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

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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).

Todd Snider

The Excitement Plan

Yep Roc Records

Produced by Don Was

Street Date: June 9, 2009

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Over the years, I’ve heard quite a bit about Todd Snider in the music magazines I read on the john, but I never got around to listening to his music.  I admit, the most plausible reason for this is that I hadn’t ever received a Todd Snider advance in the mail until last week. I tend, like most of the rest of America, not to buy music unless I’m either directly exposed to it (live) or am gifted it (and then enjoy it and buy more of the same). At least, that’s what I assume happens out there. So, let this be a caveat to all reading this review: This is the first time I’ve ever listened to Todd Snider.

Now, the press release tries to paint the picture of a rebel from the opening paragraph: “He’s taken on Conservative Christians, hippies, Republicans, and frat boys.” I’d like to start off by saying that this is an equal-opportunity blog; I refuse to discriminate against any race, religion or creed here at RRR. But it appears that Mr. Snider has a history of discrimination. Look, he’s not a racist I’m sure, but I believe that everyone should get a say—even if they tote signs around that depict dead fetuses. If they want to live their life that way, let ‘em; it’s not my life.

[Note to RRR Reader: A commenter below pointed out how incoherent the paragraph above is, and as the son of an English professor, I'm going to get to the bottom of it and try to tease out the meaning for you. First of all, this was honestly the first time I'd ever listened to Todd Snider, and oftentimes, when music reviewers get advance music of artists they've never heard before, they only have (a) the press materials to read, I guess, to form some sort of background opinion, and (b) the music. So, having read the press, which noted that Mr. Snider had "taken on" (i.e. written less-than-positive songs about) "Republicans," "Conservative Christians," etc., it was of my opinion, before even listening to his music, that Snider was the discrimanatory (Merriam-Webster notes the b definition of "discrimination," and the one I was using, as "the process by which two stimuli differing in some aspect are responded to differently") type of songwriter—the one that calls out certain groups of people because of the way they are. Which I went on to say the Rant Rave Revue will not do as a mechanism for reviewing music. So my point still is: At this point in the review, I was only reading press—and trying to form the semblance of an opinion about an artist I'd never heard before. The press was swaying me toward the negative aspects of Snider's songwriting—that he had "taken on" these groups, so then that must be a reason why I should listen to his music. I still stand by the last two sentences of the above paragraph. Look, people can say whatever the hell they want—it doesn't matter to me. If that's what they truly believe, let 'em. But for the purpose of the RRR? I will absolutely listen to someone scratching a chalkboard with their long fingernails if it's in a CD case and has press material to go along with it—and will review it. I will review anything. That was my point. Sorry that paragraph was so incomprehensible, dad.]

Interestingly, Spin and (the late) Blender magazine are quoted in the lead paragraph of the press sheet. So, am I supposed to care more about Mr. Snider, because these two magazines thought he was the “country’s conscience” and “top wiseass” (respectively)? News alert: Rant-Rave-Revue’s review will not be affected by the opinions of other periodicals, dead or living.

Here is my last critique of the press sheet, I swear: The fact that Don Was (Fagenson) produced this album will affect this review, because it means a top-notch producer saw something in Todd Snider and wanted to make him even better. A good producer goes a long way—and by means of a rap-sheet, Was has Bob Dylan and Rolling Stones under his belt, so he gets the RRR stamp of approval.

First impression: Todd Snider reminds me of Randy Newman—the first track “Slim Chance” sounds like an acoustic guitar outtake from Sail Away. Now, Sail is the only Newman album I own (on vinyl, too), but from everything I’ve read, it’s the best of his portfolio. So, I guess that will give you an idea of where I’m going with this—Snider’s brand of sly acoustic songwriting is really, really good. It keeps you listening, thinking and laughing. Yes, laughing. There’s nothing like a good, well-placed piece of humor in a good song. (What would be an example of the opposite? Green Jelly’s “Three Little Pigs.”) The instrumentation is stripped down—piano, acoustic guitar, minimal percussion and top-notch singing, in that grand tradition of Randy Newman’s Americana-soaked warble (not sure if “warble” is the right word).

Song(s) of note: I must come clean and say that I was super-interested in one particular track on this album, so I will be touch upon a few others first and then go in-depth on that one (“America’s Favorite Pastime”).

At first, “Don’t Tempt Me,” the 10th track and a duet with Loretta Lynn sort of annoyed me. It was a little too abrasive for the rest of the set’s sake. It seemed a little out of place—but then I was tickled when I saw what the 11th track was called: “Money, Compliments, Publicity (Song Number Ten).” Hilarious. So the idea here is that Snider, in an attempt to make money, get compliments and gain publicity, wrote and performed the duet of track 10 with Lynn, because that’s the way of the world these days: If you’re semi-obscure, you have to do duets with people more famous that you to get notoreity (and make money and get publicity). Like Jesse Malin dueting with Bruce Springsteen on “Broken Radio” on Glitter in the Gutter. And in a roundabout way, Snider’s saying that he didn’t even need track 10 to make the record—and that the real track 10 is in fact “Money, Compliments, Publicity.” That’s the type of wit I enjoy. What about you?

Okay, so that’s enough about the rest of the album. I wrote this review to talk about “America’s Favorite Pastime.” A little backstory: In 1970, Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher Doc Ellis supposedly pitched a no-hitter while high on LSD. That feat, in and of itself, should be enshrined in the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y., but I’m sure is not. Did I mention I’m a baseball fanatic? The Red Sox are my drug. But the occasion of a new, well-written baseball song is one to honor. As far as I can tell, the last time this happened was in 1985, when I was five years old, and John Fogerty released “Centerfield.” What a fantastic song! “Put me in coach, I’m ready to play.” I think I uttered those exact words every game in Babe Ruth, because for a lot of it, I rode the pine. But getting back on point, Snider has crafted an instant baseball song-lore classic. Who else has had the audacity to write about such a subject? And who else could do it with such wit and irony? Maybe only Randy Newman (whose “Burn On” is featured in the classic baseball movie Major League and has since, at least in my mind, been a baseball song, though it is about Cleveland, OH). Now, I’m not saying this is an instant classic—by no means is writing a story-song about an actual or possible event incredibly original. Gordon Lightfoot has done it, and so has Bob Dylan. Christ, probably thousands of songwriters have written songs about actual or possible events. But it is an instant classic baseball song. Baseball is all too often clumped into the category of “boring” sports that have no emphasis on conditioning and athleticism. You see pictures of pitchers like C.C. Sabathia and David Wells (who pitched a perfect game for the Yankees) and Rich Garces (one-time relief pitcher for the Red Sox), and you wonder whether they ever stepped foot in a gym—whether their “gym” was, in fact, a restaurant, where they would “lift” food into their mouths and get a “workout” chewing large clumps of food. Well, let me tell you something: Baseball is America. It is American and it is the only sport we call “The American Pastime.” It has become an international sport over the years—the World Baseball Classic proves that. But when I think of American sports, I think of only two: baseball and football. And, when songwriters of Todd Snider’s quality recognize this and write songs about baseball, I get goosebumps.

Roundup: All in all, The Excitement Plan was a winner. The songwriting was top-notch, the instrumentation was relaxing and not too abrasive, and the songs themselves really blended well together—save for that Loretta Lynn duet, which is, possibly, out of place for tongue-in-cheek purposes. Who knows? That’s just the way I read into it. RRR gives Todd Snider a resounding 4S (four-star review). Caveat: If you don’t like “adult” branded folk, don’t buy this on June 9. Don’t waste your time. But if you’re feeling your age and listen to music that fits your age, shit, this will be some of the best music you’ll hear all year. Guaranteed.

Will Levith

Roman Candle

Oh Tall Tree In The Ear

Scrambler Music (Carnival Records)

Produced by Jason Lehning

Street Date: May 12, 2009

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This here is the second outing for Chapel Hill, N.C.’s Roman Candle (of no relation to the late, great Elliott Smith’s über-quiet folk song, as far as I know).

Their first, The Wee Hours Revue (of no relation to this blog), which dropped in 2006, I must admit I’ve never heard. It got some buzz, having been produced by Chris Stamey (founder of indie band the dB’s, who has turned the knobs for the likes of Yo La Tengo, R.E.M. and Whiskeytown—who also famously released one of the most underrated singles [later released in 1992 as a full album on Rykodisc] of the past decade on his own label, Big Star’s Chris Bell’s solo outing, I Am the Cosmos.). And from the Roman Candle press materials at least, it sounds like this is “a much-anticipated” followup and that Rolling Stone called them Chapel Hill’s “darling” band on the rise. (Chapel Hill is a bit of a modern-day mecca of multigenre rock music. Via wikipedia, we find that the following bands and artists have made their way out of Chapel Hill over the past bunch of years: The Squirrel Nut Zippers (known for that catchy 1997 klezmer-esque hit “Hell,” an unofficial member was indie rock artist Andrew Bird), James Taylor, Superchunk and Ben Folds [Five]. Pretty damned eclectic if you ask me, even if Lester Bangs marked J.T. for death all the way back in 1971.)

Now, whether or not Roman Candle’s first album was good really doesn’t mean a thing to me—I’m reviewing their current cut. Sure, if I’d've heard it, it would’ve helped shape the review a bit more, but I can’t be bothered with the backstory I don’t know. (Certainly, this is a wall that many album reviewers hit—not knowing the backstory.) I apologize in advance to all the people that contributed to writing the press materials—I know it must’ve taken awhile, and you probably got paid a pretty shit wage to do it.

First impression: What a sound for just a trio! The band consists of a husband-wife team, lead singer/guitarist Skip and organist Timshel Matheny (I would assume they are of no relation to Pat…not even sure if the spelling’s the same), and Skip’s brother, Logan (drums), and there’s a decent bit going on here. The organ is breathtaking at moments, the guitars big and shiny, and a stripped-back focus on percussion and backbeat (which can go a long way these days but really won’t work its way into this review). Lead singer Skip has a voice, which, at times, has the boyish twinge of Supergrass’ Gaz Coombes, as well as the reedy Jeff Tweedy of the lead singer of Lucero, Ben Nichols; while at other times, becomes nasal like Billy Corgan (see “Woke Up This Morning,” the 8th track). His pipes really hold up well as their own unit, too; sure, Matheny sounds like other people, but that’s just my opinion. What am I trying to say here? It sounds pretty damned good. And the songwriting is above average: good, solid lyrics, stories being told, meshing well with the melodies, not too verbose.

Song(s) of note: I’m not going to spend four hours reviewing every single song here, but I’d like to single out “Why Modern Radio Is A-OK.” Fantastic concept; great song. It’s the story of two old friends sitting in a bar, talking about life: one, the narrator, the other a recent parolee. And they’re talking music (just like you and me). The narrator says, while his buddy was in jail, he’d had his heart broken by a woman who enjoyed the cool, obscure old pop rock that is playing on the jukebox in the bar where they are hanging out. Then the narrator says/sings, “Just let some high school emo band start versing and chorusing/Because there’s no way it will break my heart as far as I can see/and that’s why modern radio is A-OK with me.”

The conversation continues, revealing the parolee’s dismay that modern rock radio no longer plays the likes of John Lennon, Johnny Cash, Sam Cooke and other greats. And he retorts, “And that’s why modern radio is a sack of monkeys to me.”

Now, I’ve never been to jail—nor have I ever even gotten a parking ticket. But I immediately felt a connection to the parolee. Modern radio sucks. I hear it when I’m at the gym, pretending to pump iron. Okay, it keeps me focused on the weights that are usually too heavy for me to lift on my own, but that’s not what music is supposed to be. It’s supposed to be listenable; it’s supposed to be something that you wouldn’t mind sitting around and listening to or going out and seeing played in a theater or dancehall. I was flipping through the channels this morning, while I was waiting for the cable guy to come, and I stopped on Palladia for a second. There was Hoobastank, a 2000s band that, as you may remember, hit the scene with that decently catchy hit “Crawling in the Dark,” playing some huge show at an outdoor venue to a bunch of kids. And G-d, they were terrible. The lead singer couldn’t carry a tune. And they were surrounded by Marshall amps, amps that out-of-tune drivel-writers should not be using to export their sound into our ears. They should just sit in studios and pump out their pop crud and save us all the shame of looking at them in public. Where am I going with this? I must say:

Thank you, Roman Candle, for getting my rant-juices flowing. Obviously, this was a good enough song to get me thinking and writing, and for that, I’ll give you a RRR rating of 4S, i.e. four stars.

Roundup: I’ve got it pumping through my speakers right now (I still have a Sony Disc Ex-change System, with fantastic Bose speakers), and let me tell you, it’s fantastic, happy music. It’s hard to find happy sounds these days, huh? Well, I’d advise going out and purchasing this as soon as it comes out. Or, if you’re a young one, who only uses your computer and iPod or iPhone to listen to music, buy it from iTunes. This is the type of band that needs more exposure, and by going out and paying some money for their good words, you’ll be doing the world a big, fat favor.

Will Levith