A 'Prospekt's March' Straight to Hell

I have made it abundantly clear how much I admire, respect, and enjoy the music of Coldplay and hyperpretentious frontman, Chris Martin. That was, I did until November 21, 2008 when Prospekt's March, the accompanying EP to June's masterful Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends, was released. This was, coincidentally, just in time for Christmas shoppers the world over to gobble it up like so many Coldplay-hungry termites. Had they heard the drivel that is embodied in every second of the EP, however, they may have gone with the new Britney Spears disc instead.

Prospekt is nothing short of a Capitalistic farce, created for the holiday season as a means to package VLVODAAHF with the "bonus edition" stamp. Unlike the latter In Rainbows disc from Radiohead's 2007 collection, which greatly added to the original short release, Prospekt makes a complete and utter mockery of everything that Coldplay achieved on Viva la Vida. Three of the eight "new" tracks are just alternate takes from the originally released A-sides. There's clearly a reason that these were scrapped. "Life in Technicolor II" takes the Viva opener, doubles it in length, and adds chintzy and underdeveloped lyrics about Martin's feet not touching the ground (which he also references in the final Prospekt track "New My Feet Won't Touch the Ground," as well as "Strawberry Swing" from Viva).

"Lost + (featuring Jay-Z)" is virtually the same as "Lost" on the original disc, but adds a completely displaced, unoriginal, and dynamically static rap from Jay-Z before the guitar solo. Other than that, there is no feature of Jay-Z or remixed hip-hop beat...just a one verse rap about Biggie and Tupac and things that have been rapped about for the last fifteen years. I don't doubt Jay-Z or his mad skillz, but his performance is a sad attempt by Martin and Parlophone Records to put a prolific name on a song in which it has no place.

The final repeater is "Lovers in Japan (Osaka Sun Mix)," in which there is literally no discernible difference between it and its original "Lovers in Japan/Osaka Sun" from Viva save for some background chanting during the choruses. From what I can tell, there was absolutely no earthly reason to put it on a bonus disc that is already decidedly lacking in bonuses.

Arguably worse than the repeating tracks, however, are the new songs on Prospekt's March. All five tracks are simply lesser versions of songs that were written better on Viva la Vida. There is no reason for a slow piano intro and odd-rhythmed chorus in "Glass of Water" (though it is Prospekt's only redeeming song, if any such thing exists) when you can hear the same art achieved much more effectively and beautifully on Viva's "Death And All His Friends." The other tracks aren't even worth a mention, as not one of them measures up to even Coldplay's earliest acoustic work (or James Blunt's for that matter).

Even more than the release itself, I found the very idea of Prospekt's March as accompaniment to its far superior predecessor to be outright offensive. With Viva la Vida, Coldplay worked hard to prove themselves a band worthy of rock (or at least pop) immortality, but with Prospekt's March they have undeified themselves and disserviced both their fans and the music loving world as a whole. This EP paves the way for other overpaid, cash hungry bands and record companies to try releasing half-assed B-sides as viable bonus discs when the original itself was more than sufficient for an albumsworth of listening. The fact is that Prospekt's March was completed during the Viva la Vida sessions, and Coldplay's record company rightfully decided to scrap those songs. Their ulterior motive, we now know, was to fleece the consuming public into buying an overpriced and underachieved bonus edition of an album that hundreds-of-thousands of gullible preteens and their parents had already purchased when it was worth something back in June. Coldplay owes their fans at least an apology, if not a collective refund, and a promise that in the future they'll stick to their A-game and leave the B-sides on the cutting room floor.

Iron & (Fine) Wine

I approached last night's Iron & Wine show like any other: with a hypercritical mind full of skepticism that Sam Beam and co. could possibly rise to the occasion of recreating the magic that they made on last year's second most addicting album (next to In Rainbows), The Shepherd's Dog. After Beam's so-so solo performance at this year's inaugural Rothbury Festival, an acoustic greatest hits show complete with charmingly sincere and humble banter, I wasn't sure that the album could translate to the full band forum. From the first note, I knew that my doubts were completely unfounded.

Beam took the stage with his acoustic guitar in one hand and his sister, Sarah, in the other, and what ensued were some of the most hushed and tender harmonies that I have ever witnessed two people create. The Beams were so earnest, so genuine in their delivery of the acoustic set, that it was hard to believe that they've played those songs hundreds of times for tens-of-thousands of people. The moment of truth, though, was when the band slowly added themselves to the mix. First piano, then electric guitar and bass. The drums subtly complemented the build, and remained -- as they are on Iron & Wine’s studio work -- low in the mix, a fluttering undercurrent of tom rolls; and finally Sarah Beam picked up a violin and the band launched into the more expansive Shepherd's Dog songs.

And launch is really the way to describe it. The build was slow and steady, and once the band slipped their moors the music shot right into the stratosphere. By the time I&W reached a climax with "Wolves (Song of the Shepherd's Dog)," Beam's electric rhythm guitar was a driving prominent force and the meditative acoustic set had all but worn off. When one heckler called for "Freebird," Beam was tempted to oblige, and even jokingly played the opening few bars to the Skynyrd classic. They mixed a surprising number of the acoustic-tending Our Endless Numbered Days, which they managed to spice up with an especially interesting and instrumentally diverse structured jam on On Your Wings and a heartwrenchingly honest version of Sodom, South Georgia. It is this honesty, Beam's ability to practically reach inside and touch the audience's collective soul and convey his fears joys losses loves heartbreaks, that truly defines him as a songwriter and performer. His voice, while as hollow as the marimba that was on stage with him, has a very distinctive timbre that lends itself well to both his lone wolf and his band leader personae, especially when combined with that of his sister (or, for that matter, her violin and accordion).

Part of my concern leading up to the concert was all the negative press that the venue Terminal 5, was getting. From the poor acoustics, to the deficient soundman, the main complaint was the quality of what came out of the speakers, not the quality of what was being put into them. I stood downstairs across from the stage for Blitzen Trapper's entertaining opening set and watched most of the I&W concert from the balcony with the swaying, less claustrophobic masses, and I can say that from where I stood the sound was very much like any other mid-large venue. Enough to hear the music being made as long as everyone around you wasn't yapping away. I chalk any complaints about Terminal 5 up to the fact that New Yorkers tend to prattle on constantly, even when it's not welcome, and especially during concerts.

When all was said and done, and with promises of a not-too-distant return, the Beams devolved from the complexity of Iron & Wine into their most natural selves. Standing at the microphones, Sam with guitar in hand, they somberly and evocatively sang a characteristically wispy "The Trapeze Swinger," and left the noisy crowd in silenced awe.

The Dirty Mac (featuring Mitch Mitchell)

In 1968, with the Beatles still at the height of their power and riding the wave of The White Album, John Lennon was called upon by Mick Jagger, host of the BBC TV Special The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus, to perform a song in front of an audience. Though The Beatles had not played a live concert in over two years since the inception of sampling and looping during the Revolver recordings in 1966, Lennon took it upon himself to join Jagger's Circus.

The '60s were chock full o' collaboration, and given The Beatles' inability to perform their electronically complex music in a live forum, Lennon decided to be the first member to deviate from the group . Enter: The Dirty Mac. As a play on the ever popular Fleetwood Mac, Lennon formed a supergroup of rockers that has been virtually unrivaled in the 40 years since, save for the Traveling Wilburys. For Dirty Mac, Lennon chose Rolling Stones bassist Keith Richards, Cream guitarist Eric Clapton, and Jimi Hendrix Experience drummer Mitch Mitchell.

It is Mitchell's recent death that lead me to discover Dirty Mac. Despite my penchant for Beatles history and that of 1960s rock in general, the group had somehow slipped under my radar. Perhaps it is because it only had one performance, and it was of a Beatles song ("Yer Blues") that had been released only a few months earlier on The White Album (the band also backed Yoko Ono and violinist Ivry Hitlis for the set's second and final song), but given the amount I've read about the the late 1960s, the Lennon-Ono fiasco, and the subsequent Beatles' breakup, a riveting performance of a Beatles' song by a band other than The Beatles at the height of their popularity seems a rare and exciting event.

What truly sets this performance apart from a Beatles' performance is, of course, the players. Surely McCartney and Richards are at an equal level of skill, and Harrison was, at the time, arguably a better guitarist than Clapton, but Mitchell is leagues better than Ringo Starr. I'm no Ringo basher -- more of an admirer, really -- but Mitchell is pure dirty blues. With his relentlessly hardhitting style, he takes "Yer Blues" to a very different place than Starr did. Mitchell's heavyhandedness lends the lyrical touch that, in this case in particular, Starr's lacks. Again, I mean this not to discount the original beat, which carries the song well, but only to accentuate the appropriateness of Mitchell's harder blues. Lennon's lyrics are some of his darkest to that point, drawing heavily on the pain he felt from his heroin withdrawal (or so the story goes) and intense self-loathing, as evidenced by his screeching "even hate my rock and roll, yes I'm lonely, wanna die..."

After Liberty DeVitto, Mitchell was the second drummer whose style I melded into my own and his work on songs as intense as "Fire" and airy as "Hey Joe" are still very obvious influences on most drummers that play the blues today. Most impressive was his rare ability to capture the musicality of the song and the songwriter, a skill that most drummers would do well to work harder at developing. Whether the rapid eighth notes that kick off Hendrix's "Machine Gun" or the awkward breakdown that comes towards the end of the "Yer Blues" guitar solo, Mitchell was a champion and pioneer of melodic drumming in rock and blues.

Steal This Comic

(from XKCD)

Review: Brightblack Morning Light - Motion To Rejoin (2008)

The latest “indie” craze, folk psychedelia, has its roots deeply entrenched in the history of modern music. The folk is almost never that of the Dylans and Mitchells of the past, but instead heavily references John Fahey’s “American Primitive” movement of the 1960s and 70s; while the psychedelia is, of course, drawn directly from the likes of Pink Floyd and more modern shoegazers like My Bloody Valentine.

On their eponymous 2006 debut, Brightblack Morning Light took the burgeoning genre under their wing and produced a truly soaring psych-folk album that was built on the foundations of their long history with the legendary Will Oldham. The album used exciting instrumentation and percussion from across many styles that, when combined with the repetitiveness that all but defines psych-folk and the breathy harmonies between core duo Rachel Hughes and Nathan Shineywater, make for a genre defying mix of blues, rock, jazz, Latin, and – of course – folk.

The second time around, BBML attempted to repeat the prodigious results of their first effort. And, rather than build upon what had laid the groundwork for a lot of music growth and exploration, they did just that: repeated. The vocal recordings have a distinctly grainy, old-radio, Devendra Banhart quality to them, and the organs, horns, and woodwinds are out in full force. Since Brightblack Morning Light was such an intensely fulfilling album, it is difficult to criticize Motion To Rejoin (Matador, 2008), especially considering the excellence that lies at its heart. It is exactly as one would hope – jazzy, gritty, instrumentally diverse, vocally ghostly, lyrically eerie – but it is essentially an extension of its predecessor.

When I first heard Motion, I was disappointed that nothing new had been posed to listeners. The same repetitions, the same blues cadences, the same droning organ. “A Rainbow Aims” was the only track that I really enjoyed. Upon my second listen, I had found two more: “Gathered Years” and “Past a Weatherbeaten Fencepost.” And, when I sat down to listen a third time, I finally understood the album.

Motion To Rejoin is not a folk album in any traditional sense. The songs are not verse-chorus-verse and there is no acoustic guitar. In fact, the songs are just epic repetitions without structure (and I mean that in the best way possible). What I finally came to understand about the album is that it can’t be listened to as an “album” in the way that we’re used to. Splitting Motion into separate tracks is akin to trying to split the movements of Mozart’s Requiem. They can be listened to separately, but the power of the piece is in the sum of its parts.

The repetition that can often be a little tedious is the same as any leitmotif or theme in classical music. It is meant to be noticed, to ground both the listener and the piece itself. It is the apex around which the rest of the piece or, in this case, the album orbits. The reason the three chord blues cadence repeats in at least four different tracks as the underlying theme is that it is the underlying theme.

In light of my newfound understanding, I gave Motion a fourth listen (and have since given it many more), only to find that each time I enjoyed its repetitive nature more and more as I came to understand its purpose. While at first I reviled the album as a whole because of its parts, it wasn’t until I came to understand how each part worked together that I could truly appreciate the album in its entirety.

Yet, the repetition of a leitmotif, a fairly unusual approach to modern folk music, can get a bit bogged down in itself. “Summer Hoof,” “Hologram Buffalo,” and “When Beads Spell Power Leaf” all get wrapped up in the cadence to the point of dragging. Instead of lulling the listener into the theme, BBML is at times forcing it down our throats. What’s more, the three-chord theme is, while purposeful, painfully simple. The band has a lot of room to either move and fill in space or to let that space ring out, but the simplicity that they chose hints at minimalism that borders on laziness.

The structurelessness of the repetition that makes the songs so epic also leads to a sense of buildlessness, in which the songs don’t move enough but rather stay too comfortably rooted in the foundation of their thematic cadence. The effect is soothing at times, haunting at others, and just plain sleepy a little too often.

The blending of classical leitmotif structure with modern instrumentation and folk stylings is a historically significant event, and it is why I was able to come around to this album so quickly. It is rare that I harshly judge an album on first listen and it manages to turn my opinion in such a short amount of time. The novelty and success with which Brightblack Morning Light has undertaken, composed, and recorded Motion To Rejoin should not be overlooked, even in the face of flawed results.

Bye Bye Blackbird: or An American Folk Song, Eight Decades Later

Despite it's inherently timeless nature, I'm always surprised when music meant for another time and another place can traverse almost a century of culture shifts and make an impact on my life. In 1926, Mort Dixon and Ray Henderson penned the lyrics to the folk classic "Bye Bye Blackbird" and throughout the following eighty years, countless artists, from Ella Fitzgerald to Miles Davis to Liza Minnelli and, later, even Ringo Starr and Joe Clocker (also brethren via "With a Little Help from My Friends") would record this song in their various divergent styles.

The most memorable version for me, though, was never recorded and only passed down by word of mouth. In fact, until this week I was sure that "Bye Bye Blackbird" had just been a creation of my mothers own imagination. It was my bedtime song, for more years than I can remember...at least until I was eighteen...er, I mean...uh...eight.

It has been years since I thought about the song, but as my parents prepared to become "21st Century Pioneers," and achieve the dream -- nay, the right -- of Manifest Destiny set out by our great nation's forefathers by moving to Ye Olde Weste (aka - Santa Fe, New Mexico), I found myself meandering in a dense forest of childhood reminiscences. Disney movies, bedtime stories, The Beatles, nightlights...all things that were most influential. As the hour of my parents' departure approached, the melody my mother used to sing to me as she put me to bed popped into my head, but I struggled to recall the words that I hadn't heard in so long. I remembered "blackbird," but my mind could not stop wandering to the Beatles' song.

"What was that song, mom?..."

"'Bye Bye Blackbird'," she jumped at my question, uncannily knowing exactly which "that song" I had been thinking about.

And immediately the words came back, fitting right into the melody.

Pack up all my cares and woes,
Here I go,
Flying low,
Bye bye blackbird,

Where somebody waits for me,
Sugar's sweet,
So is she,
Bye bye Blackbird.

No one here can love or understand me,
Oh, what hard luck stories they all hand me,
So, make my bed and light the light,
I'll be home late tonight,
Blackbird, bye bye.

So many feelings -- of the warmth of my bed, of childhood, of not wanting my parents to leave, of fear -- came flooding along with the lyrics. The latent memory of the song, and of its sole association for me, once so deeply embedded in the recesses of my mind, were now vividly at the forefront. And there they remain. I walk around all day, humming whistling openly singing my mother's melody. No matter how many crackly old or sparkly new versions I hear, Ella and Miles and Ringo cannot begin to erode the etching of that one melody. Every note of theirs that deviates from hers is a sore thumb. They might as well be singing off key.

There are other songs that hold a special place in my life ("And So It Goes" by Billy Joel) and allow me access to emotional depth like few other things do, but they often come and go as I grow accustomed to the associations they hold for me. "Bye Bye Blackbird," though, will always symbolize something meaningful, not the least of which is my earliest childhood memories and, in turn, my innocence.

Kirtan

A month ago, as the sun set over the Catskills and yielded to the moonless night of a new moon, I sat (not very comfortably) on a hardwood floor in a small capsule of Hinduism. The Ashram was hot, having just gotten its first relief from the beating sun since early the previous morning, and the flies threw themselves against the glass walls in desperate but futile attempts to escape the same baking capsule that I had traveled two hours to enter.

As we stepped into the room, the Swami -- sitting in Lotus position at the front, behind him an elaborate shrine of gold and candles in honor of the blue-skinned Krishna, the monkey-faced Hanumanta, and the long-nosed Ganesha -- began to chant. At first it was a stereotype: "Om..." He and the other Yogis in the room held the mantra for what could have been a full minute. "Om..." again, and this time the cynicism that had arisen at first hearing the oft-misused mantra melted away and I found myself eagerly, naturally letting my voice out to join in the third repetition. "Om..." as I let the Manhattan air out of my lungs and breathed in slowly, deliberately, the warmth and welcoming scents of the Ashram. I closed my eyes to the flashing neon and whizzing subways, and opened them again to a dimly lit temple, filled with lotus sitting seekers, like myself, secluded on a ranch in upstate New York. Once the chanting started, even smells and sights fell by the wayside.

Indian mantras both fascinate and intimidate me. As a drummer, the odd cycles of ancient Eastern music are completely unknown. Several years ago I attended a performance by Anoushka Shankar, and she attempted to explain cycles of fifteen and eleven, which were held perfectly by her tabla player. The tablas have always been a looming interest of mine -- something I'd love to learn but that seems inaccessible and beyond my musical grasp nevertheless. My drum professor in college told me that indigenous Indian tribes often do not allow young musicians to play even a single note until they can clap and vocalize a year's worth of exercises. The logic, which is just as true for Western drumming, is that once you can vocalize a rhythm it can be easily played with the hands.

It is with this knowledge that I remain an admirer from afar of tablas, though someday I will undoubtedly muster the courage to give it a shot.

I digress...

Mantras have been chanted for thousands of years, and when the harmonium ushered in the beginning of Kirtan in the glass walled temple, I felt transported. Not to any one particular time, but rather to no time at all. The "healing power" of Kirtan is often speculated on, often hypothesized about. And from a Western perspective it's hard to believe that the simple speak-singing of words would have any sort of power at all, be it supernatural or personally spiritual. The notion might seem silly, but the act of singing words -- words that I have a gist of, but did not and do not understand the true meaning of -- brought me a warmth and peace that I haven't felt for almost a decade. I may only be twenty-three, but I've had my share of spiritual triumphs and disappointments. I have not had a triumph like this one since I was just a kid, when most of my friends and I grew scientific minds and rejected our parents' representations of One God in an organized religion.

I know I tend to use hyperbole as the norm in my writing, but I could not possibly overstate my first experience with Kirtan. Music moves me often -- lyrics give me chills, minor chords can affect me, and upbeat tempos can make me feel just that -- but rarely does music give me warmth. The droning hum of the harmonium was hypnotizing and had the group of us swaying from side to side, clapping, and slapping tambourines and shakers with the rhythmic cycle. Over the following two days we would repeat this performance three more times after meditation, and each time, as I got more comfortable with singing in Hindi chanted melodies, I also felt more able to connect to what we were saying. This is not to say that my first experience with Hinduism "converted" me to the world of polytheistic mysticism as a belief system, but the power that radiates from the chants is real, and I've felt it in every experience since my first.

Western religious chanting, or "praying," has developed the distinct air of obligation. Words without meaning, memorized to appease a vengeful and fearsome and awesome God who will otherwise damn you to an eternity in the pits of Hell or leave you out of the Book of Life in the year to come. Going to a synagogue or church does not inspire me, nor does it inspire many of the people that I know. Of the millions and billions of religious denizens on this planet, I would like to know how many truly love their God(s), how many fear Them (many may feel both), and how many simply believe for the sake of believing, out of nothing more than guilt or obligation.

I would like to challenge everyone who reads this to try chanting, though I know that it is not something that will enlighten the masses, especially given the heavy skepticism with which Eastern ideas are often met in our society. I can only say that in a city that often overwhelms me with negativity and noise, I found a small refuge in Woodbourne, New York -- and then another at the Sivananda Yoga Center in that city itself -- where I can go to block it all out and get in touch with something a bit more enlightening.

LeRoi Moore

I've just heard the crushing news that Dave Matthews Band's saxophonist, LeRoi Moore, has died from his injuries sustained in late June from an ATV accident. I saw DMB just a few days later at Rothbury and in the presence of the great Jeff Coffin, brushed Roi's absence aside with the assumption that I'd see the band again at some point in the future, and he would be with them then. It was a sad moment, seeing that CNN Breaking News headline with Roi's name in it, and the shock has not yet worn off to allow the full effect of what we've lost to sink in.

Years ago, during high-school chemistry and the height of my crazed DMB fandom, a close friend and I lamented the release of Everyday as a sign to the band's imminent breakup. In the wake of the famed Lillywhite Sessions/The Summer So Far debacle of 1999-2001, our fears centered around Dave's obvious and well-publicized alcoholism and depression, which was all too painfully reflected in his songwriting. Over the years my devotion has mellowed, but my interest and love of Dave Matthews Band's music has not. I callously tease friends who have maintained their undying loyalty, but really I am jealous that I no longer feel as drawn to any music as I once did to Matthews'.

Roi was the epitome of a drummer's saxiphonist. If we're being completely honest, he was much more than a bass, baritone, tenor, alto, and soprano saxiphonist -- he also played the flute, pennywhistle, and bass clarinet. Partially through his own doing and partially through the mastery that is Carter Beauford's drumming, Roi developed an uncanny ability over the past seventeen years with DMB to write horn lines that were both appropriately melodic and subtly percussive, for example on "Stay (Wasting Time)" (Before These Crowded Streets, 1998). Even more percussive were his solos, with which Beauford was constantly artfully matching his syncopated hi-hat rhythms and off-beat snare hits, and which -- in true jazz tradition -- often playfully referenced other songs and solos.

I'd like to say that I'll make good on my self-assurance at Rothbury that I'll see DMB again, but now it will never be possible. No matter how many tours the band goes on or how many replacements they try to fit in, today is the day that Dave Matthews Band is no more, and it's something from which I do not feel at all ready to move on. I wish I had seen the band one week earlier, and what was briefly known as "the best tour since the fabled 2000" is now irreparably marred. As I write this, DMB has taken the stage at the Staples Center in Los Angeles and is honoring their friend, with Coffin filling his spot at stage right now indefinitely. The robust saxman, always shaded and smiling, an almost two-decade fixture on the Dave Matthews Band stage, has left in his wake an unfillable void. And while I'm sure his bandmates will toil for years to come to recreate the magic he brought to the studio and the stage, and fans will argue unceasingly as to whom might best replace the beloved Roi, DMB will never be the same again.

**UPDATE** (8/20/2008)
In honor of the late great LeRoi Moore, here are my Top 5 Roi Live and Studio Tracks from 1991 - 2008. They're all live and perfectly embody his soloing and line-writing styles.

Studio:
1. "#34" - Under The Table And Dreaming (1994)
2. "Spoon" - Before These Crowded Streets (1998)
3. "#41" - Crash (1996)
4+. "Kit Kat Jam," "Captain," "Raven," "Grey Street" - Busted Stuff (2002)
5. "Sweet Up And Down" - The Lillywhite Sessions/The Summer So Far (1999/2000)

Live:
1. "Stay (Wasting Time)" - Listener Supported (1999)
2. "Lie In Our Graves" - Live At Red Rocks 8.15.95 (1997)
3. "What Would You Say" - Live Trax Vol. 2 (2004/09/12 Golden Gate Park) (2004)
4. "So Much To Say" --> "Anyone Seen The Bridge" --> "Too Much" - The Central Park Concert (2003)
5. "Pantala Naga Pampa" --> "Rapunzel" - The Gorge (2004)

All Points West? More like South...

Those of us with festival experience – or should I say real festival experience – were wary about what to expect from the inaugural “All Points West Music and Arts Festival” in Jersey City, NJ. The venue was promising enough: Liberty State Park, the proverbial welcome mat for millions upon millions of immigrants during the late 1800s to the mid 1900s, has iconically timeless views of the Statue of Liberty and New York City skyline, which make up for what the park lacks in natural beauty (there are virtually no trees at all, and the grass runs from plentiful stabbing crabbiness to thin and balding). The “festival,” which did not involve any sort of camping option and had beer drinkers relegated to only five beers at three nonsensically placed tents from which no music could be seen or heard, was plagued by long transportation waits (the only viable options for 30,000 on each of the three days were the ferry from Manhattan or the Light Rail from Hoboken), and even longer entry lines of up to an hour once the more big-name bands started playing in the evening, giving the entire event the vibe of a crowded concert rather than a bustling festival.

Bands were given only one hour to play (plus or minus fifteen minutes), with a half-hour between acts for breaking down and setting up, which was more than enough time for the lower-tier of performers (see examples below). For the better bands (Radiohead aside, whose set ran for over two hours, but was still over in time for the early bird special at 11:00pm, whereas most festivals run until 3:00am), the set times were ludicrously short. Treating The Roots like an opening band by putting them on stage during the waning daylight hours of 7:15pm to 8:15pm is simply inappropriate. The Roots open for no one! They were barely warmed up by the end of the hour and seemed to have at least two more hours of performance left, since that's what their normal shows entail. They are one of the premier musical performers on today's scene and are widely accepted as the greatest live hip-hop band EVER. And All Points West relegated them to one hour, which led immediately into the 8:30pm Radiohead set. I was just as excited as anyone there to see Radiohead play, but making them the only band that plays for longer than one hour is just disrespectful to the other worthy acts. A more apt name for the APW would have been "Radiohead featuring the All Points West Music and Art Festival," and not the other way around. They rightfully received top billing, but at the expense of a longer Roots performance. If acts were overlapping all day, as they are bound to do at festivals, why not give people the option of staying an extra hour with The Roots and cutting down the crowd for Radiohead? I still would've gone and paid homage to the musical gods, but many would have opted to stick with the kings of hip-hop.

Despite all of the unfestive logistical nightmares, the arts part of the “music and arts” festival was a smashing success. The tone that organizers were going for (AEG Live of Coachella and Rothbury fame) was one of environmental responsibility, a theme that I didn’t even know about until after the festival was over and Nate Chinen of the New York Times revealed that All Points West was “expressly full” of “environmental selling points.” All bitterness aside, that green goal, while virtually invisible and unpromoted, is what led to the relaxed and entertaining atmosphere inside the festival. There were water games and modern abstract sculptures galore, and before 5:00pm rolled around, when thousands of people started filing in, there was room to play frisbee and walk calmly from stage to stage. And it's a good thing, because it was impossible not to want to wander.

The music was the most perplexing aspect of the entire affair. Saturday consisted of a few great acts (Radiohead, The Roots, Animal Collective, Sia) interspersed with a majority of mediocre-at-best artists (K'Naan, Nicole Atkins, Chromeo), which were all painfully bogged down by some that were simply unbearable (The Felice Brothers, Exit 105, Your Vegas). The former musicians were all saved for evening slots, which explains the mad rush to get in. The latter two groups, however, were arranged in ascending order by quality (because first is the worst), leaving that calm and pleasantly festivalish part of the day filled with lots of background music, but essentially devoid of any band truly worth sticking around for...hence my gratitude at the plethora of activities (frisbee, photography, art exploration, etc.) at my disposal. In true "festival" form, the pre-evening day was a lovely refuge from the usual hustle and bustle of living in or just outside of Manhattan.

Day and night at All Points West were polar opposites. They were like...well...like night and day. Once the front runners showed up -- that is, those who paid $110 to go to a festival and just show up for the headliners -- All Points West went South. Not musically, of course, because Radiohead and The Roots were in the line-up, but the calm, happy-go-luckiness of the first five hours vanished in a flash of Prada bags (did I just date myself, or are those still popular?) and Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses. Call me cynical (I am) or just plain bitter (I am NOT, you son of a bitch), but those New Yorkers turned my festival into a jam-packed concert, complete with requisite dirty looks, pushing, rubbing, yelling, and "fuck-off"s.

At other festivals, the crowds exude positivity (see my posts about Rothbury) and consideration for each other. Just by attending a festival together, all those in attendance foster a sense of community and belonging that only music can create. I did not find this at All Points West, and I would argue that any festival held in New York City (even via Jersey City) will be hard pressed to maintain that positivity. Most people who live in the greater New York area will counter that All Points West wasn't like other festivals because Manhattan isn't like any other city. I quite agree, but this time it wasn't for the better.

Review: Lykke Li - Youth Novels (2008) - - SCANDIMANIA!

As published on the Princeton Record Exchange Blog:

Fifty years after the “British Invasion,” America is being bombarded from foreign invaders once again. This time, they’re coming by the boatful out of Scandinavia. I’m From Barcelona (but actually from Sweden), Sigur Rós, múm, Mugison, and of course Björk – which all run the genre gamut – have all come out of the collective lands of the midnight sun to grace the global indie scene with their experimental electronic sounds, unique vocal abilities, and vast instrumentation.

Li was born in Sweden and spent the majority of her life hopping from country to country, until landing in New York to record her debut album when she was only 19 years old. Now she’s 22, and Youth Novels, an album that would have seemed far too mature for a teenager, is flying inexplicably below the radar. Li has the soulful and expressive voice of a pre-crack Amy Winehouse and the sexy lyrics of Feist, both of which are perfectly exemplified on “Let it Fall,” and the two make for a very entertaining combination. Björn Yttling’s (of the Swedish indie group Peter Björn and John) impeccable hip-hoppy production perfectly match her raspy soprano. Usually I find spoken-word tracks like the album’s opener “Melodies & Desires” kitschy and embarrassing – especially when it contains such difficultly delivered lines as “You'll be the rhythm and I'll be the beat/You'll be the rhythm and I'll be the beat /Then I'll be the rhythm and you'll be the beat /And love, the shoreline, where you and I meet” – but Li uses her faux-Brit-plus-Swedish accent in her favor and makes the song work surprisingly well.

As many of my peers, I have an inexplicable soft spot for Scandinavian indie music. On paper, a lot of it can be written off as a collection of strange noises and novelty for novelty’s sake (see Sigur Rós), but in practice it gets me every time. Lykke Li fits this formula to a tee. Despite everyone’s assertions of its genius, I couldn’t get into Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black, but Li has captivated me with a lighter version of a familiar sound. The hip-hop, R&B, and soul influence are all visible, but it is her lightened, innocent vocals that really make it worth listening to. She delivers each line, whether heartwarming or heartwrenching, with equal sincerity and maturity, two qualities that will no doubt grow as Li leaves her musical adolescence behind.

Dear Kings of Leon...

I'm sorry that I've balked at the very mention of your name since Bonnaroo 2007. Playing before The Police was a tough spot to be in, and the pressure of the massive crowd must have been simply too much for you to bear, which explains why you put on such a boring power-pop performance on that fateful June day. I vowed to never even consider seeing you again. I swore to myself that I'd go out of my way to discourage my friends from even considering attending one of your shows. And, when I found out that you were playing at All Points West on Saturday, August 9, I took it upon myself to ensure that everyone that asked my advice knew to stay away from the likes of you.

I'm sorry.

Saturday was a beautiful day, with the Statue of Liberty and New York City at my back, and ten hours of music in front of me. We got in early, threw a frisbee around, played some Frog Bog, and enjoyed the small-town atmosphere of the under-attended early hours of the festival. I spent the better part of the day floating from stage to stage, taking in pieces of music that caught my attention and moving on as soon as it drifted. It was a noncommittal day, but the one thing I was gung-ho about was not letting your waves of sound so much as move the hairs of my ears. At 6:30 pm, I thoughtlessly wandered towards the food court that was nearest your stage, turned to my concert companion, and asked excitedly, "Who is this?!"

I'm sorry.

I never even gave you a chance. Sure, I tried your studio stuff and I don't like it that much, but everyone knows, most of all me, that bands are different live. And lots of people seem to like you. In fact, other than Animal Collective, you were the first band that really packed the field. That's rarely how I measure a band, but in this case it was surprisingly accurate. After a day of relatively unimpressive bands, you got me to turn my head. Your drummer, tastefully interspersing cowbell hits with tom fills in the middle of a verse, really grabbed me and put me on my ass, and your bassist not only drove the song but steered me to a nice spot in the grass where I could marvel and eat my $10 hot dog.

So, Kings of Leon, I'm sorry for my doubt and unfounded hatred over the past year. I may be late on the bandwagon, but "Sex On Fire" really, really, reallyreallyreally rocks hard, and I'd be a fool to deny it just because of pride. When you come back to New York on September 23^rd I'll make it up to you in person.

gigs Gigs GIGS!

Just a little administrative update -- from now on I'll be listing my gigs along the right side of the blog, complete with location and time. I hope to see everyone out there on the battlefield, supporting my every move and reveling in my percussive prowess.

Much thanks and love,
Jake

Review: Conor Oberst - Conor Oberst (2008)

In the aftermath of last year's Bright Eyes album, Cassadaga, fans were left wondering if their fearful leader, Conor Oberst, had lost his ability to commiserate and conjure up words to describe the latent teenage sadness that lives in their hearts (speaking from experience much?) The album was a massive disappointment, lacking the simplicity of Fevers & Mirrors and I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning, the complexity of Lifted, the riskiness of Digital Ash in a Digital Urn and, most importantly, the nuanced lyrical prodigality of all three, for which Oberst is renowned.

On Conor Oberst, Conor Oberst's first "solo" release -- or rather, release not as Bright Eyes -- in over fourteen years (since age fourteen), he must walk the tight-rope of having developed two personalities since he first began recording himself in Omaha over half a lifetime ago. One is Bright Eyes, which began as a quavering voice, a lightly strummed guitar, and a tortured young soul. The spine chillingness with which Bright Eyes was able to deliver honest confessions of angst in a breaking, painful bark changed the face of indie music and remained in somewhat the same form until 2006's I'm Wide Awake. The other personality, Conor Oberst himself, loves bombastic blues and southern rock, along with performance-driven jams that make for very entertaining live shows, the likes of which tend to engulf any lyrical ability to the point of unrecognizability and insincerity. If there were any deeply emotional songs on Cassadaga, they were lost on most fans and critics. It's not that the album was bad as much as it just wasn't a Bright Eyes album...it was a Conor Oberst album.

That brings us to Conor Oberst (August 5, Merge Records), an almost-solo album, featuring The Mystic Valley Band, that attempts to blend the dual indie Bright Eyes-Oberst bluesrock personae. From open to close, Oberst is Oberst through and through. The musical simplicity and lyrical symbolism and minutia have returned, and it is clear from the opening notes of "Cape Canaveral" to the closing of "Milk Thistle" that he has not altogether abandoned his Bright Eyes self. Oberst has long been compared to Elliott Smith, and it has never shown more clearly than on "Lenders in the Temple," especially during the chorus "There's money lenders inside the temple/That circus tiger's gonna break your heart/Something so wild turned into paper/If I loved, well that's my fault." The words are clearly Oberst's, but the delivery is distinctly Smithian in its clarity and is virtually devoid of Oberst's previously signature vibrato bleating.

Still, Oberst manages to clear some room for his fresher self, maybe his truer self, in rocker songs like "Danny Callahan," "Sausalito," and "Moab," which are stylistically Cassadaga, but still attain timeless lyrical heights, of which we all know Oberst has always been capable. Even the musically predictable "Get-Well-Cards" is far more palatable than almost anything that appeared on Cassadaga (save for the deeply layered "No One Would Riot For Less"), but still can’t compare to even the meekest plea for help on his first cassettes. He only falters when attempting Spanish (the album was recorded in Mexico) on "Eagle on a Pole," in which he sings "El cielo es azul, just don't go telling everyone." On its own, this wouldn't be a bad lyric, but Oberst absolutely butchers the accent and ends up sounding...well...like someone from Omaha trying to speak Spanish. He isn't all stone-faced this time around though and, as their titles indicate, tracks like "Souled Out!!!" and "I Don't Want to Die (in the Hospital)" almost seem to poke fun at his younger, Bright Eyes self.

Conor Oberst is now twenty-eight years old. He was just a child when most of us fell in love with what he had to say and the beyond-Dylan pain with which he said it. Wide Awake was a reach for the past, and a beautifully successful one at that, and Cassadaga was an unsuccessful grasp at maturing before his time. But with Conor Oberst, he has managed to perform a miraculous balancing act of personalities. Our generation's sage has returned to form, speaking from our hearts through his own, and encouraging us not to resist his growth, but instead to join him in it.

A Rothbury Recap - Part V: Day 4 (Fin)

Sleeping in a tent overnight requires a strategic approach to staying warm, which involves closing all the flaps, pulling up the blankets, and huddling close together. Sleeping in a tent once the sun rises requires a considerable shift in tactics. Flaps come down, fans go on, damp covers are tossed to the floor, and the goal is to generally avoid baking as the sun quickly and unbearably heats the stale air. Sunday was the hottest morning yet (maybe because we hadn't gone to bed until the sun was getting ready to come up), and as it was the last day of the festival, it gave me the same feeling as the last day of college: it all went so fast; I wish I could do it all over again; and I'm somehow ready to move on.

And so, it was with a heavy heart that we ventured out of our stifling shelter and proceeded to break down the tent, pack up the car, and prepare for our long trip home. By the time we'd finished breaking camp, Day 4 was about to begin.

Most of the day was spent at The Odeum mainstage, with an all-too-brief aside at the Ranch Arena for John Mayer (more on this later). It was a day of some of the best guitarists out there: Rodrigo y Gabriela, Trey Anastasio, John Mayer, Warren Haynes, and Phil Lesh all took the stage on Sunday. Rodrigo y Gabriela kicked off the day's festivities with a set of their lightning-fast Spanish classical guitar meets acoustic heavy metal. Other than those positioned near the stage, the crowd was lazy, and the duo would have benefited greatly from a nighttime set that could have gotten the audience more involved. Their fingerwork, which seems impossible on their album and even more so in person, was impeccable. As if to make sure we believed what we saw, cameras were mounted and pointed downward from atop their guitar heads, picking up every intricate slap and scale for all to marvel at. In their thick Mexican accents, Rodrigo y Gabriela successfully woke up the slumberous crowd with such endearingly lost-in-translation phrases as, "I'm going to play crazy music for you now! Later gator." Crazy indeed. Some call it "just finger tapping," but as is proven by their debut Rodrigo y Gabriela, they have a sense of build and composition that other tappers like Justin King just haven't attained. And, in improving upon their record during the performance, both Rodrigo Sanchez and Gabriela Quintero traded long, jerky, often multi-part (though obviously scripted) solos that were simply awesome.

As the crowd poured out of The Odeum by the thousands to go see Colbie Caillat (just kidding, no one saw her...Trey was on next, after all!), we managed to push our way towards the front in preparation for Trey Anastasio's first official performance in eighteen months, following his many well-documented drug-related law enforcement struggles. The audience's mood was unlike anything I've ever experienced. I think the prevailing emotion was sympathy for Trey's situation and simple gratitude to have him back on the touring circuit. Of course, it didn't hurt that Phish members Mike Gordon and Jon Fishman were also at Rothbury, though Page McConnell made a point before the festival to assure fans that the imminent Phish reunion would NOT be happening at Rothbury. Still, the fans swayed and yelled and showed undying appreciation for Trey's release from house arrest. The set was very subdued, with Trey strumming shyly on his acoustic guitar for all seventeen songs. Phish "covers" were the focus, from an opener of Farmhouse's "Back on the Train" to A Picture of Nectar's "Chalkdust Torture" (featuring Phish bassist Mike Gordon), and Gordon was also featured on Anastasio's new tune "Alaska" and the Tom Marshall penned "Backwards Down the Number Line." The smile never left Trey's face, and his sheer bliss at playing to tens-of-thousands of adoring fans seemed to humble him to the point of shyness.

Regrettably, I never attended a legendary Phish concert, but Trey and Mike seemed to enjoy each others' company so much on stage that it made a reunion seem inevitable. This was nothing less than confirmed when Trey teased, "All we need now is a drummer and keyboardist." And they got it when Trey joined Gordon and his band to play during the entire set later in the day, and drummer Fishman guested during the finale on the sloppiest, most disjointed and inharmonious cover I've ever heard...and of The Beatle's "She Said, She Said" no less! It wasn’t a promising three-quarters reunion, and it was definitely unpracticed, but Phish has never shied away from exploring new things on stage. Regardless of quality, it was a welcome impromptu hoedown, and the next time the three are all on stage together it will hopefully be with McConnell, as a reunited Phish.

And then came the moment I'd been waiting for since February. John Mayer was finally getting the chance to prove himself to all of the doubters! People constantly link his arrogance and pretentiousness to their own uncertainty about his pop-turned-blues career, but Mayer was playing a festival, the one place where people are certain to show up with at least somewhat open minds. So how did he capitalize upon this golden opportunity? He started his set early! Though slotted to go on at 6:45pm, Mayer took the stage at about 6:15pm and played a range of his early songs, including the stagnant-since-2002 "Why Georgia" (a great song on the record, a dud live) and the most overplayed song of 2001 - 2003, "No Such Thing." Mayer also performed a weak and sololess interpretation of Clapton's classic "Crossroads," and an emotionless rendition of George Harrison's usually deeply moving "My Sweet Lord," which conspicuously lacked Harrison's proclamations of love and devotion to Hare Krishna. Despite his early start, the only one of the entire festival by any artist that I know of, Mayer was able to redeem himself at times, though they were few and far between. His new favorite tune, "Gravity," had a distinctly fresh feel and soaring solo. Other than that, the blues tune "Mercy," complete with more fiery solos, was the only song that really stood out in the set. And, to add insult to injury, Mayer cut the show short, ending at 8:10pm instead of his scheduled end time of 8:45pm. Again, he was the only artist I saw over four days of music who didn't play out the entire time slot. If you've read my blog before, you know that I am unequivocally a devout Mayer fan, and have never been one of the doubters. I've seen him several times, and was at his first ever blues-trio show in 2004. I know what he can do with a guitar. He has so much control over it, it becomes like his third arm. I also know that he has countless epic Hendrix jams in his repertoire, including "Red House," "Little Wing," Continuum's "Axis: Bold As Love," and TRY!'s "Wait Until Tomorrow." The skeptics in the crowd would have welcomed some hard blues, which was clearly lacking throughout the entire festival, but instead Mayer played to the girls-in-the-front-row types with more pop hits than anyone behind that front row cared to hear. There was a single beacon of hope when Mayer said, just before his premature encore break, that we were a "pull-it-out-of-you type of crowd." My heart leaped. What would it be? Who would come and play with him? Trey? Warren Haynes? What Hendrix tune did we extract from his catalog? He quickly doused the flame when he launched into a studio-replica of his latest chart topping single, "Say," which he didn't even attempt to spice up for the live show. If that's what we pulled out of him -- if that's what he thought we wanted to pull out of him -- he completely misread his audience and made some true mistakes by pandering (like McCain) instead of reaching across the aisle to convert the haters (like Obama). I know Mayer is the type to claim that he plays what he feels like playing and never does things just to impress the crowd, but anyone who prefers his more recent material had to feel very disappointed, as I did, by his performance on Sunday. The only positive of the entire performance was the encore, which consisted of the previously mentioned "Gravity" and "Stitched Up" from Herbie Hancock's duet album, Possibilities.

I left the Mayer show bitter and dejected. Hadn't I driven hundreds of miles to see him play? And he brings me what? Colbie Caillat, Brett Dennen, a bunch of old pop tunes, and two sub-sub-subpar covers of two incredible songs.

I waited near the backstage area, wishing I had a baseball bat, but the coward never showed to fight me like a man, so we moved on to the final concert of the festival. Phil Lesh & Friends, including a sit-in by Warren Haynes for the first handful of songs, provided a fitting atmosphere for the festival's end. The energy was high the closer you got to the stage and died as the more exhausted festivalgoers lay spent in the grass, alongside so many cigarette butts. The vibe was not at all like that during the Widepsread Panic sets, which had had the entire field of thousands dancing on the 4th of July until midnight. Lesh & Friends were smooth and easy to listen to, and the twinkling night sky was a peaceful backdrop. At midnight, after two hours of Lesh and almost fifty hours of music over four days, we barely had the energy to get up off the still lush grass on the field of The Odeum.

As we walked to the car, I couldn't shake that end-of-college feeling. I knew I had a struggle ahead in that twelve hour drive home, and also that I'd had the time of my life over the past four days. When I got home, the first thing I did was reset my countdown clock to July 2, 2009.

A Rothbury Recap - Part IV: Day 3

Having driven 804 miles across the country to a Ranch in northwest Michigan, I found myself completely separated from my ordinary routine. Yet on Saturday morning, I was transported back to my living room couch in Jersey City, New Jersey. I would have never imagined that Day 3 of Rothbury would find me propped in front of a TV, intently playing Guitar Hero. But that's just how Saturday began for me - at the Guitar Hero main stage with a crowd of about 20 others, awaiting my turn for a shot at winning some Guitar Hero: Aerosmith beer cozies and wristbands. We didn't have to wait long, as just a few minutes after arriving in front of the giant Guitar Hero RV I got my chance to play the Black Crowes' "Hard to Handle" against some stiff competition. Following a magnificent performance in which I won, of course, (otherwise I wouldn't be writing about it) and given our utter exhaustion following Friday's festivities, we decided to continue the day by taking it easy in the shade inside of the venue.

The Secret Machines were playing at the Ranch Arena, and we sat off to the side on the lush grass in the shade and allowed the music to provide a background for our relaxation. Their first songs flowed nicely as the early afternoon sun rose in the sky, and as it got harsher, so did their music. They were misfits, like Of Montreal, but their droning guitars and hard indie sound weren’t nearly as pleasant to hear after the novelty wore off. So we retired to a more appropriate shelter from the sun: Big Wildcat Lake.

"Big Wildcat Lake" is quite a misnomer; a more appropriate name might be "Muckbottom Lake" or "Filthwater Pond," but the dock and sand felt good in comparison to the hard ground and trampled grass that we were used to. From the lakeside, we could hear Sweet Japonic playing at the Wagon Wheel, one of Rothbury's only indoor venues (actually a log cabin). Their Allman Brothers sound was perfect for a hot day by the lake, and we sat listening and people watching for a couple of hours. Looking around me, I noticed in particular how many families I saw in the water. There were mothers and fathers on the docks and children doggie-paddling their way through the muck. And it wasn’t just down by the lake. Families sat together in the forest and at the venues. Children played together in the shade with their parents keeping one lax eye on them and another on the stage. Overall, I was stunned at how many young children were at the festival. Rather than judging their parents as irresponsible for exposing them to such a subversive culture so early in life, I found myself admiring their parents’ courage in showing their children how happy people can really come together when they rally around a cause, be it music or environmentalism. Rothbury was a land of imagination, of vivid colors, of men on stilts and women with painted-on clothing, and of strangers being regarded as close friends rather than dangerous kidnappers. For adults and kids alike, the atmosphere was a positive one that is unmatched in the world outside.

Our day continued with some concert hopping: a little Gomez here (an initially boring set that turned into something that I regretted having to leave), some Dresden Dolls there (playing to a small crowd has its benefits -- their energy was astounding for a duo and kept everyone on their feet and cheering), and finally to The Odeum to see Citizen Cope. Cope was hyped as one of the big names of the festival, but his performance had very little production value and wasn't all that attention grabbing. His music is distinctly derived from hip-hop, yet the live show lacked the punchy drums, heavy bass, and sampling (especially on tunes like “Let the Drummer Kick,” which lacked all of its originality) that make the Cope albums so unique and genre nonspecific. All that remained were his irritatingly monotone vocals and a four piece band that struggled to retain the attention of those in the crowd that were not die-hard Cope fans.

Luckily, one bad show does not define a day, or even an hour, at a festival. From Citizen Cope we returned to Sherwood Court to see Medeski Martin & Wood sitting in a tight triangle. How they stay on beat or in the same ever shifting keys is beyond me, but watching them communicate telepathically on stage, treating the vast field as if it were the Village Vanguard or the Blue Note, was far beyond my musical comprehension. Jazz is one thing, and complex enough as it is, but the type of fusion that MMW play is above and beyond the classification of "jazz" or "fusion" and fits into an unnamable category all its own. After they were done blowing my mind, it was Derek Trucks' turn to take the stage with jazz singer Susan Tedeschi behind the mic.

Trucks, a sometimes-member of the Allman Brothers Band (starting officially at age 20, though he had toured extensively with them even before that), is a master of the slide guitar, and his decades of experience even at a young age shine through in every album and every performance. Hazy and exhausted, we laid down on the dusty, hard ground at Sherwood Court, which had been decimated by thousands of dancing feet during the first two days, and were lulled into a shallow sleep in the evening sun. When we awoke, Trucks and Tedeschi were just winding down the set, but I could hear his versatile slide emulating her voice to perfection. I wish that his guitar had been a little louder in the mix, but what I could hear was exactly what I expected. Though I regretted missing any of the set, the nap was much needed. Our night was just beginning.

Dave Matthews Band, a group that I have seen fifteen times now, came onstage with the setting sun at 9:00pm (the sun doesn't finish setting until 10:30pm in Rothbury) and kicked the show off right, with their epic "Seek Up." Guitarist Tim Reynolds is on this tour with them, taking the place of absent keyboardist Butch Taylor, and he served his role well at first. His riffs were short and attention grabbing, but didn't become distracting until much later. During "So Damn Lucky," the anthem by Dave Matthews & Friends (of 2003), Reynolds was given a bombastic solo that encompassed the theme of the evening: over production. Just as their latest two or three studio albums have been far too produced, this show was made into such a noisy and brightly lit spectacle that it took away from the music. The jams were sometimes perfect, as in the highlight of the show, "#41," when substitute saxophonist Jeff Coffin (of Béla Fleck and the Flecktones fame) soloed for at least ten minutes, dancing his soprano and tenor saxes between rhythms and notes, and even directing the rest of the band with him into a cover of a Fleck tune. The band benefited from his soloing, but greatly missed member LeRoi Moore's written lines, which were uncomfortably delivered by his emergency fill-in. Similarly, Taylor’s jazz influence was greatly missed during jams, but his overfilling organ was a welcome subtraction from the rest of the mix. Dave's energy and wit, now cornerstones of the DMB experience, kept the mood light, as demonstrated by his mid-set quip that after the show he planned to sit in the hammocks in Sherwood Forest and "try to touch the moon with my tongue."

The only way to spend Saturday night at a festival, prior to touching celestial bodies with your tongue, is to experience a blowout four-hour set from Sound Tribe Sector 9 (STS9). At midnight, lasers and laptops blazing, they stepped in front of the eager, dance-ready crowd. STS9 is a powerhouse band -- not just because of their five immensely talented members and carefully crafted songs (which often have upwards of four revolving parts) -- but because each member also runs his own samples through a laptop or, as with the drums, a trigger system. Just like Thievery Corporation the night before, STS9 seamlessly blended many different genres from across the globe with American hip-hop, funk, and rock styles (and even some British trip-hop) to create the most danceable music I've ever heard. On top of the music, the show's lightshow and glowstick wars created a visually stunning effect unlike anything I've ever witnessed. Seeing hundreds of thousands of glowsticks fly through the air every time a song changed was like the most head-turning, eye-popping iTunes visualizer imaginable. The party raged on until the wee hours, and at about 2:45, after well over twelve hours of music that day, we headed to bed.

With similarly captivating artists A3 and Crystal Method playing just across the forest, though, STS9 had a constant flow of 40,000 Rothbury attendees at their mercy until 4:00am, when they finally capped their set and sent the exhausted masses back into the forest (only some went back to their tents) for a brief sleep before Rothbury's last day.

Tomorrow - Part V: Day 4!

A Rothbury Recap - Part III: Day 2

"Let's detoxify so we can retoxify..."

And so began Day 2, in a massive yoga class on the grass under the Tripolee Domes. It was a fairly advanced group, and very willing to exert a surprising amount of effort at 10:00am on the day following many road (and acid) trips. I haven't gone into crow pose in years, and my travel-weary body and involuntary groans made me feel geriatric next to the spry hippies that so easily levitated themselves onto their hands.

Feeling physically and mentally ready for the day, there was only one place to go: shopping. The campgrounds and venue were riddled with art booths, clothing shops, smoke shops, glass art, food stands, incense makers, and various other hippie-wares. I got myself a fresh bandana, and then it was on to our next stop: the main stage.

Friday was a day spent at The Odeum, enjoying some of the biggest acts that Rothbury had to offer (so was pretty much every other day). The Wailers kicked it off for us, and what I thought would be a big thrill ended up generating about as much energy as a speech by John McCain (ZING!). Don't get me wrong...it was fun to see Marley's band up there, playing his songs and channeling his art, and they did so just as well as they ever have. "I Shot the Sheriff" sounded as timeless as it is, and the crowd reacted very favorably to the Wailer's Marley-filled set. But the performance reeked of The Police at Bonnaroo 2007, full of call-and-response time wasters and other audience participation exercises that are targeted primarily toward either a) the front row or b) everyone over the age of 50.

We left after The Wailers’ set to go see Sam Beam (of Iron and Wine), who was playing on the smaller main stage at the Ranch Arena. He was stoned...very stoned. His complex play was a little sloppy, and he stumbled over his words a few times; but he took his mess-ups in stride, casually joking with the crowd about his altered mental state and putting on a jovial yet emotional solo acoustic set. I'm not sure why he was booked without the rest of Iron and Wine, but coming off of the sensational The Shepherd's Dog, I'd like to see them do some full-band performances at future festivals. While Sam Beam is inarguably the driving force behind the band, and his songs were charmingly intimate during the solo set, they lacked all of the umph that makes them so memorable and riveting on the album and in most live shows.

Before Beam was able to finish his set, we ran back to The Odeum just in time to see Snoop Dogg, aka Snoop Doggie Dog, aka Snoopaloop, take the stage via a gleaming white motorcycle. He looked -- and I would have expected nothing less -- absolutely obscene in long black shorts, a white t-shirt, and roughly six tons of chains and rings (aka "bling"). His MC was screaming things like "Biotch" and "Can I get a Hell yea?" at the top of his lungs, and continued to do so on the last beat of every song during the performance. From "Gin and juice" to "Nuthin' but a G Thang" to "Drop it Like It's Hot," the hits just kept on coming. Now, I could easily go on a rant about how they all sounded EXACTLY THE SAME (which they did) or about how ridiculous it is to have a grown man yell "BIOTCH" (which was amplified further by an echo effect) to end every song. But I'm not going to. What I am going to rant about is the fact that on at least eight separate occasions, Snoop Dogg and his MC referred to the Rothbury crowd as East Lansing – as in "Wussup, East Lansing?!" or "How ya'll doin, East Lansing?" or "Yo, East Lansing, it's 4:20...who wants to see Snoop light this huge blunt and smoke it in front of ya'll?" (We all did, of course.) There was no evidence that Snoop and his posse had any clue where they were. The festival, called the Rothbury Festival, located in Rothbury, Michigan, is over 100 miles away from East Lansing, where Snoop 'n Crew were scheduled to play later in the week. There's no better way to lose the respect of a crowd than to hilariously and continually refer to them as a place that they're not in. Luckily, everyone was just as high as Snoop, so no one seemed to mind.

The most glaring aspect of Snoop's performance, aside from his complete lack of geographical sensibility, was the overabundance of white people at the Rothbury Festival. From on stage, Snoop must have been completely disoriented as to his whereabouts because of the glare from all the sunscreened, sweaty, hippie-dancing white people...so that should accurately explain his East Lansing confusion.

In a day of headliner after headliner, the next up was one that I looked forward to seeing for only one reason: so I could confirm my already staunchly held beliefs that they are the most overrated band since Nickelback. I am talking about none other than hard-rock-jammers 311. I have never understood what is at all enjoyable or redeeming about 311 and, aside from the mildly pleasant "Amber" (which fans tell me is like the ever-irritating "Crash" to their Dave Matthews Band), I'd honestly rather puncture my eardrums beyond repair than listen to a single note. And a single note is about all I needed. We stayed for two songs before retreating to the shade of the forest around the Ranch Arena to hear Jon Fishman (of Phish) play with Yonder Mountain String Band.

Bluegrass is a strange animal. There's something very eerily Confederate about a banjo and washboard, though there's also something pleasant and provincial. At a festival, it is decidedly the most versatile music, as it is both danceable and kick-backable. It was so kick-backable, in fact, that we fell asleep in the grass after a while and soon decided to move our slumberous party back to the tent for a nap and some home-grilled veggies (it was an added incentive that the in-venue meals were a baseball-stadium-minimum of $7).

We ate and slept for a bit longer than we'd planned, and got back in time to catch the end of Widespread Panic's first set (the perfect appetite whetter), the middle of Of Montreal's overlapping set (indie-rockers to whom I didn't pay enough attention due to my anticipation of the next set), and the entirety of Widespread Panic's second glorious performance of the night.

I'd never seen WP before they closed out Bonnaroo last year, and I was so exhausted by then that it was all I could do to stay awake long enough to make it to their show, let alone actually pay attention. This time it was different. It was night 2, it was July 4, it was set 2, and we were fresh off a nap. If you've never listened to Widespread Panic, that's OK, but if you've never seen them perform you're really missing out. As proof of the incredible show, I offer the following anecdote:

I don't dance. Ever. I'll bob my head and tap my feet, but I'll never get the arms involved, and I'll never EVER turn or spin or cause myself to move in such a way as to risk losing my balance. But from 10:30pm - midnight on July 4, 2008 I could not stop dancing (yes, hippie-dancing, but still!). And I wasn't shy about it either. It started out innocently enough: I looked to my left, saw a beautiful lady, and started to dance with her. We laughed, and my urge to gyrate briefly subsided. Then, as I reached down to pick up the glowstick that had just hit me in the back of the head and position it snugly between my fingers, I began to stir once again. This time it wasn’t with a girl, but with the music. I've never had that urge, and over the course of the next two days I would try to recreate it often, and fail each time. But for 90 minutes on the anniversary of the day our country was born, I learned that sometimes you just need to let go of your inhibitions, grab a couple of glowsticks, and do what feels good. No drug can compare to the euphoria that I felt just swaying and turning and flailing to the music.

That being said, Widespread Panic gets my award for Best Band of the Festival. Everyone expected it, as they're true veterans of the festival circuit, but the performance exceeded my hopes even having already experienced them. Something special happened out on the field of The Odeum that night, and the collective joy and excitement of the thousands in attendance was celebrated in the only way possible: at the exact moment that Widespread panic hit their final note, the sky over the main stage exploded with midnight fireworks. There's nothing Americans love more than getting together to listen to music, eat a lot, litter, do drugs, and blow shit up high in the sky. And baby, we had it all!

After the fireworks, Rob Garza (drum machine) and Eric Hilton (processing and effects), the leaders of Thievery Corporation, took to the Sherwood Court stage in front of what appeared to be the largest crowd that any band had yet seen. The atmosphere was electric, and we were rammed right into the middle of it all. I made a point of noting how many different genres of world music Thievery evoked during their massive set, and when I looked at my notepad after the show, I'd written the following: India, Brazil, Middle East, Reggae, Rap, Latin, Hip-Hop and Japan/China. But their genres more generally encompass jazz, dub, and a mix of classical sounds from the styles and nations mentioned above. In describing the borderless global bliss of a Thievery Corporation show, I defer to my own expertise on the subject. This time around, they were playing to a crowd at least ten-times the size of the 9:30 club, and they came into Rothbury as a dark horse for “Best Performance.” The buzz the next day said it all. Thievery put on THE surprise performance of the festival, pleasing clubbers and jammers and Sherwood Forest dwellers alike. The bass was soul-piercingly loud in a way that made my heart beat along with it, and the glowsticks, which were flying high by the thousands, let me know that my fellow Rothburians felt the same way. Most impressive was TC's lineup on stage, which consisted of (in addition to Garza and Hilton) two percussionists (one on bongos and accessories, and one on congas), a sitarist/guitarist pulling double duty, a bassist, and alternating singers: one for Middle Eastern pieces, one for Hindi pieces, one for Brazilian and other Latin pieces, and two groups of three rappers and Rastas for -- you guessed it! -- rap and reggae. Oh and there was a belly dancer for good measure.

We were transfixed from start to finish, and when the show was over at 2:00am, though the dance parties would rage on into the morning, there was nothing for us to do but go to bed, in the hopes that Day 3 would provide us with even a fraction of the awe-inspiring music that did Day 2.

A Rothbury Recap - Part II: Day 1

A festival is a lot like a marathon. But instead of running 26.2 miles, it involves staying up for 17 hour days, braving the hot sun, and attending 14 hours worth of concerts each day while, for some people, drinking and doing loads of drugs. Both are physically and mentally draining, and both often involve pushing your lungs to their full capacity (from dancing…obviously).

Day 1 of Rothbury really set the tone for the whole weekend. We kicked off our musical experience at the Tripolee Domes with a funkysmooth performance by Underground Orchestra. They quickly got us in the mood to groove, but with so much else to see, we couldn't in good conscience stick around for too long. During our explorations we came across the intensely magical and captivating Sherwood Forest (complete with a "secret stage" for acoustic performances), climbed into some hammocks (available to all who could grab one before the masses found out about them), and listened to the Kyle Hollingsworth Band (of String Cheese Incident fame) for a while. I'd never heard him without the rest of String Cheese before, but his use of Latin rhythms and instruments drew us close to the stage like flies to the Porta Pottie. By the end of the show, we had abandoned our nymph status and taken to the Sherwood Court stage to see Hollingsworth finish out a surprisingly jazzy and worthwhile set. He's a priority for me the next time he's in town.

From there, we moved to the Ranch Arena, the smallest of the three main stages, but the one most surrounded by lush green forests and easily accessible shady spots. We arrived just in time to catch the start of Zappa Plays Zappa, the aptly named band that is headed by Dweezil Zappa, son of the late great Frank Zappa. The songs are all his father's, and if you've never heard Zappa before I can only describe his music as complete and utter insanity...in a good way. Each song is carefully and dissonantly orchestrated, and has multiple "characters," which are each portrayed by Zappa and other band members putting on different voices. I had only dabbled in his early prog-rock before this, but I've already downloaded his "Best of" album.

It was around this time that the exhaustion of a 12-hour car ride, music-and-sun-filled day set in, and we had to make our most difficult decision of the festival: to skip the Disco Biscuits. I've heard incredible things about their live shows, and the next day people were buzzing with excitement about how they had electrified the crowd. Luckily, it was the only major act of the festival that we skipped, and it was a wise decision to pace ourselves on the first night. Besides, the Biscuits will be in town sometime soon I'm sure, and I'll be more awake than I ever could've been after the driving, setting up our tent, and then taking a two hour nap in the sun (just let me rationalize, please).

Instead of the Biscuits, we retreated to the Tripolee Domes to see Lotus play their signature electro-trippy-jam band set for the (relatively) small crowd that had gathered. In my zombified state, I can't say I was conscious enough to really appreciate and enjoy it as much as I have previously enjoyed listening to their tunes, and after about a half hour of half-dancing, half-swaying to the music we couldn't take it any more...we retired to our luxurious tent, complete with queen-sized mattress, to sleep off the drive and prepare for three fully packed days of music.

Tomorrow - Part III: Day 2

A Rothbury Recap - Part I: The Mission

"Rothbury is committed to harnessing the spirit of the music festival community into a durable social movement. Rothbury is created by people who are passionate about music, and about live music in particular. We are captivated by the unique experience that a perfect musical moment offers; when we transcend beyond individuals and into a collective. It's a connectedness that invites palpable inspiration and real opportunity to create a lasting change. This is the Rothbury mission."

A twelve-hour car ride from DC, through Maryland, West Virgina, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Michigan, including a 9-hour-plus chronological discography of The Beatles (a la the trip to Bonnaroo 2007), thunderstorms, fireworks, coffee, and Cheez-its...

Thus began a journey to the Double JJ Ranch in Rothbury, Michigan. In its inaugural year, the Rothbury Festival 2008 set out to improve upon the modern festival's massive environmental impact and, even further, on the festivalgoers’ overall consciousness of our collective and individual environmental footprints. Rothbury’s goal to "throw a HUGE party...with a purpose" showed through in every aspect – from the hundreds of composting and recycling bins, to the sugarcane and corn-based cutlery (compostable), to the pocket ash trays, to the use of clean energy and carbon-offsetting, to the daily Think Tanks with popular artists...You can find the entire extensive and impressive commitment here: http://rothburyfestival.com/festival/our_commitment.php

Thousands of tons of garbage and millions of tons of cigarette butts are generated each year at Bonnaroo, Lollapalooza, et al., and given the current hot-button issues of climate change/global warming/overall planetary destruction via human ignorance and ineptitude, Rothbury attempted something truly valiant: get a bunch of people together who talk the talk, and get them to walk the walk.

Despite the environmentally sound premise, Rothbury was a party and festival first, and a forum for social change second. For four days in early July, upwards of 50,000 people from all 50 states met on Michigan's west coast and partied hard. Drugs were overabundant, beer and liquor flowed from dawn to well beyond dusk, and glow sticks littered the air and ground in the hundreds of thousands. (I'll get to the music in due time – see Parts II – V, soon to come, for day-by-day breakdowns.)

Producer Jeremy Stein and Madison House worked hard to follow through on their promises of eco-consciousness and thoughtful celebration, and people seemed willing to comply at least with the simplest aspects of enviro-friendliness. Listening to artists speak during Think Tanks, properly disposing of waste in compost and recycling cans, and making do with the mere one napkin that came with each food purchase came easily to the masses. But cigarette-butts, used glowsticks, and Nitrous Oxide balloon waste were rampant in the campgrounds and the venues.

I was surprised to see how easily people made small adjustments, but also how difficult it was for us to stop our own self-destructive behaviors at the behest of our environment. I'm not sure that there's a remedy for the Nitrous balloon problem (other than...not inhaling Nitrous from balloons or even (GASP) throwing them away after using them?), but the aforementioned ash trays were not as accessible as they could have been. If the festival provides an ashtray to every participant upon entering the site next year, that will be one less thing – or, rather, thousands fewer things -- they'll have to clean up.

For a first-year festival, the organizers did well to provide enough shade (via "Sherwood Forest" and tents scattered across the site) and interactive elements (creating "recycled" artwork over the course of the four days, providing batting cages and other sports, having a Guitar Hero RV...the list could go on for days) to keep the entertainment-hungry crowd more than occupied. Between six stages (and one secret stage in the forest), hundreds of organic food and clothing shops, and spinning monkeys (you'll have to attend next year to figure that one out), even the most weathered and cynical festivalgoer was entertained and swept up in the Rothbury moment.

I hardly consider myself a wily veteran when it comes to music festivals. This was my second, and almost certainly not my last. The "come as you are" and "love everyone as you love yourself" vibe was spiritually infectious, to the point of non-drug-induced euphoria. I only hope that Stein manages to keep the same feel for next year's festival (which is confirmed in the planning stages as of today). Rothbury is undoubtedly a new institution in American music festivals, and it has improved on key components that other festivals lack: fantastic weather, environmental sustainability, and four days of non-stop, mindblowing music.

Tomorrow -- Part II: Day 1

Rothbury Music Festival

So, over here in my world June is known as "Slacking Month," and so I wasn't allowed to post more than one blog entry. But July is going to be known as "So Many Blog Posts That I Almost Get Fired" month. Tomorrow begins a new adventure in American Music Festivals called Rothbury.

It's taking place in Rothbury, Michigan at the Double JJ Ranch (along the west coast) from Thursday 7/3 - Sunday 7/6. The acts are too awesome to even name here, but you can check it all out at rothburyfestival.com.

The festival itself is being run a bit differently from the usual drugs-and-booze-and-garbage fests, of which I only have firsthand experience with Bonnaroo. I can attest to the mountains 'pon mountains of garbage that are generated at these things, and for Rothbury to attempt a sustainable, no-carbon-footprint 4 day festival is something that has thus far gone under the radar, but I hope will change the way these festivals are run. The music is some of the best I've seen in a single lineup and the people that it's drawing seem to be of a different breed than the...how should I put this...less conscious crowd of festival goers.

Upon my return on Tuesday, you can expect an onslaught of concert reviews and day-by-day festival recaps and new music reviews, oh my! I wish you all a happy 4th of July and an excellent weekend...stay tuned next week when I open the gates and the wordflood begins!

Review: Coldplay - Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends (2008)

A wise man once said: "Opinions are like assholes..." Because they stink? Because everyone has one? Maybe both, but either way it's true. And never has it been more true than when those opinions pertain to one of the most polarizing bands around, Coldplay.

Ask anyone between the ages of 10 and 30, and they undoubtedly have some feelings on the subject. "I don't love them, but their early stuff was OK," or "I think Chris Martin is a pansy who sings about his feelings too much," or "I think Coldplay is great because they're like Radiohead without scaring me" are all common responses, though I agree with none of them.

For almost a year, Coldplay has been touting their fourth album, Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends, aka - Viva la Vida, as a major "change in direction" from their earlier work. Though the claim has been pretentiously contested by the underground media (see: Pitchfork's bitter review), it seems futile to argue with the band's own motivations. Who are we to argue with Chris Martin when he says the album is a departure? Rolling Stone superficially noted the album's "darker" and "more interesting" nature (whatever that means), and I have to agree more with our mainstream friends at RS. Amidst all their name-dropping and hyper-critical-mainstream-hating, Pitchfork has forgotten one important thing: the album is different from anything Coldplay has done before. They aren't claiming to have invented a new genre or even pushing an envelope. Simply put, Coldplay set out to follow up 2005's X&Y with something that would sound vastly different from its predecessors. And, in the best possible way, they did it beautifully.

Like Radiohead's In Rainbows, Viva la Vida blends electronics and high production quality with minimalist ideals, which is impressive coming from a band that had previously shown movement in the opposite direction. The crowdedness of X&Y and A Rush of Blood to the Head is a thing of the past, and it has been replaced with dissonance ("42"), unusual percussion ("Violet Hill"), and unique instrumentation ("Yes/Chinese Sleep Chant"). Martin has admittedly opted to take it easy on the falsetto this time around, a humble shift for a man who clearly enjoys pushing his voice as high as it can go, and the change works greatly to the band's advantage that the illustrious singer's lower register lends itself well to the smoother, finely crafted songs on Viva la Vida.

More subtly, though, Coldplay has parted ways with the structures that held them back in the past. No more are the ABABCBs (most notably "Yellow" and "Clocks"), but instead lengthy epics that flow nicely into one another. Co-title track "Death and All His Friends" starts as a piano ballad, but at about 2:00 it elevates to trademark Coldplay piano-guitar matchups (in 7/8 time, no less), climaxes as 3:30, and electronically outros with a reprise of the album's intro, "Life in Technicolor." If the album were on repeat, it would be completely unclear where it ends and where it begins, and this is just the sort of thing that is so different and progressive when compared to the trilogy of popfests that constituted Coldplay's first three albums.

Not every song is a revolution in Coldplay's musicmaking career, but they all work so well together it's hard to believe that Viva la Vida isn't a concept album. For example, "Lovers in Japan/Reign of Love" is a weak point because, while it sticks to the unstructured-epic criteria (soaring rock tune turns piano ballad), the next track is the instrumentally exciting (but vocally boring) "Yes/Chinese Sleep Chant," which wouldn't be nearly as enjoyable without a more X&Yish Coldplay song to lead into it.

What Coldplay has admirably done is to ensure the comfort and security of a pop-driven fanbase, while at the same time venturing into new territory. It's not so far "out there" as to alienate anyone, but it is enough of the intended departure to win over some of the naysaying skeptics that inevitably doubt anything that sells more than 100 copies upon its independent release.

I've been on the bandwagon since Parachutes, and I'm not ashamed to say it. I don't know who first compared Coldplay to Radiohead and U2 -- as if the two are themselves similar in any way -- and made the decision that we're only allowed to like one or the other, but I implore everyone who has written Coldplay off to listen to Viva la Vida and give them the chance that they changed for. As Martin sings in "Death and All His Friends," Coldplay has long dreamed of making an escape from the pigeonhole that they have been stuck in for almost a decade. Now that they've moved past their self-termed Trilogy, and in truly grand fashion, we should all do the same.