Loving The Art But Not The Artist

In the past few days, two news stories have reminded us that artists are also flawed human beings. One such story is very much in the mainstream: Roman Polanski's arrest in Switzerland. Since his arrest -- and to the dismay of many -- fellow filmmakers from Michael Mann to Jonathan Demme have come to the director's defense in the form of a petition asking for his release.

In yesterday's New York Times news blog, Room for Debate, a piece called "The Polanski Uproar" culled commentary from lawyers, professors and art critics.

In one example from the blog, Jay Parini opines:

Can one really separate the art from the man or woman who creates that art? The answer is yes, definitely.

There are many examples in history -- too many -- of great artists who were terribly flawed human beings, behaving very badly and hurting those around them. If anything, audiences easily make this distinction. Nobody looks at a Picasso painting in a museum and says, "I should not take this work seriously because Picasso cheated on his many wives and was abusive to his son."

Being an artist has absolutely nothing -- nothing -- to do with one's personal behavior. Wonderful human beings can be dreadful poets, painters, filmmakers, musicians. They usually are. The reverse is equally true: hideous people can make great art. Wagner is a case in point. He was a magnificent composer, but his personal failings -- including a huge streak of anti-Semitism -- were reprehensible. His vileness as a man has no bearing on his greatness as a composer. It's just another subject.

Another view comes from Geraldine Ferraro:

Polanski was convicted of a serious crime in the '70s. He chose to abscond to France and because he had money and connections, has lived a charmed life, unhindered by his obligations to society. The message is, rich guys can get away with anything ... or wait -- is it only rich guys with friends in Hollywood? The statute of limitations for rape does not toll simply because 31 years has passed. And victims cannot "forgive" the rapist. The criminal justice system is meant to protect all of us.

The second news story that I want to mention is on a much smaller scale, though perhaps more pertinent to this blog and to the world that I -- and you -- inhabit. But I also want to preface this by saying that the incident I'm about to discuss is not in any way tantamount (not even close!) in its criminality or egregiousness to the Polanski one. It is, however, worth examining.

As reported by Brooklyn Vegan and Pitchfork, last Friday, Sept. 25, there was an alleged fight between Nathan Williams (a.k.a. Wavves) and Jared Swilley from Black Lips. A statement from Swilley suggests that the physical altercation may have actually been between Wavves' manager and Swilley. Swilley's statement is as follows:

First of all, I just wanna say that Wavves was NOT involved in that fight. That faggot didn't even touch me.

I've never "come after" that kid, it wasn't four a.m., that wasn't my girlfriend, no one was spitting, and I didn't attack him. I don't give a s--- about that kid and his music. What happened was, after we finished our set I went to Daddy's with some friends and saw that faggot from Wavves talking to a photographer friend of mine. The only thing I did was walk up to him and say "You're that faggot from Wavves and I don't like you". He smiled a bit but didn't say anything.

After that, I went outside and saw their tour manager hanging around with some guys. They started getting all chuckles with me and so I told them I wasn't gonna have it. After that, Wavves tour manager hit me square in the face with a bottle. Blood started pouring out and six dudes f------ started kicking me until I blacked out. All I remember is getting hit with the bottle and my friends dragging me to another bar. They wrapped my head up until I looked like a Confederate soldier. So yeah, I lost the fight.

I also missed three flights. I've been in the airport all day having stewardesses cleaning my head because it kept cracking open. You can't go on board if you're bleeding.

Bottom line is that faggot from Wavves didn't even hit me. Never touched me. And he should've, cuz he had a free shot. He's coming to Atlanta October 3rd and we're gonna get ugly on him. We're gonna destroy their van, we're gonna destroy their faces, we're gonna get crazy on em'. Nasty style.

If you read through the comment threads, as I did, you will find that many people have a problem with Swilley's pervasive use of the word "faggot." I, for the record, have a problem with it, as well.

And despite the wide gap in literal offensiveness between Polanski's actual crimes and Swilley's ugly words, some might toss out their Black Lips records and yet continue to watch Rosemary's Baby. Why is that?

Perhaps it's easier to separate the art from the artist within the forgiving lens of hindsight. (It's a lot easier to forgive and forget if the artists lived and died well before our time.) And maybe we make exception for the supposed great ones, or those time-tested artists -- exceptions that we wouldn't make for those we consider our peers.

There are also the ethical lines, based on our own histories and experiences, that each of us draws in the sand. These lines, when crossed by our most cherished or worshipped artists, may result in an outright rejection of them. Or, if their mishap doesn't affect us personally, we might be able to overlook it. For others, and thus far I am among this group, I do find it relatively easy to separate art from artist. However, that is not to say that I don't think the artist should be held accountable. Swilley needs a dictionary, and to find a new insult, but Polanski's actions are indefensible.

So, where do you draw the line? And, when it comes to music and other art forms, can you separate the actions of the creator from that which they've created?

2:57 PM ET | 09-30-2009 | permalink

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Choose Your Song Wisely

Don't know if you've already seen this. It's a short video called "The Procedure" by Adam McKay, starring Will Ferrell and Willem Dafoe.

I don't think there is a single song that I'd want playing in my head ad infinitum. You?

Thanks, Lia, for sending along the link!

9:33 AM ET | 09-30-2009 | permalink

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Bon Iver At The Hollywood Forever Cemetery

Yet again, Justin Vernon's Bon Iver provides edification and gives me continued hope for music.

Read a review of his show at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery on Pop & Hiss, the LA Times Music Blog.

The band began playing at around 6 a.m.

Don't you wish you could wake up with Justin Vernon each and every morning?

2:36 PM ET | 09-29-2009 | permalink

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Rock Of (Old) Ages

Ben Ratliff, in his New York Times review of the same Marianne Faithfull show that I reviewed last week, partially attributes his indifference and disappointment in Faithfull's performance to the fact that she occasionally needed to rest, and that she had to use a lyric sheet.

Ratliff writes:

Despite a good band... despite the rousing volume, despite the healthy and unhealthy adulation from the crowd, much of the show felt a bit inert. Having finished her part in a song, Ms. Faithfull leaned against a stool or a keyboard or a speaker, smiling into the distance, waiting for the musicians to wrap it up. It didn't help that she kept her eyes on lyric sheets; consequently, many of the songs felt like recitations. She seemingly became truly involved in the music only when she didn't need to be reminded of the lyrics, which happened in some of her old songs.

I know what Ratliff means. I remember being somewhat shocked after hearing that Keith Richards had to use a TelePrompTer to tell him when he should remove his jacket or walk across the stage during late-period Rolling Stones concerts. (Only later did I think that it's a miracle Keith Richards is still standing, let alone reading.)

But should TelePrompTers and lyric sheets be relegated to the world of speeches, last-minute cover songs and group sing-alongs? Is it distracting to have an artist in his or her 60s, 70s, or even later decades needing a little cheat sheet? Should they stand up the entire time they perform? And, lastly, is it a sign of indifference if the musician sits down or leans upon a speaker as a means of support?

The real question here is whether there is an age when someone should stop performing. And, as an audience, should we adjust our expectations to allow for a decline in stage antics, vocal range and memory that comes naturally with old age?

The issue of aging is different than the one of bands staying together for too long (a whole other post, in my opinion). The age and ability of a performer speaks to our own comfort -- or discomfort -- in seeing someone in a lesser or diminished capacity. Or, to put a more positive spin on it, a fan's ability to view and appreciate a performer who is adjusting to a new mode of showmanship and a new, creative way of approaching the live context.

To put it another way, not everyone can be Iggy Pop.

Please share your thoughts on cheat sheets, TelePrompTers and seeing older artists perform. Is there a point at which you're so worried that someone is going to drop dead that you can't enjoy yourself?

2:01 PM ET | 09-29-2009 | permalink

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Concert Review: Marianne Faithfull At Town Hall

Last night, I was fortunate enough to see Marianne Faithfull at Town Hall in New York City. I had no idea what to expect from the singer, which is my favorite mindset to be in before a show begins. Faithfull's band, which included legendary guitarist Marc Ribot, came onstage first. Then Faithfull herself entered, wearing high-waisted black satin pants, a white dress shirt and long, dangling pearls; it was Chanel meets March of the Penguins.

Faithfull is a warm but eerie presence on stage. She looks at the audience -- stares at them, actually -- like she's willing her demons onto you. But Faithfull is not sinister, merely honest, merely forging connections, carving out dark, sensual passages with her words and demeanor. Her singing voice is low: a dirt-filled engine-like rumble that occasionally picks up enough speed to soar.

Faithfull's set consisted mostly of covers, from The Decemberists' "The Crane Wife" to Jackson C. Frank's "Kimbie." She sang "Hold On, Hold On" by Neko Case with such anthemic gloom that it sounded like Morrissey, and when she did Morrissey's "Dear God, Please Help Me," the dramatic sour was all Marlene Dietrich.

A cunning and adept interpreter of songs, Faithfull manages to simultaneously crawl inside of a tune and comment on its meaning. Like someone who has spent so many years in the spotlight, and also in its shadowy underbelly, she has the dual ability to be both the watcher and the watched. Faithfull possesses a self-awareness that is unnerving, bold and wholly admirable.

But what I have yet to get across is that this concert was fun -- funny even -- and joyful. For all the strangeness and myth that Faithfull embodies, she seems very grounded and vibrant. In between songs, she joked about the aging process, responded to comments from the audience and told stories from her past. At one point, during an instrumental break in a song, she sat down on a stool and proceeded to remove her stiletto-heeled boots. The boots were stubbornly tight and difficult to take off, so she missed her cue to come back in. She stayed put, finished her task and gestured to the band to keep playing without her.

Warning: the following video contains explicit language.

The demystification of an artist, or an art form, is a sometimes uncomfortable and not always fruitful. As an audience, we want to witness authenticity but not someone completely untethered from the splendor, mystery and otherworldliness of performing and singing. Marianne Faithful is the rare combination of the real and the imagined; she succeeds at being wholly present while also having presence. I, for one, found her to be an inspiration.

Listen to a live Marianne Faithfull concert from NPR Music.

11:01 AM ET | 09-25-2009 | permalink

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Loving The Weak Kid

When my band would be in the studio recording an album, there was sometimes a song that one of us, or the producer, deemed the "weak kid." Whether the song's limitations were structural, melodic or merely a product of frustrations while recording, the weak kid required nurturing -- from a cheerleader, perhaps -- to make sure it survived and made it onto the eventual record.

Many weak kids become B-sides, never see the light of day, or end up on the inevitable box set years later. Other weak kids magically transform themselves during the recording session, saved by a guitar line, handclaps, backing vocals, or simply the process of "figuring out" what about the song isn't working.

Alas, most weak kids do end up on the album -- sandwiched between two stronger tracks, mid-tempo, featuring an instrument no one would allow on another song ("Hey, let's see what it sounds like with a Theremin!") and overdubbed beyond recognition.

Great albums almost never have weak kids, good albums have only one or two, and s----- records consist almost entirely of flabby songs, so that everything but the one or two singles might just be called "filler."

But something strange happens when you throw a defenseless and fragile being out into the world: Someone ends up loving it for who it is. The weak kid always becomes some fan's favorite song. And what draws a person to this frail little tune? Well, it's the same inclination that makes people want a three-legged dog or a blind cat, or hope their child will have to wear thick glasses and be covered in freckles because they think that would be cute. Some folks are simply attracted to the very thing others might find unsavory.

But loving weakness isn't easy. You might never get to hear your special song played live. If a band only has one album and has to play the song, you might be in luck. Otherwise, the chances of them throwing your favorite number into the set list are nil. And, unless you're someone who doesn't mind yelling incessantly at a band until they acquiesce and play an unpracticed version of the song, you'll have to suffer your loss in silence (and then go home and craft a complaint email to the manager).

As music fans, most of us have fallen for the weak kid at least once, and if we've fallen, we wouldn't even think to consider it a feeble song. Yet part of us knows we're in the minority, which is sort of what makes it great. With most people fawning over the popular kids, all that's left is you and your song.

Please share the weak kids you've loved over the years in the comments.

3:42 PM ET | 09-24-2009 | permalink

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Happy Birthday Bruce Springsteen

I first heard Bruce Springsteen when my mom got the Born in the USA LP for Christmas. It was 1984. I loved the cover artwork: blue jeans, an American flag and a baseball cap. It was simple and iconic and sort of sexy. As a family, we listened to the album constantly, the whole way through (the way you did with LPs). We sang along and I studied the lyric sheet. I remember thinking: This is grand. This is American music.

My dad also owned Darkness on the Edge of Town, an album which wasn't as accessible to me as a child, but which would later become my favorite Springsteen album. I can't listen to Darkness without marveling at how it seems born anew with each year. The songs are prescient and timeless, like they're racing along next to us, always on par with the here and now.

Bruce Springsteen turns 60 today! And because I'm so relieved to be celebrating someone's life, as opposed to mourning a death, here are some videos of The Boss.

Please share your own thoughts about Bruce Springsteen.

9:45 AM ET | 09-23-2009 | permalink

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Bike Naked In A Flaming Lips Video!

According to bikeportland.org, The Flaming Lips are filming a video in Portland tomorrow -- Sept. 23 -- and need naked bicyclists for the shoot.

As every nude-cycling enthusiast knows, The World Naked Bike Ride only occurs in June, so this Flaming Lips video is your chance to strip down for a second time this year! If you're feeling shy, however, and wondering about the nature of the event -- no pun intended -- here's a bit of encouragement:

As with other naked rides, the event is meant to be freespirited rather than lewd, [Wayne] Coyne said. "There's a difference between pornography and just freaks who are naked. This is about unrestricted freedom and a good lawlessness that's always sort of implied at our shows."

On the other hand, it is The Flaming Lips, so be prepared for this:

I'm having one of my giant space bubbles covered in fake fox fur," Coyne said. "It's going to look like some giant fur egg, and the people on bicycles are gonna sort of be born and erupt out of this fur, vaginalistic thing.

The video is for the song "Watching the Planets" from the Lips' upcoming album Embryonic.

Event details:
Flaming Lips naked bike video shoot
Wednesday, Sept. 23, 10 a.m. - 10 p.m. (drop-in)
The top of Mount Tabor, by the basketball courts
No RSVP needed. Just show up wearing clothes, please.
For more information, contact bikeforthelips@gmail.com

Lastly, if you go, please take pictures!

4:45 PM ET | 09-22-2009 | permalink

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Don't Mind Me: The Least Offensive Music Ever

Yesterday, I was sitting at an outdoor cafe, eating lunch with friends and listening to songs designed to enhance the experience: Vanessa Carlton, late-period Rod Stewart and Mike + The Mechanics. The restaurant thought it was placating its clientele, appealing to the masses by playing non-music; that is, music for people who would otherwise hate music. It's like this: Something happening in the background is suggestive of sound and implies melody; it could be music, or it could just be a cat wearing a fake mustache talking to a dog. It's hard to tell.

I'm fascinated by music that is designated as background noise. Do artists set out to be the soundtrack to mommy-and-me lunches, facials and waiting-room smudged-with-chocolate magazine perusals?

There are certain songs, like Phil Collins' cover of "Groovy Kind of Love," that I've only ever heard in a grocery store. In fact, one indicator that a song will automatically be thrown into the "safe to play" category is if it's late-period anything. I think we all know that The Kinks' "Come Dancing" lends itself far better to dentistry than "You Really Got Me."

So, whereas we've probably already discussed the most offensive music ever made, today let's celebrate the least offensive. Who, in your opinion, is the least offensive artist out there? What are some of the least offensive songs?

One person I would have to nominate is Bruce Hornsby:

11:39 AM ET | 09-22-2009 | permalink

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Fall Music Preview

Last Friday, the All Songs Considered crew--myself included--recorded a Fall Music Preview. Listen here and share your own thoughts about what music you are looking forward to hearing in the remaining months of 2009.

6:06 PM ET | 09-21-2009 | permalink

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I Miss Portland

And this video that I found over on Dave Allen's fantastic Pampelmoose site did not help one bit.

11:18 AM ET | 09-21-2009 | permalink

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Pearl Jam Target Ad, Part II

Last Friday, I posted the Pearl Jam Target commercial. The video generated a lot of great comments, which are worth reading if you have a moment.

A brief comment, which I think raises an interesting point and touches on the complexity of the issue, came from A Kramer:

"Oh, and one more reason this isn't really 'selling out,'
it's not selling a car, a blender, a toaster, a computer
it's selling Pearl Jams album :P"

Eddie Vedder interviewed my band back in 2004, and he asked us if we would ever do a commercial for the iPod or for iTunes. Those commercials -- like PJ's one for Target -- are basically ads for the band itself, and for music in general, as much as they are commercials for the brand. Between the three members of my band, we could not agree as to whether we would or would not be opposed to the idea. (Of course, we would never have even been asked to do an iPod ad, so this was all in theory.)

Eddie's question revealed a very problematic gray area: In an industry wherein record sales were declining, where there were fewer mainstream media outlets in which to be heard, and where unless a band was touring constantly, there was no consistent form of income, was there anything really wrong with making a commercial, especially if the commercial was for music, your music?

Five years after that interview took place, the music industry is even less financially hospitable for a musician. Sure, there are seemingly more bands than ever, and Web sites and blogs have increased accessibility for fans and artists alike. Additionally, and perhaps most importantly, there is no dearth of musical variety and sonic greatness. But, as I've said before on this blog, most of us as consumers have become dabblers, even tourists. And whereas tourism might keep a quaint coastal town afloat, it does not keep local record stores, labels, print publications and artists aloft.

So, where does that leave us?

It leaves us in a time when, instead of a label, radio station, indie magazine or record store acting as a central, crucial outlet for music -- getting to be the impresarios and the purveyors -- commercials and brands have become the most ubiquitous and widespread artistic curators. Fortunately, there are blogs and music Web sites that can take on smaller, more niche curatorial, news and distribution duties.

For me, it's not sad that Pearl Jam joined with Target to promote its record; it's just depressing that commercials and brands have become the largest, most powerful means of revelation.

9:56 AM ET | 09-21-2009 | permalink

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Pearl Jam Target Ad

I like the new song, but I'm not sure about the new logo. Thoughts?

10:40 AM ET | 09-18-2009 | permalink

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Growing Pains

Have you been wondering what Kirk Cameron from Growing Pains has been up to?
Well, here he is with some blip-bloppity music in the background and a message:

10:29 AM ET | 09-18-2009 | permalink

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Personality Crisis: Essential Music From New York City

Here I am, nearly a month into my new life as a New York City resident. The adjustment is going better than I expected; I suppose the mostly sunny skies help. That, and the fact that Stumptown opened it first store down on West 29th. I still have to wrap my mind around the fact that I live here. This past Tuesday were the primary elections, and when campaign workers tried to stop me on the street to ensure my vote for their candidate, I abruptly replied, "I live in Oregon." Actually, I don't.

If there is one element to the city that my born-and-bred West Coast self has yet to become accustomed to, it's the 24-hour professionalism of New York. In Portland, if you get out of bed before 9 a.m., or have a job that requires you to get out of bed before 9 a.m. -- if you have a job at all -- people consider you an early riser. And if you are out and about by 9 a.m., it's fine to look like you might be sleepwalking. You can be pre-caffeinated, pre-make-up, pre-verbal: flip flops, Converse without socks, sunglasses, a hoodie, bed-head... These are all acceptable forms of morning attire.

But by New York City standards, 9 a.m. is getting a late start. When I leave my apartment building in the morning to take the dog out, I enter a briskly moving stream of people who all look ready for a photo shoot. There is hustling, there is fervor, there is purpose. I feel bombarded with thoughts of Industry! Efficiency! Proficiency! I avoid eye contact in the elevator. If asked, it's easier to pretend that I'm a dog walker or college student. (No wonder people feel like Portland is in a state of permanent adolescence; we all dress like college students and act accordingly.) By early afternoon, I re-emerge from my apartment, looking made-up, respectable and able to look you fully in the eye.

One aspect of the city I've only just started to think about is the music scene -- not just the storied one from the '70s or '80s, but the current incarnation, as well. What bands or musicians should I seek out? Where, if any, is the geographical crux? I've spent so much time not having to think about music in the Northwest because I was living and breathing it, effortlessly immersed. But here I am with fresh eyes and new duties.

So, who are your favorite New York bands of yore? Who, for you, embodies the sonic essence of the city? And what current New York bands are on your radar?

1:26 PM ET | 09-17-2009 | permalink

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Show Me Your Riffs

If guitar solos are the sentences of music, then riffs are the phrases. Riffs draw us into the song: They're the billboard, the bumper sticker and the pull quote. As much as we like to think we have the patience to hear someone's thesis every time we listen to a song, let's be honest: We don't. Sure, put those longwinded ideas in the middle of the tune, get a little circuitous, but keep the diversion short and get back to the theme. Better yet, make the whole song like the Cliff's Notes version -- only give us the stuff we really need to know. Brevity! Clarity! Sincerity! Perhaps we are true followers of utilitarianism when it comes to music.

The best riffs in music are difficult to divorce from the best songs. I've listened to a lot of new albums or stood in the crowd at a show, excited by the possibility that a catchy riff delivers, only to have the riff buried and obscured by the wrong vocal melody.

Yet a fantastic riff is still a fantastic riff: Some are so full-throttled and sick that you'll excuse the mediocre vocals and love the song anyway. I feel like a lot of '60s and '70s blues-inspired rock falls into this category -- like The Groundhogs, for instance, or Blue Cheer.

Some bands have guitarists that are practitioners of great riffs, like Gang of Four, Franz Ferdinand and Fugazi. And certain genres -- like post-punk -- lend themselves to terse, immediate phrasing, forgoing the profligate and excessive. But classic rock and blues-rock feel like where the riff was born. From Bo Diddley to Chuck Berry, bleeding over into Led Zeppelin, Queen, Cream, the Stones and The Beatles, it is those bands whose riffs we would recognize anywhere.

I don't like to think of myself as loving only the instantly gratifying, or as preferring shouts and murmurs to speeches and soliloquies, but sometimes -- not always -- I do.

So, today, let's celebrate the best phrases in music. What are your favorite riffs? And, in general, do you prefer guitar riffs or guitar solos?

11:12 AM ET | 09-15-2009 | permalink

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R.I.P. Jim Carroll

Back in the mid-1990s, my band played for the first time at the Bumbershoot Festival in Seattle. We were playing a stage far too big for us -- long and sparse, ill-lit, hollow-sounding and very much unclaimed. We tried to spread ourselves out among the blank canvas of it all, but we felt tiny, and our songs spewed forth into the ether, misshapen.

Jim Carroll was on the same bill as us. He was tall and lithe, with a ghostly, otherworldly mien. Carroll was reading poems with no back-up band, no team, no amp to crank to up to 10. But he didn't have any problems covering the stage, reaching the corners and permeating the room. Carroll died Friday at age 60, but here's a moment to remember him by:

11:58 AM ET | 09-14-2009 | permalink

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Is That All There Is? (The Video Music Awards)

Last night, I inadvertently ended up watching the first hour of MTV's Video Music Awards. Mostly, I was baffled by how little I know about popular music. Yes, of course I've heard of Lady Gaga, but who exactly is Justin Bieber? And why is he already so concerned about his hair? (His hair is awful, by the way, like the swishing backside of a freshly coiffed Pekingnese.)

The show began with Madonna paying tribute to Michael Jackson. Her speech was almost surreal in its sincerity. I imagined her writing down her feelings in a diary; the frankness and nakedness was so apparent, I felt like I was watching a spoken-word performance circa 1991. Her words contained none of the tacked-on, tried-on gravitas that Madonna has attempted to cultivate over her long career. Instead, she was heartfelt, even pedestrian.

Following Madonna was a music-video montage of Michael Jackson. Its highlight was not a fierce Janet Jackson -- straining to infuse her song and dance with a succinct summation of her pain -- but the shots of other musicians in the audience as they gleefully watched the videos, transported back to whatever moment they first discovered Michael Jackson.

Then there was the "Kanye West incident," which you've likely read about already. Basically, when Taylor Swift was named the winner of Best Female Video -- the first award of the night -- West jumped onto the stage, grabbed the mic and proceeded to tell the audience that Beyonce should have won. Cameras cut to Beyonce in the audience, looking stunned and a little embarrassed.

I'm fine with Kanye West being some sort of loose cannon, but I really wish he had better aim. The guy needs to pick his battles. West was on stage so fast, and with such indignation, you'd think some major form of injustice was going down. Beyonce really doesn't need anyone to defend her. Plus, she was up for eight more awards! Maybe if the night had ended with Beyonce being shut out -- she won Video Of The Year, for heaven's sake -- one could understand an extemporized moment of disbelief, or one of her colleagues giving her props from the stage. But all Kanye West managed to do was to stomp all over a 19-year-old woman's moment to be on stage and be heard.

Usually, something as branded and crass as a mainstream music-industry event tends to squash individuality and blend everything into a giant ball of gilded banality. But watching West's solipsistic outburst at the expense of Swift seemed to split the show apart at the seams. The moment revealed a gross (though not surprising) underbelly of ego, power, sexism and stupidity. But overall, the incident gave us a glimpse into something most of us already knew: that MTV and the Video Music Awards have very little to do with music. If we were tuning in to watch a spectacle, we got what we came for.

11:47 AM ET | 09-14-2009 | permalink

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Five For Friday

12:23 PM ET | 09-11-2009 | permalink

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Pink Floyd 'Back' Catalog And Other Forms Of Youthful Expression

After my junior-high obsession with all things 1950s -- namely James Dean and Elvis Presley -- came to an end, I took the corresponding posters down from my bedroom walls and replaced them with images of my new love: music. I put a larger-than-life-guitar-wielding Joe Strummer on the ceiling above my bed; The Ramones, The Jam and The B-52's went on the walls; and I taped up whatever pictures of the mysterious and media-allergic Fugazi that I could find. One day, I went into Cellophane Square -- a Seattle-based record store with an outpost in the suburban mall near my house -- and purchased an 8x10 poster of The Stone Roses. Neither the band's music, nor its Jackson Pollock-meets-Between The Buttons image, matched the timelessness or coolness of the rest of my memorabilia, but I liked feeling like I could step inside of the poster. More practically, it covered the navy-and-white pinstripe wallpaper that I had requested (and been granted?!) as a birthday gift years before.

Despite having the requisite band poster and message-laden teenage room, the habit did not translate into my college years. A crinkled, unframed Elvis Costello print and some local band fliers constituted only portions of my decor. The rest of my room, in those days, was peppered with thrift-store finds like bowling trophies and antique postcards, which nicely complemented the concrete-and-plywood shelving. Thankfully (or maybe I was missing out, you tell me), I never fell prey to blacklight Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd posters. Nor did I pin up a picture of a giant pot leaf and tack an old dreadlock to my wall.

A college-professor friend of mine recently posted this image to her Facebook page. It depicts a poster they were selling on campus. Naturally, it's called "Pink Floyd Back Catalog."

What is it about the late teens and early 20s that makes us want to express ourselves via large sheets of paper featuring naked women, beer, bands or giant heads of famous men under which there are quotes we think we need to live by? Then again, I suppose in most cases, it's better to tattoo a room than an arm.

Please share some of your favorite teen and college-aged posters and room decor, the images and ideas you had upon your wall, and some of the finest or stupidest ones you saw.

11:04 AM ET | 09-10-2009 | permalink

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It's 09.09.09; What Now?

Today, at long last, is the release date of The Beatles: Rock Band, a game I wrote about not once, but twice last week! And over at the All Songs blog, they've been documenting The Beatles' reissues like crazy. When I went over to Pitchfork this morning, all five of the site's front-page album reviews were devoted to the Fab Four.

It's good to see the Beatles finally getting some publicity!

But what now?

What other bands should get the Rock Band treatment? Led Zeppelin? The Who? The Rolling Stones? Green Day? The Grateful Dead? A group with a female band member?

What artist would you want to explore via the world of gaming, and with elaborate reissues and remasters?

2:18 PM ET | 09- 9-2009 | permalink

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Lorrie Moore Made My Year

Last Thursday, I rushed out to buy the latest book from one of my favorite authors, Lorrie Moore. The book is called A Gate at the Stairs.

I met Lorrie Moore once, but she's never met me. We were both speaking at The New Yorker Festival a few years ago. I was riding the hotel elevator from the lobby up to my room. On some intermittent stop, between my floor and my destination, the doors opened and Moore stepped in. Then, for the next 10 seconds, I bludgeoned her with verbal praise, spewed forth at an incoherent high pitch, doing my best imitation of a dog's squeak toy. When she stepped off the elevator, my only hope for salvation was that Lorrie Moore had been drunk, or that there was something I didn't know about her, like perhaps that she was deaf.

But despite that moment of weakness on my part, and the subsequent lesson that it taught me -- keep your love to yourself -- I moved on and continued to admire Moore's work from afar.

Then, something amazing happened.

On page 27 of A Gate at the Stairs -- a book I had barely begun reading, yet was already certain I would reread and promote and gift-wrap numerous copies of come Christmas time -- there were two words I never expected to see: "Sleater" and "Kinney."

Wait? What! Yes, it was true!

Reading my own band name within the book's pages was like having a movie character turn toward you, say your name and confer with you on the plot. It was a personalized fortune cookie. It was having a park named after you without first having to die.

For all I know, Lorrie Moore stumbled upon my band in a used CD bin, did a little Wikipedia research and called it a day. Or one of her students at the University of Wisconsin in Madison walked into class wearing a faded S-K T-shirt and Moore inquired as to why this kid felt so passionately about a law firm (and why that law firm used imagery of cats and monkeys). In other words, I have no illusions; Lorrie Moore is probably not at home listening to The Woods.

Nevertheless, I didn't read beyond page 27 for two whole days. Okay, partly because I got a cold, but also because I wanted to press pause on the story, so that it would always be about me and Lorrie Moore and the character she created who likes Sleater-Kinney.

By the time Saturday came around, I kept reading. I moved beyond the strange electricity of page 27 and beyond the silly, childlike elation that I had felt by reading it. And I love A Gate at the Stairs thus far, and I would love it without page 27. But I'll be honest: Even better than being momentarily trapped in an elevator with Lorrie Moore is being sealed forever within the pages of one of her novels.

Any stories about meeting someone you admire? Please share.

11:14 AM ET | 09- 8-2009 | permalink

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Five For Friday

5:02 PM ET | 09- 4-2009 | permalink

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Hey, Genius: More On The Beatles

After a little more than a week in New York City, I am finally set up with my own Internet connection. I don't know what I was thinking by not setting this up before I arrived, but it certainly made blogging this past week more of an adventure. Thanks goes out to "default," owned by whatever neighbor of mine has no idea how to password-protect his or her wireless router. No thanks to "The Wacko From Chicago" (whose connection was tenuous at best) and to "Can't Touch This, Nah Nah Nah Nah," just for being an ass.

Along with the Internet, I now have cable. The installation guy left VH1 on when he left. And, since the channel was playing Beatles videos all morning, I couldn't tear myself away. I rarely watch TV -- and it's even rarer for me to watch one of the music channels -- but old Beatles footage trumps just about anything.

Actually, I had forgotten that I could get lost just watching George Harrison's fingers move along the neck of his guitar during the recording of "Hey Bulldog," or be utterly charmed by watching Lennon and McCartney sing that same song, side by side, McCartney leaning in to punctuate some of the lines. When they walk away from the mic, and only the lyrics and headphones remain, I actually get chills.

Really, it is too easy to take The Beatles' genius for granted. If there's one thing I'm loving about this build-up to the release of The Beatles: Rock Band, it's being reminded on a daily basis that life would not be the same without this band.

Also, check out this video for "When I'm 64." What a glorious, trippy, silly and artful piece of animation this is. I especially love the segment toward the end with the numbers.

Have a great Labor Day Weekend!

1:40 PM ET | 09- 4-2009 | permalink

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I'm Not Sad, I'm Emo

Sub Pop is reissuing two seminal albums, Sunny Day Real Estate's Diary and LP2. I recall sitting in a shared house in Olympia, Wash., when my roommate brought home Diary on vinyl. The cover depicted a toy family in their kitchen; the scene was sterile, institutional. Smoke billowed from a toaster and everything appeared on the verge of disintegration, including the family's plastic smiles.

As for the music, I knew what to expect before we put the record on. I'd known Jeremy Enigk and William Goldsmith since high school; Jeremy lived in the neighborhood next to mine. He taught me how to play guitar by showing me chords to R.E.M. and Sinead O'Connor songs. And William's early bands played at the occasional house party I'd have when my parents were away for the weekends.

Yet knowing what each musician was capable of didn't prepare me for the scope and depth that Sunny Day laid out on that debut record. The songs were unafraid to be beautiful, shameless in their grandiosity, their reaching and their tenderness. The playing was tighter than on other albums coming out of the Pacific Northwest, pristine but not inaccessible. In fact, Sunny Day's fragile and measured music tapped into fans' angst, alienation and heartache just as much as any band was doing by screaming and wailing.

Ah, the wonders of emo.

I've always been under the impression that Rites of Spring was the original emo band (probably pre-dating the term itself), but perhaps I'm wrong. Certainly, Sunny Day -- along with The Promise Ring and the like -- resurrected the genre. And what about Jawbreaker? Were they emo or just pop-punk? Or Drive Like Jehu? And then there were groups like The Get Up Kids, Dashboard Confessional and Jimmy Eat World, ones who turned emo music into a viable moneymaking machine.

There is such a vast difference between Rites of Spring and Dashboard Confessional that it's perplexing to lump them into the same category. Is "emo" merely a synonym for "sensitive"? Do the singers need to love poetry? But that would make Jewel an emo artist. Maybe there has to be a connection to or influence culled from hardcore music.

Either way, I'm excited to check out the new Sunny Day reissues. Also, I'm very curious to know: What defines emo music for you? And who do you consider the original and the ultimate emo band?

4:22 PM ET | 09- 3-2009 | permalink

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The Beatles: Rock Band

A week from today, Harmonix/MTV Games releases The Beatles: Rock Band. Seth Schiesel, in his review of the game for The New York Times, says:

The Beatles: Rock Band is nothing less than a cultural watershed, one that may prove only slightly less influential than the band's famous appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1964. By reinterpreting an essential symbol of one generation in the medium and technology of another, The Beatles: Rock Band provides a transformative entertainment experience.

Toward the end of the review, Schiesel goes on to write:

Of course, almost nothing could be more prosaic than pointing out that playing a music game is not the same as playing a real instrument. Yet there is something about video games that seems to inspire true anger in some older people. Why is that? Is there still really a fear that a stylized representation of reality detracts from reality itself? In recent centuries, every new technology for creating and enjoying music -- the phonograph, the electric guitar, the Walkman, MTV, karaoke, the iPod -- has been condemned as the potential death of 'real' music.

What I love about video games -- specifically music-based games like Rock Band -- is the way they have exposed new and younger generations of people to rock 'n' roll. Pairing David Bowie and The Who with Nirvana or The White Stripes, the games make no distinction between new and old. Instead, they draw a line in the sand between good and bad, between timeless and fleeting.

No dusty record collection hauled down from the attic or confounding speech about how great The Moody Blues were if you took peyote could ever beat playing along to "Pinball Wizard" and knowing -- discovering -- for yourself that the song is amazing. So, sure, Rock Band is a more eloquent, concise and entertaining way to learn about music than a bad-breath-blowing-on-your-face speech from Dad.

With The Beatles: Rock Band, we can get inside of the group, explore its members and their music, dissect, inspect and perhaps appreciate The Beatles in a whole new way. But learning to love something anew, or for the first time, because we have viewed and experienced it from the inside out is different from a piece of art or music tearing at our insides.

I'm sure The Beatles: Rock Band will transform living rooms across the country this upcoming holiday season -- maybe even my own -- but I doubt the game will be a cultural watershed a la their Ed Sullivan appearance. Why? Because The Beatles invaded us in 1964; we didn't invade them.

Please share your thoughts about The Beatles: Rock Band. Are you excited to play it? How have games like Rock Band changed the way you experience music?

12:51 PM ET | 09- 2-2009 | permalink

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Video: ThunderAnt Bonus clip

Click on the image below to view an outtake clip from ThunderAnt's recently released "Closed" video.

5:35 PM ET | 09- 1-2009 | permalink

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Your Signature Song. Yes, Yours.

Last night, I went to the U.S. Open to watch the first-round matches of Venus Williams and Andy Roddick. Williams took what felt like an eternity to trounce the young, 47th-ranked Russian player, Vera Dushevina. And, with the temperature dropping and me summer-clad -- after downing a bucket of seasoned waffle fries and a powdery, suspicious-tasting hot chocolate -- I gave up on seeing Roddick altogether. Yet the night was fun, and I was aware that I wouldn't be seeing champion tennis players if I were back in Portland. (But that didn't stop the Portland part of me from griping about the fact that Chase managed to get its logo on the actual net! I can't wait for the future, wherein a bank logo and a beer logo just cut to the chase and are the ones actually holding the racquets.)

At one point, my sister, with whom I attended the event, noted that they would show us any celebrities in attendance on the JumboTron. Sure enough, halfway through the first set, "Uptown Girl" began playing on the loudspeakers and they cut to a shot of -- guess who?! -- that's right, Christie Brinkley! Brinkley smiled gamely and waved to the camera. Nowhere on her face was any evidence that 1) she was sick and tired of being an "uptown girl"; or 2) she didn't need to be reminded of her ex-husband, Billy Joel. In other words, if she hates the song, we were none the wiser.

I imagined the 25-year-old whose job it is to program the music at the U.S. Open scrambling about, quickly and deftly downloading "Uptown Girl" from iTunes with NASA-like precision and pride, using phrases like "I got it!" and "In 3, 2, 1... That's a go!" I mean, just think of the power that this person has. He could take one look at someone like Gwyneth Paltrow sitting in the stands and, based on some fan letter to which she never replied, decide that her song is "Queen Bitch" by David Bowie. What's Paltrow going to do? She'd be powerless. Smiling would be her only option.

The prospect of being able to play "name-the-celebrity-about-to-appear-on-the-JumboTron-based on-the-song-that's-playing" (catchy title, huh?) was very exciting. However, nothing else came of it. Wait for the semis and finals, I suppose.

What the "Uptown Girl" moment did inspire was a conversation about what song we would want played whenever we walked into a room. My sister then added this musical fantasy (one I don't have, but which she claims many people do have): What song would you want played when you go up to bat?

For walking into a room, I would want something without lyrics -- and something ridiculous, like Beethoven's 5th or Bach's "Jesu, The Joy of Man's Desiring." If the song had to have words, I'd go with "Play With Fire" by The Rolling Stones. And, for a sports fantasy, doesn't everyone just want John Fogerty's "Centerfield" playing? Okay, I guess there are a few people out there who want that "Oh Yeah" song by Yello.

So, what song would you want played when you walk into a room? And, for when you go to bat for your favorite team, what should they play over the loudspeakers to let everyone know that their hero has finally arrived?

12:19 PM ET | 09- 1-2009 | permalink

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