America's Band ? (Sorry, Grand Funk..)

I've liked Wilco since their first whiskey-soaked debut, but...well, as their career progressed and Jeff Tweedy exerted more influence on their musical development, it seemed to me that they were taking simple alt-country melodies and slathering a gravy of noise on top. You could hear the disconnect. Fast forward through breakups, breakdowns and rehab, and with Nels Cline shredding on guitar, Wilco has attained the pinnacle. "Kicking Television" is their best (live) CD summation. And as much as I've loved everything I've posted so far, THIS ("Ashes of American Flags") is the DVD I'd twist your arm and force you to purchase. From the opening song "Ashes of American Flags" (filmed at a sound-check no less! What a moment!), Wilco avoid the 'band on the runway' cliches and focus on the music. I'm totally in love with "Impossible Germany"; what a tribute to the twin-guitar sound: Wishbone Ash, we salute you! Jeff's dry humor, the band's mind-link, the audience's energy -- what a package.

India For Dummies (Mainly Me)

I know next to nothing about India; history, culture, music, cuisine -- nada. But, as the man says, I knows what I like. What little Indian food I've sampled seems to me the most sublime alchemy of sauce and spice, the films are a riot of color and music, and the music... First, try to ignore the TV/movie shorthand we grew up with: the sound of sitars does not mean "groovy sixties party with dancers swirling in pot smoke, most likely 'tripping' on acid". Then, just sample the menu, as it were. I was lucky enough to discover the Nimbus recordings (you'll recognize the label, faithful reader.) The CDs allow for extended performances and spacious miking; once again, real musicians performing in real time in a real room. Hariprasad Chaurasia's flute bubbles along to a fiery climax, and the Khan family performance brought the Allman Brothers to mind, it was that exciting. WARNING: most libraries purchase world musics based on price, so avoid if you can the CDs you'd see on sale for $5.99 in supermarkets.

My Brain at 14 (The Lure of Stoopid)

I resolved at an early age to remember -- I would NOT lose touch with my 14 year-old self, no matter what my age. I kept a journal which I promptly lost. So, 40 years later, what do I remember of being 14? Umm, I'm pretty sure breasts were involved, and braces and.. well, the point of this is that -- Black Sabbath and Motorhead can almost remind me of youth long forgotten. Of course, I was scared to death of the Sabs (and girls, come to think of it) when I was 14, and I didn't hear Motorhead until I was about 10 years older, but they still can put me in touch with that dormant teen brain, that visceral reaction to loud guitars and bottomless bass. Now I have the perspective of irony; how can you not love a band (Motorhead) with songs like "Killed By Death" or the romantic "Love Me Like a Reptile"? Pure lunkhead genius. And Black Sabbath, with their primordial sludge and Ozzy's looner lyrics. (When he can't find a rhyme or anything to add, he'll just bray out "YEAAAH!" or "ALRIIIGHTT!", as we men have since the cave days.) So: Motorhead = fast and dumb, Black Sabbath = dumb and slow. Dude!

Steamboat On The Beach

John Fahey played acoustic guitar, which already needs some defending. No, he's not responsible (directly) for Windham Hill (a quality label that grew beyond its ability to maintain quality control) and the myriad of 'new age' albums that emerged.

Wait, let's start again: John Fahey, 'primitive' guitarist, blues collector, visionary, did not spend his time in an R Crumb 'settin'-on-the-porch-pickin'-dem'-blues' scenario. A lot of people have tried to follow what they consider the Fahey template, but John Fahey's blues were back-lit with psychic damage and tortured memories, maybe the same ingredients for 'traditional' blues, but with a different flavor. Fahey's reconstruction of plantation blues was infused with his own inner terrors, and became a different art in the process. The "Return of the Repressed" anthology is actually a good place to start, patched together by Barry "Dr. Demento" Hansen -- and even if I owned every single John Fahey release (I'm on my way), I'd still play this masterfully sequenced tribute to John's 'old,weird America'.

Add D Then Scramble, Puzzle Fans

Wire has always gone against the grain, or rather, taken their own route despite where the traffic is headed. Their early albums were lumped in with punk, but they were more angular, bent their music into odd shapes. They shared the sense but not the sound of their punk contemporaries, and they were already way too old for this.
Skip ahead to Wire 2.0, their rebirth. More keyboards, poppier melodies, more Krautrock influence, in the sense that systems were set up, songs were experiments in perpetual motion (like clockwork until the weirdness sent the engine off the rails). "A Bell Is A Cup", today's example. Skip ahead again, to Wire 3.5, noisier again, guitars are back in a carpet of distortion. "Send" is from 2003, yet still sounds like next week.

Special Valentine Disc Pick!

One of my favorite memories involves this album, Doug's tribute to the bands and songs that he covered in his juke box/bar band days. In my opinion, Doug deserves a whole week's worth of posting, but for now, I'll talk about this one (allow me, dear reader a V-day tribute). I am a terrible dancer, as friends have been blunt enough to tell me, but I really like to dance in my own clumsy fashion. This album is a menu of fast, slow and mid-tempo songs designed to get the floor packed with shuffling cowboys and even people like me. So, our family version featured me, stomping unrhythmically around the kitchen floor, with my dear wife, hanging on as best she could while our son, grasping a mop, lip-synced Doug's raspy renditions. Thanks Ben, for being the MC for our romantic evening, and thanks, Deborah, for being so sweet despite the mangled toes and Tarzan dance moves.

My first (and not last) DVD pick

I missed out on the first wave of the whole Fat Possum label phenomenon, so Robert (no, not that one) Palmer's labor of love was a surprise to me, suggested by my dear (late) friend Bobbie. Filmed in juke clubs, road houses and front porches, Robert (Southern and sincere) tours with Dave (no, not that one, Caravan fans!) Stewart. My favorite bits include Junior Kimbrough (looking like Cyclops emerging from his cave) singing "Junior, I Love You", and Big Jack Johnson milking "Daddy, When Is Momma Coming Home" for all that his spot in the spotlight is worth. Special bonus highlight is the scene where Dave Stewart listens to RL Burnside on RL's front lawn, tapping his feet in boots worth more than RL's house.