Death

A few months back I got a bootleg copy of an album called For The Whole World To See. It’s a collection of proto-punk tunes written in the early 70s by trio of brothers who called their band Death.

It’s a pretty awesome album. Tighter then the Stooges, with a perfect balance of fury and melody, the brothers Hackney were obviously way ahead of their time.

When I first heard the album all I was told was that Death was were black dudes from Detroit playing rock n’ roll. For those of you who haven’t dedicated an unhealthy amount of their lifetime learning the history and impact of popular music, let me explain something: Black dudes from Detroit were not allowed to play rock n’ roll in the 70s… at least not if they wanted to make any money doing it.

Between their badass tunes, their flagrant middle finger to the established music scene of their day, and my admitted bias toward unheard of bands, Death soon became a personal favorite of mine.

The recent documentary, A Band Called Death, chronicled the amazing tale of the brothers’ journey from jamming in a tinny, second-story bedroom, to their short-lived bid for fame and subsequent break up, to the death of guitarist and visionary bandleader David Hackney, before finally culminating in the resurgence of their music in underground clubs and in private collections 35 years after its recording.

The last 20 minutes or so of the documentary show the band reformed and touring.

The surviving members are reportedly writing music for a new album, which I will buy and force all of my friends and family to listen to. 

It’s a great watch not only for the fact that it gave good press to one of rock n’ rolls best kept secrets, but also because it had the balls to show something few Rock Docs will: a story of faith.

Despite the fact that the Hackney brothers are now hailed as pioneers of Punk, where bands with names like Agnostic Front and Bad Religion, made their bones by mocking the religious institution, the Hackney brothers spoke openly about their salvation through Jesus Christ throughout the movie.

Whatever your views on religion, you have to admire their candor. The secular music industry isn’t exactly the friendliest place for “Christian musicians”

After all, for 60 years rock n’ roll in it’s purest form has been the anthem of rebels, a champion of social change and at all times a middle finger tossed in the face of whoever happened to be in charge. (Just for fun, here’s a clip of Frank Zappa sticking it to congress.)

So on one level it makes sense, if God is supposed to be in charge, rock music should stick it to him as well, right?

Maybe, but I get the feeling that most artists these days are just perpetuating the hate on religion thing because they feel it’s the thing to do, to which I reply, “Bhaa, Bhaa.”

That’s probably an unfair generalization, but I’m still going to give Death props for saying what they believe without fear or reservation. In my book that makes them some of the biggest punks out there. 

Cycles

I’ve been listening to Queens of the Stone Age a lot lately. They’ve got an excellent new album out that has drawn me back into the band’s distinguished catalog. 

             Front man Josh Homme sways seamlessly between meathead menace and a sort of classy southwestern falsetto croon, the juxtaposition weirdly reminiscent of Jim Morrison.

            Homme’s voice sinuously, almost hypnotically weaves dark tales, like the serpent whispering honeyed lies into Eves innocent ear, while the band jams in a place between dirty grooves and grungy racket.

It’s good shit. 

Plus Make it Wit Chu unassailably cool, possibly the coolest song written so far this millennium.

It’s great to get back into a good band I haven’t really thought about in a while. It’s been a couple years now since I really listened to a QOTSA album all the way through, and its nice to be reminded that the modern hard rock genre isn’t a complete wash.

I tend to listen to music in cycles. There might be a six-month period where I’ll listen to the Stones every day, while changing the station every time the Beatles come on, because John’s voice is pissing me off for some reason. Then one day I’ll be in some pretentious coffee shop procrastinating on a writing assignment and hear Rocky Raccoon, after which I’ll listen to every Lennon/McCartney recording in a week. (I just want to go on record as saying Youtube has terrible videos for this song.)

 When I got Cage the Elephant’s first album I left it in my car stereo playing nothing else while driving for like 3 months straight. My senior year in high school I listened to either Pink Floyd’s The Wall or Dark Side of the Moon every single day.

Sometimes these temporary obsessions turn into ruts. I mean as awesome as Jeff Buckley was, one can only listen to his sole studio album so many times before going a little nuts.

Even so, I see my cyclical tastes as a good thing. Hell, it’s probably half the reason I know as much about music as I do. I obsess about a band for a couple weeks learn all I can about them and then move on for a bit.

After all I know I’ll be stuck on them again soon enough.

I wonder what I’ll be stuck on next to next.

I want to know what bands you obsess over. Have you listened to the entire Johnny Cash collection beginning to end? Can you Rap every Run DMC Lyric word for word? Tell me about it in the comments section.

Art from an uneducated man’s prospective

For years I’ve made the joke that I can’t use a brush worth a damn, but I’ll paint you a masterpiece in prose. I’ve always said it tongue in cheek, because I’ve never really considered what I do art. In fact, if you had asked if I was even an art lover I’d probably have laughed.

I mean, I’m a working class guy. My family isn’t rich. I scraped by in high school, dropped out of community college, worked construction, washed dishes and enlisted in the Army.

In my worldview, blue-collar guys like me don’t “appreciate art.”

That’s ridiculous of course. Everybody “appreciates art.”

Ok, so the Smithsonian art museum in D.C. didn’t turn me on, (I  have no idea if this painter was brilliant or lazy) but I love music, and I love the written word, obviously both of these are art forms, though I never really thought of them as such.

I didn’t realize how much I truly loved art until I helped teach a basic photography class a few weeks ago.

 As a journalist I was responsible for taking all of the photos included in my news stories. At best, I’d consider myself a competent news photographer. I do not have the raw talent needed to become a truly great photographer, but after thousands of hours of practice and with a few disastrous shoots along the way, I can say with confidence that I will always get the shots I need. I worked my ass of to become as good as I am, and on occasion I’ll take a photo that I can be truly proud of.

It was in the midst of explaining this to a group of aspiring photographers that I realized what I do with a camera is art. 

My photos will probably never hang on the wall of a museum and I doubt anything I shoot will ever make me rich, but I know my pictures have made a lot of soldiers (and their mothers) happy. (By the by if anybody from papers in the Colorado springs area read this and need a writer or photographer, drop me a line. Experience in writing, photography and getting shot at.)

Isn’t the basic point of art to share beauty with the rest of the world? To express your feelings about everything that is going on in the world around us, maybe even ask a question.

That’s exactly what I try to do with my writing, its what I strive to do with my photos.

Maybe this revelation shouldn’t come as a surprise for me. On many occasions my editors or colleagues have rolled their eyes and called me an “artist” with air quotes due to my inability to stay emotionally detached from my work. 

After working as a writer for almost exactly 5 years now, with hundred of articles under my belt, I still get pissed every time an editor cuts into one of my stories, redirecting the narrative from what I feel it should be.

The way I see it, if I stop caring I’ll probably start writing crap. Maybe I should have listened to the haters, it seems I’ve been an artist all along. 

Sham Artist

Enterprising Soldier avoids work, hailed for setting the standard 

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious… or at least embellished to the point of satire. This is a blog, people, not the New York Times… ok bad example. Regardless names have been altered to protect sources anonymity.

            “It’s it isn’t easy ducking the man,” said Spc. Thomas Leaner, his face streaming with sweat as he crouched on the sand a scud-missile bunker. “Sometimes you gotta do work to get out of work, you know?”

            Avoiding work, or Shaming, as the kids are calling it these days, is a hallmark of military service, though few speak openly of the practice.

            “Its all about being in the right place at the right time,” explained Leaner, a self proclaimed Sham Artist. “Its about reading your NCOs mood, keeping your ear to the ground for cushy details, and listening to the little voice in the back of your head when it says, ‘First Sergeant’s coming around, maybe you should duck into the latrine for half an hour.’”     

A wheeled vehicle mechanic deployed to an undisclosed place in the desert, hereafter referred to as POGville, Leaner said he spent five of his six years of service as an active duty Soldier actively dodging responsibility and using his fellow mechanics success to his advantage.

“I worked very hard for the first year I was in the army, but I learned pretty quickly that nobody gave a shit,” he said. “One morning, when I had a wicked awful hangover I dipped out after PT formation. Nobody noticed so I did the same thing the next day. That weekend I traded my medic an hour of labor on his car for a forged profile and I didn’t do PT until I PCSed two years later.”

            Leaner added with glee that he in fact never fixed the medic’s car, but convinced an underage private to do the task in exchange for a case of beer which his roommate paid for.

            Leaner’s leaders have nothing but praise for the junior Soldier.

            “He’s an important part of our maintenance team,” said Sergeant First Class Barry Spacey, Leaner’s Motor sergeant, yet for some reason also his first line supervisor, “He always knows the stats to the Vikings games, which is very important for moral, and I know he’s hard at work because I can never pull him away from our trucks to help with other sections’ vehicles.”

            Praise for Leaner’s skills don’t stop on the enlisted side. 

Capt. Marty Masters calls the Specialist a solid young Soldier with a bright future in the Army.

“I’ve never seen that kid without grease all over his uniform,” Masters said. “He must spend all his time waist deep in engines. In a couple more years I’d like to see that Soldiers warrant packet on my desk.”

            Back in the bunker learner displayed a grin and produced a small can of engine grease he’d hidden somewhere in his PT Shorts after hearing his commanders praise    

Learner’s goal is to make Masters proud and join the ranks of warrant officers, whom he respects as masters of Shamcraft.

            “Those guys are shamurai warriors,” he said the dreamy glaze of his eyes reflecting the wasted tax dollars of hundreds of hard working Americans. “Nobody knows what they do, so they never have to do anything… Twenty years of free money, man… It’s a beautiful thing”

            blinking his way out of his slothful daydream leaner glanced at his watch, and a grin spread across his sweat stained face.

            “Afternoon PT is over,” he said, and this reporter finally grasped why he chose such an uncomfortably hot local for his hideout. “I’m headed to the DFAC for wing night, you coming?”

Three Soldiers look on intently as a fourth does some kind of work with a blowtorch.

A highly advanced sham artist practices the skill of selective invisibility.

A Soldier shams out while during a mission in the middle east some place.

Managing Expectations

     Most folks who know me would say I’m a pessimist. Even as a small boy I displayed an almost compulsive need to manage expectations. I figured out young that it is better to be pleasantly surprised then brutally disappointed.

     For the most part this philosophy has served me pretty well; bad service doesn’t faze me, mean spirited comments roll of my back and crappy movies don’t piss me off, because I kind of expect all of these things.         

(Except for this. You broke my heart, George)

            My father, who knows me a bit better then most, claims I am not, in  fact a pessimist.

           “You’re a romantic,” he told me a few years back. “Unfortunately you can’t reconcile what you think the world should be with what you see every day.”

            “What’s your point?” ask the only three readers who aren’t related to me and there for aren’t legally obligated to put up with my crap. “Why are you subjecting us, your loyal following of three, to this self indulgent navel gazing drivel?”

            To make a point about music of course!

            For years the only expectations I refused to manage were my feelings on the upcoming releases of my favorite artists.

            In middle school and High School I eagerly awaited the chance to listen to the follow ups to albums like the Arctic Monkeys’ Whatever Say I Am That’s What I’m Not, Green Day’s Warning and though I am a little ashamed to admit it now, Stained’s 14 Shades of Grey. (For the record I spent 15 minutes tracking down the most weirdest most emo video I could possibly find for this last link, its worth watching for the cringe factor alone.) 

            Each of these groups chased these shots of top shelf  sonic tequila with what I can only describe as the flattest, most watered down musical O’Dules. I’m not going to share links to each of these bands’ follow up albums, because I didn’t like them and neither should you.  

I think the poor kids from The Arctic Monkeys just got a case of the sophomore blues with Favourite Worst Nightmare, because they are still one of my FAVORITE bands; Green Day decided to get all political and rock operay with American Idiot, and I figure if your first album is called Dookie, you are not allowed to write rock operas or comment on politics (Side note: If you disagree, please leave a comment I’ve wanted to start this fight ever since I started blogging) and Stained came out with… well honestly I don’t know because after high school I never listened to stained again.

            These, and a myriad of other mediocre showings by bands I liked (I’m looking at you Audioslave and System of a Down) rammed into the blind spot music once occupied in my armored car of cynicism.

            I still enjoy new music of course, but as I’ve grown older I’ve learned to approach it with much more caution. That way, when The Strokes release an 80s dance album I can just shake my head and rant about it on the internet instead of throwing things at my friends, family and coworkers.

            On the other hand, my cynicism has robbed me of that anticipation I used to feel when a new album comes out. When Jack White put out Blunderbuss last year I approached the whole affair very seriously. I sat in my room and listened to it, analyzing each song for its merits and shortcomings as if I wrote for Rollingstone or AP Press or Spin.

            It took me 4 listens before I decided that I liked the album. How freaking sad is that?

            Even if I do one day write about music for a living (i.e. if everyone who reads this shares it with every friend they have and force them to share it with their friends and so on) I never, ever want to stop being a fan.

If loving music ever becomes difficult; becomes work, you should probably take off the headphones go into the bathroom look deeply into your own eyes in the mirror and say, “I will not be a pretentious douchebag,” 5 times. Turn that into your daily mantra, until you start feeling feelings again. I started my own pretention recovery about a year ago when I started this blog. I’m taking it “one day at a time” as they say and my outlook is a bit brighter

   Queens of the Stone Age have a new album out. From what I’ve seen on YouTube it’s pretty incredible, but due to my current work situation I have not been able to pick up a copy. Thankfully I have good friends who send me care packages and I will be able to listen to it all the way through soon.

I’m pretty excited about it, which for me is kind of a big deal.

Setting the mood

So I didn’t write a blog last week. My computer broke and I was in mourning, however life goes on. I’m taking it one day at a time and I want to thank all of you for your prayers and support as I go through the painful process of recovery.

This week I’d like to talk about emotion, specifically music’s power to as a catalyst for our rage and our rapture; our fear and our frivolity. (Frivolity might not be the best word, but I like alliterations, is that okay with you?)

Even in as small children music has the power to completely alter our perception. Just look at Looney Tunes. The tone of the music tells you who the good guy is, who the villain is, even when you should laugh.

What’s more, music can inspire stories, even entire worlds, to spring almost fully formed into one’s imagination.   

                Singers like Billy Joel and Alice Cooper (and every country singer ever) tell stories or paint pictures directly through their lyrics, using the melody for punctuation.

                This form of musical storytelling has existed for thousands of years. In the 70s a new musical concept called opera expanded on this ethic, weaving a story or theme through the fabric of an entire album. The Who’s Quadrophenia, Queen’s Night at the Opera and David Bowie’s The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars are excellent examples of Opera. (What? Were you expecting Mozart? Well ok, here’s a link, but don’t ask me for the cliff notes, because its really long and foreign.)  

                I like songs and albums that tell stories, they can lend perspective, help us view the world through somebody else’s eyes, even if it’s only for three minutes at a time.

                Lately though, I’ve been thinking of another way music tells stories and paints pictures…. Or maybe inspires is a better word, because sometimes the feeling brought to mind by a song, album or even an artists entire repertoire has nothing to do with their lyrics.

When I listen to Queens of the Stone Age I can see grimy desert wastelands of apathy and methamphetamine.

Ok, bad example...

 

 

Nine Inch Nails sounds like a gothic death robot burrowing into your brain with the express purpose of turning you into a cybernetic nihilist-drone.

What? You thought I was joking?

Just a single shotgun blast of Rage Against the Machine’s political outrage, hip-hop and metal could incite the mildest mannered pacifist to riot like an Egyptian revolutionary.

Yeah... I have not making snarky comments about revolutionaries.

 

On the other side of the coin we’ve got the lusty Bluesy awesomeness of Janis Joplin who’s jagged heart wrenching voice could creates visions so poignantly beautiful even the tin man would feel a twinge.  Every one of Radiohead’s enigmatic yet gorgeously accessible albums should come with a sticker that reads, “No psychedelics required for this mind-trip.” And John Mayer…. Well, I don’t need to tell you what John Mayer’s velvety tongue brings to mind, do I ladies?

Of course all of these feelings are subjective. When I listen to Cage the Elephant’s first album I envision the best high school party ever. You might listen to the exact same or hear the essence of WWII blasting through your speakers. Maybe it’ll make you think about breakfast cereal. I don’t know how your brain works, and I’m not here to judge, what you do with your lucky charms is your business.

The thing is the lyrics on their debut had nothing to do with my impression. they wrote songs about the end of the world and societies moral bankrupcy, but all i got out of it was beer pong and quarters. Maybe that would piss the band off, but at the end of the day, I think art is what we make of it.
(On a side note, these guys are awesome live. If you ever get the chance to see them I highly recommend it.)

Regardless of your feelings about Cage the Elephant, there is no denying that music can bring out the rawest emotions in each of us. I don’t know why certain sounds strung together into patterns speak so directly to our psyches. I’m not a scientist or theologian. Hell, I’ve never even taken music theory, but I think music is either hardwired into our DNA or a sacred gift from God above. Either way I’m grateful.