Catherine Wheel: Tree to Fruit, Apple to Seed

 

Good grief.  Has it really been almost two years since I've done a ticket post?  To think this was supposed to be the basis of this blog...

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Among the silliest cliches that music enthusiasts routinely drag out is the belief that one band or another "should have been bigger."

The irony of this statement is that more often than not, the artist in question has - for all intents and purposes - made it big already.  Maybe they didn't make it to superstar status.  But by the time that band's music reached your ears, they'd likely been signed to a decent major or independent label.  They'd probably toured and amassed a litany of road stories.  At one point or another they'd met, hung out with, or shared a stage with someone impressive. They'd definitely been interviewed, seen themselves on TV, and heard themselves on the radio. And at least one -- if not all -- of them at some point got laid when they didn't necessarily deserve to.

Still, even with all of that behind them, sometimes you feel like a certain band deserved to do a bit better.  For me, that band is Catherine Wheel.

If you recall, the late 90's were awash in a heck of a lot of terrible "indie" music.  The genre had its champions, for sure.  But for every Beck or Weezer or Breeders, you'd have to sort through ten or more Tonics or Better Than Ezras or Crackers...bands that all wrote catchy enough songs (I guess), but would have likely been interchangeably made into hair metal bands ten years earlier, grunge bands five years earlier, or garage bands five years later.

Amongst all of that underwhelming radio rock, its easy to forget the 90's bands that sacrificed a little more airplay for the benefit of more artistic approach to things.  Pavement (rightfully) is the poster child for this community, but I could make a case for Catherine Wheel being right there with them.

Catherine Wheel wasn't particularly avant garde.  Quite the opposite: they were a straight-ahead, melodic rock band.  But they also had an uncommon literary streak; their lyrics tended to be deeply introspective and intellectual, often melancholy, but never bound by the nerdiness or self-pity that so often defines bands working towards being "smart" or "sensitive". That ability alone makes them stand out among their peers.

I suspect that it was their frequent return to themes of passion, romance and yearning that kept Catherine Wheel relatable. So often, the band's soaring choruses (enhanced by singer Rob Dickinson's fantastic pipes) were abstract. But they also were often instantly familiar to me in a way that didn't need a lot of explanation.  Choruses to songs like "Heal" (It's how high you are/And the time it takes to heal"), or "Fripp" ("I need so much to sleep/You shine me on/Too much is not enough") were deeply evocative to me, without any need to be narrative.

This is only half the story, however.  Catherine Wheel also boasted a pretty excellent repertoire of straight-up pop songs.  To this day I can't help myself but to grin when my iPhone randomly digs up "Delicious", "Satellite", or "Show Me Mary". And I respect the band so much for their ability to put the intellectual stuff on the shelf once in a while for the sake of supporting a great hook.

There is always a flip side, however. And the flip side to Catherine Wheel is that their output could be dreadfully unsteady. A friend burned me a stack of their CD's one summer, and I vividly remember becoming less and less excited about the band as I delved deeper and deeper into their catalog.  In fact, Catherine Wheel sometimes came across self-indulgent and a bit lost within themselves.  Songs could meander.  Hooks could get lost or just go absent.  Their videos even suggest that Dickinson might have had something of a rock star complex. 

And that's all a shame, because each and every one of their albums offers about three excellent tracks for every clunker.

About this show.....

I went to this concert by myself, which wasn't uncommon in those days.  And what I recall most - for better or for worse -- was my shock in seeing that the concert was kind of a sausage-hang.

I certainly don't want to give anyone the impression that I went to shows back then solely to pick up girls, but let's just say that given the fact that Rob Dickinson is not only a blood relative to heavy metal royalty, but is also, well, totally adorable, I expected there to be a LOT more women there.  And there were not.

I recall that the band played "Fripp"...and I recall this because "Fripp" has something of a legend behind it among the band's biggest fans.  (I can't speak very much to what that legend is, but suffice it to say that several of their concerts were defined over the years by whether or not they played the track).

I also remember that at or near the end of the set, the band played my favorite track at that moment in time: the afore-mentioned "Heal".  During the quiet breakdown at the end of the song, I also recall that Dickinson turned away from the crowd and affixed a pulsating heart-shaped LED ornament on his chest.  It was a cute effect -- honestly, a touching moment to which my words can't quite do justice, no matter how many times I attempt to rewrite that sentence.

I leave you with a sampling of my favorite Catherine Wheel tracks. I intended to only use one, but got a little carried away as I remembered just how much I used to love this band.  I hope you enjoy.

Judy Staring at the Sun 



Fripp


 
Delicious



  
The Nude

 

Here Comes the Fat Controller

Thoughts on the Passing of Jeff Hanneman

By now it is quite old news that Jeff Hanneman passed away last week.  And even though I knew at the time that I should have written something, I have to admit that I was challenged to do so.

To get this out of the way, I've never really been a big Slayer fan.  It's not that there's anything wrong with them, but they just didn't move me the way they seem to move every other metal fan.  

I tired, though. I got me a few albums. I downloaded the Metal Requiem Podcasts about Slayer. I watched an eternity of YouTube videos. I even came to worship Dave Lombardo.

For years, I gave it a try.  It just didn't work.

(This, and the goddamed hipster fascination with Slayer is just so irritating that I don't even want to like them anymore....which is a terrible reason to stop trying, but whatever).

Then, this afternoon I came across Alex Skolnick's outstanding tribute to Hanneman on PremierGuitar.com. 

I happen to like Skolnick an awful lot.  Even if I'm not a fan of his band, I think the guy is smart as hell, and his tribute proves as much.

In fact, Skolnick effectively addresses the fact that Hanneman's style was possibly one of the primary obstacles to my having an appetite for the band. And then he gives a brief analysis of why I may have been wrong all this time:

"...his frenzied, turbulent solos were also an important part of the package. They weren’t about showing off. They served a greater artistic purpose—to sonically channel the qualities of Slayer’s lyrical content. They were sometimes abrasive, sometimes jarring, and at times disturbing. They had less in common with typical rock-guitar virtuosos than they did with the sonic collages of avant-garde improvisers such as Derek Bailey and John Zorn, the latter of whom is a self-professed Slayer fan who has cited the band as an inspiration."

This is probably the single greatest argument I've ever heard for reconsidering Slayer.  And, so, that's what I'm going to do.

Rest in peace, Jeff Hanneman.  


More good stuff below, courtesy of MetalInjection.com

Don't Mind Me Cause I Ain't Nothing But A Dream: RIP Richie Havens - 1941 - 2013

Richie Havens died this morning.  And he was the only goddamn hippie worth his salt. 

Period.

Sure, hippie culture has plenty of appeal.  Everyone likes sex.  Everyone likes pot. Everyone likes music and dancing and community.  And, no, it wouldn't kill you to recycle.

Plus, let's just get this out of the way: if you've had even one eye open for the past ten years, you should immediately be able to grasp the fundamental value of pacifist politics, and the needlessly tragic consequences of that worldview having been turned into a mean-spirited punchline.

On the other hand, as a kid who came of age during the apex of the military industrial complex, the AIDS epidemic, 80's excess and heavy metal radio, hippie culture seemed to have been utterly trampled by the time I was a teenager, conquered in so many ways by its antithesis.  It didn't seem like there was much to respect about it.

But I made an exception for Richie Havens.  Because no matter his politics or the topics about which he wrote, Havens simply didn't fit the mold of the hippie as far as I was concerned.

Havens wasn't in it for the free love, he wasn't in it for the grass, and he wasn't in it because he couldn't be bothered to get a job.  Richie Havens paid his dues.  He worked. He was a professional.

Havens wasn't a West Coaster. He was a Brooklynite who had spent years hanging out with beatnicks and folkies in Greenwich Village, long before hippie culture took hold. And everything about the way he approached his craft reflected that kind of ethic.

The man didn't sing the kind of ethereal melodies and harmonies with which hippie music is most often identified.  Havens sang like a man.  He roared.  When he did a ballad, he may have toned it down, but his gravelly baritone was always world-weary and utterly masculine.

None of that hippie shit.

That same quality extended to his guitar style, a hyper-percussive, hyper-aggressive strumming technique that always sounded like a vaguely Afro-Carrbean flamenco. And on top of that, his technique of barreing with his thumb continues to be one of the most outlandish things I've ever seen a guitar player do.

No 12 bar blues jams.  Play like a man, hippie.

Was he a leftie?  He sure was.  He sang war protest songs.  He sang about saving the environment. He sang about civil rights. But he backed all of that up with a commitment to activism that many of his generation just couldn't sustain.  In fact, he co-founded not one, but two non-profit organizations (including a children's museum) dedicated to educating children about the environment.

Richie Havens was authentic. He got his hands dirty.

And what better example could there be than his three-hour festival-opening set at Woodstock?  When the majority of the peace-and-love bands couldn't figure out the logistics to show up on time (and the others were too shy to kick things off), Havens stepped up and did it on his own.

When MTV launched a corporate sponsored rape-fest to commemorate Woodstock 25 years later, Havens bowed out and did his own festival.

I thought the guy was awesome.

When I was in college, I had the opportunity to see the man perform.  On a hot summer morning, he played a totally free, seven-song set on the Western concourse of  Union Station in Washington, D.C.  No more than about 30 people showed, yet every single person coming off the Metroliner took a very long stare at him as they walked past with their luggage and their attache cases, trying to place that voice.

I was in heaven.  I could not possibly have been standing more than fifteen feet away, watching the guy who opened the Woodstock festival play "Here Comes the Sun," "Freedom" and a handful of other songs that don't immediately come to mind. Afterwards I got to briefly meet him and shake his hand, and I remember being in disbelief at how a person could look so young and so old at the same time.  He was well-rested, well dressed and well coiffed, clearly in excellent health, but still with the deep lines around his eyes that betrayed a life on the road.

It turns out that his appearance at Union Station was part of a five-city railroad station music tour he'd been doing....which only sounded strange until I'd learned that he had penned Amtrack's current jingle (There's Something About a Train That's Magic...which you might know by its other title, "All Aboard America"). 

It also turns out that this had turned into a tidy side-business for Havens in his middle age.  He'd also recorded the Maxwell House jingle, as well as the absolutely elegant "Fabric of Our Lives" jingle for the cotton industry.  Because a guy's got to pay the bills.

God damn it.  I just cried listening to that.
 
As I try to wrap this up, I'm a little stunned at how saddened I am about Havens' passing. I've been pulling up song after song after song on YouTube, and I have to admit that I'm completely broken up. Just terribly sad.

The thing is, I listened to Havens an awful lot in college....in between bursts of all sorts of jazz and metal and classic rock, I retreated to Havens constantly. And it was never those intense, percussive songs I mentioned earlier.  It was always the ballads.

The fact is, I was incredibly lonely in college.  I wasn't necessarily sad all of the time; I had good friends and I had more than my share of insane fun.

But I felt chronically alone through those years, and the songs "Follow" and "The Dolphins" became a safe haven for me during that time.  

Through the circular hippie-drip of "Follow", every single time I heard Havens sing the lyric, "As I walk on through the garden/I am hoping I don’t miss you" I felt tremendous empathy for every lost, squandered, neglected or aborted connection I'd made  through those years -- often painfully aware that I was fumbling them in front of my eyes.

Then I'd flip the tape and put on "The Dolphins" and obsess over the lyric, "Sometimes I wonder if you ever think of me."

...which is terribly embarrassing. But it speaks to the person I was at that time: a kid who was kind of lost and kind of sad and kind of destructive...and totally, completely longing for a human touch more than he could bear for anyone else to know about.

And it speaks to why I'm so broken up tonight.

Rest in peace, Richie Havens.

Reviews in Bad Taste: Must-See Music Documentaries (non-metal version)

A great music documentary is a wonderful thing.  Because if you love music enough, you almost can't help but to have some desire to better connect with the people who create it. Call it voyeurism, call it artistic curiosity, call it being a fanboy.  In my case all of them are true.  Ultimately, it boils down to an appreciation for the passion, sacrifice, ego and drama that is associated with all forms of creation.

For years I have been an addict for music documentaries, and I thought it might be worth sharing a few of my favorites.  This list is by no means comprehensive.  Hell, I've forgotten more great music films than I can remember, and I have no doubt that within 20 minutes of hitting the "Publish" button, something obvious will come to mind.

Nonetheless, have a look, and let me know what I've forgotten.

(Note: metal version is to come).

24X5: The Continuing Adventures of the Rolling Stones
The Stones have released a gold mine's worth of great documentaries in the past 10 years, but this one is my personal favorite. Despite being released around a relatively blah chapter of their musical career, the Stones are captured at a mature and reflective moment in time, seemingly grateful to have their legacy intact after years of infighting.  Highlights include footage of both young and old Mick and Keith writing together, Charlie Watts conducting rare (and extensive) one-on-one interviews, and a massive amount of archival footage that had been unseen by even the biggest fans at the time of release.



David Bowie: Cracked Actor
Up front: there isn't much of a story arc here. And quite frankly, any insights into Bowie's art is completely obscured by the primary appeal of this film: the spectacular thrill of witnessing Bowie coked out of his fucking mind 24/7.  As such, there is a vitally important cautionary tale to this film: although nothing particularly shocking takes place, it does provide proof positive that even the most brilliant individuals turn to total fucking idiots when they do cocaine.

(Corollary: his vocal arrangements at this moment in time happened to be absolutely fantastic and completely inspired. Damn you, cocaine).



The Pixies: Loud Quiet Loud 
The term "indie music" doesn't really mean what it used to (if the term even exists anymore), which is why its so important to recognize the infighting and drama the Pixies slogged through on their way to pioneering the genre.  Shown through the eyes of an older, fatter, more mature band, this surprisingly subtle documentary finds all bandmates seemingly resigned to their legacy.  To that end, this is less a story of overcoming dysfunction as much as it is a story of coping with it; in fact, there are no fights or arguments anywhere in this film, yet the tension is always present in the form of uncomfortable silences, deep sighs and rolled eyes.

Stay tuned til the very last second to see Kim Deal soldier through a truly hysterical and cringe-worthy life-on-the-road moment.



 
End Of the Century: The Story of the Ramones 
Shot during the short years between the deaths of Joey, Johnny and Dee Dee Ramone, this film is heartbreakingly charming, funny, sweet and tragic.  Seemingly unappreciative of their status as punk rock icons, the members of the Ramones face the ends of their lives nearly overwhelmed with a sense of own failure to be commercially successful. Moreover, each member of the band is up-front about the unfortunate state of the personal relationships between them, culminating in the revelation of one very closely-guarded (and incredibly sad) band secret.



I Am Trying to Break Your Heart: A Film About Wilco
Often slow and occassionaly downright boring, the story of how Yankee Hotel Foxtrot came to be is worth watching less for all of the creative angst and more as a proof point that record companies are staffed by complete idiots.



Standing in the Shadows of Motown
Despite the well-intentioned (but clumsy) use of a live Funk Brother's concert performance as the unifying thread of the film, this documentary provides an essential reminder that Motown is an absolutely vital part of America's musical and cultural history.  

Documenting that, of course, is the easy part.  Stringing together a compelling film about the house band that made all of that music is a taller order. 

Nonetheless, I promise you that there will not be a dry eye in the house as Bob Babbitt describes being smuggled out of Hitsville USA as race riots ignited Detroit.


 
DiG!
Quite simply, this is my favorite music documentary of all time.  And the vision behind it is absolutely mind-blowing.  

Chronicling the early years of "rival" Pacific Northwest bands, the Dandy Warhols and the Brian Jonestown Massacre, DiG! captures the triumphs and the miseries as one band breaks big and another simultaneously implodes.  

Between the fist fights, the melt-downs, the drugs and the emotional abuse, one still has to wonder how filmmaker Ondi Timoner knew that the reels and reels of footage would ever deliver a payoff for either band. 

MUST. SEE.



Some Kind of Monster
Wait?  Didn't I say that metal documentaries will be featured in a future blog post?  

I sure did.  I'm including this one here because, quite frankly, this film has nothing to do with metal.  

It has everything to do, however, with rock stars having mid-life crises.  And that - together with hearing Lars Ulrich shout "FAUUUUUUUUUK" every five minutes - makes it a totally worthwhile watch.

(Truthfully, I'm conflicted about this film because it captures such a powerful band at such a helpless point. Yet, that is precisely what makes it great).
 


New York Doll
So very much like the Ramones, the story of the New York Dolls has always been one of "could've, should've, didn't."  Yet, with David Johansen's relative success as a solo musician/personality, it is easy to forget how absolutely trampled the rest of the band became after the Dolls broke up.

Oh, everyone knows about the demises of Johnny Thunders and Jerry Nolan.  And if you scanned TimeOut NY enough over the years, you could always find Syl Sylvain playing the odd, sad gig somewhere on the Lower East Side.

But no one ever thought to look for Arthur Kane.  When director, Greg Whiteley, finally did, he found a timid, middle-aged man living an impoverished life surrendered to God. Sober, but broken; spiritual, but not at peace; Kane comes across as a borderline bitter figure, fixated on the ludicrous fantasy of his old band reuniting.

But we all know that sometimes dreams do come true. 

Another sure-fire tear-jerker for yours' truly.




 
Your turn.  What did I forget?

You Can't Escape the Master Keeper: Remembering Randy Rhoads

Last week marked the 31st anniversary of Randy Rhoads' death. I've always liked Rhoads' work an awful lot, so I thought it might be worth discussing the man.

There are a lot of reasons to consider Rhoads' death tragic.  First and foremost, he was young, and between his time in Quiet Riot and being in Ozzy's band, he was kind of on top of the world at the tender young age of 25.

Moreover, while his death was needless (downright foolish, in fact), it wasn't the kind of rock and roll cliche that we all know so well.  No overdose.  No choking on vomit.  No suicide.  He simply put his life in the hands of someone who wasn't very responsible.  (Perhaps that is a rock and roll cliche, actually).

And then there's the issue of his wasted talent.

Whenever a noteworthy musician dies in his prime, the phenomenon of "iconic sympathy" takes place: overwhelmed by the loss of the artist, the masses drastically inflate the talent and legacy of that individual.

It happened to Dimebag.  It happened to Sid Viscous. It happened to Jim Morrison, Keith Moon and Biggie Smalls. It even happened to greats like Tupac, Hendrix and Cobain.  

(There are exceptions. Say what you want about Michael Jackson, Miles Davis or even John Bonham, but I'm not really sure you could overstate their talents by all that much.  Probably should throw John Lennon in there, even if I don't particularly want to).

And, of course, it happened to Rhoads.

It has, in fact, become somewhat fashionable to group Rhoads in with the many also-rans in the post-Van Halen era. As you may recall, from 1980 until that goddamned "More Than Words" song came out, it seemed like the metal media was fully obsessed with crowning a "new Eddie Van Halen" every six-to-nine months. All of these guys were talented, and they each brought something new to the table. But few of them have much of a legacy today outside of hard core guitar nerds.

To that end, one must remember just how early Rhoads was on the scene.  He did all of his recording with Ozzy (including the concerts for the stellar Tribute album) between 1980 and 1981.  And while this puts him well behind Mr. Van Halen, it puts him far, far ahead of the likes of George Lynch (Dokken's debut didn't come out until 81), Yngwie Malmstein or Warren DiMartini (neither Steeler, Alcatraz nor Ratt would have a record out until 1983), or Nuno Bettencourt (who was probably about 12 at the time).

Moreover, it was the posthumous Tribute album that truly catapulted Rhoads into "dead superstar" status.  Released in 1987, however, it hit the streets at a moment when Los Angeles was awash in wiz kids whose musical ability rarely exceeded the wheedeley-wheedeley phase.

The point is that by an odd twist of circumstance, Rhoads is more often seen as a follow-along 80's slasher, when he in fact was one of the early architects of 80's metal guitar.  An endless stream of guitar players would emulate his ability to incorporate classical technique into hard rock and heavy metal solos, but few ever pulled it off without formulaic cop-out hammer-ons or total pretentiousness.

For me, however, that's only half the story.

I believe that the genius of Rhoads was his ability to play multiple guitar parts nearly simultaneously.  This capability might easily be compared to Robert Johnson's famed technique of alternately plucking rhythm and playing slide leads, but a more apt comparison might be towards Nina Simone's piano method.  

If you haven't heard Simone, she was a phenomenal (and phenomenally tortured artist). While she's largely known as a vocalist, she was actually -- like Rhoads -- a classically trained musician, and possibly a virtuoso on her given instrument (the piano).  Much of the beauty of her technique was to play her chords all around the beat -- which is totally normal for jazz piano.  What is more spectacular, however, was her method of dropping in melodic flourishes all over her songs -- sometimes short, sometimes long, sometimes complex, often simple, but always rooted on the beat.

And THAT reminds me exactly of how Rhoads approached his guitar, especially on his live performances. Naturally, ALL the parts were on the beat (no rock and roll worth listening to strays far from it), but the flourishes have that same nature -- seemingly lost, quickly bordering on chaotic, only to land exactly where they need to be.

(I admit, the comparison is kind of  self-serving and ridiculous, but I like it.)

Anyway, by and large, Rhoads has a much larger chance of being the victim of an overstated legacy than the other way around. But mindful of the backlash, I still wanted to offer that defense.

In the meantime, enjoy some of my favorite performances of his.

Suicide Solution    



 
Check out the second verse, specifically. 

I Don't Know

Remember: 1981

Dee (outtakes)


Practice makes perfect.

The Hurt That I Feel For My Love Second Hand (...what?!?)

Since I already shared with you the greatest Iron Maiden video ever made, I thought it might be interesting to contrast this with the worst Black Sabbath video ever made.

And possibly the worst video ever made.  And definitely the worst Sabbath song ever recorded.


I've got nothing but love for Iommi. But no one gets a free pass.  This is just plain awful.

Ye Gods.  It's gonna take about an hour of At the Gates to get that chorus out of my head.

The bugle sounds, the charge begins

It's been a while since I've posted, largely because I've been working so much (and totally falling back in love with Iron Maiden).

And with that, I leave you with the greatest metal video ever made.  Fucking period.