe that's the intention.

So I think I have to root for the underdog on this one. The RNC is the sparsely attended local festival -- the band at the farmers market -- while the DNC is Bonnaroo or Central Park Summer Stage. Unstoppable. I might have to go to St. Paul to help The Beach Boys out. So go ahead and have fun at that other, cooler music festival in Denver. I'll be Surfin USA at the RNC in St. Paul.

3:10 PM ET | 08-20-2008 | permalink

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And Your Word Can Sing

Today, I'd like to introduce a new feature on Monitor Mix.

It combines two of my favorite things: music and vocabulary. I can't guarantee consistency or regularity with this feature; as with anything on this blog, it's dependent on my vicissitudes.

Basically, I'll pick a word -- one I like, one I can't stand people using incorrectly, or one we just don't see enough of in musical contexts -- and you can help by picking artists or bands who best embody this word. If nothing else, we might find new ways of describing the music we love or hate. Plus, the only thing worse than a music snob is a music snob who's also supercilious; who uses grandiloquent terms when in fact a pedestrian word would have done the trick. So we'll keep that in mind as we proceed.

Today's word is: "Nonplussed."

I love this word, but nearly everyone I know misuses it. I often hold my tongue when friends use it as a synonym for "ambivalent" or "unenthusiastic." I suppose it's an easy mistake; the word certainly sounds like it should mean "not excited." Well, it doesn't. Nonplussed means confused. Here's "nonplus," according to Merriam-Webster:

Function: noun
Etymology: Latin non plus no more
Date: 1582
Definition: a state of bafflement or perplexity

Function: transitive verb
Inflected form(s): nonplussed, nonplused, nonplussing, nonplusing
Definition: cause to be at a loss as to what to say, think, or do

There are plenty of baffling and perplexing bands out there, wouldn't you agree? But who is the most nonplussing of them all?

2:54 PM ET | 08-18-2008 | permalink

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Shadowplay

Recently, I watched Control, the Anton Corbijn film about Joy Division's Ian Curtis. The film is shot in black-and-white, which does everything to preserve the images one has about the group: colorless and of another time; as if the band, even while it existed, had never truly been accessible, barely existing beyond filmic lore. It's always hard to watch a film whose sadness permeates before the opening shot is revealed. There's a sense of heaviness to committing oneself to watch a movie that can only have one inevitable ending.

Yet despite that, and likely due to Control's magnificent performances, I couldn't help but be dragged into the life and into the living, breathing man who was Ian Curtis, making his onscreen death actually seem unbelievable. I pointlessly and pitifully hoped for a Hollywood ending -- some Spielberg rendition wherein Ian Curtis is alive, working on soundtracks, writing poetry and prepping a reunion tour.

What I loved most about the movie was that it reminded me what a punk band Joy Division was. In the days following my viewing of Control, I kept the group's records on my turntable, the songs strange and strained. When I think about Joy Division's music, I think mostly of their legacy, their successors and their sphere of influence. And that makes me think of them as more fully formed than they really were. But hearing their music again, it has the unpolished and unsure footing of early outings. It isn't immature so much as splendidly unhindered.

Watch Joy Division in color:

What is it about those bands that break up after one album, or whose output is cut short by tragedy? They capture our imaginations in a way much different than the living, than the still-existing, than the stories whose chapters continue to unfold. What constitutes fleeting: one album? Two? None at all? Those early and untimely leavers disappoint us much less often --beyond, of course, the ultimate betrayal of being gone in the first place. It's nearly impossible not to wonder what the evolution would have been; how the music would have progressed. Maybe, sadly, nowhere, or at least nowhere more beautiful. But we'll never know. I suppose films like Control partially exist to both remind us what was and what could have been, and to remember to appreciate what, thankfully, still is.

1:28 PM ET | 08-13-2008 | permalink

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The American In Me

This past weekend, I recorded a musical project with some friends. I was asked to write theme music to a short film that will be released in conjunction with an upcoming book titled State by State. The book is inspired by the WPA and subsequent Federal Writers' Project, which commissioned our country's best writers at the time to document the details -- topographical, cultural and historical -- of each state. State by State is one book instead of 50, and it contains essays by contemporary writers, each offering his or her own take on one state in the nation. (Full disclosure: I wrote the essay for Washington state.)

This was the assignment: "This generation of writers is a descendent of Bellow and Terkel and Richard Wright... Well, same idea, but with music."

Here, then, is the problem. Normally, I wouldn't play guitar for an hour and wonder whether it sounded like a Sinclair Lewis novel -- like Main Street, for instance. And if I want to make adjustments in the song, I wouldn't say to myself, "Make it more like Cather's The Song of the Lark." I've written music and lyrics based on novels, but I've never tried to make rhythms, melodies or intentions parrot that of a writer.

Needless to say, it was a challenge. Using the vocabulary of one medium to inform another can be interesting, but it can also enervate or confuse the essential quality of either one. When you read record reviews that conjure Bukowski or Algren, do you feel smart, or merely embarrassed? And if a book review ended with the words, "It RAWKS!"... well, let's just say that might not be a compliment.

Another conundrum with writing the theme song was ascertaining what, exactly, constitutes the sound of America. If one of the points of the book is that each state still possesses unique and esoteric qualities -- thus far immune to dilution as caused by transportation, technology and globalization -- then what kind of musical piece sums up both the parts and the whole of this country?

When I think of American music, I don't think of Americana. I think of rebellion, even if couched in beauty or a whisper. I think of friction, elation and clawing one's way toward contentment, at least momentarily. I think of Hank Williams, Robert Johnson, Ma Rainey, the MC5, the Stooges and the Ramones. I think of Black Flag, Wilco, TV on the Radio and Screaming Trees. Camper Van Beethoven, Sam Cooke, Minor Threat and Patti Smith. None of the music soothes without first conjuring grit, mess, sorrow and contradiction. It's not sterile; it's infectious.

Yet is French or Icelandic, Brazilian or Canadian music also this way? Is it possible for music, for writing, for art to still be married to a continent, to a country? And what is it about pop music, those huge dance hits that march their way across borders while other songs and genres remain more geographically isolated? What bands or artists feel tied to a certain part of the world?

All I know is that, when trying to sonically capture America, I kept thinking of a British band called Led Zeppelin.

2:22 PM ET | 08-10-2008 | permalink

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I Will Dare

As I mentioned last week, the process of moving is about getting unstuck. All weekend, I continued to disentangle myself from my possessions, which forced both reconsideration and renewal. For example, once a few records were removed from the shelves, it was as if the rest of them could breathe, and I noticed some of them for the first time in years.

Neglect is a powerful motivator. But at least with music, the journey toward reconciliation is relatively painless. Last night, I took advantage of a record collection reborn and reanimated and sat around playing records for one of my friends. This friend, whose identity I shall keep revealed, is a self-proclaimed ignoramus when it comes to music. And there is no greater challenge or joy for a music lover than to be presented with someone who has never heard Patti Smith's Horses in its entirety, or a single album by Television.

As I pulled the sleeves off of albums, scanning for the right tracks to play, the moment to put the needle down, and the proper way to introduce the band, I anticipated the small explosion of new sounds upon fresh ears. Intentionality is something I've mentioned before on this blog. But it's been a while since I sat in the room and acted as a salesperson or conduit for an album. Sure, after years of Rolling Stone or countless rock books telling us that Horses is one of the greatest records of all time -- or that the line "Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine" is incendiary -- we might intellectually know that to be the truth. But try testing that fact, or proving it. And by proof, I mean to reveal the song out of context 33 years later to someone who has no preconceived notions about it.

Presenting supposedly great works of art for the first time, or music dear to oneself, is always difficult. You're forced to hear the songs objectively, and to witness them via someone else's experience. We might know that a certain album is considered genius, crucial or revolutionary -- or that it changed our own lives -- but can a song or artist convey an essential importance or validity immediately? While Playing Hendrix, Wire, The Slits, Black Sabbath and the Stooges to my friend, I had to question (and I even worried) whether they really would sound thunderous or, for that matter, new. I'd hoped that something old even could sound new -- and certain songs, like the opening riff of "See No Evil" by Television, did.

I discovered last night that the albums we've come to take for granted can leave fresh marks upon us; they can override nostalgia and sentimentality; they can overtake a moment, permeate and flood. It's good to know, beyond mere mental recognition or a historical acknowledgement, that certain music can and does turn you inside out. It's hard to make the space, physically or mentally, for that power sometimes -- a lot of our music listening has become unintentional, crammed into crevices to make room for the rest of our hectic lives. Might I suggest, then, that every once in a while, you let some of your favorite songs or albums take over a whole room -- or, better yet, a whole night. But only if you're ready.

2:49 PM ET | 08- 4-2008 | permalink

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Part Company

I'm moving, and moving is one of the best excuses for ridding oneself of excess. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a sentimental person: I've surprised friends with such seemingly callous acts as taking boxes of high-school papers and letters to a recycling center, throwing out years of birthday cards, and giving away supposedly significant and meaningful items of clothing. If I could go from my current house to my new house with only a suitcase and my pets, I would. For the past week, I've been selling my furniture on Craigslist and going through my closets, bookshelves and record shelves, donating everything that feels superfluous.

Getting rid of clothing is the easiest. Olive-green high heels I bought in San Francisco that I've never worn? Gone. Black sweater that shrunk in the wash but that I still kept wearing despite the fact that it exposed my belly button? Good riddance. With clothing, figuring out what's worth keeping and what should have been tossed years ago is easy. You try it on, and if it makes you feel bad about your pea-sized head or scrawny legs, it's going to Goodwill.

Letting go of books is more difficult. What if I want to read that one Roethke poem again? What if someone mentions him at a party or on the radio, and I'm reminded just how wondrous he is? So the Roethke verse stays. But college textbooks go, and so do the novels I tried to love but couldn't. I can bid farewell to certain non-fiction books whose alarmist titles scream at me, making me feel guilty that I've yet to read them.

And then there's music, which seems like one of the most important parts of my life. Yet I've discovered in this packing process that my connection to music has little to do with the physical possession of it. As I packed up box after box of CDs with the intent of letting them go, I realized that there isn't much music that I need to actually own. Having music with me is different from having music on me. Even if I sell a CD or LP, that doesn't mean I'm losing that band or artist or song that I love; I'm merely losing the physical evidence. Sure, I can do that by converting everything to MP3 and putting it on my hard drive, but I'm not going to bother. One of the best aspects of music is that it can be accessed internally. I can conjure a tune in my own head, or it can come crashing back into my life via some other method -- a DJ, a movie, a passing car. And then my relationship with the song can start anew.

Once a song exists, it never ceases to exist, whether I have constant access to it or not. And much of my music collection is under-appreciated and under-listened to anyway. It takes up as much of a psychological space as it does a physical one. I guess, in the process of downsizing, I've come to the conclusion that memory is as good of a storage space as anything. Sure, maybe in a few years I'll seek out some of these albums again -- but I might not even miss them. It might not even feel like they're gone.

12:13 PM ET | 08- 1-2008 | permalink

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