The Rockologist: Talkin' Bout My Record C-C-C-Collection

As a guy who has not only written about, but also obsessed heavily — and some would say rather unhealthily — over rock and roll for the better part of five decades now, my own personal record collection has long been a source of personal pride to me. So much so in fact, that I consider it to be a unique part of my identity. But the truth is that I'm also guilty of that worst of music-snob crimes. I actually judge other people by their record collections.

Think I'm kidding?

There are a lot of reasons that at 53 years old I'm still single, most of which are probably best left unexplored here. But I'm reasonably certain that at least a few of them have to do with the numerous times I've gone over to a potential Mrs. Right's house for dinner, only to be promptly chased out on a rail for snickering a little too loudly at the Kenny G or Sting CD's sitting proudly atop her stereo.

Hey, I love to get lucky as much as the next guy. But all the candlelight and expensive wine in the world just can't warm me up to a woman who actually wears her Phil Collins albums on her sleeve like some kind of proud badge of adult-contemporary honor. Something about all that Su-Su-pseudo-hipness just really dampens the mood for me, okay?

Beyond my love life (or lack thereof) though, this affliction has likewise negatively impacted my professional career. The fact that I spend my unemployed days sleeping well into the afternoon, and my nights toiling endlessly over articles like this one, is no accident. Word of advice to the still employed: Never tell your boss his record collection sucks.

There is a true story I can now recount, about how I was once physically thrown out of the home of a former employer for making a snide comment about his choice in music. I believe the offending quote was something along the lines of how the seventies had called and wanted their 8-tracks back, once I examined his music collection and found it more than a bit heavy on artists like The Steve Miller Band, Styx, and Supertramp.

That guy who goes straight to your sound system when invited over for the big game on Sunday? Yup, that's me. Guilty as charged.

There is however a flip side to this sort of obsessive snobbishness, and that's when an equally musically snobbish friend turns the tables and decides to bust you on your own record collection.

One such friend (who is also a regular contributor here at BC) loves nothing more than to crash at my house after a night of heavy drinking and take over my CD player. He is also very predictable, and heads straight for the same CD's every single time. As a result, what used to be my favorite Alice In Chains album (Jar Of Flies) is now something I can barely stand to listen to.

The other thing this friend likes to do, though, especially if we've been drinking, is argue. One thing he especially loves to do is criticize and pick apart my music collection even as he has commandeered my stereo. The arguments usually start with questions about why I'm missing such "essential" albums as The Clash's Sandinista or McCartney's Band On The Run, yet own hits collections by such "disposable" bands as Duran Duran and Culture Club. From there, things usually end with my friend reminding me of how much my collection sucks, right before he passes out on my couch. I mean, what else are friends for, right?

So the question is, what exactly should the music collection of a so-called Rockologist in good standing contain? And conversely, what shouldn't be anywhere near my CD player? Since my friend has seen fit to freely express his opinion on this subject so many times over, I recently decided to take a closer look myself.

I have about 2000 CD's in my library, and in examining them I've actually discovered a lot about myself. For starters, I have way more records by Abba than I probably should. But going deeper...

Remember those "adult-contemporary" albums I mentioned? The ones I've kissed so many a night of sexual bliss away over? Well, I'm happy to report that I'm respectfully light on the Rod Stewart (at least post-Jeff Beck Group) and the Kenny G. But I'm also embarrassingly heavy in the Phil Collins and Sting departments (at least if albums by Genesis and the Police count).

Likewise, I also have to admit that although I'm a few Bob James CD's shy of a stint as music director for the local smooth jazz station, I own just enough Sade albums to earn me a spot on the playlist.

But since this is a Rockologist sort of thing we're talking about, let's get into the subject of actual "Rockology." What exactly are the albums that no self-respecting Rockologist should be without, and where do these albums fall within the confines of my own collection?

So let's see... Sgt. Pepper? Rubber Soul? Check. Blonde On Blonde? Blood On The Tracks? Check. Let It Bleed? Exile On Main Street? Check. Born To Run? Darkness? Check. On The Beach? Rust Never Sleeps? Check. Pet Sounds? Check. Nevermind? Check. OK Computer? Check. Dark Side Of The Moon? Double-check.

So far, so good. But hold on a second...

Where's Led Zeppelin IV? Where's Who's Next?

To be perfectly honest here, as much as I love both the Who and Zeppelin, both of these albums have been so overplayed by album-rock and classic-rock radio stations over the years, it sometimes feels like hearing them ever again would be like having razor blades driven deep into my eardrums.

Like I said, I love both bands. But I'll take side four of Quadrophenia over pretty much anything on Who's Next. Ditto for "Ten Years Gone" over "Stairway To Heaven." Come to think of it, lately I've been listening to the modern-day croak of Dylan far more than anything off of Highway 61 or Blood On The Tracks. Likewise, I much prefer the icy textures of Radiohead's Kid A and Amnesiac to anything off of OK Computer. I also liked Nirvana much better when the Stooges did it the first time around on Raw Power.

Looking a bit deeper into my own collection, there is also just enough genuine weirdness there to reveal more about my own personality than I'd probably care for most people to know. From the avant-feminism of Patti Smith, Vanessa Daou, and Julee Cruise, to the New Age somnambulism of Klaus Schulze and Bo Hannson, to the complex progginess of Crimson and Porcupine Tree — if anything my collection probably proves me to be a total musical schizophrenic.

So let's make a deal...you stay away from my record collection and I'll stay away from yours. And please don't tell anybody about the Al Stewart albums, okay?

Thanks For Picking Up The Tab, Shawn

It's always a little strange when you run into fans of the old KCMU Shock Frequency/Rap Attack radio show on a night out.

The thing that always surprises me most is not just that they still recognize you, but that they actually remember what we did, and even thank you for it..

Tonight, an old "Shockmaster" fan not only remembered, but to show his thanks quite unexpectedly picked my tab up at the 'Sport....

Anyway, on a night when I otherwise totally sucked ass at trivia, it made me feel a little better. So thank you Shawn, and I'll see ya' at the Croc on April 3rd.

A Poignant, Fitting Finale To Johnny Cash's American Recordings Series

Music Review: Johnny Cash - American VI: Ain't No Grave

If I'm to be one hundred percent honest here, then I'd have to admit I haven't always been the biggest Johnny Cash fan. Growing up as a teenager, my tastes tended to run a lot more towards Led Zeppelin and Alice Cooper than Live At Folsom Prison or "A Boy Named Sue."

But even as I came to appreciate the Man In Black in my later years, I also have to admit that I wasn't always that wild about the whole American Recordings series — or at least the concept behind it.

Initially the idea of rock/rap wunderkind Rick Rubin producing a series of albums where Cash — backed by Rubin cronies such as members of the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers — would be doing songs by people like Soundgarden, Danzig & Nine Inch Nails struck me as the worst kind of record company pandering for commercial gain.

Fortunately, Rick Rubin is a much smarter man than I am, and he has obviously long since proved my initial jitters about the American series dead wrong. Still, although I liked much of what I heard on the early American Recordings albums — stuff like "Delia's Gone," for example — it wasn't until the fourth album in the series that, to borrow a piece from its title, I finally came around.

What I saw for the first time on The Man Comes Around was how Rubin's stripped-down production really allowed Cash to lay his artistic soul bare like he hadn't done in decades. Nowhere was this more apparent than on Cash's unforgettable version of Trent Reznor's "Hurt," which the Man In Black transformed into a heart-wrenching statement on mortality. It was also here that a more careful listen began to reveal a more real sense of the deeper bond that existed between Cash and Rubin during his final years. The arrangement was as much a personal one as it was professional.

I'm not sure if American VI: Ain't No Grave will prove to be the final entry in Cash's American series or not (to be honest, I thought they were done with 2006's A Hundred Highways). But what I am sure of is that on this album, even with Cash gone, Rubin more than holds up his end of that bargain.

Although at just about 32 minutes playing time the album is a tad short by modern standards, not a minute here is wasted; there's nothing resembling filler. In fact, there's not a single track on Ain't No Grave that doesn't absolutely belong on the album. With Cash's family — most notably his son, John Carter Cash (who serves as associate producer) — signing off on the project, Ain't No Grave is about as far a cry from the posthumous grave-robbing associated with the work of certain other deceased musicians as you could possibly get.

Like it's predecessor, A Hundred Highways, this album focuses on themes of death, mortality and redemption. These are, after all, albums Cash recorded during a time when he was surrounded on all sides by such things — both with the recent loss of his beloved June, and in the sure knowledge of his own impending mortality.

But where the songs on A Hundred Highways had more of a bittersweet undercurrent running through them, the approach here is a much more direct one. It's one thing to lend a new and different meaning to a Springsteen lyric like "I'll meet you further up on the road" or Gordon Lightfoot's "If you could read my mind, what a tale my thoughts could tell." It's quite another to hammer the point home in lines like "Ain't no grave gonna hold me down" and "Hope springs eternal just over the rise, when I see my Redeemer beckoning me."

If there is a common thread running through the songs on Ain't No Grave, it is not only the knowledge that his own journey has come to an end, but in the surer comfort of knowing what comes next as provided by his own faith. You can hear it in the title track when Cash sings, "When I hear that trumpet sound, I'm gonna' rise right up outta the ground." On this track, the foot stomps and banjo flourishes of the Avett Brothers provide a backdrop reminiscent of "God's Gonna Cut You Down," another great song from A Hundred Highways dealing with much the same subject matter.

Even on Sheryl Crow's "Redemption Day," the emphasis is not so much on the antiwar sentiments of Crow's lyrics — although they are very much still present — as it is on the spiritual longings found in the refrain, "There is a train that's heading straight up to Heaven's gate."

On his lone self-penned contribution to this album, "1 Corinthians 15:55," Cash sings the scripture, "O' Death, Where Is Thy Victory," like he means it. But you can also hear in his voice a joyful yearning of "when I see my Redeemer beckoning me." Cash's voice here may not be that of the same strong young man who sang about how he "fell into a ring of fire." But in it, there is also no mistaking the inner peace he'd found.

Even so, there is sadness in that voice as well. When Cash sings, "Don't look so sad, I know it's over," from Kris Kristofferson's "For The Good Times," you could well find yourself reaching for a nearby hanky. I know I did. Although some have questioned the choice of closing the album with "Aloha Oe," I also found this to be one of the more poignant things about Ain't No Grave.

Like so many of the other lyrics Cash gave new meaning to on his final recordings with Rubin, there's just something perfect and again, poignant, about closing this album with the words "until we meet again."

Was (Not Was) Pick Of the Litter: Shut Up And Dance Already!

Music Review: Was (Not Was) - Pick Of The Litter 1980 - 2010

Pick Of The Litter (sub-titled "Hey, King Kong!") is a long-overdue collection which assembles the best of Was (Not Was), the funkiest, yet artiest funk-rock-jazz — or whatever you want to call it — collective of musical miscreants to ever rise up out of the mean streets of Detroit.

Honestly, where else on earth could you find a collection which places such seemingly musical opposites as Ozzy Osbourne, Marcus Miller, Mel Tormé, Iggy Pop, Leonard Cohen, and the recently deceased Doug Fieger (of the Knack) under the same roof? At one point, even actress Kim Bassinger gets in on the act, dueting with Ozzy on 1983's "Shake Your Head" from the album, Born To Laugh At Tornadoes.

I mean, how wild is that? Was (Not Was) may have been primarily a studio concoction. But this was not your typical group of glossy Steely Dan styled session cats — not by a long shot.

Was (Not Was) — helmed by producer/bassist Don Was (Fagenson) and multi-instrumentalist David Was (Weiss) — was more like an ever-evolving community of musicians committed to the singular ideal of maintaining the fun in funk, even as they ever-so-subtly slipped in a bit of politically charged commentary in the process.

The David Byrnes of the world could only dream of accomplishing what these guys did in such seminal eighties dance singles as "Tell Me I'm Not Dreamin'" (with its politically incendiary Ronald Reagan samples), "Out Come The Freaks," "Walk The Dinosaur" and "Spy In The House Of Love." This was white-boy funk with a touch of MC5 radicalism, chased down with a shot of New York Dolls attitude. Funky, yes. But neither chic nor pretentious in the least.

What they accomplished in the process was to basically turn the traditional sounds of Motown completely inside out. Don Was in particular has long since gone on to become a producer of considerable renown — working with everyone from Dylan on down. What this collection does is serve as a reminder of just what got him to the big dance in the first place.

All of the aforementioned eighties dance classics are here (though I was a little disappointed they included the 7" version, rather than the full-on extended mix of "Tell Me I'm Not Dreamin'" — see video at the end of this review). I mean you just gotta' love those samples of Reagan repeating "Out Of Control" over and over again, and they are sorely missed here. My complaints with this collection, however, end there.

Latter-day singles like Was (Not Was) nineties remake of the Temptations "Papa Was A Rolling Stone" and "I Feel Better Than James Brown" (is there a better lyric anywhere than "I was attending Mardi Gras with Fidel Castro") from 1990's Are You Okay? hold up particularly well today. Ditto for "Elvis' Rolls Royce," an equally unlikely collaboration with none other than a perfectly gravelly, boozy voiced Leonard Cohen.

Anyway, they are all here — gathered together under the sort of funky umbrella that only a pair of musical miscreants like Don and David Was could conjure up. Make no mistake. This is thinking mans' funk, with just enough of the sort of politically correct humor that we could use one hell of a lot more of right about now. I mean, what better way is there to celebrate the world going to shit than to dance, right?

Was (Not Was) Pick Of The Litter arrives in stores this Tuesday. So shut up and dance already.

Survivor 20: Heroes, Villains, Strippers, Witches, Cowboys And Pirates

TV Review : Survivor 20: Heroes Vs. Villains - "Slay Everyone, Trust No One"

If the first episode of the twentieth season of reality TV powerhouse Survivor is any indication, viewers of the perennial ratings juggernaut are in for a hell of a ride this go-round.

The new season pits both fan-favorites and despicable evil-doers from past seasons against each other in a "heroes vs. villains" format worthy of the sort of "babyfaces" and "heels" you see on pro-wrestling shows like WWE Raw. Just to make sure there is no mistaking whose side is who, Jerri "The Black Widow" Manthey even wore her Wicked-Witch-of-the-West black hat, which country boy Colby matched with his own Sunday-best, crown of virtuous cowboy white.

Thursday night's show kicked off in high style with a two-hour episode where sex and violence were front and center. Less than thirty minutes in, and you already had multiple injuries, and a topless damsel-in-distress nonetheless racing to victory, and defiantly flipping off her opponents with a double-fingered salute to boot!

Meanwhile, as "Sugar" (now there's a stripper name if ever I've heard one) scrambled to find the bikini-top she lost courtesy of rival competitor Sandra, bearded pirate-guy Rupert was nursing a broken toe, while tough-gal Stephanie simply shrugged off her dislocated shoulder and had it popped back into place.

All of this came courtesy of the very first reward challenge. Yup. This one already looks like it's gonna' be good.

To the victors go the spoils — which in the case of the babyface "heroes" side meant fire. However leave it to the do-gooders to look a gift horse in the mouth as Rupert was still unable to make fire with his hard-won flints.

Meanwhile over on the evil side of the island, Boston Rob had no trouble whatsoever rubbing two sticks together to create a small inferno worthy of Dante himself. This was a feat which particularly impressed the dragon-slaying Coach, who immediately erased all the macho-cred he had previously earned by dragging Colby across enemy lines to defeat by cooing sweet nothings like "I hang on your every word" into Rob's ear.

Sensing a challenge to her own considerable man-slaying attributes, Black Widow Jerri immediately then set her kitty claws on Coach, who forgot Big Rob's fire-making prowess long enough to indicate a possible interest in creating some sparks of the romantic kind with Jerri. At this point, you'd be forgiven for mistaking Survivor for something more along the lines of Temptation Island.

Back on the babyface side, our favorite topless stripper Sugar set her own sights on Colby, who did his Brokeback Mountain best to resist her advances. Okay, in all fairness it was just because he wanted to sleep rather than listen to Sugar talk all night.

Either way, boy did Sugar pick herself the wrong cowboy to saddle up to. In the end, it certainly didn't help her at Tribal Council, where she was voted off the island for talking too much at night and crying too much after losing immunity challenges.

Tune in next week to find out what makes Boston Rob pass out in the jungle, and his eyes roll right back up into his head. Yup. Survivor's gonna' be a good one this season.

The Rockologist: Who's Next For The Super Bowl?

With Super Bowl Sunday nearly upon us, you really can't help but marvel at just how far the halftime show has come this past ten years or so. When the Who open for the Colts (as well as that other team) on Sunday, they'll follow in the footsteps of a who's who of superstar rock acts which in recent years has included no less than Springsteen, McCartney, Petty, Prince, U2 and the Stones. It's definitely become a prestige gig.

It's easy to forget that the halftime tradition actually began way back when with the cheery whitebread pablum of Up With People. Back in those days, halftime meant either time to make that beer run, a potty run, or at the very least time to switch the channel over to the Lingerie Bowl.

At the same time, the NFL's decision to book mostly big-deal classic rock acts in the wake of Janet Jackson's infamous "Nipplegate" appearance several years ago, speaks volumes about just how safe rock has really become.

The Stones may have once danced with Mr. D and sang about starfuckers and cocksuckers, but these days they are as about as threatening as an old rerun of Leave It To Beaver, and inspire at least double the nostalgia value. Much as I hate to admit it, acts like these are in many ways a sort of Up With People for the new millennium. Even sacred cows like Springsteen and U2 have to admit that playing for the NFL is about as corporate as corporate rock gets.

With Led Zeppelin unavailable for bookings at the moment, the Who was the most obvious next best choice for this year's big show. The perennial number three of the big sixties rock triumvirate along with the Beatles and the Stones, it was simply their turn. Well at least as long as a certain golden god of rock was busy playing bluegrass with Alison Krauss anyway...

Following Springsteen's halftime show last year won't be easy for Townshend and Daltrey either. The Boss pulled off the amazing feat of basically condensing his three hour rock and roll marathon and rock and roll revival meeting into the NFL's slotted fifteen minutes.

I don't expect the Who to suck. We're gonna get "Pinball Wizard" and "Won't Get Fooled Again" just as we got "Born To Run" and "Glory Days" last year. Townshend will probably throw a few windmills up in there too.

But I also don't expect it to be great.

Unlike Springsteen, the Who have definitely shown their age in recent years. Daltrey is still a powerful frontman as he demonstrated on his solo tour last fall, but his voice hasn't aged well. Don't expect to hear that famous closing scream during "Won't Get Fooled Again." Townshend's hearing has become so damaged from all those years performing with the Guinness World record holders for loudest band in the world, that he often performs with acoustic guitars rather than electric these days. So I expect the Who's performance will be Tom Petty decent, but not quite Prince or Springsteen great.

Which brings us to next year. The betting line forms here for who you think may follow Townshend and company for the big game in 2011. Here are some possibilities to ponder before you lay your money down:

AC/DC: If I were a betting man, this is who I'd be putting my money on. The Aussie bad boys won't be the NFL's first choice, but I'm betting the Eagles turn them down again. AC/DC is the perfect alternative. They are classic rock icons, and their simple, chunky riffing fits the smashmouth mentality of football like a glove. Nothing says jockspeak quite like a song like "Big Balls" does (although they probably won't be allowed to play that one). Besides, there hasn't really been a bonafide hard rock act at the Superbowl since Kiss, right? If AC/DC is good enough for Walmart, they are good enough for football. Odds: Dead-even

The Eagles: Although I'm relatively certain the Eagles will turn them down again, I include them here on the off chance they'll actually say yes this year. After all, Springsteen finally did, right? What makes the Eagles such a no-brainer is the way they walk such a fine line between rock and country. You can't really go wrong with a safe bet like this. Everybody's happy, and by the time the first down of the third quarter is played, no one will remember what they just heard. Take it easy, indeed. Odds: 5-1

Kenny Chesney: Of course, if you want to go country, why not go all the way? Country music is still as American as apple pie, and well, the NFL itself, and Chesney's brand of twang plays more like a countrified version of big stadium rock anyway. The chicks dig him, all those guys who drive Ford pick-ups secretly want to be him, and as long as he stays as hot as he is, there's definitely going to be a Super Bowl in his future at some point. It probably won't be next year though. Odds: 15-1

John Mellencamp: The former Johnny Cougar would certainly play well with the football crowd — especially if he stuck with the hits like "Rockin In The USA," "Pink Houses," and the rest. Mellencamp's always been the sort of guy who plays well with conservatives who really want to like Springsteen, but can't get past his pinko politics (even though Mellencamp's blue stripes aren't too far removed from Bruce's). Like Petty was a few years ago, Mellencamp is the sort of the journeyman rocker who is a natural choice for the tailgating crowd. Odds: 10-1

Coldplay: Their music is big like U2, anthemic like Springsteen, and ever since they started wearing military style jackets in concert, they've even started to seem a bit more masculine than they used to. Love em' or hate em', they are also one of the biggest bands in the world and should have a new album ready to pimp by next year. The downside here of course is Chris Martin's still rather feminine falsetto, and some would say sometimes whiny sounding lyrics. Not exactly AC/DC tough, but don't count em' out either. Odds: 20-1

Neil Young: His songwriting pedigree is undeniable, and his classic rock credentials are impeccable — particularly if he packs up Crazy Horse for the ride. However, his unpredictability poses a problem. A crowd expecting "Rockin In The Free World" is just as likely to get something from Fork In The Road or an impromptu set of unreleased folkabilly tunes. Despite Neil's recent embrace of capitalism with 30-disc box sets and sky-high ticket prices, Neil would also likely shy away from anything as overtly corporate as the NFL. Springsteen got away with it only because the Boss is nothing if not a populist. Odds: 50-1

Bob Dylan: Dylan on the other hand doesn't seem to have much of a problem with appearing too corporate these days, what with the ads for Victoria Secret and all. Dylan's songs are also known and loved by pretty much everybody who has ever turned on a radio or sang at a karaoke bar. However, even if he played stuff like "Like A Rolling Stone," I just don't see the croak translating to a stadium full of rowdy football fans or a national television audience. Odds: 100-1

A Different Story For Every Set of Eyes...



The Neil Young book deal is starting to look like it may actually happen. In the meantime remember that "there aint' nothing like the friend, who can tell you you're just pissing in the wind..."

God bless you Neil. And stay tuned.