Ryan Adams

RYAN ADAMS Rock N Roll Love Is Hell, Pt. 1 Lost Highway www.ryan-adams.com So this new Ryan Adams album is called Rock N Roll — the title’s printed and spelled backwards on the artwork, presumably as a symbolic gesture — because it features a lot of, y’know, rock ‘n’ roll. And this new Ryan Adams EP is called Love Is Hell, Pt. 1 — no spelling oddities here — because it’s one of two volumes of stuff that’s less, y’know, rock ‘n’ roll. Anyway, Rock N Roll will satisfy anyone who wants to buy a rock-related collection this year (just in time for Christmas!): it features about half a late-period Replacements album, complete with Paul Westerberg-like fragility and self-laceration. There are bonus representations of U2 (“So Alive” ), T. Rex (“Shallow” ), the Cars (“Burning Photographs” ) and myriad other familiar stylistic variations of the last 30 years. No heavy metal, which is a plus. Gets better when cranked louder, also a plus. Sure, it’s undermined by the same absence of coherent personality that made 2001’s Gold such an Elton John favorite. But Love Is Hell nourishes the introspection Adams seemed determined to starve after he disbanded Whiskeytown, and brings his songwriting to the fore: “Political Scientist” and “This House Is Not For Sale” accent details and shades, and even the Oasis chestnut “Wonderwall” benefits from the nuance. Balance the EP and the LP, and Ryan Adams could be the next Jeff Tweedy. All he needs is a kick in the teeth of his ego.

Jimmy Leroy, Mall Mascot

By Alexander Ragir Jimmy LeRoy was there when the black-haired lady and her boyfriend left Bayshore mall and got on the bus. They stole a bra and pantyhose from Victoria’s Secret, and he saw it. “I knew something was wrong,” says Jimmy, scratching his head and dropping his hand over his face as if very embarrassed. “There was something very suspicious.” He first radioed it in, and then used his cell phone, given to him for emergencies by employees of the mall, to call the police. “I was brave. How’s that?” He stutters. “I was really brave. What about that?” Or at least this is how Jimmy remembers it. Jimmy is 65 years old and developmentally disabled. His heart outweighs his mind the way his smile is easier to understand than what he says. His mother died when he was 60, so now he lives alone. He wears sneakers and flannel shirts and has clear blue eyes. Employees and shoppers at Bayshore Mall take care of him, and Jimmy takes care of them. Jimmy’s favorite girl(s). “I’ve known Jimmy since the store opened 17 years ago,” says Patti Aversa, owner of the family-owned women’s clothing store, Aversa. “He is the mall mascot.” “She’s my favorite girl,” says Jimmy, putting his hand over his face again and smiling, exposing dentures that desperately need cleaning, “my favorite one.” “Jimmy, you need to shave better and brush your hair.” “I know,” Jimmy says with a sneaky look. “She’s like my sister.” “He has lots of sisters, don’t let him fool you.” Jimmy grabs her hand and gives it a kiss. “That’s the closest he gets to kissing me. Why are you showing off, Jimmy?” Jimmy nods and scratches his head nervously. Jimmy keeps himself busy at the mall. He gets the employees coffee, watches the kiosk while the employees use the bathroom, rides his bike around the parking lot looking for people who look suspicious, escorts women who carry purses and, most of all, keeps people company. “If I wasn’t here, the whole mall would collapse,” he says as he walks hastily toward Walgreen’s. “I have to be somewhere.” Jimmy takes his patrolling seriously. He’s also a serious flirt. “Hey Jimmy,” says a young brown-haired Alterra employee. “Hey, hot lips,” says Jimmy. “How are you?” she asks. “Peachy, peachy, peachy,” says Jimmy, waving goodbye and moving on toward Walgreen’s. After greeting the cashiers, Jimmy walks up and down the middle of the store, looking down each aisle looking for shoplifters. He moves slowly and cautiously. The 007 of Bayshore Mall. Every day he patrols the parking lot, riding his bike up and down the aisles looking for anything unusual. Jimmy has four bikes, but for patrolling he likes to use Red Spirit or Green Dragon. Red Spirit is a Trek and “is tricky and can smell trouble.” Green Dragon has two mirrors and is good for scoping the parking lot he explains, as he points to his head and wrinkles his forehead. Blue […]

The Fags

By Brian Barney THE FAGSThe FagsIdol Recordswww.thefagsmusic.com Stumbling across the vast wasteland of CD wreckage that has become my desk as a music writer, I happened upon a true gem. The cover of The Fags self-titled freshman effort on Idol Records sports a fashionably androgynous being smoking a cigarette (or fag) that would prompt an “I gotta hear this one” out of almost anyone. And, after a good couple dozen listens, I’ll wager this: if they are not drowned in the sea of anonymity, or ultimately eaten alive by the monster that is the record business, The Fags could be pop rock’s next big thing. From the first cut, “Truly, Truly,” the listener is drawn in by hooks that embed themselves in the brain. Standout tracks include “Hitman” and “List” (the record’s definite high point), where soaring vocals, hard-barking guitars and smart harmonies show incredible depth in what might normally be considered shallow waters. Love songs about girls unobtainable, viable or no longer wanted have broken no new lyrical ground since “Maybelline,” but it’s hard not to hum along and reminisce with chorus lines that are the crux of every teenager (or teenager at heart)’s lost logic defined in these three minute diddies. The only shortcoming here is… it’s too damn short! Being an EP with eyes no doubt trained on landing the big deal, the Detroit trio has obviously put their best foot forward. If you don’t reside in the Motor City, where The Fags are still pounding it out as local heroes (this applies to most of you), your best device to put yourself behind the wheel of this little beauty is to cruise online to www.thefagsmusic.com and place your order. ‘Cuz you won’t find it around here.

FluMist

By Lucky Tomaszek Many people are relieved to hear about the new FluMist vaccine. No one likes needles, and it seems the makers of FluMist are counting on that fact to convince consumers to buy. FluMist is the first influenza vaccine that is not a shot. It’s a nasal spray. One good dose up the nose and you’re protected for the whole winter. Or are you? Traditional flu shots are made from killed influenza virus, which cannot cause a case of influenza in either the recipient or anyone who comes in contact with the recipient. Killed viruses are considered safer, though shorter acting. In the case of the flu shot, this is not a disadvantage, because protection only needs to last for a year. By the following year, a new flu shot is available that is intended for whichever influenza strain is most prevalent. FluMist is a lot different from its first cousin, the annual flu shot. For starters, it’s not intended for use by the people who are normally urged to receive a flu vaccine, the elderly and the immuno-compromised. FluMist is being marketed for healthy people ages 5 to 49. That’s because it’s made from the live influenza virus, which could be harmful if given to someone who isn’t completely in the pink. Should you take it up the nose? As a matter of fact, the list of people who should not use FluMist is pretty long, and includes: toddlers; the elderly; anyone with eczema or asthma; people who are allergic to eggs; children and adolescents receiving aspirin therapy; people who have a history of Guillain-Barré syndrome; pregnant women, people with reactive airways disease, people on corticosteroids like Prednisone®, Medrol®; and obviously immuno-compomised people like cancer patients, people with HIV or AIDS, and organ recipients. There is additional concern about the FluMist vaccine precisely because it’s a nasal spray rather than an injection. Most people who have ever needed to take a nasal spray medication can tell you that it often leads to sneezing, sometimes repeated sneezing. When you’ve sprayed a live vaccine up your nose and you sneeze, the live vaccine is shot across the room at 100 miles per hour. This can be troublesome for anyone, but especially so for small children in school and people living with immuno-compromised family members. Dr. Sherri Tenpenny, D.O., President and Medical Director of the OsteoMed II clinic in Strongsville, Ohio, shares this concern: “One of the most troubling concerns over [FluMist] is the potential for the viruses to enter directly into the brain… The olfactory tract has long been recognized as a direct pathway to the brain. Intranasal injection of certain viruses has resulted in a serious brain infection called encephalitis… Time will tell whether the live viruses in FluMist will become linked to cases of encephalitis.” IF IT WALKS AND TALKS LIKE A DUCK… The reported side effects of the vaccine are also interesting to note. According to the FluMist package insert, 72�f adult recipients reported side effects […]

Natalie Merchant

By John Hughes NATALIE MERCHANTHouse Carpenter’s DaughterMyth Americawww.nataliemerchant.com Natalie Merchant has done a righteous thing. She has, of her own free-will, allowed her recording contract with Elektra to lapse, and her fame to diminish, for the sake of artistic control and integrity. What she’s done with her newfound freedom is establish her own record label, Myth America, and create a new CD, House Carpenter’s Daughter, which is now in stores on a limited availability basis. The new CD can be taken as an indication of where she will be headed musically for the foreseeable future. She’s delving into core American musical history, dusting folk greats off for present enjoyment. The entire package of this CD is encountered as a work of art, not just music. The liner notes are articulate and personable, and the photo and art montages, credited to Miss Merchant, are tasteful. Her song selection, a blend of archaic and contemporary, is impeccable, and the musicianship surrounding her singing (a basic rock arrangement judiciously augmented by banjo, fiddle and accordion) is flawless on each song. There is not a note out of place. The album has a rustic, relaxed feel. As always, Merchant’s lovely voice — warm, bold and sensual — is the centerpiece of the disc. This album is like comfort food for the ears. There are four standout tracks, “Sally Ann,” “Weeping Pilgrim,” “Owensboro” and “Wayfaring Stranger,” each playing at the edges of serious beauty, tugging the heartstrings with a sense of Americana mystery. “Soldier Soldier” and “Down on Penny’s Farm” relax the mood considerably and also bring a note of humor. But, as she’s been throughout most of her career, Merchant is understated, basically restrained. This is not a party album, or one for driving with in a fast car. It’s a perfect, thoughtful companion for being cozy indoors on a rainy or freezing day.

We Laughed, We Cried

Brainstorming December story ideas in a recent Vital staff meeting, one person told a story about a holiday moment that stayed with him. Eventually, almost everyone took a turn. As the saying goes, we laughed, we cried. It occurred to us that most folks have at least one stand-out moment from the time of year dubbed simply “the holidays.” At some point (no doubt after at least two adult beverages), someone suggested we put our memories down on paper and share them with our readers. “Over-sharing violation!” cried one man. “What if we don’t have a happy/childhood/holiday memory?” queried others. But in the end, we decided that if one story could spark a dozen more, then perhaps a dozen could be a catalyst for thought, if not conversation, about this most auspicious (or at least emotionally charged) time of the year. So here they are. Some are nostalgic, some warm and fuzzy. Others are sad. But all are personal and, in that sense, universal. Happy holidays and hope for peace in the New Year. From all of us. Alex — Writer Every spring my Father, my sister and I would drive down to Chicago to celebrate Passover at my grandparents’ house. They would take out the extra extensions to the table so it could fit 17 people around. What I remember most was the break after the first part of the service. All the kids would scram off to the bedrooms. Like a football team at kick-off, we would jump on my grandparents’ bed and tackle the pillows. I think you know the rest. The adults stayed at the table leaning on the back two legs of their chairs, talking politics. The more they would drink, the further they would lean back, and the redder their faces would get. Erin — Sales Assistant I’ll always remember spending the day of Christmas Eve with my ten cousins at my grandparents’ home. As the youngest, I was the official household pet. Amy and Lisa brushed my hair until my four-year-old impatience made me run to find grandpa, slouched in his brown rocking chair, with a can of Schlitz and a cousin settled in his lap. My brother Jeremy and cousin Andy would give me noogies and grandma let me mash the potatoes before dinner — made by a woman who never counted calories and based food’s worthiness on taste alone. We still gather for Christmas Eve, but after twenty years the cousins are scattered, flying in from Los Angeles, Vermont, and even Taiwan. Two are married, one is lost to suicide and grandpa is no longer in his brown rocking chair. When we meet, there are so many hugs and kisses, so many “guess what’s?” and pictures shared, that the distance between us the other 364 days of the year seems insignificant. The best present I could ask for is the indelible bond of my family. Frizell — Staff Writer A Christmas memory that stands out in my mind was the year […]

Frizell Bailey understands the blues.

By Frizell Bailey 2003 has been dubbed the Year of the Blues, marking the 100th anniversary of W.C. Handy’s making some of the first blues recordings in 1903. I grew up in a Mississippi town so small that we had only one stoplight until they took it down in favor of stop signs a number of years ago. The town was small but the blues was large. At most gatherings, and in the hand full of bars in our tiny downtown, blues was what you expected to hear. There was a radio station in Jackson, the only real city in the state, that played all blues, except for a hip hop show late nights and gospel programming on Sundays. I hated the blues. For me it represented everything I wanted to separate myself from. Blues was the music of the downtrodden, the destitute and the uneducated. Desperately trying not to be the small town boy that I was, I turned away from the folksy sound that permeated my childhood. It wasn’t until moving to Jackson to attend college in ’91 that I began to appreciate the blues. It was a three-pronged process, beginning with a part-time job at the largest independent record shop in town, where I suddenly had all manner of music at my disposal. Then there was the influence of the store’s owners and my coworkers, who seemed to agree with Louis Armstrong. “If it sounds good, it is good.” So I gave everything I could a fair listening, from Aabba to Frank Zappa. The groundwork was laid. In 1997 I began teaching in the Mississippi Delta. For those unfamiliar, the Delta is the poorest region in the country. But it is also the birthplace of the blues. Many of the biggest names in the blues came out of this region, from B.B. King and Robert Johnson to Elvis Presley. He may be known as the king of rock and roll, but Elvis was first and foremost a blues man. It’s easy to see why the blues was born in this area. The land is rich, but the people are poor. Even today, most people work in agriculture or don’t work at all. It was amazing how much this land affected me. I finally began to get it. The final phase in the development of my appreciation of the blues occurred at the Subway. The Subway is a juke joint in Jackson offering some of the best live blues in America for a mere $5 cover. Located in the basement of a building that used to house the only hotel where black people could get reservations, Subway sells cans of beer on ice in a bucket and “blues” dogs at the house next door. Friday and Saturday nights, the joint is jumping. People crowd into the tiny space, black and white alike, and stand shoulder-to-shoulder, bodies gyrating, souls engulfed by the music. Whereas I once winced at the sound, today my heart swells, soaked to the core with […]

Christmas in Iraq

By Megan Furcolow Christmas Eve: Christian families gather and hold lighted candles while one of the children reads aloud about the birth of Jesus. After the reading, everyone sings over a bonfire of thorn bushes — if the thorns burn to ashes, it will bring good luck in the coming year. When the fire dies, each person jumps over the ashes three times while making a wish. Christmas Day: As another bonfire burns in the churchyard, the bishop leads the service while carrying a figure of the baby Jesus. He blesses one person with a touch. That person touches the next person, and the touch is passed around until all have felt the “touch of peace.” — Chaldean Christmas tradition In the Cradle of Civilization Between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers lies Baghdad, a city of five million people. Iraq itself is a country of twenty-three and a half million, of whom about five percent, or one and three-quarters million, are Christian. It may come as a surprise, but under Saddam Hussein’s regime, Christians enjoyed a measure of religious freedom not often found in the rest of the region. Five percent is enough to support six major Christian denominations in Iraq, and several smaller ones. The largest is the Chaldean Church of the East, a Catholic sect believed to have been founded by St. Thaddeus, who is credited with spreading Christianity to Mesopotamia, India and China. The Holy Apostolic and Catholic Assyrian Church of the East have written records dating to the late second and even first century, the time of the Apostles. The Syriac Orthodox church is another ancient denomination, and is believed to have been founded by the Apostle Peter in Antioch in 37 A.D. There is also the Syriac Catholic Church, founded by Syriac Orthodox Christians who reconciled with Rome in 1781; the Armenian Orthodox Church, and a small grouping of Protestant denominations. In Baghdad alone, there are forty-seven Christian churches of various denominations. At least thirty of the forty-seven were built after the Baath Party took power in Iraq in 1963. Before the Baaths, there were no Syriac churches — now there are six. In the same window of time, the number of Chaldean Catholic churches nearly tripled. Clearly the secularism of the Baathist regime did allow Christians to practice their faith with a freedom remarkable in that part of the world. Notably, only one Christian church (The Rising) was built in Bagdahd after the U.S. imposed sanctions in 1991. Christmas Past Christians in Iraq have been politically prominent. Saddam Hussien’s Foreign Minister, familiar to Americans as Tariq Aziz, is a Chaldean Catholic who was born Michael George Yohanna. On the other side of the fence are Christian Iraqis like Mowfaq Fattohi of the opposition Iraqi National Congress. Under Saddam, a walk down the streets of a shopping district in Baghdad in December might have closely mirrored its western counterparts. Christmas decorations, including nativity scenes, were seen in shops, restaurants and hotels. And Saddam reportedly sometimes […]

The Fortress of Solitude

By

December 2003

Dear Readers, This is such an emotionally charged time of year. Colder weather, increased contact with family, insane schedules, and the pressures of our consumer economy settle themselves like a weight onto the shoulders of many. Depending on who you are, and/or where you are in your life, you might be heading towards a rush of anticipation, reflection, hope, stress, financial worry, love, antipathy or dread as the holidays approach. Or maybe all of them together. This is the season when I most wish I was a kid again. I grew up three decades ago in a small town in Iowa. Most of the year, we were the least conventional family in town. My mom was a divorced woman who owned her home, which she bought herself, even though it meant she made most of our clothes and doomed us to subsidized hot lunch at school. True to our activist roots, we were part of the “underground railroad” for objectors fleeing to Canada to avoid going to Viet Nam. Behind the water heater in the basement was a cot with a trunk next to it, on which sat a small lamp and an alarm clock. It wasn’t unusual for me as a five year old to enter the kitchen in the morning to find a tired-looking young man I’d never seen gulping coffee and eggs, on his way to the next place. The neighbors thought horrible things about my mom and her cavalcade of “male friends.” But what could she say in her own defense? It was from her example that I learned to keep secrets. At Christmas time, however, you’d have thought we sprang straight from a Rockwell postcard. Some of my dearest childhood memories are of painting wooden ornaments for our tree, making paper chains and listening to holiday music before bed, curled up on the couch with a cup of eggnog, the room illuminated only by the lights on the tree. I remember the thrill of opening the door to carolers, neighbors come to call. Despite their year-long suspicion of us, they didn’t skip our house, and we invited them in for chocolate and cookies, with something stronger for the grownups. Even as a kid, I could sense something about people getting along because of the holiday. I hope I can pass that on to my son, not just at the holidays, but all the time. In truth, people have more in common than in difference. And while I try to live and work according to my beliefs, I am not a friend of meaningless divisiveness. It’s such a waste of energy, and you miss out on the caroling. Speaking of memories, we all got to yakking at a recent staff meeting, and ended up spinning our own holiday/family yarns for each other. We ended up deciding to share them with everyone in this issue, and we hope you like them. On the other hand, you can skip over that piece if it’s not your cup of […]

Rob McCuen

Laura Martin