Television News: Always the Blundering Juggernaut

Here's why we need more media criticism in Nashville:

Former SNL'er Cheri Oteri's father was murdered by a longtime business associate. He was a music publisher, Richard Fagan was a songwriter, and something went terribly wrong.

On the 5 p.m. broadcast, our local Channel 4 ran with the story - right into a brick wall, so to speak.

As the reporter mention that Gaetano Thomas Oteri's daughter Cheri was on Saturday Night Live, we see a clip of .... Molly Shannon with a male cast member.

The broadcast goes on then the same clip again, as if to punctuate that they can identify

You would think the NBC affiliate, which would have easy access to footage from the network, would get that correct. You would think they would not flash it twice.

Of course, you'd be wrong.

The Tennessean did a standard police story about the crime, but buried it behind pieces about the alleged Roger Clemens/Mindy McCready affair and topless Hannah Montana in Vanity Fair (where have all these uptight folks been when in every photo her gold-bricking father stands grimacing behind her? That's what creeps me out) . An ugly murder cannot preempt vapid Music City intrigue.

After the story aired, the anchor broke in with "Of course, that was footage of former Saturday Night Live cast member Molly Shannon." Apparently someone on their massive production crew realized the mistake.

They then flash a grainy photograph of father and daughter.

Apparently NBC threw away all the footage of the cheerleader sketches Oteri and Will Ferrell did over seven friggin' years.

I guess it could always have been worse - they could have shown a clip of Horatio Sanz.

It's Accelerade, not Blood

In case you wondered what a fool looks like at the 13-mile marker, here I am.

This is why it's good to have faster friends - they can grab a camera and get into position.

As it happened, the position caught me at the finish, my gas tank empty and any thoughts of a final burst of speed fading faster than my knee.

The people in the medical tent fretted about my red-stained shirt, ignoring me whenever I said, "It's just Accelerade. Maybe they should have stocked a flavor other than fruit punch."

All I wanted was a pair of Tylenol, but I had to get through the chafing lecture first.

The shirt outlived its stains.
My pain was confined to the hamstrings and all points south.

Ecstacy Plus a Little Agony at 13.1 Miles

At the finish line, there could be only one exclamation – a primal, guttural rumble from depths I’d never before touched.

This barbaric yawp would have pleased Walt Whitman as much as it amused my fellow finishers at 2:28:35 Likely, that sound will never be heard again without similar duress.

It was that kind of half marathon. Every step in the double-digit miles was grueling, but much better than the first attempt on that sweltering October morning.

Rain pounded Nashville through the early morning and a completing the damp course in the drizzle looked likely. Thanks to the wave start – and jumping from my assigned corral (25) to that my of training mates (8), we were pounding pavement about 15 minutes after the Kenyan sprinters embarked on their 2:15 marathons.

Only moment of the course have stayed with me. With 100,000 spectators lining the course, no runner was alone. Maybe that makes it so bearable.

I nearly took myself out of it by fiddling my new knee brace around Mile 8 – it never fit properly for more than a mile in the last five. But that damned band held, even if it knocked me off a better pace (until Mile 8, a 2:15 finish was looking realistic).

Can I properly sum up the euphoria that struck at the finish? Months of training – nearly derailed by a knee injury and a last-minute sinus infection that endured till three days before race time – played out on the streets of Nashville.

For the most part, I cruised, never stopping except to adjust the infernal brace.

Minus a little singing along with “Salute Your Solution” by the Raconteurs and ELO’s incomparable “Don’t Bring Me Down” (“Don’t bring me dowwwwn, Bruce” or something like that – try not to hum along), I barely spoke.

Then again, I didn’t see any of the four dozen people I know in Nashville, not even Donnie Moo and his towering American flag Mad Hatter cap.

The only words in my direction were “Run, dam fool.” I encouraged it, wearing my technical shirt from the 2007 Dam Fool Four-Miler at the Alum Creek Dam. That shirt motivates me almost as the catcalls - I accept my foolishness for running this distance.

I vaguely remembering shouting “Guess what? I got a fever” to a guy with a cowbell past in Mile 12; beyond that, it was an ever-deepening chorus of grunts ever I passed a milestone or a photographer shooting official race photos.

Ever since the finish line, I felt nearly crippled, with my leg muscles only knowing relief during a two-hour window after hot showers.

On stairs, I totter like an old man, and wonder if the full marathon would have earned me a wheelchair.

Then I recall the post-race glow and the euphoria that a 13.1-mile run infuses in every sinew.

Every thought after that is about recovering for the next half-marathon – will it be the RC Cola and Moon Pie 10-Miler in Bell Buckle, the Philadelphia Long Distance Run in September, or the delightfully flat Columbus Nationwide Half Marathon.

Let the left knee stop aching, and I’ll get back to you on the schedule.

Two months soaking in a hot bath should just about do it.

Happy Half-Marathon's Eve

The sinus infection finally evaporated, the rain will pound Nashville when the starting pistol fires, and then nearly three months of training will be road-tested.

Before the starting line lies a big Texas deadline (as if there's any other kind involving Texas), a bigger pasta dinner (a bellyful of carbs keeps the legs churning), and more raw nerves than you count.

End communication.

The Destination Changes, the Distance Doesn't

Ever since college, I've stuck with the tradition of racing to another city, grabbing dinner and then catching a concert not kind enough to pick my home city.

From the infamous Primus shows in New York until Sunday night in Lousville, a lightning road trip for a concert is something I never feel too old for. It wasn't even two years ago that Braithwaite and I rumbled back into Columbus at 3 a.m. after Tom Waits dazzled us in (you guessed it) Louisville.

With Nashville's lack of big-name acts, taking the I-65 shuffle is worth it. In this case, Plant and Krauss were always certain to play Nashville - I guessed they would land at the Ryman, and record company lowlifes would suck up the tickets before they ever went on sale. Instead, they're playing the hockey arena, which only supports my choice.

It never crossed my mind until yesterday that the run from Nashville to Louisville essentially duplicated the trip from Columbus to Cleveland. No matter how you cut it, the drive takes 2 hours 30 minutes.

Columbus didn't have a source for sucking up all the tickets, but artists often flip a coin when it comes to Ohio. Very few trek I-71 and hit all three major markets. Two, maybe, but Columbus and Cleveland fight for the same shows.
I headed north for Death Cab for Cutie, Lou Barlow, Iron & Wine, Calexico, Jenny Lewis & The Watson Twins, Neko Case and others. Marjie and Drew came down for Snow Patrol, Kings of Convenience and Jose Gonzalez.

The difference in Louisville shows mean dropping into a restaurant on Fourth Street (the Bluegrass Brewing Company has good cheap eats that will satisfy even the biggest beer haters) before hustling across the street for the show.

Going to Cleveland meant hanging with Marjie and Drew, stopping into the latest restaurant to land in hip Lakewood, then hustling to the East Side, usually for the Beachland Ballroom or the
Grog Shop. Weekend shows meant a good stretch hanging in the old backyard, walking to Lakewood Park and cooking out at Edgewater.

With its massive charms, Louisville can't match that.

For now, just the reviews

I'll dish about myself some other time. For now, here's the reviews, also available courtesy of Milwaukee Dave:

176 Miles from Here: Plant/Krauss Own the Louisville Palace

(Writer's note: Per Mr. Plant's banter, this review will skip any mentions of "grizzled rock gods" or bluegrass high priestess" pounded into every article about this collaboration.)

He might not release those banshee wails anymore, but Robert Plant's amazingly preserved voice more than held its ground when mingling with the flawless tones of tourmate Alison Krauss during their second night at the Louisville Palace Theatre.

Never nostalgic or too serious, this odd supergroup plowed through 2-hours of musical acreage on Sunday night, tilling up revamped Led Zeppelin gems, bluegrass, and every song from their best-selling Raising Sand.

While sharing the stage with Krauss, guitarist/producer T-Bone Burnett and a solid backing band, Plant remained the consummate rock star, his swagger building as the show went on. He strutted and shuffled, leaned hard on the microphone stand and always looked natural in his approach.

Krauss was slightly more reserved until she grabbed the fiddle or hit those pristine high notes.

The live highlights barely strayed from the best of Sand. The Townes Van Zandt dirge "Nothin'" brimmed with intensity only found live, while Krauss shone through the darkness of "Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us" and Tom Waits' "Trampled Rose."

The Sand highlights were expected, but the reworked Zeppelin cuts took stark detours. An apocalyptic banjo line submerged "Black Dog" in a Louisiana swamp to great effect. "When the Levee Breaks" bore more in common with Memphis Minnie's original than the Zeppelin take.

The best demanded the fewest changes - "The Battle of Evermore." Krauss' soaring vocal equaled the late Sandy Denny as Plant's duet partner (Plant introduced it as, "This is an English song .... if Mordor is in England").

Krauss got her solo spotlights as well, going a capella on "Down to the River to Pray." With a backing trio led by Plant, Krauss easily punched through the drunken whooping that threatened to derail the O' Brother, Where Art Thou? standout.

The only bump came on a two-song interlude from Burnett - one bizarre, one bluesy, both were received poorly from the sold-out crowd.

Plant assured the crowd he dreaded "Gone Gone Gone (Done Moved On)" for the looks that Krauss gave him when he screwed up, and sure enough they caught eyes and laughed about two minutes into the Everly Brothers' tune.

Through ovation after ovation, the band stayed loose; Plant even turned out the best-ever response to the anonymous fan's proclamation of love. "You wouldn't love me. Maybe you would ... but not for long," he said between laughs.

Those hoping for a Zeppelin reunion tour might not love him quite so much. Plant rarely stopped smiling, and when he declared the show "the second night in a new career," there was no questioning him.

Closing with the only song they could - the Doc Watson weeper "Your Long Journey" - these new duet partners began their own long path in sweeping fashion.

Minus Case, Pornographers Soldier On

Sat, 04/19/2008 - 7:52pm

Reports of the New Pornographers’ demise are greatly exaggerated, if their Friday show at the Cannery Ballroom is any indication.

Despite missing core members Dan Bejar (on tour with Destroyer) and Neko Case (sidelined with a fractured ankle), A.C. Newman led

the Pornos through a rollicking Friday night set heavy on its brand of tuneful pop songs.
Keyboardist Kathryn Calder didn’t merely replace Case’s vocals, but completely glossed over the indie rock goddess’ absence.

When the group broke into the somber “Challengers,” the title track Case’s most prominent vocal on their latest album, it was the second biggest surprise of the night.

The largest opened the brief encore – an enthusiastic take on “Don’t Bring Me Down” from fellow Canadians ELO. With their harmonies intact, the band didn’t stumble once.

The hour-plus set easily surpassed the studio versions – even when the Pornographers went soft, they never sacrificed their relentlessness.

No Case meant one big silver lining - every pause in the music wasn’t loaded with badly coiffed hipsters shouting marriage proposals to her. Sprinted through the layered “My Rights Versus Yours” then nearly every significant track off its last two long-players, Newman showed that he captained this ship even on Bejar tunes like “Myriad Harbor.”

With the news about Case, Okkervil River stood a good chance
of upstaging their tourmates.

They came close, and Will Sheff’s heartfelt, literate songs demonstrated this Austin band qualified for its own headlining tour. With a tight crew behind him, Sheff ably warbled above his own acoustic playing, his soulful voice at times evoking a long-lost Davies brother.

The arrangements were nothing less than stellar, with bursts of trumpet, electric guitar and piano placed perfectly in nearly every song.

Minus its superstars, this indie rock twinbill went on without a hitch.

Tornado season, earthquake weather ... please Spring, flip a coin and settle this

No, I didn't feel it, or jolt from my sleep to the sound of clinking glassware in my cabinets. But Louisville took a little hit, hopefully not enough to cancel this long-awaited Sunday excursion.

My running buddy Ric, who traveled to Fort Lauderdale to catch The Boss and his E Street buddies, wasn't as lucky, given the sad passing of Danny Federici. All weekend shows were obviously postponed. I don't think anyone could imagine an outfit that tight hitting the stage immediately after a longtime comrade died.

I'm still sick, and a week from my Texas deadline. Given the cooperation I've received from my sinuses so far this week, I expect to be all stuffed up for Neko Case tonight when she comes into town with The New Pornographers. The pop-rock stylings of the NPs strike a hard contrast with Case's country-folk torch songs, and with Austinites Okkervil River opening the show, this aims to be the best twin bill I've seen in 2008.

As for me, there's little of substance. The car's prepped for the run to Mizzou for the rural healthcare journalism pow-wow in two weeks.

Tickets are ordered for Bonnaroo and the Pitchfork Festival. And for Comfest as well. Vacation days need to be scheduled.

Memorial Day is a tabula rasa, and the weekend before is a sad anniversary of times never to be recapture.

God is in his Heaven, and Paddy's down by the Bay ... well, that line comes from the greatest Irish punk rock song of all time. But it's about a certain "Sick Bed," so it felt appropriate.

Communication ills

Tennessee's weather rollercoaster finally wore me down, and for the first time in years, a little flu bug tore me away from work. Sunday was feverish, with too much REM sleep burned on a nightmarish Chicago.

It's been sleep, work and sweating this toxic junk out of my system.

But there's plenty to come once I do - oncert reviews, Cleveland Indians angst, a long race, a trip to Mizzou and spring fever wholly unlike the one I just shed.


Not that you asked.

Volt still strikes hard and fast

So long as Wilco and Son Volt endure, the Uncle Tupelo debate will never cease.

Case in point - Wilco sells out the Ryman in March, and Son Volt packed them into the much-smaller Exit/In on April 10.

I chose not to draw unnecessary conclusions, and just wanted to hear Son Volt’s latest incarnation tackle material from The Search.

Son Volt founder/leader/frontman Jay Farrar is not one to chat up his audience – if not for the occasional “Alright” and “Thank you” between songs, he barely spoke. He wouldn’t have found much to say to many in the crowd, including the couple in front of me, whose brand of bad white people dancing rarely migrates beyond lawn seats at a Jimmy Buffett show. Those two would have made Farrar stop speaking altogether.

Instead, he greeted the crowd with a relentless take on “Bandages and Scars,” a rocking opener tempered by Farrar’s bittersweet vocals that always return to “Woody Guthrie’s words ringing in my head.” This might be Son Volt 2.0, but Farrar assembled a crack live outfit that match his crunchy brand of Americana.

Aside from surprise Uncle Tupelo ballad “Slate” and a new song from an upcoming Jack Kerouac documentary Farrar scored, the setlist ran down highlights of the last two albums, Okemah and the Melody of Riot and The Search. The albums’ mellower twists were largely ignored for Crazy Horse-style rockers infused with Farrar’s rustic lyrics.

Farrar isn’t afraid to go political on occasion, albeit with a little more tact than most musicians. His tune “Jet Pilot” admonishes the most famous veteran of the Texas Air National Guard.

Son Volt dug deeper for an encore of its best-known classics – “Drown” and the always gorgeous “Windfall” brought the house down, then Farrar attacked the masonry with a mammoth version of Waylon Jennings’ “Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way?”

Farrar might not have wasted time with small talk, but Son Volt didn’t waste a note all night.

I Own the Greenway

My biggest problems with physical fitness always stemmed from automobiles - I ride my bike, I almost get run down on my own street. People yell, throw soda cans and generally try to make your ride miserable, even if you stay within those rare bicycle lanes.

Running bore the same problem. You've got a little more leeway, but not enough to be carefree. It led me into a rut, where I just sank into my recliner and didn't dare to take on the streets. Crossing them was too dangerous a venture.

Then I wised up, and took to the Cumberland Greenway 2-3 days a week after work. Instead of worrying about cars zipping through red lights and stop signs as if crosswalks didn't exist, taking the car out of the workout equation was overdue.

The routine is almost too simple - I change my clothes at work, I drop them off in my trunk, then motor away under my own power for four to six miles. In effect, I trade rush hour for running.

Now, at worst I cross paths with a half-dozen walkers, occasional runners, two stoners burning through an after-work joint the occasional runner and the one yuppie doofus couple rollerblading behind one of those giant bubble strollers I adore. In two months of running there, that's my tally for humanity. People just don't use it, although many who don't swear a small homeless camp sits just beyond the abandoned railroad tracks. I've yet to see anyone I'd peg as homeless.

The only annoyance comes from strong crosswinds, barges churning up the river, and a new set of dull pains radiating from my left knee.

Even if I limp to the finish, ownership of the greenway is not in question.

Snuff this torch already

Frank Deford might have aged into Grandpa Munster's long-lost brother, but the man always makes a mighty point.

In light of its origins, why does the pretentious task of sending the Olympic torch relay around the globe go on? Deford wrote about the games being due for a decline, and I won't argue that. All the nauseating hoopla attached to them is enough to turn anyone against the games.

The Dutch came up with the first modern torch for the 1928 Amsterdam games ... wondering what they were lighting with it, eh? Harmless enough, unless you're an Olympic athlete facing a drug test.

But they weren't inspired to take the larger step and use a relay -- we needed Hitler to do that. Trying to tie the ancient Greeks into his Aryan mythology, the relay debuted at the 1936 Berlin games. You'd think that alone might force the impotent Olympic committee to drop this overblown dose of pageantry.

With the protests against China, the torch relay turned into a friggin' video game - Grand Theft Relay, if you will.

The torch-bearers ducked into buildings, vehicles, altered their routes and skipped a ceremony to head for the airport and Buenes Aires.
Then it's onto such bastions of liberty as Dar es Salaam, Islamabad, Ho Chi Minh City and Pyongyang before zigzagging through about 600 Chinese cities.

The stooges behind the Olympics like to tout the torch as a symbol of piece. Look back 72 years - that's stunningly false. The greatest villains of the 20th century crafted it, and in a new century, it's still an excuse for people to rally around their flag.

They should toss that thing in the ocean and let it go out for good. They can keep their flame, but the torch's globetrotting days should be over.

So he was just buttering me up for an escape attempt

Unfortunately, I can't share the amusing tale of my cat's fridge fetish, not after the latest stunt.

I go home for lunch one or two times a week, and today I debated working straight through. Instead, I decided to run home and clear my head for a few minutes.

I even said to myself, "The cat has been pretty well-behaved lately." Of course, on Friday I pondered that Charlton Heston must be in really bad shape, since he'd not made a public appearance in about five years. We all know how that turned.

As I rounded the corner onto Delaware Avenue, there was no further need to clear my mind - it only had room for one thought.

The bedroom window screen, sitting a mere seven feet off the ground, was dented and twisted. The damage came from inside the house. The pushed-out screens on Arbor Village Drive suddenly rushed back to me.

I strode up to the porch, reasoning that the orange and white nuisance might not have escaped.

Before my key reached the door, I heard the panicked meow usually reserved for car rides or trips to the vet. From beneath a porch chair crawled a dirt-clad kitten with hunched, wary posture.

It took little coaxing to get him back inside .... where as soon as the door closed, the panicked meow turned into a looser, "Please Please Give Me What I Want" meow. He tasted the outdoors again - the dirt discoloring his white paws betrayed the length of his visit in the yard - and wasn't ready to give it up.

Here's hoping that next time this damned monster breaks free, he spares both of us by galloping right back into his life as a stray.

He doesn't know that on average, outdoor cats live one-third as long as indoor cats (five years versus 15).

I only know that his very presence is shortening mine.

Even more new tunes

Whether CD (me) or digital (everyone else), it has been a busy few weeks for new releases, with surprises and disappointments on all sides. Plus, I don't feel much like writing about myself, and music provides the perfect deflection to all questions of health, sanity and otherwise.

This Just In... Actress' Singing Debut Worth its Weight

Relax – Zooey Deschanel can actually sing, and doesn’t spit out a Hollywood actress vanity project sure to be laughed as sheer novelty while browsing the dollar bin. You can still mock her for appearing in Failure to Launch, but don't knock her vocal skills.

But She and Him’s Volume One is not bogged down by studio magic. This girl has pipes, and lets them loose on this set that pays heavy tribute to Carly Simon, Carole King and other Seventies female singer-songwriters. Along for the ride is indie-folk type M. Ward (the Him), who gives the actress immediate credibility.

The opener shows no signs of studio magic – Deschanel pushes her voice to its limits on “Sentimental Heart” and that strained feeling could turn some away. Two songs later, on “This is Not a Test,” hits stride and doesn’t stumble until a few ill-chosen covers.

Her lyrics might not leap out, but give Deschanel credit for leaning on her own material and partnering with indie-folk type Ward, whose minimal yet diverse arrangements put Deschanel’s voice up front. Him’s voice doesn’t show up much, but he recognizes this is She’s moment.

Nothing Odd About It

Anyone expecting a catchy single in the vein of “Crazy” will immediately finger “Go On” as a different breed. The song is still catchy, but not the bolt from the blue Gnarls Barkley delivered on its debut. The swirling guitar intro underlies a sadness rarely found in a catchy song.

The one-off collaboration of Cee-Lo and producer Danger Mouse has some additional life. The two fleshed out The Odd Couple to where it never feels like the money grab of most sequels, although it falls short of the original article. Driven by more mellow experimentation, The Odd Couple lets the darker moments of St. Elsewhere bubble to the surface.

Not that it doesn’t toss in a little fun. “Surprise” does just that, with its entrancing, vintage 60’s pop choruses ripped from a Jan and Dean record.

I cannot tell a lie – there are some absolute dogs on this record, a good indication the well is running dry for the Gnarls crew. Danger Mouse might be at the height of his producing powers, and Cee-Lo’s sweet notes are like a old friend who occasionally pops into town for a quick night of hellraising.

Gnarls Barkley turned out an sometimes intriguing sequel with less radio-friendly plot twists. This is an above-par second effort. But it's somewhat tainted by sequel fever, and hardly a masterpiece.

The host with the most returns

Wildly uneven for so long, there's only one man who can restore to ballast to this sketch-comedy institution, even when mediocrity runs deep in its current cast.

Ladies and Gentlemen .... Christopher Walken.


This occasion calls for a glass of fine champagne (pronounced chom-pon-yeah) and an encore viewing of The Best of Christopher Walken DVD. I still have the smoking jacket from Halloween 2004, when I party-hopped dressed as The Continental, the smoking-jacket-wearing lecher Walken reprises on almost every visit.

I won't leave my apartment, but it will be a happening Saturday night.

Something Else You Could Care Less About: Hard Times at the Village Inn

The Associated Press reported that hard times have fallen on the Village Inn, a chain of nearly 400 restaurants primarily the mountain and western U. S that focus on lower-income customers. Think Denny's with much better food and a better, cleaner atmosphere. If you can get a chicken avocado sandwich, it isn't exactly lowbrow. Plus, it was the first place I ever ate where they brought a thermal pot to the table if you ordered coffee.

Their restaurants were a welcome relief when I helped Alicia move from Columbus to West Hollywood in August 2003. After driving through Kansas in the dark and witnessing the most beautiful lightning storm ever (the Kansas prairie let the streaks fill the entire sky), we wanted a decent breakfast before pushing past Denver.

With the first peak of the Rockies now in sight, we picked a Village Inn in Denver. After a long night behind the wheel, eggs and coffee were absolute essentials. For pair of small-town reporters rushing across the country, a reliable sit-down meal at low cost was critical.

We crossed the Rockies and landed in Grand Junction, then crashed out through the afternoon. When dinner called, we picked the Village Inn again. It was not a mistake.

What I remember most, though, was the last time I ate there, almost four years ago in Phoenix, after my sister graduated from Arizona State. Don't ask what I ate - my memory only goes as far as the lobby. My recollections from Colorado led to the Melville family choosing it for their last meal before scattering across the country again.

While we waited for a table, a handicapped man and his mother exited the dining room. The handicapped extended his hand the hostess and poked a few words of thanks through a speed impediment. Obviously he was a regular, and the hostess showered him with attention, saying she'd catch him next Saturday.

Isolated incident or not, anytime I read or hear "Village Inn," that tiny moment long forgotten by anyone else in the room still emerges in my mind.

Now, Chapter 11 is hardly a death sentence for a company. They do it all the time (thank your Congressman for tightening the screws on the average American who dares to use this business privilege). On its merits, the place deserves a chance to get its finances in order.

Worth the Admission Price

Record reviews have been scant on DCMI lately, but the pace will quicken this week. A second batch is almost complete. Until then, here are two recent favorites.

Big Slab of Consolation

As much as I enjoyed The Raconteurs’ debut, it felt slight – I though Jack White unhitched from the Stripes wagon would equal mean guitar work that he couldn’t pound out during his day job.

Broken Boy Soldiers was by no means bad, but short and unable the sake its “cobbled together” feel.

Consolers of the Lonely arrived earlier than anticipated, and the unmistakable blast of White’s guitar drives the entire album.

Moreover, the Raconteurs sound like a seasoned outfit instead of a four friends throwing together a few tunes. Some solos come straight out of unfinished White Stripes songs, but on Consolers, The Raconteurs evolve into their own animal, independent of the heavy precedent White’s famous duo set.

Just on the title track and “Salute Your Solution,” The Raconteurs state loudly that this will be a guitar record. While “You Don’t Understand Me” and “Old Enough” detour into some Seventies mellowness, the squealing intro to “Five on the Five” would flop if wielded by anyone but White.

But the shift in melodies from song to song preserves Consolers' flow. The piano and mandolin of closer "Carolina Drama" push the song into more country terrain than White has covered since "Little Ghost" on Get Behind Me, Satan. The lyrics are weak, but who cares when a song crescendos so magnificently? Besides, few bar bands can match the wailing on the stomper "Hold Up."

White is on a creative roll right now, after the dynamic Icky Thump and now Consolers. By beating the sophomore slump and Meg White’s anxiety attacks canceling the Stripes’2007 tour, the whispers about White bolting the Stripes will start anew.

The critics and rumor-mongers would be better off admiring the statement made on Consolers. This muscular Seventies homage deserves it.

A Far Better Drive-by

The Drive-By Truckers always present a conundrum – I wanted to like them, yet record after record yielded a few worthy song.

Allow me to summarize: Southern Rock Opera – way too many George Wallace songs. The band idolizes the late segregationist governor. We got it. One song would have sufficed.
Decoration Day and The Dirty South? The Truckers wedged a few good songs among too many insular southern experiences and mediocre Skynyrd musings. I didn’t even bother with Blessing and a Curse.

After such diminishing returns, then why take a flier on Brighter Than Creation’s Dark? A new release in the used bin holds amazing sway, and as it turned out, the Truckers finally made the record I wanted from them.

Departing songwriters never bode well for a band, but in the case of Jason Isbell, the Truckers benefit. With so many cooks in the kitchen, it's easy to ruin a recipe.

Left to their own devices, Patterson Hood and Mike Cooley whipped up a smörgåsbord.

“Perfect Timing,” a simple meal of acoustic country, surpasses them all – I used to hate the fool in me/But only in the morning/Now I tolerate him all day long.” “Bob” follows the same template about an outsider following his own moral compass. Few musicians give depth and grace to such outsiders as the Truckers do. "Lisa's Birthday" is Cooley's ode to the hard-luck girl we've all known.

I cannot omit bassist Shonna Tucker's songs and lead vocals - when she grasps the mic, the Truckers are a different band but better for it. “I’m Sorry Houston” and “Home-Field Advantage” fit on this album in a way they would have landed awkwardly on earlier efforts, but become second nature on this record.

Like any 75-minute album, it could use some trimming. Overall, these hedges are layered, tuneful and don’t need much pruning. The Truckers finally found their road and a plethora of new Southern tales to tell.

F'in-A Right It's Time for a Blog About Rocky

So the HRC Experience has resorted to Rocky analogies.

Even those she can't get right.

She talked about how Rocky wouldn't have given up halfway up his run on the Philadelphia Museum of Art steps.

Has she ever seen the movie, or did one of her aides outline the plot for her? Do they not know that indifference to Rocky plotpoints could severely cut into the male vote?

As a survivor of those steps, I can say running them left me winded but hardly as beaten as the pictures of that day indicate.

Couldn't her Pennsylvania buddy, Gov. Ed Rendell and former mayor of Philly, explain that they aren't too difficult. Why else would so many tourists have to run them?

Spoiler alert, Clinton campaign - Rocky went the distance with Apollo. And he still lost. Running the steps was a moral achievement, because he couldn't do it the first time he tried after a long run. In the end, it had little to do with the actual fight.


He only won in the inferior sequels (Rocky III was an exception, as Mr. T pummeled him, then lost the rematch), which might bode well for Clinton if McCain wins in the fall. Then again, it might go down like that scene in Rocky IV when Rocky lands in Bosnia and has to run through sniper fire to find cover ... see, you repeat an imagined scene from a movie enough times, and it feels real.

In other Balboa-related news:

As the half-marathon spreads like a shadow over everything I do, I needed some uplifting training music, and could only go with two choices for the iPod - "Gonna Fly Now," the good old Rocky theme, and "Eye of the Tiger." There are few bads as bad as Survivor, but the song seemed appropriate.

Besides, I already chose a worse one. For some reason I picked "Shipping Up to Boston" from The Dropkick Murphys.

Even if Woody Guthrie wrote the lyric, shown me the half-marathoner who wants to hear the line "I lost my leg" screamed repeatedly. That's unhealthy at any mile marker.