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
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
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).
Enjoy "Moorestown" (fan video).
A few random songs from Kozelak, at least a few (mostly fan videos) that can be found on the web.
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 6th 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).
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.
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.
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!
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