I hear the response already: "Are you kidding me? Even in this era of unlimited choice in which a big album might sell 40,000 copies in a week, everyone knows this song already!"
Yes, that's true. But I think this song actually deserves its national earworm status, and that's worth celebrating.
Besides, it's brilliant that she wrote something that works equally well as a jab at her record company and a demand for a boyfriend's respect.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
R.I.P., XM
On the day the Justice League said XM could merge with Sirius, we let our subscription lapse. I loved it, really, but we just weren't listening to it enough to justify the money.
Now if someone can convince me that Pandora or Last.fm is worth another shot ...
(Still a Launch subscriber, but I might let that go soon.)
Now if someone can convince me that Pandora or Last.fm is worth another shot ...
(Still a Launch subscriber, but I might let that go soon.)
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
"It reminds me a joke I once heard about upper-middle-class people ..."
Poor Celia Wren. It seems that her writing career took a wrong turn somewhere, and she was forced to earn money doing a Washington Post theater review that forced her to be sequestered in a room with the sort of person who would find historical and literary farce amusing.
This blogger, also a professional journalist, should warn you that the review to which I've linked describes a situation so desperate that you may be unable to stop weeping. If you're especially sensitive to the plight of reviewers stranded among uncouth men and women of the evening who watch comedy, do not click that link. Just limit yourself to a sampling of her words ...
It's important for Ms. Wren to take a stand against such "entertainment." Why, we could end up like the British, where students at Oxford and Cambridge traditionally perform "skits," often in drag," and the ones who are deemed good at it turn professional! One young man was doing research on Chaucer and ended up doing some sort of nonsense in which people bang coconuts together and search for the Holy Grail!
( /sarcasm )
This is the sort of condescending crap that makes the world hate journalists. I'm unabashedly elitist, with very little patience for stupidity, and yet the Post sometimes cranks out content that can't possibly appeal to anyone other than D.C. residents (not those curious people over in Virginia) who are pretentious and have no sense of humor. Government workers generally aren't pretentious, so they're out of the target audience. And the popularity of Reduced Shakespeare -- not to mention the big theaters' tendency to book big-time comics -- proves that someone here must have a sense of humor.
So perhaps we really should pity Ms. Wren and her editors. Their demographics aren't good, and they're too full of themselves to enjoy a good laugh. That's sad.
This blogger, also a professional journalist, should warn you that the review to which I've linked describes a situation so desperate that you may be unable to stop weeping. If you're especially sensitive to the plight of reviewers stranded among uncouth men and women of the evening who watch comedy, do not click that link. Just limit yourself to a sampling of her words ...
At the Lansburgh Theatre, you once stood a good chance of encountering a classic drama. Now, though, it's playing host to the Reduced Shakespeare Company, a troupe that has built a cottage industry out of undergraduate-quality literary sendups. ...The horror ... the horror ...
Judging by the gales of laughter that greeted performances Saturday, many theatergoers find this sort of thing hilarious. ...
In an era when even HBO is taking the Founding Fathers seriously, "The Complete History of America" might seem nearly as sacrilegious (as "The Bible"). ...
It's important for Ms. Wren to take a stand against such "entertainment." Why, we could end up like the British, where students at Oxford and Cambridge traditionally perform "skits," often in drag," and the ones who are deemed good at it turn professional! One young man was doing research on Chaucer and ended up doing some sort of nonsense in which people bang coconuts together and search for the Holy Grail!
( /sarcasm )
This is the sort of condescending crap that makes the world hate journalists. I'm unabashedly elitist, with very little patience for stupidity, and yet the Post sometimes cranks out content that can't possibly appeal to anyone other than D.C. residents (not those curious people over in Virginia) who are pretentious and have no sense of humor. Government workers generally aren't pretentious, so they're out of the target audience. And the popularity of Reduced Shakespeare -- not to mention the big theaters' tendency to book big-time comics -- proves that someone here must have a sense of humor.
So perhaps we really should pity Ms. Wren and her editors. Their demographics aren't good, and they're too full of themselves to enjoy a good laugh. That's sad.
Song du semaine: Journey, "Faithfully"
The spoilsports at Sony disabled embedding, so I'll just link to the video and give you some screen captures of the most embarrassing grimaces caught on tape. Then I'll tell you what a beautiful ballad this really is.
First, the grimaces, not exactly enhanced by the poor picture quality I'm delivering here ...
Forget Randy Jackson -- I'm Ross Valory, bitch!
I never really felt like part of the band.
Star Trek XLII: The Wrath of Schon
Should we tell Jonathan Cain his mike isn't plugged in? Does he think he's singing, or is this some sort of Liberty DeVitto tribute?
The guy from Guster never contorted himself backwards in pain and exhaustion after crashing a couple of cymbals, and he hit them with his hands. Is this why Steve Smith eventually went back to jazz?
Or maybe it was the video for Separate Ways, in which Cain steals the show by re-inventing the art of air keyboards.
All very silly. And yet this song is brilliant. It builds from a solid hook on the piano that carries through into the vocals and Schon's guitar work.
The lyrics blow away the typical power-ballad crap. Maybe you have to have been in a 10-year relationship to appreciate it, but "Two strangers learn to fall in love again / I get the joy of rediscovering you" is dead-on, and Perry's delivery is powerful without sounding like some melismatic monster on American Idol.
Rather than re-mastering their old stuff, Journey should probably just reshoot the videos. The songs are fine.
First, the grimaces, not exactly enhanced by the poor picture quality I'm delivering here ...
Forget Randy Jackson -- I'm Ross Valory, bitch!
I never really felt like part of the band.
Star Trek XLII: The Wrath of Schon
Should we tell Jonathan Cain his mike isn't plugged in? Does he think he's singing, or is this some sort of Liberty DeVitto tribute?
The guy from Guster never contorted himself backwards in pain and exhaustion after crashing a couple of cymbals, and he hit them with his hands. Is this why Steve Smith eventually went back to jazz?
Or maybe it was the video for Separate Ways, in which Cain steals the show by re-inventing the art of air keyboards.
All very silly. And yet this song is brilliant. It builds from a solid hook on the piano that carries through into the vocals and Schon's guitar work.
The lyrics blow away the typical power-ballad crap. Maybe you have to have been in a 10-year relationship to appreciate it, but "Two strangers learn to fall in love again / I get the joy of rediscovering you" is dead-on, and Perry's delivery is powerful without sounding like some melismatic monster on American Idol.
Rather than re-mastering their old stuff, Journey should probably just reshoot the videos. The songs are fine.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Does jazz suck?
I do feel a little guilty asking the question. I'm not an expert by any stretch of the imagination, having grown up in an area in which "jazz band" meant you played Booker-T and the MG's or the Hawaii Five-O theme. I played one semester in the Duke Jazz Ensemble but clearly couldn't keep up. Besides, we should all be celebrating jazz after Herbie Hancock's stunning Grammy, right? (For an album of Joni Mitchell covers??!!)
But not all is well in the jazz world. "Smooth jazz" is dying. Some might not lament that -- no one I know will ever admit to liking Kenny G, but I never minded hearing George Benson and Norah Jones when I was giving blood. (A few months ago, they switched to one of the local "urban" stations. You know, "urban"? I guess it's shorter than "African American," but it seems even less accurate.)
Then there's the stuff they play at Panera. I suppose you might call it "postbop" or maybe "hard bop" (but not "Mmm-bop"). Or the name I call it, "music that featured in Manos, the Hands of Fate."
Good jazz exists. We played some good stuff in jazz ensemble, even my fingers never quite caught up to the notes on the page. I have some albums by various Marsalis brothers, including the truly excellent Black Codes (from the Underground). That album has memorable hooks and a sense that the talented musicians in the group were connecting. The crap they play at Panera sounds like a bunch of guys went into the studio at different times, played erratic phrases on an unfamiliar instrument while stoned, then patched it all together. And yet someone deemed it worthy of recording for posterity and foisting on Panera diners as if it were listenable.
When I was growing up, Wynton and Branford had substantial followings. Musician magazine covered jazz almost as thoroughly as it covered rock.
In these days of fragmented media, you're not likely to find a magazine that covers jazz and rock. With the decline of "smooth jazz," you won't hear much that falls under the "jazz" umbrella unless you seek it out on XM or the Web.
So perhaps the question isn't whether jazz sucks. Maybe it's just dying, despite Hancock's Grammy?
But not all is well in the jazz world. "Smooth jazz" is dying. Some might not lament that -- no one I know will ever admit to liking Kenny G, but I never minded hearing George Benson and Norah Jones when I was giving blood. (A few months ago, they switched to one of the local "urban" stations. You know, "urban"? I guess it's shorter than "African American," but it seems even less accurate.)
Then there's the stuff they play at Panera. I suppose you might call it "postbop" or maybe "hard bop" (but not "Mmm-bop"). Or the name I call it, "music that featured in Manos, the Hands of Fate."
Good jazz exists. We played some good stuff in jazz ensemble, even my fingers never quite caught up to the notes on the page. I have some albums by various Marsalis brothers, including the truly excellent Black Codes (from the Underground). That album has memorable hooks and a sense that the talented musicians in the group were connecting. The crap they play at Panera sounds like a bunch of guys went into the studio at different times, played erratic phrases on an unfamiliar instrument while stoned, then patched it all together. And yet someone deemed it worthy of recording for posterity and foisting on Panera diners as if it were listenable.
When I was growing up, Wynton and Branford had substantial followings. Musician magazine covered jazz almost as thoroughly as it covered rock.
In these days of fragmented media, you're not likely to find a magazine that covers jazz and rock. With the decline of "smooth jazz," you won't hear much that falls under the "jazz" umbrella unless you seek it out on XM or the Web.
So perhaps the question isn't whether jazz sucks. Maybe it's just dying, despite Hancock's Grammy?
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Song du semaine: Velocity Girl, "Sorry Again"
Just a good fun song about apologizing from a local band. (Aside to Wikipedia -- College Park and "Washington DC area" are not two different places.) I wish I'd known lead singers like that would be in bands with geeky guitarists like me when I was 23 or so. My glasses were never that geeky.
Enjoy ...
Enjoy ...
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Progress report
I've written roughly 70,000 words, completed 15 interviews. I'm expecting to do four more in this final week of leave, and then I'm back to the grind.
I don't usually apologize for a lack of blog activity, but it's pretty obvious that if I've written this much while shopping the book around to publishers and preparing to go back to work, I haven't had much power left in my brain or my laptop to write anything coherent about music or media. It's been a while since I've had a spare hour to live-blog VH1 Classic or XM. But I'll get back to it. I promise. Especially once someone agrees to publish this thing.
I don't usually apologize for a lack of blog activity, but it's pretty obvious that if I've written this much while shopping the book around to publishers and preparing to go back to work, I haven't had much power left in my brain or my laptop to write anything coherent about music or media. It's been a while since I've had a spare hour to live-blog VH1 Classic or XM. But I'll get back to it. I promise. Especially once someone agrees to publish this thing.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
SNL and one-joke sketches
One-joke sketches on Saturday Night Live aren't inherently awful. "It's Pat" wasn't exactly complicated. Tom Hanks did well as "Mr. Short-Term Memory." Even The Coneheads and the wild-and-crazy Festrunks didn't exactly match the complexity of a classic Seinfeld or Arrested Development. Nothing wrong with that.
But when a debate sketch, so often SNL's bread and butter, resorts to one joke, that's a missed opportunity.
That's why SNL's otherwise excellent return to the air last weekend had a slow start.
OK. We get it. The media have been fawning over Obama recently. Just as they fawn over every front-runner. Say, Hillary Clinton, three or four months ago.
That's really not enough for a debate sketch. Amy Poehler, Kristen Wiig, Will Forte and Jason Sudeikis are left with little to do but caricatures. (I especially feel for Wiig, who gets stuck with a lot of these characters for some reason -- the new woman in the cast, Casey Wilson, is already getting better parts. In the evening's best sketch, a parody of birth-control pill ads, Wiig is seen making out with a dog.)
The classic SNL debates have layers of jokes on all the candidates. Dana Carvey's memorable Bush vs. Jon Lovitz's pained Dukakis. Carvey's Bush vs. Carvey's Perot vs. Phil Hartman's Clinton ... a trifecta of brilliant characterizations. Then the best of them all -- Darrell Hammond's overbearing Gore vs. Will Ferrell's borderline illiterate Bush, which was heavy on Gore but still introduced "strategery" into our vernacular.
The whole racial question over Fred Armisen playing Obama is overblown -- both men have family trees that look like Benetton ads. Maya Rudolph had no problem playing characters of any ethnicity. Neither should Armisen.
The blame here is on the folks who were on strike all this time -- the writers. Come on, folks. These people are funnier than that.
But when a debate sketch, so often SNL's bread and butter, resorts to one joke, that's a missed opportunity.
That's why SNL's otherwise excellent return to the air last weekend had a slow start.
OK. We get it. The media have been fawning over Obama recently. Just as they fawn over every front-runner. Say, Hillary Clinton, three or four months ago.
That's really not enough for a debate sketch. Amy Poehler, Kristen Wiig, Will Forte and Jason Sudeikis are left with little to do but caricatures. (I especially feel for Wiig, who gets stuck with a lot of these characters for some reason -- the new woman in the cast, Casey Wilson, is already getting better parts. In the evening's best sketch, a parody of birth-control pill ads, Wiig is seen making out with a dog.)
The classic SNL debates have layers of jokes on all the candidates. Dana Carvey's memorable Bush vs. Jon Lovitz's pained Dukakis. Carvey's Bush vs. Carvey's Perot vs. Phil Hartman's Clinton ... a trifecta of brilliant characterizations. Then the best of them all -- Darrell Hammond's overbearing Gore vs. Will Ferrell's borderline illiterate Bush, which was heavy on Gore but still introduced "strategery" into our vernacular.
The whole racial question over Fred Armisen playing Obama is overblown -- both men have family trees that look like Benetton ads. Maya Rudolph had no problem playing characters of any ethnicity. Neither should Armisen.
The blame here is on the folks who were on strike all this time -- the writers. Come on, folks. These people are funnier than that.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Song du semaine: Anna Nalick, "Shine"
Yes, it's a current song. New territory here at MMM.
It's so new that I don't see an actual video for it yet, just a couple of things at YouTube. One is apparently an official release of some sort, though it's just a bunch of pictures of the handwritten lyrics (with unfortunate apostrophe errors included). So as you're reading, you can watch that or just listen at her official site.
Nalick's breakthrough -- spurred along by Grey's Anatomy, proving that something good can come from that piece of dreck -- was a few years removed from the Great Young Woman Invasion of 2000-2002. You remember those days -- Michelle Branch, Vanessa Carlton and Avril Lavigne all hitting it big while a bunch of oppressive male critics lumped them all together. I have vague, possibly hazy memories of people claiming you couldn't tell them apart, which is about like a critic in 1966 saying you can't distinguish Roger Daltrey from Mick Jagger.
(Unrelated TV quiz: Name the show that made reference to "the Rolling Who.")
All three of these women were tagged as "anti-Britneys" because they clearly took their music more seriously than their image, refusing to sell themselves as mere teen lust fodder. That was before Branch and Lavigne posed for Maxim. Carlton was apparently one of Jane's "11 people you'd most like to see naked," which was an odd stance to take for a magazine allegedly marketed to young women. In any case, I don't know of any evidence that she took anyone up on the "offer."
And all three brought something different to the radio (or Launch player, in my case). Branch delved into several pop-rock styles, from overt Beatles references to modern dance beats. Carlton had sort of a retro piano-rock vibe. Lavigne was to postpunk rock as Liz Phair was to classic rock, recasting all the standard themes from a female perspective.
Not that they were polished and brilliant. All three needed some work on the lyrics. But they were far better than anything I was writing at age 17. I'm just glad YouTube wasn't around when we recorded the R.E.M.-style video for Let's Rock and Roll 'Til We Get Herpes and Die. I always dreamed of being a rock star and was actually a little jealous of Debbie Gibson, but the 20 or so people who've heard the recordings of my high school "band" would surely tell me I made the right career choice. Sniff.
But instead of progressing, all three declined. Carlton's later singles were listenable but not particularly memorable. Branch released a second album with several solid singles, married her bass player despite a rather substantial age difference, formed a country-ish duo and has a daughter who's more than a year older than my second son. Lavigne, despite heading to the altar as well, seems to be getting younger, creating the unnerving duality of a tween-oriented signer flouting her sexuality from a magazine rack.
That leaves Nalick as the great hope for those of us who like to hear women on the radio and can't wait an eternity between Sarah McLachlan albums. Those of you who have read this blog for more than 30 months know I have a soft spot in my heart for Nalick because she sang in a Rush cover band.
And she has the best voice of this group, by far. She puts it great use here. At times, she sounds like Kate Bush in places, but less pretentiously ethereal.
The lyrics aren't bad, either.
It's so new that I don't see an actual video for it yet, just a couple of things at YouTube. One is apparently an official release of some sort, though it's just a bunch of pictures of the handwritten lyrics (with unfortunate apostrophe errors included). So as you're reading, you can watch that or just listen at her official site.
Nalick's breakthrough -- spurred along by Grey's Anatomy, proving that something good can come from that piece of dreck -- was a few years removed from the Great Young Woman Invasion of 2000-2002. You remember those days -- Michelle Branch, Vanessa Carlton and Avril Lavigne all hitting it big while a bunch of oppressive male critics lumped them all together. I have vague, possibly hazy memories of people claiming you couldn't tell them apart, which is about like a critic in 1966 saying you can't distinguish Roger Daltrey from Mick Jagger.
(Unrelated TV quiz: Name the show that made reference to "the Rolling Who.")
All three of these women were tagged as "anti-Britneys" because they clearly took their music more seriously than their image, refusing to sell themselves as mere teen lust fodder. That was before Branch and Lavigne posed for Maxim. Carlton was apparently one of Jane's "11 people you'd most like to see naked," which was an odd stance to take for a magazine allegedly marketed to young women. In any case, I don't know of any evidence that she took anyone up on the "offer."
And all three brought something different to the radio (or Launch player, in my case). Branch delved into several pop-rock styles, from overt Beatles references to modern dance beats. Carlton had sort of a retro piano-rock vibe. Lavigne was to postpunk rock as Liz Phair was to classic rock, recasting all the standard themes from a female perspective.
Not that they were polished and brilliant. All three needed some work on the lyrics. But they were far better than anything I was writing at age 17. I'm just glad YouTube wasn't around when we recorded the R.E.M.-style video for Let's Rock and Roll 'Til We Get Herpes and Die. I always dreamed of being a rock star and was actually a little jealous of Debbie Gibson, but the 20 or so people who've heard the recordings of my high school "band" would surely tell me I made the right career choice. Sniff.
But instead of progressing, all three declined. Carlton's later singles were listenable but not particularly memorable. Branch released a second album with several solid singles, married her bass player despite a rather substantial age difference, formed a country-ish duo and has a daughter who's more than a year older than my second son. Lavigne, despite heading to the altar as well, seems to be getting younger, creating the unnerving duality of a tween-oriented signer flouting her sexuality from a magazine rack.
That leaves Nalick as the great hope for those of us who like to hear women on the radio and can't wait an eternity between Sarah McLachlan albums. Those of you who have read this blog for more than 30 months know I have a soft spot in my heart for Nalick because she sang in a Rush cover band.
And she has the best voice of this group, by far. She puts it great use here. At times, she sounds like Kate Bush in places, but less pretentiously ethereal.
The lyrics aren't bad, either.
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