The Demise of the CD

What happens when CDs disappear as a commercial product? That was the question addressed at a plenary session at the recent Music Library Association annual conference held in Chicago, "What’s Next? The Compact Disc as a Viable Format in the Future of Music Libraries." Greg MacAyeal, Assistant Head of the Music Library at Northwestern University, assembled a panel that made it clear that this is inevitable although not imminent. The shift to music distribution as downloads has few notable shortcomings, but those are being addressed. One is the degradation in sound quality compared to CDs. The other is that standard metadata for popular music doesn't work for classical, where the "artist" could be the composer, conductor, orchestra name or soloist, and track names make little sense on their own, such as "adagio" as a single movement in a symphony. But two panelists made particularly strong points about the importance of a physical format from the artists' and libraries' perspective.

Chicago-based classical violinist Rachel Barton Pine discussed one circumstance in which a CD is invaluable: after her concerts when she heads to the lobby to sell music and meet her fans. The selection of her releases offers a starting point for conversation as she helps them chose one to buy, and they get a souvenir of the event when she autographs their purchases. The physical item is a tangible memento with immediate gratification that they can listen to on the way home. If she only signed postcards with pictures of their albums, the autograph wouldn't be an intrinsic part of the thing, and the music cannot be an impulse purchase. Fans may forget to go to the web site later to purchase downloads. If nothing else, she brought up the unexpected point that even classical musicians work the merch table, not just indie rockers in grubby clubs.

D.J. Hoek, Head of the Music Library at Northwestern University, drove home the unique aspect of this changing distribution scheme as it severely affect libraries: licensing agreements. More and more releases are available only as downloads, not physical items. While CDs are sold without restriction on who can use them, standard licensing agreements limit downloading to "end users." Since libraries are not end users themselves, no library can add these to their collections. He gave the notable example of Gustavo Dudamel and the Los Angeles Philharmonic's recording of  Berlioz's Symphonie Fantasique which just won a Grammy for its producer and garnered another nomination for itself. According to the terms from the label that released it, Deutsche Grammophon, one of the largest classical labels, it may only be downloaded by "end users." So while this is a culturally important work, no library can fulfill its most basic mission of collecting and providing access to this material. Because libraries are such a small portion of the market and our activities could be perceived as cutting into potential sales, they are in a poor position to ask for special dispensation. But without change, it will become impossible for libraries to preserve our culture.

Elvis F**king Christ Has Left the Building

I'm utterly baffled by the news that Lux Interior, lead singer of the Cramps, has died. This is inconceivable to me. I understand that people are mortal. I can accept the passing of Joey Ramone, Joe Strummer, and millions of others who have gone before their time or well past their sell by date. But Lux struck me as, well, inhuman. He regularly produced gallons of sweat while performing, without any evidence of dehydration. (John Doe still earns my nomination for sweatiest man in rock, though, because he does it in natural fibers while Lux favored sweat-causing synthetics.) More impressively, he threw up on the stage in the middle of performance at the Reading Festival in 1991, understatedly announced, "I feel much better" and just kept on singing. If nothing else, I thought that level of commitment would keep him going forever, but he had a preexisting heart condition.

I'm currently consoling myself listening to Tim Napalm's tribute on Woody Radio, but I'll need to fire up Fiends from Dope Island tomorrow if Tim doesn't get to it before I fall asleep, just to hear "Elvis Fucking Christ."

Console Organ for the '00s

This looks like an SNL parody, but this really is straight-faced video from Microsoft Research for Songsmith. As a former usability specialist, I shook my head in disbelief at the line, "Microsoft, huh? So it's pretty easy to use?" As a former intellectual property paralegal, I was surprised that their legal department let this out with a © where a ™ should be, even if it's for a fictional product.


The gist of it: you sing into your computer's microphone, and the software creates backing music with customized effects, all of which sound like the console organs that used to be demonstrated and sold in malls. To get a sense of the results, someone ran David Lee Roth's vocal track for "Runnin' With the Devil" through the program.
http://music.metafilter.com/2943/Runnin-With-The-Songsmith

Godfathers Tour Cancelled

The Godfathers U.S. tour has been cancelled except for just a single date for the St. Valentine's Day Massacre show in Chicago on February 14. They announced bluntly that it was for economic reasons, even though the Middle East, intended host of the February 11 show, claims it is due to illness.

Damn, if I had the money, I'd sponsor the tour. But as the band said themselves, "I want everything. I want it now."

Here's the official word.

Godfathers Reunion

The Godfathers have reunited with the original line-up for a US tour supporting the reissue of their debut album Hit by Hit. Despite or because of lyrics that reflected the harsh realty of Thatcher-era Britain, they found greater (relative) fame in the States than in their native England. They put on an electrifying show: Peter Coyne snarls on vocals, Kris Dollimore plays a searing guitar, and I am in heaven.

Here are the dates:
Wednesday 11 Boston, MA-The Middle East
Thursday 12 Washington DC-9.30 Club
Friday 13 Cleveland, OH-The Grog Shop
Saturday 14 Chicago, IL-The Metro
Sunday 15 Minneapolis, MN-Seventh Street Entry
Monday 16 Milwaukee, WI-The Shank House
Wednesday 18 Hoboken, NJ-Maxwells
Thursday 19 Brooklyn, NY-The Bell House

Worst Album Covers

On a less serious note, Red Eye has a gallery of 50 of the worst album covers. At least the Electric Amish and the Frivilous Five were clearly aiming for humor, and Cody Matherson may have been inspired by Kirk Van Houten, Milhouse's dad on The Simpsons, with "Can I Borrow a Feelin.'". The rest of have no excuse.

Best of 2008

For the most part, my favorite CDs of the last year were ones I've reviewed for CDHotlist. Here are highlights, with links to the pages with my original reviews.

Alejandro Escovedo: Real Animal
Maybe because he has never been gotten huge, the Texan still has something to prove. His latest reflects on his life and proves that heartfelt doesn't have to be sappy and squishy.
http://cdhotlist.btol.com/cddetail.cfm?yy=2008&mm=8

The Hives: The Black and White Album
Swaggering Swedish garage rockers who show they aren't one-hit wonders.
http://cdhotlist.btol.com/cddetail.cfm?yy=2008&mm=2
 
Ting Tings: We Started Nothing
Fun, cheeky guitar-based pop.
http://cdhotlist.btol.com/cddetail.cfm?yy=2008&mm=8
 
The Pretenders: Break Up the Concrete 
The title of the opening track, "Boots of Chinese Plastic," may be a nod to Bob Dylan's "Boots of Spanish Leather," but the song is all Chrissie Hynde at her finest.
http://cdhotlist.btol.com/cddetail.cfm?yy=2008&mm=12

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds: Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!
Only Nick Cave could get away with this many exclamation points in his title and lyrics without sounding like a fool.
http://cdhotlist.btol.com/cddetail.cfm?yy=2008&mm=6

Nine Inch Nails: The Slip
The free one for the fans. At the turn of the millenium, fellow '90s future Rock and Roll Hall of Famer Billy Corgan was whining about not being able to compete in a world dominated by Britney Spears.  Trent Reznor ignored the commercial winds and just got on with the business of creating music, along the way building a loyal fanbase by relating to them and how they use technology without pandering to them artistically.

And, as much as I love the Wedding Present, I have to say the jury is still out on El Rey. I'm not sure if it doesn't measure up to their older work or even Take Fountain or if it's just that, having not reviewed yet, I haven't listened to it closely enough to appreciate its nuances.

ROCKRGRL at IMA: I Will Survive

ROCKRGRL Inc. presented this one-day symposium at the Institute of Musical Arts in Goshen, MA this past Saturday. The theme was "I Will Survive: Making a Living in the Music Business." It opened with an interview with Robin Lane, conducted by ROCKRGRL founder Carla DeSantis, followed by three panel discussions on the past, present and future of the music industry. I participated as a panelist on "Tomorrow: What Will a Career in Music Look Like in the Future?"

Robin Lane was, to this Philadelphian's ears, Boston's answer to Robert Hazard. She found her voice as a singer/songwriter but found her success as the leader of a band in the New Wave era. Like Robert Hazard and the Heroes, Robin Lane and the Chartbusters were a huge regional success. For both, the peak of fame was short-lived, but Robert Hazard was never dropped from his label because he was pregnant, unlike Robin Lane.

Her current work is even more noteworthy. Under the name A Woman's Voice, she conducts songwriting workshops with trauma survivors as a form of therapy. Carla's goal in building the event around Robin was to help spread the concept so that others can replicate it elsewhere.

In contemplating the rest of the day's discussion, I realized how much has changed since I regularly attended music industry conferences in the '90s. Back then, the standard goal for musicians was to get signed to a major label and get their songs on the radio to be successful.  But with overall sales down, major labels losing their monopolies on distribution and commercial terrestrial radio losing its influence in exposing new music, the path to initial success, let alone career longevity, is no longer obvious.

The recurring theme among those who had found success was the need for reinvention, of creating and seizing new opportunities. Nini Camps built her DIY career into gigging 200 nights a year; she transitioned to the less grueling work of working on soundtracks. She commented that it has forced her to focus on the craft of songwriting, especially when she has strict deadlines. Lizzie Borden has moved on from recording for a major label to DJing on a rock radio station, among other endeavors. Kudisan Kai got a long string of work as a back-up singer for the likes of Anita Baker, Chaka Kahn and Elton John. Despite Elton's backing, she couldn't get a major label deal because the A&R rep couldn't imagine how to market a black female rock singer, but her varied background made her an ideal faculty member in voice at Berklee College.

Some existing institutions in the music industry remain effective, albeit in new ways. Musician Sonya Kitchell described how her A&R rep fills the role of a tough coach, offering outside perspective on her work and egging her on to aim higher. Brooke Primont of Cherry Lane Music Publishing described how publishers create exposure and revenue streams for songwriters through placement in movies, television and commercials.

In looking to the future, June Millington, IMA co-founder and member of the band Fanny, lamented Guitar Hero from the perspective that would-be musicians will become discouraged when they discover that learning to really play the guitar is much harder than playing the toy that is used in the videogame. Beth Tallman, General Manager of Rykodisc, suggested looking to other industries for models for success since so many of the music industry's established practices are now failing.

It is both a scary and exciting time for music. On one hand, technology such as GarageBand, MySpace and iTunes make it much easier for any musician to record and distribute their music. On the other hand, with the means of production now in the hands of so many, it is even harder to stand out in the crowd and find a sufficient audience to make a living. This was an interesting event that raised questions that could have entirely different answers in just a few years' time.

My next speaking engagement

I wrote for ROCKRGRL until it ceased publication. Since then, editor/publisher Carla DeSantis has produced events, including the upcoming ROCKRGRL Day at the Institute for Musical Arts in Goshen, MA, at which I will be a panelist.

Here's the full description:

It's coming up soon, December 6th is ROCKRGRL DAY at IMA (The Institute for the Musical Arts in Goshen, MA).

The day long symposium is a great opportunity for sharing ideas, strategizing and networking - creating ways to help you build a successful career in music despite the economic downturn.

Carla DeSantis, founding editor of Rockrgrl Magazine, has pulled together a fabulous group of women whose careers and expertise range cover all the bases - from music performance, songwriting, radio, recording and production; to running a label, artist promotion management and booking; to music law and publishing.
 
The event starts at 10:30am with DeSantis interviewing Robin Lane, founder of Robin Lane and the Chartbusters and now A Woman's Voice.  Robin has a fascinating history in the music business and is taking her songwriting talents to women who need them most, trauma survivors.

Lunch will be served on the premises from noon to one followed by these panels and panelists:

1-2:30 - Are the Glory Days of the Music Industry Behind Us?
 Moderator: Ann Hackler, (IMA Executive Director) - Panelists: Nini Camp (musician), Liz Borden(musician, DJ) and Norma Coates (professor, Media Studies)
 
2:45-4:15 - How To Make a Living In Tough Economic Times.
 Moderator: Emily Lichter, (Public Emily management/promotion) - Panelists:  Brooke Primont (Cherry Hill Publishing), Kudisan Kai (vocalist/ teacher Berklee) and Kristin Bredimus (promoter/ NEMO/BMA)
 
4:30-6:00 - Tomorrow: What Will A Career In Music Look Like?
 Moderator: Leah Kunkel (artist/attorney) - Panelists:   Beth Tallman (VP Rykodisc), June Millington  (musician/producer/IMA cofounder) and Marci Cohen (music journalist)

The event costs $75 for adults and $50 for youth/students.  Anyone who has participated in IMA's summer music program for teen aged girls can attend for $25.  Scholarships are also available.  To register on-line go to:

http://www.ima.org/pages/rockrgrlimaday.html

or you can send a check made payable to IMA to: P.O Box 867, Goshen, MA 01032

Concert Review: Nine Inch Nails, DCU Center, Worcester, November 9

Let’s start with the demographics. Trent Reznor is my age. When I went to my first Nine Inch Nails show in 1990, the audience was predominantly around our age. Eighteen years later, neither Reznor nor I were exactly surrounded by our peers. This is both good news and bad news for the band. Clearly this isn’t a nostalgia act coasting on its past glories, only attracting other people in their 40s reliving their own past glories. Nine Inch Nails has continued to make intriguing music but has also cultivated fresh legions of fans, especially through interactive media that is second nature to younger listeners, and has rewarded their loyalty with things like the free download of The Slip.

But while I laud Reznor for remaining relevant with the youths, I’m concerned about his diminishing relevance with his own age group. I’m no longer angry the way I was in my 20s; despondent is now my negative emotion of choice. Reznor displayed great maturity with Year Zero, showing that he was no less angry than in his 20s but that he’d taken a much broader worldview. Rather than a myopic vision of his personal life, he channeled his energy into into a metaphorical indictment of the Bush administration. But if he’s only managing to attract younger fans without holding onto the older ones, I fear that his ongoing accomplishments will be dismissed critically, written off as the equivalent of horror movies whose shock value appeals to mainly to teens. In other words, as little better than Marilyn Manson but with a longer shelf life.

Two factors will likely save the band from that fate. The first is what a potent live show they put on. Reznor has always been a magnetic performer, seething with pent-up aggression but never cartoonish in his presentation. He radiates energy, and it never comes across as over-rehearsed shtick. The rest of the band is perfectly serviceable; they’ll never upstage the frontman, but they don’t limit him the way some of Iggy Pop’s backing bands have. Secondly, he has his undiminished skill as a songwriter and composer. “Discipline” from The Slip conveys the frayed nerves of addiction. Songs from The Fragile have astonishing layers of detail in the arrangements.

After getting the audience riled up, most notably with “March of the Pigs,” the band switched to a calmer interlude featuring several instrumental songs and a lot of mechanical, rather than electronic, percussion. Even without Reznor storming the stage, they put on quite a spectacle, mainly through the use sheer curtains of lights with an imaginative design scheme. The creations worked with the songs and amplified the band’s movements. Taken on their own, they could be a display in a contemporary art museum.

Reznor never spoke to the audience until the encore. He apologized for the show’s postponement and thanked everyone for showing up; it had been scheduled for August but Reznor had a throat ailment. And perhaps meant as a special treat to compensate for the delay, he brought out surprise guest and “old friend” Peter Murphy, for whom NIN had opened in 1990. Murphy was appropriately reptilian for his duet on “Reptile.” I would have been more excited if I actually liked Murphy. I’m fond of plenty of dramatic frontmen, but I’ve never bought his brand of drama.

Opening act Deerhunter had the misfortune of a lead singer who sounds too much like Thom Yorke and looks too much like his dorkier brother, an impressive accomplishment considering how high Mr. Yorke sets the bar.

Wedding Present set list up for grabs

I clearly wasn't the only one trying to grab a copy of the set list at the Wedding Present show at the Middle East. I only wanted it to transcribe to my log rather than for its souvenir value. Whomever emails me first can have it. I'm willing to mail it within the U.S.

Concert Review: The Wedding Present at the Middle East, Cambridge, MA, October 6

The crowd was thin last night at the Middle East for the Wedding Present. The competition was stiff. Stereolab was playing elsewhere and the Red Sox had a playoff game. The Weddoes are now indie rock stalwarts, unlikely to suddenly be trendy with the emo kids. But the band do what they do so well that they've earned more than their limited cult following.

They opened with "Kennedy." Considering how literal David Gedge's lyrics are, often dialog-based, it is a puzzle not only trying to figure out what the song is about but also how wrote something so out of character. But the song was so exuberant that it just didn't matter. They blazed through their catalog and highlighted their latest release, El Rey. The most enthralling was "Dalliance," watching Gedge once again try to saw a guitar in half with his bare hands and seething, "I was yours for seven years/Is that what you call a dalliance?"

Although Christopher McConville's guitar playing was in fine form, the guy looked like he hadn't slept in a week. Bed head, stubble and bags under the eyes go beyond an indie rock aesthetic to merely disheveled. Gedge was his usual timeless self, indistinguishable from what he looked like in 1990 when I discovered the band except for slightly shorter hair. In my years in Chicago, I never happened upon him when he was frequently in town recording, so I don't know if he owns anything other than plain black t-shirts or if he just saves them for concerts. Terry de Castro's rumbling bass anchored the proceedings, and she looked quite stylish in a red sheath dress and brown boots.

Someone called out, "Do you know any Coldplay songs?" Gedge acknowledged that he barely knows his own songs and had to repeatedly apologize for not taking requests for songs they hadn't rehearsed until someone who was pressed up against the stage read "My Favourite Dress" off the set list. In this case "set" list also meant "fixed" rather than maleable.

The set list:
Kennedy
It's For You
Gone
Don't Take Me Home Until I'm Drunk
You Should Always Keep In Touch With Your Friends
Lovenest
Blue Eyes
Palisades
Snake Eyes
Sports Car
Spider Man on Hollywood
Crawl
You Turn Me On
Interstate 5
My Favourite Dress
Model, Actress, Whatever
Real Thing
Dalliance
Dare
Boo Boo

I'm not the cat I used to be, I got a kid, I'm 33, baby

I have two kids and am a bit older than 33, but Chrissie Hynde had a point in "Middle of the Road."

I have recently had reason to reflect on the diminished importance music is playing in my life. I just got back in touch with a friend I made right after college when I was often going to two concerts a week and could have almost had my mail forwarded to the Khyber. We were reminiscing about '80s British post-punk (the Fall, Gang of Four, the Wedding Present, the Mekons), and he commented that the music of his youth resonates with him more than anything current because it is the music of his youth. Then I was completing a survey from nin.com, which was only sent to me because I bought tickets at the last minute for a subsequently postponed Nine Inch Nails show, and many of the questions involved online resources for obtaining and finding out about music. I use them very little, not because I'm opposed to technology or don't like music, but because I just don't have the time to invest in them. Most of the effort I put into discovering new music lately has been for work, keeping up with what's current to purchase it for a library or review it for other librarians.

The music of your youth has two things going for it. When the world is still new to you, emotions are heightened by the lack of experience. To use a parenting example, my kids sobbed when their helium balloon popped, but I've had enough burst balloons in my life, both literal and metaphorical, to not be fazed. And when you are young and have fewer responsibilities, you're left with plenty of time to wallow in your misery or bask in your joy. Music escalate those already-volatile feelings.

Birth, School, Work, Death by the Godfathers made a huge impact on me because it was released when I was going through a tumultuous transition from school to work, about to graduate from college and daunted by the difficult prospect of finding meaningful work, not just earning a paycheck. No one writes songs about the current woes in my life, mainly that my otherwise adorable kids make me nuts at times, and I am daunted by the difficult prospect of finding meaningful work that fits with the demands of parenthood. Even if someone did record a song along those lines, I'd probably be too overwhelmed by the current demands of my day-to-day existence to discover it, let alone have it become a central part of my life the way Birth, School, Work, Death did. I'm still keeping up on music more than the average 42-year-old suburban mom, but I've accepted that I'll never return to the devotion I had as a 22-year-old.

Robert Hazard Has Stepped Off the Escalator of Life

Philly New Waver Robert Hazard, whose 5-song EP was a fixture on my stereo for a stretch of the early '80s, died Tuesday in Boston. The Inquirer has a full obituary of the man who wrote "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." But I'll remember him more for his own recordings.

Review: The Police with Elvis Costello & the Impostors, Comcast

I'd been torn over whether to see the Police again on their reunion tour after my mixed emotions about last summer's show at Wrigley Field. But I was reading Andy Summer's autobiography when tickets went on sale for their Boston area show, and I succumbed. I'm glad. Maybe it's because I sprung for more expensive seats. Maybe it's because the Comcast Center was designed as a music venue, unlike Wrigley Field, so the acoustics were better. Maybe it's because they tightened up the set while still giving in to Andy's desire for the occasional guitar solo. Maybe it's because I had reduced expectations after my mild disappointment last year, but it was well worth it, even if it meant sitting in the parking lot for half an hour trying to leave instead of hoping on the CTA Red Line and zipping home.

"Can't Stand Losing You," was already quite energetic, but they upped the equation by inserting a portion of "Regatta De Blanc." The pairing of "Voices Inside My Head" with "When the World Is Running Down, You Make the Best of What's Still Around" was another successful marriage. These exemplified the best of the show: incorporating both big hits with lesser-known album tracks, keeping the arrangements tight enough to maintain momentum but unexpected enough to not just offer exact reenactments of their recordings.

Sting is losing his upper register, most obviously on "King of Pain." Where other songs were rearranged for artistic reasons, his avoidance of the high notes became a distraction. "Don't Stand So Close to Me" was another awkward rearrangement, fusing the original tense version with the boring yuppie remake that bore too much of a Sting stamp at the expense of Stewart Copeland and Andy's creative input.

As moving as "Invisible Sun" was, especially accompanied by photos of children from war-torn regions around the globe, I kept thinking of "We're Sending Our Love Down the Well," Sting's parody of sanctimonious benefit songs from The Simpsons. Other songs reminded me of the members' post-Police work. "Can't Stand Losing You" brought to mind Stewart's anecdote from Everyone Stares that Sting wore his flight suit so often on one tour and they played that song so often that the flight suit could have played the song by itself by the tour's end. I had greater appreciation for "Every Breath You Take" based on Andy's description of its genesis from One Train Later. I'd always been somewhat dismissive of their biggest hit because it ironically made the least use of Stewart's unique talents. But Andy explained how the signature guitar line came to him in a flash during a tense period, and while he seemingly pulled it out of the air, it was only as a result of decades of practicing and musical exploration, culminating in a song with enduring cultural impact.

Sting and Stewart are still looking quite fit. Sting showed off his muscles in a semi-sheer close-fitting knit shirt, but his scruffy beard was too Captain Ahab. Stewart one-upped last year's moisture-wicking T-shirt with one emblazened with the Ghost in the Machine logo. But looking at their LED avatars with fresh eyes, I wondered if the dot at the end was meant to resemble a decimal point on a calculator or a goiter. Andy's physique is a bit paunchy, but he's kept his most important muscles in shape: his fingers are as nimble as ever. His South Park guitar strap was a surprising embellishment on someone not known for irreverence.

During Elvis Costello's opening set, it looked like my view of the drum riser was going to be blocked. There are few bands for whom an obstructed view of the drummer would be a massive disappointment, but fortunately, I did ultimately have clear sight lines. Stewart opened the show by hitting the gong on the secondary riser with an extensive collection of percussion instruments and ventured back there again to provide complex embellishments for "Wrapped Around Your Finger," among other songs. His percussion work pulled together so many opposing forces: playful yet intricate, athletic yet precise. He frequently abandoned used drum sticks by flinging them into the air and effortless grabbing new ones without missing a beat.

The set ended with its second encore of "Next To You." Andy returned to the stage alone, taking on a stance of mock impatience until he was joined by a boy of about 12 who came on with a bass and played with the rest of the band. I'm guessing it was Andy's son, and it was a cute gesture as the three elder statemen showed him the ropes in front of 16,000 people.

After seeing Stewart's documentary on the band and reading Andy's autobiography, it's clear that the band lived fast and died young even if the members themselves survived. They made it big through relentless touring, pausing only to crank out their five studio albums. No wonder they're planning to call it quits again at the end of this tour rather than strapping themselves back onto that treadmill.

While recording five timeless albums is no easy feat, opener Elvis Costello has pulled off a bigger challenge. Like the Police, he emerged as part of the late '70s punk scene while quickly establishing greater substance than peers who were more notable for their nihilism and wardrobes than actual talent. The Police broke up at the height of their fame, preserving their legacy, but Elvis kept going, taking the risk of diluting the impact of his initial, groundbreaking work. That he continues to earn critical acclaim and maintains an audience who aren't strictly there for his early hits is a testament to the depths of his talent. While the Police fans reserved their biggest cheers for the songs from his first few albums, he certainly had lots of fun making noise with tracks from Momofuku. My disappointment was that I didn't hear him touch 2002's When I Was Cruel, but I was also disappointed that he took the stage before his scheduled 7:30 start time, so I missed some of his set. On the style front, he earned major points for sporting a jacket in the 110% relative humidity, and he wore his scruffy beard with greater panache than Sting, who joined him for "Allison," perhaps because Sting is new to facial hear but Elvis has scaled back from his unfortunate rabbi look of the early '90s.

Set List: The Police, Comcast Center, Mansfield, MA, July 31

Message in a Bottle
Walking on the Moon
Demolition Man
Don't Stand So Close to Me
Voices Inside My Head/When the World Is Running Down, You Make the Best of What's Still Around
Driven to Tears
Hole in My Life
Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic
Wrapped Around Your Finger
De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da
Invisible Sun
Can't Stand Losing You

First encore:
Roxanne
King of Pain
So Lonely
Every Breath You Take

Second encore:
Next to You

Concert Review: Mission of Burma, Paradise Rock Club, June 13

To use SAT structure for an analogy: Beatles : Wings as Mission of Burma : Volcano Suns. Back in the '70s, the joke was that one had to explain to kids that the Beatles were the band Paul McCartney was in before Wings. In the late '80s, when "White Elephant" was a hit single by the very limited standards of Princeton radio station WPRB, I only know of Mission of Burma as the predecessor to the Volcano Suns. Eventually I learned, largely via Michael Azerrad's Our Band Could Be Your Life, that Mission of Burma was a bigger deal.

Reunited for several years with two new albums under their belt, most of the original line-up is remains intact: Peter Prescott on drums, Roger Miller on guitar and Clint Conley on bass. Volcano Suns alum (and current Shellac bassist and Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me sound engineer) Bob Weston has taken over for Martin Swopes on tape loops offstage. This was the second of a two-night stint. At the previous show, they performed Signals, Calls and Marches in its entirety. On Friday, they trotted out VS, which has recently been reissued. They warmed up with other material before embarking on their main mission, and they even announced the beginning of Side 2. They wrapped up with more songs not from that album.

This is the ideal victory lap for a band to take. While their noisiness will always limit their appeal, they have finally found the audience they deserve, and they earned respect with their spirited set. This was post-punk, not fueled by anger, but nonetheless blistering, and their was joy in their playing. They resembled Pink Flag-era Wire but without the arty affectations.

The question remains: Have they considered changing their name to Mission of Myanmar?

For the first time since moving, I was happy to live in Boston

Concert Recommendation: Frisbie at the Double Door, May 15

This will be the last concert I attend in Chicago before moving to Boston, so it's fitting that it's a show with my favorite Chicago band. I'm sure I'll find power pop elsewhere, but it won't be quite the same. Frisbie play with Ultra Sonic Edukators and the Tenniscourts at the Double Door, 1572 N. Milwaukee Ave., Chicago, 773.489.3160 at 9 p.m. on Thursday, May 15.

Charlton Heston, as honored by Stump

As the accolades are compiled for Charlton Heston, let's not forgot that he was the subject of a song by late '80s British also-rans Stump. The track off A Fierce Pancake was distinct for its refrain, "Charlton Heston put his vest on." The timing of the actor's death could not have been more fortuitous for the band; they just released an anthology in the UK. To see the frog-laden video:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=-xxju1pNhuA

Book Review: One Train Later: A Memoir by Andy Summers

If guitarist Andy Summers was overshadowed in the Police by Stewart Copeland and Sting, it was only because he had the relatively smallest of the three raging egos in the band. His side of the story comes to light in his autobiography One Train Later. The title refers to a chance encounter with drummer Stewart Copeland when an early Police line-up was at the breaking point. Summers had joined a going concern and quickly recognized that he, Copeland and Sting had unique and highly developed skills and were being held back by novice guitarist Henri Padovani. Summers had discussed the situation with Sting but was hesitant to approach Copeland with his "him or me" ultimatum. The two ran into each other on the subway, hashed it out and sealed their fate.

This is just one of the colorful stories from Summers life. I knew he was older than his Police-mates and had achieved middling success prior to the Police, but I was unaware of just how much he had accomplished. Handed his first guitar in his teens, he fell in love with the instrument and worked constantly to improve and expand his technique. He moved to London from Bournemouth and hit the ground running. He lined up his first paid gig within days of his arrival and worked continuously for years, eventually relocating to Los Angeles. He describes the grueling pace, the influence of hallucinogens and the artistic striving for something bigger. He seems unfazed by his ease in finding work, with is own bands or joining existing ones, until it comes to an abrupt halt in the mid '70s. He spends the fallow period woodshedding, working on his craft and scraping by on a meager existence teaching guitar. He marries his second wife and brings her back to England with barely a penny to his name.

He makes a go of it as a touring guitar for hire, which provides a steady income and steady intake of alcohol but little artistic satisfaction. He eventually finds his way to the Police, where he finds his niche in the perfect confluence of factors. The band embraces the spirit and energy of punk but rejects punk's disdain for virtuosity; they struggle to find a pathway between the two extremes, retaining credibility in the punk world while carving a new sound. They tour relentlessly to all corners of the world, earning their fame one tiny audience, one dingy nightclub at a time, succumbing to the wear-and-tear of life on the road, the excesses presented them as their sales ratchet up and the rifts within the band caused by intertwined ego and artistic drive. He takes so much of the blame for his failed marriage that at times it feels that his motivation for writing the book was an extended apology to his wife. Ian Copeland's book had a more colorful description of getting their gear out of customs in Egypt, but Summers otherwise provides plenty of choice anecdotes about touring in exotic locales. His writing is so vivid, especially in the calmer moments of his life when there was less going on worth describing, that I wondered if he had a ghost writer. But I can't imagine anyone who takes such pride in his craft doing so.

Concert Review: The Hives, The Donnas, The Riviera, Chicago, February 29

Howlin' Pelle Almqvist is not lacking for ego. His repeated calls for applause and adoration would quickly wear thin if the band he fronts didn't actually deliver the goods. But the Hives were non-stop juggernaut of garage rock at the Riviera on Friday night, sometimes soul-inflected, but always smoking. Almqvist and guitarist Nicholaus Arson were the flashy showman, but the whole band was supremely tight. And at least Almqvist invocations for devotion were delivered with a wink, most obviously when informing the audience that they were the best crowd they have ever played to.

As for openers the Donnas, I wasn't that crazy about Van Halen 25 years ago, so an all-female, less debauched version holds little appeal today.

Concert Recommendation: The Hives, The Riviera, Friday, February 29

As much as I love the Hives as a live act, I'd written them off as a novelty one-album wonder after Veni, Vidi, Vicious. Then I heard their newest release, The Black and White Album, and my faith was restored. There is no obvious single because so many songs are so outstanding, a total rush that lends itself to their explosive shows. Come see how rock and roll should be lived and breathed.

The Hives play with the Donnas at the Riviera Theater, 4746 N. Racine Ave., Chicago, on Friday, February 29 at 7:30 p.m.

Event Recommendation: Sound Opinions at the Movies: The Kids Are Alright

In these days of social software, band interaction with their fans is a given. Four decades ago, it was far less commonplace. Yet the Who handed over the reins to a persistent, devoted teenage fan to make a documentary about them. That he managed to show what made the band so fun and fantastic is why the film still matters now. Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot co-host a special screening of the result, 1979's The Kids Are Alright, followed by a Q & A.

Sound Opinions at the Movies, Music Box Theatre, 3733 N. Southport Ave., Chicago, 773-871-6604 at 7:30 p.m. on Thursday, February 7.

'80s College Radio DJ Let Loose in Mall?

Muzak has lost its stodgy "elevator music" image of bland instrumental versions of songs that were never terribly interesting to begin with. Lots of stores use programmed music with more distinctive personality, but it's usually obviously suited to the retailer's target demographic. Which is why I was so surprised today when shopping at a boring suburban department store, one where I shop infrequently specifically because their clothing styles lack even the slightest edge, to hear "Boys Don't Cry" by the Cure, followed shortly by "Seven Seas" by Echo and the Bunnymen. It was as if the Muzak programming booth had been hijacked by someone from Rhino who had compiled the Left of the Dial or A Life Less Lived '80s alternative and goth, respectively, box sets. Soon enough it was back to mall pap with a bright shiny retro hit from Wham! But it was so pleasantly disconcerting that I considered asking a staff member what was up.

Doonesbury Salutes NIN

Frazz is usually the only comic strip with funny music references, but Doonesbury had a great one on January 28.

http://www.doonesbury.com/strip/dailydose/index.html?uc_full_date=20080128

Album Review: The Redwalls

The quality falls off after the first three songs on the Redwalls' new self-titled release, but boy are those first three some real doozies. "Hangman" is the song the Stooges should have written and recorded for The Weirdness. "Modern Diet" and "Summer Romance" are like early to mid '70s Bowie, glam with a bit of blue-eyed soul inflection, the later with the sentimental but urgent refrain, "Please don't let me hear you say good-bye." Nothing stands out as much on the rest of the album, but it plays like the Strokes with an affection for Mott the Hoople.

Album Review: Jens Lekman Night Falls Over Kortedala

Normally when I review an album, by the time I've written the review I need a break from listening to it repeatedly, no matter how good it is. Maybe it's because I had a short turnaround for my review of Night Falls Over Kortedala by Jens Lekman for CDHotlist and only listened to it a few times, but I can't stop playing it. My "official" review won't run for a few weeks, but suffice it to say that it is charmingly dorky.

My New Writing Outlet

As of the November edition, I am writing for CDHotlist: New Releases for Libraries. Because the threshold is CDs that would circulate at a library or otherwise add value to its collection, my criteria for coverage is different that what I'd write about here. It is also implicit that it is unnecessary to review releases that are so popular that libraries wouldn't think twice about buying them, but I'm unlikely to write about such albums here, either. I'm not yet listed on the contributors page, so you'll have to take my word for it that those attributed to "MC" are mine.

Concert Review: Mudhoney, Double Door, November 2

Any disappointment I had over the Stooges reunion was more than mitigated by the appearance by Mudhoney at the Double Door. They're not just carrying the Stooges' torch, they're keeping the fire blazing. They were noisy but economical, without a wasted distorted note, and articulately pissed off. They blasted through their history with rip-snorting exuberance, from "Touch Me I'm Sick" to the strong, new material from Under a Billion Suns such as "Where Is the Future?"

The guys haven't gone to seed, with Steve Turner and Mark Arm looking as fit as even and Dan Peters looking as slightly unfit as ever. (New guy Guy Maddison on bass is built more in the Peters stocky mold.) While men hit an age where unshaven suggested "homeless" rather than "swarthy," Steve Turner with stubble still resembles a sleep-deprived grad student, a total guitar hero without ever looking the cliché. Even when untethered from his guitar, Mark Arm never commands the stage the way Iggy Pop does, but this is more of a democratic band than a star with a back-up group, and he certainly commits to the songs with his whole body, from his arched back to his scratchy wail.

Although they are the original grunge band that never struck gold off grunge, I have mixed feelings about their marginal appeal. While I wish the best for any band I adore, I'm glad they never fell prey to the shortcomings of fame and fortune. The best measure of what decent guys they are came when Arm cut a song off in the middle. They discussed the problem with smiles on their faces rather than accusations and recriminations, only for Arm to apologize to the audience for his fucked up ears before they resumed.

As for openers Thunderwing, I love a Monks song marginally popularized by the Fall as much as anyone, but I wish the glam revivalists had enough faith to open with their own compositions rather than a Velvet Underground cover.

Album Review: The Stooges The Weirdness

Sometimes reunions are better in theory than in practice. I wanted to love Iggy back with the band that established him, especially after the lame, generic backing he got from lame, generic neopunks Sum 41 on some tracks on Skull Ring, his last solo album. But I am sorry to report that The Weirdness is just blustery. They make a lot of noise, but it's all just wind blowing around. While the band are hardly maestros, their early work had a tautness and economy; now they just bash away aimlessly. Iggy's repeating lyrics doesn't emphasize a point they way, "I Wanna Be Your Dog," did; now it just implies that he doesn't have much to say. I'm glad that Iggy hasn't grown physically paunchy the way many of his aging rocker peers have; hoping for him to remain relevant is perhaps asking too much.

Movie Review: Control

Control, the new Ian Curtis biopic, just doesn't have the same commercial prospects as Ray or Walk the Line. Rather than ending, "...and he went on to become an American icon," this one wraps up, "...and the Macclesfield, England native committed suicide on the eve of the band's first U.S. tour." While a movie about the lead singer of Joy Division may not arouse mass interest, especially when it's shot in grim black and white, it is nonetheless a worthy picture.

The film follows Curtis from Bowie-obsessed teen to his death at 23, although the time frame between those points is vague. It shows his swagger and bravado, stealing his friend's girlfriend, approaching Tony Wilson and demanding that the band appear on the TV show Wilson hosts, so different from the public persona of his awkward, spastic stage presence, which actor Sam Riley captures perfectly. It delves into his ambivalence over fame, his ambivalence over his marriage which he refuses to end despite being in love with his mistress, and his unmanageable epilepsy, all of which lead him to his inevitable end.

While so much of the film is bleak, from the Manchester scenery to the band's spartan songs, it also finds plenty of levity. In an early scene with the band, bass player Peter Hook is portrayed as exceedingly flatulent. (I interviewed the man himself on several occasions and never recall hearing him let one fly.) He and a schoolmate visit an old lady just to raid her medicine cabinet. When he suffers an epileptic seizure on stage his manager tells him afterward, "Could be worse. You could be the singer for the Fall." Only followers of Mark E. Smith (of which my husband and I appeared to be the only ones in the theater) can appreciate why that is such a specific put-down, but it works even without such Manchester music knowledge.

Control is playing at the Music Box Theatre, 3733 N. Southport Ave., Chicago, 773.871.6604.

Concert Review: The Woggles, The Abbey Pub, September 7

The evening was not in the Woggles' favor. The Hideout Block Party was the hipster event of the weekend. The Woggles are hardly the indie rock band of the moment. Not surprisingly, the crowd at the Abbey was thin; they didn't even open the upstairs seating area. So maybe it was only diehard Woggles fans. But still, how often does the majority of the audience dance at a concert? Not just bob their heads in time to the music, but outright dance, moving their whole bodies. The band deserved such a reaction. To say that they committed to the material is an understatement. Lead singer the Professor frequently leapt from the stage, infiltrated the audience and even commandeered the furniture. He, guitarist the Flesh Hammer and bass player Buzz Hagstrom frequently danced in unison while playing, much like the Fleshtones. Mostly, they just peddled their infectious soul-inflected garage rock wares with gusto and earned every fan they made.

RIP Tony Wilson

It's not surprising that it didn't make much of a news splash in the U.S., but Tony Wilson died earlier this month. While he can't take full credit, the man was at least partly responsible for Factory Records, Joy Division, New Order, the Hacienda (a.k.a the Hallucienda), the whole Madchester scene and the irreverently post-modern bio pic 24 Hour Party People. NME has lots of coverage: obituary, news story and tributes from New Order and Alan McGee.

Movie Recommendation: Punk's Not Dead

My cousin's sister-in-law's documentary Punk's Not Dead is now playing at the Gene Siskel Film Center. It focuses on the more recent years of punk. The best part of the film's web site? Part of the URL could be read as "punk snot." How punk.

We Have to Face the Truth Some Time

I lamented not getting to see the Who when they toured earlier this year, at least until viewing Live at Lyon, the bonus DVD accompanying last year's Endless Wire. I've been a die-hard fan of the Who to the point that I could chalk up my disappointment over their 2002 Chicago area show to the recent death of John Entwistle and the poor acoustics and atmosphere of the venue. But as Roger sings in Mike Post Theme on that album, "We have to face the truth some time." Roger's voice is ragged. They play like they are just there to collect a paycheck. I still have faith in Pete's songwriting ability and they may have once been one of the finest live acts, but they are clearly past their prime.

Concert Recommendation: Os Mutantes, Metro, July 11

If you see only one garage psychedelic tropicalia reunion show this summer, make it this one. Os Mutantes play the Metro, 3730 N. Clark St., Chicago, 773.549.0203. at 9 p.m. on Wednesday, July 11.

Concert Review: The Police, Wrigley Field, July 6

There's a fine line to walk when playing a concert full of familiar hits. To just reproduce the recorded versions is artistically stale, but to blow them up too far leads to bloat. The trick is to find a way to make the songs fresh but not flabby. As the reunited Police trotted out their well-known back catalog, they mostly avoided the former but too often fell into the latter trap. They found their best success when mixing up their lesser-known mostly-instrumental songs with their big hits, which is ironic because it was generally the music, rather than lyrics, that got overextended.

The nontraditional location made it more of an event than a concert, but it was never quite as trancendental at Radiohead in Grant Park in 2001. The songs were still fantastic, and the reunion made up for not getting to see the band back in the day, but it rarely sent shivers down my spine.

Some other random thoughts:

• Heading into the encore, my friend asked what they hadn't done yet. I pointed out the obvious, "Every Breath You Take," but also going through my mind was all the odd songs that never get played on the radio, such as "Be My Girl-Sally."
• Sting is one of the few men who can get away with hair product and a receding hairline. I shuddered imagining Sting with a comb-over.
• Since Stewart Copeland brings athleticism to the drums, it makes sense that he favors athletic wear onstage: sweatband, gloves, a shirt from a manufacturer that specializes in moisture-wicking fabrics and, back in the day, track shorts, although he was in long pants last night.
• The Police are the most famous rock band with the least famous guitarist. I bet my husband was typical, unable to recall Andy Summers' name. Is there any other Rock and Rock Hall of Fame shoo-in where it's easier to remember who plays bass and drums than guitar?
• It was a toss-up which person sitting near us was the most annoying: the guy who wouldn't stop mauling his girlfriend except to demand high-5's from strangers, the dude yelling "Yeah!" along with "Invisible Sun" as if it were a frat boy-friendly party anthem rather than a song about searching for greater meaning in life or the oaf who clapped along loudly but never on the beat.
• I almost felt sorry for the suckers who paid to sit atop the buildings near Wrigley Field. The seats face home plate, but the stage was in the outfield.
• I don't know if my dwindled enthusiasm for huge concerts is related to the fact that I no longer have an in to buy good seats at reasonable face value. Ticket prices in general have skyrocketed, and my ticket connection is gone. I wonder if I'd paid through the nose for excellent seats I would enjoy it more or just have higher expectations that would more easily be shattered.
  

Album Review: The Fratellis, Costello Music

A friend who isn't into music at all, upon hearing Decksandrumsandrockandroll by the Propellerheads, commented that it was better than coffee. The Fratellis' debut Costello Music also fits that description. Their glam-infected power pop makes you want to jump up and down. Unlike Paper Tigers by the Caesars, this album lives up to the hype delivered by the track featured in an iPod ad.

Concert Review: Frisbie, Empty Bottle, June 14

Concert Review: Frisbie, Empty Bottle, June 14

It was a banner week in Chicago for power pop bands beginning with F. Fountains of Wayne headlined the Taste of Randolph Street on Friday, and Frisbie took the stage at the Empty Bottle the night before. Based on how sparse the Empty Bottle crowd was, I hesitate to use the term "local favorites" in describing Frisbie, but they could warrant that designation again with their upcoming album New Debut.

Their set started off displaying more potential than the actual goods. I kept thinking that the new songs would probably sound good on the new album, but I wasn't hearing it yet. The abrupt ending of the title track left the audience confused, especially since the persistent hum in the PA made it unclear if they had only come to a false ending. Then they fired up the early stuff, most notably "Disaster," and everything finally clicked. They excelled at both the power and the pop, rocking out with guitars blazing accompanied by gorgeous vocal harmonies.

After far too long with shows too sporadically scheduled, Frisbie plays the Double Door on July 14 for their record release party.

Concert recommendation: Fountains of Wayne, Taste of Randolph Street, Friday, June 15.

I was feeling lethargic and mopey after getting some bad news at work. However, I also have to-do list that I'm trying to blast my way through while my kids off visiting grandparents. So I finally got around to buying the Robbie Fulks song "Fountains of Wayne Hotline" from iTunes. I had not previously realized that FoW's songs were formulaic enough to merit such an astonishing accurate parody/homage, but leave it Robbie Fulks to humorously hit all the key points. As my toddler is fond of saying, albeit about "Crazy Train," "This song makes me happy."

To hear and see the inspiration in action, head to the Taste of Randolph on Friday night, where Fountains of Wayne take the stage at 8:30 p.m., Randolph & May Streets, Chicago.

Faux Indie Rock Guy

With Veronica Mars ending its run, I'm left mulling over why the depiction of the Indie Rock Guy rang false. Some of it can be chalked up to the acting. Chris Lowell as Piz never made an indelible impression and had nowhere near the chemistry with the title character as Logan, played by Jason Dohring.

But the bigger problem was that Piz was made into the Indie Rock Guy by people who are definitely not Indie Rock Guys. First, he didn't look the part. Jack Black and Todd Louiso in High Fidelity looked like they had been hired for the film straight from actual hole-in-the-wall record stores. A patron at the library where I work looked like he came fresh from Indie Rock central casting: scrawny, clothes just hanging on his lanky frame, slightly greasy hair falling into his eyes, big black glasses. Piz just looked like a generic college student.

More importantly, he didn't sound like an Indie Rock Guy. One recent episode had Piz spouting minutia about a fictitious band, but he never sounded convincing about the real thing. He was giddy about lining up a summer internship with Pitchfork Media's New York headquarters, but Pitchfork is based in Chicago. He sneared at someone's enthusiasm for Matchbox 20 and expressed self-contempt for quoting John Mayer lyrics to his girlfriend, but he should have been quoting, for example, Bright Eyes or the Magnetic Fields, instead. It's as if the writers only know who Indie Rock Guy Guy should hate without any real knowledge of who he should love. In other words, it came across as a persona to slap onto a generic character to make him less generic.

On the other hand, Douglas Coupland's indie rock bona fides are so much a part of him that he used Smiths and New Order song titles as titles for his own works.

Random thoughts that went through my mind during the Bloc Party concert at the Congress Theatre on Friday, March 23:

• The refrain from "Helicopters," "Are you hoping for a miracle?" summed up how I felt about the material from A Weekend in the City. I was way off in hoping that the songs would translate better live than they did on disc.
• Matt Tong's nimble but powerful drumming stood out in ways that it doesn't in recordings.
• After Tong shed a jacket of some variety and then his shirt, was the next step going to be waxing his chest hair on stage?
  
• Are concert venues making less money on drinks now that everyone fills the time between sets texting their friends?
• Does the new Chicago smoking ban not apply to concert venues such as the Congress Theatre, or is just too futile to enforce?
• Is it strictly as a memento that people bother taking cell phone pictures at big concerts? Between the distances and the resolution, they're only getting blurry photos of lights on a stage.
• With the ubiquity and miniaturization of electronic devices, do venues no longer ban cameras and recording devices?
• I used to be concerned that I wasn't listening to any new music. Lately, lots of the new music I've been seeking out sounds like old music. And yet the only two people at the concert who were conspicuously older than I were the sound engineer and a dad hovering at the back, likely chaperoning his teenager at a distance.
  
• Since A Weekend in the City hasn't brought a monumental leap in fame over Silent Alarm, I can't be accused of the cliché of thinking they were cool when they were obscure and shunning them just because they're popular. I merely prefer the first album to the second.
  
• Would all of these thoughts have been going through my mind if the new songs were better?

Album Review: The Kooks Inside In Inside Out (Astralwerks)

In skimming critics' end-of-year best of 2006 lists, I was surprised to spot the Kooks in several lists for best song but not best album. That honor is usually bestowed on ubiquitous radio hits, guilty pleasures acknowledged as much for their pop culture impact as much as their actual artistry. But the Kooks hardly made a splash last year. Still, I was intrigued, if only for their Nuggets-worthy moniker.

Listening to Inside In Inside Out, I can see why individual songs such as "She Moves In Her Own Way," made more of an impression that the work as a whole. The band has hooks hung on a acoustic/electric guitar mix, like a sunny, poppier Strokes. But they are done in by the lack of editing. The album doesn't end so much as peter out. The 70-80 minutes that can fill a CD doesn't oblige a band to fill the whole thing. For a band that sounds lifted from the LP era, they would have been better off working with the LP's time constraints.

Concert Recommendation: Bloc Party, Congress Theatre, March 23

Their sophomore album A Weekend in the City is a disappointment after Silent Alarm, with the angularity and caffeinated jitteriness of their debut giving way to overproduction which renders them generic. But Silent Alarm is still a stonkin' great album. The old songs should be great; I have hopes that they can pare down the arrangements on the new stuff and sound like themselves rather than everybody else.

Bloc Party play the Congress Theatre,  2135 N. Milwaukee Ave., Chicago, at 7:00 p.m., Friday, March 23.

Concert Recommendation: Hoodoo Gurus, The Abbey Pub, Sunday, March 25

When discussing the Greenhornes recently with another garage rock aficienado, I complained that when I saw them live, it just wasn't happening. She defended them as good in the studio but awkward in front of an audience. I wasn't buying it. In my book, the definition of a garage band includes a vibrancy in concert that's hard to capture in recording. Australia's Hoodoo Gurus epitomize that, just one hell of a fun live band with catchy pop hooks, tremendous energy and a sense of humor. For example, at one show they offered a free bottle of champagne, given to the band by their record company, to the first audience member to identify the theme in that night's set list; they were performing the songs in alphabetical order. They haven't toured the U.S. in over a decade, so it'll be a welcome return.

The Hoodoo Gurus play the Abbey Pub, 3420 W. Grace, Chicago, 773-478-4408 at 9 p.m. on Sunday, March 25.

Since I've had the Police on the brain, I finally got around to reading Ian Copeland's autobiography, Wild Thing: The Backstage, On the Road, In the Studio, Off the Charts. Ian, one of Stewart's two older brothers, was booking agent to the Police and many other bands of the punk/new wave revolution. He found success by specializing in fresh young bands, carving out a club circuit to help them find an audience and touring them on shoestring budgets so they wouldn't lose money in the process. He intentionally avoided old school rock, both aesthetically and as an ethical business decision to not raid existing agencies' rosters. Through his own hard work and that of the artists he worked with, they found a great deal of success.

Even before finding his way in the world as a booking agent, he led a fascinating life. He grew up mostly in Cairo and Beirut, the son of a CIA agent stationed there. Irresponsible and rebellious as a teenager, he traipsed back and forth across Europe and scrounged an existence in London rather than submit to his parents' will, eventually enlisting in the U.S. and heading to the Vietnam War. He stumbled into tour management and booking, where he finally found his niche. He also sat at an unlikely cusp in the Baby Boom. An acknowledged hippie who embraced hippie bands, he still didn't reject punk. He recognized that while the snotty punks lacked the chops of his favorite long-haired artists, they had a freshness missing from the the stagnating older music and musicians.

Copeland was not a great writer but definitely an adequate one to tell his unusual life story, including having good sense of choice anecdotes to include, particularly one about being harangued by a veteran agent about why he'll never succeed, the old-timer nodding off repeatedly mid-sentence from heroin before finally going face down into a dish of creamed spinach. The book gets off to a sluggish start, with a chapter that goes on too long into too much detail about his crazy globetrotting lifestyle working and socializing with rock stars; fortunately it is not characteristic of the rest of the book. He is gentlemanly, revealing little of his doomed marriage and offering no ill words about his ex-wife, refraining to name the member of the Go-Go's who failed to seduce him despite her persistence and adding in a footnote that the heroin-addled agent eventually cleaned up and found continued success in the music business. Although he says so explicitly, he also shows repeatedly his keys to success: the road to fame must be trod repeated back and forth across the U.S. and includes stops at roach-infested hotels, stay within your financial means, drugs will greatly hinder one's career and don't be a scumbag. In an industry known for weasels, such advice is refreshing.

Missed Obituaries

Twice in recent weeks I've stumbled upon news of deaths in the music world well after the fact.

I only learned of Ian Copeland's death from the credits for Everyone Stares: The Police Inside Out. Ian, one of Stewart's brothers, was the band's manager and booking agent. He served in a similar capacity to a bunch of other bands that helped define 1980s. He died last May. I'm still amused by the names of the outfits of the Copeland brothers, a response to their father's serving in the CIA. Ian's agency was FBI. Miles' record label was IRS. Stewart is in the Police. I was preoccupied with caring for a newborn at the time of Ian's death, but it didn't make much news beyond the music world.

Chalk it up to geography that I missed the news that Aldo Jones died of leukemia in 2001 at age 41. Jones was a member of the Ben Vaughn Combo and worked with many other Philly musicians in the late 80s and early 90s when I was seeing a lot of local Philly acts. On one of my first dates with an old boyfriend, grabbing a bite at Silk City at the end of the night, Aldo walked in. That both of us considered this a celebrity sighting sums up the foundation of that relationship. News of his passing didn't make it to Chicago, and I'm no longer connected to that scene for someone to have tipped me off.

It wasn't until I discovered allmusic and starting looking up my favorite bands that I learned that lots of my favorite music is considered part of the same genre and that it has a name: post-punk. I just thought of it as music I like.

I recently came upon an 80s post-punk archetype: Josef K. The first time I heard the band on the radio, I was confused. They sounded familiar without sounding familiar, in that I knew I'd never actually heard them before although their sound resembled lots that I'd heard before. There were glints of the angularity of the Fall, Gang of Four and early Echo & the Bunnymen, the jangly pop of the Woodentops and the revved-up jangly pop of early Wedding Present. That they had previously escaped my attention, apart from recognizing their name from the 1991 edition of the Trouser Press record guide, is not surprising considering that they only issued one proper album, The Only Fun in Town, before breaking up, and that album never had a U.S. release. Their new compilation, Entomology, rounds up 22 album tracks and singles for a worthy introduction to American ears.

I had merely planned to review Everyone Stares: The Police Inside Out when much bigger news about the band broke: Holy crap! They're getting back together. The band announced that they will play at the Grammy Awards on February 11, and a full tour is rumored.

Now back to that movie review. Drummer Stewart Copeland bought a Super 8 movie camera early in his career with the band and managed to document them in their time together, from their early struggles to massive fame. Through wise editing of the 50 or so hours of footage on the road, in the studio, on the stage and pressed up against the fans, he gives a clear view of what it was like living through it all. His narration is insightful, making their eventual break-up a natural conclusion without placing blame. That said, Sting sometimes comes across as an obnoxious alpha male even when they're getting along just fine, and the film reaffirmed my belief that Copeland is not only one of the best drummers of all time, he's also one of the coolest.

One of the most annoying current cliches in journalism is making reference to AARP to say that someone is old. For once, talking about aging and making reference to AARP isn't a cliche. In today's Chicago Tribune, Barbara Brotman catches up with former Buzzcocks bass player Steve Garvey to discuss the cultural meaning of the band's "Everybody's Happy Nowadays" being used in AARP ad campaign. The interview also goes beyond the usual "where are they now" piece since they delve into what aging has been like for Garvey, now a carpenter with a kid in college.

In recent years, Iggy Pop's backing bands have been a lot like the Chicago Cubs. The long-standing complaint about the Cubs is that the owners won't bother investing money in the team itself because they know that Wrigley Field is the real draw for the fans, not how well the team plays. Likewise, Iggy's backing band is usually merely adequate because no one comes to an Iggy show for anything but the man himself, so he has no incentive to hire spectacular musicians.

That is changing. After a handful of tracks together on Iggy's last album, 2003's Skull Ring, and a handful of shows, Iggy and the surviving Stooges are reuniting for a full album and tour. The Weirdness, due out March 20, was recorded by Steve Albini and features ex-Minuteman Mike Watt taking over for the deceased Dave Alexander on bass. They plan to tour, including a stop at the South by Southwest Music Festival in March.

Movie Review: loudQUIETloud: A Film About the Pixies

I'm a sucker for a well-done documentary about a band I like, and loudQUIETloud: A Film About the Pixies fills the bill. It displays the greatness of the music that I already loved. It tells me more about the personalities than I knew previously. Kim Deal is the most gracious with the fans, perhaps because, as a female musician, she's still an anomaly and therefore a role model to teenage girls. Dave Lovering is sad, in several meanings of the word, his career as a magician looking disturbingly similar to Gob Bluth's on Arrested Development. Joey Santiago is the most well-adjusted of the bunch, a committed family man who is torn about touring keeping him away from his growing brood at home. Kim's twin sister Kelley, brought along by Kim for moral support, is a fun, blunt addition, not merely a hanger-on.

The scenes where Black Francis (sorry, I just can't quite think of him as Charles Thompson or Frank Black) gets interviewed, resurrected my range of emotions about my days of doing them. On one hand, I recalled why I enjoyed interviewing him several times, especially when he offered his suggestion that if the band were to start recording again, they should really start from scratch with a new name like Vomit Squad. On the other hand, the footage of his phone interviews showed him just as disengaged as I suspected some of my telephone interview subjects were. During the first phoner, he's fiddling with an eyeglass case while talking. During the second, he's lying on his hotel bed in just his underwear, which caused a collective shudder by the audience at the Music Box.

The concert footage proved insightful, too. It reconfirmed my belief that, as wonderfully original as the Pixies' music is, the band was always short on charismatic stage presence, which may have limited their popularity as much as an inherent weirdness to their sound. But it also showcased guitarist Joey as an underrated talent. As singers and songwriters Black Francis and Kim always garnered more attention, but Joey's unique riffs are a large part of their distinctive sound.

Concert Recommendation: "The Last Show on Earth" A Halloween Rock n Roll Circus!" featuring Sickidz, October 28, The Khyber

All good things must come to an end. Philly band Sickidz (who I'd written about previously) had reunited, but now they're calling it quits again with a Halloween-themed blowout at the Khyber. Among the special guests are Palmyra Delran and Barb Dwyer, who were members of Pink Slip Daddy with frontman Mick Cancer after the Sickidz's initial demise. Mick performs with the kind of charismatic abandon that suggests that the only limit to their fame was that they only toured regionally. This should be quite the party.

Sickidz play with special guests Palmyra Delran, Barb Dwyer and Joe Ankenbrand plus Jukebox Zeroes, King of Siam The Warm Jets at the Khyber, 56 S. Second St., Philadelphia, 215.238.5888 on Saturday, October 28 at 9:00 p.m.

I just learned about Pitchfork's Top 100 Albums of the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s. Two related observations struck me: the writers were trying to out-obscure the readers and each other with their picks, and, not surprisingly, almost none of it was written by women. Yes, folks, it's a High Fidelity movement. Male music geeks are just as competitive as their jock counterparts but on a different playing field.

I mentioned this to a colleague, who tipped me off to the news that High Fidelity, Nick Hornby's beloved novel about obsessive list-compilers who wield their obscure music knowledge as a weapon against the less informed at a record shop, has been made into a musical. And just to get my competitive geekiness out of the way, I'll point out that the NPR story got one of its facts wrong. They called the musical the third incarnation of the novel, the second being the film starring John Cusack. They were unaware of the play The Vinyl Shop that was produced by a small theater company in Chicago prior to the film. The actor who played Barry in stage production was one of the Championship Vinyl customers. (I take particular music geek pride in all things related to the book since I was an extra in the movie.)

Requiem for a Record Store in Three Movements

Tower Records didn't survive bankruptcy. On Friday, their assets were auctioned off. The stores are having liquidation sales.

The Music Fan

As I started to really get into music in my late teens, the record store at the mall just wasn't cutting it. My tastes were turning too obscure for what could be sold in storefront between suburban department stores. Back before you could buy anything on Amazon, Tower Records was record-buying mecca. They had everything cool. They had everything old. They were open until midnight, so I could pick up the new Nine Inch Nails on my way to Dobbs or after a show at the TLA further down South Street in Philly. Going there could be an event unto itself, a date spent browsing for new CDs.

What made Tower different from other chain stores wasn't just their depth of inventory but the depth of knowledge by their staff. Not only did they know and care about music, they looked like they knew and cared about music, unlike the tools at the mall stores who had to wear ties and red vests and looked like they could just as easily been selling smoked cheese logs or personalized golf towels. Members of many bands passed through their ranks of employment. When I suggested to an editor of Pulse, their in-house magazine, that they do a story of former employees who went on to greater fame as musicians, she said there were far too many, although I think Perry Farrell's name was mentioned.

Tower indirectly launched my writing career. While scouting for reading matter for a long plane ride, I hit their magazine section and stumbled upon B-Side. Unlike Rolling Stone, which I was finding increasingly exasperating, it covered nothing but music. It covered the music I was listening to such as Echo and the Bunnymen rather than Huey Lewis and the News. I was shocked to read the masthead and discover it was published locally. The record store at the mall had no interest in 'zines or local publications. B-Side was my first writing outlet.

My experience as a consumer is typical in explaining their demise. I don't have extensive time to browse record stores anymore. Amazon and Tower's own web site have taken away the thrill of the chase, so my only limitation is whether I'm willing to shell out for import prices, not whether I can merely locate an obscure album. I can download songs for instant gratification. No one has bought records at record stores in ages, but no one ever called them CD stores.

The Employee

Until I worked at RollingStone.com, being a sales clerk at Tower in London was my coolest job. Yes, the pay was meager but I was surrounded by music and by people who cared about music. We sneered at those picking up Samantha Fox's record (now mercifully forgotten by most). We lauded the parents visiting from America who could actually name bands their kids liked when asking records that couldn't be found back home. David Bowie shopped there. The place was constructed with a DJ booth, although the position was cut by my second summer on staff. My mother suggested that I should try to transfer to accounting so that I could make more money, but then I would have just been a bean counter in an anonymous office when I wanted to be swimming in rock and roll.

When I returned to Wharton after my first summer at Tower, my classmates were bragging about their summer internships, working 60-hour weeks on Wall Street. I kept quiet, but thought to myself that I probably learned more as part of the working class in a foreign city, supporting myself on 100 quid a week (slang for "pounds" being one of the facts I picked up).

The Librarian

While I no longer have time to spend hours browsing record stores for fun, it is now part of my job, doing collection development for a public library. Tower was our favorite place to do so. I still had the thrill of the chase but more importantly the benefit of serendipitous finds. For my boss shopping for jazz and classical, the staff's in-depth knowledge was an invaluable source of recommendations. There was also the entertaining distraction of things worth a laugh even if we wouldn't buy it for the library.

Unfortunately, Tower's inability to provide sufficiently-detailed invoicing proved the death knell for our library's financial relations with them. I miss the field trips to the store because it meant heading into Lincoln Park instead of the suburbs. I miss being mistaken for Tower staff, even when carrying a baby, because I was marking a list and hauling around dozens of CDs. I miss finding out about the new Cinerama album because they were playing it in the store, even if it was followed by the horrible new Janet Jackson album. I'm saddened that a large chain employing lots of people who are there because they care about music can't survive.

The timing of the auction was particularly depressing because I headed to a conference of music librarians on Friday preparing to give a talk on collection development, and recommending Tower for their selection, staff knowledge and useful web site was part of speech. The information was already outdated by the end of the day.

I can't help but notice how much "Nausea," off Beck's new album The Information, sounds like "Going South" by the Wolfgang Press. Considering how low the Wolfgang Press's profile is, I'll be amazed if any review comments on this. Hell, I'll be amazed if anyone besides me recognizes this.

I had intended to tout the Futureheads show at the Metro on October, but the band has canceled their October tour dates because guitarist Barry Hyde has tendonitis in his wrist.

Concert Recommendation: Little Steven's Rolling Rock and Roll Show, Durty Nellie's, September 13

Little Steven's Underground Garage is sponsoring a national tour. Need I say more than the line-up? (Also known as I don't have time to write more.) The Zombies, The Mooney Suzuki, The Woggles, Gore Gore Girls plus local act Catfish Haven. It all adds up to reason to head to the 'burbs on a weeknight.

Little Steven's Rolling Rock and Roll Show, Durty Nellies, 180 N. Smith Street, Palatine, (847)358-9150 at 9:00 p.m. on Wednesday, September 13.

Concert Recommendation: Mudhoney and the Cynics, Double Door, Friday, September 1

Double bills don't come much more promising than this one. Two bands of rip-snorting rock and roll who put on amazing shows, in a venue just the right size to see all the dripping sweat. Come worship at the altar of the electric guitar is all its fuzzed-up glory. Marvel at charismatic frontmen. Then cry for me because I can't go.

Mudhoney and the Cynics play the Double Door, 1572 N. Milwaukee, Chicago, 773.489.3160, at 9:00 p.m., Friday, September 1.

Concert Review: The Church and Rob Dickinson, Park West, August 18

Unlike the Church's October, 1998 show, this one lacked the power to change my life, but it was a fine entertainment. Most notably, the band was cheerfully relaxed and informal. Where Steve Kilbey is usually taciturn, this time he was positively loquacious. The members frequently switched instruments, resulting in jokes about Marty Willson-Piper's tendency to break drum sticks. They messed around with arrangements, adding flamenco, English folk and jazz flourishes to familiar favorites to refresh them. Kilbey gave a shout-out to the recently departed Grant McLennan when the band played "Providence," by Kilbey and McLennan's side project Jack Frost.

Rob Dickinson, former lead singer for the Catherine Wheel, has a solo album and is, only slightly facetiously, recasting himself as a sensitive singer songwriter. Armed with only an acoustic guitar, he struggled mightly with his desire to recreate the thunderous wall of sound his old outfit generated.

Back in high school, I had a few rules about the car stereo: No Ozzy Osbourne. No AC/DC. If they came on the radio, I'd change the station no matter how my passengers felt. I sucked it up and willingly went to an AC/DC concert years later as a favor to a friend; she wanted to photograph them for the magazine we both worked for, so I agreed to review the show, but that still didn't violate the car rule.

Now I've got a toddler son who is both crazy about trains and will request that I sing even the shortest snippet of a song again and again. When he was enthusing about a train when we were driving recently, I sang the one-line chorus of Ozzy's "Crazy Train," which I had to fake in parts, "We're going (mumble mumble) rails of the crazy train." He demanded, "Again," over and over. I obliged a few times since he is irresistibly charming. Then I tried switching to "I've Been Working on the Railroad," but he responded, "Crazy Train," and continued to request it. So I broke down and borrowed an Ozzy CD from the library so I could play him the whole song, which I've already done twice, much to his delight.

I've decided to use "Crazy Train" as the starting point for a mix CD for him, "Train Tracks." I'll fill it with lots of songs about trains, especially ones that are not obviously appropriate for a toddler, like "5:15" by the Who and Love & Rockets' "Kundalini Express." I'm just following the High Fidelity definition of true selfless love: when you make a mix of songs the other person will like instead of what you think they should like, although I'll still skip "Casey Jones" by the Grateful Dead.

It's a sad but oft-repeated tale in music business: an artist releases an album. Their label folds and all corporate support for marketing and promoting it evaporate. Such was the fate of World Party's impossibly wonderful Egyptology. I reviewed an advance copy and eventually stopped writing for the publication where I freelanced because the meddling editor challenged my perfect rating for it. But around the time that it was hitting the store shelves in 1997, the Enclave, the label behind the US release, was killed off by parent Chrysalis. The album was ignored and is now out of print. The good news in the UK was that Robbie Williams held the album in the same high esteem that I did, and his cover of "She's the One" was a big hit there, but Williams has never found an audience in the US.

Dumbing Up, the follow-up to Egyptology, is finally coming out in the US, a mere six years after its UK release. World Party mastermind Karl Wallinger is releasing it on his own label Seaview. More details about the project, the band's recent history and upcoming US tour dates are at http://www.worldparty.net.

Just how cool is my baby? The one-month-old was fussy last night, and the only thing that finally calmed him down was Fun House by the Stooges.

Here's one mystery solved. The current exhibit at the Chicago Cultural Center, "Nick Cave: Soundsuits," has nothing to do with the diminutive Australian singer who frequently dons a suit for his concerts. Same name, different person entirely.

Just how cool is the Librarian of Congress? Cool enough to name Sonic Youth's Daydream Nation to the National Recording Registry, one of 50 recordings each year that are deemed “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant.” Other worthy musical recordings were also added, but none as hip and unexpected as this. Or to put it another way, I suspect the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame will be much more reluctant to acknowledge Sonic Youth's cultural, historic and aesthetic significance within the narrower realm of rock music after they become eligible for induction in 2008.

The full press release is at:
http://www.loc.gov/today/pr/2006/06-083.html

My friend GirlDetective, also the mother of two young children (My new son was born March 27.) recently blogged "I Resemble That Remark," linking to an article from New York about recent trends among Gen-X parents:

When did it become normal for your average 35-year-old New Yorker to (a) walk around with an iPod plugged into his ears at all times, listening to the latest from Bloc Party . . . (f) decide that Sufjan Stevens is the perfect music to play for her 2-year-old, because, let’s face it, 2-year-olds have lousy taste in music, and we will not listen to the Wiggles in this house;

Not to get defensive, but I'm 40, not 35, and have Bloc Party on my iPod. As for the Sufjan Stevens observation, it's not my fault if neither my 22-month-old nor I liked the Sharon, Lois and Bram CD from the library but we both enjoyed the Clean Anthology. Here I was thinking that I'm probably the only mom my age with young kids who actually has an opinion on Deerhoof (They're wretched; their artiness exacerbates their basic musical incompetence.) when it turns out I'm just part of a larger demographic shift.

That said, I don't fit the full stereotype. I may be into music and into sharing my favorite music with my kids (It was so convenient to stop at Target and get NIN's With Teeth the day of release since I needed babyproofing supplies, too.) And I may be style-conscious, but I don't live in jeans or spend the kind of money they're talking about on clothes.

On the flip side, it is possible to find fun kids' music that isn't insipid. We've had to balance it with Ben Vaughn, P-Funk, Louis Armstrong and John Coltrane, but Wiggleworms Love You has been a huge hit with my toddler.

One of rock and roll's great achievements is helping to bridge the racial divide. Rock made it acceptable for white people to listen music created by African-Americans (or why the term "race record" is now outmoded) and for blacks and whites to socialize to hear music together. Which is why I kept shuddering watching the profile of Lyrnyrd Skynyrd on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony. The Confederate flag was a ubiquitous presence at their performances; they might as well have hung a huge sign, "Black people not welcome."

I was never a fan of Black Sabbath, but at this point I must acknowledge that they have been hugely influential on an entire genre of music. The Sex Pistols recorded only one studio album, but its impact was utterly cataclysmic. I'm not convinced that Miles Davis is rock and roll, but he was one of the greatest innovators in music. Blondie has it all going in spades. But Lynard Skynyrd is a two-hit-wonder that did little to advance rock and roll, and they had a habit of endorsing racial segregation.

Concert Recommendation: Billy Bragg and Jill Sobule, Double Door, March 20

Especially after hearing that Jill Sobule is opening, I was crushed that I won't be able to attend this show. For those who have somehow missed him over the years, Billy Bragg is the world's leading punk-inspired romantic, socialist folkie. While his music and his shows are filled with leftist opinion, his humor, approachability, genuine concern for others and self-deprecation make him palatable whatever one's political leanings. I've never come across another artist who makes a habit of emerging after his shows just to chat with fans. Billy is touring in support of a new box set that collects much of his early work.

Casual observers might dismiss Jill Sobule as a one-hit novelty act for "I Kissed a Girl," but she is a wry songwriter with a gift for catchy melodies and an eye for unexpected subject matter. For example, her last album, Underdog Victorious, offered a sympathetic ode to '60s sex symbol Joey Heatherton.

Billy Bragg and Jill Sobule play the Double Door, 1572 N. Milwaukee, Chicago, 773.489.3160, at 8:00 p.m. on Monday, March 20.

Concert Review: The Wedding Present, Double Door, March 12

As David Gedge wrapped up the Wedding Present's set last night at the Double Door, he commented that it was past their bedtimes and probably the same for some of the audience, too. Amen. I was conflicted all evening, wanting them to play forever but also needing to get home and to sleep. And praying that I wouldn't go into labor in the middle of the concert because I'm incredibly pregnant, was enjoying the show so much and it would be a logistical nightmare to get home.

This wasn't only joke about the age of the band. He introduced, "Go Out And Get 'Em Boy!" their first single from 1985, by noting that the song was older than their current drummer. Judging by the drummer's (Charlie Layton?) youthful appearance, Gedge may not have been facetious. The set list drew songs from throughout the band's history, including a few Cinerama numbers since Gedge pointed out that the line-up for the two bands is now the same. While it was a blast to hear "Brassneck" and "Click Click," the latter enabled by female bass player's Terry de Castro providing backing vocals, it was an unexpected disappointment for them to exclude "Interstate 5," the haunting lead single off their latest album, Take Fountain.

All in all, the band were in fine form, starting with opening number "Corduroy," since Gedge dove in trying to saw his guitar in half with just his bare hands and a guitar pick. No wonder I still love this band.