Wolf Larsen is an impeccable woman who makes emotive music from family roots that grew a folk soul. She lyrically captivates and musically carries you on a sea of strings, both plucked and strummed, in a lulling, comforting rhythm. Her music is poetry in motion, summoning a response from the steely because it is earnest, it is sincere and clear.
A bell that rings true.
A few weeks back I recorded a podcast with David Gallagher and Woody LaBounty–the good folks at the Western Neighborhoods Project (WNP). In it we speak of Camp Merritt, the Spanish American War and the west side when it was overrun with salty soldiers from the South. Click HERE to give it a listen, and don’t forget to throw the WNP some love. They deserve it.
Sarah Jaffe’s 2010 album Suburban Nature is the perfect combination of female musicianship. One part Cat Power, one part Wye Oak with a bit of Eleanor Murray channeling Tegan and Sara. This album, which I unearthed late last week, is best utilized to free yourself of foes; to close your bedroom door, crank the volume and exist solely in a cloud of aural Jaffe. In other words, you should lose yourself in Suburban Nature.
My particular favorite is “Pretender”. This album goes in the purchased bucket.
Despite my better judgement, I’m drawn to Scott Weiland the performer. Currently on tour and stopping in San Francisco at The Fillmore on June 7th, he’s officially been fired by the other guys in Stone Temple Pilots–the band, which he founded, that jettisoned him to the status of 90s rock god. I call them the “other guys” because, let’s be honest, Scott Weiland and all his hijinks ARE STP. I get it, Weiland is probably a pill to work with but hiring Chester Bennington of Lincoln Park to replace him was not a smart move, guys. Frontmen (and frontwomen) like Scott Weiland are not made, they are born, created from the same dark matter that birthed the likes of Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin. People of this ilk are suited for little else besides performing, having gained no employable skill-sets in their hedonistic touring years. Maybe that’s why many of the truly great ones don’t make it past the age of 27: rock gods are not supposed to age, but, rather, are meant to ascend to the heavens looking of the moment, how we prefer to remember them.
The place of Stone Temple Pilots amid rock lore is still in debate but they were undeniably ubiquitous in the 1990s, on par with Pearl Jam and Nirvana. Most people I knew/know owned Core, and many of those same people still possess their original 1992-minted CDs, as would I if it hadn’t been tragically lost to an old flame. For these people, that album has made the cut time and again, through multiple moving purges in an age when digitization negates the need for physical manifestations of sound-based products. This says two things: (a) that my group of acquaintances are tactile individuals who see value in the feel of a thing, and (b) that the album itself merits shelf space, a valuable commodity in an early-twenties abode. To further illustrate their status, an advertisement which ran as a header across the video for “Creep” directed me to subscribe for other “classic videos.” This elicited as a smirk, even while it made me feel a tad old. Classic, STP is considered by the YouTube universe to be a classic.
I agree with this verdict. Songs like “Wicked Garden”, “Vasoline”, “Sex Type Thing”, and “Sour Girl” received endless play on mainstream and college radio, not to mention MTV and then, much later, VH1. No. 4 was my first STP exposure, and that precipitated a quick accumulation of prior records. As a high school freshman in 1999, I was obsessed with “Sour Girl”, and probably watched that video a few times a week in a pre-internet time when MTV still played music videos. I attribute the fascination to a love of STP music, but also to a severe addiction to the WB’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer as well as a hormonal gravitation towards the dangerously serpentine Scott Weiland singing about a girl that, in my adolescent mind, could clearly be me. These are the delusions of a teenage girl stranded in the middle-class suburbs of Southern California.
After No. 4, however, things went downhill for STP. 2001’s Shangri-LA DEE DA was forgettable and was followed by a greatest hits album (its own form of death knell) endearingly titled Thank You in 2003. About this time I stopped listening to anything new by STP, and started listening to Scott Weiland’s solo endeavors. 12 Bar Blues , released in 1998, was a solid album proof positive of his existence outside STP; it is enjoyable, and my favorite track–“Lady, Your Roof Brings Me Down”–even found its way onto the Great Expectations soundtrack. Then he found the performance of a lifetime–subbing for Jim Morrison with the remaining members of The Doors on VH1’s Storytellers in 2000. He nailed it, performing “Break On Through” like he was made to do so with Ray Manzarek, seemingly having the time of his life, looking on adoringly from behind his keyboard in the ultimate sign of respect. This performance blew my developing mind; two of my favorite things (The Doors and Scott Weiland) had collided, and I sat cross-legged in front of the tv simply in awe of what I was watching.
Continuing his role as a substitute frontman of epic proportions, he hooked up with former members of Guns ‘N Roses to form Velvet Revolver; Axel Rose out, Scott Weiland in. Velvet Revolver was everything you wanted it to be and nothing more: fast-paced, guitar-driven classic 1980s cum 1990s rock with lyrics discussing the washing away of sins in contrast to song titles such as “Dirty Little Thing.” These are wicked men with vulnerabilities displayed in acoustic sessions, and we already know that because these are the same tropes that were performed ad nauseum by Guns ‘N Roses, STP and every other band of their genre since forever. Since fans of bands that somewhat define a generation rarely want avant-garde material, this was the perfect blend of familiarity and something new.
Although successful, Weiland eventually left Velvet Revolver to reunite with STP. The group released its first album since 2001, and embarked on a massively lucrative international tour in 2011; methinks the word “lucrative” was a mitigating factor in the reunion. All the while, Weiland continued to pursue his own solo material, releasing a covers album which attracted few, and then, for reasons unknown, he released a Christmas album titled The Most Wonderful Time of the Year. I must say, the videos released from this effort paint a horrifying bizarro Bing Crosby picture. The songs so intimately familiar to most Americans are sung in a stilted 1940s falsetto not suited to Weiland’s voice, and he looks like the wax version of Bing if he were featured in a seasonal Old Navy commercial. Over the years I’ve hypothesized what would emerge from Scott Weiland’s brain to be projected on us all, but certainly never saw this one coming.
Now it’s 2013 and Weiland is married (again) and dealing with the fallout of being fired (again), but this time the other guys of STP have claimed exclusive rights to all old STP material. Uncool, other guys. Perhaps they’re afraid of the very real possibility that audiences will prefer to see Weiland perform old STP songs over Bennington, thus cutting into their profits? True, Weiland is performing in a full three-piece suit and discussing his workout regimen onstage during his current Purple at the Core tour with his band The Wildabouts. True, this is not quite the shirtless, megaphone-wielding tornado to which we’ve all become accustomed, but, at the end of the day, what’s the point of going to see Stone Temple Pilots if you can’t watch Scott Weiland sing “Dead & Bloated”? The entire situation reminds me of Body Integrity identity Disorder (BIID) where sufferers with the affliction cut off one or more limbs because they’re convinced that is the only way to make themselves whole. STP thinks the way to heal and move on is to amputate Scott Weiland, except you can’t really amputate a frontman and forget him–you’ll always see the phantom outline of his frame and wonder where he is.
So where do we go from here, Scott? As with most great performers, Scott Weiland is an unpredictable and even volatile figure, and as such he offers a complex study of popular culture. He was (is?) the epicenter of an iconic band from a decade that is just entering the process of nostalgization, if you will. There is a large body of work available from various sources involving him, which makes Weiland a candidate for examination. From what I can tell, we as consumptive listeners love to hate the things we once loved because mass culture often bites the hands that feed it. After all, there’s a reason the phrase “fifteen minutes of fame” exists–the audience appetite is as fickle as a pampered toddler and has the same attention span. We also tend to rewrite the past once we’ve put it behind us; this is why we contextualize a relationship that ended badly as never having been good even if it had some highlights. The love of a certain band or performer is bound to fall prey to the process of maturation, just as is a relationship. We grow up and stop listening to the bands of our youth, only to find some of them again when we get old(er) and are prone to reminisce. It is in this state of mind that I reexamined Scott Weiland in light of his recent legal troubles involving the band that he spawned and that spawned him.
As a musician, Scott Weiland is par for the course of popular music but he is a great performer when he is able to perform. Few men could step into the well defined shoes of Jim Morrison and Axel Rose and hold their own; Weiland not only did that, but managed to do so in a way that thrilled old and attracted new fans. Given the right material (not holiday music) and the right partners who can manage his eccentricities, Scott Weiland has the potential to do things at least as great as STP and Velvet Revolver. He may be down, but he’s not down for the count because performers and personalities like Weiland generally resurrect themselves from their self-dug deathbeds. If he had the chutzpah to ironically (or not so ironically) name his tour Purple at the Core, he’ll survive this round and come out smelling like a rose.
Playing Bottom of the Hill on Tuesday, June 4th.
Playing Brick & Mortar Music Hall on Tuesday, June 4th.
Playing Bottom of the Hill on Friday, June 7th.
Playing Rickshaw Stop on Friday, June 7th.
Playing Elbo Room on Friday, June 7th.
Playing Bottom of the Hill on Saturday, June 8th.
Playing Hemlock Tavern on Saturday, June 8th.
Playing Brick & Mortar Music Hall on Sunday, June 9th.
Playing with Desert Noises at Brick & Mortar Music Hall on Sunday, June 9th.
Playing Bottom of the Hill, Tuesday, 5/28/2013.
Playing Bottom of the Hill with Suuns, Tuesday, 5/28/2013.
Playing Rickshaw Stop, Tuesday, 5/28/2013.
Playing The Fox Theater in Oakland, Wednesday, 5/29/2013.
Playing Great American Music Hall, Wednesday, 5/29/2013.
Playing The Independent, Wednesday, 5/29/2013.
Playing The Independent, Friday, 5/31/2013.
Playing The Independent with The Sam Chase, Friday, 5/31/2013.
Playing Hemlock Tavern, Saturday, 6/1/2013.
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.
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.
Nostos Algos 