A 'Prospekt's March' Straight to Hell

I have made it abundantly clear how much I admire, respect, and enjoy the music of Coldplay and hyperpretentious frontman, Chris Martin. That was, I did until November 21, 2008 when Prospekt's March, the accompanying EP to June's masterful Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends, was released. This was, coincidentally, just in time for Christmas shoppers the world over to gobble it up like so many Coldplay-hungry termites. Had they heard the drivel that is embodied in every second of the EP, however, they may have gone with the new Britney Spears disc instead.

Prospekt is nothing short of a Capitalistic farce, created for the holiday season as a means to package VLVODAAHF with the "bonus edition" stamp. Unlike the latter In Rainbows disc from Radiohead's 2007 collection, which greatly added to the original short release, Prospekt makes a complete and utter mockery of everything that Coldplay achieved on Viva la Vida. Three of the eight "new" tracks are just alternate takes from the originally released A-sides. There's clearly a reason that these were scrapped. "Life in Technicolor II" takes the Viva opener, doubles it in length, and adds chintzy and underdeveloped lyrics about Martin's feet not touching the ground (which he also references in the final Prospekt track "New My Feet Won't Touch the Ground," as well as "Strawberry Swing" from Viva).

"Lost + (featuring Jay-Z)" is virtually the same as "Lost" on the original disc, but adds a completely displaced, unoriginal, and dynamically static rap from Jay-Z before the guitar solo. Other than that, there is no feature of Jay-Z or remixed hip-hop beat...just a one verse rap about Biggie and Tupac and things that have been rapped about for the last fifteen years. I don't doubt Jay-Z or his mad skillz, but his performance is a sad attempt by Martin and Parlophone Records to put a prolific name on a song in which it has no place.

The final repeater is "Lovers in Japan (Osaka Sun Mix)," in which there is literally no discernible difference between it and its original "Lovers in Japan/Osaka Sun" from Viva save for some background chanting during the choruses. From what I can tell, there was absolutely no earthly reason to put it on a bonus disc that is already decidedly lacking in bonuses.

Arguably worse than the repeating tracks, however, are the new songs on Prospekt's March. All five tracks are simply lesser versions of songs that were written better on Viva la Vida. There is no reason for a slow piano intro and odd-rhythmed chorus in "Glass of Water" (though it is Prospekt's only redeeming song, if any such thing exists) when you can hear the same art achieved much more effectively and beautifully on Viva's "Death And All His Friends." The other tracks aren't even worth a mention, as not one of them measures up to even Coldplay's earliest acoustic work (or James Blunt's for that matter).

Even more than the release itself, I found the very idea of Prospekt's March as accompaniment to its far superior predecessor to be outright offensive. With Viva la Vida, Coldplay worked hard to prove themselves a band worthy of rock (or at least pop) immortality, but with Prospekt's March they have undeified themselves and disserviced both their fans and the music loving world as a whole. This EP paves the way for other overpaid, cash hungry bands and record companies to try releasing half-assed B-sides as viable bonus discs when the original itself was more than sufficient for an albumsworth of listening. The fact is that Prospekt's March was completed during the Viva la Vida sessions, and Coldplay's record company rightfully decided to scrap those songs. Their ulterior motive, we now know, was to fleece the consuming public into buying an overpriced and underachieved bonus edition of an album that hundreds-of-thousands of gullible preteens and their parents had already purchased when it was worth something back in June. Coldplay owes their fans at least an apology, if not a collective refund, and a promise that in the future they'll stick to their A-game and leave the B-sides on the cutting room floor.

Iron & (Fine) Wine

I approached last night's Iron & Wine show like any other: with a hypercritical mind full of skepticism that Sam Beam and co. could possibly rise to the occasion of recreating the magic that they made on last year's second most addicting album (next to In Rainbows), The Shepherd's Dog. After Beam's so-so solo performance at this year's inaugural Rothbury Festival, an acoustic greatest hits show complete with charmingly sincere and humble banter, I wasn't sure that the album could translate to the full band forum. From the first note, I knew that my doubts were completely unfounded.

Beam took the stage with his acoustic guitar in one hand and his sister, Sarah, in the other, and what ensued were some of the most hushed and tender harmonies that I have ever witnessed two people create. The Beams were so earnest, so genuine in their delivery of the acoustic set, that it was hard to believe that they've played those songs hundreds of times for tens-of-thousands of people. The moment of truth, though, was when the band slowly added themselves to the mix. First piano, then electric guitar and bass. The drums subtly complemented the build, and remained -- as they are on Iron & Wine’s studio work -- low in the mix, a fluttering undercurrent of tom rolls; and finally Sarah Beam picked up a violin and the band launched into the more expansive Shepherd's Dog songs.

And launch is really the way to describe it. The build was slow and steady, and once the band slipped their moors the music shot right into the stratosphere. By the time I&W reached a climax with "Wolves (Song of the Shepherd's Dog)," Beam's electric rhythm guitar was a driving prominent force and the meditative acoustic set had all but worn off. When one heckler called for "Freebird," Beam was tempted to oblige, and even jokingly played the opening few bars to the Skynyrd classic. They mixed a surprising number of the acoustic-tending Our Endless Numbered Days, which they managed to spice up with an especially interesting and instrumentally diverse structured jam on On Your Wings and a heartwrenchingly honest version of Sodom, South Georgia. It is this honesty, Beam's ability to practically reach inside and touch the audience's collective soul and convey his fears joys losses loves heartbreaks, that truly defines him as a songwriter and performer. His voice, while as hollow as the marimba that was on stage with him, has a very distinctive timbre that lends itself well to both his lone wolf and his band leader personae, especially when combined with that of his sister (or, for that matter, her violin and accordion).

Part of my concern leading up to the concert was all the negative press that the venue Terminal 5, was getting. From the poor acoustics, to the deficient soundman, the main complaint was the quality of what came out of the speakers, not the quality of what was being put into them. I stood downstairs across from the stage for Blitzen Trapper's entertaining opening set and watched most of the I&W concert from the balcony with the swaying, less claustrophobic masses, and I can say that from where I stood the sound was very much like any other mid-large venue. Enough to hear the music being made as long as everyone around you wasn't yapping away. I chalk any complaints about Terminal 5 up to the fact that New Yorkers tend to prattle on constantly, even when it's not welcome, and especially during concerts.

When all was said and done, and with promises of a not-too-distant return, the Beams devolved from the complexity of Iron & Wine into their most natural selves. Standing at the microphones, Sam with guitar in hand, they somberly and evocatively sang a characteristically wispy "The Trapeze Swinger," and left the noisy crowd in silenced awe.

The Dirty Mac (featuring Mitch Mitchell)

In 1968, with the Beatles still at the height of their power and riding the wave of The White Album, John Lennon was called upon by Mick Jagger, host of the BBC TV Special The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus, to perform a song in front of an audience. Though The Beatles had not played a live concert in over two years since the inception of sampling and looping during the Revolver recordings in 1966, Lennon took it upon himself to join Jagger's Circus.

The '60s were chock full o' collaboration, and given The Beatles' inability to perform their electronically complex music in a live forum, Lennon decided to be the first member to deviate from the group . Enter: The Dirty Mac. As a play on the ever popular Fleetwood Mac, Lennon formed a supergroup of rockers that has been virtually unrivaled in the 40 years since, save for the Traveling Wilburys. For Dirty Mac, Lennon chose Rolling Stones bassist Keith Richards, Cream guitarist Eric Clapton, and Jimi Hendrix Experience drummer Mitch Mitchell.

It is Mitchell's recent death that lead me to discover Dirty Mac. Despite my penchant for Beatles history and that of 1960s rock in general, the group had somehow slipped under my radar. Perhaps it is because it only had one performance, and it was of a Beatles song ("Yer Blues") that had been released only a few months earlier on The White Album (the band also backed Yoko Ono and violinist Ivry Hitlis for the set's second and final song), but given the amount I've read about the the late 1960s, the Lennon-Ono fiasco, and the subsequent Beatles' breakup, a riveting performance of a Beatles' song by a band other than The Beatles at the height of their popularity seems a rare and exciting event.

What truly sets this performance apart from a Beatles' performance is, of course, the players. Surely McCartney and Richards are at an equal level of skill, and Harrison was, at the time, arguably a better guitarist than Clapton, but Mitchell is leagues better than Ringo Starr. I'm no Ringo basher -- more of an admirer, really -- but Mitchell is pure dirty blues. With his relentlessly hardhitting style, he takes "Yer Blues" to a very different place than Starr did. Mitchell's heavyhandedness lends the lyrical touch that, in this case in particular, Starr's lacks. Again, I mean this not to discount the original beat, which carries the song well, but only to accentuate the appropriateness of Mitchell's harder blues. Lennon's lyrics are some of his darkest to that point, drawing heavily on the pain he felt from his heroin withdrawal (or so the story goes) and intense self-loathing, as evidenced by his screeching "even hate my rock and roll, yes I'm lonely, wanna die..."

After Liberty DeVitto, Mitchell was the second drummer whose style I melded into my own and his work on songs as intense as "Fire" and airy as "Hey Joe" are still very obvious influences on most drummers that play the blues today. Most impressive was his rare ability to capture the musicality of the song and the songwriter, a skill that most drummers would do well to work harder at developing. Whether the rapid eighth notes that kick off Hendrix's "Machine Gun" or the awkward breakdown that comes towards the end of the "Yer Blues" guitar solo, Mitchell was a champion and pioneer of melodic drumming in rock and blues.

Steal This Comic

(from XKCD)

Review: Brightblack Morning Light - Motion To Rejoin (2008)

The latest “indie” craze, folk psychedelia, has its roots deeply entrenched in the history of modern music. The folk is almost never that of the Dylans and Mitchells of the past, but instead heavily references John Fahey’s “American Primitive” movement of the 1960s and 70s; while the psychedelia is, of course, drawn directly from the likes of Pink Floyd and more modern shoegazers like My Bloody Valentine.

On their eponymous 2006 debut, Brightblack Morning Light took the burgeoning genre under their wing and produced a truly soaring psych-folk album that was built on the foundations of their long history with the legendary Will Oldham. The album used exciting instrumentation and percussion from across many styles that, when combined with the repetitiveness that all but defines psych-folk and the breathy harmonies between core duo Rachel Hughes and Nathan Shineywater, make for a genre defying mix of blues, rock, jazz, Latin, and – of course – folk.

The second time around, BBML attempted to repeat the prodigious results of their first effort. And, rather than build upon what had laid the groundwork for a lot of music growth and exploration, they did just that: repeated. The vocal recordings have a distinctly grainy, old-radio, Devendra Banhart quality to them, and the organs, horns, and woodwinds are out in full force. Since Brightblack Morning Light was such an intensely fulfilling album, it is difficult to criticize Motion To Rejoin (Matador, 2008), especially considering the excellence that lies at its heart. It is exactly as one would hope – jazzy, gritty, instrumentally diverse, vocally ghostly, lyrically eerie – but it is essentially an extension of its predecessor.

When I first heard Motion, I was disappointed that nothing new had been posed to listeners. The same repetitions, the same blues cadences, the same droning organ. “A Rainbow Aims” was the only track that I really enjoyed. Upon my second listen, I had found two more: “Gathered Years” and “Past a Weatherbeaten Fencepost.” And, when I sat down to listen a third time, I finally understood the album.

Motion To Rejoin is not a folk album in any traditional sense. The songs are not verse-chorus-verse and there is no acoustic guitar. In fact, the songs are just epic repetitions without structure (and I mean that in the best way possible). What I finally came to understand about the album is that it can’t be listened to as an “album” in the way that we’re used to. Splitting Motion into separate tracks is akin to trying to split the movements of Mozart’s Requiem. They can be listened to separately, but the power of the piece is in the sum of its parts.

The repetition that can often be a little tedious is the same as any leitmotif or theme in classical music. It is meant to be noticed, to ground both the listener and the piece itself. It is the apex around which the rest of the piece or, in this case, the album orbits. The reason the three chord blues cadence repeats in at least four different tracks as the underlying theme is that it is the underlying theme.

In light of my newfound understanding, I gave Motion a fourth listen (and have since given it many more), only to find that each time I enjoyed its repetitive nature more and more as I came to understand its purpose. While at first I reviled the album as a whole because of its parts, it wasn’t until I came to understand how each part worked together that I could truly appreciate the album in its entirety.

Yet, the repetition of a leitmotif, a fairly unusual approach to modern folk music, can get a bit bogged down in itself. “Summer Hoof,” “Hologram Buffalo,” and “When Beads Spell Power Leaf” all get wrapped up in the cadence to the point of dragging. Instead of lulling the listener into the theme, BBML is at times forcing it down our throats. What’s more, the three-chord theme is, while purposeful, painfully simple. The band has a lot of room to either move and fill in space or to let that space ring out, but the simplicity that they chose hints at minimalism that borders on laziness.

The structurelessness of the repetition that makes the songs so epic also leads to a sense of buildlessness, in which the songs don’t move enough but rather stay too comfortably rooted in the foundation of their thematic cadence. The effect is soothing at times, haunting at others, and just plain sleepy a little too often.

The blending of classical leitmotif structure with modern instrumentation and folk stylings is a historically significant event, and it is why I was able to come around to this album so quickly. It is rare that I harshly judge an album on first listen and it manages to turn my opinion in such a short amount of time. The novelty and success with which Brightblack Morning Light has undertaken, composed, and recorded Motion To Rejoin should not be overlooked, even in the face of flawed results.

Bye Bye Blackbird: or An American Folk Song, Eight Decades Later

Despite it's inherently timeless nature, I'm always surprised when music meant for another time and another place can traverse almost a century of culture shifts and make an impact on my life. In 1926, Mort Dixon and Ray Henderson penned the lyrics to the folk classic "Bye Bye Blackbird" and throughout the following eighty years, countless artists, from Ella Fitzgerald to Miles Davis to Liza Minnelli and, later, even Ringo Starr and Joe Clocker (also brethren via "With a Little Help from My Friends") would record this song in their various divergent styles.

The most memorable version for me, though, was never recorded and only passed down by word of mouth. In fact, until this week I was sure that "Bye Bye Blackbird" had just been a creation of my mothers own imagination. It was my bedtime song, for more years than I can remember...at least until I was eighteen...er, I mean...uh...eight.

It has been years since I thought about the song, but as my parents prepared to become "21st Century Pioneers," and achieve the dream -- nay, the right -- of Manifest Destiny set out by our great nation's forefathers by moving to Ye Olde Weste (aka - Santa Fe, New Mexico), I found myself meandering in a dense forest of childhood reminiscences. Disney movies, bedtime stories, The Beatles, nightlights...all things that were most influential. As the hour of my parents' departure approached, the melody my mother used to sing to me as she put me to bed popped into my head, but I struggled to recall the words that I hadn't heard in so long. I remembered "blackbird," but my mind could not stop wandering to the Beatles' song.

"What was that song, mom?..."

"'Bye Bye Blackbird'," she jumped at my question, uncannily knowing exactly which "that song" I had been thinking about.

And immediately the words came back, fitting right into the melody.

Pack up all my cares and woes,
Here I go,
Flying low,
Bye bye blackbird,

Where somebody waits for me,
Sugar's sweet,
So is she,
Bye bye Blackbird.

No one here can love or understand me,
Oh, what hard luck stories they all hand me,
So, make my bed and light the light,
I'll be home late tonight,
Blackbird, bye bye.

So many feelings -- of the warmth of my bed, of childhood, of not wanting my parents to leave, of fear -- came flooding along with the lyrics. The latent memory of the song, and of its sole association for me, once so deeply embedded in the recesses of my mind, were now vividly at the forefront. And there they remain. I walk around all day, humming whistling openly singing my mother's melody. No matter how many crackly old or sparkly new versions I hear, Ella and Miles and Ringo cannot begin to erode the etching of that one melody. Every note of theirs that deviates from hers is a sore thumb. They might as well be singing off key.

There are other songs that hold a special place in my life ("And So It Goes" by Billy Joel) and allow me access to emotional depth like few other things do, but they often come and go as I grow accustomed to the associations they hold for me. "Bye Bye Blackbird," though, will always symbolize something meaningful, not the least of which is my earliest childhood memories and, in turn, my innocence.

Kirtan

A month ago, as the sun set over the Catskills and yielded to the moonless night of a new moon, I sat (not very comfortably) on a hardwood floor in a small capsule of Hinduism. The Ashram was hot, having just gotten its first relief from the beating sun since early the previous morning, and the flies threw themselves against the glass walls in desperate but futile attempts to escape the same baking capsule that I had traveled two hours to enter.

As we stepped into the room, the Swami -- sitting in Lotus position at the front, behind him an elaborate shrine of gold and candles in honor of the blue-skinned Krishna, the monkey-faced Hanumanta, and the long-nosed Ganesha -- began to chant. At first it was a stereotype: "Om..." He and the other Yogis in the room held the mantra for what could have been a full minute. "Om..." again, and this time the cynicism that had arisen at first hearing the oft-misused mantra melted away and I found myself eagerly, naturally letting my voice out to join in the third repetition. "Om..." as I let the Manhattan air out of my lungs and breathed in slowly, deliberately, the warmth and welcoming scents of the Ashram. I closed my eyes to the flashing neon and whizzing subways, and opened them again to a dimly lit temple, filled with lotus sitting seekers, like myself, secluded on a ranch in upstate New York. Once the chanting started, even smells and sights fell by the wayside.

Indian mantras both fascinate and intimidate me. As a drummer, the odd cycles of ancient Eastern music are completely unknown. Several years ago I attended a performance by Anoushka Shankar, and she attempted to explain cycles of fifteen and eleven, which were held perfectly by her tabla player. The tablas have always been a looming interest of mine -- something I'd love to learn but that seems inaccessible and beyond my musical grasp nevertheless. My drum professor in college told me that indigenous Indian tribes often do not allow young musicians to play even a single note until they can clap and vocalize a year's worth of exercises. The logic, which is just as true for Western drumming, is that once you can vocalize a rhythm it can be easily played with the hands.

It is with this knowledge that I remain an admirer from afar of tablas, though someday I will undoubtedly muster the courage to give it a shot.

I digress...

Mantras have been chanted for thousands of years, and when the harmonium ushered in the beginning of Kirtan in the glass walled temple, I felt transported. Not to any one particular time, but rather to no time at all. The "healing power" of Kirtan is often speculated on, often hypothesized about. And from a Western perspective it's hard to believe that the simple speak-singing of words would have any sort of power at all, be it supernatural or personally spiritual. The notion might seem silly, but the act of singing words -- words that I have a gist of, but did not and do not understand the true meaning of -- brought me a warmth and peace that I haven't felt for almost a decade. I may only be twenty-three, but I've had my share of spiritual triumphs and disappointments. I have not had a triumph like this one since I was just a kid, when most of my friends and I grew scientific minds and rejected our parents' representations of One God in an organized religion.

I know I tend to use hyperbole as the norm in my writing, but I could not possibly overstate my first experience with Kirtan. Music moves me often -- lyrics give me chills, minor chords can affect me, and upbeat tempos can make me feel just that -- but rarely does music give me warmth. The droning hum of the harmonium was hypnotizing and had the group of us swaying from side to side, clapping, and slapping tambourines and shakers with the rhythmic cycle. Over the following two days we would repeat this performance three more times after meditation, and each time, as I got more comfortable with singing in Hindi chanted melodies, I also felt more able to connect to what we were saying. This is not to say that my first experience with Hinduism "converted" me to the world of polytheistic mysticism as a belief system, but the power that radiates from the chants is real, and I've felt it in every experience since my first.

Western religious chanting, or "praying," has developed the distinct air of obligation. Words without meaning, memorized to appease a vengeful and fearsome and awesome God who will otherwise damn you to an eternity in the pits of Hell or leave you out of the Book of Life in the year to come. Going to a synagogue or church does not inspire me, nor does it inspire many of the people that I know. Of the millions and billions of religious denizens on this planet, I would like to know how many truly love their God(s), how many fear Them (many may feel both), and how many simply believe for the sake of believing, out of nothing more than guilt or obligation.

I would like to challenge everyone who reads this to try chanting, though I know that it is not something that will enlighten the masses, especially given the heavy skepticism with which Eastern ideas are often met in our society. I can only say that in a city that often overwhelms me with negativity and noise, I found a small refuge in Woodbourne, New York -- and then another at the Sivananda Yoga Center in that city itself -- where I can go to block it all out and get in touch with something a bit more enlightening.