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.

Taking the bait once again, I took a chance on Vampire Weekend. Hooked!

I try to ignore the shout-outs scattered through my monthly deluge of magazines. We’re talking serious publications here, you know, like Details. But every once in a while when everything from GQ to Wired mentions a new group worth checking out, I figure there must be a reason. Thus, I give a listen to Kanye West or John Legend or The Editors or The Bravery or someone else that I can live without. Usually, I can see why they’ve received such notice: Yes, the guy can really knock out a tune, or yes they really do sound like Interpol. But I don’t care and never spin ‘em again. Thankfully, I can jump online for the preview these days instead of dropping 10+ bones on something that I wouldn’t want to have paid for, even through BMG with a free shipping coupon.

But, every once in a while it works out. Vampire Weekend came up again and again as “Prep Rock.” The hell I know what that means. The reviews went on to point out that, yes, even though they are preppy kids from the Nor’east, you should listen to them anyway because they write great garage-y throwback tunes about the most important thing in life: Gettin’ Chicks and Havin’ Kicks.

Can’t say that’s what I found. What I found is what Chris DeVille from the Columbus Alive found. I had detailed notes and everything ready for this post, but Mr. DeVille beat me to it on all fronts. He also covered their recent show on his blog. I was not there. I was heading here instead. Oh, life. ‘Tis full of trade-offs.

But I did learn one thing from these guys that Chris overlooked: The Oxford Comma.  I think I’m starting to swoon.

Now that it’s February, I’m coming around on this one. Thy cynical side of me thinks that the Top-10 List is just a lazy way for editors to fill space. Most of the time the selections are either painfully obvious or hopelessly obscure. And then the competition begins to prove that your list is both painfully obvious while being hopelessly obscure. (“If you had any taste at all, you’d see how right I am about the brilliance, no the importance, of Deerhoof’s latest long-player.”)

But it’s also kinda fun, and I’m feeling frisky. So here’s my Top 10 List of albums new to me in 2007. It’s my blog, right? I can change the rules as I go.

1. Feist — Let it Die / The Reminder.

I’ve always had a thing for the understated female vocalist. Let it be known, Feist is now officially christened the new Queen and Heir to a proud tradition that started with an 8th grade crush on Edie Brickell. (Or maybe it was Judy Garland singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” when I was seven. I need to meditate on that for a bit.) I first heard her a year or so ago singing backup on The Kings Of Convenience‘s “Riot On An Empty Street” (led by Erlend Øye who deserves a post of his own.) I read the liner notes and noted the name. How would I know it would turn into this?

“Let it Die” hooked me with it’s Sounds Of The 70′s fender rhodes / disco / steely-dan-with-a-DJ overlay. Truth be told, I loved it so much that The Reminder’s return to alt-folk form was a let down. But she showed me the light. She proved to me that she was right. And then I went to see her one magical night. AHHH!!! Next!

2. Perry Ferrell’s Satellite Party — Ultra Payloaded.

This almost made number one. But then I realized that it was a lie and that I was just being difficult. Jane’s has a special place in my heart. It’s a place formerly occupied by James Taylor, proving Darwin right. (Perry/SweetBabyJames cage match anyone?) Anyway, that place in my heart is so big and welcoming that I give any and all Jane’s Alumni a chance. I honestly liked Porno For Pyros, and I’ve purchased Dave’s solo album and Perry’s and the various compilations, and even Psi Com for heck of it. And I got into Strays, though no, it wasn’t Shocking.

Most of it was, eh, ok, and I expected little from this new project: a concept album about an interstellar alien rave thing. Lollapalooza in space. With guitar from Extreme. What I didn’t expect was 1) Songwriting 2) Fun. Much as I loved ‘em, Jane’s never had the best tunes. Catchy bass lines, you bet. Cool guitars, yep. Crazy lyrics with razor-sharp delivery, hecks yeah! But songs? Only sometimes. And they weren’t exactly fun. They were more like a baggy of magic mushrooms. A dose of Jane’s could be possibly pleasant and occasionally cathartic, but never simply fun.

But this trip is all that and more. C’mon, man. Give it a try.

3. Lou Reed — Transformer

There’s something about a good 70′s rock ‘n’ roll album that just begs me to hit repeat. Tape compression, the simple arrangements, the straight-froward production: a lot of 70′s rock just feels right to me. It feels like what it is — 4 guys and a few friends in a room making a record. When the smoke clears enough to see the producer, when the highs and lows of the night find their nocturnal bliss, somewhere in there rock ‘n roll happened like it never will again.

Lou made it happen for me on his second solo album, the Bowie/Ronson produced Transformer. He spun my iPod round and round like record player for most of the spring of ’07. Transformer has the right mix (unlike The Blue Mask) between great pop and solid rock with enough sonic experiments to keep it interesting. No small amount of the album’s charm spurts forth from the subject matter: Sexual Deviation and Associated Emotional Frustration as embodied by NYC’s most colorful characters.

One thing that always strikes me is the proximity between this stuff and the Hippie Generation. We’re barely two years past Woodstock, but already the Flower-Powered 60′s are something that never were to the New Yorkers and Englishmen making this music.

Some vinyl cousins to consider: Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust & Young Americans (et al); Thin Lizzy’s Live & Dangerous (which according to Tony Visconti was mostly overdubs dubbed in said smoky rooms); T. Rex’s Electric Warrior; Television’s Marquee Moon… etc.

The last of the breed, in my once again ridiculous opinion, was Van Halen I in 1978. (As you may know, VH got a little help from Gene Simmons, a man who made his millions on a particularly schlocky extension of the Glam Rock so well represented above.) I’ll have to blog again about that, but moving on…

4. Tie! My Special Lady Friends: Lily Allen — Alright, Still; Kate Nash — Made Of Bricks; Jem — Finally Woken

Because I’m a slut. You’d think that Ms. Feist would be enough for a guy like me. But no, I just can’t seem to stay true. My new gals are presented here in chronological order.

The first breach of Leslie’s fortress was Lily with her lovely single “Smile.” I liked it so much that I took a chance on the rest of the album to find wit, charm, humor, and plenty of great afro-caribbean-laced tracks that would could easily earn a place in the SoundTrack of my soul or on the DanceFloor of my heart.

Kate Nash is the girl that you go out with because she reminds you of the girl you used to love. Then you realize that she’s not who you want her to be. So you dump her. And then you regret it as you learn to appreciate her for her own charms. She cops Lily’s mockney and heads to the mic armed with horribly confessional poetry. And it works. Mostly. I think…

So now that I’ve genuflected at the foot of Feist, had a blast with Lily, and then felt kind of guilty about the way I treated Kate, I’ve found redemption with Jem. I don’t know who she is, but she tells me to forget all rules, to ignore what “They” say, to “Come On Closer,” and find salvation in her “sweet temptation” whereby I’ll be “Finally Woken” as she begs someone to “Save Me” from herself.

I’m getting too old for this, but I just can’t seem to say no.

5. Amy Winehouse, Mark Ronson, Sharon Jones, and the unassailable Dap-Kings & Daptone crew.

Rare is the great achievement achieved alone. Let’s consider Tenzig Norgay. Had Sir Edmund Hillary any hope of mounting Everest without his help? Me thinks not!

So we start with you, Ms. Winehouse. I know that you’ve got your shit together. I know that you have the discipline and self-control to make it unaided to such great heights, but is there any chance that you had a little help from your friends?

Back to Black is an album that has continued to grow on me. At first, I thought it was a novelty. I almost just passed it on to my Motown-loving papa, but then I noticed the F-Bombs, which made me think of what else I might be missing. Turned out I was missing a lot, such as “Tears Dry On Their Own.” That song can hang with Supremes any day. I began to see that Amy might be the real deal, though 30 years out of phase.

So whence comes this authenticity? Ah yes: The Dap-Kings!

Like Irish Monks preserving civilization from the barbarous hordes, the Brooklyn collective at Daptone Records has huddled over the horn-charts and tube-powered tools of an earlier generation, lovingly keeping them polished and honed until the common man evolves enough to be trusted with them again. Add the super-glue of DJ flyboy Mark Ronson to stick it all together, and you’ve got a hit.

Also on board is Ms. Sharon Jones, who’s been covered here already. Take another listen to the bootleg posted here. Good stuff! I have yet to check out the Budos Band, but the next time they drive this way, I’ll be there. Basically, if it’s got the Taint of Daptone, it’s alright by me.

6. Of Montreal — The Sunlandic Twins / Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer?

These guys are nuts. I like that. And they write fun songs that tap into a certain leftover adolescent ennui that makes you just want to throw in the towel and escape, maybe even to Antarctica. For example. I’ve heard the stage show is superb. Maybe someday they’ll play where I happen to be. Maybe even Antarctica. For Example.

7. Elis Regina & Antonio Carlos Jobim — Elis & Tom

Every summer demands a new discovery to accompany my many evenings filled with white wine & tapas on the patio. That’s summer at our house: nibbling & sipping & noshing & quaffing while children play delightedly at our feet and the fire crackles in the corner. Pure paradise, at least occasionally.

It started with Esquivel, moved through Stan Getz and Astrud Gilberto, and landed at Elis & Tom last summer. I’ve tried the cheesier side of life too: Herb Alpert, Sergio Mendes, etc., but the mood has to be just the wrong kind of right to relax to the Tijuana Brass. Coldplay works as well, but I don’t really want to think about that at the moment.

So back to Elis & Tom. This album was introduced to me as the one album that Brazilians of a certain generation are most likely to have on the turntable. Sort of the Nevermind of the Brazilian Boomers. It’s a delight. There’s an immediacy to the performances that is missing on Astrud’s take of some of the same material. Por ejemplo: Towards the end of “Aguas De Marco” there’s a moment where Elis can’t help but laugh. I don’t know what she’s laughing about. I don’t speak Portuguese. But it makes me smile. Oh, it makes me smile. Thank the Lord they didn’t wipe that take.

8. Tegan & Sara — The Con

I’m not sure if these ladies ever got big enough to “have a moment” but I had a moment with them last fall. It’s a heart on a sleeve with a keyboard and a guitar. Pop music needs no more.

9. The Hold Steady — Boys and Girls in America (and all the rest)

“She was a really cool kisser and she wasn’t all that strict of a Christian.”

Bingo! And with that Craig Finn had me with 3 albums of the sort of mid-american dissipation that seemed eerily familiar. For some reason the songs always struck me as the view from the sidelines. This I could also relate to, as I was never the most punk-rock, hard-core, screw-it-i’m-doing-it-anyway member of the pack. But I always wanted to be near the action, taking notes. Although I think Mr. Finn is still enjoying the good times, he’s got enough of a noodle to remember it in the morning and weave it into 3-minute tales of kids and kicks and the lost and the lonely. More on his songwriting here.

10. Belle & Sebastian — Dear Catastrophe Waitress (but really just “If She Wants Me”)

When B&S began their career I was taking some time off from music. I didn’t mean to, but I just got out of college and was roaming without a permanent address. I lived alone a lot and read a lot. I crashed with some friends for awhile, but they were into the rave thing and I was broke and the requisite e was too pricey. Suddenly, I was 23 and over the hill. Little did I know that life was still going on across the pond. Around 2000, I started playing catch up with Belle & Sebastian, and latched on to their first few albums — all wistfully Nick Draked and dreamy on top, and lyrically confused to the core.

The last few albums didn’t catch my ear in the same way. So I stopped listening again, only to find a friend in this song:

“If I could do just one near perfect thing I’d be happy
They’d write it on my grave, or when they scattered my ashes…”

So I look to 2008, knowing that it’s still possible that I’ll do that one near-perfect thing someday. I’m 33 now and younger than I used to be. Looks like I’ve got a few lives yet to lead, and I’m pretty sure that my epigraph has yet to be written.

“I snogged the drummer,” she said. “That’s cool!” I replied, “Uhh, isn’t it?”

The conversation above was my second introduction to The Wildhearts. The first was watching them open for The Darkness a few years back. Justin and the boys are no more, but The Wildhearts (old timers by then already) still live on and are doing their best to burn out before they fade away. But, being forged of pure, brutal, UK METAL they seem to be built to last.

As Ginger said from the stage that summer’s eve: “We’re from England. It’s a tiny little country, with tiny little cars, and GIANT GUITAR RIFFS!” The eponymous latest album continues and improves on that tradition. I’m no metal guy, but there’s something here for any and every metal fan, nay, for any and every fan of Rock ‘n Roll!

If you think Heavy Metal’s gone down hill since Alice Cooper and Judas Priest, you’ll love this album.
If you miss the good old 80′s days of Megadeth and Metallica, you’ll love this album.
If you miss the good old 80′s days of Warrant and Winger, you’ll love this album.
If you grew up on the grungy, punky, industrial mix known as “90′s Alternative” you’ll love this album.

Mix in a few choruses that would make Cheap Trick proud and some guitar passages that would make Joe Satriani weep and you’re pretty much all set. The album is import only. So, fly yourself to Great Britain and check them out. If you’re lucky, you can snog the drummer.

I thought I would be, but no, I’m really not at all. By Golly, I think I like ‘em!

Reading about music is like a box of chocolates: You never know what you’re going to get until you bite down. Fortunately, no one can make you swallow. Against Me! first came to my attention in a fawning Spin profile about the best bunch of emo brats to emerge from FLA, USA since Scott Stapp ruined Sunshine State Rock for the rest of us. Spin has spilled a lot of ink over the last few years on the likes of My Chemical Confessional and Fall Out Charlotte and a bunch of other high-schoolers tarted up with eyeliner and Feelings, Feelings, Feelings, oh, nothing more than Feelings.

I expected the same from these guys.

Despite some over-earnest adolescence in the lyrics and a vocal style that is too often Roger Daltrey at his most histrionic (think of the timbre of WE WON’T BE FOOLED AGAIN!! repeated for 3:35, maybe a little much…) these boys put together a very tight package of power-punked rock ‘n roll. Like many of the greatest Rock Bands, they’re capable of both the simple/effective (“Stop”) and the epic (“Ocean”) using the simple tools of the medium. I have a hunch they’ll still be with us after many of the current crop of state-side startups have faded away to a flashback show on MTV8.

Two shows in two weeks. I could get used to this…

FEIST. Last Sunday I escorted the lovely Rocki T. to the tastiest show I’ve been to in, well, a long time. For those unfamiliar with the venue, OSU’s Wexner Center usually hosts the finer arts. Although a cocktail would have been nice, the pleasure of actually hearing the band made up for it. A really nice sound system, a rapt-in-silence crowd (except for some guy in the back wearing his heart loudly on his sleeve), and frankly a lot more talent then I expected. Not only did she make love to that old red Guild, she played drums for the opening act (Jason Collett – keep an eye on this guy) while snake-charming us with a voice that’s bigger and bolder than it sounds on disc.

Rocki thought I was in love with her. Now we both are. Balance is good for a relationship.

(big thanks to Joel Oliphint for the pilfered photo from the show.)

TEGAN & SARAH. I’m not going to gush over this one. I’m all gushed out (see above.) But I could, I warn you, I could.

Truth be told, I was a little leery going into it, curious, cautious, looking for a good monday-night kind of time. What I found was a packed house of hard-core sing-along fans ringed by respectful onlookers like myself. Backed by 3 strapping young men on Bass/Drums/Guitar unashamed to nick Adam/Larry/The Edge, there was nothing green about the show. Album tracks came to life and hung with the “hits.” But they were very against the crowd-surfing. (Yes, there was crowd-surfing… don’t ask, I can’t explain that one.)

Video here. Photo credit here.

Thank heavens they finally made a listenable album. The Bends is my favorite, followed ever so closely with OK. After the 12,000th 5-star review of Kid A (in such forward-thinking rags as People, Entertainment Weekly, etc.) I was eager to embrace the new Radiohead.

It was OK. (Not OK.) By the time they Hailed the Amnesiac Eraser I was gone. But now I’m back. Because it has songs. Because it’s almost free.