American Songwriter » Evan Schlansky

Behind The Song: “Man Of Constant Sorrow”

Evan Schlansky — Thu, 30 Jun 2011 14:01:27 +0000

You’d think after one hundred years, “Man Of Constant Sorrow” would eventually get old. But the American folk standard, which has been covered by everyone from a young Bob Dylan to Norwegian girl-group Katzenjammer, and helped launch the modern Americana movement with its canny placement in the film O Brother, Where Art Thou?, has been on music lovers’ collective minds since at least 1913. Through many different melodies, rewrites, and iterations (“girl,” “soul,” etc.) “Man Of Constant Sorrow” has refused to die. It’s the old-timey gift that keeps on giving; feeling bad never felt so good. Anybody familiar with the Oscar-nomiated O Brother and its multi-platinum-selling soundtrack can sing a verse or two. T Bone Burnett, who produces every third commercially released record these days, curated the music for the Coen Brothers’ celebrated sepia-toned satire, and made the song The Soggy Bottom Boy’s big, show-stealing number. Portrayed by George Clooney, George Nelson and John Turtorro, who may or may not be able to carry a tune, the real-life vocals for The Soggy Bottom Boys were provided by Nashville songwriter Harley Allen, bluegrass musician Pat Enright, and Dan Tyminksi, a guitar and mandolin player on loan from Alison Krauss and Union Station. Tyminski’s big, beautiful bear of a voice, echoed by Enright and Allen’s brown-sugared harmonies, brimmed with enough soul, grit and fire to make a distracted nation stand up and take notice. In a movie that featured strong vocal turns from Ralph Stanley, Gillian Welch and Alison Krauss, Tyminski more than held his own. He also sang the song as if he’d lived it, and with such conviction that it eventually made it to #35 on the Billboard Hot Country Singles chart in 2002. O Brother helped make Tyminski, Krauss, Welch and Burnett the highly respected (and marketable) artists they are today, and spawned a fantastic music tour and the live concert film Down From The Mountain. There was a trickle-down effect as well, which can be seen in the thriving careers of today’s heavily hyped, acoustic-leaning acts like The Avett Brothers and Mumford & Sons. Neither movies, album sales, or inexplicably popular British folk acts were likely on the mind of the song’s creator, current name and whereabouts unknown. It’s speculated that it spilled from the pen of Dick Burnett (a distant relative of T Bone?), a mostly blind fiddler from Kentucky, but that’s not confirmable. Burnett, who published the tune under the name “Farewell Song” in a 1913 songbook, had a senior moment when he was asked if he had actually written it, stating “I think I got the ballad from somebody... I dunno. It may be my song.” Ralph Stanley didn’t think so. The bluegrass legend told NPR that the song was probably one or two hundred years older than Burnett himself. “The first time I heard it I was a small boy,” recalled Stanley, who named his autobiography after it. “My daddy had some of the words to it, and I heard him sing it, and my brother and me, we put a few more words to it, and brought it back in existence. I guess if it hadn’t been for that, it’d have been gone forever.” As The Stanley Brothers, Ralph and his brother Carter gave the song its big coming out party in 1951, when they cut it for Columbia Records. Once it was absorbed into the folk music canon, Bob Dylan took a shine to it, recording it on his 1961 debut covers album, Bob Dylan. Dylan’s version is far more sorrowful than the O Brother version, with a melody that’s quite different from Tyminski’s. And like the rest of the record, it shows off his unique ability to impersonate a weathered, phlegmatic old man (long before he would actually become one.) But Joan Baez, his future duet partner, got there first, spicing it up pronoun-wise (as she was wont to do) by turning it into “Girl Of Constant Sorrow” (perhaps taking her cue from widower Sarah Ogan Gunning’s lyrical rewrite in 1936). Judy Collins followed suit in ‘61; her debut album was dubbed A Maid Of Constant Sorrow, and it sure was melancholy. If everyone could agree on the effectiveness of the song’s central conceit, no one seems to be able to come up with a consensus on the words. The O Brother version has this choice nugget: You can bury me in some deep valley / For many years where I may lay / Then you may learn to love another/ While I am sleeping in my grave.” Dylan’s version has no such verse, but plays up the young, rebellious boyfriend aspect: “You’re mother says I’m a stranger, my face you’ll never see no more,” he tells his soon to be ex-lover, before promising to sneak around with her in heaven. Dylan’s protagonist wanders “through ice and snow, sleet and rain,” while Stanley’s spends “six long years in trouble,” with no friends to help him now. Whether the singer is saying goodbye to old Kentucky (Tyminski), Colorado (Dylan), or California (Collins), somebody is getting the big kiss off. “Man Of Constant Sorrow” is essentially one of America’s oldest breakup songs. “If I knew how bad you’d treat me, honey I never would have come.” It’s that sunny outlook that has helped “Man Of Constant Sorrow” remain an essential part of popular music’s long, constantly evolving story.

Sounding Off: So Long, New York. Howdy, East Nashville

Evan Schlansky — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 12:00:17 +0000

Little did I realize when I was writing last issue's column about my feelings on country music that I'd be moving to Nashville a mere month later. That's right, dear readers. I've been brought in to be American Songwriter's new managing editor. I hope I manage to edit something while I’m here. That's a little publishing joke. It's been a long journey from the wilds of New York City to the capitol of country music. As a young man growing up in upstate New York, my dream was to become a rock star. This didn't really happen, although I have played numerous, under-attended gigs, and even rocked out with rock stars. So, what's the big difference? We're all rock stars, on the inside. That's what my therapist says. Dr. Hook. You may have known him from the cover of the Rolling Stone. There’s so much musical history in New York City. From Woody Guthrie to Regina Spektor, it all happened here. I was glad to be an infinitesimal part of it. I started writing songs in earnest my junior year of high school, when my girlfriend and her family moved to Alaska. I was egged on by Bob Dylan, Billy Bragg, R.E.M., Michael Penn, and Morrissey. That was my own little gumbo of influence. In high school and college, I thought I was the best songwriter of my generation, like my hero Bob Dylan was. Like Pink in The Wall, I fancied myself a motherfuckin' poet. Thought I was the best. That youthful enthusiasm for yourself. Contusions of grandeur. Then I reached New York City’s shores, and the Sidewalk Café, and found my spiritual home. At the Sidewalk, a small East Village venue that spawned the Anti-Folk movement and featured a seven-hour-plus open mic each Monday, every songwriter I heard was as good or better than I was. This is how it should be. Thank God I found that place. I imagined I would spend all my time in Washington Square Park and the clubs of Greenwich Village, but they were mostly played out by the time I got there in 1997. I also hit up the open mic at the Fast Folk Café in TriBeca, a long-time institution (now shuttered) that had once hosted Suzanne Vega, Dan Bern and Ani DiFranco. It was deadly boring by the time I arrived. Anti-Folk was a direct reaction to that type of acoustic, sleepy-time music; a sort of kick to the balls of Peter, Paul, and Mary. As a genre, it didn’t really have a defining characteristic, other than write good songs and don’t be boring. There was a punk rock ethos underlying the whole thing, but you could fit country, bluegrass, comedy, art-rock, free jazz or hip-hop into it. Whatever floated your boat, man. It’s where Beck started testing songs when he first moved to the city, studying at the feet of a local musician named Paleface. I was lucky enough to catch the debuts of the Moldy Peaches, Regina Spektor, Langhorne Slim, Jeffrey Lewis, and countless other unsung heroes whose stars shone just as brightly. I learned so much from each of them. I can still remember the refrain to this one song by a Canadian, Stravinsky-like cat named David Dragov: “Everybody wants to be a Jack Kerouac or a John Coltrane.” In addition to playing gigs at the Sidewalk and Freddy’s bar, a legendary Brooklyn watering hole that was set to be demolished to make room for a basketball stadium the month I was leaving, I spent a formative summer busking on the streets of New York, making less than your average subway bum. I learned that you’re better off playing “Brown Eyed Girl” than anything you wrote yourself, unless you’ve got a gimmick, like the ability to play six instruments at once, or a dancing monkey. After I landed a job at Rolling Stone, I was fortunate enough to be part of the Rolling Stone Christmas party band, which had lain dormant since the late ‘70s. With Jann Wenner as our fifth guitarist and financial backer, we played cover songs for a forgiving and patient crowd that included Michael Stipe and Yoko Ono. Lenny Kravitz joined us on drums one year. Peter Wolf acted as our rock and roll guru and life coach the next, coaching us on the finer aspects of playing “Love Stinks.” After budget cuts killed the band, a few of us started up a yearly Bob Dylan tribute act, whose roster included members of the Strokes, the Mooney Suzuki, Tracy Bonham, and the Hymns. My fondest memory would have to be from last year, belting “Hurricane” with Rob Stoner on bass, and Fab Morretti, proudly smoking an unsanctioned cigarette, on conga drums. As it happens, I got out of NY at just the right time—the little Tibetan kid in the apartment a few doors down just started playing the recorder. And that's never a good thing. I’m looking forward to whatever new opportunities may arise for me here in Music City. This is actually going to be my last column for awhile. I thank you for reading it over the years, and hope you stick around to see the great changes we have in store here at American Songwriter. There’s one thing you can count on—it’s only going to get more awesome.

“So Long, New York. Howdy, East Nashville”

Evan Schlansky — Mon, 03 May 2010 03:42:44 +0000

Last month, I decided I was ready to leave New York City, the "greatest city in the world,” and move to Nashville, the capitol of country music. As it happens, I got out at just the right time –- the little Tibetan kid in the apartment a few doors down just took up playing the recorder. And that's never a good thing. I'd lived in the city for 13 turbulent but wonderful years, long enough to feel like a "human trampoline" myself. "Thought I'd seen some ups and downs, til I come into New York Town." My boss here at American Songwriter suggested I keep a blog of the music I listened to as I made my journey, and I'm happy to share it with you, if you've got the time. I didn't realize I'd be arriving during the worst rain storms and flooding that Nashville had seen in 100 years, but that's another story. Tomorrow I can swim to work. So there I was, only a few nights ago, packing up my apartment, trying to re-alphabetize all my CDs, trying to reunite some of those widows with their cases. I think it was Shakespeare who said, packing is such sweet sorrow. What was I in the mood to listen to on my last night in town? I couldn't decide. Overwhelmed, I fired up Lala.com and landed on Simon and Garfunkel's The Concert In Central Park, the 1981 record of the estranged duo's historic reconciliation. I used to listen to it on tape all the time (a dubbed blank cassette I can still see in my mind's eye) and it gave me a brand new life at age 15. Discovering bands like Pink Floyd and the Beatles was amazing enough, but Simon and Garfunkel had the songs, and a sound, that really spoke to me. Central Park was my introduction to their catalog (it took me a couple of years to realize “American Tune” wasn’t a Simon and Garfunkel song). I wasn't a big fan back then, but on this night, "New York," the only Garfunkel song in the set, really moved me: "New York/looking out on Central Park/where they say you should not wander after dark." "I write my song to the city's heart beat." Great stuff. I wasn't going to seek out "The Only Living Boy In New York"; that would have been to maudlin (also too maudlin: Morrissey’s “Last Night On Maudlin Street.”) So instead I made it a double-header, and turned to Paul Simon's Live In Central Park album. I'd actually caught the last half of the show live when I was seventeen, and was awed by it; the massive crowd, multicultural and jubilant; the smell of reefer smoke; Paul Simon sending us home with "The Sounds of Silence," the music cascading off the buildings as we wandered home. Listening to the two albums back to back, I've got to say, I prefer the 1990s arrangements to the 1980s ones; even if that meant loosing one Art Garfunkel. Sorry, Artie. Once packing was done, and the movers came and stole all my stuff, (p.s. don't ever hire Countrywide Movers), I kissed my girl goodbye and hopped on a plane for sunny Florida, where my sister's extra car was waiting for me to drive it to Nashville. You can never be too prepared, or in my case, less prepared. I had my iPod with me, but that wasn't going to do me much good in this particular car; I was warned that an iPod adapter just wouldn't work well with it's ancient radio, and I'd only brought one CD, Manu Chao's Proxima Estacion: Esperanza, a brightly-colored disc which I'd rescued from a dark corner of my apartment somewhere at the last minute. If you've never heard it, I recommend you seek it out. I'd describe him as a sort of Spanish Bob Marley, except he also sings in French, English, Arabic and Portuguese. Dude travels by boat like some sort of gypsy-slash-pirate, and his concerts turn into massive parties for those in the know. On one standout track, "Mr. Bobby," he sings over an infectious back beat, "Hey Bobby Marley/sing something good to me/This world's gone crazy/It's an emergency." The album was released in the States in June 2001. Three months later, those words sounded more appropriate than ever. I was apprehensive about having to listen to the radio -- a few years of being forced to listen to Bush, Korn and Limp Bizkit marathons on New York's horrid K-Rock at work had forever scarred me (today it's a Top 40 station). As I was driving around Nashville looking at apartments a few weeks ago, I discovered Sirius satellite radio for the first time, and fell in love. No commercials plus always knowing what song and artist you were listening to plus the inclusion of E Street Radio made me a very happy man. But now, I'd have to brave it. I happened to be driving up on a Friday, a day radio DJs get disproportionately excited about ("We've got your Friday rock block connection, coming to you live and hanging out all day long here at the greatest bar in the land, Tampa's Big Chill Bar and Grill!") The theme was "Super Hits from the '70s," which meant I got to reconnect with the Steve Miller Band's "Take The Money and Run," Billy Joel's "Moving Out" (thank you for that, anonymous DJ), B-B-B-Benny and the Jets, and my new favorite song of all time, The Commodore's "Brick House" (she's a brick....HOUSE....Owww!). There's something about that pause between the word "brick" and the word "house" that's just the epitome of funky. I can't help but sing along. Owww. It all started with Jimmy Buffett's "Changes In Latitudes, Changes In Attitudes," which I can't recall hearing before, but was able to guess correctly who had written it before the first chorus. Somehow I can't imagine anyone else rhyming "I was hungry so I went out for a bite" with "ran into a chum with a bottle of rum and we wound up drinking all night" except Mr. "Cheeseburger in Paradise." Then a cool thing happened. I realized for the first time in basically 13 years, I could sing as loud as I wanted and no one could hear me. So I switched off the radio and started singing as much of Wilco's Being There as I could remember ("Choo Choo Charlie had a plenty good band, but he couldn't understand why no one would go"), accompanying myself on soda cup with ice and straw percussion. It was very liberating. Then I just started making stuff up: well I been goin down the road, trying to get in my mode i got nineteen women on my mind, nine wanna hold me, ten wanna scold me, and all of them got left behind take it easy, take it easy don't let the sound of your own brain make you queasy you may run, and you may win but you may never grow old again i wanna know if you're my friend, and if you'll feed me... Not really an improvement on the original, but not bad for something I made up on the fly. What else? Somewhere near Gainesville, I was shocked to stumble on The Beatles' druggy, long-playing bizarre-o b-side "You Know My Name, Look Up The Number" hogging up the airwaves; it's hardly what you'd call one of their more radio-friendly songs. For a second, I thought I must be listening to Sirius again. That was followed by Larry Groce's "Junk Food Junkie" -- the DJ was in a goofy mood. I would have bet my brake pedal that it was Arlo Guthrie singing that song; good thing I didn't. I like how it's so dated it mentions the Whole Earth Catalog. Heading to Atlanta I sampled the wares of some Dirty South rappers (I'm not sure auto-tune's dead yet), tracks like Ludacris's "My Chick Bad," and Trey Songz' "Say Aah" ("I make 'em say aah just like I'm your doctor/all that I prescribe is cranberry and vodka.") Omarion's" "Get It In" cracks me up ("I get it in like parking spots/and they say money talks so don't ask me why I talk a lot"), as the chorus sounds eerily like an ad for erectile dysfunction medication. Lil Wayne comes through with a trademark wacky boast: "Fresh out of my Buggati/Polo on my body/I'm jumpin' in this s**t like pogo on a potty," and it's all good in the hood. Atlanta's got some fine radio stations, including one that serenaded me with great jazz and blues as I was stuck in morning traffic. Songs like Gil-Scott Heron's latin-tinged, jazz-flute ode to the neighborhood "17th Street" and Buddy Guy's mojo-dripping, feral-sounding "Out In The Woods" were well worth discovering. So here I am now, finally, in Music City. I made it all the way from New York by way of FLA. Waiting for the movers to show up, waiting for the work to start. To paraphrase Bob Dylan, and his song "Talking New York Blues": So long, New York. Howdy, East Nashville.

Sounding Off: You Can Take The Boy Out of the Country…

Evan Schlansky — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 12:00:14 +0000

When I wrote in a previous column that I didn’t listen to country, I got a few comments from concerned country music-listening citizens. “For the love of God,” they said, “at least listen to Dierks Bentley.” Which got me thinking about what was going on: I loved music, so why not country? In upstate New York, where I’m from (the “country” to New York City’s “city”), a common expression would be, “I like all music...except country.” There was a time when I was interested in anything alt-country. That sounds good, what’ve you got? Wilco, the Jayhawks, Old 97’s? Yeah, I’d go for that. You don’t hear the term alt-country very much any more, though, nor do you hear it’s other, lesser-known derivative: “y’allternative.” I also have a soft spot for The Thing Called Love, the 1993 movie starring River Phoenix about young dreamers trying to write the perfect country song (“Look out, Music City! I'm here and I ain’t never leavin’!”). I used that movie as a girlfriend litmus test for many years. “What do you mean, you thought it was cheesy?” I also really like the song River sings in it, “Blame It on Your Heart,” written by Harlan Howard. That’s a hell of a tune. Reading this magazine made me hip to the fact that there was a whole other kind of “songwriter” out there, and a whole other songwriting industry—that which fed the country music market. In Nashville, even the plumber’s a songwriter, Robert, the mag’s publisher, told me. Before that, I thought it was mostly pop singers who had songs written for them. I can remember looking at Billboard charts in the late ‘90s, amazed how Alan Jackson and the like could rule the charts like their name was Whitney Houston. Now, it’s like all the boundaries have broken down; Taylor Swift has broken the barrier and united east and west, north and south. Across the great divide comes Miley Cyrus. Soon, even Justin Beiber will be wearing a cowboy hat. My dad (fairly tone-deaf, more of a book lover than a music listener these days) loves country music. He’s a Jew from Queens, grew up on Dylan and the Beatles, and, as a student of poetry, will often critique rock music on the lyrics alone. He doesn’t have much use for rap, emo bands and the like, but he loves the stories country music tells. Years ago, when he was driving around Florida as his dad was dying, he’d listen to two things: radio talk show preachers and country music. He took great comfort in both. Then, when the movie Cash came out, he got deep into that and showed a keen admiration for Johnny Cash, an artist who had previously escaped his attention. And he always dug Lucinda William’s Car Wheels on a Gravel Road, which I’ve dubbed copies of for him at least a thousand times. Currently he's into Patti Smith, but that’s another story. “It’s the poetry of everyday life,” he says, and rattles off some of his favorite tunes: “I’m Gonna Miss Her,” by Brad Paisley, “Huckleberry,” by Toby Keith and “We Rode in Trucks” by Luke Bryan. He likes the wholesomeness, the patriotism and the sense of Americana. To me, country music was always about the same three chords being exploited over and over again. But then again, that was my problem with the blues, too, back when I was an opinionated teenager. That attitude seems kind of silly to me now. They say country and the blues had a baby, and rock and roll was born. And I love me some rock and roll. I like “Goin’ Up the Country,” by those California good ol’ boys, Canned Heat. The Dukes of Hazzard theme. “Looking at the World through a Windshield,” as performed by Son Volt; Ben Kweller’s country-fried album, Changing Horses; The Rolling Stones’ country blues. I never could stomach Garth Brooks. I like The Byrds’ album Sweetheart of the Rodeo, Ralph Stanley, and the theme song to Squidbillies (as performed by David Allen Coe). What is Bruce Springsteen if not a country music artist without the accent? (“I come from down in the valley, where mister when you’re young, they bring you up to do just like your daddy done”? Sounds like a country song to me.) I once saw Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson play a show together, and liked Willie Nelson better—was never a big Nashville Skyline fan. One time, I was waiting to meet someone at a bar a block or two up from the Beacon Theatre, and the bar was “western themed.” I waited for 15 minutes, started out on “Okie from Muskogee,” and 15 minutes later was nauseous with country music. I like Dolly Parton’s voice, and her country sweetness. I like anything I’ve ever heard by John Prine. I like Steve Earle a great deal. Wait a minute, maybe I do like country!

Buried Treasure: The Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players

Evan Schlansky — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 17:48:16 +0000

The Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players are a self-described "indie-vaudeville-conceptual-art-rock-slideshow band," who count among their fans Simpsons creator Matt Groening, David Cross, Eugene Mirman, The White Stripes' Meg White, and director John Waters, who describes the band's gigs as being "like The Lawrence Welk Show gone insane." I used to see this band all the time on the Lower East Side (back when little Rachel was knee high to a grasshopper); they were quite the sight. If you don't know them, they're obviously a very visual band. Below is a video primer. Here's them on Conan, demonstrating their crazy songwriting technique: But they're good without the slide show too: Or when they're playing solo. This one is strictly for the birds: The family that appreciates Syd Barrett together, rocks together. Here's a fairly awesome cover of Pink Floyd's "Gnome": "You always seem to be on the lower east side of my heart:" For more Trachtenburg Family goodness, check out their 2006 DVD The Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players: Off & On Broadway.

Sounding Off: I’m The Man Who Loves You

Evan Schlansky — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 13:00:45 +0000

It’s that time of year again: time to take stock in what popular music has provided us in our time of need. Time to quantify both the best music of 2009, and the best of the 2000s. And given the fact that the Mayan calendar suggests that the world will be ending in 2012, the stakes have been raised considerably. Do you hear me talking, Jonas Brothers? The art and culture that’s been proffered in the last ten years might be among the last humankind has ever produced. And so I’m going to forgo the “Best of the Decade” declarations and bump everybody up to “Best of the Millennium.” Let’s hand out some awards. Best Album Apocalypse or not, I’m nominating Wilco’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot as the album of the millennium. Long-time readers of this column will not be shocked. Why that record? Its avant-garde arrangements still sound futuristic today, yet still evoke a sense of the year they were born—2001, a turbulent time in our nation’s history. You also get the epic back story (shunned by the record label, released for free on the Internet), an accompanying movie (Sam Jones’ masterful I Am Trying To Break Your Heart), all the soulfulness you could ask for, the pathos, the chops, and the songs. Wilco did all they could to create a lasting piece of art, and this baby belongs in a museum. Oh, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, I’m the man who loves you. Best Singer/Songwriter Not Named Bright Eyes? I’d give the nod to Ben Kweller and Regina Spektor. Spektor is a wunderkind—every note that passes her lips is unique, and double-dipped in quirk and musical genius. Kweller is a craftsman with a soulful, baby-faced voice and an affinity for writing songs that feel both vintage and new. Best Band Not Named Radiohead? That’d be Modest Mouse. Their brilliant, brooding 2004 breakthrough Good News for People Who Love Bad News is worthy of OK Computer-like canonization. Let’s start a petition. Runners-up: Built To Spill, Flaming Lips Best DVD? Obviously, this was the decade where the medium came into its own, and there’ve been so many amazing DVDs put out, it’s hard to keep track. I’ll go with the 2003 Led Zeppelin set, which is a stairway to heaven unto itself. Best Rapper Alive? MF Doom still rules the room with his stream-of-consciousness, frequently bizarre verbal sonic booms. With endless internal rhymes and inventive, comic book beats, he’s the nation's most beloved supervillain. Most Underrated Talent? Amy Winehouse, whose flirtations with utter ruin and crack addiction have overshadowed her incredible talents as a songwriter and vocalist. Have you ever paid attention to the lyrics on Back to Black? They’re like Shakespearean dissertations on modern love. Come for the car crash, stay for the music. Best Singer/Songwriter Not Named Bob Dylan? Bright Eyes. The Omaha, Nebraska poetry slam champion has been through some changes these past ten years. After a career-high year in 2005, in which he put out two albums simultaneously, Bright Eyes released the meditative travelogue Cassadaga in 2007 before jettisoning the name for good. But Cassadaga, which some fans felt turned off by, suffering from Bright Eyes fatigue, is perhaps his most mature work, with stunning lyrics and incredible melodies. Now, he’s back to the name his momma gave him. Wherever he goes, I intend to follow. Best Album of 2009 It’s a toss up between M. Ward’s Hold Time, St. Vincent’s Actor, The Decemberists’ Hazards of Love, Doom’s Born Like This, Wilco (The Album) , The Beatles’ Stereo Box Set, Regina Spektor’s Far, and Ben Kweller’s Changing Horses. Call it an eight-way tie. Best Album You Probably Never Heard Of The Thrills’ Teenager. An Irish indie rock band, primarily known for imitating the Beach Boys (see Big Sur), make the perfect song cycle about fetishizing the past and living in the uncertain future. Runner-up: The Research, Breaking Up. Best Unexpected Trend of the 2000s Bands getting back together again, however briefly. The Pixies. The Breeders. Pink Floyd. Led Zeppelin. The Jayhawks. Pavement. Now will someone put Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy in a room together so we can have Uncle Tupelo Part Deux? Best Country Artist? Sadly, I don’t listen to enough country music to say. So why don’t y’all write me a letter and tell me who you think it is. Best Reason to Hang Around Until 2013 All music will be beamed directly into our brains via iPod nanotechnology. Just think—the entire Beatles catalog in Brain-o-vision. Best Magazine with the Greatest Readers? You’re reading it. Thank you and see you next year. Evan Schlansky is a songwriter and music critic living in New York City.

THE SCHLANSKY FILES: Reliving Woodstock

Evan Schlansky — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 12:06:41 +0000

They say if you can remember the ‘60s you weren’t there. Well, I don’t remember the ‘60s, although I’m pretty sure that doesn’t mean I was actually there. It’s hard to say, what with the possibilities of time travel, reincarnation, etc., etc. I did, however, grow up listening to the Woodstock soundtrack. In fact, it was pretty much my introduction to rock and roll, my spiritual textbook, if you will. I’d inherited a crate of old records from my parents, who were just out of college in 1969, and wedged in among The Beatles and Rolling Stones LPs sat the Woodstock soundtrack, begging to be discovered. A three-record set, with six distinct sides, you’d have to choose what to listen to—you couldn’t finish it all in one sitting. As a teenager, I would look at the album art and pull out the records from the sleeves, (“Hey look… naked people!”), scanning the names for the bands I remembered liking. Every so often, I’d give a new band a second chance. I already knew I liked Jimi Hendrix, but how did I feel about Sly and the Family Stone? I was also intrigued by artifacts of my parent’s hippie days, from a time before me, when they led completely different lives. I asked them if they went to Woodstock. “No. we thought about it, but we decided against it.” “You decided against it?” “Yes, I think we went to a friend’s house that weekend.” “A friend’s house? That weekend?” It seemed blasphemous to me. I’d have given anything to have been around back then. To experience the free love, the free music, and the freed mind. I started to watch the movie every day after school. While other kids wrote the names Whitesnake and Mötley Crüe on their binders, I wrote names like Canned Heat. 10 Years After. Crosby, Stills and Nash. Melanie. Rhino’s new, expanded Woodstock box set, released in celebration of the festival’s 40th anniversary, brings it all back home for me. A six-CD set, it sets out to capture the festival using a cinema vérité approach—dialogue and stage announcements are plentiful, and there’s a host of deserving yet never-before-heard performances. The typeface even mimics the font of the original soundtrack, and the whole thing takes about as long as a half a Woodstock to listen to. One point of interest comes in seeing who covered what 9for the first time, full set lists are included in the liner notes). Joe Cocker became famous for it, but Richie Havens also busted out The Beatles’ “With A Little Help From My Friends” that weekend. Sweetwater (weren’t they from Almost Famous?) trotted out that anthem of all things hippie, Hair’s “Let the Sunshine In.” (Oddly, they also started their set with “Motherless Child,” the song Havens, who riffed on it to create “Freedom,” closed with one set earlier.) Arlo Guthrie jammed on “Oh Mary, Don’t You Weep,” a song Bruce Springsteen would court Grammys with many years later. Joan Baez, usually good for a Bob Dylan cover or three, played not a single Dylan song, but Melanie played “Mr. Tambourine Man.” Jefferson Airplane did Crosby, Stills and Nash’s “Wooden Ships,” as did Crosby, Stills and Nash. Joe Cocker opened with “Dear Landlord,” and gave a nod to Bob with “Just Like a Woman” and “I Shall Be Released,” which The Band also covered “I Shall Be Released.” CSNY sang “Blackbird.” Country Joe and the Fish did “Ring of Fire.” The expanded box set offers familiar, iconic moments and new surprises. Canned Heat, of all people, come off as MVPs. I always thought starting your set by declaring “I sure gotta pee,” was a weird way to go. Their “Woodstock Boogie,” clocking in at nearly 30 minutes, is incendiary. And really, you can never have too much boogie. Santana’s “Soul Sacrifice” is liquid ecstasy. If a part of you isn’t dancing when you hear this, get that part removed. Creedence Clearwater Revival, a band that was left off the soundtrack the first time around, sound amazing here. Check out “I Put a Spell On You” and the soulful guitar solo that follows. Janis Joplin’s “Work Me Lord” might be the best thing she ever did—unless “Ball and Chain” is. You can hear her just leaving it all out there, working her instrument, her naked voice reverberating to half a million people. And Sly Stone’s “Dance to the Music” medley is simply the greatest thing ever. Back then, I didn’t like it—it’s all one chord, I complained. It makes me that realize that we live different life times within our own lives. And a lot of it is defined by the music you listen to—especially when you’re a teenager. Woodstock was a social phenomenon as much as it was a musical event, and the amount of mind-bending, not-entirely-good-for-you acid going around threatened to derail the whole thing. The box set makes that abundantly clear, adding more audio tracks of festival MC’s John Morris and Chip Monck. At first, they’re all laid back, speaking in a “Prairie Home Companion”-like lull. But as the hours wear on, they screw it all up, losing all their built-up cool: “For those of you who have partaken in the green acid, if you would, as soon as is convenient, please.... go to the hospital tent. Ladies and gentlemen...(ominous pause)...thank you so very much.” Also, “I’ve been informed that somebody is handing out some flat blue acid. It is poison.” This is insane MC’ing at it’s finest. Then Jerry Garcia and Country Joe get on the mic and say the cool-as-shit things to make it all OK. “You’re not gonna die,” they assure the crowd. It’s funny, a lot of things that seemed so cool to me about the hippy mindset, in smaller doses, seem kind of ‘60s ridiculous to me now. “If we think real hard, maybe we can stop this rain!” Well, no. “That's the ...that’s the reason for this f***ing conference, man,” says yippie king Abby Hoffman, so into his own ideals that he calls the one of greatest concerts of all time a conference. After he jumps on stage to rant further during the Who’s set, Townshend takes him out with his guitar, then sympathizes. “I can dig it.” he says dryly. Wonder why that scene never made the movie. They’ve got it on YouTube though. That’s the future for ya. Those people stayed up all night long for rock and roll. When I went to Woodstock ‘99 (by the time I got to Woodstock) I slept through an epic set by George Clinton. I wish I’d been awake now. There I got Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow instead of the Who and Janis Joplin. Everlast instead of Arlo Guthrie. But I survived the fires, and I survived the legions of deranged college students, and I survived listening to Creed, so I guess I survived Woodstock. “Hey man, you people gotta be the strongest bunch of people I ever seen in my life. Three days man! …We just love ya. We just love ya.” Crosby, Stills and Nash’s Woodstock set was their second gig ever. Their debut album had only been out for a couple months. They open their set with “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes,” as if to say, “Oh yeah...we got a song for ya....You’re probably gonna like this one.” Even back then, their set was designed to show off their acoustic and electric side. Back when I was a burgeoning hippy, Crosby Stills and Nash were gods among men. Years later I actually got to meet Graham Nash, and he told me he never saw the movie. “What? No way!” I said stunned. “That’s blasphemy!” It’s interesting to think that if Jimi Hendrix had fallen victim to the plaid acid, Sha Na Na would have been the band to close Woodstock on that fateful Monday. Hendrix got to close as planned, but many hours later, in the stark light of morning, during which he kind of fakes his way through another brilliant set. “We’re just gonna do a primary rhythm thing,” he tells the crowd. He jams into the “Star Spangled Banner,” an out of tune angel. And then it’s all over but the shouting, all over but the come down. Let the legend making begin. Thanks to the new audio, we get to hear the very last words of the Woodstock festival, which are “Have a good life...thank you.” Followed by a request. “Pat Dotch... please go to the pink and white medical tent.”

Buried Treasure: Robert Johnson, “Me And The Devil Blues”

Evan Schlansky — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 17:42:49 +0000

Blues legend Robert Johnson's music has always been kind of spooky. If you sell your soul to the devil to achieve guitar mastery, you're going to have your share of demons.

This macabre fan-made video for "Me And The Devil Blues" (which Johnson recorded in Dallas, Texas in 1937) works it's own kind of spooky magic. One of the best things about it is how it shows the Devil not as an external character, but as an extension of ourselves.

Here's a fun one by the same Dutch artist of the Beatles' "Helter Skelter."

If you like it, check out more of the artist's work here. Are you curious about how to play those Robert Johnson licks? This guy's got it down.

Buried Treasure: The Unrequited Love Songs of Billy Bragg

Evan Schlansky — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 12:00:13 +0000

I remember the day I was hipped to the music of British singer-songwriter Billy Bragg clearly. It was during gym class, circa 1992. We were running around the track, although, for some of us, "running" was a relative term.

A friend of mine who loved Morrissey more than he loved his momma told me if I was interested in great songwriters, I really had to check out Bragg's 1988 album, Worker's Playtime. He brought it in for me the next day. Though the cover (with its distinctive, bright yellow border and museum-quality artwork) presumably had something to do with communist China, it was not a politically-themed record, which the activist Bragg had become known for.

Instead, it was stuffed to the gills with songs about love falling apart in the most embarrassing and inconvenient of ways, all sung in Bragg's trademark brummie, working-class British accent. He equates lasting love to a rock in his shoe in "The Price I Pay," derides the "arsehole" he's become in "Life With The Lions," calls the whole thing off in "Valentine's Day Is Over," and caves completely in "The Short Answer" ("In my pink pajamas, she asked me for something, I gave her the short answer/ We read our cards out loud, and I knew then that we should have gone sailing...")

I was enthralled. Love was cruel to him, as it is cruel to many teenagers, especially the kind who write songs. But here was a whole new type of "love song." I would write "Billy-Bragg-esque" tunes for the next few years -- I couldn't help myself. The next album I picked up was a twofer: Back To Basics, which compiled his first two LPs, Spy Vs Spy and Brewing Up With Billy Bragg. They're virtually interchangeable. Both feature raw, in your face performances of barked-out love songs and political broadsides, performed solo, on a brash electric guitar instead of the more predictable acoustic one. I studied it like a text.

"You're the kind of girl who wants to open up the bottle of pop to early in the journey/ Our love went flat, just like that." Awesome.

This weekend I was psyched to see that a number of my favorite tracks from that album were up on YouTube, captured on video at a 1985 TV gig in Germany. Watching them is like having Back To Basics come back to life.

Check out a video of "Two Lovers Sing" below, and watch the rest of the videos here.

Also, you can read an interview I eventually did with Billy Bragg here.

Buried Treasure: Alison Krauss Sings “Can’t Find My Way Home”

Evan Schlansky — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 18:30:49 +0000

When I was a kid I was obsessed with the movie 1969. Critically panned but, to a young man's mind, critically flawless, it had Kiefer Sutherland, Robert Downey Jr., and Winona Ryder in it. They spend their time arguing with their parents, living in a van, and trying to decide what to do about the draft. It's worth a look on Netflix, if you don't mind ultra-cheesy endings. It also had a great soundtrack (one of the first CDs I ever bought, actually): Jimi Hendrix's incendiary version of "All Along the Watchtower." Canned Heat's flute-laden feel good anthem "Going Up The Country." The spine-tingling, rebellious yell of the Animals' "When I Was Young." I even liked Jesse Colin Young's somewhat sappy "Get Together" (later parodied by Nirvana on "Territorial Pissings") and the Pretenders' cover of "Windows of the World," though it always sounded out of place (it was recorded in the late 80s). But there were two tracks I was absolutely obsessed with. The Zombies' sultry, organ-drenched "Time Of The Season" captured such a mood, one that I couldn't define but wanted to feel all the time. To me, it would top the list of great make out songs. I put it on every mix tape I ever made for the next 10 years. Then there was Blind Faith's "Can't Find My Way Home," an acoustic ballad with a haunted, aching melody, and incredibly effective finger-picking provided by Mr. "Layla" himself, Eric Clapton. It can be taken as either a weary spiritual ballad, or a veiled reference to being blitzed off your face. I was trying to learn how to play guitar at the time, and I would have given anything to be able to play like that. I still would. Recently I found a great cover of "Can't Find My Way Home" performed by bluegrass great Alison Krauss. Why don't you tune in, drop out, and take a listen? The ending isn't cheesy at all.