Jimmie Corrieri: In Memoriam

Jimmie Corrieri was one of a kind, and he helped found a one-of-a-kind band.  He died last night.  Like too many musicians and composers (sung and relatively unsung), he left us too soon, perhaps in his prime, but we still have the sui generis songs (integrations of learned lyrics and infectious rhythms) that he composed and impeccably performed.

                A few decades ago (around the time that the vinyl age ebbed and the digital age flowed), at New York University, the young guitarist and composer met the incomparable vocalist and lyricist (and actor) Steven Schub.  I was not fortunate enough to witness this monumental meeting of the minds (a fellow actor of Schub’s of some renown apparently was), but I would imagine their paring and partnership was as ineluctable as hydrogen and oxygen atoms combining to form water molecules.  It is incontestable that, soon enough, the two had formed The Fenwicks [“the world’s greatest (albeit only) Afro-Celtic-Yiddish ska band”]).  Within a few years (i.e., in 1994), with the support of Lynyrd Skynrd’s Artimus Pyle and other impressed industry luminaries, The Fenwicks released a debut disc, Member of No Tribe, on Guitar Acoustics (the label imprint of Guitar, a.k.a. Guitar for the Practicing Musician magazine).  It the title were not a dead giveaway, quotes from Ayn Rand and Victor Hugo adorned the disc’s liner notes, as well as this mission statement:

“The Fenwicks are an idea … hopefully its time has come.  The idea is basically this—The Fenwicks are an acoustic duo, expanded into a 6-man ska-funk-folk-punk amalgamation, with a self-imposed mission.  The mission? To create a sound as of yet unheard, one that can provoke the primal in you as well as the intellectual, to actually make you think and dance simultaneously, to put a thought in your head and a fire in your loins in one auditory swop.  To that end and for that purpose, here are a collection of songs that should keep you fueled and fighting for a lifetime.  Ultimately and obviously though, the songs have to speak for themselves, so we’ll just hush up now and let ‘em speak, shriek, scream and squeal….

“Obsessively and compulsively, in blood and fire,

“Steven Schub   Jimmie Corrieri

“p/k/a The Fenwicks”

                The duo’s notes speak for themselves, but to expound: The Fenwicks and their boisterous-but-serious songs are equal parts erudition and ecstasy, profundity and physicality, mind and body.  The band hypostasizes the integration of mind and body in a culture in which they are nearly universally sundered (as much as it is possible to flout a law of metaphysics).  While both songwriting partners necessarily embodied (and emminded) both halves of their mind-body whole, Corrieri’s deft-but-often-understated, puissant open chords often served as the organic, accessible “body” to Schub’s “mind.”  His propulsive, sometimes percussive, rhythmic acoustic attack (he often did attack those strings on stage, where they were often electric) was the galvanizing get-up-and-go that undoubtedly went a long way in rousing the less inhibited Fenwicks fans to dance, “skank,” and shimmy.  Corrieri rarely took a solo, but, with his adroit, complex approach to rhythms and chord progressions, he turned the dying art of rhythm guitar into a form of soloing.

                Due the busy schedules of the various members (and, likely, other factors), it took seven years to follow up Member of No Tribe.  I wasn’t there, either, but I’m sure the shibboleth about “being worth the wait” applies.  Eudamonia (Flip-Dog Discs) is named after Aristotle’s conception of integrated mental and physical health (or, happiness on Earth—as opposed to happiness postponed and tailored for his mentor Plato’s World of Forms).  It lives up to its name.  One of the reasons it lives up to its name is Jimmie Corrieri.  This time, he wrote lyrics to and sang a song: “Your Life.”  (His recorded voice has a direct and gentle quality.  This Fenwicks aficionado hopes to hear a live recording of the song someday.)

                Eudamonia is all well and good, but eudemonia (at least as a Fenwicks fan) is not attained without live Fenwicks.  I had the privilege to see them live (and heard their music for the very first time) at Hollywood’s Club Lingerie ten years ago.  

                In these years of monotony (and worse), most rock bands have degenerated into such facelessness and homogeneity that the individual members of Pink Floyd seem like paragons of personality and uniqueness.  Normally, Steven Schub would provide enough for an entire band, but The Fenwicks (not a normal band) didn’t need him for that.  Jimmie Corrieri’s typical (for him) suit and tie and constant, infectious smile were enough.  Jettisoning his studio acoustic for a gorgeous electric Rickenbacker (see the video below), he helped bring many of the songs from Eudamonia to more vivid life with the same enthusiastic physicality (palpable on stage) that is almost visible on the recordings: a meta-eudamonia.  Corrieri’s dulcet, ringing use of all six strings provided a more musical sound that many of today’s “nü metal” and grunge bands bludgeon out of their own cacophonous, droning, enervating racket.  But Corrieri’s axe, by contrast, was always colorful.  The sonic palette was broadened by the propulsive polyrhythms of the rhythm section (bassist Ed Richardson and drummer Ken Nasta) and the horn section (“The Horn Dogs”).  As I have noted before, I try to avoid the personal pratfalls of subjectivity when writing about live music, but, sometimes, nothing else quite substitutes.   I walked into Club Lingerie that night my usual isolated, taciturn, morose, glowering self.  By the time the frontman extracted his bright orange radiation helmet at the dawn of "My Luck," I was grinning like an Eloi philistine on his way to a new Wes Anderson film.  ("My Luck" has a haunting, bittersweet punchline that should be saved for another day.)  By (the epistemological) “Desert Rat,” I think I was even dancing (by my definition, anyway).  When the lights came up, I was talking again.  (Actually, I was asking manager Jonathan Boyer for the setlist below.)  I was a fan for life.  If anyone in the audience wasn’t, I would have checked his pulse.  And for those who were not there (or never saw them), they were selling their then-new live album Truth & Memory (Flip Dog Discs: recorded the previous year, 2002, at Arlene Grocery in New York).  I promptly bought one from Jonathan Boyer.  (Alas: seven more years would pass before I would make the acquaintance of one of the performers.)

                Jimmie Corrieri and The Fenwicks never received anywhere near the respect and approbation they earned and commanded (he and they are, in many ways, a ska analogue of a certain melodiousmetal band with a monumental guitarist and composer who also died far too soon).  But they did attract a devoted following of discerning music fans.  And their work survives, and you should obtain it and listen to it (and, if you are so inclined, dance) if you have not already.  On those three albums (and especially on Truth & Memory), Jimmie Corrieri lives.

Cleaning Out the Archives: A Review of Bruce Kulick's"BK3"

This is hopefully the first in a series of publications (to both of my weblogs) of old pieces of writing I have in my computer files. LA Weekly rejected this in 2010.

Bruce Kulick’s BK3: Squandered Potential, Dormant Promise

By Jeffrey Falk

If Almost Famous had been about a veteran, journeyman rock guitarist instead of a teenage journalist, it might have been about Bruce Kulick.

Kulick is one of the most underrated guitarists in rock history.

            One of the implications of those notions is that he is more of a sideman than a frontman.  His new solo album, BK3 (Twenty4 Records/Rocket Science), an often enjoyable but ultimately disappointing mistake, is ample evidence.

            Kulick is probably best known as the lead guitarist of KISS from 1984 through the end of 1995 (most of their commercially leaner yet musically tighter nonmakeup period), but he has shined in all kinds of other gigs, before and since.  He was Meat Loaf’s guitarist on the Bat Out of Hell Tour (when he became the only member of KISS to appear on Saturday Night Live to this day) and has more recently played with Grand Funk Railroad.  He may not want you to know that he played with Michael Bolton when he was almost famous.

            Not content to be a sideman or stick to soloing, Kulick started taking a more active musical role in the latter days of his KISS tenure.  Never even much of a background singer, he took a lead vocal turn on the Gene Simmons/Bruce Kulick composition “I Walk Alone” (released on Carnival of Souls: The Final Sessions in 1997).  Shortly thereafter, he stepped into the role of co-bandleader with former Motley Crue frontman John Corabi for the critically acclaimed and commercially arid Union at the end of the Nineties.

            Corabi is one of several special guests (along with Simmons, his son Nick, and The Knack’s Doug Fieger) taking vocal turns on BK3, though Kulick himself sings lead on half of the songs.  It is unfortunate that Kulick still fancies himself a singer, as his unconfident, faltering, off-key vocals are one of two primary indicators of the worst problems with his intermittently interesting letdown of an album.

            The other one is that “Between the Lines,” an instrumental duet with Steve Lukather, is the disc’s greatest track.

            A predominantly (if not entirely) instrumental rock album from the crisp, skillful, near-virtuosic Bruce Kulick would have been a welcome sight and sound in 2010 (or, to a lesser extent, any year—there were never enough of them).  Unfortunately, he decided to deliver a more conventional album, replete with his own awkward vocals and the vocal performances of his well-known friends (which are sometimes little better).

            The most successful of the latter is the delightful powerpop song “Dirty Girl” (Fieger’s turn at lead).  Forsaking his usual guitar heroics, Kulick concentrated on the kind of catchy and quietly, unexpectedly complex riff that he came up with in KISS’s “Hell or High Water” (and his predecessor and successor, Ace Frehley, did in “Cold Gin”).  This could have been a hit if Fieger and Kulick had delivered this about twenty-five years ago.

            The closing track, “Life,” might have been the best track if it, too, had been instrumental.  If the flat vocals and trite lyrics had been replaced with a lead guitar melody and more soloing, the subtle majesty hiding in the song could come out.  What appears is a likeable letdown.

            Much like the rest of the album.

            Bruce Kulick may not be a frontman (at least in the conventional sense), but there is enough inchoate promise on BK3 to demonstrate he has a great album in him somewhere if he channels his strengths in the proper direction.

Donna Summer, 1948-2012

Another icon of a better recent past has passed.
     Before ProTools, drum machines, and other dangerous technology supplanted human skill and wherewithal, Donna Summer brought a direct, human, musical quality to radio, records, and the Billboard charts.  (Elsewhere, I have remarked--or tried to--on the perils, in culture and beyond, of futuristic technology in an age in which the technology of the soul is at its nadir.  In the 1970's, even disco records--which she pioneered--had real instruments, if for no other reason than the fact that there was nothing else to use back then.)  She also represented an age when at least some pop divas were expected to contribute to their own songwriting.  (In another lifetime, when I was a musician, my high school jazz band was asked to learn "Rock Around the Clock" and Donna's "She Works Hard for the Money" for a popular school event.  Our band director remarked that the latter, which Donna co-wrote, was a "better" song--he meant more musical and complex.)  She apparently succumbed to cancer earlier today at the age of 63.
     Her powerful voice could draw appropriate comparisons to the recently departed Whitney Houston (who did not have her creative prowess), and it was a welcome respite from much of the banal pabulum that polluted pop radio and shopping mall speakers over the last few decades.  (Long after her disco heyday, "This Time I Know It's For Real" was one of the few "pop" songs that captured the interest of this young rock fan.)  Her extended, fifteen-minute-plus hit single "Love to Love You Baby" (which she also co-wrote) reflected a time when Americans' attention spans had not yet been destroyed by progressive education, Children's Television Workshop, and eMpTyV to the extent that they could not enjoy a "long song" (her concerts and live albums included lengthy suites--not medleys--incorporating her own songs and covers, such as Jimmy Webb's "MacArthur Park").  [For an amusing recounting of that single's serendipitous origin, and much more on Donna, I recommend And Party Every Day: The Inside Story of Casablanca Records (Backbeat Books, 2009), written by Casablanca Vice President Larry Harris with my collaborators Curt Gooch and Jeff Suhs.  The book has been optioned for a major motion picture.  I was sure to include extensive Donna Summer scenes, including the infamous origin of "Love to Love You Baby," in my aborted spec script, and I hope the project's screenwriter does the same.]  Bruce Springsteen originally wrote his hit single "Cover Me" for her, and it is intriguing to think of what she would have done with it before his manager exhorted him to record it himself.  (He subsequently wrote another song, "Protection," for her.  They recorded as a duet, but it remains unreleased.)
     Her influence is significant, and there are some signs that, coincident with the collapse of the record industry, mainstream "pop" music is steering back into the her territory of inventive, melodic, organic, and sometimes epic "dance"/R&B tracks with heavy songwriting and production input from the singer.  U.S. pop culture could use that kind of "retrenchment," but, regardless, Donna Summer will be missed.

The Band Brad: Elusive Warmth from Seattle

Have you ever heard of the band Brad?
     Circa 1992, inchoate rock superstar Stone Gossard, busy with another band's nascent superstardom, put together another band with old cronies and other veterans of the music scene of his hometown, Seattle: viz., Shawn Smith, Regan Hagar, and Jeremy Toback.  The band signed with Epic/Sony Music, the label of Gossard's other band, and wrote (in the studio) and recorded their first album, Shame, in October 1992.  According to legend, the foursome wanted to call the band Shame as well, but a musician whose first name is Brad heard that news and threatened to sue.  (Wikipedia says his name is Brad Wilson, so "it's gotta be true.")  The band (facetiously?) changed its name to Brad and titled the album Shame (which was released on Epic Associated the following year).  Their litigious interlocutor couldn't (legally) object to any of that.
     The band are no longer signed to Sony Music, and Toback has been replaced (first by Michael Berg, then by current bassist Keith Lowe), but Brad is still active, evidently with a renewed sense of commitment to each other (despite each member's commitments to other groups): their new album is called United We Stand (Razor & Tie).  The band has made it clear in interviews that the album title is not the usual empty, collectivist platitude: it's about band, not country.
     While the band has tenuous connections to "grunge," Shawn Smith's warm voice and lyrics belie them.  And the band's songwriting has grown immeasurably in two decades while retaining its improvisational, in-the-moment extemporaneous quality.  Stone Gossard has a knack for pairing with vocalists who sound like benevolent uncles, but this benevolent uncle has none of the other's sometimes caustic, sometimes irascible mood swings: Smith is all beneficence and comity.  (Gossard has remarked that he is the least cynical person he knows.)  His lyrics and delivery--on United We Stand and elsewhere--are crucial palliatives in these dark, cynical times, and they sound especially warm and organic on Razor & Tie's vinyl edition of the new album.  (Don't let the title "Tea Bag" mislead you--like all of Smith's direct and concrete--and often improvised in the studio--lyrics, there is not a whiff of politics to be detected.  And this warmth must be infectious, because Gossard's lyrics for Brad are some of his most sanguine, fraternal, and optimistic.)
     For those averse to the alleged Ludditeism (which should be a word) of organic and analog sound, an iTunes Deluxe Edition is as good a value as you'll find today: it includes a bonus track ("Thomas Jefferson's Son"--a subject I will address on my other weblog soon enough) with several videos of the band performing the bonus track and other songs not on the album proper (including Neil Young's "Don't Cry"), none of which can be found on the free digital download included with the record.  This band takes full advantage of media convergence and the nostalgia market: a Record Store Day exclusive seven-inch single contained at least one new song, "Waters Deep," that is not to be found on any edition of United We Stand that I've seen (though it is part of the band's live repertoire).  (I write "at least one" because I haven't seen it; it sold out by the time I got to the front of the line at Amoeba Music on Record Store Day.)
     The band appeared on Jimmy Kimmel Live on the Bud Light Stage of the El Capitan Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard on Wednesday; I attended the taping for a foretaste of their headline appearance at "Doug Weston's World Famous Troubadour" in West Hollywood last night.  (Note Kimmel brandishing the prominent vinyl cover instead of the now-even-more-obsolete compact disc case.)  The two-song set of "Diamond Blues" and "Don't Cry" (I believe that only the former aired) was an instructive if short refresher of the band's power as a live act (I saw them at West Hollywood's Roxy in 2002).  Lowe's aversion to shoes and socks is puzzling (he wears none in any of the iTunes videos and wore none at either Los Angeles County appearance), but he is a versatile electric bassist (effectively incorporating slap and funk to a few songs at the Troubadour) that locks in well with Hagar's tight, skillful drumming (especially tight and skillful by Seattle standards).  (Smith is versatile himself and occasionally plays drums in the studio along with guitar and keyboards.)  Gossard's extended solo reminded this viewer that Brad is a vehicle for his soloing that his other band could never be; he demonstrates an emotive, expressive quality that makes up for his limited chops.  Auxiliary musician Happy Chichester (the eccentric opening act at the Roxy in 2002 who lives up to his name) played guitar and sang along with themduring the show (as he did extensively during the United We Stand sessions).
     The television appearance was a microcosm of the full set at the sold-out Troubadour the following night.  The audience was treated to listenable opening sets by the low-key Nine 50 Nine (which reportedly included original Pearl Jam drummer Dave Krusen) and the more audacious Everest (who performed their forthcoming album in its entirety).  It was apropos that Miles Davis's "Bitches Brew" (likely unrecognizable to most of the Eloi hipster audience) was piped over the public address system as intro music, as a few tracks from 2010's Best Friends? (Monkeywrench), whether intentionally or otherwise, have the distinctive flavor of electric Miles ("Low" and "Oh My Goodness" sound like they could sit beside "Red China Blues" on Get Up With It).  With Chichester, the reinvigorated Brad opened a ninety-five minute, twenty-song set with "Waters Deep" and played a positive, satisfying show of enthusiastic, focused ensemble playing.  Four of their five albums were represented, and highlights included four of the best songs from 1997's Interiors (Epic), with Chichester taking Gossard's recorded solo on "Sweet Al George" (though the catchy, galvanizing riffing still has Gossard's name all over it).  Chichester participated in all but one song (Shame's leadoff single "Buttercup"), playing Smith's keyboard on several songs.  They opened their too-brief tour in their hometown a few nights earlier, and the setlist was similar last night if a bit shorter and lighter on new material.  I could quibble with the selections and stage time, but I won't (though I will point out that "The Day Brings," one of the most empowering songs you've likely never heard, is anticlimactic in the show-closing position).  For those interested, the full setlist is reproduced below.  (As I type this, the band is about to go onstage in San Francisco, the third of six scheduled dates.  Readers and friends on the east coast can see them at the end of May at venues listed here.  Their unique approach to setlists seems to include adding and dropping a song or two each night while shuffling the order significantly, so that the order changes much more than the content.)  During a poignant brief solo piano set at the head of the encore, Smith briefly forgot the words to "Purple Rain" but confidently regained his footing, following it with a rendition of Mother Love Bone's "Crown of Thorns" while its co-writer relaxed backstage.
     Those with a penchant for modern, multifaceted rock music (forget the fatuous, outdated term "alternative") with counter-intuitively peaceful, positive words and a warm voice should seek out Brad's music, whether or not they are fans of Stone Gossard's other work.


Brad

Bud Light Stage @ El Capitan Theatre
Hollywood, California
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Jimmy Kimmel Live

Diamond Blues
Don't Cry


Doug Weston's Troubadour
West Hollywood, California
Thursday, May 3, 2012
United We Stand Tour
Support: Everest, Nine 50 Nine

Set:
Waters Deep
Last Bastion
Sweet Al George
The Only Way
Price of Love
A Reason to Be In My Skin
Lift
Make the Pain Go Away
Wrapped Around My Memories
20th Century
Nadine
Every Whisper
Diamond Blues
Secret Girl

Encore:
Purple Rain
Crown of Thorns
Don't Cry
Screen
Buttercup
The Day Brings

Musicians Love a Stage: April Smith and the Great Picture Show's Vintage Contemporary Sound

How good is April Smith and the Great Picture Show?  So good I skipped both a Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band show and a HaSkaLA gig across town to see them again.  That good.  (Steven Schub and his boisterous band can forgive me, because I had already purchased a ticket to see April and her combo at the Hotel Cafe in Hollywood before the ska show was announced and April was making her only area appearance of the year, but if it had been almost any other performer, I would have considered the fifteen dollars a sunk cost and skipped it.  Additionally, the visually arresting Black Beverly Heels were playing downtown.  This is the best kind of dilemma and one of the reasons why I live in this fallen city.)
     For anyone at all familiar with me or my writing, that should be self-explanatory (and for anyone unfamiliar, click on the links, and it will be self-explanatory).  Since I've already heaped accolades on the silky-voiced chanteuse and her versatile band elsewhere, there's no reason to repeat myself, and few had the opportunity to read my previews bon mots, I'll simply reproduce the older pieces below.
     With a slightly different lineup (April didn't introduce the band this time, but bassist Steve Purpuri juggled his upright and electric basses as usual), the quintet crammed themselves and their gear onto the tiny  Hotel Cafe stage once more for a forty-seven minute set similar to the recent area performances recounted below.  The arrangements were similar if slightly slower, with more of a keyboard presence.  (April, who is pregnant and is about  to take maternity leave after this, her only tour this year, mentioned during the set that singing is more challenging with each passing day, which could account for the slightly slower arrangements even though I'd like to think the subtle tempo shift is due to artistic reasons.)  The group did dust off "High School Memory" from April's first (solo) album loveletterbombs (Indigo Planet, 2005).  April (whose between-song patter is as direct and sassy as her lyrics) noted that her father wrote the song for her mother forty years ago (and they're still together, proving the pessimistic trepidation of the title and lyrics unfounded).  She also noted that she wrote the blithe, bouncy "Can't Say No" (from 2010's independent Songs for a Sinking Ship) for her dog (which is so subtextual that the most perceptive listener would never ascertain it without her help).
     After the set, I said hello to April (an old acquaintance from the east coast) at the merchandise booth.  I acquired the recent vinyl pressing of Songs for a Sinking Ship (the group played nine of its songs during the show).  An archetypal example of a twenty-first century album, the Kickstarter-financed label-less platter's vinyl release was long overdue (the band's vintage contemporary sound was tailor-made for a modern vinyl release, and the label of the compact disc version even has the image of a record).  At fifteen dollars, the vinyl couldn't be a better value: it includes a free digital download and a bonus track ("Bright White Jackets" originally appeared on loveletterbombs, but I cannot yet confirm that it is the same recording).
     Reproduced below: a review of their previous Hotel Cafe appearance (a year to the day before last night's) and a review of their November 19, 2010 Bootleg Theater set.  The photos: April and I after the Bootleg Theater set (taken by HaSkaLA's Steven Schub), April's handwritten setlist for the 2011 Hotel Cafe gig, and April's handwritten setlist for last night's show (including new song "Bottoms Up" and Dusty Springfield's "You Don't Own Me") atop the gorgeous vinyl.
April Smith and the Great Picture Show
Hotel Cafe
Hollywood
Thursday, April 26, 2012

Movie Loves a Screen
Drop Dead Gorgeous
Terrible Things
Stop Wondering
You Don't Own Me
Colors
Dixie Boy
Can't Say No
High School Memory
Bottoms Up
What'll I Do
Wow and Flutter (interpolating Whole Lotta Love)

These Musicians Still Love a Stage: April Smith and the Great Picture Show at the Hotel Cafe
Unfortunately, they have outgrown the stages on which they still play.
     April Smith and the Great Picture Show, perhaps New York's finest inchoate musical ensemble, crammed their diverse assortment of instruments onto the cramped, diminutive stage of the claustrophobic and meretricious Hotel Cafe in Hollywood on Tuesday evening.  If they had arrived around a decade-and-a-half earlier, they would have had at least a fighting chance to graduate to the Hollywood Bowl, where they belong.  In 2011, one must take them where one can get them.
     It would be difficult to share too much without repeating myself, as the sassy chanteuse and her versatile backing trio played a set that was disappointingly similar to their last two Los Schmengeles performances (and a bit shorter than the last one).  Whether due to poor acoustics, poor mixing, this reporter's poor mood, road fatigue, or a confluence of the aforementioned factors (and/or others), their effect was not quite as stunning and transcendent, this time.  But it is always a privliege to hear the heterogeneous quartet perform their ebullient, ageless, and timeless tunes in these dank, dolorous, trend-specific times.
     The too-short thirty-five minute set kicked off, after four minutes of some desultory open chords and other warming up,  with the usual opener "Movie Loves a Screen," the first track from last year's Songs For a Sinking Ship (no label, at least not one that can be ascertained from the packaging).  The understated song is a good introduction to Smith's Freddie Mercury-meets-Sixties-girl-groups-meets-forties-girl-groups songwriting and singing style, but it seems to be locked into the opening slot (where it is becoming predictable if not anticlimactic this long after the disc's release after this many return trips to the area).  Much can be said about the artful songwriting, though, including the deft touch of using the song's title only once in the lyrics, in the bridge.  Guitarist Marty O'Kane sported a ukelele for this one (as he would later, to lesser effect).  The title's filmic theme is also apropos for the group's entire ouevre, as their sartorial eloquence and instrumental palette  (bassist Steve "Stevens" Purpuri plays an upright bass, as he often does) conjure images of the class, eloquence, dignity, and articulation of old Hollywood (the way the group's lesser peers evoke the egalitarian everymen and -women of the one we're stuck with now).
     After greeting the audience, Smith asked the sound engineer for more vintage reverb, and the group treated the audience to their lively rendition of Dusty Springfield's "You Don't Own Me,"  the first of the show's two cover versions.  O'Kane and Purpuri successfully switched to Fenders, underscoring the song's sixties edge.  Smith's soaring voice, on this piece as well as her own, must be heard and not read about.  (You may have heard her singing "You Don't Own Me" in a television commercial.  Perhaps you have been so fortunate.)  The other cover, Trey Songz's "Bottoms Up," featured multitasker O'Kane on accordion (which he passed back and forth with multitasking drummer Nicky D'Agostino throughout the show).
     Unfortunately, the truncated concert once again completely ignorned April's first album, loveletterbombs (Indigo Planet Records, 2005), released without the "Great Picture Show" name.  (April's handwritten setlist was longer, and it, too, completely ignored the first album, except for "The One That Got Away," which is on last year's disc as well.)  Yes, nostalgia is death, but acknowledging one's past is not nostalgia.  Songs like "Something" and "The Bells" would have knocked the stereotypically jaded and apathetic Hollywood audience out the door off of stage left and onto Cahuenga Boulevard.  Of the recent originals that were performed, "Drop Dead Gorgeous" was a highlight, wich an arresting if simple solo from O'Kane.  The snark of "Stop Wondering" was welcome even if its composer's melodramatic gesticulating was a tad too ostentatious.  Less effective was predictable closer "Wow and Flutter."  O'Kane's ukelele solo sounded so much like a guitar solo one wondered about the purpose of switching to the smaller stringed instrument simply for the solo than strapping on the Fender Jaguar/Mustang again.  Smith's usual quote of "Whole Lotta Love" during the song's breakdown, solos, and band introductions does not quite work, either (though she sings better than the even-more-feminine vocalist who made the song famous).  The absence of the haunting, harrowing "Beloved," the only song from the newer disc not planned (see below), was keenly felt.
     Judging the performance by the misguided (and short) setlist is a mistake, however.  No matter what songs they play in which order, April Smith and the Great Picture Show are as passionate, dextrous, melodious, and multi-instrumental as you'll find in this musical endarkenment.  Ignoring them is a mistake.
April Smith and the Great Picture Show
Hotel Cafe
Hollywood
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Movie Loves a Screen
You Don't Own Me
Terrible Things
Stop Wondering
Colors
Drop Dead Gorgeous
The One That Got Away
Bottoms Up
Wow and Flutter (including Whole Lotta Love)

April's handwritten setlist: "Can't Say No," What'll I Do," and "Dixie Boy" were sorely missed.

Musicians Love a Stage: April Smith and the Great Picture Show at the Bootleg Theater
In times like these, you will not find the greatest artists, writers, and musicians in the mainstream.  Some of them may lurk on its fringes, but you must know where to look for them.  James Ellroy and P.J. O’Rourke can still be found at the remaining branches of major bookstore chains, but they are generally limited to a few copies each, inconspicuously resting on the shelves, spines outward, far from the copious, covers-first displays near the storefront.  On television, you can hear consummate performing artists with formidable vocal prowess, but not when you watch the glorified karaoke singers on American Idol (if you make that mistake in the first place).  You will hear them anonymously singing unfamiliar songs (which they often write themselves) during commercials for the National Football League and cable series like Weeds.
            April Smith and the Great Picture Show—who, as recently as fifteen years ago, would have been household names—are a pertinent example of the best musicians to be found in the post-label era.  They have independently forged a self- and fan-financed career and captivated a relatively small but growing following who crave competent musicianship and atavistic melody.  And they have arrested the unwitting and apathetic in television commercials: a Lesley Gore/Dusty Springfield cover for a just-released football spot and at least two originals that you may have already heard in others.
            April Smith is that rare gem: a dazzling songwriter with an artful, colossal voice to match.  If that conjures memories of Freddie Mercury, it is surely no accident that songs like “Bright White Jackets” and “Beloved” owe just a little to the plaintive piano ballads of mid-period Queen, but her myriad influences go far beyond, from the Andrews Sisters all the way up to herself.  Indeed, her bouncy personality is even more manifest—and breaks a skeptical audience’s indifference to even greater effect--on her uptempo, jaunty tunes like “Colors” and “Movie Loves a Screen.”
            Last night, she and her band of multi-instrumentalists captivated a gathering of seen-it-all Angelenos at the compact but densely populated Bootleg Theater with a forty-five minute set that galvanized every last spectator into spirited applause, all the way down (or, more literally and figuratively, up) to the Bootleg’s house sound engineer.  (“That never happens,” indicated my dazzled companion, a masterful performer and songwriter in his own right.)
            The versatile band members juggle multiple instruments: the bassist, known as Stevens, equally mans both Fender and upright basses with facile dexterity; guitarist Marty O’Kane switches between guitar, ukelele and accordion; keyboardist Ray Malo has his hands full with violin and the same accordion, as well; and Nick D’Agostino navigates his modest-sized drum kit with understated skill, equal parts jazz and rock.  But no one could take the spotlight off the frontwoman for very long.
            The eleven-song set consisted of the lion’s share of this year’s Songs for a Sinking Ship (no label—how’s that for independence?) and two well-placed cover songs [Smith’s first album, 2005's loveletterbombs (Indigo Planet Records), sadly seems to have disappeared from the repertoire, perhaps because it was recorded without the Great Picture Show--the sole exception, "The One that Got Away," appears on both albums].  The succession of songs—in tempo and attitude—gradually and cumulatively manifested a versatility in their creator (in equal parts songwriting and performing capacities) that equals that of her entire band.  From the mid-tempo, contemplative contentment of “Movie Loves a Screen” (which opened both set and album) to the dismissive snark of “Drop Dead Gorgeous” to the tense cautionary tale “Dixie Boy” to the ebullient love letter that is “Colors” (listen for that one during commercial breaks as well): the singer and band exuded myriad dispositions, but they never strayed too far from the congenial joie de vivre at the heart of the leader and her refreshingly anachronistic melodic flair.  In addition to the Dusty Springfield song, a slower, sparser, affecting rendition of U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” closed the performance with captivating poignancy that almost approached pathos.
            If you hear a sharp, strong voice singing “You Don’t Own Me” between quarters this football season (and recognize it when the original “Terrible Things” is audible on a commercial for Weeds), that is April Smith.  And if you pay attention when she comes to your metropolitan area, turn off your television set, and attend her show, you will see and hear the most exhilarating live music you can find in times like these.


April Smith and the Great Picture Show
Bootleg Theater
Los Angeles
Friday, November 19, 2010

Movie Loves a Screen
Drop Dead Gorgeous
Terrible Things
Stop Wondering
You Don't Own Me
Colors
Can't Say No
The One That Got Away
Dixie Boy
Wow and Flutter (including Whole Lotta Love)
I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

Record Store Day

Record Store Day 2012 was something of a bust.
     I almost skipped it entirely.  A friend invited me to meet him at the beach in Santa Monica.  Recalling long lines, sunburn, and a limited selection of Record Store Day exclusive titles at my local participating record store, Amoeba Music Hollywood (especially by the time I made it to the front of the line), I wondered if it was worth the trip, parking fees, waiting time, purchase prices, and sunburn.  (The only aforementioned snags applicable during a trip to the beach would have been parking fees and sunburn.)  Since Miles Davis's estate/Columbia Records, Bruce Springsteen and Brad (perhaps the best band you've never heard of, even if you read my blogs) were participating with exclusive releases, I had mild, tentative interest.  When my friend texted to say that the beach atmosphere today was disappointing (unexpectedly cool and hazy), the decision was suddenly much easier.  I had been wanting to hear a new Brad song on vinyl before their new album United We Stand drops Tuesday (I have not taken advantage of any of the digital downloads or streaming previews).   I drove to Hollywood.
     Not surprisingly, the Miles LP sold out long before I arrived.  The lengthy, convoluted process of waiting, placing an order, and waiting again is unnecessary to recount here.  King Crimson and T. Rex (not coincidentally, the bands that inspired this blog's title) sets are enticing but too expensive, so I selected Miles (I was unaware it had sold out), Springsteen, Brad, and a limited edition blue vinyl pressing of the rare 1977 Genesis 12" EP Spot the Pigeon (another Record Store Day exclusive).  I stood in line for a few hours, confident that, even in the event that the limited stock of household names like Springsteen, Davis, and Genesis were depleted, the new music by the tragically unknown Brad would be available.
     After, among other things, sweating in the Hollywood sun, staring at the Hollywood smog, and talking to an older man who admired my Yes t-shirt and reminisced about the 1970's (some don't know how fortunate they are), I picked up my order and found that Brad had either sold out or had never arrived.  (For some reason, the store didn't seem to obtain any of the Pearl Jam-related exclusive releases; Brad certainly falls into that category.)  (I should have anticipated that Angeleno "hipsters" would eschew Springsteen as well as Genesis and deplete Miles.  There are advantages to being a Springsteen fan outside of the northeast.  Now that I think about it, there are advantages to being outside of the northeast, period.)  I spent what seemed like an inordinate amount of money for Spot the Pigeon and "Rocky Ground" b/w "The Promise" (live).  Then I spent more on parking (despite a validation from the store) than I did on "Rocky Ground" b/w "The Promise" (live).  Then I came home and tried to play the 7" disc.  On each side of the record, the tone arm on my turntable lifted and returned to its rest position before the side had completed (this is a recurring problem when I play 7"'s on my turntable--perhaps I should have taken advantage of Amoeba's turntable sale).  (I am having recurring problems with my twenty-first century, digital, trendy iPod as well.  Does anything consistently work like it's supposed to in this Endarkenment?)
     But I helped support a dying institution or three (and I'm not talking about Genesis).

Postscript: Spot the Pigeon plays well (and sounds spectacular in this audiophile blue-vinyl pressing manufactured under license by a tiny California lab).  I also forgot to mention that I received a free bag with a Sub Pop sampler disc (and other free discs), plus shampoo and conditioner.  At least the shampoo and conditioner will be useful.  The day wasn't such a bust.

Rushing Headlong Into the Present

The seminal Canadian rock trio Rush perhaps epitomize the changing nature of the music business as much as any overwhelming successful, vintage act.
     Two years ago, the unclassifiable "progressive hard rock" band began work on a "steampunk" concept album that was already titled Clockwork Angels.  Drummer/lyricist Neil Peart, an avid reader who has incorporated innumerable literary themes, allusions, and tropes into his lyrics over the years, had come up with an idea inspired by anti-dystopian science fiction writers from Jules Verne to Peart's friend (and "steampunk" pioneer) Kevin J. Anderson.  As Peart describes the band's outlook at the time in his essay for their 2010 Time Machine Tour (do follow the link and read the entire piece, which couldn't be more relevant to this post or this blog): "Now the typical thing to do would be to start writing songs toward making an album, then launch a tour behind that in 2011 or so. However, these days an 'album' is an abstraction dearer to artists than to audiences, and it didn't seem necessary to follow that timeworn pattern anymore. 'Crisis is both danger and opportunity,' goes the old Chinese saying, and we were kind of excited about doing things a different way."  The band decided to finish and record two songs of their emerging, futuristic story ("Caravan" and "BU2B," the latter's title--"text-speak" for "Brought Up to Believe"--an ironic nod to a disconcerting trend and its technology), release them digitally (though there was a belated, perfunctory CD maxi-single release), then spend the summer of 2010 on the road instead of in the studio.
     The show they took on the road was a masterful blend of the band's past, present, and future: it included both new songs as well as recent songs, long-unplayed oldies, and never-before-performed songs (recent and otherwise).  (Click on the link for my review.)  Consonant with current trends (and perhaps understandable, given their age), they spread the tour out with two fairly brief legs over a period of two successive summers, satiating the arena rock nostalgia of their aging audience but necessarily pushing back work on Clockwork Angels.
     Clockwork Angels is now finished.  It is scheduled for release on June 12, to be followed by a tour tentatively slated to being in September.  And a third song, "Headlong Flight," dropped digitally today, incredibly streaming on the website of the band's longtime critical nemesis, Rolling Stone (here is irony: as I write this, a link to rollingstone.com and its streaming track adorn's the front page of the band's official website alongside those modern, digital advertisements for pre-orders of the album in singular and "bundle" form).
     Given the band's (or, at least, Peart's) initial jaundiced eye on cyberspace (1996's "Virtuality" is an astringent excoriation of the then-inchoate Internet and its culture of seeming isolation and seclusion), the band's complete divorce from their and their industry's past may seem like more irony.  However, this observer and long-time fan expected these three visionaries, traditionally advocates of technology in song and elsewhere, to remember that "the misuse of something is no argument against its use."  This is a band that has typically embraced change wholeheartedly without a backward glance (don't be surprised if Clockwork Angels is not issued in the audiophile vinyl format, which is one ostensibly nostalgic trend I wish the band would follow along with their quasi-nostalgic, annual summer tours).
     "Headlong Flight" is very much cut from the same cloth as "Caravan" and "BU2B."  Musically, it is an amalgam of many songs from the protean band's crunchier eras (1970's: viz., "By-Tor and the Snow Dog" and "Bastille Day," and 1990's: viz., "Driven").  The six minute track is upbeat, dense, and "progressive" (consistent with Peart's comments that their more recent, less sprawling, streamlined music is "compressed complexity") (six minutes being comparatively short when contrasted with much of their work through the early 1980's).  The sinuous bass guitar introduction of Geddy Lee (also the band's vocalist and keyboardist) and the riffing of Alex Lifeson--alternately intense and textured, bludgeoning block-chords and sustained open ones--should be familiarly comforting to long-time fans while still indicative of new directions.  Lee's voice is now largely shed of the piercing falsetto that repelled many critics for years.  You should go listen to it now.
     Perhaps I'll see you on the Clockwork Angels Tour.