A couple of years ago, ln the way home from work, I heard about The Fiery Furnaces' new album Widow City on NPR, and they played snippets of a few tracks, and I loved what I heard. When I got home, I bought and downloaded the album from iTunes, and I listened to it that night from start to finish. It wasn't easy listening.
I'd heard The Fiery Furnaces before, and I really liked their song (I don't quite consider it a single, and neither do The Fiery Furnaces) "Quay Cur" from 2004, and in that song, guitarist/songwriter Matthew Friedberger showed a powerful penchant for atonal alliteration and Woolvian free association and Dadaist imagery as well as Don Van Vleet-inspired musical noodling and some catch-as-catch-can song structure. "Quay Cur" proved to be a masterpiece of an avante-garde EP, but it demands close attention and repeated listening, and it's a mammoth of a track: it runs over ten minutes, and it feels like it lasts at least twice that (and that's not a perjorative comment), and so it doesn't quite fit here.
What does, though, is "Ex-Guru," one of the myriad of wonderful, strange songs from Widow City (one of the best albums of this decade). It's probably the catchiest from the album, and the one that works best as a single, and--if they'd ever released one from the album, it probably would have been the one with the best chance of charting. It's uptempo, it sports a blithe bouncing rubber ball of a synth line in the verses, and the chorus clings to the memory. The literate words and kooky imagery might sound a bit odd to those unaccustomed to such, but the rest is just pure pop smarts...until the 1:25 mark, when the bridge arrives just in time to explode.
"Ex-Guru"'s bridge drove my wife nuts. I was playing her the song in our Jeep on our way home from school the next day, and she seemed to be enjoying the record, and then the bridge hit, and before it (the bridge, which--in feel--is more of a coda than a bridge) ended, my wife screamed at me to turn it off, that it was driving her crazy. I did. We soon pulled in the garage, and she looked at me, and she said, "If you ever play that [pretty little ditty] in front of me again, I'll give you an even bigger headache than the one I have now. It was pure chaos, and I don't like you very much right now. Go pick up the children. I'm taking a nap."
Now, if that isn't a recommendation that something wild and crazy is going on here, then I don't know what is.
Yeah, it's a sad sack song, and Aguilera uses her meliasmatic singing too much, and it's an easy song to dismiss as pop-ballad fluff because everyone's felt like this at one point and therefore the lyric is generic, but Aguilera's singing in the beginning of each chorus shows true vulnerability, and that vulnerability from so massive a voice is touching on a deep level; and her scream right before the final chorus (at 2:49) is as powerful a cry of both hope and desperation as I've ever heard. You've got to crank up the volume for the full effect of that cry, but beware, as it's the sound of a soul at its last gasp sounding out its barbaric yawp in order to verify its own existance in the face of denial from all visual evidence in physical reality, when people insult and demean and chastise what they consider gauche and unattractive. We've all been there before, right? I have been. And it hurts. It makes you feel worse than worthless; it makes you fell like a pox upon society. Your parents may refute those awful claims, but they're your parents, and they have to, if only because you're literally a reflection of them, so therefore their attempts to console matter none.
So what does? Don't know about others, but for me, it was always music. It wasn't this song, 'cause I believe Christina was probably in diapers when I was teenager being laughed at and scorned because of my presence. It could have been this song, though. I'm sure it is for others, and no matter how schlocky the production (and it's pretty schlocky, thank you very much Linda Perry), the song (and it's a great one, thank you very much Linda Perry) and the singer here (not just any singer, either, as this one's already been covered by artists ranging from Elvis Costello to Gloria Gaynor to the Lemonheads) elevate the listener, and the primary reason is because of Aguilera, because something in this song touched something in her, and she's talented enough to tap into that pain and insecurity and exorcise it as her performance exorcises the same demons in us.
I'm a fan of reality television. The Bachelor, Rock of Love (Bus), Tool Academy, Flavor of Love, Survivor, Dancing with the Stars, So You Think You Can Dance, and American Idol--I may not have seen every episode of those shows, but I've seen most, and other than The Office, 30 Rock, NFL football, and children's shows, I watch nothing else on television*. I'm not exactly sure of all the reasons I love these reality TV shows as opposed to "normal," scripted** television fare, but one reason I don't watch "regular" TV is because I've long-since tired of the formula and of most shows' predictability and poor dialogue.
As far as the dialogue goes, what I usually here is one of two things: prosaic speech, or designed-to-be-humours patter that's trying too hard to be clever or given to actors who aren't adept enough to deliver the lines well. Concerning the former, nothing's wrong with "ordinary guy" speech; however, those lines should underscore or counter a show's theme, and far too often, there is not theme--there is only plot and arc. Concerning the latter, the shows--and popular ones, too, ones my friends watch--goofy dialogue or scenarios come from characters who would not behave in such fashion in any realistic society. I grew so tired of this repetitive, dreary, and trite writing, that--during my first two years of marriage--I all-but-gave up watching television altogether. Seinfeld had ended, Freaks & Geeks was axed, Friends had grown laborious, and Frasier was the only reason to watch non-animated primetime network television.
And then there came Survivor.
The show wasn't revolutionary by any means (but then again, in entertainment, what truly is or ever has been?), basically taking MTV's The Real World, setting it on an island, and making it a competition. The physical challenges were often exciting, but what really sold this show was the squabbling, the lying, and the backstabbing. These people were concocting strategies to align themselves with certain other people, befriend them for a short period of time so that they themselves may advance further in the game, only to--and often planned in advance--turn on them later. Sure, this is all old hat now, but in that first season, it seemed Shakespearean.***The show's drama was completely unpredictable, and this unpredictability made it exciting. It was like watching football mixed with a soap opera, except the combatants weren't as talented as the former, or as articulate as the latter, but en toto their conflict was more entrancing than either, and this concoction of competition with strange bedfellows made for arresting viewing.
Other networks took notice, and soon reality shows eclipsed sit-coms as the toob du jour. Later in 2000, Big Brother and The Mole debuted, and the next year, the explosion hit, with debuts from What Not to Wear, Fear Factor, and The Amazing Race. Even more reality shows started in 2002, including The Osbournes, Wife Swap, Extreme Makeover, The Bachelor, and the hightest-rated series of the past seven years, American Idol.
Unlike almost every one of the other reality shows, a couple of the winners--and a few of the other contestants--of American Idol have parlayed their fame on that show into highly successful careers. Has there ever been a game show--other than collegiate sports--before AI that's been filled with such extraordinary amateur talent? No. Though every season always has its large share of poor singers, AI has always showcased amazing singers--most of which will never truly make it. For a brief bit, though, in AI the audience is witness to these troubadours--as corny as it sounds--trying to make their lifelong ambitions come true, and most of these guys and gals hold nothing back in their performances. They so often let loose all they can muster, and when there's true, discernable talent involved, then the show gives us brief snapshots of how wonderful and revealing and devestating and life-affirming music can be, of how simply singing someone else's song can be art, of how interpretation can be as worthy and definitive and legitimate and authentic as the act of creating the song in the first place. The baring of one's soul and self need no validation. American Idol, however, rarely shows much of the weekly, arduous process; we mainly just hear the results. One show that did broadcast the process (some of) the path to musical artistry/stardom was one that, though it only lasted one season, preceded Idol by one year: VH-1's Bands on the Run.
Bands on the Run showcased four bands--Flickerstick, Harlow, The Josh Dodes Band, and Soulcracker--who had to market themselves, their merchandise, book gigs, attract audiences, and play concerts to see which band would receive $100, 000 worth of gear; $50,000 cash; and a showcase in front of A&R guys, scouts, and a few corporate heads.****The bands' tasks were arduous,***** as they had to scamper to pass out fliers, drum up business, schmooze, haul gear, set & strike the stages, and all on twenty dollars a day per individual (not counting gas money, phone cards, and room & board). The bands didn't have much time for rehearsal, so much of the road time was spent practicing and writing songs...and arguing...and getting drunk. It was like watching a precursor to Almost Famous, one in which Stillwater had yet to earn the status of anyone's opening band.
For Bands on the Run,the band that made the most money (from all the aforementioned factors) won, and that band was Flickerstick. They were the most traditional rock and roll band of the four, they played with the most verve, they had the best original songs, and they had the best singer. I liked 'em. My buddies in my band (which, at the time, was less than a year old) liked 'em, too. The guys in Flickerstick weren't very witty, they didn't stay sober for very long, they argued and fought...but they also knew how to connect with an audience, and their on-stage dynamics were great, and they had a sense of tarnished romance about them, and this tarnished romance and their verve and their dynamics all manifested in their best song, "Beautiful."
Live, the song rocked and rolled most righteously. Brandin Lea spoke/sung the verses confessionally and tenderly, and the band hung back, letting Lea's frazzled vocals connect with all the womens in da club. On the chorus, the band ratcheted up the volume and distortion and crash cymbals, and Lea launched into the power-vocal stratosphere. Amid Harlow's droning gothpunk, and Dodes' popjazz, and Soulcracker's indiesmarminess, "Beautiful" sounded like Springsteen's "Born to Run" must have sounded on FM radio back in '75: it was driving, it was romantic, it wailed, and it seemed as authentic as music got.
Eight year later, I listen to it, and...it sounds more like Boston or Journey or Foreigner than it does Springsteen, and it doesn't sound much different than Three Doors Down or Matchbox Twenty. It sounds like a cross between soft rock and corporate rock, and it's hard for me to pay serious heed to either of those types of subgenres. But back in the day, though, this one had some immediate impact, and part of what's great about rock and roll is its immediacy, legacy be damned, strike while the iron is hot and all that jazz...or all that rock, and this one did, and then the song, and the band fizzled out. Flickerstick broke up in February of this year, and they never had a true hit, and they never became nationally known, but for a year there, they proved Andy Warhol true, and provided those who watched the show a belief that it can be done, and it can be done well, and it can rock, and rock can matter.
NOTES
*This coming from a man who, before marriage and kids, used to watch--on average--fourteen feature films a week.
**I know that reality shows are scripted and formatted, but--for the most part--those scripts don't contain dialogue.
***Don't believe me? Read Shakespeare's Henry IV, parts I and II, and have Falstaff get back with me.
****In some ways--though the dudes from Flickerstick might not tell you this--this was better than winning Idol, for at least with the Bands on the Run prize, one is not stuck recording songs written solely by others, the production of which has no control.
*****Okay, that doesn't seem very arduous, especially on with gas and hotel and phone usage paid for, but $20 per...that's tough...and that's how most musicians' lives are. It's a tough business out there.
Speaking about James Brown and funk and singular instrumentation, I present to you Mystikal and the Neptunes' "Shake It Fast,*" which is almost the inverse of "1 Thing." Instead of letting the drums tell the entire story, here the Neptunes let Mystikal take the spotlight for himself, giving him the sparest of backgrounds to work with, a minimalist and skeletal frame of insular beats and bleeps. The resultant sparse soundscape gives Mystikal plenty of room to sing, rap, and talk to himself, and he does a superb, electrifying job, creating the melody and rhythm all on his own, providing a couple of quotable sound bites ("Watch yourself," and "Don't be scurred")that my students nine years ago shouted to each other again and again. If James Brown were alive and well and early in his career ten years ago, he might have sounded much like Mystikal, 'cause Mystikal--though not an imitator--sure calls forth the Brownian spirit, as he--almost completely all on his own--gets off on the good foot** and makes it funky.
Notes
*I know the unedited-for-radio title is "Shake Ya Ass," but I actually like the radio edit better, because the lyrics on the title and on the euphemisms in the verses flow much better than do the words in the original.
**Yeah, he got off on the good foot, but he didn't stay there, as after this single and the subsequent (sound-alike, and almost as good) "Danger," Mystikal slowly slid off the charts and off the radio, as the Neptunes' reductive recording techniques--though (relatively) innovative--soon drove off listeners. By the time they opened up their sound, Mystikal had moved on to other producers, none of which helped him in the least. His records started to sound mediocre and--worse--dated, and he got left behind, which is a shame, 'cause the boy's got talent. It's a rough business out there, though. As Kool Moe Dee said, it's all about "How ya like me now."
I started playing drums in the sixth grade. Scratch that. That's not right. This is: I started playing drum in the sixth grade. Singular. One drum: snare. My parents and I--in so far as I can recall, and I can't recall much, not accurately, so I may be misremembering (which happens often)--went to a band meeting, and my parents bought me a snare drum. Two other guys bought snare drums, too, and one of 'em could play a roll--that night. I thought to myself that surely, since he can do it, then I can do it, too.
As soon as my parents and I returned home, I opened up the case, set the snare on its stand, picked up the pair of drumsticks that came with snare and stand and case, and tried to roll. I failed. I tried again. I failed. I tried for what I think I remember seems like hours (though it was probably closer to under thirty minutes), and I never could roll. I cried. Not proud of it, now, but yeah, I cried. My parents tried to console me, but I wasn't going to be consoled, for their words could not make me forget that I couldn't roll, and that other guy could. In bed that night, before I went to sleep, I promised myself that never again would I cry openly, and that never again would I not be able to be as good as any of my peers on the drum. Hah!
Of course, I've not lived up to that promise, as I've cried openly since (and often, too), and I've been bested by others in drum competitions (not quite as often). But for awhile, I kept up my end of my vow...at least during the sixth and seventh grades. When I was in eighth grade, I was bested at chair tryouts/rankings by two juniors and one senior, and I was disappointed. Deeply saddened, I believe I cried that night...but not in front of anyone. I put Elton John's Greatest Hits, Volume 1 tape in my Walkman, lay down on my bed, and wept as Sir Elton sang about how Levon's son Jesus took one of his father's cartoon balloons and left his father behind to die. I wept at that song because I thought "Levon" was an analogy of my situation, and that if I didn't win first chair the next time, then it would disappoint my father (metaphorically killing him), a drummer himself. After wiping my eyes, I promised myself to practice even more, so that I could be as good as I thought I was expected to be. The next year...first chair. I was sure of it.
And I was wrong. The next year landed me second chair. The less-than-stellar ranking disappointed me again, but I didn't cry this time, as I was consoled by Rush's drummer, Neil Peart. After the results from tryouts were posted the next day, someone--I don't remember who--noticed that I seemed despondent, and this person told me not to feel so bad, because I'd outranked a senior who could play Rush's "Tom Sawyer" on the trap set. Nuh-uh? Really? Do-tell!
Yup, the third-chair senior indeed could play that most difficult of drum parts (not counting solos) on the set; I asked him to show me, and he did. I was in awe. I asked him how in the world he wasn't first chair if he could play "Tom Sawyer," and he told me that he had natural rhythm, but he just couldn't remember all those rudiments. He then told me he acquired that natural rhythm (yeah, I know, if it's natural, then he shouldn't have had to acquire it, but these are his terms, not mine, and this is also a guy who once told us at band practice to stay parallel with each other while marching by using our "parental vision") by first listening to R&B records--especially James Brown records--and practicing all those syncopated licks over and over again, so that his "right hand wouldn't know what [his] right hand was doing." Sounded like sage advice to me.
I went home that day, and started playing my dad's JB records, and--oh my goodness--I...I just couldn't do that. I'd heard all those songs before, but I'd never really listened closely to the drumming. How in the world would I ever learn how to play all that off-beat, split-time sticking? I grew frustrated, but I wouldn't let myself quit. Nuh-uh. I wasn't going to fail again. I was just going to learn how to play naturally one song at a time. I decided to learn what sounded like the easiest beat/pattern first, and stick with that one until I'd mastered it. That beat/pattern was the one at the end of "Funky Drummer, Pt. 1.," played by Mr. Clyde Stubblefield.
At least four days a week, at home, I practiced that lick, and by my tenth grade year, I had it mastered, and I won first chair, and all was right with the world. I played that lick again and again and again...and the other drummers began mocking me, as they played it, too...again, and again, and again (and how in the world they picked it up so quickly, I don't know). They--we--played it so often, that other band members started playing it, and--other than our cadence--that became our drum line's signature sound. * We--moreso the other drummers than me, and they'd usually do it whenever I'd walk in the band hall (not in admiration, though, nuh-uh, no way)--would play that lick, and soon, other band members would start to nod, or shuffle, or dance. One day, we were playing that lick in the band hall, and the band director walked in and gave us the "Shut up you buncha morons" look (we termed the look thus because after giving us the "Shut up you buncha morons" look he would invariably follow by shouting "Shut up you buncha morons!"), and before he could say anything, a trombone player** told him, "Mr. B___, just let them play that drum thing right there. We don't need no practicing; we just let them play that on the field, and we'll dance, and that's our whole show!" Mr. B___ didn't like that idea (which was offered sincerely) and forever forbid us from playing that in his presence again because "that's not music; that's just drumming."
Ah, but that trombone player knew better, and so did the rest of us, including Amerie. Yeah, I know, she wasn't in the band hall that day, but she might as well have been, and she might as well have been that trombone player, because what he told Mr. B____ is exactly what she told Columbia Records executives when they told her that her song "1 Thing" wasn't radio ready because it sounded--to them--too skeletal. They refused to promote the song, so Amerie and producer Rich Harrison--who should get as much accolades for this record as Amerie does, for the sampled drum part was completely his idea--leaked the song to radio stations across the nations, and when Columbia discovered this conspirational act, they tryied to supress the song, but the radio stations would have none of it, because listeners loved the song. Why did they love it?
Primarily, listeners loved (and some still do, including me) this song because of the drumming. The drum part comes about 2/3 the way through the Meters' instrumental version of "Oh, Calcutta!" back in 1970. The Meters--and they're still around--are a cajun/zydeco/blues/R&B/funk act out of New Orleans (and they're one part Neville), and they provide a key component in the link between funk, R&B, and New Orleans' blues and second-line music. They took what Professor Longhair and Earl Palmer*** and Fats Domino started, added a little JB and a little Booker T to the shuffle, and developed the basis for a goodly-sized portion of the Cajun-R&B-rock/blues style that's played today. The Meters' drummer was Ziggy "Zigaboo" Modeliste, and he combined Palmer's syncopated, shuffle-rock style with Stubblefield's more jazz-inflected**** fills and rolls.
In the original Meters' track, Modeliste's fill plays point/counterpoint with the guitar, a short, rhythmic back-and-forth. Here, producer Harrison takes away almost all of the guitar, leaving mainly just the drum track, and the result is not only funky, but it's also primal. Its primarily (pun only slightly intended) the only instrument on the track, and this nakedness gives it energy, provides it with a fury, an attack, a power often found in African or Native American (more the former than the latter on this track) tribal drumming. With drumming this powerful, what else is needed? Amerie's vocals--and they're good, too, all breathless and urgent and high-pitched, the latter bringing a balanced counterpoint to the bass-y sound of the drums--are just gravy. Gravy's good, mind you, but what's essential is that biscuit. It's what provides the sustenance, the energy to move. The singing's just music, though; it's not drumming.
NOTES
*I was also soon to notice that "our" signature sound--Stubblefield's "Funky Drummer" lick--was also the signature sound sampled on about two dozen-or-so early rap records. Purely coincidental. Promise.
**That trombone player prompted our band director's second most-quoted phrase. We were on our way back from some football game, and the trombone player took a slice of cucumber and threw it to the front of the bus, and the slice hit Mr. B____ in the back of the head. Mr. B____ then turned around, all red and puffed up, and shouted, "Alright you buncha morons! Who--threw--the PICKle?"
***Earl Palmer (who died last year at 89) was a drummer. Prolific, dexterous, singular, and innovative, Palmer was not only an important drummer, he was an important musician, one of the most important ones of 20th century popular music. It's past two o' clock in the morning now, so I'm too sleepy, and I don't have time now to share with you all his accomplisments. Suffice it to say, that one day--in the next five years, if I'm still around--I'm going to compose a list of the most important drummers in 20th century popular music. And on that list, you'll find Earl Palmer. And you'll find him on top. #1. Bar none.
*****Most early (1960s and earlier) R&B drummers were jazz drummers, first.
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