Music Wonkery

The thrust of the article is that Sony has made Rick Rubin the co-Head of Columbia Records, in the hopes of injecting a little of that wyld-ass energy he’s got into the proceedings, and in the process transmogrifying the ailing Industry into something leaner, meaner, and more efficent at siphoning money into the pockets of shareholders.

Now, there’s nothing whatsoever wrong with that, really. The job of a corporation is, indeed, to “maximize shareholder value.” So good luck with that. But check out some of the “hot” “new” “ideas” that Rubin and his co-Head, a middle-aged run of the mill British record exec named Steve Barnett

(I once worked for a sharp and dapper gentleman, a young pretty thing and a rising force in the Industry, who had a taste for shiny suits, expensive haircuts, and the saddest upscale parties I’ve ever been near, lame affairs where the lower echelons sucked down furious premium cocktails on the company dime while a D-list hipster celebrity like Tricky or the guy who played drums on that Bjork record lurked sulkily in a padded banquette until enough minutes had crawled past that he could reasonably said to have performed the favor of appearing. This particular person had a penchant for arranging the firings of underlings who, in his estimation, were not partying hard enough at company outings. This man had executive power and the trust of a wealthy aging blowhard who once was a person of some consequence in music, at least until he was let go.

...but at least let go more gracefully than the one who was sacked after refusing to leave his hot tub to take an urgent call from the CFO, with an unfortunate sequence of words by way of instruction to his minion, such words being unfortunate due to their inference as to the character and moral standing of the CFO, and their audibility in the conference room at the other end of the line, the minion having failed to put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone…

... the wealthy aging blowhard mentioned two paragraphs prior recently being heard to remark an interview, “I love iPod. I think iPod is great...")

...a run of the mill British record executive named Steve Barnett have cooked up to save Columbia, save Sony, and save the World.

This summer, Columbia Records began a program called Big Red. The company invited 20 college students from Harvard, Penn State and the University of Miami to work on various music projects. The interns concentrated mostly on the digital marketing and promotions departments in Columbia’s offices in Midtown Manhattan, which are on Madison Avenue in a granite skyscraper designed by Philip Johnson.

At the end of their paid internships, the students took part in focus groups that were closely observed by Steve Barnett, Rubin’s co-head at the label, and Mark DiDia, whom Rubin brought in as head of operations, as well as by other Columbia executives. The focus groups may have been the real point of Big Red — Barnett and the New York executives, especially those who had been at Sony for years, wanted to try to take the pulse of the elusive music audience. “The Big Red focus groups were both depressing and informative, and they confirmed what I — and Rick — already knew,” DiDia told me afterward. “The kids all said that a) no one listens to the radio anymore, b) they mostly steal music, but they don’t consider it stealing, and c) they get most of their music from iTunes on their iPod. They told us that MySpace is over, it’s just not cool anymore; Facebook is still cool, but that might not last much longer; and the biggest thing in their life is word of mouth. That’s how they hear about music, bands, everything.”

Well, duh. But wait! There’s an idea here!

At Rubin’s suggestion, [Barnett] has also set up a “word of mouth” department, which will probably employ some members of the Big Red focus group along with dozens of other 20-somethings. The “word of mouth” department will function as a publicity-promotional arm of the company, spreading commissioned buzz through chat rooms across the planet and through old-fashioned human interaction. “They tell all their friends about a band,” Barnett explained. “Their job is to create interest.”

Wow. Damn. The secret to rescuing one of the greatest labels in the history of the world, and the flagship of one the big five… four… three sir! record companies is, pay some teenagers to go on the internet and pretend to give a shit about bands to their friends.

Shit! If only someone’d tried that eight years ago, set up a guy as, I dunno, the “internet marketing manager” and given him money and access to interns eager to tell their buddies all about the next big never-gonna-be, an’, an’, indie companies that you could pay to get content on dorm-room televisions, an’, an’ on campuses and into high schools and skate parks! If only every label in the world had tried that exact strategem back at the advent of the decade, the ship mighta been wrenched around by that critical arc minute to swing it juuuuust wide of the iceberg!

Oh, wait. They all screaming goddamn well did.

Brilliant, gentlemen.

But what else have they in mind?

Rubin has a bigger idea [I bet he does (-Johno)]. To combat the devastating impact of file sharing, he, like others in the music business (Doug Morris and Jimmy Iovine at Universal, for instance), says that the future of the industry is a subscription model, much like paid cable on a television set. “You would subscribe to music,” Rubin explained, as he settled on the velvet couch in his library. “You’d pay, say, $19.95 a month, and the music will come anywhere you’d like. In this new world, there will be a virtual library that will be accessible from your car, from your cellphone, from your computer, from your television. Anywhere. The iPod will be obsolete, but there would be a Walkman-like device you could plug into speakers at home. You’ll say, ‘Today I want to listen to ... Simon and Garfunkel,’ and there they are. The service can have demos, bootlegs, concerts, whatever context the artist wants to put out. And once that model is put into place, the industry will grow 10 times the size it is now.”

So, say I’m somewhere like, I dunno, my buddys fire pit in Northeastern Ohio. We got a bale of primo bud and a cooler full ale. And we wanna rock the fark out to Motorhead. All we gotta do is… wait… dude, do you get broadband out here?

But at least Barnett sees reason here:

Steve Barnett is nervous about the subscription model. “Smart people have told me if the subscription model is not done correctly,” he said, “it will be the final nail in our coffin. I’ve heard both sides of the argument, and I’m not convinced it’s the solution to our problems. Rick wants to be a hero immediately. In his mind, you flick a switch and it’s done. It doesn’t work like that.”

So, what you’re sayin’ is, your highly paid guru who has no office, no shoes, no phone number you can reach him on, and an oracular perspective on the Future of the Industry, is halfway fulla shit.  Noted.

But this is where the antics spill over into full-on Larry/Curly/Moe madness. Check this shit out!

Barnett has other ideas, which he is discussing with Rubin. For instance, asking Columbia artists to give the record company up to 50 percent of their touring, merchandising and online revenue. This is unprecedented — even successful artists like the Dixie Chicks make a large percentage of their income from concerts and T-shirts.

So let’s break this down good so even the dim kids in the back of the class get it. Artists signed to major labels get this much money from album sales:

If they go reaaaaaaly far, shift a few million units, that number can rocket all the way up to

I have to admit, I was all set to politely pan this album. Its plainer moments are nice enough, sure, but not really incredibly distinct from any one of dozens of worthy Chicago blues albums recorded in the last half-century. But then I found myself walking down the street on a cloudless Massachusetts afternoon, with the sunlight slanting just so from the west and a beautiful melancholy mood coming down, and the song playing in my head was Robert “Junior” Lockwood’s “Western Horizon.”

Structurally, the song is nothing more than a stock Chicago blues by way of the Delta: start the song with the little turnaround where one voice descends chromatically from the flat-7 to the dominant, kick in the twelve bar shuffle vamp, and then cue a lyric whose first two lines are the same and begin with “I believe, I believe… I believe I’ll....”

Trust me, you know this song. Whether it’s sung as “Sweet Home Chicago” or “Dust My Broom” or any one of dozens of alternate lyrics, you know this song.

But what I forgot when I got ready to politely pan the album is that in this kind of blues, it’s all in the details - the bent notes, the vibe of the song, the little turns of lyric and phrasing that make a blue performance just right.

And there’s lots in “Western Horizon” that is definitely right. Lockwood studied jazz, and you can hear it sometimes in the way he pulls a phrase behind the beat, the way he swings a line, the way he builds some altered harmonies into his rhythm vamps. On “Western Horizon,” he sings behind the beat and then creeps right up to it, rushes some words and draws others out, and generally sounds like he was born singing the song in that same unhurried way. The effect is cool and stylish, and is a neat twist on top of the late-night saloon mood that he and the band kick up on this song and the album in general.

And what a band! For this session, Lockwood tapped some of the best that Chicago had to offer - Fred Below on drums, Dave Myers on bass, and Louis Myers on second guitar. The arrangements and tempos they dig into are less aggressive, less slick, than some of the work that Lockwood was doing as a session man around the same time.

Instead, Lockwood and the band let a whiff of country mud into their jazzy urban blues by laying back into grooves, moving some of the rhythm playing up the neck of the guitar (like Junior’s ‘godfather’ used to do) and pulling out some great old turnaround riffs that could have come straight from the pines of Arkansas in 1937. On the slower grooves, like “Take a Little Walk With Me,” “Mean Red Spider” and “Western Horizon,” the band sit back in a simmer that showcases their sedate rock-steadiness and country overtones. But on the jump blues numbers like the overtly jazzy “Lockwood’s Boogie” they sit right up in the pocket and deliver all the energy you could ever want to power a Chicago blues bar.

With repeated listens, the jazz elements drift to the front of the record. Jazz harmonies and a cool late-night vibe are all over songs like the instrumental “Tanya” and even the by-the-numbers “Take a Little Walk With Me” and “Steady Rollin’ Man,” and Lockwood’s solos on any song may at any point quietly pass over from basic pentatonic flat-five scales into something that’s no longer just the blues. The cumulative effect is pretty impressive, a nice balance of influences that don’t often play well together but on this album fit together almost seamlessly.

So, okay. Maybe there are one or two too many straight-ahead numbers on this disc which sap a little energy from the running order. But that really doesn’t hide the fact that I was wrong, and that Steady Rollin’ Man is a minor masterpiece of the blues, pulling together the city, the country, and even jazz into one unassuming and masterful demonstration of why Robert “Junior” Lockwood was thought so highly of. Good stuff.

Bird’s third album went in what you might call a completely unexpected direction. I suspected it might be getting interesting when, one afternoon, I was instructed to find a Hohner Beatle bass on short notice for Andrew to make use of in the studio (luckily for me, Manhattan is sick with Beatle basses for rent), and my suspicions were borne out when he delivered his third Bowl of Fire album, The Swimming Hour (Rykodisc, 2001). Gone were the hot jazz, the Hungarian folk music and the two-step beats. Gone were the one always-arched eyebrow and the sense that every note was part of some elaborate in-joke.

Instead, Andrew Bird had learned in his own way to rock.

But, being a classical music junkie and polymath, Bird didn’t just sit down and pen a raft of “easy” by-the-numbers garage rock songs and dress them up with electric violin and Beatle bass. No, no no. Instead, Bird sat down and listened to what must have been the entire history of rock and roll music from Elvis up to Pavement, and then went off and encapsulated that history in one neat and quirky package. From the clattery Ray Charles jump blues of “How Indiscreet” (which featured a Raelettes-style backing chorus) to nods to Latin music, Burt Bacharach chamber pop, that Weimar cabaret again, it was a dizzyingly accomplished leap forward. Every song still featured his signature violin, but it appeared in a thousand disguises - distorted, plucked, and echoed, and his light and mellow voice became a secret weapon as he slyly intoned little stories about rest stops and mistaken identity. It was rock music, yes, but coming from a wholly original place and sensibility that had little to do with the blues, Chuck Berry, Zep or the Stones. In short, The Swimming Hour was a smart and original album of marvelous songs played in a marvelous fashion, and I thought to myself, ”no way“ that Andrew Frigging Bird ”is gonna top this.”

Boy, was I wrong. Having gone solo starting with 2003’s Weather Systems (Grimsey Records,) each of his subsequent albums has been better, deeper, more mature and masterful than the last. His songwriting has become more confident as he has developed his own voice - his own genre - that nods at but does not rely on anything else that’s been done before. Ever. His lyrics have become sharper, blending keen observation with poetry and Tin Pan Alley wordplay, and he has become (check this out) a master whistler.

Andrew Bird’s latest album, Armchair Apocrypha (Fat Possum, 2007) was released in March to… thunderous silence. I don’t get it. Andrew Bird has made the album of the year, an absolutely breathtaking tour de force of beautiful and brilliant… something… pop? I don’t know what it is… and the only press I’m seeing is in the usual places that review indie-rock (Pitchfork, The Onion). No ticker-tape, no guest stint coaching the vocal gymnasts on American Idol, and it’s a crying shame.

Bird created Armchair Apocrypha with the help of electronic-music experimentalist Martin Dosh. Dosh’s influence seems mainly to be in the way that most of the productions are big as Western vistas, full of nuance and texture and sweeping motion, even when they are quiet as whispers. When Bird takes full advantage of his singing voice - a light, agile tenor not too different from Jeff Buckley’s - or his multifacted violin, or the whistling that sounds more like a Theremin than something human, and sets these monstrous talents off against Dosh’s expansive productions, the effect is breathtaking. When from time to time, the electronic flourishes intrude a little more, as with the canned shuffle beat on “Simple X” or the storm of drums that ends “Armchairs,” it’s usually to the song’s advantage. (But not always; “Simple X” is probably the weakest track, relatively speaking, on an otherwise stellar album.)

Somewhat like David Byrne (whom he resembles in eyebrow and cheekbone), Bird’s lyrics are full of wordplay and detached observation that seems to come from a wry weariness, taking on the persona of someone who’s seen enough to know that he doesn’t want to see any more. On Armchair Apocrypha, disaster seems to lurk just underneath every surface. You find yourself grooving to “Heretics” well before you figure out that the chorus runs, “Thank God it’s fatal,” and the album-opening “Fiery Crash” seems to contemplate the titular tragedy in order to ward it off.

Bird even delves obliquely into politics for what I believe is the first time with “Scythian Empires,” which pulls together three millennia worth of Middle East conquests and their subsequent fiascos over a gently driving beat built on acoustic guitar, plucked violin, and that ever-present Greek chorus of Bird’s otherworldly whistling:

five day forecast bring black tar rains and hellfire
while handpicked handler’s kid gloves tear at the inseams

their Halliburton attaché cases are useless

while Scotch-Guard Macintoshes shall be carbonized

now they’re offering views of exiting empires
such breathtaking views of Scythian empires

Scythian empire
horsemen of the Russian steppe
Scythian empire
archers of an afterthought

routed by Sarmatians
thwarted by the Thracians
Scythian empire

kings of Macedonia
and the Scythian empire

Halliburton attaché cases, by the way, are fantastic.

No matter whether Bird is punning on, well, birds on “Spare-ohs” and the clever album art, or contemplating mortality and the game of Operation on “Dark Matter,” every shot hits the target dead center. This album is as career-defining and as one of a kind as Pink Moon, Tapestry or Dark Side of the Moon, and I’m frankly shocked that music this good - even if it’s not immediately comprehensible as “pop” - isn’t burning up the adult alternative radio charts, being written up in Rolling Stone, and generally being lauded as great.

Today, I’m at the point where I’m tempted to run to my nearest music store, order a 30-count box full of Armchair Apocrypha and run into the streets thrusting the album into every passing hand. It’s that good, that different, that lovely. Not to everybody’s taste, maybe not your particular cup of tea, but objectively a great, great album.

Andrew Bird has come a long way since I rolled my eyes at “Ides of Swing” and “Candy Shop” from Thrills and Oh! The Grandeur. Before I said it because I still doubted his ability to pull off anything he wanted; now I’m saying it because practically nobody makes two albums this good in a career (even while I hope that this is not true): no way is Andrew Frigging Bird gonna top this.

But it’s both condescending and limiting to describe a band as solely the sum of their influences. On their website, Scuba themselves acknowledge their fuzzy and moody pop roots, saying “We’re not a shoe-gazer band. Though we look at a lot of things apparently our shoes are not one of them. Or rather they’re not looked at for long enough to become a quote-unquote ‘gaze’ unquote.”

Okay, so fair enough. “Shoegazer” implies that Scuba are a tribute band, which isn’t correct. So what’s the deal with Scuba? Well, the fuzzy guitars and washes of noise aside, they play sumptuous and hypnotic power pop that delivers on what Neil Young said about Crazy Horse, his backing band: “It’s all one big, growing, smoldering sound, and I’m part of it. It’s like gliding, or some sort of natural surfing.” Although you can namecheck great bands of the past one after the other as the songs pass by (right now I’m listening to the leadoff single “Gary Powers’ Spy Plane” and dreaming of Boston’s late lamented The Sheila Divine), the truth is the songwriting is strong and original and more than the sum of its (My Bloody Valentine, Joy Division, New Order, Sugar, Jesus and Mary Chain, The Cure) influences.

The big trick with playing noisy pop-inflected rock is to have it not all sound the same. I’ve heard literally dozens of boring bands who play boring music that sounds great for three point five minutes until they start their next song and you realize that one song is really all they have. Luckily, Scuba duck the “samey” tag with aplomb by using studio and songwriting tricks to good effect, sometimes washing the sound-field with enormous distortion, other times pulling back to a tunneling bassline and a few chimed guitar notes, sometimes compressing everything into angular chords.

Scuba manage to duck the other great pitfall of modern power-pop as well, which is the “softLOUDsoft” formula that The Pixies invented and Nirvana made famous. Instead, in the great tradition of their shoegazer forebears, Scuba manage the flow of each song beautifully, creating new textures and moods through smart production and layering of sounds, rather than the crass expedient of stomping the distortion pedal and blasting out the windows every time the chorus comes around.

Highlights include the album opener “You Break My Heart in 1000 Different Ways,” the echoey suspended overdrive of “Freight,” the gorgeous Joy-Division wail of “Maybe It’s Different With Johnny” and the gigantic suspended-chord riff of “Into The Water, Down To The Bottom.” In a just world, or a different time, any one of these songs should be, or shoulda been, a monster underground hit, part of the lingua franca of cool youth to be passed down by word of mouth.

Simply put, Scuba have made a well-written and beautifully produced debut record in a decidedly unfashionable genre, one that makes aging hipsters like me feel like rock has a future that isn’t limited to Franz Ferdinand, Pink, and tenth-generation SoCal punk. Granted, for the time being the band are leaning hard on their influences, but they’re a long way past merely paying tribute to them, which is a whole lot more than million-sellers like Queens of the Stone Age, Sum 182, or, heaven forfend, Nickelback can claim with a straight face.

Livin’ on the road my friend, was gonna keep you free and clean
And now you wear your skin like iron, and your breath is hard as kerosene
Weren’t you mamma’s only boy, her favorite one it seems
She began to cry when you said, goodbye, and sank into your dreams

Poncho was a bandit boy, his horse was fast as polished steel
He wore his gun outside his pants, for all the honest world to feel
Poncho met his match, you know, on the deserts down in Mexico
Nobody heard his dyin’ words, but that’s the way it goes

All the Federales say
They could have had him any day
They only let him slip away
Out of kindness I suppose

Lefty he can’t sing the blues, all night long like he used to
The dust that Poncho bit down south, ended up in Lefty’s mouth
The day they lay poor Poncho low, Lefty split for Ohio
And where he got the bread to go, there ain’t nobody knows

All the Federales say
They could have had him any day
They only let him slip away
Out of kindness I suppose

The poets tell how Poncho fell, and Lefty’s livin’ in cheap hotels
The desert’s quiet and Cleveland’s cold, and so the story ends we’re told
Poncho needs your prayers, it’s true, but save a few for Lefty too
He only did what he had to do, and now he’s growin’ old

All the Federales, say
They could have had him any day
They only let him run so long
Out of kindness I suppose

A few grey Federales say
They could have had him any day
They only let him go wrong
Out of kindness I suppose

The way I see it, the narrator of this song is some middle-aged guy who’s seen it all, probably missing a finger or two. He’s talking to some 22 year old punk he’s known since he was a kid who thinks he’s hot shit and is bragging about how he’s gonna knock over the mail stage or something, he and this other guy you see, this real tough son of a bitch. And our narrator sighs, kicks back, and tells him all about how bulletproof Poncho thought he was, how badass Lefty thought he was riding with Poncho, and how he was there that day when they laid Poncho low, and saw Lefty piss himself behind a rock, then crawl out as the Feds closed in, snatch the moneybag, and light out for God only knows where. And down through the years, word has gotten back to Colorado how so and so saw Lefty one December in a bar in Cleveland, looking like shit and still waiting for the hammer to fall, with the money long drunk up and all the good parts of his life behind him. And then our narrator gets up, tosses a buck on the table, and leaves the punk kid to contemplate whether any deed is worth a life spent hiding out in Cleveland.

[cue Paul Hogan....] Now that’s a knife.