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.

You might like this film if:  a) You grew up under the influence of The Cure & The Smiths.  b) You pursued a liberal arts degree without a fleeting thought of its practicality, or c) You’re British.

As I scored a solid two out of three (and secretly hoped that I’d awake some day to find that “c” had come true), Starter For 10 was an easy pill to swallow.  It’s a simple story of a kid who goes to college and finds himself in over his head with new ideas, new places, new possibilities, and new girls.  Although the date is never given, it takes place sometime in the mid 80s — Thatcher’s in power, mixtapes hold the key to understanding the soul, and no one’s got caller ID.

It won’t change your life, but if any of the above sounds familiar, it might make you smile.    And it’s got the best soundtrack this side of Grosse Point Blank.

Finally I’ve found the label for this nonsense I’ve been spinning obsessively for the last few weeks. (Picture the little rat in the cage, tongue lashing the coke-spiked water-bottle foaming away at his little lips. twitch twitCH! TWITCH!!… ) Anyway here ’tis: INDIE-POP. Post-Pop’s already taken (damn you, Peaches!) And this is more of a return to form, like your third-wave feminism: It ain’t afraid to be what it was born to be. More Carrie Bradshaw, less Murphy Brown.

So here’s The Ting Tings: Big in the UK, and (I predict) without a future in the states. We can’t handle ambiguity (see: the Darkness). You’re either in or your out. Hanging with the in-crowd or slumming with the freaks, take a pick and don’t cross the line. These kids have played both sides of the fence and can’t seem to sit still. Picture the White Stripes playing a round of Dance Dance Revolution and you’ll get the idea.

__________________

addendum: I just googled indie-pop and it’s been taken too. drat! suggestions anyone?

Like a Big Mac, I’ve been loving it. But I must confess: I’m afeared. I’m quaking in my creative boots. I’m weak in my musical knees. Atrophy, dust, rust, and disease. The problem is this: Do I only like things that remind me of the music of my youth? Is there a future left for me? Or am I on a slow slump to a Sarasota double-wide pining for the way it used to be?

First of all, the album: It starts off with (and gets back to every 3 tracks or so) a nice bit of retro-80′s pop-balladry. That’s the hook. The barb is the dub, the punky-reggae party that slips into the groove like a track off of Sandinista and lights up this little corner of the dance floor of my heart. Throw in some sonic experiments that wouldn’t be out of place as a later Massive Attack track and you’ve got yourself an album. You’ve got yourself an album that sounds a lot like something I can relate to. Yes me: a 30-something, formerly hip, trying to keep up with the day job and the kids and the wife and the rest of life. Is this really a market to target?

There’s more to Santogold than that, but there’s something purposeful about the way she snips melody from the Smiths, screams like one of Siouxie’s banshees and has a Peter Murphy impersonator guest on the track “I’m a Lady”. Or maybe she just has good taste. Maybe I do too.

Here’s to hope, and here’s to the future.

… is good for at least the drive home too.

Call me shallow, but I really don’t care that I can’t understand a word of this. I actually tried to learn French a few years ago. Rocki and I picked up a “Learn French In 24-Hours” type course on tape at a bookstore while vacationing in Chicago. It seemed like a good idea at the time. We listened to the first cassette too. Then we got bored when it asked us to repeat the phrases back to the unseen man hiding in the car radio. I just couldn’t bring myself to ask for the whereabouts of the watercloset from an automaton in mixed company. Though he did have an outrageous accent.

I liked the accent a-plenty. Which brings me back to Yelle. It’s 80′s dance-pop (with a few updated beats here and there for good measure.) She sings like Stacey Q and raps like Debbie Harry. Shatter this heart of glass!

Come to think of it, it might be better that I can’t understand the words. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cringed mid-step in an otherwise enjoyable moment of self-adulation, dancing alone to one of Madonna’s more recent tracks. Sometimes the words just get in the way.

Need more proof? Just can’t get enough? :: You Tube !

So it’s starting to scare me a little bit. My Top Two newest favoritest bands of 2008 came to me via recommendations in GQ. Why do I read Spin? Why do I read Paste? Why do I talk to all of you music geeks out there? All I really need is a connection to MySpace Music and my subscription to GQ. I’m all set. And they can help me with those annoying button-down vs. spread collar questions that keep coming up. It’s a two-fer!

I’m pretty sure I’ll have forgotten these guys by 2009, but they’ve been nice to pal around with the last few weeks. The new self-titled disc is 12-tracks of solid rock ‘n roll. Nary a bum cut on the platter. Some of the lesser tunes (like “Love It All”) are nicely rescued by ‘ze guitar which likes to hang out in the left speaker and tastefully fill the melodic holes with little licks.

Sometimes it sounds like The Strokes, sometimes it sounds like The Stones. Basically, it’s the album that Jet tried to make 5 or so years ago. Remember them? No? Me neither. But I might remember The Kooks a little bit longer. This isn’t the kind of rock that’s built to last (a lesson The Killers forgot while recording Sam’s Town.) They’re just playing the game — the rules of which were written years ago by guys like Ray Davies and Pete Townshend. But it’s a game that I like playing too. Roll the dice, you Krazy Kooks! I’m in!

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…