Spin Editors' Blog

"Why I Can't Listen to Elliott Smith's Music"

Matt Kiser — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 11:13:37 -0500

Today marks the sixth anniversary of Elliott Smith’s death.

For me, it marks the fifth anniversary of not listening to his music. This isn’t because I don’t like it. I actually share the view that Smith was one of the best two or three singer-songwriters of his generation.

When I was in college I’d have XO and Figure 8 on repeat-play, sometimes hearing them three or four times a night. My roommate and I would waltz around the room, singing along to every song, completely unaware of the sentiments spilling from our mouths. We knew his lyrics were “deep,” but we heard what we wanted to hear. To me, the songs were dark but beautiful, haunting yet comforting, stark and lush at the same time.

Then I learned. Way too much.

In October of 2004, a year after his death, Spin ran a feature on the untold story behind Smith’s death. Though it was assumed he committed suicide by stabbing himself in the chest, the coroner's report noted that “several aspects of the circumstances… are atypical of suicide and raise the possibility of homicide.”

More on SPIN.com:
>> Elliott Smith Remembered, 5 Years Later
>> 'Elliott Smith' Compiles Photos, Unreleased Live Material
>> Review: From a Basement on the Hill (Anti-)
>> Review: XO (Dreamworks)

Some people believed his girlfriend Jennifer Chiba, who was with him at the time of his death and who pulled the knife from his body before calling 911, murdered him. Most others thought this was ridiculous. While our story by Liam Gowing touched on the rumors, it made a case for suicide. And since I was the research editor of the magazine at the time, it was my job to make sure that case was solid. I had fact-checked hundreds of articles for the magazine, but nothing like this.

For almost a month, I poured over transcripts of interviews with Smith’s friends and loved ones; I read books and newspaper articles; I tried to interpret lyrics of songs like “Suicide Machine” and “Abused,” which would never be released; I spoke with former band mates, medical professionals, music executives, girlfriends -- even Jennifer Chiba, who was so willing to talk that I found it unnerving. Some people hung up on me. Others choked up, sharing particularly troubling memories. People told me things they shouldn’t have, things I couldn’t repeat. I cried a lot that month. Sometimes it was because of stress, but mostly I was crying for Elliott Smith.

In May of 2002 I saw Smith play a private show for Northwestern University students at a club in Chicago. His set lasted 50 minutes, but he didn’t get through a single song. He seemed drunk, high, completely out of it. He kept saying that his left hand hurt -- that his fingers had gone numb -- and that’s why he couldn’t play. “It's like having stuff on your hand and you can't get it off,” he told the crowd, shaking his wrist, trying to remove the imaginary goo.

Elliott Smith

My friends and I thought this was hilarious. We repeated this line for weeks, mocking his slurred, drawn-out speech. But we didn’t know what it meant. We didn’t know that at the time he was addicted to heroin and crack, smoking up to $1,500 worth a day. We didn’t know that he had actually tried to OD but failed, on more than occasion. We didn’t know that he believed he was sexually abused by his stepfather as a child. We didn’t know that three months later, he’d check himself into rehab, get clean, and finally face the pain he’d spent years trying to numb. We didn’t know any of this. We just figured he had smoked a lot of pot backstage.

They say you should never meet your idols. Nor should you get too intimate with their demons. Today, I can’t separate the songs from the story. Each one is a reminder of how cruel life can be -- allowing someone like him, someone with that much talent and heart, to suffer through so much pain for so long. I know I should celebrate his music, be grateful for his life and gifts, and that he shared them with the world, but right now I can’t. Maybe one day I’ll feel different. I hope so. I miss him.

First Take: 'Where the Wild Things Are'

Peter Gaston — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 07:12:11 -0500

It was a weekend of wild things, particularly of the lupine variety: unfit parents in Colorado cried wolf, SNL guest Shakira howled like a wolf, and a movie about a boy dressed as a wolf opened in theaters nationwide. Had it not been for that balloon rumpus, the latter would have easily been the most captivating spectacle.

I expected to be bored by Spike Jonze's Where the Wild Things Are. Unless they were released during my own childhood, I don't typically enjoy movies that are for or about children, and I completely slept on Maurice Sendak's 1963 book (or, at least, have no recollection of reading it). So I wasn't among the scores of people eagerly anticipating this release ever since Jonze began working on it an impressive six years ago. If anything, the hipster trifecta -- director/co-writer Jonze, writer Dave Eggers, and soundtrack composer Karen O -- seemed a tad smug, suggesting, as it did, that their involvement alone would secure the film's popularity. (And when a New York boutique started selling $600 wolf suits for grown-ups, it nearly squashed all interest).

But while it isn't as phenomenal as some diehard fans surely hoped, Where the Wild Things Are is, in my opinion, a pretty lovable movie. Jonze, still a boy at age 39, introduces his sensitive child king, Max, as if he were someone the director had known forever. One minute, the 9-year-old hero is crashing down the stairs like a sugar-smacked lunatic; the next he's in tears over a destroyed snow fort. He's lonely in the way children that age often are and we need only witness his unacknowledged entreaties to his big sister or his impish tugs at the toe of his mom's nylons to sense it.

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It's almost with reluctance that, when Max runs away from home twenty minutes in, we, too, have to leave behind Jonze's hand-held verite and travel to a fantasy land of lumbering monsters because therein lies every potential for the film to go awry. Had Jonze opted for computer-animated creatures instead of using oversized puppets that move with the uncertain awkwardness of Snuffleupagus or had he and Eggers reinvented the Wild Things so that they were an innocent crew of subservient sidekicks, the result would have been tediously G-rated. As it is, they managed to create a believably sad -- perhaps even dying -- world that seems to only exist at dawn and dusk (a symbolism alluded to early on when Max is troubled to learn that the sun will one day expire).

As a manifestation of Max's impulses and anxieties, the Wild Things are a confusing bunch. Since Sendak's original text would fill all of about ten Tweets, it's hard to say how accurate Jonze and Eggers' elaboration is -- but what difference does it make? In a documentary that aired last week, the children's book author told Jonze that he would advise today's children to "quit this life as soon as possible." Things change.

Max forges an immediate connection with the aggressively petulant Carol (voiced by James Gandolfini); they bond when the boy offers to help Carol destroy his woodland house. Soon he meets the oft-overlooked Alexander (Paul Dano), the maternal KW (Lauren Ambrose), and other characters whose expectations he, as king, must manage. The rest of the film drags a bit as Max reenacts the events that led to his leaving home -- the gallivanting and fort-building is fun, and the random decisions to sleep in piles and talk to owls are perfectly child-like in their imaginative absurdity, but there's an aimlessness to the narrative similar to that of Eggers' previous screenplay (last summer's Away We Go).

In the end, though, it's a worthwhile process. Eventually, Max recognizes Carol's destructive impulses as his own and he rejects them. All along, we've been watching Max move from indignation to realization, from selfishness to understanding, from impulse to thought, without having to endure an improbably mature speech that makes the Precocious Child one of Hollywood's least charming devices. The act of investigating one's perspective and desires is, itself, mature. Max returns to a warm dinner and nothing has been entirely resolved, only considered, which is a lesson more adult than any other.

WATCH: Where The Wild Things Are Trailer

Spinal Tap: Is the Joke Finally Over?

Matt Kiser — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 15:25:55 -0500

SPIN has made no secret of its reverence for a certain iconic film currently celebrating its 25th anniversary. Yet for all the accolades, Purple Rain may not even have been the most impactful rock movie released in 1984.

Rob Reiner, Christopher Guest, Michael McKean, and Harry Shearer's metal "mockumentary" This Is Spinal Tap has become the ultimate signifier for rock n' roll excess and idiocy. More to the point, it is the impossibly rare cultural product that's universally beloved. (Historically, the movie's only real detractors have been the real-life rock stars who found the goings-on all too real, and that was more out of embarrassment than outrage.)

But while Prince is marking his movie's milestone the same way he's marked every other career achievement -- by keeping his mouth shut and leaving everything about the project shrouded in mystery -- Guest, McKean, and Shearer have never shown such restraint.

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There were a couple of in-character tours, the 1992 studio album Break Like the Wind, which turned arcana from the fake band's very realistic backstory into actual songs, and numerous high-profile live appearances (the Freddie Mercury tribute in 1992, Live Earth). That's fine -- if a few music fans who have somehow never seen the movie get driven to do so, that's for everyone's betterment.

This year's attempts at brand management, however, fall on the wrong side of the fine line between stupid and clever.

The recent Unwigged and Unplugged acoustic tour, during which the trio played (out of character) not just Spinal Tap numbers but songs from its folk mockumentary counterpart A Mighty Wind, was harmless enough; it was aimed squarely at the boomers who were in on the joke the first time around, and designed as little more than a quiet, nostalgic night out that could have been MC'd by Garrison Kellior.

Less innocuous or sensible, though, was Back From the Dead, posited as a "new" album, but consisting solely of glossy re-workings of older songs. (This in and of itself not unheard of -- Camper Van Beethoven recently put out a greatest-hits collection featuring new recordings because they couldn't get the rights to their own songs and Kiss are doing something similar for a Wal-Mart exclusive.)

In Spinal Tap's case, however, this is not merely pointless, it actually strips the numbers of the subtle jokes that made them classic to begin with: The original "Gimme Some Money" was a pitch-perfect mono take on 1964-vintage Merseybeat proto-rock; redone without the jokey low-fi, it barely merits a shrug.

"Big Bottom" punctuated its ode to ample backsides with three absurd, appropriately bottom-heavy basslines; the new version is largely keyboard-driven. If this was indeed necessitated by label shenanigans, the temptation to leave the old versions out of print -- and not for sale -- must have been too easy to resist.

Then there's this: On The Daily Show a couple weeks ago, the reconstituted Spinal Tap performed the former cock-rock homage "Sex Farm," (now rechristened, lamentably, "(Funky) Sex Farm") with a horn section. (See video below.)

Certainly, these guys need to be doing something to make the joke feel fresh after 25 years, but if the only recourse is to destroy the very joke that got them here, wouldn't it make more sense to just, you know, write new jokes? (If it is indeed supposed to be some wonky commentary about the time that, I don't know, Deep Purple recorded a seldom-heard scat version of "Smoke on the Water" in 1988, then I stand humbly corrected. But somehow I don't think that's the case this time.)

Never has satire been delivered with such pinpoint accuracy as This Is Spinal Tap -- only people who understood and loved music as deeply as those guys did could have lampooned its history and its tropes so effectively. But strip away that obsessive attention to genre- and era-specific sonic details, and…well, what's the point?

If this latest move is meant to bring new eyeballs to the movie -- just released on Blu-Ray, not coincidentally -- why would abandoning the very elements that made the comedy so indelible and inimitable be deemed an effective method?

The only answer can be boredom. They would hardly be the first longstanding group to fall prey to that. But Spinal Tap aren't really a band, they're three uniquely talented comic minds with product to promote. The irony, of course, is that no product promotes itself as well as their movie -- its reputation is sterling and unimpeachable and will endure for generations without the three of them ever having to say a word about it as long as they live. All they have to do is not fuck with it. (See: Lucas, George.)

So, a personal imploration to Messrs. Guest, McKean, and Shearer: Indulge that urge to go off and finish your rock opera about Jack the Ripper, Saucy Jack, perform a symphony of your works with the London Philharmonic. Envy yourselves.

Finally, rest well at night, hopefully on a bed of well-deserved money, knowing that you've outshone the bands you were honoring/lambasting. And consider taking a cue from your fellow pop legend from the summer of 1984, who himself might be heeding a line from your fake single "(Listen to the) Flower People" (the original 1967-aping version, not the new "reggae stylee" remake):

"Shhhh."

WATCH: Spinal Tap on The Daily Show

Michael Jackson's Legacy: Neither Black Nor White

Matt Kiser — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 06:36:33 -0500

Yesterday afternoon, a full 19 minutes after the Associated Press confirmed Michael Jackson's death, a former publicist for the singer sent an e-mail blast to media outlets offering to spill firsthand details of Jackson's "impossibly difficult and often self-destructive journey." And really, who better to sit in judgment of the man's scruples and morals?

But while that offer seemed so repugnantly opportunistic in the moment, even by our culture's standards, before the shock of the news could even settle in, there is little question that someone will take this cretin up on his offer. The dirt is coming, and it's coming soon, and it's coming hard.

	NEWS: Michael Jackson Dead at 50 READ >>
	NEWS: Michael Jackson's Death: The Aftermath READ >>
	EDITORS BLOG: Remembering Jackson's Better Days READ >>
	VIDEOS: 5 Classic Videos VIEW >>
PLUS: >> Musicians React to Michael Jackson's Death

The immediate aftermath, though, is meant to be a dirt-free zone, a time to honor Jackson's immeasurable achievements and talent and to somehow untangle those qualities from the baffling mess of his inner life; to separate these two aspects of his character, as if they were indeed distinct entities. Such was the tenor of the cavalcade of talking heads on the teevee last night whenever the words "molestation," "vitiligo," or "Macaulay Culkin" were uttered: "We're not going to talk about that tonight. That's not how he will be remembered."

But in the case of Michael Jackson, to separate the sublime from the surreal would be to miss the very point of what made him such a unique, otherwordly presence -- you could not have one without the other.

Someone who had reached such an unmatched level of ubiquity would simply have to suffer some sort of commensurate turmoil. To emerge from that life wholly grounded and psychically intact would be far more inexplicable than dangling your kid Blanket off a fourth floor balcony. One simply could not be famous since the age of 8 in what could charitably be described as a toxic family situation and go on to create the most successful piece of popular culture in any medium that the world has ever seen without becoming profoundly, deeply fucked up. He experienced the good and the bad in equal, unprecedented ways.

Further, just as the punditry-elite agree that Jackson's is a talent that the world won't see the likes of again, neither is his inscrutable character. Nothing could shine a brighter light on the numbing dullness and transparency of today's class of pop stars than remembering Jackson's divisive weirdness.

Iconic pop stars should be weird and unknowable, that's what we're paying them for. They shouldn't be typing their observations into their iPhones 140 characters at a time; they should be shooting their televisions and comparing themselves favorably to Jesus and collecting African babies at will and sleeping in hyperbaric chambers with well-dressed chimpanzees and possibly, regrettably, kindergartners. Because we cannot. We need them to live lives we'll never know, lives we shouldn't know; to be, if not above the law, then certainly beyond the pale. We're not gonna get this from Ciara and Ben Gibbard, no matter how much we beg.

Us magazine isn't necessarily wrong: Celebrities are just like us -- smile to the cameras as you buy arugula, Kim Kardashian. The mistake is lumping Michael Jackson in with that phylum. He exists -- present tense -- on an entirely different level, and if you were to count off others who might join him there, you wouldn't make it to a second hand.

So brace yourself for the torrents of bad vibes and strange tales coming to a supermarket checkout rack near you soon, and console yourself knowing that while they may be hurtful to the man, they will ultimately only add to his considerable legend. Then remember how important it was to Michael Jackson to be thought of as a legend and hope that just maybe the last derisive laugh will be his.

Remembering Michael Jackson's Better Days

Eric Nowels — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 08:10:45 -0500

In the days to come, you will hear a lot of negative stories -- some true, some not -- about Michael Jackson. His squandered fortune. His strange health history. His failed marriages. But I can remember a time when "Michael Jackson" only meant good things.

I remember being five years old and listening to Bad on cassette tape over and over again. I remember being eight and playing Michael Jackson's Moonwalker on my Sega Genesis until my eyes started to tear.

	NEWS: Michael Jackson Dead at 50 READ >>
	EDITORS BLOG: MJ's Legacy: Neither Black Nor White READ >>
	VIDEOS: 5 Classic Videos VIEW >>
PLUS: >> Musicians React to Michael Jackson's Death

I remember going to Disney World with my family and seeing Michael Jackson in the 3D movie Captain Eo. I remember how my friend Adam Litovitz could do the moonwalk better than anybody else in our 4th grade class. I remember the thrill of being allowed to stay up late and watch the video premiere of "Black or White." I remember when Michael Jackson was more than a freak.

I'm 27 years old. Right before I left the office last night, I asked a 21-year-old SPIN colleague if he could remember a time when Michael Jackson wasn't best known as a public train wreck, a punch line. His first memory of MJ was the "Scream" music video from 1995, but even then, he knew about the allegations of child sexual abuse.

I called my sister. She's 19. Her first memory of Michael Jackson? "As someone who looked white but was really black."

It's sad to think that I might be part of the last age group that can recall when Michael Jackson was great.

I can remember when Michael Jackson was magical, charming, kind, and seemed as wonderfully superhuman as Mickey Mouse or a Transformer. I believed in him as a video game character and the captain of an intergalactic spacecraft. That's why all my friends and I tried to mimic his dance moves on the carpet of Mr. Bryk's classroom -- he was a hero.

I remember when Michael Jackson was a joyous spectacle, not a sad one, and when his ubiquity was a good thing. I wish we all could say the same.

Bye Bye Bogle: A Tribute to Surf-Rock Kings the Ventures

Matt Kiser — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 09:58:13 -0500

Surf, sun, and babes -- it's the California Dream. But its soundtrack was born in a much uglier place: a used car lot in rainy Tacoma, WA.

It's there that Bob Bogle and Don Wilson first met in 1958 and discussed their mutual love of the guitar. Soon they quit their jobs as mason workers and formed the Ventures, instrumental surf rock pioneers behind hits like "Walk, Don't Run," "Hawaii Five-O," "Pipeline," and "Perfidia." The group would go on to sell over 100 million records, notch 17 Top 40 releases, get inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame -- and forge a sound that reached across the globe.

Sadly, after five decades of music, Bogle died June 14 in Vancouver, WA, due to complications from non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. He was 75.

Bogle leaves behind a rich musical legacy that has influenced half a century or rock'n'roll bands. From Nirvana (check out the surf beats and guitar work on "Sappy") to Britney Spears (the solo in "Toxic"), the Ventures' sound can be found in many genres and artists.

Two up-and-coming rock bands influenced by the Ventures are San Diego's Wavves, who fuses Phil Spector girl group pop with distorted surf rock riffs and rhythms, and Danish rock duo the Raveonettes, whose sound is a dark, reverb-drenched take on '60s pop.

"Bob basically wrote all the melody to the Ventures songs," Wavves, aka Nathan Williams, tells SPIN.com. "Since so much of it was instrumental, the lead guitar was in a sense singing the vocal melody and Bob did it perfectly -- super repetitive and beached out. Bob played bass in the Ventures later on and you can hear in the songs that same sort of knack for melody."

Raveonettes guitarist/vocalist Sune Rose Wagner is an avid fan of surf rock. One listen to his band's tune "Love in a Trashcan" and the lineage from the Ventures to the Raveonettes couldn't be clearer: “Bob was a huge inspiration for me as a guitarist and songwriter," Sune says from his studio in Copenhagen, where the Raveonettes are recording their new album. "An extremely visionary man, he will be missed.”

More Editors' Blogs:
>> The Tonys' 6 Great Rock'n'Roll Moments
>> Jack White: Not Your Dad's Rock Star
>> What Jay Bennett's Death Made Me Realize About Wilco

Among Bogle's contributions to music was the Mosrite Ventures Series guitar, which he and the band helped design with the fledging guitar co. With its easy playability and sunny twang it became a favorite among surf rock groups -- as well as later bands like MC5, the Ramones, My Bloody Valentine, Franz Ferdinand, and Arcade Fire. A statue of the late Johnny Ramone holding a Mosrite stands beside the '70s punk guitarist's Los Angeles grave. And Kurt Cobain played one, too -- in fact, it was the only axe he never ran neck first into a stack of amplifiers.

Bogle's innovative guitar work led to the Ventures' induction into the Rock Hall just last year. "'Walk, Don't Run' started a whole new movement in rock'n'roll," Creedence Clearwater Revival's John Fogerty said when he inducted the band (Bogle was too sick to attend the ceremony). "The sound of it became 'surf music' and the audacity of it empowered guitarists everywhere."

Wilson, who co-founded the Ventures with Bogle and played alongside him for 50 years, told the Tacoma News Tribune: "I run across so many people, guitar players -- famous ones -- and they say, 'the first song I learned was 'Walk, Don't Run.'"

It makes sense: Ever since their explosion in the '60s, the Ventures have gone by a nickname: "The Band that Launched a Thousand Bands."

WATCH: The Ventures, "Walk Don't Run"

The Tonys' 6 Great Rock'n'Roll Moments

Matt Kiser — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 11:06:45 -0500

On the scale of Rockingness, Broadway's Tony Awards generally register somewhere between Golden Girls and Hannah Montana. But at Sunday night's show (which I had the privilege -- yes, privilege! -- to attend) devil horns outnumbered jazz hands.

Poison's Bret Michaels performed with the cast of '80s hair metal jukebox musical Rock of Ages; dozens of shirtless and hirsute young men from the revival of Hair streamed down the aisles of Radio City, running their hands through the locks of audience members like Anne Hathaway and, err, James Gandolfini; and Elton John, ever the diva, wore sunglasses whlie performing a stirring number from his new musical Billy Elliot.

Of course, some people, like the owlish, tuxedoed, sixty-something man sitting in front of me, couldn't handle it. About halfway through the show, he whirled in his seat and sniffed, without irony and to no one in particular: "Ugh, rock and roll. I should've brought my ear plugs!"

So in honor of him, I herewith offer my 6 Most Rock 'n' Roll Moments of 2009's Tony Awards (jazz hands, please):

6. At the end of the opening montage, the cast members of all the musicals storm the stage and dance it out to "Let the Sun Shine In" from Hair. With all the manic bouncing and hand waving, they look like they're at a Girl Talk concert rather than the Tonys. Except instead of Gregg Gillis at the center of the stage, it's Elton John. Which is pretty girl talk, actually.

WATCH: Opening Number

5. A very cool and sly Geoffrey Rush accepts his award for best actor for Eugène Ionesco's Exit the King and says, "French existential absurdist tragi-comedy rocks." He then jokes that the other plays nominated are proof the genre is "blowing up," pronouncing God of Carnage, the play starring James Gandolfini and Jeff Daniels, with a French accent as "God of Car-NAHGE" and calling Neil LaBute's play, Reasons to be Pretty, "Les Raisons d'etre Jolie." All said with a weaving, loquacious manner that was somehow very Keith Richards.

4. The cast of Shrek The Musical -- including Pinocchio, Humpty Dumpty, and the three little pigs -- perform a song called "Let Your Freak Flag Fly." Connecting the dots between nursery rhymes and the third verse of Hendrix's "If 6 Was 9" ("I'm gonna wave my freak flag high, high, ow").

3. After Billy Elliot is crowned best musical, host Neil Patrick Harris closes the show with a parody of West Side Story's "Tonight," vamping on the evening's events. Sample stanza: "Elton's Billy was all the rage/ What class, what drive/ now Angela won five / And she hooked up with Poison backstage." Said "Angela" being, yes, Angela Lansbury.

2. During the medley of "I Want to Rock," "Paradise," and "Don't Stop Believing" from Rock of Ages, Jarvis Mitchell, the Jack Black-esque narrator of the musical, saunters into the audience, stops before the Liza Minnelli's seat, and, angling his crotch toward her face, calls her "a nasty little Tony nominated freak machine."

1. After leading the cast of Rock of Ages in a rifftastic rendition of his band Poison's song "Nothin' But a Good Time," Rock of Love host Bret Michaels continues to work the crowd, waving and blowing kisses, apparently still deep in throes of the first Bush administration. He's so transported that he misses his mark and gets closelined onto his back by a heavy, descending piece of backdrop. Neil Patrick Harris comments that his performance "gave head banging a whole new meaning." (Ba-dum-bump!)

WATCH: Bret Michaels Get Flattened at Tony Awards

Jack White: Not Your Dad's Rock Star

Matt Kiser — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 11:18:00 -0500

Always unpredictable and never less than interesting, Jack White has cut a unique swath through modern rock. Here’s how:

1. He’s Willing to Take a Back Seat, Literally
In his new band Dead Weather, Jack White is the drummer. He's leaving the spotlight to singer Alison Mosshart (of the Kills). Rock history is full of famous frontmen who temporarily left their regular gigs to do solo work -- e.g., Mick Jagger, Thom Yorke -- but that move is almost always about setting oneself apart from the band, a way of saying this is my thing, here’s what I can do. But by installing himself behind the drums and teaming up with a spitfire lead singer, White is making it clear that his time away from the White Stripes is no ego trip. (White’s other other band, the Raconteurs, is similarly democratic.) I’m sure White has a healthy self-regard, but his willingness to take his name off the marquee and subsume his identity and talent within a group is a refreshing reversal of what we expect from folks of his stature.

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2. He Sweats the Small Stuff
When we think of rock star activism, what comes to mind? Sting entreating us to save the rain forest? Bono campaigning against Third World debt? Unlike those lofty thinkers, Jack White opts for the local. He has joined Nashville’s "Music Business Council," a panel expected to advise the city’s Mayor on music-related projects in White's adopted hometown. This isn’t pie in the sky stuff either. The council will tackle grassroots issues like music education and advise on the construction of an amphitheatre in downtown Music City. Bono talks with Popes and Presidents. White deals with the Mayor.

3. He’s a Mythmaker
Jack White’s real name is John Gillis. For years, he pretended that his ex-wife was his sister. He claims he was married by a shaman on a canoe in the Amazon River. His bands are as much conceptual art projects as they are musical entities. The dude has no shortage of imagination. Compared to his thirtysomething contemporaries like Chris Martin or Billie Joe Armstrong -- all of whom cultivate the notion that they either speak for, or to, us, mere mortal fans -- White appears otherworldly and mysterious. He doesn’t care about coming across as “regular.”

4. He’s Become a Modern Rock Star While Pretending the Modern World Doesn’t Exist
White’s music is rooted in styles -- rockabilly, blues, garage rock -- that were already looking dusty when he was born in 1975. Of course, there are precedents for young musicians reworking older styles. Beck, for one, relied heavily on folk and blues before stepping into the future with Odelay. By contrast, the closest White has come to 'updating' his sound was with the hard rock riffola of the Raconteurs -- which basically sounds like Nazareth. Early Nazareth. What's more, he's fond of old equipment. He uses analog recording; the White Stripes' breakthrough album, Elephant, was laid down at London's Toe Rag studio, which is outfitted with pre-1960s gear. White's not exactly an Auto-Tune kinda guy.

5. He married a model
Actually, that's pretty much rock star status quo, isn’t it? Ah, well. Give him a break. He’s earned it.

MTV Movie Awards: Samberg, K-Stew, Eminem, and More

Matt Kiser — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 06:03:55 -0500

In case you missed the MTV Movie Awards last night -- or only half-watched it, like I did -- here's our verdict on the night's hot topics:

Eminem v. Bruno -- Was Em in on the joke? I'm about 67% convinced that he was. While Eminem seems far too cranky to willingly participate in a prank that involved Baron-Cohen's gay character Bruno descending from the ceiling to rest his junk in Mathers' face, everyone is fighting for attention these days. Audiences are busy flitting from one YouTube clip to the next, but this stunt has the potential to keep us talking about Eminem at least until Wednesday -- so maybe it was worth two balls to the face. Plus, speaking of balls, does MTV have any? Would they really allow one of the few platinum selling artists in attendance to be ambushed (hee) like this without telling him?

OMG, Miley Cyrus -- She made me squirm when, after winning Best Song, she big upped God and then told Samberg, "I'm on the boat!" Miley is like that girl from high school who thinks she's plucky and popular but, in reality, her classmates only like her because her parents have a pool. Obviously, there's nothing wrong with believing in God, but believing that he had anything to do with who gets a popcorn statuette from MTV kinda trivializes his authority, no? And then reaching out to Andy Samberg like those two could possibly share a joke?

Hottest Actress Around, Kristen Stewart -- The misery of K-Stew needs to end. Yes, she is doomed to complete three more Twilight movies, and while that probably makes the star who's set to play Joan Jett in the Runaways biopic feel lamer with every passing sequel, she isn't doing herself any favors by acting so unimpressed by it all. Last night, she looked like she'd rather be shot into space than have anything to do with the movie franchise that has made her famous. She rolled her eyes at costar R Patz during one of his acceptance speeches, deliberately mumbled an introduction to the clip of New Moon and dropped her statuette for Best Performance. Her unease is understandable -- especially considering that her better movie, Adventureland (a.k.a. the best movie of 2009) was totally ignored last night -- but her undisguised apathy is a little tacky.

Token Apatow alum, Jonah Hill -- In under two minutes, Hill managed to crack a joke about Vanessa Hudgens' and Zac Efron's lack of pubic hair, and then faked a boner when Robert Pattinson took the stage. Considering that all of those stars probably appeal to an audience that has only just hit puberty themselves, it could have been icky. Well, actually, it was icky and I laughed anyway. In the absence of Seth Rogen and Co., all of whom would presumably rather get stoned at this point than attend the Movie Awards, Hill seemed to be saying, "Don't forget me, Apatow!" But his inappropriateness was legitimately funny.

"Old Timer," Cameron Diaz -- Poor Cameron. Like Ben Stiller and Jim Carey, her presence last night felt parental. She tolerated "old" jokes from Abigail Breslin, picked up what looked like the remains of K-Stew's broken trophy, and threw herself into Samberg's skit with Fred Armisen by doing a little dance during their fake intervention. Despite not having much of an aptitude for sketch comedy, she tries (see her multiple guest appearances as a cougar on SNL) and it often feels like she's rushing to beat other people to the punch line before she gets branded the Loneliest Spinster in the World (Jennifer Aniston is waiting to be relieved).

Host, Andy Samberg -- Just like he does for SNL, Samberg brought "youth savvy" to the MTV Movie Awards (read: he referenced Keyboard Cat). And since every year the crowd grows significantly tweenier, it worked. His spoofs incorporated some of the most ridiculous scenes from last year's hit movies (the poop jump in Slumdog, the Edward-smells-Bella's-blood-for-the first-time-and-looks-revolted moment from Twilight). As a comedian, Samberg seems to prefer to get celebrities in on the joke rather than make fun of them, which sometimes seems like a bid for their friendship. But, then again, poking fun at the cast of the Hills, Twilight and High School Musical would mean laughing at half of last night's audience. Of course, Samberg also spent a good deal of time big-upping his own Lonely Island songs. "Cool Guys Don't Look at Explosions" was an amusing observation that stretched into an over-long skit, but the star-studded performance of "Dick in a Box" was more entertaining than either live guest Kings of Leon or Eminem. He should host every year until he, too, is deemed too old (which will be in about two years).

What Jay Bennett's Death Made Me Realize About Wilco

Matt Kiser — Fri, 29 May 2009 06:48:58 -0500

A few Sundays ago I hosted a Wilco listening session in my apartment.

The only guest was my husband, a casual listener more conversant in Jeff Tweedy's migraines and squabbles with sidemen than the band's actual musical catalogue. As a longtime Wilco fan -- who first heard A.M. on a dorm boombox freshman year at college in Chicago -- I took it upon myself to school him.

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I pulled out all six of their albums, put them in the carousel (they're one of the few bands whose records I always buy on CD) and walked him through each song. By the time we moved from the atmospheric pop of A Ghost Is Born into the jammy folk-rock of Sky Blue Sky, I had a sudden realization: I liked Wilco better with Jay Bennett in the band.

When I heard that he died last Sunday, this wistfulness turned into something worse. Bennett, who released a handful of quirky and gorgeous (but largely overlooked) solo albums after his dismissal from Wilco, had emerged in recent media as a vengeful and troubled soul. Just three weeks prior to his death, he filed suit against Wilco for breach of contract and unpaid royalties, possibly to help pay for hip surgery he lacked health insurance to cover. While a toxicology report has yet to determine the cause of death, his drug history and the pain he was likely in certainly raise the specter of an overdose. Which only makes his clouded reputation as an artist seem more unfair.

To me, Bennett got a bad rap. Much of this comes from his portrayal in the documentary I Am Trying to Break Your Heart: as a crazy, dreadheaded, obsessive, control freak -- a guy all but explicitly blamed for sending Tweedy into the bathroom stall to puke his guts out, overwhelmed by the angst of working with such a nightmare. That Tweedy then fired Bennett only cemented the latter's rep as an albatross cast from Tweedy's shoulders so that Wilco could rise to glory.

The film is a must-see (especially for anyone considering a career in the music industry), but it has its distortions. (Watch the trailer here.) Even Tweedy complained that it focused too much on his and Bennett's relationship. And the Bennett-as-creativity-squelcher throughline sort of obscures the fact that he co-wrote eight of the eleven songs on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, the album that propelled Wilco to become one of the most critically lauded and obsessively followed bands of their generation.

Bennett joined Wilco in 1994 just after they recorded their debut, A.M. While it's not always easy to pinpoint one musician's effect on a band's sound, I think Bennett's contributions were audible and distinct.

LISTEN TO WILCO:
"Can't Stand It"/"Shot In The Arm" (Live Indiana, '09)

"I'm Always in Love"

"She's A Jar" (Live at Austin City Limits, '99)

"My Darling" (Live at Austin City Limits, '99)

A multi-instrumentalist and studio wiz, he helped Wilco shed its alt-country tag and move into the immersive, unclassifiable sonic territory they become known for. Bennett's Wilco debut Being There was a huge step forward, and by the time Summerteeth came out in 1999, they sounded like a completely different band. The songs were fuller, warmer, the standard guitar-and-drums set-up of A.M. had been supplemented by a lush psychedelic impressionism that was largely a product of Bennett's masterful work with farfisa organ, bells, Moog, lap steel guitar, banjo, synthesizer, and other instrumental exotica.

Yesterday I listened to Summerteeth and tried to imagine it without these contributions. How would "Can't Stand It" sound without those dramatic bell chimes that double the guitar chords at the opening? Would "I'm Always in Love" be half as good without the chirpy, Cars-ish analog synth? And would "She's A Jar" be anywhere near as heartbreaking without that soft, sighing organ that coos through the verses? Or those stately, orchestral synths that rise to bring in the chorus? Or that gentle oboe-like keyboard phrase that caresses the line "dry your eyes, you poor devil"?

Go listen to that song now, think about Jay Bennett's passing, and try keeping your own eyes dry.

I'm not trying to take glory from Tweedy. Wilco is his band, and boy has he earned the rep they enjoy now. But I really think Bennett made him better, and at a crucial time in the band's career. I still love Wilco. I've enjoyed all their post-Bennett albums and think their new one, Wilco (The Album), is the best of those yet. But I haven't felt that way about any of them. It always seemed like something was missing to me. Maybe it was just a certain deeply musical understanding of the songs' shapes and colors, a certain way of setting off a phrase or building a gorgeous aural frame. I'm not exactly sure. But now that something is gone for good.

Free download: Jay Bennett's album "Whatever Happened I Apologize".

Eminem's New Video: Random and Embarrassing?

Matt Kiser — Tue, 05 May 2009 10:19:09 -0500

Eminem has every right to portray the character of a serial killer, as he does in his new "3 A.M." video. But does he bear any artistic responsibility to explore, in even the most remote way, why that character is doing what he's doing? Motivation? Context? Anything? At one point, he sing-songs, "She puts the lotion in the bucket / He puts the lotion in the bucket," referencing The Silence of the Lambs in a half-hearted attempt at a psychosexual one-liner. But it just seems random and embarrassing.

In the video, Eminem plays "a hooligan who's used to usin' hallucinogens," a shirtless, homicidal basket case who flashes back to scenes of mass slaughter that he can't remember committing. Rapping in an overly pinched, not quite playful, off-handedly glib whine, he admits: "I guess I must've killed them / Killed them." And oh yeah, he kisses naked mannequins and jerks off in his living room to Hannah Montana. And apparently, according to a recent XXL interview, this is how he pays tribute to his deceased best friend, D12 cofounder Proof: "I wanted to go back to [Proof's] idea of saying the most fucked-up shit that we can."

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Problem is, that particular light-bulb moment happened, oh, a decade ago! Back when Eminem was a broke, hungry twentysomething nobody who was desperately trying to get anybody's attention with his lyrical ingenuity. Now he's a 35-year-old superstar promoting a new album with lyrics that feel like they could've been outtakes from The Slim Shady EP, where he first developed his then-hilariously excoriating alter ego.

"3 A.M." reminds me of another depiction that actually does capture the unspeakable horror and banality and emptiness and rationalization that must ravage the mind of a would-be serial killer. It's from the 2000 movie version of Bret Easton Ellis' 1991 novel American Psycho, which is centered on the desperately social-climbing, yuppie-drone character Patrick Bateman. (Note: After the movie's release, Eminem coproduced two unremarkable songs, "American Psycho" and "American Psycho II," for D12). In the scene, Bateman is with two women -- Christie, a prostitute, and Elizabeth, an acquaintance who seems to know Bateman better than he knows her. After many glasses of wine, the women are eventually coerced into making out with each other, and Bateman begins a painfully pompous, emotionally demented commentary on pop music.

Bateman: Did you know that Whitney Houston's debut LP -- called simply Whitney Houston -- had four No. 1 singles on it? Did you know that, Christie?

Elizabeth [Cackling in a drunken haze, rolls off the sofa on to the floor]: You actually listen to Whitney Houston? You own a Whitney Houston CD? More than one?

Bateman [Ignoring her, drones on]: It's hard to choose a favorite among so many great tracks. But "The Greatest Love of All" is one of the best, most powerful songs ever written about self-preservation and dignity. Its universal message crosses all boundaries and instills one with the hope that it's not too late to better ourselves. Since, Elizabeth, it's impossible in this world we live in to empathize with others, we can always empathize with ourselves. It's an important message. Crucial, really. And it's beautifully stated on the album.

Afterward, Bateman has sex with the women and kills them. The scene climaxes with him running down the hallway of a Manhattan high-rise, naked, holding a chainsaw, covered in blood, and screaming like an animal. Sound like a certain Shady character you know?

Of course, nine years after the film of American Psycho was released, it still stands as one of the most chillingly absurd dissections of the 1980s' consumptive delusion. "3 A.M.," on the other hand, is just a faint footnote in the career of gifted MC who is struggling to find the plot.

WATCH: Eminem, "3 A.M."

The 9 Best Musical 'Star Trek' Moments

Matt Kiser — Fri, 01 May 2009 04:37:44 -0500

On May 8, JJ Abrams' Star Trek will introduce a new generation of fans to Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy, and the rest of the crew of the Enterprise. Featuring a young, sexy cast -- and a decided lack of Shatner -- Abrams' franchise reboot will attempt to entice moviegoers to boldly go where they may never have gone before: a Star Trek film.

But for those of us well versed in the moral implications of the Prime Directive, the world of Trek has lived on even in the time between new films and TV series. Astute observers may have even noticed the show creeping into the alien world of pop music. My nine favorite such minglings are listed below:

1. William Shatner's "Mr. Tambourine Man"

The erstwhile Captain Kirk's entire 1968 spoken word album The Transformed Man is a mind-blowing goldmine of unintentional comedy, but the take on the Bob Dylan classic is a landmark of tin-eared line readings and hammy portentousness.

2. William Shatner's Has Been

Redemption, almost forty years later. With production and arranging help from Ben Folds -- and no small amount of ironic self-awareness -- Shatner atoned for his earlier recording misstep with this well-regarded album of spoken word ruminations and autumnal musings.

LISTEN: William Shatner, "Common People"

3. Spock's Beard

Prog rock and sci-fi just seem to go together. Brothers Neal and Alan Morse thought so, and named their long-running, Genesis-influenced L.A. band after a legendary episode of the original Star Trek series that takes place in an alternate universe (which is signified by Spock's devilish goatee).

4. Spirit, Future Games

Devotees of classic rock radio might be familiar with Spirit's late-‘60s mini-hits like "Nature's Way" and "I Got a Line on You," but long after the band fell out of fan favor, the pysch-rock outfit continued recording their highly eccentric albums. One of those, 1977's Future Games, featured snippets of dialogue taken from an old Trek episode where Kirk turned into one of his old girlfriends. It's a long story, and like this album, best encountered in altered states.

5. Beastie Boys' "Ch-Check It Out" music video

The video for this standout track from the trio's To the 5 Boroughs album begins with a Star Trek homage, as MCA, Ad-Rock, and Mike D are teleported, as if by Scotty himself, onto a gritty urban streetscape. Later, wearing Star Fleet uniforms, the Boys engage in some poorly choreographed fisticuffs.

6. Phish, "Spock's Brain"

This never recorded song's title was also taken from an episode of the original TV series. So far only performed live, the song and its lyrics seem to be unrelated to the show's plot, but the spooky, slyly grooving tune is one of the jam band heroes' best unreleased numbers.

LISTEN: Phish, "Spock's Brain" Live, 09.29.00 Las Vegas, NV

7. Mick Fleetwood guest stars on Star Trek: the Next Generation

I remember visiting London once and seeing Mick Fleetwood stroll by. Well over six feet tall, with long hair, and a big smile, the Fleetwood Mac drummer was hard to miss. He was harder to spot on his guest appearance on TNG. Playing a member of the Antedean race, Fleetwood donned makeup that made him look like a giant walking fish.

8. "Amok Time"

"Amok Time" is a famous Trek episode in which Spock and Kirk are forced to fight each other to the death (an event parodied by Matthew Broderick and Jim Carrey in Cable Guy). The battle is soundtracked by some amazing stabbing horns and thumping tympani. The link to pop is tenuous here, though I've read that some DJs cut the "Amok Time" theme into their sets. But I don't care, because whenever I imagine myself engaged in a life-or-death struggle, this is the music playing in my head.

9. Deodato, "Star Trek Theme"

Brazilian composer and instrumentalist Eumir Deodato made something of a name for himself during the ‘70s with his jazzy, heavily orchestrated version of Richard Strauss's "Also sprach Zarathustra" (i.e., the music used in the opening of 2001: A Space Odyssey). But his squiggly, synthtastic version of the Star Trek theme music is an equally satisfying bit of musical kitsch.

Two Days with the Dead in NY

Matt Kiser — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 08:57:36 -0500

Backstage at Long Island, NY's Nassau Coliseum Friday night, 20 minutes before the Dead take the stage, guitarist/vocalist Bob Weir is pacing the hallway, fingering his electric guitar and singing to himself; bassist Phil Lesh is standing idly, solemn; and drummer Mickey Hart is chewing gum... rapidly. "In the end it will be the cockroaches and us," says Hart. "We still haven't been stopped."

He might be right. More than 40 years into a career in which they defined the psychedelic Haight-Ashbury scene in San Francisco, and then became rock'n'roll's most eclectic touring phenomenon, the Dead are still going strong. The Long Island show is part of the band's "reunion" tour, their first outing since 2004, when they began touring as "the Dead," a truncated version of "the Grateful Dead," a name they retired after the death of guitarist/vocalist Jerry Garcia in 1995.

Click to Enlarge!
Photo by Jay Blakesberg

Now with Allman Brothers/Gov't Mule guitarist Warren Haynes filling in for Garcia, and Jeff Chimenti on keyboards, the band sounds fresh, lively, and just as relevant as ever -- just ask the 17,000 fans packed inside the coliseum. Or thousands more in the parking lot, index-fingers raised high hoping for a "miracle" -- a free ticket to musical salvation.

Friday's show was a testament to the band's storied versatility. They opened with the loose country groove of "Jack Straw," shifted to the proggy guitars and jazzy bounce of "Saint of Circumstance," and found moments of poignancy on a cover of Bob Dylan's "Knockin' on Heaven's Door." It was like Weir was singing directly to Jerry. As the crowd sang along on the chorus, hundreds of multi-colored glow sticks came raining down from the rafters like fireworks.

From the otherworldly sounds Hart coaxed from his "beam" -- a unique stringed instrument played with a mallet -- to Haynes' countrified riffs, and beyond, it was certainly an eye-opening show, especially for a first-timer. And it was all the coercion I needed to see the Dead again on Saturday night at Manhattan's Madison Square Garden -- a venue the band has played more than 50 times.

With no parking lot to inhabit, tie-dyed Deadheads dotted Midtown Manhattan. The sight of a vintage Volkswagen bus on 32nd Street, as two businessmen in suits stood nearby, making jokes at its many bumper stickers, was especially affecting.

For fans, it's simple -- they love this band. The Dead's following is second to none; they trail the band everywhere. They trade bootlegs. Argue the merits of set lists, songs, verses, choruses, lyrical meaning, et al. They name their daughters "Ramblin' Rose." And yes, they certainly like to get high. But so do 20-year-olds in bathroom stalls at a Titus Andronicus concert. And Deadheads' devotion to their band makes the hipsters who sacrifice a few hundred dollars and a few nights of sleep for SXSW look like amateurs.

Click to Enlarge!
Photo by Jay Blakesberg

Inside the Garden, people are dancing. Haynes is singing and fingering the funky riffs of "Shakedown Street," commanding Garcia's celebrated tune like he wrote it himself. Lesh, stage right, opposite Haynes, guides the crowd's hips with fat bass licks. Later, the band push the crowd to their wildest with an unhinged take on "Sugaree," Haynes and Weir trading riff for riff, as Chimenti pounds out the saloon piano tune over the backwoods rhythms of Hart and percussionist Bill Kreutzmann (known collectively as the "Rhythm Devils"). One of the set's final songs, a cover of the Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter," was met with equal enthusiasm -- fans went nuts. Different sections of the stands, once regulated by bouncers, now overflowed into one another. This elation couldn't be contained.

The whole weekend, from Friday afternoon to late Saturday night, was filled with the same vibe. The night before, backstage at Nassau Coliseum, a troupe of "friends and family" arrived to chat with the band. It was a reunion of sorts. One woman brought her son. With gauged pierced ears, a fedora, and tight jeans, he looked like he could front any number of bands from New Jersey's hardcore scene. And he was just as excited for the show as any pony-tailed 50-something in the crowd out front. Another woman, a longtime confidant of the band, now in her 60s, surveyed her environment and said, "Wow, it really has been a long strange trip hasn't it."

Nassau Coliseum set list:
"Jack Straw"
"Brown-Eyed Women"
"It's All Over Now, Baby Blue"
 "Easy Wind"
"Death Don't Have No Mercy"
"Don't Ease Me In" 
"Lost Sailor"
"Saint of Circumstance"

Set two:
"When I Paint My Masterpiece"
"Peggy-O"
  "Looks Like Rain"
  "Alabama Getaway"
"Dark Star"
"Knockin' on Heaven's Door"
  "Goin' Down the Road and Feelin' Bad"
  "Donor Rap"

Encore:
"Touch of Grey"

Madison Square Garden set list:
"Cosmic Charlie"
  "China Cat Sunflower"
"Shakedown Street"
  "Ship of Fools"
  "He's Gone"
  "Cassidy"
  "Sugaree"

Second set:
   Drums/"Space"
"Cryptical Envelopment"
"The Other One"
"Born Cross-Eyed"
"St. Stephen"
"The Eleven"
"Uncle John's Band"
"Unbroken Chain"
"Gimme Shelter"
  "One More Saturday Night"

Encore:
"Brokedown Palace"

7 Reasons to Love 'Rock of Ages'

Matt Kiser — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 05:42:50 -0500

Rock of Ages — the arena-rock jukebox musical that mixes songs by the likes of Bon Jovi, Foreigner, and Journey with a story about "dreaming big, playing loud and partying on" — just opened on Broadway. Even though I had heard good things, I was skeptical that it was going to be a total cheesefest peppered with jokes about Aqua Net and Bartles & James.

Turns out that's exactly what it is. Which is to say, awesome!

Here are seven reasons why it's a must see:

7. The follow your dreams/true love conquers all plotline is as thin as a Whitesnake groupie's g-string -- and it works. Set in the ‘80s in L.A. ("If a fella had a dream and a decent amount of hair, there was nowhere else to be"), it follows Drew (American Idol's Constantine Maroulis), a wannabe rocker working at a club on the Sunset Strip that's set to be demolished to make way for a Footlocker. His love interest Sherrie, a small town girl (living in a lonely world, if you know what I mean) and struggling actress, breaks his heart when she has a one-night stand with Stacee Jaxx, the sex god lead singer of Arsenal, a.k.a, the most awesomest band ever. What ever will happen? Will Drew and Sherrie finally get together? Will they save the club? Will they actually sing Def Leopard's "Rock of Ages"? You'll have to buy a ticket to find out.

Click to Enlarge!

6. You get to drink cans of Coors Light while sitting in a red velvet chair in an 85-year-old Broadway theater. Forget those tiny plastic cups of warm Chardonnay you have to down in the lobby of those other snooty Broadway shows. At the Brooks Atkinson Theater, vendors walk down the aisles hawking cold six packs like they're at a Mets game.

5. It's the best use of an American Idol alum ever. For a guy who came in sixth on the fourth season of the reality show, Constantine Maroulis sure landed a plum gig. And he's good. His soulful voice is perfectly suited to Mr. Big's "Be With You" and Warrant's "Heaven," and he's charming in such an adorably dopey kind of way that you can't help but root for him. You just know David Cook is angling to be his understudy.

4. It offers a virtuosic version of the hair metal superstar. Hollywood's attempts to do ha-ha hair metal have always fallen short -- either you have Marky Mark's Rockstar (which took itself way too seriously) or Rainn Wison's The Rocker (which didn't take anything seriously). But James Carpinello's portrayal of Stacee Jaxx, the strapping, bleach-blond Arsenal frontman ("Ladies love him, guys want to be him and his band hates him"), is perfect mix of homage and parody. Stacee's eyes are too blue, his pants are too tight, and his ego is too big. He's like the Terminator of ‘80s frontmen: a mix of Bret Michaels, Axl Rose, David Lee Roth -- but a better singer than all of them. If he had existed in the ‘80s, hair metal would still be at the top of the charts.

3. It reimagines “I Can’t Fight This Feeling” as a gay anthem. In the second act, two of the most macho characters in the cast (one of whom is wearing a shirt that says “I Love Boobies”) lock eyes and break into REO Speedwagon’s lovey-dovey piano ballad. The coupling may be the show's biggest shock, but the lyrics speak for themselves: “I can’t fight this feeling any longer/And yet I’m still afraid to let it flow/What started out as friendship, has grown stronger/I only wish I had the strength to let it show.” Add playfully melodramatic dance moves from the dream ballet in Oklahoma and you have pure Broadway gold.

Click to Enlarge!

2. It stars a guy who's better at being Jack Black than Jack Black is. Mitchell Jarvis, who plays Lonny -- the club's sound guy and the show's narrator (the Puck of this mid-80s night's dream) -- is such a frighteningly good Jack Black impersonator that I wonder if the show was actually supposed to star Black and Jarvis just filled in at the last moment. Jarvis' over-the-top facial expressions (the dramatic single eyebrow-raise, the goofy lip-pucker) and amusing, but oddly graceful, dance moves (the woodland sprite leap, the mischievous pole spin) are straight out of the Tenacious D handbook. Of course, people who aren't familiar with the D will just think Jarvis is a comic genius. And that's just fine with me -- he's fantastic.

1. If you start singing along, your seatmate will smile at you instead of shush you. During the tearjerking ensemble performance of Poison's "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" (Bret, you used to be so deep!), I couldn't help but join in on the chorus. The lady next to me -- a tanned brunette from Dallas who admitted she had tickets to the next six performances -- flashed me an approving grin and raised her battery-powered cigarette lighter. Misty-eyed, we swayed together in our seats and sang. What can I say? It was the heat of the moment.

LISTEN: Rock of Ages Trailer

Why Record Stores Are the Greatest One-Night Stands Ever!

Matt Kiser — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 09:11:11 -0500

Whenever I've walked into a great independent record store for the first time -- from Wax 'N Facts in Atlanta to Wuxtry in Athens, Georgia, to Charlemagne in Birmingham, Alabama, to Aquarius or Amoeba in San Francisco to Village Music in Mill Valley, California, to Waterloo in Austin, Texas, to Dusty Groove in Chicago to Pier Platters in Hoboken to Birdell's or Beat Street in Brooklyn to Music Factory or Finyl Vinyl or Vinyl Mania or Fat Beats or the old Times Square Record Mart, or dozens of others in Manhattan -- I've been intimidated to the point of speechlessness.

But it wasn't because I was afraid the one asshole clerk was gonna embarrass me for asking a stupid question -- though that has happened occasionally and isn't an irrational fear. It was more that I was hoping so intensely that this experience -- which so many people have taken for granted over the years (and now, sadly, many may never have) -- wasn't going to be a crushing disappointment.

As is true for probably everyone reading this, music is one of the few things that gets me utterly emotionally unhinged -- love and ACC basketball are others -- and perhaps the main reason is that one of the only places I ever felt completely, and almost giddily, at home growing up was in a record store. When, as a bewildered brat, my dad took me to the Record Shop on North Church Street in Asheboro, North Carolina -- with its towering (to me) counter and cramped entryway that opened onto a vast (to me) collection of vinyl singles and albums -- I remember an immediate rush, not just of exhilaration, but also palpable relief, as if I'd found some comforting hideout that was like the best of school and afterschool combined. You could goof off for hours and learn all this potentially dangerous secret knowledge that might, possibly, unlock the mystery of how to keep the universe from designating you as a detainee in some neverending playground Gitmo.

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I mean, they even let you spin 45s on the turntable to see if you liked them, for as long as you damn well pleased! And it was symbolic too, since it was just down the block from First Baptist Church, which as I got older, had come to feel less and less like a sustaining refuge, for a variety of reasons.

So over the years, when that initial intimidating fear and anxiety would recede, and I'd eventually feel kicked-back relaxed in a new record store -- even enough to talk to other human beings (customers, or God forbid, buyers or owners!) -- I'd fall hard, and wanna keep going back and bringing lists of obscurities to look for and making random discoveries (and spending money I didn't have), and wander out onto the street afterwards feeling totally disoriented.

I remember buying certain records at certain places -- a Townes Van Zandt album at Waterloo after I saw Steve Earle refer to him during an in-store; or my first Ultimate Breaks and Beats boot off the wall at Music Factory, because Stanley Platzer, the bespectacled Yoda who sat on a stool with a giant notebook/scroll of breakbeat history, said that was probably the only way I was ever gonna hear "Black Grass" by Bad Bascomb or the Winstons' "Amen Brother" without them being sampled on a hip-hop record. And those interactions undoubtedly gave the music a more lasting value and gave me a connection (however tenuous) to a music community that I wouldn't ordinarily have had (not to mention the fact that the Beatnuts' Psycho Les once checked my bag).

The only feeling I can relate it to, from beginning to end, is the nerve-wracked anticipation you feel on a first date with someone you've heard is cool and smart and fun and your friends think will be a great match for you, and because of all that, you know that if it turns out to be boring or a disaster, it'll be your fault. But then it works! And unlike actual romantic relationships, you can travel to other cities and visit other stores and have transformative experiences and leave with no feelings of betrayal or regret. Or you can flake out and vanish for years and come back and nobody's pissed or needs an explanation. Record Stores: The Greatest One-Night Stands Ever!

Unfortunately, in the past decade, like too many relationships, these objects of affection have been disappearing altogether, due to factors both avoidable and unavoidable. And I've gradually spent as much (or more) time online buying music from anonymous sources (or downloading music from even more anonymous sources) as I have in stores hanging out and enjoying the familiar comforts.

But not all those homes away from home are gone (my current local way stations are Manhattan's Other Music and Brooklyn's Academy Annex and Sound Fix), and the ones that remain are perhaps even more intensely social than before -- with in-stores by bands and DJs, special offers and giveaways, and owners/employees who actually want to be there and need the experience to be as rewarding as possible for everyone.

And that's why Record Store Day is such a heartening, and yes, emotional time. It's honoring a ritual that has meant a lot to us in the past, and we know that if it disappears, it absolutely will not be replaced by something better (just something different, and maybe a little bit more convenient on a surface level), so it's worth the effort to testify to others about what they don't have to miss.

Now, of course, one could argue that a record doesn't sound any better simply because you got it at an indie store rather than at a chain or online or from some graying critic liquidating his promos at a flea market. Then again, as Ice Cube put it, I ain't tha one.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: This essay will appear as the liner notes for the limited-edition Record Store Day compilation "This LP Crashes Hard Drives," featuring tracks from top reissues/rarities labels Numero, Jazzman, Now-Again, Light in the Attic, Vampi Soul, Timmion, Daptone, Finders Keepers, Honest Jon's, and Sublime Frequencies.]

America's 15 Best Indie Record Stores

Matt Kiser — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 05:26:58 -0500

In honor of the second annual Record Store Day on April 18, we talked to SPIN contributors and trusted friends around the country to come up with the best general-interest music shops that America has to offer. Because, let's be honest, spending too many hours on the Internet fizzes your brain and dims your eyesight. But devoting hours to a great record store rejuvenates. Ask the opinion of the right people (they’re right there behind the counter), and you can come out enlightened, possibly with new friends, carrying a record you’ve never heard of that might blow your mind, with a big fucking smile on your face. And who doesn't want that?

NOTE: We tried to narrow our list to a Top 10, but were pleasantly surprised to find 15 stores we loved -- plus a group of 15 more worthy of honorable mention. (To keep our list manageable, we excluded stores that specialize in specific genres like jazz and blues.) Read on for the countdown of our Top 15 picks -- plus, testimonials from fans who frequent them.

15. RECORD EXCHANGE

1105 W. Idaho Street, Boise, Idaho

Why It Rocks: Like other large, local institutions in less-populated states, Boise's Record Exchange sells a wide selection of tchotchkes alongside its enormous selection of music and DVDs. The one-stop-shop vibe can make intimacy harder to foster, but when you can buy your sister a birthday present and pick up a few hard-to-find releases without going near the mall, you know that an indie record shop is earning its keep.

Fans Say: "The first time I stopped into the Record Exchange, I was on tour with a band who shall remain nameless, I and fell in love a little bit. They have those wonderful bits of vinyl that you don't realize you absolutely NEED until you hold it in your hand (I picked up In a Priest Driven Ambulance by the Flaming Lips and The Return of Bruno by Bruce Willis), amazing action figures (I got a Biggie toy), and just good vibes in general. The store was wide open so it breathed a lot, and the staff was superfriendly (as most people are the further you get from the Northeast). We were all like kids in candy stores, it was amazing. I was then challenged to eat seven foot-long hot dogs from the cart outside. It was not amazing." -- Michael Venutolo-Mantovani (Matador Direct)

14. TRUE VINE

3544 Hickory Avenue, Baltimore, Maryland

Why It Rocks: Beyond being Baltimore's favorite (and hippest) spot to buy vinyl, True Vine stands out as one of the most staunch champions of the truly unusual, unexpected listening experience. The owners of the small, relatively young shop take great care to keep the 7,000 titles on the floor rich with obscure, avant-garde, and international releases (along with the latest Animal Collective, of course). But don't let that scare you, the place is intimate enough that questions about records are actually less awkward than keeping to yourself.

Fans Say: "What makes this store a major destination spot is its own ethnographic CD-R series of international recordings. Let's face it, the legions of Harry Smiths have pretty much picked through every attic from West Virginia through New Orleans; the 'old weird America' has been discovered and rediscovered. True Vine covers the rest of the globe—quietly putting out nondescript burners of rural folk music from Brazil, Vietnamese percussion jams, traditional acoustic pickings from Sub-Saharan African dating back to the '60s, and so on and on. No fancy packaging or box-set prices. You'd never find this stuff unless you went here. The store's main compiler, Ian Nagoski, who released Black Mirror: Reflections in Global Musics on Dust-to-Digital (2007), has left the store, so the CD-R production has become more sporadic. But the CDs are still there. Just ask." -- Jason Cherkis (senior writer, Washington City Paper)

13. ELECTRIC FETUS

2000 4th Avenue S., Minneapolis, Minnesota

Why It Rocks: Imagine a corporate big-box retailer, the kind with snazzy touch-screen listening stations and a big corner of non-music gifty trappings, but instead of padding their huge racks with dozens of copies of the same Lenny Kravitz CD, they stock them with thousands of LPs and seven-inches, and in-depth jazz, world, and local-music sections. Then add 40 years of experience, a burn-your-own-mix-CD station, and a large staff of devoted employees who would like nothing more than to see your face when you encounter Fela Kuti for the first time. You're looking at the inside of Minneapolis's Electric Fetus.

Fans Say: "I keep coming back to the Fetus because of all the stuff I've discovered there that I never would have heard otherwise. But the most telling thing about them is that they have 12 employees who have been with the store for 25 years or longer. If that doesn't say loyalty and affection, I don't know what does." -- Peter S. Scholtes (writer, City Pages)

CONTINUE THE COUNTDOWN ON PAGE 2

12. GONER

2152 Young Avenue, Memphis, Tennessee

Why It Rocks: A terrific local record store, Goner merits special distinction for the plucky punk label that it also runs out of the shop, which has put out releases by Reigning Sound, longtime local punk icon Ross Johnson, and Quintron (to name only a few), with more on the way from Box Elders and Tyvek. They showcase talent galore at their yearly, four-day Gonerfest. And as far as reps go, these guys have earned one about ten times the size of their tiny shop.

Fans Say: "Goner is an ever-strengthening force as a label, BBS, and mail-order outlet on the national level as well, with such minor masterstrokes as the introduction of Eddy Current Suppression Ring to the rest of the world, serving as the launching pad for Jay Reatard, and causing a lot of scuttlebutt via the incendiary/informative/hilarious/maddening Goner Bulletin Board (careful, you were warned!) When you enter the store these days, it's almost as if the economy wasn't on the fritz, the music biz was in good shape, and you've just stepped into the pre-Internet record store environment. People congregate, talk shop, crack jokes, and do whatever networking there is to be done in a town like Memphis." -- Andrew Earles (SPIN contributing writer and artist, Earles and Jensen Present...Just Farr a Laugh Vol. 1 & 2 (The Greatest Prank Phone Calls Ever!))

11. RECKLESS

3161 N. Broadway, 1532 N Milwaukee Avenue, and 26 E Madison, Chicago, Illinois.

Click To Enlarge. / Photo by Sarah-Ji

Why It Rocks: Chicago is home to a strange, wonderful modern phenomenon known as Reckless Records. Laughing into the wind of Internet-driven changes in music purchasing, they've expanded their operation to three locations in the city. The Wicker Park branch, in particular, draws the young, hip, and dusty-nosed used vinyl crowds, but the selection and staff album reviews can be relied upon at all three spots. In a time when so many shops are shuttering, Reckless proves that there's still a way for record stores to get even bigger if they provide an exciting service you can't get anywhere else.

Fans Say: "Reckless in Wicker Park is my standby. Their used section is great, they carry vinyl, CDs, new stuff, DVDs, and magazines. They have a knowledgable staff that includes musicians (industrial legend Chris Connelly and avant electronic rocker Magas both work there) and DJs and folks whose recommendations you can trust. They are a geniunely hip hold-out in a neighborhood that has been run over in the process of gentrification. It's the axis of indie rock for the town." -- Jessica Hopper (SPIN contributing writer and editor of Hit It or Quit It)

10. WUXTRY

197 E. Clayton Street, Athens, Georgia

Why It Rocks: As much as some record stores help foster their town's music community, none has done so as prominently as Wuxtry in Athens, Georgia, which, if you believe the stories, has employed members of every prominent local band since the scene exploded in the '80s. But the shop's reputation rests just as much on what it provides to visitors, apart from a great selection. Devotees tell stories of hanging around Wuxtry as young'uns and being included in discussions or encouraged to "record your own damn songs, already!" Plus, the upstairs eccentric comics zone Bizarro Wuxtry is a legend unto itself.

Fans Say: "You know how you're always hearing stories about kids who got schooled on cool music by their older siblings who had awesome record collections and you got pissed because your older siblings, if you even had them, liked fucking Foreigner or Kajagoogoo or Deep Banana Blackout? Well, the thing about the original, bedroom-sized Wuxtry (on the corner of College Avenue and East Clayton) was that it was like you suddenly got to hang out with all those older siblings -- specifically owner Dan Wall and whoever happened to be working or blissfully killing off endless afternoons (R.E.M.'s Peter Buck was a particularly opinionated participant once upon a time, most likely hammering on about the New York Dolls or whatever used rock bio he'd just picked up). I distinctly remember somebody there insisting that I stop dicking around and buy the Cramps' Songs the Lord Taught Us and loving it so much that I went back and got Psychedelic Jungle ('Goo Goo Muck' was me and my college roommates' virtual theme song for two years). Then came Bizarro Wuxtry, which got included in an issue of Peter Bagge's Hate as 'the FUNKIEST business establishment I've ever seen!' and the larger storefront space next door, and eventually, Wall even opened the small, adjacent memorabilia-crammed Athens Music Museum. It's mind-boggling to me that for more than 30 years, and after thousands of other great stores have faded or bitten the dust, Wuxtry has actually gotten better." -- Charles Aaron (SPIN music editor)

9. MUSIC MILLENNIUM

3158 & 3144 E. Burnside, Portland, Oregon

Why It Rocks: A 1969 opening date makes Music Millennium the oldest record store in the Pacific Northwest, and they've proven their wisdom over the years with an inventory (now including sizable selections of DVDs and other non-music ephemera) that has grown almost as fast as their importance as a community staple. The original house where the shop was founded has expanded into an adjacent wing with a Classical Annex, making it one of the few stores that's both charmingly ramshackle and agreeably freshfaced.

Fans Say: "Holy moly, I love Music Millenium! It's the way a record store should be: It's wonderfully curated, and the Burnside location is seasoned, cozy, with a modest but inviting and comprehensive vinyl collection (you have to climb up a shitty, narrow stairwell to get where the vinyl is, but who cares?) and a superbonkers CD selection. It's an essential part of the PDX music community, for sure." -- Joan Hiller (publicist, Riot Act Media)

CONTINUE THE COUNTDOWN ON PAGE 3

8. GRIMEY'S

1604 8th Avenue S., Nashville, Tennessee

Why It Rocks: Five years ago, Grimey's Records outgrew their space and moved into its current stylized, three-pedimented building, which it shares with Thirty Tigers music marketing and distribution upstairs and popular venue the Basement downstairs. Grimey's is definitely the meat of this sandwich, with an amazingly broad selection (for its size), very affordable prices, and history as a stalwart of indie cool in a town that's known for a very different kind of music scene.

Fans Say: "Best store in Nashville (that doesn't deal exclusively in country music). They've got a real good selection of new/used vinyl, indie and import CDs, DVDs, and books. And they probably do some of the best in-stores anywhere. Pound for pound, it's one of the best in the country." -- Bob Mehr (music writer, The Commercial Appeal)

7. AQUARIUS

1055 Valencia Street, San Francisco, California

Click To Enlarge. / Photo by Emily Hoyer

Why It Rocks: San Francisco institution Aquarius Records has been around for almost four decades, but there's nothing settled or complacent about this small Mission district shop. They get as many obscure releases per week as most stores get per month (particularly of metal and other extreme genres), and it seems like every last one gets a lengthy and consistently well-written review on the Aquarius website. Just walking around, staring at the blurbs taped up everywhere, feels like an education. Get a friendly clerk talking, and you're on your way.

Fans Say: "There's a lack of venues in San Francisco to sustain a music scene, so Aquarius is kind of an establishing factor; it really helps hold the community together. When I was younger, I would go there with my best friend and just read everything to keep up with what's going on. It's one of those record stores where you can go in and say, ‘Got anything that sounds like this?' and they'll go ‘Yeah!' and pull something out of the back." -- Jenn Su (contributor, GOOD magazine)

6. EAR X-TACY

1534 Bardstown Road, Louisville, Kentucky

Why It Rocks: Ear X-tacy's huge selection—rivaled by only a few stores in the country -- and commitment to "keeping Louisville weird" has earned it praise from devoted music fans (or weirdos, obsessive-compulsives, music critics, whatever) that echo all the way to the coasts. From its early adoption of online ordering, to its impressive selection of non-music indie media, to a supportive focus on local music, the shop works hard at keeping itself and the values it represents relevant. If any one store can keep a whole city weird, it's ear X-tacy.

Fans Say: "It's the ultimate hometown store. One that you can walk into and feel like you've just stepped into your favorite bar, where your favorite drink is already waiting for you. In this case, it's the music (in the end, its always the music). I know that when I go in, I'll find exactly what I'm looking for, and right off the bat, more times than not." -- Kyle Meredith (host, WFPK’s The Weekly Feed)

5. SONIC BOOM

2209 NW Market Street and 514 15th Avenue E., Seattle, Washington

Click To Enlarge. / Photo by Tom Dobrowolsky

Why It Rocks: In a town with a music scene as established as Seattle's, Sonic Boom is a welcoming hub for all the "types" floating around. Its Ballard flagship and smaller Capitol Hill location (the Fremont branch closed in February of last year) have employed half the music-industry folks in the city at one point or another, and its consistently great in-store performances often turn into impromptu family reunions. But this place isn't coasting on its rep; the selection is wide, well-organized, and surrounded with the kind of seriously pleasant atmosphere that could only be created and maintained by people who know that a great record store is about a lot more than just the music.

Fans Say: "Sonic Boom is beyond ridiculously fucking important to not only the Seattle music universe/community, but to those same people all over the Pacific Northwest and beyond. If Sonic Boom was ever, ever in trouble, the community would rush to save it. I have zero question about that. Zero." -- Joan Hiller (publicist, Riot Act Media)

CONTINUE THE COUNTDOWN ON PAGE 4

4. WAX 'N FACTS

432 Moreland Avenue NE, Atlanta, Georgia

Why It Rocks: Atlanta's Wax 'N Facts has a pretty crappy website, and until recently, they refused to use their phone. But the dusty old joint inspires some powerfully loving words from loyal Atlantans who would enjoy nothing more than to spend an entire afternoon poking around its piles of used vinyl for the rare finds that always end up revealing themselves. And with its hidden corners, a staff who doesn't mind if you loiter forever, and always democratic pricing, the place couldn't be better-suited for a good, long treasure hunt.

Fans Say: "I feel almost a little wild in my devotion to Wax 'N Facts. It represents something that's almost dead, which is this junk shop, American gothic thing. It's not pretty or flashy or designy; its crates filled with records on tables and random posters on the wall. It's not the kind of place you go when you're looking for something; it's the kind of place you go to just explore." -- Bradford Cox (musician, Deerhunter and Atlas Sound)

3. OTHER MUSIC

15 E. 4th Street, New York, New York

Why It Rocks: Other Music is too small. In fact, it has one of the smallest inventories on this list, with only about 10,000 titles in stock at a time. With dinosaur Tower Records no longer across the street, the location on East 4th Street in Manhattan feels almost random (in addition to their name losing its referent), and, between the quietly poised staffers and lack of dark corners to hide in, the place can be intimidating. But there's a reason that, despite all this, Other Music is one of the best-known shops in the country—to the point of being lampooned in a Human Giant sketch. The employees at this Manhattan shop are not only cute and hip, they know the ins and outs of any genre you can imagine, from minimal Argentinian techno to Algerian Rai to the hottest young thing the blogs won't hype for another three months. What OM lacks in floor space, it makes up for in overwhelming knowledge and a unwavering passion for undiscovered gems.

Fans Say: "On a number of occasions, I've walked into Other Music intending merely to look around, heard an album playing over the store's stereo, and promptly plunked down some cash. I can't say that about any other record store. Also, I once spent a solid half-hour there internally debating whether to buy a collection of the film music Mihaly Vig composed for Hungarian director Bela Tarr. I eventually put it down, figuring I'd come back and get the music another time. They've never had it since. Neither has anywhere else I've ever been to. But Other Music had it once, which is what counts." -- David Marchese (SPIN assistant editor)

2. WATERLOO

600A. N. Lamar, Austin, Texas

Click To Enlarge. / Photo by Gideon Tsang

Why It Rocks: Though it may not produce the most nationally recognized bands, Austin, Texas, takes serious pride in its self-proclaimed and well-earned reputation as the "Live Music Capital of the World." So it's fitting that it should boast one of the most comprehensive, enthusiastic, and all-around good-natured record shops in the country. Not only can you find just about anything, you can then listen to it in the store and even return it if you change your mind (if, for some inexplicable reason, you realize that Trout Mask Replica just won't ever do it for you). And yeah, their in-stores are legendary, what else would you expect?

Fans Say: "Waterloo is the big kahuna. They get a full complement of mainstream stuff, a full compliment of indie stuff. They are just pros; they know what they're doing. The only reason they don't own the city is because of downloading and video games. If those two things didn't exist, the owner would probably be mayor of Austin." -- Joe Gross (pop-music critic, the Austin American-Statesman)

1. AMOEBA

6400 Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood, 1855 Haight Street in San Francisco, and 2455 Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, California

Click To Enlarge. / Photo by Barry Yanowitz

Why It Rocks: Amoeba Records, with locations in Berkeley, San Francisco, and Hollywood, isn't just the "World's Largest Independently Owned Record Store" as their topflight website proudly declares, it represents a sort of music lovers' heavenly refuge. Their vast, bright warehouse spaces house massive, constantly shifting new and used stock (more than 100,000 titles per store), painstakingly curated into ultra-specific, world-spanning genre sections. Factor in a mind-blowing history of in-stores (browse their online video gallery for a taste), and it's no surprise that a majority of people, when asked about great record stores in the U.S., respond with "Oh, like Amoeba?"

Fans Say: "There's something really soothing about rows and rows (and rows) of vinyl, just waiting to be flipped through, and when you hear that satisfying flip-flip-chunk sound of diggers, it's almost like hearing a great minimalist electronica record or something. Add to that the clattering of those plastic CD protector things, and it's like a little symphony. Amoeba feels like church, if church was fun." -- Josh Modell (managing editor, The Onion AV Club and SPIN contributing writer)

"I went to Amoeba for the first time when I was 15 and I almost passed out. I could have spent $200, and I didn't have $200." -- Joe Gross (pop-music critic, the Austin American-Statesman)

SEE THE HONORABLE MENTIONS ON PAGE 5

HONORABLE MENTIONS:

Criminal, Atlanta Owner Eric Levin was the force behind Record Store Day, and he deserves huge recognition for that alone. Plus, his shop is a community staple.

Permanent Records, Chicago "A hub for some of Chicago's more disparate 'outsider' scenes, in an environment where everyone is welcome." -- David Halstead

Dusty Groove, Chicago "Hands down the best store in the U.S. for R&B, soul, funk, jazz, etc." -- Bob Mehr

Vintage Vinyl, St. Louis The Amoeba of the Midwest.

Harvest, Asheville, North Carolina A savvy selection to rival any big-city shop, in a comfortably sleepy mountain town.

Landlocked Music, Bloomington, Indiana "A fixture of the Bloomington music community, the epitome of what big-box stores and online shopping can't offer." -- Abe Morris

Aboveground, Edgartown, Massachusetts An oasis of truly great taste on an island that isn't exactly known for it.

Treehouse, Minneapolis "Mostly vinyl, and a saving grace for many a Minneopolis teen." -- Jessica Hopper

M-Theory, San Diego One of Southern California's best, with an incredible history of in-stores.

Shangri La, Memphis "Memphis' first independent record store that catered to the modern era of savvy record buyers" -- Andrew Earles

Double Decker, Allentown, Pennsylvania A revered road trip destination for New York collectors.

Academy Annex, Brooklyn, New York Where the New York collectors go when they don't have a car.

Albums on the Hill, Boulder, Colorado "Like a slice of High Fidelity with everything such a scene implies." -- David Menconi

Jackpot, Portland "I'm pretty sure my husband is physically unable to leave there empty-handed." -- Joan Hiller

The Record Collector, Bordentown, New Jersey Smartly stocked, good-hearted joint in a converted bowling alley, with in-stores ranging from the Meatmen to the 1910 Fruitgum Company (!)

GO BACK TO PAGE 1

Five Artists That Should Play Las Vegas

Matt Kiser — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 05:19:54 -0500

On May 27, Carlos Santana begins an exclusive engagement at the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas. He'll perform about 36 concerts a year at the 4000-seat Joint, backed by a full band, including trumpet, trombone, congas, and timbales.

The legendary guitar shaman isn't the first music star to snag such a residency: Elton John, Cher, and Celine Dion have all played extended Sin City runs. But Santana is the first rocker to do so, and that gives me hope for the future of music in Vegas.

Bookers take note: Here are five bands I'd pay to see perform in the city of topless showgirls:

OF MONTREAL:

With their mildly disquieting boho tendencies towards extravagant costumes, body paint, and, um, nudity, Kevin Barnes' troupe of disco-psych jesters could be the indie equivalent of Cirque du Soleil -- an arty respite from the city's aggressively lowest common denominator vibe.

THE KILLERS:

These hometown boys were tapped to open up the Hard Rock's refurbished Joint on April 17. In addition to their local roots, the band's glitzy sound and alternately desperate and hopeful lyrics (not to mention the dapper fur-trimmed outfits!) seem like a natural fit for this city of neon and vice.

GUNS N' ROSES:

I always felt that Axl's heart was more in the Meatloafian piano dramatics of "Estranged," "November Rain," and Chinese Democracy's "Street of Dreams" than in malicious stompers like "Welcome to the Jungle." And those grandly melodic numbers would be perfect accompanied by a glittering legion of sequined showgirls and the clinking of rocks glasses.

PRINCE:

Minneapolis's finest already has some experience with extended engagements -- in 2007 he played 21 nights at London's O2 arena. He's also known for his surprise post-concert gigs, where he'll pop up at a small club and jam un2 the dawn. Plus, he's insanely prolific. So why not give him a regular spot where he can have free reign to bust out hits or noodle away at smooth jazz until closing time? And anyone who's been to a Prince concert knows the artist digs medleys, and doesn't Vegas seem like a medley kind of town?

LILY ALLEN:

With her insouciant wit and snarky persona, Allen seems poised halfway between musician and public personality. I'd love to see her given a regular room where she could crack some jokes, sing some songs, down some drinks, and update her MySpace page. It could be like a brassy, sassy update of those old booze-loosened Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin shows at the Sands.

Why Don't I Care About Keith Urban?

Matt Kiser — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 06:53:33 -0500

Chalk one up for boring guys:

Keith Urban's Defying Gravity beat out Prince's LotusFlow3r to land at No. 1 on this week's Billboard album chart. The New Zealand-born, Australian-raised singer-songwriter-guitarist (and husband of Nicole Kidman) has been building towards this: His last two studio albums, 2006's Love, Pain & the Whole Crazy Thing and 2004's Be Here, both hit No. 3. And at this year's Grammy Awards, he was given a prime spot on the Bo Diddley tribute alongside John Mayer and B.B. King. Despite all that, I have an Urban-shaped hole in my record collection -- one that I won't rush to fill.

I think Taylor Swift is a gifted ingénue, and I find Brad Paisley endearingly quirky. So why do I feel like it's okay to overlook Keith Urban?

LISTEN: Defying Gravity

When Love came out three years ago, I remember having similar thoughts about the guy -- he's popular, why don't I care? I listened to the album. A few times. The songs were polished to an inhuman gloss. The lyrics were trite. The melodies were standard issue Nashville pop. Now and then there were some cool guitar licks. But fundamentally, the music sounded like it was made by a dude who really dug the songs Lindsey Buckingham recorded for Fleetwood Mac, but didn't understand the things that made them cool. It wasn't long before I deleted the album from my hard drive.

Gravity is more of the same. And its essence can be encapsulated by the following bad joke: Defying Gravity? More like Defying Gravitas!

On ballads like "My Heart is Open" and "Thank You," Urban aims for meaningful, but I can only take vague, new-agey phrases like "Your love is healing" and "I was in too deep" so seriously. Southern Rock-lite, up-tempo tracks like "Hit the Ground Running" sprinkle banjo lines among polite guitar distortion and call it a day. If there's something distinctive about Urban's thin, grainless voice, I can't hear it.

It's puzzling. When I watch Urban play live -- I'm thinking of his and Alicia Keys' performance of the Stones' "Gimme Shelter" at Live Earth from a few years back -- he's got a certain gunslinger élan about him. But that vibe is nowhere on his records.

Really, though, Urban's music doesn't have enough character to qualify as bad. His stuff exists on the same gauzy, clichéd, and wildly popular plain as Thomas Kinkade paintings and commemorative porcelain. It's emotional balm, and if listening to it makes people feel better for a few minutes or a few hours, then I'm glad it exists. And I thank God for Brad Paisley.

Eminem's New Video: "Totally Bewildering"

Matt Kiser — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 09:49:02 -0500

The weirdest thing to me, so far, about Eminem's rather bewildering new single/video "We Made You" (an apparent effort to defibrillate "The Real Slim Shady") is that when I clicked over to watch it this morning on the blog of Em's manager, Paul Rosenberg, the first thing that popped up was an awkwardly comedic ad for "My Navy My Future," a recruiting campaign funded by the U.S. Navy. I know Em has had a rather "Fleet Week" attitude toward life and the ladies over the years, but the connection still eludes me, especially in light of the lyrics to his 2002 track "Square Dance":

NEWS:

VIEW >>

"All this terror, America demands action
Next thing you know you've got Uncle Sam's ass askin'
To join the Army or what you'll do for their Navy
You just a baby, gettin' recruited at 18
You're on a plane now, eatin' their food and their baked beans"

As for the rest of "We Made You," why does Mr. Shady still feel like the very existence of lesbian couples is mocking his manhood? I mean, does watching an episode of The L Word send him scrambling for the Kegel Exercise Trainer in a death-spiral of anxiety?

And as for pointing out that Jessica Simpson once had weight issues, and Amy Winehouse is, like, gross, and Kim Kardashian looks like a drag queen, and Bret Michaels wears a wig, etc.? Thanks for the Breaking News update, Chuck Todd.

The Awesome Teen Comedy Is Back!

Matt Kiser — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 12:02:19 -0500

Adventureland is set in 1987, the same year that John Hughes released his last coming-of-age drama, Some Kind of Wonderful, which is a total coincidence but an appropriate one. While Hughes never again delivered a classic on par with The Breakfast Club or Ferris Bueller's Day Off, it's possible that with Adventureland, writer-director Greg Mottola has.

Okay, that's probably excessive praise. For Mottola to fill Hughes' shoes, he would have had to depict today's kids, which he sorta did in Superbad -- and ended up with something funny but, at times, tediously vulgar. (In fairness, Mottola only directed Superbad; Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg wrote it.) Despite that film's surprisingly sentimental conclusion, it didn't feel like a natural follow-up to Mottola's 1996 tragicomedy The Daytrippers, which remains one of my favorite films of that decade (and criminally unreleased on DVD).

Greg Mottola
Photo Courtesy Abbot Genser/Miramax Films

Adventureland's appeal is, instead, about the past. It's like the next best thing to finding a never-released Hughes or Cameron Crowe film. The plot unfolds thusly: a college grad (The Squid and the Whale's Jesse Eisenberg) takes a summer job at a crappy amusement park where he crushes on his troubled coworker (Twilight's Kristen Stewart, whose cuteness here is appropriately unfussy) and learns about life via subplots that involve parental malfeasance, alcoholism, and sex. In the meantime, he befriends several of the park's oddball employees, one of whom is played by the sadly underused Apatow alum Martin Starr (a.k.a. Haverchuck, the best character from Freaks and Geeks).

The titular amusement park rivals Hughes' high school library as the perfect setting: It's a place that kids outgrow but like to debase a little before they leave. Naturally, every second of that debasement is amplified by a good soundtrack, which features songs that have benefited from the intervening two decades. No one back then had the foresight to choose the Replacements' "Unsatisfied" as a climactic love song. Even the irritating "Rock Me Amadeus," used as the park's recurring theme song, fits in charmingly -- I can almost remember riding the Scrambler while listening to it, even if I never did.

So, yeah, Adventureland didn't need to take place in the '80s. But unlike last summer's The Wackness, which was so weighted down with I Love the '90s trivia that it couldn't transcend its nostalgia, it's actually more pleasurable for it.

WATCH: Adventureland Trailer: