Ah Neko, you had to point the tightness of your black dress in the early goings of their Ryman concert Saturday.
On every subsequent song, you looked uncomfortable as hell and lucky to stay standing without the mic stand's aid.
But it was the Ryman, and I can't imagine an artist as country-tinged as your self would not show up dressed to the nines. Plus, the overly tight dress led to a host of humorous interludes anytime she went to pick up a guitar or adjust its settings.
With band in a country set-up with pedal steel acoustic guitar, upright bass and accompanying singer Kelly Hogan, this was pure solo Neko, wrung clean of any traces of her side project the New Pornographers. Whether joking or harmonizing, Case and Hogan fit flawlessly.
As for the music, everything was top-notch, if a little busy thanks to the animation which accompanied most songs. The most torrid tracks from her latest, Middle Cyclone, came off best, as Case let loose some magnificent crescendos on and The Pharaohs. The Ryman's acoustics did wonders for her loudest wails, especially unforgettable climax of "What will make you believe me?" on This Tornado Loves You, which closed the main set.
Aside from the occasional mild rearrangements to fit the band, the songs barely strayed from their album incarnations; of course, no one minded. Case captivated on Blacklisted cuts Deep Red Bells and I Wish I Was the Moon. The new record got the greatest attention, which Case snarkily pointed out to anyone in the audience expecting different, but those tunes were broken up by a good cross-section of Blacklisted, The Tigers Have Spoken and Fox Confessor Brings the Flood.
Even some of Cyclone's lesser songs - Never Turn Your Back on Mother Earth comes to mind - developed unseen depth in a live setting. The usual burnout that results with seeing an artist live did not happen this time, because she displayed more substance in numbers I earlier ignored.
For the encore, she broke out personal favorite Star Witness, her most enchanting, moving murder ballad (Case songs often manage all those things at once).
I'd be amiss if I forgot the banter, because it only took a few song breaks to spark my memory of Case's wicked sense of humor. In her own wry manner, she got as many laughs from the indie crowd as the Spinal Tap alumni got a few months ago. She and Hogan could take their routine on tour by itself.
Opener Jason Lytle was the only blemish. Looking like a Witness Protection member with his face obscured by a baseball hat and his low-key demeanor, he stuck to a "same chords, same tempo" pattern for the entire set. The most exciting part came from the drummer, who only shed his boredom when chugging beers in a single gulp.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
The Vinyl Side Vol. 1
The purchases below add up to about $60, severely skewed by the rarity of those two sub-standard Bruce Springsteen records. Since I scrounge for used vinyl as much as I grab new releases, some quick reviews are in order.
Screaming For Vengeance ~ God, it felt good to hear Electric Eye again. I traded away this CD sometime after high school, but it never sounded as strong. This is mainstream Priest, but still hard-edged metal. Taken These Chains and You’ve Got Another Thing Coming won’t be denied.
The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle ~ Underrated record, if you can say that about the overpicked Springsteen catalogue.The long songs which became such concert favorites have their roots here, a more focused, mature effort than Greetings From Asbury Park but not as mainstream as Born to Run. More than any other Springsteen record, it's a snapshot, an album of the moment that fit its early E Street personnel.
Human Touch and
Whoever thought 57 Channels and Nothing On was a good idea should never be allowed within 500 feet of a studio again. It took 17 years for Springsteen to come close to that awfulness again, thanks to Queen of the Supermarket (it’s what you’d expect of someone who hasn’t bought a sack of groceries since the late 1970s).
While not a classic or a great record, I found
High ‘N’ Dry – Follow this link. It lack all the hits of Hysteria and Pyromania, but is every bit as compelling.
The Muppet Movie ~ Worth the $4 I paid just for Rainbow Connection and Moving Right Along. Plus, Muppets fucking rock, in case you hadn’t heard. Henson and Co. could write a song with unparalleled emotion depth and make it believable, even when delivered by a frog with ping-pong balls for eyes.
Daring Adventures and Across a Crowded Room ~ These two lost Richard Thompson records following his mid-1980 split with Linda suffer from comparisons to all-time classic Shoot Out the Lights. While Thompson's seems somewhat astray at times, the songwriting and magnificent guitar work keep him on the path.
Overdue Reviews
You might have noticed content has been scant for a while. The combination of a depressive spell, increased demands at my day job and the addition of a night job has given little time for regular music reviews.
Plus, many old favorites have disappointed in 2009, and that doesn’t make me eager to hit the keys.
Back From the Dead ~ Despite their fun live show and decades of delightful cameos, Spinal Tap dropped a dud here. Let’s instead call it Back for the Cash, since the 12-inch Spinal Tap paper dolls are a neat packaging feat cannot hide that most songs are merely re-recorded. Funky Sex Farm and a reggae Flower People? Bleh. At least three of the new songs – Back From the Dead, Celtic Blues, and Warmer Than Hell – have a little life in them.
Veckatimest ~ Grizzly Bear’s first three songs catch me, but the rest quickly descends into a collage-rock blur. For all the comparisons with the latest Animal Collective, Veckatimest hasn’t connected after 20-some listenings. Animal Collective hooked me at 15.
Wilco (The Album) ~ I’m almost at a loss, but Wilco has delivered its first non-dynamic record. With every earlier long-player, talk of a new Wilco album always came with the question, “What will this one sound like?” Wilco (The Album) sounds too much like the stellar Sky Blue Sky, with some songs (I’m looking at you, Everlasting Everything) ape the themes and cadence of Sky’s superior songs. One Wing, You Never Know, and Sunny Feeling brighten a disappointingly ordinary effort from Wilco.
Ashes of American Flags ~ But all is not lost in the Wilco camp, thanks to their recent travelogue DVD and its 20-plus downloadable tracks. Think of it as a companion to Kicking Television, the live record Wilco recorded at home in
Dark Days/Light Years ~ I’ve come to accept that the Super Furry Animals’ natural state is making uneven, mediocre but adventurous records. Dark Days/Light Years has a few lively moments among the dross.
Middle Eastern-pop unexpectedly sizzles on The Very Best of Neil Diamond, while White Socks/Flip Flops is much cooler than its title.
Farm ~ Dinosaur Jr. redeems it all. The follow-up to Beyond, the best reunion record ever, never lets up. You can’t go wrong with I Don’t Want to Go There, Ocean in the Way or Imagination Blind. Blissfully fuzzed-out J Mascis solos never grow stale; Mascis also wins points for letting Lou Barlow pen a few gems again.
Together Through Life ~ Seven months ago, I asked Bob Dylan to consider retiring after the brilliant non-album collection Tell Tale Signs.
The man showed me up again; while not a classic, the accordion and mandolin lend Dylan’s usual no-humor band a little lightness. Some material falters, but Beyond Here Lies Nothing and the tongue-in-cheek It’s All Good are flush with brilliant lyrics and melodies. Dylan delivers the last word on the inanity of the phrase. It is hardly all good, but under his steady hand, it’s still beautifully told.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Better Brief Than Belated
OK, since the second job commenced, blogging has become a more difficult enterprise.
But now that the second job has taken hold - no longer needing to decompress, I can clock out at 10:15 and crash out by 11. Exhaustion is now my natural state. I leave for one job, stop long enough to eat dinner and placate a lonely cat with a ten-minute porch journey, then shuttle off to a steady flow of wine seekers.
Dry country
I've given up beer. So have my children, and their children's children .... for one month. Till early August, my old friend and I are on hiatus. Depending on our estrangement's effect on my gut and bullfrog chin, we could part even longer.
The first week passed with surprisingly ease. Aside from a few vivid hallucinations at first, I barely noticed its absence. Believe it or not, I was not dogged by images of beers parachuting onto the front porch. I just went about my life. When digging for mustard last night, I was surprised to find a few errant bottles - usually, those soldiers would have been long dead.
The three cases of high-end beer that serve as my "cellar" won't go anywhere. Time away from the hop has given me a chance to become more intimate with the grape. Tempranillo, malbec and a Patagonian blend are all new friends.
So far this week, I've managed to ignore even my new friends. That won't last, not in a business where people want to know how the new wines taste. We'll probably get reacquainted tonight thanks to the Anciano tempranillo waiting for me - c'mon, aged 10 years in oak barrels, all of 10 bucks a bottle, why wait when I can get more?
Oh Doctor, please help me ...
For the first time in four years, I have a cholesterol count - bad cholesterol ran high thanks to all the alcohol, but good cholesterol evened it out thanks to all the salmon, avocados and almonds.
Within five minutes, the new doc established himself as the best I've ever had. He had a great demeanor, cracked jokes and lightened the mood when it was absolutely necessary. But I had a recent health problem in need of care. Thanks to an episode of Family Guy, I had already diagnosed the problem and he concurred (I'll leave it to you to figure out which one).
More importantly, I have a regular doctor. This appointment was a lark - when I called, they had nothing before November. Two days later, a cancellation got me in the door.
Not that anything prepared me for the doctor's candor and humor. He pulled no punches, paid compliments where I actually demonstrated good health and was overbearing when discussing the occasional appearance of nicotine in my life - he gave the "occasionally is still too much in my estimation" speech, but in a friendly way.
It's been a long time since I could claim a primary care physician that I actually liked. In our paranoid society, it's too simple to view a doctor as someone eager to bill insurance - a former doc told me I had a deviated septum which required surgery; a second opinion confirmed my nose was fine and the other doc engaged in quackery.
I'm not going to worry about that with the new doc, though. He told me enough to let me know he was on the level, and I don't mean the level of the dirt-level con artists who proceeded him.
But now that the second job has taken hold - no longer needing to decompress, I can clock out at 10:15 and crash out by 11. Exhaustion is now my natural state. I leave for one job, stop long enough to eat dinner and placate a lonely cat with a ten-minute porch journey, then shuttle off to a steady flow of wine seekers.
Dry country
I've given up beer. So have my children, and their children's children .... for one month. Till early August, my old friend and I are on hiatus. Depending on our estrangement's effect on my gut and bullfrog chin, we could part even longer.
The first week passed with surprisingly ease. Aside from a few vivid hallucinations at first, I barely noticed its absence. Believe it or not, I was not dogged by images of beers parachuting onto the front porch. I just went about my life. When digging for mustard last night, I was surprised to find a few errant bottles - usually, those soldiers would have been long dead.
The three cases of high-end beer that serve as my "cellar" won't go anywhere. Time away from the hop has given me a chance to become more intimate with the grape. Tempranillo, malbec and a Patagonian blend are all new friends.
So far this week, I've managed to ignore even my new friends. That won't last, not in a business where people want to know how the new wines taste. We'll probably get reacquainted tonight thanks to the Anciano tempranillo waiting for me - c'mon, aged 10 years in oak barrels, all of 10 bucks a bottle, why wait when I can get more?
Oh Doctor, please help me ...
For the first time in four years, I have a cholesterol count - bad cholesterol ran high thanks to all the alcohol, but good cholesterol evened it out thanks to all the salmon, avocados and almonds.
Within five minutes, the new doc established himself as the best I've ever had. He had a great demeanor, cracked jokes and lightened the mood when it was absolutely necessary. But I had a recent health problem in need of care. Thanks to an episode of Family Guy, I had already diagnosed the problem and he concurred (I'll leave it to you to figure out which one).
More importantly, I have a regular doctor. This appointment was a lark - when I called, they had nothing before November. Two days later, a cancellation got me in the door.
Not that anything prepared me for the doctor's candor and humor. He pulled no punches, paid compliments where I actually demonstrated good health and was overbearing when discussing the occasional appearance of nicotine in my life - he gave the "occasionally is still too much in my estimation" speech, but in a friendly way.
It's been a long time since I could claim a primary care physician that I actually liked. In our paranoid society, it's too simple to view a doctor as someone eager to bill insurance - a former doc told me I had a deviated septum which required surgery; a second opinion confirmed my nose was fine and the other doc engaged in quackery.
I'm not going to worry about that with the new doc, though. He told me enough to let me know he was on the level, and I don't mean the level of the dirt-level con artists who proceeded him.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
All That Training Slips Away
Just over two months since the Country Music 1/2 Marathon, most of my training has vanished. More accurately, I probably sweated it out through every feeble attempt to run since that blistering morning.
Today was just as blistering, with the humidity hugging Shelby Bottoms and the only breeze to be found came as I prepared to turn around at the 3.5-mile marker.
But I can't wait for more favorable weather along the greenway. Nashville won't provide it until October. By that time, I'll have tackled two long races, in two states, just two weeks apart. I encountered the scheduling troubles when plotting which half-marathon to run in October. The Murfreesboro Middle Half fit the schedule nicely, and with minimal training, I felt pretty well on the flat course.
Because of the Middle Half's close proximity to the Columbus Half-Marathon, it precluded any possibility of running my hometown race for the first time.
Or did it? I looked at the calendar and did some running research. With only two weeks off, I could scale back my running after the Middle Half and not worry about any new training for Columbus.
So just two months after swearing off more half-marathons, I'm running two back-to-back. I blame the Country Music 1/2 Marathon; the intense heat and slight course improvements turned it into a much difference race this time around.
Not that it makes Sunday morning jogs any easier in July.
Today was just as blistering, with the humidity hugging Shelby Bottoms and the only breeze to be found came as I prepared to turn around at the 3.5-mile marker.
But I can't wait for more favorable weather along the greenway. Nashville won't provide it until October. By that time, I'll have tackled two long races, in two states, just two weeks apart. I encountered the scheduling troubles when plotting which half-marathon to run in October. The Murfreesboro Middle Half fit the schedule nicely, and with minimal training, I felt pretty well on the flat course.
Because of the Middle Half's close proximity to the Columbus Half-Marathon, it precluded any possibility of running my hometown race for the first time.
Or did it? I looked at the calendar and did some running research. With only two weeks off, I could scale back my running after the Middle Half and not worry about any new training for Columbus.
So just two months after swearing off more half-marathons, I'm running two back-to-back. I blame the Country Music 1/2 Marathon; the intense heat and slight course improvements turned it into a much difference race this time around.
Not that it makes Sunday morning jogs any easier in July.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Drinking It Was the Special Occasion
Nine months after the Red Cross screwed up my arm, they said my blood pressure was too high to donate, so they denied ... I mean, "deferred" me.
The crazy thing is those vultures will continue to have their drones call me begging for donations. Red Cross volunteers, consider yourselves warned - there will be a torrent of swears and ill feeling coming your direction should my digits pop up on your donor list.
But enough about those bloodsuckers. Among the suffocating, relentless bad news, I caught some gasps of goondess.
A old friend dropped an e-mail yesterday with a hazy camera-phone image of a familiar label.
By 8:30, the bottle was empty, the celebration and non-special occasion nearly derailed by a torn cork.
In effect, it changed my day. The Melville Pinot Noir 2006 from California had been uncovered by someone else, in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, of all places (it is an attractive little vacation town).
Cold reality splashed in. The Sideways quote followed - to paraphrase, a great bottle of wine doesn't need a special occasion, because it's a special occasion when you drink it.
Due to its dubious familial connections, I saved the bottle for a special occasion, fooling myself into thinking there was any type of special occasion on the horizon. Sometimes, hope is for fools; that's why I end up begging people to take an extra concert ticket so often.
Not drinking the bottle at home by myself was victory enough. Plus, I don't buy $40 wine often (again, the "special" or even "mildly notable occasion" problem).
I didn't pour into a styrofoam cup and down it with fast food, but enjoyed it with Pabst-drinking friends on a South Nashville porch. With 20 weeks of Italian since my last stretch of porch time, I almost forgot how much I missed it.
As for the wine itself, my namesake winery produced the finest pinot noir I ever tasted. It went down spectacularly - give the circumstances, it was the only way it could.
The crazy thing is those vultures will continue to have their drones call me begging for donations. Red Cross volunteers, consider yourselves warned - there will be a torrent of swears and ill feeling coming your direction should my digits pop up on your donor list.
But enough about those bloodsuckers. Among the suffocating, relentless bad news, I caught some gasps of goondess.
A old friend dropped an e-mail yesterday with a hazy camera-phone image of a familiar label.
By 8:30, the bottle was empty, the celebration and non-special occasion nearly derailed by a torn cork.
In effect, it changed my day. The Melville Pinot Noir 2006 from California had been uncovered by someone else, in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, of all places (it is an attractive little vacation town).
Cold reality splashed in. The Sideways quote followed - to paraphrase, a great bottle of wine doesn't need a special occasion, because it's a special occasion when you drink it.
Due to its dubious familial connections, I saved the bottle for a special occasion, fooling myself into thinking there was any type of special occasion on the horizon. Sometimes, hope is for fools; that's why I end up begging people to take an extra concert ticket so often.
Not drinking the bottle at home by myself was victory enough. Plus, I don't buy $40 wine often (again, the "special" or even "mildly notable occasion" problem).
I didn't pour into a styrofoam cup and down it with fast food, but enjoyed it with Pabst-drinking friends on a South Nashville porch. With 20 weeks of Italian since my last stretch of porch time, I almost forgot how much I missed it.
As for the wine itself, my namesake winery produced the finest pinot noir I ever tasted. It went down spectacularly - give the circumstances, it was the only way it could.
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