Popless Week 41: Après Rock, Le Désordre

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.

It's been said that if you
truly want to measure a chef's skill, you should order up a plate of mashed
potatoes. Not fancy, truffle-and-garlic potatoes either, but plain potatoes,
cooked with water, salt, and a little dairy. Or ask the chef to roast a
chicken. Or to make a cheese omelet. Whatever the example, the idea is the
same: The best chefs master the simple skills, and then build from there.

I try to think about this
whenever I'm inclined to complain that a piece of music—or a movie, or a
TV show—is "too conventional." Popular culture thrives on novelty, which
means we pop culture commentators are constantly looking for what's next,
because there's more glory in discovery than there is in merely appreciating
what's already been done. Seen from the perspective of the creator though, it
can be just as difficult to write a simple, memorable pop song (or to tell a
joke with a punchline, or to craft a page-turning mystery) as it is to break
new ground. The true, genius-level adventurers in any artform often create work
that's more staggering and influential than the everyday craftsmen—I'll
grant that. But there's a lot of hit-and-miss to the avant-garde too, and often
the explorers get a free pass because they're making discoveries that even they don't fully understand. It can take years before
these artists and their patrons
realize that the ground they're plowing really isn't all that fertile.

I don't say this to set
myself up as some kind of champion of the plain and hater of the daring. I
confess that I'm little more than a curious dabbler, but I like a lot of
abstract art, experimental film and progressive music. I just don't happen to
think that any of them are inherently superior to the more formulaic versions
of their art. They're all just forms—not necessarily "higher" or
"lower"—and they succeed and fail on their own merits.

Towards the end of the '90s,
the term "post-rock" came into heavy critical usage, initially as a way of
describing a spate of bands who had started forgoing traditional rock song
structures in favor of disjointed, textured, mostly instrumental jams. As the
label became more familiar, its definition expanded, reaching beyond the
Tortoises and Mogwais of the world to include any band that mixed up rhythms or
combined genres in a novel way. Personally, I never cared for the term, and not
just because it was bandied about so loosely. I didn't like what "post-rock"
implied: that rock was decrepit, and due to be superseded by a new paradigm.
The bands that bore the post-rock stamp largely earned the tag by performing
alchemical experiments with genres and instruments (e.g. merging cocktail with
No Wave). What's more "rock" than that? What was Elvis, if not the shotgun
marriage of Bill Monroe and Arthur Crudup?

The problem is that no one
really knows what "rock" means anymore—least of all The Rock 'N' Roll
Hall Of Fame—and without an understanding of what rock is, it's hard to
say when it's over. My feeling is that rock is merely an extension of the
popular music that has been with us since we first learned to whistle. We've
always gathered together to sing catchy tunes; only the presentation has
changed to reflect the pace and timbre of the times. With jet engines and atomic-bomb
blasts ringing in our ears, our music naturally got louder and faster.

In that sense, what we called
"post-rock" was a reflection of its own time. Following our multiplexing
culture, which has splintered into a hundred cable channels, 30 radio formats,
and a magazine for every taste, popular music had no choice but to expand
vertically. To attract increasingly disparate tastes, musicians drew not just
from different genres but also from underexploited sounds. If that meant
replacing a guitar solo with chanting Tibetan monks, so be it. The idea was to
be open to what was in the air: in commercials, in film scores, and in the
staticky noise from a boombox around the corner. The future of popular music
seemed to be in fragmentation, and in the people who could translate those
fragments into hummable melodies. (So rock would go on, after rock was gone.)

But while the post-rock
movement started with promise, eventually it became tedious and (ironically
enough) formulaic, as seemingly every college kid with a well-worn copy of
Slint's Spiderland and a few music
theory classes under their belts began disappearing into their basements to
record murky 10-minute instrumentals. Their guiding principle? To maximize
randomness and minimize melody, creating the sound of music destroying itself,
with no backbeat for comfort.

On the flipside of post-rock
is roots-rock, which relies on classically structured songwriting and simple
instrumentation. Good roots-rockers typically get praised for coming up with a
few catchy melodies, a handful of hearty guitar riffs, and consistently vivid
lyrics: all traits which can take some time to penetrate. But freeform
instrumental music can be equally tough to judge, since the human voice
provides an element of expression that puts songs in context—even when
that voice isn't saying anything comprehensible.

As I said, I don't have any
automatic objection to one form or the other. I get dreadfully bored by one
lone guy or gal with a guitar, singing a nondescript song; and I'm just as put
out by music that rumbles and rambles and doesn't seem to have real reason to
be. As to which I prefer? Well,
it's hard to pick one without seeming to denigrate the other, but I do
sometimes wonder whether the musicians who are the best at venturing into the
abstract have the skill set necessary to record a song as simple and catchy as
They Might Be Giants' "Don't Let's Start." I'm not saying they need to. I'm just saying that while I admire a person who
can create an electric fan so unusual and original that it makes me see fans in
a whole new way, there's also a lot to be said an electric fan that works when
I switch it on, and generates a refreshing breeze.

*****************

Pieces Of The Puzzle

They Might Be Giants

Years Of Operation 1982-present

Fits Between Brave Combo and The Jazz Butcher

Personal Correspondence I first read about They Might Be Giants in Spin magazine, in an article that made the duo sound
stranger than they turned out to be. (This happened often with Spin and me in the mid-'80s.) I later heard "Put Your
Hands Inside The Puppet Head" and "Don't Let's Start" a few times on college
radio, and then a friend loaned me a tape with They Might Be Giants on one side and The Pogues' Rum, Sodomy & The
Lash on the other. (A strange
combination, but a sublime one.) Because of my Spin-stoked expectations, I was initially put off by
TMBG's eccentric songs about rabid children and a "boat of car," but I
ultimately couldn't resist the bouncy melodies and clever wordplay. I became a
fan, and bought Lincoln the day it
came out—during my first few weeks at college—and though it was
initially a letdown, I came to appreciate the darker places John Linnell and
John Flansburgh were willing to explore in between all the quasi-novelty tunes.
I saw the band live at UGA the following year, and started to understand them
better in the context of their physical presence: at once confident and geeky.
Afterward, Flansburgh hung around outside the performance space (a
ball/banquet/conference room in the basement of the UGA student center),
selling and signing merch. A female friend of mine was too nervous to ask for
an autograph, so when I told Flansburgh the name I wanted him to sign the album
to, he gave me a funny look, and then related an anecdote about a male parking
garage attendant named Connie that he once worked for. (I can still hear
Flansburgh's voice barking, "My name's Connie… like a girl!") I've seen the band live a few times since, and have
continued to buy their records—even the kids' ones, which my own children
love. They Might Be Giants aren't as sharp as they once were, and they
sometimes fall back on cutesiness where they used to strive for something a
little wrigglier, but I still think they're more profound than they get credit
for. For all the sing-song educational tunes and deadpan absurdity, They Might
Be Giants have also spiked their music with sharp comments on the dangers of
conformity, the silly continuity of pop-culture history, and the
hard-to-articulate feelings of unease that make human interaction difficult.

Enduring presence? Though They Might Be Giants' most devoted fans can be
a little overbearing, the two Johns themselves are genial, unpretentious guys.
Nevertheless, they were clever enough to curry favor with the mid-'80s Village
art-crowd, and thereby gain access to the entertainment press and to
career-boosting appearances on MTV and Late Night With David Letterman. And they've remained committed enough to keep
pumping out songs, continuing to balance Linnell's bright-but-quiet personality
and Flansburgh's hardworking stuntman vibe. There's a lot of fear and anxiety
underlying the Johns' lyrics, but I don't think their happy melodies and jaunty
tempos are solely intended to add irony. More than anything, they just make
people feel good.

Thomas Dolby

Years Of Operation 1981-present (sort of)

Fits Between Howard Jones and Robyn Hitchcock

Personal Correspondence I appended The Golden Age Of Wireless to my first Columbia Record & Tape Club order
pretty much as an afterthought, and it unexpectedly became my favorite album in
that first dozen. It's such a rich, witty record, full of pretty melodies,
strange stories, and a mix of electronics that sounds warmer and more varied
than the era's cold, minimalist dance music. I liked the 1984 follow-up The
Flat Earth even more—at the
time anyway—appreciating the way it moved beyond technopop, using more
acoustic instruments to stretch songs into sprawling, impressionistic epics
that touch on jazz and funk. I can't say as much for Dolby's output since '84,
though I think it's too limiting to think of him solely in terms of his solo
work. As a session musician, Dolby added synthesizers to Def Leppard's Pyromania and Foreigner's 4, two megahit albums that crossed hard-rock and pop,
using keyboards to provide shade and color. As a producer, Dolby created the
wiggy sonic environment of Whodini's seminal rap hit "Magic's Wand" (which he
also wrote) and the subtle soundscapes of Prefab Sprout's soft-pop masterpieces Steve McQueen and Jordan: The
Comeback. He also produced Joni
Mitchell and George Clinton, and has backed Robyn Hitchcock, Roger Waters, Joan
Armatrading, and Malcolm McLaren, among others. He's a visionary, really,
dedicated to the tactile qualities of sound and the elastic concept of "pop."
And he's an underrated lyricist, whose catalog is peppered with songs about
locating the human qualities within the technology we create. If I had to pick
one '80s one-hit wonder who deserves to be remembered for more than just a
fluke novelty single, Dolby would be my guy.

Enduring presence? I pitched an
interview with Dolby to my A.V. Club overlords for a special technology issue, mainly
because I was looking for any excuse to chat with a personal hero. And Dolby
did not disappoint. We talked about his varied musical career, and where it
ultimately led him. Most of Dolby's time since the mid-'90s has been taken up with
his successful tech businesses. Dolby founded Headspace—later renamed
Beatnik—and developed sound engines for websites and video games, as well
as better-sounding ringtones for cellular phones. As I wrote in my intro to the
interview—some of which I've cribbed for this Popless entry—Dolby's
current occupation is an extension of his lifelong interest in making the
artificial sound natural.

[pagebreak]

Throwing Muses

Years Of Operation 1981-present (off and on)

Fits Between Blake Babies and Sleater-Kinney

Personal Correspondence Outside of local bands, Springsteen, and the
SST/Twin-Tone axis, the contemporary bands that meant the most to me in high
school were all British. That started to change when a friend loaned me the 4AD
compilation Lonely Is An Eyesore,
which contained all the label's best-known "pretty, sad" acts, like Cocteau
Twins, Dead Can Dance and This Mortal Coil, as well as a band I'd never heard
of before: Throwing Muses, performing a song called "Fish." Set against the gothic
chime and wan resign of the 4AD regulars, "Fish" sounded like someone swearing
in church. On a superficial level, Throwing Muses were a lot like their
labelmates—relying on trilling female vocals, abstract melodies, and a
sonic palette of glinting metallic gray—but the martial beat, grinding
guitars, and untrained yelp of Kristin Hersh all struck me as much brasher than
a lot of the similar music I'd been listening to. When I picked up House
Tornado and Throwing Muses'
self-titled debut album, it confirmed my initial impression. The band's early
work mostly consisted of Hersh delivering near-tuneless harangues cribbed from
her journals, but there was something appealingly reckless about it all; at the
least, Hersh sounded like someone you shouldn't mess with. By the end of the
'80s, Throwing Muses started working towards a smoother, hookier, but no less
expressive sound—a process that culminated in 1991's marvelous The
Real Ramona, which had Hersh and her
step-sister Tanya Donnelly stringing together fetching fragments of hummable
pop with confidence and color. I saw the band live on the Ramona tour, but since Hersh was about seven months pregnant
at the time, they played a very short set. It was a strong set though, and there was something sweet and even
appropriate about Hersh's physical condition that night. The Throwing Muses
that first shook me out of my Brit-addicted torpor were young, angry, untrained
and very American. The one that recorded one of my favorite albums of the '90s
was maturing, mellowing, and becoming more cosmopolitan. Some might call that
shift a shame, but I've always liked a band you can hear grow up before your
ears.

Enduring presence? Unfortunately, after Tanya Donelly left to form the
even more radio-friendly Belly, Throwing Muses entered a dark decade, releasing
the occasional strident LP between Hersh's introspective, space-folk solo
records. Hersh has spent much of the last decade exploring distant variations
on the sound she once defined, abandoning loud, skittering guitar-pop for folk
and slicked-up MOR. Some of the music that Hersh has been involved with post-Ramona has been quite good, but too much of it has felt
self-conscious, as though she were trying to convince her fans (or herself) of
something we all once understood implicitly.

Todd Rundgren

Years Of Operation 1970-present (solo)

Fits Between The Nazz and Utopia

Personal Correspondence About a year before we started dating, my future wife
invited me and a small handful of our mutual friends over to her apartment for
her famous homemade fajitas (which she never makes anymore, by the way), and in
the time-honored pop-culture-snob tradition, I found a moment to peruse her CD
collection. What I didn't know at the time was that a large portion of Donna's
music was on cassette and vinyl, so I was befuddled by what I found in her CD
rack: a Robert Johnson box set, Tom Petty's Full Moon Fever, Robert Palmer's Clues, and every Todd Rundgren album ever made. And that
was it. (Who was this woman?) Back
then, all I knew about Rundgren was his novelty hit "Bang The Drum All Day,"
and that Something/Anything? was
often listed towards the bottom of lists of the greatest rock albums of all
time. (Which is probably why I hadn't gotten around to hearing it yet… I hadn't
worked my way that far down the list.) In the years to come, I had a lot more
music to share with my wife than she had with me, but early in our dating
phase, she brought me up to speed on Rundgren, first by dropping a song or two
on mix tapes, and then by making me a 90-minute compilation of her favorite
songs. It took a while for me to get into Rundgren, frankly. He may have made
his a reputation as a studio wizard, but as a songwriter Rundgren has always
leaned toward ham-fisted social commentary and self-examination, often
delivered in the form of dreamy ballads. He's recorded a lot of adventurous,
even groundbreaking albums, and he's established a public persona as a
longhaired mad genius, and yet Rundgren's actual music is often aggressively uncool. He's like one of those sci-fi/RPG geeks who's
cultivated a sense of personal style and has become the alpha geek of his
tribe, yet is still out of place among regular folk. Then again, a lot of my
closest friends are exactly those kinds of geeks, so over time I've developed a
sense of affection and even protectiveness towards Rundgren. It helped that I
began to hear in albums like Hermit Of Mink Hollow and The Ever Popular Tortured Artist Effect the sound of the true '80s pop—simple, buzzy,
open—from those few glorious years before Trevor Horn, Arthur Baker and
Mutt Lange screwed everything up.

Enduring presence? I wonder how many people today watch That '70s
Show in syndication and are
confounded by the gang's extraordinary efforts to make it to a Todd Rundgren
concert in the pilot. Outside of getting mocked by Stephen Colbert for
participating in The Cars' reunion, and being name-checked in one of my
favorite 30 Rock jokes of all
time, Rundgren hasn't really remained part of the big rock history picture.
(Well, maybe the big picture; but
not the wallet-size.) And yet one of the reasons I was really taken with That
'70s Show when it first aired was the
specificity of that pilot plot. Anyone could've gone to see KISS or Peter
Frampton, but finding out Eric Forman was a Rundgren fan told me a lot more
about him.

Tom Petty

Years Of Operation 1971-present

Fits Between Roger McGuinn and Bob Seger

Personal Correspondence One of the things I love about writing for The
A.V. Club is that when I pitch an
idea like an
inventory of Tom Petty's best opening lines, my editor doesn't balk,
he says, "Go for it." I've been a diehard Petty fan since the spring of '85,
when Southern Accents came out.
Impressed by "Don't Come Around Here No More," and intrigued by the articles
I'd been reading about Petty's long struggle to finish that record—which
was originally intended as a double-album that would grapple with southern
music and the southern legacy—I jumped when I found a used cassette about
a week or two after Southern Accents'
street date. I was spending the afternoon at my stepfather's office, around the
corner from the used record store, so I listened to Southern Accents right away, and was so disappointed by the glossy
sound and curtailed ambition that I brought it back to the store within the
hour, demanding my money back. Lucky for me, they laughed me off, and I was
forced to live with the record a little longer. Southern Accents isn't as great as it could've been—and it's
probably only my fifth-favorite Tom Petty album—but returning over and
over to that album over the summer taught me to be patient with Petty, and to
realize that he was never going to be cutting-edge. Petty's doggedly
anti-innovative style is only as good as his songs, and a lot of his albums are
ridden with tepidly performed, underwritten filler—obvious and hoary.
(Petty's working method seems to be to pick a key and some chords, then call up
the band.) But he keeps on plugging, and when Petty dreams up a good melody and
heartfelt lyric, he can make rock 'n' roll sound like the only music worth
making—and worth hearing.

Enduring presence? When I reviewed Highway Companion recently, I wrote, "Tom Petty's recording career has
been a persistent curiosity, because while he's imminently capable of putting
together a classic album, he's rarely actually done it. Petty's stayed more in
the 'singles and filler' album-making mode, only occasionally popping out a Damn
The Torpedoes, Full Moon Fever, or Wildflowers." I later added that, "Highway Companion is bathed in a headlight glow, and has the loping
pace and casual melodicism of a man humming to himself. It's an extended salute
to killing time, telling stories, swapping jokes and singing along to the
radio." That about sums up Petty's appeal to me.

Tom Waits

Years Of Operation 1971-present

Fits Between Hoagy Carmichael and Captain Beefheart

Personal Correspondence As a dedicated watcher of Late Night With David
Letterman in the '80s, I had ample
exposure to Tom Waits, one of Dave's frequent guests in an era where he was
building up a regular, rotating cast of weirdoes and bon vivants. I believe the
first time I saw Waits on the show he performed the spoken-word piece "Frank's
Wild Years," which I thought was so hilarious that I tracked down a used copy
of Swordfishtrombones and… well,
it wasn't what I expected, I'll tell you that. I was about 15 at the time, and
had no frame of reference for the guttural clank of "Underground" or the
cabaret balladry of "Town With No Cheer." But I found something about the
record compelling—it was offbeat, but hardly unlistenable—so I kept
returning to it, fascinated by Waits' two dominant modes. He'd be the bluesy
junkyard dog of "16 Shells From A Thirty-Ought Six" one moment, and then the
sappy sketch artist of "Johnsburg, Illinois" the next. Later I'd learn about
Waits' ascendancy through the L.A. neo-boho movement, and how Swordfishtrombones represented a new phase in his career, away from the
at-times cartoonish beatnik persona he cultivated in the '70s and towards
something more like primitivist art. I became something of a Waits obsessive in
the '80s, watching Big Time and Down
By Law and Fernwood 2 Night, and listening to Rain Dogs on a loop during my freshman year of college. But I
don't think I'll ever recapture the feeling of exploring Swordfishtrombones without a map at age 15, and finding dark alleys and
exotic aromas at every turn

Enduring presence? To be honest though, I haven't always kept up with
Waits as diligently as I should. My friend Jim once said that Waits has the
irritating habit of coming up with achingly beautiful melodies and tender
lyrics and then bellowing them through a megaphone in a Tasmanian Devil voice,
as though he didn't trust his listeners to be left alone with mere sentiment.
Because of that impulse, I often find Waits frustrating, even though each time
he puts a new album out he leaves us with a half-dozen or so new classics to
consider. Having pioneered The Tom Waits Sound, I'd like to see him try
something else occasionally, like recording an album of songs without all the
filters. Maybe his creative process would suffer if he went in that direction;
I don't know. But it would be a worthy challenge for one of the best American
songwriters who ever lived.

A Tribe Called Quest

Years Of Operation 1988-98 (essentially)

Fits Between Jungle Brothers and Gang Starr

Personal Correspondence Given my roommates' and my flowering jazz
appreciation towards the end of our college years, we fell hard for A Tribe
Called Quest's The Low End Theory,
which worked jazz into hip-hop without turning the sound into a mere gimmick. The
Low End Theory's songs don't just
sample jazz; they come from a jazzy place, exploring improvisation and
collaboration in the context of flexible rhythmic structures. I think the
albums that followed Low End are
underrated—especially Beats, Rhymes And Life, which has an angry urgency that still
impresses—but it's awfully hard for anyone to top a stone cold classic,
and A Tribe Called Quest's career ironically suffered because early on, they
got it exactly right.

Enduring presence? One of the things I like best about ATCQ is that
their brand of hip-hop self-mythology isn't about making themselves sound
dangerous or heroic, but about connecting the men they are now to the boys they
were growing up. In a song like Low End Theory's "Check The Rhime," they rap about their boyhood
neighborhood like it's some famous spot. And of course it is: famous to Q-Tip
and Phife, and now to all the people who love their music.

[pagebreak]

Stray Tracks

From the fringes of the collection, a few songs to share….

Thin Lizzy, "Southbound"

The Thrills, "One Horse Town"

I'm a latecomer to Thin
Lizzy, since they weren't really part of the classic rock canon back when I was
studying it closely. (Aside from "The Boys Are Back In Town," of course… but
even that was looked on by the guides as a dopey Springsteen/Seeger rip-off.)
Like a lot of '70s rockers who were ignored by the major critics of their day,
Thin Lizzy had their rep restored by pockets of influential fans, who built on
Phil Lynott's Irish take on American guitar boogie in unexpected ways. I'm
still working my way through the thick midsection of the Thin Lizzy catalog,
and struggling at times to distinguish one sprawling tale of misspent youth
from another, but while I can't listen to a lot of Thin Lizzy in a single
sitting, they're one of the best "shuffle" bands I know. They make any mix
better. I feel much the same about another Americana-infatuated Irish act, The
Thrills, who write the kinds of songs that freeze casual listeners, then send
them scrambling for the CD case to note the title. The problem with The Thrills
is that their music rewards those casual listeners more than those who pay
close attention. Their records are overstuffed with sonic dazzle, with plucking
banjo, background vocal "ooh"s and instantly memorable lines goosing every
track. They try so hard to impress that they come off as pushy. (I call it "The
Marah Effect.") But for any given four minutes, you can't beat the little
surges of emotion The Thrills generate.

Thompson Twins, "Lies"

As entertaining and
well-constructed a pop album as Thompson Twin's breakthrough album Into The
Gap is, it can't hold a candle to its
predecessor Quick Step And Side Kick,
which is about as wonderfully shiny and disposable an LP as the early '80s UK
technopop movement produced. I know that for people who followed Thompson Twins
from the beginning—when they were artsier and more politically
engaged—the giggly fun of everything from Quick Step onward is a waste. But I still marvel at the gall of
it all, expressed in such whimsical moments as the little Asian and Egyptian
synth cues that come up in this song whenever bandleader Tom Bailey mentions a
foreign clime. It's so goofy; it's terrific.

Three Dog Night, "Liar"

The ubiquity of Three Dog Night's radio presence in the '70s
wasn't really driven home to me until I heard Albert Brooks' stand-up routine
"Memoirs Of An Opening Act," where he riffs on how huge some bands had gotten
in the '70s, and mentions Three Dog Night as being so big that they no longer
play arenas, they only play states. ("Appearing in Kentucky! Three Dog Night!")
It's kind of absurd that a band as plain as Three Dog Night became such a
phenomenon, but it got me thinking: Who's the Three Dog Night of today? Who's
the act that keeps cranking out decent, no-big-deal hits year after year, and
sells out stadiums even though almost nobody would claim themselves to be a rabid
fan? Anyone? Or are those days gone?

Thunderclap Newman, "Something In The Air"

This song has become a lot
more omnipresent over the past few years, following its use in Almost Famous, but for a long time it was a song I'd read about more
than I'd heard. (It often popped up as a footnote in articles about Pete
Townshend, who put Thunderclap Newman together and served as their producer and
occasional bassist.) Lately, "Something In The Air" has started to become a
shorthand music cue for "those wild old hippie days," joining "For What It's
Worth," "Get Together," "White Rabbit" and "Bad Moon Rising." And just like all
those songs, "Something In The Air" is more interesting musically than the 30
seconds or so that end up in commercials and on movie soundtracks. Dig that
Beatlesque rhythm section, for example; and that weird barrelhouse break. It's
not exactly a revolution, but it does feel right.

Tim Buckley, "Happy Time"

Tim Hardin, "Black Sheep Boy"

Tom Rush, "No Regrets"

Towards the end of the '60s,
the west coast and east coast folk scenes both moved beyond their roots in
storytelling and protest and began following Bob Dylan into the realm of
self-examination and songs about strained romance, set to arrangements open
enough to allow the fine shading of percussion, brass and woodwinds. Thanks to
his poor, doomed son Jeff, Tim Buckley is probably the best known of this trio
now, but all three float around in the same atmosphere. In fact, three of the
four—all but Hardin—recorded for Elektra, which for a time became
the home of this kind of dreamy acoustic music, carried as much by strong
vocals as by lyrics. I wasn't aware of Rush until I got Elektra's Forever
Changing box set, and Hardin I've
known more by reputation than his music. But this is a sound and an era I want
to explore more next year.

Tim Easton, "John
Gilmartin"

Todd Snider, "The Ballad Of The Kingsmen"

Moving from the folk-rock of the late '60s to the early '00s
version, here are two country-inflected troubadours who work in an earthier
vein than the spiritual travelers of the Elektra era. Todd Snider's fairly
well-known, having scored a few minor radio hits and having won favor with the
college crowd for plainspoken story-songs like this brief history of "Louie
Louie" (and the garage-rock subversion it spawned). Easton's a little more
obscure, though he's a west coast staple entrenched enough to coerce star
studio rats like Jim Keltner and Mike Campbell to appear on his records.
Easton's gruff disposition lends credibility to a sweetly tear-jerking
character sketch like "John Gilmartin," about an injured workingman who drinks
away his workman's comp. Easton's voice alone generates the appropriate
spooked, honesty-at-the-end-of-a-long-dark-night mood.

Timebox, "Gone Is The Sad
Man"

The Times, "I Helped Patrick McGoohan Escape"

Here's one song from Nuggets (the UK edition) followed by one from Children Of
Nuggets, the latter of which
demonstrates the persistence of lightly psychedelic pop-rock with regional
accents. Of course the Timebox song is of the era that The Times are paying homage too, which necessarily
diminishes the latter. But The Times song has a delightfully goofy air, with
its references to The Prisoner and
its pleasurable retro kick.

Tindersticks, "Can We Start Again?"

Finding a comfortable spot
between Nick Cave, Belle & Sebastian, Lambchop and Leonard Cohen,
Tindersticks help make the case for somberness as its own sub-genre, nested
within the larger kingdom of smart dudes with guitars. This song manages the
weird trick of being uptempo and yet terribly, terribly sad.

Tobias Fröberg, "God's Highway"

Tom Brosseau, "Plaid Lined Jacket"

Fröberg's a wispy Swede-popper beholden to Simon &
Garfunkel, while Brosseau's an American neo-folkie whose high, fragile voice
and casual acoustic picking recalls the hushed drama of Tim and Jeff Buckley.
As a songwriter and vocalist, Brosseau has matured greatly over his last few
records, and years of touring have taught him to hold a room spellbound. He's
still one brilliant arranger away from recording a masterpiece, but his work's
collective mood of winsomeness and sorrow brings new meaning to the word
"homesick." Meanwhile, Fröberg floats out songs that, in a slightly different
context, could pass for "beautiful music," given the way their melodies and
lyrics follow models of classicism and romanticism. But with just enough lo-fi
scuff, they sound more beguilingly elusive, like half-remembered dreams of
times past. Fröberg's great gift is the way he can marry his breathy voice to
his delicate guitar, add a little unexpected sonic texture, and come with
something that holds together, as a song and as an environment. His best song
(so far) is "God's Highway," which nods to Simon & Garfunkel's "April Come
She Will," then heads toward the oddly spiritual, fully musical place where Fröberg
likes to live

Tom Tom Club, "Genius Of Love"

I know everyone's heard this
song—either in its original form or sampled—so often that it's
practically imprinted on our collective DNA, but it's a track I haven't tired
of since I first heard it in sixth grade, when me and my classmates all called
it "James Brown." It took about another 10 years for me to pick up on all the
references that Tina Weymouth and Chris Franz drop here (Bootsy Collins, Sly
& Robbie, Kurtis Blow, etc.), but even once I put it all together, I still
appreciated that the song is more than mere homage. Franz and Weymouth
internalized dub, George Clinton and Grandmaster Flash and reinterpreted all of
it in the language of Talking Heads.

[pagebreak]

Tommy James & The Shondells, "Mirage"

Tommy Roe, "The Folk Singer"

Reading off the tracklist for
a Tommy James anthology is one "Wow, he did that song?" moment after another. From "I Think We're
Alone Now" to "Crystal Blue Persuasion" to "Mony Mony" to "Crimson And Clover,"
James pumped out hit after hit in the '60s, connected primarily by their
sing-along melodies and a production style that emphasized shimmer and
fragmentation. James performed pop songs that chugged along steadily, even
though they occasionally slipped a gear. Tommy Roe too was a bubblegum pop star
(best known for "Dizzy" and "Jam Up And Jelly Tight") whose ambitions ran a
little higher than just a few trips a year to American Bandstand. Roe worked with sunshine-pop auteur Curt Boettcher
on the superb LP It's Now Winter's Day, and he recorded memorable singles like this Gene Pitney-esque paean
to hill folk with guitars and strong sex-drives.

Tony Bennett, "A Foggy Day"

No longer the also-ran
crooner of the '50s, Bennett had a welcome revival and the late '90s and has
stayed popular ever since, which has prompted a reassessment of what Bennett
brought to the table that set him apart from his peers. In a way, he was a more
refined version of Sinatra, steering clear of a lot of Sinatra's cornball
antics and instead focusing on music that fused jazz and pop and theater. And
then of course there's that voice, less flashy and much more controlled than a
lot of his peers. Bennett sounded like a wizened veteran at 26, and he's only
grown wiser over the decades.

Toots & The Maytals,
"Time Tough (w/Ryan Adams)"

Adams does a surprisingly
creditable job here matching his nasal rasp to the still-potent sound of one of
the original ska acts. Toots & The Maytals always were among the best in
the early reggae scene and blending voices and genres, allowing elements of
gospel, country and rock suffuse their sound, like a thick smoke.

Tori Amos, "Time"

I don't have a whole lot to
say about Amos, whose posturing and personality have always rubbed me wrong
(but whom I don't dislike enough to rip on either). So instead I'll just talk
about Tom Waits some more. Isn't it remarkable that Waits, a performer whose
own sound is so unlike anyone else's, has written so many songs that have
become standards of a kind, covered by a diverse slate of artists? Why yes. Yes
it is.

Tortoise, "Six Pack"

Trans Am, "Love Commander"

Tortoise tends to withhold
hooks and splashy solos in favor of patterns of sound that overlap at unusual
points and occasionally spill into small, lyrical pools of instrumentation.
Their method is such that whenever they break free of obscurity for a brief
melodic explosion of vibes or synthesizer, the effect is uplifting. But is the
joy of that brief passage intensified by the persistent restraint, or would
more frequent concessions to melody make for even greater pleasure? That's an
open question. Tortoise is constantly poised between capturing a momentary,
malleable inspiration and shaping that moment into some timeless anthem, and
typically they choose to dither and delay, settling for something that's
sometimes pleasant, sometimes maddening. As for Trans Am, they were part of the
wave of instrumental bands swimming in Tortoise's wake, joining them in the
game of drawing evocative sonic designs that roll and curve and serve the same
function as abstract art. The purpose is to get the listener to come to
appreciate form for its own sake, and to shade the gaps between the straight
lines. "Love Commander" comes from Surrender To The Night, an LP that draws on the spirit of Kraftwerk, and
looks to find a clear, American path through the noisy flood of modern European
electronica. Like Tortoise, Trans Am's music tends to play better in the
background, where the subtle shifts in sound can seep into the subconscious and
spark the imagination. In the right mode, they can send listeners deep into
their own heads, imagining driving through empty space to an uncertain future.

Toto, "Africa"

Just for fun, listen to the
Trans Am song above, and just as it ends, start up this more inviting, less
forbidding, yet rhythmically similar track by non-supergroup Toto. Assembled by
in-demand L.A. session musicians, Toto struggled throughout their career to
figure out whether they wanted to just get together and jam or if they wanted
to show the singer-songwriters who usually hired them out that it wasn't so
hard to whip up generic radio hits. Some of those hits were quite good though.
I'm especially enamored of "Africa," which sounds like a celebration of bounty
in a time of deep want.

Townes Van Zandt, "Talking
Thunderbird Blues"

Van Zandt had a reputation
for being erratic on stage—and off it, quite frankly—but when he
was collected enough, he was arguably the best of his formidable generation of
country singer-songwriters at connecting with an audience without doing much.
His music was simple; his words pared-down. And yet he achieved that golden
mean that so many singer-songwriters still strive for, sounding funny and aware
and likable and more than a little sad.

Traffic, "The Low Spark Of
High Heeled Boys"

My Steve Winwood threshold is
fairly low, due in large part to the Winwood-overload of the late '80s (a
tragedy that affected so many, while the radio programmers sat on their hands
and did nothing). If I were to chart my favorite Winwood songs, taking into
account Spencer Davis Group, Blind Faith, Traffic and the solo records, the
majority of the data points would be gathered in the Traffic era, because I'm a
sucker for that smoothed-out, jazzy version of acid rock. (And I'm also a fan
of Dave Mason, an early contributor.) When I was a heavy user of classic rock
radio, I got excited when I heard the tell-tale fade-in of "The Low Spark Of
High Heeled Boys," because I knew I was in for 11-plus minutes of low buzz,
plunking piano and bongos. Most classic rock stations wouldn't play "Low Spark"
until late at night, and I don't know that I ever made it to the end of the
song when I was a teenager without falling asleep. That's not intended as a
criticism; music that relaxes you enough that you can nod off is music worth respecting.

Translator, "Everywhere"

The same friend who turned me
onto They Might Be Giants and The Pogues was also the only person I've ever
known who was a fan of Translator, an early '80s San Francisco new wave band
best known for the minor hit "Everywhere That I'm Not." Perhaps they were too
drippy—or too hippie—to connect with the burgeoning alt-rock scene,
but Translators' debut album Heartbeats And Triggers deserves re-evaluation for its textured guitar-pop
and moody atmosphere. Translator were a catchy lot, but they could also be
quite dark.

Transplants, "Tall Cans In
The Air"

This pop-punk collective
formed by Rancid singer-guitarist Tim Armstrong and Blink 182 drummer Travis
Barker (with vocal assistance by freelance thug Rob Aston and a bevy of guest
rappers) hashed together rap, ska, punk, neo-new wave, Latin soul and arena
rock—punching a bunch of youth counterculture buttons all at once. The
first Transplants album had a distinctly "side project" feel, and its wild genre-hopping
was in part a function of well-paid musicians goofing off on their own dime.
The follow-up, Haunted Cities,
sounded more calculated. Because authentic punk for small town outsiders and
faux-punk for upscale suburbanites both provide essentially the same "fuck the
world I want to get off" charge, the motives behind them don't matter as much
as purists want them to. Still, even an honest effort can be ungainly, and
Transplants made a splattery mess of modern music as often as they stumbled over
something new and exciting. The cock-rock muscle squeezed out a lot of the
soul, a lot of the time. Just as The Clash's London Calling—still Armstrong's punk bible—tried to
describe the musical burgoo that the band was ladling from in the late '70s, so
Transplants wanted to make sense of what the kids of the '00s are listening to.
And that included the schlock. The trick that Transplants never
mastered—though maybe they will if the project is revived—os how to
incorporate the best aspects of monolithic VH1 rock hits without accidentally
getting tainted by the worst.

Travis, "The Fear"

The Glaswegian-born, London-based Travis started out playing
brassy arena rock and then switched to a more stately sound in synch with their
post-Radiohead times. Much of their work is plodding and obvious, but there's
something haunting around the edges of the Travis sound, as evidenced by the
wistful "The Fear." Guitars chime here and echo there, and Fran Healy's vocals
drop low in the mix precisely at the point when their sing-songy-ness might be
most grating. And Healy's lyrics—so witty, direct, and full of the morose
self-centeredness at which royal subjects seem to excel—matches well with
guitarist Andy Dunlop's elegant, understated swoop. Travis were overshadowed by
many of their contemporaries, and in truth they never were more than merely
"good." But quite frequently that good was good enough.

Tres Chicas, "Drop Me
Down"

Sweetwater, the first album credited to distaff alt-country supergroup
Tres Chicas, was a fairly evenly split collaboration between Lynn Blakey,
Caitlin Cary and Tonya Lamm; but the follow-up Bloom, Red & The Ordinary
Girl was decidedly
Cary-centric, with the ex-Whiskeytown-er either writing or co-writing fully
half of the disc's twelve songs. Bloom, Red & The Ordinary Girl sports the soulful folk-rock tones
of Cary's solo albums, and benefits significantly from the added range. Where Sweetwater was a striking-if-derivative
exercise in twangy harmony, Bloom is a fully realized journey into the soft, fragrant Carolina
night. And it's graced by songs like this exercise in rootsy harmonizing. In
keeping with this week's theme, I have to note that "Drop Me Down" isn't post-anything. But it sure is purty.

*****************

Regrettably unremarked
upon: Thelonious Monster, Them, The
Thermals, Thomas Newman, The Thorns, Thursday, Tift Merritt, Tim O'Brien, The
Time, Todd Snider, Tokyo Police Club, Tom Jones, Tom Verlaine, Tom Zé, Tone
Loc, The Trash Can Sinatras, Travis Morrison and Trevor Rabin

Also listened to: Theo Eastwind, These Arms Are Snakes, They
Shoot Horses Don't They, The Thieves Of Kailua, Third Eye Blind,
Third Rail, Third Sight, Thirty Ought Six, This Is Goodbye,
This Poison, This Providence, The Three O'Clock, Thrice,
Through The Eyes Of The Dead, Through The Sparks, Thunderbirds Are Now!,
Thunderlip, Thurston Harris, Tied & Tickled Trio, Tiga,
Tijuana Taxi, Tim Krekel, Tim McGraw, Tim Rutili, Tim Story, Timewellspent,
Timon, Tin Hat Trio, Tina Dico, Tiny Masters Of Today, Tipsy, Titán, Titles, TM Juke, To Rococo Rot, Toby
Keith, Tokyo's Coolest Combo, The Tom Collins, Tom Freund, Tom
Greenhalgh, Tom Kafafian, Tom Laverack, Tom McRae, Tom
Paxton, Tom Robinson, Tom Tall, Tomàn, Tombstone Trailerpark, Tommy Boyce,
Tommy Edwards, Tommy Keene, Tommy Page, Tommy Stinson, Tomorrow, Tomorrow's
World, Tomoyasu Hotei, The Toms, Tony Burrows, Tony Furtado, Tony Gerber, Tony
Hatch Orchestra, Tony Lunn, Tony Rice, Tony Trischka,
Toquinho, The Torch Marauder, The Tornados, Tractor Kings,
Tracy Byrd, Tracy Silverman, Tracy Spuehler, Trailmix, Traindodge, Tralala, Travis Abercrombie, The Treble Boys, Tremulous Monk, The
Trend, The Treniers, Trent Dabbs, Trespassers William, Trevor Childs, Trevor Hall and Trey
Anastasio

*****************

Next week: From Tripmaster
Monkey to The Velvet Teen, plus a few words on falling out of love