I spend a lot of time on this blog criticising professional music journalists, unpicking their casual assumptions and questioning the dubious agendas of some of the publications they write for. I'm an amateur writer with no editors or shareholders to answer to, so I can afford to do that. It also means that I really should take more time to identify real quality in music writing when I come across it. Right now, I'm particularly inspired by those professional writers who have embraced the opportunities of blogging rather than joining the Paul Morley school of unreasonable suspicion (Simon Reynolds, Marcello Carlin, the folks over at Plan B). There are lots of flaws in Uncut magazine - but John Mulvey's Wild Mercury Sound new music blog over on their website is brilliant. It's ventures like this which allow writers to build a closer relationship with their readers, and find out what they really think, rather than what the marketing brains behind the publications believe they think. This post on Elliott Smith, written in response to a reader's comments, is particularly fascinating:
http://www.uncut.co.uk/blog/index.php?blog=6&p=91&more=1&c=1&tb=1&pb=1#more91
I completely agree with the poster Sam about the melodic and harmonic intricacy of Smith's songs, and that his songwriting was a great deal more ambitious than most writers have suggested. The posthumous 'From A Basement on The Hill' collection for example contains a wealth of ambitious writing and dexterous guitar playing that went largely unnoticed as people focussed, understandably, on Smith's troubled state of mind.
The debate on criticism which these comments have prompted is of wider significance, though. Whilst I am a musician (albeit one whose grasp of musical theory is probably more spurious than it ought to be - I will concede I write and play more from instinct or feeling than any conceptual process), I would certainly never argue that non-musicians are not qualified to express considered opinions about music. Indeed, a non-musician writer of real distinction such as Mulvey can avoid being enraptured with technical and theoretical concerns, and really grasp the cultural and emotional significance of music. It does require an open mind, however - and Mulvey undoubtedly has this , as the range of his posts, so far encompassing Rufus Wainwright, Sly and The Family Stone and post-rockers Battles, confortably demonstrates. There's sometimes a tendency in rock critics to eulogise primitive angst, or the rejection of virtuosity. Neither virtuosity nor untutored fury are virtues in themselves - it's much more a matter of how contrasting styles and techniques can be deployed to create an impact.
I try and keep an open mind about music too. A good friend once asked me, slightly incredulously, how a three minute pop song could possibly move me as much as a great symphony. Quite easily in fact, especially if it finds some universal truth with which I can identify. Whilst there's a lot about the techniques of composition that I don't quite understand yet, I can recognise that there are common elements between the best popular music and serious composition, and that's why I'm quite happy to go and see any form of music performed live, performance is often where the true magic really shows.
One forthcoming album that seems to show no respect for classification whatsover is David Torn's Prezens, forthcoming on ECM (thanks to DJ Martian for a heads-up on this one). You can hear a couple of tracks on MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/prezens
It seems as much inspired by metal and post-rock as by free improvisation, jazz-rock and electronica. This is clearly a challenging record that occupies its own unique space. I'm looking forward to hearing it in full, not least because it features world-class drummer Tom Rainey, and the outstanding Craig Taborn on keyboards (also a mainstay of Chris Potter's Underground).
I'm hoping that John might give us some thoughts on new albums from Bjork, Panda Bear, The F*cking Champs, etc...
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Ugly Iggy
The Stooges - The Weirdness
Oh dear, oh dear. How exactly did we get here? I steered clear of the reunion shows from The Stooges, even when they played Fun House in its entirety, largely through reluctant acceptance that I wasn’t around to see the original deal, and the shows were unlikely to recapture that wild and maverick spirit. I actually heard very good reports – but whilst the reunion should probably have been restricted to a brief moneyspinner, it has catalysed the group (minus Dave Alexander and now with Mike Watt from the Minutemen on bass) into recording a new album that is even worse than could ever be imagined.
In theory, teaming a group that were once the rawest, hardest, most visceral rock and roll group in the world with a producer as uncompromising and confrontational as Steve Albini ought to be a good idea. In fact, neither producer nor band do each other any favours. The sound is dull and muddy, with absolutely no clarity in the bottom end (and when Steve Mackay, who brought fire and fury to Fun House, appears on saxophone, Albini buries him amid the distortion), and the playing is thoroughly uninspired throughout. It’s all four-square heavy rock (without even the crisp bar band dimension of AC/DC), with virtually all the songs based on plodding drumming and thoroughly conventional riffing. Rather than the true originators of punk rock (don’t forget the debut Stooges album was released in 1969!), the new model Stooges sound like an adolescent grunge band. Even The Rolling Stones of Steel Wheels had more vitality and feel than this.
The musicians come away from this admirably when compared with their lacklustre singer though. Listening to this, it’s hard to believe that Iggy Pop was ever an iconic presence in rock. He sounds like he’s sleepwalking through this interminable material, and his frankly embarrassing lyrics don’t help much. He claims that ‘my idea of fun/is killing everyone’, sounding like he’s spent too much time in front of shoot ‘em up computer games. Much worse, on ‘Trollin’, as well as elsewhere on the album, he’s most interested in his penis: ‘I see your hair has energy/My dick is turning into a tree’. A transfer from potential to kinetic energy, maybe? Well, that’s what happens when you take those little pills the doctor gives you, Iggy! When he tries political pontificating, the results are similarly clunky. On the title track, which at least varies the pace, he impersonates Bowie in the most dreadful way imaginable – to think the two once mutually inspired each other!
Nobody can begrudge The Stooges having a little fun, but they could at least bother to make it sound enjoyable. Similarly, nobody could justifiably expect Iggy to be the drug-addled, self-lacerating sex maniac of old. Those days are gone. It’s not, however, unreasonable to expect at least some of the ambition, poise, mystery and anger that fuelled those three masterpieces. There really is nothing whatsoever to link this version of the group to its original incarnation, save its personnel. Sadly, there’s plenty (both in lyrical content and vocal performance) to link it to lacklustre Iggy solo albums like ‘Naughty Little Doggie’ and ‘Beat ‘Em Up’. The album seems to have divided critical opinion, but those who responded positively can only be making excuses. There’s nothing weird or wonderful about this, and it would be pants from pretty much anyone. For my no nonsense rock and roll thrills, I’m going to look to the new album from Dinosaur Jr. next month.
Oh dear, oh dear. How exactly did we get here? I steered clear of the reunion shows from The Stooges, even when they played Fun House in its entirety, largely through reluctant acceptance that I wasn’t around to see the original deal, and the shows were unlikely to recapture that wild and maverick spirit. I actually heard very good reports – but whilst the reunion should probably have been restricted to a brief moneyspinner, it has catalysed the group (minus Dave Alexander and now with Mike Watt from the Minutemen on bass) into recording a new album that is even worse than could ever be imagined.
In theory, teaming a group that were once the rawest, hardest, most visceral rock and roll group in the world with a producer as uncompromising and confrontational as Steve Albini ought to be a good idea. In fact, neither producer nor band do each other any favours. The sound is dull and muddy, with absolutely no clarity in the bottom end (and when Steve Mackay, who brought fire and fury to Fun House, appears on saxophone, Albini buries him amid the distortion), and the playing is thoroughly uninspired throughout. It’s all four-square heavy rock (without even the crisp bar band dimension of AC/DC), with virtually all the songs based on plodding drumming and thoroughly conventional riffing. Rather than the true originators of punk rock (don’t forget the debut Stooges album was released in 1969!), the new model Stooges sound like an adolescent grunge band. Even The Rolling Stones of Steel Wheels had more vitality and feel than this.
The musicians come away from this admirably when compared with their lacklustre singer though. Listening to this, it’s hard to believe that Iggy Pop was ever an iconic presence in rock. He sounds like he’s sleepwalking through this interminable material, and his frankly embarrassing lyrics don’t help much. He claims that ‘my idea of fun/is killing everyone’, sounding like he’s spent too much time in front of shoot ‘em up computer games. Much worse, on ‘Trollin’, as well as elsewhere on the album, he’s most interested in his penis: ‘I see your hair has energy/My dick is turning into a tree’. A transfer from potential to kinetic energy, maybe? Well, that’s what happens when you take those little pills the doctor gives you, Iggy! When he tries political pontificating, the results are similarly clunky. On the title track, which at least varies the pace, he impersonates Bowie in the most dreadful way imaginable – to think the two once mutually inspired each other!
Nobody can begrudge The Stooges having a little fun, but they could at least bother to make it sound enjoyable. Similarly, nobody could justifiably expect Iggy to be the drug-addled, self-lacerating sex maniac of old. Those days are gone. It’s not, however, unreasonable to expect at least some of the ambition, poise, mystery and anger that fuelled those three masterpieces. There really is nothing whatsoever to link this version of the group to its original incarnation, save its personnel. Sadly, there’s plenty (both in lyrical content and vocal performance) to link it to lacklustre Iggy solo albums like ‘Naughty Little Doggie’ and ‘Beat ‘Em Up’. The album seems to have divided critical opinion, but those who responded positively can only be making excuses. There’s nothing weird or wonderful about this, and it would be pants from pretty much anyone. For my no nonsense rock and roll thrills, I’m going to look to the new album from Dinosaur Jr. next month.
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