Powerful. The Eagles of Death Metal tell their unbelievable story to Vice. About halfway through their Nov. 13 show at the Bataclan in Paris, two gunmen came in and shot indiscriminately into the crowd. The band members themselves barely made it out. Their merchandise guy Nick Alexander, didn't make it. Short of seeing footage of the massacre, this is the most vivid account I have read or heard. If you're not familiar with the Eagles of Death Metal, don't let their name scare you off. They're not as hard as their name might suggest. Their debut album "Peace, Love and Death Metal" is as good as lo-fi, garage rock gets - that's saying a lot. Peace, love and death metal, indeed.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Saturday, November 21, 2015
A good review of Adele's '25'
Love or hate Adele, this is a great review of her latest album "25" by The Post's pop music critic Chris Richards. In my mind, a good music critic provides the reader with the context surrounding the music and identifies its elusive narrative, its universal connective tissue - the deeper meaning the artist may be explicitly or implicitly trying to convey. A good music critic gives enough of this goodness so the reader is able to arrive at their own conclusion. A good music critic doesn't impose his or her interpretation of something subjective. In this regard, Chris nails it. Too many critics try to be irreverent for irreverence sake at the expense of someone else's art, seemingly unaware of how deep the pen can sometimes cut. This is a read of fresh air.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
Act of Contrition: Share '70s Turkish Psychedelic Funk with everyone
Raised Catholic, I know a thing or two about guilt. It's our spiritual specialty. So you can imagine my guilt, shame and embarrassment when I visited Barcelona and Salvador Rey of The Pinker Tones, very casually, over lunch, said, "You know, Turkey has some pretty great '70s funk. There's a guy named Mustafa Ozkent or Okzent. Have you heard of him?"
"Um, no," I mumbled back nearly inaudibly, hoping he didn't hear me.
With my Turkish American wife Deniz sitting next to me and my passport containing about a half-dozen Turkish stamps, I recoiled. Not only had I not heard of Mustafa Özkent (I had to look him up), somehow the entire movement - this exquisite and inexhaustible musical thread, in a country that's become a second home - had eluded me for 15 years.
Flabby, puckish bass lines, kaleidoscopic moog synthesizers, and metal-on-metal electric guitar scratch combined with traditional buzzing zurna clarinets and plump, davul bass drums, swirl together through hypnotic Middle Eastern makam scales - an auditory hallucinogen.
At some point, I may have experienced a second-hand high, as it turns out fragments of this music have intersected my life at various turns. My kids, for example, love to sing along to one of the movement's linchpins Barış Manço, but I was mostly aware of his children's songs. I knew of Cem Karaca, another important figure, but only through Deniz's disdain for his '70s caricature look: clunky shades, burley mustache, butterfly collar shirt, bell bottoms. In hindsight, his look alone should have piqued my interest. And then my brother-in-law Yavuz has passed on a healthy dosage of songs from this era, but they were lost in the thousands of other MP3s he's shared over the years.
For years, Deniz half-jokingly ribbed me for never craving Turkish music despite my insatiable, omnivorous appetite for all music. We don't have that problem anymore. Not only is this music rich in artistic merit, there's enough out there to keep me nourished for years. But I deserve to take my medicine. As an act of contrition, I've made it a point to share this instantly gratifying music with everyone. Hopefully, my penance is your gain.
"Um, no," I mumbled back nearly inaudibly, hoping he didn't hear me.
With my Turkish American wife Deniz sitting next to me and my passport containing about a half-dozen Turkish stamps, I recoiled. Not only had I not heard of Mustafa Özkent (I had to look him up), somehow the entire movement - this exquisite and inexhaustible musical thread, in a country that's become a second home - had eluded me for 15 years.
Flabby, puckish bass lines, kaleidoscopic moog synthesizers, and metal-on-metal electric guitar scratch combined with traditional buzzing zurna clarinets and plump, davul bass drums, swirl together through hypnotic Middle Eastern makam scales - an auditory hallucinogen.
At some point, I may have experienced a second-hand high, as it turns out fragments of this music have intersected my life at various turns. My kids, for example, love to sing along to one of the movement's linchpins Barış Manço, but I was mostly aware of his children's songs. I knew of Cem Karaca, another important figure, but only through Deniz's disdain for his '70s caricature look: clunky shades, burley mustache, butterfly collar shirt, bell bottoms. In hindsight, his look alone should have piqued my interest. And then my brother-in-law Yavuz has passed on a healthy dosage of songs from this era, but they were lost in the thousands of other MP3s he's shared over the years.
For years, Deniz half-jokingly ribbed me for never craving Turkish music despite my insatiable, omnivorous appetite for all music. We don't have that problem anymore. Not only is this music rich in artistic merit, there's enough out there to keep me nourished for years. But I deserve to take my medicine. As an act of contrition, I've made it a point to share this instantly gratifying music with everyone. Hopefully, my penance is your gain.
Monday, July 6, 2015
Morrissey Finds Joie de Vivre After Almost Dying
Kissing death does something to you. This much was evident during Morrissey’s performance at D.C.’s Echostage June 17.
Following four life-threatening maladies, the 56-year-old British pop icon with his graying, thinning coif and a penchant for melodrama left it all on stage: moxy, voice, activism, and everything in between.
Between 2013 and 2014, he cancelled many shows, including those scheduled in D.C., due to a bleeding ulcer, double pneumonia, a cancer scare, and food poisoning, in which he “officially died for nine minutes,” as he recently told Alternative Nation.
So when he marched on stage in designer jeans and in a white dress shirt with an iridescent lamé “V” zipped down mid-chest, looking healthy and slim, he received a Beatlemania-like reception: part euphoria, part disbelief, part relief.
He launched into “Suedehead,” his first single off his 1988 solo debut album “Viva Hate.” Before finishing the song’s first line: “Why do you come here?” and despite fans screaming along, it was immediately evident that his pipes were in top form. By song’s end, any concerns regarding the range and strength of his idiosyncratic baritone were gone.
He hit and held notes effortlessly, as he vocally pirouetted from song to song in a 30-plus-year, career-spanning set. He pulled from 2015’s solo album “World Peace is None of Your Business” and went as far back as 1985, when he fronted The Smiths – the short-lived, but highly influential Manchester quartet.
But deep cuts like “Will Never Marry” proved to be his high points, as well as fresh takes on fan faves like “Speedway.” Three-quarters into the song, the band members switched places and even Morrissey retreated into the shadows with a tambourine, allowing multi-instrumentalist, Colombian-Ecuadorian-American Gustavo Manzur to take center stage and sing the final verse. En Español.
Uncharacteristic for a lead singer, especially one with a revolving, unnamed band, Morrissey relinquished the spotlight to Manzur two more times: during the Spanish-guitar solo finale of “Staircase at the University” and during the chorus of “World Peace Is None of Your Business,” which Manzur turned into “Paz Mundial, El Asunto Que No Te Concierne.”
Morrissey’s frugal but humorous stage banter was also in fine form. Here’s his sardonic apology for having cancelled his previous D.C. shows: “Our band has a very high suicide rate.” And before singing “The World Is Full of Crashing Bores,” he asked the crowd not to take the next song too personally.
But beyond his carpe diem performance, there was something else that suggested Morrissey was raging “against the dying of the light,” as poet Dylan Thomas wrote. Rather than squander his platform with the kind of snarky, petulant diatribes that have made him infamous – he’s ripped on the British throne, “McDonna,” and “Kentucky Fried shit” – the world-class provocateur found his most compelling activist voice. Yes, the boy-man with a thorn in his crotch seemed far more interested with his faithful taking action than simply lending him a cynical ear. And ironically, he didn’t need to say much. Two visceral montages projected behind the band did most of his proselytizing.
The first showed disturbing footage of police gone wild. Though there were plenty of violent takedowns and nightstick beat downs, the far more incriminating scenes showed officers seemingly enjoying the ugly part of their work. They smiled and high-fived each following brutal confrontations and gratuitously pepper-sprayed apprehended, handcuffed demonstrators at point-blank range.
These scenes rolled as Morrissey growled, “The police are grinding me into the ground… They say, 'To protect and to serve,' but what they really mean to say is get back to the ghetto” from the B-side “Ganglord” – an otherwise innocuous song, if not for the recent high-profile police homicides, including Freddie Gray’s 40 minutes north of the venue. The 25-year-old African American young man’s mysterious death, while in police custody following his arrest for allegedly possessing an illegal switchblade, drove Baltimore into weeks of rioting.
The second montage came near the set’s end when he sang The Smiths-era vegetarian anthem and title track of their second album, “Meat is Murder.” A staunch animal rights activist and almost militant vegetarian, Morrissey doesn’t mince words when it comes to causes he champions. But on this day, he wants action to be everyone’s middle name. The graphic videos spliced together are gruesome and nearly impossible to watch all the way through. The revelation here was not that animals get killed for our consumption. It was the how.
The methods seemed cruel and inhumane. Sheep’s necks sliced open, as their futile struggle to break free only soaked their white wool coats in red. Their convulsing bodies slowed down to a lifeless, limp stop. The look of terror in a cow’s eyes was undeniable as a vice-like contraption crushed its head and a butcher decapitated it.
Morrissey sang the haunting lyrics with noticeable anger and disgust, adding an f-bomb for alliteration and effect: “The flesh you so fancifully fry… The meat in your fat fucken mouth, as you savor the flavor of murder!”
At the end of montage, a banner read: “What’s your excuse now?” Throughout the venue, members of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals were handing literature and talking to anyone who cared to convert.
Oscar Wilde, one of Morrissey’s literary heroes, wrote that “life imitates art far more than art imitates life.” Long before Morrissey came face to face with death, he’ has always written about the bleak, miseries of life – a case of art imitating life. Ironic then that when death paid a visit, rather than succumb to paralyzing depression, it has given him a newfound joie de vivre. Lyrics notwithstanding, perhaps his is a case of life imitating art.
Setlist:
Suedehead
Staircase at the University
Speedway
Ganglord
World Peace Is None of Your Business
Kiss Me A Lot
Istanbul
Will Never Marry
One Of Our Own
The Bullfighter Dies
Scandinavia
Now My Heart Is Full
The World Is Full of Crashing Bores
I Will See You In Far-Off Places
I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris
Everyday Is Like Sunday
Neal Cassady Drops Dead
Meat Is Murder
What She Said
Encore:
First of the Gang to Die
Following four life-threatening maladies, the 56-year-old British pop icon with his graying, thinning coif and a penchant for melodrama left it all on stage: moxy, voice, activism, and everything in between.
Between 2013 and 2014, he cancelled many shows, including those scheduled in D.C., due to a bleeding ulcer, double pneumonia, a cancer scare, and food poisoning, in which he “officially died for nine minutes,” as he recently told Alternative Nation.
So when he marched on stage in designer jeans and in a white dress shirt with an iridescent lamé “V” zipped down mid-chest, looking healthy and slim, he received a Beatlemania-like reception: part euphoria, part disbelief, part relief.
He launched into “Suedehead,” his first single off his 1988 solo debut album “Viva Hate.” Before finishing the song’s first line: “Why do you come here?” and despite fans screaming along, it was immediately evident that his pipes were in top form. By song’s end, any concerns regarding the range and strength of his idiosyncratic baritone were gone.
He hit and held notes effortlessly, as he vocally pirouetted from song to song in a 30-plus-year, career-spanning set. He pulled from 2015’s solo album “World Peace is None of Your Business” and went as far back as 1985, when he fronted The Smiths – the short-lived, but highly influential Manchester quartet.
But deep cuts like “Will Never Marry” proved to be his high points, as well as fresh takes on fan faves like “Speedway.” Three-quarters into the song, the band members switched places and even Morrissey retreated into the shadows with a tambourine, allowing multi-instrumentalist, Colombian-Ecuadorian-American Gustavo Manzur to take center stage and sing the final verse. En Español.
Uncharacteristic for a lead singer, especially one with a revolving, unnamed band, Morrissey relinquished the spotlight to Manzur two more times: during the Spanish-guitar solo finale of “Staircase at the University” and during the chorus of “World Peace Is None of Your Business,” which Manzur turned into “Paz Mundial, El Asunto Que No Te Concierne.”
Morrissey’s frugal but humorous stage banter was also in fine form. Here’s his sardonic apology for having cancelled his previous D.C. shows: “Our band has a very high suicide rate.” And before singing “The World Is Full of Crashing Bores,” he asked the crowd not to take the next song too personally.
But beyond his carpe diem performance, there was something else that suggested Morrissey was raging “against the dying of the light,” as poet Dylan Thomas wrote. Rather than squander his platform with the kind of snarky, petulant diatribes that have made him infamous – he’s ripped on the British throne, “McDonna,” and “Kentucky Fried shit” – the world-class provocateur found his most compelling activist voice. Yes, the boy-man with a thorn in his crotch seemed far more interested with his faithful taking action than simply lending him a cynical ear. And ironically, he didn’t need to say much. Two visceral montages projected behind the band did most of his proselytizing.
The first showed disturbing footage of police gone wild. Though there were plenty of violent takedowns and nightstick beat downs, the far more incriminating scenes showed officers seemingly enjoying the ugly part of their work. They smiled and high-fived each following brutal confrontations and gratuitously pepper-sprayed apprehended, handcuffed demonstrators at point-blank range.
These scenes rolled as Morrissey growled, “The police are grinding me into the ground… They say, 'To protect and to serve,' but what they really mean to say is get back to the ghetto” from the B-side “Ganglord” – an otherwise innocuous song, if not for the recent high-profile police homicides, including Freddie Gray’s 40 minutes north of the venue. The 25-year-old African American young man’s mysterious death, while in police custody following his arrest for allegedly possessing an illegal switchblade, drove Baltimore into weeks of rioting.
The second montage came near the set’s end when he sang The Smiths-era vegetarian anthem and title track of their second album, “Meat is Murder.” A staunch animal rights activist and almost militant vegetarian, Morrissey doesn’t mince words when it comes to causes he champions. But on this day, he wants action to be everyone’s middle name. The graphic videos spliced together are gruesome and nearly impossible to watch all the way through. The revelation here was not that animals get killed for our consumption. It was the how.
The methods seemed cruel and inhumane. Sheep’s necks sliced open, as their futile struggle to break free only soaked their white wool coats in red. Their convulsing bodies slowed down to a lifeless, limp stop. The look of terror in a cow’s eyes was undeniable as a vice-like contraption crushed its head and a butcher decapitated it.
Morrissey sang the haunting lyrics with noticeable anger and disgust, adding an f-bomb for alliteration and effect: “The flesh you so fancifully fry… The meat in your fat fucken mouth, as you savor the flavor of murder!”
At the end of montage, a banner read: “What’s your excuse now?” Throughout the venue, members of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals were handing literature and talking to anyone who cared to convert.
Oscar Wilde, one of Morrissey’s literary heroes, wrote that “life imitates art far more than art imitates life.” Long before Morrissey came face to face with death, he’ has always written about the bleak, miseries of life – a case of art imitating life. Ironic then that when death paid a visit, rather than succumb to paralyzing depression, it has given him a newfound joie de vivre. Lyrics notwithstanding, perhaps his is a case of life imitating art.
Setlist:
Suedehead
Staircase at the University
Speedway
Ganglord
World Peace Is None of Your Business
Kiss Me A Lot
Istanbul
Will Never Marry
One Of Our Own
The Bullfighter Dies
Scandinavia
Now My Heart Is Full
The World Is Full of Crashing Bores
I Will See You In Far-Off Places
I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris
Everyday Is Like Sunday
Neal Cassady Drops Dead
Meat Is Murder
What She Said
Encore:
First of the Gang to Die
Monday, June 29, 2015
Justice Roberts Got It Wrong in His Dissent on Gay Marriage
Damn straight (or gay) - pun intended! Just when I thought my country was staying a little off track, we find a way to get it right in a big way. We elected the first African American president way before most thought possible and now - better late than never - we have the audacity to give the Gay Community its American, unalienable right to - above all things - its pursuit of happiness.
An excerpt of Justice Roberts’ dissent, while seemingly and genuinely thoughtful and praising of the Gay Rights Movement, goes to the heart of how misunderstood the concept of equality is even among very, very smart people.
He writes: “Today, however, the Court takes the extraordinary step of ordering every State to license and recognize same-sex marriage. Many people will rejoice at this decision, and I begrudge none their celebration. But for those who believe in a government of laws, not of men, the majority’s approach is deeply disheartening. Supporters of same-sex marriage have achieved considerable success persuading their fellow citizens—through the democratic process—to adopt their view. That ends today. Five lawyers have closed the debate and enacted their own vision of marriage as a matter of constitutional law. Stealing this issue from the people will for many cast a cloud over same-sex marriage, making a dramatic social change that much more difficult to accept.”
What Roberts fails to understand, at least in this excerpt, is that same-sex supporters should not be under any obligation to persuade their “fellow citizens – through the democratic process – to adopt their view.” This was an unnecessary evil because we lived in a society where some people think its okay to impose their belief system and their idea of marriage onto everyone else – a mixture of ignorance or arrogance. What the ruling does, in essence, is do away with this additional requirement the Gay Community had to endure just to “earn” the same right everyone else already has.
Roberts seems to suggest this somehow hijacks or undermines the same-sex movement’s fight – not realizing that there shouldn’t be a fight in the first place! And to his point that this will “cast a cloud over same-sex marriage,” I would ask, “More than the one that already exists?” I think we can let the Gay Community speak to their plight.
Roberts seems to suggest that the onus is on the movement to help those who oppose gave marriage see the light. But here’s the thing: “social change” simply can’t wait on consensus or acceptance. It’s righting a societal wrong. And if that means passing a far-reaching law to force the change, so be it. If we waited on consensus for social change, that tall Black, Ivy League kid named Barack might still be having to take a sip from a different water fountain, sit in the back of the bus, or eat in a designated area. And he sure as hell would not be running our country and lighting the White House red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple tonight.
An excerpt of Justice Roberts’ dissent, while seemingly and genuinely thoughtful and praising of the Gay Rights Movement, goes to the heart of how misunderstood the concept of equality is even among very, very smart people.
He writes: “Today, however, the Court takes the extraordinary step of ordering every State to license and recognize same-sex marriage. Many people will rejoice at this decision, and I begrudge none their celebration. But for those who believe in a government of laws, not of men, the majority’s approach is deeply disheartening. Supporters of same-sex marriage have achieved considerable success persuading their fellow citizens—through the democratic process—to adopt their view. That ends today. Five lawyers have closed the debate and enacted their own vision of marriage as a matter of constitutional law. Stealing this issue from the people will for many cast a cloud over same-sex marriage, making a dramatic social change that much more difficult to accept.”
What Roberts fails to understand, at least in this excerpt, is that same-sex supporters should not be under any obligation to persuade their “fellow citizens – through the democratic process – to adopt their view.” This was an unnecessary evil because we lived in a society where some people think its okay to impose their belief system and their idea of marriage onto everyone else – a mixture of ignorance or arrogance. What the ruling does, in essence, is do away with this additional requirement the Gay Community had to endure just to “earn” the same right everyone else already has.
Roberts seems to suggest this somehow hijacks or undermines the same-sex movement’s fight – not realizing that there shouldn’t be a fight in the first place! And to his point that this will “cast a cloud over same-sex marriage,” I would ask, “More than the one that already exists?” I think we can let the Gay Community speak to their plight.
Roberts seems to suggest that the onus is on the movement to help those who oppose gave marriage see the light. But here’s the thing: “social change” simply can’t wait on consensus or acceptance. It’s righting a societal wrong. And if that means passing a far-reaching law to force the change, so be it. If we waited on consensus for social change, that tall Black, Ivy League kid named Barack might still be having to take a sip from a different water fountain, sit in the back of the bus, or eat in a designated area. And he sure as hell would not be running our country and lighting the White House red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple tonight.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Weekly Music Recommendation: Los Hacheros
This New York salsa band's "Pilon" 2012 debut went largely unnoticed, probably because another salsa record from New York is about as exciting as another country record from Nashville. In other words, not very. But thanks to their video for "Papote's Guajira" going viral, they're getting a second chance to make a first impression. Vintage-sounding salsa seemingly cut from the same cloth as Fania Record's (sort of like salsa's response to Motown Records)greatest artists has rarely sounded this fresh.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Weekly Music Recommendation: Avid Dancer
Dude ditches Jesus (sorta), smokes lots of weed, and finds sonic salvation by blending organ-laden psychedelic pop with muscular, guitar crunch-injected glam rock. Topped with sunny, dreamy vocals, this former Marine's debut sounds familiar yet surprisingly fresh - perhaps an unintended, albeit welcome, consequence of his limited exposure to music during his strict Christian, formative years.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Weekly Music Recommendation: "Sugar Chile" Robinson
You gotta see him to believe it. And even then, you may not believe this boogie-woogie piano virtuoso and blues singer could do what he did at the age of 8. He even played for President Truman before hitting double digits, and "retired" shortly after to pursue an education.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Weekly Music Recommendation: First Aid Kit
These Swedish folk sisters are the sirens in the Odyssey playing in my head. Their wispy, but potent voices harmonize perfectly over their acoustic Americana guitars to create one powerful, ethereal instrument. It's a sibling "reverbary" we can all cheer on.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Weekly Music Recommendation: La Femme
Perfect pop confection from Biarritz, France. Unapologetic upbeat synthesizer music seemingly right out of the one-hit-wonderful, golden ‘80s, but with dark, dizzying, unexpected turns that keep you on your toes while you dance away solo like a total freakazoid.
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Music Saves: Frances Eby's Morrissey Covers
Marriage is about compromise. Lucky for me, my wife is just about perfect, so this part comes easy. But there is a but - a huge, big but. She's not exactly fond of Morrissey. And as anyone who loves Morrissey can attest, or even those who have witnessed us Morrissey diehards at his concerts, this is no good. To us few, fond of the Moz, his awesomeness isn't a matter of opinion. It's not up for discussion. Moz's awesomeness is an empirical fact, supported by just about every song in his repertoire going back to when he was with The Smiths. All of this is to say: my lovely wife, sweet love of my life, wonderful mother of our children, is simply flat out wrong. Over the years, I've been spectacularly unsuccessful in getting her to hear it my way. So sadly, Morrissey only comes on through my headphones or when I'm driving solo or with just the kids. They're early converts, by the way, my sweat, beautiful, little, well- musically calibrated offspring. That said, we had somewhat of a breakthrough a few years ago. You see, both of us - having attended and met at the University of South Carolina - are fond of Hootie and the Blowfish (please, now is not the time to judge). Turns out, Hootie nails a cover of The Smith's "Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want." Please take a second to appreciate the irony in the song title. And, bless her little South Carolina-educated heart, my wife loves the cover. So here's where the compromise part comes in: She's okay with Morrissey songs, as long as he's not the one singing them. Fair enough. I can work with that. So this past weekend, I went on a hunt for Morrissey covers. Downloaded a few on iTunes. But I couldn't find a good cover of one of my favorite Moz songs, "My Love Life," until I found Frances Eby on YouTube. Not only did I love her many Morrissey covers, but I loved that she completely surprised me. Truth be told, I was simply not expecting her to be this damn good. Enjoy.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Weekly Music Recommendation: Me First and the Gimme Gimmes
Punk is sorta like pizza: even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty damn good. These Bay Area goofballs are proof you can punkify just about anything: Willie Nelson, Simon and Garfunkel, and (gulp) R. Kelly. That said, it takes a special kind "choots-pah" (thank you, Bachmann… it's the gift that keeps on giving long after CHA-nooka) and musical acrobatics to make it tasty.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Music Saves: Vilató on the Timbales
The magic starts around time 2:15, when Maestro Orestes Vilató - a monster on the timbales - takes his solo. I had the fortune of interviewing Vilató for an article reflecting on the 40th anniversary of Ray Barretto's "Acid" - one of Fania's first releases. In the article, I tried to make the case that Barretto was among the first, if not the first, to blend salsa with rock 'n' roll. "Acid" was released in 1968 - a year before Carlos Santana released "Santana" with "Oye Como Va," which usually gets credit for melding the two genres. Vilató, whose fancy timbale work is all over "Acid," ended up becoming my "missing link." Unbeknownst to me until our interview, he had played with Santana for a few years, and according to him, "Acid" was a huge influence on Santana. In fact, Vilató gave me this "golden nugget," as he called it: Santana totally lifted the opening trumpet break in "El Nuevo Barretto" and inserted at about time 1:34 of "Oye Como Va." Of course, Santana plays the break on the guitar instead of trumpets. Fantastic!
Sunday, March 15, 2015
Weekly Music Recommendation: Those Darlins
From Nashville. Formed after meeting at Southern Girls Rock and Roll Camp. Their artillery includes a baritone ukulele and clogging. Their sound: reverby shoegaze meets boom-chika-boom rockabilly. What else do you need to know?
Monday, February 16, 2015
Weekly Music Recommendation: k-os
So versatile, you can't call this Canadian emcee's brand of music simply hip hop. Jumping from straight rapping over propulsive beats to singing over chunky rock guitars to almost everything in between, k-os spelling out Kevin's Original Sounds is fitting. But k-os also stands for "Knowledge of Self," and with his strong stance against hip-hop artists who focus on fame, fortune and firearms, this is more reason to listen.
Monday, February 9, 2015
Weekly Music Recommendation: Ought
Passive aggressive vocals that cavort from singing to talking to howling over a monotone, repetitive beat engulfed in garage post-punk fuzz. Imagine Iggy Pop fronting Television. This Montreal group begs the question: where have you gone CBGB?
Monday, February 2, 2015
Weekly Music Recommendation: Sturgill Simpson
A Kentucky country singer, whose raw, liquid baritone and lyrical acrobatics are giving CPR to the slick, overproduced, overhyped gunk that's trying to pass as today's country music. Simpson could have easily been one of the Highwaymen - the super group with Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson. "A picture's worth a 1,000 words but a word ain't worth a dime," he sings. Exactly.
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