Ben Weaver is a do-it-yourself kind of guy. The Twin Cities-based singer/songwriter not only wrote all of the songs on his Bloodshot Records release The Ax in The Oak (which hit shelves August 12), but also played his fair share of instruments, had a hand in the album's production, and provided all of the artwork for the cover and liner notes. In a phone conversation with Ben, I wasn't surprised to learn that the title of his new album stems from his love of "working by hand."Ben Weaver is a do-it-yourself kind of guy. The Twin Cities-based singer/songwriter not only wrote all of the songs on his Bloodshot Records release The Ax in The Oak (which hit shelves August 12), but also played his fair share of instruments, had a hand in the album's production, and provided all of the artwork for the cover and liner notes. In a phone conversation with Ben, I wasn't surprised to learn that the title of his new album stems from his love of "working by hand."

The New York Times described Ben's music as "...country-rooted Americana full of weary determination and aphoristic clarity, somewhere between The Band and Tom Waits." This is an accurate description of Weaver, as his simply-sung but beautifully described musings on the everyday are intensely moving and bound to strike the emotional chords of any who give them a listen. He sees the soul in the mundane, the forgotten, and has the uncanny ability to bring striking new life to something as simple and overlooked as "a dead bird/half covered by leaves/lying in the shadow/of the curb on my street."

Weaver's unique talent for finding the beauty in the ordinary does not stop at his songwriting. He is also an avid poet, artist, and has even tried his hand at the laborious task of writing a short story. His book of poetry and drawings, called Hand Me Downs Can Be Haunted, is already in its third printing.

I was fortunate enough to chat with Ben about life, love and woodworking, and he showed himself to be as earnest and insightful in conversation as he is in art.

Your songs are described as "song stories about things that may go unnoticed." Tell me about what inspires your songs, and the process you undergo in writing them.
Well, I guess I kind of feel like I'm always writing, because everything I do in my day is just sort of full of observing everything around me. I'm kind of a space cadet, so I'm always watching people and thinking about things in terms of "how would I take that thing, which, when you see it, you recognize and know what it is, but make it resonate with somebody else?" So I feel like I'm just constantly staying open to that stuff. My creative process is just being open, and it kind of comes out. I don't sit down and say "OK, I'm going to write from 9 to 1," it's just keeping my mind in a certain place and when something hits me I can go and deal with it.

The New York Times compared you to Tom Waits and MOJO called you a "hillbilly Leonard Cohen." How does being compared to two songwriting legends make you feel? Do you consider either to be influences?
Leonard Cohen was a huge influence. I discovered him when I was 14 when I watched that movie Pump Up the Volume, and there is the scene when Christian Slater's character plays "If It Be Your Will." It was never in the credits; they had the Concrete Blonde version on the soundtrack so I couldn't figure out who it was. But the first time I heard his voice I was obsessed and I had to figure it out. He was a pretty strong influence from the writing perspective. I grew up listening to punk rock, but it was more about the energy than the writing process. Then I discovered Cohen and Waits and Nirvana, too, and I heard people making interesting music with words and music that matched each other emotionally. Those people were all influences on me, and I can't ever decide if it's a detriment or a compliment to be compared to people. I just kind of think, "Oh, that's nice. I'll go write some more songs."

You have a new album, The Ax in The Oak. First of all, what is the significance of the title?
It was just a line that I came up with that I liked, which inspired one of the songs on the record. I spent a lot of time living in the woods and not living in the city during my early twenties. Then I moved to the city five years ago and the last record, I think, was me starting to write more about the wilderness of the city. I feel like this record is really my world, like the world that I invent for myself. To me it seems almost too literal, but there is something about the ax in the oak that is a really beautiful symbol of a day's work, and also just chopping wood and making your home yours and working by hand. I don't know, it sort of sounds cheesy I guess, but that's the main reason.

Brian Deck, who also produced your 2007 release Paper Sky, produced the album. The result is an album that maintains your folk sensibilities while simultaneously relying on electronic influences. The combination of folk and electronic is somewhat unorthodox, but works very well. How did you and Deck approach blending the two?
Again, I think sometimes the whole reason that I am drawn to art and to music and to creative things is because I don't ever think there is a right or wrong way. What I'm trying to say is, this is a sidetrack but I'll come back, that I don't like bureaucracy and I hated school and following rules and having to do things a certain way. Art is this way I can kind of go and trust this faith and follow the thread through what I'm creating and always know that it's going to be okay. I didn't have any idea how to [combine folk and electronic music], but I had started listening to more electronic music, and not acid music, but music with no beat, very landscapish, non-lyrical instrument noise. And I feel like the stories in the world and the things I'm interested in all happen within sound. I'm talking to you now and there are trains outside my studio and my fan is blowing and there are all these noises but you don't think of them unless you start listening, and that was my inspiration for adding these different sounds. I did this not only because I like them, but because they are around us, even though they don't necessarily fit. This is one reason I wanted to work with Brian, because he has a lot more experience with the technicalities of these sounds. It was great to work with someone who has a much more informed background about doing that kind of thing than I do. He's also very good at making simple, organic-sounding records. It was a good combination.

Though you're based in the Twin Cities, you wrote the album in Berlin. How did you end up there, and how did the change of scenery influence your songwriting?
I was in Europe doing press for Paper Sky and a friend of mine had a flat in Berlin she wasn't going to be using, because she was moving in with her boyfriend. She said I could stay there if I wanted. I had never been to Berlin for more than a couple of days at time, so I stayed for two-and-a-half weeks. Now when I think back to it, I never knew if I was going to write or not but I guess it was kind of inevitable. I didn't go there with that intention, but I wrote the album in the bulk of the two-and-a-half weeks I was there. All Berlin did was give me a space. I was left to my own devices every day, which is not something I've been able to afford myself in the past for an extended period of time. Berlin is an incredibly inspiring city; there was the right energy around me. Everyone there feels very creative, but it mostly just gave me this space to be somewhere and work.

Many of the songs on the album have a dark but hopeful tone. Do you feel this reflects your outlook on life as a whole or were the songs inspired by reactions to individual events?
I guess my whole life I've been obsessed with the whole beauty of the way things work in the world, which is that there's really not anything that doesn't have a dark side to it. And for my own personal life, and I don't always live up to this, but I try pretty damn hard to not think of things in terms of light or dark or good or bad. There are just experiences and there are some you want to have and some you don't want to have. The times in my life I remember the most are actually times where I'm, not literally but figuratively, broken down on the side of the road with no money. But something always comes along and you get through it, and you remember those times and I think that's pretty true of life. You're not being loyal to nature or to the story if you're going to tell a story that shows just one side.

In "Soldier's War," you end the song with the line "to get back home is all a soldier is ever fighting for." Was this influenced by the war in Iraq? How do you feel about America's current political climate?
That song was written kind of, in a weird way, about my great-grandmother. It actually has nothing to do with her, but she was a woods-woman and I was imagining her in this old cabin in the woods where she used to live. And I guess I was thinking about the worst kind of longing there is: when two people are separated, but not because they don't love each other, and how those soldiers, any soldier from any war, once they get there for the most part they just want to get home. Without thinking about politics, I was thinking about what goes on in that situation, not just in war, in life in general. What people are always fighting for is to get back home, to get to the person they want to share their time with. People don't work at the bank because they love it; they work at the bank because they want to get home to a nice house. And I don't want to work at the bank. That idea just kind of applied to everyone, but it was obviously the strongest image compared to a soldier in a war.

Not to knock your question, but as far as the political climate goes, I feel like everybody else does, like "good lord I'm ready to take a deep breath, I'm just so done with the way that things are here." I feel pretty strongly to, for me at least, try not to involve myself in politics. I think it's like I feel like I'm responsible for myself and for being creative and responding to the world through art and that's the most positive thing I can do for the world and for myself. I may sound irresponsible, but for me art is far more revolutionary than politics could ever be.

"Said in Stones" is your first instrumental track. How did that come about?
That was kind of an accident, because I had words for that song and then we wound up recording it very differently than I had written the music, because of the beats we used. We kept listening to it before I had gone in to sing it, and then I sang it and it hit me right away. I was like, "this song doesn't need words."

In the album's first track, "White Snow," you mention poet Wallace Stevens "behind his desk in Hartford Connecticut" and playwright Tennessee Williams "look[ing] asleep but actually dead." How have poetry and literature influenced your songwriting, and which works have had the biggest impact on you?
If I could have met anyone from literature in the world, it would have been Tennessee Williams. He isn't so much an influence as he is one of those people that I just identify so much with-the way he worked and the reasons he worked and the way he was, I think, in terms of his art and the themes he dealt with. But when I read books, I don't really read books for the stories. I read books for the feeling and the words, and I think I read a lot of times to get validation for the process that I use, which means when I read certain things I think, "Oh, I know that this person was thinking this and writing from this place." It's good to read stuff you know is coming from that same place you are. So there isn't really one writer or work that I can cite that I feel like was a huge influence. I have just always loved words.

In addition to writing songs, you've been known to pen short stories, most recently for an anthology gathered by Steve Horowitz of stories written by songwriters (expected to be released in March 2009). Do you take the same approach to writing stories that you do songs?
No. I mostly write poems. I write short stories but I only ever finished one complete story, when I was asked to write a story for the anthology. That story was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. The friends of mine who are writers, I always had an idea of what they did in terms of novels and fiction, but it's a completely different process. When you write stories, there's nothing to fall back on but words. If it's not in the words, it will never be there. To get it in the words, it's magic, it's time, it's obsessiveness. It's a lot of overall work, you know. A lot of the songs, they tend to just come out very fast because they are so emotional, and then there's the music. It never takes me as much time with the words for songs as it does for poems or stories. Poems and stories are just words on paper, songs have music. I think it's a completely different process. Just because you can write songs doesn't mean you can write stories. I don't think that I can write stories.

You're also a visual artist, and released a book of poetry and drawings called Hand Me Downs Can Be Haunted. You did all of the artwork for The Ax in The Oak. How did you get into drawing? Do you see a connection between drawing and songwriting?
The first art I started doing was when I was in my 14 or 15. I started painting, but I mostly painted fairly abstract, like I was the next Jackson Pollack or something. So visual art has always been pretty important to me. But when I started to draw these drawings in the book and more since then and for the new record, it was because I was realizing how visual some of my ideas were and how I would see things like shoes hanging from a power line and how I wanted to put it into a song, but also realized it was something to draw. By drawing it, it gave me different ways to describe it and could also be translated from actual shoes on a line to a piece of paper. I always really liked that translation, when you take something from real life and make it into art. I don't think it has many similarities to my songwriting, other than it's just recognizing something you like and doing something with it.

What are your plans following the release of The Ax in The Oak?
I am touring in August, September, and October and am hoping to start writing again. I want to get back into the studio this winter and record the next record. I also have a new book coming out the same time as the record, twice or three times as long as the last book. My biggest thing once all that stuff happens, though, is to just start writing again.

Thanks for talking with me, and good luck with the new album.
Thanks for the support.

Muzik Mafia's James Otto has a double-barrel voice suited to the "music without prejudice" amalgam's swagger. With John Rich producing eight songs, it's a full-on body slam: ‘80s-style r&b-undulating country ("Just Got Started Lovin' You"), jab/stab bar rhythms ("Drink & Dial"), finger-poppin' good times ("These are the Good Ole Days") and here for the party punch ("Ain't Gonna Stop"). If Rich plays to the ragged places in Otto's voice, Rascal Flatt's Jay DeMarcus seeks more melodic opportunities for the muscular baritone.Label: RAYBAW/WARNER BROS.

Rating: 3 out of 5 stars

Muzik Mafia's James Otto has a double-barrel voice suited to the "music without prejudice" amalgam's swagger. With John Rich producing eight songs, it's a full-on body slam: ‘80s-style r&b-undulating country ("Just Got Started Lovin' You"), jab/stab bar rhythms ("Drink & Dial"), finger-poppin' good times ("These are the Good Ole Days") and here for the party punch ("Ain't Gonna Stop"). If Rich plays to the ragged places in Otto's voice, Rascal Flatt's Jay DeMarcus seeks more melodic opportunities for the muscular baritone. "For You" is a classic ballad, while "The Man that I Man" is an arched back erotic livewire definition.

It's not much of a stage, no production, basic lights. As stripped down as a hockey rink stage can be. Lean, stark, unadorned. When you are Bruce Springsteen, though, what do you really need? Armed with the mighty, mighty E Street Band and a catalogue of songs that sweep the vistas of the flatlands, the flyovers, the blue collar, middle west and heartland, the bravura glory of a man in his element is its own juicy reward.The Highway's Jammed With Broken Heroes

It's not much of a stage, no production, basic lights. As stripped down as a hockey rink stage can be. Lean, stark, unadorned. When you are Bruce Springsteen, though, what do you really need? Armed with the mighty, mighty E Street Band and a catalogue of songs that sweep the vistas of the flatlands, the flyovers, the blue collar, middle west and heartland, the bravura glory of a man in his element is its own juicy reward.

For it might be hard to be a saint in the city, but not on that stage or the backstreets, in the shadows and the cracks... those places you won't ever be found, not because they're for hiding, but because no one cares to even bother looking there.

And Springsteen's audience? They are people who deserve a superstar who is faithful... who knows about being a skew, a bar code, a number... who understands the notion a pair of hands without a face - at a time even those hands don't seem to matter because the works has been sent to cheaper places. They need someone who is really, truly in touch with the struggle to get by.

At the core, it's not so much about jungle lands or magic rats, tramps and gypsies, but those poor stiffs punching a clock, punching the empty handed destiny dealt 'em. Because, ironically or not, what little bit that is, it's all they got. Period. End of story. If there's enough story to go around.

That's the beauty of Bruce Springsteen: he is the commonest man with the biggest heart, the broadest shoulders, the deepest sense of grace in the degradation of realizing the American Dream isn't one size fits all... and it's shrunk to where most people can't hope they'll ever wiggle their way into it.

But Springsteen's hold goes much farther back then that.

Growing up when desire was a band-aid you wanted to tear off clean, rip it away to feel the glorious relief of gone, there he was. Moaning. Witnessing. Creating a void you crawl into gasping, hoping to rub against whatever that was enough to be released.

"She's the One," with its lyrics about "her secret places that no boy could fill... with her hands on her hips and that smile on her lips, because she knows that it kills me...," tells you everything you need to know about the tension and the need for culmination. Not necessarily carnal, but recognition, because after all, "French kisses will not break that heart of stone..."

Onstage at Nashville's Sommet Center, "She's the One" crawls out of the very Bo Diddley beating/"Not Fade Away" expansion "Mona" where he gives it up for the love he's after. As sweat-stained as that hunger is, "She's The One" doesn't come merely from the urgency of hormonal centrifugal force, but more the recognizing the potency the promise of erotic potential delivers. It can be is so much more, that suspension of the unfilled on the brink. This is a revelation from someone who's been there, understands, surrenders, even admires that which overwhelms him.

That wisdom transforms much of the Springsteen cannon. The bolt'n'tumble breakneck nature of what was is now a slightly slower habitation of lives lived to their edges. In the brazen jauntiness of "Spirit In The Night," Clarence Clemmons' sax honking and Roy Bittan's strip house piano taunting the listener, it becomes the recollection of lost nights with vivid detail in the crossed headlights, the lake parties and exploration of limits sexual and otherwise. It is a survivors' tale savored, and it fits him like the jeans that hang off those well-oiled hips.

Make no mistake: Bruce Springsteen is a sex symbol. As Muddy Waters howled, "I'm A Man." And Springsteen is. In full. Indeed. He doesn't pander, doesn't do anything except luxuriate in the screams, the signs - including a "Boys In Their Summer Clothes" emblazoned with a shirtless, quite cut-offs-sporting early 70s Bruce mid-baseball swing - and the idea that he's strong enough to be there, to stand tall, especially to like everything about the other sex without losing anything about musky virility.

That strength is an underlying, unspoken truth of Springsteen's longevity. Yes, his shows come on like a locomotive: ever-pumping, never slowing, never pausing. The momentum builds, builds - and you hang on, maybe exhale when he slows it down, but even then, the blaze is white hot and slow burning, so throw too much oxygen at the flames at your own risk.

Talking about a man who's "from here," who'd cut a "few of my songs," he offered they might not quite "get it," but promised they'd head straight into something the always rapt, wholly powerful E- Streeters knew. Then with an attenuated torch groove, Bruce Springsteen then moaned, "I keep my eyes wide open all the time..."

Embracing Johnny Cash's signature song of fidelity in the face of temptation with an almost Billie Holiday-esque ardor, it was bewitching. Suddenly, a song known to all turned into something even more aching, more taut, more consumed by its own intensity.

Without missing a beat, merely turning on a few chords, Springsteen neatly folded into his own consumed-by-want "I'm On Fire." Oddly quiet, almost naked as a performance, it was a confession, but it was also a cage... a cage surrendered to if only for the hope of quenching that which was raging in his veins, his brain, his reason for being.

To own that possession beyond self so openly is to understand the truth so many deny. In a world where people strut and posture, Springsteen does neither. He shows up, shows you where these people are, where he is and judges nothing more than unfurnished honesty. Instead, he honors that truth by giving the fallible their clay feet, demonstrating what frailties and dam breaks are made of.

So when "The Rising" rises, almost shining, it is a reminder of our better self. Yes, we are base, slaves to the lower instincts, but also made of a greater goodness. It is just a matter of not losing site of that fact, embracing it, turning it up so that becomes what defines us.

What defines us is the decision. It is a theme that goes unspoken, yet permeates much of Springsteen's career. To hear "Radio Nowhere," it is not the venom of a man railing against a delivery system that is failing him, but rather a protesting cry of the squandering of something that once - blue light shining - gave definition to his prowls, his routines, most likely his breathing.

It is the same stand down that gave "No Surrender" its buoyant sense of "we're all in this together." It isn't that the state of the nation isn't oppressive, it's that we all know - and in knowing we can come together to rally each other to higher ground.

That common field of lost souls and down trodden, too, is not some sad sack altar call. With the zeal of a carnie preacher, Springsteen canvassed that stage, inquiring if everyone was ready to go, "cause if you aren't ready to go, you can't get there..." From such a no-nonsense split rail exhortation, it was about jettisoning the worry for the revelry at "Mary's Place."

For all its feel good feeling, "Mary's Place" isn't just about blowing it up on Saturday night. Yes, his audience needs -- perhaps more even than the have plentys -- a let-off-steam moment, but they need the permission to believe they're not suckers for thinking good honest work and telling the truth still matters. That is where the true pivot of letting go turns: knowing the values you hold are an anchor to ground the spin-out.

See that's the deal about the music that's built to last: there's more to it than the euphoria. Ahhh, euphoria, you could see it on his face when the band undulated through a raucous "Good Rockin' Tonight," remembering every high time they had as kids. But memories are things that are gone, the endorphins released are gonna pass out of your bloodstream; in the end, only what you believe remains.

It's what made the accordion-draped haunt of "Youngstown" such a jaw dropper early in. The pain was raw, torn, palpable. This is not a new song, but it is more current right now. It's a chronic crisis spreading because no one paid attention... no one wanted to know... they shipped the jobs away, assuring there'd be plenty... until suddenly there weren't.

In the tangle of titles that further embroidered that notion - "Loose Ends," Last To Die" - the devastation gets demonstrated. If it stopped there, this would be "the drowning," but it doesn't. It never had, it never will, which is why the faithful still show up. The upper risers that weren't full a testimony to the impact on the disparity of tax breaks for the wealthiest and the lack of trickle down and rising prices for those below the comfort line.

For them, it's not even a raft, but a life jacket, the straw to float them 'til they can get to higher ground. It is a rallying cry to fire the beaten up for survival, and it works.

All these years later "The Promised Land" is a fist in the face of those who would take that last bit of respect away, the ones who'd strip what this country stands for bare - because you can raid the economy, sell of the debt, buy a Hummer and pretend that we're prosperous 'til bankrupt, but you can't wholesale the people. What they believe can never be taken from them, which is what makes the once youthful defiance of the declaration "I'm no boy, no, I'm a man... and I believe in the Promised Land..." into a refusal to let them trade away your faith in what you stand for as an America.

It was an equally impassioned "Badlands," an outlaw song of sheer rebellion, the kind that brews where there's too much room and not enough opportunity. If the fervor that ignites it - "Gonna be a twister... to blow everything down... ain't got the faith... to stands its own ground..." can translate for a demoralized less-than-land-of-expectations to a place where we can perhaps create changes that give people back their more meaningful humanity.

For a man who truly doesn't stop, the amount of meaning he packs is deceptive. It is concentrated, but it is close to three hours of full-tilt witness to who we can be - if we will think beyond ourselves. The deeply sad "Long Walk Home" - a song that tinges with the saddest kind of beauty in the wake of the recent passing of core E Streeter Danny Federici - is tempered by that same power of owning where you are and what you're feeling.

As Little Steven, pirate scarf tied across his head, eyes sparkling with the vigor of the truly alive, takes his verse, there's a slight roughness to the voice that cuts through one of Springsteen's prettiest melodies the way a lone street light dissolves the abyss of the night where it falls. What could be an elegy becomes a song of consideration - of what we lost, what we can maintain, how we came be more right here where we are.

If "Long Walk Home" suggests one thing... it's that right here, right now is all we have. For the man who proclaimed in the set culminating "Badlands" that "it ain't no sin to be glad your alive," this is the aware person's ownership of knowing that truth in a far fuller way.

Not that this was one long sermon on the bandstand. No, Bruce Springsteen is above all a rocker. He comes to swerve and thrust and bring his fast ball.

With an encore that opened with Magic's seasonally appropriate "Girls In Their Summer Clothes," a song where innocence and invisibility give you a whole other set of reasons to believe, it was a slalom of the fan's perfect merge of everything they would ever want: "Thunder Road" straight into "Born To Run" with an - in honor of Joe Strummer's birthday - Clash-fueled revved up "I Fought The Law" and a free-for-all "Rosalita."

What was once a song for young adults realizing their life as youth is fading, "Thunder Road" played to a very basic set of insecurities once upon a time. What's amazing is how much the quest for connection, the brittleness of being alone and the mocking way unattainable standards steal that right now from you resonates even louder, echoes even further inside your core as you grow up.

When Springsteen intones, "Don't run back inside, darlin' you know just what I'm here for..." and "You can hide 'neath your covers, study your pain... waste your summer praying in vain for a savior to rise from these streets...," it's a gentle enjoinder to not lose your life, not merely the quest for a flesh connection. Yeah, sex is part of it, but it's also to not have your moments washed away.

With the lights ablaze, it was urging a friend as much as a paramour, someone who sees the future and knows these moments may be the best there is. It's what gives the press-down and gun-the-motor rumble of "Born To Run" such gusto. Many of the people there - graying hair, pleated pants, 30 pounds or more past their prime weight and not in shape - came to believe, even for a moment.

What they walked away with was a new energy. Not just the momentary rush of being in that moment, but the idea that it is worth the fight, it is about digging in. If "Thunder Road" is the ghosts of the ghosts of who we were, a well-worn naugahyde lounger that is cracked and peeling from the years of sweat, smoke and sagging flesh, "Born To Run" is the super-hero self, the one that declares "We can."

And in empowering people, Springsteen reminds us that people do have the power...that making a difference doesn't mean sour and overly serious. You need to pay attention, to be conscionable; to speak up and honor what you know is right... It's what gave the kerosene to "I Fought The Law": the beat may've been the matches, but it's the righteousness that burns.

Still, there has to be fun, a reason to live, a bit of cotton candy dissolving on your tongue as the ferris wheel ascends. It is momentary, but it is saturated and adrenalin-fueled. Like that first thrashing make-out session with the one you could never have or the big deal that you close when everyone said you couldn't.

That is what "Rosalita" was, is and shall ever be. The defiance of "make you mine," the Romeo and Juliet teeter totter of the parents who don't like the rocker - and the rocker who just doesn't care. We've all been there, blown through it, savored the fruit right off the vine.

Three chords and a cloud of dust, Dan Baird from the Georgia Satellites - the Replacements' Southern cousins - would say with that tilted ally cat grin. Indeed. That's what else Bruce Springsteen knows: leave 'em gasping. Not in shock, but in joy - because in the end, all we have is that moment. Think, yes. Feel more. But especially rock.

The last time I was at Koka Booth Ampitheatre in Cary was in the fall of 2004 for a Bela Fleck concert. I was captured by the venue then; the way the pine trees were trickled amongst the lawn and the cool breeze floated from the body of water behind the stage.The last time I was at Koka Booth Ampitheatre in Cary was in the fall of 2004 for a Bela Fleck concert. I was captured by the venue then; the way the pine trees were trickled amongst the lawn and the cool breeze floated from the body of water behind the stage. There are a number of reasons I might have been so taken with my surroundings. We won't get into that. What we will discuss is the fact that my recent trip to the outdoor pavilion to see Wilco and Bon Iver did not produce exactly the same effect.

Granted, the opener, Bon Iver, continued to show signs of why Justin Vernon is one of the most critically acclaimed up and coming artists out there. With his backing band of youngin's, the ex-Raleigh- ite turned in a more than fine opening set. I was walking in as he finished a new song, so not much to report on it. However, his cover of "The Rainbow," the first track from Talk Talk's Garden of Eden, was nothing short of extraordinary. Seeing as Bon Iver had limited time, an experimental, nine-minute long song was an interesting set choice. Regardless, it worked, and Bon Iver carried the avant-garde nature of that number into other songs, such as "Creature Fear." In the case of that song, spacy electronics, snarling drums and snakey baritone slide guitar made for towering jams, giving the set a certain imminent nature. After profusely thanking Wilco, the band closed out their set with "For Emma," Vernon's falsetto once again soaring to the top of the beautifully scuzzy heap. Performing in front of such a large crowd in his old town must have been a tremendous experience for the young artist.

Once the shine of Bon Iver's set started to wear off, I began to take in the scene, noticing the slightly older crowd, as well as a Whole Foods booth and other dining options besides hot dogs and hamburgers, such as organic turkey wraps. Not to mention the VIP sections and Gold Circle seating options-nearly full-available in the venue. Clearly the Volkswagen people did their research before they decided to target the Upper Middle Class with their Wilco-scored advertisements.

To be honest, Wilco's music has begun to represent this sort of vibe, as illustrated by the more restrained, dad-rocking nature of 2007's Sky Blue Sky. There's a consistency to their performances, one that can't be knocked, but certainly one that doesn't send this attendee reeling. Sure, they played an all-star, career-spanning first set, featuring songs like "Jesus, Etc.," "Shot in the Arm," "Impossible Germany," "Missunderstood," "Pot Kettle Black," and "Spiders (Kidsmoke)." Everyone in the band was on, especially Nels Cline, but like the past few Wilco shows I have seen, it just seemed the same. It wasn't until they added a horn section, The Total Pros, for their first encore, that they really caught my attention. That brass was a brilliant addition to songs like, "Hate it Here," "Walken" and "I'm the Man Who Loves You."

By that point the band had been playing for quite some time, and the crowd was really going nuts. So it wasn't much of a surprise when Wilco came out for another encore. "The Late Greats," "Red-Eyed and Blue," and night closer "Hoodoo Voodoo" are certainly not to be argued with.

I've already mentioned their consistency. And you certainly can't deny Wilco's talent. In the end, it just wasn't my night. But the more I look over this review, I realize that on paper it was quite a performance. In addition, everyone I attended the show with was blown away. I'm sure many will say that the stars aligned on 8/08/08 for the best Wilco performance they can remember. It just seemed stale to me. Maybe it was the vibe that turned me off. So long Koka Booth.

Conor Oberst played to a mostly sold out Mercy Lounge crowd Friday night. Solo for the time being, Oberst has hit the road in support of a self-titled album, channeling "electric" Dylan, the man to whom Oberst has been compared for his ability to represent a generation.Conor Oberst played to a mostly sold out Mercy Lounge crowd Friday night. Solo for the time being, Oberst has hit the road in support of a self-titled album, channeling "electric" Dylan, the man to whom Oberst has been compared for his ability to represent a generation. The backing group now is the Mystic Valley Band, a five-piece (before Oberst wedged himself in the middle) of young New Mexicoans that could just as easily fit their brand of younger Americana to the tunes of Ryan Adams.

Intriguing psych-rock band the Evangelicals opened, who are a touch too emo to owe royalties to fellow Oklahoma deranged dreamers the Flaming Lips. Some 20 minutes after the Evangelicals ended, the lights went low, and The Mystic Valley Band filed out, trailed by Oberst. Downing the remains of a red solo cup, he greeted the crowd disingenuously: "Hello Music City...we're going to celebrate your city tonight...with some Music." The promised music was played, and prominent were Oberst's quirks, namely his eyes and his enunciation of words.

For the first song, you would have thought Oberst was reading the lyrics off the ceiling; his eyes, with lots of sclera, fixated upwards and combined with a wry, deteriorated smile. Growling like a tennis player might as a point wears on her, Oberst shrieks compulsively. His disaffected version of Dylan's "Corrina, Corrina," where he screeches the second "Corrina," comprised all snarls, strain and no heart. Formerly raging against the apathy and indirection of youth (as on Bright Eyes' Lifted), his current yelps seem like an extension of the Bright Eyes brand to a more adult-ish genre.

An incumbent to the Dylan comparisons, the solo Oberst makes mere reelection music. "Get Well Cards" drives Highway 61 on organ-auto-pilot and "Sausalito" could barely warm a piece of Americana cheese. On "I Don't Want to Die in the Hospital," the bed-ridden narrator pleads that someone "help me get my boots on" in order to flee the sterile, macabre confines of an infirmary, panicking like a younger Oberst. But in general, the hackneyed country-western of Conor Oberst presents an inversion of this idea: boots slow you down, especially when too big.

One character from Todd Haynes' recent Dylan biopic I'm Not There, offers an 11-year old Dylan (then a poser of Woody Guthrie) a piece of advice that is applicable to the 27-year old Oberst: "Live your own time child, sing about your own time." Albeit a cheesy message, Oberst used to do this; and those were cooler times.

Friday
Friday night saw an extension of the London based concert series Don't Look Back where a band plays the entirety of one of its classic albums. This year included Vs. by Mission of Burma, Bubble and Scrape by Sebadoh, and It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back by Public Enemy. Pitchfork has made several venerable contributions to the canonization of bands via lists, including a Top 100 albums of the 80's, in which Missions of Burma and Public Enemy's aforementioned albums rank respectively 49th and 9th (from said list, Nation of Millions is the second highest ever to play the festival; 1st place, Sonic Youth's Daydream Nation exhibited last year); so it was a good year by Fork standards. The concept of (the ironically titled) Don't Look Back suits an audience with a histrionical relationship to music, where judgment of the latest band usually correlates with its resemblance to some classic group. The Series also places more rights into the hands of the audience, who are entitled to a specific performance rather than a set devised by the band.

That entitlement in mind, Public Enemy's Nation of Millions set was made most interesting by an appealing conflict: Flavor Flav's unlikeness to his 1988 self. Despite the group's uncanny reproduction of an 80's live show including Professor Griff and the Bomb Squad, not to mention an edifying performance by Chuck D as the band's chief, there was the time Flav thanked the audience "for making [him] the biggest star in reality TV" and plugged his new show. This audacious antic received steady boos from the members of the audience working within a paradigm that saw Flav wearing just clocks and no bling and who have perhaps chosen to ignore (or do not have regular access to) Flav's VH1 exploits. Flav cracked back, calling the audience some "fake-ass ghosts" (get it? booo). Further, Flav declared "f*** you" to anyone not wishing him success, ending his tirade compellingly: "Public Enemy is my first love and my last love." After which Flav pranced around stage with wild swagger and reciprocated love for his main man Chuck D; it was a devoted performance. Somehow I feel like he would have simply gone through the motions had he not been defied.

Saturday
Dizzee Rascall continued the rap from Friday, converting it to grime: a version of rap which is all British accents and dub action. Rascall, like Flav, also possesses a penchant for the f-word, but in a positive way (such as "let's get this f***ing party started"). A few songs into it, Rascall's value gradually depreciated as another import, New Zealand's Ruby Suns set up across the park for a less-crowded set. Just a male and female sharing bass, percussion and synth-pushing duties, the Ruby Suns worked to recreate the enormities contained by their studio album Sea Lion, tackling island mariachi ("Tane Mahuta") as well as newer sounding songs, resembling Magnetic Fields (on "There are Birds") and Panda Bear (on "Palmitos Park"). Singer Ryan McPhun stood up while he sang and drummed, creating a loosey goosey dance resembling Andy Kaufman's "Foreign Man."

A monotonous and campy Vampire Weekend repeated their set of emotional boy Afro-pop, which folded directly into a tedious set by Brooklyn dance-punks !!!. Whereas Vampire Weekend seem oblivious to their waning significance, !!! reeked of party-starting assurance. Like Flav and Rascall before him, the singer of !!! Nic Offer tried to force the party but without any beats or authority; his band played like a fawning Red Hot Chili Peppers. Tim Harrington of Les Savy Fav would demonstrate the ballistics of party-starting on Sunday.

After these sets, the sun had begun its descent, leaving just enough light for Minneapolis average-Joe rockers the Hold Steady, whose live shows are reputed to transcend their otherwise Pabst Blue Ribbon demeanor. A mélange of brawny, easy to follow power chords, clean keyboards, drums that egg you on and Craig Finn's animated talking-as-singing, the performance saw the festival's first opposition to solipsism-an opportunity to actually meet your neighbor (or huddle and rock with your friends). As the final sun turned to twilight and the Hold Steady rolled out their last, Atlas Sound (side project of Deerhunter front man Bradford Cox) began his tremendously dissimilar set: echo-laden, drum machined and macabre ballads of loneliness and isolation; a pleasant soundtrack for absorbing one's self.

Similar to My Morning Jacket's status as kings of the all-nighter festival Bonarroo, Animal Collective pretty much sealed their fate as the quintessential Pitchfork player. Besides stunning the audience with a prismatic light show, it became, for attendees who wondered why so many people like this band, much clearer as to the reasons. Animal Collective operates via a system of delayed gratification where verses can sound sluggish and stubborn, and choruses imbalanced and sinister. Live however, against an electrifying light show and watching the band's entranced enthusiasm, verses can seem creative, and choruses cathartic (the song "Peacebone" for example)

Sunday
Sunday belonged to Les Savy Fav, a post-punk band with a haggard, grotesque yet ebullient lead singer (Tim Harrigan) who wanders the stage impatiently in clothes that degrade his weight, hell-bent on pleasing and/or interacting with the audience. Crowd surfing in a trash can and getting in a screaming match with a five-year old all seemed profound amidst the band's swell accompaniments; when they're not playing hardcore, these guys, like the Pixies, find blissful strides through impressionistic surf rock.

It may or may not be surprising that Ghostface Killah attracted more of an audience than M. Ward (Ghostface's show insisted on the necessary kinesthetics to stay awake at these grueling festivals, for instance making a "W" and waving one's hands in the air, not to mention the beats). After which Jarvis Cocker gave a very classy performance with the stage presence of a true Brit (in the ballpark but not quite as good as Bowie or Morrissey). Next, another Brit and his posse-the band Spiritualized-blasted rock songs with lots of soul and lots of reverb/distortion/delay/you name it. For better or worse, it was a bit like Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon.

In the end, one had to choose between Cut/Copy (a Daft Punk via Urban Outfitters dance-rock outfit) and classic alt-rockers Dinosaur Jr. I chose Cut/Copy and, waiting for them to set up, noticed a Scottish fellow flattening plastic bottles in preparation, as not to turn an ankle; "best be careful when yur dancin'" he said. Cut/Copy was delayed and waiting for them obviously made me miss Dinosaur. In lieu of Cut/Copy, Cox (from the aforementioned Atlas Sound) and King Khan (another dude that played earlier) tried to appease the crowd (and the organizers?) with a plagiarized version of Bow Wow Wow's "I Want Candy," instead singing a chorus of "Jell-lee-Ro-oll" that sent half the crowd to go check out Spoon on the big stage.

Spoon was the official closer but lacked the serious opportunity to dance that Cut/Copy presented, which was the only act that could obscure the fact that the festival was about to terminate (and that it was Sunday). In the end, Cut/Copy arrived at 9:40 (they flew all the way from Australia), a mere 20 minutes to play, and stuck to mostly new songs off of their new album In Ghost Colours. "Lights and Music" saved the night with its catchy chorus worthy of Harold Faltermeyer (scorer of Beverly Hills Cop and Top Gun) and had the crowd hopping and reaching for the sky. Probably should have been planned this way all along.

Taylor has always set high standards for creating acoustic guitars with the recognizable Taylor sound. It's no surprise that the new Taylor Solid Body comes from that same genetic line of tone.LIST PRICE: $3,798.00
WEBSITE: Taylor Guitars

Taylor has always set high standards for creating acoustic guitars with the recognizable Taylor sound. It's no surprise that the new Taylor Solid Body comes from that same genetic line of tone.

Similar to the Taylor T-5, the Taylor Solid Body utilizes a five pick-up combination, as opposed to the standard treble and rhythm combo found on most solid bodies. Sandwiched between the neck pickup and the bridge pickup are three distinctive options-all designed for more tonal possibilities. These options create a subset of that skinny Strat-funk sound associated with a neck pickup, and the crunchy, fatness of the bridge pickup.

This guitar offers two pickup options; the Classic, Custom 3/4 size humbucker pickup option delivers the bulk of that bright Taylor tone, while the standard full-size humbucker provides more traditional rock power. By intertwining and combining these two pickups through the five-way switch, a wide range of tonal flavors can be achieved.

There are two sleek, silver tonal control knobs on the thin, dark glossy body. The latter of the two, when turned to the maximum position, boosts the mids into peaking position (similar to the Mid booster found on most newer model American Telecasters). The only difference is that the Taylor allows you to control the amount of boost you want, while most guitars out there with this option take the all-or-none approach.

The lightweight, thinly designed and smaller body shape are all major players in producing the sound of this guitar. The bright tones of the traditional Taylor acoustic have, without a doubt, evolved and made their way into the Solid Body gene line. If you're looking for that raw grit found in a Les Paul, you might want to stray away. But if you're seeking a delicate Taylor-esque sound with punchy overdrive capabilities, this is a great purchase.