Hiatus

As if you couldn't tell, this lil' blog is officially on hiatus. Head over to Donewaiting and/or The Other Paper for current stuff.

Favorite albums of 2009

Larry Jon Wilson takes my top spot. Full list here:
http://www.donewaiting.com/2009/12/29/favorite-albums-of-2009-by-joel-oliphint/

Saturday night

Bob Dylan is coming to town

Dylan is playing the LC Pavilion this Tuesday, Nov. 3, and (fortunately) he hasn't been playing stuff from his recent Christmas album. I saw Dylan the last time he came to Columbus, at the Schottenstein Center, and I still hold that the man is worth seeing, growling mumble-singing and all.

So as a preview, I'm just going to post my review that ran in the Other Paper after that October 2007 concert—a defense, of sorts, for why it's still a big deal when Dylan comes to town.

Other than introducing his band Saturday night, Bob Dylan didn’t say a word to the crowd gathered at the Schottenstein Center. This isn’t rare for Dylan, and it actually makes sense. When you’re an American icon/legend/cultural revolutionary who’s now 66 years old, what’s left to say?

While writing this review, the same question tugged at my own brain. The piece is necessary, of course, because Bob Dylan came to town, and one can’t ignore a concert like that. And yet, it’s also entirely unnecessary because, really, what’s left to say? I won’t pretend to add anything groundbreaking to the vast amount of critical praise that has been heaped upon Dylan over the years, but from a practical standpoint, just know this: He’s still worth seeing. Very much so. And that’s what most people wonder about Dylan these days, isn’t it? Sure, we recognize and acknowledge his influence and the sense of history he carries with him, but is he still worth paying $40 to $70 (plus surcharges) to see in person? “After all,” you might say, “he never could sing too well, and I heard he can barely carry a tune now.” Dylan acknowledged this question Saturday night in the song “Spirit on the Water” when he sang, “You think I’m over the hill/You think I’m past my prime.” The audience collectively responded no, and they were right.

Bob Johnston, who produced Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde and others, said in Martin Scorsese’s Dylan documentary, No Direction Home, “I think God, instead of touching [Dylan] on the shoulder, he kicked him in the ass. That’s where all that came from. He can’t help what he’s doing. I mean he’s got the Holy Spirit about him.” Sure, Dylan can’t sing the way he used to, and there was certainly a part of me wishing that I could hear him belt out, “How does it feeeeel.” But his other-worldly inspiration is still present; it just manifests itself in a different form these days, with Dylan in a wide-rimmed hat and cowboy boots rasping and spitting his lyrics as if they’re poisonous gravel that can only be spewed in short bursts.

Dylan also realizes the importance of a great backing band. The musicians were flawless and as tight as a band could be, following Dylan’s lead with ease--all he had to do was vaguely nod his head or slightly flick his wrist to indicate a change. Lead guitarist Denny Freeman was especially fun to hear, playing his solos with vigor and creativity while never upstaging the man we all came to see. Drummer George Recile established the groove for each song and added tasteful flourishes to keep it all interesting. Dylan only played his electric guitar on the first three tunes (“Rainy Day Women #12 & 35,” “It Ain’t Me, Babe” and “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues”), then stood behind the keys the rest of the night.

Other than those opening songs and closer “All Along the Watchtower,” the set list drew heavily from 2006’s Modern Times, mostly songs of love and heartbreak. The days of Dylan the protest singer are long gone, of course, but he can convey emotions in a surrealistic way that makes him just as relevant today. The fact that Dylan’s a creepy guy sometimes works in his favor, too--the renditions of “Ballad of a Thin Man” and “Ain’t Talkin’ ” felt vaguely downright haunting.

In “Thunder on the Mountain,” the first song of his encore, Dylan sang, “I’ve been thinking ‘bout Alicia Keys, couldn’t keep from crying... I’m wondering where in the world Alicia Keys could be.” It’s the perfect example of a Dylan song that’s simultaneously antiquated (uses a bluesy boogie structure), modern (references Alicia Keys) and somewhat inscrutable (Dylan’s looking for Alicia Keys?). He seems to realize that we’re continually drawn to what we don’t immediately understand, and Dylan certainly isn’t going to do any explaining for us, which is probably another reason he doesn’t engage in witty stage banter--all the puzzle pieces are right there in the songs. We just have to put them together.

Kurt Vile

My Q&A with Kurt Vile:
http://www.pastemagazine.com/articles/2009/10/best-of-whats-next-kurt-vile.html

Stephen Colbert and the Mountain Goats

Fun interview, good performance, great album.

David Bazan - Curse Your Branches

Musicians who sing about their faith often are polarizing, and David Bazan is no exception. Bazan is best-known for his work with former band Pedro the Lion, which specialized in slowcore confessionals with doleful vocals. In the past, some listeners gave his lyrics a cursory glance and snidely wrote him off as just another underperforming, devout evangelical. Meanwhile, many evangelicals bristled at Bazan’s constant, not-so-subtle skewering of their culture. And his drinking.

Bazan’s struggles with faith have been a consistent theme in his work—one minute he’s singing God’s praises, the next minute he’s doubting God altogether. Until recently, though, faith has always trumped. “I could tell you why I doubt it, and why I still believe,” he sang on “The Fleecing” from 2004’s Achilles Heel.

But doubt is back with a vengeance on Curse Your Branches, so much so that Bazan has surrendered to it. Struggle has turned into defiance, belief to disbelief. “You expect me to believe/That all this misbehaving grew from one enchanted tree?” he asks on album opener “Hard to Be.” And later, on the title track, he digs his heels in harder: “All fallen leaves should curse their branches/For not letting them decide where they should fall/And not letting them refuse to fall at all.” Of all the Big Questions, the one that seems to rankle him the most is: If God is good, then why is there evil in the world? “If you knew what would happen,” Bazan sings on “When We Fell,” “and made us just the same/Then you, my Lord, can take the blame.”

In Pedro the Lion, many of Bazan’s first-person narratives weren’t (entirely) self-referential; Control (2002) was a concept album that chronicled the destruction of a fictitious marriage. But that’s not what Bazan is doing here, and the record is better for it.

And while Bazan’s voice will always be ponderous no matter the instrumentation, this new music is less sludgy. If Pedro the Lion albums were dark basement rooms, Curse Your Branches is renovated with some windows that, from time to time, even let in soft breezes, usually in the form of longtime collaborator Casey Foubert’s pedal steel or little bits of keyboard, like the synthesized strings on “Heavy Breath.” The bluesy bounce of “When We Fell” also finds Bazan at his jauntiest, but he still loves taking things at a snail’s pace (“Harmless Sparks,” “In Stitches”).

There’s nothing breezy about Bazan’s state of mind, though. He hit a crossroads and made a decision, yet he’s anything but at peace with it. There are the possible cosmic implications, but even more so, Curse Your Branches is about the effect his decision (and his drinking habit, which is indicative of that decision) has on the people around him, particularly his family. “The gap between what I hoped would be/And what is/Makes me weep for my kids,” Bazan sings on “Bearing Witness.” He also fears that his doubt will “spread like original sin,” and wonders whether his baby daughter will “soon despise the smell of the booze on my breath like her mom.”

The most heartbreaking family portrait comes on “Please Baby Please,” a phrase that describes the look in his wife’s eyes, and then is pleaded by Bazan over the phone to his silent spouse. On the last verse, his daughter (in the future) enters the grim picture: “Sunrise at the county lockup/Now our baby’s 23/She was out late drinking/Killed a mother of three/She said please daddy please.”

Bazan’s spiritual journey is far from over. On the final track he admits he still hears the voice of the “captain,” and that his daughter is lately full of Big Questions, too. So there’s more to come. But for now, this crisis of faith has led him to create the best album of his career.

mp3: David Bazan - Bless This Mess

(Also at The Other Paper)