Several months ago I saw Laura Marling play Swedish American Music Hall, a venue seemingly built with singer-songwriters in mind. There I had the pleasure of seeing her work through much of the songs from her recently released album “Once I Was An Eagle.” Even in their formative stages, these songs showcased what makes Marling a forceful songwriter–brilliantly turned phrases that ooze vulnerability but do not make her seem weak, and evocatively strummed strings that amplify this effect. She is utterly captivating and commands the stage even while her sincerity and sweet soft speaking voice make each performance feel like an intimate gathering in your own living room. Perched on an industrial stool with nothing but a guitar, she held the attention of every single person in that room for the entirety of the show with a spellbinding effect that enraptured all, from the worshipping teenage girls in the front row to the disaffected hipsters in the back. The silence of respect was palpable, and the roar of applause reflective of her effort.
Simply put, Laura Marling is an intelligent hunter and it would be foolish for we, her music-listening prey, to turn away. Offered here is my favorite track from her newest effort, my favorite since she dropped “Alas I Cannot Swim” in 2011. Enjoy.
Went in to No. Hollywood & Mommie & I got me a gown for the Sr. Prom & shoes too. I got butch a bathing suit for his birthday tomorrow. Baby sat for Fra.
From a Pitchfork article announcing his appearance on “American Pickers”
Let me begin by stating an annoyance: it’s repugnant when I, a twenty-something female, admit to loving a male musician and people, namely other men, assume that I want to sleep with said musician, that it is firstly a sexual and secondly a musical attraction. So let’s just clear the air here. Admiration expressed in this forum or otherwise by Nostos Nic is purely rooted in the music, in the pitch and fall of performance, in the artistry of whatever is discussed.
Now, with that said, there is no musical man I love more than John Anthony Gillis, known to us all as Jack White. First finding national fame as the backbone of The White Stripes, he continues to reinvent himself even though lesser men would’ve surfed that White Stripes wave into retirement. Selecting partners like Brendan Benson to create The Raconteurs, and Allison Mosshart to form The Dead Weather shows confidence in his own ability and a penchant to be challenged, simultaneously keeping his music and career fresh. With the release of his 2012 solo album “Blunderbuss” a mature artist emerged into the spotlight, free from the shadows of his Detroit garage rock shelter.
The lesser mentioned ventures, however, are what most attract me to Jack White. The soundtrack for Cold Mountain–a 2003 Civil War flick starring Nicole Kidman, Jude Law and Rene Zellweger–benefitted from the contribution of five beautiful appalachian bluegrass hymnals brought to life by White’s warbling. This started an impressive run in Hollywood that went on to include “Another Way To Die”, a duet with Alicia Keys that officially made him a Quantum of Solace Bond girl, and the recently released “Love is Blindness” from The Great Gatsby, the perfect distillation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s essence into the 21st-century world as seen so distinctly by Baz Luhrmann. And, by the way, please note the presence of Academy Award winners in these movies and remember that White was/is a pasty garage rock kid from Detroit, the posterchild of American industrial decay. Plus, it doesn’t end there. Aside from making movie music, he’s also made cameos as himself in six films, including Coffee and Cigarettes, and played Elvis in the imminently forgettable Walk Hard (which I only mention because it’s ELVIS and I have to believe researching that role influenced his onstage persona).
Whether wielding a guitar or controlling a mixing panel, the artist who holds the reins of his/her career determines the outcome of the journey; hence why Jack White as producer is such a brilliant career move. His credits run the gamut from Loretta Lynn and Jerry Lee Lewis to the Von Bondies and the Dex Romweber Duo (an awesome and totally underrated band), as well as pieces for Conan O’Brien and Stephen Colbert. Not to mention, he produced a fair portion of White Stripes and Raconteurs records. Genius. If you want something done right, do it yourself, which is why he started his own studio. In their own words, “Third Man Records was originally founded by Jack White in Detroit, MI in 2001. In March of 2009 a physical location was established in Nashville, TN. Third Man Records in its current state contains a record store, record label offices, photo studio, dark room and live venue with analog recording booth. Almost all of our records are recorded, printed and pressed in Nashville, TN and produced by Jack White. In this fashion TMR strives to bring a spontaneous and tangible aesthetic back into the record business.”
Did you read that?! Analog recording booth delivering a spontaneous and tangible aesthetic. Now that is what I’m talking about. In all, the totality and execution of his vision is equalled by few, and seeing him live was one of the best experiences of my life. I know that’s a heady statement, and I mean every word of it. His swagger, style and showmanship reek of the King himself, Elvis Presley, but his music is imbued with the authenticity of, say, a Johnny Cash or a Hank Williams. His output could be described as frenetic were it not for the quality of what he has achieved, and, if that weren’t enough to love the man, he opened his own joint to further the common cause of good music in the fight against synthetic sludge.
So thank you, Jack White, you old pied-piper of musical integrity, you; this is a note of appreciation.
I was fortunate to see Fleetwood Mac perform at HP Pavilion in San Jose last night, and let me tell you there is something to be said for the wisdom of age. I don’t say this because Lindsey Buckingham preceded each song with a pseudo-intellectual monologue about how awesome his life was/is, or because all in attendance now know precisely how much Stevie loves San Jose since that’s where Fleetwood Mac entered her world, thus saving her from a life lived as a part-time waitress and cleaning lady. Age has produced two tangible realities for members of the Mac: (a) they’re not sleeping with each other anymore, and (b) they fucking rock live. Yes, F-bomb.
I should tell you that I’ve always been a casual Fleetwood Mac fan at best. Well, more of a Stevie Nicks fan for no reason aside from a gut reaction. Could be her diaphanous fringe, or the way she moves which, for a white girl with absolutely no rhythm, was something I could learn. And let me define casual by admitting that the words “I had no idea that was a Fleetwood Mac song” came out of my mouth with an embarrassing frequency last night. Also, I did, at one point, think Stevie was maneuvering the stage a bit geriatrically until I remembered that’s just how she moves, and then I made a mental note commending her on the fact that she trademarked twirling and also made it sexy. That is a feat worth heralding, and I will, from here-on out, attempt to copy this.
But my oh my, what a production; back-up singers, back-up drummers, back-up guitarists, electrifyingly well-orchestrated lights, undulating visual displays, epic guitar and drum solos, and breath-taking harmonies–all from people the same age or older than our parents. In the center of it all were Stevie and Lindsey who hugged often and performed together at a level accessible only to people with a shared history. Stevie wisely avoided the high notes she can’t handle anymore, and the set list was crafted to give the audience what they came to see (mainly, songs from Rumors) as well as new material that wasn’t terrible. But let me clarify here: Fleetwood Mac needs to prove nothing to no man. Their songs are inseparable from the musical fabric of our time, they are a given. I know all the words to “Dreams,” but I can’t tell you why; however, it probably has to do with the fact that it’s just always been on. On the radio, on VHI after Behind the Music, blasting out of my parents cassette tape deck, and filling the air of so many dive bars across this great City of San Francisco. Fleetwood Mac has been the background music to my life, and I didn’t even know it.
While researching this piece, I came across two live performances of “Dreams.” The first is probably from the late 1970s, early 1980s and, correct me if I’m wrong, but Stevie seems to be a little off, her movements unnecessarily cautious like she’s afraid of slipping, and her vocals aren’t very impressive. Compare that to the second video of Fleetwood Mac performing the same song within the last ten years. Better, right? Stevie’s vocals are confident and clear, and the whole band is more smooth. Sure, this could be the result of better sound equipment and, perhaps, editing. More likely it’s the result of maturity and focus, of knowing you should only perform at your best because that is what keeps your craft sharp and relevant.
So maybe I should ditch one of my cardinal concert-going rules to never see an act in the twilight of its career. Clearly, Fleetwood Mac has made a case for the importance of fermentation, as did Elton John. And while I could have left without hearing Stevie implore us (in contradiction) to save the planet, always take care of ourselves first, and be kind to one another, I will always remember the night I saw Fleetwood Mac. And how they blew most other bands 40-years their junior out of the water.
Jack Kerouac was a staunch conservative, religiously and politically; this is not the memory on which we prefer to dwell. I was hesitant to post this clip of William F. Buckley’s “Firing Line” because Kerouac is clearly drunk, but I believe it speaks to the issue of cultural memory. Kerouac, and the Beat movement he helped to craft, is often lumped into the prevailing narrative of the 1960s: idealistic youths taking back control of their country through alternative lifestyle choices in politics, music, drugs, sensuality, literature, etc. Although Kerouac and his Beat contemporaries emphasized the importance of fundamental freedoms and brought the of right of choosing a freer road to the forefront of popular discourse, Kerouac himself was a devout (if forever lapsing) Catholic. Much of his work focused on understanding his roots and what had compelled him to stray so far from them, an intensely narcissistic journey that was concomitantly fueled by a desire to intimately understand the American landscape at large and his canuck lineage.
As the video clip makes clear, even during the 1960s Kerouac seems to be referenced as some sort of cultural authority on the counterculture despite the fact that he obviously detests Ed Sanders, the token politically engaged hippie. Ed Sanders himself is interesting here if you note his reaction to Kerouac’s offer to lick strawberry preserves off him: the homophobia-tinged reply that he is married, as if that was necessary to state for the record. This shows the pitfall of collective memory. How can a left wing protester be macho? Also of interest to me is Kerouac’s opinion on the conflict in Vietnam, which he hung on a Vietnamese desire to import jeeps. Jeeps. For what is more American than a jeep and who wouldn’t want to start a war solely to receive mass importations of classically American goods. And then there’s Ginsberg, off camera, the ever loyal defender of Kerouac’s public persona who is partially responsible for the mislabeled Kerouac myth; again, this highlights another issue with collective memory: the myth of Kerouac was forged not by himself, the fumbly off-color Ti Jean, but by the creators of myths whom he called friends.
So how does this relate to collective cultural memory? I believe people who are acculturated to the present form of liberals make the mistake of categorizing whole movements according to individual examples of leftist ideologies. Assumptions fill in gaps with which memory is riddled. We base assumptions on what we deduce from tangibles, things we can examine in our grasp. Add a tendency to romanticize the past, the crutch of nostos algos, and what is created is a generalized account of a post World War II counterculture that lumps two parties who had vastly different motivations into the same cultural movement and, unfortunately for Kerouac, onto the same stage under the guise of William F. Buckley, Jr. Anti-war protesters came in many washes and sizes replete with their own discriminating natures, as did the Beats.
It is irresponsible to forget that crucial factor, and with that we’ll close with Kerouac’s parting words: Beware False Prophets.
Senior Play stunk. In the “mirror” (goosy’s) it said Harvey was engaged. My heart stopped when I saw that. Mom & I went down Ventura looking for a [illegible] formal for me. Saw a real purty one for $70. HAHAHA. Saw a white & gold one for $17. It was real pretty & I looked gorgeous in it except I couldn’t’ fill in the bust part. It was size 12 too. DAMN IT. Bob didn’t call.
Nostos Algos 