But Who Do They Sound Like? (What’s Eating TCP? Vol. The Second)

I now wish to address one of the methods typically employed in this day and age to address the many failings of genre classification – the act of musical association. Any time that I am attempting to get another person to check out a particular artist, I am, I would say about 90% of the time, confronted with one specific question from this person – “Well, who do they sound like?” This “Sounds-Like” phenomenon as I perceive it is an even bigger issue than the many failures of music genre, and as such I feel it be more of a problem than a solution to said failings. While it is an act that many indulge in without a thought to its consequences, I feel these acts of association serve only to detract from the artist’s right to exist in a musical realm they themselves have created – a band’s right to individuality, if you don’t mind the irony. And while you could argue that every band has its influences, does an act of association like comparing the sound of early Incubus to that of a mix between The Red Hot Chili Peppers and Mr. Bungle really serve to capture any of these three band’s true natures? Also, as indicated by my use of the word “early” in the previous statement, there is a fact these acts of association do not take into account – bands evolve, with many producing a wide variety of different arrangements and melodic styles by the end of their run. This is a fact that testifies even further to the nature of a band’s particular sound as a unique entity.

There is one openly apparent counter-point to this argument that I am aware of, and it is one that I wish to address now – the nature of a band or artist as a “concept” in their own right. Concepts by nature are constructed ideas used to help define or capture abstract notions, and since sound itself is an abstract force, it could be argued that a band’s particular sound is a concept in itself, one that may be employed to help describe the abstract that is the sound of another band. This is a very interesting notion to me, and, not to make it sound more epic than it actually is, I have spent a great deal of time mulling over its validity. Ultimately, I’ve come to the conclusion that, while sound will forever remain an abstract (synesthesia not withstanding), the sound a band produces is more of a work of art than anything, and as such deserves by its very nature to be associated with the artist(s) who gave birth to it. This gives way to a band’s right to its own uniqueness, the right to own, both physically and metaphysically, what it has created. I do ultimately feel that music produced is not a commodity that is simply given freely to the public, but is generated from the efforts of individuals. I therefore do not consider it the right of any individual to take it upon themselves to place an artist’s work into a sphere that is not entirely their own, which I suppose is where my problem with the “Sounds-Like” phenomenon originates from in the first place.

So what then is the solution? Is the general public who cannot accurately describethe sound of a band in terms of complex chord progressions or meter forced to label everything as “jangly” or “hard and fast?” I feel the answer lies in a more complex and sophisticated look at one’s music. In my own experience, there is always an opportunity to learn more about my music by listening more intensely to the beats and intricacies that drive its course; thus I can only imagine that there is room for others to do the same. Perhaps by examining more closely what specific features constitute and create the ever-evolving sound of a band we can escape the destruction of a band’s right to its own soundthrough the act of association or feeble classification.

Genre Stratification (What’s Eating TCP? Vol. 1)

If history has taught me anything it is this – those who can’t keep up with the times are destined to be left in the dust, or at least somewhere behind those who are kicking up said dust. The medium of music storage and technology is no different, as anyone trying to find the latest cut from Kanye West on cassette tape I’m sure will readily relate to you. However, this is an issue that is not relegated simply to the sphere of those “old fogies” still clinging to their James Taylor 8-tracks. Now even young hipsters like myself are faced with a difficult situation that needs to be addressed – that is, that the years I have spent building my beloved music collection may have been in the support of a dying medium. Having personally spent a good deal of time and an even greater deal of money on supporting the compact disc and the companies and artists that produce them, I have remained largely oblivious to the emerging prevalence and convenience of the MP3 as a musical medium. Yet, as I am not one to cling (at least not completely) to a sinking ship, no matter how slow the descent, I have recently sought to regain my status as an individual in-tune with progress and the Zeitgeist of music storage.

To be blunt, I bought an I-Pod. A big one too, with about 30 GBs worth of space to accommodate my varied tastes. This purchase was more than just a singular decision, however, as it set in motion a process that held sway over a good portion of my time for a good while. First, I was led to download the essential I-Tunes program with which to manage and dictate the nature of my new toy’s innards. This in turn led, of course, to the conversion of my music library from the physical world of the CD to the abstract realm of digital music. Afterwards, I was left to copy my library onto the device itself, essentially completing my journey into musical modernization. However, during the importing process a few issues became readily apparent to me, issues that re-sparked the last few embers of some custom concerns of mine relating to music classification and association, issues that I feel to be of interest and importance not only in reflection, but also in how they relate to human perceptions and psychology.  I’ll discuss the first issue here, and leave the second for the following posting.

The first and most glaringly obvious of the concerns that raged in the foreground of my mind was the concept of musical genre. Now, for years I have seen and noted the obvious inability of music genre to accurately capture and relate the sound of a band. One band of note and the one that comes first to mind when I reach for a great example of the failings of genre as a descriptive device is the band Tool. When I first discovered Tool it was in the “Metal” section of my local music store, and for the most part this “Metal” descriptor is the one which I have seen the band largely classified under throughout the years, and it is also the genre classification of Tool that I-Tunes itself subscribes to. Yet I seem to remember a time many years ago when, after placing a Tool album into the CD drive of one of my high school’s computers, the music program used to play the disc opted to classify the band as “Alternative Metal.” Moreover, doing a search online concerning the band’s genre or simply asking an individual or two to categorize the band can often yield some unruly and oftentimes confusing results, with many people classifying Tool as “Art Rock,” “Progressive Metal,” or even in some cases “Math Rock.” Cases like this, that involve the creation of sub-genres and the like, leads to a definitive “What the hell?” in my mind concerning the perception of genre as a whole.

While classifying Tool specifically as a “Metal” band is not necessarily the most outrageous of claims, some of the genres I have seen pop up by my favorite bands on the I-Tunes program have proved to be a bit arbitrary as far as I am concerned. For example, what exactly makes Primus any more of a “Metal” band than, say, Nirvana (who are listed as strait “Rock”)? With no outline given as to what qualifies a band or artist to be one genre or the other, I am left to ask myself who it is exactly that is defining these artists as “this, that, or the other.” After all, a forty-nine years old executive’s idea of what is “Metal” may not be the same as his twenty-year-old son’s perception. One even more curious quirk I’ve noticed within the program is a variation of genre within the sphere of a single artist. The band Joy Division is such a case, with the songs from their 1980 release Closer listed as “Alternative and Punk” (more on that in a moment), while the pieces from their singles collection Substance are apparently “Rock” songs. This only testifies all the more strongly to the arbitrary nature of genre assignment.

Speaking of arbitrary, I would like to focus for just a moment on the ever-popular “Alternative” label. The notion of “Alternative” music has grown ever more weightless as the years progress, a fact recognized fairly openly by many music fans. As so-called “Alternative” music has risen to the top of the charts in the last few decades, many are left to wonder what exactly this music is an alternative to at this point, as many bands this label apparently applies to have become mainstream musical juggernauts in their own right (Radiohead and The Smashing Pumpkins are two examples that come immediately to mind). This term has also degenerated to something of a catch-all category, used to classify anything that doesn’t openly fit into any other apparent genre. As such, this particular label stands as the ultimate example of the arbitrary nature of genre, as it does almost absolutely nothing to capture the sound of a particular band (though I suppose it’s ultimately a descriptive label than “Math Rock”). Moreover, when I examine the bands listed as under this descriptor in my library, I find that none of them are actually listed as solely “Alternative” but rather “Alternative and Punk.” This is especially infuriating, as it further blurs the perception of a band’s sound, making artists like Tori Amos just as “Punk” as bands like Blink-182, though “Punk” as a genre classification has become almost as arbitrary a label as “Alternative.”

Isolationism Made Easy

With the world of music quickly entering into the newest realm of its distribution – that of intangible digital music files – the Compact Disc as we know it has certainly been placed upon a timeline. Yet for the time being the CD is a still a viable medium, partly based on the desire of many music addicts to have something physical with which to associate the sounds they love. Personally, I consider myself a part of the latter demographic, and as such I tend to spend much of my boredom-induced free time scouring the racks of semi-alphabetized discs at my favorite CD Warehouse store, often with no intent or purpose as to what to buy. One such incident occurred recently, and a good chunk of my time wandering and searching was spent wondering if I had made a mistake. Had I perhaps overextended myself in the musical world? Was I just wasting time and money at this point? Then I stumbled upon a copy of Closer, the second and final studio album from the late 70s post-punk outfit Joy Division, and all doubts were laid to rest. I made my purchase, and left the store certain I would soon become a new man.

From the first listen onward, one word can be picked up from the mood set by the album and applied to its contents – solitude. The music itself is conducted in a particularly isolated way, with each instrument and sound effect banging away so as to leave its own impression on the track. This is especially true when speaking of the percussions of drummer Stephen Morris, whose drumming, whether with a conventional drum set or drum machine, has a habit of driving along each piece of music in the style of a brooding procession, a feeling most becoming the tone of the album. Indeed, many of the tracks seem to bring with them a very bleak, funeral-like melody, particularly the final two tracks, “Eternal” and “Decades.” The former piece provides the greatest example of this dynamic, with Morris’ aforementioned percussion combining with Peter Hook’s slow bass groove to create a particularly haunting feel, an atmosphere that is only intensified when joined by the sorrowful, unmatchable voice of Ian Curtis, whose lyricsin this case seem to describe directly the unfolding of a funeral, and the emotions of those left alone after the death of love ones. The latter track is marked distinctly by the isolated synthesizer which opens it, a testament to the evolving sound of the band.

The use of synthesizer and studio trickery is heavy in this album, and through their use other aspects of solitude and isolation are addressed in unique ways. The album was recorded in 1980, before the synthesizer’s heyday in alternative and pop music, and as such its sound stands as something entirely different than much of the synth-pop heard in the 80s. When coupled with Ian Curtis’ savagely introspective lyrics, the electronics and production effects present in the tracks seem to echo the cold, unfeeling nature of humanity and modern society that Curtis is preaching against. This is especially evident in the album’s first track, “Atrocity Exhibition.” While Curtis sings of the gladiatorial-like spectacle in which people pay to see the inhumane struggles of “all the ones who tried hard to succeed,” the music in the background is rife with a myriada synth-based production effects that mimic the cries of pained humans and the sounds of an excited crowd. In this track and others within the album, the heavy use of electronics and machinery adds a very cold, detached feel to the music, which is especially fitting when blended with the detached sense of humanity in modern society that Curtis’ lyrics describe.

This album comes with a warning label, however. As I stated, the songs pretty much all gravitate around the same gloomy center, and as such there are not really many tracks you could describe as “danceable.” This could prove a tough barrier to break through for many casual listeners. The only semi-upbeat track to be had is the second track, the aptly named “Isolation.” Hook’s bass and Bernard Sumner’s keyboards dominate this track, giving it an incredibly bouncy rhythm that foreshadows the style of Joy Division’s predecessor after Curtis’ suicide, New Order. The lyrics of “Isolation,” however, remain true to the album’s “doom-and-gloom” motif: “Mother, I tried, please believe me/I’m doing the best that I can/I’m ashamed of the things I’ve been put through/I’m ashamed of the person I am.” Based on the band’s progression into the world of synth-based rhythms, coupled with the album’s somber atmosphere, I would recommend this album to those who are already sold on the band, advising first-timers to look elsewhere first (The band’s singles collection, Substance, as well as their first album, Unknown Pleasures, are good places to start).

Overall, the album fulfills its intent and purpose – it illuminates the nature of solitude musically and lyrically. In all the tracks, each instrument plays as if completely isolated from the others, almost as if each musician was performing in their own private cell. Similarly, Curtis’ voice adds an almost otherworldly aspect to each song, as he cries out in a voice so quietly pained that it’s scary. When considering that the album was released after Curtis’ death, the funeral aspect of the record becomes much more relevant, and even the album cover, which depicts a funeral ceremony, seems to speak on more than just an aesthetic level. The funeral aspect of the album is fitting for the final foray of a pioneering group of musicians, and when considering the rise of New Order from the band’s ashes just a short time after the release of Closer, one can see how the album also serves to speak to a level beyond death – that of a fiery, if not slightly electronic, rebirth.

You’d Like It If You Had Robot Ears. . .

Ru-San’s is a great place to go for sushi. I don’t know the intricate details of the company, and so I don’t know if it’s a heavily placed franchise and as such can say that there’s one near you. But hopefully you’ll find one, cause they rock. At any rate, I’m not here to talk about the awesome sushi I’ve had there many times (which was AWESOME!), but instead to note something else about the establishment – they play a lot of techno. I don’t think I’ve been in there once without some manner of bass beat being there to greet me at the door. Then I get to bob my head to it while eating, making those damn chop sticks even harder to use.

It’s not like it’s casual techno either – this is some rave-worthy stuff here. Not that I know the differences between the various hilariously named techno genres – I wouldn’t know my acid house from my darkcore – but this stuff at least sounds like something that’s worthy of a few glowstick shakes at least.

A recent visit to Ru-San’s came at an opportune time – I’ve recently developed something of an ear for techno. This was spawned mostly by my love for Serial Experiments: Lain, one of the few Japanese anime’s I don’t find myself despising after mere moments because of it’s existential themes and cyber-punk influence. The show is accompanied by two original soundtracks, one of which is almost exclusively techno. But not just any techno mind you – good techno. This is stuff I can find myself entertained by despite its repetitive nature. Plus, it just sounds like what the modern age should sound like – a blending of technology and reality.

I’ve recently used my love for the Lain: Cyberia Mix to springboard into other areas of techno. Most of the stuff I’m checking out now is by Apex Twin, one of the many aliases of electronic musician Richard D. James. James does the Trent Reznor act, doing most of his material by himself in the studio. The song “Come To Daddy” introduced me to the Twin many years ago, but it wasn’t until now, with the subject of good techno hanging on my mind, that I followed through. It’s not really dance music per se, as it’s more like random assortments of studio sounds with frequent and fast-paced beats. Great stuff, though. Anyone interested should check out The Richard D. James Album or the Come To Daddy Ep

Wow, I’m now singing the praises of metal AND techno. What’s next, country? (If so, find me-kill me. Plain and simple)

Pop Is Dead! Long Live Pop!

Before I was even a Marilyn Manson fan I knew that I was supposed to be disappointed by The Golden Age of Grotesque.

This was a precondition set in my mind by a couple of buddies of mine, both old-school Manson fans, who were both rather let down by the brunk of his work after the release of Mechanical Animals, often seen as his magnum opus. So one of these friends loaned me his copy of Manson’s book, The Long Hard Road Out Of Hell. Despite the fact that I am fairly certain the book was ghostwritten, a very disappointing prospect, it remains great read, and I would highly recommend to it anyone who is either a Manson fan or wants to know what the hell this guy’s deal is. Immediately after completing the book I rushed out and bought a copy of Antichrist Superstar and the rest, as they say, is history.

Having now heard the full of extent of Manson’s studio discography (excluding b-sides and whatnot), I feel like I need to address the emotions I previously was introduced to concerning Manson’s later work, particularly with the release of last year’s Eat Me, Drink Me, a heavy departure from the typical Manson sound. See, for whatever reason my mind has always made connections between Manson and David Bowie. I think this is mainly for the Ziggy Stardust-like atmosphere evoked by the album Mechanical Animals, as well as Manson’s habit for pushing sexual boundaries much like Bowie did in his heyday. I tend to look at Manson’s output from a perspective similarly influenced by Bowie.

Bowie’s early output was very different from the work produced in his prime, with a much folkier sound to it all. Manson’s early work, the album Portrait Of A American Family, is similarly disconnected from his other material, possessing a much rougher sound rife with Trent Reznor’s studio meddling. Bowie’s path then took him to Hunky Dory, a much more mature and critically acclaimed record. This is mirrored in Manson’s career in the form of the acclaimed Antichrist Superstar album. The Ziggy/Animals parallel has already been established as well, and the follow-ups to each album – Bowie’s Aladdin Sane and Manson’s Holy Wood – share similarities as well in the way both albums seek to preserve a lot of the feelings and messages from their respective artist’s previous releases.

So what did Bowie do then? He released the famous “Thin White Duke” material -acclaimed albums like Low and Station to Station, and then, quite frankly, he started doing pop music. “Fame,” “Dance Dance” – many of Bowie’s later hits were definitely overly poppy in nature. And what are some of the main criticism’s hurled at Manson’s newer material? That it’s too poppy, too far of a departure. Both The Golden Age of Grotesque and Eat Me, Drink Me have songs that definitely depart from the typical hard rock of Manson’s previous releases, creating many of the criticisms hurled against the two albums.

But is this such a bad thing? Bowie did pop and the pop was good. It was a departure, but it was good. Also, artist like AFI and Incubus have been releasing similarly “poppy” albums in the last few years, and as far as I’m concerned they went over well. And Manson’s stuff does to. It’s definitely different, but worth a shot. While not my favorite albums from him by far and away, both Grotesque and Eat Me, Drink Me have appeals all their own, and are worthy to be ignored simply for a few stylistic decisions. So if you’re a Manson fan and you bought the negative hype around these albums, I plead with you, just go check them out. If you don’t like them, that’s cool, but what, really, do you have to lose? Oh, and that last message can be issued to those of you who don’t know the joys of Marilyn Manson yet at all. . .you should fix that, btw

Perfect Day

One day, I will be able to tell my hypothetical children about how I saw Lou Reed before he hypothetically left for whiter, warmer pastures. And of course these hypothetical children will hypothetically care about their father’s nerd-like musical obsessions and/or have any earthly idea who Lou Reed is.

For those of you somewhat like these imagined offspring, a wee bit of background. Before the mainstream excesses of punk rock and glam rock in the 70s, there was the controversial nature of The Velvet Underground, a New York based band rocking out in and around the early 60s and fronted by. . .any guesses? The Underground were originally produced by Andy Warhol in the studio, as well as flanked by European pop star Nico. Eventually the show boiled down to Reed and his bandmates, and after a handful of exemplary albums (Velvet Underground & Nico, the first record, is my favorite) the band dissolved and Lou took his act solo.

So then, to establish a setting: It’s June of 2005, and my friend Sam knows levels more about Lou than I do. At this time, I know next to nothing, as it was Sam’s influence that sparked my interest in Reed to begin with. At any rate, both of ours heard about the (then) annual Music Midtown Celebration in Atlanta hosting a slew of great bands this year – Pixies, The White Stripes, The Killers – and among the all-star cast was the former VU frontman himself. The tickets were costly, but for Truth we knew we had to pick up the cause on this one.

Lou played on the first day, and, sadly, played opposite Interpol, a band I was (and am) extremely enamored with. While I initially opted to attend parts of both shows, I was not prepared for what was to happen that day. For when Lou got on the stage, when he played the opening chords and sang the opening verses to songs I would never recognize, I was. . .well, entranced really. Magic imagery works really well alongside music, and I think its shows like this one that provide evidence as to why. It wasn’t that I was particularly impressed by the style or the mastery of his performance that got me – it was simply what I saw in my mind when I looked into Reed’s aged face. I thought about everything he had seen in his days. Surely there were a plethora of crazy stories from the 60s and 70s written on that face, locked behind those eyes. Those eyes. . .those eyes had laid sight on men like David Bowie and Iggy Pop. I wondered if Lou ever saw anything differently himself after moments like that.

So I can say, to whoever may care, that I saw the hell out of Lou Reed. No I didn’t see him in his early days, when energy may have been less precious and the constant mainlining would have ensured an intriguing show, but I saw him after those days had left their toll on him, as well as his eyes, and so in a way I think I’ve seen some facets of Lou Reed vicariously. I fell in love that day. Transfomer has since become a part of my library, while Reed himself has become part of my vocabulary. Such a perfect day. . .

Sunday Morning: An Alternative Lifestyle

You know, every day didn’t used to be like Sunday. There once existed a time where Sunday was one of the few days getting up at ten o’clock was an enjoyable affair. It allowed me an hour to complete my normal morning routine and then sit down at eleven for The Alternative, the only show that made VH1 Classic a channel worth having besides the Pop-Up Video reruns. The Alternative was a two-hour block of music videos from classic alternative bands from the 80s and early 90s, and every Sunday I sat in front of the TV, shirking breakfast and letting the music feed me in my own form of a holy communion.

Is the divine imagery a bit much? I don’t think so. After all, it was this show that introduced me to Kate Bush, and she and her music are some of the closest things to actual divinity on Earth that I’ve perceived. The Alternative was responsible for my first encounter with Kate in the form of the video for one of her early songs “Wuthering Heights.” It was then subsequently responsible for my first response to Kate’s music – “What the hell is this!?” A far cry from the unfailing loyalty I show to her now, I know, but my defense will be that “Wuthering Heights,” showcasing Kate’s excessively shrill vocal track, is not exactly her most accessible song. The show was quick to come to Kate’s defense, though, and after seeing videos for the songs “Running Up That Hill” and “This Woman’s Work,” (simultaneously hearing these songs for the first time as well) I was officially hooked, and would forever more be driven to levels of idolatry for Kate Bush previously reserved only for the likes of Spider-Man and Morrissey.

Another band I came to love thanks to my experiences with The Alternative was the Manchester-based group James. I knew of James from their song “Laid” that got occasional radio play, but upon after being introduced to the song “Say Something” through its video I was more than a little interested in checking these guys out. Their album Laid has since become one of my all-time favorites, and their album Seven is also very impressive, though it was hard to get a hold of, and I had to get the damn thing imported.

Also, without The Alternative my love affair with The Sundays might not be quite as passionate. The band shared the name of the very day my ritual took place, making it seem like a divine omen in a way that I should listen to them. The video for “Here’s Where The Story Ends” was the only one that got any significant play, but it was more than enough. Harriet Wheeler’s voice creates worlds of its own, and I’ve since been heavily lost in them many, many times.

I owe a great deal to The Alternative for introducing me to a good number of bands that I’m still checking out heavily today, groups like The Jesus and Mary Chain, My Bloody Valentine, Big Audio Dynamite, and New Order. There were also a good many videos from popular alternatively-labeled acts of the day, featuring a lot of early R.E.M., Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead, Tori Amos, Catherine Wheel. . .honestly, the list goes on and on here. So imagine my surprise then when one Sunday, after a few weeks off from my usual ritual, I come back to find a huge void in the place of my beloved two-hour block. The void came in the form of Rock of the 80s or some other banal piece of programming that make VH1 Classic worth ignoring. I suppose I’ll always have the memories, but it was still painful to have the only form of a religious experience that would speak to me ripped away. Still, the music works in mysterious ways, and whose to say really – maybe saints like Suzanne Vega and The Butthole Surfers are watching over me still today. I suppose one can only hope. And pray. Amen.

Songs About Trains

Until recently, there was a lot I didn’t know about the blues.

No, I didn’t know that it derives a lot of its forms from African polyrhythms and slavehand field hollers. And no, I didn’t know the contributions the blues form had on writers like Langston Hughes. And don’t get me wrong, that’s stuff IS important and it WAS interesting to learn. But you know what’s even worse? I didn’t know about the blues itself – about Blind Willie McTell, Robert Johnson, Howlin’ Wolf, and so many others. But that’s all remedied now.

Since the beginning of the year, I’ve become increasingly immersed in the blues as an art form thanks to my American Lit. class focusing on the blues in American culture, as well as to various projects I’ve done for some of my other classes focusing on the blues’ inter-cultural implications. Did you know that the blues is similar in form to many Muslim spirituals? The more you know. . .

But let’s be realistic here – my interest in blues would be for naught if I didn’t like the music. But I like music. Oh yes, I really like the music. Having to shell out a rough $60 for a CD set never felt so good. This “text” for my class comes in the form of a five disc set comprising the soundtrack to a series of blues documentaries produced by Martin Scorsese. It chronicles the rise of the form from the early 20s and 30s up to the blues revival of the 60s and then onto the more popular blues rock of the 70s and 80s. A slew of names await the listener in this set, from the almost mythical bluesmen of yesteryear – Blind Lemon Jefferson, Blind Willie Johnson, Charlie Patton – to more well-known artists with blues undertones – Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Allman Brothers Band, Bonnie Raitt. The list on both sides goes on and on.

The set does a good job, and the discs proceed mostly in chronological order. Many of the original recordings for the early blues tracks had deteriorated or been lost, however, so a good number of the pieces from the early artists are re-recordings done in and around the 60s. Discs 1 and 2 are mostly pieces from the early days of blues in the pre-Depression era (Ma Rainey, Skip James). Disc 3 displays a lot of tracks that show the link between the blues and early rock-n-roll (Elvis, Chuck Berry), Disc 4 shows mostly the blues within the guitar rock of the 60s (Fleetwood Mac, Bob Dylan) and Disc 5 rounds things out with a good mix of modern rockers (Stevie Ray Vaughn, Johnny Winter) and artists hailed within the current blues scene (Keb’ Mo’, Corey Harris).

Never fear, though. The blues legends are here en masse as well, and the set offers quick fixes from the likes of B.B. King, Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Blind Willie McTell, Buddy Guy, Eric Clapton and others, including Sonny Boy Williamson. . .both of them. Overall, I would say this set was a perfect intro into blues music, and Scorsese gets my personal thanks for helping to establish a fine compilation (I’m sure he’ll treasure my gratitude always). I’ve been directing myself in more specific directions lately, checking out artists I found myself enamored by in the collection like Blind Willie McTell, Howlin’ Wolf, and Skip James. I’ve got a lot to consider though, as now I essentially how a whole new type of music to explore. So, until next time, I’ll be goin’ where the Southern cross the Dog. . .

How The Other Half Sings

Driving around with my friends can often lead to interesting musical discussions, as all of us take music rather personally overall. These discussions often turn heated when I’m controlling the tunes in the car, as my “weird” tastes in music come to the forefront. For example, when I declared to one of my buddies without hesitation that I would take Tool over Led Zeppelin any day, I got more than my share of the stink-eye. Another occasion, similarly involving Zeppelin and the same friend, saw me ostracized for my decision to choose a 10,000 Maniacs song on the radio over a Zep song on another station. This got me thinking about a sentiment that many of my friends have made clear when riding in the car with me: they don’t like female singers.

Now I don’t really think it’s anything personal, really. It’s just that. . .well, they don’t like them I guess. As most of my friends swear by classic rock, I tried to play the Janis Joplin and Heart cards, but still didn’t get much of a response in my favor. My attempts to chip away at their musically-mysogynistic attitudes ever since have been repelled, and at this point I’m pretty much ready to resign myself (or rather my friends) to fate.

You see, this argument weighs heavy with me because. . .well, I tend to like most female singers. I don’t really know why it is, but when I hear a female voice singing for whatever reason my ears perk up, and I listen to them in a different way than I would a guy. Like I said, it’s not that I swear by the glory of all female vocalists from “Ma” Rainey to K.T. Tunstall (who both kinda rub me the wrong way actually, Tunstall especially), but a feminine voice can oftentimes provide a new outlook with which to perceive a song. Plus, a lot of them sing beautifully! So, here I’ve decided to list a few of my personal favorite female singers and/or groups with female vocalists, in the hopes that many of you who wish to can escape the isolated realm my friends occupy. So then. . .

Kate Bush: With an extremely eccentric approach to music and a killer range, Bush is definitely my pick for the best female vocalist of all time. The sheer variety in her music allows for her to showcase that voice of hers in all kinds of crazy ways. Her unique brand of ever-changing tunes have influenced artists from John Lydon of Sex Pistols fame to bands of today like Placebo and Radiohead.

TCP Recommends: Hounds Of Love

Tori Amos: A master at piano, Amos oftentimes provides nothing to accompany that piano except her own voice, and that is what gives her music it’s particular flavor. Amos’ voice can levitate in the air just as easily as it can fall back down to earth, and her range allows her to explore in her musical style in ways similar to Bush.

TCP Recommends: From The Choirgirl Hotel

The Sundays: This British group from the early 90s is spearheaded by the dreamy voice of Harriet Wheeler. Wheeler’s vocal style, which is extremely high in pitch and thick with a British accent, perfectly accentuates the style of the band in its atmospheric and ambient nature. A very light and flowing sound is produced, with Wheeler’s voice often stealing the show though with its ability to create mood through both lyrical and vocal stylings.

TCP Recommends: Reading, Writing, And Arithmetic

boa: Not be confused with the Korean pop singer, this British rock group gained most of its fame in Japan. Starting as a funk band, boa has since broadened their spectrum, incorporating a variety of rock elements into their songs. Jasmine Rodger’s voice is a perfect backdrop to the sound of the band as a whole, as she has the ability to manipulate her voice to match the driving pace of the music itself. This allows the band to drift from harder jams to softer, more soothing melodies seamlessly and without it seeming forced.

TCP Recommends: Twilight

Belly: Combining the best of early-90s rock with a more folk mentality, Belly create their own brand of rock. The music of the band has a very authentic, stripped down feel, and Tanya Donelly has a voice that “bares-it-all” in similar ways

TCP Recommends: Star

Bjork: Everybody likes Bjork. I don’t really know much by her, but everybody likes Bjork. So I guess you should like Bjork to. So go do it.

TCP Recommends: Debut (it’s the only one I have. Incidentally, she has an album with Mike Patton featured on it that I’ve been meaning to check out.

There are others of course. Plenty of them, in fact. This is pretty much just a cross-section of my all-time favorites and what I’ve been into lately. That’s it for now, and, please, bring on the “You’d take Tool over Zeppelin?!” comments. I welcome them.

Let’s Get Visual

You know, I’ve always found music visualizers to be pretty interesting.

I’m sure many of you are just as hip to this groove as I am, ultimately. Who hasn’t found at least some manner of joy in vegging out to the (occasionally) rhythmic throbbing of various geometric rave parties in the comfort of the home? Oh, and the colors!! Synesthesia never felt so good!

My interest in visualizers was particularly pricked some time ago, when I was introduced to the joys of the X-Box 360. Oh yes, it is a pretty decent game console on the whole, but have you ever put a CD in it, man? If not, and you have access to both, please do so. . .now.

Pretty cool, right? I think the synchronization of the music and the visuals is spot on, really. It’s a lot more “in step” than, say, the Windows Media Player visualizer. I’ve also checked out the PS3′s visualizer and, while intimidating in its own way, I still think the 360 offers a bit more in terms of. . .well, visuals really. Plus there’s the option to navigate through the pulsing visual “landscape” with the controller, which is pretty sweet.

After long periods of staring at the mixed bag of rainbow-colored shapes, however, I think all those visuals started to have an impact on my brain. I started to think about then nature of music as a kind of “call to action,” an invite to general population to get up and do something, if for nothing more than just a dance. I though of music as in connection with the act of “rising” and with the nature of “doing,” and I think this connection is pretty solid. After all, to quote Mississippi Fred McDowell, when you hear music sometimes “You Gotta Move.” And I suppose the music itself determines the motion, so whether it’s Rage Against The Machine calling for political uprising, or The Beastie Boys declaring the right to party, music still exists to incite action.

So why was this so heavy on my mind? Well, because I started to juxtapose me, chilling on the couch, watching my music, with the music itself. While the music existed to incite a rise, the visuals, in my mind, served to discourage action. Then I realized something. No matter how good the 360′s visualizer was, and no matter how synesthetic the experience might have been, this was ultimately nothing more than an attempt to turn music into television.

And then I felt a little dirty.