As small a victory as it is, I'm proud that, as of right now, the highest rated review of Chris Cornell's single "Scream" is mine. I rated it one star and sarcastically titled it "Congratulations Timbaland" and went on to admonish him for making one of the strongest, most unique voices in Rock and making him sound like a really sulky Justin Timberlake.
I still stand by that, by the way. It annoys the crap out of me because, I'm a fan of Cornell, and I'm also a fan of innovation and something as counter-intuitive as a Grunge Lord with an electric R&B pop mastermind sounded at least as promisingly nutty as a rock god and a bluegrass angel, and that latter pairing produced something exquisite and utterly unique. I'm a staunch advocate of taking brilliant people out of their comfort zones and seeing what they come up with. So believe me when I say that I WANTED to like it.
And it breaks my heart because I read the touching, insightful blogs Chris has written about how much he appreciates fans going along with this new thing he's doing and I just wanna tell him just because it's new TO HIM doesn't make it NEW. I wanna tell him that the reason why he keeps having to insist that he actually contributed to the work in the press is that even his most ardent fans can't HEAR him under all the layering. Oh they hear the voice, sure, but there's almost nothing of Chris discernible in there. He could be anyone of the many singers Timbaland's worked with over the years.
Chris and Timbaland set out to revolutionize a genre and make a great record. And in doing so, they got caught up in their own egos and now the work languishes in limbo for unknown reasons. Release it already to the world can buy like eleventy billion copies, Cornell becomes an "overnight" pop sensation, he goes on to make sixty more records with Timbaland and rock is killed just that much deader. We all know what's comming, so lets just get it over with.
There's one thing that gives me hope though. Cornell played a couple of the "Scream" songs LIVE when I saw him perform a few months ago. And I gotta say, when they're played live, by a real band, with real instruments, they're not that bad. That's a hopeful sign.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Saturday, January 3, 2009
A Night at the Angels Roadhouse
Thank goodness, my hometown isn't quite so devoid of culture as I feared. A scan of the local paper today revealed a local band, Dionysos, playing somewhere called the "Angel's Roadhouse Bar and Grill" around a half-hour's drive from my parents' place. I myspaced the group, found it was some pretty heavy psychedelic stuff that was polished but humdrum, eh, they might be better live, so I roped my mom into comming with me and we took off through the thick, unseasonal fog into the wild unknowns of Yukaipa, California.
Angel's Roadhouse is exactly that. A Roadhouse. It was kinda seedy, it was full of rednecks and drunken regulars and the odd fan actually there to listen to the music. "Roadhouse" was also the name of the first band of the night, and funnily enough, they also happened to be the best band of the night. Bluesy, heavy southern rock, and four excellent musicians, but what was unique about them was that they were the only group of the night that felt like a GROUP. They really fed off eachother and read eachother's minds the way only the tightest rocking units do. One memorable moment was when the bass player, a massive blond with even more massive hair, broke a string and the duo of lead singer and lead guitarist teamed up on a delicate two-man peice to cover for him while he changed it. The lead singer was also a blond with big hair, loose limbs and the most by way of stage-crafty leaps and bounds. The guitarist was a brunette, not a blond. He handled his instrument effortlessly and the guy oozed the blues, clearly wriging all the glory he could out of his solos. He took over lead vocals for some songs and his voice was true, but unlike the other standouts of the evening, he didn't leave his band in the dust: he complemented them, they complemented him back, and the four of them rocked like they shared the same mind. Well done, boys, I am now a fan of yours.
After such a display of unity, the next act, "Stage IV Sleep", was a bit jarring in their disjointedness. I have a soft-spot in my heart for the classic rock four-peice line up: one singer, one bass player, one drummer, one guitarist, and these guys had some fans in the audience, cheering along and shouting back, but there was something off about them. The singer in question looked like he would have been more at home in a football jersey, sprinting towards the ten yard line then prowling the stage shouting profanity at the imaginary punk club moshing in his head. And I'm supposed to buy this buff jock is screaming about existential angst? The bass player was huge and sported a bleached mohawk, so he looked like he maybe could be wierd enough to actually be musical, but there was nothing really special about his bass playing either. The drummer was an Asian in glasses and a ski cap who chewed on his upper lip the whole time. The guitarist was a skinny, ropey, left-handed, bespecticled who looked for all the world like the kind of guy the Lead Singer would, ideally, be shoving face-first down a toilet. The guitarist was the stand-out of that band, standing with his skinny leg perched defiantly on the amplifyer, churning out the buff, punk-metal riffs that gave the songs their character. But like the restless pacing of the singer symbolized... I just couldn't figure out what they were doing there. Their fans liked them. I didn't.
The electric something machine. I wish I could remember their full name. The band itself? Meh. But they had emotion, and it seemed sincere. The singer was a hairy mountain creature, thrashing his vocal cords like any self-respecting metal fan. But they had the best musician of the evening. Their drummer was nothing short of a marvel: two of his drums were painted with a mountain scene, and ya know, given his expansive ten-arms-at-least sound, it was an apt metaphor for his playing. I couldn't have told ou about the string section, or about what songs they played (except a Rage Against the Machine cover which just revealed how short a guitarist can fall when compared to Tom Morello) but that drummer? Brilliant. All I can think is how he really deserves a better band then he's currently in.
As for the headliners, the ones I came to see? Dionysos? I really wanted to like them. They were polished, professional, and excellent musicians, in fact, if the drummer had competition for the runaway best musician of the night, it was that fluid, virtuosic bass player. But they had no chemistry. And their music had no personality. They were putting my mom to sleep. I felt sorry for them, because they played last, the place was empty, and no one seemed to be listening, and they had all the right ingredients, including heart; they WANTED to do well. And it just didn't work.
It was a late, late night. It's time to sleep
Angel's Roadhouse is exactly that. A Roadhouse. It was kinda seedy, it was full of rednecks and drunken regulars and the odd fan actually there to listen to the music. "Roadhouse" was also the name of the first band of the night, and funnily enough, they also happened to be the best band of the night. Bluesy, heavy southern rock, and four excellent musicians, but what was unique about them was that they were the only group of the night that felt like a GROUP. They really fed off eachother and read eachother's minds the way only the tightest rocking units do. One memorable moment was when the bass player, a massive blond with even more massive hair, broke a string and the duo of lead singer and lead guitarist teamed up on a delicate two-man peice to cover for him while he changed it. The lead singer was also a blond with big hair, loose limbs and the most by way of stage-crafty leaps and bounds. The guitarist was a brunette, not a blond. He handled his instrument effortlessly and the guy oozed the blues, clearly wriging all the glory he could out of his solos. He took over lead vocals for some songs and his voice was true, but unlike the other standouts of the evening, he didn't leave his band in the dust: he complemented them, they complemented him back, and the four of them rocked like they shared the same mind. Well done, boys, I am now a fan of yours.
After such a display of unity, the next act, "Stage IV Sleep", was a bit jarring in their disjointedness. I have a soft-spot in my heart for the classic rock four-peice line up: one singer, one bass player, one drummer, one guitarist, and these guys had some fans in the audience, cheering along and shouting back, but there was something off about them. The singer in question looked like he would have been more at home in a football jersey, sprinting towards the ten yard line then prowling the stage shouting profanity at the imaginary punk club moshing in his head. And I'm supposed to buy this buff jock is screaming about existential angst? The bass player was huge and sported a bleached mohawk, so he looked like he maybe could be wierd enough to actually be musical, but there was nothing really special about his bass playing either. The drummer was an Asian in glasses and a ski cap who chewed on his upper lip the whole time. The guitarist was a skinny, ropey, left-handed, bespecticled who looked for all the world like the kind of guy the Lead Singer would, ideally, be shoving face-first down a toilet. The guitarist was the stand-out of that band, standing with his skinny leg perched defiantly on the amplifyer, churning out the buff, punk-metal riffs that gave the songs their character. But like the restless pacing of the singer symbolized... I just couldn't figure out what they were doing there. Their fans liked them. I didn't.
The electric something machine. I wish I could remember their full name. The band itself? Meh. But they had emotion, and it seemed sincere. The singer was a hairy mountain creature, thrashing his vocal cords like any self-respecting metal fan. But they had the best musician of the evening. Their drummer was nothing short of a marvel: two of his drums were painted with a mountain scene, and ya know, given his expansive ten-arms-at-least sound, it was an apt metaphor for his playing. I couldn't have told ou about the string section, or about what songs they played (except a Rage Against the Machine cover which just revealed how short a guitarist can fall when compared to Tom Morello) but that drummer? Brilliant. All I can think is how he really deserves a better band then he's currently in.
As for the headliners, the ones I came to see? Dionysos? I really wanted to like them. They were polished, professional, and excellent musicians, in fact, if the drummer had competition for the runaway best musician of the night, it was that fluid, virtuosic bass player. But they had no chemistry. And their music had no personality. They were putting my mom to sleep. I felt sorry for them, because they played last, the place was empty, and no one seemed to be listening, and they had all the right ingredients, including heart; they WANTED to do well. And it just didn't work.
It was a late, late night. It's time to sleep
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