NME.com

June 28, 2008

According to NME, “U2’s Bono has sent a letter to NME this week (June 25) following the band’s manager Paul McGuinness’s comments regarding Radiohead’s decision to release their last album, In Rainbows, on a pay-what-you-like basis as a download.”

The letter reads,

I wanted to set the record straight on behalf of the members of U2 on comments made to the BBC by our much-loved and valued manager, Paul McGuinness, regarding Radiohead’s decision to make the music of ‘In Rainbows’ available as a download, using the ‘honesty box’ idea for payment.

We agree with our manager that this is a head-scratching and worrisome time for many musicians who, unlike ourselves, are depending on royalty or publishing cheques to pay the rent (particularly songwriters). We also agree that it is disturbing to see internet service providers and technology companies profit from the so-called ‘disintermediation’ of the music business when so many music lovers are losing their jobs. And while there is no doubt that it’s extremely difficult for a new artist to get the kind of investment on which U2 depended in the first few wobbly years of recording, we disagree with Paul’s assessment of Radiohead’s release as “having backfired to a certain extent.” We think they were courageous and imaginative in trying to figure out some new relationship with their audience. Such imagination and courage are in short supply right now…they’re a sacred talent and we feel blessed to be around at the same time.

With respect,
Bono

By Andrew William Smith, Editor

June 28, 2008

Many who attend Bonnaroo remark on the sheer sensual overload and unique cultural experience—a phenomenon Pearl Jam’s Eddie Vedder described between songs on the What Stage as America’s Amsterdam. Whether it’s the heat, hippies, and hacky sack or the mud, sweat, and beers, the sheer volume and variety of human expression satisfies most participants and provides plenty of topical fodder for every latter-day Lester Bangs who attends the event under the semi-respectable guise of “working” the weekend as a journalist.

Having attended dozens of smaller, freakier festivals that fall too far under the media radar to even be written about in the manner that Bonnaroo must be chronicled (hence, the forthcoming 4000 words), I see the socio-cultural aspect of the ‘roo as a kind of curious sludge that—while interesting on its own terms—plays a serious second fiddle to the featured attraction: the legal maximum of nonstop American popular music in general and great rock and roll in particular.

(For me, the live music is such a magnet that I never manage to catch any comedy at Bonnaroo, rarely do any DJ sets, and this year finally saw my first film—an amazing Hunter S. Thompson documentary that I watched with coffee at dawn on Friday.)

For the serious fan searching for the epitome of eclectic lineups, it doesn’t get much better than what Bonnaroo offers. And for the critics who chided producers AC Entertainment and Superfly Productions for going too mainstream, too metal, or too something for booking superband Metallica and the lightning rod of a rapper Kanye West, these decisions didn’t do any irreparable harm down on the farm in Manchester, Tennessee. Attending my third ‘roo and wondering how the shows could possibly top what I experienced in 2007, I embraced an exceptional platter of performances that exceeded all expectations.

Main Stage Magic

I’ve heard many people marvel about the communal magic created when the masses gather to hear the huge shows at Bonnaroo. Like that elusive, mystical high described by enlightened yogis, you need to experience it firsthand. While my previous experiences in that endless field had included some flashes of brilliance, these were sadly tempered by some serious disappointments. Main stage memories from my first Bonnaroo visits made me wonder if I’d ever bother venturing away from This, That, and The Other Tent or the familiar comfort of Which Stage—so close to my much-loved campsite in Guest Camping.

Between the unbearable heat of the afternoon shows that last year left me a thirsty roasted lizard and the much-too-short sets by Tool and The Police, I’d actually considered boycotting the What Stage entirely in 2008. But thanks to four fundamentally fierce shows there this year—Robert Plant & Alison Krauss, Kanye West, Pearl Jam, and The Raconteurs, I’ve thoroughly revised my perspective. Rather than just dealing with the huge crowds in that sprawling, litter-filled field to catch a glimpse of something potentially great but too often grating, I found myself dancing with some of my closest friends to epic shows, congregating for music’s cause on what has become for me a sacred piece of ground.

Showman and Shaman

During most of the day Friday, I remained rooted at the volunteer gig that gets me to Manchester each June. Taking part of the day off from music was spiritually required to prepare myself for important plans around midnight on Friday the 13^th.

But around 4:30pm, I wandered back to camp to find my sweetheart digging on the sounds of Les Claypool. I had to beg her to bypass Which Stage for more Les on the way to What, a trip I was taking to see if a certain “local” band could alter my mood about the main stage.

Moreover, this afternoon marked the anniversary of the brutal Bonnaroo branding that left me playing injured for most of the 2007 festival—an unfortunate event that transpired trying to get to another Nashville phenom called Kings of Leon, who also appeared on the main stage. Taking this hike involved a kind of healing triumph over the tribulations I’ve suffered in the recklessly intoxicated and strangely pious pursuit of still more rock and roll.

The first thing I noticed when we arrived at the field during the Racs second song “Hold Up” was the cloudy sky. “Give thanks,” I thought, “we aren’t going to fry in the afternoon sun.” By “You Don’t Understand Me” and “Top Yourself,” the revelations began to sink in. Contrary to my years of experience and basic “small is beautiful” instincts, rock and roll is not always best confined to crowded clubs and smelly Pabst-soaked saloons. Back in April, I caught the second of the Raconteurs tour-opening gigs at Nashville’s Cannery Ballroom. As special as that show was, it can’t really touch what transpired in Manchester.

The Raconteurs; photo by Jeff Kravitz courtesy of Bonnaroo

Indeed, some artists exited the momma’s womb for the sole purpose of practicing epic magic with masses—that’s us, the lesser beings suddenly and audibly awestruck by the elemental privilege of being in their presence. I once believed that Jack White was merely Jimmy Page and Robert Plant stuffed into one lucky skin, but then the Raconteurs showed me Brendon Benson’s McCartney tag-teaming it with Jack’s John Lennon. Assessing the many shades of Jack, I saw him as the walking and wailing Wikipedia of rock history.

I still don’t know what he calls that strange distortion mic, that vocal effects-thingie, but when his shit-kicking shriek gets funneled through it, the wallop brings us to our knees. I still don’t know what name to give what this man does, but when he does it to as many as 50,000 of us at once, it gets kind of scary in an arm-waving and jaw-dropping way. As the blistery bar-raising version of “Blue Veins” found Jack flailing and then falling to fondle amps and monitors in a holy roller heat, I had to admit that White is more than just a showmen; he’s a shaman.

At the dramatic end of “Carolina Drama,” the thousands ambled out of the field in a post-orgasmic daze. I looked at my phone, and I didn’t recognize the number sending something, but the text message simply said, “Jack is amazing.” Indeed. (I later learned that the sender was a former student of mine who I’d seen briefly after Vampire Weekend on Thursday night.)

In “Blue Veins,” as the clouds kept us cool, Jack changed the line “I think it’s gonna rain” to “Do you think it’s gonna rain?” I didn’t have an answer, but I would later that night.

Wet and Wild Ride on the Southern-Fried Soul Train

Whenever I think about My Morning Jacket’s new record (which is quite often), I frequently call up memories of Wild Cherry’s 1976 hit “Play That Funky Music, White Boy.” And play that funky music is exactly what these white boys did—not for the scheduled three hours, but no, for four hours in a steady freaking rain. From midnight sharp until 4am, with sheets pouring on and off of us and on the band and everyone soaked and smiling and dancing and basically silly euphoric. Rain and electronics don’t mix, Jim declared, but that didn’t stop the Jacket from conducting the Soul Train on its wettest and wildest ride.

The choice of opening songs—the obvious starter of “Evil Urges” segued right into “Off the Record” and “Gideon”—really gave the show its completely concentrated and beautifully catastrophic charisma—as if heaven had opened up, as Jim explained, to give us its golden rain.

Because of the weather, the crowd was incredibly tiny (especially compared to Flaming Lips in a similar, history-making, late-night spot last year)—like only a couple thousand hardcores at most. During the slower section of the first set—“Sec’ Walkin’” and “Golden”—I imagine we might have lost some people to sleeping or tent shows like Tiesto and Disco Biscuits.

My Morning Jacket; photo by Taylor Crothers courtesy of Bonnaroo

Over 35 songs, there was plenty of time to sneak in surprises from the earlier records like “Easy Morning Rebel,” “Phone Went West,” and “Mageetah.” But the sheer volume and fly choice of cover songs congealed the super funky bias of the current Jacket mood in bursts of groovy bravado. Covering hits from James Brown, KC and the Sunshine Band, Funkadelic, and Sly and the Family Stone obviously pleased the booty bumping faithful. But perhaps it was the superbad version of Erykah Badu’s “Tyrone” that really took it over the edge.

About 1:30am, a version of “Steam Engine” turned into Tommy, Bo, and Patrick jamming and then an amazing Hallahan drum solo. But this only kept the ferocious feeling before the fiery finish to the first set. With Metallica’s Kirk Hammett joining the band onstage, the always powerful “One Big Holiday” captured the collective’s howling freak of nature force and poured it into our mouths in the form of rain, only to shout back at the band.

I don’t think I could ever run out of adjectives to describe this supremely profound and effervescently energized early Saturday morning. Granted, the Jacket came to this Bonnaroo the week that their best-selling record yet was about to debut in the Billboard top ten and with their legendary previous Bonnaroo performances to live up to. And all that precedent and its implied pressure only prodded them to deliver the performance of a lifetime. Late in the second set, I surveyed the back of the soggy field where a handful of dervishes had plenty of room to dance without care. And that’s just what they did, right up until the closing cover of a Motley Crue song.

Mosh and Mud

After the roughshod ride I took myself on in 2007, I promised to play it safe this year. Well, I almost managed to make it through the weekend without doing anything too reckless. But for the Saturday afternoon set by Florida agit-punks Against Me! I ended up moshing and crowdsurfing down front. While the primal physicality of this “dancing” appeals to the young and athletic, a middle-aged guy like me really has no business throwing himself into the fray—which is, of course, why I did it.

Feeling the raucous adrenaline after the short and sizzling Against Me! set, I craved an ever more primitive, raw ritual. Against my more refined instincts and surveying the muck puddles left by the previous night’s rain, I ditched the sleeveless tee and slathered myself with gobs of Tennessee earth. After an amble to the main stage and back to catch snippet of Ozomatli, I found my way to the Centeroo fountain to start cleaning up.

We Can Share The Wine

My early Saturday antics meant missing Gogol Bordello except for a slice I heard at camp, getting only the opening moments of my Tennessee friends the everybodyfields, and only stealing a song or two of the astonishing Avett Brothers, but I took the time for a real shower and a change of clothes before the pristine pre-dusk delights that awaited at This Tent.

When Iron & Wine’s Sam Beam was a film professor in Florida, I imagine it would’ve been an insult to call his lectures sleepy. But as a first-rate indie-folk performer, his visionary vocals and lilting lyrics induce a sleepy state not unlike the one a child gets when nursing at the mother’s breast. Perhaps it has something to do with being the dad of four daughters and married to a midwife and the author of an EP and song called “Woman King,” but a feminine edginess and understated feminism wash his music with a consistently healing and lo-fi intoxicant—the musical equivalent of the “love hormone” oxtocin.

At the end of another thankfully cloudy day, the people in the tent and across the field swayed to the sounds of beautiful songs like “Boy With A Coin,” “Pagan Angel and a Borrowed Car,” and “Love And Some Verses.” I found a friend, and we walked and danced, discovering the feel from different vantage points. Slowly (everything at an Iron & Wine show is slow if not suspended from the space-time continuum itself), we wound our way into the labyrinth of love that existed closer to the stage, finding a foursome of fabulous friends with whom we danced in spontaneous and exquisite splendor until the set finally had to end. I didn’t care that the people around us probably thought us on valium or ecstasy or both. It didn’t matter. What mattered was this: “a butterfly wing in a summer rainfall,” a “chapel bell ringing through the wind-blown trees,” and “the parking lot music everybody believes”—all lines from the rhythmic full-body seduction of the main set’s closing of “Wolves (The Shepherd’s Dog).”

I really didn’t want the sheen of this set to ever fade from our shimmering skins, but I knew it was time to return to camp to change clothes for an evening that had just arrived.

Pearl Jamming

I hate to admit it, but I don’t know if I will ever forgive Maynard and Sting for the respectively too short headlining Tool and Police sets at the 2007 Bonnaroo. This annual lost weekend begs bands to do something special—whether it’s cover songs and spontaneous collaborations or sets longer than what everyone else got to hear on the tour, especially if you are a headliner or late night performer.

This is no minor, nitpicky detail. This year, fans spent an original asking price of around $250 on tickets and how much more on gas, food, and libations—it’s hard to imagine. Just getting to the ‘roo has become a big deal during the economic downturn—this being the first of these festivals I attended that wasn’t a complete sell-out and where scalpers couldn’t pay more than $175 in the Manchester Wal-Mart parking lot. For better or worse, we adore our rockstars and plan the entire year around what shows we might be privileged enough to catch. But the good news is that Eddie Vedder and company get it. Pearl Jam gets it and got it good on June 14^th.

At Bonnaroo, I see a lot of shows solo or with one or two friends. For Pearl Jam, we managed to organize about a dozen of us who’d spent much of our weekend working in Planet Roo to take in the show together. Holding hands and forming a chain, we found our way to the rectangle of ground behind the formidable sound-boards. Although our view of the stage is obscured in this area, the sound is always great, and we have plenty of room to dance with abandon—which is exactly what we did.

While Tool and Police had been allotted three-hour spots and played for less than two, Pearl Jam inverted that formula much to our pleasure. They were supposed to play for two hours and played for three. The solid set included so many great songs—“Corduroy,” “WMA,” “Life Wasted,” and “Even Flow” among them.

While some ‘roo fans prefer the “shut up and sing” response to political soapboxing, we knew that Eddie Vedder would try to rally the people to work for peace and justice, and his proselytizing was so heart-felt that I hung on every word. I’d never heard his “No More War” song written for Iraq war veterans, and it could not have hit me harder. While he never mentioned Obama by name, Vedder made it crystal clear what he wanted folks to do in November. Music can’t change the world, but all of us together can—or something like that—went the sentiment.

The Who cover of “Love Reign O’er Me” was excellent, and cheesy or not, the closing version of “All Along the Watchtower” kicked it—and hard. Sure, I am sad that I missed the Coup because of this, but there was no way that I was leaving this show early.

The Dead Who Refuse To Die

No matter how many acts from different genres it books, Bonnaroo cannot shake its affiliation with the hippie/Deadhead/jam band scene and the accompanying patchouli-soaked stigma. This year, it finally sunk in that the festival fears no stereotype from across the subcultural spectrum and fulfills a certain religious quality among its “base constituents” by keeping this fire on the mountain burning bright.

While I was never a Deadhead, I saw the band perform with Jerry twice in the 1980s, and I still find listening to those songs a sweet and guilty pleasure if not indulged in too regularly. Not only is this preference planned at Bonnaroo, it obviously fuels a certain faith. While I didn’t place anything jammy at the top of my list, I did find my way over to the Dark Star Orchestra show on Thursday night to see the huge crowd completely immersed.

Dark Star Orchestra; photo by Jeff Kravitz courtesy of Bonnaroo

Although I didn’t stay long, I got to hear “Tennessee Jed” and caught myself howling along with some home state abandon and regional pride. On Saturday, leaving the sleepy Sigur Ros set (not just the band seemed to have hit the snooze button—people were passed out on blankets and earth everywhere), we passed the much more lively Ghostland Observatory show on our way back to the van. Closing in on camp, I danced down the gravel to familiar sounds of Phil Lesh & Friends, only to fall asleep to the refrains of “Sugaree” and “Truckin’” and Phil saying something about ending early for a special morning show.

Kanye Preaches at a Controversial Sunrise Service

I don’t really sleep at Bonnaroo; we might call these slivers of shut-eye the power naps of pre-dawn. Either way, late Saturday, early Sunday, after rocking a 12-hour shift of incredible shows, clock ticking towards the end of my festival, I don’t know if I completely crashed after Lesh, even though I was fully quiet and horizontal. But something prompted my eyes to open before daylight.

I couldn’t find my watch, barely found my spectacles and a cloak, and started to stroll through the corridors that connected Guest Camping to Guest Hospitality and finally the What Stage field. A strange hum hovered over the entire acreage (maybe I was just noticing permanent buzz of the massive generators everywhere). As I shook the sleep from my bones during the walk over, I think I heard people muttering some things about Kanye West. Finally, I had to ask someone. “Did he play yet?” “No, and I don’t think he ever will” was the first bitter response I heard.

In 2007, I remember leaving Mute Math early to catch The National and getting irked that the latter were 20 minutes late. Because of how tightly the event is scheduled and how carefully folks plan their parties, Bonnaroo shows generally go down on time. Nonetheless, I hadn’t been waiting with the others for Kanye and felt refreshed from my rest (if we can call it that) when I found my way to my favorite dance spot. Once there, I didn’t have to wait at all, and “Good Morning” made perfect sense as Kanye landed his spaceship motif into the vulnerable and welcoming part of my brain that is directly connected to my booty.

I didn’t take out the notebook to survey the people surrounding me (but many, like me, were dancing their asses off), and I could never have anticipated the backlash that would follow the next day when other performers used the privilege of the stage and access to the audience to diss Kanye publicly. Even Sunday’s fallout was perhaps a calm storm compared to the online Katrina of cruelty that would attack West’s integrity and imagination in the coming days.

Remembering the thinly-veiled racism and homophobia of the “Disco Sucks” movement of the late 1970s, I saw this coming. People had been waiting for a real reason to berate Bonnaroo about choosing West since back in the winter when the line-up was released—and folks would mumble gibberish about the festival betraying its base of fans by bringing the wrong crowd because of Metallica and Kanye (metal and hip-hop fans are apparently the “wrong crowd”).

For me, the sunrise set said something very different, very real, very redemptive. For one, the rock festival for me has always been a grown-up version of summer camp. So, to get the “Jesus Walks” altar call at first light in an open field on a Sunday morning (Father’s Day at that) provided perfect culmination for the secularly sanctified weekend that is Bonnaroo. Moreover, the glow I saw in the tired hulk of humanity around me was more powerful than a hundred glowsticks flying through a darker sky. It’s that ineffable, early morning glow we see after the best raves, and it’s a vibe I welcomed that Sunday morning. Just because rap is a genre where the voice is the instrument, and the beats are often recorded, doesn’t mean it somehow has less musical credibility by default—but I’ve seen that point attempted more than once in discussing this apparent debacle.

One of the many things that makes Bonnaroo great is that the festival consistently brings jazz, blues, reggae, electronic dance music, and yes, hip-hop, to this overwhelmingly white festival (in terms of the racial heritage of the paying customers), and I hope the promoters will not let this whole Kanye incident whitewash their philosophy in booking artists for Bonnaroo 2009.

Bring the Balance Back

At this year’s Bonnaroo, the babes didn’t have to castrate cock rock like the riot grrrls once did; they simply strapped it on. Just as the Dead legacy held its own throughout the weekend, the legend of Led Zeppelin framed the festival. The all-estrogen Lez Zeppelin launched late Thursday into the outersphere of amazing, and we got to fly the friendly skies all long weekend long.

Robert Plant—the blonde ballsy bohemian who put the cock in “cock rock” long before lesser lingams like Axl Rose claimed its masculine mantle—has mellowed with age. His current folk-roots collaboration with Alison Krauss proves that the pendulum has swung to show off his softer side.

Words cannot capture how woefully worn one is by Sunday afternoon of a Bonnaroo weekend, and this Plant and Krauss set provided the perfect capstone concert to close it out (sorry, Widespread Panic). Due to important business in Planet Roo and trying to catch a bit of Broken Social Scene, I arrived late and struggled to find my people. Blessed by persistence, I found friends and got to enjoy the finale with my beloved wife.

While I know I missed much of this show, I hung on every note once there. When Plant stood aside for Alison’s achingly awesome version of “Down to the River to Pray,” the gospel mood I’d sensed at dawn suddenly saturated my whole being.

Alison Krauss and Robert Plant; photo by Jeff Kravitz courtesy of Bonnaroo

While I didn’t come craving Zeppelin covers, and I hadn’t been studying the setlists from the Plant-Krauss tour, I can’t say I was disappointed to hear them render an interpretation of “The Battle of Evermore.” A duet for male and female vocals originally performed by Plant with Sandy Denny on Zep’s zenith of a fourth album, the Krauss and Plant version was perfect.

With my bare feet dancing on the Tennessee dirt, the notion that this was the rock and roll revival I’d been waiting my whole life for made me shake and shout, “Bring it back!”

Bringing the balance back begs for harmony between the genders, an idea so gently obvious in the giants on stage. Bringing the balance back is a theme for our times as our planet teeters on the brink of the unthinkable. Bringing the balance back is a spiritual theme I grew up seeing in the Star Wars saga, so captured in this song’s lyric, “Oh dance in the dark of night, Sing to the morning light. The magic runes are writ in gold to bring the balance back.” While the behemoth of rock spectacle cannot bring it back, the music Bonnaroo brings at least reminds us that such a future is necessary if not yet impossible.

By Andrew William Smith, Editor

June 23, 2008

The inspirational compilation In the Name of Love: Africa Celebrates U2 is an emotionally, politically, and musically important record on many counts.

To begin, it’s the first tribute album devoted to the Dublin four that fully captures the spirit of the songs. In general, tribute albums form a dubious genre at best, and all the previous attempts at U2 tributes were mediocre, shoddy, under-recognized efforts.Moreover, it makes sense for African musicians to make this record on a purely social and symbolic level. As much has Bono has been lauded and lionized for his African advocacy, detractors on the left have derided and demonized him. To hear the top-shelf stars of Afropop offer such coherent covers that range from the compelling and chilling to the challenging and competent goes a long way towards answering the cynics and the critics concerning Bono’s activism.

Despite the growing global appeal of what falls under the “world music” umbrella, Afropop remains an underappreciated genre among listeners in the global north. Many U2 fans will choose to own this consistent collection even if they have never heard of or listened to African stars like Angelique Kidjo, Les Nubians, Sierra Leone’s Refugee All Stars, Vieux Farka Touré, Vusi Mahlasela, and the Soweto Gospel Choir. Such excellent exposure for an experimental and expressive genre cannot be understated.

After dozens of listens, In the Name of Love maintains its insistent rhythms and intoxicating layers. The record takes familiar tracks and makes them unfamiliar in a breathtaking and beautiful manner worthy of  dancing or singing along.

In the Name of Love: Africa Celebrates U2 was released on Shout Factory on April 1^st. For more information, please go here.

By Andrew William Smith, Editor

June 10, 2008

With their much anticipated fifth studio album, My Morning Jacket work out some ethical and emotional energy by ever expanding the musical palette, splashing the audio canvas with crunky colors, and serving up some delicious flavors of funk—namely the enigmatic “peanut butter pudding surprise.”

The Jacket’s big-tent approach to genre has generated a career far too big for the tent shows at the Tennessee festival that made them famous. Consistent critical acclaim and a loyal—even hardcore—fanbase have helped ‘em bushwhack a path to freedom where the boys can try pretty much anything. Listening to them purge any prohibitions against their urges, we find our brains galloping across vast geographies to discover various new time zones of sound—and then some.

The quintet earns quite quizzical responses at first listen. What’s up with indy-rock’s favorite muppet in the silly, surreal, and sho’ ‘nuff pimpadelic paean to Prince called “Highly Suspicious”? How are the hard-rocking Jacket faithful supposed to gel with the record’s mellow middle of easy-listening effervescence?

Of course, at dawn, the jacket worn should be loose-fitting and hardly the stereotypical straightjacket some previously tried to lace the band into by focusing on facial hair, southern roots, or appeal among former Deadheads. At once slinky and sophisticated, the more urban Urges takes us from twang to a defiant and decadent “Dang!”

With his understated charisma and universal appeal, Jim James’s vocal juju juices us at track one. Backed by insistent, inspired grooves, “Evil Urges” embraces a humanistic hedonism that says “it ain’t evil baby if it ain’t hurting anybody.” The contagious chorus invokes the innocence of instant gratification as James ooohs “I’m ready for it now!”

After this timeless testimonial to loving without limit, the next track tackles the more primal elements of passion. Since James confessed in Spin magazine that the relationship that inspired so many of the disc’s love songs had soured, hearing them now can touch the heart in unexpected ways. With lyrics so poignant they’re painful, “Touch Me I’m Going To Scream Pt. 1” touches on the reliably elusive themes of love and lust as it slithers into the ears on a sumptuously spacey soft-rock platter.

Already the topic of too much critical speculation, the tightly tweaked, over-the-top torpedo known as “Highly Suspicious” should generate endless discussion, derision, delight—or dessert recipes—depending on who you talk to.

Giving me my best Jacket-induced goose bumps since “Gideon,” the radio-ready, arm-waving anthem “I’m Amazed” thrives on its mantra-like lyrical structure, its mixed socio-spiritual messages, and its sonic twinkles—thanks to steady drums, epic keyboards, and screaming guitars. Here, James’s poetic anchor blends the amazing grace of natural mysticism with the crudely befuddled awe appropriate with any romantic response to living inside the modern-day idiocracy.

After changing mood and pace for each of the first four songs, the band settles on its chilled and charming side for the CD’s creamy center. Of these, only “Sec Walkin” recalls the band in its more countrified manifestations. “Thank You Too!” is a sappy love song among sappy love songs, and “Two Halves” is a perfect pop ditty about accepting yourself and the company of your own head as you grow older.

In a most beautifully crafted and brutally haunting ballad, “The Librarian” immediately lilts into the deeper layers of the psyche and finds safe lodging there. James achieves a songwriting pinnacle here: at once a tribute to the musty elegance of books in the age of the “interweb” and a uniquely retro—with references to Karen Carpenter and AM radio—seduction to serenade smart, simple, sexy, and shy people everywhere.

While “Easy Morning Rebel” on It Still Moves alludes to the Jesus story, “Look At You” may be the closest thing to a Sunday-morning hymn that the Jacket have ever done—or is it? If it’s a song about human power in political terms, it could be taken as sly or sarcastic rather than sincere. But on a record that so brims with soul, I can hardly imagine this as anything but what it sounds like: praise. I don’t necessarily expect to hear this live—or folks might just bust out with an amen corner wailing “testify, brother!” But like the best Ben Harper records, Evil Urges bastes us in boogie and booty as much as it bathes us in divine belief. The gospel-tinged tones return on “Smokin From Shootin,” another heart-ripping odyssey where James weaves snippets from at least three churchy standards into one smooth couplet.

Before that, we get the Springsteenesque “Aluminum Park” and stunning “Remnants,” the only bona fide roof-raising rockers on the album. With its Michael Franti-meets-William Blake lyric, the latter suggests the apocalypse on acid rock. James hollers: “there I saw a new ‘heaven’ – formed in the bleeding light of dusk/ all souls, all faiths – always – we are one.” While riffing on crumbling empires and “the end of the world as we know it” has evolved into a 21^st century rock cliché, the terrifying timeliness of the theme means that intuitive listeners never tire of it, and “Remnants” claims pulsating presence in that sub-genre of song.

“Touch Me I’m Going To Scream Pt. 2” picks up where part one left off, and the two tracks frame the whole evil project as though it were a concept album about how the ultimate ambiguity of all things collapses in the tentative loving textures of human emotion. At the end of the day, it’s all about feelings and needs, and we need each other to turn each other on. And, James howls, “don’t you even turn it off!”

Don’t ever turn it off describes how I feel about this record after about the first thirty listens—but it took me at least ten to warm up to its more tender sides. That My Morning Jacket can keep its cozy campfire vibe on such a polished and promising disc is further proof that time could catapult them past even their present ascent to stardom. Whether they will—like predecessors and peers Wilco and the Flaming Lips—continue to sell-out theaters—or claim their mantle as America’s Radiohead and take on larger venues—remains to be seen.

Of at least two things, though, we are certain. The Jacket have carved out an incredible niche of optimistic genius in American popular music, making space for groups like Band of Horses and Fleet Foxes and hopefully many more who will melt genre into an intoxicated and sanctified mess. And finally and fundamentally, in just five fierce records, this band has traversed more sonic territory than could be expected in five lifetimes.

So, no matter what happens next, we can give thanks for what has transpired so far. Thanks to Jim James, Two Tone Tommy, Patrick Hallahan, Carl Broemer, and Bo Koster—five “brothers” no longer entirely from Louisville, taking the world one song at a time.

Band Photo by Autumn DeWilde, courtesy of My Morning Jacket. Evil Urges was released today on ATO Records. For more information, please visit http://www.mymorningjacket.com

]]> http://www.interference.com/evil-urges-ain%e2%80%99t-evil-baby-my-morning-jacket-make-another-masterpiece/feed/ http://www.interference.com/hard-rock-park-can-cure-the-anytime-blues/ http://www.interference.com/hard-rock-park-can-cure-the-anytime-blues/#comments Fri, 06 Jun 2008 00:22:00 +0000 Anu http://www.interference.com/?p=9075

By Andrew William Smith, Editor

June 5, 2008

Rock and roll and the rollercoaster share a symbiotic relationship based on thrills, chills, and sheer, shameless fun for its own sake. Thanks to the brand-new Hard Rock Park, rock’s glory and the glee of rollercoasters have found a marriage of genius on 55 acres in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

The latest epicenter to brag of the Hard Rock brand brings the communal spirit of rock and roll to a spacious and sunny venue. The $400 million invested to create this playground of pure joy can be seen at every turn, especially in the astonishing attention given to design details. An entire delightful day this summer or coming fall could be devoted to exploring this dazzling place.

After ambling by the Amp’d Coffee shop and through the All Access entrance plaza marked by the main merch mecca (which most will visit on the way out), rockers face the first decision of the day at a fork in the road. Turn left to find Rock and Roll Heaven and turn right to explore Cool Country. Left seems logical for a clockwise tour of the roughly circular layout.

At the amazing installation of stone that serves as an altar to rock and roll saints, sins of the flesh have been forgiven, and fans can pay their respects to the likes of Woodrow Wilson Guthrie, James Marshall Hendrix, James Douglas Morrison, Jerome John Garcia, Kurt Donald Cobain, and oh-so-many more.

Not far past Reggae River Falls where young rockers rollick and refresh in a fountain-as-playground, we find Led Zeppelin: The Ride, easily the fiercest feature of the whole place. Conveniently located near some free lockers where riders can stash phones, purses, hats, and glasses before blowing their minds and bodies with sound and speed, this attraction showcases every flourish of imagination that makes the park great.

To begin, the ride queue resembles a multimedia museum, rife with oversized album art, band trivia, and vintage footage of live Zeppelin. Before boarding the breathtaking coaster, the anticipation gets heightened by yet-another video installation, this time in a darkened-room made to resemble a concert hall. These few minutes of decadent fanfare are so phenomenal they might make the real Led-heads forget the forthcoming ascent up the sturdy, steel stairway to heaving (not!—but this ride is not recommended for the weak of stomach).

Led Zeppelin-The Ride

Once fastened into the cars that await us in ride the station that resembles an actual zeppelin, we hear “Whole Lotta Love” blast from the on-board speakers. Like most great coasters, it’s pretty much over before it begins, but the wicked loops and lightning lurches linger a little longer as you stumble down the exit stairs. One rider gasped that the force of the freefall forced a scream back into her throat as another said “let’s go again” as he swayed to the sounds that were stuck in his body.

But before making it back to the line, these patrons first got a taste of Hard Rock Park’s other-than-musical motive. In a marketing move that makes obvious financial sense, each major attraction includes a fully-stocked and appropriately-themed gift shop in its exit. You can’t get to the next ride without at least browsing the reasonably-priced swag.

Leaving heaven requires a stroll over the water. As if crossing a much bigger pond, this walk takes us to the English-themed neighborhood called The British Invasion. What an exciting place!

While visiting this miniature United Kingdom, tourists can see a Beatles cover band playing atop a double-decker bus, answer a ringing phone in a phone booth, take a walk across Abbey Road, ride a London taxi cab, bounce around the Punk Pit, or eat fish and chips and sip Bass Ale in the psychedelically-themed Carnaby Street Café. It’s easy to get lost on this magical mystery tour, and that’s even before mustering the courage to don the 3D glasses and get on what may be the most unusual theme-ride ever conceived.

A completely chemical-free hallucination, Nights in White Satin is “The Trip” it boasts to be. From the love beads and black light in the disorienting vortex that takes you to your car to the stunning visual and musical journey itself, this paradisiacal odyssey pulls no punches in its flashback appeal to aging hippies, their grown Gen X children, and their completely befuddled grandkids.

After another consumer diversion for peace, love, and merchandise, trippers can come down in the Pinball Wizard Arcade or go feed the munchies at Alice’s Restaurant. In the diner designed by Arlo Guthrie, the décor keeps us in rock’s most fabled days. Any veteran of the late 1960s and early 1970s or student of that time period will marvel at the choice of art and artifact at the eatery where patrons can get anything they want.

In addition to the rides, restaurants, and rock bands serenading passersby, each of the themed-sections of the park features an ambitious show. The Roadies Stunt Show in The British Invasion boasts unrelenting hilarity and acrobatic ability sure to produce smiles for all.

After the British Invasion, the American-themed areas include Kids Rock! State Park, Born in the USA, and Cool Country. The latter features The Eagles Life In The Fast Lane coaster and the breezy Just A Swingin’ ride from which you can enjoy the live music on the Cool Country Stage. Near the exit, The Whammy Bar is a full-service watering hole with a bikers’ theme and visibly posted phone-numbers for the park’s own taxi service.

Visitors to Hard Rock Park in its virgin season may see some attractions closed for testing or still under construction. As with any new venture, it takes time to work out the kinks (not to be confused with The Kinks photo in the café). But the first brave attendees can count on finding short lines for rides (until the word gets out more about how completely fabulous this place is) and meeting some incredibly enthusiastic and attentive employees.

The idea to feature touring bands in the park’s main amphitheatre and include these shows with the price of admission is one of the venue’s many visions sheer brilliance. The park’s gala opening events boasted shows by bands with their own rides, The Eagles and The Moody Blues.

Hopefully, Hard Rock Park will meet the kind of success that will allow it to expand its offerings over the years. The possibilities are endless for creating thrill rides based on rock’s greatest songs, and in the meantime, creating that wish-list is the perfect car game for the ride home.

For years, fans of steep drops and stellar pop could study this summertime symbiosis on Ohio’s north coast where the epic speed of Cedar Point is just a close jaunt from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. But now down south, by infusing rides galore with rock’s lore, Hard Rock has birthed the theme park of the music fan’s dreams.

Hard Rock Park opened in April 2008 and held its Grand Opening event in early June.

For more information, please visit http://www.hardrockpark.com/

Photos courtesy of Hard Rock Park.

Get a bunch of irascible and lovable old people and have them sing the songs of the Ramones, the Clash and Bruce Springsteen. It almost sounds like an “After School Special” for the AARP set, filled with lots of schmaltzy life lessons. Instead, Young@Heart is an original and affectionate look at our often-ignored elderly and how they bring a whole new meaning to the words “rocking chair.

British documentarian Stephen Walker focuses his lens on the Young@Heart Chorus based in Northampton, Massachusetts. Started in 1982 by choir director Bob Cilman, the Young@Heart Chorus is preparing for a 2006-2007 tour. Already used to performing and the rigors of the road, the chorus is gearing up for learning new songs as the film begins.

More inclined to listen to classical, opera or the standards, the chorus members express shock and bewilderment when they find out what they are going to sing. They even cover their ears and shake their heads when they listen to the original songs. It’s as if they are saying, “We have to sing that?” However, the members aren’t going to shy away from a song just because it’s not pleasing to their ears, and they soon begin to study the lyrics (often using a magnifying glass) to songs like Sonic Youth’s “Schizophrenia” and “Life During Wartime” by the Talking Heads.

As with any other rehearsals, the chorus is having their share of problems. Dora Morrow and Stan Goldman keep stumbling on their duet on James Brown’s “I Feel Good.” They can’t quite get the lyrics and rhythm right. The chorus is also overwhelmed by Allen Poussaint’s “Yes, We Can,” which features the word “can” a staggering 71 times.

Despite their difficulties, the chorus members are determined to master the songs. But like any artists, they also get up to quite a bit of mischief, sharing silly jokes and teasing each other like high school students. Cilman is a strict taskmaster, but shows a great deal of love for the chorus. This is not just some enjoyable arts and crafts time for the Young@Heart Chorus to spend their golden years. Cilman actually treats them as if they are doing something important and expects them to give 110%.

Though everyone is an important part of the Young@Heart Chorus, filmmaker Walker focuses on a few select members. British-born Eileen Hall is a former burlesque performer and is totally fun and flirtatious. The aforementioned Dora Morrow says that singing “Yes, I Can” is hard, yet has no problem reciting the lyrics (and eventually blows “I Feel Good” out of the park). Fred Knittle’s voice is both rich and beautiful, and all the more remarkable considering he is suffering from congestive heart failure.

Sadly, not all members survived the filming. John Benoit and Bob Salvini die within a week of each other. The chorus learns of Salvini death just as they are about to perform at a local prison. Despite their grief, the show must go on. And when they sing Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young” even the hardened prisoners are moved to tears.

Interspersed throughout the movie are fun videos of the chorus singing songs like Talking Heads’ “Road to Nowhere” and David Bowie’s “Golden Years.” Though the videos sometimes jar you out of the documentary’s storyline, you can’t help but feel the chorus’ enthusiasm for being rock video stars.

The film culminates with the Young@Heart Chorus performing at a sold-out show in a huge theater. The audience is filled with both young and old and the high-energy spirit can rival any rock concert. One of the most touching moments is when Knittle sings Coldplay’s “Fix You” accompanied by his oxygen pump. Knittle was supposed to sing this song with the recently deceased Salvini. He sings “when you lose something you can’t replace…I will try to fix you.” The lyrics take on a heartbreakingly new meaning, knowing Knittle is not with his singing partner.

In fact, all the songs take on new meanings and become more potent when sung by people old enough to be the songwriters’ grandparents. On a show like American Idol, contestants are admonished to make a song their own. In Young@Heart, the performers actually do.

Young@Heart is rated PG.

By Andrew William Smith, Editor

May 23, 2008

Back in the day, events like Woodstock and Monterey Pop created legendary legacies for the future of American rock festivals. Today, festivals like Coachella, Bonnaroo, and Lollapalooza set the gold standard for getting your groove on outdoors with thousands of your best friends.

Although the Woodstock myth would be incomplete without the gate-crashing that created health hazards and financial holes, many of today’s festivals have been triumphs of better logistics and the bottom line. While most festivals try to be green in terms of raising the environmental awareness of the attendees, they can also be green in terms of lining the pockets of the promoters.

Largely because of the unrivaled commercial and cultural success of Bonnaroo, outdoor festivals have been sprouting up all over North America like weeds in the summer garden. Is it possible that this is too much of a good thing?

Rolling Stone magazine recently reported, “Festivals have become so huge in the U.S. that many in the concert industry wonder if they’ll take over from the traditional summer model of bands playing amphitheaters. But the proliferation in U.S. festivals may be getting close to oversaturation.”

Festival organizers appear to be facing up to these fears as challenges by finding ways to create new kinds of festivals. Enter into this context the debut of Rothbury which sells itself as nothing less than “A Music Festival Revolution.” Held in Western Michigan and brought to us by the same folks who produce Coachella, Bumbershoot, and the New Orleans Jazzfest, organizers promise what consultant Jeremy Toback describes as “mind blowing music, hard hitting eco minded forums and panels, and serious tech nerdness.”

To some attendees who might skip Bonnaroo because they don’t want to camp in a field, the resort setting of the JJ Ranch (which offers golf, horseback riding, and an indoor waterpark the rest of the year) may be the most distinguishing aspect of the festival. In fact, most of the indoor accommodations are already sold-out for this year’s flagship event.

While every festival promises an “experience,” many fans come just for the bands. With artists like the Dave Matthews Band, Primus, Snoop Dogg, Michael Franti and Spearhead, STS9, The Black Keys, and too many more to name, Rothbury will not disappoint fandom’s most faithful. But Rothbury just won’t stop there; it hopes to take the cultural immersion aspect of a festival to the next level. What about the culture that Rothbury is attempting to create will be different?

In calling itself “revolutionary,” Rothbury isn’t just talking about the musical revolution; the festival concerns itself with things as noble as creating clean energy and feeding hungry people.

The high profile “think tank” brings speakers like former Green Party vice-presidential candidate Winona LaDuke to talk about a future of sustainable energy and energy independence. She will join “the innovators, entrepreneurs, thought leaders, celebs, and rabble rousers who are bringing this future into focus. They’ll share their strategies and successes, and offer practical ideas and inspiration. It’s time to have fun, talk solutions, and start working towards a fossil-free America.”

While Conscious Alliance will host a food drive like it does at other festivals, this time the cans will be used to attempt the largest ever “cansculpture.” This project which hopes to enter The Guiness Book of World Records will be built in collaboration with Whole Foods Market and architect John Brittingham.

The Rothbury revolution will take place in other respects as well. Earlier this spring, fans could apply to perform as part of the “Big Gig” open mic stage. For fans of deejauys and electronic dance music, Amanda Palmer of The Dresden Doll will join Jen Gapay of the New York Burlesque Festival in crafting the The Establishment’s “bold, bawdy, and bizarre” carnivalesque atmosphere. A unique space called “The Tripolee Domes” pledges to give us this: “A 3-hour show featuring global DJ’s, live musicians, performers, visual projection artists, and the captivating musical instruments conceived by MASS, Tripolee will host an extravagant party into the night, Thursday through Sunday.”

Scheduled over the 4^th of July holiday weekend, Rothbury has lots of competition for the consumer of summer getaways. But it’s the festival’s missionary zeal that makes it so special and may draw people away from just another annual ritual of fireworks, parades, and family reunions.

With their patriotism for the planet, the organizers claim nothing less than to be “harnessing the spirit of the music festival community into a durable social movement.” The promoters practice what they preach by aggressively advocating carpooling and mass transit and by planning to either recycle or composte all the waste created by the festival. And work exchange programs exist for people who want to get involved and cannot afford the substantial ticket price.

Anyone who has attended a festival can remember at least one moment when the music made it possible for the fans to “transcend beyond individuals and into a collective.” Rothbury hopes to tap into that ineffable moment of inspiration and “create lasting change.” That is the Rothbury revolution.

Common wisdom suggests that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. Rothbury hopes to create an uncommon exception to that rule.

For more information, please visit http://www.rothburyfestival.com/

Described as a cross between the TV show The Office and the mock documentary This is Spinal Tap, Rock On: An Office Power Ballad by Dan Kennedy seemed right up my alley. Always interested in the music business, I picked up this memoir with some high expectations.

In 2002, Dan Kennedy got a dream job with a major record label. A huge music fan since he was a teenager, Kennedy thought he had it made working in music marketing. He figured he’d get to meet his favorite musicians and come up with amazing marketing campaigns that would blow people away.

Kennedy does get to work with some big names. Phil Collins, Jewel and rapper Fat Joe are just a few names Kennedy drops. But he doesn’t exactly get to develop brilliant marketing campaigns. Kennedy gets to work on women’s razor commercials featuring Jewel’s song “Intuition” and Public Service Announcements for all-girl band the Donnas telling students not to bring guns to school. Kennedy soon realizes that, despite his cool sounding job, he’s basically just another cog in the corporate machine.

Furthermore, he’s in the music industry at a time of major upheavals, including mass lay-offs, cuts in artistic contracts and low sales, not to mention Internet musical downloads. And though Kennedy thought his days would be filled with creative projects and discovering the next musical phenomenon, they turned out to be filled with politics, positioning and avoiding pink slips.

And perhaps that’s what’s the problem with Rock On. Kennedy’s experiences aren’t much different than anyone who has worked for “the man.” Like the rest of us, he deals with pointless meetings, bad management decisions and the chasing of the almighty dollar. Plus, Kennedy describes his colleagues in thinly-sketched stereotypes while making himself a “too-cool-for-school” outsider. This would be cute if he was twenty-one, but it comes across kind of pathetic in a man closing in on forty.

Still, Rock On does have its memorable moments. Kennedy’s chapter on the chaos and destruction at an Iggy Pop concert is quite interesting. I also got a giggle from a corporate-wide e-mail Kennedy never had the guts to send. And Kennedy’s “Free Lyrics for Any All-Girl Band Trying to Win Over the Middle-Aged White Suburban Male Demographic” showed he can turn a witty phrase. Some sample lyrics?

I think that’s muscle, not fat
I think your hair is still rad
You and your friends still seem like rockers
It turns me on
The way you tuck your short-sleeved Polo into your pleated khaki Dockers.

Kennedy is a good writer and does have a story to tell. But what makes Rock On not exactly work is its length. Kennedy’s experience would make a great Rolling Stone article, but as a book it’s just too many words and not enough substance to really keep the reader interested in the long haul.

By Landin King
2008.5

Welcome to the home of the blues and the annual Memphis in May Beale Street Music Festival. Offering a first-rate soaking of rain and some encouraging tornado warnings, this three-day festival got off to a wild, wet, and wonderful start.

With a wide array of acts, no set demographic of people comes out for The Beale Street Music Festival. Bands from every decade bring a different group of people day and night to the different stages in this beautiful park. This festival plays an important enough role in Memphis culture that people who don’t even know the music participate in this great event.

As a kick-start to a weekend of completely off the wall and on the money music, Lord T and Eloise, a group with roots in Memphis, took the Cellular South Stage Friday afternoon. A rap entourage highly influenced by bands such as the Beastie Boys, Lord T and Eloise brought down a dynamic set to a reasonably large group of people all incredibly involved in their playful sound.

For an hour, the group dealt a series of entertaining rap songs that had to do with everything from sexy ladies to the Middle East oil imports. A wide array of costumes only further added to the captivating impact of their set. Featuring a Chinese farming costume, a sailor with a gold face and curlers in his hair, an elegant grey suit, and a man with a cow skull mask and a khaki suit, no one had the faintest idea who was the most intriguing person on stage. Rhyming their way into a guest entrance by rapper Al Capone this group offered a final song to all the “high class gentleman” of the audience.

Lord T and Eloise, photo by Landin King

The schedule for Friday night promised Ben Folds and The Roots following Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Joan Jett showed up in all black leather—looking amazingly young for her age—but then had to play a shortened set due to rain. Ben Folds’ sound crew rolled his grand piano and all of his equipment on stage before covering it up with tarps when it starting pouring. Sheets of rain pelted the audience members who were either dripping wet or saved by their plastic ponchos. Regardless, this relentless crowd waited and waited, chanting things like, “Start the show!” and eventually even, “F*** Ben Folds!” Somehow, most of the drenched crowd seemed to forget they were here to see music and were just having fun drinking and playing around in the rain. After about two hours of waiting for nothing, most people started filing out toward their cars.

By Saturday afternoon, the milder weather welcomed Al Kapone—a rapper from Memphis—to the Budweiser Stage. Featuring dancers, other rappers from his label, and even a six year old he pulled out of the crowd to dance with him, Kapone set the festive mood for the day. Immediately following Kapone, Canadian twins Tegan and Sara took the stage. Their poppy sound and young appearance brought out a much younger crowd. Splashing anecdotes between every few songs, their comedic conversation was as entertaining as their music.

Al Kapone, photo by Landin King

Tegan and Sara, photo by Devon Hodovsky

Late Saturday afternoon, Cat Power took the Cellular South Stage. The crowd let out a whale of approval when the lovely Chan Marshall appeared armed with a coffee cup and a glowing smile. As the music began, people grew reverently silent and simply absorbed every move this band made. Opening with brush drums and careful keys, “Push” was a soothing start to their set. Marshall’s raspy voice, foolish dance moves, and clear connection with the audience were entirely captivating. Collaborating guitar player on Cat Power’s album The Greatest, Teeny Hodges joined her on stage and delivered some solid guitar leads that only made this performance that much greater.

Cat Power, photo by Landin King

As the sun started setting early Saturday evening, Arrested Development took the stage. They gathered a huge crowd, all ready to dance. Announcing that they were about to play the band’s first ever single, “Tennessee,” this Memphis crowd went wild. The whole group had hands held high clapping in rhythm with the band and then, on command, jumping up and down together. Showing their reggae roots, Arrested let strips of yellow, green, and red cloth hang from their mics as they played songs about redemption and what they refer to as “positive hip-hop music.” After seventeen years of playing, this group of musicians has refined their live set to perfection and knows how to work a crowd.

Arrested Development, photo by Landin King

Closing out this amazing Saturday were Lou Reed followed by Carlos Santana. Both of these men have been in the music business longer than a good deal of the audience members had been alive and yet each delivered such a powerful set of music, showing that some things do age to perfection.

Reed took the stage under a dark set of turquoise and purple lights, setting the feeling for his melancholy rock sound. Reed’s deep voice is as powerful as his early days with The Velvet Underground. Accompanied by a stand up bass and seven-piece band, this hour and a half set sent piercing vocal quality through the haze of smoke hovering over the audience. Using the track Ecstasy to showcase his band, this song lasted through fifteen minutes of an entrancing instrumental session. As he wound down and everyone reflected on the legend’s performance, a faceless audience member commented, “Not bad for an old guy.” Everyone seemed to agree.

The third, final, and most beautiful day of the weekend arrived on Sunday. Spirits were high as the mud from Friday’s rainstorm had cleared up, and another day of music lay ahead. Each year Memphis in May honors a country around which to base their celebration. This year, Memphis was honoring Turkey. Commemorating this country, the music fest even brought in a band featuring all Turkish lyrics. Very popular overseas, Duman is a rock group that doesn’t have an incredibly original sound yet delivered a pretty solid show. Their foreign vocals and appreciation to be part of this festival gathered a great crowd and everyone enjoyed something quite original for the weekend.

Sunday’s lineup brought in some classic acts to mingle with the younger group of musicians. Famous names like Aretha Franklin and Jerry Lee Lewis proved that Memphis would always be an epicenter of some unbelievable talent. Right alongside these classic acts were some of today’s big names from all different genres of music. O.A.R., Umphree’s Mcgee, and Michael Franti & Spearhead all thrilled a primarily college audience with their upbeat music and sing along tunes. The Black Crowes, Finger Eleven, and Fergie each brought a crowd of their own as this festival started coming to a close.

Photo by Landin King

As the sun went down over the Mississippi River, the Memphis Bridge became illuminated with cars heading back to homes near and far. After a long weekend, Memphis in May 2008 came to a close. Excluding the mounds of mud tracks and beer cans to be cleaned up, the weekend was quite successful.

By Luke Pimentel
2008.4

I gave up my clubbing days a while back, owing to the fact that I was rapidly and inevitably approaching the dreaded Three-Ought, and was therefore no longer allowed to do any “real” partying. So, as I ventured into the claustrophobic confines of San Francisco’s Mezzanine on April 17th, milking a watered-down vodka tonic, I was more than a little self-conscious about the state of my rapidly-decaying youth.

I discovered quickly, though, that very little about nightclubs had changed in my absence. Garish red lights flashing everywhere? Check. Trippy anime projected against the walls? Check. And – most tellingly – mediocre DJs spending eons (and I do mean EONS) laying out bland four-on-the-floor beats in order to the bore the audience toward the bar, only to rev them up again once they’re good and wasted? BIIIIIG check.

Boy, I sure missed out on a lot!

Anyway, by the time the Ghostland Observatory hit the stage at close to midnight, the sold-out crowd had been whipped into an alcohol-inflected frenzy, while I, in my deluded worker-bee state, was thinking I should already be on my way home. (Worknight? Ha!)

Lucky for me, the band I came to see did not disappoint.

For the uninitiated, Ghostland Observatory are a two-man act from Austin, Texas. One guy pounds out rhythms on a bank of synths, knobs, and traditional drums, while the other guy handles vocals and guitar licks.

It should be noted that synth guy sports a blue-white cape with a collar so high it would make Bela Lugosi blush, while singer guy wears his hair in long braids and is never without a giant pair of shades. It’s a stage presence that is - to say the least! - unique. They’re known to the world at large as Thomas Ross Turner and Aaron Behrens, respectively, but to me and my friends, they’re affectionately known as Cape and Pigtails.

photo by Shanti Knapp

The ghostland these dazzling vamps refer to with their moniker is the bygone heyday of glam, funk, and 80’s Jazzercise videos. The act they’ve cooked up to observe it is canny and clever, with one foot in the world of alternative rock, the other (slightly larger) foot in the worlds of dance and electronica. As evidenced by the success of their 2006 breakthrough Paparazzi Lightning and its hit single “Sad Sad City,” their pastiche mash-ups are both energetic and relentlessly catchy.

For their late-night exploits, Cape and Pigtails prefer to hide behind clouds of thick stage smoke and an awesome fortress of seizure-inducing laser lights that, more often than not, reduces them to mere silhouettes. No doubt if the alien mothership ever does show up, it can use these guys’ live show as the landing platform.

When the boys do emerge from behind their arsenal, it is Pigtails who dominates the proceedings. His svelte androgyny and liquid prancing make him look as though the spirit of Freddie Mercury has invaded the body of Pocahontas; when he sings, it is a near-shriek of falsetto that works in perfect harmony with Cape’s whirling, hook-driven synth lines.

photo by Shanti Knapp

Not subtle stuff, as you might gather. But after countless years of inert disc-twirlers and gravely-voiced mopeheads shoegazing their way through middle-class boredom, Ghostland’s emphasis on fun and showmanship isn’t a goofy anachronism; in fact, it’s downright refreshing.

Thursday night, they brought rockers and clubbers together into one sweaty mass of alterna-haze, and it was entertaining to watch how the clubbers mixed it up with the oh-so-hip rockers, most of whom doggedly resisted the urge to indulge in anything so desperately uncool as shaking their own ass.

photo by Shanti Knapp

To Ghostland’s credit, though, they had everyone waving their hands and nodding to the beat by the time their ninety-minute set had reached its climax. The lion’s share of the performance was devoted to songs from Paparazzi Lightning and the band’s latest, Robotique Majestique, which made its bow in March. The band reversed normal protocol and front-loaded the set with their best-known material, choosing to devote the latter half to new stuff – a surprisingly confident move. The new stuff proved solid in the live setting, with “Heavy Heart”, “No Place For Me”, and “Dancing In My Grave” all getting spirited reads. The encore follo wed a similar pattern to the main set, bookending the band’s short career with “Silver City,” a great tune from debut LP delete.delete.i.eat.meat, and the wicked loops of “HFM”, one of the closing tracks off Robotique Majestique.

Pigtails – the band’s spokesman - seemed pleased with the results, exulting to the crowd with typical bombast: “You guys have turned a cold, cold night into one swingin’ hot party!”

It may have been too long a party for a cranky old fart like myself… but even the hopelessly responsible need a late night every once in a while.

And if you’re gonna have one, a trip to the Ghostland is the way to go.