La Vie En Robe

Here's That Rainy Day

Actually, it doesn't look like the rain that's currently hosing down L.A. is gonna make it out to the desert, but this mid-60s version of "Here's That Rainy Day" by Wes Montgomery (with what appears to be the Wynton Kelly Trio, though there's no info on the clip) makes for great listening and watching even on a sunny afternoon. 

It also makes for a good meditative sonic bed, upon which one could conceivably contemplate all the events and changes of one's life in the past year, to say nothing of the past decade. Maybe I'll get around to that; right now, I'm just too enthralled by the magic of Wes's right thumb to think that hard. Enjoy...

Taco Tuesday: New Year's Eve

Jay and I take our last tacos of the year to New York City, where we wait for the Times Square ball to drop and talk about our personal faves (Mastodon, Morrissey) and disappointments (Phoenix, Decemberists). Watch for Jay's helpful instructions on how to build a "hipster trap"!

A Christmas Wish

I've gotta make this quick, because I've got a Christmas Eve dinner (and a round of Beatles Rock Band) to run off to. But I'd like to take this opportunity to send a whole mess o' desert holiday sunshine to all my beautiful friends, new and old, who helped make my 2009 about a million times better than my 2008. May you all bask in love, joy, peace and righteous music this holiday season, and all through 2010.

Taco Tuesday: Viking Jul

Because the Vikings were partying at this time of year well before Christmas even existed, Jay and I decided to don their helmets for an extra dose holiday cheer. This week, we talk about some more great records from 2009 that you might have missed: Stuff by Children, Andrew Jackson Jihad, the Orange Peels and Chuck Ragan. Happy Holidays, y'all!

(One Of) My Favorite Things

 

Well, it's four days 'til Christmas, and once again I'm not exactly bursting with holiday cheer. I'm not particularly bummed out; it's just that my house is in total dusty disarray from all the painting and home improvements that have been going on, and for the third holiday season in a row I'm packing up my stuff in preparation for yet another move (and once again asking myself, "Do I really need all these books and old LIFE magazines?"). So aside from plugging in my electric menorah and hanging a stocking on the fireplace for my cat, I really haven't been able to expend much thought, energy or money upon this much-vaunted "most wonderful time of the year."

That said, I am well aware that I have much do be thankful for, ranging from loving family, righteous friends and wonderful co-workers to the fact that the Cubs actually found another club to take Milton Bradley off their hands. I was actually a fan of "Games" back when he played for the Dodgers — angry as he was, he was also just about the only position player on that '04 team who played hard every time he went out there — but it was obvious to me (and everyone else not named Jim Hendry or Lou Piniella) that Bradley was going to be a lousy fit at Wrigley. And yes, I know Carlos Silva pretty much flat-out sucks, but I've honestly never been happier for the Cubs to make a trade for a shitty pitcher.

What I'm most thankful for, however, is getting to spend another Christmas in Southern California. I've written about this before, but the first time I ever visited SoCal was over Christmas when I was seven years old — and I couldn't believe that such a beautiful place actually existed, or that my parents were "forcing" us to live in snowy Michigan instead of this sunny, warm and palms-populated paradise. I knew then that I would someday end up living here; and seventeen years after finally moving to L.A., I still love it — and am still thankful that I'm not freezing my ass off every time I step outside, like I did in the "good ol' days" back in the Midwest.

I found this Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass video of "My Favorite Things" on YouTube this weekend, which prompted me to pull out my dusty vinyl LP of their classic 1968 Christmas album for the first time this year. Yeah, it's glitzy and schmaltzy like only a 1960s album made by Jews in Hollywood could/should be, but it also always conjures up the same pure joy in my heart that I felt when I stepped outside at LAX in December '73 and saw the palm trees wrapped with silver tinsel, observed Santa and his Reindeer "flying" over Wilshire Blvd, and spent the bulk of that Christmas (and several thereafter) camped out on my Uncle John and Aunt Toni's living room floor devouring Uncle John's collection of vintage EC comics. 

So if you're looking for some Christmas music that's light on religious "message," isn't maudlin or dull, and sounds great with a cocktail in your hand, you just might enjoy a little Christmas, Tijuana Brass-style; hopefully it'll inject a little happiness into your heart, as well. Oh, and Santa, if you're reading this — a Size L t-shirt with the "TJB" logo on it (as seen on the bass drum in the video) is pretty much tops on my Christmas list...

Peace, Love and Joy to you all, this Christmas and in 2010...

Love,

Dan

Happy Fuggin' Holidays To Ya

We had a gangster-themed Christmas party at the office on Thursday, which inspired me to pay tribute to my Italian heritage in a manner that my grandfather's family (who were all upstanding members of society — lawyers, doctors, social workers, etc.) probably would not have approved of, to say nothing of whatever uptight Italian-American group it was that launched a protest campaign against HBO for airing The Sopranos.

But, as Howlin' Wolf once said, if it's in ya, it's got to come out — and I had a lot of fun giving my inner dago free reign for the day. It was also, thanks to the judicious use of Murray's Pomade to slick back my unruly locks, the first time in years that I've showed up at a party in a "costume" that caused people to not recognize me. Wish I'd gotten it together enough ahead of time to work a pinky ring and a cornuto pendant into the look, but my Caesar's Palace medallion provided sufficient bling.

And speaking of shiny things, that's a real nice Christmas tree they got there. Shame if somethin' were to happen to it.

Taco Tuesday: Safari

Jay n' I hit the wilds of Africa with four of our favorite releases from this year that you might have missed: Amazing Baby, Assemble Head In Sunburst Sound, Banner Pilot and The Pains of Being Pure At Heart.

35 Albums That Rocked My 2009

Yep, it's about that time again. Have to say this was a really good year for music, at least in the sense that there was new stuff just about every week that rocked my world. The Mastodon LP is easily my record of the year, but the rankings of the others all kinda depend on the day's temperature and wind conditions; suffice to say that they all repeatedly delivered the goods when I needed the goods delivered...

(All album titles link over to ShockHound, so you can check out song samples from each record, and maybe even download somethin' that strikes yer fancy!)

Mastodon — Crack the Skye

Yeah, I know — it’s hip to say that you liked Leviathan or Remission more, or that this is like Blood Mountain but not as good. Well, fuck that; these guys get better, weirder and yet somehow more accessible with each record. Astral travel? Rasputin? Wicked time signatures? Brutal riffs? Catchy-ass choruses? It’s all here, baby!

Baroness — Blue Record

The Georgia art-metal record of the year, if only it hadn’t come out the same year as Crack the Skye. Crushing and sludgy in spots, oddly soothing and disarmingly psychedelic in others. Didn’t expect to love this as much as I do, but I keep coming back for more.

Assemble Head in Sunburst Sound — When Sweet Sleep Returned

The third album from these tripped-out SF psychsters (though only the first I’ve had the pleasure of hearing) reminds me of a cross between the Screaming Trees and Spiritualized — the ‘60s classic rock damage and rampant fuzz of the former meets the glacial, opiated beauty of the latter. Like the Mastodon, it’s only 40 minutes long, but you feel like you’ve traveled through several eons and dimensions by the time it ends. Highly recommended to all you Black Mountain fans out there.

Gallows — Grey Britain

Pure punk rock from (and for) 21st century boys— hellaciously angry, unremittingly bleak, but also played by a band ballsy enough to occasionally throw an orchestra on top of their hardcore assault. Punk album of the year, no question.

Them Crooked Vultures — Them Crooked Vultures

Take the last two Queens of the Stone Age albums, subtract the “building beachfront property up our own ass” factor and add one incredible rhythm section, and you’ve got one helluva dense and intriguing hard rock rekkid from this much-hyped Josh Homme-Dave-Grohl-JohnPaul Jones supertrio. Took a few listens to really sink in, but this one’s definitely a keeper. Plus Josh Homme does a pretty wicked Jack Bruce impression on “Scumbag Blues.”

Amazing Baby — Rewild

Another unexpected gem that I keep returning to. The debut record from this Brooklyn band combines the post-modern pop suss of MGMT with Radiohead’s multi-textured guitar attack (though without any trace of Yorke n’ Co.’s dreary self-importance), and spikes it with bits of metal, psych and ‘70s classic rock. These cats definitely have a cool and unique vision; hopefully they’ll stick around long enough to really let it develop.

New York Dolls — ‘Cause I Sez So

I liked the Dolls’ “comeback” record from a few years ago mostly because I was glad to have them back; this one, I actually dig ‘cuz it’s really damn good. The songs stay true to the bluesy, sleazy and slyly witty template of the original Dolls — the title track and the awesomely titled “Exorcism of Despair” rock out with switchblades drawn — but there’s also a soulfulness and aching introspection in songs like “Temptation to Exist” and “Drowning” that can only come from rock n’ roll lifers who’ve seen a lot of their comrades fall by the wayside. The whole record is a beautiful object lesson in how to grow old gracefully without losing touch with your inner bad-ass.

Behemoth — Evangelion

My favorite black/dark/death metal album of the year, by far. These gauntlet-wearing Polish dudes will pin you to the wall with their rampaging assault, and will make you beg for more of Satan's love. A lot of "Trve Kvlt" fans think Behemoth lost it years ago; I think they just get better with age.

Crippled Black Phoenix — 200 Tons of Bad Luck

This record delivered for me in 2009 what Mogwai’s The Hawk Is Howling delivered last year: A powerful, hypnotic and instantly transporting collection of epic instrumentals that straddle the line between the metallic post-rock of Pelican and the seductive spaciness of prime Pink Floyd. The perfect soundtrack for watching meteor showers.

Wolfmother — Cosmic Egg
While it’s been tempting to view this band of hard-rocking Australian throwbacks as the late-aughts version of the Darkness, their second album completely eradicates any doubts I’d previously had about them. So what if Andrew Stockdale keeps trying to write the perfect Donovan song, but everything ends up sounding like Billy Squier squeezing Robert Plant’s lemons? This is a top-down joyride through an alternate universe where groovy hippie chicks do the quaalude boogaloo with magical dwarves in glitter-flaked earth shoes. It'll sound great in your Camaro…or your Millennium Falcon.

And 25 others I dug that are well worth checking out, but which I didn't feel like spending my Saturday writing about:

Riverboat Gamblers — Underneath the Owl
Lee Fields and the Expressions — My World
Slayer — World Painted Blood
Portugal. The Man — The Satanic Satanist
Anti-Flag — The People or the Gun
The Orange Peels — 2020
Crocodiles — Summer of Hate
Wooden Shjips — Dos
Mariachi El Bronx — Mariachi El Bronx
The Flaming Lips — Embryonic
Naam — Naam
Children — Hard Times Hangin’ At the End of the World
Mulatu Astatke & the Heliocentrics — Inspiration Information
Mayer Hawthorne — A Strange Arrangement
Sunn 0))) — Monoliths and Dimensions
The Cribs — Ignore the Ignorant
Neko Case — Middle Cyclone
The Dead Weather — Horehound
Municipal Waste — Massive Aggressive
Manchester Orchestra — Mean Everything to Nothing
The Pains of Being Pure At Heart — S/T
The Avett Brothers — I And Love And You
Bruce Springsteen — Working On A Dream
The Decemberists — The Hazards of Love
Nile — Those Whom The Gods Detest

Taco Tuesday: Happy Hanukkah

Jay n' I bust out the dreidel and gelt for some hot Festival of Lights action, and talk about new records from We The Kings and 30 Seconds to Mars. Check out our new show intro, too!

"A Soul Hootenanny — Me and the Bee Gees!"

I posted this video on my Facebook page yesterday, but it clearly deserves a re-post — not to mention a few more words of introduction.

As many of you know, I'm a big fan of rock covers by soul artists (almost always preferable to the other way 'round), and I consider Wilson Pickett's version of the Beatles' "Hey Jude" to be one of the greatest recordings by anybody, ever. Much as I love the Beatles, their original resides in the "Paul Songs I Never Need to Hear Again" file, along with "The Long and Winding Road," "Birthday," "Let It Be" and "When I'm 64." I never get tired of the Wicked Pickett's version, though; his impassioned vocal performance and Duane Allman's wild string-bending take the song somewhere far deeper and make it far more cathartic than McCartney could have ever hoped for.

And then there's this clip from an early 70s Midnight Special, which delivers the same soulful charge while adding something deeply bizarre: A duet of sorts between Pickett and Barry Gibb. I can safely say that "Soul Hootenanny" and "Bee Gees" are two phrases that have never even shared the same part of my brain at once, much less been in a sentence I've used, but the Wicked One invites them out for just that, and even steps aside a couple of times to let "Soul Brother" Barry do his thing on "Hey Jude". And while Barry doesn't exactly sound like the second coming of Otis Redding, he still acquits himself fairly admirably; his brothers, however...

Actually, Maurice looks like he's having a great time, and just seems happy to be able to watch the fireworks from such close proximity. Robin, though, is acting like a bored-out-of-his-mind six year-old, twirling in circles and waving his arms like he's pretending to be an airplane until the grown-ups start paying attention to him again. Seriously dude, WTF?!?

Still, the whole thing pretty much rules. And Pickett's backing band — the Midnight Movers — kick mightily. Enjoy!