a coherent collection of random statements regarding God, words and tunes

Excuse me, driver...

    Seldom have I approached an album with this much trepidation.

      I'll try to keep this simple (but won't): The Lost Dogs started as a one-off collaboration in the early '90s by a number of Christian alt-rock giants (or at least shoulda-been giants) -- Terry Taylor of Daniel Amos (go HERE once more for more effusion about how I feel about Terry's '80s/'90s songwriting output), the brilliant gut-level songwriter/guitarist Mike Roe of the 77s, the late great Gene Eugene of the tortured and funky Adam Again, and Derri Daugherty of The Choir (who I will fight otherwise intelligent listeners about to the death, but hey, they're the ones with the Grammy nomination -- which confirms both our respective suspicions). 

      Anyway, that purported one-off, Scenic Routes, should be in every household in America. It's Americana the way it was meant to be played, and the last four songs in particular ("Smokescreen"/"The Last Testament of Angus Shane"/"Hard Times Come Again No More"/"Breathe Deep (the Breath of God)" are life-changing-good in and of themselves. As should the following album, the more rocking tour-de-force Little Red Riding Hood. Green Room Serenade (the Green Room being Gene's studio) was even more rocking but also considerably more disjointed. Gift Horse was a more unified album, no doubt due to all the songs being Terry's. If a wee bit inconsistent quality-wise, it nonetheless yielded some of their best songs, including "Ghost Train to Nowhere," "A Vegas Story (Free Drinks and a Dream)" and especially the rollicking yet earth-shatteringly profound "Loved and Forgiven."

      And then, Gene died, at the age of 39. At that intersection, some very different turns occurred. 

     For Mike Roe, every indication has been -- both in terms of comments made at the time and by the music produced since -- that Gene's death was a wake-up call of the highest order. Although output has been sporadic at times, the last half-dozen years have seen some great stuff, including the best 7s album to date (A Golden Field of Radioactive Crows, including the remarkable mourning-turned-celebration "Related") and the best album of 2004 (IMHO), Mike & bassist Mark Harmon's Fun with Sound.

     Terry Taylor has been another matter. The initial post-Gene salvo was the last Daniel Amos album, Mr. Buechner's Dream. Speaking of tours-de-force -- a double album that sounds for all the world like a greatest-hits album, in every sense of the term, both good and bad. That said, Disk 1 alone is worth the price. 

     From there, Terry released the solo country-ish Avocado Faultline, which intentionally or not reminds me exactly of Springsteen's The Ghost of Tom Joad -- i.e, sounds like the guy repeatedly read a book and then wrote a song about it. Well crafted and emotionally unengaging. And yes, I know it's got "Papa Danced on Olvera Street," which Terry wrote for his dying dad. At the same time, there's a certain detachment/sentimentality here and going forward, where I can understand how the writer feels but he doesn't make me feel it. (BTW, Tom Joad was the last Springsteen album I threw down for. And I'm more likely to pull that one out again than I am Avocado Faultline.)      

     Anyway, several other side and/or "goof" EPs later (the best of the bunch being the hit-and-miss but at least promising EP Little, Big), and a gig writing tunes for Nickelodeon's "Catscratch" (glad he's got a steady gig, but it sounds exactly like every other "cartoon music" out there and nothing like the truly unique video-game music he created that was released as Imaginarium), it's been diminishing returns for quite some time now.

      Um, driver....

      And so, back to the Dogs. Gene's departure was most strongly felt on the first album without him, Real Men Cry -- not only because he was so predominantly on the remaining bandmembers' minds, but because without his production hand the thing sounded completely sterile and useless (a fact further illustrated on the Via Chicago DVD -- absolutely buy this if you can still find it -- where the live version "In the Distance" can still reduce me to tears). 

     Also (cue the ominous music here), the "schtick" -- i.e., the deliberately self-effacing, repetitive and increasingly unfunny cowboy act -- begins making its onerous appearance with this album. (And don't get me wrong -- Terry and especially Mike can be very naturally funny guys. Mike's "taquito" rant on Via Chicago, as one example, is not to be missed. But there's naturally funny and there's "schtick.")

     It took another couple years to get to Nazarene Crying Towel, but you shouldn't. Virtually schtick-free. A quiet, earnest, coherent, and honestly worshipful record. Not on the level of the first two Dogs albums, but holds its own with Gift Horse quite easily. They could've continued down this road for the next 20 years and I'd've been great with it.

      But they didn't. The last three years have given us Mutt -- the Dogs doing material from their other bands... um, Doggy-style. A schtickfest that did nothing to improve on the originals and even made you cringe on occasion. Followed by Island Dreams, wherein the schtick went Hawaiian (you can't make this up) -- aside from a couple pretty instrumentals (and most of it IS instrumental, by the way), largely (and thankfully) forgettable.

      And so we come to the present. I needed some serious convincing to throw down for the new one, The Lost Cabin and The Mystery Trees. (Sorry, no image to rip off from Google today.) And the usual trumpeting from the usual corners wasn't gonna get it done (because hey, we all wanted to believe our heroes wouldn't give us Real Men Cry, Mutt and Island Dreams either, and sang THEIR praises for the first month or two before finally facing reality). 

      What finally got me over the hump was Andre's review in Tuesday Morning 3 a.m (http://www.tm3am.com/article_060712.htm). You can read it first, if you like.... I won't mind. I'll wait right here....

      .....

      .....

      Finished? OK, let me resume, then....

     Let's start with the good news: The Lost Cabin and The Mystery Trees is easily the best-produced album the Dogs have done since Gift Horse, and arguably ever. (Credit new official Dogs member and long-time Choir perpetrator Steve Hindalong for that, at least.) And likewise, Terry sounds the most vocally engaged he has in that same amount of time (Nazarene Crying Towel notwithstanding). And it's nice to see two other DA alumni in the credits -- bass mammoth Tim Chandler and original guitarist Jerry Chamberlain. (Signs of a possible DA reunion? Probably not, from indications elsewhere, but who knows?) 

     Heck, I'll go one step further and agree with Andre on this point: I'm pretty sure this is, in fact, as good as it will get for the Dogs at this stage of their union.

     Now, let's head directly to the middle -- or the fair and balanced, as it were: In this album's best moments, it shines like Gift Horse production-wise and reads/plays like Avocado Faultline.

     Based on that past sentence alone -- as again, this is the purely objective part -- you can ignore the rest of this review and make your own decision. The rest of this is strictly for me.

     Driver? Um, driver?

    So let's go ahead and bring this home:

     For everything right and everything wrong with this album, one needs go no further than the opener, "Broken like Brooklyn." An atmospheric opening that would make Bono jealous leads into a song that fits squarely into the Dogs pantheon of the past half-dozen years (and the vocal line even hints melodically at the classic "Built for Glory, Made to Last" from Scenic Routes), including the following verses:

Blonde girls in bikinis and snow skis,
in the desert, cashed in their chips
then filled the Rose Bowl with guacamole --
we took our clothes off and went for a dip
Bobbed and weaved like old Trolley-Dodgers
after reading a policeman his rights
Then we followed the Duke of Flatbush
and scaled the Boyle Heights

Woke up broken like Brooklyn
the year The Bums left
in The Bronx on a cold day
while our boys tan out west
Always broken like Brooklyn
after losing the best

      Get it? Chips -- guacamole -- dip? "Trolley-Dodgers" -- Brooklyn?

     Now, lots of people could well point out the considerable wordplay in that verse, and I guess the effort is commendable for that. It's clever and well-assembled. It's fair to say that Terry's putting his best efforts into this.
     But you notice something else? Yeah, that empty "so what does this mean to me?" feeling. Get used to it.

     Um, driver?

     "Devil's Elbow" is a fairly catchy tune that owes a lot to "Boomtown" from Terry's earlier and truly peachy-keen solo album John Wayne (although, for provenance reasons not worth detailing, it sounds like the song might actually date from that period as well). The title song that follows is also pleasant, and if y'r a fan of the post-Gene Dogs you'll like this too.

     With the quiet Daugherty/Hindalong song "Whispering Memories," I begin checking out mentally. And truthfully, Mike sounds kind of checked-out on his one song, "One More Day." (And I promise to try not to transfer this feeling to the next Mike/7s project next time -- just sayin'.) It doesn't get better with the increased schtick factor on "This Business Is Going Down," nor with the Mike-doing-Terry-doing-Mike-and-dang-straight-it-loses-something-in-translation "Hardening My Heart."

     Then there's the mini-cowboy-opera "Only One Bum in Corona Del Mar." This is just a seriously dumb song. It's also the longest. Enough said.

     DRIVER!!!

     What then follows is "Get Me Ready," an incongruous gospel rocker. Maybe on another album this works a little better, but given the cowboy schtick elsewhere, and especially coming off "Corona Del Mar," I'm even more lost.

     "Burn It Up" -- I cannot listen to this without thinking of those "plug it in, plug it in" Glade commercials, and it's about as exciting. Burn it up, indeed. I'll bring the matches.

     The closer, "That's Where Jesus Is," is probably the most on-target, accessible song on the album, if still a bit uncharacterisially preachy and all-too-predictably schticky in the process. But if this is your first experience, by all means sing along:

He don't hug trees or kill 'em
Or drive a particular car
Won't help you write a big hit song
Don't care how good lookin' you are
And Jesus won't be voting
He's not your party crashin' dog in this fight
Not a fan rootin' for your home team
Don't insure that your future is bright

That's Jesus in the homeless faces
With the junkies in their livin' hell
That's Jesus with the drunks and in the lonely places
The rest homes and prison cells
That's where Jesus is
Where we ought to be
Here's where Jesus works
Inside you and me
With the folks with AIDS
And the suffering kids
That's where Jesus hangs
That's where Jesus is

     That said, the Dogs and/or their respective components have done this theme literally hundreds of times, and in most cases, have done it in a more compelling and original manner. It's pleasantly catchy, but: Too little, too late. And I'm pretty sure this is, in fact, as good as it gets.

      FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! DRIVER!

      Um, yes, driver... you've already passed my stop.... That's OK, I'll just get off and walk from here. 

     Thanks again for the ride. But it's really time for me to get off.

Posted by: burninglight at 20:25 | link | comments (6)
>>>>

Shameless Plug #8 (which, sideways, is infinity)

     We'll see how long the gig lasts, as it's just being launched, but it's looking like an in perpetuam deal at this moment: http://www.smallgroupministry.com. It's not completely up to speed yet, but close enough to begin bearing scrutiny...

     Enjoy. And maybe even get something out of it.

Posted by: burninglight at 00:02 | link | comments

The Old J. Henry (Burnett): Still Marching Up to Zion

     Mention the name T Bone Burnett, and if the response isn't a blank stare, any number of thoughts are liable to have occurred.

     Rock-and-roll Svengali (or Rasputin, depending on yr viewpoint).

     The guy who got Dylan "saved." (As with a lot of comments in this particular entry, the quotes are for the benefit of advocates on both sides of the question.)

     Six-foot-six dude who puts out an album every five or nine years to critical acclaim from everyone but those who sharpen their "rock and roll lifestyle" axe in response to the pointed moralizations of his lyrics (cough cough, Rolling Stone, cough cough).

     Best Danged Producer on the Planet. The short list: Elvis Costello, Bruce Cockburn, Tonio K., the Counting Crows/Wallflowers claque, Roy Orbison, Tony Bennett, k.d. lang, Alison Krauss, Gillian Welch. Then of course, there's the Grammy-winning O Brother, Where Art Thou soundtrack (and the even better one for Cold Mountain).

     The recently former Mr. Sam Phillips (whose own eclectic pop masterpieces he arguably did his best production work on, by the way).

     Whatever: The guy's had a most unique 30-or-so year career. And he's done it his way. And quite the circuitous way it's been.

     So, after lurking in the production shadows -- if finally getting widely recognized for it can be called lurking -- guy puts out his first album(s) in nine years. One's a two-disk retrospective, the other a two-sided CD/DVD of brand-new material. Both are gonna cost you more than the norm, but I'm telling you to get them anyway. Here's why:

 Twenty Twenty: The Essential T Bone Burnett is a pretty accurate title, whatever way you look at it. Two disks -- 20 songs apiece -- from his '70s Alpha Band days straight through his last studio album The Criminal Under My Own Hat to plenty of unreleased tracks to cover the difference. (One could in fact argue that Criminal is represented a bit TOO well -- 9 songs, and none of them are the XTC-with-a-death-wish-ish "I Can Explain Everything.") To have a bunch of this back on CD -- particularly ample amounts of the best cuts from Proof Through the Night and Trap Door -- makes it worthwhile right there. (Truth Decay and T Bone Burnett get plenty of air time here as well.) And anyone needing a copy of the truly cool "The People's Limousine" (done with Elvis Costello during the King of America sessions) need look no further.

     My one kvetch would be the lack of selections from The Talking Animals (1988). Three songs, and none of them are the title song or the song trumpeted by Tonio K. fans as one of the best songs he OR T Bone ever wrote, "The Strange Tale of Frank Cash and the Morning Paper." And yet the truly weird and operatic "Image" DOES belong here?

     I suspect you already know whether you want this or not. Whether its tons of refreshing Tex-Mex tuneage, the angular later guitar stylings of Marc Ribot, the straightforward and articulate rock-and-roll of "Fatally Beautiful," the sweet acoustic deliveries of stuff like "River of Love" or "Every Little Thing," or those deft lyrical moralizing two-by-fours (and trust me, the "Nights in White Satin"-as-allegorical-dirge "Hefner and Disney" WILL make you choose a side -- extra hint: these two are placed squarely on the same side; and if you can't figure out who the "wealthy young divorcee" is, you clearly aren't paying the proper attention), there's a ton to discover here. Or, in a lot of my case, take considerable joy in rediscovering.

     Then there's the new one, The True False Identity, complete with live DVD side (courtesy of one Jesse Dylan).

 Basically, T Bone picks up where he left off nine years with Criminal.... Only this time, the acoustic ballads are replaced by fuzzier and bluesier tunes and the electric-assault tunes have added battery to their.... um, battery. And suffice to say the louder he gets here, the better he sounds.

     And also suffice to say that while the diatribes against hedonism, Hollywood, etc., are still intact here, The Tall One clearly has a more than a few issues with the current federal administration as well. In short, he won't be making any new friends here and may even make a few new enemies.

     With that, let's just cut to the closing verse of the vicious, stomping Hendrix-like "Palestine, Texas" (which follows the pleasantly weird but uncompelling reggae of "Zombieland") for one such shred of evidence:

Presidents come and presidents go
They rise like smoke, the fall like snow
Do you believe the things you say?
Your lofty thoughts are filled with hay
What is this faith that you profess
That led to this colossal mess?...
When you crawl out of this self-delusion
You're gonna need a soul transfusion

This version of the world will not be here long
It is already gone
It is already gone....

     From here, lyrically things turn more traditional, while the sounds remain decidedly 21st Century. (Probably a musical statement in and of itself, given its creator's recent reputation.) "Seven Times Hotter Than Fire" is Ribot-driven rockabilly, while "There Would Be Hell to Pay" puts another new twist to the Delia legend Johnny Cash near-singlehandedly resurrected.

     "Every Time I Feel the Shift" is angular and angry reggae, and while some of the opening lyrics are striking ("If we were to pass an Eleventh Commandment / In 20 years people would be shocked to learn / That there has only been 10 / And wouldn't care if there had been.... When you're out for revenge, dig two graves / When you run from the truth, it comes in waves"), it's really all warm-up for the relentless coda that takes up half the song and've done Bob Marley proud:

We're marching up to Zion
That beautiful city of God

     "I'm Going on a Long Journey Never to Return" returns to more familiar T Bone territory -- a catchy yet dead-serious Tex-Mex tune directed at an estranged lover (Sam?):

We've been going back and forth for a long time
We often did the right thing at the wrong time
We have hurt the ones we love the most
Till I wonder, did we ever get that close?...

I can't decipher the questions you ask
I wouldn't blame you for taking me to task....
And I'm gratefdul for every hard thing you've done
I'll never replace you -- next to you there is no-one

I feel your cold breath
I feel your cold breath
I feel your cold breath

      "Hollywood Mecca of the Movies," by now, is self-explanatory, so I won't explain it. 

     The one misstep here is "Fear Country" -- no matter where you come down on the lyrics ("Five years of mercy and two days of grace / It only took a minute to fall on your face... This is fear country / And if you don't believe me, I can prove it."), it's still an endless dirge that goes nowhere. And it takes a couple more songs to fully recover, although the simply and catchy "Baby Don't Say You Love Me" (nice feedback-laden guitar solo) does an admirable job of trying. "Earlier Baghdad (The Bounce)," while not as draggy as "Fear Country," still meanders more than arrives.

     But this album does recover nicely for the last couple tunes. "Blinded by the Darkness" is a shrieking diatribe/psalm that -- again, regardless of where you fall on the myriad questions of church and state (and there's plenty of unlikely allies on both sides, if you're not paying attention) -- gets you sitting back up and taking notice:

The laws of God and the laws of man...
Do we want to inject the concept of sin
Into the Constitution
Is this really necessary?
Does this not make you somewhat wary?
Shouldn't sin be left to the laws of God?

If sin were dealt with my the laws of man
Everone would be in jail for life
In solitary confinement
With no one to go to his bail

You shine your darkness on me
I am blinded by the darkness...

     "Shaken Rattled and Rolled" is a fine and more personal, yet rather stately closer that does a slow-dance along with one's regrets:

I got shaken last evening
And I get rattled sometimes
And I got rolled in the dim light
Of an hour I can't leave behind.

     So here is your man. Make your choice. But Lord knows he's paid his dues to win your trust.

Posted by: burninglight at 20:43 | link | comments

And what exactly is a dream?
And what exactly is a joke?

   

     No comment really needed; if you knew the guy's music via the first couple Pink Floyd albums or his own couple of solo ones (rather than via the next 15 years of the band's cashing in on said legend), you can write your own column: http://www.cnn.com/2006/SHOWBIZ/Music/07/11/britain.floyd/index.html.

    The madcap's laughter has finally ceased. May he finally be at rest. 

 

 

Posted by: burninglight at 18:11 | link | comments

Intermezzo.... fini?

     Without getting into too much detail, the "big items" of my mom's estate were finally wrapped up a week or so ago (for more details of how I got here, see here). We're about 90% done, which I understand is pretty good for five months' work. Finally have caught my breath long enough to put something down here about it. 

     Was out in Jersey while it happened. Not specifically for that -- actually, for my nephew's wedding -- although it turned out to be a good thing, given the hours of phone calls needed to resolve a bunch of unnecessary issues (i.e., Jersey is still as Jersey as ever). Did get to order the monument for the grave while I was out there, and approve the layout (in a very un-Jerseyesque moment, the proprietor brought the rubber stamping to the hotel for us to sign off on). Just weird.

     Stocked up on pizza, Taylor ham and pepperoni and came back home. (We did check out Beau Jo's up in Fort Collins the Sunday night we got back home, though -- not Jersey pizza, but nonetheless very good. Who knew y'r supposed to put honey on yr extra crust out here? Good stuff.)

     Anyway, spent my 45th birthday back in Colorado paying off every remaining debt that wasn't a lawyer fee (I'm pretty sure, anyway). Thought it'd feel more liberating than it really was. Think I got more out of buying a bookcase for the family room and putting up the family pictures in between the "twin towers," as it were (have I mentioned that I have a lot of books?) this past weekend. 

     Still need to send something to the boyfriend mentioned in said previous column. Marion and the girls don't think he deserves anything, and maybe they're right. Not looking forward to writing the letter or the check, personally, but I'm pretty sure it's what my mother would have wanted. 

     If I sound a little dead (no pun intended), it's because I sort of am. But to paraphrase that great philosopher, Eric Cartman, "Skew you gahs -- Ah AM home."

     I'm really ready to get on with my life. I don't quite know how that works, but knowing I shouldn't have to go back to Jersey for any reason and for a very long time certainly helps. I've been whining a lot lately about not having a vacation since 2004 (between moving out here last year and using up what I had this year on.... well, you know...), but I'm actually kind of looking forward to finally getting back into a rhythm here at work, and really start doing what I was brought here to do. (Yeah yeah, I can read my last entry too, but I've definitely got some learning curve left to navigate.)

     So that's more or less that. Will I expound on those two new T Bone Burnett albums next week? Time, as always, will tell.

Posted by: burninglight at 18:36 | link | comments