The Justice Tour: Slim's 3/26/2009

I must have bad audience-karma. Two nights ago I was trapped in the midst of some loud killjoy annoying girls. Tonight I spent the whole time getting rammed into by some of the loudest, most aggressive, most annoying hecklers I've ever encountered. One of them humped me at one point. I put up with it because I wanted that spot near the stage. I was the only female they did that to who did so.

Jackasses.

I told myself I wasn't going to go for this one. I mean, the last Justice show is just damn impossible to top. It doesn't get better then the (almost) reunion of a living myth, a pick, and a hug from Wayne Kramer.

I just had to push my luck and attend the show at Slim's tonight in SF. Fortunately it was a good show. The hecklers were a pain and days that end without hugs from Wayne Kramer are definitely less desirable then the ones that do, but there was still Tom, there was Steve Earle, there was Boots and the whole Freedom Fighter Orchestra. Joe Satriani played the guitar with his teeth. Sammy Hagar sang some tunes with an outsized attitude. Wayne Kramer had this adorable huge goofy smile on his face the whole time. And it must have been Carl Restivo's birthday or something, because everyone, and I do mean everyone, was walking over to give him some love: Satriani even let him rock a solo...kind of, I mean, Joe Satriani being Joe Satriani, he was still playing like twelve notes to his one, but The Wizard's muscular black Gibson was definitely being shoved into the spotlight more often then usual. He even demonstrated Tom's own kill-switch trick.

Steve Earle was back with his acoustic guitar and harmonica, knocking out some folk music that was quiet enough that the Hecklers felt it was the perfect time to start abusing the other members of the audience. Through the night, various people would try to shut them down. No one would succeed. Not even the poor Slipknot guy who had the misfortune to be the subject of their misplaced adoration could get them to stop their drunken hollering for more then around two seconds.

The Hecklers loved Slipknot, and wouldn't let a single moment go by without saying so, which was sad becayse the Slipknot guy (Cory something) was a genuine guy. He was introduced as the first person ever to agree to one of Tom's Justice shows, he had an acoustic, a thick muscled neck, pale blonde hair, a strong, surprisingly sweet and emotive voice, as well as a sense of humor (played some country-western chords for fun). The Hecklers just wouldn't leave him alone: hollaring out "ACOUSTIC SLIPKNOT!!" and requests for what I guess are Slipknot songs. I felt sorry for him. I also felt sorry for me, since the Hecklers kept ramming into me, trying to debate politics during the acoustic songs, songs, and pressing against me during the rowdy parts. Also, they had my purse and stuff under the stage right in front of them. They didn't steal anything.

Steve Earle was talking about handing out barittos to homeless people as part of their volunteer day, and how he just happened across a guy who'd played in a band that he had recorded a song with back in 1986 (year I was born.) This guy still plays in that band. he came out with an emaciated face, a small steel recorder, and clothes worthy of the homeless to play the the song in question.

Earle and Morello covered "Ghost of Tom Joad" again. It's still great.

When it was finally time for "This Land Is Your Land" Tom and co. were joined onstage by...lots of people I didn't recognize who were playing what looked like Tom's gear: one of them had the Gibson he played two nights ago in Seattle (drop D tuning it turned out, which caused problems and required re-tuning mid-song), a thin, pretty singer* who dove out into the audience to deliver his verse, a guy on Morello's own "Arm the Homeless" (hope he knows that honor: playing THAT guitar live).... and another set of house lights that failed to come on on cue, but oh well.

*This guy turned out to be the frontman of OK GO. I didn't recognize him without the colors.

Wasn't as great as Seattle, but I have a hunch very little actually will be.

Wayne Kramer didn't come out and hug me. The Hecklers actually got the pick he lobbed in our direction, which I resent.

Someone out there, please get Tom a new pair of suspenders. He broke his in Seattle and I miss them.

Now the question is whether or not I'll actually get over my shyness and volunteer for something. I donno. I'll sleep on that one.

The Justice Tour: The Crocodile, Seattle, 3/23/2009

Am I allowed to say that rocked?

Am I allowed to say that the venue was small and smelled of paint? That the backstage was basically a screen that apparently had the power of Mary Poppins's magical bag judging from the sheer number of techies, children, and various other mysterious persons who zipped in and out of existence? That the night was plagued by technical difficulties including, but not limited to; a failing microphone, ineffective lighting cues, one guy stepping on another guy's guitar chord, Tom not knowing the words to his own songs and awkwardly stalling while a roadie ran to the dressing rooms to fetch the cheat-sheets, then drafting audience members to hold them up?

Am I allowed to say that none of that stopped this from being the single most perfect rock and roll show I've ever been to?

There's a moment we're all after when we go to rock shows. A moment of complete and total happy abandon where everything just rocks so hard and comes together so well that you forget everything else. These are moments when crazy stuff happens. This happened to me tonight.

It helped that I had great seats. Arriving an hour or so early we got a nice, early spot in line and were some of the first into the Croc. Tickets were sold out and the room was going to be full to capacity, so this part was important. I claimed a spot right in front sat with my back to the stage, waiting for the show to start, pondering such deep questions as "who'se American Flag guitar is that?" and playing "guess whose legs" with whatever pair of nikes/parachute pants was visible behind that not-so-private curtain.

By the way, anyone who says Seattle people aren't friendly have obviously never actually talked to them in their rock-club element. An aging grungie with a big smile and an effusive personality struck up a conversation about how he'd been in Seattle in the early 90s, he was a drummer, he'd been so bummed when they'd closed the Croc. He'd been to clubs all over the nation, and this was THE club as far as he was concerned. He's glad it's open again, it's death would have meant Microsoft won: the corporate culture had finally stomped out the aging but still resilient grunge presence. Then he veered into a defense of drugs, and how drugs made him a better drummer, which is where he lost me, but he was a sweet guy all the same and I was glad to meet him. His name was Billy. He asked me to save his spot while he went to "shoot some heroin."

I stared.

"Just kidding, I'm going to go get a beer."

"Oh. Okay then." Grunge joke. Muaaa!

He left. His spot was promptly filled by three (or four) knattering women all wearing tons of makeup. I was fated not to like these women, but more on that later. First it's time for the black-lights, the oddly florescent guitar, and Wayne Kramer.

In an intro eerily similar to Boots Reilly's the first time I ever saw Tom Morello, he said he usually has a full band up with him (he's in the MC5), but he was "falling behind the Nightwatchman and Steve Earl." And with that he launched into two mid-tempo, warm renditions of songs I didn't recognize, but enjoyed quite a bit: Kramer made being alone with his guitar look effortless, which is frankly more then Tom Morello's managed to do quite yet, though Tom's banishing the mood lighting with "I don't look good in blue" was a nice way to kick start.

For the record, he's right about the blue. Something about his skin-tone: he turns purple. Not a good color on anyone.

This was emphasized when he read his introductory speech off of papers taped to the floor, managing to sound both enthusiastic and like he had. a. bit. of teleprompter. disease. Tom's a lot of things; he is not is a natural front-man, and his stage-banter skills still need some developing. He gets away with it because of his naked enthusiasm. The guy just oozes goodwill and a moral mission. A guy this much in love with what he's doing can't help but bring you along for the ride.

He introduced Blue Scholars, an excellent local hip-hop act who won my geek heart right away by jamming their first beat on an iPhone. Clipped, clever rhymes delivered with perfect dictionary precision, their songs ran together for me but the themes were clear ones that I related to, like the good/street hip-hop vs. the bad/radio hip-hop. As someone who dispised hip-hop until I discovered the topical treasure trove that isn't on the radio, I could only agree. These guys are good.

There was a frazzle to get set-up again, guitars and techs and wires everywhere for what seemed like a long time. Organized chaos with emphasis on the chaos. Eventually everyone came out, grabbed their gear (Tom had "Arm the Homeless!" prompting the squeals from me and everyone else with any sense in the world) and launched into their first song, which wasn't one I recognized. It's either new or it's just a cover I didn't know, but I was glad when they launched into their standard repertoire of such populist sing-a-longs as "Whatever it Takes," and "The Lights are On in Spidertown." Although the Freedom Fighter Orchestra again wore the starched, ironed shirts of the First Day of the Tour they've morphed into a tighter rocking unit since I saw them last: exchanging the kind of subtle (and not-so-subtle) signals of a group that's put in it's share of roadmiles, and even a few in-jokes. Tom's black Nightwatchman uniform looked anything but ironed. In fact, Tom's outfit was a mess. He looked like he'd slept in the dirt, maybe out of comradery with the homeless children of Seattle, whom he was advocating for so passionately during his speeches.

100% of the profits from the night's show went to a Seattle homeless shelter for kids and teens, and it's hard to hold a grubby shirt against a man whose heart was so obviously in the right place. It's a moment where you imagine you can see how, exactly, he gets all these legends to agree to play his show even though they're not making any money. All too soon the orchestra put their stuff down and disappeared behind the magic curtain, and Morello introduced "hero and champion of the working man," Steve Earle.

This guy is a legend for a reason. Talk about a study in making it all look so easy. Acoustic, harmonica, laid back attitude, just the right amount of fire. Talked about voting for Obama but still seeing all kinds of crap he didn't agree with all over the TV. Except this one: "There is no such thing as Clean Coal. Coal's an ugly back mess and once you get it in your lungs it never leaves. Looks like some people are trying to bring back the good ol' days of coal mining: when everyone did well except for the folks who had to go down in the fucking hole. This is a song for them." I didn't know his songs but Tom obviously did, and he was sitting right off to the side of the stage, singing along and clearly enjoying every minute. This guy's a hero of his; it was written all over his grinning face.

So imagine my annoyance when the females who'd crammed in front of me insisted on talking all through the quiet acoustic numbers. And talking loud, and giggling, and stacking their coats and purses on the edge of the stage which restricted the room the rest of us had access to, meaning we were crammed into a smaller amount of space then we should be. Would not take hint that they should move thier stuff. Me not like these girls.

Anyway, I sprawled over the stage and concentrated really hard and Steve Earle is quite something, he really is. After around three songs, he brought Tom and the Freedom Fighter Orchestra back out, and said this song was one off his new album of Townes Van Zandt covers. Now, Townes Van Zandt was a legendary folk hero who wrote beautiful, delicate songs. Listen to around three of them, and I guarentee you will want to kill yourself. Performing a whole album of Townes covers seems a risky endevour. Tom apparently plays on this track on the cover record. A lucky combination of Morello's electronic muscle-mass and Earle's sardonic, throaty singing negated the suicide-inducing quality that Van Zandt is known for and the show could continue.

Also, at some point, Wayne Kramer came out, picked up the American Flag guitar, and joined in the playing. He has the easy manner of a veteran performer, and gave the rhythm playing a nice steroid shot. He was also right in front of me. I had a front-row seat to his getting his guitar-chord stepped on as he was trying to plug in.

This is kind of the end of the "Annoying girls" saga, so bear with me. What annoyed me the most about those four girls was that they refused to dance. They bobbed their heads politely sometimes, but I maintain one of the golden-rules of rock concert-going is that if you don't want to jump around, you don't belong in the very front row. Hell, the band can SEE YOU THERE, and if they see you not getting into it, what are they going to think? This isn't the fucking ballet.

Fortunately, one of the songs Tom, Earle, and Wayne would play was "The Ghost of Tom Joad." If you haven't seen the video of Tom performing this with Springsteen, punch yourself in the face, then get to youtube. All kinds of awesome, so when I realized this group were going to play it live, I went a little crazy. The song didn't disappoint. The amazing thing about Tom (and why the people who call him a charlatan are wrong) is that he can launch into these crazy, pyrokinetic solos that contain some ungodly noises but he never looses the thread of the song. I love it, I love it to bits, and I was going to show that to the universe, spoil-sport stationary neighbors or no. I felt a bit like a one-woman mosh-pit, and got some seriously dirty looks, which was kind of gratifying. You know lady, if you moved those coats in front of you to down by your feet, you could step far enough away from me that I wouldn't be kicking you in the shins by accident. But you never figured that out and I couldn't be bothered to tell you. To the end I guess I'd rather be oblivious then out-of-line. Either way, the nice ladies didn't crowd me or even really bother me for the rest of the show, so that's the last you'll hear of them.

After this, a number of dudes left the stage and the set-up vaguely changed for the world premiere of Street Sweeper, the no-longer-secret band Tom and Boots formed a few years ago that they're about to take on tour with Nine Inch Nails and Jane's Addiction.

Now, I don't really like Street Sweeper. Boots Reilly is a human feline, the ultimate cool cat full of intelligent scorn and a lofty attitude and it just plain doesn't match the bombast of Morello's huge monster guitar hooks. Zack De La Rocha could face down a wall of electric guitars because he had such a livid delivery that such unholy, tormented, inescapable noise was a perfectly fitting backdrop for his rage. Zack's a molotov cocktail to Boots's cold beer, and it just doesn't blend. Tom needs to learn him how to play plugged-in without morphing into the 800-pound gorilla he really is. I didn't hear a single thing Boots said for his entire set.

Don't get me wrong, Boots is a hell of a performer and he's worth watching if just to see the way he moves, and the music rocked hard enough that there was plenty to enjoy, even if the songs all ran together and the volume of the microphone was so low that I couldn't make out the words anyway.

Also, Wayne Kramer totally flicked me a guitar pick. So not kidding. He looked right at me, smiled, flicked it high in the air, and it came down right on my palm. So I guess even if the annoying girls were too cool to show enthusiasm (in the first fucking row) there were some others who didn't object too much. I am going to have actually check out his band now.

I am really fading now, but I'm determined to get this written. I don't remember much of the specifics about how Mark Arm came out: relatively little aplomb, but also...plenty of aplomb. He took Boots's mic and was, for a moment, confused about whether he should sing into that one or Tom's Mic, since Tom had deserted his Front-Center-Frontman position, also for reasons I forget. He ended up keeping the hand-held one, shrieking through a song I didn't recognize it...again, but it had something to do with the American Dream, I hope I'd recognize it if I heard it again because I really liked that tune. Arm's singing can still peel the paint off the walls, and he's fascinating to watch.

The next big entrance had nothing to do with aplomb. It was mid-song. No one said anything at the time. He just walked onstage from behind the curtain and stood right fucking in front of me. And he already had his black Gibson SG strapped on. That was kind of all he had to do for the room to go completely mental.

For the life of me I wish I could remember what song they were on when he did this. I know he was there by the time the group (now consisting if Kid Lighting, Tom Morello, Wayne Kramer, Tom's drummer guy, and... uh, the new guy) launched into "Kick Out the Jams!" which is a song I like under any circumstances, but.... especially these. Um, it rocked. It really really rocked. I can't say much more then that, except...fucking wow.

Yes, it was Kim Thayil. He had a neatly trimmed beard, a long, frizzy ponytail, and carried himself like a king: movements reserved but powerful, eyes fixed mostly on his instrument. This is a guy who doesn't screw around. He doesn't have to. Ladies and gentlemen, the Grunge Lords are in the house.

And he was RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. I mean, I had to be careful where I threw my devil horns so's not to hit him. I was so close the only way he could really have seen me was if he looked straight down. I could have reached out and touched him. I didn't, that would have been weird, but I could have.

Song over. Mark left. Tom headed off to stage right, introducing Ben Shepard, also looking lordly and somber, handling his black fender bass like it was serious business. Tad someone, and a name I didn't catch that must have belonged to the handsome blond drummer* who took over the kit, giving Tom's poor guy a much-deserved break. I'm sure he was a big deal too, but I didn't know him. Tom introduced them as "Tadgarden" which was totally lame but didn't matter because they'd launched into action and...uh...

See, I pride myself on my ability to describe almost anything. I can't describe "Tadgarden's" set. Well, yes I can. It was Soundgarden without the vocals. The Tad's microphone was turned so low that his Not-Chris-Cornell-factor was easy to ignore, as was he. I had a frontrow seat to Kim's guitar work. The last song they played was "Let me drown." And they were... fucking... Soundgarden. Or at least, the closest we're probably ever gonna get. And there were kids backstage, sporting headphones and getting what was probably their first good look at "Dad's Old Band." I could relate. I was less then ten years old when Soundgarden were big, and this was my first real look at what all the fuss was about.

And this fuss was about a whole fucking lot. These three guys, with all the signs of the unrehearsed, took all of around ten seconds to morph together into what might be the tightest rocking unit I have ever seen live.

EDIT: Okay, this is a major Mea Culpa: That Handsome Blond drummer was Matt Cameron. Yes, THE Matt Cameron. My only excuse is that looking at old pictures of Soundgarden depresses me, and Cameron wasn't on the formal bill. Apparently he had told the press he wasn't going to show up, then changed his mind and ended up behind the drumkit. Awesome. Chris Cornell, the spoilsport, wasn't there because he's too busy living la vida popstar somewhere in South America, but you almost didn't miss him: not with Tom Morello gleefully playing 2ed Guitar like it was a childhood dream. Would have been nice to have some singing to go along with the song, but Tad's microphone was turned so low that if you wanted vocals, you had to provide them yourself, and plenty did.

Tom looked like the happiest man ever to play 2ed Guitar. "I haven't been this fucking excited in a long time. It's like I won some kind of contest or something." Tad started to ask what people wanted to hear, but Kim didn't even wait for him to finish the question before launching right into the intro to "Spoonman." They roared on like a freight train from there.

Rock epiphanies. We live for them. That and the dirty looks the annoying stationary girls shoot me when I'm leaping around, and I swear I did a lot of that. Cornell's solo show didn't have half this much electricity, even at it's highest moments.

There wasn't much you can do to beat a glimpse, however brief, of a genuine legend, so they wisely wrapped with an all-star version of Tom's favorite rebel jam, "This Land is Your Land." Mark Arm was summoned back and told to grab a microphone (he had been standing just offstage for the entire Tadgarden set). Wayne Kramer came back, Steve Earle came back, Boots came back, everyone except Blue Sky came back. "Get Kim back out here, he needs to rock a solo on this one," said Morello, and Kim appeared, grabbed the cable and plugged in again. I was already familiar with Tom's closing-act trick of bringing up the house-lights and telling the whole room to jump up and down, but apparently whoever was in charge of the lighting booth wasn't, and although the blue lights went up, the house lights remained off. The singers handed off the verses, and Mark Arm's verse was tragically foiled by the fact that the microphone he'd found wasn't turned on. He spent the rest of the time singing into the bassist's back-up mic. And we did jump, appropriately enough, to Kim's grungy, dirty, virtuosic solo. It was a fucking big finish.

And when it was all over, the clearly still pumped-up Wayne Kramer, walking outside for some fresh air, grabbed me and hugged me. "I'm glad you came!" he said.

Best show I have been to in my life.

Another Night At Kimos

I broke my own rule with this one, because I'm typing it the day after. I was so exhausted by the time I got home that I could barely get my head on the pillows before I was unconscious.

It was a three-band night at Kimos last night, and seems the theme was pop-metal. The bands were good: I had a fun time bouncing around, but despite some really impeccable musicianship none of them were particularly memorable.

With the exception of the singer from The Backup Razor, the first band of the night. That guy alternately morphed between a Green Day type bratty whine, a hellish metal demon's scream, and a Trent-Reznor sinister whisper. He was three singers in one, sporting impressive dreadlocks and some one-liners lazily mocking the crowd for hanging around the corners of the room. That was partly their fault: they launched into a one-minute long song about beer with Ramones-style speed, not giving anyone any time to get to the front. Their music is fast hard rock that's almost metal, and it's good fun for the nodding-your-head crowd, but two days on, I couldn't tell you what my impression of their songs were.

Two Headed Spy were also a four-peice, except their frontman had a guitar, their bassist had technical difficulties, and their lead guitarist had a vintage Rage Against the Machine T-Shirt which explains the more hook-heavy nu-metal of this particular group. The two guitarists allowed for a more filled-out sound, and there was a cool part where the lead guitarist played a bongo drum for a couple minutes, and overall their sound was more complex and detailed then their opening act. They even covered for their poor fumbling bassist by launching into an impromptu jam-session on a song that they later told us was unfinished. I enjoyed the fact that their arrangements were more detailed and subtle then the preceeding act, and in that, I think, they showed the most promise. I can see them evolving into something really special someday.

I was sad to say, and maybe a lot of it was my own fault for being so dog-tired, but as the last band of the night Solcraft were putting me to sleep. It wasn't their fault, probably: the lead singer spent most of his time off the stage, dancing with some ladies who were clearly friends of the band, and at his absolute worst he was still a strong singer. That guitar player was the single most impressive player of the night: morphing seemlessly from metal to blues to hard rock and back to metal, often within the same song, and letting fly on cue with some seering high-on-the-fretboard solos. But for me, the interest just wasn't there. I was more then ready to leave by the time their set wrapped up.

Walking back towards Van Ness (or as I like to call it "Where the Taxis are") was kind of like walking through a ghost-town. So many "For Lease" signs. And the big Virgin Megastore downtown (the landmark I can always use to find my way to the Metrion) is going out of business so I went there and spent $90 on stuff and enjoyed their chipper British live DJ while he's still got a job.

Times is hard.

Psychologist on Music Torture.

I'm fascinated and repulsed by the process of using Music to torture, in Guantanamo Bay and elsewhere. That something so benign can be used to inflict pain and suffering says something about the sheer creativity some people bring to the process of hurting other people.

Human Rights activist Andy Worthington has written up as good of an overview of the whole disgusting mess as I've read.

This kind of thing makes me really want to take action. But I have no idea what to do.

Trent Renzor joins the list of "Rockers with Principles" for his condemnation of the practice.

Another Night At Kimos

Sometimes things just go very well. Sometimes you just happen, luckily, on something exceptional.

It happened to me tonight. It was four bands for five bucks at Kimos again, and they were all great. All of them. Part of it might be that, by accident, I stumbled on Glam-Rock night, but the night was full of filthy guitars, moshing, wailing, and eyeshadow. If you need more for a perfect night at the local dive-bar venue, I don't know what it would be.

The first group was called "Inferno of Joy," a classic-rock four-peice. I love those. There's a monsterous teddy bear for a drummer, nice guy, talked to him before the show. There's Argentine bass player who stands wide and doesn't screw around. There's a guitar player who looks sort of like a soft-boiled Axl Rose who was doing incredible things on an intriguingly ancient Telecaster, which he, like a pro, swapped for a white Mexican after he broke a string. There's a lead singer in vinyl pants, a red work-shirt and long gloves, writhing and yelping like a younger Iggy Pop. This performance was just a whirlwind from beginning to end. Dirty, sexy, slinky, sounds like something you'd hear in a sleezy club in New York in the 70s, and that's a very, VERY good thing. This performance was just incredible.

So incredible, in fact, that the straight up hard rock of the next act, Lucabrazzi , couldn't really hope to follow. Don't get me wrong, they were pretty great: a power-trio in the style of Primus with the blue-dredlocked, sandy throated bass player as the frontman, and a lethe, dark guitarist who, despite more then a few technical difficulties, still jumped right off the stage to mosh with the front row...while still playing his guitar. They were pretty hard rock, pretty no frills, but sometimes, that's all you need.

The third band, Floating Corpses, was another three-peice and looked like it was going to be the most experimental band of the night. A red-headed girl in a black vinyl constructon was working a synthesizer, the dressed-to-match frontman (sequin miniskirt anyone?) had his guitar and a keyboard, the mics had the echo effect turned all the way up, and the drummer didn't seem to match because he looked totally normal. He was an absolute beast on the drum-kit. He brought a contingent of large, moshing Latino men with him, and the results were painful but preditctable. Thankfully, synth or no synth, the songs were meaty enough on their own that there was always plenty to dance to. They were very good. It sounds boring to say, but it was great to be there.

Last act of the night was Pink Swastika, fronted by possibly the shyest gay man ever to don a little-bo-peep polka-dotted dress and rock out on a lead-heavy blue Tele. I can't describe these guys without saying that they were, hands down, the most visual band of the night. The drummer stripped to the waist, smeared colorful body paint all over himself, and mimicked a broken robot over his kit. The bass player's hair was teased up in epic fashion, he sported a mini, some leggings, and a fuzzy red cardigan sweater. The keyboardist could double for Arther "Killer" Kane of New York Doll fame: huge blond hair, a tight sequened top, giant boots, and netted arm-warmers. He worked his keyboard with as much flare as I've ever seen anyone do it. And the singer, well, I've already mentioned him, so definitely this was a group that demanded attention, but how did they sound? Well, less heavy on the bottom then most of the other act (one sways side to side rather then bounce up and down) but still harsh, angry, scary, and.... yeah. Anyway, they were great too.

This was a great set-list. Thanks a lot Kimos. I owe you one.

Meet the Republican Rapper

Since the musician life seems to be an extension of liberal philosophy, I'm always curious about the phenomena of right-wing musicians. I've marveled at the Junkyard Prophets trying to turn Rage Against the Machine's formula of heavy rap-rock against them. I wish I were objective enough to evaluate their stuff on it's own merits, to me they sound devoid of any real fire or the edge that the genre is usually about, but in the meantime, interesting study.

Here's the only republican rapper. The Eminem of the right-wing, so to speak, though he talks in deliberate eubonics. This guy's fascinating, if just because he says his world was changed by listening to talk radio for ten minutes, but his own rhymes contain very little of that roaring bluster.

Full Album Review: Chris Cornell "Scream"

It's only fair that I write this. I've definitely whined and moaned about it enough in other circles, so I gotta put my money where my mouth is.

+++

Here is my full review of Chris Cornell's album with Timbaland: "Scream." It is very long. You have been warned.

I like originality.

I like it when brilliant people step outside their comfort zone and try new things.

When creativity pushes the boundaries and forgets genre in favor of doing something new, that's when real magic can happen and a whole new thing can be born.

In that spirit, today I am going to review Chris Cornell's "Scream," his...uh, collaboration with pop mastermind Timbaland.

I will review this album the way it was intended. Back to back and in it's entirety. Once this review starts up it just doesn't stop. So you better be ready, because this is gonna be intense.
Seriously, if you're not ready, the back button is right up there. I don't force anyone to care about my opinion, the same way I don't force anyone plant their nose in my armpit, and inhale deeply, and the back button is RIGHT up there. So if you want to keep reading, you've got no-one to blame but yourself.

Still here? Okay then, here we go! Pray for me!

Track 1: "Part of me"
What is this, an intro to an MGM musical? Is this really the right album? The sound shifts quickly to some vaguely eastern psychedelia stuff that gives me "Prince of Persia: Sands of Time" flashbacks and now I feel like a huge geek, but I don't really object because I loved that theme song and anything that reminds of it can't be all bad, right? There's some rumbling spoken word that's so heavily distorted I have no idea what it's saying, so it can't be that important. Though I heard the words "Chris Cornell" in there, so I'm guessing this was some cheeky meta self-reference.

I hate when my music winks at me.

And now we're on to the actual song part of the song, which, by the way, is not the least bit eastern-sounding, so I dunno what the intro was about. It's, well.. it's very clubby, lots of electric beeps and overdubs. Overdubs.

You know what Overdubs says to me?

It says late 90s pop explosion.

It says, "pay no attention to the pretty face on the box, it doesn't really matter who you're listening to. Dance, my hand-puppets, dance, and bring unto me the dollars of the idiotic masses." After I realized that the name on the box was just whatever was marketable at the moment and couldn't be any less relevant to the actual creative force behind the album (whoever that is) I didn't listen to any popular music at all for almost six years. I kid you not. For years all I listened to was Yoko Kanno, instrumental soundtracks, and jazz. The fact that this album, like all "pop" is heavy on the overdubs is not an endearing trait to me. Not at all.

The song's central character is a guy trying to convince this one girl that this other girl who he what-evered in a club was "just a fling" , calls her a bitch (twenty-two times) and whatever and ...blah blah blah... this plot-line makes Lil' Wayne sound like Bob Dylan in terms of lyrical depth.
C'mon Cornell, you don't have the ironic, casual misogyny required for this kind of topic. What's swaggering when coming from a huge ghetto club lord dude (guess who's the whitest chick in America?) doesn't quite sound the same from an ernest, skinny white guy.

Also, the beeping back-drop is boring me to tears. I got excited for a few minutes when I thought I heard some real instruments in the bridge, but they didn't last long before the electronica swallowed them up. It makes me sad because now I just know there is a REAL musician buried in there somewhere and I am never going to get to hear what they really sound like.
Now it's time for the 'transition," and kids, don't let the hype fool you, of the fourteen 'transitions' on this album, only two or so are 'seamless.' The rest leap from sound to sound in disorienting ways, like right here. They shift abruptly from key-tar scales to some bubbly sounding blue cold "ayy" sounds, and before you have time to get your bearings,

Track 2: "Scream."
I've actually heard this one played live. "Scream" and it's much better live, though it still contains no screaming at all. Still, it annoys me much less then the previous one, if just because it doesn't contain the word "bitch." The lyrical theme seems to be a actually a pretty accurate reflection of what happens when two people are just at each-other's throats all the time for reasons neither of which can really remember. Few people do the poisoned relationship theme better then Chris Cornell, THIS is the kind of stuff his brooding, dark vocals were made for.
And just when I'm getting into it, who shows up but Timbaland. In the flesh, spouting some grammatically incorrect hood-speak into his microphone.

Just in case anyone was in danger of forgetting the man behind the curtain, Timbaland is here to remind you who is the stud-muffin, and who is the wing-man.

It upset me so much I completely forgot to listen to the rest of the song.

At least the transition actually IS more "seamless" this time. I'm guessing this is what we were supposed to expect from this album, though went on about 30 seconds longer ten it should have to maintain interest, and it doesn't blend perfectly, but oh well at least the song's over.

Track 3: "Time"
Ok, there actually IS some screaming in this song, and that's great because I love it when Cornell screams at me. But I gotta say, it's strange hearing that howl of his in what is such an unabashed pop song. How unabashed?

One of the lines is, no joke: "Make a little love."

And while it was not followed recommendations that we should 'get down tonight,' I think the point is made. This song wouldn't be out of place in a disco in the 1970s, a decade, by the way, that I give thanks everyday that I was not alive for.

Wait a minute. That's it. This isn't a club track, this is a disco track! A disco IN SPACE, if the cosmic keyboards are anything to go by. A space disco! And the theme is how powerless we are in the face of time.

Normally I like my Space Discos keeping me up to date on the weather conditions on Mars but you know what, I'll totally make an allowance for this one because it reminds me of a Red Dwarf, and anything that reminds of Red Dwarf, I like. Because yes, I am a geek.


Track 4: "Sweet Revenge."
The good news is we're out of the space disco. The bad news is we're back in the club. Very, very much in the club. So deep in the club that Justin Timberlake just turned up with twenty underage supermodels and got them all in without ids.

That is how clubby this is.

By the way, the Timberlake thing didn't come out of nowhere: he actually sings on this track as one of the anonymous computer-generated phantoms warbling the chorus in that studied falsetto of his and doing his best to kill any angst that Cornell's seething bitter lyrics are building up. Justin Timberlake's a talented guy, but every time he opens his mouth, my IQ drops five points. Perfect when I've had a few drinks and really want to get stupid on a dance floor. Not so great any other time.

I like the theme of the song, it's classic Cornell raging against those who would control and direct him (bad managers, ungrateful band-mates, the music biz in general, fill in the blank) but unless you're a pretty sulky drunk, the people who will listen to this will not be lovin' the angry vibe running through what's otherwise a perfectly decent, upbeat dance song.

Track: 5: "Get Up."

Get up. Get up WHERE? How? In what way? So many questions, not enough answers!

The lower depths of Cornell's vocal cords gets a good workout here, making this track a new low (rim-shot), but his voice is so coated with effects that it if you hadn't read the box it would be hard to tell it was him. There is lots of trilling button-pushing here: lots of keyboards, and some heavily coating of the vocals with (to me) unidentifiable effects that have the effect of making everything sound very abstract. If I were to describe this song in one word it would be "vague." There's kind of nothing here to hang onto and I can't figure out where or what anything is supposed to be. Forget the outro foreshadowing the next song too: that's the whole first verse of the next song. With the guitar interlude I was sure there was a whole different song in there somewhere, but since it only exists for around 30 seconds, it doesn't get any chance to really go anywhere.

Ok, I have to amend my previous statement. It's not "vague." It's "disorienting." The world keeps shifting around and I'm currently not nearly drunk or high enough to be at ease with it. Maybe that's intentional, but that might be giving them too much credit. I'm LOOKING for a unifying theme here, but I'm just not finding it.


Track 6: "Ground Zero"
May I say this song, more then any other on this record, tests my "skip reflex" to it's maximum. There's a sampled "ay!" noise in the background and some synth strings over a danceable electric chorus of overdubbing that I swear is the cheeriest setting imaginable for the phrase "blood on the concrete, river of deceit" imaginable. Where in the world am I gonna go? Well, not here, that's for sure. This is ground zero, so run for your life. Run, AWAY from the cringe-worthy sampling, away from the first actual live percussion I can remember hearing on this album (at least, I think it's live) away from this whole sad affair.


Track 7: "Never Far Away"
This is, simply put, the most unabashedly bubble-gum romantic pop song that Chris Cornell has ever sang ever. In fact, it's so different from his normal pessimistic attitude that there's this evil little voice in the back of my head saying there is NO WAY he actually wrote these lyrics.
Timbaland productions feature an infamous revolving door of contributers. What would the odds be he got someone to ghost a song for one of rock's best songwriters?

Naw, not even he's that low.

I hope.

Anyway, the raw honesty of Cornell's voice IS touching and an effective counter-point to the love-struck bubble-gum cheerfulness of the lyrics, before some fake-sounding guitars shift this song from ernest to foreboding, some deep male chants and it's back into the realm of the "Prince of Persia" which was teased at the beginning.

Finally. We've been waiting the whole album to find out what that was all about.

Track 8: "Take me Alive"
Ok, I'll admit the eastern stuff is psychedelic and cool. Too bad I can't figure out what it has to do with the song's theme: a guy lamenting his inability to end a destructive, controlling relationship. It's similar in theme to Soundgarden's "Rusty Cage" in which a man declares defiantly he will soon break free from what holds him prisoner, but by the end of the song, the prison is still very much intact. He just can't take that final step. In that way, the narrative character of "Take me Alive" declares he won't ever be taken alive, it's pretty clear he already has.

The destructive relationship is kind of a standby for Cornell, and the "exotic" framing doesn't seem to have anything to do with the domesticity of the subject, but hey, I'd rather be striding down the street to the bazar then trapped in a hum-drum dance club, so I won't complain too much.

You know something I've just realized. Every single song on this CD is abbreviated. Really, it's like you get two-thirds of a real song, and the last quarter of any track is just teaser for the next one, some teasers better then others (this one is a return to the 70s keyboards and shimmering electronica with heavily distorted vocals).


Track 9: "Long gone."
Ok, I just heard this verse, it was part of the teaser, and now you're making me listen to the same exact thing again? That's annoying me, which is too bad because this song, "Long Gone" actually showcases the strength of Chris's voice more-so then most on this album: until, that is, the wanton overdubbing of the chorus ruins it, the way it can make even the strongest voices sound devoid of personality. Another kind-of break up song, with a key-tar bridge reminiscent of "Scream," which I guess is some cheeky self-reference. Great, now I want to scream.

I don't really have much to say about this one, because it sounds kind of like a rehash of "Sweet Revenge" without the bitterness and without the novelty of a J.T cameo. Next please.


Track 10: "Enemy"
So we've already been to Turkey. Who's in the mood for a little Irish jig? Because that's exactly what's next. Kind of. Don't worry, it's only two seconds long, and the rest is nicely nondescript club noises.

"Enemy," is what it's called, and it features some of the darkest lyrics on the whole album, which is too bad because it's such a dull song. Cornell's voice is almost unrecognizable under a multitude of retro-electronic effects, and key-strings and some dull drumming rule the day. Maybe it's just because I'm writing this extremely late at night, but I almost dozed off during this one. Good thing it doesn't last too long. None of these songs are longer then two verses, which is a good thing and probably shouldn't be.

Track 11: "Other side of Town"
Finally a transition that actually works. This morph was so seamless I almost didn't hear it happen.

The good news is that live, military-style drums are DEFIANTLY audible in this one. Too bad the vocal effects and spacey keyboards are back. Oh and the sampling. "Ee-yah!" repeats over and over somewhere in the wallpaper of this song.

This song is a narrative about a guy who's ex follows him from a party. She's high on something and what actually happens between them is unknown, but next thing you know, he's feeling guilty as hell but she doesn't want to talk to him. He whines about it for the rest of the song. One minute he wants to get rid of her and the next he's begging for forgiveness? I just don't follow you.

The transition consists of some sensitive pianos and strings. The strings give everything a sort of cinematic sheen, if, ya know, a cinema is one of those little TVs that plays montages in a club. It's all very moody and sparkly. I can imagine it being the center piece of a music video featuring slow-mo dancing and lots of blue light, but I can imagine that about most of the tracks on this album.


Track 12: "Climbing up the walls"
This track ounds a lot like the proceeding: more strings and electronic keyboards and a very, very basic drum beat. Overdubbing producing a layered kind of disjointed timing in the chorus that sounds kind of interesting but mechanical and definitely artificial.

That's what gets me about pop, and it's why I didn't listen to it for years. It's just so damn FAKE. That's not singer's real timing: Cornell didn't actually sing the chorus that way, he sang bits and they were assembled like puzzle pieces to create the finished product. Cornell has insisted over and over in interviews that he was an equal partner in writing these songs, but I just plain don't trust anything that has this many raw seams visible is anyone's construction but Timbaland's. In his world, the singer just doesn't have any power. He can sounds like anything, and lines and phrases and notes can be moved about at will, it's all a matter of pushing the right buttons.

I think there's a real guitar buried in this one somewhere, but don't worry, it's very basic and doesn't last long. Overall, this slow-to-mid-tempo dancey number just doesn't have much personality, except Chris sounds vaguely more miffed then before. For once I'm actually thankful for the outro's arrival, if just because it means the song's almost over. This one is a new one: sounds like Cornell strumming some sort of acoustic and singing moodily through what sounds like an old radio. It's actually pretty cool, but what it has to do with what follows is utterly beyond me.


Track 13: "Watch out"
I guess someone could tell I needed a jolt to wake me up: this song begins with some unidentifiable mounting noise, an insistently whispered "wake up" and some buzzing hooks, all telling the story of a hell-bent danger girl who drives like a maniac all the time. And, to make it worse, since the other line in the two-line chorus is "pick it up" she's a litterbug as well! Scandalous!

Now I know Cornell occationally rides his metaphors right into the ground ("Nothing left to Say but Goodbye" anyone?) but if this crazy driving is supposed to be a metaphor, and NOT, literally, about a crazy driving litterbug girl then it's just too heavy handed. Even for me. Maybe the last verse has some stuff about mirrors, but for the most part, it keeps on with the crazy girl, talking about how she's crazy.

I think Timbaland's got a hatred for instruments. He cant even let his own choruses go by unaccosted by bumps, scratches and jolts. The ending, with the sound of film running out of an old projector, is kind of cool in a found-noise-you-hear-at-the-end-of-an-Oasis track kind of way.


Track 14: "Two Drink Minimum"
Now comes the album's actual conclusion. Starts pretty promising actually: a solo electric guitar that I can ACTUALLY imagine getting played somewhere, Chris's brooding vocals for once free of any noticeable distortion, even in the chorus (the voice jumps at :30 seconds in though, so there's been SOME editing). Some western folk harmonica gives everything a very western feel. In my mind I see a country saloon at sunrise, and the slow, thirsty defeat of a man anticipating getting absolutely hammered after a huge loss. An organ materializes, and the whole thing has a very funereal air, Cornell's voice actually infusing some desperation into the grim, slow proceedings. To me this is the most atmospheric, emotionally complex piece on the album. It's my hands-down favorite and serves as a semi-painful reminder to me of why, exactly, I'm a fan of this guy in the first place.

Though a better example is the rock-solid, touching blues of the track "I promise It's Not Goodbye," which is available for free download on Cornell's website. This song is an exquisite arrangement of bluesy guitar, a solid drum beat, and some folk harmonica thrown in to get the tears flowing. It's an arrangement vaguely reminiscent of "Two Drink Minimum," except with more muscle and direction. It's the restrained, unadorned pain in Cornell's voice that's gives the song it's power, transforming the sorrow into transcendent willpower. The lyrics are in the voice of a child who has "risen," leaving behind a family, whom she comforts one at a time, by name, and if they sound kind of simply sentimental for a Cornell song (after "Never Far Away?"), it's because they weren't written by him, but by a fan named Rory Dela Rosa. Rory wrote in the voice of his daughter, whom he just lost lost to cancer at the age of 6. Cornell's treatment of the material is just masterful, conjuring in turn the strong, reassuring presense of the child's spirit, the loving father willing her to stay close to him, and the third party, the singer, praying for them both in the best way he knows how. It's a powerful, it's emotional, and it's a wonderful song.

People have decried his aging vocal cords as evidence of his deteriorating power. These people are idiots, and for all it's faults, there are moments where Cornell proves that voice of his can still rip right to your soul when he decides he wants to. There's still no singer out there who can articulate the honest, gut-wrenching emotion quite like he can. It's just too bad honest, gut-wrenching emotion seems to be exactly what Scream, for the most part, couldn't care less about. This isn't an album for philosphizing over and crying to. This is an album for clubs, workouts, and jogs, a role it actually fullfills more then capably. It's not a bad album, it's just... it's being marketed as this unique collaboration, this great meeting-of-the-minds sure to revolutionize music as we know it, and it's just plain not the case. This isn't any sort of brilliant fusion of anything, this is an unadorned, pure, unadultrated pop album, full of solid, get-stuck-in-your-head pop, not unlike everything else Timbaland has done, and a bit like stuff Cornell himself has previously dabbled in. It's got some interesting tweaks, like the MGM intro, but the tweeks don't seem to serve any purpose besides they're own novelty, and if there was an overarching unifying theme to the album, I couldn't find it.

Fortunately, whoever bankrolled the album smelled out the reviews like this one and sent Chris and Tim on a charm-offensive campaign tour of the West Coast, full of interviews about how proud they are of this work and how much fun it is to play, and how it's unique and original and implying anyone who doesn't think so is stuck in the past.

It's done it's job; there is no way this album isn't going to make gazillions of dollars from those simply curious about if it's REALLY as original as people say it is, and it'll no doubt go on to win "critical acclaim" from critics who love them both.

These are indeed dark days for music.

My prediction? Cornell will continue to write and tour. I don't think he really knows any other way to live. His life show will continue to be great, and that includes his Scream material, which is much more fun when it's played live by real musicians with real instruments. Timbaland will continue to wallow in his own genius and crank out hits exactly like his last hits. His name has become so synonymous with pop success that there's a whole generation out there who don't know anything better exists. Whatever will unseat him will be big, and new, and actually will change the face of popular music as we know it. And what's more, they will deserve every bit of the success they've worked so hard for, and they'll restore some of music's lost innocence.