GUILTY PLEASURES..... When your hard drive crashes

It had to happen.  For months I have been awaiting the inevitable crash of the old hard drive and kept telling myself to back the damn thing up, but do you think I could put one brain cell in front of another and then another and then another to accomplish said task?  Hell, no.  So I hit the bathroom on a gloomy afternoon and come back to a computer screen filled with error messages with lots of click/cancel icons and think, crap!  Oh, I had another computer in the wings.  It was the lost information I mourned.  Lots of mp3s--- demo tracks sent to me by hopeful musicians, interview transcripts, albums downloaded at the behest of PR people and managers, notes for possible future columns--- all gone.

The worst loss, of course, was my recording program.  I have (er, had) a program for recording over the phone which I used with regularity.  I recorded interviews with people I had somehow tracked down and talked into a short talk, some new and intriguing and some older and historically important--- to myself, at least.  I lost chats with Wayne Berry, Steve Young, Wayne Proctor (We The People), Paul Curreri, Devon Sproule and many more.  Thing is, I did have backup on many of those.  I had sent transcripts of interviews to most of them and the attachments were saved in my gmail account.

The music, though?  Pretty much gone.  Most I received through yousendit and the window of opportunity had long since expired.  Some I received directly from PR people or musicians and I suppose I could approach them again, but I won't.  Sigh.

Yep, I'm pretty much starting from scratch.  In a way, it is not a bad thing at all.  I had buried myself in work and probably needed a new start.  Every day I spent feeling guilty about the mountain of work I had to do and my inability to make a dent in it.  Music sat stagnant in my files because I had no time to get to it.  Reviews and articles started in a fit of energy lay untouched after hitting the brick wall.  It is nice to put much of that behind me.  It is like waking to a nice sunny day after a week long drunk.  Sober, at last.

That sobriety has led me on a circuitous path that I am now enjoying.  You see, much of that music was saved on my mp3 player, so I still have access.  Not to all, but to some.  That some I am now listening to and if I ever thought I had been writing out my ass, I should hear it.  I am happy to report that all I hear is the outstanding music I had written about in glowing terms---  buried, perhaps, and unknown.  But outstanding.

This is a discovery.  My discovery.  Not of the music I have found and loved, but the fact that it has stood a test of time--- not much time, but enough.  This is the story of my mp3 files--- music downloaded for review--- most of which I had already reviewed.  This is a look back to what music could be, if only we let it.

BRIGHT GIANT.....

I have probably written more about Bright Giant than any artist or band outside of Research Turtles and what the tracks on the old mp3 tell me is that that is warranted.  The entire new album (Kings & Queens of Air) is on the mp3, plus five rough tracks from those sessions, meaning basic tracks minus the final touches.  There is a rough, guttural sound to the band--- distorted guitars, snarky feedback, primal drums--- which I find gripping.  Des Moines.  Who knew?  The most intriguing factor in these recordings are the subtle differences between rough track and finished product.  Listening to You Saved Me before the vocal touches shows me how much a small change can make.  It's raw but good in its earlier form, but after the background vocals (which are very much in the background) it becomes downright magnificent. When band member Josh Davis sent me the rough tracks, explaining that they were unfinished, I asked him what more he could do.  Little did I know.  Kings & Queens of Air, by the way, is one of the best albums recorded this year--- if you like primitive and raw.  Worth it for the guitar and feedback alone.

JENNY GILLESPIE.....

Finding Jenny was a fluke.  I had stacks of scraps of paper on my desk, each scrap a note from the past, and was forced to clean the desktop one day.  I found a list of artist names on one and searched the web sites and there she was.  At the time I'd scratched her name on that paper, she had had a new album released, Kindred, and I had probably meant to send a request for a review copy.  Somehow it slipped through the cracks and I was forced to listen in hindsight, if you will--- to an album a year old or more.  With good music, I am always finding out, time is not of the essence and I slipped into the ooze of what others termed "shoegaze" and have since refused to leave the hot tub.  Her voice is floating and ethereal on most tracks, the music smooth and relaxing.  The Wurlitzer helps (for those who are unaware, the Wurlitzer piano is an instrument of incredible beauty when used properly) as does the production.  Gillespie stays just far enough from formula to make the album listen worthy and close enough to make you feel at home.  She recently went to New York to record a new album. I thought, anyway.  I see that she has a new EP, Belita, available through her Facebook page.  I have yet to hear it, but I will soon because, wonder of wonders, there is a link to a free download.  Damn, but life is good!  But wait!  Lest we forget, Kindred is still there for the taking.  Just sayin'.

THE DEMENTIANS.....

When I stumbled on to these guys, I found myself in uncharted waters, and yet they weren't.  For one thing, this is only one guy, David Jacques.  Suffering from the typical Canadian inferiority complex, I suppose, he decided to market himself as a full group, and it does sound like it.  He lives north of rap and south of pop, a strange combination that he sometimes makes not only palatable but engaging.  Imagine crunching guitar, intricate pounding rhythms and Beach Boys-smooth harmony vocals  with Gruppo Sportivo-quality lyrics (GS were the kings of lyrical content in the seventies).  Original and solid.  From silky pop (Dedicated To You) to crunching rock with touches of trip hop (Pistol Pete) to a combination of the two (Middle Class Revolution), this guy nails one after the other.  He even tosses in an updated version of Rock 'n Roll Hoochie Koo (and why not?  Everyone else is doing it).  Is this guy good?  All I know is that every time I hear him, I'm impressed as hell.  Check his music out on his Facebook Page.

MORRISON & WEST.....

For those who have been looking for that modern old-timey sound, Cahalen Morrison and Eli West have something quite excellent.  Think O Brother, Where Art Thou and you're getting close.  They combine Stanley Brothers, Louvin Brothers, Blue Sky Boys and the modern side of  Tim O'Brien and Chris Thile to make their own modern sounds from the past.  Not long ago, they released The Holy Coming of the Storm, a very impressive collection of what I assume are all original compositions.  The sound is sparse--- mostly acoustic guitar, mandolin and banjo--- but sparse is partially what the sound was always about--- a direct unamplified channel to the eardrum.  The vocals are spot on, the playing remarkable and the end result a coup, of sorts.  To hear it, you would think it really was the holy coming, storm or no.  A big, big thumbs up.

OLLABELLE.....

There aren't that many bands which I would drive miles for, but when Ollabelle  played the Alladin Theater in Portland, Oregon this past summer, I was there with bells on.  I had spent the previous couple of months diving into their new album Neon Bluebird as well as solo projects by band members Glenn Patscha (Songs From the Jefferson Highway) and Byron Isaacs (Disappearing Man).  The show was incredible (read my take here) and I walked away (well, I drove away, anyway) with a new respect for Ollabelle and their depth of talent.  While I am slowly backstepping through their catalogue, I return to Neon Bluebird again and again.  There is something about a band which can take traditional gospel, blues and even traditional pop music by a composer like Stephen Foster and make them all not only palatable but ear worthy.  Their originals?  Outstanding.

KEITH MORRIS & THE CROOKED NUMBERS.....

I'm glad I don't live in Charlottesville PA because I would go broke attending shows.  Pound for pound, that city has more quality musicians than anywhere outside of New Orleans and Texas.  Keith Morris is but one example, but an example of note.  He recently released a new album titled Love Wounds & Mars and dragged me back to the early seventies without dating himself (but like he always tells me, somebody has to).  He writes in a style which defies genre, which means that you pretty much have to label him rock if you want to get close.  He put together an outstanding band and they handle the songs with deft hand.  This is nothing like his first effort, Songs from Candyapolis, which has much more of a dramatic flair.  This is just straight on rock--- some harder, some softer--- which seeps into your skin after a number of listens.  Worth it for the background vocals on Bordertown alone. Right now, available from limited sources, but soon available worldwide.  Ask Keith.

ELEPHANTOM.....

I used to spend hours surfing through cdBaby in search of music, which is where I tracked these guys down.  They had an album available for free download (Swim Toward the Sun) and I bit.  There is so much potential in this band, I hardly know where to start.  Musician-wise they are solid, though they have a tendency to wander on Swim.  It is an adventurous and  worthy wander, though, and I have found myself sending emails occasionally to see what they have been up to.  The good news is that they are close to completing a new project.  If they continue in the direction set by Swim, it will be most welcome to my ears.  The music?  At times, it has a classical edge mixed with jazz and at others they dally around the stage (meaning theater-oriented tunes).  While they do not sound at all like Babe Ruth, their approach does remind me of that band on their second release, Amar Caballero, in that they are sometimes pushing envelopes to an extreme.  Stay tuned.  BTW, the link above is for their new website.  It looks like they need to tweak a few things, but it is still worth visiting.

PAUL CURRERI.....

While this is not about Curreri's new and excellent album, The Big Shitty, one of my top picks for this past year, it is about just how eclectic Curreri can be.  A little over a year ago, Paul sent me mp3s for a project he had been working on titled Greenhorns, V.1.  No notes, no nothing.  I listened and I enjoyed.  It was a strange mixture of jazz, new age and roots music  which I found intriguing but confusing.  Turns out that Greenhorns is a group put together by artists (musicians, painters, filmographers, photographers, etc) to support young farmers.  Maybe an attempt at taking the Green Movement up a notch?  I checked out their website and know as much now as I did before.  I don't have the time to delve into the real reasons behind the group, but the music I heard was evidently written for a film being produced by that group, more than likely to help support that group.  It bugs me that I don't have time to research it (I am really behind on my music projects), but it seems noteworthy.  I hope it is.  Paul put in some major time and effort producing the music. 

THE BIG MOTIF.....

I could have deleted The Big Motif from my mp3 player long ago, but I didn't.  I didn't because the two EPs they have released (The Daily Motion and Does It Weigh Heavy) are fantastic albums for what they do.  On the first, what they do is trip around bar music, giving their songs a heavy and jazzy edge not unlike that of Moby Grape about the time of Live Grape.  By the time they handed us Does It Weigh Heavy, they had morphed into a heavier three man band, guitar upfront with pounding rhythm section.  Not as heavy as Hendrix but as heavy as, say Bugs Henderson during his days with The Bugs Henderson Group.  It is an onslaught without the massacre.  I listen to these guys because I love the raw feel of the bars and of the better three man bands.  I listen to these guys because they are good.  From Colorado.  Must be the thin air.

The hardest part of being a writer and writing about something you really love is that you are allowed revisitations only occasionally.  In a way, the computer crashing set me back but in others, it allowed me to enjoy music I listen to all too occasionally.  These are but a few.  May the gods keep your computer safe and running, but may you have the experience I have just enjoyed.

DAVID BROMBERG, OLLABELLE Rock the Aladdin

Ollabelle: L-R  Isaacs, Patscha, McBain, Helm and Leone

Dateline: September 17, 2011.  Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea.  Up-and-comers Ollabelle road the coattails of guitar impresario David Bromberg into Portland, Oregon's Aladdin Theater last night and turned the town on its ear.  Rather than give the Bromberg constituents one and then the other, the two forces threw together a hurricane of musical force, close to three hours worth.  Like they would say in Variety, "Boffo!"  Or something to that effect.

So Walter Winchell might have announced the September 16th show at the Aladdin the next morning in his syndicated column, were he still with us.  It was "boffo".  It was even better than that.  It was a party.

But first, allow me to set the scene.  The Aladdin sits a door off of the busy traffic conduit of Powell Boulevard in Southeast Portland on SE Milwaukie, a two-lane trip into a mixture of past and present, the neighborhood a potpourri of hippie and blue collar with mere hints of money here and there.  At one time, Milwaukie was a somewhat main thoroughfare, a connection between Portland and the Gladstone/Oregon City area, but is now a small paved road connecting small communities, rural in the midst of city.  The Aladdin sits on the very edge of city as is evidenced by the volume of traffic on Powell, but all one must do is close the ears and face away from Powell to feel the pull of the past.

The theater readerboard lists David Bromberg because he is, indeed, the main draw, but Ollabelle follows.  A walk towards the ticket window presents multiple posters advertising musical acts, all upcoming--- Pat Metheny, UFO, Montrose, Basia.  The doors to the theater are plastered with Bromberg posters with one solitary and small Ollabelle poster to the right.  Washed in blue, they stand in a pose, very natural but very focused.  In another hour or so, I would see them strike similar poses--- sans Amy Helm who had other important duties to perform as wife and mother--- only with instruments in hand. 

The box office was doing brisk business handling ticket sales to Bromberg as well as future shows and taking care of will-call and the guest list.  The line was already long, curving from the window all the way past Classic Pianos, the store next door, housing a number of just that--- classic pianos.  A quick glance told me that the audience's mean age was probably fifty or so, hair colors mostly gray, men sporting long ponytails if not balding.  My people, I suppose, for my hair grayed long ago, and more social and gregarious  than myself, though not more anxious than I to see and hear the band and the music.

When they opened the doors, it was a rush to get in, which told me that either most had to use the facilities or it was open seating.  Turns out it was the latter, though I wondered because as I entered, there was already a lo-o-ong line at the counter where they were serving up Lagunitas and Mirror Pond ales along with a wide variety of wines, all by the glass--- erm, plastic cup.  Before long, the crowd, which had grown tremendously, was abuzz with activity.  Looking around, I saw that these were, indeed, mostly my people, ancient by today's standards, home-fed on vinyl but willing to switch formats at will.  Androids and iPhones lit up the theater, people checking messages or sending them, as attached to their lifelines as any fourteen year old kid.  The ones who eschewed the electronic attachment reverted to their old ways, talking loudly so as to be heard above the growing noise.  As anxious as most were for the party to begin, they had wine and ale and Bromberg in common and attached themselves each other.  I sat in the upper right corner of the theater, watching, knowing I had lost most of my social skills and hoping I would never have a need to use them again.

On the inside, the Aladdin is an old theater as much given to vaudeville as well as movies.  The deep stage would have been suitable for dancers and jugglers and any of the acts of that period and the wings were the wings of Hollywood through which actors would enter and exit, stage left, as it were.  The purple backdrop, lit sparsely, was a perfect backing for the equipment strewn in front--- Byron Isaacs' bass setup to the right (my right, their left) and just to the right of Tony Leone's drum set.  An amp to the left of the drums sat alone and then there was the keyboard setup of Glenn Patscha on the far left--- keyboards stacked and plugged into an amp, a guitar on a stand to Glenn's right (actually, his left).  That lone amp next to the drums I was to discover belonged to Fiona McBain, as did the microphone and stand placed directly in front.  There was a cozy feel and music made its way through the PA system, just loud enough to occasionally interfere with the gravelly beehive of noise in the crowd. 

When the lights went down, the sweaters and coats and flannel shirts (this is Portland, after all) took to their seats and the theater went totally black, the only lights courtesy of the exit signs and the Androids still percolating news from the outside world.  To its credit, the crowd hushed quickly and waited patiently.  A few moments later, a flashlight appeared and guided the bad members to their posts.  A few plunks and thuds later, it was "Ladies and Gentlemen, Ollabelle..." and the lights went up with the first notes of Chris Whitley's Dirt Floor, a combination of rock, country and gospel and a song from their new album, Neon Blue Bird.  The sharp, loud and muddy sound quickly gave way to balance as the vocals and instruments plowed their way through the mixing board on their way to the PA Speakers, Voice of the Theater-type boxes stacked high on both sides of the stage.  By the end of the second song, Byron Isaacs' Brotherly Love, the sound was down and the band was cooking with gas.

Brian Cullman, who has in the past worked with the band collectively and individually, had warned me.  These guys are really, really good, he had said, but live they are even better.  I needed no convincing.  As they worked their way through their all too short set list, I heard songs, original and otherwise, which almost defied genre (which many musicians and writers use as a holding cell for the term "Americana").  There are underlying patterns, of course, like folk and gospel and blues, but Ollabelle twisted them into configurations all their own.  Even Taj Mahal's Lovin' In My Baby's Eyes, arranged very similar to Taj's version, stood out.  The band worked their way through the set carefully, giving the audience time to adjust between songs.  Not all the songs were original, the aforementioned Mahal song an example, but even the least original, the traditional Down By the Riverside, came out clean and fresh.  You have to have something to pull off a song like that (unless you are backed by full gospel choir), and they have it.  They have a full range of voices (even without the superb voice of Amy Helm--- I can only imagine what it would have sounded like with her there) and an ability to arrange songs to sound new while retaining their structures.  And they can play!  Man, can they play!  Patscha is a monster on the keyboards and can play a mean guitar as well, drummer Tony Leone is  rhythm perfect on the drums and might probably be a bit more out front with his guitar if he wasn't surrounded by the talent within the band (he can sing, too).  Byron Isaacs makes me appreciate bass players even more than I have in the past, his playing seemingly effortless, though anyone who plays know that it is not.  And Fiona McBain?  Please forgive my dinosaur ways, but when I was growing up in music, women did not play the way they do today.  They strummed and, even then, mostly on acoustic guitars.  Well, McBain turned the acoustic into a musical instrument and when she plugged in the electric, my heart soared.  Not since seeing Devon Sproule work her magic on guitar on the handful of live videos I have seen via YouTube have I heard the crisp, emotion-laden riffs Boyd laid down behind the music.  She was high-heeled refreshment, and I was not the only one who thought so.  Us dinosaurs evidently think alike.

The audience gave Ollabelle a decent round of applause at the end of their set, probably lessened by the number of people needing to relieve themselves of or get even more drinks.  I laid back and accepted the respectful handclaps.  These were, after all, David Bromberg's people and he was who most were there to see, though one could hear from the crowd that Ollabelle had made some inroads.

When Bromberg finally made his appearance, much of the crowd was surprised to see Ollabelle there as well.  Bromberg had made his way onto the stage during that opening set, I have been remiss of saying, adding an extremely tasteful electric lead and bonus rhythm guitar to many of the band's songs.  This time, though, he was there for himself.

What can I say about my first time seeing Bromberg except that he is Attitude on the Hoof.  He grabbed the mic and took over and the crowd loved it, as did Ollabelle.  He blasted his way through songs from his new album as well as a handful of his old standards and was having a ball.  He was self-deprecatingly funny in a laugh out loud way and you could almost see him making his way on the standup comedy circuit, still with guitar in hand.  And he obviously loved playing.  He loved playing with Ollabelle, making the comment as the band left the stage in the middle of the set, making way for his acoustic songs--- "Great fucking band, huh?"  The crowd agreed.

Bromberg's set totaled almost two hours, most with band, and by the time the concert ended, the musicians and crowd were a bit worn.  They still wanted, and got, an encore, but Bromberg is no spring chicken (nor am I) and the theater pulled the plug.  The party was over and, unlike in the days of my youth, I was going home, eardrums intact.  No ringing, no throbbing head, just memories of a great night of music.

I waited around because I had promised to say hello to Patscha and Isaacs, for whose solo albums I had written reviews.  I chatted with Glenn for a bit before the phone rang and it was Isaacs, trying to find me.  We headed next door to The Lamp for a quick drink and chat, Leone and McBain making their way there a bit later.  They were both fried, having had little rest over the past thirty-two hours or so.  Obstacles had been strewn in their path as they made their way from East Coast to West--- dropping a child off at Grandma's, going to the wrong airport, missing their flight when they finally arrived at the correct one, etc.  They looked exhausted and I wondered how they could have made it through close to three hours of musical intensity without collapsing, but they did.

When their equipment had been loaded into the truck, we said our goodbyes.  I had a two hour drive myself and was feeling a bit jetlagged.  As I drove away, Dirt Floor was going through my head and it repeated itself until I found my way to the freeway, before which time I had pulled off the road and plugged my mp3 player into the car's sound system.  It was Neon Blue Bird, Patscha's Songs From the Jefferson Highway and Isaacs' Disappearing Man all the way home.  I made a mental note to pick up a Fiona McBain album.  And the rest of Ollabelle's albums.  I might end up homeless, but I will damn well have the best record collection of any homeless guy out there.  And, yes, I called them records.  They will always be that to me, regardless of format.