LeRoi Moore

I've just heard the crushing news that Dave Matthews Band's saxophonist, LeRoi Moore, has died from his injuries sustained in late June from an ATV accident. I saw DMB just a few days later at Rothbury and in the presence of the great Jeff Coffin, brushed Roi's absence aside with the assumption that I'd see the band again at some point in the future, and he would be with them then. It was a sad moment, seeing that CNN Breaking News headline with Roi's name in it, and the shock has not yet worn off to allow the full effect of what we've lost to sink in.

Years ago, during high-school chemistry and the height of my crazed DMB fandom, a close friend and I lamented the release of Everyday as a sign to the band's imminent breakup. In the wake of the famed Lillywhite Sessions/The Summer So Far debacle of 1999-2001, our fears centered around Dave's obvious and well-publicized alcoholism and depression, which was all too painfully reflected in his songwriting. Over the years my devotion has mellowed, but my interest and love of Dave Matthews Band's music has not. I callously tease friends who have maintained their undying loyalty, but really I am jealous that I no longer feel as drawn to any music as I once did to Matthews'.

Roi was the epitome of a drummer's saxiphonist. If we're being completely honest, he was much more than a bass, baritone, tenor, alto, and soprano saxiphonist -- he also played the flute, pennywhistle, and bass clarinet. Partially through his own doing and partially through the mastery that is Carter Beauford's drumming, Roi developed an uncanny ability over the past seventeen years with DMB to write horn lines that were both appropriately melodic and subtly percussive, for example on "Stay (Wasting Time)" (Before These Crowded Streets, 1998). Even more percussive were his solos, with which Beauford was constantly artfully matching his syncopated hi-hat rhythms and off-beat snare hits, and which -- in true jazz tradition -- often playfully referenced other songs and solos.

I'd like to say that I'll make good on my self-assurance at Rothbury that I'll see DMB again, but now it will never be possible. No matter how many tours the band goes on or how many replacements they try to fit in, today is the day that Dave Matthews Band is no more, and it's something from which I do not feel at all ready to move on. I wish I had seen the band one week earlier, and what was briefly known as "the best tour since the fabled 2000" is now irreparably marred. As I write this, DMB has taken the stage at the Staples Center in Los Angeles and is honoring their friend, with Coffin filling his spot at stage right now indefinitely. The robust saxman, always shaded and smiling, an almost two-decade fixture on the Dave Matthews Band stage, has left in his wake an unfillable void. And while I'm sure his bandmates will toil for years to come to recreate the magic he brought to the studio and the stage, and fans will argue unceasingly as to whom might best replace the beloved Roi, DMB will never be the same again.

**UPDATE** (8/20/2008)
In honor of the late great LeRoi Moore, here are my Top 5 Roi Live and Studio Tracks from 1991 - 2008. They're all live and perfectly embody his soloing and line-writing styles.

Studio:
1. "#34" - Under The Table And Dreaming (1994)
2. "Spoon" - Before These Crowded Streets (1998)
3. "#41" - Crash (1996)
4+. "Kit Kat Jam," "Captain," "Raven," "Grey Street" - Busted Stuff (2002)
5. "Sweet Up And Down" - The Lillywhite Sessions/The Summer So Far (1999/2000)

Live:
1. "Stay (Wasting Time)" - Listener Supported (1999)
2. "Lie In Our Graves" - Live At Red Rocks 8.15.95 (1997)
3. "What Would You Say" - Live Trax Vol. 2 (2004/09/12 Golden Gate Park) (2004)
4. "So Much To Say" --> "Anyone Seen The Bridge" --> "Too Much" - The Central Park Concert (2003)
5. "Pantala Naga Pampa" --> "Rapunzel" - The Gorge (2004)

All Points West? More like South...

Those of us with festival experience – or should I say real festival experience – were wary about what to expect from the inaugural “All Points West Music and Arts Festival” in Jersey City, NJ. The venue was promising enough: Liberty State Park, the proverbial welcome mat for millions upon millions of immigrants during the late 1800s to the mid 1900s, has iconically timeless views of the Statue of Liberty and New York City skyline, which make up for what the park lacks in natural beauty (there are virtually no trees at all, and the grass runs from plentiful stabbing crabbiness to thin and balding). The “festival,” which did not involve any sort of camping option and had beer drinkers relegated to only five beers at three nonsensically placed tents from which no music could be seen or heard, was plagued by long transportation waits (the only viable options for 30,000 on each of the three days were the ferry from Manhattan or the Light Rail from Hoboken), and even longer entry lines of up to an hour once the more big-name bands started playing in the evening, giving the entire event the vibe of a crowded concert rather than a bustling festival.

Bands were given only one hour to play (plus or minus fifteen minutes), with a half-hour between acts for breaking down and setting up, which was more than enough time for the lower-tier of performers (see examples below). For the better bands (Radiohead aside, whose set ran for over two hours, but was still over in time for the early bird special at 11:00pm, whereas most festivals run until 3:00am), the set times were ludicrously short. Treating The Roots like an opening band by putting them on stage during the waning daylight hours of 7:15pm to 8:15pm is simply inappropriate. The Roots open for no one! They were barely warmed up by the end of the hour and seemed to have at least two more hours of performance left, since that's what their normal shows entail. They are one of the premier musical performers on today's scene and are widely accepted as the greatest live hip-hop band EVER. And All Points West relegated them to one hour, which led immediately into the 8:30pm Radiohead set. I was just as excited as anyone there to see Radiohead play, but making them the only band that plays for longer than one hour is just disrespectful to the other worthy acts. A more apt name for the APW would have been "Radiohead featuring the All Points West Music and Art Festival," and not the other way around. They rightfully received top billing, but at the expense of a longer Roots performance. If acts were overlapping all day, as they are bound to do at festivals, why not give people the option of staying an extra hour with The Roots and cutting down the crowd for Radiohead? I still would've gone and paid homage to the musical gods, but many would have opted to stick with the kings of hip-hop.

Despite all of the unfestive logistical nightmares, the arts part of the “music and arts” festival was a smashing success. The tone that organizers were going for (AEG Live of Coachella and Rothbury fame) was one of environmental responsibility, a theme that I didn’t even know about until after the festival was over and Nate Chinen of the New York Times revealed that All Points West was “expressly full” of “environmental selling points.” All bitterness aside, that green goal, while virtually invisible and unpromoted, is what led to the relaxed and entertaining atmosphere inside the festival. There were water games and modern abstract sculptures galore, and before 5:00pm rolled around, when thousands of people started filing in, there was room to play frisbee and walk calmly from stage to stage. And it's a good thing, because it was impossible not to want to wander.

The music was the most perplexing aspect of the entire affair. Saturday consisted of a few great acts (Radiohead, The Roots, Animal Collective, Sia) interspersed with a majority of mediocre-at-best artists (K'Naan, Nicole Atkins, Chromeo), which were all painfully bogged down by some that were simply unbearable (The Felice Brothers, Exit 105, Your Vegas). The former musicians were all saved for evening slots, which explains the mad rush to get in. The latter two groups, however, were arranged in ascending order by quality (because first is the worst), leaving that calm and pleasantly festivalish part of the day filled with lots of background music, but essentially devoid of any band truly worth sticking around for...hence my gratitude at the plethora of activities (frisbee, photography, art exploration, etc.) at my disposal. In true "festival" form, the pre-evening day was a lovely refuge from the usual hustle and bustle of living in or just outside of Manhattan.

Day and night at All Points West were polar opposites. They were like...well...like night and day. Once the front runners showed up -- that is, those who paid $110 to go to a festival and just show up for the headliners -- All Points West went South. Not musically, of course, because Radiohead and The Roots were in the line-up, but the calm, happy-go-luckiness of the first five hours vanished in a flash of Prada bags (did I just date myself, or are those still popular?) and Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses. Call me cynical (I am) or just plain bitter (I am NOT, you son of a bitch), but those New Yorkers turned my festival into a jam-packed concert, complete with requisite dirty looks, pushing, rubbing, yelling, and "fuck-off"s.

At other festivals, the crowds exude positivity (see my posts about Rothbury) and consideration for each other. Just by attending a festival together, all those in attendance foster a sense of community and belonging that only music can create. I did not find this at All Points West, and I would argue that any festival held in New York City (even via Jersey City) will be hard pressed to maintain that positivity. Most people who live in the greater New York area will counter that All Points West wasn't like other festivals because Manhattan isn't like any other city. I quite agree, but this time it wasn't for the better.

Review: Lykke Li - Youth Novels (2008) - - SCANDIMANIA!

As published on the Princeton Record Exchange Blog:

Fifty years after the “British Invasion,” America is being bombarded from foreign invaders once again. This time, they’re coming by the boatful out of Scandinavia. I’m From Barcelona (but actually from Sweden), Sigur Rós, múm, Mugison, and of course Björk – which all run the genre gamut – have all come out of the collective lands of the midnight sun to grace the global indie scene with their experimental electronic sounds, unique vocal abilities, and vast instrumentation.

Li was born in Sweden and spent the majority of her life hopping from country to country, until landing in New York to record her debut album when she was only 19 years old. Now she’s 22, and Youth Novels, an album that would have seemed far too mature for a teenager, is flying inexplicably below the radar. Li has the soulful and expressive voice of a pre-crack Amy Winehouse and the sexy lyrics of Feist, both of which are perfectly exemplified on “Let it Fall,” and the two make for a very entertaining combination. Björn Yttling’s (of the Swedish indie group Peter Björn and John) impeccable hip-hoppy production perfectly match her raspy soprano. Usually I find spoken-word tracks like the album’s opener “Melodies & Desires” kitschy and embarrassing – especially when it contains such difficultly delivered lines as “You'll be the rhythm and I'll be the beat/You'll be the rhythm and I'll be the beat /Then I'll be the rhythm and you'll be the beat /And love, the shoreline, where you and I meet” – but Li uses her faux-Brit-plus-Swedish accent in her favor and makes the song work surprisingly well.

As many of my peers, I have an inexplicable soft spot for Scandinavian indie music. On paper, a lot of it can be written off as a collection of strange noises and novelty for novelty’s sake (see Sigur Rós), but in practice it gets me every time. Lykke Li fits this formula to a tee. Despite everyone’s assertions of its genius, I couldn’t get into Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black, but Li has captivated me with a lighter version of a familiar sound. The hip-hop, R&B, and soul influence are all visible, but it is her lightened, innocent vocals that really make it worth listening to. She delivers each line, whether heartwarming or heartwrenching, with equal sincerity and maturity, two qualities that will no doubt grow as Li leaves her musical adolescence behind.

Dear Kings of Leon...

I'm sorry that I've balked at the very mention of your name since Bonnaroo 2007. Playing before The Police was a tough spot to be in, and the pressure of the massive crowd must have been simply too much for you to bear, which explains why you put on such a boring power-pop performance on that fateful June day. I vowed to never even consider seeing you again. I swore to myself that I'd go out of my way to discourage my friends from even considering attending one of your shows. And, when I found out that you were playing at All Points West on Saturday, August 9, I took it upon myself to ensure that everyone that asked my advice knew to stay away from the likes of you.

I'm sorry.

Saturday was a beautiful day, with the Statue of Liberty and New York City at my back, and ten hours of music in front of me. We got in early, threw a frisbee around, played some Frog Bog, and enjoyed the small-town atmosphere of the under-attended early hours of the festival. I spent the better part of the day floating from stage to stage, taking in pieces of music that caught my attention and moving on as soon as it drifted. It was a noncommittal day, but the one thing I was gung-ho about was not letting your waves of sound so much as move the hairs of my ears. At 6:30 pm, I thoughtlessly wandered towards the food court that was nearest your stage, turned to my concert companion, and asked excitedly, "Who is this?!"

I'm sorry.

I never even gave you a chance. Sure, I tried your studio stuff and I don't like it that much, but everyone knows, most of all me, that bands are different live. And lots of people seem to like you. In fact, other than Animal Collective, you were the first band that really packed the field. That's rarely how I measure a band, but in this case it was surprisingly accurate. After a day of relatively unimpressive bands, you got me to turn my head. Your drummer, tastefully interspersing cowbell hits with tom fills in the middle of a verse, really grabbed me and put me on my ass, and your bassist not only drove the song but steered me to a nice spot in the grass where I could marvel and eat my $10 hot dog.

So, Kings of Leon, I'm sorry for my doubt and unfounded hatred over the past year. I may be late on the bandwagon, but "Sex On Fire" really, really, reallyreallyreally rocks hard, and I'd be a fool to deny it just because of pride. When you come back to New York on September 23^rd I'll make it up to you in person.

gigs Gigs GIGS!

Just a little administrative update -- from now on I'll be listing my gigs along the right side of the blog, complete with location and time. I hope to see everyone out there on the battlefield, supporting my every move and reveling in my percussive prowess.

Much thanks and love,
Jake

Review: Conor Oberst - Conor Oberst (2008)

In the aftermath of last year's Bright Eyes album, Cassadaga, fans were left wondering if their fearful leader, Conor Oberst, had lost his ability to commiserate and conjure up words to describe the latent teenage sadness that lives in their hearts (speaking from experience much?) The album was a massive disappointment, lacking the simplicity of Fevers & Mirrors and I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning, the complexity of Lifted, the riskiness of Digital Ash in a Digital Urn and, most importantly, the nuanced lyrical prodigality of all three, for which Oberst is renowned.

On Conor Oberst, Conor Oberst's first "solo" release -- or rather, release not as Bright Eyes -- in over fourteen years (since age fourteen), he must walk the tight-rope of having developed two personalities since he first began recording himself in Omaha over half a lifetime ago. One is Bright Eyes, which began as a quavering voice, a lightly strummed guitar, and a tortured young soul. The spine chillingness with which Bright Eyes was able to deliver honest confessions of angst in a breaking, painful bark changed the face of indie music and remained in somewhat the same form until 2006's I'm Wide Awake. The other personality, Conor Oberst himself, loves bombastic blues and southern rock, along with performance-driven jams that make for very entertaining live shows, the likes of which tend to engulf any lyrical ability to the point of unrecognizability and insincerity. If there were any deeply emotional songs on Cassadaga, they were lost on most fans and critics. It's not that the album was bad as much as it just wasn't a Bright Eyes album...it was a Conor Oberst album.

That brings us to Conor Oberst (August 5, Merge Records), an almost-solo album, featuring The Mystic Valley Band, that attempts to blend the dual indie Bright Eyes-Oberst bluesrock personae. From open to close, Oberst is Oberst through and through. The musical simplicity and lyrical symbolism and minutia have returned, and it is clear from the opening notes of "Cape Canaveral" to the closing of "Milk Thistle" that he has not altogether abandoned his Bright Eyes self. Oberst has long been compared to Elliott Smith, and it has never shown more clearly than on "Lenders in the Temple," especially during the chorus "There's money lenders inside the temple/That circus tiger's gonna break your heart/Something so wild turned into paper/If I loved, well that's my fault." The words are clearly Oberst's, but the delivery is distinctly Smithian in its clarity and is virtually devoid of Oberst's previously signature vibrato bleating.

Still, Oberst manages to clear some room for his fresher self, maybe his truer self, in rocker songs like "Danny Callahan," "Sausalito," and "Moab," which are stylistically Cassadaga, but still attain timeless lyrical heights, of which we all know Oberst has always been capable. Even the musically predictable "Get-Well-Cards" is far more palatable than almost anything that appeared on Cassadaga (save for the deeply layered "No One Would Riot For Less"), but still can’t compare to even the meekest plea for help on his first cassettes. He only falters when attempting Spanish (the album was recorded in Mexico) on "Eagle on a Pole," in which he sings "El cielo es azul, just don't go telling everyone." On its own, this wouldn't be a bad lyric, but Oberst absolutely butchers the accent and ends up sounding...well...like someone from Omaha trying to speak Spanish. He isn't all stone-faced this time around though and, as their titles indicate, tracks like "Souled Out!!!" and "I Don't Want to Die (in the Hospital)" almost seem to poke fun at his younger, Bright Eyes self.

Conor Oberst is now twenty-eight years old. He was just a child when most of us fell in love with what he had to say and the beyond-Dylan pain with which he said it. Wide Awake was a reach for the past, and a beautifully successful one at that, and Cassadaga was an unsuccessful grasp at maturing before his time. But with Conor Oberst, he has managed to perform a miraculous balancing act of personalities. Our generation's sage has returned to form, speaking from our hearts through his own, and encouraging us not to resist his growth, but instead to join him in it.

A Rothbury Recap - Part V: Day 4 (Fin)

Sleeping in a tent overnight requires a strategic approach to staying warm, which involves closing all the flaps, pulling up the blankets, and huddling close together. Sleeping in a tent once the sun rises requires a considerable shift in tactics. Flaps come down, fans go on, damp covers are tossed to the floor, and the goal is to generally avoid baking as the sun quickly and unbearably heats the stale air. Sunday was the hottest morning yet (maybe because we hadn't gone to bed until the sun was getting ready to come up), and as it was the last day of the festival, it gave me the same feeling as the last day of college: it all went so fast; I wish I could do it all over again; and I'm somehow ready to move on.

And so, it was with a heavy heart that we ventured out of our stifling shelter and proceeded to break down the tent, pack up the car, and prepare for our long trip home. By the time we'd finished breaking camp, Day 4 was about to begin.

Most of the day was spent at The Odeum mainstage, with an all-too-brief aside at the Ranch Arena for John Mayer (more on this later). It was a day of some of the best guitarists out there: Rodrigo y Gabriela, Trey Anastasio, John Mayer, Warren Haynes, and Phil Lesh all took the stage on Sunday. Rodrigo y Gabriela kicked off the day's festivities with a set of their lightning-fast Spanish classical guitar meets acoustic heavy metal. Other than those positioned near the stage, the crowd was lazy, and the duo would have benefited greatly from a nighttime set that could have gotten the audience more involved. Their fingerwork, which seems impossible on their album and even more so in person, was impeccable. As if to make sure we believed what we saw, cameras were mounted and pointed downward from atop their guitar heads, picking up every intricate slap and scale for all to marvel at. In their thick Mexican accents, Rodrigo y Gabriela successfully woke up the slumberous crowd with such endearingly lost-in-translation phrases as, "I'm going to play crazy music for you now! Later gator." Crazy indeed. Some call it "just finger tapping," but as is proven by their debut Rodrigo y Gabriela, they have a sense of build and composition that other tappers like Justin King just haven't attained. And, in improving upon their record during the performance, both Rodrigo Sanchez and Gabriela Quintero traded long, jerky, often multi-part (though obviously scripted) solos that were simply awesome.

As the crowd poured out of The Odeum by the thousands to go see Colbie Caillat (just kidding, no one saw her...Trey was on next, after all!), we managed to push our way towards the front in preparation for Trey Anastasio's first official performance in eighteen months, following his many well-documented drug-related law enforcement struggles. The audience's mood was unlike anything I've ever experienced. I think the prevailing emotion was sympathy for Trey's situation and simple gratitude to have him back on the touring circuit. Of course, it didn't hurt that Phish members Mike Gordon and Jon Fishman were also at Rothbury, though Page McConnell made a point before the festival to assure fans that the imminent Phish reunion would NOT be happening at Rothbury. Still, the fans swayed and yelled and showed undying appreciation for Trey's release from house arrest. The set was very subdued, with Trey strumming shyly on his acoustic guitar for all seventeen songs. Phish "covers" were the focus, from an opener of Farmhouse's "Back on the Train" to A Picture of Nectar's "Chalkdust Torture" (featuring Phish bassist Mike Gordon), and Gordon was also featured on Anastasio's new tune "Alaska" and the Tom Marshall penned "Backwards Down the Number Line." The smile never left Trey's face, and his sheer bliss at playing to tens-of-thousands of adoring fans seemed to humble him to the point of shyness.

Regrettably, I never attended a legendary Phish concert, but Trey and Mike seemed to enjoy each others' company so much on stage that it made a reunion seem inevitable. This was nothing less than confirmed when Trey teased, "All we need now is a drummer and keyboardist." And they got it when Trey joined Gordon and his band to play during the entire set later in the day, and drummer Fishman guested during the finale on the sloppiest, most disjointed and inharmonious cover I've ever heard...and of The Beatle's "She Said, She Said" no less! It wasn’t a promising three-quarters reunion, and it was definitely unpracticed, but Phish has never shied away from exploring new things on stage. Regardless of quality, it was a welcome impromptu hoedown, and the next time the three are all on stage together it will hopefully be with McConnell, as a reunited Phish.

And then came the moment I'd been waiting for since February. John Mayer was finally getting the chance to prove himself to all of the doubters! People constantly link his arrogance and pretentiousness to their own uncertainty about his pop-turned-blues career, but Mayer was playing a festival, the one place where people are certain to show up with at least somewhat open minds. So how did he capitalize upon this golden opportunity? He started his set early! Though slotted to go on at 6:45pm, Mayer took the stage at about 6:15pm and played a range of his early songs, including the stagnant-since-2002 "Why Georgia" (a great song on the record, a dud live) and the most overplayed song of 2001 - 2003, "No Such Thing." Mayer also performed a weak and sololess interpretation of Clapton's classic "Crossroads," and an emotionless rendition of George Harrison's usually deeply moving "My Sweet Lord," which conspicuously lacked Harrison's proclamations of love and devotion to Hare Krishna. Despite his early start, the only one of the entire festival by any artist that I know of, Mayer was able to redeem himself at times, though they were few and far between. His new favorite tune, "Gravity," had a distinctly fresh feel and soaring solo. Other than that, the blues tune "Mercy," complete with more fiery solos, was the only song that really stood out in the set. And, to add insult to injury, Mayer cut the show short, ending at 8:10pm instead of his scheduled end time of 8:45pm. Again, he was the only artist I saw over four days of music who didn't play out the entire time slot. If you've read my blog before, you know that I am unequivocally a devout Mayer fan, and have never been one of the doubters. I've seen him several times, and was at his first ever blues-trio show in 2004. I know what he can do with a guitar. He has so much control over it, it becomes like his third arm. I also know that he has countless epic Hendrix jams in his repertoire, including "Red House," "Little Wing," Continuum's "Axis: Bold As Love," and TRY!'s "Wait Until Tomorrow." The skeptics in the crowd would have welcomed some hard blues, which was clearly lacking throughout the entire festival, but instead Mayer played to the girls-in-the-front-row types with more pop hits than anyone behind that front row cared to hear. There was a single beacon of hope when Mayer said, just before his premature encore break, that we were a "pull-it-out-of-you type of crowd." My heart leaped. What would it be? Who would come and play with him? Trey? Warren Haynes? What Hendrix tune did we extract from his catalog? He quickly doused the flame when he launched into a studio-replica of his latest chart topping single, "Say," which he didn't even attempt to spice up for the live show. If that's what we pulled out of him -- if that's what he thought we wanted to pull out of him -- he completely misread his audience and made some true mistakes by pandering (like McCain) instead of reaching across the aisle to convert the haters (like Obama). I know Mayer is the type to claim that he plays what he feels like playing and never does things just to impress the crowd, but anyone who prefers his more recent material had to feel very disappointed, as I did, by his performance on Sunday. The only positive of the entire performance was the encore, which consisted of the previously mentioned "Gravity" and "Stitched Up" from Herbie Hancock's duet album, Possibilities.

I left the Mayer show bitter and dejected. Hadn't I driven hundreds of miles to see him play? And he brings me what? Colbie Caillat, Brett Dennen, a bunch of old pop tunes, and two sub-sub-subpar covers of two incredible songs.

I waited near the backstage area, wishing I had a baseball bat, but the coward never showed to fight me like a man, so we moved on to the final concert of the festival. Phil Lesh & Friends, including a sit-in by Warren Haynes for the first handful of songs, provided a fitting atmosphere for the festival's end. The energy was high the closer you got to the stage and died as the more exhausted festivalgoers lay spent in the grass, alongside so many cigarette butts. The vibe was not at all like that during the Widepsread Panic sets, which had had the entire field of thousands dancing on the 4th of July until midnight. Lesh & Friends were smooth and easy to listen to, and the twinkling night sky was a peaceful backdrop. At midnight, after two hours of Lesh and almost fifty hours of music over four days, we barely had the energy to get up off the still lush grass on the field of The Odeum.

As we walked to the car, I couldn't shake that end-of-college feeling. I knew I had a struggle ahead in that twelve hour drive home, and also that I'd had the time of my life over the past four days. When I got home, the first thing I did was reset my countdown clock to July 2, 2009.