Stevie Nicks — “Moonlight (A Vampire’s Dream)” (from In Your Dreams) —
The first reviews on Nicks’ explosive comeback effort — her first original solo album in a decade — have been positively rapturous. (Even Rolling Stone‘s divinely discerning aficionado Rob Sheffield is duly impressed.) I say Dreams flails around for the first four or five tracks in search of its fate, but really stumbles into its own distinct groove starting with this stunner, a tremendously satisfying swath of supernatural romance that lands squarely in Nicks’ sweet spot. (I didn’t even need to read any of the dozens of interviews Nicks has given about this new record to recognize at once that this tune was inspired largely by the Twilight film series, which proves those movies aren’t made just for twelve-year-old tweens.)
Who could be more thrilled than me to have this spectacular band back front and center after an excruciating three-year hiatus, and isn’t it queer to discover that Dan Layus and company have clearly been boning up on their Kings of Leon in their time away from the spotlight? (I kid those guys; this new album, the band’s third, is pretty fantastic, and though they have, at least temporarily, ceded their stunningly polished sound in favor of something more organically gritty, they clearly haven’t lost their knack for crafting those exquisitely anthemic hooks.)
Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band — “The Rising” (from The Rising) —
Glued to all the news coverage this morning, it feels very likely that last night’s thrilling revelation that Mr. bin Laden has been located and eliminated will, at best, be only a symbolic victory, and that this sprawling war on global terrorism will continue. Still, at least for a night, a morning, a day, it feels really good to be proud of this country, and its military, and its president, and its determination and resolve that good will triumph over evil, no matter what form evil happens to take, and no matter the cost. Watching those celebratory flash mobs that erupted last night in Times Square and in front of the White House (and, no doubt, in thousands of places that had no cameras present), it feels important to note that there were no Republicans in those crowds, and neither were there Democrats; there were only Americans, Americans happy as hell to have been served a powerful reminder that nobody here surrenders. Nobody here retreats. We — even if it takes ten years — keep our goddamned promises. We fall, and we, at times with distressing ease, allow ourselves to get temporarily distracted by senseless fools spinning their irrelevant yarns about birth certificates and bi-winning. We fall, sure, but we also rise.
It will be interesting to see if it holds up as it unfolds — particularly as it is curiously scheduled smack dab up against the climax of one of American Idol‘s more compelling seasons in quite a spell — but I have to tell you: I wasn’t expecting much, but I quite liked the premiere episode of NBC’s knockoff talent competition The Voice, which is built around an fascinating concept — the judges are building “teams” of singers and are essentially competing against each other just as fiercely as the singers are — and featured a surprising number of moving moments — among them, a married couple quite capably tackling “Falling Slowly” from the Once soundtrack, and a young girl giving Adele a run for her money with a riveting take on “Rolling in the Deep” — and none more so than this, a brilliantly bittersweet cover of Cyndi Lauper’s all-time classic smash which literally made me weep. Everything about this — from the loose, off-the-cuff guitar arrangement, to Colon’s slightly off-kilter phrasing (particularly on that iconic chorus, which is every bit as powerful right this moment as it was nearly thirty years ago) — works and works fabulously, and though it feels kinda weird to anoint the captivating Colon as the instant front-runner in this competition — especially when there are many, many other contestants to be seen yet — it’s exactly what I’m doing. (A quick check of Colon’s discography reveals that he is indeed fearless in tackling the classics, as he has also put his lovely imprimatur upon what gets my vote for the best song in the whole damn history of great songs, Joni Mitchell’s landmark “A Case of You.”) I, for one, can’t wait to see what trick Javi pulls out of his hat next. (If you missed this performance, or any of the gazillion commercials for The Voice on which bits of this performance were played ad nauseam, the full video can be seen below.)
Because he was one of the musical heroes of my favorite year — 1984, duh — it was a peculiar thrill to welcome Waite as my guest on last night’s installment of Brandon’s Buzz Radio to discuss his latest album, and when I posed the question, he revealed that this midtempo ballad — co-written with Matchbox Twenty’s Kyle Cook — was his favorite Tumble track. Believe it or not, it’s mine too. (Close to thirty years beyond “Missing You,” doesn’t Waite’s voice still sound just incredible?! Incidentally, if you missed this episode, you can download it as a free podcast from iTunes, or you can catch up with it right cheer.)
I recently got an opportunity to speak with Mr. Folds, and one of the questions I asked him — as I try to ask most musicians with whom I chat — was about what he is listening to these days, and he surprised me by throwing out the names of Nat King Cole and Rachmaninoff. (Not sure what I was expecting him to say, but it sure wasn’t that!) Nonetheless, I was immediately reminded of this lovely, bittersweet beauty — the piano-driven tune with which the Five bade us farewell in ’99 — which documents a couple who can’t seem to bridge their own geographic divide. (Incidentally, the transcript of my interview with Ben will be posted here later this afternoon, so come on back.)
posted in sweet you rock and sweet you roll | Comments Off on i loved you ‘fore i met you and i met you just in time (or: april 27’s honey from the hive)
The hilarious comedian Sinbad recently took to Twitter to inquire as to the whereabouts of this bracingly terrific Canadian singer/songwriter, a brilliant blend of equal parts Carole King and Pat Benatar who made three tremendously fine albums for Columbia around the turn of the century but still managed to get herself mired in the tricky political minefield of post-Lilith female-fronted pop music. I myself thought it to be a valid question as well — indeed, I’ve been trying to track her down and drag her over to Brandon’s Buzz Radio for eons now, and she literally seems to have dropped off the planet — so ‘Manda, if you’re reading this, please phone home my darling, because fans of sophisticated, smart music are being blown off the map by that ridiculously rancid tart Ke$ha and a mortifying multiplicity of her ilk, and we miss and need you ferociously, lady.
I had seen it coming on the calendar earlier in the week but then lost track of it (probably for the best, that), and it didn’t dawn on me until around mid-afternoon that yesterday was actually the sixth anniversary of my father’s passing. I was rather an oddball child, so, at least outwardly, I never really had so much in common with my dad. That he seemed to be perfectly fine with that fact — and by that, I mean that he gave both of his children the space to fully be themselves — might be the single greatest gift he ever gave me, and I promise that I recognize and appreciate it more with each passing year. The second greatest gift he gave me, without question, was simple yet achingly profound: he taught his son how to really feel the music that surrounds us, how to let it scrape against your soul and leave its mark. Like a broken record, I always and often say that 1984 — my eighth full year hanging onto this mortal coil for dear life — was the greatest year for music in the history of recorded sound, and I keep coming to realize that I feel that way as much for the fact that its songs were inescapably, incontrovertibly fabulous as for the fact that it was the first year I was paying attention — ergo, the year that I play all other years off against — and that I was paying attention because he taught me how to. This, believe it or not, was our favorite song that year — we used to love trying our best (and loudest) to imitate Simon LeBon’s irresistibly batshit vocal performance whenever this came on the radio of my dad’s puke-green, tore-up-from-the-floor-up Ford pickup truck, which back then I thought was every last iota as cool as Rocky’s gold and black Trans Am — and even though it’s still hard to listen to much of the time, because of the memories it conjures with every passing note, it’s the tune that I couldn’t help but hum to myself all evening yesterday. And I have the funniest feeling — or, maybe, just the funniest hope — that, wherever he may now be, he was doing the exact same thing. (So much love to you, Dad, still and always.)
I’m still in the process of processing my thoughts on ABC’s cavalier cancellation last week of their classic soaps All My Children and my old fave One Life to Live (which I’ve watched, practically uninterrupted, for twenty-three years now, so watch this space), but, in the meantime, an interesting sliver of a silver lining from this awful, awful news: multi-billion-dollar conglomerates are not exactly known for siding against their own, but in a rare show of solidarity with literally millions of heart-wrenched soap fans — a sizable number of whom, it should be noted, purchase (and utilize) his company’s products — a brilliant gentleman name of Brian Kirkendall, the vice president of marketing for The Hoover Company — whose vacuum cleaners have been hot sellers for over a century — announced on the company’s Facebook page that, exclusively because his wife and mother are fans of the ABC soaps, his company is pulling all advertising from the network, effective immediately. (Imagine that: a top-level executive putting his own personal integrity and conviction above the almighty dollar. Contrast that with the doofy dolts at ABC, who are, come fall, flushing a combined eighty years of television history down the drain in favor of a Mario Batali-starring reality show about food entitled The Chew, whose existence ABC Daytime president Brian Frons helpfully justified by explaining that the show will be easy to promote with The View, his network’s smash morning gabfest.) I’m not sure that anything will ultimately come of Hoover’s ballsy move (although mobilized fans are now bombarding other soap advertisers with requests for similar action, and I understand that Hershey is paying keen attention to the brouhaha), but it does my heart good to see anyone — even someone without a real dog in this particular hunt — standing up for the soaps. (A recently bought a vacuum cleaner for our household, and I’m sad to report that he chose a Bissell upright, but let it suffice to say that our next machine will be a Hoover. As for this seemingly odd song choice: it was the only vacuum-related song I could conjure up, but given how crushed I remain about this news a week after the fact, I find its content and subject matter to be not at all inapropos.)
In a text message the day before yesterday, Sherry Ann reminded me that it was the twentieth anniversary of the release of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” and, because we were high school sophomores the year of that tune’s inception, she decided to connect all the dots and drop the following bomb upon my head: “We are soooo damn old!” (Funny enough, I wasn’t nearly the Nirvana freak that she was back in the day, so this milestone doesn’t make me feel as ancient as next year’s 25th anniversary of Faith or the impending 30th anniversary of Colour By Numbers — which I still can vividly recall begging my father to drive me up to TG&Y to buy on a snowy February day in 1984 — almost certainly will.) Old is a sliding scale, too: on this very day three years ago, Brandon’s Buzz was born, and there are moments when it feels as though these 676 blog posts, 569 post comments, 2100 post tags, and 98 site pages have flown past in a fleeting fingersnap, and yet others when it feels like my typing fingers have been toiling away here forever. (As always, most profound thanks to all who have come along for this crazy, silly ride, and here’s hoping that the next three years are every inch as much fun as the first three.)
I always find it interesting when artists make decisions and/or arrange their choices in such a fashion that a toxic mythology forms around them, and the tale begins to supersede the talent. (Think Prince changing his name to an unpronounceable symbol, think Britney’s apeshit antics, think Michael’s difficult-to-justify fascination with minor male children, think Kanye’s hilariously blowsy hubris.) Nobody in the know has ever doubted Sinead’s abilities as a profound performer, but over time, regardless of whether or not she purposely set out to accomplish just this, the mention of her name has slowly become its own punchline: the starkly shaved head, the infamous ripping-up-the-Pope’s-photograph-on-live-television incident, deciding that she’s a lesbian, and then re-deciding she isn’t. The music has stayed fiercely compelling, but the impact of its message (not to mention, her credibility as an artist) has become so mangled and muddled by her herky-jerky insanity. And no fewer than one fan (me me me me me) feels that her catalog of material deserves a legacy properly befitting its rich, riveting brilliance.
Considering that two of last week’s three biggest hits at top 40 radio flagrantly feature the word “fuck” in their titles (Lord love you both, Pink and Cee-Lo Green!), isn’t it amusing to recall that it wasn’t so many moons ago that a large number of radio stations refused to even identify this innocuously tame little trifle by name? (Isn’t it also amusing to discover, as I did when this popped up in a shuffle yesterday while I was at work, that the pleasure in listening to this tune is laced with every bit as much guilt now as it was back in 1997 when this thing was originally a hit?)
Belinda Carlisle — “Heaven is a Place On Earth” (from Her Greatest Hits) —
A few days back, with the help of our local Redbox, A and I took in a screening of last fall’s box-office underachiever Love and Other Drugs, and while the film’s plot — basically, Sherry Ann’s second-favorite Gyllenhaal is a cocky prescription drug salesman who falls head over heels for a girl afflicted with Parkinson’s disease — is little more than a flimsy excuse to stare uncomfortably at Anne Hathaway’s boobies (and lots of other girls’ too!) for two solid hours, the film’s music cues were a marvel to behold, what with the Spin Doctors’ long forgotten ’90s classic “Two Princes” opening the show, and what is very possibly the only Regina Spektor song (“Fidelity”) you can sit through thirty seconds of without feeling the need to go heave closing it, as well as visits in between from a lovely former Honey from the Hive contestant, and from the single greatest contribution Miss Belinda Carlisle ever made to the art of popular music. You’ll never make me believe that “Heaven” isn’t one of the ten greatest records ever made, and so, in honor of Record Store Day, I can scarcely think of a better tune than this one to blast from your speakers this fine afternoon.
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