The renaissance had come and gone. It ended with either Who’s Next in August, ’71, or The Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main St., May of ’72. You can argue all night about which record began the renaissance, but nobody’s going to argue that starting somewhere around Jackie Brenston’s Rocket 88, 1951, the next twenty years would be the most inspiring, explore the most innovations, and have the most significant cultural impact in musical history. The level of greatness achieved in virtually every musical genre (blues, jazz, gospel, country, rhythm and blues, rockabilly, soul, and rock ‘n roll) was so extraordinary that it will never be equaled. Not until new instruments areinvented, new scales used, and new technological means of communication are plugged directly into your cerebral cortex… Beginning somewhere in the early ’70s, musicianship and singer-songwriter craft replaced visceral, passionate, accessible, danceable rock ‘n roll as intellect and sophistication became the mainstream… So what do you do in the face of this rather harsh reality? A reality that says the ’50s are over, the ’60s are over, fun is over, and you missed it? It’s a secondhand culture for you? Hand-me-down riffs, used emotions and theatrical jive.
Fortunately, you have the one thing going for you that transcends eras, fashion and time. You have the one thing that all truly great rock ‘n roll bands have in common: you’re gonna play in a band because you have no other choice. You don’t fit in anywhere in society and you can’t do anything else. You might as well ignore everything that is going on, and invent your own style. You might as well be the most important influence on the next 30 or 40 years of rock ‘n roll. You might as well be the Ramones.
“Innocence brings forth innovation. A lack of knowledge can create more openings to break new ground. The Ramones thought they were making mainstream bubblegum pop. To most others, the lyrical content alone- about lobotomies, sniffing glue, and pinheads- was enough to challenge this assumption.
While the band saw themselves as the next Bay City Rollers, they unwittingly invented punk rock and started a countercultural revolution. While the music of the Bay City Rollers had great success in its time, the Ramones’ singular take on rock and roll became more popular and influential. Of all the explanations of the Ramones, the most may be: innovation through ignorance.”
So were the then recently-reunited Pixies, whom I interviewed.
And Air, also interviewed.
And Tommy Lee, whom I had a drink with in the VIP lounge.
Which is where I also Mike Watt. And Fred Schneider. And Wayne Coyne, who would debut the Space Bubble the next evening.
And Kraftwerk, who I managed to get into a packed tent to see and have my mind blown.
And Radiohead. If you were there, ya know.
And also Belle & Sebastian, Broken Social Scene, The Cure, Erase Errata and a lot of bands I can’t remember or may have missed because I was working and drinking and loving life and completely caught up in the magic.
Two massive tomes I finally conquered: The Stand and The Pale King. Wouldn’t necessarily recommend either but I am glad I read both.
Of course I love reading about movies. After making a list of my favorite (read: not the ones I think are the best) films, I realized two filmmakers had four films on my list: PT Anderson, and one that surprised, Sidney Lumet. I immediately sought out his book Making Movies. It was a bit dated in describing how the sausage is made, but it had a lot of great stories and even better advice, bits that carry over to the creation in any art form.
Recently finished Mrs. Maisel and wanted to keep living in that world as well, so I finished my copy of Lenny Bruce’s How to Talk Dirty and Influence People and have come to the conclusion that I prefer the fictional portrayal.
And of course I love reading about music. More specifically The Beatles. Read Revolution in the Head, Dreaming The Beatles and 150 Glimpses and loved the different styles and tones of all three, especially the latter.
I did also read, as well as listened to, the Beastie Boys Book and would recommend both. The book’s art and photos are great, but the audiobook elevates the material, and is read by the most absurd cast ever, including Steve Buscemi, Elvis Costello, Chuck D, Snoop Dogg, Will Ferrell, Kim Gordon, LL Cool J, Spike Jonze, Rachel Maddow, Tim Meadows, Better Middler, Rosie Perez, Amy Poehler, Kelly Reichardt, John C. Reilly, Maya Rudolph, Jon Stewart and Ben Stiller.
A book I read about film and music and television and pop culture junk and how it all ties together was Chuck Klosterman’s The Nineties: A Book.
On Loving God had some great passages and advice, not just for Catholics.
The Swallowed Man was a fun read, the story of Pinocchio from Geppetto’s point of view (from inside the belly of the whale, no less).
“Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman!” didn’t offer as much insight as I was hoping for, but it was a curious glimpse at an incredibly interesting man.
I don’t really know much about poetry but I enjoyed Rotten Perfect Mouth by Eva HD, whom I discovered after watching a film I did not care for, but the poem hasn’t left me.
Since seeing Dead and Co. in Colorado last month, the Grateful Dead have been in heavy rotation since. Perfect summer music.
Since we are now in what Dead Head’s call “The Days Between” (the days between Garcia‘s birthday and the date of his passing), if you’ve never listened, I think their run from ’70 to ’72 is perfect from the initiated.
The Go-Go’s, Beauty And The Beat (1981): “This band is in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall Of Fame, and this album is 90 percent of the reason why.”
The Jesus & Mary Chain, Psychocandy (1985): “There are countless artists posting albums on Bandcamp right now who stole all of their ideas from The Jesus & Mary Chain, and they might not even know it. They might think they’re ripping off The Velvet Underground, but they are really ripping off this band who ripped off The Velvet Underground in the mid-’80s.”
The Mothers Of Invention, Freak Out! (1966): “I completely understand why people can’t stand the guy. He writes stupidly complicated music and stupidly stupid lyrics. Personally, I think Zappa is 1) a genius and 2) one of the most obnoxious men who ever lived.”
The B-52’s, The B-52’s (1979): “As a public service, I am sharing this video. I have watched it 25 times and I suggest you do the same. And then make this album a cornerstone of your life.”
Fiona Apple, Tidal (1998): “This might very well be the greatest debut album made by a teenager. I am exactly six days older than Fiona Apple, and I was working a customer service job in the summer of 1996, which is a million times less impressive than writing and recording ‘Shadowboxer.'”
Elvis Costello, My Aim Is True (1977): “The only track on My Aim Is True that’s not convincing is ‘I’m Not Angry,’ which is like Marvin Gaye recording a tune called ‘I’m Not Horny.'”
Pavement, Slanted And Enchanted (1992): “In the proverbial ‘what would you play for an alien to sum up this kind of music?’ scenario, Slanted And Enchanted must be regarded as the go-to soundtrack for any hipster extraterrestrial.”
Beastie Boys, Licensed To Ill (1986): “Uncut Id is taking the riff from Sabbath’s ‘Sweet Leaf” and combining it with the drum break from Zeppelin’s ‘When The Levee Breaks,’ and then inviting three idiots to chant ‘Ali Baba and the 40 thieves’ eight times over it.”
The Strokes, Is This It (2001): “Though if I ever write a column about the best second albums ever, Room On Fire might rank higher on that list than Is This It does here.”
And of course Pink Flag, Exile in Guyville, 3 Feet High & Rising, Ramones, Horses and The Velvet Underground & Nico. Jimi Hendrix took the top spot, which my stepdad would probably be happy about. DJ Shadow and Ween did get honorable mentions.
Hyden also speaks of albums that feel like debuts. In my opinion, an album in that department that always sticks out is You Forgot It in People, which projected Broken Social Scene from a small, mostly instrumental side project, to one of the most epic and ambitious rock bands this century.
A few omissions surprised me and few that made the cut downright bewildered me, but that is why I like lists like this.
Here are five I would have considered.
Violent Femmes, Violent Femmes (1982): Shocked this didn’t make the cut, so much so that I have to imagine Hyden isn’t a fan. I am hard pressed to think of too many debuts that are so quintessentially the band itself.
The Smiths, The Smiths (1984): Everything one would love about The Smiths is all right here. Not my favorite but could easily be someone’s favorite Smiths record. Especially if “This Charming Man” makes the cut.
Le Tigre, Le Tigre (1999): Their best album. Effortlessly cool, sample-laden new wave/punk record that will get you dancing more than any other radically political album I can think of.
Imperial Teen, Seasick (1996): Their best album, too. An even poppier Pixies (and Breeders!), for my money this is the most underrated alt-rock album of the 90s and the #1 album I want to see on Spotify.
Belle & Sebastian, Tiger Milk (1996): I still have love for this band, but in the ’90s and early ’00s, they were the best.
Oh, completely forgot that first Clash record. Listen to that. It rips.
I often want to live in films, but seldom ones this dour. But jazz clubs in the 50s, that’s my love language. Especially when it’s shot this beautifully, this dreamy. The faux-Paris streets at night are as out of this world as the soundtrack.
Round Midnight unfolds so nonchalantly, there’s almost no exposition. Things just happen. Sometimes they’re beautiful. Often they’re tragic.
Sometimes that’s one and the same.
Dexter Gordon is brilliant. Musically, obviously, and I’m glad he and Hancock got prizes for it. But with all due respect to Paul Newman, Gordon was robbed (I’d also take Hoskins in Mona Lisa over Newman, for the record). Incidentally, Newman was in the good but incomplete Paris Blues, a story that touches on the exiled black jazz musicians of Paris, something this movie greatly expands upon. Gordon wasn’t an actor, but he lived the part in real life. That doesn’t always work but when it is meant to inflect real life pain, it sure as shit does. He plays a composite of two real life musicians, but here he’s playing himself all the same.
Based on Francis Paudras’ memoir, we find the character of Francis outside the club on a rainy night, too broke to go inside but too in love with jazz and too indebted to Dale, whose music he fell in love with years earlier, not to huddle outside and take in what he can. They form a beautiful friendship, and while one could see Francis as someone suffering from a white savior complex, that would be dismissive. He sees Dale’s talent, but he also and more importantly he sees his pain. Unfortunately he cannot reconcile how one can exist with the other. He can’t understand how someone so brilliant can’t rub two nickels together, doesn’t understand addiction, and probably doesn’t understand the black struggle. He says on the first night he hears (not sees) Dale, that he played like a God. If our gods suffer, what does that mean for us?
I spent all of the Sunday after Thanksgiving watching Get Back, arguably not the most productive way to spend a day. But The Beatles’ productivity stuck with me, months and months later.
Unsurprising, their staggering output is undeniable proof of just how productive they were in such a short period of time. Former journalist Tom Whitwell had similar thoughts, outlining ten lessons from the film. It’s a good read – the first is something I have had to deal with and could also accuse myself of in the past:
The first rule of improvisation (and brainstorming) is “yes… and.” When someone suggests an idea, plays a note, says a line, you accept it completely, then build on it. That’s how improvisational comedy or music flows. The moment someone says ‘no,’ the flow is broken. It’s part of deferring judgement, where you strictly separate idea generation from idea selection.
As they slog through Don’t Let Me Down, George breaks the spell. Instead of building and accepting he leaps to judgement, saying “I think it’s awful.” Immediately, John and Paul lay down the rules: “Well, have you got anything? “You’ve gotta come up with something better.”
He fought mental illness his entire life, and by my estimation was at best a serviceable guitarist, decent pianist and awful singer. One that wrote simple, often naive lyrics. But there is a reason even the most mainstream of alt-rock-kingpins (Cobain, Veddar and Cornell) loved him so dearly. In their simplicity, his songs were haunting and moving. His story and songs will always have a spot in my heart.
Last year, Built to Spill released a cover album of Johnston material and got a bit chided for playing it safe, but I enjoy listening to it and think it serves as a good introduction for those that might not be able to look past Johnston’s rudimentary skills and lo-fi recordings. It ignores some of the obvious choices (notably “Story of An Artist,” previously recorded by M. Ward and used in an Apple advert, and “True Love Will Find You in the End,” covered by both Beck and Wilco), but it’s a solid collection of some of Johnston’s more melancholy and beautiful songs, including “Bloody Rainbow,” “Fish” and “Heart, Mind & Soul,” the latter a retro doo-wop ballad that manages to break my heart every time I hear it.
Happy Birthday, and Rest In Peace, Daniel. Let it be said you killed the monster.
In 1960, Dixieland soprano saxophonist Steve Lacy joined the jazz legend’s band for a tour with John Coltrane. Young, wide-eyed and starstruck, he absorbed all he could, eventually writing down Monk’s words of wisdom. Applicable in jazz, so too applicable in life:
Just because you’re not a drummer, doesn’t mean you don’t have to keep time.
You’ve got to dig it to dig it, you dig?
Avoid the hecklers.
Always leave them wanting more.
Stay in shape!
When you’re swinging, swing some more!
(What should we wear tonight?) Sharp as possible!
Whatever you think can’t be done, somebody will come along & do it. A genius is the one most like himself.
They tried to get me to hate white people, but someone would always come along & spoil it.
Cutting a jazz record is usually done so either live or by “getting the band back together” in a little room and ripping it up. This album, named after the clause in contracts that allows events to be cancelled due to an “act of God,” speaks of that struggle. A compilation of weekly online performances recorded in their Harlem apartment on a single microphone, partners Brandee (harp) and Dezron (bass) make the most of the circumstances, inadvertently highlighting the versatility of the two instruments in the right set(s) of hands. They cover John Coltrane, Alice Coltrane, Pharaoh Sanders, The Jackson Five, Kate Bush and “Sing” from Sesame Street, improvising with their limited resources in very interesting ways. In between songs, they crack wise, seemingly a knee-jerk response to the situation they were in (that so many of us were in), and speak of the uneasiness of now in a very off-the-cuff, honest way. Fiona Apple’s Fetch The Bolt Cutters became the quarantine album, but this is a close second, a true representation of 2020.
How are you? What are you working on, artistically or otherwise? Who or what has shaped who you are? What inspires you? Send a letter to luke@retroduck.com and let me know.
From artist/writer Tim Lane, here is one on The Smiths, his days as a Catholic school boy, the convolution of memory and revelation, and the separation of art and artist.
Hey Luke,
Morrissey’s been a bit of a disappointment, hasn’t he? I was so psyched to see him in Flint a few years back, but then he canceled. And then a whole slew of cancelations took place, and he was being talked about, and I discovered for the first time some of his political leanings. How in the hell, I wondered, could the guy I listened to back in my formative years with, I’ll be honest, a little bit of unease, but a lot of admiration, turn out like this? I mean I love The Smiths. The music is great. And Morrissey’s vocals were, and maybe still, are, great, but the lyrics were the thing I picked apart. “Oh, the alcoholic afternoons that we spent in your room. They meant more to me than any living thing on Earth. They had more worth,” or, “Why pamper life’s complexities when the leather runs smooth on the passenger seat,” or, “There’s a club if you’d like to go. You could meet somebody who really loves you. So you go and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own, and you go home, and you cry, and you want to die.” It was like he was always singing directly to me, directly to us, right? I mean this guy knew, right?
So how?
It amazes me to this day that I never wound up seeing The Smiths. It’s kind of like being a fifty-year-old Catholic who’s never received communion.
I’m not Catholic anymore, but while I was in elementary and middle school, I was more Catholic than the pope himself. I was an altar boy from fourth through tenth grade, really. I would serve on the altar in some capacity every day for two weeks straight, and then intermittently for the next two weeks, and then I got a week off before the rotation began all over again. EVEN IN THE SUMMERS!
I have this poignant, lucid memory of the second time The Romantics came to town which is wrapped up with so many other old memories of being Catholic.
I had red hair: so I never had a girlfriend. I mean it’s like Intro to Philosophy: Logic 101. Right? Red hair was death. The girls in my class were into guys with the dark hair, or the blond hair, but not the red hair. Do you know that the red hair gene is totally being weeded out of the gene pool? In so many years, like ten or fifteen or twenty—I’m not exactly sure—there won’t be any natural redheads on the entire planet.
The number of masses I sat up on the altar in my black cassock and flowing white surplus, scanning the church for cute girls is a lengthier catalogue than the Book of Psalms. Catholics are into ritual and routine, if nothing else, so families usually attended the same mass each Sunday. By tenth grade, when I wasn’t scheduled to serve, I’d occasionally volunteer to serve ten o’clock mass on Sundays anyway. My dad and I usually went to eight o’clock mass, but the really cute girl with the slightly stylish dark hair and penetrating dark eyes went to ten. I mean like how could she not have noticed me? For six years, I had almost been a permanent fixture on that altar. I had certainly noticed her. Enough to think about her. I mean like I had thought about her for a while. A good long while. I think I might have dreamt of her once. And then, by God, a miracle (which had nothing to do with her) happened in tenth grade. My buddy started dating a public school girl, and her girlfriend was apparently just as lonely as me? Similar dark hair and eyes as my scope at the ten o’clock mass. Cute. Suddenly I had a girlfriend. I mean like I was just thrown in the back seat with this girl. It was strange, but I was happy (until she dumped me).
Shortly after this, The Romantics came to town, and for some reason that totally escapes me, the girlfriends couldn’t go. Maybe they had Model UN or something. Maybe they’d been grounded for smoking pot, like most public school kids did. Maybe their parents didn’t want them dating Catholic school guys. I don’t remember. But I clearly remember what happened at the concert. The concert was at the Capitol Theater. My buddy and I were sitting left of the stage, about midway up. The cute girl from church, who was older now, and even cuter, was sitting behind us. I recognized her instantly. And I’ll be damned if she didn’t recognize me. When our eyes met, she flashed a big smile, and we froze like that for a moment. In that instant, her eyes and smile said, Oh, it’s you! I’ve been waiting for this to happen. It’s taken longer than I figured it might, but I always knew it would happen. We’ve been on course for a slow-moving, head-on collision for some time, haven’t we?
For a moment, I was religiously numb. The Romantics took the stage and it was pandemonium. But it was like I wasn’t there. I was in between the concert and the altar. I was in between the Capitol Theater and St. Mary’s Church. I was in some gray limbo, waiting for the band to break through to me, waiting for the girl to take my hand, waiting for my life to start. Eventually, the moment passed, like so many other moments. My buddy and I probably exchanged looks, or I was jostled, who knows? The Romantics were great. I found myself caught up in the show, or was I ever really completely caught up in the show? I don’t know, man. I can’t remember. Was the cute girl with a guy? Was the cute girl thinking about me? Did she actually remember me, or had I read too much into her smile? And the dread, Oh, my God, the dread. I mean I was sinning right then and there, throughout the whole concert, just as I had been throughout my whole life: sins of the MIND. I had a girlfriend. We had only been dating for about three months, but it was official. We had kissed. She was wearing my varsity jacket. I was cheating.
I think that I actually felt relieved when the concert came to an end. The needle would rise, the record player’s arm would return to its perch, the record would get re-sleeved and life would continue. But that’s not what happened. When the lights went up, the girl tapped my shoulder. The girl tapped my shoulder. THE GIRL TAPPED MY GODDAMN SHOULDER, Luke.
“There’s a party out in Burton,” she said. “No way,” I said. She shrugged. She told me the address. She smiled. She turned and joined the people in the aisle pouring out of the theater. Of course, I thought. Of course there’s a party in Burton. Of course I have a girlfriend. The first girlfriend I’ve had for more than sixty seconds since eighth grade, and there’s a party out in Burton, on a school night, after the concert. Oh, there’s probably a party out in Burton every night. There’s probably so much going on out there, outside of this theater, all the damn time, and I have no idea. I have no clue. But the cute girl from church knows. Damn straight, she knows. She’s probably known for a long time. She probably knew all of that time we sat in church separated by rows of pews, stealing glances at each other. Oh, yeah, I’d caught her looking once or twice. I couldn’t help staring. And now, she had made a pass. All of those years of longing had paid off. But I went home, and several months later my girlfriend returned my varsity jacket and started seeing some senior who had his own car, and I never saw the cute girl from church ever again.
The Smiths have a song for that anecdote, don’t they? “Well, I Wonder,” maybe? Yeaaaaah, dude. Forty years later, I never listen to The Romantics anymore, if I’m being honest. I saw them twice while I was in high school. They came to Flint twice. But I’ve never seen The Smiths. I mean I liked The Romantics, but I loved The Smiths. It’s bizarre. I still listen to The Smiths all the time. Seriously! And as I said, I’m not Catholic anymore. Hell, I don’t even have red hair anymore.
Over the past ten years, I’ve had the opportunity to catch a handful of bands that I missed during their heyday—my heyday. Kraftwerk, Psych Furs, OMD, Modern English, to name a few. At each concert, I always find myself scanning the crowd for a familiar face from the past.
How is it that I didn’t know more about Morrissey? I’ve had more than several conversations with Sheila and my friends over the years on whether we should separate a person’s art from their politics. How do we separate what a person makes for the world from who they are? Obviously, it can be done. The question becomes this: Should it be done? Should I forego studying Bobby Fischer’s amazing chess matches (I mean it’s not like I can understand his moves anyway) because of his antisemitism? Should I have never voted for Bill Clinton? Should I boycott Woody Allen’s Manhattan? I’ve probably seen that film six times. Should I burn all of my Smiths records because Morrissey has come out and said some stupid racist bullshit? It’s hard. Or is it? Maybe I’m just lame. I guess what I’ve decided is that I will never try to catch a Morrissey concert if the opportunity arises, but I’m going to continue to cherish The Smiths. They were—and still are—such a part of me.
Listened to 315,504 songs, spread over 10,147 artists, according to my (second) account.
The twenty I listened to the most: Belle & Sebastian, The Beatles, The Smiths, Pavement, Ramones, Why?, Broken Social Scene, Bob Dylan, The Microphones, Modest Mouse, Prince, The Blow, Radiohead, Devendra Banhart, Sonic Youth, Chet Baker, Talking Heads, The Kinks, Tom Waits and The Magnetic Fields.
If you were to ask if those were my favorite artists, I would say, “Close.”
Though the overall plastic production in the recording industry has dropped, greenhouse gas emissions caused by music consumption have reached an unprecedented high, a new study from the University of Glasgow shows. The changes in environmental impact are due to the decreasing popularity of physical music formats and rise in digital music streaming.
If you only listen to a track a couple of times, then streaming is the best option. If you listen repeatedly, a physical copy is best – streaming an album over the internet more than 27 times will likely use more energy than it takes to produce and manufacture a CD.
This is my new excuse for buying vinyl. Just saving the planet over here, no big.
