More Gutless Posturing from Deval Patrick

The Condom that Rocked the Bay State.

The Massachusetts economy has about as much life as Frankenstein before the switch was pulled, and the Republican right has just filibustered away any hope of extending jobless benefits or spending any more stimulus money. So what stirs the passion of Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick? Why the condom policy in Provincetown schools, of course!

For those not following Massachusetts politics—known as “Sensible People” in Bay State parlance—Provincetown School Superintendent Beth Singer (formerly Northampton’s head of schools) announced that in the fall, students can request and receive condoms from school nurses. Nurses will give a short spiel on the virtues of abstinence, but cannot refuse to give the condoms and are not allowed to notify parents.

To Christian mullahs across the Bay State the very idea of teens having sex is enough to stir their faith to the point where they take to the airwaves to request more donations for their vacation homes and BMWs—sorry, I meant their missionary efforts. As expected, Republicans jumped all over the issue because the historical record is clear: they never had sex outside of marriage and, of course they want to “empower” parents and “protect” children.

And, like the leaders they are, Democrats pledged to get tough with the P-town Perverts. Somewhere in Washington, DC there is a monument to Lyndon Johnson’s 1964 threat to keep Congress in session all summer unless it passed the Civil Rights Act. It’s there because insofar as anyone can tell, it marked the last time a Democrat took a principled stand on anything. Deval Patrick leapt into the Great Condom Controversy because he knows a bit about screwing people. Ooops, another typo; I meant because he too cares about kids. His stand, he assures us, has nothing to do with the fact that he’s up for reelection in the fall. Deval—and I’m still researching this, but I’m pretty sure the name derives from a defunct Saxon patois and means ‘Pandering Yuppie from the Berkshires’—wants the Provincetown policy reversed and has pledged to do everything in his power to make this happen. Here’s how much clout he has: none.

That’s right. School boards are locally controlled. If P-town residents dislike Singer or the policy they can dump her and reverse the policy, but school boards set their own policy and raise their own funds. Did I mention that Provincetown is probably the gayest town in America and one of its richest? The local response thus far has been a tweak to not give condoms to those younger than fifth graders. If that seems callous, let me remind you of what none of the political points-scorers will tell you.

When I was a high school teacher in Vermont I used to beg the nurse’s office to keep condoms on hand, not because I wanted to promote promiscuity—the Republican mantra—but because I was tired of seeing kids’ lives ruined. I saw dozens of teen mothers leave school and forced into shotgun marriages that had as much of a chance of surviving as a hairless Chihuahua in the winter woods. You can call the Provincetown policy disturbing; I call it realistic. Of course there’s no parental notification! What? Suzy’s going to go home and say, “Mom, I want to do the nasty with that guy you don’t like. Can you please write me a nurse’s note for some condoms? A gross should do us.” Sure—that will happen. Just like the GOP insistence that making contraceptives difficult to obtain will deter teenagers from having sex. That worked so well for all of us, didn’t it? We were all virgins when we married, right? I distinctly remember finding it oh-so-easy to control my hormones when I was a teen and I’m sure you did too. Can I gently suggest that hypocrisy undermines parental influence more than a basket of condoms?

Let’s get real. Have you ever heard of a teen having this revelation: “Gee whiz. I was going to have sex with Suzy, but when the nurse wouldn’t give me a condom I thought about how immoral it would be not to save myself until I get married. Gosh! I’m so glad I waited.” Here’s what I take away from Rubbergate—I wish there was a prophylactic that kept political opportunists from procreating. Oh, and one more thing: it gave me another reason not to vote for Republicans and Democrats. Come fall, those of us who cast votes for the Green Party might be last virgins in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

Fine Tribute to Late, Great John Hartford

JOHN HARTFORD STRINGBAND
Memories of John
Red Clay Records T-4539-2
* * * *

With heavyweights such as Bob Carlin, Alison Brown, Béla Fleck, and Tim O’Brien assembled to pay tribute to the late John Hartford (d. 2001), you might expect the fur to fly. You’d be wrong. Few recent artists have assembled such an impressive body of work, been as generous, and inspired as many with less self-aggrandizement as John Hartford. This is a sampling of fifteen songs and tunes either penned or popularized by Hartford done in the same unpretentious, occasionally sparse, but musically solid style that typified Hartford’s performances. The term “Americana” is an overused one, but it’s hard not to consider the Missouri-born Hartford as a one-man soundtrack for the Mississippi River: its steamboats, small-town dance halls, and the various vagabonds, scoundrels, fortune-seekers, and everyday folk who traveled up and down the might, muddy Mississippi. “Gentle on My Mind” isn’t on this collection and rightly so; that big ole’ pop chart hit was a Hartford anomaly. More typical are things the assembled friends of Hartford recorded are small gems: the banjo-arranged Civil War-era sentimental song “Lorena,” the old-style “Royal Box Waltz,” old chestnuts such as “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” and tour de force songs like “M.I.S.I.P.” The latter will be a pleasant memory jogger for any who were lucky enough to see Hartford in the flesh—the man could wring more mirth out of the simplest melodies of anyone I ever saw. Kudos to the Stringband for keeping things real—just like John would have done. Note: The CD’s producer and band guitarist/vocalist was Chris Sharp, who toured with Hartford.

Check out these samples.

Topp Twins Goofy Fun and Serious Politics

The Topp Twins
Academy of Music
Northampton, MA
June 12, 2010

If somebody told you they had an extra ticket to go to a concert headlined by lesbian twins from New Zealand who sing country western music, yodel, and put on skits, would you go? If it’s Lynda and Jools Topp you should, though you might want to see their award-winning documentary The Topp Twins, Untouchable Girls before the show.

The film’s “Untouchable Girls” subtitle references both their most popular song and their lives of activism, not just as gay rights crusaders, but as social justice advocates for causes ranging from the anti-nuclear movement and land preservation, to rights for New Zealand’s native Maori population. “Untouchable Girls” is a rarity in the Topp Twins repertoire—a chirpy feminist pop song instead of country music, and such a catchy one that it’s likely to embed itself in whatever part of the brain causes us to relentlessly hum a song at inappropriate moments.

Lynda and Jools Topp are enormously popular in New Zealand, so much so that when Lynda assumed the persona of one of her characters for a spoof run for Auckland mayor in 1998, she had to tell her many followers it was all a joke and ask them to vote for the progressive candidate that eventually won. You don’t get clout like that by making compromises, which is another reason to see the documentary before you catch a show—the Topps haven’t altered much of their show for non-New Zealand audiences, don’t offer much in the way of explanation for the characters they become, and they never apologize for any of it!

Their act will remind North Americans of the old Hee Haw show from the days when country music was corny and pure rather than the slick-but-often-soulless package we hear these days. Remember Minnie Pearl with her ruffled dress and straw hat with the price tag dangling from a string? Goofy as hell, but Minnie could sing. The Topps are like that. They took the piss out of country pretentiousness from the get-go as “Belle and Belle,” a duo dressed in silly cowgirl hats, blouses with tacky western stitching, short checked skirts, and boots that looked like a cross between the open range and majorette castoffs. In case you missed the lampoon of manufactured images, the plump Lynda continually and uncomfortably tugged at her skirt-band like a grade schooler who needs to use the loo.

If this sounds campy, they’ve got an answer for that too—their personae of Camp Mother and Camp Leader; their trash flash costumes poke gentle fun at what we might call the airstream trailer crowd. Or they’re Mavis and Lorna, who met at a crematorium the day their respective husbands were reduced to ashes, and now indulge their passions for lawn bowling and gardening. And then there’s their send-up of New Zealand’s bloke culture—Ken and Ken, one a sheep farmer and the other (in his mind) a city sophisticate. Mix in the penchant of Lynda to wander into the audience to interview audience members (or bring them to the stage for deliberately unprofessional skits) and their constant wisecracking, and the whole thing makes for a pretty whacked-out evening that lists heavily toward lowbrow entertainment.

But here’s the thing—it’s like hearing old Henny Youngman sketches in that you find yourself laughing despite the fact that it’s pretty dumb stuff (and the combination of fast talking and Kiwi accents means we lose about half of what they say.) There’s also timing—the ridiculousness is broken up by poignant moments—on-stage video projections sport not just the silly characters, but also pitches for the Topp’s causes. And, shucks, they ain’t bad as musicians either. Their music won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but they sing well, harmonize with power, and they’re terrific yodelers! Think a country music version of the English music hall…

The Topp Twins’ delightfully goofy show served as a testimonial for not taking one’s self too seriously. We can only hope that Evelyn Harris was watching. The former Sweet Honey in the Rock singer did a four-song warm-act set that included “My Darling Clementine.” The Topp Twins played stuff like this for laughs, but Harris was caught up in her own ego and acted like wanted to channel Lena Horne. She was so full of herself that we soon had our fill of her.

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.