Another Reason Hip Hop Sucks

http://youtu.be/0qT4zTv_vVY

Cloud Nothings

If two things have come to represent the death of rock to the grizzled punker, they are the sweater and the horned rim glasses of modern pop stars. Stars? Well, if mumbling insecurities and casting eyes downward while avoiding all emotional contact with one's audience can describe a star, perhaps we need a new metaphor. I don't understand new alterna-indie music. I kept hearing about Sleigh Bells and so I downloaded some of their music and I sat before the computer, back aching, stupified, wondering how I had become that guy, the one who wonders sincerely where it all went wrong with western civilization. That Sleigh Bells shit? That is some terrible fucking music. I don't care how hot the singer is.

So let me recommend a new band with a young singer who wears sweaters and horned rimmed glasses and has even grown a scruffy beard and let's all take a breath and remember that melody, at the end of the day, is king. Cloud Nothings is essentially some 19-year old kid named Dylan whom you really shouldn't look up on youtube. Just listen to the tunes, and you'll have a better chance of enjoying something from that generation that gets harder to understand. The first record proper, the self-titled one, sounds like a Lemonheads greatest hits record if they had more complex songwriting angles and didn't withdraw into punk cliches. He even sounds like that other Lemonhead singer from the early days not named Evan. I'm telling you man- this kid finds melodies around every turn, and some of them are surprising. So what's the rub? The kid, young as he is, clearly hadn't decided who he wanted to sound like, and some of the voices sound like seven shades of indie fey, while others get closer to that L-head dude. Your chances of enjoying the record depend in part on your ability to get past some of his more grating voices, and that ain't easy. I keep listening to the thing and the vocals grate less, but I can't say you won't hear it, cringe, and curse my name.

What's more interesting is that the sophomore effort sounds little like the first one. This guy could have taken his time and crafted twelve more love letters to the harmony gods, but he gets a touch aggro in spots and spreads himself out in space, jamming out the repetition in one tune to over eight minutes of what may or may not be ironically named "Wasted Days." And heresy alert: it sounds like a cleaned up Wipers in spots, even if the voice doesn't. This kid nails some pop songs along the way, as just eight tunes arrive, but the risk-taking counts, and this is one kid to pay attention to, especially if he gets contacts, buys a leather jacket and shaves. That was a joke, asshole.

Michael Hurley and the Meaning of Life

Michael Hurley records sound like a porch hootenany, except everyone knows how to play and no one takes himself seriously. Remember when your stoner friends used to tinkle around with the guitar while you were trying to watch the game? Michael Hurley is the opposite of those guys. I first got excited by Mr. Hurley when I stumbled upon his record with ex-Holy Modal Rounders weirdo Peter Stampfel, Have Moicy, and it remains my favorite listen. These be goofy melodies inescapable, and they will have their way with your memory.  Remember that mildly pleasant three-date affair you had with that girl your friend introduced you to? Side 1 Track 3 will replace that chick, pronto.  Mississippi Records in their continued foresight and relentless generosity has seen fit to reissue a number of Hurley records, and don't come barking up my tree to differentiate between them. Do what I did, sucker- buy them all, and then play them consecutively each and every Sunday morning. Have your significant other make strong coffee and reciprocate by allowing her to listen to these tunes. You'll relax together on the couch and all plans will melt like your earlier ambitions to be someone and soon you'll recognize the meaning of life is lying on the couch with your honey and listening to Michael Hurley records. You went to Tony Robbins and paid the big bucks, and now I'm giving you the real shit for free.   Sure, you could strive for fame and fortune and self-actualization, or you could lie on the sofa and listen to quality porch music.  Wisdom comes in choosing.

Valentine Soul

On The Town from thetuna on 8tracks.

You Demanded It- Hear It Is

The Oblivians are making a new record for In the Red- it's 1996 all over again. If their live performance at Budget Rock is any indication of how much they've singularly and collectively got in the tank, there's room for hope.  One of my favorite bands of this very long life is going to crank it up one more time. I think I'll pour one. I suggest you do the same.

John Baldry- It Ain't Easy

Let's see- a 6 foot 7 long blond-haired gay man delivers a mostly blues-based cover album with Rod Stewart producing side 1 and Elton John twiddling knobs on the flip. Sounds like a soundtrack for a Tiburon hoedown when all those fleshy fiftysomethings get out the Hawaiian shirts and the floppy hats and the bottles of expensive wine and have themselves a Saturday afternoon. Except it's not. It's actually pretty good, and even a recipe for certain disaster- a white man trying Willie Dixon's "I'm Ready"- is shockingly strong.  Remember that tune on Ziggy Stardust, "It Ain't Easy"? That was a cover by someone named Ron Davies (no relation) and I didn't know that either, and Baldry not only cops it for the album's title but delivers a better version than Bowie's.  Not everything works- his shot at The Faces' "Flying" stinks, but it's the last song of the album so you can lift the needle without fumbling to find the next groove. It's a buck- why wouldn't you want to own a record by a man named Long John Baldry with photos of a pensive Stewart with headphones staring wistfully into the distance and a cowboy-hatted Reginald Dwight looking yearningly toward what one can only assume is a, well, I'm not going to make that joke.

Zabriskie Point- Sail On, Hippie Lovers

Just look at that picture for a minute. Maybe it's a Rorshach test, but what I once saw as silly and dangerous stupidity being celebrated as social revolution I now see as something more murky. It's easy to forget the drug experimentation and feelings of godliness said trips brought on and poo poo them all as moments of passing youthful chemical fancy. These days, I'm not so sure.  Leave politics out of it, and the search for personal illumination via chemical transformation remains a viable alternative to church.  I've never felt a sense of the divine in a pew, but I was overwhelmed by a sense of oneness with all things living while frying on a jetty in Newport.  Are these just ephemeral illusory states delivered by Hoffman that connects and then opens neural pathways one can't access when the 12 hours are up?  I've never met a single acid devotee who buys that line, and I don't buy it either. The memories and, more importantly, the feelings, linger. Why is the acid head's pure belief in the divine while frying less legitimate than the knee-bending wafer receiver at Sunday mass?   Most acid music meanders into places that send you reaching for the remote and all things secular, but this soundtrack of an unwatchable movie delivers mostly quiet, acoustic sounds that play gentle on morning ears.  I flip it back and forth and putter about my day.  John Fahey's "Dance of Death" is a particular standout, and even Pink Floyd surprises here, producing the backdrop for the bad side of that desert trip. Jerry Garcia's guitar sounds- dare I say it- lovely. Two minutes on your  knees in the dollar soundtrack bin will probably produce this sucker. I say glide toward the numinous...

So Hot You Could Smoke It!