Anvil: The Story Of Anvil

Last night, I pried myself away from the televised Scripps National Spelling Bee so I could see Anvil: The Story of Anvil at a local movie theater. Directed by Sacha Gervasi, the film follows Anvil, a Canadian metal band, as it works on their 13th studio album and tries to make it big after 30 years as a band.

There is so much to love about this movie, I don't really know where to begin. I'll start with the group itself: Steve "Lips" Kudlow is the guitar player, songwriter and singer. His mouth collects saliva as he talks, and it seeps out the corners of his lips in an expression of foamy eagerness. Robb Reiner is the drummer (double kick drums, but of course!), an Edward Hopper fan and a painter himself; in both of his artistic endeavors, he vacillates between self-effacement and self-aggrandizement. Lips and Robb have been playing music together since they were 14. They act like brothers, like lovers and like best friends. If nothing else, Anvil: The Story of Anvil is the best bromance film of the year. Yes, but it's so much more.

Within the fickle and fleeting world of rock stardom, it's hard to imagine keeping the dream of fame and fortune alive for longer than a few years. By the time we're in our mid-30s or early 40s (if we've lasted that long), most of us would think that if it hasn't happened yet, it's not going to happen at all. We'd pack up the guitars, go back to school, find other work, get married, have kids, move on. We'd especially give up if we were 50, particularly if the goal wasn't just to have fun and play gigs, but to achieve worldwide domination. But Anvil has not given up, nor have their families.

What makes the story of Anvil so touching is that Lips and Robb exist in an incredibly insular world (both literally, in a small Canadian town, but also figuratively), as if the only way to live out their fantasy is to ensure that reality can never seep in. Of course, it inevitably does, in frustrating, maddening fits, but they return to this strange, dreamlike place -- almost spiritual in nature -- that allows them to believe, and for the people around them to believe.

For example, Robb has a wife who still sports an '80s hair-to-the-heavens 'do, and who hasn't given up on the notion that she could be a rock star's wife. And Lips' siblings -- doctors and accountants -- collectively hold his wishes in their hearts as if Lips were still a child and had his whole life ahead of him. Anvil: The Story of Anvil expresses both the fragility and the futility of hopes, both attainable and false. And how, frankly, most of us don't have the nerve or the humility to continue on with those early ambitions and dreams.

Following the movie, I was trying to think of other bands who have simply not given up despite years of near or nonexistent success. Guided By Voices? Nada Surf? Dead Moon? Or, more likely, there are other Anvils out there: middle-aged musicians still hoping for that one big break. Go for gold.

Feel free to share your thoughts about the movie, about similar bands, or about your own early dreams of fame that you're still striving for, or that you've had to let go of.

12:28 PM ET | 05-29-2009 | permalink

comments () |

 

I Vow To Love This Song Forever

I just returned home from a Memorial Day Weekend wedding, which is probably why I have wedding music on my mind. Somehow, and inadvertently, I was put in charge of the sonic mood for not just the reception, but also the entire event.

Don't get me wrong: It was my pleasure to do so, but it was also the source of anxiety. For one, I found out about my duties as an ersatz DJ only two days prior to the event. Second, I was asked to make a dance mix, which was relatively easy, but then at the last minute I was also called upon to provide background music for the dinner.

The only rule was this: The bride and groom did not want a song to be "their song." (I was actually relieved to hear that this couple didn't have a song, since at another friend's wedding, they had me play Yo La Tengo's "Blue Line Swinger," which clocks in at more than nine minutes. After about two minutes of the newlyweds half-waltzing around the floor to inverted pop music laced with feedback while everyone looked on, they gave me the signal to fade down the music. Awkward? You bet.)

Two variations on the first dance.

For this past weekend's wedding's dance mix, I took a cue from a recent party I went to, wherein I tried to put together a mix of mostly obscure Northern Soul songs, much to everyone's chagrin. What I realized instead was that people were willing to dance to a song they didn't know -- as long as it was instantly catchy, pulled no punches and was followed by a song that was universally known and loved. Additionally, a single genre is too esoteric at a wedding. Thus, Marlene Shaw was a precursor to Madonna, and I made sure to sandwich Willie Mitchell between a-ha and Kool & The Gang.

A wedding band covers "Take On Me."

I also tried to take into consideration that no one at a wedding wants to be angry or dance to tales of heartbreak and infidelity. So I cut Johnnie Taylor's "Who's Making Love?" -- an if-you-cheat-on-me-I'll-cheat-on-you anthem -- from the playlist. You know, just in case. And while everyone loves a little 1980s freestyle- and R&B-fueled nostalgia, in retrospect, En Vogue always sound like they're about to hand out a detention slip; the only conceivable dance move to most of their songs is a fist in the air. In other words, save it for kickboxing class. (Apparently, there is a fine line between workout songs and wedding songs.)

Much more difficult was creating the right tone for the dinner. The setting was the mountains of California, a historically fertile ground for musicians, but who wants to hear "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes" and think about Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young snorting a bunch of cocaine? Same goes for The Eagles; same goes for Joe Walsh. So I opted for songs like "Oh! Yoko" by John Lennon and Neil Young's "Harvest Moon," both of which conjure the airiness and splendor of the landscape without the excess.

One of the more successful songs used to set the mood.

It should be noted that I feel a bit funny writing about attending a beautiful and touching California wedding on the day that the California Supreme Court has upheld Proposition 8. So, I'll add, in terms of wedding music, that it seems unfair for two of the most popular wedding party songs to be "YMCA" by The Village People and "Rock Lobster" by The B-52's. Maybe if we're straight, we should have to pay extra for playing those at our weddings -- or we shouldn't be able to use them at all, at least in California.

Wedding-goers get down to "YMCA" and "Rock Lobster."

Or perhaps wedding music has always been protest music: a protestation of love and commitment, for those of us lucky enough to be able to declare it.

What songs marked your wedding day or weddings you have attended? Do you have a song that you know you want to play at your wedding? What are the strangest wedding songs you've heard? What are good or bad first dance songs that you've witnessed? And what songs should never be played at weddings?

7:35 PM ET | 05-26-2009 | permalink

comments () |

 

Comment On The Comment

My dad called me last night to ask if I was watching American Idol. I wasn't. He sounded surprised and a little disappointed, hoping that I might be writing a blog entry about it. There, Dad, I just did.

Instead of watching AI, I was preoccupied with a recent blog entry written by Jean Smith of Mecca Normal. (I encourage you to read the entire post.) In it, she pondered a series of unusually cruel comments posted beneath a blurb about her band on the Brooklyn Vegan Web site. You can ready the article, as well as the comments, here.

From Smith's blog:

"There is a comment section after the piece with some of what I'd call typical nastiness that I see on YouTube and elsewhere. I wasn't really expecting this as I scrolled down the page -- to be called a bunch of names. There were positive comments, too -- mostly in opposition to the negative comments. After some time thinking about not taking these comments personally, and acknowledging that this is part of culture -- people participate in media now, and this is what people interject with in this quadrant of culture -- that's rather depressing, to think that there have been a lot of quiet people, and now they speak in comment boxes and type things like -- "hag" -- and I thought about the sad, low state these guys must be in psychologically, and how men in general, have, as well as being socialized to hide emotions other than anger, have also learned to hide misogyny, allowing it to spew in blog comment boxes, anonymously -- it's some kind of barometer."

The sentence that stood out for me was about the formerly quiet people who now, thanks to the Internet, have been given a voice and a forum in comment boxes. I certainly think that there is truth to this idea, particularly in certain contexts, and often with a tacit agreement by the site itself, or in places where insolence is tolerated by lenient, sensationalism-minded site administrators. But is it only the timid who have been given a voice? Or are we all using the forums -- even on relatively benign music blogs and fan sites -- to air what we wouldn't utter in person?

At my most optimistic, I have always thought of the virtual relationship to be akin to conversation -- as a continuation of real-life discourse, supplanted as only virtual discourse can be, with links. But, as Smith reminds us, within the great expanse and freedom that computer-mediated discussion provides is the diminishing of accountability. Once negativity and snarkiness become endemic to comment threads, the most outlandish are often ignored, either as a tactical method to stifle encouragement or because that brand of comment is typical and thus easily dismissed.

Furthermore, as Smith suggests, can we use the nature of comments as a barometer? And, if so, a barometer of what? Evolution? Devolution? Our ability (or lack thereof) to communicate? An indicator of how much free time we have, how much we procrastinate, how bored we are? Do our comments tell other people that we have too few friends, that our parents didn't love us enough, that we're lonely or constantly in need of validation? Or are comments and comment sections merely vessels for every random thought and aside we previously kept to ourselves but can now shout to a small section of the world?

I suppose I'm curious because I do read your comments, and I read comments elsewhere. And, naturally, I leave my own comments, as well. But what exactly are we leaving? And, in terms of music, is dialogue good for fandom? When does a comment cross the line from apt to cruel?

I know I've posed more questions than answers on this post. And writing about Adam Lambert and Kris Allen might have been easier. (Actually, that's not true, because I didn't watch a single episode of AI.) But sometimes it's nice to step back and ponder the nature of what we're engaged in. Feel free to join the discussion. Or wait around for one of my humorous and less heady posts.

2:28 PM ET | 05-21-2009 | permalink

comments () |

 

The Oak Ridge Boys Cover The White Stripes

1:14 PM ET | 05-21-2009 | permalink

comments () |

 

Radio On The TV

I don't watch a lot television. But I am aware, and have been for at least a decade, that when I tune in, it's very likely that I'll discover a band, listen to the premiere of a new single, or hear an old song that I love. At this point, it's a phenomenon I take for granted. But when exactly did my television turn into a jukebox?

General consensus is that The OC transformed the musical television landscape, though that probably had a lot to do with being in the right place at the right time. As mainstream radio support for indie bands waned, The OC picked up the torch, becoming a standalone -- albeit surreal -- context to discover up-and-coming bands. And while other shows had merely played a few seconds of a song to bolster or foment emotion in a scene, The OC acted in a more curatorial and intentional fashion. The music was part of the characters' lives, which further cemented the identification that the audience felt with the show. The OC gave boosts to bands like Phantom Planet, Modest Mouse and Sufjan Stevens, releasing CD "mixes" in the style of CMJ music samplers instead of soundtracks.

But let's be honest. Most of us didn't watch The OC, and if we did, we certainly wouldn't credit the show with anything more than having a shrewd and perspicacious music supervisor. And it's not as if that show was the first to marry the two media. But who was, and who was actually good at it?

One earlier way to get music onto a television show was to actually have the band or artist appear in an episode. There was The Standells on The Munsters, The B-52's on Guiding Light, Devo on Square Pegs, The Doobie Brothers on What's Happening!!, Julee Cruise on Twin Peaks, Wu-Tang Clan on The Larry Sanders Show and The Flaming Lips on Beverly Hills 90210, to name but a few instances. One problem with this scenario is that there is rarely a seamless way to incorporate a live band into a television show, whether it's a comedy or a drama. Though there are a few exceptions, the script usually involves the ingenious idea of the characters -- you guessed it -- going to a concert. Or, if there is some local hangout on the show, the band plays there, which involves a massive suspension of disbelief (even though we all secretly love to think that our favorite bands would play the malt shop in the small, crappy towns we grew up in).

And what about a solid, catchy theme song as an old-fashioned way to incorporate music? The theme from MASH, "Suicide Is Painless," became a No. 1 hit in the U.K. and "I'll Be There for You," the theme from Friends, peaked at No. 17 on the Billboard charts. In elementary school, we had to sing the theme from Cheers at each and every recital (I still have it memorized, by the way, and there are a lot more verses than you might think). And one of my current favorite shows, Friday Night Lights, has a fantastic instrumental theme.

Then there was The Wonder Years. Thinking back, this may have been the first show I can remember watching that used popular music as a means of both embodying and legitimizing the era the show aimed to represent. Since The Wonder Years was exploring the '60s and '70s retroactively, the soundtrack acted as a mnemonic device. The music was just as much a part of the exploration and story as the visuals and plot.

I do think that television is a better, or at least more agile, barometer of cultural trends and norms than film. Yet I still prefer the combination of film and music. I find the use of music in today's television shows overly conspicuous and silly, and maybe even a little desperate. It reminds me that the show is trying to appeal to a certain audience, and I find that transparency to be irksome. Then again, television seems to be doing just fine, and I keep watching my favorite shows, as does everyone else. And I never used to be so bothered by the combination of the two media. Perhaps it's just sad that music needs so much help these days.

Have you discovered a new band or song via television? What is your favorite combination of episodes, scenes and music? Or, what are the most embarrassing or contrived instances of songs on TV? And what shows, past or present, have been curators of good music?

1:24 PM ET | 05-18-2009 | permalink

comments () |

 

Is It Better To Reappear Or To Disappear?

Tonight, along with many Portlanders, I will be seeing The Vaselines -- a short-lived, retroactively seminal band from Glasgow whose songs were thrust into the mainstream by Nirvana. It's likely that you have heard "Molly's Lips," "Son of a Gun" and "Jesus Don't Want Me for a Sunbeam" as sung by Kurt Cobain, and less likely that you've heard these tunes sung in the sleepy, sexy and insouciant style of Eugene Kelly and Frances McKee. Even less believable is that you saw The Vaselines live during the band's first incarnation, somewhere between 1986 and 1990. I certainly didn't see them play, though I have friends from Olympia who have, and did, and who will wear this fact like a badge of honor until they breathe their last breath.

I never loved The Vaselines -- at least not in the way I loved their contemporaries and fellow countrymen in The Pastels -- but their songs made me feel content and inspired. I imagined Kelly and McKee never leaving their apartment, listening to The Velvet Underground and Scott Walker, making out, plugging their amps in and writing. All day long.

The fact that The Vaselines are playing again, and have been since a few years ago, doesn't really feel like a typical reunion. In some ways, it feels more like a debut. After all, most of us have nothing with which to compare these current shows. There won't be any of the usual "They were better back in the day," or "I remember when I saw them at a small club before they got huge," because they never did get huge -- and, well, they might actually be better now than they ever were.

If I feel any trepidation about seeing The Vaselines, it stems from the fact that some bands stand up better in one's imaginations -- as some sort of mythological creature -- than they do in actuality. Sure, there are plenty of bands that I'll never get to see live, because they're broken up or dead or half the original members are recuperating on llama farms somewhere. And I don't regret most of those missed opportunities, at least not in any way that keeps me up at night. And the reason I'm fine with missing out is that my imagination -- in addition to the lore, the stories, the legends -- can make up for it.

Especially when it comes to the small bands, the mostly undiscovered and nearly forgotten ones, part of the enjoyment of unearthing these artists is knowing that you share both a sense of loss and of discovery with all the other fans out there. There's a feeling that the remnants are all you have, and you build something out of those fragments and you fill in the gaps. Your discovery becomes part of the story of the band, and there's something wonderful about knowing that this band will continue to be found over and over again, like an adding on of layers, making the legacy of the band bigger and stronger.

So to get to see one of these heretofore-invisible legends -- these Bigfoots, these Loch Ness Monsters -- is to reveal a truth about them that may or may not need revealing. Seeing The Vaselines might be an unnecessary denouement at the end of what was already an intriguing adventure. On the other hand, maybe I'll see The Vaselines and realize that I've only ever known half of the story.

4:11 PM ET | 05-13-2009 | permalink

comments () |

 

CD Review: Telekinesis

What I don't like about most pop albums is also what I don't like about sugar. I feel elated for a while, but then the inevitable crash arrives and I swear it off for good. And though I always end up coming back for more, I can't say that sugar sustains me. What I like about certain pop albums is when there's something sickly at their core: Once the saccharine high wears off, I can still explore the muck and the sour, which do sustain me, and keep me intrigued.

I didn't listen to the Telekinesis record when it first arrived at my house. Then I heard the song "Coast of Carolina" on a radio show and waited around to see who was responsible for this infectious little beast. When I realized that it was Telekinesis, I pulled the CD out of its resting place and haven't stopped listening to it since; it accompanies me in my car, as I write at my desk and on airplanes. At first, I treated the album like I do a lot of other pop records: as a showcase for one standout song. Consequently, I continued to listen to "Coast of Carolina" as if it were the wunderkind and every other song merely runners-up in some imagined talent show. I approached the rest of the album with skepticism and reserve. And, though I never grew tired of "Coast of Carolina" (and still haven't!), eventually I wanted to know the rest of the story.

And that's how it came to be that Telekinesis' self-titled album is my current favorite. My summer sun long before the light and long days actually get here.

"Coast of Carolina":

Telekinesis is really the work of one man, at least on record, and that man is Michael Lerner. One thing I like about him is that, in addition to being a great singer and songwriter, he's a good enough drummer -- quite a fantastic one, really -- to know that you can't just give that job up to anyone. So he drums and sings on stage, throwing off both the audience's balance and one's ideas of symmetry and pop, not unlike his songs themselves.

Lerner sings about water, place, time and ephemera, which are all sneaky and slippery topics. So while the impressionistic approach to lyrical content provides fleeting, oblique images, the catchy music is grounding and indelible. If Telekinesis were a dance, it would be the pogo: with the leap into the air -- that hint of uncertainty, of possibility, of letting go -- being the words, and the driving, perfectly crafted melody (as sturdy as anything) being the feel of your feet as they touch the ground. Sometimes it's nice to have a band provide both the lift-off and the landing.

For tour dates and more information on Telekinesis, click here.

"Great Lakes":

3:36 PM ET | 05- 7-2009 | permalink

comments () |

 

Concert Review: Dark Was The Night

On Sunday night, I was fortunate enough to be in New York City to witness the Dark Was the Night concert at Radio City Music Hall. The live performance featured artists who appear on the Dark Was the Night compilation, the 20th release by the Red Hot Organization, whose work benefits AIDS and HIV awareness.

I'd never been to Radio City Music Hall before, so the grandiosity of the venue was enough to give the evening a wondrous, luminous tinge. I took my seat way up high, high enough so that I hoped the sound would be big enough to make what looks like a miniature stage down below feel near and alive.

The expectation all around was that this was to be a special night. Which, perhaps, was why it turned out to be not so special after all.

If anything dimmed the stellar lineup -- The National, Feist, Bon Iver, David Byrne and Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings, among others -- it was some of the bands' self-consciousness that the event was supposed to be serious. The result was that the music (despite guest appearances, duets, backing vocals and a generous sharing of space and ideas) felt enervated, even lugubrious. Rarely were there moments of levity, and the hints of spontaneity felt stifled and controlled. The concert was too orchestrated, which is different from too organized, and it rarely transcended or exemplified the joy of collaborative spirit it aimed to showcase.

Which isn't to say that there weren't spectacular performances. Bon Iver was the first artist to treat the show like any other, while still acknowledging its rarity; when he introduced his band members, he made attempts to personalize an instance and a venue that seemed too huge and too risky to make pedestrian. But playing music is playing music, whether in your bedroom or on a huge stage, and what makes it special is not the concert or what the concert symbolizes, but the fact that you're creating a moment. Bon Iver created a moment, while some of the other performers let the moment create them. Justin Vernon let loose on stage -- with noise and volume, with movement, with his voice. He gave the night much-needed air, after so much holding in of breath.

It was also David Byrne, the only longtime veteran performer of the night, who let the music speak for itself instead of forcing gravity upon it with his delivery.

Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings may have been the only band that made Radio City Music Hall feel like the appropriate venue for the concert. Like Justin Vernon's Bon Iver, they lit the place up. And while Vernon's music uses stark clarity as a tool for illumination, Jones' utilizes fire. She and the Dap Kings brought a sense of celebration, and of revelation.

Dark Was the Night is one of the best compilation albums to come out in recent memory. The content therein leads the intention of the project and also transcends it. The Dark Was the Night concert was a fabulous benefit, and I feel lucky to have been there, but I wish more of the performers had informed the weight of the event, instead of letting the weight of the event inform them.

2:32 PM ET | 05- 5-2009 | permalink

comments () |