Falcon Ridge Preview Concert

The Brilliant Inventions might just live up to their name!

Chuck E Costa, The Brilliant Inventions, Swing Caravan
PACE
Easthampton, MA
May 27, 2010

Whenever I can catch a lesser-known Falcon Ridge act outside of the festival I like to do so as I’m not a fan of their workshop stage, where new talent only gets to perform a few songs before they’re shoveled off the stage as if a dog act had just finished and ballet dancers are up next. (In general I’m not a Falcon Ridge fan—too expensive, too buggy, and when it rains it’s a mud pit!) So I was happy to be able to catch three preview acts at PACE in Easthampton, MA on May 27. I was also happy to have been there as me, Phoenix, and three friends made up about a third of the audience. (How does this place stay in business?)

First up was Chuck E Costa, a Connecticut-based singer songwriter with a gentle demeanor and sweet voice. Check out the sample of his “When the City Comes” and you’ll hear his promise and where he has to go to make the next leap. Costa’s songs are all a bit too mid-tempo and he needs a guitar with better tone, but he’s a wonderfully earnest young man who exudes authenticity and has a brain in his head. Right now he’s in the promising-but-raw category, but he’s also the kind of guy you want to do well.

By far the evening’s greatest revelation was The Brilliant Inventions, the self-mocking, quirky indie folk/pop duo of Josh Lamkin and Eliot Bronson. These Atlanta-based lads have opened for They Might Be Giants and their thoughtful musings, bright harmonies, and off-center demeanor make them a perfect fit for a TMBG concert, though it’s just a matter of time before they become top-drawer headliners in their own right. How many groups do you know that write songs based on concepts that intrigued them in a world religions class? Check out their “Lights You Up.” Better yet, take a flier on these guys if they come your way. If you’re lucky they’ll sing their hilarious high school revenge song.

Here’s the thing about American culture—we bury artists in obscurity, resurrect their works, and repeat until we long for them to return to the grave. I’m starting to feel that way about Django Reinhardt. Go to YouTube and you’ll see why he’s praised, but enough gypsy jazz already! I was, at first, intrigued by Swing Caravan, but I quickly grew bored. Lead guitarist Matthew Shippee really knows his way around the fret-board, percussionist Doug Plavin bangs out more cool beats from a lard bucket than most get from a full drum kit, and the quintet may well have been the most-talented act of the evening. But other than Shippee, the band projected a disinterested demeanor that was a mash-up of a Beat poet affectation and waiting to see an insurance agent. Shippee’s on-the- down beat vocals also wore thin as the evening wore on. If you’re still deep into the Django and swing craze you’ll enjoy Swing Caravan. For me, the bloom has withered. I acknowledge Caravan’s talent, but after two songs I was ready to battle them for the couldn’t-care-less crown.

Why the Stanley Cup is Better than the World Cup

The most exciting cup for the month of June!

The hockey season officially ends this week when the Hershey Bears and Texas Stars finish the battle for the Calder Cup, the American Hockey League’s top prize. For most folks it ended on June 9, when the Chicago Blackhawks won their first Stanley Cup in 41 years. All of this happened just as the World Cup prepared for its first round matches.

We can debate whether hockey should be played in June. Personally I’m in favor of shortening all sports seasons. In my universe, gridiron football would start in September and end in December, pro basketball and hockey would be over the first week of April, and the World Series would finish mid-October. We can also discuss whether the World Cup is exciting or overrated. I like it, think it’s a far better product than the boring NFL, and love the way the globe goes nuts over true football. We can discuss any of this. At the end of the day, though, I’m sticking to my guns when I say that hockey is way more thrilling than soccer and that the Stanley Cup beats the snot out of the World Cup.

There is first of all, the action. U.S. soccer fans are excited because the national team tied England 1-1. This action-packed match featured exactly a dozen shots on goal, most of them harmless and routine. When I went to Hershey for game one of the Calder Cup, the final score was 2-1 and there were 53 shots on goal, many of which required goal tenders to make amazing saves. And the U.S./England match ended in a draw. A tie? Please! Hockey wisely gave up that nonsense when it went to the shootout for regular season games and it abandons that format when playoffs come around. You play until you win. The Blackhawks raised the Cup when Patrick Kane fired a sharp angle shot through goalie Michael Leighton’s pads at 4:08 in overtime. The final score was 4-3 and an amazing 65 shots were peppered on goal. Now that’s drama.

Sorry, but it’s hard to get too excited by all the midfield jockeying for position in soccer, the occasional five-second sprint, and guys standing around catching a blow. Hockey players put out so much energy that the average line shift takes place every 45 seconds. Watch skaters come off the ice—they are drenched in sweat, panting, and immediately hit the water bottle. And I really can’t get worked up about a soccer tackle in which a player goes down, grabs a body part, and pretends to writhe in pain—95% of the time he's faking—when I see how hockey players put their bodies on the line. In pursuit of the Stanley Cup, Blackhawks defenseman Brent Seabrook threw his body in front of 90 mph slap shots. He left a total of seven teeth on the ice and didn’t miss a shift. I’ve seen guys take blade cuts, get stitches on the bench, and jump across the boards to get back into the fray.

Then there are the scrambles for pucks, the open-ice body checks, and hits so hard that helmets fly off. But lest you think hockey is a goon sport without finesse, let me challenge you to skate at 30 mph, stop on a dime, change direction, and slap a 3-inch in diameter puck with a three-inch- wide stick. Better yet, let me see you slide a pass through a few defensemen and onto the blade of a rushing winger. Watching a break across the blue line is pure ballet on skates.

Don’t misunderstand me—I like international football and I doubt that warm-weather nations such as Brazil, Cameroon, Ghana, or Honduras will soon become hockey hotbeds. I also wish the United States would get more excited about the World Cup and less so about the S(t)uperbowl. Soccer is a great game in the same way that a Honda is a great car—solid and dependable, but pretty low down on the flash scale when compared to hockey. I respect the World Cup, but my passion boils for Lord Stanley’s chalice.

Noah Earle's Latest Lacks Spark

NOAH EARLE
This is the Jubilee
MayApple Records 0224
* *

Ever listen to a record that just didn’t grab you, stash it away, pick it up months later, listen again, remember all the songs, and have exactly the same reaction you did the first time? That’s my take on Noah Earle’s latest. There’s nothing inherently wrong with the record and it’s miles from being a bad effort. At the end of the day, though, there’s just not enough spark to kindle any kind of fire. There are too many mid-tempo songs, there aren’t any meaty instrumental licks, and the most-memorable melody is “Pinche Güera,” which is in Spanish so most of us can’t even sing along. The central idea of the songs is redemption—wrongs made right, but not quite square on the ledger sheet. Alas, it’s also a metaphor for my disinterest in the record; like its theme This is the Jubilee is a ‘tweener’ that lacks a discernible identity lyrically, thematically, or musically. It begs a question. What if the jubilee came, we were told we’ve been saved, and all we can think of to say is: “From what?”

Solas Turning Tide Not Up to Snuff

The weak link is on the far right.

SOLAS
The Turning Tide
Compass Records 7-4530-2
* *

I’m about to commit an act of Celtic heresy. Here goes. The new album by Solas is mediocre and not worth the sticker price. I utter these words cognizant of the fact that mighty Solas is probably the most-beloved of all Irish-American bands—the sort that sells out a venue at the mere mention of its name. I make it also knowing that very few bands play the “big set”—those suites of fiery reels and galloping jigs—with the verve, energy, and excitement of Solas. I make it even though the new record has several of these. Heck, they even have one titled “Hugh’s Big Set.” And I insist it’s a lackluster effort despite the fact that there are spectacular passages on the album. “The Crows of Killimer” uses Seamus Egan’s clean flute notes to set the stage for other instruments to surge and swell, “A Waltz for Mairead” uses split-second stops from Winifred Horan’s fiddle to infuse a dirty-dance feel to the music, “Grady Fernando Comes to Down” has the lickety-split ambience of a train barreling into the station, “Trip to Kareol” uses percussion dramatic enough for a Wagner opera, and “A Tune for Roan” is it’s fragile-as-glass polar opposite.

So how can I not love this record? The problems begin when the instrumentalists lower their profile and Mairead Phelan steps up to the mic to sing. Most people would say that she has a classically beautiful voice and I’d not dispute that. But when you cover songs written or popularized by Richard Thompson, Josh Ritter, Bruce Springsteen, Sandy Denny, and Karine Polwart, you’d better have the muscle, fire, and passion to back them up. Double the need if you’ve replaced a spitfire such as former Solas vocalist Karan Casey. If Phelan possesses such traits, I’ve not witnessed them. This is the second recording in which I’ve listened to her swallow more air than the average drowning victim. To cut to the chase, if I wanted to hear someone sing in a breathless little girl voice, I’d go to a recital at my local elementary school. Phelan joined Solas in 2008 and she was entitled to a “break-in” period. Two years on it’s time to grow or go. It’s one thing to use songs to slow the pace, but it’s quite another to bring things to a screeching halt. The contrast between instrumentals and songs on The Turning Tide makes me think Solas must have had the Bay of Fundy in mind.

THE KINKS
YOU REALLY GOT ME: THE STORY OF THE KINKS
ABC Entertainment DVD VP1300
* * *

The Kinks weren’t the most famous band to come out of the British Invasion, but few could match their longevity or output. From 1964 to their split in 1996, The Kinks released a string of hits: “You Really Got Me,” “All Day and All of the Night,” “Tired of Waiting on You,” “Well-Respected Man,” “Waterloo Sunset,” “Lola,” “Destroyer,” “Come Dancing,” “Do it Again”….. Along the way its cofounder, lead vocalist, and chief songwriter Ray Davies also experimented freely. The band had more reincarnations than a bus load of Hindus and appeared in guises such as pop band, a hard rock lineup, a folk rock ensemble, a preservationist society, a village dance band, rock opera performers, MTV video stars, and a nostalgia act. Insofar as rock historians can tell, their “See My Friend” was the first Western pop song to incorporate sitar into the arrangement, and The Kinks also anticipated and/or inspired glam rock, punk, heavy metal, and New Wave.

You Really Got Me tells much of this story, though it doesn’t always tell it well. The 87-minute production includes a lot of concert footage, but most of it is taken from just a handful of television appearances, especially a dynamite mid-80s nostalgia-soaked concert in Japan. While it is fun to see Ray and Dave Davies at the height of their polished power, the Japanese concert doesn’t tell us much about the band when the songs being featured were fresh. Moreover, the producers are too respectful and too focused on celebrating commercial success (at the expense of artistic expression). As a result controversy such as that which led to several personnel shakeups is glossed over as, indeed, is Ray’s ultimate estrangement from his brother Dave. An enduring mystery is why The Kinks were banned from entering the United States in the late Sixties. Reasons for the ban are obscure and don’t look to this production to shed any new light. In similarly incomplete fashion, The Kinks’ influence on musical history is stated, but seldom illustrated. Viewers are left to connect the dots between crunching power chords and metal music, between the lads’ bad-boy antics and punk, and between Davies’ showmanship and Bono’s U2 stage persona. A giant unresolved question is whether The Kinks were, simply, too English to obtain the global acclaim of contemporaries such as The Beatles, The Who, and The Rolling Stones. In fact, the overall production and didactic values of the video lean heavily toward the amateurish end of the scale.

For all of that, The Kinks themselves redeem You Really Got Me. Ray Davies comes off as a veritable chameleon. One can visibly observe his discomfort in early Edwardian-suited mop-top days, just as one can feel his ease leaping across the stage as a caffeinated front man for high-energy hard rock. Yet he seems equally at home posing as collier-rock village lad, an English hillbilly, a fey glam-boy, a cheesy and vaguely Latino impresario, or as a one-man-band-cum-subway bum. For all of its shortcomings You Really Got Me will send you to YouTube to track down more Kinks performances. For that alone we can be grateful.

NUALA KENNEDY
Tune In
Compass 7-4534-2
* * *

The latest recording from Irish-born, Edinburgh-based Nuala Kennedy is, depending on your point of view, either eclectic or inconsistent. In a remarkably short period of time Kennedy has established herself in the top tier of Celtic flute and whistle players; sets such as “Footsteps,” “Thíos Cois Na Trá,” and “The Blooming Bright Star of Belle Isle” offer plenty of evidence that her reputation is well-earned. Kennedy’s breath control and fingering are glorious, as is her timing with accomplished players such as hurdy gurdy artist Nicolas Boulerice and guitarist Phillipe Guidat. Like many younger players Kennedy mixes musical styles freely. Purists are likely to adore the aforementioned tunes and be distressed by Kennedy’s other choices, especially her pick of songs. Kennedy certainly has a fine voice, as she demonstrates on an intriguing rendition of “My True Love,” an arrangement textured by Lea Kirstein on cello, Brian Kellock on piano, and the late Oliver Schroer on fiddle. Individual taste, however, will dictate how listeners respond when Kennedy veers to the pop end of the musical spectrum. I enjoyed her composition “The Books in My Library,” a song that parallels a book shelf to paths taken (or not). It reminded me a lot of something Sally Rogers might have in her repertoire. I’m less enamored of her take on “The Waves of the Silvery Tide,” a duet with the warble-voiced Bonnie Prince Billy. (To put a point on it, I can't stand his operatic voice and wonder why weirdness so often gets more attention that singers with much better voices.) The album’s concept is to “tune in’ to various voices and influences. That’s admirable, but it also means that it sometimes lacks a foundational identity.

Celebrity Encounters of the Off-Putting Kind

He should have considered this before he had children!


It was a gorgeous May weekend, so Phoenix and I hightailed it to southern Maine to celebrate our anniversary. We booked a Saturday night table at Grissini, a fine Italian restaurant in Kennebunkport. In addition to scrumptious food we enjoyed watching a parade of flamboyantly dressed young people: local kids armed with their parents’ credit cards having a formal dinner before heading off to the prom. All it took was one bad encounter to take the edge off the festivities. Just as we were finishing dessert Phoenix exclaimed, “Oh my God!” Up the ramp came a Secret Service agent steadying a tottering old man, George H. Bush. White-haired Barbara was close behind, as was another agent and a younger couple we presumed to be Bushes of some ilk or other.

Americans generally like vicarious celebrity encounters, but this one nearly put us off our feed. Did we feel sorry for the obviously frail former president? Nope. He’s just an old fool now instead of the younger fool he used to be. He was always a fool, from his early days in which he used his oil companies as CIA fronts, to his misdirection as head of that agency, to his involvement with Enron, to his hold-your-tongue about “voodoo economics” and be Ronnie Reagan’s lapdog, to his dishonoring of the presidency. For Clarence Thomas alone he’s due a national flogging. But there are two things for which I can never forgive him: poor parenting and Iraq.

George and Babs sired a nest of vipers. We hear so much about the 2008 bank bailout. How quickly we forget that it’s peanuts compared to the savings and loan crisis of the 1980s occasioned by Reagan-Bush deregulation. Front and center was son Neil Bush, whose Silverado fiasco was among the most expensive missteps in what ultimately cost tax payers a whopping $14 trillion. Good old Jeb got a piece of that action too—he was heavily invested in a Florida S & L that ran aground—but instead of the jail time he deserved he got to be governor of Florida and help steal the 2000 election for his numskull brother George W.

Dubya will be forever associated with the war in Iraq but, lest we forget, it was his old man who started the damn thing. For reasons that have more to do with supporting oil sheiks friendly to the Bush family than with national security, we invaded Iraq in 1990-91. For some odd reason, we called this a “victory” because it only cost the deaths of 294 U.S. soldiers, 87 coalition troops, and around 30,000 Iraqis. Plenty of reason for Dubya to order up round two in 2003. The tab on this one as of May 19 is 4397 U.S. dead, 318 coalition fatalities, and between 100,000 to 600,000 Iraqi dead (depending on whose propaganda you want to believe). Boy have we brought “democracy” to Iraq! Too bad 2.1 million refugees can’t enjoy it and that those who stayed are more fixated on 50% inflation and 28% child mortality rates.

When I see George H. Bush, I don’t see one old man about to shuffle off this mortal coil; I see 4691 American ghosts, over 39,000 wounded vets, and millions of distressed Iraqis. And I think about our $1.4 trillion deficit and how much easier it would be to retire if we hadn’t spent $900 billion and counting on Iraq. I also think of the bad seed that continues¬—all of Jeb’s and Dubya’s kids have had encounters with the law. What I mainly think is, “Will someone please save America and sterilize this family?”

The old fool sat three tables away from us. I hurried my coffee and got out of there. Apparently we weren’t alone in our distaste; two other couples beat us out the door.