Jeff Buckley, or music as true misery

As I sit here reaching for words to accurately relay the profound sadness and emotional turmoil that characterizes Jeff Buckley’s music, I find myself considering more critically the vast and seemingly unanswerable questions of music in general -- that is, often, its effects are equally physiologically, intellectually, and spiritually life-altering, given the right set of circumstances.

grcmc.org

You see, what I’ve learned from my recent exploration of Buckley’s tragically short discography is that to be in true emotional pain, and to master the art of recording and projecting that pain, is exceedingly rare. Even in the world of art and creative media. It might be the case that such readings are subjective and only individually significant. But maybe, occasionally, these individually manifested interpretations can transcend the thing itself, becoming in some sense universal, and indescribable. I’m almost certain this is so with Jeff Buckley.

Critics of the early ‘90s swooned over his unique and versatile singing style -- sharp and sustained vibrato, much like his father Tim, though with a vocal range surpassing that. I myself see this fact, along with an unorthodox verse/chorus interplay, and subtly complex poetic performance embedded in the lyrical structure of every song, as the biggest reasons why Buckley is the most unusual, and perhaps musically enigmatic, artist to come out of the 1990s. In the face of grunge, Buckley offers something more tender, soft-spoken, and articulate -- all with the same degree of contempt and heartache elicited by a society and culture that failed its angsty and romantic youth.

theguardian.com

To put it bluntly, Jeff Buckley’s music is some of the most effectively depressing and terrifyingly dead-on I’ve ever heard -- and so quick, without explanation. His sudden death by drowning in ‘97 is almost as mysterious as his only album, Grace. It’s dark, poignant, dismal, and beautiful -- it will leave you a wreck. Proceed with caution.

rollingstone.com

Why I Saw The Rolling Stones on their Zip Code Tour (2015)

The Rolling Stones played Comerica Park in Detroit last Wednesday for the first time in 10 years. There's no denying the gravity of that fact. For some, that was reason enough to attend. For others, like me, it needed to be something. It needed to be a show worth seeing.       

In all fairness, I will concede that there is seemingly no good reason to see The Rolling Stones live in 2015. Or so I thought, until about a month ago.

See, I'm a big, big fan. As a throwback Millennial, I understand and honor the legacy — and perhaps most importantly, the historical significance — of a band like The Stones. I grew up with the catalog hits. All of them. From "Gimme Shelter" to "Wild Horses," I was conditioned with a solid awareness that The Rolling Stones were "a great band." And, while I acknowledge the awesome and overwhelming power of their position in modern music, I cannot accept this as a good enough reason to see them perform.

But something about The Stones changed for me, and at just the right time. Suddenly, they were no longer "the band that plays Sympathy for the Devil," or "Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, and others." They became for me what they've always been for the rest of you: The Rolling Stones, creators of an iconic and game-changing style of writing and performance. They became the artists behind "Torn and Frayed," "Salt of the Earth," "Monkey Man," "Ventilator Blues." In other words, I finally got it. So, we picked up some last-minute tickets, and off we went.

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As a great, big rock 'n' roll band still active 50 years from their debut, The Stones run the risk of becoming musty dusty museum relics, fit for nothing more than bragging rights. "Yeah, I saw The Rolling Stones before they all died." Aging is inevitable. Aging with dignity, in their world, is a choice. Sadly, as we all know, some monumental acts refuse to let go (The Who, anybody?). And so we witness the long and ugly death knell of The Decline.

I'm happy (and quite relieved) to say that, with The Stones, this is not yet the case. If you were at Comerica on Wednesday, you saw something raw, mysterious, and emotional. An ancient power, blasting through its likewise ancient arsenal with ferocity and verve. It was, in a way, a shocking event. It was exhibitionism if ever I saw it — a perfect complement to their gallery exhibition set to appear in London in April of 2016. Swan song or not, it was a fantastic show, and a loud-and-clear reminder that The Rolling Stones are alive and well and better than ever, and will not go gentle, etc., etc.

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I enjoyed the concert, and I'm glad I went. It wasn't a chance to see The Rolling Stones before they burn out; it was a chance to see a seasoned group of musicians who know exactly what the hell they're doing. And they do it well.

I'll end with a quick top 10 of my favorites. Enjoy!

1. Torn and Frayed

2. Gimme Shelter

3. Sweet Virginia

4. Loving Cup

5. 2000 Light Years from Home

6. Stray Cat Blues

7. Soul Survivor

8. Street Fighting Man

9. Miss You

10. Salt of the Earth    

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The Moondoggies

It may not be difficult to find an indie-folk band worth listening to today. It’s a lot less difficult if you’re willing to trudge through the cliches and lyrical buzzwords that now unfortunately overwhelm the genre.  But if you’re looking for music inherently melancholic, reinforced with a kind of compositional purity and substance lacking in the mood and mission of most groups (think Mumford and Sons), it can be a challenge. The payoff? Music that’s more than cheap melodies and recycled ballads — music more than music. 

     

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The Moondoggies, out of Everett, Washington, come together as what I like to call “that dreary force that will fill the silence.” You’ll read elsewhere that they fit the urban-folk rock genre, or something along the lines of rustic and “vintage,” in league with Fleet Foxes or Grizzly Bear — broad strokes of Americana with surges of Indie. But there’s something not as easily identifiable about the group. And that translates to something not so normal. Only really good bands can impart real feelings, powerfully and even oversaturated, through their music. For this reason, The Moondoggies will grow and change, fast.     

Jumping into Adios I’m a Ghost, you’ll notice two things: first, the exchange between the tempo and the shade; second, the way you feel about its content, which will likely be complicated. While the bleakness is both soothing and haunting, there are moments of rigid, almost contextually absurd brightness and, let’s say, rejuvenation. And it might take some time to be okay with that contrast.   

  

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Sorrow is a potent method to use for approaching absence and regrowth. That’s what this album is about — coming out of existing in the background. It’s about feeling that something isn’t quite right, and being okay with that. And the big picture of their music? An irrational hope that things are moving and changing, but a blunt understanding that in fact nothing is changing, or things are changing too slow to notice. It takes force and subtlety, at exactly the right moments, to pull that off.

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It might be worth listening to The Moondoggies, because they offer more than what you can usually take away from an all-around pretty good folk band. It’s poetry; effective and clear, but maybe not so loud.   

I'm a Millennial, and I Listen to Vinyl Records

In the spirit of this past Record Store Day, I thought it might be fun to write about records and the people who listen to them, and share some of my thoughts about the culture of vinyl and its rapid national and international growth within the last decade or so. Record sales have grown 37% within the last year, translating to somewhere around 12 million records sold between 2014 and 2015 (see The Tennessean, 2015). Why do people continue to buy records? What makes them so unique and desirable?

As a fellow millennial and participant of this growing phenomenon, I feel that I can highlight, with some confidence, aspects of the community often overlooked by the general public. You might be surprised that there are lots of reasons why people (young and old) purchase and listen to vinyl records today — and my take is it actually has very little to do with the sound.

The Collection

I collect records, as do a lot of people. It’s a collecting culture, just like any other. Stamps, figurines, sports memorabilia, etc. But there’s a big difference. Most collections exist purely for the activity and experience of seeking out and collecting the objects. I’d say the collecting dimension of collecting records is secondary, namely because people actually want to listen to them after the find.

The History

The vinyl record format represents a long-ago stage in the modern music industry’s relatively short development. A record is a glimpse of the way music once was manufactured and distributed on a large scale. And, setting aside for a moment its sudden explosive comeback, there was a time when people really didn’t have a choice. This was the most accessible form of a personal listening experience. If you were raised in the CD-ROM and digital age like me, you might deeply appreciate the fact that they’re still around, and currently flourishing as a niche market. Our generation also has the advantage of choosing between digital and analog samples of the same recording with the same ease of accessibility, which creates a more dynamic and enriching listening environment overall.

The Aesthetic

There’s no getting around that digital files offer the listener a convenience vinyl records simply cannot. But, what vinyl lacks in portability and storage, it makes up for in appearance and presentation. Records are big, and as such, they’re each treated as a giant canvas. A large part of the user experience is taking the time to actually look at the thing, and artists and labels know that. So naturally, a big part of record culture is the album art — the cover, the sleeves, the folio, every square inch. It’s a stunning and effective complement to the media stored on the disc itself, and offers a much more personal interface than plugging in a pair of earbuds. Digital files give you nothing — no pictures, no art, no story. Convenience means disconnection, and that’s exactly what you get with digital media. A very quick, detached listening experience.  

The Experience

This brings me to one of the most important features of vinyl culture: the experience. Something we lost with the onset of digital media is the physicality of listening. This makes a tremendous comeback along with the record itself. Playing a record means placing it on the turntable (after selecting a side), picking up the needle, setting it on the disc, and watching it play. You’re also more familiar with the content. You’re almost required to be — the ability to skip a track isn’t at the push of a button, which means if you want to be selective, you’ll have to know track order, length, and context (in terms of the entire album). These points are no doubt extremely significant to the artist(s) who ordered them.

The Sound

If somebody tells you they listen to vinyl because it sounds better, they're either confused or lying. It just doesn’t. Different, certainly, and in a good way. But not better. And better than what, exactly? On the whole, manufacturing equipment hasn’t changed since the early ‘80s, and analog pressings are taking a backseat to digital masters (meaning, virtually identical to a digital file). We have far better technology today, so claiming the sound is somehow “better” using outdated techniques and equipment is foolish. In the face of projects like hdtracks and Neil Young’s Pono, it simply cannot be argued. You might enjoy the different texture vinyl offers (as I do), but don't mistake this for technological superiority. It's just another dimension of the aesthetic, plain and simple.

This, however, doesn’t devalue the quality and feel of the sound you get from a record’s output, old or new. It’s fuzzy, dirty, and raw. It feels more intimate. It sounds old, even on modern cuts. Some people claim this is the better way to listen, and I agree. I think of it as an added bonus to an activity I already enjoy for many other reasons.

The Find

Every vinylyte has that one record they've been looking for, patiently browsing through dust-riddled milk crates, periodically checking in with the store clerk, until the day comes when they finally get their hands on the record — of which several hundred thousand copies surely exist — that seemed only to be there, on that day, in that shop, for them. As records are growing in popularity, it’s becoming easier to find the ones you want via Amazon, artists’ websites, or directly from the label. But if you know the feeling of the find, you’ll knowingly ignore these sources. It’s part of the experience, and it’s a large reason why I continue to collect.

These are just a handful of reasons why I think many people choose to listen to records today, even with widespread access to cheaper, more convenient, and more technologically advanced forms of audio content. I’m proud of my record collection, and I’m glad that vinyl is coming back in a big way. I feel that many people misunderstand why we opt for a dated media format, especially those who grew up with records as the norm, and not as some exotic relic of bygone days. It isn’t about owning vintage, one-of-a-kind objects, or being up on the latest trend. It’s about appreciating the privilege to enjoy a superior way of discovering and listening to music. And that’s something the digital age, thus far, really can’t offer.                    

Plants and Animals -- genus/species; kingdom/phylum, etc. etc.

If you’re a rock/indie group, and you want to get it across that your goal is a sound that’s organic, fleshed out, temperamental, unpredictable, even primordial -- a spontaneous dichotomy of mellow grandeur and raw ferocity -- I can think of no better descriptive than Plants and Animals. The static and the fleeting; the majestic and the brutally wild.

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They’re warbly. They’re gritty. They’re French Canadian -- and they’re an impressive example of what we don’t expect from the all too often (painfully) redundant indie rock genre. Truly, this is a group you’ll know you’re listening to when you hear them, and they’ve been laying the groundwork for all the charlatans since 2007.

The music is easy to follow -- it’s elegantly simplistic. It’s really feel-good and energetic, but poignant when it needs to be. Their 2008 album, Parc Avenue, conveys a collective, natural, zen-like experience -- it’s very inward and outward-turning at the same time. Meanwhile, the follow-up, La La Land, is mostly sultry and tropical (yes), with some kind of Honolulu-at-sunset vibe to it. Strange, yes, but quite fantastic. The band’s wiki page lists the members’ self-characterization as “post-classic rock,” but I think that’s too straightforward for what’s happening with Plants and Animals. It’s too neat and tidy, and they’re not.

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I highly recommend their latest, The End of That. Check out the track of the same name -- it’s a great example of where they’re coming from and where they’re headed. What do you think? Are they deserving of all this praise?

TCV -- I still haven't forgotten about them

I don’t think I’ve ever been as elated and heartbroken with the debut and subsequent reclusion of a musical group as that which I’ve experienced with Them Crooked Vultures.

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If you’re like me, you are very wary of anything that looks, acts, or remotely makes mention of a “supergroup.” But when you have the likes of Josh Homme, Dave Grohl, and John Paul Jones working together, what else can you call it? And, perhaps as a positive consequence of this mega supergroup (QOTSA, Foo Fighters, Led Zeppelin, respectively), such a formation brings together a rather interesting audience that otherwise might not have reason to interact. If you’re a fan of any of the above, you must check out TCV.  Really though, I wouldn’t approach this as a short-term supergroup, because they didn’t. This is a meaningful project -- for all members -- and one sample off their album will surely convince you how true that is.  

So, with Josh Homme having a large hand in this project, you’re gonna get the lovely, absurd, off-beat textures that you would from Queens -- and behind it all, you have a rhythm section that is simply unmatchable in terms of synergetic power, proficiency, and stylistic versatility. In other words, you have a songwriter capable of creating and working around crazy, outlandish patterns and themes in uncomfortable (but appropriate and wonderful) ways, and bass and drums capable of playing them. Add the auxiliary that they incorporate (keytar, lap-steel, to name a couple), and these songs represent very well what they aim to be: totally dynamic, at times unsettling, and all of them masterfully crafted.    

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And let’s not forget the most overlooked part of this group: Alain Johannes -- the fourth vulture. A critical if not necessary part of their studio and stage presence, Alain truly is a musician of the highest caliber. A big part of his exclusion from the trio in almost all other circumstances is probably due to the group’s marketing strategy, which underscores three, and not four, vultures.

Anything new that TCV potentially has on the table or ready to go at the moment has been suspended -- and understandably so; at least two of the members have other time-consuming projects that take precedent over any Vultures release. But I am patiently waiting for a second album, and I can’t possibly be alone.   

The album’s single, New Fang, is a great plug for the rest of the album, and exemplifies just about everything I’ve discussed. Give it a listen and tell me what you think!

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EE

keyword: earth engine; ee; alien rock; squirrel pit; squirrel pit studios; sts; broken robots; neoprog rock; progressive bots; prog pop; tectonic rocks; space volcanoes

Take a minute to think about what progressive rock means as a rock subgenre. Sidestep all of its over-usages, generalizations, and cliche taglines, and get right down to exactly what you like about it. Now, add to your refined and *highly* selective characterization of prog rock the qualities sharp, tight, amorphous, complex, sideways, ground-rattling, unified, popy, experimental, fuzzy, energetic, ambient, heavy, thick. This comes pretty close to Earth Engine’s sound, but it still fails as a completely satisfactory description.

Here’s the thing: “progressive rock” is such a boring, outdated term with lots of potentially inaccurate (and diminishing) connotations that, if not for its cachet in the music world, I would avoid using the term entirely to characterize Earth Engine. And what’s more, they’ve earned more than that. They’re genre-spanning eclectic Detroit musicians, all of them -- and that fact is wholly reflected in their music. There’s no doubt that what they are is progressive, and it is rock, but it is much, much more. There are elements of pop, rockabilly, and something beautifully sinister -- maybe something itself Detroit. Prog pop maybe? Neoprogressive? Who cares, just listen.  

The rhythm section is heavy, hard-hitting, and just downright dirty and obnoxious -- but it’s also finely tuned, elegant, and methodical, overlayed with brassy trombone flares, organ, and piano. The arrangements are astonishing -- and there’s really no mistaking this; the music is as precisely written and rehearsed as it is performed. Guitar is technically proficient (a must for “prog rock”), but direct and punctuated when it needs to be, supplementing -- and not overshadowing -- the rest of the ensemble. The vocals are an absolute perfect complement to the heavy, gritty, smooth syncopation of EE’s sound, and they just work so well with the lyrics. When it’s all happening, it has the feel of a progressive epic, but with the fine touch of brevity, deliberation, and expertise. Look, I think really highly of this group, but not without reason.       

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I never miss an opportunity to see these guys play -- they perform all over Detroit and the metro area, and they’re adding more shows all the time. Most recently, they played the second annual Hamtramck Music Festival and utterly rocked the Polish Sea League (many thanks). Each performance also has a super special secret treat inside -- this past show’s set included a very Detroit cover of Kenny Rogers & the First Edition’s “Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)” (see Gutterball), with a twist only Earth Engine could manage to crank. EP coming out soon! I have so much love for EE.