2005-10 Vital Source Mag – October 2005
Saving the Music
By Phillip Walzak In many ways, New Orleans is the heartbeat of this nation’s music scene. If indeed jazz is the only truly American art form, then the Crescent City is the womb from which it was born. Yet jazz is just one of countless musical genres with roots in New Orleans. Blues, funk, zydeco, gospel, soul, R&B, bluegrass, folk – each of these forms were sparked and/or developed in the creative, impassioned, explosively vibrant atmosphere of that special city. Having friends in New Orleans, I’ve had the chance to get off the tourist trail and the Girls Gone Wild nonsense of Bourbon Street to see some true gems frequented by the locals. These are friends who were forced to evacuate their beloved city as Katrina moved relentlessly toward them, and have no idea what awaits them when they finally can return to their homes. Yet in happier times they took me to Mid-City Lanes Rock ‘n Bowl, a two-level rock club/bowling alley, to hear the distinct rub-board and accordion of Rockin’ Doopsie Junior and the Zydeco Twisters. Or Vaughan’s Lounge in Bywater, where the legendary Kermit Ruffins and the Barbeque Swingers fire up the grill outside between numbers. I’ve seen the explosive horns and drums of the Rebirth Brass Band on Frenchman Street, blasting out the rollicking jazz of an earlier age with a sound so big it bundled you up like an overcoat. And that was after seeing a young, backroads folk band and a Latin jazz fusion group all on the very same night. Nudged between Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River you’ll find the most inspiring music scene in America – eclectic and dynamic, diverse and thrilling. Tragically, that very geographic location has placed the grand New Orleans musical legacy in jeopardy. In addition to the hundreds (possibly thousands by press time) of dead and billions of dollars in damage, hanging in the balance is the city’s culture. And to lose it would only compound the heartbreak. WHAT HAPPENED? What happened is the easy part – Hurricane Katrina. A complete breakdown in the days following Katrina’s wrath, turning New Orleans into a post-apocalyptic hell straight out of a Mad Max movie: death and destruction, depravity and violence, filth and horror, suffering and degradation. Floodwaters swept through the city, engulfing homes, businesses and streets, marooning tens of thousands of our fellow citizens in one of America’s largest and – as you know if you’ve been to the gas pump recently – economically strategic cities. The better question is what didn’t happen. For whatever reason, the local, state and federal government apparatus could not deliver food, water and medical supplies to the city’s stranded residents for days. The blame game began immediately. Former Clinton advisor Sidney Blumenthal blasted the Bush Administration for reacting unbelievably slowly to the crisis and, in an article on Salon.com on Aug 31, pointed out that “in 2004, the Bush administration cut funding requested by the New Orleans district of the U.S. Army Corps […]
Oct 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
A Teenage Symphony to Milwaukee
I’ve been living in this city for exactly nine years – long enough to have left a wake of half-blurred musical memories behind me, but not quite long enough to have figured out what they all mean, how these haphazard fragments of rock shows, local bands, and desperate music can possibly fit together into a greater context. For me, the Milwaukee music scene – as well as the city itself – represents a decades old repository for the casually discarded memories of hundreds upon hundreds of musicians, bands, and the obviously troubled souls who perform on open mic nights. Beyond any particular style, movement or trend, it’s this random wreckage scattered throughout the past nine years that truly makes our music scene what it is: a long, collective, drunken night out. While brimming with good times and great oldies, it’s no secret that the Brew City warehouse has never exactly been a hotbed of breakthrough artists. In the obscenely short lifespan of rock and roll, how many life-altering, earth-shattering, “I lost it to that song!” bands have come out of Milwaukee? Here’s a hint: if you’re the type of person who needs to count using your fingers and you happen to be short one arm, you’ll do just fine. Along with this sobering statistic comes a peculiar breed of person who curses the local music scene, who wishes it ill will and tragedy at all turns: a nice place to live, but a terrible place for music. After all, they cry, has there ever been a more apathetic, unwelcoming city in which to shelter a Brit-pop/hardcore/shoegazer/art-damaged/early Kinks-influenced juggling act? Or how about a band (ahem) that owes its entire existence to They Might Be Giants and The Dead Milkmen? These people never tire in pining for the more “music-friendly” cities of Chicago, Portland, or – I don’t know – Hoboken, New Jersey. Their callous derision, their knee-jerk contempt, their out-of-pocket dismissal can only mean one of two things: they’re complete idiots, or, more likely, their bands simply suck. Over the past almost-a-decade, I’ve done what every semi-successful local musician has done – I’ve come to terms with this city. For every night of dwindling crowds, stolen equipment, or god awful opening bands, there’s been a dozen filled with unexpected revelations, note-perfect music, and unbridled joy. Seeing Of Montreal putting on a play at the pre-remodeled Cactus Club. Playing with Sylvain Sylvain from the New York Dolls. Or, better yet, opening up for the SuicideGirls Burlesque Show. The naysayers have it all wrong; it’s not about the final destination; it’s about the alcohol-infused folly along the way: the nights spent with tireless friends dragging equipment on-stage, with unknown fans singing along to every word, with effortless and stupid grins lighting our faces. Good times. This is Vital’s music issue, and strangely, I find I have little to say on the state of the scene. What’s missing is the distance needed to put everything in perspective, the cool detachment required for such […]
Oct 1st, 2005 by Matt Wild
A Darkened Room, A Reel of Film + Me
By Russ Bickerstaff A group of virtual strangers meet in a small, darkened room every other week for two months to watch an endless parade of film shorts and then discuss them. It sounds like a weak premise for a particularly un-engaging reality show, but for better or worse, it’s the standard template for how the selection process works for film festivals everywhere. I entered that tiny room on Milwaukee’s East Side with little idea of how I’d gotten there. I’d received a call in a caffeine haze on a morning that might have been an afternoon. The life of an impoverished writer/resident apartment manager is filled with half-conscious moments, and this was clearly one of them. I quite nearly recognized the voice on the other end of the phone, but fate would have it that the man was a complete stranger from the Milwaukee International Film Festival. The stranger said that I had been recommended to him as a panelist of some sort. He asked me to attend four-hour screenings every other week for a long time. It sounded weird. I told the stranger I was in. The panel consisted of graduate students and an artist who did film criticism for a magazine. I’d heard of the artist – seen his work, too, a strange cross between the dark pen and ink of comic book artist Timothy Bradstreet and the equally dark pen and ink of comic book artist Mike Mignolla. What did any of us know? How were one poet/writer, a bunch of UWM graduate students and some guy with a penchant for heavy inking going to decide what other people were going to see this October? It was a process I barely understood or could even begin to describe. We all sat at an oblong table scratching away at an endless stack of judging forms. Heckling was involved. The selection process for the Midwest Shorts competition was long and exhausting. The 24-plus hours of submitted entries had to be edited down to a much more manageable 90-minute show for attendees of the festival. Quite a few of the decisions were easy; there were obvious eliminations. Much to my surprise, the selection panel for a film festival isn’t required to sit through every entry from start to finish. We were brutally harsh to some of them, cutting off the tape or DVD after only a few minutes. This upset me at first. Actual people put real work into these entries and went to the trouble of paying an entry fee to have their work considered. As the weeks wore on though, I saw what awful stuff some people considered film and became just as blood-thirsty as the rest, calling a vote to cut off films after only a few minutes on numerous occasions. Given what we had to contend with to put together a brief program from such extensive footage, it quickly became clear what we were looking for. Entries twenty minutes or longer, for example, had to […]
Oct 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
The Coral
By Paul Snyder The Coral’s “In the Morning” could’ve easily been the feel-good single of the summer. However, Columbia decided to give Jessica Simpson a bikini and a 60s classic, and well, here we are. Lee Hazlewood puts a few more dollars in his back pocket while the Coral’s coulda-been rests in the number-six spot on the new LP. The good news is that the album, The Invisible Invasion, is still yours for the taking, even if six Liverpool blokes might not look so good in pink bikinis. The lads reigned in Portishead’s Adrian Utley and Geoff Barrow to produce this effort and add a bit of sheen to their sound. While there are no sparse “Sour Times” trances, the eerie urgency of “She Sings the Mourning” and haunted house feel of “A Warning to the Curious” adds a new dimension to the Coral’s canon. The production also enhances the songwriting. James Skelly hasn’t progressed much as a tunesmith—which isn’t bad, considering his penchant for perfect three-minute pop singles—but the right guys twiddling the knobs can really fledge three-chord fluffs into panoramically enjoyable experiences (see “Come Home”). It probably won’t dent the American mainstream, which isn’t much of a surprise. But in a time when retro becomes cooler with every passing day, and the Redwalls bewilderingly gain more popularity, the Coral deserve just a bit of consideration. After all, The Invisible Invasion clearly proves they’re doing it better. VS
Oct 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
Heidi Spencer
By “Anybody willing to go out on a limb/ Winter is calling and I’m calling you in.” From the opening line of her sophomore album, Milwaukee filmmaker and musician Heidi Spencer asks us to enter her world of long winters, starry nights and lovers who are leaving or already gone. It’s filled with the beauty found in sadness, in long drives on rainy nights, or in the nostalgia of past relationships that haunt the heart. The Luck We Made delves even deeper into the pathos Spencer began documenting with her excellent debut Matches and Valentines. Vulnerability, loneliness, longing and the pressure of expectations are not new subjects for Spencer, but here she accepts them with a dreamy optimism. Every song is fully realized, a rarity for a record of such emotional weight that is also so catchy. Production props must be given to Bill Curtis; he expanded the textures and atmospherics. Cello, slide guitar, lap steel, piano, upright bass and Curtis’s nuanced drumming weave in and out of Spencer’s rippling acoustic guitar, but her voice is truly the perfect instrument here. Somewhere between Tori Amos and Mazzy Star’s Hope Sandoval with a dash of Dolly Parton, Heidi Spencer is a folk-country-dream pop anomaly. She moves from whisper to breathy purr to high lonesome and back with control and an idiosyncratic phrasing that makes her unique. The Luck We Made is available locally at Atomic Records. VS
Oct 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
Death Cab For Cutie
By Eric Lewin Death Cab for Cutie‘s Transatlanticism was the indie gorilla that kept hope alive for pop music; it seemed back on the upswing. A band with R.E.M.’s unique combination of indie smarts and pop sensibility had finally come home to roost. Even more hopeful is the notion that DCFC could match or, dare we dream, trump themselves with Plans. Is it possible? Well, not yet. Plans picks and chooses elements from DCFC’s back catalogue, and the results are hit and miss. Still remaining is Ben Gibbard’s melodic genius, which has very few contemporary rivals. “I Will Follow You into the Dark,” a beautiful acoustic number, might be the Prozac generation’s first wedding song. “Your Heart is An Empty Room” revisits some of Death Cab’s better baroque offerings and even steals a piano fill from Transatlanticism’s “Lightness.” Did they think no one would notice? Noted success aside, DCFC’s straying from their signature nuances is like watching a fastball pitcher try a split-finger knuckler – some of their liberties end up on the wrong side of the fence. The virtuosic homage to Rush at the end of “Different Names for the Same Thing” is an irrelevant coda to a bland song. Also gone is a good deal of DCFC’s pessimism: “Someday You Will Be Loved” is an enthusiastic goodbye to bad memories, for better or worse. After all, it’s hard to be sad when you’re getting shout-outs from Seth Cohen. Smile, My Space kids. Your favorite band will smile with you. DEATH CAB FOR CUTIEPlansAtlanticwww.deathcabforcutie.com Death Cab for Cutie‘s Transatlanticism was the indie gorilla that kept hope alive for pop music; it seemed back on the upswing. A band with R.E.M.’s unique combination of indie smarts and pop sensibility had finally come home to roost. Even more hopeful is the notion that DCFC could match or, dare we dream, trump themselves with Plans. Is it possible? Well, not yet. Plans picks and chooses elements from DCFC’s back catalogue, and the results are hit and miss. Still remaining is Ben Gibbard’s melodic genius, which has very few contemporary rivals. “I Will Follow You into the Dark,” a beautiful acoustic number, might be the Prozac generation’s first wedding song. “Your Heart is An Empty Room” revisits some of Death Cab’s better baroque offerings and even steals a piano fill from Transatlanticism’s “Lightness.” Did they think no one would notice? Noted success aside, DCFC’s straying from their signature nuances is like watching a fastball pitcher try a split-finger knuckler – some of their liberties end up on the wrong side of the fence. The virtuosic homage to Rush at the end of “Different Names for the Same Thing” is an irrelevant coda to a bland song. Also gone is a good deal of DCFC’s pessimism: “Someday You Will Be Loved” is an enthusiastic goodbye to bad memories, for better or worse. After all, it’s hard to be sad when you’re getting shout-outs from Seth Cohen. Smile, My Space kids. Your favorite band will […]
Oct 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
Kanye West
By Kevin Krekling On his new album Late Registration, Kanye West proclaims “I think I died in that accident, ‘cause this must be heaven.” Boy, is he right. Ever since the release of his monster debut The College Dropout, Kanye has been everywhere. He went from the Grammy’s to Hurricane Katrina benefits and, most importantly, the top of the hip-hop world. His beats are going for about $75,000 a song and a 16-bar verse might cost you more. Is he worth it? If Late Registration is any proof, the answer is a resounding yes. Knowing that it would be impossible (and boring) to make a College Dropout Vol. 2, Kanye ditches the “old soul sped-up sample” style he perfected and moves on. In an attempt to tackle some new sounds and genres, West enlists Grammy-award winning (and completely non hip-hop) Jon Brion to serve as co-producer for the album. A risky move indeed, but the gamble pays off. The result is the best hip-hop album of the year (although 2005 was a very weak year for hip-hop) and also the most imaginative. From the syrup-sippin’ Dirty South anthem “Drive Slow,” to the baby mama-drama of “Gold Digger,” to the overdramatic, James Bond-sampling “Diamonds Are Forever,” the album is chocked full of excitement. Initially, some cuts don’t seem like they should work (who puts Maroon 5’s Adam Levine on a hip-hop song, anyways?), but they do. The one knock on West is his mic skills. Although his flow is thought provoking, funny (“she said she want diamonds, I took her to Ruby Tuesdays”), and creative, West doesn’t have the natural voice of a Biggie Smalls or Method Man, and sometimes the music suffers. On the album’s best song, “Gone,” his vocal shortcomings are magnified when he is simply overpowered by the verses of superior MC’s such as Cam’ron and Consequence. But those moments are few and far between, so it is not worth shutting the album off. Late Registration is not The College Dropout. In many ways, it’s better. VS
Oct 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
Redemption Song
Here’s the thing about Liz Phair. If you’re a great admirer (as I am) you might be intimidated by the prospect of speaking to her directly (as I was). Even as a seasoned feature writer with two decades of bylines in my files, I was so nervous that when her publicist patched us together that I kind of froze. “Hello?” she said, her speaking voice a little higher and more melodic than I’d imagined. “Are you there?” Tongue-tied, I almost hung up, but I was on assignment, so instead I did the only thing I could under the circumstances. I confessed my insecurity, potentially sealing my fate as a pathetic amateur in her eyes. “God, don’t you hate that? That happened to me not too long ago.” She giggles, but it’s a conspiratorial girl-giggle, meant to put me at ease. She then tells the story of being in Michael Penn’s home recording studio, working on tracks for Somebody’s Miracle, when Joni Mitchell popped in. Penn invited Liz into the kitchen to meet her all-time musical hero, but, she confesses, “I was so freaked out, my ass was frozen to the couch. Absolutely frozen. I could not get up. When I finally did, I kind of hung back by the doorjamb. I had nothing interesting to say to her.” She goes on to tell about meeting Mick Jagger (again) recently, and how she tried to lighten things up by being friendly and cracking a joke. But everything she said seemed to come off as offensive in some way, so she just shut her mouth. We agreed that it was probably the difference between being Midwestern and being from, well, about anywhere else. I pushed aside unbidden thoughts of the great girlfriends Liz and I would surely have been in a different life and pressed on. Here’s something you may not know. Liz Phair is at peace with herself. This is a relatively new development, a spiritual transition years in the making. Nothing shakes up one’s world quite like parenthood, except perhaps a painful divorce or a career inexplicably on the slide. For some, the death of a much-loved relative can turn everything upside down. And when it all comes down more or less in a continuum, there’s no time to process each piece individually. It’s a true “get real” moment, fall or rise. Liz has risen, and her first big step was self-forgiveness. “There is an acceptance in me now,” she says. “I feel like I turned a corner in my personal life where I stopped running from all my bad qualities and said ‘enough is enough.’ I don’t want to live the rest of my life alone; I don’t want somebody making excuses for me, I don’t want to be somebody that my son needs therapy to get over.” But inner equilibrium is learned behavior for the woman who had the (mis)fortune of releasing one of the most acclaimed debut records of all time, then proceeded to ride celebrity like […]
Oct 1st, 2005 by Jon Anne Willow
