Willjlevith's Blog

Josh Rouse

El Turista

Bedroom Classics

Producer(s): Josh Rouse and Brad Jones

Street Date: February 22, 2010

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NOTE: In keeping with tradition, I’ve decided to re-up with WordPress for an additional year, thus keeping the “Rant Rave Revue” brand name alive for yet another solid go. At just over $15 a year, that makes for a decent deal, considering I have an open forum to (a) write about whatever I want and (b) say whatever I want. Nary is there an editor to tell me “cut this to size” or “flesh out your idea.” That editor is ultimately me, so if I screw up, I can blame myself. It’s a blank slate on which I can chalk and chalk all day long (if it were a conversation, of course, I’d “talk and talk”). So, take a read, write a comment or just let my review sink in. Let me warn you ahead of time, as one reader last year found: I swear a bit; I’m up front and personal when it comes to good and bad music alike; and I absolutely will stick to my guns. You can count on it. Enjoy!

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Now that that is out of the way, let’s talk Josh Rouse.

I came across Rouse more than 10 years ago, when the manager of a used record store in my former hometown (Saratoga Springs, NY) gave me Rouse’s 1998 debut Dressed Up Like Nebraska for free, telling me to listen and enjoy. I believe the fellow’s name was Walt or Walter—maybe his friends knew him as Wally?—and we shared several lengthy discussions about one of our mutual favorite bands, Son Volt, whom I’ve written about here at RRR at great length. We would talk the latest album, seeing Jay Farrar/The ‘Volt live and all the other sister bands that had sprung up since the advent of Uncle Tupelo, The Jayhawks and Whiskeytown—that first real push of what critics then were calling alternative country and what has been stricken down in several interviews by Farrar as a means of pigeonholing him and his former bandmates. (Obviously, Wilco, who were once connected at the hip to Son Volt in more ways than one, have since jettisoned that moniker and have thrown themselves fully into the avant-garde/kraut-rock scene. But as always when Son Volt comes up, I’m getting off subject.) Walter gave me Dressed Up Like Nebraska as a gift from one alt.country fan to another and gave me some homework: listen and enjoy.

So I listened.

As far as “enjoyment” is concerned with regards to Rouse’s first album, I enjoyed most of it, which is saying something about an album of any kind. If you can enjoy the majority of the songs on any album, it’s a feat not many in this digital age have been able to accomplish. For, with the proliferation of iTunes and other mp3-based supermarkets, American rock audiences have, somewhat ironically, begun to mirror U.K. audiences, in that they purchase mass amounts of singles and not-full albums; and what is hot one minute is as cold as a witch’s teat the next. So in a sense, full album-listening as we know it has become a thing of the past. Do you ever really listen to an album all the way through every time you listen to it? I suppose there’s something to be said about “the past,” when people sat down, put on a record, let it spin for approximately 20 minutes and then were literally prompted by the record player to “turn over” the record to the next side with that little “click.” In recent months, I’ve been listening to a lot of vinyl, and the general experience I get is much more favorable than listening to a CD. You sort of have to listen to the entire record—hence my point.

So, as a means of explaining (again, not straying too far off topic), I would listen to the first four tracks of Dressed Up Like Nebraska (“Dressed Up Like Nebraska,” “Invisible,” “Late Night Conversation” and “Flair”) and hardly ever listen to the last five (“The White Trash Period of My Life,” “A Simple Thing,” “A Woman Lost in Serious Problems,” “Livinia” and “Reminiscent”). And this is how it has been since the day Uncle Walter gave me that disc.

These first four tracks are by far the best out of the majority of Rouse’s songs on his subsequent albums, and I can say with ease that since this debut, I’ve enjoyed probably three to four songs on each of these albums as well (the majority of which I actually own). Which is not to say that all of the songs on his subsequent albums haven’t been good or above average. It’s just that there are three to four songs on each of his later albums, which are even near equal in greatness to those four songs from Dressed Up.

Diehard Rouse fans will probably have something to say about this. There might even be a backlash against RRR. “Who does this Rant Rave Revue asshole think he is saying Josh Rouse only has three to four songs on each of his albums starting with album No. 1 that are intensely great?” And I will respond, that’s a pretty damned good ratio, considering the amount of albums there are out there and the amount of artists out there who strive to make all their songs on all their albums amazing. “What more could you ask from an artist who you consider to be your ‘favorite’?” I’d ask back. Like Nashville’s “Winter in the Hamptons.” Fantastic song. Equal in greatness to those first four Dressed Up tracks. And 1972’s “1972″ and “Love Vibration.” Both equal in greatness to those tracks. But the parts are not always equal to the sum (or something like that).

(I must add: I own Rouse’s Under Cold Blue Stars and have only given it one or two spins in the several years I’ve owned it. I only recently transferred all of my CDs to iTunes, which could be a possible reason why it never got the spins it deserved. But more likely, it’s because I feel an aversion to it, because I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard any critic, writer or fan talk about that album in any way, shape or form that would lead me to want to sit down for an hour or so and listen to it front to back. More than likely, though, I just let it sit, because, like the other Rouse albums in my collection that I do listen to on a semi-regular basis, I probably came to the conclusion that there were between three and four songs that I would enjoy on the album—no more, no less—and it would take some serious listening to undercover those. Maybe I’ll get around to that by the time I’m done with this review. Most likely, not, though.)

Continuing on the Rouse album front, I ended up on a mailing list for most of Rouse’s albums after 2003’s much-lauded 1972 and fan-darling Nashville (2005). (Note: The album I skipped is called Home (2000); I would assume it has three to four solid tracks on it, but your guess is as good as mine.) I bought 1972 (used) at the same junk music store where I was given Dressed Up years before; and I only came upon Nashville years later, after a friend burned me a copy (by that point, I had heard it at several parties, while joints were being passed around and alcohol was flowing freely, so as far as “remembering” all of the three to four tracks that were great on the album, that escapes me at this point).

During this later period of songwriting, Rouse traded in his gruff roots vibe and started to nod at the mainstream (though very slightly). His voice also became “cuter,” in the sense that his songs had to be sung in a “cute” way for the lyrics to do their job. This, I must admit, annoyed the hell out of me, but I realize now that it’s just the sound of a guy who needed to support himself any fucking way he possibly could. It’s not easy being a singer-songwriter, and let me tell you, if a guy needs to sound “cute” to put food on the table, let him. (If you’re still trying to figure out what I mean by “cute,” think about the difference between the normal, gruff/mannish speaking voices of Dave Matthews and John Mayer, and the type of throaty, lovey-dovey voice they bring on in song.) “Comeback” from 1972 is an example of a “cute” song. It’s listenable and even danceable (if you see Rouse live), but compared to those first four songs on Dressed Up, it’s like a caricature of the old Rouse. The same could be said of “His Majesty Rides” from 2006’s Subtítulo. A decent, but more “cute” than decent, song. “Hollywood Bass Player” (from 2007’s Country Mouse, City House) is another fine example of “cute.”

All the while this “cuteness” was occurring, I was still enjoying Rouse’s music—most of it, that is. So in finding my way in a roundabout way to his latest, El Turista, I’m expecting the same Rouse-ian equation: Strong start (most likely), with a solid three-to-four songs that are of solid quality. The rest may or may not be decent and “cute.” Let’s find out.

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First impression(s):

Well, this is different! Sounds like jazz. String arrangement is late-Rouse-ian, yes. But this sounds more like the soundtrack to a Hollywood movie than anything. Did Rouse write this arrangement, because if he did, it’s positively Brian Wilson-like. If he didn’t, well, it won’t be the end of the world. It’s still pretty. The swelling violins near the end of the arrangement are a nice dramatic touch. Any type of instrument-swelling is great in my music handbook.

Cue the Brazilian/Spanish guitars—and the “cute” vocals. Back to the “cute” vocals! Well, what did you expect? Rouse is singing, in what sounds like Portuguese. Definitely not Spanish. He saying something about “eating” and “sleeping” (I studied Spanish in my time, and it’s definitely similar to this language he’s singing in). “Duerme, Mobila” is the name of the tune. “Duerme” means “sleep” (it’s the command form/tense of the verb, I’m almost positive). But what or who is “Mobila”? He also says, “las dulces,” which means “the sweets.” No time to look all this shit up via Google, because I feel the next song is coming up soon. The point of this blog is to come up with a picture of the album, listening to it the first time around. Anyhow, this is pretty cool. Nothing like anything Rouse has ever done, accomplished. Good so far.

Piano glissando leads into more Brazilian/Spanish guitars, and here we go. English lyrics! Rouse’s voice is not as “cute” as in the prior song, and it has a nice helping of reverb on it. I like this. Very ethereal. Song is called “Lemon Tree.” The chorus is not sing-along-able, per se, but it’s catchy. I think we’ve come across our first of the most-likely three to four likable songs on this album. There is nothing kitschy about this tune; it’s just about hanging out and walking around in a valley with lemon trees. He must be talking about somewhere warm—a warmer climate altogether. I think I heard he lives in Valencia, Spain, now. That would make sense.

“Sweet Elaine” is again in English. No “cute” voice. This is OK. It’s not his most complicated song, but it’s got a movement and topic that I can deal with. I like how the classical guitar follows the second verse (I think it’s the second verse—the first half of the song whizzed by). Again, this sounds like really nothing Rouse has ever done before. Sure, the “cute” voice has already come into play once—and there’s that theatrical sort of sound that made its way into his stuff circa 1972, but this has a tinge of “foreign” that has never really been in his music (save for, maybe, Subtítulo). Who is “my sweet Elaine”? Must be an American, because “Elaine” is not a Spanish name. It would be Elena or Alana in Spanish, I believe. And we know Rouse is married to a Spanish woman named “Paz” (“peace,” in Spanish). I wonder.

Again, the thick acoustic bass, and this sounds like it’s Spanish. “And I went to New York …” he says in Spanish. “I, I am an artist …” I think. He’s going to dance the “can-can”? Am I crazy? I like the way this song is moving. He’s talking about all the places he went in the world. “My name is Julian Martinez,” he says. So this is not Josh Rouse’s voice. It’s Julian Martinez. I’ll have to look that up later. Must be a famous artist or musician or dancer (hence the can-can). His accent is OK. Look, when I lived in Spain my accent was decent after a year. This is decent.

“I Will Live on Islands” … another solid-moving song. Again, in English. This sounds exactly like Paul Simon. This is No. 2 of the good songs on the album. This is fantastic. It sounds like an outtake from Graceland. Haha. That’s such a cliched thing to say. Everybody’s like, Oh, Vampire Weekend sounds like David Byrne meets Graceland. Critics need to get over themselves. Well, that would mean I would need to get over myself. I suppose that should happen at some point down the road. Last review I wrote, I did a bit of swearing, and this commentor got all pissy about my language. So I’m keeping the swearing down to a minimum for this retch. Yes, you are a retch, commentor. I really like this song, by the way. “I will on islands/and I will see the sun.” Sounds like a plan to me.

A-ha. This one’s called “Valencia.” Since I’ve been there, I’ll be the judge of how authentic this is. By the way, Valencia is a fantastic place. Everyone should go there before they day. (Another great song, “Valencia,” is by The Decemberists, except they call it “O Valencia.”). This one is Spanish … in Castellano Spanish … the Spanish of Spain. The Spanish I dig more than South American Spanish (sorry, S.A. friends!). It moves more. This sounds like a ringing endorsement of living in Valencia. It’s a happy song. I agree. I think it’s a great place. “vale, vale, vale, vale” means “right, right, right, right.” It’s a colloquialism. He’s talking about “la playa” (the beach). Here’s No. 3 good tune. It does sound a bit like something that could air in a Pro-Tourism commercial for Spain or Valencia, which makes it a little kitschy, but I can deal with it. It’s got the right movement. Ever heard of Jarabe de Palo? If you like Jarabe, check this [song] out. This will definitely be up your alley.

“Cotton Eyed Joe.” More English. I like the long-held notes. Something you don’t often get in Rouse songs. No “cute” voice. I like the piano and upright bass interplay. Two of my favorite instruments. Nice, whispy sort of song structure. Is this a cover of the traditional? Or is it Rouse’s own? There was that awful techno version years ago that I remember them playing in the Spanish clubs, drinking red wine and Coke (callemacho, as they call it). This was 10 years ago, almost. It almost has a Nick Drake quality to it. If that’s possible, sung by Rouse. “The living is easy”—taken from “Summertime.” Another old standard. “Where do you come from? Where do you go?” Yeah, I think that is the chorus from the standard. I like the arrangement. And I think this is a great one-up of that shitty club version. G-d forbid, any Spaniard or American studying/working abroad there should have to hear it ever again. A candidate for No. 4.

“Las Voces.” Again, in Spanish. I must admit, this sounds like a beginner Spanish-speaking doing his best to write songs in Spanish. I mean, by no means is it a fluent Spanish speaker. My old pal from Spain, who moved there with her husband from Georgia—now she was fluent. She could speak on the phone a mile a minute in Spanish. Bridgette. But I think Rouse is doing a decent job. This is a really nice song, either way. I like the rising “voices” (las voces, in English) at the end of each phrase. He’s obviously been doing his homework, as far as listening to Spanish and Brazilian music. It’s a hard nut to crack, I think. Not all Spanish music is good. A lot of it is shitty. But this is a decent try. I could see Spanish people thinking this was decent. I could see multiple Spanish people liking this music and clip-clapping their hands to it in rhythm—they do that at clubs and bars alike. If it has a Flamenco beat, they clap along. It’s just a thing you do.

“Don’t Act Tough.” Some saxophone, OK. Not sure how I feel about that. But I like the piano. Some more swirling, swelling violins. In English and his vocals are distorted. They have a little echo on them. Maybe a touch of distortion. A touch of reverb. I like it. It’s a ballad. I don’t like the saxophone, though. I rarely like saxophones in songs. I HATE the saxophone at the end of Ryan Adams’ “New York, New York.” It comes near to wrecking the song, for me. This sax is not wrecking the song, but come on! How many saxes does it take before rock stars realize they don’t belong anywhere other than in jazz? I think there are a few sax sonatas or something—classical. But really. Sax? This would have been a much better track without the sax.

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Conclusion(s):

This is one of Josh Rouse’s strongest albums to date—in fact, I’d go as far to say since his debut. It’s also one of his strangest albums, too, which might be a hard sell to “new” Rouse fans. But if you’re already in the little group that enjoys his stuff—most of his stuff, that is—this will be a refreshing glass of sangria. In the middle of a lemon-tree field. In Valencia, Spain. Go there, the weather is nice. The Euro is strong, which sucks for the dollar’s sake, but having just been in Spain last year for a wedding, it’s a great country to go to at any time. A really great place. No, this is not the Spanish Tourism Board. This is Rant Rave Revue telling you to buy this album, because it’ll send you across the Atlantic to Valencia free of charge. Just tune in, tune out and listen.

Listen Here First!

In a Rant Rave Revue first, we’re giving you a first-look at this album. Take a listen to “I Will Live on Islands” here.

The Postmarks

Memoirs at the End of the World: Composed and Performed by The Postmarks

Unfiltered Records

Produced by The Postmarks (I’d assume)

Street Date: Out Now

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I was sifting through my stacks this morning and came upon this one—the three members of the band staring back at me off of their press photo. Two everymen in black-and-white suits and a hottie in a black-and-white-striped, skin-tight dress. Hmm, I thought. Interesting. So I cracked the press release and read an interesting story about a trio called The Postmarks: Jonathan Wilkins and Christopher Moll round on the dudes in suits; and Tim Yehezkely (an Israeli-born woman), the hottie in the dress.

Turns out that the band was formed in South Florida, of all places, and that the two guys in the band are both radioheads—DJing, arranging and composing along the way. The chanteuse happened to do an open-mic night at one of the guy’s clubs, and that was apparently that.

Now, the press release is quite interesting, as it is set up like the script of a movie, which of course, is supposed to get the writer (me) thinking “cinematic,” “Broadway,” “Hollywood”—shit like that. Publicists get more and more creative as the economy gets worse and worse. But it had the proper effect; I’m hoping this first listen will provide me with what I need to rock out this first Rant-Rave-Revue in awhile.

I’m on their Web site now and am even more impressed. They’ve gotten some solid press, from both new and traditional media sources. A favorite music blog of mine, Stereogum.com, says, “Bacharach meets Brian Wilson!” Interesting. Noted. American Songwriter, whom I’ve written for numerous times over the years also sings The Postmarks praises. I’m intrigued. Let’s do it.

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First impression(s):

It didn’t occur to me until now, but this is a similar dynamic to Scottish-American band Garbage. Two producer-types and a hottie in the middle with not only immediate sex appeal, but also serious singing chops. I always had a major crush on Shirley Manson of Garbage—and after spending a year in her home country of Scotland had an even bigger crush on her. There’s something about that Scottish accent coming out of a woman. I digress, though.

I’m drawn to the use of reverb on the drums, and yes, the “cinematic” quality of the music. The publicists didn’t need to print the press in script format—but now it seems like a nice little touch. The music reminds me very much of that from a James Bond movie: maybe from the Goldfinger movie era. It feels “old,” like it was made in another era completely. The second track has got this Supremes-thing going on.

All these initial thoughts about the music itself, and I half forgot to mention how much I like Tim Yehezkely’s voice. It’s not forced in any way—it doesn’t sound like she’s trying to do something that she’s not. It’s airy, whispery and golden. It’s cute, it’s attractive, it’s fantastical. She sounds like a better version of Zooey Deschanel; the latter’s voice always sounds a bit forced (though I think it works well, in the end). Think of the takes Deschanel does in the movie Elf. A tad bit forced. But Yehezkely’s, no way. This is great, natural vocal beauty. Look, I realize I’ve totally painted Tim into a box saying she’s a hottie, etc. etc., but I must say, she’s a hottie with chops. Her hotness comes second to her vocal performance.

Getting back to the music, I really dig the use of string arrangements. I grew up listening to various level of stringsmanship—my father and brother both played the violin, I played the cello—and I think it always adds a layer to music that a guitar, drums and bass are just incapable of doing. Not that the guitar isn’t a versatile instrument (I play that, too). Jimmy Page even went as far to bow his Les Paul, but I think that was sort of a cop-out. It doesn’t provide the preferred beauty one gets from bowing a cello or a violin. It adds this “mystique” to the sound of the guitar—almost the same as percussive taps on the body of an acoustic guitar. But The Postmarks use of string arrangement is not done in a gaudy manner; it doesn’t take away from the quality of song performed. It merely adds a nice, buttery layer to what’s already there.

OK, I’m already on the fourth track, which starts out and has a club-type beat to it, but here come some horns. Some motherfucking horns! I am slightly more suspicious of horns, mainly because they were used into the ground during the ’90s ska-band explosion and started to really sound campy and shitty after more than a few songs hit the radio with prominent horn parts. Think the Mighty-Mighty Bosstones or Reel Big Fish. Great bands in their own right, but they really killed horns for me. The Postmarks, however, are using horns here, not only as a “bass” instrument (they are providing an actual backbeat), but also for a main “theme” (think the song “Goldfinger” that Dame Shirley Bassey made famous).

Here slithers in the fifth track, with some off-tune piano (something I really dig), and in rolls Tim like a warm cup of hot chocolate. The song opens up just after the 1:10 mark—with sitar (or something being made to sound like a sitar) following Tim on vocals. Love it. Another great instrument that everyone seemed scared to use in pop songs after the Beatles took it and ran with it. Sure, Guns ‘N Roses used it on the opener of “Pretty Tied Up” (I believe) on Use Your Illusions II, but it was merely used for effect, not as a main instrument in the song. This is true, lead instrument use. You also have the coupling of violins with it—something that George Harrison has in “Within or Without You” from Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, a truly mysterious raga-based song. But The Postmarks are not using a raga-theme here; this is a majestic pop song, through and through. I like the na-na-na fadeout at the end.

“Runaway Love,” the sixth track, is short and sweet. So is my take on it.

The seventh track seems to be using a Harpsichord or something similar in tinkle-tinkle-tinkle-ness as the main theme producer. In runs Tim, and it immediately reminds me of Supergrass, a perennial favorite of mine. In listening to a lot of Kinks, I’ve realized that Supergrass delves deep into the Kinks songbook to pick up riffs and other nuggets, but the Kinks are a band that need to be honored for what they were, and I sort of give them (Supergrass) a free pass when it comes from dipping into the Kinks. Here, The Postmarks are taking this Supergrass-sounding major-to-minor song, and wrapping it in the splendor of multiple orchestrations. Horns, strings, timpani (can’t get enough of that timpani, man). What a lovely effect.

I’m going to listen to the next couple of tracks one after the other and pick up with the review after that. OK?

I’m sorry, I have to throw in how enamored for this music I am—they’re bringing back the song “Thorn in Your Side” for a reprise, and even though there are no words, I’m still intrigued. Great shit.

“Go Jetsetter” has doubling on the vocals, which is a great studio trick, which all the greats have used. Elliott Smith did it so effectively. Tim is doing a damned good job with here. The sounds has a really nice ’60s pop sort of feel to it, but an updated feel, no less. There’s this connection it makes with “now” and “then” that I just don’t here in other’s music these days. The Aislers Set, who hail from Portland, Ore., I believe, have this really great “old sound” thing going on (I heard about them from the leader singer of The Shins, James Mercer, when I interviewed him a few years back), but the Set just sort of meld the old feeling music with that indie-rock sentiment—that sort of cooler-than-cool thing. Whereas The Postmarks seem to not care about their hipster cred. They’re really doing this old sound, because that’s their thing.

Onto the “Theme From ‘Memoirs’”—how funny. So this is really a fucking movie soundtrack, huh? A soundtrack to what? Being young and having fun? Being at the top of your game musically? Not giving a shit what other’s say about your music (including moi)? I just got the image of Johnny Cash about to say “Fuck You!” and sticking up his middle finger—that iconic photo.

The next tune is called “The Girl From Algenib.” Give me a second. I’ll look it up. It’s Arabic for “flank” and is a star in the constellation Pegasus (Gamma Pegasi), i.e. the wing on the flying horse. The song has that lovely ’70s wah-wah effect going on deep under the production—and works as sort of a percussion effect. This sounds like it could’ve been written by The Flaming Lips. It’s got that outerspace campiness to it, as well as this real sound musicianship. It is catchy, too, which doesn’t hurt. Is it possible that Tim writes these lyrics (she’s the lyric writer, by the way) without knowing how the boys are going to take it and run with it? Do they write the music second? Wow, that would be a real revelation. Sort of an intergalactic Elton John-Bernie Taupin thing.

I haven’t noticed a single guy’s voice on this entire album, which is sort of nice. Fuck guys, anyway, right? Bunch of pigs.

Cripes, we’re already on the last song. I was enjoying myself so much. The last tune is called “Gone,” and has this club-y beat—here come the strings. Love ‘em. And this sort of Suzanne Vega vibe going on. I’m now certifiably in love with this music. It’s climaxing on everything I look for in music (Copland, you taught me well).

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Roundup:

I’m not going to have to listen to this album a second time to write about what I think you should do with it. Go out and buy this today. It would make a great under-the-radar Christmas or Hannukah present.

Pete Yorn

Back & Forth

Columbia Records

Produced by Mike Mogis

Street Date: June 23, 2009

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I can’t remember where I was or what I was doing when I heard “Life On a Chain” from Pete Yorn’s first album Musicforthemorningafter (2001), but I know that I liked it. I gather it was probably on WEQX 102.7 in our family’s little black Honda Accord (with the flip-up headlights; remember those?), and it was probably the spring or late summer of that year, which turned out to be the last gasp before the world changed forever. September 11, 2001 would occur weeks into my senior year of college, and I remember how empty I felt, watching that shit unfold on my TV screen. Ultimately, it was the music I was listening to at the time, which helped ground me in reality—which helped me get through it all.

Anyhow, I heard that song and immediately took to how hooky it was, without being too pretentious—there was that scratchy opening guitar riff, then the sudden break to nonscratchiness into the chorus (“I was waiting over here…”). It was just a great, little tune, which got quite a bit of airplay in our small upstate New York town and probably helped sell Yorn a few hundred copies of that album on that track alone.

The other single, which I believe was out at near the same time, was “For Nancy (‘Cos It Already Is),” which had this hurdling forward motion, like it was on speed, and this great syncopated guitar riff, which I was never entirely able to recreate on my guitar. I liked “Nancy” equally as much as “Life On a Chain”—and as it goes, I figured that with two songs enjoyed out of, say, 10 on the average album, I was doing pretty good with Pete Yorn.

So I went out and bought the album, which at the time was probably $12.99. I’m going to go ahead and say that the album is actually worth $1,299.99, because it is one of those top-to-bottom gems, which only come around once in a lifetime. I’m pretty sure that Music is one of the top-10 most-listened-to albums in my stacks. I’d have to say that my favorite track on it is “Sense,” a brooding love song, with a hypnotically pretty chorus (“Is something wrong with me?/I show you things you’ve never seen.”).

An interesting side-note: In 2002-03, when I was living in Madrid, Spain, I had an American roommate, who was a really talented graphic designer and big music fan. At the time, he was really into Jimmy Eat World (especially Bleed American, which had come out on or near September 11), Saves the Day and other similar artists, and we shared a passion for the then-two-months-and-change old Flaming Lips magnum opus Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots (we would be in stitches every time Wayne Coyne would sing “those evil-natured robots/are programmed to destroy us.”). But it was I that got Nick into Pete Yorn’s Music album, and from the first few spins onward, Nick would literally play “Nancy” three to five times a day, while he did his design work. Sometimes, he would burst into my room and just start air-guitaring it. It’s that infectious. To this day, every time I hear that song, I think of Nick and that apartment we shared.

An even more interesting side-note: Another friend of mine in Madrid, an Irish guy named Steve, who had moved there from Chicago, Ill. (by way of Cork, Ireland), claimed that that song “Nancy” was about a girl he used to know. While I never was able to find evidence supporting this, I trust that Steve was telling the truth; he was the type of guy who wouldn’t up and lie to you often. And if he did, he’s a bloody langer (look that one up, if you don’t know what it means; I believe it’s local to Cork).

Anyhow, getting back to my introduction, around spring 2003, Pete Yorn’s second album dropped, Day I Forgot, which of course, I bought immediately. After six years of trying to enjoy Day I Forgot as much as his first album, it’s pretty much a lost cause. It’s just not that great an album. “Come Back Home” and “Crystal Village” are early standouts, which just gleam with that pop crust from the first album. “Carlos (Don’t Let It Go to Your Head),” on the other hand, still, to this day, makes me scratch my head for a few seconds and then skip forward. It’s just an awful song. The remainder of the album is, well, decent but not great, save for the idiotic ode to Mexican food/love “Burrito,” which has an extremely catchy chorus. It’s sort of a poor man’s “Nancy.”

Yorn’s second offering didn’t hit it out of the park—at least that much was true. But it didn’t scare me away completely. In 2004, Yorn put out a live album, which I distinctly remember Rolling Stone giving a fantastic review. I never bought it, because it really didn’t have anything that new on it, save for a few choice covers (one of which was by Springsteen, which is no doubt at least worthy of an additional half a star to Rolling Stone). I recently had a chance to buy it at a local record shop but backed out for some reason. Maybe it was the thought of having to skip over its fourth track, “Carlos,” for eternity.

Well, when I moved down to New York City and became a big, important music journalist, I started getting a ton of music in the mail. (I wish “important” meant “rich.”) One of those albums was Yorn’s third studio album, 2006’s Nightcrawler, which supposedly was the third in a three-album story arc: MusicfortheMORNINGafter, DAY I Forgot and NIGHTcrawler. This explanation I found slightly suspect, but I took note of it and have done my best to think of these albums as one, giant “concept” album. Why the second album wasn’t entitled “At NOON, I Forgot” or something, escapes me, but I get the reasoning behind the “Day” thing. It just sounds better.

Yet another interesting note: four years before the album was released, its third track “Undercover” was featured on the 2002 Spider-Man soundtrack, and Yorn guessed (correctly) that it was a strong enough song to add impact to the tracklisting of Nightcrawler. In short, he added an invisible hook. Also included in the tracklisting is a Warren Zevon cover, “Splendid Isolation,” which was featured on a tribute album to the singer-songwriter in 2004.

What did I think of his third? Well, it was neither as strong as the first album, nor as so-so as the second; it fell somewhere in between, but closer to the strength of the first than to the so-so of the second. “For Us” has sort of a Traveling Wilburys backbeat and is a decent single. It doesn’t blow you away, but Yorn, master of the bridge/chorus, is at it again; the chorus shines like a crazy diamond. The aforementioned “Undercover” is the pop-iest you’ll ever find Yorn, with that Hollywood movie song “it” in it, which makes it sound so fucking grand. It’s “size” reminds me of The Goo-Goo Dolls’ “Iris”; whether or not you like the latter song, it’s got an undeniably large size to it. “The Man,” on the other hand, is gorgeous in its simplicity and features a Dixie Chick harmonizing with him. The other collective tracks don’t fall flat, but I feel that Yorn, at least at this point in his career, had fallen into the trap of sloppiness for the sake of the contract (maybe it’s against his control, I’m not sure): his first album was near perfect, and you could almost hear the meticulousness that went into tracking each song; but his follow-ups, while having a few gems scattered throughout, are mostly bunts or complete throwaways.

Which brings me to his fourth studio album, Back & Forth, which is sitting in my disc player as we speak. Let’s get on with it.

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First Impression(s): Stripped down, acoustic, mandolin, that same old fantastic voice. Those are the first words that pop into my head when I listen to the first track, “Don’t Wanna Cry.” Oh, and here we go, in the last chorus, Yorn is raising the octave (and octane) and singing in that just-high-enough range he does so well. Not sure about the female voices singing “if it makes you feel better” over the last minute or so of the song, or the trumpet, which seems out of place. But strong start. Second track “Paradise Cove” sounds a little like Josh Rouse—breezy, jazzy, smoke-weed laidback—and of course, the chorus is spot on. I think the female harmonizer is Orenda Fink (Azure Ray). We’re already on the third track here, “Close,” and there hasn’t been a single upbeat song. But these have all been pretty damned strong sad songs, and I must say, I like sad songs more than happy ones—always have. I’m intrigued by the fourth track name: “Social Development Dance.” Very personal verse lyrics, and again, an unmissable chorus. Christ, if every singersongwriter had his gift! He actually says “Googled” in this song—and yep, it’s a sad one. A story of falling in love, falling apart, then finding out that that person has died. Ouch (but a good ouch). I already like “Shotgun,” because of its chunky guitar riff, which Pete Yorn is also damned good at sculpting. And it turns out that this album was written lyrics-first, which is quite the Bernie Taupin feat. So all these songs’ melodies were written after their accompanying lyrics. The bridge on “Shotgun” is a bit generic, but I’m just being picky here. This is another solid song (and it’s also decently upbeat). “Last Summer” is definitely not upbeat but rocks hard from the beginning. I like the steely, jangly sound of the guitars. I really, really like the mix of Yorn’s voice with Fink’s. The song has a The Weight Is a Gift-era Nada Surf quality to it; just great pop. “Thinking of You,” the seventh track, is pretty rotten, lyrically. (Let’s see if the second verse is better than the first.) Nope. The chorus is decent but not great. The bridge is the best part of the song. “Country” is played on a 12-string guitar, which I always dig right off the bat. Well, at least one of the guitars has twelve strings. Definitely got a Byrds feel to the chorus—or maybe it’s that 12-string guitar that makes me think it sounds like the Byrds. I don’t care what rock historians say—George Harrison may have played the 12-string Rickenbacker on “A Hard Day’s Night,” but the Byrds were the ones that made it the instrument of that era. Roger McGuinn, to be more specific. He just took the fucking thing and ran with it. And it’s been a fantastic part of many great songs over the years. “Country” could’ve fit on the first record. Great stuff. “Four Years”: more sketchy lyrics. This may have been another issue of not-too-strong lyrics melded with a what-should-I-do-for-this-one? melody. You can hear quite a bit of that on Elton John’s albums—some of Bernie’s lyrics just blow, and conveniently, so does the melody. The twine need to work separately and together for the magic to take place. The album closer, “Long Time Nothing New,” is a piano ballad, which could work out. I like these lyrics; they’re working a hell of a lot better than the previous set. This is classic laidback Yorn. The plucked (upright?) bass in the background is a nice touch. At the lyric “burns on in your mind” we get that lovely Yorn on Yorn melody/harmony, which he does so well. The high/low mesh of his voice is just so lovely.

Song(s) of Note: Well, in order to make it easy for you, I’ll just reiterate the fact that “Thinking of You” and “Four Years” fall flat lyrically and melodically and that the rest of the album is a beautiful departure from the normal rockin’, upbeat Yorn (not that he hasn’t written sad songs; he just hasn’t written virtually an entire album of sad songs). A little bit too laidback at times, but I think you’ll like it if you give it a try. It might be worth cracking a beer, letting a bottle of red wine breathe or lighting up a joint for the full effect. Not that I have done any of those three things while listening to this album. In fact, I have merely taken off my shoes and socks and sipped at a glass of Diet Dr. Pepper (it tastes exactly like the real Dr. Pepper; it’s true).

Roundup: Pete Yorn Fan: You’re going to dig this album: buy it today, tomorrow or whenever you have the money. Non–Pete Yorn Fan: It might be worth buying his first album before cracking this one; it’ll give you more songs to enjoy before having to take a step out onto the edge of the “new Yorn” abyss. It’s a friendly one, though; it’s not the type that will suck you in and spit you out. I’ve seen the guy live, and it’s worth becoming a fan. He’s a really likeable guy—just an average sort of fellow, who is a good songwriter, enjoys Syracuse basketball (he went to college there) and happened to hit it big.

Will Levith

Big Star

#1 Record (1972) and Radio City (1974)

Produced by Big Star

Remastered by George Horn (Fantasy Studios, Berkeley)

Street Date: June 16, 2009

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I’m sure there’s a scientific term for the chill you get up your spine when you hear a fantastic song for the first time. I don’t remember the exact moment I heard the Box Tops’ “The Letter,” but I’m sure it was on the long-since-defunct oldies station where I grew up in upstate New York (I think it was called Electric 99.5). Anyhow, if you’ve ever heard the song, you know right off that it’s a good one. There’s this driving desperation in the lead singer’s gruff vocals—and that lovely, horn-blown backbeat. Sure, the airplane noise at the end is as campy as you can get, but after you hear that song for the first time, it requires several more spins.

Some 15 years after I heard “The Letter” for the first time, three successive years saw three happy accidents in this order: (a) I fell hard for Yo La Tengo’s Summer Sun (2003), (b) I had a coworker burn me Big Star’s #1 Record/Radio City (in 2004) and (c) I read a Big Star biography by Rob Jovanovic (2005). I had recently moved to New York City and scored a coveted internship at Rolling Stone magazine, and my intern coordinator let me burn a bunch of her albums, including YLT’s Summer Sun. Top to bottom, it’s a delightful little album, with some signature trippy jams, as well as melodies only the intimacy of a husband/wife team can produce. Not known to me at the time, but the final track on the album, “Take Care,” is a Big Star cover—from the least Big Star of the Big Star albums, Third/Sister Lovers (this is the perfect example of why buying CDs is a must for the true music fan; if you don’t have the liner-notes, then most likely, you have no idea what you’re listening to. I could’ve gone on for years believing that “Take Care” was a Yo La Tengo song had I not stumbled upon Jovanovic’s biography a year later. An interesting side-note: The “sister lovers” name comes from a line in a Byrds outtake written by the then increasingly-obnoxious-but-highly-talented David Crosby for the Notorious Byrd Brothers album in 1968. The song is called “Triad” and is about, in the words of the next door neighbor from Office Space, “doing two chicks at the same time.” Supposedly, Roger McGuinn, chief Byrd, was none too pleased about the song and left it off the final album track listing, much to Crosby’s dismay. McGuinn also fired Crosby [or Crosby quit?] shortly thereafter. You can hear it on the Notorious Byrd Brothers reissue with bonus tracks or solo acoustic on Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s Four Way Street. It’s a fantastic song, but definitely didn’t fit on Notorious.).

In between the time when I found out about “Take Care” and reading the Big Star biography, I received the burned copy of the first two Big Star albums and proceeded to immediately upload them to my first iPod. Now, when you listen to anything—including people speak—in the streets or subway tunnels of New York City, you’re bound to hear very little, because everything is so fucking loud. Everywhere you go there are jackhammers pecking away at the street, 18-wheelers whoosing by belching out god-knows-what and people yapping on cell phones and BlackBerries. For the first year or so I had those albums on my iPod, I heard very little of what I listened to, even with the levels cranked all the way up. I would sometimes listen to the albums at the gym, but Big Star is not the type of music you should go pump iron to; it’s the type of music you should sit at home with a beer or a joint and allow to fill up the empty spaces.

It wasn’t until immediately after I’d read the Big Star book that I really fell desperately in love with the band, and it took just two songs, initially, to do the job: “When My Baby’s Beside Me” (with “Thirteen” coming in at a close second) from #1 Record and “O My Soul” (with “Way Out West” coming in at a close second) from Radio City.

I would suggest going out and buying the book first—it will give you a great springboard from which to leap into the band. And now let’s leap into the reissue.

First Impression (#1 Record): I’m not entirely sure what it means to “remaster” an album. Does it mean the album is supposed to be different in any noticeable way? Is the album supposed to be of better quality than the original? Most likely, it means that a new producer sat behind the board and twisted some knobs slightly and adjusted the levels to be just so.

The remastery certainly isn’t that noticeable, but there is definitely a crispness to this version compared to the one I still have on my iPod. Definitely noticeable on “Thirteen,” with the second guitar (are the levels slightly higher?). Or maybe it’s just the damned prettiest song on the album, and my mind is telling me it sounds different.

What can I say? I love the fact that I’ve given myself a second first chance to listen to this album. It’s like turning back time but being a hundred times wiser this time around. It’s like an out-of-body experience, to say the least. It’s like I’ve gone back to 2004 and tapped myself on the shoulder and said, “Listen, motherfucker, listen.”

Random thoughts, brought to you by stream of consciousness: Does it bother anybody else that the “don’t cross me babe” parts don’t line up at that one part, two minutes and change into the song “Don’t Lie to Me”? It’s too bad that Andy Hummel penned just one tune on #1 Record: “The India Song.” What a lovely little kitch of a song, though! Nothing pretentious about it whatsoever. It’s just about a guy who would like to bring a beautiful girl to India and live there. I would like to go to India, too, but whenever I eat Indian food these days, it really gives me a bad stomachache. I really like chicken tikka masala—christ, if I could have a big, heaping sloppy portion of that with a piece of naan to sop it up with (without the repercussions afterward), I would give my left foot. I wonder if that’s what Andy Hummel was thinking when he wrote that tune? [While I was writing those ruminations about "The India Song," I totally missed "When My Baby's Beside Me." I just skipped by disc-changer back.] What a juicy riff to start this one off. It’s like a big steak topped with melted cheese and bacon (you can actually get said-steak at Dylan Prime right here in New York City). Songs like “My Life Is Right” really make you miss Chris Bell on that second record—but make his solo album I Am the Cosmos that much more special. It’s basically Chris Bell’s All Things Must Pass; it has all the Chris Bell stuff on it that didn’t make the Radio City. I never really noticed this before, but after “When My Baby’s Beside Me,” the album really takes a turn towards the depressing and introspective. Is that Bell’s influence coming out or Chilton? Funny I should bring up All Things Must Pass, because that slide guitar solo in “Try Again” sure sounds like something George Harrison might do. “Watch the Sunrise” is what happens when a guitar player discovers an open tuning for the first time—and when he tries to come up with a song based on it. (I’m pretty sure that the opening riff is in an open tuning.) Not quite sure if the 12-string acoustic is in an opening tuning once the verse kicks in, though. Another pretty tune. It really sounds like classic Tea for the Tillerman Cat Stevens. Just so simple, so pretty. There’s a story behind “ST 100/6,” which I can’t remember from the Big Star book. But if you read it, you’ll find out. Read it.

Bonus Track: “In the Street” single mix. A cool new take on the song—more moving lead guitar lines, slightly different arrangement, still a spectacular cut. Different guitar solo! More countrified! Woo-hoo! Take me home! Great addition.

First Impression (Radio City): Wow, now I think there’s definitely a difference to “O My Soul.” I think Mr. New Producer Guy cranked up the bass, to great effect. I never realized it was there under that great jazzy Chilton guitar riff. The song sounds like a circus, a joyride and a lay all at once. Is that even possible? Not to mention the trillion different riffs that are packed into this one song. Most songwriters would kill to have one of those riffs in one song—Chilton has got literally a trillion going on in one (well, not exactly a trillion). I always thought the song name “Life Is White” sounded sort of like “My Life Is Right,” and was a kissoff to Chris Bell. “I know what you’re like/and I can’t go back to that.” I’m not entirely sure what “your life is white” means, either. Does it mean that it’s lacking color? Would that make Chilton a rainbow? Hooray! Here we go with Andy Hummel’s second song, “Way Out West.” What a simple, weird little song. First, let me state the obvious: It’s about a guy who loves a girl who’s gone away (out West). And he wants her back. Now, the not-so-obvious: Is it just me, or does that riff sound like just about every single the ’90s alternative band the Gin Blossoms put out? I bet the GB’s were big Big Star fans. I dig how “What’s Going Ahn” starts out in a major key and goes minor-ward within seconds (not sure about the alternate spelling of “On,” though). It sounds weird at first to the untrained ear but really makes for different, cool little song. “Get What You Deserve”: Do you think The Screaming Trees may have been listening to this one when they crafted that fantastic ’90s hit “I Nearly Lost You”? Maybe. Some similarities. “Back of a Car” could’ve been on the first record and leads me to believe that it has Chris Bell on it somewhere—had he been connected in any way to Radio City (there are rumors that he was, briefly). Or maybe Chilton was just thinking about the good old days when he wrote it with Andy Hummel. Never noticed the talking in the beginning of “She’s a Mover.” Then there’s “September Gurls,” which is just pure Byrds/Kinks fallatio, with awfully nice results. Again, what is with the alternate spelling, Chilton? Does that make it “December Boyz got it bad?” That might be the first time “boys” was ever spelt “boyz.” “Morpha Too” finds Chilton tickling the ivories in that sinister sort of way that he does—hear the nod to “Rhapsody in Blue” in there? I sure do. “I’m In Love With a Girl” is a lovely way to cap the album off, which compared to the first one, is all over the place stylistically. This is another track that could’ve easily been on #1 Record.

Bonus Track: “O My Soul” single mix. Sounds pretty similar to the regular mix, save for the tiny cut in the beginning between the opening riff and the verse (which makes it shorter, i.e. more “single” worthy). There is really nothing different about this track, which is sort of a letdown, even though it’s a fantastic song.

Roundup: I skipped the Song(s) of Note section, because this was pretty much covered in the First Impressions and introduction sections. By way of reissues, there’s really not much difference between these albums and their original counterparts. Sure, if you want to add in that great “In the Street” single mix, which really is a breath of fresh air on the album, you could say there is a reason for purchasing this album, but I say go out and buy the vinyl on eBay or burn it from your friend, read the Big Star book and discover the albums/band that way. This is an album that didn’t really need a reissue treatment and is getting one to make the surviving members of Big Star and their families a little extra bread from the diehard fans that they know will go out and slap down the money for this “reissue.” Wait until the boxset comes out.

Diana Jones

Better Times Will Come

Proper Records

Produced by Diana Jones

Street Date: May 19, 2009

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Folk music is a fickle bitch, to paraphrase Lost’s Ben Linus. If you’re a Guthrie-ite, and you just like the sparse acoustic guitars and wind-blown lyrics, you might call yourself a traditionalist. You might be a neo-traditionalist-loving Dylan fan, who sent old Zimmy down a volley of boos at Newport when he went electric. You might be of the sort that enjoys a glass of red wine, a nice hunk of brie cheese and a bite at “Alice’s Restaurant.” Or, you might be a depressive, like me, who enjoys a cold shower and a solid mope with an expert British songsmith such as the long-dead Nick Drake or the recently passed John Martyn (rest in peace, my friend; may [we] never lose sight of you). Or…and this is the last “or,” you might have just seen the light with a modern-era folkie like Fionn Regan.

Country-folk, on the other hand, is harder for me to nail down. What makes it country? Well, it’s definitely in the instrumentation/arrangement (acoustic guitar, fiddle, banjo, slide guitar or Dobro) and lyrical bent (Southern storylines; New Testament religiosity; and blue-collar themes such as alcohol, labor and poverty)—but oftentimes, the folk I described above has similar qualities. It’s hard to put your finger on. I’d say it’s also a rhythmic thing, which is a lot more difficult to describe in print (I’d suggest listening to a Hank Williams song, then immediately following, a Nick Drake song; you’ll sort of see what I’m talking about). There’s almost an ingrained backbeat in the solo acoustic guitar strumming rhythms of a country-folkie.

This is where we find Diana Jones, whom of all periodicals, the Financial Times calls “intensely moving.” I wonder why? Maybe working at the FT is where the true emotional core of America lies. Certainly, it has been one of the sectors of the economy hit hardest during the current Great Recession. Who knows? [Dear readers: Here begins a Rant.] Also, from the press release, we find out that this is a followup to her 2006 recording My Remembrance of You, which was “critically acclaimed.” I’ve found, over the years, that this (being “critically acclaimed”) is a staple to most press releases. What does it mean? Well, it has come to signify that music critics (like the one at the FT) enjoyed or somewhat enjoyed Ms. Jones’ music—hence, a “critic applauding or praising” it. The question asks itself: How long does it take for an artist to become “critically acclaimed”? According to this press release, not very long. For Ms. Jones really only has her 2006 wide-release to show—and but three years later, we have been blessed with only the second wide-release. Is that enough time for the global public to reach a decision about how much we like/dislike Ms. Jones’ music? I guess so, for some. For the sake of this review, absolutely not. [Readers: Rant ends here.]

Another thing we learn from the press release, which I really can’t let go of at the present moment is the fact that Ms. Jones’ music seems to be more popular in the U.K. than in America. [Readers: Feeling another Rant coming on.] This has always fascinated me—the divide between U.K. and American listeners. What makes us so different? Why are some acts embraced by them and not us? (And vice versa.) Is it the way our ears form in our mother’s womb? Is it that we, as Americans, innately find certain music more listenable than our British cousins? (Yeah, I said cousins; we’re historically related—a lot of us, at least.) Why do we spurn certain British acts like Robbie Williams and S Club 7, while they go soccer-stadium nuts for them? Why are there some musicians from England we have never heard of and the opposite true for Brits? And how do British magazines weigh American acts? (And vice versa.) Is it a different process? Does the NME get it right more often than Rolling Stone?

Now, I have quite a few friends who live or grew up in the U.K., and I’ve spent a pretty good chunk of time living in England and Scotland (well over a year and change), and I know one thing for sure: The U.K. mainstream is a singles world. Let me explain. Whereas our pop stations play the latest hits all day, every day, and we know them if we hear them in passing (“if you like it than you better put a ring on it!”), in England, singles absolutely rule the charts, and U.K.ers know every word, sing them at clubs and bars and soccer games and rugby matches, and the songs themselves become this nationalistic call to arms. Have you ever been in a crowded pub with hundreds of kids singing Robbie Williams’ “Angels”? The song comes on, and it’s like that moment in Naked Gun when then-California Angels’ first baseman Reggie Jackson retrieves the revolver from under first base and starts robotically chanting “I must kill the Queen.” In short, it’s an absolute nightmare, at least for me. I hate being that one guy in the bar who doesn’t know the words to the song and can’t sing it. But anyway, that’s how the music market thrives over there—off of singles. Do people listen to other stuff? Sure. Do they listen to full albums? Yeah. But the mass market is a singles market. [Rant end. Full stop.]

So then why is Diana Jones so popular over there and not over here? I think I may have at least part of an answer. If your society lives on a single-by-single basis and knowing singles is the way of conforming, the best way to fight the power is to listen to other, not-so-single-y stuff. A-ha! Add a few Diana Jones songs into the mix, and you’re practically causing a nuclear meltdown to conformity. Throw in an album, and well…you get the point.

First impression(s): I must admit, on the first spin this morning at about 8:30 a.m., Diana Jones’ voice sounded like a cross between the timbres of Big Bird and the Snuffleupagus from Sesame Street. Sort of that unnatural, muffled tone of Snuffy married to that outgoing, high-octane charm of BB. (I was drinking coffee at the time, so this was not a sleep-deprived ear-llucination.) I also must admit that I found the music itself awfully unoriginal, but my version of what is original, I’m sure differs greatly from the next guy. There wasn’t that it thing to put your finger on—I could’ve been listening to an anywoman in a coffeehouse in Scranton, PA. It did, however, sound American, which goes a long way these days, considering the amount of acts out there that seem to wad up their heritage and chuck it in the trash. Being American and sounding American are two different things, let me tell you. And considering the fact that Diana Jones is, indeed, American, I was thankful that her sound and her background lined up. However unoriginal I found the sound, I found the lyrics to be much higher on the originality scale. There is a personal quality to them that makes these lyrics very Diana Jones, if she can be used as a qualifier to herself. What am I saying? Her lyrics are not written as if from the mouth of another. Case in point, there have been groups lately who have embraced Bruce Springsteen as their musical springboard, striving to sound like him (The Killers and The Hold Steady come to mind). So, in sum, her lyrics are original; her sound ain’t.

Song(s) of note: I’m not paraphrasing Elton John/Bernie Taupin here when I say that sad songs say so much (well, maybe I sort of am)—and in those terms, Diana Jones’ “Henry Russell’s Last Words” is the gem on this album. Tempered by the most lacrimose little fiddle line you’ll hear and a simple tragic mandolin (which is uncredited under the song—maybe it’s just well-produced, high-capoed guitar?), the song floats along with heartbreaking steadiness. The lyrical hook, took, is in the repeated “chorus”: “Oh, how I love you, Mary.” But after listening to the song several times, I can’t help but think: Wouldn’t this sound even better covered by Alison Krauss and Union Station? Maybe they should take my advice.

The other song of note is “Soldier Girl,” which moves right along, in the tradition of Irish folk—with that drone-y bass (?) holding it all together and a magical fiddle dancing a jig around the vocals. As on Todd Snider’s Excitement Plan, this album sports some guest vocals from other, better-known female singer-songwriters. On this one, we get some background vocals from one Nancy Griffith, a name songwriter, who I’ve heard good things about. I don’t know her music well enough to comment on its quality in relation to this review, but I will say that again, as in the Todd Snider/Loretta Lynn matchup, there was really no need for Griffith to be on the song at all and the “harmony” line, if that’s what you want to call it, is weak and falls flat. It might’ve been nice for Ms. Jones to allow Ms. Griffith to sing an entire verse, but alas, I can only review these songs, not produce them.

Roundup: Diana Jones’ voice is just not special enough for me to warrant an amazing review here—nor are her melodies. It feels like she’s trying too hard to sound old (time-wise, not age-wise) and in the process is losing her “self”—what makes her different. Her lyrics are what set her apart from the pack, but unfortunately, lyrics alone don’t make the album. Sure, some might say that Dylan is all lyrics and no vocals, but I’d ask those people to go back and listen to a ton of music from that era—nobody sounded like Dylan and nobody, since then, has been able to equal that sound. Even his guitar work on some of those albums is decent. If you’re a grammarian or a collector of words, I’d suggest getting this one when it’s on sale at the used record store, but otherwise, leave this one alone. (I refuse to give this a really low grade, because I don’t think it’s shit; I just don’t think it’s worth your ear’s time.)

Will Levith

Viva Voce

Rose City

Barsuk Records

Produced by Viva Voce

Street Date: May 26, 2009

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I first came upon Viva Voce three years and change ago, with their release Get Yr Blood Sucked Out. The band is a husband-and-wife team—Kevin (drums/vocals) and Anita (guitars/bass/vocals) Robinson—that plays this driving, psychedelic indie rock (I wouldn’t quite call it “stoner” rock). Originally based in Muscle Shoals, AL (yes, “it’s got the swampus,” whatever that’s supposed to mean), the band ultimately landed in Portland, OR, a recent headquarters for indie rock musicians. I’ve heard it described as the “Williamsburg, Brooklyn” of the West Coast (that should mean a whole lot of nothing to you non-New Yorkers). To put it simply, it’s a haven for the hip, artsy and musical. (Skinny jeans abound!)

When I first received the advance for Blood, I remember imagining this giant collective: Viva Voce’s sound is mighty big. Lots of hearty guitars, big drums. So imagine my surprise when I found out the band consisted of just two souls. Sure, the Police got a huge sound out of three, but this was just two. The other twosome that comes to mind, in terms of sheer sonic output, would be The White Stripes, but I honestly don’t even count Meg White as a single member—she’s like the mustard stain on your shirt after eating a big, juicy Fenway Frank. Not to mention the fact that The White Stripes are on a whole different trip than Viva Voce; a much more bluesy one.

At the time, there were two songs on the album that I had on permanent repeat: “From the Devil Himself,” an acoustic-based jam featuring Kevin on vocals, which transforms into this psych rave, with the meatiest bass riff under it; and “We Do Not Fuck Around,” another Kevin-sung ditty, which I guess speaks for itself. Sure, the other tracks on the album had merit, but these were the two standouts, and as I mentioned in my Car Wheels on a Gravel Road review, it’s hard for me to enjoy an album (or be compelled to buy one) if I only like one song on it. So in this case, I loved two, so Viva Voce had a lot going for them from the get-go.

I must also confess that I was able to see Viva Voce live—they opened up for The Shins at Madison Square Garden. It’s one thing to take in a band on disc or vinyl, it’s a whole other ballgame live. I’m not entirely sure what I expected of the band, but I forced my buddy to go to the show early so we could catch the opener. It paid off. Viva Voce was just as good live as they were on the album. I’d say they were better. There were two factors working in their favor that night: They played the shit out of their songs and hit pretty much every note, which is the sign of a tight band; and Anita Robinson absolutely fucking blew me away on guitar (in fact, I think she was playing a contraption that had bass strings on the low register and guitar strings on the upper). Like the listen-crush I have on Lucinda Williams’ “Right In Time,” I have a guitarist-crush on Anita Robinson. She makes Bonnie Raitt look second-rate (like that pun?). Seriously, killer riffage.

***

So, after all that, I bring you to the Rose City review. It’s three years later, and I’ve listened to what seems like a billion more songs, and every day since then, I’ve hoped that the next Viva Voce album would make its way to my kitchen table. And what do you know? Here it is.

Let me begin by saying that I read a report last year on MySpace that Viva Voce was no more—that they had morphed into a full band called Blue Giant and they would be recording as such. I wasn’t sure what to think. Would their sound be the same, expanded? Or would the mystic two-equals-seven [members] be lost? Well, the press release mentions Blue Giant but nothing of the supposed fracture, so I’m relieved. However, it does note that Kevin and Anita have added two members to the “official lineup,” Corrina Repp and Evan Railton. So, in fact, I am working with a new set of paints. You’re probably wondering: Is the two-equals-seven equation gone? Read on.

First impression: Technically speaking, two-equals-seven is now four-equals-nine. The original “sound” that Anita and Kevin produced is still there and still Brobdingnagian. In fact, it’s hard to see where the two new members fit in to the recording. The press says nothing about Repp or Railton being on the album, so I’m going to go forward assuming that we’re just hearing KevinAnita. I must confess, this review has taken me so long to write, this is the third listen of the album I’ve taken part in over the last few days. So this is more of  a third impression. All the pieces are there: Kevin- and Anita-sung songs, psychedelic guitars that swirl around like tornadoes, chunky bass-lines and above-average songwriting. Anita must enjoy ’60s pop—because that aesthetic pops up in her melodies. This is music that makes you want to get up and dance to. Shall we?

Song(s) of note: I’m going to touch on just one song, because I could sit here and type all day long, and I would still only really be acting as a catalyst to you, RRR reader, buying a Viva Voce record (hopefully this one, when it comes out). The body of work on Rose City is similar in its cohesiveness to Get Yr Blood Sucked Out: You can listen to the entire shebang in one sitting. But the song that defines the band’s “sound,” at least for me, is “Die a Little,” the second track. It features Anita on lead vocals (with Kevin a few octaves below), with this cool little woo-ooo-ooo additive to the end of each chorus. It’s got the driving bass-line, drums and a lead guitar drenched in a chorus effect. And it’s but two minutes long (good things come in small packages). It makes you want to get into a car and drive across the country. If you do drive cross-country this summer, put this one on your driving mix.

Roundup: What can I say? Viva Voce still has its game on—and with the addition of two new members, I can’t wait to hear this album live. I’ll give this album a strong 3.5S to 4S. Buy it when it drops.

Will Levith

Lucinda Williams

Car Wheels on a Gravel Road

Mercury Records

Produced by the twangtrust, Roy Bittan and Lucinda Williams

Street Date: June 30, 1998

————————

I have a confession to make: I have a major listen-crush on Lucinda Williams. Shortly after my friend turned me on to Pandora, I made up station lists of all my favorite artists: Son Volt, Gomez, The Byrds, et cetera. And I believe it was on the Son Volt playlist that Lucinda Williams’ “Right In Time” came up. That sultry voice. Those sex-drenched lyrics: “I take off my watch and my earrings/My bracelets and everything/Lie on my back and moan at the ceiling/Oh my baby.” And the simple the fact that this was the first woman to grab me by the lapels and slap me across the face with her music. (Does Sheryl Crow do that to you? Absolutely not.)

So for months and months I put off buying the album Car Wheels on a Gravel Road because of money. Well, that’s not entirely true, because I always had enough cash to buy the album; it was just the edition of the album in stock at the Virgin Megastore that annoyed me. The powers that be recently decided to re-release Car Wheels—to make more money?—and out came one of those three-disc, deluxe-edition packages with, like, 15 extra songs on it and “extended” liner notes by (Rolling Stone’s) David Fricke or some comparable music journalist. Now, I’ve never been one to shake a stick at bonus tracks and copious liner notes. In fact, I asked for the Police boxset for Christmas when I was 15 or 16; and later on, I flat-out threw my money down on the counter for The Misfits boxset the day it came out. I’m still enjoying the hell out of both to this day. But the Car Wheels question was a conundrum. I generally refuse to purchase special editions or boxsets of artists of which I’ve only heard one track. Sure, I’ve impulse-bought certain albums based on one track (the Drive-By Truckers’ A Blessing and a Curse, after being blown away by album-opener “Feb. 14″)—but it’s rarely, rarely worked out in my favor. (Funny that I should’ve knocked Hoobastank on its ass in a previous RRR review, because I bought their eponymous first album for its album-opener “Crawling in the Dark.” What a godawful album and waste of money. But I’ll take the blame for it.)

So I waited. And then Sunday, May 3, 2009, the Virgin Megastore in Union Square NYC was having a going-out-of-business sale, and I made my way over to the Ws. There it was: the regular edition of Car Wheels on a Gravel Road. Lucky number 13 tracks. I added it to the stack, with no reservations whatsoever.

***

First impression: After all that waiting, what can I say? This is an exceptional album, top to bottom. It deserves every damned last bit of praise it has ever gotten over the years. And to the naysayers—’cause I guarantee there have been some—I suggest you pop it back in the disc-changer or earbuds and take another listen. It will sink in, at some point, that this is not your average country-rock album; it’s an absolute revelation. Sure, the production, which allmusic’s Steve Huey seems to be caught up on in his review, is pretty damned crisp—the harmonies are in all the right places, the drums holding perfect count, the instrumentation just so. Some might say that clean production hurts the authenticity of music; music, some say, should be how we hear it live or how it was recorded, say, by Robert Johnson—with nothing but air accompanying guitar and vocals. Sure, you can hear the “mistakes” on Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited, and that’s one of the reasons it’s treasured as it is. Because you hear the rough edges, and you think, “Well, if Bobby Zimmerman didn’t care about fucking something up here, it must not have been about the recording process; it must’ve been about the music.”

Well, let me go out on a limb here and say that, in this case, Lucinda Williams gets a pass. The production might be spit-cleaned and shiny, but the songs, the melodies, the music are undeniably amazing. One after another.

Song(s) of note: First of all, let me say that I could take the easy way out and say every song on this album is amazing, but I’m not going to do that. RRR is about getting to the root of why you should go out and buy this album right now (or why you shouldn’t). I’m going to start off by talking “Greenville.” Mind you, this is the only second time I’ve heard this song, but it’s an awfully sad love song. The narrator is basically telling a guy to fuck off, something I want to say it’s much easier for a guy to do than a gal. I’m not being sexist here, I’m actually complimenting the fairer sex: Guys can be real assholes, sending girls off on their way in the worst types of ways: discontinuing phone calls, nasty emails—texts, even. Women, at least the ones I know, just aren’t wired to do things like that. And this is why this song is just so great: This is a strong woman, with the cajones of a man, putting a man in his place. And by golly, he deserves every last minute of it. (Read or listen to the lyrics when [and if] you buy the album.)

Now, my only problem with this song is the harmony vocals by one Emmylou Harris. If you’re not familiar with Ms. Harris’ body of work, it spans from the late ’60s to present day and has reached legendary status. She worked closely with one-time Byrd Gram Parsons, who went on to found, with The Byrds’ Chris Hillman, one of the seminal country-rock outfits The Flying Burrito Brothers (I would suggest picking up The Gilded Palace of Sin today). He also had a solo career, which Emmylou took part in, dueting famously on a cover of “Love Hurts.” Quite a résumé, if I do say so myself. With all that said, Emmylou Harris sounds out of place—like maybe someone suggested she join in on the greatness of the making of this album, and she did, because it was the smart move. Well, hell, if I were a gifted harmony singer and was given the chance to sing on this album, I would’ve, too. But I’m not; I review music, and I’m simply reacting to what I hear. In this song, I hear an ever-so-slight lack of glue between the vocalists. Sorry, Emmylou, but you shouldn’t have sung on this album.

The second song I’ll touch upon is the title track, “Car Wheels on a Gravel Road,” which is enjoyable for its repetitive grounding in that simple phrase: “car wheels on a gravel road.” Each verse ends with it, and the chorus is the phrase repeated twice. Now, I know what some will say: Repetition is ennui-inducing. In fact, I remember my mother saying something to that effect when she heard me playing the Ramones’ “I Want to Be Sedated” for the first time. That would be an example of ennui-inducing repetition in a song; the Ramones really had nowhere else to go but up a few octaves for that song. And in it wears on you after awhile. But not in this case. The repetition is both for poetic effect and because Ms. Williams knows the line is fantastic and wants to just keep driving (no pun intended) it home. Even more, the way she says it differs each time it comes out of her mouth—at one point sounding closer to “car wee-yuls on a gravel road.” It is not at all surprising, then, that Williams’ father is a poet. She’s got it in her blood. (Read this interview from Garden & Gun magazine to learn more.) This is truly a poetic, as well as musical, masterpiece of a song. I’m glad that the power that be made the executive decision to name this album after the song, because if it had been called Greenville or Right In Time, it just wouldn’t have carried the same weight.

Roundup: A spectacular album—had me on first listen. I’m giving this the coveted 6S trophy: six stars (i.e. it’s five stars and the sixth is me cracking you on the head, because you should’ve already bought the album).