Reserving the Right to Make Mistakes

(speaking of mistakes, bear with me- blogger has apparently decided that me using anything like line breaks or indentations is not allowed. sorry.)




Reserving the right to make mistakes is one of the biggest principles I hold dear. Sincerely, I really mean that. Because no one on this planet can claim infallibility or perfection. And the fact that we still strive to be something larger than the random moments we string together is honey on the tongue to me.





In that process, however, sometimes mistakes get made. Mistakes made in such spectacular and ambitious gestures that there hasn't been a scale invented yet to measure it. Not even by the Canadians, and they use the metric system. But in the hubris of those mistakes, sometimes, we also get moments of unimaginable beauty. Contrary, messy and complicated these moments may be, but a real beauty to behold nonetheless.





And I love these moments because they are quite often the most sincere and real that you'll ever get. And honestly? I'm often relieved to see that someone has the balls to fail on such spectacular scales. That someone is willing to fail in the name of taking life, art and everything in between farther, man.






Which brings me to tonights subject: The Sandinista! Project.




It's a track by track tribute album devoted to Sandinista! by the Clash. Why Sandinista!, you ask. Why indeed?






First off, let me say that at least the Clash were willing to fail. The closest U2 ever came was climbing out of a lemon. Which is not to say that U2 has never taken risks. Just never as blinkeringly straighforward as the Clash. That they've succeeded may be the Clash's biggest success... Because somebody learned their lessons well. But I digress.






Sandinista! was neither the revolutionary album that London Calling was nor was it the pop radio rope-a- dope that became Combat Rock. No. Sandinista! is the problematic record in an otherwise brilliant back catalog full of classic albums. In three lp's (that means six sides of vinyl, do the math), the Clash managed to not only make no decisions at all, they managed to make all the decisions at once. The album veers wildly from their love of dub and reggae to motown and rockabilly. Refusing to make a soul record or a dub record or a straight ahead rock record, they instead opted to make all of the records at once. One can imagine the band playing as fast as the engineers could put the tapes on reel, pausing only every once in a while to get St. Joe Strummer out of his "spliff bunker."






Plainly said, the album is a big hot sticky mess. And problematic for almost all of its fans. It's that friend who laughs out to loud at all the wrong jokes. You don't know why you love it, but you do.

Which is why someone actually had the gall to put together a track by track tribute album for it.


In it's own way, this should be a helluva hot sticky mess.




And I'm gonna review it, break it down, track by track to see how it stacks up. And I hope you're here to see it. Because, I think, the only way to do this proper is by reviewing it against the original article, track by track.

So here's the plan, Stan. Six sides of six songs each. I'm going to review side 1, track versus track. Then side 2 and so on.





It'll be my own little Sandinista Project. But nowhere near as beautiful as the original objects.
Be well. Take care of each other.

-e.m.

rudi, a message to you (a personal note)

Actually, this message goes out to Cody more than anyone because he's been the first to call shenenigans on me.

So... yeah. Not a lot of updateage going on here as of late. So first off, apologies to anyone and everyone who has stopped by as of late to check in and see new material. I can see that you're out there. Thanks for stopping by. I hope to have a lot of new material up in the beginning of August if not sooner.

Truthfully, however, life has been busy as Tyler and I have worked pretty diligently to get a rough draft of our novel done. The work for me was pretty intense as I wrote myself into a corner or two and failed to discuss it with anyone. The moment I did, Tyler set me straight and work began again in earnest.

And so it happents that the stone has been lifted from the quarry. Now, Tyler will chisel it into some sort of magnificent statue. I, most likely, will just draw funny mustaches and anatomically incorrect doodles. So, fingers crossed, we'll have a draft to submit to all the right people very soon. The day will come, soon enough, that we'll all be begging you to buy a copy of it. It will be called This is Not a Love Song. I think it's gonna be hhhaawwwt. We hope you dig it.

Since finishing my portion of the roughie, I've also started writing a new piece. It's short and I hope to find a home for it. More details on that will be forthcoming soon enough, one way or the other. Who knows, I might even let you read it, yeah?

Also, work should begin on Pike St.'s Radio Silence. Yes. It's been two years since I worked on it in earnest. See a few paragraphs ago. The part about writing a novel. But yeah, here's hoping that Raf and I can get back in there soon and turn the mutha out. As I've recently stopped smoking, it's been a real trip finding out where my new voice is.

As for Ronin Rock?

I hope to have new posts up soon detailing the greatness that I've seen lately. Namely, No Doubt's re-introduction to America and Third Eye Blind reigning supreme at the Sunshine. Probably a few stray thoughts about the passing of MJ and possibly, maybe, I hope, a guest blogger or two.

Finally, one last reason (or rationalization) as to why the long silence. Finishing the rough draft of the album has been a great experience. I've literally grown to a place where I just feel better when I'm writing. Looking at this year's output on music, in itself, has been a great experiment. To see where my ability is in terms of writing music journalism, to see where my failing's and my successes are... It's been fun.

But it dawned on me over the last few shows that I've seen that I can offer better writing if I take it in a more personal direction and adhere just a little less to the parameters of typical music journalism. This is a shift that I think will take a little getting used to and I didn't want to just jump into it as I was finishing a much larger body of work. So please, come back, check it out, lemmeno what you think.

Thanks for reading.

Tripping the night fantastic-
e.m.pennington

i swear i'm not jumping the gun here

but i'm really excited about this as the light is starting to creep in from the end of the tunnel. anyone who doesn't get this post... will. really soon. nonetheless, your bitchin' mixtape for pennington's half.

this is not a love song by annetenna
you only live once by the strokes
photograph by the verve pipe
found a job by the talking heads
johnny appleseed by joe strummer and the mescaleroes
she just happened by the mighty mighty bosstones
glamorous indie rock and roll by the killers
debaser by the pixies
myxomatosis(judge jury & executioner) by radiohead
let it dive by ...and you will know us by the trail of dead
bonnie brae by the twilight singers
ooh la la by goldfrapp
here it goes again by ok go
village idiots by catatonia
the righteous & the wicked by the red hot chili peppers
so much for the afterglow by everclear
all my friends by lcd soundsystem
problems & bigger ones by harvey danger
stuck between stations by the holdsteady
new routine by fountains of wayne
naked in the city again by hot hot heat
float on by modest mouse


ok... looking at this, i realize this is an impossibly hip list of songs that maybe only seany will appreciate. but i swear it's all great.

ciao.

M Ward at the Sunshine Theater, Albuquerque 20 April 2009

"He knows one of our songs!"

And thus the story is told by one half of the Watson Twins as to how they met M Ward. The end result being their presence here in Albuquerque opening for him. The song in question is called "Southern Manners." Ripping into it with laid back ease and laden with soul and blues, they let their harmonies plead gently but intensely over the top of the song.

During the course of their set, they switch off on guitar duty with the other doing either percussion and/or backing vocals. It leads one to interesting questions over division of labor. They keep their set spare and minimal, only employing a keyboard player to keep up with them. The rest is kept pared down to guitar, melody and harmony with an occasional stab of small percussion like tamborine.

The effects, instantly both haunting and soothing, speak for themselves. Having provided the Duke City with enough peaceful vibes to soothe a herd of angry elephants, they thank the audience as they leave us to wait for M Ward.

Not long after, Ward takes to the stage in soft, subdued lighting which instantly renders him unrecognizable and evokes thoughts of him solely as "Him" from She and Him fame. The second guitarist runs a steady rhythm on acoustic as Ward tosses off one hot bluesy lick after another. Finishing the song, Ward starts to sing "I want it all" as the light kicks up, but just a little. He leads the band into a rambling blues number that shuffles and swaggers with the most rollicking of folk flavor. He sets the tone early by becoming a grab bag of disparate old school flavors.

Keeping the shuffle but opting for more force, the band kicks into the next song with a definite Bo Diddley beat. Preferring business to foreplay, Ward's band has now launched into three songs with very little time taken up in between. By the start of the fourth, though, Ward finally says hi to Albuquerque as he dives into a ditty somewhere between Charlie Daniels, Social D and the Beach Boys. He's not vintage so much as he is what vintage was coined to cover up: thrift store. His reach becomes more eclectic with each song selection.

The whole time, he belts out rugged, throaty vocals that shouldn't work. Not only do they work, but once you've heard them, you can't imagine them any other way. His voice rings out like a time warp transmission, echoing messages from the past through vintage speakers that distort the sound as they're unable to contain what pours out of them. In this way, his voice is perfectly suited to the music he plays.

When digging into a poppier, more contemporary vein, Ward lets the drummer take over as the bass drum starts to throb with the opening salvo of "Never Had Nobody Like You." Ward sings about seeing the dark side of the moon with a deft touch of contrition but more of a sly wink. As he moves into the next song, Ward finally tilts his hand for those that are watching. Played by any other band, the song would be pure rockabilly, but Ward deftly weaves in and out of genres like a musicologist David Bowie, chameolonically shifting from musical folklore to folklore.

The band slows the pace down a bit as Ward plays his first ballad of the evening. It comes out atmospheric and bluesy as Ward takes his time to really tease out leads. Keeping with this pace, Ward sits at the piano and lets his band do the heavy lifting for another slow burn ballad. A girl somewhere in the audience screams out for the song "Chinese Translation."

Ward stops and lookes to the audience with more self assuredness than most people have in a lifetime. "That will come soon enough," he gently responds, "First, I thought I'd play a few other songs until we get to that one." The audience cheers in approval as Ward has won them over with what is (now) obviously not a shy demeanor.

The band proceeds to take an Appalachian love song and turn it into an extended jam tinged with psychedelia. Upon completion, Ward and his band decide to stretch out as the drummer plays a simple four to the floor beat for the next few songs and the band rocks out accordingly. I always seem to hear a lot about the "new Nashville." I can't imagine it sounds anything like this and it makes me sad as Ward rips out another lead from his bag of vintage, this one somewhere between surf and bluegrass.

The band continues to rip into one style to the next as they go from power chord country to taking on Chuck Berry's over annunciated brand of blues with "Roll Over, Beethoven." A great way to end the normal set, really.

Returning to the stage, the bands dives straight into a honkytonk tornado before immediately launching into their heaviest number yet, courtesy of Ward's hammering piano skills. A style, of course, borrowed from the original killer, Jerry Lee Lewis. Standing up bars before the song is over, Ward bows to the audience and leaves just as anonymously as he arrived.

SXSW: the Hold Steady at Club DeVille

Worries persist as to whether or not we're going to be able to get in to see the Hold Steady at the Mohawk. Obviously, since we're without wristbands, the evening ahead could be hardy work. So we decide to start the day, at four p.m., in the dining room at Stubb's. Having put off nourishment for most of the day, we have nothing but barbecue on our minds. We eat in silence as plates of ribs get demolished. Sated (decimated is more like it), we contentedly walk outside to face the afternoon Austin sunshine and the metaphorical music should getting in to see the Hold Steady prove an impossibility.

Then it hits me: the sound of somebody playing the 'Steady's "Sequestered in Memphis" at top volume. I hum along as I think about how excited somebody must be to be playing it so early in the evening. Suddenly, the realization drops in on me: could that actually be the band playing?

Hurriedly, we wander over to a tented parking lot and peer through the chain link fence. Yes, indeedy, it would seem I'm watching the one band I took on faith was going to be here at SXSW this year. We watch through the fence for a song or two when Tyler nudges my arm. I turn to see that there is no line to get in. And miracle of all miracles, the show is free.

We enter the venue after one of us argues with some poor girl handing out promotional materials for Saucony. Not to sound defensive, but she did call us losers. I laugh at the whole experience and start inching my way towards the stage. The band plays a handful of older songs that I'm not yet familiar with as well as perennial live favorites like "Party Pit" and "Stuck Between Stations."

Craig Finn is all jittery and spastic nerves as he veers between singing and hitting those Joe Strummer chords on the guitar that he seems to so rarely use. His face seems to be torn between the emotions of intense euphorical joy and being completely overwhelmed at the enormity of it all.

Tad Kubler, the heavy metal guitarist stuck in a Springsteen band, looks different than I expected. In old photos, he looks doughy and bookish, as though he's entirely succumbed to middle age spread and its mentality. On stage, he is a lean rock and roll animal, adorned in a hip black polo with white trim. His arms, covered in rock ink, bash out lean heavy riffs while Finn does his best to preach to the choir.

On the opposite side of the stage, Galen Polivka and Franz Nicolay hold their own court. Polivka just bobs around as he holds the beat down for the rest of the band. In a few hours, I'll watch him blow out his bass amp at the Mohawk. He'll fidget with it for a few numbers before switching it out altogether for a different amp. Then he'll spend the rest of the evening drinking Lone Star tall boys and placing them on top of a sign on the amp. The sign will read "No Drinks Here!"

Nicolay, at both shows, jumps up and down in a furious pogo as he hits the keys with one hand. Refusing to be your typical keyboard player, he's dressed to the tee in a sharp white three piece suit and proves to be just as dynamic as their singer. That and he rocks a handlebar mustache. Hard to argue with that.

Finn prowls the stage, screaming and twitching and singing to audience- half the time without the mic. His joy is uncontainable as he encourages the audience to clap and sing along. It's great to hear so many voices sing "I'm gonna walk around and drink some more." Objectively, it's a sad line that speaks to the lost. Here, however, it's truly inspiring to hear the audience carry the song.

When it comes time to toast "St. Joe Strummer," Finn screams at the audience to "get 'em up!" Obligingly, a hundred fists pump up and down in unison to the beat. In this light, it's obvious that Finn and his crew are exactly where they belong: fans of the music preaching to their choir. The only difference between the band and their fans being the stage, everyone leaves with their faith renewed in this moment of pure rock and roll bliss.



your bitchin' mixtape for the hold steady at the mohawk:*

Positive Jam

Constructive Summer

unknown song

Sequestered in Memphis

Multitude of Casualties

Stevie Nix

One for the Cutters

Stuck Between Stations

Massive Nights

Party Pit

You Can Make Him Like You

Your Hoodrat Friend

Stay Positive

Southtown Girls

Slapped Actress

unknown song/Killer Parties


*as always, unknown songs should be replaced by your favorites.

SXSW: James Harries with Nellie McKay

There's a little amount of anxiety present as we shuffle into line at St. David's. After all, as completely unaware as we were the previous night, we can't help but appreciate the cosmic sense of irony at starting our evening in a church. For the second evening in a row.

Initially, it's hard not to feel like we got a bit of the shaft. We came for Nellie McKay. But she's being billed as a special guest to this James Harries guy. Whoodat?

He stands at the mic with an acoustic guitar in hand and emotes his way through a few songs. His voice is strong and resonant. His songs take on a haunting quality that lazy journalists would compare to Jeff Buckley. But that's too easy. And too obvious given the singer's disheveled hair.

Still, at moments, it seems apt as when the singer brings his voice to a whisper, it's clear that he doesn't need the mic. He wrings every emotional atom possible out of every sung syllable. He changes his range at the drop of a dime and goes from hushedly quiet to an earth shattering vibrato. Clearly, Jeff Buckley would be proud. As would other other obvious comparisons like Thom Yorke and Chris Cornell. After just a few numbers, Mr. Harries hurries off the stage. This can only mean one thing: It's McKay time.

Nellie McKay enters the room to thunderous applause, nods humbly and sits down at the piano. Teasing chords out of it before ripping into the meat of the song, she sings about being secondhand and namechecks Joe the Plumber, a man she claims to "abhor." With no pause given or warranted, she launches into the next song with a little more sultry smokiness and a lot less whimsy.

Clearly, this audience loves her as they thunderously applaud. She strums the keys of her piano with all the laconic ease of a functionally alcoholic lounge singer: effortless and aloof. Taking this aloofness to another level, she rambles on through a monologue that takes on an air of pure ditz. She does it so well, one wonders if it's an act at all. Maybe it's just the way she introduces the song, "Ghost of Yesterdays."

Interestingly, this audience that loves her so seems to be filled with artists from the festival as noted by the numerous wrists sporting green artists wristbands. Even Franz Nicolay from the Hold Steady will be spotted after the show as the audience peters out.

Playing what seems to be a pastiche of a character of hers, she finishes one of her songs played in a mousy voice. Using the same voice, she follows up by announcing the next number as one of her angriest. It's an announcement hard to take in that tiny little voice. Tearing into the song at about a million words per second, she (in her own words) fucks up the solo, announces it, does a dance and rips right back into the song without missing a beat. The audience is delighted.

She switches up her cutesiness by taking a moment to play a ukulele song but before long she is back at the ivories. She announces the next three songs as one before making a playful comment about learning cliches from cowboys. Combined, the next three songs are played with a quiet glee and sophistication that would place her somewhere just a little more aloof than contempororaries like Regina Spektor. Never one to let the playful moment go by, she sings a quick song about scat before launching into a quick cover/parody (it's hard to tell) of Patsy Cline's "Walking After Midnight."

When she stops playing for laughs and rips loose, her voice, at times intentionally thin and mousey, becomes a real force to behold. Of course, watching her play for laughs is every bit its own joy to behold.

Apologies

Apologies to everyone. I've been slacking in my own bloggage due to a variety of circumstances. Most of which make for poor excuses and are no excuse for the lack of activity here.

So... Over the next week, I'll be doing my best to post all the stuff that I've written and just failed to put up here.

Starting with a dump of all the South by Southwest reviews. Then MWard. In the next few weeks, we can hope to see accounts of upcoming shows like No Doubt and Third Eye Blind.

So, hope you're still out there cause I'm still here.

Additionally, at the prodding of my father, I changed the look around a bit to make easier to read. Any thoughts? Do we look pretty?

SXSW: Fastball at Aces

Granted, Fastball are a local act, but the audience is jazzed to see them all the same. And why not? There's a tendency to use SXSW as a launching pad for all the new exciting things you'll be listening to in the hot summer funtime.

If Fastball's opening number is any indication of the comeback they're hoping to make, then they're certainly going to do it with gusto, Thin Lizzy guitar solos and all. They bring with them to the stage a certain sense of professionalism as evidenced their use of the most effective opening number and the minutes spent tuning beforehand.

Tellingly, they slink into their second song with a little more swagger and a little less force. Due to sound problems, they've had to abandon any use of their keyboard and relegated it as a prop leaning against the wall in the background. Still, one wonders what sort of sublime beauty is going to be missed as a result during the quieter moments.

As a resounding answer, they begin to play "Out of My Head," probably their second biggest single. Keyboard or no, they are determined not to be stopped as the lead guitarist pulls off a sweltering solo. Having dispenced all keyboard doubts, they roll right on into funkier territory as they play their next song with just a hint of cheekiness. They may be the band with the worst haircuts, but tonight they are owning the moment as they slip from song to song, sometimes even seguing from one to the next.

Placed on a stage with a bar between them and the audience, the band takes a moment to chat up the bartenders and lose all momentum. Theis seems to work for them, however, as the next song smolders a little before taking off into their more familiar uptempo Fastball territory. Once familiar footing is achieved, they take it back to really familiar territory.

Opening the next song, the drummer fidgets with his kit as the technical difficulties are not quite finished for the evening. The lead guitarist, decked out in his leather jacket and some really nice spats, takes the moment to connect with the audience as he strums the opening chords of their once ubiquitous single, "The Way." All this despite the rest of the band's concerns over how much time they have left. With just this last song to go, they start out harmoniously before shifting from crunchy power chords to ambient solo time. Teasing out the end of the song for all they can, they end as they began: taking the moment for all its worth without excess.

Prepare Soul for Departure pt. 2: Thou Shalt Not Always Necessarily Kill

Sadly, it looks as though thous shalt not always kill. Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip are the first casualties of the South By SouthWest Music Conference as it's already been announced that Mssr. Le Sac is waylaid by illness and won't make it stateside.

Scroobius Pip, of course, will be hosting some event or another but, sadly, no music. Were the Holdsteady not playing, I'd be destitute, devastated and getting ready to John Berryman myself if I could only find a bridge and a blizzard. Still, I consider going just for the majestic sight of Pip's beard.

I imagine myself as that woman in the bible: so lonely, so desparate... so convinced of JC's power that she's satisfied just to touch the hem of his garment. Jesus, touched by her faith, grants her his grace.

Possibly. Maybe... If I touch Scroobius' beard, I, too, can be loquacious?

Incandescent?

English?

Possibly?

Maybe?

I ponder this before ordering another whiskey.

prepare soul for departure part 1

It's time. Fog has crippled the Houston airport. My flight's been cancelled. I'm funneled to an earlier flight and placed next to an older gentleman incapable of using words like "excuse me" or "please." Common usage may or may include phrases like, "Excuse me, I believe your sitting in my seat." i wonder if this is a tactic espoused by the Ted Turner biography that his clumsy middle management hands thumb through so voraciously.

I imagine him as one of those bonus recipients that our great new presidenet Obama is so publicly shaming right now. I imagine a whole section of the plane devoted to him and his ilk. Coach. 1st class. Asshat. He's grossly impatient. I hear him mention a board meeting in Houston. Somehow, being brusque will get us there faster.

I want to turn to him and say, "Dude. Sir. I realize that you feel like you're a very important person and all. But. Seriously. Are you trying to make this flight feel eight hours longer?"

I imagine his stunned reaction as someone actually tells him face to face, "Sort your shit out. Dude. Sir."

That's right, mofo. It's e.m.pennington, word ronin extraordinaire versus your blood pressure medication.

And then I realize, as we are inflight to Houston to Austin for South By SouthWest, that the adventure is only beginning.

Wheee!