2005-11 Vital Source Mag – November 2005
Forgotten America
By Frizell Bailey First in a Vital Source series examining therole of race in social disparity in America. In his September 15th address from Jackson Square in New Orleans, President Bush spoke of the need to address the persistent poverty that was evident to the whole world in the days after Hurricane Katrina. He called for “bold action” that would ensure more black ownership of homes and businesses and increased job skills – actions not so much bold, really, as common sense. Poverty and racial inequality are nothing new in New Orleans. So how is it that it took a catastrophe like Katrina for us to acknowledge them? Perhaps we were all seduced by the hospitality and charm of the city, served up like ladles of steaming gumbo. Or maybe it was the jell-o shot mindset of “laissez les bons temps rouler,” let the good times roll. More likely, though, we all just looked the other way. No one likes a buzz kill as harsh as extreme poverty. This land is my land.There has been much talk about what to do with New Orleans’ Ninth Ward. It seems the overwhelming opinion is that it should be bull-dozed and not re-settled. After all, there’s no way to raise the land above sea level. People around the country and the world are even privately asking why people lived there in the first place. It’s never been a secret that the Ninth Ward is the most flood-prone neighborhood in the city. While letting the area return to the marsh land is probably a good idea, what people are forgetting in questioning the logic of building a community here in the first place is the original settlement patterns of the Ward and New Orleans as a whole. From the beginning, blacks have taken up residence in the low lying, vulnerable areas of the city, due in large part to economic inequality and just plain bad timing. French colonists who originally settled there purposely chose the best land, meaning the high ground. This includes the Garden District and the French Quarter. It is no coincidence that these areas were not flooded. When blacks were finally able to buy homes in the city in any kind of numbers, only low-lying land was available to them. Most of the “good” land had already been snatched up. Cost also played a part. Blacks could not afford what little higher ground that was still available, so they built communities adjacent to more affluent white neighborhoods to be near their service jobs. Much of my own family lives in the New Orleans area. When I was a kid, some lived on the Westbank in the suburbs; some lived on the Eastbank in the projects and subsidized housing. On a visit to New Orleans as a teenager, I got my first look at the extreme poverty in the city. We had to pick up one of my cousins from his home in the projects near the Lower Ninth Ward. At that […]
Nov 1st, 2005 by Frizell Bailey
Neil Young
By Blaine Schultz Reprisewww.neilyoung.com Every record Neil Young releases is an enigma in waiting, and Prairie Wind, with its deft orchestral passages, swelling horns and bluegrass touches, is no exception. On Prairie Wind Young seems to say, “Let me make a record with people I enjoy playing with.” His father’s slide into Alzheimer’s and subsequent passing leads Young to meditate on his own past and take stock. The title track finds Young in that 3 a.m. voice, singing, “Trying to remember what my Daddy said / Before too much time took away his head;” a female vocal chorus echoes “prairie wind blowin’ through my head” as a horn section punches away at Young’s harmonica shards. “Far From Home” is the other side of the coin, buoyed by the horns and sounding like a Saturday-night revival, Young tells of a trek from the trans-Canada Highway to the Promised Land of money and big cars. And only then can you bury him on the prairie. When Young lapses into a sentimental mood (“Falling Off the Face of the Earth,” “It’s a Dream,” “Here For You”) to pay tribute to friends and family, he avoids mawkishness. “When God Made Me” calls to task in a sincere ballad those who have interpreted God’s will since day one. But he’s not afraid to turn the camera on himself. “He Was the King” is a good-natured romp through memories of Elvis and “This Old Guitar” is a love song written for Hank Williams’ Martin guitar—Emmylou Harris’ vocals only sweeten the deal. “When I get drunk and seeing double, it gets behind the wheel and steers / This old guitar ain’t mine to keep, it’s only mine for a while.” VS
Nov 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
Beverly Hills On Three Dollars A Week
You wake up to the death knell of summer—a distinctive, plaintive cry recently thought extinct. It comes complete with a touch of dying light, a scent of burning leaves, and of course, a nasty hangover. Mere weeks ago you were drinking beer on an unknown girl’s porch and back-flipping into a swimming quarry with a mob of drunken madmen. Now you wake up and stumble around the city like a zombie, blinking at your summer friends dumbly as you try to process their bodies with extra layers, longer hair. You wake up to an already-fleeting autumn and an inevitable decade of winter. You wake up with blood on your hands. You also wake up stone-cold broke, the product of a small but obnoxious raise in your rent, a bevy of un-consolidated student loans, and a newly developed cigarette addiction. We’re talking hot dogs and bologna poor here, folks. And if you happen to be a writer for a local monthly who’s already days past his deadline, this utter and complete dearth of funds poses a curious question: what can one do in one’s mid-level Midwestern city with literally three dollars in one’s wallet? Sure, there’s a free local comedy showcase down the block, but come on, you’re not that crazy. A quarter-bottle of some pilfered vodka and a half-pack of stale menthol cigarettes later, and this is what you come up with. Beverly Hills 90210. Every Monday night at the Cactus Club. Brandon Walsh gets drunk and totals his car. David Silver becomes a meth addict. Dylan McKay checks into rehab. Steve Sanders shows up and says something dumb. Oh, dear readers, these are but a few of the many not-so-guilty, drug and alcohol-themed pleasures in store for you at the Cactus Club, every Monday night at 9. For those in the know, this glorious weekly event is known as the Peach Pit After Dark, and after a year of two episodes each Monday, I’ve seriously gotten to know my 90210. There’s no reason you shouldn’t make it a weekly cause for celebration as well. Thankfully, we’ve recently moved into the heady later seasons, where the series begins to move away from its initial “issue” episodes (Brandon has a gambling problem! Steve learns about AIDS! Kelly meets her very first homosexual!), and turns into the straight-up soap opera it was destined to become. In other words, it’s getting good. So come on out and get your fix of Beverly Hills drama, and support the Cactus Club while you’re at it. Really. Now you may be asking yourself “why?” Why spend two hours at a bar watching a show that’s been off the air for over five years? To explain, we should first kill off the easy nostalgia factor, the lame, desperately recycled pop culture, “Hey, it’s Corey Feldman!” peddled by VH1. No, we, the 90210 faithful, are not here because We Love the 90s. We’re here because damnit, we really do care about Brenda’s next breakdown, about Donna’s precious virginity, […]
Nov 1st, 2005 by Matt Wild
Sigur R’s
By Eric Lewin Geffenwww.sigur-ros.co.uk When Tortoise and Low first wrote the term “slow core” into the hipster dictionary, the proverbial jury was left to ask, “Is this where rock has lead itself, or are these droning songs little more than a cop-out for bands who don’t want to try?” After Sigur Rós’ additions to the formula and a recent surge of popularity among the indie proud, the verdict seems to be an acquittal. Compared to Rós’ back catalogue, particularly Ágætis byrjun (translated as “an alright start”) and the pretentiously titled ( ), Takk is considerably more subdued, but strange nonetheless. Songs like “Glosoli” and “Milano” build predictably, yet beautifully, leaving little room for argument about Rós’ predilection for the grandiose. “Gong” lets Rós’ Bends-era Radiohead influence show, an experiment held together by Jónsi Birgisson’s Thom Yorke-like wail. And speaking of vocal borrowing, check out the Chris Martin impression on “Anduari” and “Svo Hljott.” Coldplay really is everywhere these days! There’s no room for fence-straddling when it comes to Sigur Rós. With Takk, many are now heralding Rós as the best band in the world and ready to hand the championship belt over immediately. To others, Sigur Rós is about as exciting as a dream about mowing the lawn. Maybe the nay-sayers are confused or just bored. It’s also possible that they just liked Sigur Rós more the first time, when they were called My Bloody Valentine. VS
Nov 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
Paul Weller
By Paul Snyder Yep Rocwww.paulweller.com Yep Roc Records is hailing As Is Now as a return to form from the man who brought us Wild Wood and Stanley Road a decade ago. This is a puzzling statement, considering Weller’s never taken a drastic step away from the songwriting that anchored his 1990s classics. It’s just that his albums haven’t been as popular. And truth be told, it may be because Oasis isn’t that popular anymore, either. No one championed Weller more than Noel Gallagher in the mid 90s, and the slew of Britpop bands citing Weller as an influence (even Morrissey covered “That’s Entertainment”) put the man in the center of the movement, whether he liked it or not. Wild Wood and Stanley Road were fine albums. But so was Heavy Soul. And Heliocentric. And Illumination. And As Is Now is a great record, too. It follows Weller’s “it is what it is, take it or leave it” songwriting formula to a T, but it also shows the old man still has a lot of spunk. “From the Floorboards Up” recalls his aggressive Jam days, “Here’s the Good News” is a piano pounding foot-tapper and “Come On/Let’s Go” could be viewed as a three-minute distillation of Weller’s entire philosophy on life: “Come on, baby let’s go / And you say ‘Where to?’ / I say, ‘I don’t know – I just need to run / And you need it too.’” It has its rockers, its lullabies, and its mid-tempo meditations. It makes a defiant statement and then sighs a thought from the back recesses of the mind. It’s really not that far detached from the 24-year-old who wrote “Town Called Malice.” VS
Nov 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
