Ouch. That’s Hot.

You ask me how I can like this band of phonies.  And I ask you:  How can I not?

I grew up on Graceland.  I was a boy in a bubble and that bubble was mercifully, occasionally, popped by missives shot off from the head-tops of East Coast sons of privilege and promise.  From Salinger to the Beats to Woody to Wolfe to Wharton to the VU to Tim Gunn.  Sure, I’m painting with a broad brush here, but from a Pittsburgh-birthed point of view, everyone from the Upper East Side to the Village had it better than me.  Not having much else in common with Warhol except for the whole hometown thing, I had to sit back and watch.  Just a doe-eyed extra in a Whit Stillman film, hoping to someday make it past a velvet rope.

And anyway, the Strokes made the critical cut, right?

As for the music, I like Contra just fine.  The rock-band to what-have-you ratio seems askew, but sophomore efforts often come off a little over-produced.  I’m not sure it’ll plant a seed in the sandy soils of my heart like their first disc did, but that’s more about time/place than anything else.

That first Vampire Weekend landed a little ray of light on my life during some dim days.  I’m not in that same head-space at the moment, but it’s good to know that they’re picking up where Buffett left off, keeping the ice in the blender for a better-read bunch of preppy parrotheads.

I find this record comforting.  It takes the edge off of life like Bob Marley used to, back a few years ago when I didn’t have any real responsibilities to wig-out about.  Unfortunately, “Don’t worry about a thing ’cause everything’s gonna be alright,” just doesn’t cut the cheese anymore.

Those sorts of sentiments did wonders back when the semester would screech to a halt regardless of the marks on my final exams.  Or back when a job was something you found in the newspaper, applied for, and started the same day after answering “YES” to the question: “Do you have a valid driver’s license and reliable transportation.”  Yeah, everything used be alright when any day you could walk away.

I’ll still take a stroll with those Three Little Birds, but life is no longer such a beach.  Responsibilities and consequences are now part of what it means to get out of bed in the morning.  The boys in Art Brut are catching on to this.  Late 20’s and holding on for dear life, Art Brut is smart enough to know that modern life is cracked, but haven’t figured out the fix.  It’s nice to pop on the headphones and know that I’m not alone.

I guess it really comes down to rolling back the clock just a few years.  When I’m 44, I’m sure there will be plenty of 30-something sentiments that tug nostalgically at my heart strings.  I don’t know what they might be (Joan Baez and Carole King are frighteningly coming to mind) but I’ll find out when I get there.

But the tunes of Art Brut — the simple yet spot-on guitars, the lyrics of lament, the self-haranguing humor, the Cure cover — whip me back to a romanticized past.  It’s a little cathartic break until duty calls.  Personal demons purged, I’ll take Art Brut FTW.

This post has been clogging up the blog for the last week.  I just can’t seem to get it right, and now I know why.

I like to write about things that I like.  I try to stay positive, to be a thumbs-up, glass-is-half-full fella.  But even when trying my best to stick to the bright side of life, I find it’s all too easy to slip into cynicism and find fault.  Just a few snarky remarks can undercut the upbeat and chase the joy away from a sunshiny day.  And as the adage goes, it only takes one bad apple to poison the punch.

So here’s the problem:  I just don’t like this record!  I love Matisyahu, but something was off.  So yesterday, to double-check my lens, cleanse the palate, and tighten up the eardrums, I listened back to my (and, I’m guessing, your) introduction to the man:  Live At Stubb’s.  What a disc!  I was lucky enough to catch the Stubb’s-era band shortly thereafter.  They took the stage and put on the kind of show that gets you high even if you’re keeping your feet on the ground, chemically speaking.

The band was still a little green, which you can hear on Stubb’s.  For every hot lick and tight break, there’s a meandering noodle-to-nowhere moment.  Babylon By Bus this was not.  But the troubles were forgivable as the guys were still fresh enough to get really, Really, OMG! excited about playing to a few thousand people in a college town a thousand miles from home.  They weren’t deer-in-the-headlights self-star struck, but there was this sense of collective joy that the dream was coming true and we were all in this together.

And the frontman had a burning fire in the belly.  Far past rolling in the shtick, his earnest recounting of his people’s past and his Let’s-Go-Build-Us-A-Temple! enthusiasm for the future made you forget that there was anything strange about the scene.  But, alas, that was then.

The critical response to this new album has been strangely kind.   Not that it’s been fawning; it’s been split 50/50.   What surprises me is that the critiques of the actual music have been fair to positive, pointing out the Sly & Robbie collaborations and other bits of finely-tuned production.  The scathing remarks have been directed much more at the man, this oddity named Matisyahu.  Sometimes it’s cheap shots at all purveyors of  kidnapped reggae, a broadside condemnation of  the music’s colonization by the fairer-skinned peoples, with curses cast in passing at the likes of Sublime and 311.  (The Clash will always get a true-punk pass on these things.)  Often the ire is focused on the historical inaccuracy of the spectacle.

Although Matisyahu stretches your eclecticism tolerance to new heights, what could be more natural?  A hippie kid rediscovering his Jewish roots would find it hard to miss some sort of cosmic connection to the chant-down-Babylon music of the Jamaican champions of the Ethiopian Zion.  If you’ve got a beef with authenticity, pick a fight with the original Rastafarians for misappropriating 3000 years of glorious tradition (from Moses to Sandy Koufax), not some Phish-following kid who decided to borrow it back.

Not that this is a reggae album, which is the real problem.  “Light” is a mash-up of Hip-Hop hype and Jack Johnson tripe that loses itself in a thousand-layered studio sheen.  But I’m a loyal fan, and I’ll be here for the next one.  Looking up expectantly, channeling my inner Norman Vincent Peale, believing that Matisyahu will rediscover his inner Stubb’s, and that good things are a-gonna come.

Sometimes I’m a little slow to catch on.

Despite having been told by numerous good-eared friends that I should buy this, and despite the fact the I’ve seen them live and know first-hand that they’ve got the stuff to really rip it up, it still took me a year or so to grab my own copy of The End Is Not The End, the latest album by the Columbus-based, and God-fearing, House Of Heroes.

Maybe my reluctance had to do with those last two qualities.  It’s hard to have any critical distance from music released by those within your milieu.   And I’ve always been biased to quick-skip tunes writ for the safely cordoned-off, closed market of the CCM crowd.  Preaching to the choir creates mediocre music like Trekkies breed Tribbles.

Please forgive me, Listening Public, for I have sinned.  I should have tried this disc a long time ago.  It is, as one buddy of mine sez, “all killer and no filler.”  Each Sing-A-Long (indeed, Radio-Ready) chorus is sandwiched in angular, proggy guitar hooks that launch the 3-chords-and-a-hunch Power-Pop template into sonic bliss.

And they’re funny!  My favorite track (at this point)  is “Baby’s A Red” about crushing hard on a lil’ commie cutey.  It splits the difference between The Beach Boy’s Surfer Girl and The Dead Milkmen classic, Punk Rock Girl.  Listen to it for the “Hammer & Sickle” backing vocals alone.  “I’m not ashamed to be your comrade.”  Indeed!

Not that it’s all fun-n-games.   You can’t pretend to be Muse on every bridge and breakdown without taking your craft pretty seriously.  And you can’t sample preacher extraordinaire Rich Nathan pontificating on capital-”g” Grace (as they do on “Voices”) without a dose of divine conviction.

So why now?  House of Heroes is playing Sioux Falls this weekend.  I thought I’d check it out for kicks, but after spinning this record all week, I’m really looking forward to the show.  Though I was once a skeptic, I am now going as a fan.

I’m pretty sure that this is the album that The Killers hoped to hit when they took a swing at Sam’s Town.  As a fan of most things Killers, I enjoyed Sam’s Town just fine for what it was, but the Gaslight Anthem seems to have found the missing link between the current indie rock of the aughties and the swaggering grandeur that once drove the E-Street’s shuffle.

That link is the moment that the Grammy’s did the unfathomable and for once made Rock ‘n Roll History.   It’s the moment when Bruce told everyone who’s really The Boss when he took the stage with Elvis Costello and Dave Grohl and other Famous Friends to pay a four-minute tribute to Joe Strummer and the Almighty Clash.

The Gaslight Anthem gets this.   Sure, they love that Jersey sound and knowingly reference Mr. Springsteen in the lyrics pinned to their hearts and stapled to their rolled-up working-class sleeves.  But they also sold their soul to rock and roll, paying a toll of lost loves, broken vows, estrangement, and decline in hopes that 3 chords and a little truth might someday take them all a little farther down the line.

Listen to the chop-chop-chop-chop guitars in Film Noir and you’ll see what I mean.

Listening again to an album I’ve been enjoying for the last few seasons of the year, one of the few reliable happy pills in a long dark winter of the South Dakotan soul, some sunshine from Jacksonville reved up through heart-on-the sleeve 80s cheese.

A lot of critics panned this album, including my usually spot-on heroes over at Sound Opinions.  They were bugged by the trying-too-hard awkward adolescence of the thing.  They’ve all got a point.  The album is soaked in the sexy,  but it’s like a 13-year old trying on her older sister’s makeup and fishnets for the first time.    Kinda icky.

Sure, they’ve got a lot of growing up to do, but the innocence and honesty won me over.  As a kid who first ingested these sorts of Cure-pop grooves while sitting alone in his room imagining the kicks he wasn’t getting, I understand the rock ‘n roll fantasies of a bunch of nice young people who met up in Sunday School, hoping for the opportunity to be naughty, but you know, not like too much.

Oh, how hip am I!  This album, the self-titled debut by Australia’s Wolfmother, came out a few years ago, but by the time I got around to it the combo had already dis-banded and then re-grouped with a new line up ala Axl’s GnR.  Keepin’ up ain’t in the cards any more kids, but the trees are still falling in the woods even if I’m not there to hear the sound.

Speaking of which, this album dropped just in time to ride the tide of the Guitar-Hero’d fascination with propper (and oft progger) rock from the halcyon days of the hard-livin’ ’70s.  It’s nothing more than a mash-up of the top-rock tropes that once swirled off of the nanny’s hi-fi and slipped into the bassinets and under the bonnets of these wee little lads from way down under.

One need not crate-dig past Blue Cheer to catch every trick that’s been recycled on this disc.  And that’s ok.  It’s just kinda funny.  Especially when they decided it’s time to rock the flute on “Witchcraft.”  Yes, they rock the flute in that same goofy/sputtery/spitty way that a certain band did back in the day.  And that’s after they play the Doors keys and the Deep Purple keys and get all sensitive with the pre-glam Tyrannosaurus Rex freak-folk warble and enlightened us with lyrics like: “She’s a woman, you know what I mean.  You better listen, listen to me.”

Of course, it’s the guitar that really sealed the deal for me.  The fret-born hooks and big and barbed and right as rain on a hot summer’s day.  Original?  Not a bit.  You can can picture these guys in-fighting in the studio:

“No, play the Zeppelin thing and then go straight into the Sabbath riff!”

“No way!  We gotta play the Sabbath riff twice, then I scream like a one-eyed pirate, and then we play the Zeppelin thing like we did last night.”

“You were drunk last night.”

“Wait, did you guys rehearse without me again last night?”

But when the licks are as good as this, everything turns out ok.  At least until the band breaks up.

Last night I spent a few pleasant hours rolling about in the late-life alternate reality that Woody’s been creating for himself and kindly sharing with others.  Every time you go it’s a little bit different, but there are a few things that one can count on:  It’s somewhere in Europe.  Americans will show up and feel a little sad about themselves.  And Scarlett Johansson will be there too.

Last night, we went to Barcelona.

In Vicky Cristina Barcelona, Woody lets us travel along with two 20-something American girls who get to taste a few new things before the tarred-and-chipped road of life sets the world in stone.  Although the inner-feared voice interfered with a full embrace of the choices our heroines chanced, there was a serenity at work in Barcelona that gave comfort.  In Barcelona the moment must be embraced, and life must be lived.  And in the end, in Barcelona, family will be loved, commitments will be honored, and conflicts will be forgiven, forgotten, and few.

Woody’s World sounds ok by me, although I’m still scratching my head a little (just a little) over the fascination with Scarlett Johansson.

As guitar pickers go, ol’ Lester has most of ‘em licked.  But that’s not why I love him.  I love him because nearly every piece of musical equipment that I embrace to lift met up when the times are tough, and the days are rough, and the sun just don’t seem to shine, was designed a little bit by him.

On the occasion of his 90th birthday, a film crew followed him around New York and put together the documentary Les Paul:  Chasing Sound! If you like popular music (defined anyway you will) between the years of 1930 and 2010 you will find something to love about this film.   Quite literally, nothing would sound the same without him.  And he’s still got the chops, swinging that old ax every Monday night, taking another whack at life while he’s still around to chase his sound.

As you might have heard, U2 put out their latest long-player, No Line On The Horizon, to mixed reviews.  After reading a few dozen of these, I did some head-scratching, soul-searching, and critical listening and I think I’ve figured out the common tie that binds the minds of the pen-wielding pundits:  Magic!

Big fans of big music love it like a drug.  It’s gets ‘em high, takes them to the next level.  Opens the eyes, breaks open the head, transcends the temporal, touches the immortal.  You know, it’s a trip.  It’s Magic!  We love it, and we bow down before it and the shaman that provides it.

The bands we love set expectations to provide this ecstatic experience with every taste of something new:  The new single is the prophet’s latest epistle, the show is the ceremony where the rockstar is broken before you, collapsing on stage as one who has given his all for his art, for his fans.  Amen brother.  And if they let you down, it hurts.

U2 have tapped into that mystical magic as much or more than anyone else over the last 30 years.  As Bono once said at the Grammy’s:  “It is a gift, much more than it is a craft in our case. We depend on God walking through the room more than most. And God has walked through the room for us.” Their connection to the divine has always been there in the music, whether on the tip of Bono’s tongue or lurking in the back of Larry’s mind.  Sometimes it comes out in a way that everyone can relate to (Pride In The Name Of Love!  I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For!  We’re One, But We’re Not The Same!), and sometimes it’s a little more personal.

And that’s what we’ve got on No Line:  These songs grab your heart if your heart’s singing the same tune.  They fall flat if it’s not.  This last batch of tracks is a more focused thing, and it’s left some on the outside looking in, wondering what happened.  For those on the inside, the magic is as real as it’s ever been.

Not to sound like I’ve got the world figured out, but those critics who love it are pretty comfortable when the focus is on God, and the reviewers left cold have their doubts about the whole thing.  It seems that if you’re willing to listen with the Almighty on your heart, No Line On The Horizon is a beautiful thing.

Hey folks:  The door’s always open.  Come on in.