Punk of the Irish

Dropkick Murphys- The Meanest of Times

Jackson Free Press

September 26, 2007

You would think a fusion of the Irish and punk genres would be inevitable since punk’s onset. Both are famous for furiously pulsing tempos, abundance of energy and adrenaline-inducing passion. But it wasn’t until The Pogues broke through in the mid-1980s that anyone had any viable commercial success in the genre. The Pogues remain the best mainstream Irish-punk band to date, and their album “Rum, Sodomy and the Lash” is still the pinnacle album for any of the growing number of bands trying to work the Irish-punk angle.

The Dropkick Murphys emerged in the 1990s in the lead to inherit The Pogues’ title as Irish-punk kings. They hail from South Boston, one of the great Irish bastions in the United States, and they understand not only Irish music, but also Irish culture: The prominent role of folklore; the never-ending plight of the Irishman; and the inherent underdog status of the Irish. The Murphys are able to capture all three of these, as well as a bit of traditional Irish mischief, in each of their albums.

What helped the Dropkick Murphys establish themselves was that they had their own sound, and they weren’t blatantly derivative of The Pogues. While The Pogues could accurately be described as an Irish-folk band with punk tendencies, the Murphys, at their core, are the opposite. The Murphys’ early music is essentially street punk infused with a touch of Irish influence—the aforementioned Irish ethos. As their career expanded and their national prominence grew, the Irish sound became increasingly ubiquitous in their music, culminating in 2005’s “The Warrior’s Code.”

“The Warrior’s Code”—despite featuring their new signature song “I’m Shipping Up To Boston,” which was featured prominently in Martin Scorsese’s film “The Departed”—is their weakest album to date. The Murphys fell into a trap that all current mainstream “punk” bands eventually fall into: over-reliance on slick production. But while many faux punk bands need slick production to cover up their general lack of attitude, songwriting ability and lack of anything relevant to talk about, the Murphys actually have all three qualities.

Their newest album “The Meanest of Times,” takes some steps in correcting these issues. The band continues to feature more Irish-themed songs than on their previous albums, but their songwriting has improved, and they are stronger this time around, notably on the knockout opening song, “Famous for Nothing,” and lead single, “The State of Massachusetts.” However, their strength continues to be their punk-influenced songs. “Tomorrow’s Industry” and “Surrender” are two of the band’s strongest songs to date and invoke memories of The Murphys’ earlier records such as the punk classic “Barroom Hero.”

“The Meanest of Times” isn’t the Dropkick Murphys’ strongest album, but it is certainly a step in the right direction. The band members continue to grow as songwriters, and vocalists Al Barr and Ken Casey are learning how to work their yin and yang vocals. While the record isn’t perfect, it is still the mainstream punk must-have of 2007.

Original Article

The 40-Year Test

Wilco: Immortals?

Jackson Free Press

September 12, 2007

I was at Jazzfest at the end of May watching Van Morrison perform, and couldn’t help but notice the crowd around me. Behind me I saw at least 100,000 people, shoulder to shoulder, for what must have been a half-mile. To the right of me, a group of girls, probably in their early 20s, were singing every word to “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You.” In front of me I saw a couple, probably around 50, looking deeply into each other’s eyes and doing the same.

A question occurred to me: Forty years from now, what current artist will I be watching when I see college girls singing every word to their songs, when I can look into my girlfriend’s eyes and share the otherworldly feeling of not having to say a word to each other to know we’re both thinking about the first time we heard the song together?

Think of the artists between The Beatles and The Boss who fit this description—artists who had both the longevity and consistent greatness to form and grow a loyal following that enables them to still draw hundreds of thousands of people to see them perform at a festival 40 years after the release of their first album. Artists like Van Morrison, Stevie Wonder, The Who, Bob Dylan and Aretha Franklin are only the beginning.

But since the dawn of the 1990s, who do we have? The bands that do provide some hope either break up before they reach that point (Uncle Tupelo), or prove to be not quite as visionary as we had hoped (The Strokes, Pearl Jam). Combine that with our generation’s general dearth of legitimate singer-songwriters (e.g. all those who claim Dave Matthews Band as a major influence), and we have a major void.

The two artists who I think have the best shot of headlining a major music festival in 40 years, Ryan Adams and Wilco, are still lacking the commercial appeal needed to really cement their status at the top of our generation’s pantheon of immortals. Both have been making headway in the Billboard charts, but both also need that No. 1 hit to really catch on in the mainstream.

The other side of the coin belongs to the “Coldplays”—the artists who have the sales aspect in the bag, but are still lacking in artistic merit. Coldplay can create an unbelievable pop song (“In My Place” is right at the top of my list for best pop singles of the past 10 years), but until Chris Martin is able to write about something beyond himself and his imperfections and insecurities, the band’s glory days won’t last. Look at any of the legends, and they all understand that they are, in the words of Van Morrison, “nothing but strangers in this world.”

So who will we go see in 40 years, singing along to their music next to our children and grandchildren? The artist who can create a song like “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You,” that enables you to do just that with mere eye contact and a shared memory.

Original Article

Best of Both Worlds

Van Hagar

Jackson Free Press

August 29, 2007

While watching TV the other night, I saw a preview for the upcoming comedy “Superbad.” It was hilarious, and with Van Halen’s rocking “Panama” playing in the background, the ad was pretty much perfect. The song left me nostalgic for 1996, when I bought “The Best of Van Halen, Volume 1.” They became my favorite band for about six months.

I always sang the praises of Eddie Van Halen (“He plays so fast!”) and would include him in my conversations about the best guitarists ever. On the inside, though, I was into the songs that were, to borrow David Lee Roth’s phrase, “talkin’ ‘bout love,” namely “Why Can’t this Be Love,” “When It’s Love” and “I Can’t Stop Loving You.” For some reason, I was drawn more to the synthesizers than Eddie’s gnarly, face-melting, bone-crunching guitar. I kept this to myself, of course.

But now I come forward with the sacrilege: “Van Hagar,” the band’s sound during the tenure of Sammy Hagar, is in many ways superior to “classic” Van Halen. This is not to deny the immense influence their early work had on the generally awful hair bands that succeeded Van Halen (who can be found largely at county fairgrounds around this time of year), or the impressive number of strong singles they put out during that era. But the singles that Van Hagar released show a more mature Eddie on guitar—one that focuses on melody over speed. The lyrics are corny, but it’s not like “And the Cradle Will Rock” was really all that mind-blowing.

Michael Jordan averaged in the 30 points per game range in the beginning of his career, but it was only when he stepped back and settled for averaging in the high 20s and making his teammates better that he won championships. That is what Eddie is doing. He is harnessing his considerable talent to complement the other members of the band and the synthesizer to create an overall more listenable and accessible sound. There is little doubt that this is still his band—it’s got his name on it for God’s sake—but in Sammy Hagar he found his Scottie Pippen to help take the band to the next level and really distinguish themselves from the 1978 version of Van Halen.

Seeing a band go pop can have disastrous consequences (see The Replacements’ “Don’t Tell a Soul”). But Van Halen pulled it off. They can claim to have at least five essential songs in the heavy-metal pantheon along with five essentials in the ’80s-pop library. Few bands can claim such mastery over two genres. That is the reason that they deserved their induction this year into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, the reason they still will be playing arenas as opposed to truck shows when they begin their 50-date tour this fall and the reason I will buy “Best of Van Halen, Volume 2,” if it ever comes out.

Original Article

Prince’s Guitar-Shaped Shadow

Prince- Planet Earth

Jackson Free Press

August 1, 2007

When Prince releases a new album, I want it to be great. I just missed his heyday in the early- to mid-’80s, when he put out no fewer than three classic albums (“Dirty Mind,” “Purple Rain,” and “Sign O’ the Times”) and another four or five albums that blow away what qualifies as pop music today. What continues to make these albums stand out from his releases in the past few years is sheer backbone—which he has since replaced with smooth blandness.

Few popular artists have so brazenly written songs with less regard to what listeners might think than Prince in the 1980s. Throughout the decade, he had the fortitude to write songs on topics as controversial as an incestuous relationship with his sister, using his sexual prowess to break up a marriage, hooking up in a variety of public places and fantasizing about Cindy Crawford.

Though he still has a swagger about him—which emerges periodically, though much less frequently than in his glory days—the gutsiness has essentially disappeared from his music. The most notable return to the Prince of the past was his infamous “shadow” performance at the Super Bowl halftime show, in which his guitar doubled as skin flute. But such bold moves have all but vanished from his recordings, particularly his past three “comeback” albums, released since he regained rights to the name Prince.

“Musicology,” “3121” and his new album, “Planet Earth,” are all lacking the “love it or leave it” attitude that Prince once employed. Now, he seems interested more in doing just the opposite: making everyone love him. This strategy is most evident with the British release of “Planet Earth,” which he distributed for free in the Sunday paper.

Many of his love songs continue to be affecting, though not the way they used to be. They are moving now in a Motown-y kind of way; overwhelmingly, they are generic, G-rated songs.

Gone is the Prince who used intimate personal stories to back up his pain and devotion. This is the “When Harry Met Sally” Prince, not the “Annie Hall” one who wasn’t afraid to defy the rules and make them more danceable.

“Planet Earth” is the most disposable of the three comeback albums. There is little grab to any of the songs, nothing that draws you in and forces you to listen to it the way any great pop song should. Prince used to be a master of this, back when he wrote a verse about having sex with his since-deceased girlfriend on “Another Lonely Christmas.”

The title track on “Planet Earth” is probably the strongest song on the album. In the vein of “Sign O’ the Times” and “Money Don’t Matter 2 Night,” he takes on social issues, tackling everything from global warming to the war in Iraq.

However, the album as a whole is largely forgettable. “3121” continues to be the album to check out if you are interested in the rebirth of Prince, though so far the new Prince has proven to be just a shadow of the original man.

Original Article

A Beastie Mix Up

Beastie Boys- The Mix-Up

Jackson Free Press

July 18, 2007

A couple of weeks ago, one of the more surprisingly unheralded releases of the summer came out: “The Mix-Up,” the new instrumental album from the Beastie Boys. While an instrumental album is not exactly the most marketable item, a Beastie Boys release is always a notable occasion. Not only do their new albums come out about as frequently as the Summer Olympics, each one bears a unique style.

“Licensed to Ill”, the Beastie Boys’ 1986 debut album on Def Jam, went multi-platinum and cemented them into pop culture history as the first successful white rap group. The formula they had was perfect: simple, straightforward lyrics, a clear message (scoring girls, partying, and otherwise getting ill) and a first-rate producer, Rick Rubin, who recently hit it big with Jay-Z’s “Licensed to Ill”-styled “99 Problems”.

The Beastie Boys refused to go the route of most bands for their follow-up release, by simply rehashing their huge debut. Instead, they made their largest creative leap in “Paul’s Boutique”. The “Where’s Waldo?” of rap albums, it contains hundreds of samples, some of which are brief (a “Good God, y’all!” from Edwin Starr’s “War”) and others that span entire songs (Curtis Mayfield’s unmistakable “Superfly” bass line). On “Boutique,” the Beastie Boys managed to create sounds that likely will never be able to be duplicated, since sampling laws now make an album like “Paul’s Boutique” difficult, if not impossible, to recreate.

“Check Your Head” was another dramatic change in style. Enlisting the help of keyboardist Money Mark, the Beastie Boys decided to dust off their instruments from their days as a mediocre hardcore act and play their own music. The results this time are considerably better and more listenable than their early music (chronicled on the album “Some Old Bullsh*t”). “Check Your Head” is comparable to The Clash’s “London Calling”—both experiment with different styles yet still manage to hit a home run with nearly every one. Both albums probably gave the bands a little too much confidence in their abilities. The Boys’ next record, “Ill Communication”—the Beastie Boys’ “Sandinista!”—contains some of their strongest singles (including the knockout “Sabotage!”), but in retrospect, they flew a little too close to the sun.

Their two subsequent albums showed the Beasties in a bit of a funk. 1998’s “Hello Nasty,” though focusing on one sound throughout, got lazy and allowed unprecedentedly lame rhymes to take the backseat to their space-age beats. They corrected the mistake on 2004’s “To the Five Boroughs”, which stripped down the beats and, in turn, was the most bare-bones rap album the group ever created. The group has never been strong enough lyrically to create a great album without at least some excitement from the producers, the lack of which makes “Boroughs” a forgettable album.

“The Mix-Up” is a return to the “Check Your Head” era of instrumentation. Again, the Beastie Boys rely heavily on Money Mark’s keyboards, and again they are aware of their musical limitations. Instead, they focus on their strength, which is creating tight grooves that are perfect for a hot summer’s afternoon. Without the lyrics to balance the beats, however, this album is in destined to sit next to “To the Five Boroughs” in musical purgatory.

Few groups in history have put out seven albums of such varying sounds and styles over the course of their careers. Love or hate the Beastie Boys and their nasally, obnoxious voices, you have to recognize their talent, their innovation—and their continued selfless fight for our right to party.

Original Article

Dashed Dreams

Josh McRoberts, frustrated

Jackson Free Press

July 11, 2007

The NBA Draft was held in New York City a couple of weeks ago and was televised, as all professional sports drafts are these days, on ESPN. I found myself compelled to watch—not to see players’ dreams of glory and riches become fulfilled by signing contracts with NBA teams, but rather to watch them plummet to the no-man’s land of the second round. My target for a draft-day upset this year was Duke’s Josh McRoberts.

Before I start, let me say that McRoberts is probably a really decent guy. He seems friendly enough on the court, and he certainly has not done anything to warrant any sort of personal animosity. But there were plenty of reasons to root against him on draft night.

Josh McRoberts is a product of the Duke University basketball program—the New York Yankees of college basketball. Duke wins every year and somehow manages to attract the best high-school players in the country—despite the fact that their team is so deep that these players will probably begin their college careers on the bench. Having Duke on your resume in college basketball is the equivalent of graduating from MIT if you want a job in technology. You are going to get a shot somewhere, even if you aren’t particularly good at what you do.

McRoberts decided to leave Duke after his sophomore year, giving up his final two years of eligibility—something that players generally do only if they are a surefire first-round pick. However, just about every NBA analyst agreed that McRoberts was a long shot for the first round, and that he would have benefited from at least one more year of college.

There is something especially detestable about seeing a player who is obviously not one of the best players on the floor leave school early for the NBA draft. Even the casual college basketball fan couldn’t help but notice that McRoberts seemed curiously outmatched by some of the lower-tier forwards in the ACC, forwards who did not prematurely leave college for the NBA. McRoberts’ draft entry was one of many that, over the years, have prevented players like Jackson State’s Trey Johnson—who did college basketball the right way and stayed all four years—from getting into the NBA.

Players drafted in the first round automatically earn a set amount of money and a four-year contract (two years guaranteed and two team-option years), whereas in the second round, players have to play their way into a contract by proving themselves at practice or in a summer league. Every year, a large number of second-round picks don’t end up making the team that drafted them. Often, these players disappear into the great basketball abyss that is Europe, never to be heard from again.

On draft night, the 20s had arrived, and McRoberts’ name was still not called. With the 29th pick, the Phoenix Suns chose Alando Tucker from the University of Wisconsin—another player who stayed all four years at school and blossomed from a role player his freshman year to National Player of the Year runner-up during his senior campaign. Then came the final pick of the first round, which belonged to the Philadelphia 76ers. They opted for Petteri Koponen, a player from Finland that hardly anyone had heard of. To top it off, analysts say Koponen is still a year or two away from even joining the NBA; he just has potential. Another slap in the face to McRoberts.

Finally McRoberts was selected with the seventh pick of the second round. With the selection came a lively discussion by analysts, who chastised McRoberts’ for leaving Duke after his sophomore year.

Things ended up working out for McRoberts, though, because the Portland Trailblazers signed him to a two-year contract the following week. At this point, he is significantly richer than the vast majority of people reading this column.

As for the important part of the draft—the players who are projected to be superstars—Greg Oden and Kevin Durant were selected, respectively, by Portland and Seattle. If Oden doesn’t earn the Blazers at least one NBA Finals trophy, and Durant doesn’t win several scoring titles, they will have failed to live up to their hype. Their picks were inevitable, and hardly the most exciting part of draft night.

The NBA Draft offers a glimpse into something better—something that isn’t televised at any other time of the year. We get to watch players who have been standouts at every level of their careers hear the words, “You’re just not good enough for us.” For some reason, seeing that is just as satisfying as watching other players fulfill their lifelong dreams.

Original Article

I Like Everything!

July 3, 2007

You’re out at a bar on Saturday and start talking to a smart, funny and good-looking girl. You go back and forth discussing your favorite movies, authors and television shows. You like “Star Wars”; she likes “When Harry Met Sally.” You like Hunter Thompson; she likes Charles Dickens. You like “The Sopranos”; she likes “My Super Sweet Sixteen.” You laugh at the obvious gap in your tastes but don’t for a second think it will affect your budding relationship. Then you ask her what music she likes.

“Umm… .” There is a pause, followed by a big, uncomfortable smile. “I like everything!” she says, with arms outstretched to demonstrate just how wide her taste spans.

You smile back, though it is not exactly genuine. She realizes that you think her answer is a cop-out and quickly turns the tables on you: “So, what kind of music do you like?”

The pressure mounts. “Well,” you say, taking an identical pause. “I guess I like almost everything, too.”

Why is it that the vast majority of people give this false answer to a simple question of musical taste? Why is it that you yourself will often give this answer to the question even when you know it is not true? Why is it that people never say that they like all movies, or all books or all TV shows?

When someone asks what your favorite movie is, you may feel a little dorky saying “Star Wars,” but you still say it, and if they lose respect for you—whatever, you like “Star Wars.” Even if someone admits to liking Federico Fellini films, you don’t immediately write them off as a pretentious snob. You are willing to dig deeper to find out who they are.

With music, it’s a different story. There is the stereotypical fan of every major band, and if someone tells you they like them, they are immediately typecast. If you meet someone who likes The Grateful Dead, they have to prove to you that they aren’t a stoner. Conversely, you have to watch who you admit to liking lest you become the hackneyed fan. You worry that your love of Prince will make you sound too feminine. You worry that liking The White Stripes will make you sound pretentious. You worry that listening to Eminem will make you sound like a wanksta or a hate-filled homophobe. No band is safe.

That is the significance of the pause after the question: to try to dissect what trait the person would find most attractive and to affiliate yourself with that band’s stereotypical fans. That is why a new couple will likely unzip their pants for each other before unzipping their CD wallets.

Then of course, once you discover your difference in tastes—even if it’s as varied as The Sex Pistols versus Simon and Garfunkel—it will not destroy your relationship as you had feared. It will just lead to colorful debates about what to listen to when you’re cooking dinner, before you inevitably settle on The Beatles.

Original Article