just like the time before, and the time before that

Four albums nobody really talks about (it was going to be five, but I got tired)

Pretty simple stuff: I take four random albums from my collection that I happen to enjoy a lot, but aren’t exactly multi-platinum record-breaking chart-toppers, and explain how I discovered them and why I like them. Every artist represented here has achieved commercial success at one point in their careers, and there’s at least one bonafide legendary superstar here (okay, maybe just one), but overall, these albums aren’t often listed in many Greatest Albums of All Time lists. Nor do they deserve to be; I just like them a lot. Let’s rock.

Bob Dylan, Desire

For me, the summer of 1984 was the Summer of Bob. In May of that year, I read an intriguing and revealing (for him, anyway) interview with Bob Dylan in Rolling Stone magazine – when I actually subscribed, an unthinkable concept nowadays. My curiosity piqued, I picked up a cassette(!) copy of Bob’s latest, Infidels, later that summer while visiting my mother in New Hampshire. I even remember that I bought it at Headlines, a quaint head shop in Nashua.

Infidels was good, and despite some dated production techniques, still holds up a quarter-century later. But I felt like I needed to dig back further. While visiting Julie and Peg in Boston later that summer, Peg suggested I give Desire a listen. The album, even after all these years and all these listens, still reminds me of their cramped basement apartment in Cleveland Circle.

Desire wasn’t a commercial disaster, and continues to garner positive reviews, but it doesn’t get the credit that other Dylan albums like Blood on the Tracks, Highway 61 Revisited or Blonde on Blonde get. For many, it’s a minor gem, but to me, it’s definitely in Bob’s top ten. The story of Rubin “Hurricane” Carter’s arrest and conviction is nothing short of a legal and racist tragedy, and in the album’s opening track, “Hurricane,” Bob shows his disgust for law enforcement and the legal system with some of his most venomous lyrics. The song gallops along urgently, and the band struggles to keep up. Oddly, Bob enlisted the aid of violinist Scarlet Rivera, and the sound of that instrument sounds out-of-place initially, but soon becomes an inevitable and comforting part of the album’s fabric. Emmylou Harris is recruited for backing vocals, but she often trails behind Bob, as if she can’t seem to remember the words. It’s kind of a sloppy mess, but that’s part of the song’s charm. It’s as if the injustice documented in the song was so great that Bob needed to rush out the song as soon as possible with as little preparation as possible. It’s not only one of his best protest songs, it’s also one of his most urgent.

The album continues in this sonic vein, although Bob tends to relax a bit after the opening track. There’s the propulsive, piano-driven “Isis,” the leisurely, deliberate “Romance in Durango,” the epic “Joey” (a really, really long song about about gangster Joey Gallo) and several other songs that actually sound like there’s too many musicians in the studio. But again, the sloppiness (and the exotic flavor of some of the arrangements) is part of the album’s charm. Dylan always seems to be one step ahead of his audience, and Desire is no exception. He could have followed up Blood on the Tracks with a sound-alike sequel, but instead chose this unique path.

Todd Rundgren, A Cappella

I don’t know if there’s a lot of people who can say that they discovered an obscure Todd Rundgren album while stationed in the navy in the middle of the Indian Ocean, so I’ll claim that one. While working at the Armed Forces Radio and Television outlets in both Diego Garcia (1988-1990) and Keflavik, Iceland (1990-1994), I spent a lot of time not just shooting, editing and reporting for the television outlets, but doing quite a bit of radio disc-jockeying as well. During down time on the radio shifts, I did an awful lot of perusing of the AFRTS record libraries. In Diego Garcia, a fellow DJ played Rundgren’s “Something To Fall Back On” during one of his shows, and it sounded interesting, so I listened to some other cuts off the same album.

The concept is rather gimmicky, but Todd pulls it off. A Cappella is exactly what its title suggests: an album employing nothing but the human voice. In a way, he’s cheating; while every sound you hear is in fact Todd’s voice, a lot of it is run through an Emulator sampler. Whatever. The point is, it’s all his voice, and while lesser artists would lose steam with this kind of project after a while, Todd employed his superior songwriting prowess and actually made an a cappella album of really good songs. Sure, there’s some experimental fun with songs like “Lockjaw” and the genuinely frightening “Miracle in the Bazaar,” but there are also true pop gems like “Something to Fall Back On,” “Lost Horizon” and a joyous cover of the Spinners’ “Mighty Love.” There’s also a puzzling mystical bent to some of the lyrics (on deceptively catchy songs like “Blue Orpheus” and “Hodja”).

Keep in mind that this is, after all, 1985, so the album – in some places – is the inevitable victim of a “dated” sound. This is the era of big hair and big drums, and Todd doesn’t escape unscathed, but overall, it’s quite an impressive project that I’m still not sick of.

It should be noted that Bjork made an excellent a cappella album in 2004 (Medulla, which enlisted the aid of other vocalists) which is decidedly more experimental and is definitely worth your time.

Thomas Dolby, Aliens Ate My Buick

My introduction to Thomas Dolby was the same as most: I saw the video for “She Blinded Me With Science” about five-thousand times on MTV in 1982 and 1983. I also saw “Europa and the Pirate Twins” (a far better song, in my opinion) a few times, so to me, Dolby was more than a one-hit wonder. Fast-forward to 1988. I’m in the navy, stationed at an army base in Indianapolis (attending broadcast journalism school) and I pick up a cassette copy of Aliens Ate My Buick (give me a break, I still hadn’t completely dived into CDs at this point). The album, I noticed after just one listen, basically employs two general themes: fun and funk. Now, one look at Dolby (or even a perusal of his back catalog) will tell you that he’s hardly the funkiest musician on the planet, but I think that’s part of the plan. It’s goofy, white-boy funk. The mismatch of this British computer geek singing an obscure George Clinton song (“Hot Sauce”) and even collaborating with Clinton (the slightly annoying “May the Cube Be With You”) is crystal clear, and Dolby’s reveling in it.

“The Key to Her Ferrari” is an over-the-top swing ode to car lust (complete with Robin Leach cameo), which contains a priceless spoken-word middle section, complete with lots of awkward sexual symbolism (“As we hit the magic 100, my love exploded all over her bright pink leather interior!”). More funk is employed with the single “Airhead,” the aforementioned Clinton collaborations, and the slower-tempo “Pulp Culture.” It’s not all dance-floor goofiness, though; there’s the beautiful, eloquent “My Brain is Like a Sieve,” which deftly incorporates a lovely yet trombone solo. “The Ability to Swing” is one of the album’s missteps. While trying to dial down the comedy, Dolby creates a self-consciously jazzy number that sounds too much like Sting trying to do jazz. Dolby makes up for it with the following track, the epic, almost operatic “Budapest by Blimp.” As in the case of the Rundgren album, the “80’s clause” is in effect. There are definitely some dated sounds here. But again, part of the charm.

Despite the presence of “Airhead” (which could have easily become a freak hit, a la “Science”) Aliens tanked, but Dolby continues to tour and record occasionally. And I think this album is still in print, believe it or not.

Terence Trent D’Arby, Neither Fish Nor Flesh

This is one of music history’s most glaring examples of the sophomore slump, although strictly on a commercial level. Artistically, it’s brilliant, which may be part of the reason for its downfall. This is another album I picked up in Diego Garcia. We didn’t get much in the way of CDs at the base store, so I took what I could get (many of the discs I purchased during my two years on DG eventually made their way to used stores all over the east coast, although this isn’t one of them). When Neither Fish Nor Flesh came out in 1989, the music-buying public was still stinging from the off-putting braggadocio D’Arby fed the press after the release of his highly successful debut album. Most people were content to inform D’Arby that his first album was good, but not that good. After a brief hiatus, Neither Fish Nor Flesh was greeted unevenly by critics (some loved it, many felt it was overindulgent, unfocused and messy), and was ignored by confused consumers.

This album has many problems. Yes, it’s unfocused. Yes, it’s overindulgent (the album’s full title is Neither Fish Nor Flesh: a Soundtrack of Love, Faith, Hope & Destruction, and if that doesn’t scream “get over yourself,” I don’t know what does). There’s a few tracks I can certainly do without. Judging by both the lyrics and the liner notes, Terence is still incredibly impressed with himself. But like a lot of great albums that throw everything at the wall and see what sticks, there’s quite a few great moments here. The single, “To Know Someone Deeply is to Know Someone Softly” is a wonderful mid-tempo love song. “Billy Don’t Fall” is an eloquent, catchy tribute to a victim of homophobia. “I Don’t Want to Bring Your Gods Down” is a spirited number that uses a messy horn section which eventually breaks down and dissolves into sloppy dissonance. And the album’s best track is probably “I’ll Be Alright,” gospel soul stomper that is easily one of the best things D’Arby ever recorded. And the whole album is covered in D’Arby’s flawless voice, which can only be described as a grittier version of Sam Cooke.

While the great songs can’t really save the overindulgent navel-gazing, the album is worth checking out for its sheer guts. In 1987, D’Arby made an excellent, highly successful pop album. Instead of following the same formula, he made his second album completely on his own terms. Not a lot of people do that anymore.

say you will, say you will

Ten songs I really, really like…and why.

First of all, this is not meant to be a definitive list of my favorite songs of all time. In most cases, these aren’t even my favorite songs by the artists represented. I just went through my external hard drive and picked ten random songs that happen to make my ears happy. I was planning on putting together a huge essay on Frank Zappa, but I don’t think I’m ready for that just yet, even with the help of a four-day weekend.

Jackie Wilson, “Lonely Teardrops” I basically discovered rhythm and blues from the 1950’s and 1960’s when I was a teenager, living in Florida. While I was in high school, my brother Gary was beginning his storied career as a disc jockey. His first gig was at a bar called Rickie Lee’s in a motel by the airport. While the thought of a hyperactive twentysomething spinning blasts from the past for jetlagged business travelers sounds both depressing and surreal, I gained from the experience by learning a lot about this particular musical genre. As my peers were getting off on Duran Duran and Men at Work, my brother and I were spending Saturday afternoons making mix tapes of Sam Cooke and Wilson Pickett songs in a deserted bar. Getting back to the song – I could have picked a whole number of great Jackie Wilson songs, and I’m trying to stick to more obscure numbers, but there’s no escaping the sheer exuberance of this mega-smash. It’s basically one giant hook. And it has historical value in that it was apparently the song Wilson was singing when he collapsed onstage from a heart attack in 1975. He remained comatose until his death in 1984. Jackie, in case you didn’t already know, influenced the moves of Michael Jackson more than pretty much anybody but James Brown.

George Harrison, “Awaiting On You All” So much for the Quiet Beatle. Less than a year after the Beatles’ break-up, Harrison released All Things Must Pass, a three-record set produced by Phil Spector. Many consider this one of the finest solo albums made by a former mop top, and it’s pretty much what you would expect from Harrison: it rocks out, there’s tons of slide guitar, and he sings a lot about peace and love. The big hit, of course, was the famously litigious “My Sweet Lord,” but “Awaiting On You All” is – in my opinion – catchier and more meaningful. Spector’s Wall of Sound is all over it, to the point where George’s voice is almost drowned out by the cacophony. But the racket is one of sheer joy, with the lyrics conveying Harrison at his spiritual apex. I recently thought of this song in the context of an imaginary future episode of “Mad Men” – if the series ever gets to the point where Sally Draper is a college freshman, I’d love to hear this used in a scene where she’s driving off to college in a convertible, the wind in her hair and stifling suburbia in her rearview mirror.

Billy Bragg, “North Sea Bubble” Billy started out as a one-man Clash, brandishing an electric guitar and singing a stellar brand of protest songs, with albums like Life’s a Riot With Spy Vs. Spy and Brewing Up With Billy Bragg. Eventually, he began adding more instruments to the mix, and even conceded to a slightly more accessible sound with albums like Workers Playtime (which seemed to focus more on personal relationships than politics) and Don’t Try This At Home. The latter album included the quasi-hit “Sexuality,” a wonderful cover of Fred Neil’s “Dolphins” and appearances by members of R.E.M. One of my favorite songs on the album is “North Sea Bubble,” which would still rock if the lyrics didn’t mean anything. The song barrels along on a propulsive tempo with keening guitars and a couple of false endings to keep things interesting. It’s certainly one of his more upbeat numbers. The lyrics are apparently socially and politically important, since they mention Thomas Paine, Perestroika, and name-drop Edwin Starr’s “War.” But as usual, I have no idea what he’s talking about. Who cares? Let’s rock!

Ryan Adams, “Goodnight Rose” Damn you, Ryan Adams. After releasing roughly 625 albums in a span of about five years, I wrote this guy off as an overrated, childish hack who got a lot of press for his onstage tantrums and his hatred of my beloved Wilco. Full disclosure: at the time of my “writing off,” I hadn’t heard a note of his music. In 2007, I caved in and took home a free promo copy of Easy Tiger. Okay, so he’s no Jeff Tweedy, but this is a beautiful collection of songs. I don’t remember exactly how I described this album in a previous blog entry, but I think it was something like, “Elvis Costello meets Steve Earle on a 1970s AM radio station.” “Goodnight Rose” is one of the best of the bunch, a gorgeous, loud mess in a waltz tempo. It has the rare ability to sound at home both as a wedding dance or in the back of a beat up 1973 Chevy Malibu.

Paul Weller, “Brushed” Weller’s fourth album, Heavy Soul, isn’t one of his best-known ones, but it works as a loud younger brother who doesn’t get the attention he deserves, while older siblings graduate as valedictorians and win Pinewood Derbys. It’s a shame, because while some of the songs are brash without saying much, the album as a whole is a lot of fun. It’s one of Weller’s best albums to work well at loud volume. “Brushed” is a more obscure song in the Weller canon, although I first heard it on a greatest hits album, of all things. The most obvious quality of this song is its swagger. For three-and-a-half minutes, the song struts around distorted guitars and Steve White’s floortom-heavy drumming. The brief “solo” is Weller’s distorted voice singing along to the guitar melody for a couple of bars. For everyone who derides Weller’s music as “Dad Rock,” “Brushed” shows him approaching middle age with his punk roots intact.

Elvis Costello, “Pidgin English” With his 1982 album Imperial Bedroom, Elvis’ career entered a startling new maturity. There were orchestrations, an enormous step forward in songwriting, and production duties handled by Geoff Emerick, best-known as the Beatles’ recording engineer (although the liner notes actually say “Produced by Geoff Emerick, from an original idea by Elvis Costello,” which may be inscrutable, but gives the album an appropriate mystique). Many of Elvis’ staunchest critics who accused Elvis of being old hat had to admit that he was still one of the most vital singer-songwriters around after hearing this latest release. “Pidgin English” isn’t my favorite song on the album – I prefer the epic “Man Out Of Time” – but it has a unique, odd charm that I find irresistible. The song is barely four minutes long, but its many parts unfold unhurriedly, one by one. There’s the intro with the weird sounding guitar, nice harmonies, the drums kick in, the rest of the band follows. All of a sudden, big majestic horns are all over the place and Elvis is singing that “there are ten commandments of love.” Then there’s a Spanish guitar solo. And so on. It manages to employ a kitchen-sink production philosophy while maintaining an almost baroque, quaint feel. And the whole “P.S. I love you…” bit near the end, followed by Bruce Thomas’ bass guitar meltdown, cap off the song exquisitely. There. I guess I just described the whole thing. But you should still hear it.

Frank Zappa, “Black Napkins” For those of you who want to hear Frank’s “rock” music, but want to skip the politics and the eighth-grade humor, “Black Napkins” may be one of the best introductions you could hope for. The song has entered the pantheon of Frank’s epic instrumentals and is considered a perennial fan favorite. Frank’s legacy has suffered many injustices over the decades, and chief among them is the fact that your average rock fan is unaware of his prowess as an electric guitarist. A handful of his albums – Shut Up and Play Yer Guitar, Guitar and the posthumous Trance-Fusion – showcase his guitar skills, but hidden among the other albums is more proof of this. On many of these albums, there’s a blueprint: The guitar solo section is excised from a particular Zappa standard, be it “Inca Roads,” “City of Tiny Lites,” “King Kong,” etc – placed on its own, with a new, inexplicable title (“Pinocchio’s Furniture,” “Hog Heaven,” “Variations on the Carlos Santana Secret Chord Progression”) and essential reinvented as a new, stand-alone song. After all that explanation, I should add that “Black Napkins” does not actually fit this formula. It’s a stand-alone track in a blues tempo, not excised from any previous Zappa song. But some of Frank’s best playing is crammed into the four-plus minutes of this track. The band plays the vamp faithfully, with simmering organ backing, Terry Bozzio’s occasionally manic drumming and even some very well-placed backup vocal support that sounds on paper like a bad idea but works magically.

Cornershop, “Lessons Learned From Rocky I to Rocky III” Britain’s Cornershop became world famous in 1997 with “Brimful of Asha” (from the album When I Was Born For the Seventh Time), and while they’re not exactly prolific these days, their 2002 album, Handcream For a Generation is a worthy followup, sacrificing some of the Indian influences of its predecessor in favor of simply rocking out. Sonically, it’s all over the map, employing scratching (“Wogs Will Wok”), reggae (“Motion the Eleven”), Vocoder-drenched disco (“Slip the Drummer Some”), and in the case of “Lessons Learned From Rocky I to Rocky III,” balls-out glam rock boogie that sounds like Mott the Hoople at a rave. The song kicks off with a killer riff and the energy never flags, particularly when you have the help of sassy female backup singers. This is another song that greatly benefits from loud volume, especially when the guitar solo kicks in and whenever Tjinder Singh keeps enigmatically referring to “the overgrown supershit” in the chorus.

Led Zeppelin, “Nobody’s Fault But Mine” In 1976, Zeppelin released what is probably their least-known album, Presence (I should add that it’s a testament to the hugeness of Led Zeppelin when their “least-known” album still manages to top the album charts and sell more than three million copies). It’s unfortunate that the album didn’t make more of a historical impact – it has plenty of great songs and stands tall among the rest of their catalog, in my opinion. While songs like “Achilles’ Last Stand” show a grand, epic sweep, “Nobody’s Fault But Mine” is Zeppelin in blues-stomp mode. John Bonham’s drumming is loud, rude and all over the place, Robert Plant is his usual blues wailer self, John Paul Jones is the dependable anchor to the whole thing, but the best parts of the song are really Plant’s harmonica solo. It starts out squealing under Bonham’s endless fills, like a car screeching out onto the highway. Just when you think it can’t get any better, Jimmy Page struts in with one of his better solos, towards the end. Seriously, this is a severely underrated song on an unfairly ignored album.

Albert Ayler, “Truth is Marching In” Albert Ayler is the textbook definition of “an acquired taste.” If John Coltrane listened to a lot of Captain Beefheart, he probably would’ve sounded something like Ayler. An incredibly gifted saxophone player, Ayler explored the more unhinged aspects of “free jazz.” I can only describe his music as completely “open,” without any format or rulebook guiding him. While his sound is most easily categorized as jazz, there is most definitely a gospel flavor to his playing. With a deep tone and expressive vibrato, Ayler’s songs often sounded like psychotic New Orleans funeral marches. “Truth is Marching In,” from Live in Greenwich Village, starts off with Ayler leading several brass instruments in what sounds like a meditation or hymn. The drums come crashing in and are soon joined by cello and violin. It’s a jarring, yet surprisingly moving sound. Eventually, the whole thing breaks down and everyone just goes completely nuts, in a free jazz improvisation gone completely awry. It’s a raw exploration of sound, and while unsettling, it’s also a whole lot of fun. For 12 minutes and 40 seconds. Sadly, Ayler committed suicide in 1970 at the age of 34. The raw beauty of this song speaks volumes to me.

jumpstart

A few years ago, I maintained a blog called Delicious Media (it still exists, but I stopped updating it). The blog was intended as a place for me to write and post reviews of albums and concerts (book and movie reviews were also promised, but that never materialized). I enjoyed it immensely – I started posting similar reviews on Amazon as far back as 1998 and I never really grew tired of it – but I could never carve out enough time to devote specifically to these endeavors, preferring to stick to my “regular” blog, Pressure Drop, which was abandoned in 2005 in favor of my Livejournal blog, Trocadero, which was – you guessed it – dropped earlier this year to make way for the WordPress blog you’re reading right now.

Chris In Boston started out with the best intentions, and overall, I’m happy with the way it’s turned out. I can’t say the same, however, about the frequency of my blog posts here. There are few things sadder on the interwebs than a blog that has simply been left to rot, unattended to.

I blame Facebook. I don’t say that with any scorn or resentment; Facebook, in my opinion, is a great way to emit the odd cybershout without having to think too hard about how to structure it. If I want you to know that I’m enjoying Season One of “Breaking Bad,” I’ll just put it in a status update. Done. If a YouTube video makes me giggle uncontrollably and I want to share it with you, I’ll post it. And so on. I tend to overthink blog entries, and I don’t apologize for that. The end result is something I’ve published online that I’m happy with. But it takes time.

I don’t feel comfortable blogging at work, even during downtime and lunch breaks. I prefer using the confines of my own computer in my own home. In order to trim down my blog subjects to a manageable level, I’ve decided to make this blog, for the foreseeable future, strictly about reviews. I own a lot of music, and I want to tell you about it. The same goes for movies, and – to some degree – literature (although don’t expect much highbrow pontificating in that area).

So, by digging through my collection and telling you what I like and don’t like, I can hopefully create a more focused forum for something I really like to do: write about stuff that I like. And maybe you’ll end up liking it too.

the problem with roman

When word of Roman Polanski’s arrest in Zurich hit the news last weekend, I was interested. Over the last day or two, I can’t seem to get enough of it. Not because I’m a celebrity gossip junkie (which I am most certainly not), but because the case is unique, and, let’s be frank: I’m a big Polanski fan.

I consider Rosemary’s Baby, Chinatown, and the lesser-known Frantic to be among my favorite films of all time. Watching Polanski’s Oscar-winning film The Pianist was one of the most moving, heartbreaking experiences I’ve ever had in a theater. He’s a brilliant director. One of the best.

So when I started reading about people coming to Polanski’s defense, I felt uplifted. This man is going to get the support he deserves! His actor, director and producer friends will rally to his defense and get him out of this mess. But at some point, I started feeling a little creepy about the whole thing. I think it was around the time that I heard about the Petition.

More than a hundred members of the film community signed a petition demanding Polanski’s “immediate release.” I looked at the names on the petition. Martin Scorsese. Woody Allen. Michael Mann. Pedro Almodovar. Film titans whose work I love and respect deeply. But I can’t help thinking that maybe their outrage just might be a little bit…I don’t know…misguided?

I know people are tired of hearing this, but the fact of the matter is that he raped a 13-year-old girl. This wasn’t the case of somebody hopping into bed with a willing young woman who swore up and down that she was a legal adult but was actually a week shy of her 18th birthday. The girl was 13, Polanski knew it, and he gave her drugs and alcohol and raped her while she pleaded with him to stop. That’s a crime, and since he pled guilty, there’s no statute of limitations.

On the other side of the coin: the case was handled badly. The judge was a celebrity-obsessed opportunist who threatened to renege on the plea deal after Polanski had already served the initial block of time. To further complicate matters, the victim, now in her forties, has long since forgiven Polanski, has accepted a cash settlement, has publicly stated that she doesn’t want Polanski to serve time, and just wants everyone to move on with their lives. Critics will say that’s not the issue. I’m inclined to disagree, to a point. I think that the facts I’ve outlined in this paragraph should bear weight on the case. But that’s just the thing. There’s still a case here. He fled before he could complete the bulk of his sentence. He needs to be brought to justice, whatever the verdict will be.

Opponents of the arrest have gone to great lengths to point out that Polanski, a Polish Jew, fled Nazi-occupied Poland to escape the Holocaust. His mother died in Auschwitz. His pregnant wife, Sharon Tate, was murdered by the Manson family. He’s a cinematic, Oscar-winning genius who has contributed enormously to his field. These things are all true, and say a great deal about Polanski, the man. But they have nothing to do with the crime.

I’m a liberal. I’ve been one since I knew the difference between liberals and conservatives. I voted for Obama. I support gay rights and same-sex marriage. I’m as pinko as you can get. But rape is rape. Polanski needs to face the music. If he’s tried in California and his case is dismissed, or he’s ordered to serve probation, even if he has to do time (which I doubt will happen), I’ll accept that. But first he needs to own up to what he did.

short ride in a fast machine

Please forgive my absence, won’t you? As I mentioned before, voluntarily sitting down for extended periods of time hasn’t really been much of an option lately, thanks to Herniated Disc ‘09. But things seem to be getting better. I had a follow-up appointment with the spinal doctor on Friday (two weeks after my steroid injection), and he’s hesitant to attempt another injection, at least until we give physical therapy a try, which will be scheduled in the next few days. Surgery is still a last resort. I’m either getting better very slowly, or I’ve just developed a tolerance for this agony. Either way, I’m dealing with it.

Liza’s out of town until Monday night, and I’m spending the weekend plundering my DVD and CD collections. Last night I watched the Frank Zappa Apostrophe/Overnite Sensation “classic albums” documentary, in addition to “Inside Man” (still my second favorite bank heist movie, after “Dog Day Afternoon”) and “Donnie Brasco” (severely underrated mafia movie).

This morning, it was the usual – “CBS Sunday Morning” – but it wasn’t the same without Liza by my side, making snarky remarks about Charles Osgood’s omnipresent bowtie.

Let’s talk about 20th century classical music, shall we? Wait! Don’t go away! I was perusing two of my favorite books on the genre earlier today: Tim Page on Music and The Rest Is Noise. Page’s book is actually a collection of essays and reviews on all kinds of classical music (and he even steps out of the classical genre for pieces on Frank Sinatra, Stephin Merritt and Captain Beefheart, among others), but his essay “Radical Music That Will Remain That Way” is a great introduction to classical pieces that are worth your time and make no apologies for their “difficult” nature. Among them, Sibelius’ Fourth Symphony, Schoenberg’s “Pierrot Lunaire,” and Strauss’ opera “Elektra.” His mention of Aaron Copland’s dissonant and beautiful “Piano Variations” includes a quote about the piece from author Paul Bowles:

“I’m aware of its construction; its beams and struts are beautifully visible, unmarred by any ornamentation.”

In The Rest Is Noise- a wonderfully comprehensive study of classical music going back to the days of Mahler and Strauss – author Alex Ross relates a story told by one of composer Arnold Schoenberg’s sons:

“Ronald Schoenberg…still lives in the Brentwood house where his father spent the last part of his life. He recalls that in his childhood, tour buses would regularly come up the street, and a voice on a loudspeaker would point out the home of Shirley Temple. The guide would never mention that the composer of Erwartung lived across the way. ‘My father was always a little sad about that,’ his son says. ‘But another time, we stopped at a juice bar out on Highway 1, and the radio was playing Verklarte Nacht, and I never saw him so happy.’”

If you’d like a taste of 20th century classical music but don’t want to shell out the cost of all the stuff Tim Page recommends, this might be more your speed:

Sonic Rebellion is a modern classical sampler from the Naxos classical budget label. Despite the cheesy presentation, it’s actually a brilliant collection, and you can usually pick it up for about four bucks. Not bad for a disc that includes works by Nancarrow, Ligeti, Rautavaara and Penderecki.

Look! Landlord Joe installed a new sink in our bathroom the other day!

Trust me, if you saw our old sink, you know how big of a deal this is.

Beatles reissues! This week!

For someone like me, who has all the “original” issues (well, the American ones, anyway), this isn’t something I’m going to rush out and break the bank to buy immediately, but eventually, I’ll get around to picking up a handful of these. And there’s all in Digipaks! Digipak rules.

In all the herniated disc hubbub, I failed to mention that I also had a general physical last Friday afternoon. My health is good, with the exception of my high cholesterol (and I have a plan for that). I also found out that there’s a name for that freakish bump that’s been on my right forearm for years. The good news is that it’s completely harmless. The bad news is that knowing that it’s harmless doesn’t make me any less self-conscious about it.

laid up

Howdy. Not dead, just resting. If you talk to me in person or follow my Facebook status updates, you know that I’ve been suffering with a herniated disc for the past few weeks and one of the downsides to that is that sitting down for more than 10-15 minutes or so puts excruciating pain on my right leg. So, being the kind of blogger who enjoys marathon posts, this particular activity hasn’t exactly been a top priority lately. The good news is that I’m scheduled for a steroid injection in two days that’s supposed to make everything feel better. In the meantime, hold tight. I have a lot to write about.

your legs give way, you hit the ground

Audrey’s in town from 7/6 to 8/6, so blogging (and the internet in general) are at a minimum. Facebook status updates are happening here and there, but for the most part, Liza and I are enjoying the company of my daughter and trying our best to make her summer in Boston a fun one. We’ve done our share of the college tours (Emerson and BU last week, Northeastern tomorrow), but have also seen a concert (Reel Big Fish/English Beat/Supervillains at the House of Blues), gone to the movies (Up – as in three thumbs “up”), made a couple of trips to Newbury Comics (where Audrey bought a truckload of vinyl) and checked out Wagamama (funky and delicious noodle bar – thumbs up again).

And that’s not even counting the free shit we’ve had foisted on us in the last week or so. My dear friend Peg is moving out of her condo in Roslindale and has no desire to haul her 32-inch cathode-ray HD television to another home, so she let us take it off her hands, free of charge. Granted, it’s about eight years old and since it’s a tube TV, it weighs about as much as a small car, but it beats the hell out of the modest-sized Samsung I’ve called my own for a dozen years. We’ve already watched a handful of DVDs on it and this morning, Comcast came over and upgraded our cable box to HD, so movie and TV viewing is taking a quantum leap forward in the last several days. Peg also threw in a surround-sound system. I need to upgrade my 18-year-old Kenwood receiver (why is everything I own so ancient?), so in the meantime I’m only able to add two of the surround-sound speakers to my current speaker arsenal. But it’s already quite a step up.

And. And! My Aunt Elaine and Uncle Jack are moving from New Hampshire to Las Vegas and are in the process of getting rid of a lot of furniture. We took home a sweet dining room set and two very comfy chairs (great for movie watching). We may or may not be acquiring a beautiful bedroom set, but that depends on if they already have takers and if we have the means to get it to our home.

There’s also a good chance that we may be getting one of their cars. For free. Well, for a buck (apparently there are legal issues regarding giving away a car). It’s a 1998 Chrysler Concorde with about 150,000 miles on it, but did I mention that it’s free? Liza and I are looking into the affordability of insurance and gas (since there’s no car payment involved), and I don’t want to jinx this, but it’s looking like a fairly strong possibility. More to come.

Finally, if you’re a fan of late seventies/early eighties Two-Tone second wave british ska, you should be aware of the fact that the English Beat are still kicking ass after 30 years. Dave Wakeling is the only original member, but aside from his Guinness-fueled beer belly, he’s still got it. The band is super-tight and deserves your attention. If they come to your town, drop everything and check ‘em out. Supervillains were fun and sported a drummer who sang lead vocals (which impressed us, considering Don Henley and Phil Collins are the only other ones I could think of, and who needs that?), but the dick jokes got old after a while. Headliners Reel Big Fish were also fun. I’m not a big fan – they strike me as sort of a one-note band – but I enjoyed their set.

Oh, and one more thing that may not seem important, but seriously needs to be addressed: I don’t get Twitter. I find it completely unnecessary. I could care less that you just ate a burrito. You want to give me a quick sentence about what’s going on in your life? Put it in a Facebook status update. That’s what I do.

trapped in the house of the perpetual sucker

Have I really lost the desire to blog? Seeing as how this is only my third post in the past two months, it’s entirely possible. Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of blogging, and normally, when I read through a post after it’s been published, I’m pretty happy with it. But damn if blogging is hard work sometimes. And it seems like I don’t really have the time for it anymore. Or maybe I’m just not as willing to make time for it. I don’t blog at work anymore, ever, and time at home is better spent on other things, if you ask me. In terms of quick hits of social networking, Facebook has been my drug of choice lately. It actually frightens me to think of how much time I spent there. But we’ve already covered that subject, I think.

I just finished – and by just, I mean about 15 minutes ago – an excellent book recommended to me by Laura, a.k.a. lz1982. It’s called What the Dead Know by Laura Lippman. Like a lot of you already know, I’m into mysteries and thrillers. I try to squeeze in “the classics” every once in a while (I’ve also become enamored of books on 20th century U.S. history lately, for some reason), but I’d say that of the roughly 30 to 40 books I read in a year, a good 60 to 65 percent (at least) are in the mystery category. Laura is considerably more highbrow in her literary tastes, so I know that when she reads – and recommends – a mystery, it’s probably quite good. This one was terrific, with a phenomenal surprise twist near the end that I totally didn’t see coming. Before that, I read The Scarecrow, the latest book by the amazing Michael Connelly. This one was okay, not one of his best, and has me missing Detective Harry Bosch, Connelly’s usual main character (who I’m told will be back in the next book).

Regarding new music, I will tell you with great certainty that Floodplain, the new album by the Kronos Quartet, is stunningly (but not surprisingly) gorgeous. And nearly two weeks after purchasing it, I’m still reeling over the mind-blowingness of Tell ‘Em What Your Name Is by Black Joe Lewis. How should I describe this one? James Brown Meets the Replacements? I don’t know, but James Brown definitely belongs somewhere in the description. James Brown in a Garage Band. James Brown meets…I don’t know. Listen for yourself and figure it out. Here: watch this video.

I’m also on a major Elvis Costello kick lately, thanks in part to Dave H loaning me this stunning, hard-to-find box set. And also thanks to the fact that I own about a gazillion Elvis Costello albums.

Elvis. It does a body good.

dorchester fight song

Okay. Let’s get started with the best news I’ve heard all day. Wilco’s new album is dangerously close to the horizon. I’m in the retail music biz – just barely – so I can use annoying jargon and say that the new album “streets” on June 30. But you can hear the album now. Wilco’s official site is streaming the album right here. I’m about halfway through my second listen. It’s very, very awesome. I can’t really compare it to any other album of theirs, because they seem to reinvent themselves each time around, and this is no different. It has a lot of the laid-back feel of Sky Blue Sky, with a bit of an AM radio vibe and still retaining the experimental tilt of the last several years. Oh, and it’s self-titled.

I did a thorough overhaul of the iPod over the weekend. I’m trying to rotate in CDs that I hardly ever listen to but deserve huge swaths of my time. There’s a lot of dissonant classical and experimental jazz, in addition to other things I say I like but don’t pay enough attention to.

Such as:

Messiaen: Turangalila Symphony
Autumn Defense: Circles
Carmen McCrae: Bittersweet
Charles Ives: Concord Sonata
Pierre Boulez: Repons
Bela Bartok: 44 Duos
Kate Bush: Aerial
Arnold Schoenberg: Erwartung/Pierrot Lunaire
Bill Frisell: Unspeakable
Francoise Hardy: The Vogue Years
Igor Stravinsky: Rite of Spring

…and so on. I’m also on a major Charles Mingus kick. And I love Pandora radio. Fuck real radio. This is the future.

In case you haven’t already heard, a few weeks ago I drove a car for the first time since 1999. I won’t get into why I let my driver’s license lapse and waited so long to get back on this particular horse (it’s really just because I’m lazy), but Liza and I were in possession of my sister’s car while she was away on vacation and I took the plunge by getting behind the wheel once again. I drove around our neighborhood one night, daring to venture out to South Bay Plaza. Then on a Saturday evening, we hit the highway – literally – and drove up to Nashua to buy pants at the Pheasant Lane Mall. That’s right – three separate highways. Interstate 93, Route 128 and Route 3. I was vaguely nervous but frankly quite surprised at how easy it was to pick things up again. Merging onto highways will take some getting used to, though. Hey – I drove in Italy. I can handle these stateside pansies.

Liza and I are done with Battlestar Galactica as we await the DVD release of season 4.5. This show really blindsided us. Sci-fi, for sure, but with well-written and well-acted characters and excellent story lines. Oh, and spaceships too. The summer will see more DVD releases of shows we’ve grown to love over the years (24, Weeds, Mad Men). In the meantime, it’s back to Netflix the old-fashioned way: movies. We have Vicky Christina Barcelona and Rachel Getting Married at home, and just finished Burn After Reading, which was a lot like Fargo (inept crooks get in way over their heads) without a lot of the Fargo awesomeness. But I laughed a lot.

I also purchased the most highly anticipated DVD release (for me) in recent memory: the Criterion Collection version of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I haven’t checked out the movie proper since it blew me away in the theater back in January, but I’ve been gleefully plundering the supplements disc. Lots of behind-the-scenes what-have-you for a film geek like me. If you were hesitant to check out this three-hour epic in the theaters, try renting it and watching it at your leisure. It’s really worth your time. Beautiful filmmaking with Fincher working his usual magic.

I don’t normally talk much about my day job around here, but I will say that I’m staying busy and that my job has become a lot more interesting lately. And I’m getting a summer intern. It’s going to be weird having a college student around to help me with various projects, but I think it’ll be a positive situation for both of us. And I’ll finally get out from under this backlog.

I’ve decided, after ingesting a staggering amount of jazz on Pandora, that I really like Freddie Hubbard.

So what about Borders, you ask? What about it? It’s still the bane of my fucking existence. I’m closing in on ten years at that place. Can you believe it? It’s only 12 hours a week, so I guess that’s what keeps me going. Oh, and Liza has gone back there, part-time. Three days a week, all opening shifts, so I never see her. I’m kind of frustrated at what Borders has become in these struggling retail days. Do they really believe that we’re going to get back on our feet with all this pushy sales tactics? I mean, come on. Look at Newbury Comics. They haven’t changed their attitude one iota and they still pack ‘em in. And I don’t know about you, but I feel creepy recommending a book I’ve never read simply because the suits in Ann Arbor tell me to. I can play Herbie Hancock’s Maiden Voyage or Coltrane’s Blue Train on the second floor and there’s a really good chance that a customer will bring that disc to the registers. That’s how you recommend product. But nobody listens to me there.

I’m walking a whole hell of a lot lately. In the morning. I leave the house at 6:35 am, walk to JFK/UMass (one stop further than the closest one) via Morrissey Boulevard (the long way, past the Boston Globe), get on the T and then exit promptly at Park Street, walking all the way from there to Kenmore Square. That’s a 95-minute commute, with about 80 minutes spent walking. There’s nothing quite like the Commonwealth Avenue mall at 7:30 in the morning. Especially with the preponderance of dogs being walked. DOGS IN BACK BAY! I LOVE IT!

Okay then. I don’t think it’ll take quite this long to update the next time. Stay cool, interweb.

in the spaceship, the silver spaceship

Look what my daughter Audrey edited, co-directed and co-starred in.

I couldn’t figure out how to embed the video, so just click here.

It was a project for her high school video production class, and it was entered in a European high school film festival. AUDREY + THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS + iMOVIE = GENIUS.

If you’ve got a hankering for old, black & white photos of Boston, circa 1954-59, This is not to be missed. A veritable goldmine. How I long to be part of the days when Boston was awash in giant neon signs and Howard Johnson’s restaurants on Court Street advertising their classic “frankfurters.” Thanks to Dan at Obscurorama for passing on the link.