Elvis Costello - National Ransacking of the Treasury

It's rather ironic that Elvis Costello, a man so essentially British, has somehow risen as one of the primary protectors of the American history of music. He'd already staked his claim toward this position back in 1986 with the release of King of America, which, like Exile on Main Street before it, seemed to affirm that the Brits really understood America better than most Americans. But King of America was viewed more as a digression from his normal affairs, it was, after all, followed up by the scattered Spike. But while it was somewhat ignored at the time, Americana persisted in Costello, manifesting itself thrice in the 21st century in the albums The Delivery Man, Secret, Profane, and Sugarcane, and National Ransom.

With these albums, Costello seems to have entrenched himself alongside Emmylou Harris and Levon Helm, as some bastion of America in music. Last night, on The Colbert Report, Costello appeared alongside Harris and Don Fleming to discuss American folk music. It should be noted that folk is, by definition, the point from which American music begins, and, as a result of that, one of the most truly American genres of music in existence. Costello's worked with a veritable who's who of Americana, and somehow has found himself as one of its foremost revivalists.

In concert, Elvis Costello is not a country-western performer. He doesn't sing slow, twangy ballads. He doesn't put on a stomping bluegrass show (although he did, for a while, mostly because he could). No, Elvis Costello is a rock and roll performer. Country, folk, bluegrass, the old American music isn't what he is, it's just something he can do, and as a result, it means he introduces the old America to a new audience. He's like the Jack White, for an older audience.

Now, the real question here isn't how Costello came to reach this rather odd position, but why. What possessed this most assuredly un-American man to pick up a musical textbook and wander through history the way he did? Well, aside from what I assume to be an overabundance of curiosity, it would seem that the answer is quite simple: the music. The music is good, the music is powerful, the music spoke to Costello in a way so universal that nationality no longer mattered, all that mattered was the music.

And I say amen to that.

Weezer, or Falling Out of Love in One Easy Step

I mean seriously, Weezer, what have they done to you? You used to be so good. I know this sounds like some meaningless ranting, and it probably is, but damn, you really had a good thing going. There was something on The Blue Album and Pinkerton that you don't really see that often in music: the truth.

Not the truth as in some idea of honesty, but the Truth. You know. The Truth, capitalized, because it was more of an entity or an idea than anything else. It was the same Truth that the Violent Femmes expressed so well on Violent Femmes, the Truth about coolness, or the lack thereof. The Truth that Buddy Holly embodied but ran from, the Truth that Elvis Costello kicked around before outgrowing, the Truth of what it's like to be uncool. Not just a little uncool, but uncool to the point where it's the defining characteristic of your being.

I guess it's also the Truth about being an outsider, of not fitting in, of wishing to fit in. All that. The Blue Album is just like one article of awkward acceptance of outsider status. It's not angsty, angst is too cool, Kurt Cobain had angst. Not to mention, angst is so hopelessly annoying and impotent that it would have debased everything. No, there was no angst, there wasn't anything there except the Truth, and that's why it was so damn good. From the yearning to fit in of "Undone" to the love letter to the original rock nerd himself "Buddy Holly". The Blue Album is so bare, so open that I latched onto it. Nevermind the fact that I was over a decade late to the discovery, The Blue Album might as well be timeless for just how well it sums up those awkward teenage years. So suffice to say, I clung to it, related to it, generally took it far more seriously than anyone is supposed to take any album ever.

And then I got Pinkerton, which is basically just all that but with more loneliness. Amazing. I related to "Across the Sea" so much you could be mistaken for thinking it somehow related to my life. "Butterfly" was some sort of acoustic anthem. "El Scorcho" was just everything I wanted to be, or wanted life to be, or something. Needless to say, it was great.

And then there's Make Believe, which I guess is the one you're supposed to hate or whatever, but fuck that I like Make Believe too. I mean, it's not the grand summary of my life that the others were, but it's still got the vestiges of outsider life ("Beverly Hills"), and despite its attempts to prove the contrary, Make Believe was still not cool, "Peace", "Perfect Situation", delightfully uncool. And "The Other Way" hit so close to home I should have charged it rent. So, like me, Weezer was still awkward, lame, geeky, and completely unable to fit in.

Until The Red Album. I should have noticed something was off, "Troublemaker" was not the Weezer I'd fallen in love with. Sure, the narrator in "Troublemaker" was an outsider, and a rebel, but he was cool, or if not cool, then he was stupid. And not just a little stupid, but really stupid ("You wanted arts and crafts/how's this for arts and crafts/DNDNDNDNDNDNDNDNDN"). This was not me, this was not Weezer. Or rather, it wasn't what Weezer used to be, it was something else. "The Greatest Man That Ever Lived" was more of the same, albeit, in a much nicer format, at least the song structure demonstrated some creativity. But "Pork and Beans" was just like three minutes of dumb jokes told by the cool kids.

I wasn't one of the cool kids. When did Weezer become the cool kids? What the fuck is going on? "Heart Songs" was something of a respite from the severe abandonment I was feeling, in that it was lame, and geeky, but it was also straight up bad. Where once Rivers Cuomo had been writing songs that delved into his personality (which felt like mine at this point), now he was writing songs about...being a rock star? I don't know, but it wasn't the kind of personal exploration I came to love and identify with. Hell, it only got more obvious with "Everybody Get Dangerous", which basically just sounded like the younger brother of a cool kid, trying desperately to fit in, and in the end just being a pest.

And then there's the three songs sung by the rest of the band. They're cool, or whatever, I guess, they're nice songs, but they're not my songs, they're not the songs I bought a Weezer album looking to hear. There's really only one moment on the entire Red Album that comes anywhere close the personal revelations of The Blue Album or Pinkerton, and that's "The Angel and the One". It's the only song that admits inferiority, that allows the bravado of "Troublemaker" to be stripped away, and it's the only song on the album that makes me think of Weezer.

And it's the last of its kind. Because I can't really listen to Weezer anymore. The Red Album is like finding someone else's blood on your bedsheets; you can wash it away, but you'll always know it's there, and you can't look at your bed without remembering the blood. I can still listen to The Blue Album and Pinkerton, but they're not speaking to me anymore, they're speaking to the audience, and that's not me. So I'll always view The Red Album as Weezer's last stand, and "The Angel and the One" as their grave.

And that just sucks.

Beefheart and the Basement

There are two primary ways to ensure an album is immortalized as being truly essential: a) the perfection of an existing style or idea. b) The creation of entirely new idea. Of course, there are several other factors at work, lyrics, musicality, general ability, and so forth, but should the artist be able to fulfill one of these two requirements, history will be far more forgiving for any other shortcomings on the album's behalf. These two factors are what can separate a good album from a truly great one.

So, with that in mind, I'd like to present two albums, that, born from similar circumstances succeeded at ensuring immortality via the two methods mentioned above: The Basement Tapes by Bob Dylan (and the Band), and Trout Mask Replica by Captain Beefheart. The Basement Tapes succeed so masterfully at capturing the idea of America in music that they feel as though they've been engraved as a part of America's cultural history. They feel at once aged yet timeless, and rest so naturally inside some great, mythic America that act as almost a cultural road map to Americana. Trout Mask Replica, on the other hand, creates not only a new idea, but an entirely new America, the songs act like a Basement Tapes for a world that never existed, the songs are like folk songs for a folk that never were, the words fitting into some colloquial that we will never really hear, and will never understand. Together, these albums have reached a more or less immortal status (if not in the public conscience, then at least in the heart of critics), and stand as testaments to the ideas of perfection and innovation in music.

Both albums sprung from similar backgrounds. Both arose from the brain of an eccentric songwriter, who'd been secluded from the world, working and living with his band for an extended period of time. Both albums were recorded towards the tail end of the 60s (although The Basement Tapes wouldn't see official release until the 70s), and both were completely, and entirely unlike anything else being released at the time.

There were differences, of course, The Basement Tapes come from a far more relaxed environment, more or less the loose recordings of a seemingly endless jam session, while Trout Mask Replica was the product of intensive rehearsals, driven by the perfectionist Beefheart to replicate the noises in his head, fighting against the limitations of technology at the time. And of course, the end results were wildly different, where Dylan's songs sounded at once familiar, even to those who'd never heard them, Beefheart's were wild, thrashing affairs that sounded unrecognizable, even on repeated listenings. In fact, only one of Beefheart's songs (the warbling blues of "China Pig") was even in a genre that could be recognized. Meanwhile, Dylan's songs seemed to epitomize folk even more than anything he had done before, this truly was the music of the people, whether the people really existed or not was irrelevant, it was the music of the American people, the ones from legends and traditional tales, and the history therein.

The successes of these albums lie in how effectively they manage to fulfill the tenets mentioned at the beginning of this piece. Both albums have their weaker moments ("Bessie Smith", "The Blimp"), but because of their mastery of these aforementioned concepts, these failings are forgiven, embraced even, as a testament to the sprawling reach that led to such monuments of artistic creation. And it's monuments such as these that dot the landscape of music, and it's monuments like these that form the peaks of music history.

Angles by The Strokes

How quickly can a band run out of interesting ideas? For the Strokes, it would appear that the answer is very quickly. After their debut album, Is This It which was almost derivative to the point of innovation, it was clear that the Strokes, if nothing else, had found a very nice little niche to occupy. And occupy they did, as Room on Fire was little more that a retread through the same ground. Which isn't to say it was bad, in fact, both albums succeeded for a few reasons. There was some sort of ingrained pursuit of cool, or something to that effect, that drove the music, but, with the absence of any virtuoso member of the band, there was no room for any one member to completely eclipse the others. Plus, the answering machine vocals gave every song the feel  of the world's most urgent yawn, in a good way.

And  then came First Impressions of the Earth. Where, something, be it complacency, egotism, or sheer stupidity overrode every other creative influence, and apparently possessed the Strokes to design an album that lived up to every criticism leveled at the band since they debuted. And in one fell swoop, the Strokes destroyed their niche, and the band was cast off into some sort of limbo, releasing various solo projects in the hopes of finding some successful enterprise. And, after that failed, they regrouped (relatively, singer Julian Casablancas thought their creativity would be best served if he never recorded with the others, sending tracks by email), returned to the studio, and recorded Angles.

The good news is that, unlike First Impressions, Angles avoids revisiting the same ground as their previous albums. Which isn't to say it discovers any new ground, since that's not really what the Strokes do. But, at least they're exploring different ground, even if it's already been there for decades. It's clear that Angles is a portrait of a band in flux. Having destroyed their comfort zone with First Impressions, the Strokes are grasping out for something to grab onto, and in that sense, Angles is by far the most experimental Strokes album to date.

Now as to whether all that experimentation works, well, kinda. It's also by far their least consistent album to date, there's so many different things being tried, and for every success, there's something that doesn't really get off the ground. The most notable difference on the album (apart from how scattershot it feels, relative to their previous efforts) is the improved musicianship. If nothing else, there is evidence that after 10 years, the band has made progress on that front. The addition of keyboards to their songs is probably going to serve them in the future, provided they can decide what they want to do by then.

And it really would be nice if they could figure that out sooner rather than later. If they just pick a couple of the stylistic successes off this album, they could easily manufacture a blueprint for future works (suggestion: merge the 80s synth pop of "Two Kinds of Happiness" with the classic rock feel of "Gratisfaction", stir thoroughly, hope for the best). But they have to pick something, because cluttered and unfocused isn't a niche, it's a criticism, and as the Strokes themselves have proven, nothing good comes from living up to your critics.

Apple Venus Volume 1 & Wasp Star (Apple Venus Pt. 2) by XTC

Apple Venus Volumes 1 & 2 are the final two studio albums by the consistently underrated UK band XTC. Apple Venus Volume 1 came out first, in 1999, followed by Wasp Star (Apple Venus Pt. 2) in 2000. During the recording of Volume 1, Dave Gregory left the band, and after the release of Wasp Star, Colin Moulding followed suit, officially pulling the curtain on the band, and leaving the Apple Venuses as their final epitaph.

And it's quite a remarkable accomplishment that they leave behind. The two albums stand as remarkable testaments to the two most enduring traits of XTC's work: their relentless creativity and their endlessly tuneful craftsmanship. These are represented by the two Apple Venuses, with Volume 1 illustrating the constant expansion of their (or at least Partridge's) musical and lyrical frontiers, and Wasp Star proving that even in 2000, 28 years after they began, XTC is still one of the best pop bands in the world.

In this sense, it's easy to see why Volume 1 received the most attention on its release. Nothing about it sounds tired, nothing in the music sounds like it's been done before. The lyrics themselves offer something new as well, as for the first time, it sounds like Partridge is actually singing from his heart, and not from his brain. Which isn't to say he isn't singing with his brain, the lyrics and arrangements still bristle with the ingenuity that is XTC's trademark, but with age, Partridge has almost taken on a childlike quality. Songs like "I'd Like That" are almost bursting with a vein of childish glee that's refreshing to see. It seems that in his age, Partridge discovered how to be a child, perhaps for the first time.

Moulding sounds aged, but he's taken it gracefully, his songs ("Frivolous Tonight" and "Fruit Nut"), while sometimes at odds with the overall feel of the album, are still overwhelmingly charming bits of pop. It feels like he's taken a page from Nick Lowe's book, and his songs are all the better for it.

Overall, Apple Venus Volume 1 is really Partridge's, and he makes the most of it, and in doing so, provides XTC with it's last definitive statement of artistic necessity, and affirms them as one of the most incessantly creative and innovative bands to come out of the 20th century.

And if Volume 1 affirms their legacy as innovators, Wasp Star ensures that they're remembered as one of the most effortlessly poppy bands in existence. From the opening guitar of "Playground", it becomes clear that this album is quite a different beast from Volume 1. By comparison, Wasp Star treads almost no new ground, it's just XTC turning in twelve tracks that shimmer with an incandescent sparkle. The album is loaded with irresistibly catchy hooks, and allows XTC to go out doing the thing they spent 28 years mastering. The arrangements on Wasp Star are far more conventional than on Volume 1, guitars glisten and glow over the steady drive of the drums. Partridge's songs about with vocals and backing vocals that seem to float and merge as one, but it's Moulding's voice that holds the revelations. His voice, rough edges and all, seems to rise from some earthen cauldron of pop, breezing through songs like "In Another Life" and "Boarded Up", and sounding remarkably comfortable as he does so.

While Wasp Star may feel slight, especially when compared to the innovation and exploration of Volume 1, it captures XTC as the pop stars they never got to be, but always should have been. Songs brim with confidence from a band who seem to have realized just how good they are at this whole pop business. "The Man Who Murdered Love" is almost criminally catchy, and the guitar work on some of the tracks (especially "Playground" and "Church of Women") is the closest the thing to a shock the album provides.

The closer, "The Wheel and the Maypole", is effectively XTC's finale, and it does a tremendous job. The band hurtles along with the excitement of a racer nearing the finish line, the slow moments burst into joyous symphonies, and, when the song fades out, and the curtain is drawn on XTC, it's only fitting that their final message is one of such contagious ecstasy.

---------------------------

You can read more about XTC at their website.

Cosmic Doom EP by SHINING WIZADO

The most important factor in understanding SHINING WIZADO is audience. The one-man (southern rock) band based out of Seattle's most interesting aspect is how specific its audience is, and how successfully it manages to cater to this audience. Now, for the uninitiated, this means that SHINING WIZADO, and by extension, Cosmic Doom, are bewildering at worst and decent at best. In this sense, SHINING WIZADO demands more of the listener than almost any conventional other artist in existence.

To explain: the target audience for SHINING WIZADO is almost entirely contained with in the /wooo/ board on the online imageboard 420chan. /wooo/ is the professional wrestling board on the site, and also one of its most popular, and Cosmic Doom is riddled with memes local to the board. For someone unaware of the board, SHINING WIZADO and Cosmic Doom will be confusing. But to the members of /wooo/, SHINING WIZADO acts as its own social touchstone. Here is an artist whose entire body of work feels like it was created with them in mind, the songs all feel tailor-made to cater to them, sharing their interests, humor, likes, and dislikes. The musician behind SHINING WIZADO is one Super Blizzard (obviously not his real name, but his handle, and the name that /wooo/ would know him by). By targeting his music specifically to such a small audience, Blizzard has ensured that the audience for his music will remain small, but dedicated. Online wrestling fans are not exactly a demographic that has a lot of competition on the musical front.

And what about the music? Well, Cosmic Doom has three songs: "And I Quote", "TEDDEH", and "Neo Solar Prayer". The first two are essentially jokes that run for about a minute and a half. This is not to say that they're bad, they're quite funny jokes, provided you get the punchline. "And I Quote" is essentially a parody of Michael Cole the primary announcer for World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE). The song essentially mocks Cole's character and the segments he's been involved in. Of course, if you didn't know that, hearing lines like "Ha ha it's funny 'cause his mother is dead" would probably give one pause, unless they find dead parents a source of humor, in which case, they may want consult a therapist. Regardless, the song is a well crafted bit of dirty rock, the backing vocals that punctuate the song reveal the care put into it.

The next track, "TEDDEH", is also a parody of a WWE personality, this time the on-screen General Manager of the Friday Night Smackdown television show, Teddy [TEDDEH] Long. The song essentially runs through a laundry list of Long's most cliche practices as the GM, specifically his fondness for "straight up tag matches", once again, the enjoyment of the lyrics is largely contingent on the joke, so without it, one is just left with the music itself. Once again, the music is enjoyable, it transitions quickly from "And I Quote" with an attitude that fringes on punk. And in that sense, it continues that attitude by ending after a very concise 1:22, setting the stage for the final track.

"Neo Solar Prayer", the final track, is the one that succeeds the most on its own merits. It's referential yes, to an independent wrestler no less, but it's not a joke, and it's the easiest to appreciate without an understanding of the subject material. Not only that, but it's the most interesting from a musical perspective as well, with two distinct parts, and clear variations in dynamics and all sorts of other things that could be defined in a more technical manner, but I don't know the terms to do that. Regardless, it proves that WIZADO is more than a one-trick pony.

And as a result of that "Neo Solar Prayer" illustrates the biggest issue for SHINING WIZADO. Quite simply, the musical ability at display warrants a larger audience. Not only does Blizzard limit the chance for audience expansion by catering to /wooo/, he also limits the range and scope his music can go in. Lyrics and instruments designed to please such an exact cross-section of society could easily grow stifling after a while. If SHINING WIZADO doesn't deserve a bigger audience, then it at least deserves a better one.

--------------------

Cosmic Doom can be purchased as part of SHINING WIZADO: Championship Edition at the SHINING WIZADO bandcamp page.

Hi

Hello, this post is really just an introduction. This blog is going to house a bunch of writings about music. This post however, will not, and is just for me to say hi to anyone who stumbled onto this blog and for some strange reason thought "I am going to read this".

Hi.

Whew, glad to get that out of the way.

In time this blog will have posts that are actually about music. Until then, thank you for reading this post, I hope you will stick around once the on topic posts show up. Have a nice day.

-N