Diamond Shines On

Neil Diamond's next step away from the cornball image he perpetuated in the past four decades is much more comfortable than the first.

For all the critical gushing about 12 Songs - myself included - it now feels a bit like eagerly-awaited sex with a new flame - pretty good, but inevitably awkward. Beyond "Captain of the Shipwreck," the songs haven't held up, and he gave into big arrangements on a few songs ("Delirious Love" with Brian Wilson felt overwrought, when it just needed Diamond and his guitar.

Plus, the copy protection/spyware slapped on the disc wasn't kind to computers.

All those years of schmaltz took a few scrubbings to wear away, and Home Before Dark is a gem almost completely free of that cumbersome past. Diamond and uber-producer Rick Rubin walkin lock-step on their sophomore effort.

By comparison, Home Before Dark feels even more stripped down -- there's not a lick of electric guitar or a drum fill to be found. For all his years of dressed-up music, the sparser setting allows Diamond to shine. The goofiness that torpedoed some tunes on 12 Songs.

The two lead tracks, "If I Don't See You Again" and "Pretty Amazing Grace," set the tone. The opener is a seven-minute elegy for a relationship better off ending too soon, and "Grace" comes on with a dark acoustic hook that strikes quickly.

Even the duet with Natalie Maines works. Like the best songs from his career, Diamond keeps it simple lyrically and musically. While the words are simple, Diamond deepens their complexity in his arrangements, setting him apart from the garden variety songsmiths - see "Whose Hands Are These."

Home Before Dark is hardly perfect; the "Subterranean Homesick" intro to "Slow It Down" feels woefully out of place, and a few other lyrics are mildly cringe-inducing. But with Rubin's usual session players - Smokey Hormel and Heartbreakers' Benmont Tench and Mike Campbell - the music always covers for those lapses.

Nearing 70, Diamond hasn't produced a Time Out of Mind or American Recordings - it's too upbeat, and Diamond's well-preserved voice bears none of the death's door wear that saddened Johnny Cash's last offerings.

Diamond's late-career renaissance goes on, and his forward-looking songs never attempt to recapture past glory.

Draw your own conclusions

Mac, please don’t crash on me now.

The old MacBook has entered the terrible twos a little early, and last year’s problem of sudden shutdowns has returned with extreme prejudice. At this point, the screen goes black arbitrarily, so I am typing this on borrowed time and will hope for a software patching floating out there in the great digital frontier.

I’m already tired of the Scott McClellan media blitz. Ooh, another former Bush administration official writes a tell-all – and he was the press secretary, no less. We could populate a small country with former administration types who’ve written Bush screeds.

A memoir from a former PR flack bashing his president boss – real original, Scott. Maybe you're just quietly gunning for fellow Texan Bob Schieffer's Sunday morning seat when he retires. Hopefully the CBS suits don't feel the need to hire another former flack to herd the partisans.

Anyway, I was overdue to update. Memorial Day, actually, is my two-year bloggin' anniversary. Who knew I'd still be at it - from Nashville, no less.

Night at Coats Mountain

I’m fortunate to have made friends who live in the country, which in Nashville means living 10 minutes beyond Downtown. When you can reach out your front window and touch the cars on Interstate 40 like me, any taste of the country – and more importantly, quiet not constantly broken by tanker trucks shifting up 51^st Avenue – goes a long way.

So when the Coats family held their old-fashioned Memorial Day cookout, with a pack of kids running in and out of the pool while the adults sipped our beers on 2008’s first scorching day, I couldn’t miss it. I spent Easter there, and jumped at the chance to return.

They do actually live on a mountain, with the steepest driveway the Corolla ever tackled. The food was great, the conversation even better.

I stayed until all the alcohol wore off and the sky sprouted a beard of stars above the harmonizing insects. When doused with the light pollution on my street, the same sky looks no better than a bad teenage mustache.

Un-Memorial Day

After a morning uplifted by The Seven Samurai, laundry and a gentle sunrise, the black clouds settled in, and let loose a shower left over from the tornadoes that tore up The Plains. The skies poured for so long that I watched the uncut Once Upon A Time in American and had two hours to spare for nap

After an evening race through my phone book – high gas prices or not, Nashville emptied out from Friday to Monday- I wandered to Las Palmas for some greasy Mexican. The holiday weekend couldn’t end without a little more spice.

Inside the half-full former fast food outlet, I saw a possible, unwelcome future. At too many of the occupied tables, middle-aged men held their lonely courts. With apologies to Bob Dylan, I really could have rearranged their faces and given them all another name.

That I landed at the same hacienda as this unofficial bachelor gathering was not a fun coincidence.

Was this a Ghost of Memorial Days Future moment, when a shaggy, salt-and-peppered Bill Melville will fight his arthritic limbs to slink into a booth and think nothing of fajitas for one?

I ordered quickly and greedily ate my chicken poblano, well aware that I still had time before I fell under the twilight that shaded them.

Spring gems: Mudcrutch for Cutie

I’ve haven’t fully digested Rising Down from The Roots, but this pair has quickly turned into my favorites of the past month.

What Crutch?

Seriously, Tom Petty fans, if you haven’t already grabbed the debut album of his first band, Mudcrutch, go now.

If you always wished Petty indulged in country rock a la the Flying Burrito Brothers, you should have already listened to it six times.

This country-tinged effort is the best thing Tom and company have turned out in years. With Heartbreakers Mike Campbell and Benmont Tench along for the ride, I feared this could be a Petty record under another name. but with guitarist Tom Leadon and drummer Randall Marsh in the fold, Mudcrutch feels like a fully-formed country rock outfit.

The traditional “Shady Grove” opens the record with a blast of sparse bluegrass and an unexpected urgency running beneath Petty’s laidback vocals. Its successor, “Scare Easy,” could be one of my favorite Petty tracks ever, ambling along with a swampy beat and incisive lyrics.
I almost wish I bought this on vinyl instead of digitally, since Mudcrutch turned out an album, not a collection of songs that never came together in 1973. There’s not a clunker or hackneyed riff on this one – maybe Petty should stick to the bass more often.

Just listening to “Scare Easy” and the nine-minute “Crystal River” makes me realize Petty’s best might still ahead – even if it means peering into his distant past.

Death Cab’s Redemption

Sometimes I give a band second chance – hell, I’ve given the Foo Fighters four of them.

But Death Cab for Cutie delivered after a major label misstep that sold a million copies

With Narrow Stairs, Ben Gibbard and crew effectively helped me forget the limp-wristed effort called Plans. Outside of “Crooked Teeth,” I wasted $10 on that album.

This might be one of the bleakest major label efforts since In Utero. DCFC sound nothing like Nirvana, but every track rings with a hopelessness unparalleled in indie rock.

Opener “Bixby Canyon Bridge” could be an open letter to Jack Kerouac, and makes me want to revisit Big Sur, the tragic drunken monologue of Kerouac’s last days. It hits hard, and is a sign of songs to come.

“I Will Possess Your Heart” is catchy but cannot escape the creepiness of a guy who wants to girl to see his way no matter what. But the catchy song gets swept away by the sweet melodies of those that follow. The titles alone signal a bleak ride ahead – “No Sunlight,” “You Can Do Better Than Me” and “Your New Twin-Sized Bed” don’t brim with happiness, despite their frantic melodies.

It might be a frequent rock metaphor, but “The Ice is Getting Thinner” maintains its effectiveness through the sparse instruments and Gibbard’s weighty lyrics.

In an interview with Ben Gibbard, I finally understand why Plans flopped so badly for me –Death Cab deviated from its usual habit of recording live in the studio, resulting in the songs sometimes feeling stitched together.

By comparison, the instrumentation of Narrow Stairs feels organic and comfortable.

While DCFC might not return to such great heights as We Have the Facts and We’re Voting Yes or its breakthrough, Transatlanticism, it washes away the detritus of its major label debut - even in the shallow waters of Bixby Canyon.

Blogs fly when you're having fun

Apparently it's a blogger tradition to mark milestone posts. My counter puts me at 514, meaning I blew past the critical 500th without batting an eye.

Not bad for less than two years of doing this, and all sorts of friends entering and exiting the blogosphere in the interim.

Writing for free is hard work.

I probably do too much of it.

On that note, check nashvillefeed.com later for my take on Josh Ritter's first of two shows at Nashville's Belcourt Theatre. He's quite a performer, and sort of the crown prince of Americana music.

Why write for free if you can't self-promote?

Comfest Conundrum

My location for the last weekend in June has never been in doubt.

But a perfect storm of music has hit me.

Tom Waits. Ohio Theatre. Saturday, June 29 - right in the middle of Comfest.

For travel purposes, it's perfect, assuming I nab some tickets.

For partying up at Comfest, it means some different altogether. In a way, I almost hope to get shut out on Ticketmaster, so I can travel to Atlanta the following weekend. Then I can reap all I can from Comfest.

Finally ....

I meet someone who agrees The Fairport Convention produced the best Bob Dylan cover of all time with their spin on "Million Dollar Bash." Thanks to CK of the St. Louis American for that honor, and for 90 minutes of great conversation.

After a daylong exercise in rural healthcare, unwinding with a little wine and journalistic bitching about the continued watering down of our profession brought sweet relief. Kansas, Missouri, playing Stache's in the mid-1990's, bitching about the arrogant buffoonery of Kinky Friedman ... some days, what you need is unknown until it throws its first punch. The old-school journalism types who could trade verbal barbs with the grumpiest Krumlauf emerged from their shells, and what news hound wouldn't enjoy such a display? There is still greatness in journalism - as its staunchest defenders shred their replacements to pieces for dumbing down the material to please non-readers.

A few hours later the best networking session of my life has passed.

The outcasts of the Rural Healthcare Workshop huddled at Murry's over cocktails and dinner, where no topice was too mundane or disgusting -- from network types complaining about accommodations in small Iowa towns to advertising staff defecating on the bathroom floor in Fargo, we hit it all. One table collected, Springfield, Mo., Athens, Ga. by way of Boston, Fargo, Des Moines, and Nashville by way of Columbos. Even the Richard Ades of Iowa chimed in, refusing to let anyone stomp on his toes.

The chicken poblano blasted my sinuses open for a few hours, and with departure the next step after a little sleep, I wondered if fate might drop me in Columbia again. You need a reason to set down here, and I hope another arises.

Start with roadkill coyote, sprinkle in severe weather, end on the mushroom

That's my day, in a nutshell. Thanks for reading.
...

Oh yeah, the little details that make life worthwhile. But remember, you wanted it this way ....

After a hungry paw swatted me out of yet-another "alternate universe Bob's Bar" dream, I happily returned to the road five months later. Severe weather wouldn't be denied, emerging repeatedly as Kentucky, Illinois and then dreary St. Lou all blew past. My route across the map followed some of the Midwest's most desolate interstate, empty except for buzzards, a dead coyote and a pack of dogs leisurely crossing the lanes interrupting their farm.

Columbia is best described as Athens with fewer hills and a lot less weed. With a hip main drag and a dynamite brewpub (Flat Branch Pub and Brewery), it was a perfect place to land in springtime, when the buzzing of summer about to hit its fever pitch.

The first round of Rural Healthcare Journalism opened eyes - yes, I just wrote that. The experts were just that, and in typical fashion, this mini-convention tied into my last journalism convention - one of the speakers was at the 2001 SPJ in Seattle. All four knew their material.

But journalists are journalists - used to working alone or in small information-sharing packs, they stick to themselves after a little awkward conversation, or never break from their group. Most knew each other, and those who didn't fumbled through awkward reporter-speak. The reception after the session turned into that type of affair, with the Kansas and Missouri folks quickly bunching up and planning their meal at the brewpub (I snuck in a lunch there, but would have enjoyed more chatting).

As the cliques lumbered off to their dinner plans, I found a nice chat with a rural healthcare expert from Nebraska (this guy was brilliant, no matter the subject and never patronizing - he seemed to love the chance to espouse his common sense theories on bettering the country). Minutes later he was on his way back to Lincoln, and I was just as alone as I would have been 435 miles south by southeast.

A little rest and a Mudcrutch album later, I split the Holiday Inn and decided to find .... something on Mizzou's main drag.

I stomped up and down Broadway, Mizzou's main drag, wanting more atmosphere than the puke-stained Budweiser halls owned by the undergrads. After nearly getting run over in the crosswalk and nearly getting into a fight for pointing out the white bars painted on the road, I doubled back to Tellers Restaurant and Gallery, where I struck up with Michael H___ins, a local realtor who spent his free weekends roaring up to Iowa to pick mushrooms and hunt turkeys. A Missouri Republican - and myself a Jim Webb Democrat - we breezed through exactly the kind of conversation I needed with a stranger. The smoking hot bartender eager to chat didn't either.

Right now, with a Boulevard Wheat in hand and the air conditioner mimicking the Arctic, tomorrow is a long time. I'm fine with that feeling. A year ago tonight, I sputtered into Nashville on fumes, second-guessing the decision to leave Columbus and fuming at having to buy a fifth tire in four days. I'll take Central Missouri over that doleful excursion any day.

Great Moments in HealthLeaders History

At 8:48 a.m. today, my boss walked up to me and put a beer in my hand.

It was meant as congratulations for finishing the half-marathon.

I just wish I didn't have to wait until 10:30 to drink it (personal policy).

Tomorrow, the same company will send me off to scenic Columbia, Mo., for a rural healthcare journalism conference (and you scoffed whenever I talk about still being in the biz). For the unaware, Columbia is essential Missouri's version of Athens, only imagine OU having OSU's appetite for college sports.

Nonetheless, I haven't been on the road since January and seven rural hours will do the trick. I hear gas prices might have risen a bit since my last roadtrip.

But the company is paying quite a bit more than 23 cents per mile, so I'll cope.