FOB and TATE and me and my daughters

My older daughter has now completed high school. It’s all over except for picking up the diploma, grazing the buffet at a dozen grad parties, and forcing us to take the “Congratulations Class of 2013!” sign off our lawn before she ships off to college in the fall.

I’m sure this chick was at the Fillmore … and anywhere else FOB is playing in the continental US …

She is celebrating by making good on a promise to her little sister and taking her to her first rock-and-roll concert, without parental accompaniment. As I write this they are downtown at the Fillmore seeing their favorite band of all time: the recently reunited Fall Out Boy. (I continue to struggle to understand the band’s appeal. The music just doesn’t catch my middle-aged ear. The lyrics are often overly arch or sneeringly obscure, and their typical song titles are just way too long: to wit, “Our Lawyers Made Us Change the Name of This Song So We Wouldn’t Get Sued.”)

I’m okay with the girls being on their own. I trust them and since I’ve taken the older one to half a dozen concerts at that venue, it’s familiar territory. I also drilled them on concert safety:

• Stick together
• Choose a place to meet in case you get separated
• Don’t stand in direct proximity to a speaker
• Standing close to the stage is less important than steering clear of the unstoppable sea of crazed fans that can crush you against the barricades
• Don’t park in the skeevy lot I usually go to even though it’s half the price of the more well-lit ones
• Before shelling out $35, check the label on the t-shirt to see if it will shrink

There’s a sense of coming full circle this evening. I took the older one to see Fall Out Boy at the Palace five years ago, which was her first rock concert, too. What’s more,  just a week ago the two of us were at the Majestic to see our favorite band, The Airborne Toxic Event.

The Airborne Toxic Event, brooding beautifully

TATE will always have a special place in my heart because my daughter and I discovered them together. We’ve seen them three times; we have their three albums plus their contributions to tribute discs for Bob Dylan and The Muppets. I’ve seen them enough to know the band members’ names and stage personalities. This time around they had more tattoos and a different set of covers for their encore (including a medley of “Ring of Fire,” “American Girl” and “Born in the USA” … can’t get more genuinely American than that).

It was only fitting that at last, I was able to nab a stage souvenir for my daughter. I grabbed the guitar pick that had bounced off a drunken fan and hit the floor. It’s a fitting memento of our concert-going history, one she can easily pack and take with her to her dorm in a few short weeks.

Now, the real work begins: turning my younger daughter into my next concert buddy.

See you on the flip side …

P.S. The girls came home safely, the younger one has her first tour t-shirt and they witnessed a drunken catfight — all and all, an awesome evening!

Roll over, Beethoven

I floated a number of topics for this post … including famous bagpipe solos in rock history.*

Flying V is for Violin

Instead I’ll focus on other non-traditional rock instruments: the ones found in the strings section. For instance, this Mazda ad caught my ear while I was sitting through previews ahead of Iron Man 3 this weekend, not because of the snazzy car but because of the head-banging cellists playing a Kinks song in the middle of the Utah salt flats.

There are a plethora of older rock songs featuring a full orchestra (“Yesterday” by the Beatles and “Touch Me” by the Doors comes to mind) and the newer examples aren’t always the folkie/country/ Mumford and Sons-ish Depression chic bands, either. As a matter of fact, I’ll be seeing the Airborne Toxic Event next week, featuring Anna Bulbrook on viola. It seems

 the sky’s the limit for a kid with a bow and a dream.

Maybe for the first time ever,  elementary school orchestra can be the first step toward rock superstardom.

This is all the more top of mind after my 11-year old daughter’s orchestra concert this week. They acquitted themselves well for 65 fifth graders who had been playing for about six months, focusing on a few simple classical standards (“Can-Can”, snippets of Mozart) as well as well-known favorites including “Over the Rainbow” and “Star Wars.”

Note that as she’s rehearsing Offenbach she’s wearing a Slash t-shirt …

Then the special guests did a set. They were the high school’s electric strings ensemble, ABC Strings, short for “Anything but Classical.” My daughter and her friends were intrigued by the violins’ alien shapes and their hot rod paint jobs. (“You can even get the horsehair in different colors,” she told me admiringly.) With all that awesomeness at their disposal, though, I wish they had selected less pedestrian material: they went for the easy choices and played “Don’t Stop Believin’” and a Queen medley.

Yet at that point I had to wonder, when does classic rock turn into classical music?

It’s not so much that orchestral instruments are playing more rock. I think it’s the start of the inevitable evolution of musical taste and expression. I can foresee a time centuries from now when kids who want to study music seriously will begin by playing rock songs. This will not be because they’re pop songs instead of stuffy symphonies, but because this music expresses something meaningful about the human spirit that will continue to resonate for all time … even if you play it on a violin … while wearing a yellow cape.

See you on the flip side …

* By the way, the three bagpipe songs I came up with were:

1. “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ‘N’ Roll)” – AC/DC
2. “Tessie” – The Dropkick Murphys
3. “Big Country” – Big Country

What would you add?

Recommended Reads from the Rock and Roll Bookshelf

Lately, I’ve focused more on films or books about musicians rather than the music itself. I don’t know if that’s because there haven’t been a lot of new releases I’ve been interested in or because I haven’t been to a live show in a while. (Maybe I just wanted to look badass by reading a book that’s been blurbed by Slash, Kirk Hammett and Billy Gibbons while waiting for a blood draw at my doctor’s office.)

The two most recent rock books I’ve read couldn’t be more different, and I recommend them both:

So many facets, so little time …

David Byrne’s How Music Works is the definition of eclectic, which comes as no surprise. Byrne has not stood still since the Talking Heads broke up and has diversified his artistic output over the years to include painting, producing, writing scores for film and dance, and even cycling. His most recent project is Here Lies Love, which began as an album he did a few years ago with DJ Fatboy Slim as an interpretation of the significance of the life of Imelda Marcos. It is now being presented at the Public Theater as “a 90-minute theatrical experience” for which “dancing is encouraged” and  ”comfortable shoes and clothing are recommended.”

How Music Works is Byrne’s meditation on why music sounds the way it does and how the music industry has grown up around the desire to capture and share the “real” experience of live performance when, of course, that can never truly happen. While not exactly light reading, it’s not as dreary as it sounds, either. He’s got a droll sense of humor and he points out things I never considered before, like how the acoustics and floor plan of a performance venue – be it a cathedral or CBGB’s – determines the success of the music played there almost more than the talent of the musicians does.

What I found fascinating was his description of how he’s written lyrics to some songs based not on their meaning as much as their tonal quality: he’ll want certain vowel sounds to be part of a phrase, so he identifies words to deliver them. This is antithetical to pretty much any other songwriter I’ve heard of, save maybe Stephen Sondheim. David Byrne isn’t looking as much for the emotional or even intellectual connection we have with words. Instead he aims to connect us to their power as expressions of pure sound, as instruments.

Do as I did and read it on a long plane trip. Even if you don’t enjoy the book you’ll look incredibly erudite.

This was the drawing on nearly every boy’s notebook cover in my high school in the early 1980s … although usually it was drawn with a blue Bic pen

At present, I’m in the midst of Light & Shade: Conversations with Jimmy Page by Brad Tolinski, who is the editor in chief of Guitar World magazine. The stated purpose of the book is not to dwell on Led Zeppelin’s lurid history or Page’s fascination with the occult but to talk solely about the man as musician.

Page’s background as a studio session guitarist helped him develop a superb work ethic and keen ear as a producer. As the third and last lead guitarist for the Yardbirds – following Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck – he began to push his love for American blues into new directions. Then Led Zeppelin became the most successful band in the universe … and here we are with a book full of vivid memories of how it all came together with Jimmy Page steering the ship.

Overall this is a very good read, with Page coming off as the thoughtful, disciplined and inspirational musician he was in the 2008 documentary, It Might Get Loud. (Nothing like seeing Jack White and the Edge get starry-eyed over watching their guitar hero up close.) Tolinski asks intelligent questions, and his background gives him solid footing when talking to Page about guitars, equipment and production tricks and techniques. Still there’s an element of drooling, fanboy awe and superiority in some of his questions that makes me – and perhaps Page – giggle:

In retrospect, your agenda was clear: Led Zeppelin was taking the existing ideas found in traditional blues, folk, and rock and moving them into the future. Led Zeppelin III was a substantial leap in that direction.

Okay, okay, well, there it is, then.

Reading this book inspired me to listen to ultra-familiar Led Zeppelin material with fresh ears, which is practically a miracle – and reason enough to recommend it.

So, what’s on your nightstand these days?

See you on the flip side …

Beware of Mr. Baker

I caught a showing this weekend at the Detroit Film Theatere of Beware of Mr. Baker, the terrific documentary about Ginger Baker, the notorious wild man drummer behind Cream and Blind Faith. Find it and see it if you can; it’s unforgettable.

Baker is one of those iconic rock musicians who inspires awe, fear and disgust in those who know him, pretty much in equal measures. He is a transcendental talent and a dreadful excuse for a human being. He was born to be a drummer, shaped by the blitzkrieg and the death of his father in the war into a man who struck out at the world with his fists and his sticks. His first mentor, jazz drummer Phil Seaman, introduced him to smack, a habit which took 19 years to kick. His first child was born despite attempts to abort her. His first of four marriages ended when he took up with the 18-year old sister of his daughter’s boyfriend. His son Kofi matched him lick for lick in a drum-off  a few years ago and you could see the pride in Ginger’s face; not long afterward, he spectacularly fell out with Kofi, screaming at his son and condemning him for having “no talent.”

In his younger days Ginger Baker was terrifying to behold: flame-haired; rangy; bug-eyed; tightly coiled and lashing out without warning like a poisonous snake. Now in his seventies, he is rage turned obsidian: dark, opaque and cutting. His bitterness – over past grudges with musicians in every outfit he ever played for, the inconveniences of family and business partnerships gone sour, and his ongoing financial turmoil fed first by his drug habits then by his love for polo ponies – swirls around his head with every exhale of cigarette smoke. Even his documentarian didn’t escape unscathed: the film opens with Baker threatening director Jay Bulger with bodily harm if he talks to anyone else about his life, punctuated with a blow to Bulger’s nose with his cane.

The incredible music he creates begs us to forgive Ginger Baker for his multitude of sins.

Baker threw his entire being into his performance. Even when on drugs he was a control freak, working himself into a maniacal lather to serve his precise sense of “time.” Eric Clapton scoffed at anyone comparing him to the lesser likes of Keith Moon or Jon Bonham: he knows his former band mate as a consummate jazz musician and exceptional composer and arranger. He’s garnered an impressive list of admirers, and drummers including Stewart Copeland of the Police and Chad Smith of the Red Hot Chili Peppers credit Baker with inspiring their musical careers and saving their teenage souls.

Jack Bruce, the bassist and lead singer for Cream, was interviewed about their collaboration – and constant feuding – in a tastefully appointed room in what was presumably his home. His hair was as black as his spotless leather jacket, his demeanor sane and secure. And yet, no matter how brilliant he was as a musician, there will never be a documentary called, “Be Glad for Mr. Bruce.” No one would want to see it.

There is no shortage of troubled rock legends who continue to fascinate, whether they died young or are celebrating their 50th anniversary with Mick and the boys. Yet Ginger Baker’s life story left me unsettled. He has no use for relationships, or love for humanity. Anyone who extended him a hand in friendship had it slapped, or bitten off.  He only finds joy in the midst of performance, and even that doesn’t last long. Now when I listen to his music, I won’t be able to ignore the brilliance of his drumming … or forget his cane slamming into Jay Bulger’s face.

What is the true meaning of our hero worship of someone like Ginger Baker? After all, Lucifer was once an angel, too.

See you on the flip side …

WFNX in Ashes

When I was a college student in the mid-1980s I listened exclusively to WBCN. At the time the station was a leading adult-oriented-rock with strong loyalty to Boston-based bands like Aerosmith, the J. Geils Band, The Cars, ‘Til Tuesday and, well, Boston. (I remember the one time they played Madonna’s “Get Into the Groove,” it being the most palatable of her MTV-era hits. DJ Charles Laquidara got into a heated argument on air with their program director; it was never aired again.) 

WBCN had a tradition of playing Elton John’s “Funeral for a Friend (Love Lies Bleeding)” whenever a famous musician died. To this day if I hear it on the air, my heart sinks. I wonder if they played it when they changed their format to Limp Bizkit 24/7 in the late 1990s … or if it’s playing now in honor of their former competitor, WFNX, which will likely breathe its last this week.

WFNX was the radio counterpart of the Boston Phoenix, the alternative weekly paper that was a prize-winning combination of sleazy classifieds and great arts and politics coverage. When I graduated college and had my first real job, the stereo in my office was set to 101.7. I had heard it had become an online-only radio station a few months ago, the Phoenix having lost its terrestrial place on the dial in a sale to Clear Channel without losing the rights to the call letters and the intellectual property.

Lo and behold, I downloaded its app on my iPhone just a couple of weeks ago … and I was enthralled. Once again I could sit in my office and listen to WFNX.com, with real live DJs playing a combination of current and, dare I say it, “classic” alternative. Within a day of listening I’d discovered a great band new to me (The Cusses), revisited a song I hadn’t heard in decades (Tracy Bonham’s “Mother Mother”) and delighted in listening to Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer” with all the bad words intact. It was fantastic. I haven’t enjoyed a radio experience so much in years.

And just as the warm wave of nostalgia was cresting, it crashed.

Without warning, the Boston Phoenix shuttered last week after 47 years of publication. With its demise the radio station is expected to fold as well. It’s like an awful Hollywood plot in which lovers long separated tearfully reunite … only to have one of them immediately mowed down by a crosstown bus. On top of mourning the loss of a great paper and a landmark radio station, I just lost a part of my past for the second time.

May the Phoenix rise again … if it doesn’t, we’ll all have a reason to mourn.

See you on the flip side …

The Next Day

None of us are getting any younger, and this has to be the plague of a rock star’s existence. In addition to hip replacements and grandkids and whatever other worries they share with the common folk, they also have to make peace with the fact that they aren’t who they were when they became famous. An image of themselves at the peak of fame – young, leather-clad, sexy, invincible – must stare back at them like a mournful ghost every time they look in the mirror.

David Bowie did himself a huge favor by 1) being a musical and marketing genius 2) making well-publicized overhauls to his performing persona over time so he didn’t get stuck in one he couldn’t maintain and 3) being comfortable enough with himself to stay out of the limelight until he had something he wanted to say.

He waited until his 66th birthday last January to release “Where Are We Now,” the first single from his newest album, The Next Day.  This took pretty much everyone – fans, the press – by surprise. Since a serious on-stage heart attack in 2004, he’d kept a low profile and hadn’t made public that he was recording new material.

The album artwork is simply brilliant: a clean white square obscuring one of his most iconic images, the cover of his 1977 release, “Heroes.” You can’t see his two-tone eyes or his youthful glamour or his stunning black hair. That’s past; that’s been done; you can’t access it anymore. It’s time for something else.

I am just beginning to absorb the album, which will stream on iTunes until it’s available for purchase in a few days. I’ll leave it to the critics to  put it in its proper place in Bowie’s musical canon, but I truly like it. It’s got a great deal of perspective and depth without being inaccessible or arty. While I appreciate his more recent albums, especially Heathen, The Next Day seems warmer, more compassionate. Bowie – a performer who specialized in putting a dramatic distance between himself, the characters he portrayed and his audience – connects to the listener in a very human way.

Always fond of  his visual impact, it’s no surprise that two of the songs have been released via video. ”Where Are We Now” is rather strange and subverts his glamour from the get-go: he appears only as a distorted face projected on a two-headed doll. (It’s David Bowie singing mournfully about Germany … what else would you expect?) The other, “The Stars (Are Out Tonight),” mangles his past identities into a freaky Mobius strip that turns fame in on itself. He’s supported by kindred spirit Tilda Swinton – who, by being in the same room as he is, proves they really aren’t the the same person after all – and a couple of  young doppelgangers:

(It must be noted that there is some half-naked carryings on in this film … but if you look carefully you’ll see that the only one naked to the waist is a man … isn’t he?)

As a man and a musician, David Bowie makes us hopeful. We have more than one chance; we have any number of lives to live, full of discovery and challenge, unbounded by age yet informed by history. Each next day gives us a clean white page on which to begin anew.

Added bonus: In case you haven’t seen the Lincoln-sponsored web ads, Beck produced a remarkable concert version  of Bowie’s “Sound + Vision.” He employed an impressive bank of more than 150 musicians–gospel singers, electric guitarists, strings, percussion, even a yodeler and a singing saw–standing in a ring around the seated audience. There’s a whiz-bang 360-degree video experience, which (if you have the bandwidth) uses your computer’s webcam to follow your eyes as you focus on any element of the concert you wish. Or you can enjoy the standard definition version shot more like a typical concert video–which is still pretty nifty. Grab your earphones and give it a listen and don’t worry: no one’s half-naked in this one.

See you on the flip side …

Grateful Undead

I hate zombies.

My family thinks I’m afraid that they’re hiding under the bed, lying in wait for me. (Of course not; that’s where the Blob lives.) I know that zombies aren’t real and never will be. However, if I’m wrong and there is ever a zombie apocalypse, I’m sure all of us Literature majors will be locked in a corral with a big sign saying, “EAT THESE FIRST! They use books for hammers and can’t help us rebuild civilization … besides, their brains are so cultured!”

I just find them gross. Visually they’re all splatter and gore and rot. Aurally, I cringe at the groaning and crunching. I can’t be in the same room as my partner when she’s cutting up a chicken, so needless to say I get no joy in the skull-cracking, bone-shattering brain munching of the typical zombie story. Also, the stories are so dang hopeless: humanity might soldier on but without coffee, who cares?

Darn tootin’!

But then came Warm Bodies, the zom-rom-com starring Nicholas Hoult as R, the hottest member of the undead ever and perhaps the first zombie hipster in film history. He met his demise in a hoodie, skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors, and he trudges around with the bad posture and bed head he probably sported in life. He has a crate of vinyl, scavenged from the pony-tailed used record store owners he devoured, no doubt. His living love interest comments approvingly on his being a purist, choosing a turntable over an iPod. Circling his cold hand in the air, he said he liked records because they were more “alive.”

R might be a zombie, but he’s no poser.

(Then again, beggars can’t be choosers. He salves his lonely, unbeating heart by playing John Waite’s “Missing You” at full volume.)

I liked the songs selected for the soundtrack.  In addition to some 1980s standards that were sort of tongue in rotting cheek (Bruce Springsteen’s “Hungry Heart” for instance) it featured a nice mix from alt rock to Bob Dylan. What I thought interesting is the song chosen to play over the final images of hope and sunshine: “Runaway” by those masters of dreary bleakness, The National. Did the director listen to the lyrics before selecting the song?

Of course, if R truly was a crate digger with eclectic taste, director Jonathan Levine missed an obvious choice … and no, it’s not Thriller:

Go see Warm Bodies, the feel-good zombie romance of the year, and let me know what music you’d need to survive the zombie apocalypse.

See you on the flip side …