Accent-uate the Positive

Just back from Walt Disney World, a carnival of conspicuous consumption populated by kids in strollers and adults on scooters, suggesting that the idea for Wall-E was hatched right on the premises.

While there, it struck me that It’s a Small World isn’t just a popular ride, it’s a metaphor for the whole wonderful place. I heard fellow tourists speak Spanish, Portugese, Japanese, German and French, not to mention the many, many folks fluent in the unmistakable tongue of the magical kingdom of Lawn Guyland.

More than languages, I noticed accents that revealed that English has more varieties than Baskin-Robbins. I overheard a man from the deep South talking to his wife, two-syllable Kim. On the beach at the Polynesian resort, there was a fawtha from Bawston exhorting Lee-um to get ouhtta da watta. And there were many friendly folks from Minnesconsin havin’ a grand time, dontcha know?

But nothing hit quite as hard as that moment at Animal Kingdom when we encountered the cast of Oliver! and their mum, Shrewy Spice, whose lone parenting tactic was to speak loudly and threaten ‘er children. A note to Shrewy’s husband, Ian – excuse me, Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-an: the dagger tattoo on your pipe-cleaner arm cannot disguise that you are one seriously hen-pecked bloke.

Krausshmir

When I was a kid, I valued spectacle. Sure, it would have been nice to be in the front row, but there was something ideal about being two hundred feet away at a rock show, drinking in the enormity and grandeur of it, connecting with fans while not being able to quite touch the object of our adoration, allowing stars to remain in the cocoon of stardom. As an adult, I prefer intimacy, content to be moved by music, where before I demanded to be blown away.

I got a little of each last night when Robert Plant and Allison Krauss brought their tour to town. In a gorgeous outdoor theater, on a night that strained the definition of perfection, with a pristine band led by J. Henry Burnett (T-Bone to his friends), the rock god and the bluegrass queen delivered something grand, spellbinding and intimate, as they reworked classic American roots music and a handful of Led Zeppelin tunes. The band, which featured fretboard wizards Buddy Miller and Stuart Duncan, bathed the stars in dreamy, tremolo-drenched atmosphere, evoking a history deep and wide, as two of popular music’s most distinctive voices danced on top, together and alone.

A little Allison Krauss can go a long way for me, as her keening voice can verge on cloying to my ears. But there’s no denying its crystalline beauty, and when she delivered an a cappella version of “Down to the River to Pray” (with vocal support from Miller and Duncan), time all but stopped. It was one of the most elegant things I’ve ever heard live.

Krauss, petite and demure, held her own on stage next to Plant, but he was – without doubt – the night’s most riveting presence. At age 60, he’s beginning to show his age, but not to act it. Much of his music has been explosive, but the current tour is based on restraint. Not a laconic restraint, but a tension-filled whisper that threatens to blow the whole thing open at any moment. When Plant slides to the microphone, picks up the stand, and leans in to it, there’s no doubt that he’s a rock star. Even his smallest movements convey electricity.

The night’s third song was a banjo-fueled duet on Zep’s “Black Dog.” When Plant sang “gonna make you burn, gonna make you,” he hesitated ever-so-slightly before the word “sting,” and his sideways glance at Krauss was an act of subtlety and audacity that few could pull off.

I could go on. Suffice it to say that this is a terrific show, sophisticated and sexy, smart and sassy. Highly recommended.

Scientific Proof

We've long boasted that Teenage Kicks has the smartest readership of any site devoted largely to idiotic concerns, but now there's some proof to back up the claim. Our friend Kurt, a recurring character around here, just received the Fuller Albright Award for being a kick-ass scientist. More precisely, "The Fuller Albright Award is given in recognition of meritorious scientific accomplishment in the bone and mineral field to [a kick-ass scientist] who has not yet reached his or her 41st birthday before July 1 of the year the award is presented."

Hats off to Dr. Hankenson.

Yankee Stadium

Home to Ruth, DiMaggio, Mantle, Berra, Gehrig, Scooter, Munson, Maris, Whitey, Donnie Baseball, Reggie and 26 World Series Championships, Yankee Stadium hosted its last baseball game yesterday.

Sideman supreme and rock star in his own right Nils Lofgren salutes "The House That Ruth Built".

Warning - My cause Red Sox Nation to vomit slightly in mouth.

Nils Lofgren - Yankee Stadium

Sin Boldly

I spent the weekend in Columbia, Missouri enjoying my 15-year law school reunion, the best offense in college football, and the company of some world-class journalists. The University of Missouri’s world-famous School of Journalism celebrated its centennial this past week, and thanks to my friend T.J. Quinn (a world-class journalist himself, and a recurring Teenage Kicks character), I was able to hang with some of the finest purveyors of the printed word (hi Annie, Colleen, Sonja, Courtney, et al.), one of whom has a new book to plug.

Cathleen Falsani, the acclaimed religion writer at the Chicago Sun-Times and author of the much-beloved The God Factor: Inside the Spiritual Lives of Public People, is back with Sin Boldly: A Field Guide for Grace, a memoir that sees her traveling around the world to find and explore connections to the divine. The book is reaping mountains of praise, and you are heartily encouraged to pick it up.

Ms. Falsani also writes the popular blog The Dude Abides, which has been added to the links at the right of this page.

Hear Us Roar

Well, hear us chat. Go to breakthru radio, look on the left side of the page, and click on "Anatomy of a Blogger" to hear the two of us answer a few questions interspersed with songs by some of our favorite indie acts.

Los Peyotes - El Humo te Hace mal!

This is some crazy shit... I think they're singing about the Jackson Five. Thanks Chris K!

The Real Zen of Genius

I upgraded to iTunes 8.0 today, which includes Genius, a new feature that builds a playlist around a single song that you select (it will also recommend other songs and albums for you to buy). Other than perhaps going back to the same artist a few times too many, it’s hard not to be impressed by this trick of artificial intelligence. I mean, I selected Marshall Crenshaw’s “Mary Anne,” and this is the playlist it created:

1. Marshall Crenshaw, “Mary Anne”
2. Nick Lowe, “So It Goes”
3. Squeeze, “In Quintessence”
4. Dave Edmunds, “Girl Talk”
5. John Hiatt, “Thing Called Love”
6. Richard Thompson, “I Feel So Good”
7. Big Star, “September Gurls”
8. R.E.M., “Sitting Still”
9. Elvis Costello and the Attractions, “The Only Flame in Town”
10. Pete Townshend, “Slit Skirts”
11. Elvis Costello, “(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes”
12. Marshall Crenshaw, “Starless Summer Sky”
13. Utopia, “Love in Action”
14. Squeeze, “Annie Get Your Gun”
15. The Replacements, “I Will Dare”
16. Rockpile, “Teacher Teacher”
17. Nick Lowe, “I Love the Sound of Breaking Glass”
18. The Posies, “Golden Blunders”
19. Marshall Crenshaw, “There She Goes Again”
20. Joe Jackson, “On Your Radio”
21. XTC, “Earn Enough For Us”
22. Cheap Trick, “So Good to See You”
23. Graham Parker and the Rumour, “Passion Is No Ordinary Word”
24. Graham Parker, “Hold Back the Night”
25. The Clash, “Hitsville UK”

I might nitpick a little (couldn’t it have thrown the dB’s in there?), but I think I could listen to that list once a day for the rest of my life.

The Fratellis and The Airborne Toxic Event - TLA 9/4/08

Often the best (or worst) part of a concert is the surprise effect - as in surprise at the magnificent power of a band's live show, surprise that yet again the tallest human on earth is directly in front of you, surprise at the song selection, surprise that a beer is six bucks!, surprise at the quality of sound, surprise at the number of folks violating concert laws both # 1 (don’t wear the band's shirt) and # 7 (2 beer minimum, 6 beer maximum... enjoy the show fellas, but try to remain upright), my wife’s surprise that Craig Finn looks just like that, and, as was the case last Thursday at Philly’s TLA, the best concert surprise of all – the great opening act.

Since I missed the Electric Touch’s set, my de facto opener was The Airborne Toxic Event. The band’s atrocious name was apparently taken from a passage in White Noise, a novel by Don DeLillo, a central figure of literary postmodernism. (Seriously, I never heard of Don DiLillo prior to googling the band’s name earlier today. And literary postmodernism – puh-leeze. I assumed the band had a flatulence issue.) The band sits between the literary yelping of Will Sheff and Okkervil River and the alt rock and reel of the Arcade Fire. Opening with the spastic roll of “Papillon” (which recalls a caffeinated version of po-facers The National) and the thumping lamnet of love lost “Gasoline”, it’s quickly evident that Airborne Toxic Event’s live show will be tough to top. After playing the bulk of their debut, including standouts “Happiness is Overrated”, “Does This Mean You’re Moving On?” and the desperate “Sometime Around Midnight”, it’s clear ATE main man Mikel Jollett, who seems to be having an absolute blast on stage, has penned a cathartic groups of songs that all seem to deal with deep loss and heartbreak. And in time honored fashion, he’s added soaring arrangements and urgent melodies to clearly still healing emotional scars… life strife makes good art. Personally he may be coming apart, but Jollett’s band feels on the edge of exploding in a different way.

While the ATE gave a great bar show in a theater, The Fratellis provided a by numbers arena show in a bar. While their debut cd remains on the short list of 2007’s best discs, the new Here We Stand dials down the hook happy bubblegum spunk of Costello Music in favor of more muscular but less satisfying arena rock. It ain’t no sin to shoot for the stars, but The Fratellis seem to have lost some of that youthful glow in the last year. Playing with a modicum of stage presence and a boring psych-rock light show complete with fog machine, The Fratellis alternated between pop punk brilliance and too many aimless, jambling pedestrian bluesy rawkers. There’s no denying the giddy rush and exuberance of “Flathead”, “Chelsea Dagger” and “Whistle For The Choir”, it’s textbook pop hitmaking, but The Fratellis seem to have already peaked.

This particular night, it was ATE in a TKO.

The Airborne Toxic Event - Gasoline

The Airborne Toxic Event - Does This Mean You're Moving On?

Indie Hit Parade

Some quick hits today for our friends at Breakthru Radio. Recently, I got a note from the Washington, DC band Bellman Barker (they’ll be at the North Star in Philly on September 22). These guys are a tightly-wound tinderbox, a classic guitars-bass-keys set-up with melodies and harmonies to spare. Fans of The Format (or Nate Ruess’s new band, fun) will dig them. Download a basketful of tracks here. They’re on the road with a hirsute, heavy-rocking dude from Iceland (yeah, I know) named Mugison. You’ll want to check him out, too. Pay particular attention to the embedded video. The man does not lack charisma.

We mentioned regional biases in our introductory post, and here’s a midwestern band I discovered on Breathru Radio. It’s Jumbling Towers from St. Louis, a rock and roll collective with arty flourishes, spiritual descendants of the original American new wave bands. The vocals remind me of Dan Bejar of Destroyer and New Pornographers fame, and the music bears more than a passing resemblance to Modest Mouse. Definitely worth your while to download their free EP, Classy Entertainment.

And I know these guys don’t technically qualify as “indie” inasmuch as they’re on a tiny Atlantic imprint, but (musically, at least) it’s a distinction without a difference. Kansas City’s Republic Tigers make lush, classic pop music (think the Shins) with subtle hooks that dig in deep. They’re ambling about Europe at the moment, opening for Travis, which seems an ideal pairing. Plus, the bass player’s in-laws live across the street from me, and they’d rather the kids not have to move into the basement, so as a personal favor to me, please give them your support.

Breakthru Radio

This week, we're cross-blogging at Breakthru Radio, a cool online indie radio station. Please check them out. We begin with a post that originated here last week, but that has been tailored to fit the new audience.

Hello Breakthru Radio listeners. Thanks for having us. You don’t know us and we don’t know you, and since we’re going to spend the week together, some introduction is in order. First, we’re probably a little older than you are, and that may be reflected in what we do (and don’t) write about. Second, one of us lives in Philadelphia and the other in Kansas City, which may explain any regional biases that pop up. And third, we might not have the conventional mindset for a place like BTR. We love lots of indie music, but we like what we like regardless of the business model that delivers it to our ears, and we rarely ponder the distinctions. If we lapse into discussing a band that’s on a Sony subsidiary, rest assured that it’s only because we’re not paying attention.

We don’t much engage in music criticism at Teenage Kicks. We engage in music enthusiasm. I get no kick out of telling you what I don’t like, because it might be something you like, and no one likes a killjoy. Every once in a while I hear someone say that The Hold Steady sucks or that Bruce Springsteen is an irrelevant old relic, and I know in my bones that they’re wrong, but I can’t put an equation up on the board to prove my thesis. Recently, when discussing the Booker Prize for new literature, Nick Hornby wrote “there is no such thing as an objectively good book, and there is certainly no such thing as a ‘best book’; there are only books we love, for reasons too complicated and personal ever to articulate convincingly.” While I think there’s a one-percent exception (saying that London Calling is better than The Clash’s debut is an opinion; saying that it’s better than Cut the Crap is a fact), I know it’s true. I recently got an e-mail taking small umbrage to something I wrote in praise of a certain album, and offering in rebuttal a heartfelt appreciation for a record I believe to be a stunning mediocrity. I was surprised to read an impassioned case for music that sounds like audio mayonnaise to me, but heartened, too. Being a musician is a hard job. You take something deeply personal, give it over to the world, and watch as your bones get picked by the public, the critics and the hipper-than-thou blogging crowd. If you can make a connection to even a few people, you’ve succeeding in communicating your vision and bettering their lives in some unexplainable but undeniable way. Who am I to tell you that what you feel isn’t valid? And why would I want to do that?

So that’s what we’ll do here for the next few days. We’ll enthuse. We’ll enthuse about Ezra Furman and Ike Reilly and The Broken West. We’ll enthuse about Langhorne Slim and Delta Spirit and Gaslight Anthem. And hopefully we’ll engage you and you’ll enthuse back to us about some band we’d never otherwise know. We think that’s how this is supposed to work. We’re looking forward to it.

Gaslight Anthem - The '59 Sound

Real rock and roll never goes out of fashion. I won’t bore you with the names of the non-real rock and rollers, but you know who they are. New Brunswick, NJ’s favorite sons The Gaslight Anthem have unleashed The '59 Sound, a stunning sophomore album that ranks as one of the year’s best. Combining the urgency of punk rock’s explosiveness with rockabilly’s shuffling backbeat, these Jersey greasers are classic American rockers who can unabashedly and un-ironically write lines like these from “Meet Me By The River’s Edge”:

“See I’ve been here for 28 years
Pounding sweat beneath these wheels
We tattooed lines beneath our skin
No surrender, my Bobby Jean”

Which brings us to the elephant sitting in the middle of the room – this band owes such a debt to Bruce Springsteen that to ignore that influence would be to overlook one of their greatest strengths. The small town struggles, Mary’s red dress, washing these sins away, rock and roll as escape, carnival lights and yes, Bobby Jean, can be part of more than one songwriter’s lexicon. And who better to be influenced by than Bruce Springsteen? Do we really need another bunch of anorexic, pasty faced wallflowers citing Can, Kraftwerk and Eno as their heroes?

The Springsteen comparisons are not really for the band's sound but for the small town, heart on your sleeve songwriting and lyrics that either were lifted directly from Springsteen songs or feel like they were cobbled together from scraps on the Boss' cutting room floor. If I didn't love this record, I'd almost cringe at the overt lyrical Bruce homage, but it feels so natural that it’s endearing. Non-Bruce heads will have a field day tearing it to shreds.

But there are plenty of other influences – many referred to directly in the lyrics. Besides the many nods to Springsteen, there’s also the Rolling Stones, Tom Waits, Hank Williams, Bobs Dylan and Seger, Lou Reed, Elvis, Tom Petty, Miles Davis, Otis Redding, Wilson Pickett, Gary U.S. Bonds, Sam Cooke, Wilson Pickett and Marvin Gaye. If that doesn’t sound like your record collection, it should. And if that list doesn’t wanna make you buy this record, it should.

So do who do they sound like? I hear a scuzzier Rhett Miller mixed with the less preening bits of Brandon Flowers, crossed with Eddie Cochran and Gene Vincent and, I kid you not, a little bit of the Fonz (the one that cruised back alleys, not the malt shop). The album kicks off with the exhilarating 1-2 adrenaline blast of “Great Expectations” (complete with an opening needle drop on an old soul record) and “The 59 Sound” that doesn’t let up until the wistful valentine regrets to old lovers of “Here’s Looking at You, Kid” (Bogie, Hepburn and Marilyn also appear).

This is a record for those who haven’t bought one since Born to Run as well as those captivated by current backstreet kings The Hold Steady. Even though it seems to have ignored most of the pop culture of the last 40 years, this is a record that feels so fresh and invigorating, it reminds me how I feel when I hear Chuck Berry or The Four Tops on the radio. Yeah, maybe it’s been done before, but real rock and roll never goes out of fashion.

The Gaslight Anthem - "Great Expectations"

The Gaslight Anthem - "Casanova Baby"

The Streak Is Over

By my count, Michael’s blogging streak ran 32 days – which is one more post than Baskin and Robbins has flavors, two more posts than George Brett’s 1985 home run total and it’s even 18 more posts than Michael Phelps has Olympic gold medals (they even share the same first name!). So as the streak ends, I’d like to salute and congratulate my partner on his incredible streak as well as commemorate his, hard to believe Harry, first “Rosalita” concert experience. How a 40 year old Springsteen freak had (until now) managed to escape “Rosie” is a sad tale of a decade late creation, some time continuum exasperation, not to mention severe geographic isolation.

But two weeks ago in Kansas City, in addition to having Kirsten Dunst’s doppelganger serve us beers at a nearby pub (which by the way, cranked “Constructive Summer” within minutes of us taking our booth), meeting Mark as we waited for the show to start ‘cause of my t shirt (and no will care but me – but Mark’s Titan Records label put out Gary Charlson’s Real Live Gary) and having to endure Stinkbreath Magoo, Michael finally got “Rosied”. I noticed a slight tear in his eye at the song's beginning, but I’m still not sure if it was “Rosie” or Stinkbreath’s reacharound.

So Michael, here’s five from The Sprint Center:

Ricky Needs A Man of Her Own
Boys (Max Sings!)

Rosalita
Save The Last Dance For Me

--
Rockin' All Over The World

The Encore

What, you thought I could just walk away after thirty (really thirty-one) straight days?

Anyway, in honor of the kid in Kansas City who wanted to hear "Prove It All Night" with the 1978 intro, here are two versions of "Prove It All Night," from 1978, with the intro.

TV On The Radio On The Internet

TV On The Radio has a new album coming, and you can stream the song "Dancing Choose" here.

(Hat tip: DFD)

Everyday I Write the Blog

Whew. The finish line. Thirty days without fail. It has been both energizing and unnerving, especially on those days when there was too much else to do or when the ideas didn’t come. But it has also been fun, and not only because I like the sound of my own voice. It has been fun because rock and roll is fun, and catching Springsteen live is fun, and hanging out with Trip is fun, and college football is fun and on and on and on.

We don’t much engage in music criticism around here. We engage in music enthusiasm. I get no kick out of telling you what I don’t like, because it might be something you like, and no one likes a killjoy. Every once in a while I hear someone say that The Hold Steady sucks or that Bruce Springsteen is an irrelevant old relic, and I know in my bones that they’re wrong, but I can’t put an equation up on the board to prove my thesis. Recently, when discussing the Booker Prize for new literature, Nick Hornby wrote “there is no such thing as an objectively good book, and there is certainly no such thing as a ‘best book’; there are only books we love, for reasons too complicated and personal ever to articulate convincingly.” While I think there’s a 1% exception (saying that London Calling is better than The Clash’s debut is an opinion; saying that it’s better than Cut the Crap is a fact), I know it’s true. I recently got an e-mail taking small umbrage at something I wrote in praise of a certain album, and offering in rebuttal a heartfelt appreciation of a record I believe to be a stunning mediocrity. I was surprised to read an impassioned case for music that sounds like audio mayonnaise to me, but heartened, too. Being a musician is a hard job. You take something deeply personal, give it over to the world, and watch as your bones get picked by the public, the critics and the hipper-than-thou blogging crowd. If you can make a connection to even a few people, you’ve succeeding in communicating your vision and bettering their lives in some unexplainable but undeniable way. Who am I to tell you that what you feel isn’t valid? And why would I want to do that?

And as I think about the past thirty days, it occurs to me that what I enjoy most about this is the enthusing. When this started, I didn’t know Little Jackie or the new songs by the Broken West and Ezra Furman. Now I love all of those things. I hadn’t seen the E Street Band play in five years. Now I have, and I’m reminded of why that man and that band have been important to me for most of my life. That’s the thing about music and writing to me. They make you want to get up in the morning and embrace the day, to enthuse and to share, to debate and to collaborate. They make you want to put your thoughts up on the Internet in hopes of connecting with even a few people. And if you’ve read this far, I suspect that we’ve connected in some small way with you, which makes the whole endeavor worthwhile.

Travelin’ Band

I would never make it as a rock star. The dark sexual energy I have down pat; it’s the schedule that would kill me. I just spent three days away from home – in the comfort of my in-laws’ house – and I’m completely wrecked and disoriented. Where am I? Whose bed is this? The most strenuous thing about the weekend was a football game – one I attended, not played in – and still I cut short my normal morning visit to the gym because . . . I . . . just . . . didn’t . . . have . . . the . . . energy.

That’s one of the things that I’ve always admired most about bands on the road. It’s not just the show. It’s the waking up in a strange bed in a strange town, eating strange foods on a strange schedule, and still performing at the highest level. Leave the venue at 1:00 a.m., get on a plane at 2:00, check in to a hotel at 6:00, sleep a few hours, and then do it all again. Politicians are prone to saying “nice to see you” rather than “nice to meet you” when they encounter unfamiliar faces, because they can never be sure if they’ve met the person before. This is a practice we could all take to heart. I remember working a show when I was in college, and taped to the floor by the singer’s microphone was a sign that declared in big letters: “Columbia, Missouri.” At first, I laughed that this guy doesn’t know where he is. And then it struck me that he got off a bus four hours ago, walked into a theater that looks just like last night’s theater, and is now peering through stage lights at a crowd no different than the folks in Cleveland or Cucamonga. Of course he doesn’t know where he is.

Unlike me, my kids are rock stars in waiting. After sleeping yesterday on the tour bus we like to call a Honda Odyssey, they jumped out bed this morning ready to attack the second grade and preschool gymnastics, respectively. I’ve always wondered how rock and rollers play the same songs every night with conviction, but it’s no problem for my son. After calling out for “Come On Eileen” twenty-two times over the weekend, he was back on his game in the car this morning. “Play it again, Dad,” he demanded. Every day is a new show. The kid is ready to go on tour.

Labor's List

A happy Labor Day to everyone. Enjoy your cookouts, cold beverages, and these five songs, which celebrate the working spirit.

Billy Bragg – There is Power in a Union

The Members – Working Girl

Merle Haggard – Workin’ Man Blues

Spinners – Working My Way Back to You

Pete Townshend – Keep on Working