Thursday, February 28, 2002

Grammy notebook. Show joined in progress (I don't have the stomach to watch the entire thing).

8:58. Oh Christ. Jon Stewart is the host.

8:59. Billy Joel and Tony Bennett. These guys look to be about the same age.

9:02. JS comments on the performance, saying "that's unbelievable" with all the emotion of a ten dollar hooker panting "oh yeah, right there". Then he insults Creed. All is forgiven.

9:08. Dave Koz, Natalie Cole and P. Diddy present Best Female Pop Vocal Performance. Talk about an unlikely threesome. Puffy's been relegated to being the token homie presenting this second-rate award while lumped in with two jazz artists. There is a G-d.

If they're going to play only three seconds of the nominated tunes, then why bother playing anything at all?

9:21. 5871 country and bluegrass artists do the "O Brother" thing. This reminds me of the Junos a couple of years back, when 3692 Canadian "urban" performers were packed into a five minute live montage. It's like "OK, we've taken care of *that* all in one shot, now let's return you to the important music".

9:23. What is that oversized Dixie Chick wearing? A curtain??

9:32. Alicia Keys + Joaquin Cortez + orchestra. This is the type of performance I like seeing at the Grammys -- a combination of performers and styles that we wouldn't normally see -- even if I can't see the big deal about AK for the life of me.

9:58. Best Country Song and Album aren't presented on the main show? Are they trying to avoid overlap with the proliferation of country music award shows?

10:03. Bob Dylan and his band perform in a dark corner. You don't need dancers, wildlife, and a stage the size of a football field to make an impact.

10:09. Mother of Pearl! "O Brother" wins for Best Album. I figured this was U2's to lose. The orchestra starts cutting off T-Bone Burnett's acceptance speech after about a minute. OH COME ON. It's the freaking ALBUM OF THE YEAR. One of these decades, the Grammys are bound to wake up and smell 1970, understand that albums drive the music business, realize that this is the most important award of the evening, and therefore start presenting it last.

10:21. Elvis Costello (rightly) points out that Song of the Year is a songwriters award. Of course, 1965 was 37 years ago, so all of the songwriters in this category are the artists themselves.

10:33. Awkwardly sandwiched between tributes is an anti-internet music downloading tirade by the Prez of the Recording Academy. It's so over the top that I figure he's being a bit tongue-in-cheek, until I peer deep into his eyes and see reflections of Shawn Fanning huddling for warmth in a damp cave next to Osama.

10:47. Outkast smash through "Ms. Jackson", a performance which recalls Beethovens' "Pastoral Symphony". Greenness and happy children playing in the background give way to darkness and storms which give way to redness, sunrise and rebirth. This should be Record of the Year in a fair and just world.

10:52. Nelly Furtado sings "I'm Like a Bird" accompanied by Steve Vai on solo guitar. Please reread my comment at 9:32 and reapply here.

11:03. Alan Jackson performs "Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning?" with a giant video screen depicting blue skies and childrens' drawings -- plaintive pictures of burning skyscrapers and American flags. Simple, touching, tasteful, poignant, with no handwringing, patriotic gesticulating, or ex-presidents.

11:08. Jon Stewart ruins the moment with a shameful attempt at a ZZ Top / Taliban joke.

11:13. "So Fresh, So Clean" plays instead of "Ms. Jackson" when the Record of the Year nominees are announced. I predict that Outkast won't win this award.

11:14. "Walk On" wins. U2's worst ever single?

11:21. The finale. I fear excess.

11:25. No excess, just a rousing gospel medley. But you'd think that Al Greens' Lifetime Achievement distinction would earn him more that 45 seconds of solo airtime.

11:28. Show over. The gospel rave-up continues, the credits roll, and the audience does their best to look bored. G-d bless the Grammys?

Monday, February 25, 2002

In 1998, I branded a Skam Records compilation as the successor to 1988's "Techno! The New Dance Sound of Detroit", Virgins' seminal (yes, that's the correct word) collection of Detroits' seminal (yes, again) godfathers and innovators. Boards of Canada, Jega, Bola, and the rest of the Skam crew had made the most original, fascinating, and emotional leap forward in the recent evolution of the techno music form, as different from what came before it as the original Detroit compilation was from the house and electro music of its day.

It wasn't too long before I realized that I had been wrong. Bola's "Soup" was jaw-dropping in certain places (the beginning and the end), but tended to meander toward electronic funk with uninspired results. Jega decided to become the next Aphex Twin, releasing albums of scatterbrained ambition with the main intent of creating genres that hadn't been invented yet -- shave off half the material and you may have a great album. Boards of Canada released a good, but far from great debut (a fixation with the moodscape of Kraftwerk's "Radio-activity" cost them much in the inventiveness category). Now, Skam unleashes acts like Team Doyobi, where yet again, the overwhelming emphasis is on quirkiness, instead of the understated soul and warm soothing dronetones which led me to sing their praises four years ago.

"Geogaddi", the new album by Boards of Canada, is similarly problematic. True, there's an unmistakable beauty in everything they do, as comfortable as a warm hug on a soft rug. But it's often schizophrenic. Of the album's 23 tracks, about half of them are gorgeous, melancholy interludes. But interludes are all they are allowed to be, for they don't allow the heaviness to fully develop into extended tracks. The beats are heavier and funkier than on the debut, but lack the inherent playfulness that made it such an enjoyable listen. I'm certainly not one to complain about heavy music (of volume, mood, or density) but if that's what BoC were striving for, then they didn't fully commit. They'll get funky, and then lighten up a bit (as if to say, "don't get all depressed and upset now, we were just trying to spook you a bit"), and then go dark all over again with an interlude before turning back toward more forceful beats once again. Their overall message is fuzzy -- like the Mona Lisa, are they smiling or serious? Did they decide beforehand? Or are we supposed to do it for them?

Sunday, February 17, 2002

Every once in a while, I catch a bit of 102.1's "Ongoing History of New Music", and within five seconds I am invariably screaming at my radio and damning Alan Cross' ignorance to hell and back. This is both horrifying and fun. Horrifying because (presumably) people listen to this show and actually buy into Cross' version of history. Fun because I could put my brain into deep freeze for 167 hours a week, but thaw out for an hour each Sunday night and still have enough material to spew plentiful amounts of bile onto this web page each week in perpetuity.

This week: Britpop. The Smiths, he claims, were great because of Morrissey's outspokenness and socio-political wit. "This Charming Man" is played as support. First and foremost, Morrissey's lyrics connected with adolescents who abhorred the soullessness of synth pop because those lyrics spoke directly to their feelings of insecurity, angst and alienation. If he wanted to demonstrate Morrissey's obsessions with politics or Oscar Wilde, he could have played "Cemetry Gates" or "The Queen is Dead". Instead, he discreetly plugs the "Ongoing History of Music" CD available in fine shops near you by playing the extended version of "This Charming Man". Knowing Morrisseys intense hatred of remixing and dance music (not to mention the extensive remixing and repackaging of that very song -- has Alan Cross ever heard "Paint a Vulgar Picture"?) it is difficult to think of a worse choice. Later on, he speaks of the Smiths penchant for writing strong three minute singles, but plays the six and a half minute "How Soon Is Now?"

Then, he talks about the Manchester scene, and how the music was highly danceable fodder -- perfect for shaking along with your bowl haircut --, filled with droning organs and psychedelic effects. He rightly asserts that nobody did it better than the Stone Roses, but he clearly had "Fools Gold" in mind, because the above description applies perfectly to that, but not at all to the song he actually played, "I Am the Resurrection". True, Madchester was heavily influenced by acid house, but this was barely evident on the Roses debut. Thanks to John Leckie, the band's trippier exploits were subdued in favour of the 60's flavoured jangle-rock that the Roses re-popularized, at least until the "Fools Gold" (which was produced by Paul Schroeder, not Leckie). All was not for naught, for least he played all eight minutes of this magnificent album closer, although he could have adequately set it up by explaining how every British album released for the next six years was legally mandated to contain an extended guitar epic as its final track because of the example the Roses set.

Monday, February 11, 2002

Hippies, at one point, were arguably the leftist conscience of the musical and political world.

Notwithstanding the (supposed) fact that all of the 1960's hippies grew up to become lawyers and accountants and moved to the suburbs and are now voting Republican, being a hippie in 2002 is about the safest thing around. There's nothing daring or threatening or groundbreaking about being crusty. Standing in a field listening to noodling guitar solos is bereft of inventiveness, it's the same stuff "our parents" did, which means it's established commercial shlock coming to a classic rock station near you.

Monday, February 04, 2002

When I wasn't watching the greatest Superbowl ever, I felt I was watching Live Aid 2002.

Artist after artist after artist, an international spread of talent all paying tribute to the same cause. Suddenly, at around 6:30 PM, I remembered there was a football game to be played.

I'm still not sure why they had the mid afternoon marquee with Barenaked Ladies, No Doubt, et al. It wasn't part of the Superbowl agenda per se, it was solely for the TV audience, and therefore probably just an excuse for Fox to rake in a few extra advertising dollars off the names of celebrities.

It went on and on, as the ex-presidents blasted the shlock factor clear through the roof of the Superdome in their opening slot for Mary J. Blige and Marc Anthony. With all the heavy-handed sincerity surrounding Sept. 11, it sure was nice of MJB to wear that frayed black top so that hundreds of millions of people could see her breasts and be reminded of the truly important things in life.

The extravagance was more reminiscent of the Olympic opening ceremonies, and we'll have an appropriate basis for comparison as we are bound to get the exact same tributes and auras four days from now. Paul McCartney's "Freedom" is actually a half-decent song, and Mariah was welcomely non fruitcakey with her National Anthem. Not even a stupid smile and a pixie-ish wave to the crowd. How's that for good fortune? She gets dumped from her contract, but of course, she's got the high profile Superbowl gig to boost her image and convince people that she's still important. If her career resurges in the next couple of months, don't say I didn't warn you. Mariah could be 2002's Queen.

Finally, the show. U2 put on an incendiary performance, effortlessly recreating the intimate vibe of their last tour, complete with heart-shaped stage and screaming fans. The last I'd heard, they were scheduled to perform three songs, with "Walk On" being one of them. Good for whoever put the kibosh on that, because "Walk On" is ten thousand times less poignant than it wants to be, and if this allowed them to stretch out and play an untruncated version of their best song -- "Where the Streets Have No Name" --, then bravo. I'm not sure why the curtain came down toward the end -- there may have been something in the air, as Fox had loads of technical problems with their bad camera angles and non-synchronous video/sound feeds -- but I'm hoping it was an embarrassing error, because watching that curtain fall made me remember ... and that would be extremely tasteless.