Category / Music

by DrMabuse

There’s Also This New Rap Thing That Causes Teenagers to Shoot Each Other Up in the Streets!

I don’t know who this Michelle Malkin person is. But her claim that emo is a soundboard for self-mutiliation is instantly deflated when she declares emo as “a new genre of music.” Jesus, I’m over 30 too. But even I’ve listened to Sunny Day Real Estate. It was the dirty white sheets that were cut into strips, not the flesh.

As for this “new genre of music,” I’ve got two words for you, Michelle: Ian MacKaye.

You know, in a court of law, you can’t file a complaint without stating a statute. Having a supporting argument is one of those nifty things that maintain due process and keep a good subject matter convincing. The ignorance with which these so-called “higher beings” dispense their wisdom amuses me. But I’m troubled by how many hangers on are duped by their faux punditry.

by DrMabuse

Fuck the iPod

Will somebody give me one good reason why I should own a fucking iPod? Will somebody explain why I should give Steve Jobs 350 hard-earned George Washingtons to apply the Apple logo to my hip?

Sure, it’s a handy little device, I suppose. But then so is a garlic press. The garlic press, however, is much cheaper and will actually do something beneficial. Such as saving you some time when you’re cooking some pasta.

Frankly, I don’t get it. The little bastard doesn’t even allow me to record onto it. (To its credit, the Zen, Creative’s response to the IPod, does.) The least one can expect for this kind of money is a consummate fuck from a second-class Hollywood hooker. But from where I’m sitting, I’m looking at a bunch of teenagers and twentysomethings on the subway not really enjoying themselves, plugged into earphones and passing the time in the same banal way that non-iPod riders are.

Would someone explain why it’s so important to be completely out-of-touch with the waking world around me? If the iPod is about control, why don’t these folks use Nero to burn a custom CD for their pre-existing Discmen?

I’ll confess that music is important and that I listen to a lot of it. But who knew that one out of 10 Americans view the iPod as their fucking savior? Did we learn nothing from Ridley Scott’s 1984 commercial? We’re supposed to throw a hammer to the evil corporate overlords, right? Funny how the iPod has been airbrushed into a new version of the commercial. Never mind that this “Greedo shoots first” version is no longer available at the Apple site.

I’d like to chalk the iPod phenomenon up to a “kids these days” benediction. But I’m too young to be a scolding old man. Even so, I’ve seen grown men fucking around with this thing, as if the Apple Click Wheel was some technological justification for revisiting Billy Squier. Why subsidize some half-baked mofo who doesn’t even know how to spell “tonight?”

And what’s with this whole bullshit notion of the iPod empowering you? Am I missing something here? You mean to say that if I go into a Universal Unitarian church with an iPod strapped on and start talking with some slinky blonde that I’ll take her home and ensure her at least six orgasms? Wow, who knew? The iPod as muscle car. Throw the basic aspects of mutual attraction out the window, my friends.

I’m utterly convinced that historians will view the iPod in the same light that people remember the Olympus Pearlcoder: a half-baked technological tool that suggests something personal and refined, but that is ultimately about taking advantage of people’s inability to figure out the technological tools they have on their Dell computers. Namely, these things called CD burners, BitTorrents and MP3s, the latter being a format that isn’t particularly bad for something coming through your headphones.

by DrMabuse

In Praise of Bart Davenport

davenport.JPGBerkeley singer-songwriter Bart Davenport is, in fact, the second scrawniest singer working in showbiz today. (I won’t name the scrawniest. I’ll only say that seeing such an exceedingly gaunt man run up and down trying to prove his virility was one of the most unpleasant stage experiences I’ve encountered in five years.) Davenport’s weight, however, should not be held against him. Because, believe it or not, he cuts the mustard. While Davenport has yet to realize that wearing three layers of clothing (here’s a hint, Bart: lose the jacket) draws attention to his disturbingly thin physique, he is, nevertheless, well worth seeing. He sells himself live with an endearingly spastic stage presence, which involves perpetually dilated eyes, a somewhat perplexed disposition, and an inveterate passion for Mick Jagger-like histrionics that comes across as unexpectedly innocous. Such was the initial impression that Davenport made on me when I saw him open for Of Montreal several months ago (where, to my surprise, he won me over after the third song); such was the impression he made on me when I saw him again for a record release party on January 29 at Bottom of the Hill.

Davenport has unveiled three albums so far. The first, a self-titled affair, signaled a man unapologetically mining the depths of acoustic 1970s rock with a 21st century lo-fi sensibility. One of the strongest tracks, “Summer Afternoon,” was a Nick Drake-inspired ballad that provided a moving transformation into subtly funky prog-rock. Drake’s undistilled influence held sway on such tracks as “New Cool Shoes.” But not to be undone, Davenport’s quasi-adenoidal voice worked in his favor for such light-hearted, drum-machine romps as “Terri’s Song.”

His second album, Game Preserve, broadened the palette with sunny acoustical work (“Sideways Findways”), dreamy straight-shooter ballads like “The Saviors” and the irresistably Van Morrison-tinged “Euphoria.” The album suggested an inveterate record listener who had somehow managed to make sense of his many influences without coming across as an outright bandit — no small feat, given the current clime of endless brother-sister acts whose work, however fresh, was hindered by the need to retain the sensibility of underground trash.

Davenport’s third album, “Maroon Cocoon,” is his most mature yet, although I suspect it’s an unintentional maturity. It offers a sharp contrast to the first two albums, while retaining autobiographical aspects that Davenport may not be in the know upon. He has clearly been raked across the coals because of a bad relationship. But where this would prove a bane for other artists, with Davenport, it allows him to expand his influences into unexpectedly intimate territory. Accompanied by curiously androgynous roommate/longtime bandmate Sam Flax Kenner on saxophone and recorder, Davenport succeeds with a scaled back sound. Aside from the unfortunate track “Sad Machine,” on the whole, Davenport’s lyrics suggest a man defiantly avoiding growing up. “Paper Friend” is a beautiful yet painful ode to a woman just outside Davenport’s grasp, while “Clara” represents the futility of identifying with a lover just beyond one’s existential reach.

On January 29, nearly every track on “Maroon Cocoon” was performed live. Davenport was stunned to see the audience reduced to quietude. (And, in fact, violence nearly broke out as two drunken oafs talked and were shushed with threats as Davenport bared his soul through “Paper Friend.”) I suspect that Davenport doesn’t truly comprehend the emotional cadences of his music (which explained his mystified reaction). But part of the fun of seeing him live is wondering just how Davenport will develop, while silently wondering if the emotional resonance of his songs will scar him in permanent ways.

If you’re interested in catching Davenport before it’s “too late,” he’ll be playing at Cafe du Nord this Saturday, February 12 (along with the groovy opener Call and Response). It’s definitely one of the best $10 shows you’re likely to find in the San Francisco area this year.

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by DrMabuse

Hold the Mayo, Hold the Line

Excerpt from “Toto’s Misunderstood Musical Prosody,” thesis paper by Wally Hanthorp, M.A. Music, 1991:

toto.jpg“Hold the Line”, a seminal track from Toto’s innovatively titled 1978 album, Toto, represents a rare case of restrained genius overstating the obvious. Critic Leonard Parvoo once suggested in The Peoria Journal Star that this was “a tune written, produced and performed specifically for stadiums and FM radio.” But it is worth noting that Parvoo, who communicated his unique fury over this innocuous little tune (and Toto in general), founded a Peruvian leper colony three years later. Clearly, the bile he expressed towards Toto in his review was transmuted in some small way into munificence. This demonstrates the value of Toto’s simplicity and the band’s power to change the world. For even Toto’s opponents are motivated to do great things.

But our subject concerns “Hold the Line.” Beginning with a simple snare drum snap, we are then acquainted with Steve Porcaro’s repetitive keyboard chords (thus anticipating the grand opening moments of Jefferson Starship’s “We Built This City”), which are then momentarily fluctuated in a slightly jarring beat, only to return to a traditional 4/4 beat that remains wholly uninterrupted throughout the song. This is our first clue that, while radio-friendly in nature, “Hold the Line” insinuates something more baroque. It is as if this tune represents an effort to “hold the line” on several levels, with the slight slippage hinting at a darker inconsistency. It is worth noting that singer David Paich himself is simultaneously singing while frequently pounding on his keyboard throughout the album, thus multi-tasking well before this term found usage in American vernacular. This is a truly admirable achievement — indeed, an American one. But why the unexpected introductory shift?

The answer is simple. Beyond the metaphorical elements of the song, Porcaro is holding the line musically, waiting for Paich to come in. Porcaro is determined to bang mechanically on his keyboards, despite the echoing barre chords from the guitar and the rote bass-snare backbeat. Paich’s obligation is simple: keep the listener hooked just in time for his introduction and the inevitable guitar solo. And what a rousing introduction it is!

“It’s not in the way you hold me.”

We are introduced almost instantly to the song’s sense of fervent denial. This is then followed up with a simple guitar riff that echoes each line.

“It’s not in the way you say you care.”

We hear the same denial, barely deviating from the previous line and sang in almost the same quasi-forcefulness. And the same guitar riff. When indeed will the transition occur? Prosody, as usual, has been maintained with a firm yet simple way of hooking the listener.

“It’s not in the way you’ve been treating my friends.”

More syllables in this line. These guys can cook! And indeed interject with a few more notes. In this way, Toto deviates from traditional stadium rock of the era, both by defiantly refusing to rhyme and ins ticking to the simple words “It’s not in the way.” And like the lyrics, we come to learn that “Hold the Line” is, musically, not like its corporate rock brethren. For we are eventually introduced to a chorus that quite deliberately offers perhaps the worst lyrics in Toto’s ouevre.

“Hold the line / love isn’t always on time.”

Even the most generous Toto appreciator would have a hard time reconciling “line” with “time.” There is nothing about these two words that rhymes. But then Toto is forcing us to come to terms with the remote propinquity of four-letter words. How many of us can truly rhyme on command? It’s also worth noting that the four-letter words Toto includes are not obscene. They are, in fact, quite interchangeable within the realm of everyday human vernacular.

Yet in this way, we immediately understand the initial discordant keyboard riff. For what is this but an oblique reference to Mussolini’s trains running on time? Where other bands could have employed a whistle sound effect, Toto lets the music speak for itself. The song needs no flash, save Steve Lukather’s driving guitar solo.

Will Paich offer us the full thrust of his emotions? Not here. He will save such moments for “Rosanna” and “Africa.” Here, he is concerned with how emotions are interchanged, often denuded of their primary value. His “Love isn’t always / love isn’t always” reminds the listener that this song is inherently about love, albeit love of a highly general nature.

It is the kind of love that helps one to get through a Saturday night. It is the kind of love that one can use, if one is fully inclined, to found a leper colony.

by DrMabuse

We’re Not in Kansas Anymore, Teachout

Wait a minute. Teachout’s listening to Toto? I could understand Journey. Twist my arm and you could even make a case for Foreigner. But Toto? He really must be sick. Our hope is that we can get Teachout’s toes tapping to Built to Spill or the Magnetic Fields and back to robust health. Nevertheless, we wish him well and suggest you buy his new book.

As for us (And this will be our last use of first person plural for the year. How did we get sucked into this stylistic vice? Worse than nicotine, I tell ya. Just as bad as parenthetical asides.), we’re overcapacitated. Expect us to return tomorrow. Maybe.