I Blog What I Hear

Well, this makes two posts about the same band fairly close together, but you know what?  I don’t even care.  You want a wide variety of editorial content centered around pop culture and bands who dress like homeless crackheads set loose in a party store, then go watch Morning Joe.  OK?  Glad we’re past that.

After the Dawes show at Webster Hall, two very small shows were announced at Maxwell’s, one of the 3 greatest venues in the New York metropolitan area.  If you have never been, Maxwell’s is a hidden gem in Hoboken, NJ, a mile square city of dudes in white baseball hats who work in finance.  It became famous in the 90’s, hosting bands like Nirvana, Sonic Youth, Yo La Tengo, and approximately 2 billion others.  Hoboken had a vibrant music scene at the time, yes, I know it’s surprising if you look at it now.

Maxwell’s has a feel like no other.  It is not filled with pretentious people, the food is actually good, and the drinks are not expensive.  On this particular evening, I trekked the 12 blocks north in the pouring rain from the PATH, and Joe Strummer’s “Coma Girl” was on the juke box.  I took this as a good omen. I had an extra ticket, and the doorman found me a person looking for one.  That’s not going to happen in Manhattan.

The feel of the show was a bit ragtag, in a good way.  The band seemed relaxed, maybe they had enjoyed a few beverages, not over rehearsed, again, all in a good way.  It was like seeing your friends band play a local bar.  But not like that friend’s band who takes themselves too seriously and just wants to rip 15 minute solos over “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”  More like those guys you think “I feel kind of lucky to be seeing this”

One thing I seemed to have missed at the recent Webster Hall show is what great technical musicians these guys are.  There were quite a few guitar solos by Taylor Goldsmith, but none were gratuitous, all supporting the melody, not just mindless shredding.  Great interplay between all of the musicians, lots of listening going on.  Also great bass lines.  Almost reggae sounding – not in the bouncy Bob Marley way, but in the “the bass feels like a giant blanket engulfing me with happiness” way.

Also, I’ll bet that bass player listens to a lot of Lee Sklar, the famed LA studio musician, most known for his work with Jackson Browne.  Browne has been hanging around with Dawes recently, they played a song at Occupy Wall St together.  I mean, that relationship is probably good for all involved.  Browne gets an excellent young group of musicians, Dawes learns from one of the master American songwriters, we all get to hear the results, and I’m sure the environment and foreign economies benefit as well somehow.

I’d love to see what the future holds for a band like this.  They put on a great live show, and their first album was fantastic (I haven’t fully explored their latest release.)  Maybe a collaboration album with Browne?  A random cover?  I feel like a live EP would be a great idea, just record it at any of these shows, the entire crowd singing “When My Time Comes”  you can’t feel left out.  Thats just my two cents, I’ll send you an invoice for the consultation fee.

On the way home, I wasnt going to walk the 11 blocks in the rain once again, so I hailed a Hoboken Cab ($5 flat rate anywhere in the city!)  Annnnd….this was the interior:

You really can’t ask for more than flashing Christmas lights inside your cab on a rainy Wednesday night.

I consider myself a man of science.  Not an active practitioner of science, but certainly an enthusiast.  (this basically means when Planet Earth or NOVA is on, you know where I’ll be.)  But some things defy common knowledge.  I was thinking of my old friend Eric yesterday, a bass player in a former band, and all around unique character.  We hadn’t spoken in nearly 2 years, he’s not on Facebook, I figured he dropped off the map.

That evening, I’m walking home from purchasing a synth in the most sketchy craigslist transaction of all time (and thats saying a lot) it’s pouring rain, and my phone rings.  Its Eric.  How do these things happen?  These weird little experiences happen to all of us, lets get someone to fund some research on this shit.  Anyway, he asks “Want to see Ryan Adams tonight? I have a free extra”  To that there is only one response  “Is he performing as his Rap and/or Metal alterego?”  If the answer to that question is “No” then the followup response is “Yes, of course”

This is the only pic from the night you get, I'm not loading up the post with shit like this

I tried to get tickets to this event initially, it sold out very quickly, and was very expensive.  Its strange how things like that work out sometimes.  I have had 3 live experiences with Ryan Adams in my life.  First, he played a Bob Dylan tribute at Lincoln Center, and lit the venue ablaze with a cover of “Isis.”  Next, I met him in a Deli, told him I enjoyed the “Isis” cover, to which he was very nice and responsive.  Finally, I saw The Cardinals at Town Hall.  Adams came out in giant leather moon boots, with a little ponytail on top of his head, and played a very long set of what sounded like Grateful Dead covers, lots of solos…we had to take a break.

This tour seemed a little different, Adams was performing solo acoustic, he had taken time off from music for the last year, he had cleaned himself up, it’s worth a shot.  I haven’t heard much of his new album, a friend commented “it almost seems too easy for him, like he just wakes up and writes 45 fairly decent songs”  You definitely get that vibe.  None of his songs are hideous, but only a few are truly great.  I won’t go into a full on “Heartbreaker vs the 297 albums that came after” analysis, but you know what I’m getting at.

Adams came out, picked up his red white and blue guitar, and went into “Oh My Sweet Carolina”  Things were pretty much all good from there out.  While I was up in the nosebleeds, Carnegie hall is a beautiful sounding venue, made for music like this.  You could hear every quiet note, the natural sound of the room enhancing everything.

The show was not without its signature Ryan Adams banter, calling out various photographers “thanks for bringing your camera from 1981, do you have to change the flashbulb after each shot?” Commenting on the snakes in the balcony (one dude kept shushing everyone who clapped at parts of a song) and creating several on the spot songs – One woman yelled “That was beautiful!” he responded “did you say Howard Is Beautiful?”  a full song about Howard being beautiful followed.  Apparently Howard gets all the Apple products first, and controls inter-dimensional force fields.

The highlight of the show was unexpected.  We heard all the hits, “Winding Wheel”  “Come Pick Me Up” all that, but I was blown away by “New York, New York”  Played on piano rather than guitar, and slowed down a whole bunch, it just got to the heart of the song.  It bypassed the sax solo and conga parts that made it the pop song it was, and stood up completely on its own.  You got the feeling that when Adams is at the top of his songwriting game, he taps into some magical shit.  How many others could hold the attention of a venue like that completely on their own?  It’s almost as if you could see these mythical women he writes about, a cartoon version of all his famous exes combined, 14 feet talk, swinging one of those spikey ball chains from fantasy thriller movies.

We did get a cover of RATT’s “Round and Round” and a closing number thanking everyone, including C&C Music Factory, a running joke throughout the evening.  So until he puts out 16 albums in a row about space travel, or decides to write a series of novels about a sea captain trapped in a worm hole with Tom Brokaw, I’m confident in saying, he can still perform a serious show.

Not a good bunch of weeks to be a legendary musician. I must have been 12 when I saw Hubert Sumlin for the first time, at a long since closed venue called Chicago B.L.U.E.S.  I have no idea why they spelled it that way.  My dad brought me, I was clearly the youngest person in attendance.  These were the smoke filled sketchy days of minimal ID checks….so I mean, I probably could have gotten in on my own had I been able to somehow travel from suburban New Jersey.

Hubert Sumlin is best known as Howlin Wolf’s guitar player.  His influence stretches far beyond what any casual rock fan is aware of.  Clapton worshipped him.  Led Zeppelin covered his tunes (The Lemon Song? That’s his riff) and just listen to Keith, back to back with some Wolf.

On this particular evening early in my musical life, I was about as into blues music as a white suburban kid could be.  I wish I knew more about that club, we saw many a classic musician there.  James Cotton, Son Seals, Buddy Miles, Johnnie Johnson, possibly several others.  What seemed to be the house band at this club, was made up of what is now Conan O’brien’s band.  Jimmy Vivino on guitar, Mike Merritt on Bass, James Wormworth (who replaced Max Weinberg) on drums.  On keyboards for that show, was the legendary Al Kooper.

I vividly remember Vivino in a bright orange suit, shiny orange tie, chainsmoking, playing a possibly orange strat, sounding phenomenal.  This had such a great impression on my fragile young mind.  The band was as tight as can be.  Not playing arena rock Guns N Roses anthems, but no less powerful.

Sumlin looked just like a cat.  Well, a cat with a little mustache, skinny tie, and white hat.  Playing a telecaster.  The only specific song I remember is “Killing Floor” his signature jam.  They might have brought him on stage to that song (16 years tend to cloud exact memories)  It just felt like you were seeing the real thing.  Here’s the guy who is responsible for this sound, right on stage in front of me.

Years later, Sumlin released an album titled “Wake Up Call”  On the CD booklet, there’s a picture of him and Keith Richards on stage together….with the Chicago B.L.U.E.S sign clearly behind them….yeah.  I was 12, they played 2 sets a night, we definitely went to the early one.  Its probably for the best, my little brain could not have handled that.

At the end of the set, Sumlin came off stage, shook my hand, leaned over to my dad and said “Keep bringing the kids man, its so great to see the young ones”  I met sumlin 12 years later during a live radio broadcast, told him this story, and he said (this is an exact quote)

“You were 12??? How old are you now, 2???”

Yeah, I have no idea at all what he meant.  The producer of thet show came up to me right after and said “Yep.  I saw that happen”

The last show I saw him play was at the Jazz Standard in 2008.  His band was no less stellar – Vivino again on guitar, Tony Garnier (of Bob Dylan’s band) on Bass, and David Johansen of the New York Dolls on vocals.  Think about it for a sec, Johansen owes quite a lot to Howlin Wolf.

Everyone loved Hubert.  Iggy Pop talked extensively about him during a NY Times live interview, Levon Helm played on his last record, he performed with Elvis Costello just a few months ago.  He was an unsung musical hero.  Well, maybe he was pretty sung (or however that should be phrased) but the majority of music listeners have no idea how far his influence reached.

Yep, there goes another one.

Paul Motian was a fantastic drummer. Most famous for his role in the Bill Evans Trio, played with Keith Jarrett, and probably every other person under the sun.

Once at my first job after school, I was digitizing ancient cassettes for a jazz archive. Interviews with jazz legends, and other obscure characters – Mario Bauza, Charles Mingus, Benny Goodman, all sorts. I would work strange hours whenever the studio was vacant, but on this day, I was working a rare daytime shift while the main engineer was out of town. A journalist was doing interviews in a separate studio, and the subjects would occasionally wait on the couch as I worked. I had heard Paul Motian was coming in, I was kind of psyched just to maybe give him a passing hi five.

About an hour before he was supposed to arrive, the doorbell rang. No one else was in the studio, I felt a little uneasy. I was 22, here’s one of the greatest jazz drummers of all time, Oh Hey! It was a terrible snow storm, late December, he came in wearing giant rainboots. “you never know how long the trains take, I wanted to be on time!” Well, from that moment on, he was kosher with me. Tell that to every friend I have gone to dinner with, if I am not there on time, call the search party.

He sat on the couch and just hung out. Casual as could be. Luckily, I had an easy conversation starter – He knew nearly all of the interview subjects on these rapidly decaying cassettes. He would just come right out with these fantastic stories…
“So Max Roach and Charlie Parker were sitting at Max’s house shooting up, Max’s mom suddenly comes in, so bird ditches the junk and picks up a bible! She goes ‘why can’t you be more like charlie!!”

I asked him about Elvin Jones, who had passed about a year before, they lived up in the same neighborhood. I had just acquired Elvin’s kick drum through his wife, but I was hesitant to say so, so I just mentioned I had met her….
“Keiko! Man, She used to break down his drum kit for him! One time I saw him over in europe and said ‘Elvin! Where can I get a girl like that!?’ ‘You can’t, Man! I got the last one!”

He talked about going to the Half Note one night to see Coltrane, and Elvin hadn’t shown up yet. Apparently, he was in Jail… “So I played with him. I really miss John, he was such a gentle guy” How many people on earth can say a sentence like that? How many could refer to Coltrane as John. Not many.

He saw there was a tape of an interview with Kenny Clarke, one of the originators of the jazz drumming style we all know today. “Hey Steve, how can I get a copy of that?? Kenny was a friend of mine. I’d love to hear him” I burnt an extra, he was so psyched. I have rarely felt cooler than I had that day. I went to see him at the Village Vanguard a few weeks later, and got to talk to him for a sec “Hey, I was just telling Sue Mingus about those interviews! Do you think I could get a copy of that one?? I said, sure, I could mail him one. He wrote his address down in a notebook. I never got to mail it to him, but the address is written in the last page of a rapidly crumpling moleskine. I’ll pull it out of a drawer in 20 years, and feel the jazz greatness emanate from that page.

There was a great piece on him in the NY Times a few years ago, painting a picture of this truly original character. He wouldn’t leave Manhattan in his later years, not even to go to Brooklyn.

The last show I saw Motian perform was at the Vanguard, with Ethan Iverson and Reid Anderson of The Bad Plus.  Motian seemed so relaxed behind the kit.  No need to show off, no need for the spotlight, just playing what was absolutely necessary.  One ballad they performed (I have no idea of the name) might have been one of the most beautiful pieces of music I’ve ever heard.  So right now, in tribute to Motian, I’m going to imagine this nameless and mysterious ballad as a sendoff.  Let’s all go out and see some live music as a tribute.

I’ve been thinking about a variety of topics…Science, aging, listening, the eternal Tone vs Talent ratio, its all part of it. Let’s talk about a few.

There’s a guy in the apartment building on the ground floor, who as I write this, is belting out some unintelligible nonsense, singing his lungs out, to his hearts content. For my own sake, I wish his heart could be content with a little less. His loudest notes wind up through the building shaftway, and invade everyone’s personal space. Over the past weeks he has played The Cure’s “Lovesong” and the eternal singer songwriter staple “Hallelujah” It’s 9:52pm, I pray he stops by 10. I find it hard to play louder unless I’m very confident in whatever I’m playing. He does not suffer from this problem. Or maybe he’s just that confident.

I just returned from seeing my friends Sarah Lee and Johnny at the Mercury Lounge. They put on a beautiful performance, in stark contrast to the the shitshow happening 3 floors below me at this moment. Acoustic instruments, upright bass, harmonies, pedal steel, joyful sounds all around. I love vocal harmonies. Maybe it’s because my golden pipes only exist in my mind at the current moment. My girlfriend emailed me the other day “I’m in the greenroom at The View, two old musicians are on the couch, one is British, the other looks like the comedian Gallagher in 20 years, who are they??” Yeah, it was who you guessed too.

A few day’s ago, I attended a jazz piano masterclass by Ethan Iverson of the Bad Plus. What business did I have being at a jazz piano master class? No business at all, dear reader, but I do not fancy myself a business man, so I went anyway. Watching someone who has obviously mastered their instrument is a unique experience. It makes you reconsider all notes going forward. It’s like they’ve broken down that invisible wall, and there is no filter between brain and instrument. Again, that’s not happening right now on the buildings ground floor.

Have you heard of Cluster Headaches? They’re a strange phenomenon. It’s a “cluster” of incredibly intense headaches that occur in a pattern. They often appear seasonally, around daylight savings time, I’m not making this up. They affect less than 1% of the population…and honestly the Dr. did not even laugh when I said “so I’m finally in the 1%!!” Really? Come on! They show up and leave without warning, can last for hours on a daily basis, then disappear. Very mysterious. They gave me this crazy injection “thing” to carry around that stops the headache instantly, its looks like something out of Total Recall. I like to pretend I’m Keith Richards, carrying around illicit substances, but illicit substances don’t usually get subsidized by your insurance.

In closing, I’d like to discuss Saturday Night Live.  Yes, most of it is tired and not funny, but occasionally they come out with a gem so strange, you could never imagine it.  The final sketch on this weeks show, conveniently watched on Hulu, was about a band called the “Blue Jean Committee”  who recently “Got Signed” and is on their first “National Tour.”  Fred Armisen as the weirdo lyricist, Jason Sudekis as the amazingly creepy 1970’s style drummer, and Jason Segel as the somewhat sensitive keyboard player and backup singer.

They just nailed that mediocre jam-band of dudes feel right on the head.  There’s the cutaway of the conservative frat looking guy rocking out just a bit too hard in the crowd, the local bar atmosphere, and the constant references to Northampton Massachusetts.  Its like they went to every Phish Show before 1999, talked to every guy who plays in a band, went to see that band, and compiled the most ridiculous traits altogether.  The Cinnamon Beer line…too accurate. The only thing that would have made it more amazing, is if it were set at the Wetlands Preserve on Hudson St.