Whenever I’m on the road, something happens to my mind: it wanders with my wheels. On this occasion, nothing cohesive was transfered to paper but a collection of spasmodic sentences were recorded. This is the partial transcript of a life in motion when Murder by Death’s song Three Men Hanging is put on repeat. For six hours.
A liberal consumer of language, she was a thief among phrases.
Callous but tender, she was occasionally graceful; generally she was not.
Acutely thoughtful if not absent minded, she was perpetually aware.
A mindful tutor to imagined pupils.
Always thinking, never thought of.
Near-sighted, far-sighted, all-sighted: she experienced problems with seeing.
For she was a junkyard mutt guarding scavenged treasures too outdated to matter.
Johnny Cash has been a hip topic ever since the man in black found his face in the big screen features thanks to an impeccable performance by that little live-wire, JoaquinPhoenix. And because of that movie we’re probably all familiar with his songs Walk the Line, Ring of Fire, and my own personal favorite Rusty Cage. Addiction, depression, and a whole host of personal demons spawned brilliantly sincere pieces of musical Americana, even if some of his biographical facts were stretched during the making of his mystique. He was tireless and prolific during his heyday, and we most certainly have his wife, June Carter, to thank for the longevity of his creative process. In light of that, what I find most compelling is what he did musically after June left him for those big rock candy mountains in the sky. In the final album released during his lifetime, American IV: The Man Comes Around, you mostly find covers with appearances by notables such as Fiona Apple, Nick Cave, and Don Henley assisting the legendary musical giant. And did I mention it was produced by the accomplished Rick Rubin? Johnny and his talented cast of contributors took music that was already adored, stripped it down to its bare bones, and gave it a sentimentality rarely seen in pop music with any authenticity behind it. Granted, Reznor’s original version of Hurt has soul to spare, but the fragility in Cash’s version is what reinvents the song and makes it more real: reality that can only be conjured by a widower approaching his deathbed, reality that has no home in the hearts of youth no matter the amount of emotional trauma those young years have endured. Gut wrenching blues drip out of every pore in this man’s body and drip all over everything: covering the instruments and their manipulators.
For instance, The Man in Black’s Personal Jesus with acoustic guitar riffs provided by The Red Hot Chili Peppers‘ John Frusciante:
Versus Depeche Mode’s original:
Or how about his version of Hurt
Versus Trent Reznor’s NIN original:
But why covers? That question has stuck in my mind ever since I bought the album when I was a senior in high school. Why not pen odes to your beloved wife’s departure? My guess is that he just couldn’t produce the words to make it right, but knew them when they crossed his path. And maybe, just maybe, he learned a few more things about himself at the end of his life (without the steady, reassuring hand of his wife by his side) by taking the creative output of others and making it his own; not a bad way to leave this life behind, when you think about it. Regardless, it was a hell of a high note on which to end a stellar career.
Go buy this album immediately if you haven’t already done so, and break your own rusty cage.
Your favorite music writer has recently graced the music section of SF Station (www.sfstation.com) in the photograph album devoted to the April 29th Wye Oak concert at The Rickshaw Stop.
I never thought I’d be sitting in a pleasantly grimy bar/music venue, sipping on a non-alcoholic beverage (since I was working a gig) and hear this shouted above the fray: “Has anyone seen the binkey?! We can’t find the binkey!” The “binkey” in reference is, of course, a child’s pacifier (for the child-illiterate). But, as usual, I’ve gotten ahead of myself again; maybe I should take it from the top.
Juanita and the Rabbit isn’t your typical post-punk garage band. The entirety of the band is comprised of Elizabeth and Brett Cline, who play the drums and six-string bass, respectively. And let me remind you: this legally wedded duo kicks way more ass than any of your married friends. Lo-fi to the core, Elizabeth ain’t no wilting daisy behind the kit (a la Meg White), but a full fledged force with which to be reckoned—particularly when she takes the lead during a Motorhead cover (Orgasmatron) and an impromptu cover of Bill Withers’ Ain’t No Sunshine; she truly makes womanhood proud: feminine without being delicate, and as integral to the music as Keith Moon was to The Who instead of an obligatory relegation to the sidelines as a passive necessity (again, a la Meg White). Brett deftly holds your attention on stage with his acerbic wit and nimble fingers, and proved himself particularly adept during my favorite song of the evening, Kick You Out of My Head. Perhaps what makes this band worth following is their ability to take the music seriously, but not themselves. After all, one of their songs is called We Live in a Mutha F’n Van and discusses…you guessed it…living in a van, without a plan, not working for the Man; Chris Farley would be appalled. And they poke fun at the ridiculousness of scenes and their associated acolytes in the song So Hip with the following lyrics: “So hip I think I’ll be sick, and it sure doesn’t help that you smell like shit. So sick you think that you’re hip…” etcetera, etcetera. Long story short: kick ass band, great music, good people. I HIGHLY recommend you see a show or at the very least purchase their new album, which will be hitting the nation’s airwaves in June.
If you don’t believe the veracity of this recommendation, let me tell you the distractions I had to endure to fully pay attention to this wonderful band. I’m guessing the average age of the crowd was somewhere in their late thirties, and they formed a reunion of sorts as they were all friends, or friends of friends, of the bands accrued during a stay in Santa Barbara, I was told by Brett. This is why there was a woman swaying back-and-forth to the music with a beer in her hand and a newborn, wearing aviation-strength head gear to protect its forming ear canals, strapped to the front of her. And there wasn’t just one: she had two…twins. Not the obvious concert image you’d associate with a punk concert, and also the reason I was illuminating the floor with my cell phone looking for a pacifier. This precious moment—baby’s first concert—was juxtaposed with the couple seated directly to my right who were sucking face so violently they frequently sloshed the chardonnay belonging to the woman sitting across from them straight out of her glass. They were WAY too old for that kind of behavior and I was WAY too grossed out. But, in spite of these non sequiturs, Juanita’s badassness shone through and segued into another great band.
1957-D, No. 1
Roger Rocha and the Goldenhearts know how to set the mood. Before they took the stage, autumnal fake flowers were strewn about and Roger Rocha himself played a lacquered white guitar with a butterfly clipped to the peghead that could not be ignored. Roger Rocha is best known as the guitarist for the 1990s heavy-hitter 4 Non Blondes and his flair for ambience may be attributed to good genetics; Rocha is the grandson of one of the pioneer Color Field painters in the Abstract Expressionism movement, Clyfford Still. When describing his artwork, Still details the fusing together of color, texture, images, and shapes into a living spirit, and that’s precisely what The Goldenhearts accomplishes: Rocha’s beautifully pitched yet demurely irregular vocals and impeccable guitar skills fuse with Ari Gorman’s driving bass, Chad Tasky’s delicately bitchin’ percussion, and last but certainly not least Emily Palen’s commanding violin to create music that is a complete entity in and of itself—all you need is here, all you’ll ever want is just waiting for you to find it. One part fifties retro, one part nineties ju-ju and a heaping dose of harmonizing rock ‘n roll, this is how pop music should be played—pop music that expects more from itself and raises the bar. Their set was amazing, and Emily positively blew my mind (plus, I’m pretty sure my two male companions at the show want to marry her) with her unparalleled talents. If their song Kiss Me Darling doesn’t find it’s way onto your top-rated iTunes…well…let’s just say I’ll be surprised and disappointed in you!
At the end of it all, this was one of the best shows I’ve seen in a very long time and reminded me why live music in an intimate venue is something everyone should experience. Which is another way of saying thanking to Juanita and the Rabbit and Roger Rocha and the Goldenhearts for reaffirming that I’m the luckiest bastard in the world to do what I do. So just kiss me darling, stars are falling…
