2008-02 Vital Source Mag – February 2008
Bob Mould
Singer/songwriter/punk icon/former pro-wrestling scripter Bob Mould has (obviously) worn many hats during his career. With his latest solo offering, District Line, the ex-Hüsker Dü and Sugar guitarist continues hisbalancing act between modern rock balladeer and DIY wunderkind. Mould plays every instrument on District Line besides the cello, provided by Amy Domingues, and the signature drumming of Fugazi’s Brendan Canty. Canty’s distinctive dub-enhanced syncopation shines on the leadoff track “Stupid Now;” for most of the album, though, he’s content to simply lay a solid back beat. His playing echoes Mould’s songwriting; flashes of the work that made them both legends occasionally shine through what is essentially an album of sometimes competent, often excellent, generally straightforward alternative rock. Mould’s solo work is intensely personal and relationship-based. “Again and Again” recalls his 90’s alterna-pop incarnation, Sugar, with symphonic guitar driving a melancholy suicide note of dysfunctional love – “I took the bullets from the carport/tossed them in my backpack…I left the title to the house inside the piano bench/And my lawyer’s got the will.” This track, and the up-tempo (and equally Sugary) “Very Temporary,” shows the material at its strongest and catchiest. A strange fascination with vocoder (which, let’s face it, Cher ruined for everyone) threatens to undermine “Very Temporary” and otherwise fascinating tracks like the alterna-rock/disco mash-up “Shelter Me.” It’s frankly distracting to hear the voice behind incendiary punk classics like “Something I Learned Today” dabbling in NYC Eighth Avenue club music. Still, Mould’s determination to straddle the line between alternative and dance pays off more often than it stumbles on District Line. Now if only Bob would find the time to start scripting wrestling matches again. Lord knows the WWE could use him right now.
Feb 1st, 2008 by DJ Hostettler
Drive-By Truckers
A departed band member can make the advent of a new album nerve-wracking rather than exciting for an ardent fan, but the absence of Jason Isbell, Drive-By Truckers’ singer of seven years, brings out a return to roots, as well as new directions. Brighter Than Creation’s Dark, the band’s eighth album, features contributions from band members who normally play the wallflower (bassist Shonna Tucker penned three shimmering beauties) paired with crunchier contributions from Patterson Hood, Mike Cooley and John Neff, with ‘icing on the cake’ keyboards by legendary Spooner Oldham. Southern rock had a glaring exterior when Lynyrd Skynyrd brought it to the mainstream, but today, one regularly hears the signature layered guitars, pedal steel, lazy drums and pretty keys channeling crusty stories of booze, drugs and hardships of alt-country on commercial radio. On Brighter Than Creation’s Dark, the Truckers juxtapose their personal brand of southern rock against established tradition. Their soft songs shine bright as the lights on a country wedding dance floor, while the gritty, raucous snarlers make the slow dancers shake their sleepy feet. Stories paste this album’s nineteen songs together. Cooley’s country-washed songs add humor with “Lisa’s Birthday” and “Bob,” the tale of a man whose mom is the only one “she lets call him Robert” and who “has always had more dogs than he ever had friends.” Hood pens staunch southern rock with such vigor and drama it draws goose bumps. “The Man I Shot” is chilling, a strong contrast to Tucker’s gentle writing and Cooley’s ‘aw, shucks’ style. Hood’s slower ballads veer into Eagles territory at times, which can either please – in the case of the amazing “Daddy Needs a Drink,” made stellar by heart-wrenching pedal steel – or annoy, as on “The Home Front,” which is lite rock at best. Brighter Than Creation’s Dark is an album to be traveled through, soaking in all the odd twists and turns, corners and dips. There are some bumpy spots, but the unexpected beauty will sink the listener like a stone, and the buoyant humor will lift the mood and ease the listener into reality, as the best stories often do.
Feb 1st, 2008 by Erin Wolf
Guitar Hero
Growing up in a small, semi-rural town where broomball and shining deer were considered high entertainment (if you’re unfamiliar with these provincial pastimes, please, don’t ask), I was keenly aware of a strange, terrifying sub-set of my peers. No, not the girls who harbored abnormal crushes on Channel 12’s Jerry Taft, or even the kids who looked like circus animals (my graduating class alone had three pandas), but something much more puzzling, much more insidious: 13-year-olds with facial hair. For the most part, these freaks of nature were farm kids who drank at least four cartons of milk during lunch, had nicknames like “Goatsy” or “Yummers” and were almost always excellent bowlers. So enamored were these mutants with their precious little dirt-staches that they never once shaved them, instead opting to savor each scraggly whisker for years on end as if it were manna from heaven. Of course, much like a farmer’s field, if you fail to cultivate the land (or, in this case, your upper lip), you deprive your crops the chance to flourish and grow, leaving you with nothing but dirt. And that’s exactly what happened here: all throughout high school, these redneck goons sported the same ill-formed, uncultivated facial hair. Occasionally running into them now during drunken jaunts back to my hometown, I always take a certain amount of pleasure in seeing these grown men still rocking straight-up peach fuzz. I bring up this disturbing phenomenon because I harbor something of an ill-formed mustache myself: my sub-standard guitar playing (in the realm of facial hair, I still remain as smooth and ridiculous as a baby bird). Technically, I’ve been playing guitar for nearly half my life; this statement is entirely misleading, however, when you consider that in my case, “playing” roughly translates to “learning some basic chords when you’re 16 and strumming them to death for the next decade-and-a-half.” Perhaps it was my early frustration with never figuring out that goddamn opening riff to “Come As You Are” (something most eight-year-olds could probably lick in ten minutes) but after a while, I simply gave up. This piss-poor attitude was recently thrown into sharp relief when local tunesmiths The Danger asked me to fill in for their recently departed lead guitarist. It was understood this emergency substitution would be for a single show at the Cactus Club (opening for the criminally underappreciated Dark Horse Project), and that we would only have a few weeks to rehearse. It was also understood that I would be expected to play some of the leads – nothing complicated, I was assured – but leads nonetheless. Would I do it? After carefully considering my utter lack of time, energy or talent, I immediately said yes.(A side note: if The Danger happens to be playing near a venue near you, do yourself a favor and check them out; it’s nice to hear a band that doesn’t rely on chamber-pop chanting or lyrics about robots and zombies to get their point across.) Rehearsals went well, […]
Feb 1st, 2008 by Matt Wild
The fine art of persuasion
In fourth grade, the children at Roosevelt Elementary are taught how to write a persuasive letter. My nine-year-old, Emma, has been faithfully practicing this skill. Here’s a case in point. Recently, our cat Lucius decided to exhibit his displeasure with the humans by peeing on the floor next to where I was standing. It was a short-lived habit, occurring about two times. But in my frustration of the moment, I was overheard saying that I couldn’t keep a cat that wouldn’t use his litter box. Here is Emma’s written response to that comment. Had I been seriously inclined to drop the cat at the Humane Society I’m not sure it would have changed my mind, but in terms of sheer persuasive skills, Emma clearly found catharsis in this process of careful manipulation and has developed it into an art form. May it be a guide to all of us. You’ve got to fight for what you believe in.
Feb 1st, 2008 by Lucky Tomaszek
