Neil Young Trunk Show

The journey never ends for Neil Young. Captured cinematically just a few years ago in the formal Nashville recital Heart of Gold, the legendary rocker and that film's director Jonathan Demme return with Neil Young Trunk Show. The result is a rich, organic chronicle of the 2007-8 tour in support of Young's Chrome Dreams album. With multiple video angles and handheld cameras, Demme's spontaneous approach meshes perfectly with Young's free-floating, soft/loud, this-old-man-will-do-whatever-he-wants-to artistic imperative.

It's hard to think of another 60-something singer-guitarist granted as much reverence by his audience, and one that can summon as much electric fury. It was a smart idea, then, to capture the aging Young in this particular chapter in his career - increasingly grandfatherly and gentle one moment (the acoustic "Harvest" and "Oh Lonesome Me" are given poignant readings), then flattening the crowd the next with blazing steamrollers like "No Hidden Path" and "Like a Hurricane." Humble every second, yet never pandering, Young reveals himself throughout, apparently feeling every note he plays to the utmost. And as this concert movie goes on, the foundational themes of this singer-songwriter's body of work -- how a defiantly solitary man reconciles himself with the outside world, love, and spirituality -- come into progressively clearer focus.

Young and his band, including bassist Rick Rosas, guitarist Ben Keith, drummer Ralph Molina, and backup vocalist/wife Pegi, present a wholly convincing argument for artistic purity and old ways. With an eye toward both spectacle and heart, Demme captures his subject unpacking a Trunk Show complete with a live painter, vintage lighting, and, at center stage, those songs. It all boils down to the songs; Young serves no other master.

Bring on Your Wrecking Ball

Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
October 2-3
Giants Stadium
East Rutherford, NJ
"We are here tonight to uphold our solemn vow... to rock the house!!!" shouted Bruce Springsteen at Giants Stadium to a thundering ovation from the locals. This is a nightly declaration by the Boss, and the second and third shows of a five-night homecoming stand in New Jersey were no exception. What was exceptional about this run was the fact that these were the final Springsteen concerts at the soon-to-be-razed venue, not to mention the legend's decision to perform one of his classic albums in its entirety each night. This plan found the E Streeters substituting their usual ad-hoc set list with a structure that might have thrown lesser acts off-kilter. But this is the mighty E Street band, and their effortless balance of formal song sequences and capricious, Jersey bar band looseness made this pair of shows exhilarating successes.

The opening salvo of tunes on October 2 featured the brand-new Giants Stadium valentine "Wrecking Ball" ("Bring on your wrecking ball," Springsteen sang with defiance, a sentiment seemingly aimed at both the venue and his ageless self), the brassy "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out" and the apparent beer/bathroom opportunity "Working on a Dream." Then, Springsteen and his cohorts dusted off Darkness on the Edge of Town, a thematically dead-serious song cycle that is a bit ambitious to tackle in a football stadium. While certain tracks from this LP, a favorite of die-hards, are rousing Boss concert staples ("Badlands," "The Promised Land," "Prove it All Night"), it was unclear whether melancholy deep cuts like "Factory" and "Racing in the Street" would play to the upper decks. But perhaps unsurprisingly, the group delivered the album with a vigor and sense of pride that made it work completely. From "Badlands" to the closing title track, the highlights included Springsteen's white-hot fretwork on "Adam Raised a Cain"; an affecting "Racing in the Street," which gave Roy Bittan's piano work a lovely showcase; a knockout take on the rarely-played "Streets of Fire"; and Nils Lofgren's dazzling spotlight moment during "Prove it All Night," which was less a guitar solo than an exercise in sonic arc welding. At the end of the album performance, the Boss proudly gathered up the specific members of the band that were responsible for putting it on wax, which was an appropriate moment of acknowledgement, especially for the late E Streeter Danny Federici.

Following Darkness came light in the form of the upbeat "Waitin' on a Sunny Day," which found Bruce jumping in the stands and enlisting a young girl to sing the chorus while her dad held her, to massive applause. It was a terrific move, and a significant one: Springsteen's chance to climb off the messiah pedestal his fans place him on and unite most directly with his audience. That interactivity continued with the nightly request segment of the show, where the Boss collects hand-made signs from the audience that beg for obscurities and covers. Tonight, hopefuls holding up their placards for "I'm Goin' Down," the sweetly romantic Tracks nugget "Be True" and Elvis' rollicking "Jailhouse Rock" were the lucky winners. And as is the norm for Springsteen, medicine is to be taken with the sugar, so the overdue reappearance of Magic's "Long Walk Home" (complete with an impassioned vocal by Steven Van Zandt) and an exultant rendition of "The Rising" set the expected equilibrium.

Speaking of balance, the powerful enthusiasm of the cross-generational New Jersey multitudes was just as weighty a factor at Giants Stadium as the Boss himself. Singing along to every song, waving and throwing their arms in unison, and generally suffering from mild hysteria, they somehow imparted an even more mythic status upon Springsteen than he already carries on a normal day. Witnessing that level of hero worship amid impeccable performances of standards like "Thunder Road" and the house-lights-on, everyone-go-crazy cue of "Born to Run" is that most rare of concert experiences, a reminder of the power, glory and promise of rock n' roll. To conclude Night 2, the "liberate ya, confiscate ya" tilt-a-whirl of "Rosalita" sent tens of thousands happily into the rainy Jersey night.


The third installment of Springsteen's fiver at Giants Stadium offered a complete performance of Born in the U.S.A., a populist favorite album from 1984 that catapulted the Boss into household name territory. While this may have looked like a coup for casual fans -- the chance to hear the Boss' biggest radio and MTV hits, such as the title song and "Dancin' in the Dark" -- in these parts, there are no casual fans. For the assembled faithful, it was all about hearing these tracks in sequence, as well as blue-moon live selections like "Cover Me" and "Downbound Train."

Despite this officially scheduled main event, Springsteen, the ultimate showman, still knows how to surprise. During "Hungry Heart," (which has devolved into rote, if lighthearted, audience karaoke) he leapt into the pit at midfield and bodysurfed all the way back to the stage without incident. It would have been a nice "remember-when" story for all these Jersey folk to tell their kids someday, if they didn't already have all their kids in tow.

That stunt pulled off, Springsteen and company delivered Born in the U.S.A. An impactful, if not quite as emotionally rewarding suite as the previous night's Darkness on the Edge of Town, this album performance was both bracing (the haunting "I'm On Fire" sat Bruce at the edge of the pit, while teenage girls in front of him fawned -- that's sex appeal at age 60, folks) and tentative ("Cover Me" sorely lacked the punch it has on record). Still, this Saturday night party got jumping with carefree rave-ups like "Darlington County" and "Glory Days."

With yet another record covered, it was time to cover someone else per audience request: the live rarity/Tom Waits-penned "Jersey Girl," a tender ballad that found every tongue in the stadium singing its "Sha la la la la la la" chorus. The early E Street R&B pressure cooker "Kitty's Back" followed, with the fireworks-punctuated Irish stomp of "American Land" not far behind. By the time the holy benediction of "Thunder Road" hit the warm autumn air, this night we were free, and Bruce's vow wasn't broken.

Bring on the wrecking ball.

Trapping Foxes

Fleet Foxes/Blitzen Trapper
Crystal Ballroom
April 12

"The sun it rises..." goes an ethereal harmony from Fleet Foxes, and it couldn't have been more apt on this Easter Sunday. With heavenly voices and often forceful purpose, the Seattle longhairs faithfully recreated nearly all of their breakthrough, self-titled debut, along with music from their first EP. And while this concert fell just short of the religious experience it might have been, there was still plenty of spiritual uplift and exquisite folk-rock songwriting to marvel at.



For an act so road-tested and showered with international accolades (the esteemed Pitchfork's 2008 album of the year was theirs, and the tastemaking British, they love'em), Fleet Foxes are an almost frustratingly modest crew. Arrogance is never advisable, but a bit more confidence and showmanship, especially between songs, should be almost second-nature after over a year of touring the world and playing such high-profile gigs as "Saturday Night Live." Bandleader/top Fox Robin Pecknold sang and strummed to potent effect, and his four bandmates are well rehearsed, but the prolonged silences between songs as they geared up to play their next piece constantly killed momentum and left Pecknold, and by extension, the audience, feeling a bit awkward, like a couple on a first date that are struggling for a conversation item. This situation did find Pecknold openly mentioning at one point how vulnerable he felt, which was admirable in its candor, but thanking your opening band at two different points during the show and begging the audience for its patience with new songs is not expected or warranted behavior from an outfit that has the world fawning at them right now.

Gaps between songs aside, the quintet otherwise delivered a lush, frequently magical 75 minutes of music, churning out and harmonizing on the operatic "He Doesn't Know Why," their solemn, eccentric single "White Winter Hymnal," three promising new tunes, and several other numbers using such gravitas-instilling Biblical language as "my brother" and "your protector." Meanwhile, the climactic reading of "Mykonos" had an epic scope, and its skyward incantations were genuinely powerful. On this, the holiest of Christian holidays, Stumptown's indie rock disciples had their own sort of Easter service - a late-night revival administered by guys that looked suspiciously like JC himself but better yet, sang like angels.

Opening up the evening were the Portland's current favorite sons Blitzen Trapper, who, with a winning, well-paced set, nearly gave the Seattle headliners a run for their money. Here's a gang of individually unremarkable dudes that fast exceed the sum of their parts as soon as they play together. With three sets of keyboards onstage, inventive percussion instruments (water-bird whistle, anyone?) and an overall layered sound, the group dished out a sharp, infectious batch of post-hippie rock that was organic, surprising and at times in line with such power-pop outfits as Squeeze and The Knack, if those acts wore flannel and sprang from the Pacific Northwest. Armed with rockers, ballads and singalong choruses rooted in folk, blues and jammy psychedelia, Blitzen Trapper nonetheless kept the songs compact and the instrumentation neat. The Foxes still beat the Trapper on this night, but it was a close one.

Archive CD Review, 2002 - Guided by Voices, "Universal Truths and Cycles"

Guided by Voices
Universal Truths
and Cycles
Matador

It's a fact of life – you have to overcome emotional barriers before you can move on. On Guided by Voices' last album, Isolation Drills, bandleader/indie rock poet laureate Bob Pollard, fresh from a failed marriage, relayed his inner turmoil with some of his most revealing and tender songs to date. Now that he's got that off his beer-soaked chest, it's time for this Dayton, Ohio-hailing troupe to return to what they do best: be America's top purveyors of immediate, completely alive rock 'n' roll.

Enter Universal Truths and Cycles, which handily reconciles GBV's lo-fi garage roots with the high-gloss approach they've adopted in recent years. There's the swaggering, noisy "Skin Parade," brief acoustic fugues ("Zap," "The Weeping Bogeyman"), and urgently melodic gems spiked with Pollard's famously obtuse wordplay ("Christian Animation Torch Carriers"). It's hard to pick out a clunker anywhere on this disc; "Cheyenne" annoys at first with Pollard's maudlin falsetto, but then it somehow grows on you.

Similarly, given the consistent quality of these 19 tracks, it's tough to single out highlights, but I submit the anthemic, staccato-riffing "Back to the Lake," the cascading "Storm Vibrations," the scrappy "Everywhere With Helicopter" and "Eureka Signs," a revved-up chunk of resplendence and grit.

For all their singularity, GBV isn't immune to betraying their influences. The folky "Factory of Raw Essentials" sounds like Pollard channeling Gordon Lightfoot, and "Wings of Thorn," with its percussive guitar strumming, could be sandwiched into every future pressing of the Who's Tommy and no one would notice. Nevertheless, as Cycles thrashes and jangles to a close, all that is great about this thing called rock seems gloriously distilled. Grade: A

Archive CD Review - Tool, "Aenima"

Tool
Ænima
Zoo Entertainment
"Some say the end is near," bodes vocalist Maynard James Keenan during the title cut from Aenima, Tool's long-awaited new effort. The song is a disgusted meditation on all of the world's dysfunction and apparently, Keenan feels that society needs to be purged entirely. Never one to bask even remotely in any type of ignorant optimism, he dwells rather in the murky recesses of the damaged human psyche, especially his own. With delicate whispers that gradually escalate into unsettling primal howls, Keenan traverses Tool's jagged soundscape like a psychotic charioteer. The band launches a multi-layered aural attack, fraught with shifting cadences and temperament. Aenima, the Los Angeles quartet's follow-up to 1993's incendiary Undertow, marks an upward artistic progression for a group thematically submerged in a self-imposed and downward emotional spiral.

Picking up where they left off on Undertow, Tool kicks things into overdrive with the opening track, "Stinkfist." With its familiar musical structure (crunching guitar riffs, airtight rhythms, Keenan's Jeckyll/Hyde croonings), it conveys the fearsome, visceral tone found in previous tunes like "Sober." One of Aenima's prime moments comes on "Eulogy," as Keenan's twisted, imposing vocals are seemingly funneled through a distorted bullhorn. Although the lyrics are completely unintelligible, they nevertheless retain an unnerving beauty. Tool has a penchant for such idiosyncratic details. The disc is full of soundbites (a relentless
tapping on a window, a baby crying) and creepy voice-overs (a German man fervently orating is especially disturbing) that render it a transportative yet dreadful experience. Tool doesn't compromise its art, and fearlessly marries darkly incongruent elements into a turbulent sonic netherworld where no one escapes unscathed.

Aenima is the perfect soundtrack for a mental breakdown. You may want to turn it off mid-disc (running time is 77 minutes, the single CD maximum), to regain a balanced state of mind. That is by no means an insult to Tool, but rather a genuflection to the devastating impact of their music. After a short break, you'll be compelled to turn it back on, eager to resume your harrowing journey into madness.

Archive Chat: Henry Rollins, 2006

GLOBE TREKKER
Henry Rollins sends a dispatch from his endless tour of duty

What keeps Henry Rollins busy? Let us count the ways. While the Rollins Band’s status is inactive, the 45-year-old continues to bring his spoken word shows to audiences at home and abroad. He still runs his publishing company, 2.13.61, and authors books, the latest being the brutal, often comic Roomanitarian. USO work finds him shaking hands and building soldier morale in such military hot zones as Iraq, Afghanistan, South Korea and Turkey. On the music side of things, his free-format radio show, “Harmony in My Head” has just returned to Los Angeles’ Indie 103.1 FM (listen Tuesday nights 8-10 p.m. or stream the show anytime at http://www.indie1031.fm). And he’s fast becoming the Roger Ebert for a new generation on the Independent Film Channel (IFC). The first season of "Henry's Film Corner" was essential viewing for filmgoers weary of Hollywood’s bullshit, which Rollins is all too happy to call out. The second season hits in 2006 with a weekly schedule, musical guests, and a new name, “The Henry Rollins Show.”

It would be easy to keep adding to this list of Rollins’ professions (voiceover work, acting…), but we’ll let the man speak for himself. The punk legend checked in from somewhere in Australia, where he’s doing spoken word sets as part of that country’s “Big Day Out” festival.

In a recent Washington Post interview, you said you’re working toward getting the Rollins Band going again. Would you be building a new band from scratch, or is Mother Superior still an option?

Nothing has been planned but I am interested in doing something musically. Not sure of the players as yet.

Since talking shows and other endeavors have primarily occupied you for the last couple of years, are you burning to get back onstage with a band? Is that aspect of your artistic expression still something you need to do, or is it more a “want to” do at this point?

I like the idea of playing music still but have been checking out other things lately. I still want to do some music at some point. I don't know what the environment would be like for a band and me at this point.

In your eyes, who and what are some of the lasting monuments of punk rock?

The Ramones, The Clash. They really made an impact on things. The what would perhaps be the perception of rock music now. Punk rock has made an indelible impression on that front. I have no idea where rock would be now without punk rock's intrusion.

To borrow a line from Roomanitarian, “Nothing can be recaptured. It can only be approximated and stood next to.” Though this thought diverges from the book’s context,it made me think of all the bands that reunite to tour – without naming names, there seems to be a bigger glut than ever, much of it ’80s and ’90s “alt-rock” bands. As a performer, what do you think this phenomenon boils down to? It’s too reductive to say it’s just about the money. Is there a need, an insecurity/“please love me again” element at play here?

I think it could be all kinds of reasons and combinations of reasons. I know I miss doing songs I used to do a long time ago with Black Flag. Those were really cool and I still love them. I think some bands may not feel done with it all yet and want to get out there again after a long absence, thinking they are really better than ever. I think ultimately it's a little sad, but then again I saw the Stooges play the other night and it was one of the best shows I have ever seen in my life. It was frightening.

You’ve described Roomanitarian as “an angry book,” but can you elaborate on your inspirations? There are clearly targets in these pages that you wanted to take out. You’re certainly taking Bush and conservative pundits to task, and, not only that, suggesting some imagery-rich comeuppance across the board.

Bush and all those pussies make for a target rich environment. A lot of the book comes from the emptiness I often feel. I don't know about what was inspiration for writing of that kind in that I don't really feel inspired when I write like that. Cursed is more the word. It is an elaboration on the wretchedness that runs me all over.

What are the lingering thoughts you’ve taken away from your time spent with soldiers overseas and at Walter Reed Army Medical Center?

That there are really no bigger truths to be known from any of it. The people at the top are almost as clueless as anyone else. People lose limbs really easily and they have the rest of their lives to wonder what it was all about anyway. The closer you get up on it, the smaller and sadder the whole thing becomes. Everyone's just running around being insane, the troops, the insurgents, it's all completely nuts. There is so much pain for the families and friends. It's too much sadness to make people go through in a life.

In terms of your talking dates, what countries and/or cities do you find it hardest to connect with the audience?

None really, believe it or not, it's been great all over. Russia was a little difficult with the language. Israel was amazing, places like Hungary were really great as well. Sometimes in the south of the U.S., there's some disconnect with the audience and myself perhaps but I could be wrong about that.

The new season of your IFC show is going to be weekly, with musical guests. Can you share a little bit of what viewers can expect in the first few episodes?

Honestly, we have just started working on the season. There will be interviews with guests to be determined, I will be going off on topics that are interesting to me, we will have music as you know. There will be some special segments, letters and other stuff we'll throw in as the year goes on. As far as the first band on and the first guests, I really don't know. We have taped Sleater-Kinney who were great, Ringside, John Doe, Frank Black, Ben Folds. Should be really cool.


You’re nonstop. But age bears down, and you must foresee some level of slowdown and/or priority shifts in say, the next 10, 15 years. What does Henry Rollins’ semi-retirement look like?

At some point, I would like to be extremely solitary and not have to talk to many people or get much mail. It becomes harder and harder to be around and amongst people for me. There will come a point to where I will be unable to do it. I am not one who hates people. Not remotely. They are, in many instances, painful to be around.

E-Rock Archives: A Chat with Luke Steele of The Sleepy Jackson, circa 2006

Waking up with Luke Steele, the musical mastermind of The Sleepy Jackson

It’s 7 a.m. on a Monday morning, so what better time to be talking to a guy who works under the moniker the Sleepy Jackson. Aussie rock visionary Luke Steele is wide awake, but then again he’s in a different time zone — New York City, where he’s enjoying a view of the Big Apple skyline while promoting his ambitious new effort "Personality – One Was a Spider, One Was a Bird."

As the album’s title suggests, Steele’s psyche is no stranger to conflict, and neither is his band. The Sleepy Jackson’s history is a troubled one, blighted by alcohol, drugs, and more fired musicians than Guns N’ Roses. But a new dawn is breaking for Steele and company, a real sense of starting over. With its wall-of-sound production, confessional lyrics and kaleidoscopic pop beauty, "Personality" is a bold statement, and to hear Steele tell it, he and his mates are on a mission. “We’re ready to rock,” he says without a trace of irony. “It’s really stepped up to a right sharp level now, it’s quite serious. It’s really make or break time for the band.”

The lush "Personality," which betrays Steele’s love of ’70s vinyl classics such as Carole King’s "Tapestry" and ELO’s "Time," is the successor to the Sleepy Jackson’s 2003 debut "Lovers", an acclaimed, genre-defying fantasia that impressed even the most jaded critics and music fans. And while the disc was a rush for the listener, Steele and his players found their own thrills on tour, where indulgences are unavoidable. “It’s a war,” he admits. “You’re up against a lot of big guns, like lust and temptation.”

Those crazy nights on the road are the polar opposite of Steele’s isolated hometown of Perth, Australia, which provided the ideal back-to-business environment for recording his latest song suite. “It’s quite calm at night, there are no cars on the road,” he says. “Perth can make you feel like a professor. You can feel like what you’re doing is real significant and definitive and special.”

If Perth sounds like a place frozen in time, that would seem to suit Steele just fine. Like many an artist, he was probably born in the wrong era. In fact, his father, a policeman, introduced him to music at an impossibly young age. “Apparently I was conceived a Tom Petty show,” Steele laughs.