Ouch. That’s Hot.

So last night I ran off with these guys to see the new movie/doc “Shine A Light,” which if you don’t know, allows Martin Scorsese to say a big-ol’ “I Luv U” to the his childhood heroes, The Rolling Stones. It’s a one-night-only concert in NYC, interspersed with footage from the early decades of Stones history. The retrospective bits give a sense of scope and ensconce each member in their preordained niche. (Mad Keith, Enigmatic Charlie, etc.) They’re a lovable, quirky bunch of guys for sure. What a wacky bunch of characters! Oh mercy, the hijinks that must have ensued!

But that was then; this is now. Now they just make me feel old. And fat. They’re actually a little older than my dad, but they’ve got more pep than my 2-year-old. Last night I came home, opened the fridge, looked at the Hound Dog’s Pepperoni Pizza left-overs and just said “no”. I just got all Nancy Reagan on the idea. Gotta keep in shape for my big turn on the big screen as an AARP member in hot-pants.

Now if the fridge was stocked with “Champagne & Reefer” I might have felt a bit more enticed. Maybe they aren’t such a good influence after all. Oh hell, it worked for Keith. “To thine own self be true” (That’s from the Bible, I think.)

Overall, a Two-Thumbs-Up concert film, even though I always find blues-rock, or rockin’-blues, a little fatiguing. There seems to a fever-pitch reached early and often by the genre that numbs my ear-drums after about half-an-hour. Once you’ve got the bass drum kicking out straight fours, two or three guitars fighting for space in the mix, and a half-dozen other supporting instruments throwing in licks, there’s only so much higher you can take it.

Let’s listen to the last few minutes of Guns ‘N Roses’ Paradise City as a late-period example. Yes, I understand that the grass is green and that the girls are pretty. Yes, I would like to go there too. Frankly, any place with green grass and pretty girls is worth the drive, especially if you’ve got a 3-day weekend ahead of you. But I just don’t need the last 2:45 to convince of me of the self-evident truth. (Really, do I need to mention the green grass and pretty girls again? I think you get the picture!)

Similarly, during last night’s cinematic adventure, Mick had me convinced during a stretched-out version of “She Was Hot” that yes indeed, she was indeed hot. (But is she still? That was not addressed.) He really drove the point home. I mean, I’ve always had my doubts about the hotness of the woman in the song, but last night, between Mick and 3 backing vocalists chanting the truth, I became a believer.

But enough of that. I’m feeling up-beat and positive this morning. I’m just getting all Joel Osteen on the inside. So, let’s return to shining the light, shall we?

I was really happy to hear “Live With Me“, and Mick’s grinding on surprise-guest-star Christina Aguilera’s booty added a certain dramatic tension to the tune that I hadn’t noticed before. Also nicely tossed into the mix was a Motown by-way-of Memphis rendition of The Temptation’s “Just My Imagination“. Good songs are good songs, and that there’s a keeper.

Also popping up were Jack White and Buddy Guy. And that’s what makes The Stones THE STONES. It’s not that I’m a big fan. They’ve never really moved me. I’ve never had a wistful evening listening to Let It Bleed like somebody out there surely has. But who else can sit right in the middle of rock history and hold court like these guys? Who else can look as natural on stage with indie heroes, r’n'b sirens, and blues legends — all in the same night? It wasn’t an all-star tribute, it was (ahem) only rock ‘n roll. Even The Beatles couldn’t pull that off.

Glad I went, even if they didn’t play Miss You. Well, I guess you can’t always get what you want…

I was crazy for “Crazy.” I loved your Femmes with a touch of Funk (”Gone Daddy Gone“.) But I’m sorry, Mr. Barkley, I’m just not that into you. I feel kinda cheap saying this. It’s like we were a one-night stand, a prom-date gone long. I’m not saying that I regret it — I mean it was, you know, cool. I had fun. I’ll never forget it. It was totally special, and I think that you’re really talented. But I just don’t think we can make it work.

To be honest, I was drawn to you because you reminded me of someone else. You had some soul. Always was a sucker for some soul: like Audrey Hepburn; like Cheese & Chardonnay on a summer’s day. And you were fun. Not scary fun like the last time I saw George Clinton, but a good kind of fun. You didn’t take yourself too seriously; maybe that’s why I couldn’t take you too seriously.

I like The Odd Couple. I really do. Especially the throwback Mark Ronson-y stuff you’ve got going on. And I’m not saying you have to go, we can still hang out. I’m just saying that I’m feeling kinda pressured right now when I’ve found somebody new.

You might know them actually, they’re called The Black Keys, and your old buddy Danger Mouse had a little something to do with the new album. This might not make any sense right now, and I understand if you don’t want to hear it from me, but they’ve got something that I was looking for in you. It’s back to that whole soul thing. They’ve got it. Not like Al Green or Luther Vandross soul, but the kind of soul a kid from Akron can relate to.

You see, just like The Black Keys, I grew up not too far from the rusty wrecks of the rubber age and under the feeling that life used to be better. Looking back on Stow — the slice of nowhere suburbia on the top fringe of Summit County where I spent my elementary school years — I can see the latex fingerprints everywhere. My neighborhood (a slight step-up Brady Bunch tract christened Heather Hills) was mostly Irish Catholic, though I didn’t know what that meant at the time. I just knew we were a little different, like the “confirmed bachelor” next door and the the Chinese family down the street, but still we were usually invited along.

The dads around us worked at Firestone and Goodyear — middle-managing while things at work slowly cracked like a junkyard tire toasting in the sun. The moms stayed home. The kids played. Lawns were mowed with guts and gold chains glinting in the sun. Summertime was tinged with the taste of kid-snuck Coors Lite from block party coolers. It was 50% John Cougar, 50% The Boss, and 100% America.

I don’t know. There’s something about the worked-over riffing of The Black Keys’ recycled blues that hits home. It’s the sound of classic-rockin’ WMMS mixed with WKSU’s weekend stabs at racial diversity. It’s not the real deal. It is what it is. Like the White Stripes (the coincidences abound) it’s what happens when you give a kid from nowhere a guitar and hopeless amounts of idle time.

So Gnarls, I guess that what I’m really trying to say is that it’s honest, that it’s got my kind of soul. I can trust The Black Keys, and I can’t say I feel the same about you. I’m not saying they’re the best. I’m not even saying that they’re better than you. I’m just saying that it’s where I’m at right now.

Still friends? Call me, m’kay?

When Jack White first appeared on the scene, I was a little annoyed.

Like that loud-mouthed new kid that transfers to your high-school mid-way through your sophomore year, he was an unwelcome and disruptive presence. Everything was peaceful and settled for the year — birds of a feather were flocking together and leaving each other alone. Everyone knew their place and had a table in the cafeteria. And then he shows up and starts mucking around.

The worst part about this new kid is that you know in your gut that you should like him. You’ve got a lot in common, after all. You both like the same bands, the same shows, the same flicks. It’s inevitable that he’ll be joining your click. In another time, you could be best friends. Even blood brothers. But right now, you just don’t want to deal with him. He’s stealing the spotlight, and let’s face it, you’re getting a little bit jealous.

But then that new kid does something that you just have to respect. You didn’t want to admit it at first, but damn, he’s got talent! And brains. And he’s pretty funny too. An olive branch is extended and a new order is achieved. Life just got a little bit better with the new kid around.

And he’s keeping up the good work: The new Raconteurs LP is lovely. Playful and punky, sweet and spunky. Classic rock with a sense of humor. It’s self-aware that it’s borrowed the best of the sixties (Beatles, et al) and the worst of the seventies (Supertramp anyone?) “The Consolers Of The Lonely” sticks just enough tongue in it’s tube-amped cheek to let you know that we’re all in on the joke.

Yes, life just got a little bit better with the new kid around. And come to think of it, that White Stripes thing’s not so bad either. Kinda like it. Light a few candles and pour some wine. Anything could happen.

The nice kids over at Pitchfork Media were kind enough to lend their ever-humble opinions to unenlightened masses by publishing lists of the Top100!!! of everything. (It’s like VH-1 for snobs, without the bubbly pop-up videos.) Fortunately, there’s other kids out there bored enough to compile said Top100!!! lists into easy, convenient to nick BitTorrents©. God bless ‘em. It really does amount to a crash course in MuziqGeek 101.

And like the Bible and the Big Lebowski, no matter how many times you dig in, there’s always something new. Working my way through the Top100!!! Albums of the 1970’s, I chanced to ponder again that timeless question: “Are We Not Men?” I’m convinced that the answer truly is: “We Are Devo!” But is that a “Yes” or is it a”No”? And if so, what does it imply. Let’s ponder, shall we?

Returning to the text, let us remind ourselves of the question at hand: “Are We Not Men?”
The answer could be construed in two ways: “(Yes) We Are Devo!” or “(No) We Are Devo!”
This question is also not to be confused with a similar inquiry, which is simply: “Are We Men?”
Again, the answer could be interpreted as “(Yes) We Are Devo!” or “(No) We Are Devo!”

I believe the ambiguity to be intentional.

The more interesting question is this: Does the Devo know the answer? Judging by the lack of introspection displayed by the knee-jerk reaction above, my guess is that the Devo do not know where they stand in contrast to their more-evolved forerunners. As a heightened level of self-awareness is a certain criteria for sentience, one must conclude that no, the Devo are not Men.

I hearby suggest that all future reissues of this album be retitled: Q: Are We Men? A: No, We Are Devo! Wouldn’t that make things easier for all of us? Glad to put that one to bed… You can thank me later.

________

(While we’re here…) A note on the music: As much as Whip-It! defines the beeping and blipping Devo aesthetic, this album charmingly churns on crunchy stratocasters. More Talking Heads than Gary Numan, you can picture Mark Mothersbaugh and the kids working this one out on a sticky stage just down route 59 from Kent State University. The included cover of Stone’s classic “Satisfaction” always troubled me until I heard it in context: Mick’s prescient ennui over the consumer age is a theme further explored on tracks like “Too Much Paranoia.” And the flower pots soon followed.

I’ve had this Theory bouncing around my head for awhile, and as I haven’t posted jack-squat on this here sweet blog o’ mine in many moons, I’ll let ‘er rip:

From time to time over the last decade or two, I’ve been a part of a Band. You know, a Band: One of those loosely defined collectives of musicians who build up a virtual family of their own making and then proceed to bitch and squabble with one another in more perverse and pervasive ways than any dysfunctional clan of inbred hill-jacks on Jerry Springer.

We’ve fought over women; we’ve feuded over money. We’ve brawled about where to play, how to play, what to wear, and what to say. We’ve clashed when we drank too much and snapped when we didn’t guzzle enough. And for what? For a few positive write-ups here and there. For a chance to be the Cool Kids for a moment in another of a one-in-million short-lived and ever-mutating Scenes. And, yes, we did it for the Music.

There’s nothing quite like those moments when it all comes together. Whether it was funk or punk, whether it was sober or drunk, the promise of the sublime was often so close at hand. Every once in awhile Heaven would touch Earth. That was a good place to be, and it made up for all of the above.

Hexed as I am, and having learned nothing from the past, I’m bound to repeat this accursed cycle of love and loss again before my time is up.

So I must ask: Who among you is worthy to join hand-in-hand with me on this noble quest to Rock ‘n Roll Nirvana? With whom shall I scale the sacred walls of this Electric Valhalla?

(Back to my Theory:)

To make it in a band, you’ve gotta earn 10 Points. There’s 2 ways to score on this game of rock. (So we can all play!) The first 10-point scale is one of musicality (aka, “How much do you rock?”) The better you are at your given instrument, the more points you can earn. If you have other talents, like the ability to produce non-cringe-inducing background vocals, you can earn bonus points. Knowledge of music theory and a studied musical palette round out this category.

The second 10-point scale is one of amiability. If your company is worth keeping, you can tally up your quota here. If you’re a fun guy, you get points. If you can keep your composure and a good attitude at a 2am gig on a Tuesday attended solely by the bartender and her luckless boyfriend, you get points. If you’re hardworking and responsible as well, you can really rack up the bonus points.

Got it? Let’s clarify with a few practical examples:

You really need a keyboardist to propel your punk-rock up and over the next new wave, but alas, none are to be found. You turn to Craig’s list where you find a classically-trained vintage moog-loving (and owning!) eccentric who lives across town. On the 10-point scale of musicality he’s, yes, a perfect 10! However, the guy’s a pain in the arse who’s pretty sure your Duran Duran tribute act is beneath him and does his best to let you know that he’s capable of so much more, thus scoring no points on the second scale. However, he’s already earned his 10 points suggesting chords, fixing harmonies, and re-writing the bridge and introduction of your first big single. He’s in!

You really need a keyboardist to propel your punk-rock up and over the next new wave, but alas, none are to be found. You decide that the bassist’s brother (who’s always hanging around rehearsal anyway, fetching beers, hauling gear and cracking jokes) might do. So you buy an old Roland on e-bay and give him a shot. He sucks, but with practice, can push the keys your tell him to push more or less with the beat. Although he failed to make it on the board musically, his “good-guyness” (and wacky on-stage antics) earned him a 10 in the second round. He’s in!

I like to think I’m about a 5 or 6 on each scale, giving me a blended 10. Sure I can play a bit, but I can also be a bastard. And sure, sometimes I miss a cue I’ve rehearsed a thousand times, but I can usually laugh at myself when I do.

All that being said, I’d rather work with an overall decent guy than a hot-shot musician. No one’s getting famous around here, but you can miss out on having fun pretty fast.