Who Knew That The Black Crowes Could Swing Like This?

Music Review: The Black Crowes - Warpaint Live

I have to admit that I really like the way that the Black Crowes have reinvented themselves by embracing their southern roots since reuniting back in 2005.

As evidenced by last year's excellent comeback record Warpaint, the Robinson brothers have all but shed the big arena-rock trappings of their Shake Your Money Maker days, by becoming more of a modern-day southern-fried rock 'n' soul band.

In much the same way that the old Crowes wore their Faces and Humble Pie influences proudly on their sleeves, the current incarnation of the band threads a similarly fine line between the blues and gospel feel of Exile On Main Street-period Stones, and the more down-home feel of someone like Delaney & Bonnie Bramlett.

What the Crowes did with Warpaint was resurrect the way that the original southern rock sounded, long before it was hijacked by all those seventies bands trying to sound like the Allman Brothers or Lynyrd Skynyrd. In the process, they also resurrected themselves as a band, with the results speaking for themselves.

As much as I liked Warpaint though, I also have to admit that the album didn't really stick with me all that long. As much as the Crowes succeeded in putting the soul back where it belonged in any self-respecting southern rock stew, the songs, with few exceptions, just weren't all that memorable.

On Warpaint Live, the Black Crowes bring those songs to the concert stage, along with a few well-chosen covers like the Stones' "Torn And Frayed," Delaney Bramlett's "Oh, Elijah," and Eric Clapton's "Don't Know Why" (the latter two of which, not coincidentally, were concert staples for the Bramletts when Clapton was part of their touring band). In doing so, the Black Crowes give rise to their southern roots in such a way as to suggest that this may the real Southern Harmony And Musical Companion.

What makes Warpaint Live such a better album than its studio counterpart, is the way the Robinson Brothers allow these songs to be stretched out in a live setting. The Crowes don't exactly burn down the house the same way they did on their 2006 Freak And Roll - Live At The Fillmore album. But they do breathe new life into the songs from Warpaint mainly by turning them into launchpads for the band, and in particular guitarists Rich Robinson and Luther Dickinson.

Kicking things off with a gnarly-sounding "Goodbye Daughters Of The Revolution" (one of the better songs on Warpaint), the Stonesy riffing of the original is still front and center, but the band is given a lot more room to do their thing. Rich Robinson's slide guitar is just as prominent -- and sounds just as good. But keyboardist Adam MacDougall rides shotgun to Rich the whole way, sounding for all the world here like Nicky Hopkins in his prime. The rest of the band, who've often been known to play it loose and sloppy in concert, sound as tight as an oil drum here.

On "Walk Believer Walk," Chris Robinson belts out the lyrics with all the zeal of a southern baptist preacher. Meanwhile, brother Rich plays the slide parts down and dirty, as MacDougall's organ swells rise and fall in wave after wave. The effect here is one of a band that actually sounds more inspired, and certainly much fuller on the stage than in the studio. Rich in particular has never sounded better.

On "Wee Who See The Deep," the riff sounds as suspiciously close to a slowed-down version of Chicago's "25 or 6 to 4" as it did on the Warpaint album. But again, from Chris's vocals to MacDougall's keyboards, the song comes off as so much more of a complete band effort that it's not nearly as noticeable. Drummer Steve Gorman and bassist Steve Pipien lock into a filthy groove; the guitarists get into a particularly tasty little bit of axe-dueling here.

On "Locust Street," Chris starts off by summoning the spirit of Mick Jagger doing "Wild Horses," before the band eventually brings things home with an arrangement that not only recalls the Stones, but also incorporates ample helpings of both gospel and the blues. On "God's Got It," Robinson again channels Jagger, but this time it's the Exile On Main Street model.

On "Movin' On Down The Line," Chris shakes his money maker on the harmonica, and with the aid of backing vocalists Charity White and Mona Lisa Young sounds grittier, and dare I say funkier than one would have ever thought possible. Who knew that Chris and the Black Crowes could swing like this?

For the second disc, the Black Crowes go into "tent-revival meeting" mode for a gospel-driven cover of Delaney Bramlett's "Oh, Elijah" that soon segues into "Tribute To Johnson." With the church choir backing vocals, the only thing missing here are the hallelujahs and amens.

Clapton's "Don't Know Why" is given a similarly southern-fried treatment, only with a little bit of the blues mixed in with the gospel. On the Stones "Torn And Frayed," the Crowes do the whole Keith Richards by way of Gram Parsons equal justice.

Did I mention that Rich Robinson also plays a really mean slide guitar?

But the real revelation of Warpaint Live is the way the Black Crowes have breathed new life into the songs of the original studio album by stretching them out the way they do here. It's as if they are allowed room to actually breathe for the first time. In doing so, the Black Crowes have never sounded better.

Bob Dylan's New Change We Can Believe In

Music Review: Bob Dylan - Together Through Life

When it comes time to crack the plastic on a new Bob Dylan album every couple of years or so, the thing I always find myself immediately missing is the lyric sheet. Despite being one of musics greatest lyricists ever, Dylan rarely, if ever, includes them.

The fact is -- especially at his ripe old age -- Bob Dylan has no business being able to turn a great phrase the way he still so effortlessly does. Yet, Dylan's lyrics continue to amaze on his 46th album, Together Through Life, due out this Tuesday from his long-standing label, Columbia.

"I'm listening to Billy Joe Shaver, and I'm reading James Joyce. Some people, they tell me I've got the blood of the land in my voice," Dylan sings on "I Feel A Change Comin' On," one of this album's many standout tracks.

On "My Wife's Home Town" (which happens to be Hell), Dylan croaks out lines like "she can make things bad, she can make things worse, she got more potent stuff than a gypsy curse," with all of the world weariness of a broken down old horse thirsting for one last drop of water to drink. Yet on "If You Ever Go To Houston," he admits that "something always keeps me coming back for more, I know these feelings, I've been here before."

So there is no shortage of lyrical fodder here to keep Dylanologists busy pouring over every line until, well, until the next Dylan album. Still, Together Through Life doesn't feel anything like the masterpiece that was 2006's Modern Times. There's nothing here with the hell hounds on my trail sort of desperation of "Thunder On The Mountain" or "Ain't Talkin'" -- although the best songs on this record, like "Beyond Here Lies Nothin'" and "I Feel A Change Comin' On," come awful close.

On the former, Dylan sings "Beyond here lies nothing, nothing we can call our own," behind a blusey, Tex-Mex flavored arrangement rich in crackling guitars and accordion. On the latter, while Dylan sounds optimistic, the song is measured by caution as evidenced in lines like "everybody got all the flowers, I ain't got one single rose."

In a lot of ways, Together Through Life actually feels like something of a retreat from Modern Times, Love & Theft, and Time Out Of Mind -- the so-called "trilogy" of recent albums that many believe marked Dylan's creative resurgence. The bluesy, equal parts Tom Waits and Muddy Waters gravelly vocals that marked those albums are still very much evidenced here. It's just been smoothed around the edges a bit in order to match the more relaxed vibe of the music.

In fact, on songs like the wistful ballad "Life Is Hard," Dylan even rediscovers his upper-register, sounding closer to the countrified sweetness of his Nashville period, than the smokey sounding husk of his more recent work -- providing a perfect match for the sweet, dripping-with-mandolins arrangement of the song.

While we are on the subject of Dylan's vocals, the song "Forgetful Heart" is a textbook example of why Dylan is such a great singer. Yes, you heard me right here. Bob Dylan is a great vocalist. On this song, Dylan shows himself to be a master of the art of vocal phrasing. When he sings the words "Forgetful heart, like a walking shadow in my brain, all night long I lay awake and listen to the sound of pain" before concluding "the door has closed for evermore, if indeed there ever was a door," he bites off each syllable as though his life depended on it.

Fortunately, Dylan lightens up a bit on the very next track. "Jolene" is a the sort of juke-joint rock and roll song you might find Chuck Berry doing if he ever crossed paths with somebody like Doug Sahm. Dylan's band -- which for this record includes Heartbreaker Mike Campbell and Los Lobos' David Hildago -- locks into a great little groove here.

Hildago's accordion work is also quite prominent on tracks like "Beyond Here Lies Nothin'" and "This Dream Of You." On the former it complements the bluesy guitars perfectly, while on the latter it sounds like something that could have just as easily come from the soundtrack to a movie placed somewhere in the border towns of Sicily.

"Shake Shake Mama" comes the closest of anything here to the sound of Modern Times, sounding almost like an alternate, slightly slower version of that record's take on "Rollin' And Tumblin'." Yet even here, Dylan's sandpaper-raw vocals take on just that much of a smoother edge -- once again, matching the overall more relaxed, far less doomy feel of this record. Maybe Dylan's breathing easier these days with Obama in the oval office, and his predecessor presumably herding sheep back at the ranch in Texas.

Speaking of Obama, its hard to miss the sentiment of "I Feel A Change Comin' On," even if Dylan still concedes that "the fourth part of the day is already gone," in the second part of the chorus. On the following track, "It's All Good," Dylan reduces that most tired of modern day catchphrases to its true meaning when he equates lines where "brick by brick they tear you down, and a teacup of water, is enough to drown" to the ultimate realization that "it's all good."

If Together Through Life is not quite the masterpiece that Modern Times was, it's still a very good record -- easily worthy of a four-star rating. In the same way that the apocalyptic feel of Modern Times matched its time, so does this one match the present. Even now, no one turns a phrase quite the same way as Bob Dylan.

Wilco's New Live Concert/Doc DVD Is As Good As It Gets

Music DVD Review: Wilco - Ashes Of American Flags

If only all concert films could be as good as this.

Released this past weekend to coincide with National Record Store Day, it's clear from the get-go that Wilco's Ashes Of American Flags is much more than your run of the mill live concert DVD.

More than that, it's a documentary film that gives the viewer an up-close, roadmapped view of Wilco on the road, in addition to all the great performances (although rest assured, there are plenty of those here).

Here we see Wilco on the tour bus, at the soundchecks (performing a beautiful "Wishful Thinking"), eating at the roadside dives, and checking out landmarks along the way like Ernest Tubb's Record Shop.

You hear Nels Cline and Jeff Tweedy talking about the physical demands of life on the road, but never in a way that suggests they'd have it any other way.

This is a film that makes it abundantly clear this is a band that love what they do. In another sequence, the band members lament the "Walmart-ization" of rural America as the tour bus rolls through small communities that have become more like ghost towns along the highway.

But if these scenes of Wilco on the road provide an intimate snapshot of the band, the concert scenes are still the main event here. Recorded at venues ranging from New Orleans Tipitanas to Nashville's historic Ryman Auditorium, it also becomes clear in interviews that each of these places hold special value to the band members.

At the two aforementioned venues, Wilco is also joined by a three piece horn section called The Total Pros. In New Orleans, they play from an upper balcony as Tweedy introduces them as "the contest winners who were the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth callers."

Ashes Of American Flags is also so beautifully shot, it makes you yearn to see it on a big screen. The HD quality gives you more than just a front row seat during the concert sequences. You literally get a view here from Jeff Tweedy's microphone -- and most impressively from guitarist extraordinaire Nels Cline's fingertips on the fretboard.

Speaking of which, Cline is a force of nature unto himself throughout here, proving once again (as if any further proof were needed) that his addition was that one missing piece of the puzzle that finally completed this already formidable band. Cline's solos on "Side With The Seeds," "Handshake Drugs," and especially the dual axe-shredding with Pat Sansone on "Impossible Germany" are simply stunning.

The film also has some of the best sound I've ever heard on a concert DVD. The chimes on a soundchecked version of "Ashes Of American Flags" for example, ring as clear as a church bell, and the hi-hats and cymbals on songs like "Side With The Seeds" and "Impossible Germany" are both crisp and distinct. You literally hear every single thing here with absolute clarity. As concert films go, this is really about as good as it gets.

It's also very cool to see the way that Wilco interacts with its audience, accepting a "Grammy" from one concertgoer at Washington DC's 9:30 club, and even sticking around afterwords to sign autographs.

Ashes Of American Flags also features some great extras. In addition to the 90 minute concert film, the bonus tracks include "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart," "Theologians," and "Hate It Here."

There is also a download which gives you MP3 tracks of the complete performances, the full Washington DC concert, as well as all of the other goodies that come with the free membership you get in the fans only area of WilcoWorld.

On my very first visit there earlier tonight, I learned that Wilco's new album has been completed and mastered. Here is the complete track listing of the as-yet untitled album in sequence:

Wilco The Song
Deeper Down
One Wing
Bull Black Nova
You And I
You Never Know
Country Disappeared
Solitaire
I'll Fight
Sunny Feeling
Everlasting
I Can't Wait.

Why You Should Support National Record Store Day

I cut my musical teeth in mom and pop record stores, both as a customer and later as an employee. But then back in the day, the independent record store was as much a part of the neighborhood as the butcher, the baker, and the candy store.

The fact is I bought my very first record at such a store. It was the Beatles' 45 for "I Want To Hold Your Hand" backed with "I Saw Her Standing There." I begged my mom to take me up to Harper's Records in the West Seattle Junction to get it the day after I saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. I was all of seven years old.

The store was run by a sweet little old lady named Mrs. Harper who immediately took a shine to her youngest customer. So when I came back a few weeks later to buy my very first album, The Beach Boys In Concert, she even remembered my name. Mrs. Harper and I eventually got to be such great pals that she even promised to hire me once I was old enough to work there. Unfortunately, she didn't live that long.

Neighborhood record stores had changed so much by the time that I did come of age though, I'm not sure Mrs. Harper would have been cut out for it anyway. The record store that ended up taking Harpers place as the neighborhood music hub was called Penny Lane. And sure enough, after spending countless hours hanging out there every day after school driving the owner crazy, he ended up hiring me shortly after I graduated.

Like most record stores in the seventies, Penny Lane was manned by long-haired music loving hippies like myself. It was the sort of place that the other music freaks in the neighborhood came to know as a trusted source where you could ask the guy behind the counter "what's new and good?" and you'd rarely, if ever be steered wrong. If you loved music, the neighborhood record store could in fact be a wonderful place of discovery.

Like a lot of independent record stores, Penny Lane also had its resident genre experts. Willie, the owner, was the guy you went to for blues, roots rock, country, or rockabilly. Willie was our old school guy. Randy was our resident "mellow rock" dude, and probably the only guy working at a record store in all of Seattle who wouldn't snicker if you brought a Christopher Cross or Bee Gees record up to the counter. Me? I was the long haired rawk n' freaking roll dude, although in latter years this would extend to genres ranging from prog to punk to eventually rap, once the eighties hit.

We were also guilty of many of the stereotypical record store transgressions. We were basically the sort of elitist music snobs you'd often find working behind record store counters back then, and it wasn't at all uncommon to be on the receiving end of the aforementioned condescending snicker. Journey and Styx fans were a particular target of our righteous disdain.

We also partied like rock stars, which meant it wasn't surprising to find one or more of us haunched over the counter, hungover, unshaven and clutching a cigarette back when you could still smoke them in a retail establishment.

But we were always quick to point customers the way towards the sort of great music that didn't necessarily get played on the radio back then. To this day, I still bump into people in the supermarket checkout line who thank me for turning them on to Elvis Costello, Patti Smith, or Rockpile.

I ended up working for Penny Lane nearly ten years all told, and eventually managed my own store in Tacoma during the early eighties. From there, I went on to manage another Seattle store called Music Menu, and then on to work for a couple of record labels.

A full twenty years of my life were spent either working in record stores directly, or in positions where it was my job to interact with them. So the state of record stores today -- and what some are calling the death of music retail -- concerns me a lot. And yes, I confess that it's also a bit personal.

Like most people from my era, I've watched the modern day demise of the record store with a mixture of sadness and genuine bewilderment. Once Tower Records was gone, I knew the party was all but over, and now it looks like Virgin Megastore will also be going the way of the eight track.

Don't get me wrong, because I do understand whats happening and why. Downloading music is convenient, its cheap -- hell, its often free. The record companies also made their own bed when they stopped developing artists for the long haul, and opted instead for the quick bucks offered by the flavor of the moment. Why spend years waiting on a potential Stones or Dylan when you can have an instant Miley or Jo-Bros now?

I understand that. I really do.

What I don't understand is how and why we are so quick to trade in the little quirks that made browsing through those bins in search of that elusive gem such a personal and often rewarding experience, for a little convenience. Not to mention the fact that we sacrifice so much more in terms of things like warmth and sound quality.

Sure I can get anything I want at Amazon, but what I cant get is the musical kinship and camaraderie I've experienced on both sides of the counter at the record store. No one at Amazon is going to sit my ass down and spin Porcupine Tree records for me until I'm convinced. It's just not going to happen.

Nor am I going to be able to take in the sights and the smells of browsing through all of those bins and racks until something catches my eye that I can ask the guy behind the counter about. And nine times out of ten, he or she will have the answer too.

So this Saturday, April 18 is National Record Store Day. About 1000 independent music retailers nationwide are taking part in what is now the second year of this event, which was started in 2008 by the Coalition of Independent Music Stores (CIMS), and is being co-sponsored this year by the National Association of Recording Merchandisers (NARM).

Simply put, there has never been a better time to get out there and reacquaint yourself with your neighborhood record store. Many of these stores will be featuring live instore performances by artists ranging from Chris Cornell to the Silversun Pickups to developing artists who are simply being given a stage to perform on. You see that's what record stores do. They turn folks on to new music.

There will also be promotional contests and giveaways. Many artists are also offering one-time items to be sold on National Record Store Day only. No less than Dylan, Springsteen, Radiohead, and Tom Waits are having items specially created for the event, most of these featuring new or previously unreleased music. Wilco for example will be unveiling its live Ashes of American Flags DVD exclusively for National Record Store Day.

I for one plan on supporting National Record Store Day this Saturday, and you should too. I'll be spending some quality time at Easy Street, my own neighborhood record store here in West Seattle.

While there have been a few bright spots for music retail lately such as the apparent comeback of vinyl, CD sales continue to remain the bread and butter of the independent store. As long as this is the case, with CD sales continuing to plummet the way they have these past few years, we could very well be seeing the beginning of the end of the unique institution that is music retail.

The way I see it, we need to support them while we still can. See you this weekend at National Record Store Day.

Porcupine Tree Announce Fall U.S. Concert Dates

British progressive rock band Porcupine Tree have announced the dates for an American tour this fall, in support of an as of yet unnamed new album. Porcupine Tree's last American dates were in 2007 behind the release of their critically acclaimed Fear Of A Blank Planet album.

Since then, the band has been relatively quiet -- at least by their usually very prolific standards -- releasing only the FOABP companion E.P. Nil Recurring, and the acoustic live release We Lost The Skyline. The group's leader Steven Wilson has however been typically busy with his side projects No-Man, Blackfield, and Bass Communion, as well as releasing his first ever solo album, Insurgentes this past February.

Tickets for Porcupine Tree's fall American shows will go on sale April 17, except Boston and Chicago, which are on sale April 18, and San Francisco, on sale April 19.

In the meantime, fans can get the jump on tickets by registering for membership in ROABP, Porcupine Tree's fan club. Those who do so can buy advance tickets for the fall dates, as well as receive a copy of Ilosaarirock, a live album recorded on Porcupine Tree's Fear Of A Blank Planet tour. Details are available at Burning Shed, who are also the official online store for all things PT.

Here are Porcupine Tree's fall American tour dates:

Tue Sep 15 SEATTLE, WA MOORE THEATER
Wed Sep 16 PORTLAND, OR ROSELAND
Fri Sep 18 SAN FRANCISCO WARFIELD
Sat Sep 19 LOS ANGELES CLUB NOKIA
Mon Sep 21 CLEVELAND, OH HOUSE OF BLUES
Tue Sep 22 CHICAGO, IL VIC THEATER
Thu Sep 24 NY, NY TERMINAL 5
Sat Sep 26 PHILLY ELECTRIC FACTORY
Sun Sep 27 BOSTON, MA HOUSE OF BLUES

The Rockologist: Concert Hippies, Beer, And Rock And Roll

With the summer concert season just around the corner, let's be honest here -- this is also the time when the hippies start to come out of the woodwork.

Personally, I've no idea what these long-haired leftovers from the psychedelic era do for the remaining nine months of the year -- least of all, how they are able to support themselves. But come summertime, the freak flags fly high once again, and particularly so on the outdoor concert circuit.

You know the ones I'm talking about, too.

They are most often seen during the festival season, at places like Bonnaroo, Coachella, and perhaps to a somewhat lesser extent at Lollapalooza in Chicago. The women sport way too much underarm hair and wear long flowing granny dresses (when they aren't going topless anyway), and they do that inexplicable fertility dance thang that they do.

The guys? Well they go mostly shirtless, gray, and hairy as hell, with their braided ponytails batting you about in the face at right about the point you just want to see Sting singing about "Roxanne" during that first Police encore.

You know them. You love them. They are the concert hippies.

And here in Seattle at least, this year promises to be a particularly big one on the concert hippie circuit. Out at the Gorge Ampitheatre overlooking the Columbia River, we've not only got the annual Dave Matthews Band Labor Day shindig -- there's also a two-night stand with perennial concert hippie faves Phish, and a triple bill with the Allman Brothers, the Dead, and the Doobies. The view will be panoramic, the music will be great, and the hippies -- well, they'll be there too.

Why? Because we're talking nothing less than concert hippie heaven here.

Now here's the thing. As a longtime concert veteran, I've been interacting and otherwise dealing with concert hippies for years. Generally speaking, they come in several varieties -- but what I've largely found is that the stoner guys can be a lot of fun, while the drunk guys are much less so.

During a Rolling Stones show around 1990 for example, I had the unfortunate instance of having a drunk hippie seated next to me in my seventh row seat at Seattle's Kingdome -- a seat I paid some pretty decent scratch for I might add. The guy stank something fierce of the same sort of rot gut wine I drank as a teenager for one thing (who besides me out there remembers Mad Dog 20/20?).

But on top of that, he kept bashing his ponytail into my face, whilst flailing his arms madly about and singing along with Mick to "Jumpin' Jack Flash." It was bad enough having to sit through the opening set by the Spin Doctors. The last thing I needed was this hippie jackass giving me a fucking encore.

Okay, so those are the bad hippies. There are also your good hippies. And the thing is, the good hippies can be a lot of fun to party with. You do have to be careful though.


One of my earliest memories of partying with the good hippies came in my pre-teen years during an early seventies outdoor concert called the Rainier Sunbust in Seattle. A group nobody reading this has ever heard of called Bighorn were the headliners, but the openers were a soon-to-be-famous Seattle band called Heart.

Unfortunately, I pretty much missed their set because I ate the acid that the nice hippies offered me, and spent the next several hours trying to be talked off of a three foot high platform that I was convinced was as high as Mount Rainier.

It was my first, and last experience eating acid at a concert.

With that unfortunate incident several years behind me as an adult, I soon decided it was time for the ultimate acid test -- only minus the acid. I decided it was high time (no pun intended) for my first Grateful Dead concert.

I've never cared for the Dead personally, but much like Bruce Springsteen (who conversely, I like a lot), I'd always heard how the Dead's concerts are must-see events. So I took the plunge.

What I remember most about the concert (and yes, I was both stone sober and straight), was a lot of really boring jamming that had me glancing at my watch often. This was the five hour concert that simply refused to ever end. On the other hand, the crowd not only lived up to, but in fact totally exceeded my expectations.

For example, there was the girl offering to sell me a taco. I was actually quite hungry about the time she did too, and at a buck a taco the price was right too. But something about her sales pitch just completely ruined my appetite. Here she stood, literally caked from head to toe in mud, selling her tacos from what to the best of my recollection was a greasy oil pan from a car.

Can you say "yum?"

So a few years after that, me and some friends of mine decided to go camping out at the Gorge the same weekend as a Steely Dan concert. None of us had tickets, but we went anyway. And you know what? We actually had a blast partying with a bunch of concert hippies into the wee hours of the night.

What I mainly remember is a lot of dust and flying tents once the wind kicked up.

I also remember one of my friends nearly falling face first into a fire; a lot of really bad music being played; some guy named "Nathan" screaming into my face at 4 AM when I was trying to crash; and one of "Nathan's" junkie friends eyeing a can of pork and beans on our picnic table like it might be her last meal.

The next morning, I can also recall us high-tailing it the hell out of there at the crack of dawn. I'm not sure I remember exactly what the reason for the rush was, but who am I to ask questions?

While a lot of these memories are hazy ones, the one thing I mainly remember is that it was one hell of a party. I gotta admit that I kind of miss partying with the summer concert hippies.

Which is why I'm considering a trip to the Gorge this summer for Phish.

Do I give two shits about Phish's music? Absolutely not. Which is why I wont be buying tickets. And am I getting too old for this shit? Without a doubt -- which is why I gotta do this while I still can. I can smell the stale patchouli oil of those old hippie chicks now.

See ya' out at the Gorge this summer.

New PJ Harvey: Album Of The Year? Maybe...

Music Review: PJ Harvey & John Parish - A Woman, A Man Walked By

I've always really liked Polly Jean Harvey (better known to the world as just PJ).

It has also been really amazing to watch her development as an artist over the years. From her early days as a sort of heir apparent to Patti Smith on early albums like Rid of Me, to the more fully developed sound of albums like Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea, the one constant in PJ Harvey has been her passion.

Just lately though, PJ Harvey has also been stretching her musical vision. On last year's brilliant White Chalk, she pared it down to a really stark-sounding song cycle, which -- for the very first time in a lot of ways -- revealed her to be a truly amazing vocalist. The poetry was always there, but amid the stark setting of White Chalk, PJ Harvey also displayed her rather amazing vocal range. The songs themselves were hauntingly beautiful enough, but the vocal delivery -- well, that was something else.

On A Woman, A Man Walked By, PJ Harvey is reunited with sometime collaborator John Parish (Dance Hall at Louse Point), and the results are both startling and, frankly, pretty damned amazing.

Here, Harvey's often starkly-worded poetry is wedded with Parish's music for an album which lies somewhere in between the minimalist beauty of White Chalk and the more fully realized arrangements of an album like Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea.

Musically speaking, A Woman, A Man Walked By is all over the place and, in this instance, that is definitely a good thing. Songs like the opener "Black Hearted Love" and "Pig Will Not" find PJ hearkening back to the minimalist punk-rock roots of albums like Rid Of Me.

On the former, the robustly-punk sound plays in sharp contrast to Harvey's gorgeous vocal. On the latter, Harvey just out and out shrieks the lyrics "I Will Not!" behind a wall of punk-rock noise, augmented by an eerie, late-night-horror-show sort of keyboard sound. Yet, on the very next track, "Passionless, Pointless," she goes all reflective on your ass with some gorgeous poetry.

This is typical of the musical contrasts found on A Woman, A Man Walked By. But it is the lyrics that are the most telling here. From all that I have heard, the songwriting process of this album involved Parish laying down music tracks, and PJ Harvey simply writing the lyrics off the cuff. In other words, this is some stream-of-consciousness stuff. The result are songs that sound like they were ripped straight from PJ Harvey's soul.

On "Leaving California," Harvey intones how "no one but me is walking under palms that give no shade," before concluding that "California killed me." On "The Chair," Harvey takes on the mantle of a mother grieving for her son in lyrics that simply rip your heart out, like "pieces of my life are gone, washed away in the water that took my son." On "April," which seems to be a centerpiece of this album, PJ Harvey turns in an absolutely gorgeous vocal performance, wailing away about how these days "just seem to crush me."

A Woman, A Man Walked By is, quite simply, a stunning record that displays PJ Harvey's talents as both a great vocalist and songwriter. It is, at this point, an early candidate for the best record that I have heard this year.

I can't wait to hear what's next.

Aren't the Osbournes Fifteen Minutes Just About Up?

TV Review: The Osbournes Reloaded

Aren't the Osbournes fifteen minutes just about up?

I mean I enjoyed watching the antics of the "first family of rock" on MTV a decade or so ago as much as anybody. Watching Sharon, Kelly, and Jack fumble and cuss their way through a dysfunctional household life where the parents stumbled through dog poop, the kids smoked pot under Mom and Dad's noses, and everyone involved swore like drunken sailors on shore leave was just too much fun to pass up.

I especially enjoyed the way that the show transformed heavy metal "prince of darkness" Ozzy into the lovable sort of burnout, better known for barely knowing where he was than for the sort of satanic musical fiendishness that once raised the hackles of fundamentalists everywhere. The bumbling drug casualty of MTV's Osbournes was a far cry from when Ozzy's days in Black Sabbath made him public enemy number one of the religious right.

But there are limits where shocking, if essentially harmless fun can cross the line from being funny to simply being sort of sad.

Fox's new Osbournes Reloaded, even edited down from its original one hour run time to forty minutes is such an instance. Basically, it just wasn't very funny. Occasionally, it was also very mean-spirited in a big time, spoiled brat celebrities thumbing their noses down at all of us "little people" sort of way. Do the Osbournes really need to do this? You have to wonder just what they were thinking.

The gags -- like pulling the old switcheroo from hot chick to old lady during one hapless contestant's blindfolded makeout session -- were not just humorless and stupid, they were also kind of tired. When Sharon offered to up the ante to $500 for another round of blind man's love, the guy wisely declined. Let me guess, it was gonna' be a guy next, right?

The skits involving a pair of grade-school-aged Osbournes acting like foul mouthed brats during a movie, and Ozzy farting his way through a dance routine in leotards were also just stupid. Another bit where the Osbournes worked at a fast-food drive-thru, screaming things like "are you fucking deaf?" at the customers also seemed to show the family's contempt for the same working Joes who made them so rich.

In the worst example of this, a clearly planned "random" selection of an audience member to receive a marriage ultimatum from his girlfriend fell particularly flat. After the poor sap painfully accepted, a WWE style ceremony followed (anyone remember when wrestling did the gay marriage story a few years back?). Here again, the sole point seemed to be just to ridicule common folk, showing a strange and rather spiteful side of the Osbourne clan that I must have missed back when they were stumbling and swearing their way through dogshit on MTV.

Fox has reportedly ordered a five episode trial run of the Osbournes Reloaded. This writer for one, will be amazed if it makes it that far. Speaking of those fifteen minutes...