Finally, a little light.

Okay, asked and answered: my favorite new album thus far in 2007 is Nick Lowe’s At My Age, his second release for Yep Roc and his first release in a half-dozen years. It picks up where 2001’s The Convincer left off, and then some. You can call the new one crooned pop for now-people, with Lowe mixing obscure country and r&b-ish covers with like-minded originals and giving the whole thing a country-soul overcoat. It’s the aural equivalent of chasing a pint of ale and a martini with a smooth bourbon on the rocks. A friend calls it “like Frank Sinatra singing country,” and I occasionally call it pubapolitan. I could go on, but you get the idea by now.

But it’s worth noting that there’s even more for Nick Lowe fans to celebrate in the first half of 2007—chiefly, the release of a collection by the guy who Lowe cites as his main musical influence: Jim Ford. And there you have my favorite reissue of the year, The Sounds of Our Time on Bear Family. Odds are that you don’t recognize the name Jim Ford, and that’s to be expected and OK: He released only one album in his day. But Ford’s is an interesting story, and as it unfolds, you’re not sure whether to paint him as the Zelig of the music world or as its version of Kevin “Mr. Six Degrees of Separation” Bacon. Ford grew up with Loretta Lynn as a neighbor. He had relationships with former Ikette Bonnie Lynn (before she became Bonnie Bramlett) and with Bobbie Gentry, afterward contending that he wrote “Ode to Billie Joe,” which the latter then swiped and tweaked. There he is in the photo collage adorning his close friend Sly Stone’s There’s a Riot Going On and in a studio writing songs with Bobby Womack and Ronnie Wood. That’s him recording in London with Brinsley Schwarz and the Grease Band. Aretha Franklin recorded his “Niki Hoeky,” and Elvis had it on his jukebox. I could go on, but, again, you get the idea by now.

But Bear Family doesn’t typically let you star in one of its handsome CD collections just for being a fascinating character, and The Sounds of Our Time puts Ford’s complete-package talents on display. It pairs his only full-length release, 1969’s near-masterpiece Harlan County, with 15 additional cuts that include his earliest singles to previously unissued masters. Ford’s hybrid style draws on roots-rock and country soul, quite possibly inventing pub rock in the process. In namedrop terms, he’s Dan Penn meets Tony Joe White meets Joe South, and on a couple songs, there’s even a little Van Morrison around the edges. You want range? Listen to Ford move from a brilliantly reworked version of Sam Cooke’s “Chain Gang” to the pure honky-tonk of “Happy Songs Sell Records, Sad Songs Sell Beer.” No wonder Nick Lowe loves the guy.

Turn the page for some more thoughts on the first half of 2007….

(more…)

The Hopes and Dreams of Ishmael Boorg.

This comes courtesy of Perry Owen Wright, childhood prodigy behind The Prayers and Tears of Arthur Digby Sellers:

PRESS RELEASE FROM WILCO FANS BEHIND ME AT THE PAST SEVERAL SHOWS:
THURS JUNE 21, 2007 – CHARLOTTE NC

We prefer to be called “Kingpins”, after the Wilco song of the same name. We are the fans of the shittiest side of Jeff Tweedy—the lazy songwriting, noodling southern jam side of the moon. “Kingpin” is the prototypical piece of shit song to represent our ilk, offering the world such pure spun lyrical gold as I caught the flu and away I flew and Dimeatapp and Spinal Tap, a city maps, and hand claps—lyrics that, like our own fickle taste at shows, don’t require any engagement at all with the listener. Furthermore, as Kingpins, we reserve the inalienable right to loudly talk about chasing the sweet trim in here over “Muzzle of Bees” and “Radio Cure” and the quiet parts of “Poor Places” even though they are among the best songs Jeff Tweedy has ever written, and once the song has concluded, to yawlp and whistle and applaud at deafening levels in spite of the fact that we didn’t listen to a single note of the song. That’s right, we don’t have to enjoy the show to enjoy the show. We live by a simple axiom: “Wilco shows, where you don’t have to have a good time to drink.” Please refer to us as Kingpins from this time forward. In conclusion, how can I give my love to you when I don’t know what to do?

Yours,
The Kingpins, Charlotte Chapter Local 152

Kingpins would be nicer to Perry if they caught the Lebowski reference in the band name, don’t you think?

That Bon Iver record, For Emma: Forever Ago, that we mentioned back in March is finally out, and it’s mostly fantastic. You can hear the whole thing here, which is just crazy. “Skinny Love” and “Re: Stacks” deserve year-end warrants.

From Cory Brown, Absolutely Kosher president:

“Philadelphia/Brooklyn band Bottom of the Hudson suffered a serious van wreck on Sunday, July 29th, while returning home after the final date of a short East Coast tour to promote their new album, Fantastic Hawk, released just two weeks ago on July 17.  While on I-40 near Clinton, NC, a tire blew out sending the van out of control and flipping it multiple times.  Bassist Trevor Butler was killed in the accident and drummer Greg Lytle is currently in ICU in Chapel Hill, NC.  The other members of the band, Eli Simon, Michael Prince and William Chesterton Chambers, suffered minor injuries and were released from the hospital.

We didn’t have an opportunity to get to know Trevor Butler as well as we would have liked, but he was a great guy and a great musician.  He was instrumental in the evolution of the band’s sound over the years.  In addition to playing in Bottom of the Hudson for the last several years, Trevor also was a founding member in fellow-Philadelphia group Coyote.  He was utterly devoted to music and helped many, many bands set-up shows in Philadelphia.  We are devastated by his loss and he will be greatly missed.  Our thoughts and prayers go out to the band and their families. Thanks to everyone who has sent condolences and well-wishes.

We are currently accepting donations via Paypal (the address is both@absolutelykosher.com) on behalf of Trevor’s family and for Greg’s medical bills resulting from the accident.  A benefit show is being discussed, but we’re all still reeling from this tragedy.  We will update our home page as news of Greg’s condition and progress on further fundraisers comes in. Your generosity in this difficult time is appreciated.”

The Fayetteville Observer has the story here.

Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, the latest from Merge’s jewel of Texas called Spoon, doubles its first week totals for 2005’s Gimme Fiction, selling 46,000 copies in its first week. It hit No. 10 on The Billboard 200, making it Merge’s second arrival in that territory this year. Doubling album sales for a band that’s already somewhat popular in 2007? Fantastic news!

Burn!

Usually, Pod-twiddlers and keyboard jocks would be fronting their new discoveries midway through a year, ruminating on whether that one dude’s rap record was all poptimist jam or if their was some rad bad-ass post-punk revival Part 17 being started by some band of some teen yobs (“They’re so young, how do they do it?”) in Sheffield. Please. Indeed, I must be way off in the garbage can hinterlands since my favorite band put out a new record just now, and nobody really gives a shit. That band, Cheater Slicks, don’t really care and never have. Slicks don’t fit in with any “scene” per se. they started playing bars in Boston and the only bass player they ever had was Alpo from The Real Kids, and that was that. Their guitar power flattens, sometimes a tad outta tune. When one of the Shannon brothers walks over to the amp, it can be a maelstrom of fuzz or swirling noise that Lou and company would be happy to have on “Sister Ray” on a good night with Quine in the audience. The drummer, Dana Hatch, does that Keith Moon thing, nail-gunning the hell out of his kit, but turning his palms to the floor, so he’s sort-of finessing shit. He sings, too.

They tend to occasionally cover super-obscuro tunes by nut-job high-schoolers with chips bigger than Keebler’s on their shoulder, like “Crackin’ Up” on this new album, Walk into the Sea on the fine Dead Canary imprint. It’s only on vinyl, but if you buy it, you get a free passcode to download it. Modern times. The label released another burner, by some Ohio ne’er do wells called Grafton that smokes like those New Bomb Turks records usedta. In September, the Slicks’re playing in Columbus, OH, where they now live, to celebrate being together for twenty years. They moved there to be near Don Howland the Bassholes, supposedly, but he’s been living round the corner from us here in Asheville for a spell now. Their music is succinctly misanthropic, existential and psychedelic. Somebody once said they have like 1,000 fans. If was a betting man, I’d bet at least half are “in Europe,” as they say. Fuggit.

There are a few of us here in the Triangle, and some even went to Vegas one year, to some “garage rock” festival, surrounded by a bunch of tattooed Stray Cats rejects to see them play, since they hardly ever tour. Living in the moment means going back to the back room and playing “My Opinion on Nothingness” again with the lights out and a cold one. Get it or don’t. 2007: pretty good so far! Some other bands must’ve put out records, too.

Caroline and Clarque Blomquist are Waumiss. Nice superimposition. Nice moves, too.

Mike Tamburo: Fending off conservative guitarists.

Maybe it’s more me than music this year (it’s probably both), but the umbrella of the solo guitar record seems to be expanding in ways that have me fascinated with the present and optimistic for the future. I’ve been lucky enough to review my three favorite “solo guitar albums” this year for Pitchfork, and, thinking about them as a whole, they share some striking similarities. First, there’s age: James Blackshaw, whose The Cloud of Unknowing is sort of a godsend, just turned 25. Both Pennsylvanian Mike Tamburo (responsible for the overwhelmingly fluid Ghosts of Marumbey) and Italy’s Alessandro Stefana are under 30 or pretty close to it. If age begets maturity, youth—for these three, at least—has provided a pass to bend old forms and tools into smart, striking new manifestations.

That’s the other, paramount thing these records have in common: They slap tradition in the face with passion and invention, but softly, too. On the opening track to his Marumbey, Tamburo sounds like a gleeful Delta master, sliding up and down his guitar in beautiful phrases. He spends the next 45 minutes wading through dense drones he built with friends around the world, only to resurface with his guitar for the last track. He can play the guitar just fine, thank you, but his reverence is directed into an ambition to make something new. I think he succeeds. Blackshaw, too: Debussy, Palestine, Chatham and Basho are four pieces of the hybrid fabric he weaves for Unknowing. He’s indebted to lots of people, but he pays the most attention to himself. In five years, he’s grown tremendously, to this Jonathan Safran Foer brilliant:young ratio. Stefana even collaborates with Marc Ribot on Poste y Telegrafi. Together, they burn.

I don’t see this trend stopping anytime soon: Though he’s quite a bit older, Sir Richard Bishop, on his September LP Polytheistic Fragments, opens some new ground of his own. Watch for that one. Tamburo just released a seven-disc set that I’ve barely had the time to delve into, and Loren Connors new one (the first under his own name since 1990) sounds promising. And, speaking of solo instrumental works, I just listened to cellist Erik Friedlander’s Block Ice & Propane for the first time this morning, and it may be his most accomplished yet. Friedlander, who first struck me and a lot of other people as a soloist with 2003’s Maldoror, has put out a handful of tepid records since, and his playing on some more pop-oriented records, like The Mountain Goats’ Sunset Tree, felt a bit constrained, too. But Block Ice, on first listen, is unhemmed and full of welcome effronteries, Friedlander’s bow-and-pizzicato compositions coming into contact with his scorching, almost string-skronk sense of improvisation. Alternately mimetic, melodic, mesmerizing and sort of malevolent, I’m looking forward to growing into Block Ice.

OK, a very incomplete list of other things that have been highlights in what’s shaping up to be an exceptional year—

Ha! Sucker!

Don’t get me wrong. I like having over 3500 CDs. For starters, it gives me a hell of a lot of choices when planning a radio show or a mix CD. My kids best agree, as those CDs pretty much represent their inheritance. That said, when you have to take the CDs off their shelves and pack them in boxes, it’s suddenly a little less glamorous. That was the case last weekend as I prepared for my family room to be re-carpeted.

To help with this rather brainless migration from shelf to box, I entertained myself by looking at who was next to whom in the alphabetized collection. I decided that whatever four artists landed side by side would represent a concert bill, regardless of whether which bands still exist or artists inhabit this mortal coil. Here are some of the more interesting combinations, in terms of variety and overall quality (in my fatigued opinion, of course):

• Avett Brothers/Aztec Camera/Backsliders/Bad Livers
• Kelly Hogan/Malcolm Holcombe/The Hold Steady/Peter Holsapple (the only foursome here where I’ve actually seen all the acts live)
• Barbara Manning/Richard Manuel/Marah/Bob Marley (for the Manual-Marley double resurrection alone)
• Rhett Miller/Roger Miller/Scott Miller/Chris Mills (among other things, this has the double-heartthrob thing going for it)
• Harry Nilsson/Nirvana/Nitty Gritty Dirt Band/Mojo Nixon
• Dusty Springfield/Bruce Springsteen/Squeeze/Squirrel Nut Zippers
• Joe Strummer/Marty Stuart/Sugar/Suicide Machines
• Yo La Tengo/Dwight Yoakam/Pete Yorn/You Am I

But the winner?

• Reigning Sound/R.E.M./Replacements/Kimberly Rew

It wasn’t even that close, really. You start with Reigning Sound, a band with the reputation for being a great live act; I confess I haven’t seen them yet, but that only adds to the appeal. Then there’s R.E.M., my favorite band from a couple years in the ‘80s, followed by the outfit that took over the title and has held it since. Lastly, there’s a fricking Soft Boy (not to mention, to a lesser degree, a fricking Wave).

Here’s another thought: I keep my soul CDs in a separate area to make it easier when planning the ‘60s and ‘70s soul radio show I do at Duke’s WXDU. (Shameless self-promotion: Soul City, NC, 11 to midnight on Saturdays on 88.7. Tell a friend.) If the soul CDs had found their way into the general population, the winner would have a slight line-up adjustment, as in Otis Redding/Reigning Sound/R.E.M./Replacements. Not bad. At all.
I’m fine with you trying this at home. Then again, if you have that much free time, you might consider a drive to Hillsborough to help a brother move over 3,500 CDs from boxes back to the shelves.

From Kirk Ross at The Carrboro Citizen: “A memorial service to honor Lisa Garmon will be held on Saturday, July 7, at 5:00 p.m. at the Forest Theatre, across from the Paul Green Theater on the UNC-Chapel Hill campus.” Garmon was a longtime supporter of both progressive politics and arts in the Triangle, as reflected, at the very least, by the bands who played a benefit for her back in February—Dexter Romweber, Lud, The Moaners and Bringerer.

Maybe it was so good it was funny. (Photo: P4k)

It was disgusting. That’s how good the trio of Marnie Stern, Zach Hill and Robby Moncrieff was last night. Like, stop-whatever-you-do-in-life-and-follow-these-people-around fora-few-days-because-you’ll-never-be-this-good-at-widget-crafting-ever disgustingly good. They took all the right chances and shifted the original scripts in all the right ways, letting everyone bend free of the album’s strictures in the best places. I’m not even a huge Hill fan sometimes, but when Stern and Moncrieff locked guitars during “This American Life” and let him roll through this three-minute upheaval of sweat and skins and skin and sticks, I wish it would have lasted forever. Sorry you missed it; excited for you if they’re on their way into your city limits.

Great place for Abercrombie. (Swiped from pittsboro.com)

Something pretty exceptional happened at a Triangle rock show Monday night—not Bishop Allen at Local 506 or Lola Ray at The Pour House. Instead, it was The Castanets—a revolving group of improvisers led by Brooklyn songwriter Raymond Raposa—playing outside the walls of Piedmont Biofuels in Pittsboro. The set—split between Raposa, a vertically gifted drummer, guitarist Jesse Ainslie and Matthew Houck, who’s one of this land’s absolute best, most heartbreaking songwriters as Phosphorescent—was beautiful, the words and largely improvised instrumentation drifting through what must have been one of the few chilly nights of this roasting season.

That alone was remarkable, but the real treasure came because the band—stuck in traffic and pulling through Richmond around the show’s original 8 p.m. start time—was three hours late. No one left. Instead, people kept coming, heard that they’d be there until 1 a.m., and stayed anyway. They talked, hung out. Strangers met, became friends. Dogs ran, swam together. I meant to share some ice cream, but I sort of forgot and ate it myself. My roommate passed around an 18-pack of Budweiser to new faces. One man offered bug spray and blankets. When Raposa and Houck pulled up, the excitement for the bands was tempered by the comfort of hanging out in a gravel parking lot, drinking cans of beer late at night like teenagers out for the summer.

I’ll stop there, as this entire reflection runs the risk of sounding too romantic. But that’s something that cuts two ways in this case. On one hand, it’s self-evident that stuff like this doesn’t happen in Pittsboro every night—or month, for that matter. Pittsboro is a town of 2,850 people, and it has neither the facilities nor the people to support two fantastic touring bands every Monday night of the year. A friend I made in the pre-show chatter wrote to me the next night to say, “Things such as that don’t really happen, quite like that, in Pittsboro very often. Last night made me sad that I moved away from there.”

But, it did happen this week because there was the facility to support it and the people to make it happen. Coincidentally, because the band was late, nearly some 40 people wound up lounging on the wet grass, listening to the bands and drinking beer out of their own cans. Half of them arrived just before the band did, or, properly, just after a packed town-hall meeting that lasted for several hours just a mile away. An ardent group of citizens had gathered to express their opposition to a rezoning move that would allow a 2 million square foot shopping center and 300 residential units to build on Industrial Park Drive. That means, I’m told, that the entire complex would back right up to the front gates of what was, Monday night, sort of like paradise.

In a pretty comprehensive News & Observer story on the subject, Emily Matchar quotes a local shop owner saying, “Growth is growth.” No, it’s not. With apologies to the people there, Cary is the place where such thought prevails. As mush as developers in Chatham County love to, well, develop, the people of Chatham County genuinely seem to relish their rivers and love their outdoor festivals and treasure their ample plots of land. If you want to build a mall, sure, OK, do it. But if you want to build a mall—also known as a nexus for cars with one driver and no passengers and for general wastefulness—that backs up to the facilities of the people that are doing some of the most important, honorable work in this pollution-heavy and growing state, that’s flatly disrespectful. Build the mall, and say goodbye to the organic, hydroponic greenhouse of Screech Owl that sits on the same land. Say hello to the pestilence you’ll most certainly be for the farmers that fill up their trucks with biodiesel when they drop off their goods at one of the state’s biggest organic food depots, Eastern Carolina Organics. And, lastly, say goodbye to dogs howling at bearded musicians playing unisynths and singing songs about blood in the mouths of horses. In that case, shop at your own risk.

Shakori Hills hosts its debut Hoppin’ John Old-Time & Bluegrass Fiddlers’ Convention Sep. 21-22. “Hoppin’ John will be an old-style, down-home, fiddlin’ and pickin’ party with competitions for individuals and bands,” organizers promise. Tickets will be a gracious $5 per day. For more information, visit Shakori Hills.

Those glasses are still tops.

The Cradle’s been guarding the news on the opening slot for the Slint bill pretty closely, but now it’s official: STRANGE will return to the stage for the first time in a year to lead what’s going to be a really, really eager bunch of Slint fans. Slintheads? Slunts? Slants?

Anyhow, it’s an interesting decision to say the least. No word yet for STRANGE’s plans for after the show, except they’ll probably stick around long enough to hear Slint play Spiderland in its entirety as part of the Don’t Look Back series.

Castanets are on their way to Athens for the Team Clermont prom, and they’ve added a last minute date in Pittsboro at the Piedmont Biofuels plant. Chris Jude, Biofuels’ Alchemist, has been working on a “Late Shift at the Plant” series, and this is certainly the biggest billing to date. Castanets’ second LP, In the Vines, is due on Asthmatic Kitty October 23.

From our man and yours, Chaz Martenstein: The Spider Bags are about to hit the road in support of their new album, A Celebration of Hunger, on Birdman Records…. The best in garagey country-twangin’ rawk the Triangle has to offer…. Tuesday nights at the Joyce are reserved for Trivia Nights which start at 10pm. Lots o’ questions, lots o’ categories, lots o’ beer. Directly following trivia, the band’ll kick into gear around 11:30/12 or so. Yeah, I know, kinda late, but fully worth it. Just one band. Pass the hat. Stocked bar.”

Well, he’s been at work for a while
now. (Photo by the N&O’s Robert Willett)

It took Dan Bryk (as Tha Commissioners) writing a song about State Labor Commissioner Cherie Berry to get some much-deserved coverage in the N&O. And, sure, it’s a gimmick, but at least it got him on the front page, right? Too bad The Torch Marauder was never better with getting his stuff on the radio in Raleigh: He’s had a track about Berry for a while now.