Danny Alexander writes:

Rarely have I felt such a strong call to write about a band.  Even more rarely have I found it so hard to respond.

When The Low Anthem played one of Kansas City’s most popular night spots at the end of August, Kansas City Star critic Tim Finn wrote, “the crowd of about 100, give or take a dozen (the place was about half-full), deserves some rowdy applause for not making much noise during the band’s 75-minute set (give or take a few minutes). During one song, it was so quiet you could hear an ice cube drop into a bourbon glass.”

Of course, the band made that space.  Beginning the set with a dedication to hometown legend Charlie Parker, the three core members—lead singer, Ben Knox Miller and fellow multi-instrumentalists Jocie Adams and Jeff Prystowsky—started the show in a trash fire circle, singing into one microphone, the arresting séance of a song, “Ghost Woman Blues.”  That was followed by the even quieter “Matter of Time,” both newer songs, off the band’s 2011 album, Smart Flesh, not off of the breakthrough album Oh My God, Charlie Darwin.  When they did turn to Charlie Darwin, on the third song, “To the Ghosts Who Write History Books,” band members also started in a very quiet place, with Jocie Adams’ clarinet searching above Prystowsky’s bowed bass.  Again, a talk with the dead and a talk about talking secured the quiet that made the show work.

And quiet is crucial to what the show and the Low Anthem are about.  As with Smart Flesh–wherein the sounds of the Providence, Rhode Island pasta factory where most of it was recorded become a part of the texture of the work, where Jocie Adams’s breaths on her three clarinet meditation, “Wire,” seem as much a part of the music as the clarinets themselves—the sounds of performance are as much a part of the music as any written notes.  In the Kansas City show, as the band took a kaleidoscope of different formations, including the sometimes addition of fourth member Mike Irwin, the quick change became a part of the show.  Most vivid of a number of such scrambles was Jocie Adams trying to free her antique cymbals from organ cords and any number of other instruments.  Like Japanese theater, foregrounding the artifice created an ability to move unusual places, such as that moment when front man Ben Knox Miller could actually play with the feedback between two cell phones (on the song “This Goddamned House”) and achieve a meditation on lost connections guaranteed to bring a tear to the eye.

Let me count the ways it shouldn’t work.  The Low Anthem is not just a bunch of college kids, but Brown University kids, playing two or three instruments at a time, singing a cross section of Americana in plaintive, reverential tones.  Even writing that description feels interminable.

But the show was just the opposite.  If anything, it was all over too soon.  The Low Anthem created an experience as captivating as close talk with a lover.  With songs hitting on everything from the fall of the Twin Towers to the psychic toll of mindless labor and the hostility of a world with no inherent meaning, the pillow talk never ceases to resonate and resonate deeply. 

What more than redeems the Low Anthem generally, and was certainly evident in this show, is a core belief in the human spirit not quite obscured by the landscape of despair.  It’s there in the way the band trusts the audience as a participant in the drama, and it’s there in every intonation of Smart Flesh.  While gravity pulls planes and towers and hippies and prophets to the ground, the Low Anthem sings of birds nesting beneath Gatling guns and high wire trips to heaven.  Though “Smart Flesh,” the title cut, offers a litany of limits and describes the world as a machine that alienates and even kills the soul, that soul nevertheless “loves itself wildly.”  In “Golden Cattle,” the trio of singers ask together, “As the blind walk the blind through the blackness of freedom/Who writes the songs that we all will be singing?”

Maybe it’s best that the band doesn’t offer anything that looks like an answer.  From stage to record, the call seems clear.  This music is an experiment in learning how to hear each other.  The answers that would most interest the Low Anthem no doubt lurk around the band in the darkness, in a silence made up of listeners. 

In keeping with that notion, after that KC show was over, the band indeed talked to the crowd. My last images of the band are Adams talking to another woman at the bar while Prystowsky and Miller sit on the lip of a window beneath a group of fans on the porch.  They both have grins on their faces, soaking up the moments.  Miller’s head is cocked, the way one does when he’s trying hard to hear.

David Cantwell writes:

The passing this week of Charlie Louvin reminded me of this piece I’d written some years ago (for the Miami New Times and its editor John Floyd), when the classic albums of Charlie and his late brother Ira, the Louvin Brothers, were just being issued for the first time on compact disc, when Charlie himself was making something of a comeback, and when the ironic v. the earnest was a current debate in alternative country circles. So here it is, edited slightly though probably not enough.

Not Kidding Around: The Tragic Songs of the Louvin Brothers

The Louvin Brothers were country music’s best-ever brother team, and when they titled their greatest album Tragic Songs Of Life, they weren’t kidding around. Over the course of that record, a woman rambles “this wide world all over,” leaving her abandoned lover to contemplate suicide; a man, rich beyond his dreams, sits alone in a mansion, longing for the wife and family he has never known; another man beats his girlfriend with a stick until the ground flows with her blood; still another man “shivers when the cold wind blows,” just thinking about the lover who is “on that train and gone.” Ira and Charlie sang each of these songs in tenor harmonies so perfect that all the usual descriptions–yearning, aching, high and lonesome–are rendered insufficient. If you said these harmonies were the closest anyone has ever come to actually simulating the pain of human loss and desire right there in the recording studio, you would probably be right. But you still wouldn’t be doing them justice.

Contemporary sensibilities struggle to make sense of such straightforward songs, especially ones sung so earnestly. To the generations born since the Louvins recorded–those among the Baby Boomers who mistook Dylan’s significance to mean that great art is obscure; the Gen Xers who slip into ironic detachment as easily as they breathe–these songs sound quaint, silly, corny. They are appreciated as kitsch, if at all, and dismissed as sentimental. The Louvins would have called them sentimental too, of course, but they wouldn’t have meant “mawkish” or “excessively romantic.” They would just have meant “full of deep feeling” or, more to the point, “true.” The Louvins knew that such songs simply recount the very stories that get told over and over, everyday, in people’s real lives. Broken hearts, loneliness, senseless death, losses of innumerable variety will forever be among the things that pull human emotions most passionately. Fittingly, the Louvins sang with an intense emotionalism that mirrored the way people actually experience such events. They called their album Tragic Songs Of Life, but simply Songs Of Life would have done as well.

It’s heartening then, if a bit surprising, that something of a Louvin Brothers renaissance appears to building. Last year, Razor & Tie released When I Stop Dreaming, a swell secular-heavy, one-disc history of the group, and this year, in addition to Tragic Songs Of Life, Capitol Nashville has reissued two more Louvin long players: 1959’s gospel classic Satan Is Real and 1960’s A Tribute To The Delmore Brothers. Now, Razor & Tie and Capitol plan to team up next fall to reissue another of the duo’s albums, Country Christmas from 1961, and Charlie Louvin has just released The Longest Train , his first solo album in seven years.

The Louvins were born Ira and Charlie Loudermilk in 1924 and 1927, respectively, in the Sand Mountain region of northern Alabama, just as the tragedy of the Great Depression was gearing up and just as country music’s great tradition of brother duets was reaching its commercial and artistic zenith. At church, Charlie and Ira sang and worshipped among tiny Pentecostal congregations filled with the laying on of hands and speaking in tongues, and at home, they huddled around the family radio, soaking up their favorite duets: the sweet, close harmonies of Bill and Earl Bolick (better known as the Blue Sky Boys), the high-and-lonesome harmonies of Charlie and Bill Monroe and, most of all, the smooth harmonies and boogie songs of Alton and Rabon Delmore (themselves Sand Mountain natives). Following in the tradition of their heroes, the Loudermilk boys taught themselves to pick and harmonize–Ira on mandolin and high-as-heaven tenor, Charlie on guitar and a tenor more down to earth–but it wasn’t until one day in 1940, when they had their doors blown off on the highway by Roy Acuff’s touring car, that they vowed to make music their life’s work.

Success was a long time coming. The brothers moved around a lot, performing here and there and finding usually brief jobs on radio stations all over the southland. They adopted Louvin as a stage name (for some reason, they thought it’d be easier to pronounce than Loudermilk). They recorded a handful of sides for a few labels without much notice, and they even broke up once when Charlie joined the army in 1945. Mainly, they just kept singing those tragic songs in those close, gorgeous harmonies, getting better at it every year and slowly developing a reputation as great singers, and gifted writers, especially when it came to gospel material. You can’t eat a reputation, though, and they were all but busted when Capitol producer Ken Nelson championed their cause, encouraging the Grand Ol’ Opry to hire them and, eventually, Capitol to let them record.

Their first real popularity was with their version of old-time southern gospel. Louvin compositions such as “Broadminded” (“That word ‘broadminded’ is spelled S-I-N”) and the minor-hit title track of their 1952 debut album, The Family Who Prays (with electric guitar courtesy of Chet Atkins), established the duo as successful sacred performers in the fervent Sand Mountain tradition. Their unique brand of reverent yet often judgmental gospel was all they recorded until they were able to persuade Nelson to let them cut one of their own secular songs, “When I Stop Dreaming,” a Top 10 country hit in 1955. Other hits quickly followed, making the brothers one of the most loved acts of their day. The best of these secular country hits was probably “I Don’t Believe You’ve Met My Baby,” a song so painfully paranoid and anxious (the narrator is scared because he has dreamed his baby has a new love) that it makes Roy Orbison look like the Dali Lama.

But Tragic Songs Of Life, originally released in 1956, remains their greatest achievement. “Alabama” and “Kentucky” (and the brilliant electric picking of Paul Yandell) are bursting with love and home and human connection, the very things that will make the grim losses of the remaining cuts feel so tragic. The album practically drips with death, as well as other less viscous losses. The album features the definitive versions of several traditional tunes that have now become country and bluegrass standards, most notably “In The Pines” and the horrifying, guilt-ridden first-person murder ballad “Knoxville Girl” (covered this year by both BR5-49 and The Lemonheads). Even in the pair’s secular recordings, God’s judgment seems to loom as a terrifying end.

So it’s no surprise that the brothers never completely abandoned the sacred.  Another new reissue, Satan Is Real from 1959, is nearly as strong as Tragic, and is filled with the spirit while also not being quite so harsh as much of their earlier gospel. The joyous testifying on “There’s A Higher Power” and “The River Of Jordan” are joyous duet examples of the jubilant southern gospel tradition that, today, is fading away. The album’s famous cover–the brothers in white Sunday suits, hands outstretched, Charlie smiling and Ira looking more racked, both standing in front of a 12 foot plywood Satan and a fiery, rocky hell that Ira made himself–is a tableau that might be viewed as camp today. One listen, however, to the peace in the Louvins’ harmonies on the nearly-Transcendental  “He Can Be Found” or the tremendous relief  in their  “Satan’s Jeweled Crown,” reminds us that these boys weren’t kidding around. Whether you take the sermon that Ira, a frustrated preacher, delivers on the title track (“It’s sweet to know that God is real…But Satan is real, too, and Hell is a real place”) to be literal, as he certainly intended, or to be a metaphor for human hubris and its resultant tragedies, you still know he meant every sanctified syllable.

The brothers knew that sense of tragedy well, especially Ira. Tired of Ira’s frequent fits of alcoholic fury (which over the years had routinely cost them gigs, pushed him to try to strangle Elvis, and resulted in many smashed bones and mandolins, as well as the three bullets his third wife put in his back), Charlie left his older brother in an ugly 1963 split. He went on to have a successful if unspectacular solo career throughout the 60s, as well as a few hit duets with Melba Montgomery in the early 70s. But Ira, along with his fourth wife, died in a Missouri auto accident in 1965, a tragically predictable end for a man who’d spent his life torn between the Word and the bottle.

Sadly, stories like Ira and Charlie Louvin’s are played out every day. During their too brief career, the Louvins sang about those tragic stories, as intensely, passionately, desperately as people feel them, all the while searching for peace. More than anything else, it’s that universal quest for harmony in a disharmonious world that shone through when the Louvin Brothers joined their voices in song. If we want to know the full worth of their art, we have to fight past the reflexive post-modern desire to roll our eyes and hear fervency as some big joke, and instead we have to listen as earnestly as they sang. We have to remember that, like each of us at the end of the day, the Louvin Brothers were not kidding around.

Doris Saltkill writes:

What with the depression-era-tinged, hillbilly-roots of my parents and all, it’s really no surprise that I’m predisposed to behaviors toggling between collecting and hording, and I have a deep-running affection for The Andy Griffith Show.

During one of my last city-livin’ cleaning sprees, I vowed that less was more and tossed several shoeboxes of old cassette tapes in the garbage. There was one, however, that I couldn’t bring myself to part with. It’s been laying, half buried amongst discounted picture frames and art supplies, on my drawing table now for going on 6 months.

It’s a Maxell XLII 90. I am positive that it was dubbed on a cheap, maroon, off-brand boom box with tape-to-tape capabilities in the upstairs apartment at 1344 New Jersey in Lawrence, KS. The handwritten labels read “A: Homestead Grays/Mahoots” and “B: R.D.S.” Even before Napster, artists weren’t getting their due as college kids bought tapes from the merch table and circulated amongst friends.

*****

A few weeks ago upon arriving home from work, my beloved said he had a surprise for me and laid two jewel boxes (thick ones, like you get at retail) in my hands. Weary from a day of working for the Man and struggling with my middle-aged need for reading glasses, I tried to make out the artist’s name from the dark artworks of the covers as I ascended the stairs. “Is it John Doe?” I asked, wishing I had longer arms.

Two more steps delivered the light from the landing to my aid. “Oh My God! It’s Ricky Dean!”

*****

Many, many a late night drenched in beer and dance sweat was spent at the Jazzhaus or Bottleneck with Ricky Dean Sinatra in the late 80s.

Nothing was more fun than a Ricky Dean Sinatra show. I was reminded of this when I finally managed to get that old cassette into a tape deck. Twenty years ago, I had written the first track title down as “RDS ’88.” While I may have taken some liberties with the title, it was the band’s theme song which opened things up:

Elvis had a theme song, too, but his didn’t have lyrics.

Born to be a front man, Alan Murphy, aka Ricky Dean, never disappointed. A dancing dervish channeling Jed Clampett, always clad in thrift-store black, and sporting something approaching a mop-top…how could he be anything less than entertaining? After the band had torn through a few songs, the Dean, inevitably, would step to the stage’s front, raise up his regular (a Greyhound) and declare it time for a “power burst.”

The twangly, hollow-body guitar sounds of Dewey Mantini, aka Mark Roseberry, would be the likely segue back to the music. Dewey and the Dean are the heart, soul and sonic footprint of the band. Frequent co-writers, they are the genius behind oh-so-many playful lyrical rhymes (“She doesn’t wanna be Ricky Dean’s girl/ She doesn’t wanna be in that social whirl,” “I’ve had every ailment know to man/from the African mumps to the dishpan hands,” “A Mexican spitfire and a baked potato/Little [sister] Susie is a hot tomato”) and B-movie song titles (“Baby Doll,” “Wild Wild Wild,” “Go, Cheri, Go,” “Zombie School,” “Ghost of Elmo’s Car”).

*****

Recently released by Intelligent Design Records, Galaxy of Love delivers 21 re-mastered tracks of original material from Lawrence Band, Ricky Dean Sinatra.

According to archivist and sound engineer Barry Lee, details like exact dates and players per track on the disc are hazy, but in general, the songs come from three sessions. The majority of the disc is culled from the last of the three and clearly documents a good part of the RDS canon (“Head in the Wind” which was anthemic live, “Ricky Dean’s Girl,” “Tequilla Binge,” “Opie and Me” which was co-written with Chuck Mead and a version of which was included on the first BR5-49 ep). The collection is worth a listen for any roots rock fan, and I’m predicting you’ll be hooked by the rockin’ opener, “Wild Wild Wild.”

Whereas my old, pirated cassette is a live ruckus of a recording, the songs on Galaxy have richer arrangements and many have the keyboards of Jon Harrison (who can forget Big Dennis?!).

Rumor has it that there are a number of Ricky Dean Sinatra shows on the books in July and August in Lawrence and KC. For the uninitiated, it’s a great chance to join the Church of the Dean. For throw backs like me, it’s the only way you’ll get to hear “Little Latin Lupe Lu” since Galaxy has no covers.

*****

I was lucky enough to receive Galaxy along with a disc of extras that didn’t make the final collection. (Presently there is no plan for a second volume from Intelligent Design.) On the first Friday night that I had them, I took my husband on a history tour sitting in our car in the driveway. I thought it was good payback for bringing Ricky Dean back in my life.

I cannot recall the last time I was so touched by music. I won’t be letting Ricky Dean Sinatra sit on the shelf for a 20 years this go ‘round.

Galaxy of Love is available at Kief’s and at Love Garden in Lawrence and at the Westport Streetside in Kansas City.

David Cantwell writes:

Johnny Cash would have turned 78 last week, an anniversary that was marked, inevitably, by the release of a new Johnny Cash album. In The New Yorker, critic Ben Greenman wrote a brief review of the album that I thought was mostly on target but also a bit wide of the mark.

Greenman begins by praising the album, saying that “You couldn’t ask for a more dignified farewell.” Then:

“You could, however, ask for a more accurate one. This volume is a stark reminder of how the Rubin years have shifted our sense of Cash, and not for the better. Rubin’s Cash has become an indelible character, an aged seer given to stark pronouncements on faith, love, and mortality. But he is also a poor representative of all the other Johnny Cashes—the one who drove the Tennessee Two through the boom-chicka-boom Sun singles, the historian of American song, the sometimes goofy “Old Golden Throat,” the prison activist, the Man in Black, the Highwayman.”

“It’s that versatility that’s lost here,” Greenman continues. “[I]f the first few records in the series were more varied, later ones find Cash narrowed if not quite flattened. Accepting Rubin’s version of the man is like reducing Picasso to lickerish drawings of Jacqueline or Eliot to “Four Quartets.” Cash may now seem like a John Wayne figure, but he was closer in spirit to Robert Mitchum, always restless and always changing, and here each stark, lovely cover (Sheryl Crow’s “Redemption Day,” Tom Paxton’s “Can’t Help But Wonder Where I’m Bound”) begs for a “Dirty Old Egg-Sucking Dog” or “Put the Sugar to Bed.” Cash could always do solemnity, but he could also do comedy, character sketches, and cornpone philosophy. And he could do it in his own write: the Rubin reboot frames Cash primarily as an interpreter, but he was also a prolific songwriter. Here, the sole Cash original, “I Corinthians 15:55,” a gentle piece rooted in Scripture (“O, Death, where is thy sting?”), hits the same valedictory note as the rest of the collection. Rubin shouldn’t be blamed for leaving us with this Cash. But he shouldn’t be allowed to run away with the thing, either. Cash’s American period should go down in history as a triumph of record making and a cautionary tale about remaking image.”

I’ve been stressing a similar point to people since the release of Cash’s first Rubin-produced album in 1994. If you believe anything akin to Cash’s artistic essence can be distilled down to the psychic distress of “The Beast in Me,” or if you think Cash is cool only because he sometimes sings murder ballads like “Delia’s Gone,” then you are missing the whole man by quite a margin. You’d find it informative, perhaps even rewarding, to familiarize yourself with the life’s work of this particular country legend. There’s a great deal more to him than the dark and tortured icon of the Rubin-years.

So it is important to remember that the Cash presented to us on the six American albums is incomplete. But it is quite another thing to suggest that “Rubin’s Cash” is not only incomplete but somehow inaccurate. I’ve been sensing this overcorrection for a while now. The conventional wisdom with the Rubin records has shifted from a necessary caveat—careful; there’s more to Cash than this Cash—toward a denunciation—This Cash is not really Cash.

It really is. Cash sang darkly of life’s dark side throughout his career. The American albums are an incomplete picture of Cash, that’s true. Cash was all sorts of things. He was a brutal realist and a hopeless romantic. He was a drug addict, a lover of Americana, and a songwriter’s friend. He was a Bible scholar and a history buff, a political activist and a hyper-patriot. He was, famously, a husband and father (and, also famously, a father-in-law). He was cutting edge and traditional. Sometimes he was John Wayne and other times, as Greenman notes, he was a Robert Mitchum type. And also, I’d add, Billy Graham and Will Rogers and Jerry Lewis (seriously) and…you get the idea.

The albums Johnny Cash made with Rick Rubin are “a poor representative,” as Greenman writes, “of all those other Johnny Cashes,” but they are hardly an inaccurate representation of the particular Cash they present.

American VI is a beautiful album from its opening, chain-rattling title track (which is not so much defiant in the face of death as it is accepting; no grave can hold a man whose soul is bound for heaven) to the Cash original “1 Corinthians 15:55″ (the American sessions have consistently underscored the importance of country gospel music to CAsh) to its sweet Hawaiian farewell, “Aloha Oe.” It is a beautiful album and, yes, an album that doesn’t begin to encompass the variety of Cash’s catalogue. But which Cash album has done that? Johnny 99? Everybody Loves a Nut? The Fabulous Johnny Cash? That’s asking a lot from an album.

Bruce Springsteen’s stark and solemn Nebraska misses its Springsteenian “Ramrod” rave-up and soaring sax solo, but this is only a problem if we expect every Springsteen album to do every Springsteen thing. The potential pitfall, rather, as I’ve seen it, with Cash’s final, Rubin-esque recordings is not their necessarily partial presentation of a great artist but the tendency of some members of his audience, especially many young and new members who don’t know any better (but are wrong just the same), to mistake these concluding pieces for the whole. The American Recordings, even when taken together, explore incompletely Cash’s many sides. But we could as correctly note that Cash’s Americana series from his early Columbia years—1959’s Songs of the Soil, 1960’s Ride This Train, 1963’s Blood Sweat and Tears, 1964’s Bitter Tears (1963, Greenman says here that it’s being reissued. Yeah!), and 1965’s Ballads of the True West—are equally limited in their Cashian range, and in their arrangement choices. Ditto for Cash’s several gospel albums, and for his pair of live prison-centric prison albums. All individual art works are limited in this sense.

And even if you don’t buy want I’m selling above, there’s still the issue of responsibility. “Rubin’s Cash,” “Rubin’s version of the man,” “Rubin shouldn’t be blamed for leaving us with this Cash. But he shouldn’t be allowed to run away with the thing, either.” These sorts of phrases, representative of so many other recent reviews, seem to believe that Cash didn’t do this work; he had this work done to him. But if we’re going to beef that the American Recordings are inadequate as life summary, as of course they must be, Cash deserves at least as much of the blame as his producer. Personally, I think Rubin and Cash both deserve not blame but praise. The American coda saved Cash from obscurity, after all, and without it, I’m not sure we’d have gotten all these Cash reissues, Cash posthumous releases, Cash tributes, Cash books and films. Without it, I’m not sure nearly so many people today would even care about all of those other Cashes.

Charles Hughes writes:

Recently, Jay Sean’s “Down” (feat. Lil Wayne) knocked the Black-Eyed Peas’ “I Gotta Feeling” from the top slot on the Billboard Hot 100, after it had spent 14 weeks at #1.  “I Gotta Feeling” itself replaced “Boom Boom Pow,” also by the Black-Eyed Peas, which was the number-one single for 12 weeks.  All told, then, the Peas spent 26 straight weeks atop the Hot 100, a record-setting feat that further cemented the prominence of the quartet—Will.I.Am., Fergie, apl.de.ap and Taboo—in the ever-splintering world of American popular music.   The album from which these two singles emerged, The E.N.D. (The Energy Never Dies), also debuted at #1, and quickly went platinum.

What might be lost in this steamroller of success is that The E.N.D. is surprisingly ambitious, blending hip-hop, electro and pop rhythms into a symphony of digitally-constructed tracks.  Across this layered soundscape, the Black-Eyed Peas stretch a thematic tendon, unifying many of the album’s disparate tracks together under a general motif of futurism.  More specifically, the group suggests that facing the future, particularly at a moment of obvious transition, requires a process of both destruction and reinvention. Even the album’s title, explained in an introduction at the beginning by an electronically-distorted voice, illustrates this duality, noting both the closing of one chapter and the continuation of a stronger, longer “energy” which lives on through any moment of rupture.  Fittingly, I suppose, the group presents themselves as on the vanguard in this transition, particularly as it relates to music.  In a line from the suitably explosive “Boom Boom Pow,” which follows the spoken introduction and serves as the album’s sonic and lyrical manifesto, they declare that they’re here to rock “digital spit/Next-level visual shit” even as their competitors are “stuck on super-8 shit/That lo-fi stupid 8-bit.”  Such references are sprinkled throughout The E.N.D., sometimes tinged with a consideration of not just the music, but the music industry.  They declare, for example, that they’ll continue to “rock the beat” even though there is “no longer a physical record store,” and, in interviews surrounding the album’s release, Will.I.Am—the group’s primary producer and spokesman—has been open about the degree to which he assembled individual cuts, with their hollowed-out arrangements and rhythmic patchworks, in order to appeal to the cut-and-paste listening styles of DJs, remix producers and iTunes customers. “There is no album any more,” he told Billboard, and he links this change in music’s consumption to the reformulation of the “energy” which he and his group are intent on harnessing on The E.N.D.  It’s a concept that screams pretentiousness, and they don’t fully pull it off, but, in nearly every important aspect, it’s difficult to listen to The E.N.D. without sensing the Peas working towards their central project of creating music that, as Fergie rhymes in “Boom Boom Pow,” could truly sound “so 3008.”

But there’s something else going on here, too.  While the most insightful reviews I’ve seen (Ann Powers’ and Jody Rosen’s come to mind) have touched on the level of complexity within The E.N.D., I’ve yet to read one review that even begins to capture what I hear as the darkness and uncertainty that lie at its heart.  (Most, in fact, don’t acknowledge any darkness and uncertainty at all.)  To my ears, and perhaps only to my ears, The E.N.D. comes off sounding like a meditation on the post-economic collapse United States, and the record’s focus on destruction-and-reinvention suggests something that extends beyond the music business.  Given our recent history, where systems failed and promises revealed themselves to be lies, the Peas’ determination to break down and rebuild strikes me as both relevant and admirable.  Beyond the programmatic concern, though, I find this album to contain moments of serious reflection.  In this record’s cold, synth-driven grooves and surprisingly ambivalent lyrics, I hear the current kings (and queen) of party R&B/pop/hip-hop trying to figure out how to keep the party going as the world outside falls apart.  Sometimes, they even seem to be asking if it’s worth partying in the first place.

In short, their escapism is anything but lighthearted.  Instead, like late-period disco, the music on The E.N.D. sounds cautionary and almost desperate, warning listeners that—whether they know it or not—the party is over.  Titles like “Party All The Time” might signal a carefree blow-out, but the track’s hook—“If we could party all night and sleep all day and throw all of my problems away, my life would be easy”—doesn’t sound all that careless to me, especially when sung by the Peas in a subdued, even defeated-sounding wail.  Thanks to that, “Party All The Time” reminds me of Joan Morgan’s insight about gangsta rap, namely that its focus on short-term pleasures—partying, drinking, casual sex—often masks a larger disillusionment, and even depression, about the protagonists’ lack of belief in a workable future for themselves.  While no one should mistake the Black-Eyed Peas for N.W.A., I hear this same disaffected spirit throughout The E.N.D., where even the most pleasurable activities are presented only as brief respites from a larger and more painful world.

Of course, even that doesn’t sound like all that much fun. “Out Of My Head,” for example, is ostensibly just another anthem to losing oneself through a night of clubbing, but it’s driven by a bracing, even pissed-off Fergie vocal which turns her description of her plans for the evening, from getting dressed up to getting picked up, into something less like a hedonistic party plan and something more like a desperate attempt to enjoy oneself in spite of it all.  (“I’m sick and tired of all those motherfuckers,” she spits, “I don’t give a fuck what you think.”)  Fergie’s vocal—like the chorus on “Party All The Time” and several other spots on The E.N.D.—turns the party from a communal event into a solitary quest, suggesting a kind of alienation that sounds quite lonely in its execution. Fergie’s section then transitions into a fascinating, mid-1970s-Marvin Gaye-style coda, where Will.I.Am, sounding woozy and distant, evocatively repeats “Let’s go…disco” over swirling synths and a driving backbeat, before abruptly ending.

Speaking of satisfaction, there’s “Ring-a-Ling,” an ode to late-night booty calls which is bathed in restless keyboard riffs and a minor-key vocal hook that makes what initially sounds like a casual-sex anthem into something more ambiguous.  In fact, by the end, it’s unclear whether or not the protagonist gets any sex at all (“You don’t want to have sex with me?/Then why you keep texting me/Alright, I’m-a hit you back later”), and the claim in the chorus—“if you’re callin’ at 2 in the morning, it only means one thing”—is neither affirmed nor denied by the open-ended question of the potential hook-up.  This mystery is compounded by the skittering arrangement, which bubbles under the vocals like Morse code.  At the beginning, the quivering arpeggios are pregnant with anticipation and excitement, but by the end they just sound like frayed nerves.  It’s an unsettling experience, regardless of whether or not the union was consummated.  (And, on some level, does it really matter if it was?)

These tracks both demonstrate that the reflective, uneasy tone I hear in The E.N.D. is really a product of the production and vocal performances.  There isn’t as much in the way of direct lyrical reference to current societal turmoil, although the spoken introduction—and the overall theme of destruction-and-reinvention—takes on a new relevance in the Great Recession than they would have, say, six years ago.  That’s when the Peas dropped their most directly political hit, “Where Is The Love?,” which countered the bleakness of Bushworld with a blast of gospel soul.  Nothing here is that direct, but there are moments when individual references burst through.  On the deconstructed drone of “Imma Be,” for example, Will refers to a woman who he plans on picking up despite the fact that she’s “in debt, bouncing them checks.”  There are some Obama shout-outs, and a milquetoast, though agreeable, call to worldwide harmony in “One Tribe.”
The only time that the group tries to openly address today’s society comes with “Now Generation.”  This intriguing track begins with a spoken prelude, where the distorted voice from the introduction returns, provocatively asserting that “the most powerful force on the planet is the energy of the youth.  One can stimulate the economy, but when this powerful youth is activated and stimulated and collectively decides not to buy things, what will happen to the economy?”  These are the only mentions of the word “economy” in The E.N.D., but they are noteworthy.  The first time “economy” is spoken,” the voice stutters over it, stopping the flow and forcing listeners to give it greater attention.  At the end of the speech, “economy” is repeated three times and further distorted, before moving without pause into brooding alt-rock chords.  These chords then explode into a Who-style strut, and “Now Generation” begins in earnest.  Driven by Fergie’s wailing chorus and Will.I.Am’s snarling, sarcastic verses, “Now Generation” is a strongly-worded critique of today’s youth, many of whom, of course, are the Peas’ target audience.  A full-blast rip on entitlement culture, “Now Generation” attacks their greed (shouts of “I want money!” repeatedly between the verses), their reliance on material things (Will.I.Am’s sneering protagonist celebrates his Wi-Fi, HD and iPod), and even their impatience (“I just can’t wait/I want it immediately”). Within this, though, they subtly—for the Black-Eyed Peas, at least—suggest that this gimme-gimme-now-now culture, promoted by an over-reliance on digital-age technology, contributes to the kind of short-term lapses that lead to long-term crises. “I want money, I want cold hard cash/I’ll take your dollar and your Euro and go have a blast,” Fergie shouts near the song’s climax, “so take your day and your credit and stick it up your ass and do it now!”  This stuff might not be revolutionary, and it’s definitely not very nuanced, but I find it pretty remarkable nonetheless, especially given that the Peas are directly attacking, and even mocking, the very people and process through which downloaded sales of “Boom Boom Pow” and “I Gotta Feeling” skyrocketed. 

It’s even more remarkable given that, generally, lyrics have never been the Peas’ strong suit.  In fact, particularly since the addition of Fergie helped propel them into superstardom, their work has possessed one of the most consistent levels of stupidity in pop music.  They even welcome this association.  This is the group, after all, that called on their listeners to “get stupid” in the celebratory “Let’s Get Retarded” (later re-titled to the inoffensive “Let’s Get It Started” after an NBA tie-in helped launch the single into the stratosphere).   I don’t mind the mindlessness, of course, especially since much of the Peas’ most infectious material is glibly, happily goofy.  Still, there’s also plenty of plain old dunderheadedness sprinkled throughout the Peas’ catalog, including their mega-hit “My Humps,” which no amount of club-bangin’ beats or Fergiliciousness could turn into anything other than a pedestrian nursery-rhyme.  “My Humps” is just the most egregious example of how easily the Peas’ formula drifts into a deconstructed, cynical-sounding manipulation of pop cliché.  There’s plenty of that on The E.N.D., and it mars even the most effective tracks.  “Alive,” for example, scores with a soaring, moaning Will.I.Am chorus and pulsating early-80s rhythm track, before Fergie and apl.de.ap deliver rhymes that rank with the group’s absolute worst.  (I would be miffed if either one of them used a line using the phrase “you were my best friend and boy/girlfriend, now it seems like you’re my worst friend,” but, for God’s sake, did both of them have to say it?)  The mega-hit “I Gotta Feeling,” a guitar-driven club jam, is the group at its most effective and the album at its most hopeful.  (The footage of 20,000 people dancing along to a live Chicago performance on Oprah was pretty compelling stuff.)  Unfortunately, “I Gotta Feeling” also contains random shouts of “Mazel tov!” and “l’chaim!” which sound forced and out of place.

These weaknesses, and the presence of a few straight-up clunker tracks, mean that The E.N.D. is probably not going to make it very high on my Best of 2009 list.  When I’m thinking about what pop music I’ll remember in ten years, though, and look back to as a snapshot of the world as it was in 2009, I have a feeling that I’ll return to The E.N.D.   It’s one of the only major releases I’ve heard this year that attempts to so fully engage with the past, present and future, and to draw out the connections between the music we hear and the world we hear it in.  It asks me questions to which I haven’t figured out answers, while also offering me potential avenues through which to understand them.  In that way, I consider it a major accomplishment.

Danny Alexander writes:

One reason I’ve got to write this is as a feeble effort to say thanks to my wife, Lauren. She fell in love with Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit’s self-titled second album around the same time that she developed a similar affection for a collection of Bottle Rockets’ gems compiled by our good friend David Cantwell.  Now, my wife and I more or less bonded around R&B and hip hop, and I’ve spent most of the last decade with some sense of alienation regarding the postpunk and alt-country that offered refuge to so many of my brethren. 
 
But they are my brethren.  When I was in high school embracing the punk insurgency against the dominance of rock stardom that seemed to have no connection to our lives, I also picked up the allusions to Hank Williams, Carl Perkins, George Jones and Buck Owens.  When I was in college in Stillwater, Oklahoma, I heard the call in shows by Dwight Yoakum and Steve Earle (opened by our local Santa Fe band, fronted by my college town’s ubiquitous lounge singer, Garth Brooks).  Later, I recognized my kin in bands like the Gear Daddies, the Starkweathers, and (slightly missing the Uncle Tupelo moment) the Bottle Rockets.
 
Still, the same references that led me back to honky tonk and the blues also pointed me toward modern day connections.  If I have a rep, I guess I’ve made it writing about contemporary R&B women singers, but I’ve also spent a lot of time writing about their gangsta rap brothers who hold up the other end of the richest conversation about class, race and sexuality I’ve ever heard.  I also spend a lot of time writing about Rock En Espanol and norteno music, a legacy I inherited when I bought my first Los Lobos tape the same day I bought the Del Lords’ Frontier Days.  I also spend a fair amount of time with metal.  It’s all Hank Williams fault, even if he hadn’t sung “Jambalaya (On the Bayou),” or if he hadn’t had a head-banging grandson, or if Al Green hadn’t sounded so sweet singing, “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.”
 
That said, this summer ended on a beautiful note, with Lauren’s interest seemingly sparking a return of the Bottle Rockets working with producer Eric Ambel, who has given four of their studio albums the fire and crunch characteristic of their live shows.  The new one, Lean Forward, is a record I need.
 
In a way, it starts in the middle, with another lyric by Scott Taylor (“Kerosene,” “Welfare Music”) about “the kid next door” who went off to war and never came back.  Avoiding a traditional melodic structure, singer Brian Henneman’s vocal just calls out in mournful repetition, decorated only by simple, spiraling guitar riffs.  In the same way “Born In the U.S.A.” might be heard as an answer to the emerging political voice in rap, “The Kid Next Door,” obliquely pays homage to the “loud hip hop” the neighbor kid played on his “kick ass stereo.”  There’s no sarcasm here, only an effort to reach out and make sense of his relationship with the kid and its loss.
 
I wouldn’t call “The Kid Next Door” the best song here, but it is a reach that helped me embrace the fine, tough record that surrounds it.  And one of the beauties of Lean Forward is its constant sense of reach.  Whether it’s the Bo Diddley beat of “Nothin’ But A Driver,” the honky tonk blues of “Shame on Me,” or the Southern soul of “Slip Away,” this music refuses to be confined by genre.  And on a song like “Hard Times,” the legacy of Katrina in the wake of the recession is personalized with funky riffs and percussion that sound like they’re popping south of the 10.  The album begins its journey, appropriately enough, with “The Long Way,” a wild ride co-written by Bottle Rockets originals Mark Ortmann and Henneman, featuring clarion call guitars and a relentless rhythm section that pushes the music around one hair pin turn after another, ending in a crescendo of drums and ringing guitar.
 
The dynamics of this record are remarkable, with the soulful uplift of bassist Keith Voegele’s “Done It All,” countering the depression in the lyric, and Voegele’s sweet love song “Open Your Eyes” calling to mind the stately elegance of the Band.  Henneman’s trademark humor shines forth on a rollicking song about moving slow, “Get On the Bus,” while the gorgeous country ballad “Solitaire” captures the lonely desperate places relationships can find inescapable.
 
Ending with “Give Me Room,” built around a funky, percussive groove that’s downright menacing, this is a record about accepting limits, embracing humility and living for others, on one hand, but it’s also a record about having enough scrap and dignity to fight when you have to.  The belly for the fight couldn’t be more evident than on “The Way It Used to Be,” a song about the dangers of looking backward and the dangers waiting just around the next bend.  In other words, the dangers we have to plunge through.
 
Suffice it to say, I fell in love with this record the first weekend my wife and I found ourselves playing it over and over on a trip to Arkansas, about the same time I fell in love with the new 400 Unit.  So, when Lauren told me the two bands were playing together one night only, in Carbondale, Illinois, I was excited, for her.  When I worked out my scheduling conflicts and realized I could make the trip with her, I knew I was in for something special.
 
I wasn’t disappointed.  In fact, I’ve spent the past several weeks trying to figure out how to express the magic of that evening.  It would have been so much simpler if I’d written it at the time, perhaps on no sleep.
 
Instead, I got to think about it, about why the whole trip is as elusive and beautiful as that new 400 Unit record.  (If you listened to the thing enough to sing along to “Sunstroke,” you definitely know what I mean.)  Part of it was the autumn drive down into a part of Illinois I’ve never seen before, through patchwork towns of varied architecture and at least one near ghost town, with a home in an old gas station (the word “Closed” in spray paint over its rusting sign).  We came home with a trunk full of pumpkins and gourds.
 
Part of it was finding the place, some sort of facility called Sports Blast, far enough off the main road no one we talked to had ever heard of it.  The top floor, something like a chic-ly lit attic, was rented out for this event, and the crowd of a couple of hundred or so gradually filled in an S-shape of open space in front of the stage.  When we ran across the street to check in at the Super 8, we found ourselves waiting behind all 6’5” linebacker of Jason Isbell, who was checking in just ahead of us.  At the breakfast bar, we’d find we pretty much had that place to ourselves with the two bands—oh, and a cranky businessman, whose one obviously redeeming quality was that he knew his way around the waffle machine and didn’t mind dispensing advice.
 
But it was the show that was the real magic, of course.  More than it had to be by far. 
 
The Bottle Rockets played an incredibly hard hitting 21 song set.  After crowd favorites like “24 Hours A Day,” “Every Kind of Everything,” and “Kit Kat Clock,” they played a gorgeous “Happy Anniversary,” off of Zoysia, the album Stephen King helped put on the map.  Then the band launched into seven songs in a row off the new album—firing away with all the funkiest and hardest rocking stuff before launching into a quite literally explosive, “Slo Tom’s” (a fuse went in the middle of the song, and Henneman, more than a little tickled, waved his bottled water and encouraged folks to have another drink because who knew when this was going to get fixed).
 
After picking up where they left off on “Slo Tom’s,” they played perhaps their greatest, simplest song, “Kerosene,” for Jason Isbell.  If it’s possible for such a perfect indictment to take on more force, it carried at least all the weight it ever has in a set filled with songs plagued by economic insecurity and collapse—getting stuck in Indianapolis with your $2000 thousand dollar car, driving other peoples’ cars to make money and drawing on the sounds of southern Louisiana as a reminder “I ain’t broke down, I’m just out of gas.”  “Kerosene” is a song that asks at least three times what kind of just world kills a family just scraping by when they “try to improvise” by substituting gasoline to heat their home.
 
But the most emotional moment in the Bottle Rockets’ set had to come with the closer, the twenty-first century song, The Brooklyn Side’s opener, “Welfare Music.”  With its portrait of a young mother and child playing together, celebrating hope in the midst of hopelessness, it’s another great lyric from Scott Taylor.  But what made the live performance that night so extraordinarily moving was all about the music.  Lead guitarist Johnny Horton and Brian Henneman traded licks in beautiful guitar interplay that quieted to the point where Henneman was picking out his lead near the level of a whisper, so that the whole bar had to grow silent for an exquisite little eternity before he sang the next, crucial lines: 

Baby fall down,
Baby get up,
Baby need a drink from a loving cup.

Then the band kicked back in to finish the number, that extraordinarily intimate focus ringing in all of our ears.
 
After this essentially perfect set, complete with the system blowing out, it was hard to imagine how Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit could provide an adequate follow up.  Of course, part of the answer was intrinsic in the music.  Isbell’s band complements the Bottle Rockets without competing on the level of guitar attack more commonly associated with his old friends in the Drive By Truckers.
 
Throwing the Velvet Underground’s Loaded on before his set hinted at the differences to come.  The movement from “Who Loves the Sun,” as bluesy a lyric as a shiny 60s pop song can conceivably carry, into “Sweet Jane,” with that insistence on human decency—“Anyone who ever had a heart, wouldn’t go around and break it”—to “Rock and Roll,” with that sentiment that’s central to everything good about Lou Reed (and damn near redeems the rest of it), “oh, her life was saved by rock and roll!”
 
The 400 Unit took the stage unassumingly as that sprightly 40 year old jam wound its way to a conclusion, and I found myself yet again thankful at these artists’ insistence on broadening the sense of their tradition.  Opening with his song, “Grown,” which has that great line, “are you still dancing to ‘Purple Rain,’” only drove the point home further.
 
Though the Bottle Rockets hadn’t done “The Kid Next Door,” Isbell followed his opener with a trilogy of songs dealing with the legacy of war, “Decoration Day,” “Soldiers Get Strange” and “Dress Blues.”  “Dress Blues” is a gorgeously painful cousin of the Bottle Rockets song, daring to express the singer’s frustration and ambivalence toward his friend and the family of his friend, whose never coming back—his friend who “showed us what we had to lose.”
 
Though he only played the one song from the new album, sticking to crowd favorites from Sirens of the Ditch and his Drive By Trucker years, Isbell’s set had that sinewy, layered beauty that the new album captures so beautifully, no doubt in large part thanks to the band’s unusual reliance on surprising keyboard turns from Derry DeBorja and supple rhythms from bassist Jimbo Hart and drummer Chad Gamble.  The set took surprising turns like Browan Lollar’s lead vocal on “Psycho Killer” and the haunted blues of “Hurricanes and Hand Grenades,” and most welcome of all, an instrumental turn to New Orleans with the Meter’s great hit, “Cissy Strut.”  This came in response to an audience member’s repeated calls for the band to get crazy, and Isbell took the opportunity to make fireworks of his lead.  Just when it seemed the energy had peaked, the band ramped things up even higher with set closer “Never Gonna Change.”  This was followed by a three song encore that finished off with the great “American Girl,” some effusive audience member near us shouting in our ears how this song had saved his life in Korea.

From the Talking Heads to Prince to Lou Reed and the Meters, from Doug Sahm (how did I omit the Bottle Rockets’ beautiful “At the Crossroads”?) to the beat of Bo Diddley and the whole MO of Chuck Berry—from St. Louis and Festus, Missouri to Memphis, Tennessee and Muscle Schoals, Alabama—a whole helluva lot of what makes music matter got conjured up in that attic of the Sports Blast that Sunday night in September.  My brothers did the story proud, and I can only hope these words do them some minor note of justice. 

David Cantwell writes:

Long before Elvis departed us prematurely, and even before Hank Williams died at the peak of his powers and fame, there was Jimmie Rodgers…that gone-too-soon pop celebrity prototype who died of tuberculosis in 1933, a mere 35 years young. Known during his daylily-quick career as both America’s Blue Yodeler and the Singing Brakeman—thirty years later, he was additionally dubbed the Father of Country Music—Jimmie Rodgers was a Superstar before the term existed. He was also an International Multi-media Brand before the concept existed, and he was “America’s Original Roots Music Hero.”

That last comes from a great new book by my longtime colleague and dear friend Barry Mazor. One way to describe Barry’s Meeting Jimmie Rodgers: How America’s Original Roots Music Hero Changed the Sounds of a Century is to say it is the biography of an image—or rather of several Rodgers-inspired images as they’ve come down to us through the years and how they’ve been used differently by fans in succeeding generations. In the phrasing of some of Barry’s chapter titles, Rodgers was “A Doomed Singer-songwriter with Guitar,” and he was a progenitor of Western music, “An Easterner in a Cowboy Hat.” He was a yodeler, too, of course, and he was considered a white blues singer, and a rough-and-rowdy antecedent for rock ‘n’ roll, and a hillbilly, and a vaudevillian. Rodgers canvassed all neighborhoods, town and country, and that’s a quality we now understand goes a long way toward putting the “super” in superstar.

Many of Rodgers’ images can appear contradictory at first blush. Barry explains, for instance, that Rodgers was well known to his fans as a one-time railroad employee. At the same time, this “Singing Brakeman” often sang from the point of view of the many hobos who just then were being tossed from trains on a fairly regular basis—and tossed by brakemen, no less, as in one of Jimmie’s most covered songs, “Waiting for a Train”:

I walked up to a brakeman to give him a line of talk
He says, “If you’ve got money, I’ll see that you don’t walk.”
I haven’t got a nickel, not a penny can I show
“Get off, get off, you railroad bum!” He slammed the boxcar door.

Put another way, Rodgers was a voice for many of the same kinds of middle-class desires memorably expressed by his good pal Gene Austin in that crooner’s “My Blue Heaven” and in the very existence of his own famous homestead, Yodeler’s Paradise. But he was also a musical spokesperson for the most down-on-the-ground sorts of Depression-era desperation. “I’m going to California,” he sang in 1928, “where they sleep out every night,” and as the early thirties dawned hard, his fans understood without being told why so many new Californians had no choice but to sleep under California stars. In 1931, Barry notes, he even teamed with Will Rogers for a relief tour in benefit of Arkansans who were at that time dying for lack of food.

Rodgers sang convincingly both of highway and of home, of “Waiting for a Train” and of “Miss[ing] the Mississippi and You.” Or, as two latter-day exemplars of the Rodgers ethos have put it, Jimmie could declare, a la Willie Nelson, that “I just can’t wait to get on the road again,” while also announcing, per John Denver, that “Hey, it’s good to be back home again.” Rounders and homebodies are usually deemed opposites, but they’re actually complimentary types. One will only “Miss the Mississippi and You” when river and lover are beyond sight and reach. No one longs for the horizon more than someone who feels his whole world squeezed into a few dirty blocks. No one nurtures roots like the uprooted.

I write “a few dirty blocks” rather than, say, “a few dusty acres” because like so many of the country stars to follow, Jimmie Rodgers was not actually from the country. Rodgers grew up in Meridian, Mississippi, the state’s biggest city at the time, with over 20,000 people. Of course, to a Chicagoan or a New Yorker, someone hailing from a metropolis of that comparatively humble population would’ve been considered, no doubt, country enough. People up north would later view Elvis Presley similarly, no matter that he grew up not on a farm but in the town of Tupelo and that he came of age in Memphis. Yankees have long been in the habit of using “country boy” as a too-loose, and usually condescending, synonym for “Southerner.” To citizens of the Magnolia state, though, as to Southerners generally, someone from Meridian wasn’t a country boy. He was a city slicker.

Barry shows that this distinction matters for at least a couple of reasons. First, by presenting Rodgers as a city kid, Mississippi division, he’s able to stress as well the necessarily show-biz (Read: commercial and deep-south urban) origins of the music he was to make. Rodgers was a vaudevillian, first off, with a vaudevillian’s pop repertoire and crowd-tested performance style. He played movie houses, sometimes between films, and in medicine shows, and photos of Jimmie show him as often in suit and tie and boater as he is in an engineer’s cap or a Stetson.

This has implications for how we understand the origins of what we today call country music, and for all of the other roots music styles in which Rodgers worked. Today we often equate rootsy with rural, but Barry makes an important distinction by arguing that Rodgers’ broad appeal was grounded not so much in the rural but in what he terms Jimmie’s “rootedness.” This concept of the rooted is, I think, one of the most useful insights offered in a book full of them, and it can help us see why, for instance, Elvis Presley and Hank Williams are correctly understood as roots performers while, say, Michael Jackson, another too-soon-gone pop star, is not. (Indeed, if we want to understand Jackson’s tragic fall, his obvious loss of rootedness is as good a place to start as any.)

Mazor outlines the concept like this:

To be rooted, a singer requires a “place-derived accent” and “lyrics tied to a personal history, a home region, and working class experiences.” He must “[speak] directly to the traditional, downhome, downscale segment of his audience even as he sought broad popular appeal” and he must remain connected to that original audience.  As Rodgers himself liked to say, “The underest dog is just as good as I am, and I’m just as good as the toppest dog.”

Finally, the rooted performer sings with an “emotional immediacy” between voice and the lyric at hand.  Specifically, Barry writes that Rodgers had “direct access to the thick, duality-encompassing sensibility behind black blues…the humor and joy in the blues mingled with the loss, grief and occasional anger, the ‘we’ of implied community balancing the ‘I’ of signifying, boasting and self-expression.” This double vision of Rodgers—Ralph Ellison termed the quality “tragicomic”—is one reason we can still really hear him today, I think, if we only put forth a bit of effort, particularly in the wordless wisdom of his signature blue yodel, and it’s also the very quality I find absent in so much contemporary pop music, particularly mainstream country music.  Every yodel Rodgers ever yodeled was filled with a measure of sadness and joie de vivre, an aural manifestation of a way of being in the world I fear we are in the process of losing.

There is so much more to recommend Barry’s book than what I’ve mentioned here. His opening chapter on Johnny Cash and Louis Armstrong singing Jimmie Rodgers together in 1970 is a tour de force. His discussion of the Rodgers image as including elements of silent clowns Buster Keaton, Charlie Chaplin and Harold Lloyd is an especially revealing comparison and one that reinforces the cultural context in which Rodgers worked. And his reminder that while Rodgers railroad ties may strike twenty-first century listeners as quaint and old-timey, they made the Singing Brakemen appear to his contemporaries as up-to-date, cutting edge, modern, a 1930s version of a pilot or even an astronaut. My friend’s writing is wonderfully conversational, and his descriptions wonderfully memorable. For example, he writes that Howlin’ Wolf (a big Rodgers fan) had a “steel-wool-and-blood voice” and that Elton Britt’s style was “suede pop.”

Meeting Jimmie Rodgers joins a crowded but welcome bookshelf of contemporary music history and criticism that’s self-consciously revisionist in the most necessary since of that term: Barry lets us see anew a musician/artist/entertainer/man who many perhaps thought we’d already seen more than enough of—and who many more have seen only in terms so caricatured that they may as well never have laid eyes (or ears) on him at all.  Like Elijah Wald’s Escaping the Delta: Robert Johnson and the Invention of the Blues, Diane Pecknold’s The Selling Sound: The Rise of the Country Music Industry, and Carl Wilson’s Let’s Talk about Love: A Journey to the End of Taste, among several other recent titles (including, if I may, Heartaches by the Number), Barry has complicated here, has given flesh to, a subject normally reduced to one or another not very complex abstraction. Among other tasks, then, Barry liberates Rodgers from dehumanizing single-vision tropes like “authenticity,” arguing instead for a worldview more bittersweet and fine, more like life.

Insert blue yodel here.

Danny Alexander writes:

Maybe it’s because the percolating bass and percussive claps at the beginning of this record call to mind the funk that would prefigure hip hop, but it’s not a hip hop record I first think of when the Knox Family’s “In These Streets” comes on.  It’s not a funk record either, although the band I’m thinking of was certainly influenced by both funk and early hip hop.  No, it’s the Clash’s “Somebody Got Murdered” that wells up out of my subconscious the moment MC Jerm raps “Yo man, I don’t think they heard you” and a voice cries out in the dark, “a murder!”

And that makes sense.  A big part of the Clash’s appeal was a bracing honesty that confronted the walls that keep us apart. Seattle’s The Knox Family takes us from behind any four walls we might like to think protect us and out into the darkness.  Guest singer Toni Hill’s beautiful vocal is key to the intimacy of that journey as she reminds us, “Somebody’s praying in these streets/somebody’s dying in these streets/somebody’s hustling in these streets” and then takes it all in her immediate embrace with, “Somebody’s singing for you and me.”

The rest of the record goes further into the muck and mire that’s the current human condition than anything I’ve ever heard.  What’s more amazing?  It shines a light through.

In verse one, Julie C’s sassy and knowing rhymestyle catalogues a mind-numbing list of offensives in the “all out war against poor populations,” including intimidation tactics carried out by everyone from the FCC to the beat cop,  gang legislation, privatized prisons and deaths caused by “non-lethal” weapons.  This verse and the second are rapped against sirens that spiral between the left and right channels of the speakers and another voice in the night, making an unclear sound but plainly in distress…Somebody hustling or somebody dying.

And then Hill sings again, backed by a 5 note key progression that mines the same territory Timbaland’s been working lately but suggests a bigger, explicit dream— hope for every voice that currently goes unheard and faith in those voices to change the world.

Julie C’s second verse starts at the heights of Wall Street  and follows the “global economic collapse.”  She somehow hits on all of it, from the political stakes that lead to bank bailouts to the foreclosure of the homes of those small enough to fail.  Before she’s finished, Julie C describes a globalized war between the rich and the poor.

With the stakes this high, Hill begins to tic off more of what “singing for you and me” means: “We gotta get together/’cause we need/ to heal the sick and hopeless/ yes, indeed/to strive for peace and justice/ equality/love for you and me.”  With keys washing in behind her, Hill’s voice grows more reassuring and inspiring as she touches on each key to the future. 

The third and final verse starts after the record’s turned the corner toward a fade out.  Julie C raps a sign off and then, like James Brown throwing off his cape, she launches into, “Yo, violence is a symptom not the disease.”  The dissonant sirens are gone now, replaced by flute-like keys and more percussion including high hat and snappy wood block beats.  Something’s different about this last highly charged verse, though the signs stay grim, “Why is the city of Seattle dropping another 110 million to open a new jail we don’t need, while the district can’t even find a measly 3.6 to keep our schools from closing?”

And the difference is the cape-dropping intimacy.   This last verse feels like an urgent whisper being passed on a streetcorner.  “Want to know what’s really going on?” Julie C asks.  “Just follow the paper trail to downtown Olympia, Wall Street, D.C./As long as poverty pimps keep profiting from our problems/We can’t wait for change/We gotta create our own solutions/Straight from the peoples’ movement.”

And with that, the Knox Family’s debut Ep is out.  It’s the end of something very rich , though only 7 full tracks long.  From the opening “Make Love,” DJ B-Girl has produced an infectious party record with a laid back, minimalist style that communicates class-conscious strength and unity. Though it’s laid back and minimalist, it also uses multi-colored keys and beats in continuously fresh and surprising ways. “In These Streets” is the perfect ending, justifying all the tough talk and hard play that come before.

But it’s more than that.  It’s a singular piece of revolutionary art unlike anything else.  It’s the blues of “The Message” wedded to a concrete basis for political unity.  And it’s a spiritual, with Toni Hill’s refrains insisting that the human spirit was made to fulfill our dreams.  It’s a song to suggest a new genre—not protest music so much as revolution rock—good for dancing, crying, shouting and even (especially?) blueprinting our dreams into reality.

For more information: B Girl Media