After
17 years of professional music-reviewing, Noel Murray is taking time off from
all new music, and is revisiting his record collection in alphabetical order,
to take stock of what he's amassed, and consider what he still needs.
There's a
reason why people talk about "sex and dugs and rock 'n' roll" and not, say,
"sex and candy and rock 'n' roll." It's not just that the right drugs in the
right amounts can help unlock some musicians' creativity; it's also that those
compelled to play rock music in public often crave outside-the-mainstream
communal experiences. Even those who don't use drugs can certainly understand
the appeal of being let into a network of suppliers and fellow users, with whom
you can share common jokes and common experiences. Becoming a drug user is a
lot like becoming a musician, in that you enter a special club with its own
store of knowledge and understanding.
Or so I
assume. Because I have a terrible confession to make: My name is Noel Murray,
and I'm not a drug addict. I'll take that even further. I've never really done
drugs at all.
I mean,
if you count alcohol as a drug, then yeah… from roughly age 19 to 25, I spent
at least one night a week getting drunk with my friends. (Though since then
I've mainly been a "one drink with dinner" guy.) I also had one very strange
night of Robitussin abuse back in high school, and three experiences with
marijuana, only one of which actually had any effect on me. (For those who
don't smoke cigarettes, smoking pot ain't easy.) But coke, speed, acid, meth?
If I'd even wanted
to try any of that stuff when I was younger, I wouldn't have known where to go
or who to ask. And I sure don't know now.
I have no
idea whether my situation is common or not. Most of my friends have more drug
experience than I do, though few of them—as near as I can tell—have
used or are using as regularly as the media depicts. For a time there, it
seemed like there was scarcely a TV show or movie that didn't show pot-smoking
as a routine part of middle American life—and that's not even counting
the stoner comedies. Books like Eric Schlosser's Reefer Madness note how aggressively the
government pursues marijuana growers, dealers and smokers, but in the movies,
middle-class couples often smoke pot the way my wife and I pour ourselves a
glass of wine at the end of a long day. Either Hollywood is making too-broad
assumptions about drug use among the mainstream, or a staggeringly large number
of Americans are willing to risk their ass for grass.
Let me be
clear about one thing: I've heard all the arguments for and against legalizing
marijuana, and I definitely come down in favor of legalization. (I'm iffier on
harder drugs, though I support some limited decriminalization.) But if
marijuana were readily available, I wouldn't be any more inclined to partake.
And that makes me be a bad hipster, since the term partly refers to those who
stay au courant with music and drugs. I want pot legalized, but I don't necessarily want
to hang around with anyone who's been smoking it.
The
problem is that the worst advocates for drug use are people who use drugs. For
all the reasoned arguments about smoking marijuana versus drinking alcohol,
when I go to parties where people are drinking beer or wine or cocktails, they
generally don't behave extraordinarily differently than they would in any other
context. But nearly every time I run into a friend who's been smoking pot, I
find them borderline incomprehensible. And pushy. I've met a lot of people who
find out I've had minimal experience with marijuana and immediately they say
they want to get me high. I understand that they're trying to be nice, and I
don't begrudge them for that. But the stigma attached to not being a stoner helps me understand
a little better why some people hate going to arthouse cinemas or independent
record stores, where they might encounter folks with little interest in those
who don't share their values.
The way
the marijuana culture presents itself in the media doesn't do the cause any
favors ether. I remember watching Ron Mann's documentary Grass at SXSW with an audience of
"pot-enthusiastic" Austinites, and while they'd laugh derisively at the footage
from ludicrous anti-marijuana propaganda films, they'd also laugh knowingly at
strikingly similar footage from stoner comedies. There's kind of a double
standard there. When the anti-drug lobby shows how messed-up people get on
dope, it's hysteria. When Cheech & Chong do it, it's hysterical.
When it
comes to music, I appreciate what drugs has done for me, just by virtue of
guiding some musicians I love to visions both beautiful and terrible. But I
also decry what drugs have taken away from me—and not only in terms of
lives lost to overdose or other drug-related fatalities. There are musicians
out there who come to love their drugs more than their art, and soon find that
can't keep it together long enough to record those amazing revelations that
drugs have inspired. And I'm not just talking about heroin or cocaine, either.
I've known quite a few folks who—as my ex-rocker wife puts it—have
their proportion of "getting high time" to "practice time" out of whack. Their
music gets lazier, they lose their edge, and eventually listening to their
records becomes like the equivalent of meeting one of my stoned friends at a
party and trying to make sense of what they're babbling about.
So as
much as I love the idea of rock 'n' roll as a communal experience, there are
some rooms in that commune that I'm just not going enter. And most likely,
there's some music that I'll never fully understand. That's a trade-off I'm
willing to accept, though I admit that there are times—when I'm listening
to an especially out-there jam or dopey joke—that I feel the lack.
*****************
Pieces
Of The Puzzle
John
Coltrane
Years
Of Operation
1946-67
Fits
Between Coleman
Hawkins and Lester Young
Personal
Correspondence
Through a series of happy accidents, my first serious stab at jazz fandom corresponded
with my discovery of John Coltrane, and since I haven't really continued my
jazz education beyond an intense two-year buying spree back in college,
Coltrane remains both my favorite jazz musician and the one I own the most
albums by. (Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk run a close second and third.)
Right around my junior year of college, the record store in the mall where I
worked set up a bin of cut-rate jazz CDs from Blue Note and Atlantic, and on
lunch break I'd head over and pick through it, typically buying one CD a week.
One of the first discs I bought was Coltrane's Giant Steps, primarily because The Jody Grind
used to cover "Mr. PC." (My research methods were unscientific—for the
most part I bought CDs by artists mentioned in the song "Jazz Thing," off the Mo'
Better Blues
soundtrack.) Coltrane hooked me right away, largely because the sound of his
horn—so boldly melodic and loud—was what I'd always imagined jazz should sound like. Whether feeling his way
through a mood piece, stretching out for a more abstract improvisation, or
delivering something compact and jaunty, Coltrane played with a conversational
assurance (and he let pianist McCoy Tyner have his say too, which I
appreciated). He used his horn to describe a wealth of life experiences, from
joy to pride to shame to sorrow to spiritual renewal.
Enduring
presence? For years
I clung to Giant Steps, Coltrane's Sound and Coltrane Plays The Blues as my model for both Coltrane and
jazz in general, and considered his classic A Love Supreme to be the point at which jazz
started to get a little too free for me. But when A Love Supreme was reissued a few years
back—and Ashley Kahn's book about the album was released—I
revisited the record and found it speaking to me in a much clearer voice. At
some point I'm going to return to jazz and try to stretch out beyond the
biggest, most obvious names. But I don't know that I'll ever be able to keep
from comparing everything I hear to Coltrane.
John
Denver
Years
Of Operation
1969-97 (solo)
Fits
Between Dan Fogelberg
and Anne Murray
Personal
Correspondence John
Denver was such a ubiquitous presence on TV in the '70s that I began to think
of him almost as a fictional character, like Kermit The Frog or Jimmy Carter.
Denver was all over the radio too, with openly sentimental, scrubbed-clean
songs about mountains, ranches, romantic love and sunshine. (There were rarely
any clouds in the Denver sky.) The TV version of Denver was always likable and
trustworthy, though his music is so clean and airless that it's been known to
induce mild headaches. His songs are best heard one at a time, so the smooth
warble, lilting melodies and heavily feathered orchestration can be appreciated
as an expression of an ideal. Denver the man is in harmony with the feelings
and places he sung about, and exposure to his pristine take on life and music
can be restorative—though you should probably make sure you stay properly
hydrated.
Enduring
presence? About a
decade ago, Mark Kozelek put together a John Denver tribute album designed to
show how versatile and beautiful Denver's best songs are. And Kozelek is
absolutely right. Songs like "Fly Away," "Calypso," "Matthew" and "Back Home
Again" are absolutely gorgeous and more accomplished than some might give them
credit for. Yet there's also something unreal about them, as though they
dropped from the rafters like so much fake snow. My tolerance for Denver is
roughly equal to my tolerance for reruns of old '70s variety shows. They're all
an important part of my personal pop culture history, but I prefer fleeting
glimpses to long looks.
[pagebreak]
John
Lennon
Years
Of Operation
1970-80 (solo)
Fits
Between Gene
Vincent and Elton John
Personal
Correspondence As a
Beatles fan pretty much since birth, I recognized the significance of John
Lennon's death when it happened; I was 10, and my mom called home from some
event she'd been attending to tell me the news. And yet I wouldn't say I was
devastated back then, because Lennon hadn't been much of a presence as a solo
artist in the years leading up to his murder—not like Paul McCartney,
whom I preferred at the time. I didn't even pick up Double Fantasy until almost a decade after
Lennon's death, although I did buy Milk & Honey when it came out. (I have an
embarrassing memory of sitting next to my stepfather at a mall food court and
opening up the gatefold Milk & Honey cover to see John and Yoko in a naked embrace. I
quickly snapped the album shut, then realized that my stepfather had been
looking over my shoulder, and that pretending the picture was something to be
ashamed of wouldn't come off so well. So I coolly turned the record over and
pretended to be fascinated by the song titles, before finally opening the cover
back up and admiring the picture for a few seconds, like the mature 13-year-old
I was.) Probably the turning point in my Lennon appreciation was checking a
copy of his final Playboy interview—published in paperback—out of my
public library, reading his reminiscences about The Beatles and his solo
career, and starting to see Lennon as confused and flawed in the best possible
ways. I asked my high school English teacher to record Plastic Ono Band for me, on a tape with Van
Morrison's Astral Weeks on the other side, and though my teacher didn't really like either
album—he preferred Imagine and Moondance—he complied, and I had the unforgettable experience
of being shaken up by the concluding one-two punch of "God" and "My Mummy's
Dead" from Plastic Ono Band, and then being healed by "Astral Weeks." These days I find Plastic Ono Band—and
indeed much of John Lennon's solo career—to be almost too awkwardly open.
But I also understand that Lennon was struggling to be true to himself, and
that his attempts to overcome his inhibitions and his cynicism—and to
record the results—are a large part of why he's so beloved.
Enduring
presence? Is Lennon
maybe a teensy bit overrated as a solo artist? I think so. As I wrote in a
review of the Acoustic collection four years ago, "Around the time of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely
Hearts Club Band,
Lennon and McCartney began to diverge, with the former increasingly pursuing
avant-garde expression as a way of purging pain, and the latter getting poppier
and poppier until his facility with hummable hooks became a sort of cheap party
trick. Still, over time, McCartney's methods proved more productive. Lennon
explored his dark places fruitfully on two stellar post-Beatles solo albums (Plastic
Ono Band and Imagine), and then his edge dulled." That
said, even though there's far more Lennon chaff in his solo years than in his
Beatles years, the wheat that's there is pretty impressive. And to fully "get"
Lennon, you have to consume it all.
John
Mellencamp
Years
Of Operation
1976-present
Fits
Between Bob Seger
and Steve Earle
Personal
Correspondence I've
seen John Mellencamp live twice: once at an indoor arena on the Scarecrow tour, when he was still ending each
show with a badass 15-minute medley of garage-rock covers, and once at an
amphitheater on The Lonesome Jubilee tour, when he had a fiddle player and an accordionist to
flesh out his more trad-minded new direction. (Shortly before The Lonesome
Jubilee came out,
my friend Rob had a dream about going to a Mellencamp concert and hearing a
weird set of country-cajun songs that the dream-Mellencamp said were "from my
new album, Boho Bayou." When Rob and I first
listened to Lonesome Jubilee together, after the first couple songs he turned to me and
said, "Damn…it's Boho Bayou!") It's safe to say that I bought the Mellencamp myth in a
big way in the mid-'80s, appreciating how he'd made himself over from the
cartoonish post-Springsteen greaser of "Jack And Diane" and "Ain't Even Done
With The Night" to the socially committed heartland rocker of Uh-Huh and Scarecrow (propelled by the booming sound of
one of the best rock drummers of all time, Kenny Aronoff). The new-model
Mellencamp peaked with 1989's Big Daddy, where he dropped some of the arena-rock polish for
a set of songs with a more rough-hewn, front-porch/practice-space quality. That
album contains some of his best work, steering away from the anthemic and
towards the subtle and complex. But from the '90s on, Mellencamp has been good
for only one or two good songs per record (if that), and he's taken his
socially conscious persona so seriously that he's become increasingly boring.
As much as I like the stretch of albums from Uh-Huh to Big Daddy, I've found in my old age that I
dig Top 40 fodder like "I Need A Lover" and "This Time" just as much. Something
Mellencamp said in an interview in the late '80s sticks with me. After
pontificating about some political or musical subject, Mellencamp deflated
himself, joking, "Then again, I'm the same asshole that wrote 'Hurts So Good.'"
Exactly, John.
Enduring
presence? What
disappoints me most about Mellencamp's decline is that it may have worked
against the enduring reputation of his best records. The other day, in
conjunction with a potential Inventory topic, more than one A.V. Club writer tried to tell me that
"R.O.C.K. In The U.S.A." doesn't rock. Lousy hipsters.
Johnny
Cash
Years
Of Operation
1955-2003
Fits
Between Tex Ritter
and Bob Dylan
Personal
Correspondence Like
John Denver, Johnny Cash was such a part of the American entertainment
landscape when I was growing up that it was hard to distinguish the dumpy,
gravel-voiced figure on talk shows and variety shows (and one memorable Columbo) from the man who recorded timeless
classics like "Walk The Line" and "Ring Of Fire." I started digging deeper into
Cash in high school, beginning with a copy of At Folsom Prison, and Cash has gradually become one
of those performers of whom I'm fully in awe, wowed by his sincerity,
curiosity, decency and passion. In my review last year of The Best Of The
Johnny Cash TV Show 1969-1971 DVD set, I wrote, "He was a consummate entertainer, but
never slick. When Cash stepped in front of the camera to introduce his guest
stars, it was clear he honestly liked them, and between 1969 and 1971, Cash
showcased the likes of Bob Dylan, Carl Perkins, Stevie Wonder, Neil Young, Chet
Atkins, and Eric Clapton. He taped the shows at the Ryman Auditorium in
Nashville, and made each episode like a trip inside his head, through his love
of trains, his compassion for Native Americans, his Christian faith, his
tangled family ties, his memories of old country songs, and every pill he ever
took. Cash never presented himself as a healed man; he was always broken but
trying harder, and he was always inviting others to try along with him."
Enduring
presence? To some
extent, Cash reminds me of my dad, who was also bearish in physique and prone
to tell stories about railroads and old-time country stars. What I like best
about Cash is that even though he had a showman's instinct, I never got the
sense that he was ever singing any less than what he believed was the truth. It
was a complicated truth, but it was as Cash understood it.
Jonathan
Richman & The Modern Lovers
Years
Of Operation
1970-present
Fits
Between The Velvet
Underground and Adam Green
Personal
Correspondence When
I got my first non-business e-mail account in 1999, I experimented with a
number of different quotes in my signature, but within a year, I'd settled on
"don't feel so alone with the radio on," and that's been my sign off ever
since. To me, "Roadrunner" is just about the perfect rock 'n' roll song: It's
got the driving beat, the sing-along lyrics, Richman getting so deep into the
moment that he's practically babbling, and the backing singers coming in to
keep him on track. Plus, it's a song about driving through the suburban night
and blasting rock 'n' roll on the radio, which means it's a song about one of
my Top 10 favorite things to do in life. I would've liked to have picked a
lesser-known Richman song as my sample track, but I just couldn't (although I
did switch it up a little by picking a different take). I'm fine with the turn
towards the goofy and über-boyish that Richman made after the first Modern
Lovers album, and as someone with kids, I can tell you it's nice to have songs
like "I'm A Little Airplane" and "Abominable Snowman In The Market" out there
in the universe. But that first record, The Modern Lovers—with its somewhat darker,
groovier songs about jealousy, loss, and feeling displaced in a world of hippie
decadence—is as resonant as it is fun, and it'll always be my favorite.
Enduring
presence? The story
of Jonathan Richman is the story of the triumph of the amateur, about an eager
young Velvet Underground fan who found a group of musicians willing to back his
quirky, doggedly un-hip songs. He's a hero to anyone with an idiosyncratic
worldview and a love of the simple and tuneful.
Stray
Tracks
From
the fringes of the collection, a few songs to share….
John
Barry, "Midnight Cowboy"
Barry's
had a distinguished career a movie composer, but I don't know that he's ever
topped this note-perfect theme to arguably the most melancholy Best Picture
winner ever. Not only does "Midnight Cowboy" fit alongside the movie's
memorable use of the Fred Neill tune "Everybody's Talkin'" (as sung by Harry Nilsson),
but it also works with the movie's more decadent Village rock music, and it
evokes the Hollywood westerns that Midnight Cowboy subtly debunks. It's a beautiful,
beautiful song.
John
Cale, "Big White Cloud"
I interviewed Cale
four years ago, and found him a gruff but engaging guy, with an
unusual approach to music that balances spontaneity with the deeply
intellectualized. Since leaving The Velvet Underground, Cale's recorded songs
and albums in a variety of styles, hardly limiting himself to VU's dreamy
minimalism. This song, from his 1970 LP Vintage Violence, is typical of his "pastoral
period," though in the context of his '60s work and the edgier turns Cale took
later in the '70s, it's hard to imagine where Cale's head was at when he wrote
and recorded something this sweet and dreamy.
John
Hiatt, "Your Dad Did"
Hiatt's Bring
The Family came out
when I was a senior in high school, just as I was starting to appreciate what I
considered "mature" rock 'n' roll: songs about settling down, pining for home,
coming to grips with parental legacies, whatnot. Prior to the release of that
record, Hiatt had been kind of a cult hero among Nashville singer-songwriter
aficionados. He'd released a slew of records in styles ranging from country to
semi-new wave, and he'd been covered by a line-up of rock and country
heavyweights, but he'd never quite broken out as a solo artist. Bring The
Family brought him
a new level of critical and commercial success—and one massive hit, "Have
A Little Faith In Me"—but since then he's worked his way back down to
"for aficionados only" status. And to be honest, I've come back around on
Hiatt's brand of roots-rock, which I find a little too foursquare and pleased
with itself. That said, this is a fine little song, with a final line that
still moves me. With Father's Day coming up, this one's for all the dads.
[pagebreak]
John
Lee Hooker, "Boogie Chillen"
Hooker
has that "pitch-black night, shack in the swamp" sound that blues musicians and
dilettantes alike have been struggling to evoke for decades. This is the kind
of blues music that I've always liked best: the kind that has the aroma of
smoke and whiskey and sweat and aged wood. If I had an electric guitar and a
tiny amp, I'd probably try to play a song that sounded just like this too.
John
Legend, "Where Did My Baby Go"
I don't
think Legend's yet lived up to his capabilities, but there's a lot I like about
him: his voice, for one, and his connection to multiple musical traditions. Or
maybe I just like him because when I spoke to him for another publication two
years ago, he was a winning interview subject, with a lot to say about growing
up a prodigy, winning a Grammy, studying up on Bacharach, and working with
hip-hop artists. (Note to my AVC editors: Consider a Legend interview when his new album
comes out later this year; you won't be sorry.) Legend's in that class of
musicians who seems to care deeply about learning as much as he can so that he
can improve his craft and his art. He knows what he's doing, and as a listener,
it can be a comfort to be around performers like that.
John
Phillips, "Let It Bleed, Genevieve"
After The
Mamas & The Papas dissolved, Phillips threw himself body and soul into that
Topanga Canyon "Cosmic Americana" sound, writing folk-influenced songs drawing
on country, Dixieland and cabaret. This song, from the weirdly wonderful John,
The Wolf King Of L.A.,
combines the sounds of an earlier time with a character sketch so personal that
you'd almost have to be Phillips to completely grasp what he's singing about.
John
Waite, "Missing You"
I'm not
sure what to make of Waite's career arc, which led him from power-pop favorites
The Babys to arena-rock pluggers Bad English, with a brief stopover as a
straightforward '80s pop icon. Waite's one of those "have voice, will travel"
guys, willing to let himself be molded by industry players with persuasive
financial portfolios. Whatever his motivations, "Missing You" is still fine Top
40 fare, co-written and co-produced by Waite, and memorably performed.
Johnnie
Ray, "Cry"
Speaking
of classic pop songs, here's one from 1951, in the immediate pre-rock era. Ray
recorded a number of winning pop tunes in the '50s, all sung in that big,
slightly untamed voice. But he made his first and strongest impression with
"Cry," an invitation to emotional release that holds listeners in its spell
from the moment Ray starts singing to the moment he gives us permission to
bawl.
Johnny
Irion, "Short Leash"
Writing
about Irion's album Ex Tempore last year, I said, "The vocal and stylistic similarities
between Johnny Irion and Neil Young circa Harvest might be hard for some listeners to
get over, but it would be a mistake to think of Irion's album as a slavish
copy, or even an homage. It's a wholly original set of songs, recorded in an
early-'70s country-rock style, emphasizing live, collaborative performance with
subtle orchestral overlays. Granted, Irion isn't as direct a songwriter as
Young, but he does put a personal stamp on Ex Tempore, which is full of songs about
mistakes catching up to people and dreams slipping away. 'Ex tempore' is a
legal term, describing an immediate judgment, delivered 'at the time.' The
title describes the theme of the record, in which the music hovers in the air
like a past not quite left behind." This song exemplifies what I was trying to
say. It's retro-leaning and deeply yearning, and seems to pass a judgment on
Irion's musical and personal preoccupations.
Johnny
Mathis, "Chances Are"
When I
was a kid there used to be a commercial on late night TV for one of those
"music of your life"-type treasuries, which was my first exposure to a lot of
pre-rock pop music. The songs were presented in a blitz of short snippets in
order to fit as much as possible into a minute, so for years I couldn't think
of "Chances Are" without imagining the rest of the commercial. ("Chances
aaaaare / He'll have to go / Just a-walkin' in the raaaain / Only yoooooou.") I
also grew up with during the nostalgia booms of the '70s and '80s—American
Graffiti, Happy
Days, Diner, The Stray Cats, etc.—so
before I'd even heard a note of Mathis' music, I was aware of him as the
soundtrack to '50s make-out sessions. Listening to this swoonily romantic
standard, I can understand why that was. One minute in and I'm ready to start
necking.
Johnny
Pearson, "Superstars"
Oh boy,
it's Saturday afternoon in 1975! Who will win the swimming competition? Which
baseball player is the best bowler? Will Kyle Rote Jr. be on this episode?
Let's watch!
Johnny
Thunders, "Great Big Kiss"
In some
ways, Thunders and most of the other proto-punks were rock classicists,
striving to bring their favorite music back to its raw roots, while still
writing fully formed songs with memorable verses, choruses and bridges.
Sometimes the results came out sloppy because that was the best they could do,
and sometimes sloppiness was part of the concept. In Thunders case, he was
frequently trying to take listeners inside his head, where they'd find a jumble
of staticky AM radio broadcasts and primal need.
Johnny
Williams, "Breaking Point"
Johnson,
Hawkins, Tatum & Burr, “You Can’t Blame Me”
Here's a
pair of winners from the Eccentric Soul series, taking two different approaches
to R&B;, each thrilling in their own way. Williams is in the James Brown
mold, aiming for frenzy. JHT&B;, on the other hand, are much cooler in
style, but not necessarily more laid back. They've got a lament to share, and
they've chosen to contrast desperation with music that's smooth and
insinuating. Both songs, in their way, are about making excuses for what
happens when a man gets pushed too far by the object of his desire.
Jon
Auer, "You Used To Drive Me Around"
Most of
Posies co-founder Jon Auer's 2006 solo album Songs From The Year Of Our
Demise is
serviceable but undistinguished indie-pop, lightly orchestrated and quickly
forgettable. This song though—a dreamy seven-minute reminiscence that
advances and retreats with sublime purpse—is one of those that makes it
worth slogging through disc after disc of just-okay music. Every now and then,
while punching past songs that few are likely to care about decades hence, I
find a song that I wish more people could hear, before it gets buried for good.
Today I give "You Used To Drive Me Around" what might be its last chance to
find an audience.
Jon
Brion, "Phone Call"
I once
described Jon Brion's approach to songwriting and production as the "life's a
goddamn carnival" method, though this snippet from his lovely Eternal
Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind soundtrack shows that he has some other weapons in his
arsenal. I'm an admirer of Brion's, though from what I've read about him, I'd
probably appreciate him more if I could see one of his free-ranging live shows
at Largo in L.A. I always get the sense with Brion that there's so much more
that he knows and could share with us, if only he had the time and inclination.
Maybe someday.
Jonathan
Hoffman, "Guess I'll Have To Write My Own"
It's been
a few weeks since I asked you to endure one of the excruciatingly bad
singer-songwriter anthems that used to fill my mailbox. This one is typical of
the "things aren't what they used to be, but hey, at least I'm still here"
genre, and it raises a lot of questions. Like, why is Hoffman lamenting the
death of rock 'n' roll in a coffeehouse folk song? And what exactly is his beef
with these hip-hoppers and their newfangled "music?" And does he really think
that this song is the new classic the world has been waiting for?
Regrettably
unremarked upon: John
Doe, John Fahey, John Vanderslice, John Wesley Harding, John Williams, Johnnie
Taylor, Johnny Dowd, Johnny Mercer, Johnny Nash, Jon Langford and Jon Rauhouse
Also
listened to: Joe
Marc's Brother, Joel Gibb, Joel RL Phelps & The Downer
Trio, Joey Jefferson Band, Joey Ramone, The Joggers, John Austin, John Brannen, John Brown's, John Bustine, John Danley, John Davis,
BodyJohn,
DufhiloJohn Flynn, John Francis, John Gorky,
John Gregory & His Orchestra, John LaMonica, John Maus, John Mayer, John, John McEntire, John Parish, John Ralston, John Scofield
McCutcheon
Trio, John T. Baker, John Wilkes Booze, John's Children,
Johnatan Rice, Johnnie Osbourne, Johnny Adams, Johnny Bragg, The Johnny
Burnette Trio, Johnny Bush, Johnny Dollar, Johnny Jones & The King Casuals,
Johnny Kidd & The Pirates, Johnny Maddox, Johnny Marr & The, Johnny Morisette, Johnny Osbourne, The Johnny Otis Show,
Healers
Johnny Pate & Adam Wade, Johnny Society, Johnny Soul,
Johnossi, The Johnson Mountain Boys, Johnson Sisters, Jolie Holland, Jon Cutler, Jon Dee, Jon Lucien, Jon Rauhouse and
GrahamJon T. Howard
Next
week: From Joni Mitchell to Kate Bush, plus a few words on gender