The D Man's Top Twenty Albums of 2008

In a watershed political year, it is significant to note that few, if any, political records captured the public imagination. Indeed, the first four records on my list are largely acoustic-based classics that would ring true in any political era. The best artists of 2008 understood that great music, albeit universal, strikes the deepest chords among the personal, the intimate, the everyday.

Far too much is made of the political landscape in which a certain song or album is created and produced. Reviews filled with tag-lines such as the Reagan years are all too common—and often meaningless.* But with the usual suspects doing most of the music criticism, there is rarely a hard look at the Establishment, and music’s reaction to or interplay with it, when their guy is in office. They would have us believe that during certain four and eight-year stretches, music with a political bent or influence all but disappears. Then again, Jimmy Carter did bring us disco, so maybe that is exactly what happens.

For every example of a great album allegedly motivated by the policies of whoever happened to occupy the White House—and there are few—dozens of popular counterexamples refute any real creative advantage for the politically-minded artist with an ax to grind against the Oval Office. U2’s magnanimous sonic exploration of America’s vastness and potential, The Joshua Tree, was released during Reagan’s not so open-ended stance with the Soviets. Radiohead’s OK Computer, filled with “the end is near” dread, was produced during the height of the permissive Clinton years. And the twenty-first century has seen the release of dozens of decidedly personal (and apolitical) albums during a time that, we’re now told, is somehow the worst eight-year political run in American history. (See For Emma, Forever Ago, In Rainbows, Illinois, Ghosts of the Great Highway, Sea Change, etc.). In hindsight, many will be surprised to learn that Kid A, this decade’s post-modern masterpiece, was actually released when we still thought Al Gore might be president. So it goes.

The point is this: politics rarely makes for great music. At least in the specific, stump-speech sense. One has to go to #11 on my list to find a great political album—TV On The Radio’s Dear Science—and even it sounds more like a heady party record. So hopefully the absence of “yes we can” anthems will not dissuade you from checking out the fine records below. Great musicians flourish under any sitting president—independent, striking, and rarely beholden to special interest groups.

*If The D Man reads one more article about Springsteen’s depiction of Reagan-era America, I may have to actually buy Nebraska so the Gipper can rest in peace.

**As always, I include the following disclaimer: Due to limited funds (and time), I was unable to purchase some albums that would likely have been somewhere on this list. The albums on this list are all ones I actually own and have listened to repeatedly.

1. For Emma, Forever Ago / Bon Iver

Everyone has heard the story now. Justin Vernon broke up with his girlfriend. He broke up with his band. He was bedridden for months with a severe case of mononucleosis. So he did what anyone from Wisconsin would do—he sequestered himself in his father’s remote hunting cabin for the winter, where he wrote and recorded most of the songs that would become For Emma, Forever Ago. Vernon lived on stockpiled coffee, homemade soups, and venison from deer he hunted himself. He became Bon Iver.

Bon Iver is a play on bon hiver, French for “good winter.” Vernon said of the experience: “The sound of your thoughts are pretty loud when you don’t open your mouth to say words to anyone for a long time.”

Such biographical information may not affect the way you listen to music. But with the hushed intimacy and remote loneliness of this powerful record, it is hard to separate the artist from the art, the Wisconsin winter from the slow-burning frostbite that ebbs its way into your bones. As one critic noted, this is a record in every sense. Documenting a place, a time, a feeling. So good it hurts.

Vernon’s pain is transmitted to the listener as some kind of private catharsis, the music capturing feelings perhaps unintended and previously unacknowledged. “Flume” is a plaintive, acoustic cry for a mother’s love:

only love is all maroon
gluey feathers on a flume
sky is womb and she’s the moon

I am my mother on the wall, with us all.
I move in water, shore to shore;
nothing’s more.

“The Wolves (Act I and II)” is an epic strummer, a gospel-tinged chronicle of heartache, blame, and loss that rises into a train-track crescendo.

with the wild wolves around you
in the morning, I’ll call you
send it farther on

Solace my game, solace my game,
it stars you,
swing wide your crane, swing wide your crane,
and run me through

and the story’s all over you
in the morning I’ll call you
can’t you find a clue when your eyes are all painted Sinatra blue

what might have been lost—don’t bother me.

In “Blindsided,” maybe the year’s most pitch-perfect example of emotion as music, Vernon copes with crushing realizations:

bike down . . . down to the downtown
down to the lockdown . . . boards, nails, lie around

I crouch like a crow
Contrasting the snow
For the agony, I’d rather know
Cause blinded I am blindsided

Peek in . . . into the peer in . . .
I’m not really like this . . . I’m probably plight-less
I cup the window
I’m crippled and slow
For the agony
I’d rather know
Cause blinded I am blindsided

Would you really rush out for me now?

Bon Iver’s personal excavation is our private window. While listening to this record, we are invited to walk with the artist through naked woods. Feel the snow cracking underfoot. Notice the spent fire. Step up to the pane. Peer into his room. And witness the heartbreaking creation of an American masterpiece.

2. Fleet Foxes / Fleet Foxes

Fleet Foxes' enchanting debut is a gift that keeps on giving. The D Man listened to this album more than any other record this year, which alone qualifies it for the top of this list. Bursting with baroque pop harmonies seemingly hatched in some forest glen, Fleet Foxes’ timeless textures weave spellbinding melodies with each listen. An instant classic.

With their pastoral appeal and appearances reminiscent of rogue shepherds, Fleet Foxes throw down the gauntlet for Best Anglo-Saxon Album of the Decade. Indeed, the group has it all: flowing hair and beards, acoustic instruments, folk motifs, four-part a cappellas, vests, goats, and references to the Blue Ridge Mountains. But it would be a massive disservice to suggest that Fleet Foxes is nothing more than forced pastiche. The album turns a variety of influences into a unique musical kaleidoscope: strains of shape-note singing, Pet Sounds harmonies, gospel, and folk roll over hills, woods, and rivers, arriving at some kind of Appalachian wonderland.

3. April / Sun Kil Moon

Mark Kozelak, formerly of the Red House Painters, continues to explore the haunting, the beautiful, and the elegiac. April is a sophisticated and subtle record that beguiles with each new listen, revealing itself slowly and unfolding texture after texture of musical possibility and meaning. Where Ghosts of the Great Highway is rich, evocative, and nostalgic, the shimmering tapestries of an Ohio fall, April is a hazy, meandering meditation of memory, demanding a patient introspection, a walk through the low-hanging clouds of spring. Yet, like Ghosts, the music’s quiet familiarity moves listeners to contemplate their own solitude, even if such revelations take them to another time, another place.

Kozalek’s signature voice, rising over layered and intricate classical-guitar arrangements or open electric tunings, has become as rich and varied as his songwriting. “Lost Verses” is a stunning album-opener, a ten-minute acoustic masterpiece that builds to chill-inducing crescendos. It is arguably Kozelak’s most beautiful song from a catalog of beautiful songs, recalling a love for family and friends.

Watch over loved ones and old friends
I see them through their living room windows
Shaken by fear and worries
I want them to know how I love them so

“Moorestown” remembers a first love, and the journey to regain what could have been.

I cannot bear to wonder now
If the cascading soft lights
Are glowing for us in Moorestown
Are glowing for us in Moorestown

“Harper Road” draws out roadside memories in acoustic moonlight shadows; “Tonight in Bilbao” follows a musician’s slow dark wave cresting across Europe; and “Blue Orchids” closes the album by way of a lovely requiem.

One critic observed that Kozelak will write his way through memory and fate through the end of his days. His Ohio childhood, his classic-rock album collection, his guitar, his friends and especially the death of loved ones. Indeed, Kozelak takes solace in the beautiful landscapes that surround him. He travels to faraway cities and dreams of home, and then he comes home and dreams of elsewhere. Here is hoping that we keep losing ourselves in the music of those dreams.

4. Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust / Sigur Ros

Summer in Iceland. The glaciers are receding, the fields are blooming, the ships are returning, and the good folks are springing from their homes. And Iceland’s greatest band is celebrating with an expansive album of immense musical joy.

Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust carries listeners adrift the island’s warm, contemplative currents, a powerful testimony of music as physical landscape. The first half of the record is a stunning departure from Sigur Ros’ catalog—celebratory horns, pounding drums, and acoustic guitars pulse with an earthworn gravity. “Gobbledigook” runs through verdant, undiscovered places. “Inní mér syngur vitleysingur” inspires an open-hearted parade. “Festival,” the album’s centerpiece, grows from ponderous falsetto beauty into a swell of drums, horns, and strings that is nothing short of heavenly.

On the record’s second half, Sigur Ros explores more meditative meadows. With singer Jónsi Birgisson’s high-pitched and haunting register interplaying with acoustic guitars, the band, as always, allows the listener to breathe and take in all of the open musical spaces. “Með suð í eyrum,” “Ára bátur,” and “Fljótavík” tug at your inner world with rich piano lines and strings, as Birgisson tries to make sense of things with his otherworldly voice.

Even great bands rarely make such inventive music several albums into their respective careers; and they almost never change their texture and tone while keeping their identity intact. But Sigur Ros is not most bands. A splendid, spiritual album.

5. Vampire Weekend / Vampire Weekend

With the freshest-sounding album of the year, Vampire Weekend has endured the inevitable backlash from their rapid rise to success. But the criticism has less to do with the music than it does the initial over-the-top internet buzz, Ezra Koenig’s good looks, the preppy clothes, or the Ivy-league educations. Well, if clean-cut, clever indie-pop is not your thing, go listen to Velvet Revolver. Because Vampire Weekend’s precision blend of afro-pop, Cape Cod punk(?), and collegiate observation produces a record worthy of endless listens. Laid-back, witty, and inventive, the Columbian grads effortlessly fuse a variety of influences song after song, resulting in the catchiest pop album in years.

6. Brighter Than Creation's Dark / Drive-By Truckers

No record better escapes the parenthesis states and explores the vast middle that is America. On Brighter Than Creation's Dark, The Drive-By Truckers capture the sound and feeling of our sprawling country with an equally sprawling country-rock affair that touches on almost every potential subject. Much of this is due to the shared singing and songwriting duties between Patterson Hood, Mike Cooley, and Shonna Tucker. As a result, the album contains nineteen far-ranging songs: the murder of a loved musician and family man (“Two Daughters and A Beautiful Wife”), the fear and resolve of a working man (“The Righteous Path”), the small-town bachelor who takes care of his mother and goes to church “when the fish aren’t biting,” (“Bob”), the bar band putting up with incoming city slickers (“The Opening Act”), the faithful wife dealing with her soldier's absence (“The Homefront”), the veteran coming home with the gravity of death (“That Man I Shot”), the adult pick-up artist (“Home Field Advantage”), and even the late-great John Ford shooting his cowboy epics (“Monument Valley”). In short, The Drive-By Truckers are the real deal.

7. Saturdays = Youth / M83

Saturdays = Youth. A perfect theme for M83’s sonic sentimentality in an age of musical irony. In the rush to co-opt and comment on the 1980’s in music and film, lesser musicians have created callow copies of the originals. But on Anthony Gonzalez’s rich electronic canvas, he brushes the music and images he loves with an authentic sonic quality all of their own. “Graveyard Girl” updates eighties shoegaze and pays homage to John Hughes. “Kim and Jessie” is a lush, nostalgic vision of teenage wonder and angst. And “Couleurs” is a heady mix of the decade’s atmospherics.

8. Evil Urges / My Morning Jacket

My Morning Jacket shreds. Now that we have that out of the way, The D Man can speak somewhat more objectively about the Louisville band’s latest release, Evil Urges. An awesome, yet sometimes head-scratching set of spaced-out silo rock, Evil Urges thrusts My Morning Jacket into rarified air. There is no looking down now. Jim James and company attempt to elevate rock ‘n’ roll into a populist sphere where all comers are welcome—the jam-rock hippie, the Southern rocker, the metal-head, and even the R&B enthusiast can grab their v-neck guitars and fire up their lighters. After catching MMJ in concert, they may be the only rock band on the planet capable of actually pulling this off.

9. Stay Positive / The Hold Steady

The best rock 'n' roll album of the year. I'm sure the band would appreciate the review.

10. Volume One / She & Him

The D Man has a little thing for actress Zooey Deschanel. But who knew the chick from Elf would write and record one of the best albums of the year? Teaming up with indie artist M. Ward, She & Him combines Deschanel's lovely tenor with perfect throwback arrangements produced by Ward. With the warmth and charm of genres past, She & Him could be mistaken for a tribute band. But Deschanel's stellar songwriting would stand out in any era.

11. Dear Science / TV On The Radio

Remember that scene in Ghostbusters where the EPA shuts down the ghost containment grid? And the camera pans back and you see the New York skyline with thousands of ghosts flooding the city? And you know something crazy is going to happen but you can’t help watch? Well, TV on the Radio’s Dear Science is the perfect soundtrack for that scene. A funky, twitchy, clear-eyed view of post-millennial confusion, Dear Science will likely prove to be the Brooklyn group’s popular breakthrough.

12. The Seldom Seen Kid / Elbow

Meet The Seldom Seen Kid. You may have overlooked him. He writes great songs in a fine British-rock tradition, with a mercurial whimsy befitting of a Manchester recording. He wins the coveted Mercury Music Prize in 2008 for best album in the United Kingdom or Ireland. He is musically more interesting than some of his contemporaries, bands who shall remain nameless, but rhyme with Foldplay, Blow Control, or Weane. He wishes you would pick him up from time to time and listen to what he has to say. Sounds like a decent bloke, right?

13. Year of the Gentleman / Ne-Yo

Ne-Yo steps out with the smoothest R&B album of the year. The prolific hit-maker behind artists like Beyoncé and Rihanna, our man knows how to lay down a melody. On Year of the Gentlemen, Ne-Yo convinces listeners (primarily the ladies) in sophisticated style that he will be your man and make you forget about all of those other wannabes. The D Man believes him.

14. Third / Portishead

Portishead’s ten-year absence came to an end with the aptly-named Third. The group moves their legendary trip-hop into some potent, cinematic soundscapes, each song carried by Beth Gibbons’s world-weary vocals. On the ominous “Machine Gun,” Gibbons strains over stuttering industrial keyboards. On “The Rip,” Gibbons sings over acoustic strums, her voice eventually falling into a bed of electronica, haunted but hopeful. Third is a challenging, but rewarding piece of recording artistry.

15. In Ghost Colours / Cut Copy

The D Man picked up Melbourne's Cut Copy for his brother in the Times Square Virgin Records store last summer--just one more reason he is expecting a great gift for Christmas. The tasty grooves of this electro-pop will linger long after you have come out of the intended hypnotic trance. Dance rock is not supposed to be this smart, smooth, sexy, and substantive. Alliteration hit the floor!

16. Frightened Rabbit and Glasvegas

Belle & Sebastian was recently voted by fellow countrymen as Scotland’s all-time greatest band. Glasvegas and Frightened Rabbit could soon join the list, taking a place next to the likes of Travis, Idlewild, or the Cocteau Twins. Both group’s frontmen share in a kind of labored, stuttered Scottish brogue. But where Glasvegas excels in swelling shimmer-rock, Frightened Rabbit delves into fragmented indie-pop. The D Man bought these two albums at the same time and can't help but link them together. Scottish pride and all.

17. Narrow Stairs / Death Cab For Cutie

Death Cab For Cutie's sixth studio album, Narrow Stairs, is a surprisingly dark record when compared with the band's buoyant meloncholy of the past. With track names such as "You Can Do Better Than Me," "Pity and Fear," and "The Ice Is Getting Thinner," Ben Gibbard's songwriting occupies direct and sometimes arresting territory. But even with greater lyrical and sonic dissonance, this is still the record of a confident, self-assured band, well aware of their critical and popular success and the sometimes polarizing nature of it all.

18. Day & Age / The Killers

Few bands sound big, and when they do, they usually ape U2 (see Coldplay) or something far worse. The Killers channel the Pet Shop Boys, Depeche Mode, and even Bowie on their third release, Day & Age. And what's wrong with that? So Sam's Town, with its guitar-god earnestness, didn't live up to the huge pop hooks of Hot Fuss? Get over it. Day & Age manages to walk the line between synth-heavy pop and guitar-based rock, and ultimately, with an assortment of slightly off-kilter singles-in-waiting, there is a strange pleasure in listening to Brandon Flowers try so hard.

19. Limits of the Sky / The Bridges

The Bridges, from Oxford, Alabama, consists of siblings Natalie Byrd (piano and guitar), Stacey Byrd (guitar), Isaaca Byrd (bass), Jeremy Byrd (drums), and cousin Brittany Painter (lead vocals). In a rush of folk-pop harmonies, these magazine-ready youngsters attempt to give Fleetwood Mac a run for their money. And with hook after hook, they pull it off in fine style.

20. Viva La Vida / Coldplay

So Coldplay never became what they might have been after Parachutes. The D Man has grudgingly accepted the fact that, at a minimum, the band still produces some arena-worthy anthems. On Viva La Vida, Coldplay's fourth studio album, there is no shortage of pleasers for the masses, with the likes of "Violet Hill", "Viva La Vida", "Lost," and "Lovers in Japan." But can Chris Martin and his bandmates spare us the one-world commie outfits that they wear in every video and public appearance? The D Man left his Che t-shirt at home and is starting to feel a little out of place.

Other Awards

Song of the Year: "White Winter Hymnal" by Fleet Foxes.

Single of the Year: "Kim and Jessie" by M83.

Most Annoying Trend: Emo. Will it ever end? Even hair-metal finally met its death, and it was actually fun.

Best Concert: Vampire Weekend.

Honorable Mention: The Helio Sequence, The Sea and Cake, The Dodos, Aaron Roche.

Song of the Week

The D Man loves Christmas. And there may not be a better Christmas album than Sufjan Stevens's collection of traditional and original songs. Recorded at home and sent to his friends over the years, Stevens generously decided to share his songs with us, expressing his genuine love of Christmas, its magic, and its ultimate Source. Never has the banjo done more justice to the birth of the King.

There is something for everyone. Excited holiday ditties like the one below. Traditional Christian hymns. Medieval folk songs. (Enjoy the adorable homemade video). And perhaps the saddest song about Christmas you have ever heard.

Song of the Week

James Blackshaw's fingerpicking of the 12-string guitar is something to behold. Check out a recent live television performance of "River of Heaven" below. The Englishman's instrumental minimalism expands into intricate, delicate walls of sound. Last year's The Cloud of Unknowing was a brilliant record; this year's Litany of Echoes is another impressive work from a singular artist. Still in his mid-twenties, Blackshaw has already released seven albums of his hypnotic storytelling. Primitive, melodic, and haunting, Litany of Echoes adds small flourishes of piano and other instruments, ultimately framing Blackshaw's mesmerizing guitarwork.

Song of the Week

With their pastoral harmonies and appearance reminiscent of rogue sheperds, we shouldn't be suprised that Fleet Foxes often performs in the midst of goats. Yes, that's right, goats. The D Man will forego any dirty Irish jokes and let you enjoy another track from the group's impressive debut: "He Doesn't Know Why," like many Fleet Foxes songs, sounds like it has been around for a long, long time.

Fix It

Ryan Adams & The Cardinals are at it again. After last year's great Easy Tiger (see "Two" and "Everybody Knows"), which featured Adams' fantastic backing-band on every track even though they weren't mentioned on the album's cover, the Cardinals get some love on the aptly-named Cardinology. Enjoy a recent live performance of "Fix It" on Letterman. Adams' is known for his eclectic musical tastes, and he sports an Iron Maiden shirt to tap into his inner metal-head.

Song of the Week

Keane, those piano purveyors of pleasant Brit-pop, have just released their third album, Perfect Symmetry. While the album's sound trades in the piano for some synths, the band continues to be propelled by singer Tom Chaplin's powerful vocals.

The D Man likes just about anything that looks like the future. Star Trek. Tron. Hover boards. The magic bullet. Robots. So naturally, the video for "Spiralling," the first track from Perfect Symmetry, earns a deserving Song of the Week appearance.

Band-Aids

Saturday morning The D Man sliced his hand open, barely missing the tendons and nerves. Nine stiches. It's no shark bite, but a friendly reminder that taking out the garbage can be a man's most dangerous task.

When the throbbing picked up in the afternoon, there was only one thing to do: head to the local music store and pick up new albums by The Sea and Cake, Keane, Snow Patrol, Ryan Adams & The Cardinals, and Blitzen Trapper. There is something therapeutic about buying new music on a crisp fall day and listening to some fresh tunes. Unless of course, you can't get the wrapping off the CDs.

Song of the Week

Blitzen Trapper's Sub Pop debut is ramshackle Americana. Although that description is overused, it describes in some measure the sound of "Furr," the album's title track. After last year's wide-ranging Wild Mountain Nation, the band has honed its sound and arrived at a more focused and pleasing record. As for the fan video, well, some dude in Bloomington, Indiana filmed himself on a bike riding home. Then he set it to Blitzen Trapper. Good enough for The D Man.

Weekend

The D Man needs a few more weekends like this. The Sea and Cake, a now long-running collective of brainy Chicago musicians, are set to release their eighth full-length, Car Alarm. The band's musical precision is as gorgeous as ever, and Sam Prekop's singular voice continues to be the warmest pop blanket. As one critic noted, his words seem chosen for their musical qualities first. And although there's never too much at stake in a Sea and Cake song (as its should be), the contemplative nature of the music still manages to seep through the group's impeccable production.

Song of the Week

Denison Witmer's new album, Carry the Weight, will be released in November. Check out a recent live performance of the title track. A simple song. A good song. A frequent collaborator with Sufjan Stevens and Rosie Thomas, Witmer is an impressive folk artist in his own right. Go here for more, including a cool little cover of Band of Horses. Witmer plays in Salt Lake City on November 5th. The D Man suggests that your hard-earned money will be well spent if you're in attendance, even if Witmer didn't vote for your guy.

Genius (With Numbers)

The D Man's brother-in-law, Schwarzy, can tell you the number worn by every player that has ever graced your favorite team's roster. Uncanny, but true. Schwarzy's prowess was on full display during the recent Dodgers-Phillies game. The D Man began berating him for his fair-weather Dodger fandom, and, in a show of true loyalty in the wake of another collapse, The D Man named the entire roster of the 1989 Chicago Cubs. But in an even greater feat, Schwarzy proceeded to recite the number of every player named. Sure, he knew The Hawk (#8), The Rifleman, (#12), and Ryno (#23). But Dwight Smith and Jerome Walton? No chance.

The D Man has too much pride to call Schwarzy an unqualified genius. But when he instantly responded with Smith's #18 and Walton's #20, there was nothing left to say. So here's to you Schwarzy . . . a genius . . . (with numbers worn by professional and collegiate athletes).

Reckoner

Radiohead recently held a worldwide video contest for In Rainbows. The final four contestants each received $10,000 to produce full-length videos. Not that it's any surprise the band would have some talented and artistic fans, but many of the entries were impressive and downright professional in the first place. Check out grand-prize winner Clement Picon's video for "Reckoner," one of the many stunning tracks from Radiohead's latest.

Old Stuff

Restoring the Romance of Reading

Lions on the Beach

He no longer dreamed of storms, nor of women, nor of great occurrences, nor of great fish, nor fights, nor contests of strength, nor of his wife.  He only dreamed of places now and the lions on the beach.  They played like young cats in the dusk and he loved them . . . .

From The Old Man and the Sea

The Old Man and the Sea entered the literary scene already timeless in its timeless themes.  The old man.  The sea.  The fish.  Baseball and the boy.  An epic battle with creation.  A triumph won from loss.  As Hemingway’s final work of fiction, written in Cuba and published in 1952, the novella reinvigorated his status and garnered the Pulitzer Prize, and ultimately, led to his Nobel Prize for literature in 1954.

* * * * *

I took three classes during college that focused on Modern American literature.  We never read Hemingway.  Perhaps that is why I picked up The Old Man and the Sea while I was at the bookstore a few weekends ago.  Hemingway is the ultimate dead white male of the last century, and because of that, the academy has attempted to whitewash his achievements in favor of lesser texts.  Castigated by some for his perceived lack of literary flourish or his alleged gender inequity, it is likely that the rabble are primarily offended by his love of bullfighting, fishing, hunting, cigars, or, dare I say it, men at war.  No matter.  Hemingway’s work, while not the century’s finest, will long endure the resentment and existential despair that is currently brimming from the academy.  Of course, that’s not to say Hemingway didn’t wrestle with demons, both on the page and in his life.  But with the simple allegory of an old fisherman trying to catch a big fish, Hemingway finally redeemed his narrative of Man in the midst of inescapable loss.

* * * * *

After a grueling struggle, the great fish settles into a long, unbroken swim into the deep Caribbean.  While holding the line, the old man is able to catch the faintest trace of sleep, and he envisions his boyhood voyages near the African shore. 

After that he began to dream of the long yellow beach and he saw the first of the lions come down onto it in the early dark and then the other lions came and he rested his chin on the wood of the bows where the ship lay anchored with the evening off-shore breeze and he waited to see if there would be more lions and he was happy.

Lions on the beach—a striking image, simple in its power to evoke without explanation.  One can now only imagine the wild in this manner, so expansive it literally laps at the shore; an Africa undwindled, a savagery untamed—indeed, the heart of Man, in his youth, untouched.

* * * * *

In Joseph Waldmeir’s essay entitled “Confiteor Hominem: Ernest Hemingway’s Religion of Man,” which has defined analytical considerations of the novella, he answers this rhetorical question: just what is the book's message?

The answer assumes a third level on which The Old Man and the Sea must be read--as a sort of allegorical commentary on all his previous work, by means of which it may be established that the religious overtones of The Old Man and the Sea are not peculiar to that book among Hemingway's works, and that Hemingway has finally taken the decisive step in elevating what might be called his philosophy of Manhood to the level of religion.

 

Indeed, Hemingway infuses his allegory with Christian images.  Although not a "religious man," the old man offers to say Hail Marys and praises if he catches the fish.  Later, when he sees the shark, the old man lets forth an anguished cry.  "Ay, he said aloud. There is no translation for this word and perhaps it is just a noise such as a man might make, involuntarily, feeling the nail go through his hands and into the wood."  When the old man returns to shore, weakened and near death, he "picked the mast up and put it on his shoulder and started up the road.  He . . . [sat] down five times before he reached his shack."  Finally, the old man sleeps "face down . . . with his arms out straight and the palms of his hands up."

Yet, seemingly tangential to these oft-discussed symbols, the image of lions are crucial enough to also occupy the last line of the story--“The old man was dreaming about the lions.”  This trope, although potentially religious in nature, is free from the weightier images of Hemingway's philosophy of Manhood. Perhaps the lions were meant to be a faint strand throughout the story, unanchored from the primary allegory, the perfect metaphor for man’s dream of Manhood.

* * * * * 

So just what do the lions represent?  A nostalgic vision of youth now faded into that distant realm of dream?  A longed for sign of virility now waning in the final stages of life?  A calling or a warning?

Perhaps, in the end, the lions are the possibility of what once was, and, even in our doubt-filled recesses of faith, the possibility, the hope, the dream of what may be.  Although according to Hemingway, life has exacted from us a terrible price in exchange for our participation and, in the old man’s case, his devoted worship of creation and his dedicated struggle to subdue it, we may still find some escape.  Now pushed into the interior, the lions once welcomed us at the edges.  Maybe we can, after everything that has happened, meet them there again.

Carrying The Fire

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains.  You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow.  They smelled of moss in your hand.  Polished and muscular and torsional.  On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming.  Maps and mazes.  Of a thing which could not be put back.  Not be made right again.  In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery. 

From The Road

* * * * * 

Okay.

Never has the above word absorbed so much meaning, been weighed down with so much existential heft.  Its simple transcendence rises far above its colloquial underpinnings.  Especially when used between a father and a son.

The Road, written by Cormac McCarthy, our greatest living writer, is the most visceral, most horrifying, and most beautiful reading experience I have possibly ever had.  McCarthy's terrifyingly awesome vision is certainly the best book of the past year, and it is likely the best book written in the new millenium.

The Road is vital because it is tomorrow.  It is real.  One forgets that it is a work of fiction.  The possibility of its ruin is before us.  And McCarthy delivers it all with unrelenting clarity.  Indeed, with rising levels of religious fascism pitted against materialism, egoism, and the sophisticated debauchery of permissive relativism, our world is brewing the perfect storm for a portentious collapse.  And as The Road implies, in the aftermath, it won't really matter who pushes the button.  No one will be around to point the finger.

On one level, The Road is a frightening, post-apocalyptic nightmare, a stark world of winter ash dreamed up and delivered by the hands of men.  On its face, the book appeals to a masculine, last-warrior-on-earth Mad Max sentiment, the story of one man surviving in the face of unchartered devastation and savagery.  Hence, our protagonist is simply called the man, a powerful trope that draws the individual reader into the man's shoes to walk the hellish road with him, as him, and maybe even like him.

But then there is the boy.  And this changes everything. 

The relationship between the man and his son is unlike any in all of literature.  So immediate, so alone, so much left unsaid.  So fiercely connected by the bonds of love and protection amidst such unspeakable conditions.  Their journey together is profoundly disturbing and moving; never before has a book impacted me physically.  I couldn't move.  I couldn't eat.  I couldn't sleep.  The Road resonates.  It has drawn me back again and again.  And the closing scene is earth-shattering; I am still left speechless.  With sadness.  With power.  With love.  The Road depicts and identifies something so deep, so fundamentally human and universally transcendant, it can scarcely be spoken.

The boy becomes the man's compass, and in return, the boy receives the man's devotion.  Father and son are faced with a series of terrible choices that no one should make, some which portend violence, others compassion, always in the harshest of circumstances.  Often it is painfully difficult to know which path to consider, to take--but then there is the boy.  Everything for the boy.

* * * * *

Significantly, violence is sometimes the better path, or the only path, amplifying the notion that violence not only begets violence, but forces violence upon those who do not wish it.  The boy's presence makes clear that this may be its most unacceptable consequence. 

McCarthy's vision is fully realized, his descriptions vital and bare, his pacing sublime.  One is so enveloped in this world of ash, this world of terror, it becomes almost suffocating.  So timely, the book contrasts man at his most base and vile against man at his most resourceful and resplendent.  It is a world twice fallen, once by design and once by the act of men.  Evil permeates the land.  And in the midst of this second Fall, father and son must survive.  It is bleak existential drama.  One must act.  Your life, and the life of who you love most, is on the line.  But the boy is a constant, often silent reminder, that your very moral existence, your humanity, your soul is also at stake.  Even in this place.

* * * * *

Unlike McCarthy's other masterwork, Blood Meridian, which is the height of gothic embellishment, charting vast, elemental distances with painstaking minuteness, The Road bares its desolate world in an appropriately skeleton fashion.  Every solitary word is covered in ash, but capable of profound and hidden meaning.  As bookends of style, Blood Meridian andThe Road are, in my estimation, unmatched in contemporary literature, illustrating McCarthy's authoritative command of two distinct literary flourishes.

Further, as opposed to Blood Meridian, which depicts the bloodshed of man as a primal (almost necessary) extension of Nature ("without war, man is merely antic clay"), The Roadportrays man's carnage and degradation, as well as his savage environment, as the sum product of his own creation.  But The Road also goes a step farther than any McCarthy novel has gone before, sharply depicting man's ability to love, and even expend kindness, in the throes of this terrifying darkness.

Indeed, we're carrying the fire.

Reviews

Keeping You Down With Matters of Style, Holding You Up With Matters of Principle

April, Sun Kil Moon

--April 1, 2008

   Mark Kozelak is one of our most important artists of the past two decades.  The creative force behind the meloncholy slowcore of the Red House Painters, Kozelak has now solidified his rightful place in the canon with his reincarnation as Sun Kil Moon.  His signature voice, rising over layered and intricate classical arrangments or open electric tunings, has become as rich and varied as his songwriting.  And his striking originality is readily apparent; when you consider that he has helmed two exquisite covers albums solely of AC/DC and Modest Mouse tunes, his musical muse knows no bounds, other than exploring the haunting, the beautiful, and the elegiac.

   For those who have followed his musical arc, April may be Kozelak's apex, a sophisticated and subtle record that beguiles with each new listen.  As with most of his work, April reveals itself slowly and unfolds texture after texture of musical possibility and lyrical meaning.  Where Ghosts of the Great Highway is rich, evocative, and nostalgic, the shimmering tapestries of an Ohio fall, April is a hazy, meandering meditation of memory, demanding a patient introspection, a walk through the low-hanging clouds of spring.  Yet, like Ghosts, the music's hushed familiarity moves listeners to contemplate their own solitude, even if such revelations take them to another time, another place. 

   "Lost Verses" is a stunning album opener, a ten-minute acoustic masterpiece that builds to chill-inducing crescendos.  It is arguably Kozelak's most beautiful song from a catalog of beautiful songs, recalling a love for friends and family.

Watch over loved ones and old friends
I see them trough their living room windows
Shaken by fear and worries
I want them to know how I love them so

   "Moorestown" remembers lost love and youth, moving across the globe in an attempt to regain, or merely reflect, on what could have been.

I cannot bear to wonder now
If the cascading soft lights
Are glowing for us in Moorestown
Are glowing for us in Moorestown

  As one critic noted, Kozelak will write his way through memory and fate through the end of his days.  His Ohio childhood, his classic-rock album collection, his love for the guitar, his friends and especially the death of loved ones.  Indeed, "Harper Road," draws out roadside memories in its acoustic moonlight shadows; "Tonight in Bilbao" rides a musician's slow dark wave cresting across Europe, following a distant love while longing for home; and "Blue Orchids" closes the album by way of a lovely requiem.

   Another author observes that Kozelak takes solace in the beautiful landscapes that surround him.  He travels to faraway cities and dreams of home, and then he comes home and dreams of elsewhere.  Here is hoping that we keep losing ourselves in the music of those dreams.

  Enjoy "Moorestown" (fan video).

A few random songs from Kozelak, at least a few (mostly fan videos) that can be found on the web.

 "Grace Cathedral Park"

"Song For A Blue Guitar"

"Katy Song"

"Have You Forgotten"

"Have You Forgotten"

"Carry Me Ohio"

"Gentle Moon"

"Neverending Math Equation" 

Once

--February 15, 2008 

  
Music is the universal language.  So we've heard.  But music is also the private, intimate language of a shared world, a secret that only two lovers will ever know.  In the stunning film Once, we experience this world and secret--and music's ability to connect and redeem.

   Once may be the best movie about music--ever.  It is the story of an Irish Guy (Glen Hansard of The Frames) and an immigrant Girl (Marketa Irglova) and their week-long musical romance in Dublin.  Told with profound understanding, Once tenderly portrays this love affair with music and dreams.

   Director John Carney's (also of The Frames) rich, subtle filmmaking feels like thumbing through a stranger's photo album in their living room.  Carney's portrayal of working-class Dublin is warm and personal.  On a shoe-string budget of only $180,000, the film is private, naturalistic storytelling at its best, filled with grace and tenderness. 

   Hansard's and Irglova's performances are immediate and understated.  The two first-time actors also wrote and recorded all of the film's music.  While the chemistry between the two is palpable, the knowing space between them is stronger, somehow encompassing an even deeper experience.

  And the music is sublime. 

  Moving.  Brilliant.  Beautiful.  A gift and a revelation. 

   The following is a pivotal scene in the music store, two strangers singing the now Oscar-nominated song "Falling Slowly."

Andy Summers / Sting / Stewart Copeland

MGM Grand Arena, Las Vegas

--June 15, 2007 

 
 The Police capped our Vegas trip with a spectacular show.  They sounded tight, relevant, and vital.  Enjoy my review.  (And listen to past videos or live performances embedded in the text).

* * * * *

     On this scorching night in Vegas, The Police were top billing, and they didn't disappoint the high-rollers packed in MGM Grand Arena.  Sting's voice sounded better than ever, fresh off his foray into medieval vocal theatrics.  Andy Summer's red (and scratched) guitar was vibrant, his signature lines moving in and out of punk pointillism and reggae impressionism.  And Stewart Copeland, perhaps the secret of the show's success, left no doubt that he is a drum god.  The rare band that combined popular and critical success, three musician's musicians, The Police reaffirmed their place in the upper echelon of rock royalty. 

   Stewart struck a massive gong and thus began the long-awaited reunion.  Taking their places with thunderous applause, the band ripped into "Message in a Bottle" and sent out a crowd-pleasing  S.0.S.  Andy played the sinewy guitar with righteous fervor.  From there, they moved into a rocking version of "Synchronicity II"--Sting's customary "eeeoooh-oohhs" filled the entire stadium.  (Big ups to the MGM for providing a killer sound system; every guitar lick and sidestick rang with clarity).

   After an updated version of "Don't Stand So Close To Me," which couched the chorus in a restrained jazz vocal, the boys let loose a funky version of "Voices Inside My Head" that merged skillfully into the tight jam of "When the World is Running Down, You Make the Best of What's Still Around".

   The reggae-punk of "Driven To Tears" and "Truth Hits Everybody" surrounded a majestic version of "Walking on the Moon".  Sting's uncanny bass-line underpinned the song's signature space while Andy's guitar echoed in the silences.   

   "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic" was arguably the apex of their initial set.  The crowd went wild; the song sounded massive.  While I've always considered "Magic" the perfect pop song, I was surprised to behold its arena grandeur.

   A wide-open, haunting version of "Wrapped Around Your Finger" followed.  Stewart played the xylophone and a series of hanging percussions before running to his drum kit for the final chorus.   The effect was hypnotic, wrapping Sting's lyrics in some kind of deep, mysterious reverence.  (Check out this bootleg; it gives you a glimpse).

   Next, the polyrhythmic drums and spiraling guitars of "The Bed's Too Big Without You" drowned the song in a fitting island dreamscape, while Sting hit "without you" in a stylish, high-reggae register.  Perhaps the only song that didn't fully take off was that ode to speechlessness, "De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da"  For some reason, it just felt forced and the typically great guitar lines didn't stand out during the second half of the song.

   Fine versions of "Invisible Sun" and "Walking in Your Footsteps" (yes, Sting played the pan flute!) preceded a monster performance of "Can't Stand Losing You" that showcased the band's impromptu jam skills and Sting's traditional vocal callbacks with the audience.  (We hit every "Eeeooh, eeeohhh, eeeayyyoohhh" right on the money).   

   Finally, the house lights went red and the indomitable "Roxanne" took center stage.  Everyone knew this was the money shot.  Sting has pleaded with this lady of the night ten thousand times, but it still sounded and felt like the very first time. 

   After soaking in a standing ovation, the guys returned with a pulsating rendition of "King of Pain."  One of my all-time favorite songs, the opening, ominous bass and percussion made my hair stand on end; hearing it live was like the fulfillment of some boyhood prophecy.  

   They followed up the pain with a giddy, bouncy version of "So Lonely"; alienation never sounded so enjoyable, strung out in Marley-like populism.

   The second encore featured a breathless take on "Every Breath You Take," the bass and guitars almost reaching the mythic status of this song for the ages.  And before their final bows, The Police kicked out the energy with "Next to You."

   After the show, my brother Randy, who initiated our love affair with the band, kept saying, "We just saw The Police!"  Needless to say, we left even bigger fans than before; high rollers, indeed.

   

Wilco, Sky Blue Sky

--June 1, 2007

     
Some critics have called Sky Blue Sky the best album the Eagles never made.  (And, for better or worse, they mean that in a good way).  Others have called it dangerously close to Dad Rock.  After several listens, I tend to agree a little with both assessments and feel a twinge of disappointment to see the end of a truly remarkable four-album run.  Wilco takes a step backward with its 6^th release; after the seminal alt-country of Being There, the glowing pop of Summerteeth, the avant-garde deconstruction of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, and the underrated minimalism of A Ghost Is Born, Sky Blue Sky is their weakest effort yet—-and, sadly, it is really not up for debate.

     Sure, Wilco has changed its line-up before—-the acrimonious departure of Jay Farrer (now of Son Volt) is old news.  And from album to album, we have come to expect, even welcome, changes in the music—-experiments of sound, style, and tone.  But the changes this time around result in a more straightforward, pedestrian record, with maybe the exception of new addition Nels Cline’s guitar playing.  While there are a few good songs, the record never gains momentum; the vein of classic-rock running throughout never really runs.  Sky Blue Sky is steady but flat, a passable road that offers few detours and an underwhelming destination.

     By the opening strains of song five, “Side with the Seeds,” I realized that was it—-that was going to be the sound and direction of the record—-nondescript, earthy rock, sort of like (gulp) the Eagles.  Sure, it was pleasant, but hey, this is Wilco! I was waiting for something to happen—-some elliptical vocal deliveries, some fuzzed-out guitars, or some crashing keyboards.  But after listening to “Shake It Off,” maybe the worst song in Wilco’s catalog, bloated and boring, I was left deflated and, sadly, prophetic.  The next five songs were mediocre, indistinguishable.  Not even the final two songs, “What Light” and “On and On and On,” were enough to save the last two-thirds of the record.

     At least the first four songs are good, even if album opener “Either Way” pales in comparison to previous openers.  (Think about these: the rolling drums and feedback of “Misunderstood,” the stumbling deconstruction of “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart,” or the lonely guitar-buildup of “At Least That’s What You Said”).  “Impossible Germany” is the best track; the dual guitar-work of Jeff Tweedy and Nels Cline the record’s apex.  Unfortunately, most of the other songs give Tweedy and Cline little to work with.  Their structures are either too passive or too unfocused to produce any thrilling musical moments.

     Perhaps this is a bump in the road as Wilco adjusts to some new faces and a new era.  Tweedy is healthy and band infighting is over.  And I understand they can’t simply recreate past successes.  But I worry that they may be moving into a period of comfortable creativity, which may just lead to that end of the dial known as Adult Contemporary Rock.

Modest Mouse, We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank

--April 7, 2007

     
Long-time cult favorites follow up their popular breaktrough, Good News For People Who Love Bad News, with another frenetic, high-gloss indie album.  Refreshingly, Modest Mouse has not abandoned their distinctive sound and vocals, but have merely expanded it into a more populist, free-wheeling rock assault.  The dire existential themes still hang ragged and threadbare, but the songs are more accessible, willing to let others in on the distress.

     Two emerging characteristics stand out: the band's emphasis on melody and prominent guitarwork.  Even in the wake of Brock's schizophrenic vocal theatrics, most songs are imbued with an overarching melodic strain.  And Modest Mouse's cosmic guitar effects are placed front-and-center, possibly due to Smith's guitar legend Johnny Marr joining the band.

     "Dashboard" is a stunning first single, pulsating right where "Float On" left off and faster than anything the Talking Heads ever did.  "Florida" speeds it up another notch, complete with combined-chorus harmonies.  Other highlights include "Missed the Boat," an empathetic strummer attempting to soften life's hopelessness; "We've Got Everything," part dance rock, partWeird Science, pointing out the hypocrisy of our so-called sophistication; and "Little Motel," this album's slow-burn sequel to "The World at Large."

Lead singer and songwriter Isaac Brock calls the record a "nautical balalaika carnival romp."  Can't argue with that.  (Check out the video).

Modest Mouse: "Dashboard" (video)

     

 Stars of Track and Field, Centuries Before Love and War

--April 7, 2007

     
Apparently, Portland, Oregon is not just a fertile breeding ground for avant-garde indie bands, but another birthplace for soaring, arena-ready Brit pop.  Call it Manchester West.  On their debut album, Stars of Track and Field deliver earnest anthems with giant guitar melodies alongside stuttering, atomospheric ballads.  Although derivative of bigger (and perhaps better) bands, Stars' debut is a solid addition to the heart-on-your-sleeve genre.  To set themselves apart, the band emphasizes peculiar starts and stops and uses some programmed beats and blips to color their music (or colour if you're British).

     "Movies of Antarctica" is the record's sonic centerpiece, complete with high-wire vocals and ringing guitar buildups, recalling the heaviest track hidden in Tears for Fears catalog.  "With You" begins with solitary piano, drum kit, and guitar, then moves into a smooth two-part finale.  "Real Time" is another stellar track, Coldplay-aping guitars aside. (They just aped someone else, right?).  And "U.S. Miles" is a sobering, midnight road trip, until it is interrupted with a guitar-solo epiphany.

Stars of Track and Field: "Movies of Antarctica" (video)

Ken Jennings is the Smartest Person Alive

--March 3, 2007

"What shall I compare it to, this fantastic thing I call my Mind?  To a waste-paper basket, to a sieve choked with sentiment, or to a barrel full of floating froth and refuse? 

-Logan Pearsall Smith, Trivia, 1917

I watched Ken Jennings lose his 75th game on Jeopardy.  And I admit a smug satisfaction when I answered the Final Jeopardy question that he missed.  ("Most of this firm's seventy thousand seasonal white-collar employees only work four months a year." / "What is H&R Block?).  Indeed, I have spent a lifetime as an armchair trivia nerd, the lone exception being my official back-to-back Knowledge Bowl championships in high school.  Moreover, I rarely (if ever?) lose at Trivial Pursuit and constantly enjoy picking and sharing delicious fruit from the arcane trees of trivia.  Knowing this, my Mother gave me Jennings's new book for Christmas, Brainiac: Adventures in the Curious, Competitive, Compulsive World of Trivia Buffs.  And for about three weeks straight, my wife would come in to our room and say, "Curling up with Ken again, huh?"  Needless to say I enjoyed the read.

Jennings writes with a self-effacing warmth and sense of humor that belies his trivia mastery and uber-nerdiness.  In his new book, he takes the reader on a journey through the history and evolution of trivia and his own incredible run on Jeopardy, where he earned around $3 million in winnings.  Jennings, a nice-guy Mormon and self-aware nerd, spends time with other trivia nerds in an attempt to unlock the power and pull of all sorts of trivial pursuits.  Awesome, right?

Jennings discusses the origins and cycles of trivia, starting with the 17th century English paper Athenian Mercury, which asked general knowledge questions about bodily functions and weird animal facts.  He chronicles the widespread use of 19th century almanacs and question-and-answer books.  In the 20th Century, Jennings traces the rise of newspaper trivia in the 20's (such asRipley's Believe It or Not) leading to the huge popularity of radio trivia in the 30's and 40's and the eventual TV game show boom of the 50's and 60's (such as The $64,000 Question).  However, he notes in the wake of game-fixing scandals, television trivia dissipated and the craze was left on the pop culture back burner for the next decade, until its rebirth in the 80's due to the massive popularity of Trivial Pursuit and the new version of Jeopardy; a time Jennings considers trivia's glorious peak.  Additionally, Jennings explores the competitive college bowl system, the pub trivia scene, and the trivia mad town of Stevens Point, Wisconsin.

To appease compulsive trivia fans, Jennings buries questions into the text with answers at the end of each chapter.  But what made Jennings's book enjoyable to read was the story of his own Jeopardy conquest and the various characters that he met up with during his ensuing odyssey through the peculiar realm of trivia.  The colorful cast includes bright, engaging, paranoid, and obsessive individuals, all united by their immense love of trivia and the joy it brings them.  They wax philosophical about the vagaries of trivia, attempting to explain the reasons for its appeal to so many.  Ultimately, Jennings comes to the conclusion that trivia is not trivial at all.  He says that "trivia, to borrow a phrase from Walt Whitman, is large.  It contains multitudes.  In fact, it contains everything.  That's what we love about it."  Agreed.

  

"My Apologies, Phoenix"

--January 30, 2007

Your recent record, It's Never Been Like That, is really good.  It is smart, clean, urban-cool rock'n'roll.  It is put on your tight jeans and denim jacket and strut down the street rock'n'roll.  It is hang out with hot hipster chicks backstage rock'n'roll.  It bounces, shuffles, and strums.  Its guitars go "Da-Da, Da-Da, diddy-diddy-diddy-diddy!"  Buddy Holly would have dug it.  Or maybe the Kinks.  So don't worry if one critic called you "the soft-rock Strokes"--that band is envious and only wish their third album was as good as yours.  Your nonchalant cool is the genuine artifact, not so thoroughly manufactured.  Indeed, your music will likely soon be used during a SoHo storefront montage in some hip movie.  Even if you are from Paris.  And that's just it--perhaps I was holding it against you, the fact that you are Frenchmen.  Because you should have made my top 20 last year.  So this time, let me raise the white flag, surrender, and say I'm sorry.

Check out a great song from the album.

Phoenix: "Consolation Prizes" (video)

My Morning Jacket, at The Depot, Salt Lake City--Jan 11, 2007

For the uninitiated, it is hard to desribe the sound of Louisville's My Morning Jacket.  Spaced out jam-rock drenched in the reverb of Kentucky silos, with flourishes of country and reggae.  That's a start.  But one thing is certain, hearing the band live, it is all about guitars.  Shredding, melodic, joyous guitars.  And Jim James's voice washing over it all like an ocean of some deserted planet.

There is a timeless and magical quality to MMJ's music, and especially their live show, that happily sweeps up the engaged listener.  The band's sound shares some kinship with the likes of seventies-era Skynard or Neil Young, but is also distinct enough to embrace certain post-rock sentiments, such as the swelling reverb and swirling keyboards.  Ultimately, you felt that you were participating in a reverent occasion, marked by the sound of wailing guitars and accompanied with plenty of oohs and aaahs.  And the forested backdrop, lit by hues of purple and green, enhanced the band's backwood sonics and distinct American textures, while at the same time amplifying their cosmic guitar assault. 
James entered wearing a red poncho with a leather holster and two pistols at his side.  With his shaggy beard and mane swaying back and forth, he looked like a righteous bandaliero throughout the night, even when the poncho came off and revealed a Mt. Rushmore T-Shirt that he likely picked up in some Dakota truck stop.  He played for an hour before he spoke, but when he did he was warm and gracious, happy to see that so many made it out during the snowstorm.
Other members of MMJ include guitarist Carl Broemel, bassist Two-Tone Tommy, keyboardist Bo Koster, and the mess-of-flying-hair drummer Patrick Hallahan, who looks and plays the drums like Sasquatch.  The band's sound was magnificently tight.  They were firing on all cylinders throughout every portion of the show.

They opened with "One Big Holiday," the perfect first song with its initial running- guitar buildup.  After the rollicking "What A Wonderful Man" and a soaring version of "Gideon", I was transfixed for the rest of the night.  While MMJ played a great deal from their most recent album, "Z", they also played several songs from the previous "It Still Moves" and a few gems from their earlier work.
Other highlights included the funky "Lay Low," which ended with a sprawling guitar mash-up at center stage.  During "Wordless Chorus," James laid down his instrument and moved around the stage, mike in hand, hitting all of the song's glorious aaahhhs.  "Golden," perhaps the best open-road driving song of all time, was a nice come-down, complete with a stellar steel guitar played by Broemel.  And with a full version of "Z"'s long but powerful album-closer, "Dondante," the band swelled and then simmered to the sounds of James's weeping guitar and Broemel's subdued saxophone.
MMJ played a ripping encore, the last three songs being a surprisingly rocking version of "Dancefloors", a sublime rendering of "Mahgeetah" (perhaps my favorite moment of the night), and the moon-shot send off of "Anytime."
At this moment, there is likely no better live guitar band in the world.  Strong words but true.  Don't miss their show, or at the very least, pick up their critically-acclaimed live CD or DVD, "Okonokos."  And enjoy!