Line on the Horizon, Line in the Sand

Subtitled:

"Me and Mohammed Down by the Schoolyard Whilst Bono Moves the Mountain"

If music--like any other industry--is currently reaping seeds sown of poor investments, failed business models, chronic myopia, and (let's face it) untalented talent...

If pop music is no longer a meaningful barometer for American (or global) culture...

If Big rock and roll is a blackening hole of antique schtick, memory parades, and self-congratulation for the obscure and unambitious...

If Coldplay is really, truly, (seriously?), the stiffest competition...

...Then why wouldn't U2 celebrate their new record with five consecutive performances on Letterman?  Why wouldn't they plant five mutant flags at the top of the mountain that all read, "Property of U2 (And Don't Nobody Else Even Bother)"?  If pop music's truly in the red, why shouldn't U2 show up with an unprecedentedly bloated stimulus package of pomp and late-night circumstance?  What--and who--else were you expecting?  

Of the perhaps dozen bands who could currently make this gesture, only U2 actually would.  Coldplay might want to, but wouldn't know how.  Foo Fighters might know how, but wouldn't want to.  Green Day takes their music seriously enough, but not themselves; they're a force of pop, but not personality.  Pearl Jam, Radiohead, once took in the view from the top and got something resembling vertigo.  Everyone else is either in a museum or on vacation, or vacationing at their museum.  Only U2 has the talent, relevance, and insatiable ambition to seek out and maintain the view from the top.  Then they literally and figuratively celebrate vertigo.

For all their talent (which, despite my ambivalence toward them now, is considerable), and for all their relevance (ubiquity, at least, can be one index), their ambition sets them apart.  They're driven by such a singular focus to win--and there's only one winner, after all--that failure is never a real option.  Their fate as King of the Mountain was sealed in 2000 when they quit 90's experimentation, quit intergenre alchemy, quit obtuse record and performance themes, and quit trying to do anything different.  Whether you prefer the artfully political punch of War, or the atmospheric, spiritual grandeur of Joshua Tree, or the brash, funky, rocking swagger of Achtung Baby, or the satire of Pop, or the all-inclusive pleasure of All That You Can't Leave Behind, or anything in between, their greatest talent has always been their ability to dress any artistic deviation with a great pop song.  So the second they went back to basics--recommitting to big, powerful, predictable, untouchable pop--it was game over.  

Of course this doesn't make them World's Best Band.  It just makes them World's Biggest Band, a title already re-confirmed by this week's release of No Line on the Horizon.  A title reconfirmed by everyone with television, radio, internet access, or ears that hear, or eyes that see.  If you live on planet earth, and have access to any media at all, you know that U2 has a new record out. U2's marketing strategy is a mind-boggling dedication to populism: every human alive should know.  While every mortal from Radiohead to M. Ward spreads the word with a talk show performance, U2 plays Letterman five nights in a row.  While everyone else harvests a new release with well-planted press and media, U2 drops a promotional A-Bomb (that only they know how to dismantle, evidently) across seven continents and prays to an even higher god that the fallout reaches as many people as possible.  And if the ashes smother field after field of carefully-planted crops (e.g. anyone else alive wanting to play Letterman this week), that's alright.  The victors have earned their spoils.  They're U2, and you're not.

I write all of this without hearing the record.  I haven't heard the entire record because it's only been out 14 hours, and has yet to track me down.  Every U2 record since Pop has found its way onto my stereo and into my brain with or without my permission.  I will hear No Line whether I want to or not (incidentally, I do).  But until the other ten songs pin me to the wall and have their way with me, I've got the lead-off single, "Get On Your Boots" to ponder.  

If this song is indicative of the record (as "Beautiful Day" and "Vertigo" were before it), this is U2's weakest effort in a long time.  I say this for two reasons:

1) The song itself isn't great.  It's simultaneously caffeinated but plodding, boisterous but not particularly memorable, funky but not really fun.  Compared to the pop triumph of "Beautiful Day" (a truly great song, and one they're capable of equalling in the future), or the memorable potency of "Vertigo" (a silly song, but one that still made everyone else sound smaller, if not lesser, somehow), it's remarkably average.  

2) I have a hunch (tipped off by early reviews) that the song is indicative of the record as a whole, which means they're branching out, which means that it will get disproportionately great press.  Because who wants a band to make records from the comfort of its own wheelhouse?  Who wants to call something great "great" when you can call something forgettable "classic."  Who wants to give 5-stars to "Beautiful Day" when you can give 5-stars to "Get On Your Army Boots Made for Walking"?  

If U2's operating outside their pre-established norm, good for them.  They're hugely talented, and have every right to explore that talent.  I might happen to hear the result as second-rate pop and third-rate artistry from a first-rate group of pop artists, but that's only one man's opinion.  If winning is what matters, and the only guaranteed formula for winning has ever been creating bigger, better pop songs more consistently and more frequently than everyone else, and all U2 wants is to win...then what the heck is going on here?

Maybe nobody--not even U2--can have a "Beautiful Day" for each album.  Maybe nobody--not even U2--can put out bigger, better pop songs with more consistency or frequency than U2.  When talent takes a weekend off, and relevance is in its waning phase, only unprecedented ambition can balance the formula.  Suddenly, your marketing campaign resembles a multinational, multimedia explosion.  You re-establish yourself as the one and only Biggest Band on Earth, with promotional strategies that nobody else can get away with.  You play five consecutive nights on Letterman when everyone else plays one.  In the absence of a single weapon, you hurl the kitchen sink.  Maybe U2's playing five songs on Letterman because they don't have The One.  

Or maybe not.  Maybe the single's misleading.  Maybe it's a false front, a musical outlier.  Maybe the whole thing is so irrepressibly brilliant that one night just wouldn't have been enough.  As I say, I don't know.  The record hasn't found me yet.  It's only Tuesday.

But I do know this: even if they're not The Best, or even Their Best, U2 will find a way to be The Biggest.  If you want U2 off the mountaintop, you'll probably have to move the mountain.

Kings of the People

Behold Kings of Leon. Of Tennessee. Of Youth and Young Manhood. Of Aha Shake Heartbreak. Of Because of the Times. Of 2003's retro-rock revival. Of the sons-of-a-preacher backstory and easy press clips. Of touring with Dylan, Pearl Jam, U2. Of infantile vocals and adult content. Of greasy guitars and echoplex drum sounds. Of this entry. Of "meditations on teenage girls from small towns everywhere." Of infantile vocals and adult content. The band too big to be credible, too small to be pop, too southern to be smart, too retro to be hip, too visceral to be cerebral, too contrived to be real.

Behold them now, freshly and immediately, or find yourself alone in the rearview. Only By the Night, their fourth record, has been out for a month and if it tells us anything, it's this: Kings of Leon aren't close to the band they used to be.

For those of us who loved the band they used to be--Stones-swiping, talent-trumping, cocky, catchy, always risque but rarely risky--that's a scary thought. What's more, it's a scary thought to the Kings themselves. That's what Only By the Night is about, and what makes it great.

First, let's back up.

Youth and Young Manhood garnered KOL press not necessarily because it was a home run, but because it showed promise. It was likable and listenable, pairing sparse rock riffs and simple melodies, episodic lyrics with often interesting vocals. It was a good--but not great--record by a young band that absolutely reeked of greater potential.

Aha Shake Heartbreak didn't change their formula, but improved upon it. In terms of production and arrangement it was deliberately reminiscent of Youth; the approach was the same, the sound was the same...the songs were just better. This bumped them up to "noteworthy" status among the elite. They won critical acclaim, received public praise by Bob Dylan, toured with U2, etc.

Wisely, Because of the Times changed the formula. It swapped fuzzy guitars for heavy and huge sounds. Keyboards and lead guitar melodies were utilized for atmospherics, giving some songs a wide sonic landscape (a U2 influence). Giant, reverb-soaked drums gave every tune undeniable weight. While they were generally writing the same type of song as before ("Fans," and "True Love Way" being exceptions), the songs themselves sounded much different. Where Old Kings wrote groupie-odes to fill a club, New Kings wrote gropie-odes to fill an arena. They suddenly sounded huge, even though they weren't yet.

In Only By the Night, KOL apply new songwriting to that larger-than-life production. "Closer," like the rest of the record, is eerie, heavy, and (like its drum part) off-kilter. Though the setting is the same (some vacant small town, late at night), the topic is different. Rather than struggling with a cheerleader local at a backyard party, the singer fights his own loneliness, frustration, and anxiety. The conflict is internal rather than external. The music and the singer enact a growing sense of dread with no obvious source and no forseeable solution.

Where past Kings would've swiped a light-hearted Stones riff, new KOL revisit a grungier (Pearl Jam-influenced) lick for "Crawl." The choice is fitting, since the song focuses on abuse and manipulation inside a relationship. Our singer is clearly victimized, literally beaten by his counterpart, and (in a powerless show of Old Kings-style machismo) wants to see the girl crawl, beg, and plead before he leaves. Which she doesn't. And he doesn't. In an Old Kings song, this refrain would be a testiment to machismo or, worse, misogyny. Here it's coming from an impotent place, and thus more interesting.

"Sex on Fire" is classic KOL. Structurally, it pairs a downbeat riff with an upbeat rhythm section (long a Kings songwriting trademark). Sonically it's the best version of new Kings: large, ominous, thrilling, cathartic. Caleb's vocals have never been bigger and more open. The chorus pays off as much as sex itself does. "Sex on Fire," because of its subject and energy, will be most recognizable to old KOL fans. For that reason, among others, it's a savvy pick as lead-off single, letting old fans get into the pool one step at a time.

Though it will likely never be my favorite Kings of Leon song, "Use Somebody" is arguably their best. It fulfills the promise of Because of the Times, all big-band bluster, anthemic vocals, but this time adorned with an incredibly sharp, cohesive, inspired lyric. "Use Somebody," may just be KOL's quintessential song, because it fully captures the conflict of not only this record, but the band's career:

I've been roamin' around, I was lookin down at all I see/Painted faces fill the places I can't reach/You know I could use somebody/Someone like you...

"Use Somebody" on the first three records would be a song about using somebody, manipulation of power, and selfish behavior. Now, they invite that interpretation, only to offer a new one: the singer needs somebody. This song is in many ways the sequel to "On Call." While the former is about dealing with someone who is lonely and desperate, the latter is about becoming that person. In this song--and this record--the shoe is on the other foot, and the result is perfectly-crafted, powerful, and new.

"Manhattan" and "Revelry" cement KOL's status as a top tier rock band by showing they're capable of the "likable misstep." Both songs are redeemed by a development new to this record: prominent, melodic bass playing. Jared Followill's bass work takes another leap on OBTN, and single-handedly saves "Manhattan" and "Revelry" from being one-dimensional and goofy.

Another new musical development for the Kings is the multi-part melody, best shown in "17." While the Old Kings' winning formula was simple melodies ("The Bucket," for example, is the same three notes repeated over and over), the new Kings finds melodies that are just as memorable and good but aren't as predictable. Old subject matter is revisited here (a seventeen year-old girl is the subject of Aha's "Slow Night, So Long" as well), but this time is different. Then, the girl was problematic, but certainly an object of desire. Here, she "whines, whines" and "weeps over everything." The melody and song structure this time around are more complicated because the relationship itself is.

"Notion" is at once familiar and a revelation, frustrated and joyful, anxious and unrestrained. This song, like "Fans" before it, feels effortlessly open, melodic, earnest, exuberant, much like the best of Tom Petty's work. The vocal approach is something new (a friend compared it to "late Hanson" to my horror and later, when I realized he was right, chagrin), dynamic and wandering. The performances and production are flawless. It's also telling that the record's most joyful-sounding song is about wanting to give up on a relationship and go home.

If the record is largely about someone not knowing who he is anymore, "I Want You" and "Be Somebody" give glimpses of who that person might like to be. The former places the singer in a familiar scene (girls, a party, etc.), with a new refrain ("I want you/exactly like I used to"). It's more nostalgic than urgent; accordingly, it's more reggae than rock. "Be Somebody" sounds like two songs in one, combining a moody, dark verse with a sudden, soaring chorus that expresses desire to break a pattern and become someone better. In one song, he fantasizes about the way he used to be; in the other he half-heartedly yearns about who he might become.

The album's closer, "Cold Desert," sounds like the sequel to Because of the Times' finale, "Arizona." Desert imagery? Check. Feeling lonely from within the confines of a rocky relationship? Check. Haunting, gorgeous guitar melody that drives the song? Check. Ends the record with a "who knows where this will go next" feeling? Check. "I'm too young to feel this old" captures the conflict of the record: yearning for simpler times, but unable to revisit them.

The record's most interesting moment is its penultimate: the album ends by fading "Cold Desert" out...only to fade the song back in for a final refrain "Nobody knows/nobody sees/nobody but me." This choice is startling upon first listen and puzzling even now. At the fade out's quietest point, Caleb sings a few unintelligible words, catalyzing the band to fade back in. This rewarding and (correct me if I'm wrong) new device seemingly enacts the singer's disappearance. His voice literally lost in the mix, he's figuratively lost himself at the end of this record, with no new direction to take (the song finally ends by winding down, one instrument dropping at a time).

As artists, the Kings of Leon have always been aware of where they're headed as a band and how best to do that. Accordingly, they've become successful and semi-famous. As people, however, those prospects can be frightening and overwhelming. Only By the Night is the sound of them taking that mantle while simultaneously being anxious, frustrated, afraid, and overwhelmed by it. It rightly sounds confident, full, and epic while exploring themes of insecurity, desperation, and crippling loneliness.

People who call themselves "die hard" or (wait for it) "true" fans rapidly dismiss a band theydeemed "sold out." One glance at YouTube comments will tell you that many "true" KOL fans are doing that right now. If a band is small, they belong to you and your friends. If a band is big, they belong to everyone, which feels like a betrayal of the "die hard" fan's relationship to the band. Said band stopped making music for them that speaks to them and is always about them. That band is making music for everyone now, and "I'm special, I'm true, and I'm not like everyone."

Most bands, once they reach that level, learn to write from that rockstar persona. They adopt the songwriting voice of "detached celebrity," because 1) vague, derivative, and detached songs actually appeal to more people (although not as deeply) and 2) they know that's the product they're selling. They find their formula, they stick to it, and they never let you see them sweat.

But behold Kings of Leon, now at that level. Behold them now, because they aren't the band they used to be, not remotely, not at all. Behold them, one of the biggest bands on earth. Behold them on pop radio and MTV. Behold them headlining, anthemic, with light shows and press junkets and Asian tours and product placement. Behold them belonging to everyone, not just you.

And if that scares you, good. It scares them, too. They just made a great record about it--and you--if you wanna listen.

They've Got a Master Plan, Babe

On the heels of a prolific if uneven spring of new music (NMAll-Stars, MGMT, Black Crowes, Black Keys, Counting Crows, REM, to name a few) comes My Morning Jacket's Evil Urges, the band's fifth full album and arguably the most hotly-anticipated rock record of the year. If just one of the season's "veteran releases" had fully delivered, or one of the "buzz bands" had shown more substance than style, or the shrinking list of Pantheon Bands You Can Still Count On had synchronized a release with the Jacket, there might not have been such singular focus (and disproportionate expectations) heaped on Evil Urges. This had to be the record that would save rock in 2008. This had to be the record where MMJ made the leap from "awesome band" to "Pantheon band." This had to be the record that brought them mainstream success, constant radio play, a hit music video, multiple Grammy's, and the mantle of Biggest Band on Earth. One overzealous blogger even declared Evil Urges "the record to save 2008 for music and mankind."

So...what's with the hype? Who is this Jacket, and why should I care, and to what end? Or, to put it another way...why them?

Like most bands, My Morning Jacket's early success had as much to do with public misperception as actual merit. After two rootsy, reverb-drenched independent releases (The Tennessee Fire and At Dawn) earned them a small yet devoted fanbase of 1) misguided stoners and 2) people-who-have-spent-any-time-near-a-barn, they made an artistic decision to expand their sound and, consequently, their live show. What was once an acoustic-driven vehicle for Jim James' heavenly voice transformed into a full-band nightly assault of soaring rock and expansive arrangements. In the process of becoming one of rock's best live bands, they were inaccurately given the moniker "jam-band," and heaped into the pile with the rest of the Dave Matthews wannabes (eventually signed to DMB's major subsidiary, ATO). Simultaneously praised for their musicianship and James' gorgeous, unique voice, and dismissed for their "jam-rock" tendencies and "Skynyrd-derivative" riffery, they took a place in the third tier of national bands.

Then came It Still Moves, their major label debut and unapologetic love-letter to roots rock. In the retro bluster of post-9/11 rock, the dominant aesthetic was that of New York uber-cool. From the ironic riffery of the Strokes to the dance-anthem pop-rock of the Killers, Americans wanted rock to sound profoundly urban, moneyed, stylized, and cool. And, in the midst of that movement came It Still Moves, a 50-minute epic literally recorded in a barn. The record was so huge, so beautifully produced and composed, the performances so flawless, and the songs themselves so potent, that critics found themselves uniformly praising the record, regardless of its "jam-band" tendencies and"Skynyrd-riffery." The record's critical success, combined with their growing reputation as one of America's best live bands, placed MMJ in the group of "bands that officially matter."

2005's Z took their popularity to a new level. The record itself was a sonic departure, their last goodbye to barnyard Americana and their first forays into mainstream pop ("Off the Record"), groove-peddling R&B ("Wordless Chorus"), and experimental weirdness ("Into the Woods"). It also showcased the band's new additions (lead guitarist Carl Broemel and keyboardist Bo Koster), expanding their range of sound and giving them a new dimension live (Broemel is an exceptional guitarist, lap-steel player, and saxophonist). Though none of the record's proposed "singles" transformed MMJ into a Billboard sensation, the album garnered gushing reviews, and an expanded audience. The songs themselves were arguably better than those on It Still Moves, more focused and tight, but every bit as potent. The album closer, "Dondante," I thought was one of the single best songs of that year.

Success begetting success and all, the new heights prompted a tour with Pearl Jam, more album sales, the hugely successful live record Okonokos and an growing perception that MMJ was now the Greatest Live Band in the World. They were increasingly mentioned in the same breath as Elites such as Radiohead, Pearl Jam, and U2. The only thing missing were hit singles to sell them to the masses, to transform their records from gold to platinum, to take them from "widely recognized" to "universally popular." Evil Urges, maybe, would be the final step in the process, a coronation ceremony for rock's "most deserving band."

And what I'm here to tell you is this: Evil Urges is a very, very good record. It is a profoundly focused, consistent, enjoyable, and exciting record, and indicative of an exceptional band fully in command of their talents. It is remarkable not only for its wide-ranging influences (from the Prince-infused "Highly Suspicious," to the Who-derived rocker "Aluminum Park" to the near M. Ward cover "Sec Walkin") but for their seamless integration. This group of songs, so disparate in style and heritage, would sound unfocused, incontinent, and schizophrenic in the hands of a lesser band. That Evil Urges sounds not only like a cohesive record, but a cogent and interesting mix of songs is a testament to their artistic vision, their individual performances, and the savvy of the production.

"Evil Urges" combines a rock-solid R&B groove with an infectious power-rock bridge, while the ominous rhythm guitar part (4:34) is a classic MMJ moment, enacting the sound of an "evil urge." "Touch Me I'm Going to Scream," parts 1 and 2, won't win any new fans, but won't drive away existing ones. Anyone genuinely surprised by the bombastic R&B weirdness of "Highly Suspicious" simply wasn't paying attention during Z. While "I'm Amazed" has garnered plenty of acclaim as the record's first single (and it certainly soars), "Thank You Too" feels to me like a more successful throwback song, with a stronger hook and a more winning sentiment. "Sec Walkin" is imminently likable, and noteworthy for its sonic integration in the record, despite its more "rootsy," um, roots. Track 7, "Better of Two Halves" will end up underrated because of its mid-tempo casualness, but it's one of the record's most repeat-worthy songs. "Librarian" has prompted plenty of press already (probably because it's the first straight-forward love song narrative James has written), but it currently feels like the album's biggest misstep, neither saying nor doing anything interesting or pretty for an overlong 4:18. The next song, "Look At You," is a tremendous rebound, and the type of slow-rocking love song we've come to expect from the Jacket. Of all the songs on the record, this one sounds the most like an It Still Moves b-side, and all the better for it. "Aluminum Park" is enough to quench the riff-rock thirst of any Jacket die-hard, but "Remnants" aptly follows it up just to be sure. Of the two, "Aluminum Park" is considerably stronger, and feels like this record's "Anytime" in terms of infectious rock and live-performance energy.

And then there's "Smokin from Shootin," which has to be the record's best song. From the OK Computer arrangement to the surprisingly great lyrics, to the outstanding performances, this is the new Jacket at their best: writing inspired parts, smartly infusing their greatest influences, and using their superior musicianship to serve a song. In 5:06, it never wastes a second (something we couldn't have said had the song been on At Dawn, It Still Moves or Z).

All told, Evil Urges has already been (and will continue to be) lauded as the record we hoped for, a promise delivered, the sound of a band finally making The Leap into greatness. And it's certainly worthy of praise. My criticism of Evil Urges could end up being an entirely subjective one, which is that (to me) it has ten really good songs and absolutely none of MMJ's greatest songs. While "Aluminum Park" feels like this record's "Anytime," it doesn't soar to the latter's heights, or reach the self-referential transcendence of "but did I find another way to communicate." While "I'm Amazed" is an exceedingly likable song, its hook just isn't as sturdy or its melody as infectious as Z's first single, "Off the Record." While the record definitely goes in expansive, instrumental directions (and almost always successfully), no one composition has the power of "One Big Holiday's" guitar leads, or the beauty of "I Will Sing You Songs," or the joy of "Mahgeetah." And certainly none of the slower ballads are as immediately gorgeous as "Golden" or "Gideon."

Then there's the production of the record. While it should be praised for blending seemingly disparate influences into a homogeneous whole, it still feels occasionally flat. For example, the intro to "Evil Urges" builds into verse one, only when it finally lands on the downbeat and James begins singing, it feels less like a resounding opener and more like a false start. At moments like that, I can't help but feel like they sacrificed some of the band's raw power in order to smooth out the record's overall sound and make way for sonic consistency in later tracks.

These two issues--consistently very good songs (if a paucity of newfound "classics"), and a vexing production style--remind me of another excellent record by another Pantheon band. Pearl Jam's Binaural. While some people dismissed Binaural as B-grade Pearl Jam, I always found it remarkable for its consistency song-to-song. While no one track would ever become my favorite Pearl Jam song, the entire record is exceedingly listenable and without real weakness. It might not ever be Pearl Jam at their absolute best, but it's almost always Pearl Jam at their "very good." The album was admittedly held back by the "binaural" recording technique they experimented with, which placed Eddie's vocals further back in the mix. I can't help but see many similarities between Binaural and Evil Urges, both as remarkably solid records that might never be classics. Is it better to be consistently very good, or occasionally jaw-droppingly great?

Of course, the answer probably doesn't matter. What was one band's "valley" has indeed become another band's "peak," as reviews for Evil Urges are calling it My Morning Jacket's greatest album to date. If the mainstream media is always the last to know, then its reception of Evil Urges might very well be a delayed reaction to the scope of influence and overall brilliance of It Still Moves and Z. The truth is that, while this new record is prompting the coronation ceremony, My Morning Jacket should have been crowned after Z, and certainly should've been considered "Prince in Waiting" after It Still Moves. The remarkable thing isn't that they've made another stellar record...it's that, for some reason, this stellar record is the one that broke.

Timing is everything, I suppose. With My Morning Jacket, it's much better late than never.

Been working on it from the start,
CM

P.S. Enough about me...what do YOU think of the new MMJ???

You Can't Count On Them (Anymore)

Or, "The Counting Crows Release a Record, and Tell Me Everything I Need to Know"

If you started 2008 with hope, as I did, for the future of popular music, the last few months have been the rest of times and the worst of times. The North Mississippi All-Stars Hernando was due in January...things were looking up. That record was largely disappointing, but the Black Crowes had a record coming out.

Things were looking up.

So I waited for the new Black Crowes. It didn't blow my hair back, so I marked REM's release on the calendar.

Things were looking up.

Then, Accelerate garnered rapturous critical acclaim...until someone pointed out that we've read this review before. Anyway, SXSW was forthcoming.

Things were looking up.

I waited for the reports, which yielded few, if any, revelations about the state of the union, and more than enough Vampire Weekend backlash to make me think that, thankfully, everyone else gets the joke and, no, they don't really think it's that funny either. Still, the Black Keys were releasing a record with Danger Mouse.

Things were looking up.

Which brings us to the present and, to be fair, not everything has been bad. MGMT's legitimately great single "Time to Pretend" is getting its due, at least overseas. The Black Keys collaboration is a welcome surprise. SNL finally lurched into 2003 and booked My Morning Jacket (May 10!). And, just recently, a dog walked right up to Natalie Portman on the street and showed her what he thought of Garden State. Things looking up, indeed!

Enter the Counting Crows, fresh off a mind-boggling six-year hiatus, armed with fourteen songs of pop musical glory and wonderment, guaranteed to deliver that soundtrack-to-your-summer gem, brimming with infectious hooks, glistening production, and wistful lyricism, forcing you to love them. After all, Hard Candy was nothing if not an endearing, accessible pop record, with moments of inspired brilliance ("Up All Night" remains one of their greatest songs). Sure, parts were hokey (their "Big Yellow Taxi" cover comes to mind). Sure, parts were mindless ("American Girls" was, at the time, their weakest single to date). But it was, ultimately, a satisfactory statement in defense of pop rock at a time when pop was a four-letter word.

Six years, some Shrek appearances, and an entire Ryan Adams career later, the Counting Crows released Saturday Nights, Sunday Mornings, and pre-press sounded great: "An album in two sides, one rollicking, one mellow, one rocking, one rolling, one side narrating mistakes made, one reflecting on them. Saturday nights, Sunday mornings. Alright, I'll go with it." I'm anticipating that, in the best of all possible worlds, this means a record of B+ "Angels of the Silences" and "Holiday in Spains," respectively. But, you know, new. If nothing else, it'll be fun, catchy, fairly consistent, and occasionally interesting. And the band will sound great. This much I know. I know this. Without question, I know this.

But I didn't know this. First, the Crows released "1492," the opening single, in advance. I downloaded it. I hit play. I hit pause. I paced around a little bit. I hit play again. Deep breaths. I hit stop. I closed my laptop. I left the house for a little bit. No way that just happened. No way this is their single after a six-year sabbatical. That shouldn't have been their first single after a six-day sabbatical.

Then I heard they had released "When I Dream of Michelangelo," off the record's second half. This was meant to take me down a notch. I strapped in, thinking, "that's odd, the song's title is a lyric from 'Angels of the Silences,' like, twelve years ago." Turns out that song's title is a lyric from "Angles of the Silences," like, twelve years ago, and turns out this song says somehow less than nothing about what has already been said in that first song twelve years ago. This wasn't the sound of artistic self-referentiality; this was the sound of someone completely out of ideas.

Actually, that's not true. There are ideas here. But nothing close to a good one. For example:

1) "The lead guitarist is awesome. Let's tell him to play lead-ins like he's never seen a guitar before. Let's ask him to make it as cacophonous as possible. It'll be, uh, interesting?"
2) "Hi, I'm a gifted singer. Maybe I should groan a lot. Maybe that'll make the track, um, emotional?"
3) "Our greatest strength is writing pop melodies. We can write gorgeous melodies all day in our sleep. We are better than pretty much every band at this. On this record, let's not do that."
4) "Hey, emo's big right now. Maybe instead of writing lyrics, let's just vent on tape. It speaks more to the heart, anyway."

Eddie Vedder and Tim Robbins reportedly watched a young singer/songwriter perform on Leno one night and Vedder remarked, "That's what diaries are for." Robbins supposedly countered, "That's what locks on diaries are for."

And what I'm trying to say is this: Saturday Nights, Sunday Mornings is a colossal disappointment. It's bad in ways I find hard to believe. It's fourteen songs of condensed and abject punishment. Its failures are so uncharacteristic, its mis-steps so tragically misguided, its errors so unconscionable that I can't even accurately characterize it as a real album that went bad. It's so bad it's surreal. Half the time I listen, I wonder if the record isn't, in fact, an elaborate prank. The other half, I honestly expect to wake up from the nightmare that it is.

"You Can't Count On Me," indeed.

At least five of these songs sound like they're being written on-the-spot. Like, after six years, Duritz called everyone into the studio, they all said, "Alright Adam, what've you got," and he just started playing chords and mumbling about Michelangelo, being unfettered, radios, and girls that want to sleep with him. And they all went, "really?" And he went, "yeah, it'll be great." And they went, "I kind of hate it," and he said, "well, you haven't heard the nail-on-chalkboard arrangement I've picked out," and they said, "ohhh, okay, there's an out-of-tune guitar lick missing, I get it now...by God, Adam, you've done it again!"

By now you're probably saying, "Jesus, Milam, ain't you being a little harsh? It's not like the Crows aren't a good band. It's not like there aren't stacks of bad records at every Towers in America, waiting to be panned." But I'm only this hard on the bands that are actually capable of doing better. And in the case of Saturday Nights, Sunday Mornings, from a band that gave us two of the 90's greatest records, the gap between what they're capable of and what (after six freaking years) they actually produced is so wide, so unfathomable, that it actually damages a fanbase. This is a lazy record, and an insulting record. It's the sound of a band taking its fans for granted, and that's a crime worthy of honest and brutal criticism.

Look, nobody's saying they can't still be a good band. I'm certainly not suggesting they'll never make another worthwhile record. If nothing else, their past work stands by itself and nobody can take that from them. Every band can lay a turd. Dave Grohl admitted himself that 2005's In Your Honor was mostly garbage. Pearl Jam's Riot Act was a misfire. These things happen.

But now, more than ever, we need a great pop record. Since Hard Candy, Americans have created a culture of singularity. We have never been more connected to each other, and have never felt more disconnected. It's an age of individual web-pages, personalized radio, genres and subgenres tailor-made for the person and by the person, but perhaps not for the people. One of the greatest aspects of music is its capacity for shared experience, especially when any given song is universally known and recognized. A great pop song can give all of us something in common, but fewer musicians are creating shared experience through universality. Popular music, previously a medium that bridged the gap, is actually widening it. The list of legitimate pop bands is shorter than ever, and the number of artists who transcend their niche is rapidly dwindling.

That's why, after a season's worth of disappointing releases, after an overlong winter of dreary weather and acoustic bleatings and bad melodies and dull performances, I needed the Counting Crows to step in, deliver a bouncy pop anthem, set a million toes tapping despite themselves and make things normal again. Or at least deliver that one remarkable song, like "Round Here," "Long December," "St. Robinson...," or "Up All Night." Or at least an album's-worth of gorgeous melodies. Or at least a few enjoyable hits. Or maybe some good musical performances. Or possibly one song that resonates. Or maybe just a single lyric...

Still, the new My Morning Jacket comes out in June. And, I swear, things are looking up...

Lucero: What Else Would You Have Them Be?

Last week marked the latest chapter in one of rock's longest ongoing underdog tales:

Lucero released a new album.

From 2000's self-entitled debut to Rebels, Rogues and Sworn Brothers, their latest effort, Lucero has always been the type of band that's easy to root for: they tour incessantly, go out of their way for their fans, never cut corners in terms of promotion or production, and approach their recording career with an integrity and self-sufficiency that is, in short, antiquated. Five albums, one official bootleg, two documentaries, and literally hundreds of shows later, Lucero finds itself buoyed by the optimism of a rabid--and rapidly growing--fanbase. The success of 2005's Nobody's Darlings rendered that very moniker obsolete; a band that cornered the market on songs about disappointment, lowered expectations, self-destructive tendencies and (in short) masterful fuckup-ery ran the risk of rampant success. Turns out people--and record labels, and distributors, and satellite radio stations--relate to great songs about failure. The losers were dangerously close to becoming winners.

Skip ahead a year, and you'll find me digitally downloading their latest effort, Rebels, Rogues, and Sworn Brothers, with the type of nervous anticipation usually reserved for bridesmaids on speed. I know how well artists--especially talented, successful, Memphis-based artists--typically deal with expectations. There's a culture of self-sustained limitation that pervades that city's artistic landscape. Success meant Elvis, Sun Studios, Stax Records, Ardent, Big Star. Elvis became a Shakespearean self-parody before his tragic, early death. Sun went into bankrupcy. So did Stax. Big Star burned out and exploded after two seminal, classic albums. So, widespread success is understandably viewed with plenty of skepticism. We've read this story, and we know how it ends. And, keeping this in mind, I approach every new Lucero and Cory Branan release with the cockeyed hope that these guys continue to plow ahead fearlessly towards greatness, residual successes be damned.

Two months and a hundred listens later, I know maybe only two things about Rebels, Rogues and Sworn Brothers. It is a fearless album, and it is a great album.

Much has been made already about this album's new arrangements; Lucero brought in one of Memphis's finest key-men to accompany the songs with absolutely brilliant piano, organ, and accordian work. The effect, when coupled with the wider lyrical and thematic scope of the album, is and an unavoidably "big sounding" record. Highway 61 big. Born to Run big. In a way, Rebels combines the broad and anthemic scope of That Much Further West with the vibrance and sheer sonic power of Nobody's Darlings.

Of course, this is only the collective impression of twelve remarkable songs. Old fans will have plenty to love here, as "1979" and "On the Way Back Home" are quintessential Lucero, right down to the "Night's Like These/Slow Dancing/Fistful of Tears/Nobody's Darlings" style melodic picking and wistful lyricism. "Sing Me No Hymns" and "The Weight of Guilt" are angry rockers in the familiar vein of "Hate and Jealousy," though more carefully composed, multi-dimensional, and musical. Ben's voice, of course, is as hoarse and expressive and precise as ever, and Roy Berry re-establishes himself as one of rock's greatest working drummers ("I Can Get Us Out of Here Tonight," "San Francisco," "The Weight of Guilt," "On the Way Back Home"). His drumming is often the source of a song's multi-dimensionality, as rhythmic changes in "What Else Would You Have Me Be" and "On the Way Back Home" suggest an alternate emotional core to the song, much the way "Sixteen's" outtro took the song in a new direction.

What interests me more, however, are the songs in which Ben Nichols refrained from writing "Lucero songs" and instead used his talents to synthesize his most disparate influences and create something new. "I Can Get Us Out of Here Tonight" is, by Nichols' admission, his own take on a Springsteen song, and is better for it. The result is a definitive Lucero lyric about fear, love, confusion, anxiety, and hope. The song itself might showcase the best moments of each band member, from the expert key work, to Venable's melodic solo, to Berry's feverish transitions--every moment of the song is packed with a type of immediacy and vibrance we don't often see from any band. "San Francisco" is an absolute gem, and does not lack for Counting Crows influence (from subject matter to the accordion flourishes to the Duritzesque "come ons" in the refrain). "The Mountain" is, in short, the greatest song the Drive By Truckers ever wrote. "I Don't Wanna Be the One" and "She's Just That Kind of Girl" revisit Lucero's punk forefathers with a pop freshness that make them exceedingly listenable. "She Wakes When She Dreams" is a remarkable closing track, and even more valuable for its musical references to Cory Branan. The cadences following each chorus (played by the keys and accordion) recall the melody of "Love Song 11," while the song's lyrical conceit ("She wakes when she dreams/sleeps when she wakes") echo the refrain of Branan's "Sweet Janine" ("Is this just a dream/or am I waking?").

Perhaps the album's definitive track, however, is its opener, "What Else Would You Have Me Be." Neither familiar nor fresh, it occupies a musical middleground for Lucero--this is a song by Lucero that sounds at once distinctly like Lucero and unlike any other song by Lucero before it. What's more, I have a theory that this song is, at least tangentially, about Lucero and their own catalogue of songs. It is self-referential and meta-musical in a way Lucero fans will recognize. When Ben sings in the second verse (through the audible tongue in his cheek), "I'll take you out tonight/buy you cigarettes and whiskey drinks/we'll end up in some fight/ain't that the way good love's gotta be," we know that he's stereotyping his own songs in a moment of poignant self-parody. For just a moment, he's laughing at himself--and we're in on the joke. Just as quickly, we're back to the simple truths of the refrain, "You used to love me/running wild and sleeping with the thieves/come on baby, what else would you have me be?"

And that's why "What else would you have me be" isn't a good question; it's THE question. With a band like Lucero, with their tribulations and detours, their failures and curses and underdog grit and loser philosophies, their self-proclaimed predestination as nobody's favorite, nobody's darling, nobody's god or icon or hero or antihero, nobody's Elvis, maybe years of "wrongs" can add up to one undeniable right. Maybe the years of packed houses and tens of thousands of CD sales and critical acclaim and prolific songwriting finally wore them all down, backed them into a corner, beat them funny and made success not only a fact but a welcome one. Maybe they realized all those years of "fucking up" were well-spent after all. They've done it their way, and they've done it well. Despite themselves.

Lucero has always been easy to root for. They started seven years ago, nascent musicians and novice songwriters, playing muddled acoustic country at punk rock venues, booking more shows, spreading the word, taking it one day (and never more) at a time, cutting records, rehearsing, promoting, booking, touring, recording, rehearsing, touring, recording, rehearsing, touring...seven years, one day at a time. Somewhere along the line, they became a great band.

Just don't tell them that.

Self-Entitled

It should say something about my unconditional love and admiration for Mike, Jeff, Stone, Matt, and Eddie, that, less than 24 hours after Pearl Jam's latest release, I already had a few dozen inquiries for a review. From the years of 1998-2001 I did nothing but listen to Pearl Jam. I almost fistfought my roommate in college when he maligned "Thumbing My Way." I know every lyric--even the ones I don't relate to. I listen to "Hey, Foxymophandlemama, that's me." Eddie Vedder himself, when once asked about the source of his love for The Who, stated simply and without explanation, "They saved my life." These things are not overstatements.

Great bands matter. They matter in a way that transcends the music industry's relative norm. Good Charlotte matters to some kids by the lockers with black fingerpaint and an ear for melody. This month. But, fourteen years later, Pearl Jam matters in a way that reshapes the nature of band-fan interaction. Three of their last four records (No Code, Binaural, and Riot Act) were made with the almost blatant intention to diminish their "importance," clearly outline their fanbase, and, for God's sake, stop all the presses. They are quirky, frustrating albums--and intentionally so. But the backlash of deliberate quirkiness served not to make everyone forget: it only amplified their memory of how incredibly good Pearl Jam is when it wants to be. So we waited.

With Pearl Jam, their self-entitled release, the wait's over. Kind of. This album has everything anyone would want from a Pearl Jam record: classic hard-rock riffs ("World Wide Suicide," "Severed Hand"), thoughtful lyrics aimed squarely at social commentary (if not criticism), flashes of melodic briliance, unbelievable musicianship, and (of course) that untamed tenor soaring in the stratosphere.

The opening four tracks make a statement along the lines of "shut up and listen." As dominant as "World Wide Suicide" has been on the charts (reflecting at least SOME level of relevance, no?), "Life Wasted" is a stronger and more definitive song for the album, and "Severed Hand's" best moments are among my favorites of the record. Only "Comatose" and, later, "Big Wave" are audibly duller, but not necessarily less-enjoyable. Interestingly, the "Wasted Reprise" serves the most purpose of any other track, reminding the listener that this journey is not necessarily linear in chronology or scope: we're back where we started, but with a different attitude. Contentment has replaced indignance. But is this a good thing? Pearl Jam was always better at asking the questions than positing the answers ("Is that the question/and if so, who answers?" anyone??).

The album takes a more melodic turn at track five, with "Marker in the Sand," "Parachutes," "Unemployable," and "Gone" only being interrupted by "Big Wave." And, while everyone will focus on the raucous start and anthemic ending of the album, the middle third seems so engaging, so emminently listenable, and so thematically rich, that it's currently my favorite section. I think the album is 2-dimensional without it. "Parachutes" and "Gone" are good melodies with memorable lyrics, while "Unemployable" remains the most spot-on and best-executed track on the album, albeit with less scope. "Marker in the Sand" shifts from an Audioslavesque verse ("Cochise," anyone?) to a seemlessly great chorus. I can't overstate the greatness of this chorus. It is their single best musical moment since Yield's "In Hiding." Just listen to it. Please.

"Army Reserve" has been, and will continue to be, my sleeper favorite composition, because the song's tension is executed so beautifully and effortlessly in its refrain. This song's chorus also marks another time in which Eddie's lyrics are something of a throwback: abstract, imagistic, elusive, but somehow incommunicably relatable. "I can see it coming/looks like lightning in my child's eye." Well, we can't say definitively what it is (although I have a guess), but we don't really need to. It's on the horizon, and it's coming, and it's coming fast.

"Come Back" is clearly the album's anomoly: as my brother mentioned, it's a clear admission that this band has been heavily influenced by someone other than The Who, Fugazi, Led Zeppelin, and the Lennon catalogue of Beatles songs. Without explanation--other than the thematic link with this lyric and others, namely "Army Reserve" and "Parachutes"--we have an Otis Redding tribute that is eerily spot-on, down to the perfect arrangement, repetitive refrain, and vocal fireworks in a fading-outtro. Where did this come from? Does it matter? It is, even on first listen, one of the album's strongest tracks, and links beautifully the stylistic differences of the album's second and last thirds.

The mystery of "Inside Job," and to an extent my only contention with the album, is that it makes a lot of promises and can't seem to keep all of them. The Radiohead-inspired intro, which showcases Pearl Jam for the nearly peerless musicians and melodists that they are, sets an exciting foundation for a song. But somehow, in the lethargic, bass-driven verse and the forgettable refrain, I kept thinking, "this song might've been saying more when it wasn't saying anything."

This somehow connects to one frustration with the album, and the reason for my initial "Kind of": the album delivers everything you'd want from a classic Pearl Jam record, but doesn't necessarily play up to contemporary Pearl Jam's greatest strenghts: twelve years ago they were best at Zeppelin-laced riff-rock and hard, explosive jams. But Yield showed a matured band who's real strength had become textured musicianship, musical density, and an unbelievable ear for melody in every song's every unexplored corner. Pearl Jam made a great rock record, but the album's more nuanced moments (the chorus of "Marker," the guitar-playing on "Parachutes," the melodic build of "Unemployable," the entire execution of "Come Back," and that gorgeous, haunting intro for "Inside Job") are also its most memorable, pitch-perfect, and beautiful. This coming from a guy who loves hard-rock: this album's softer spots steal the show. They CLEARLY steal the show.

Which begs the question: After eight years of making the album they wanted to make, unbeholden to outside influences and public demands, did Pearl Jam finally make the album they knew their fans wanted to hear? Or does this record mark the realignment of their tastes with those of their fanbase? Or somewhere in between?

These are the questions I listen for. Not the answers.

The Latest from the Greatest

Even the most casual music fans have at least a few artists whose career they follow closely. They know when the next CD is coming out, they know their upcoming tour dates and if said band is coming to their city. And, at the concert, they probably know the words to every song. Personally, I have a small number of artists that fit that bill. The short list looks something like:

Pearl Jam
Radiohead
Outkast
My Morning Jacket
Lucero
Bob Dylan
Cory Branan

The first three are arguably the greatest, still relevant bands on earth. My Morning Jacket has as much regional appeal as anyone. Dylan is Dylan. Lucero is the hometown favorite. And Cory Branan? What if I told you he's a combination of all six? And that his latest CD, 12 Songs, proves it?

Coming off the heralded release of The Hell You Say, Cory Branan did more press than Gutenberg. He played Letterman. Carson (Daly). Appeared nipples-ablaze in Rolling Stone. He was, whether he liked it or not, a singer-songwriter with widespread commercial success, critical acclaim, and posterboy marketability. When RS declared him a peer to Ryan Adams and Conor Oberst, they were really throwing the latter two a bone. Here was an album with no melodramatic excesses, no minced words, and no self-aggrandizing condescension. It Ginsu-sharp. Folks could not wait to see what Cory would do next.

But they waited anyway. And waited. And...waited. Four years later, 12 Songs arrived two years old. After its completion, it sat in post-production for nearly two years because of label troubles. Meanwhile, press had slowed. Sales had slowed. Fans were asking, "what now?"

With these twelve songs, Cory rests all doubt. 12 Songs, unlike his first, is largely a rock album, exhibiting the widest range of Branan's talents. Here, arrangement and intrumental experimentation (more on this in a minute) share the spotlight with his patented lyrical gifts. Given the new medium of 3-minute pop/rock songs, Cory's lyrical lexicon has taken an accordingly accessible and rhythmic turn. We've replaced "I once knew the love of a wife/sometimes the nectar, sometimes the knife" with "Through the dark of the car I see her eyes aglow/I'm in love with a girl named Go." Cory emphasizes sharp, concise storytelling and refrain-based repetition to fit the new songwriting formats. Songs like "Girl Named Go," "Muhammed Ali (and me)," "Prettiest Waitress in Memphis," "Hell-Bent and Heart-first" and "She's My Rock and Roll" make a clear statement about the musical direction of the album and the reason for that change of course. She is, after all, his rock and roll. So listen accordingly.

The album seems to have two heads: the aforementioned traditional rockers and the experiemental ballads. "Love Song 7" (which deserves its own 2000-word entry), "Love Song 11," and "Sweet Janine" occupy a vastly different space. Both Love Songs use electronic instrumentation as intrinsic parts of each song, not experimental decoration. The swirling, dreamy instrumental section of "Love Song 7" seems to take the listener into the emotional world of this particular girl, while the electronic backbone of "Love Song 11" emphasizes the beautiful but awkward nature of this woman's "waltz."

Interestingly, two of the album's standout tracks exist in a sonic middleground. The herky, distorted arrangement of "Tall Green Grass" is enough to surprise anyone who's heard Cory's acoustic live version over the years. But, for a song that invests in fondly and accurately recalling a specifically beautiful moment in time, the "weird" studio arrangement inexplicably works. This song, like its story, is fundamentally beautiful although rough around the edges. And "Last Man on Earth," (my current favorite) seems an aesthetic sequel to "Greenstreet Lullabye," right down to the screeching guitars that interrupt and echo the emotional climax of the lyric ("tonight I'll tie one on real good/just like the last man on earth would/if he never got to say "sorry, my sweet girl"). At its core, it is a multi-dimensional lyric with sharp storytelling and a simply gorgeous melody.

Overall, 12 Songs is so clearly different from The Hell You Say in both intent, theme, and execution that it's unfair and ultimately unproductive to compare the two in terms of "bettter" or "worse." While Branan's first album is fundamentally a collection of folk songs, its follow-up is a revved-up rock record with a side of electronic experimentation. Though they are both clearly sucessful albums, it's hard to say what kind of impact 12 Songs will have in the long and illustrious wake of its predecessor.

I have a hunch, however, that Branan's importance hinges not so much on the strength of his own songs, but on his increasing impact on the wider musical landscape. Already thirty, Branan finds himself the voice for a generation that never was--the entire age strata between GenX and GenY. And, much like his hero Tom Waits, he seems destined to fill an absolutely crucial position of transitioner and trailblazer, marking the terrain for a next and broader generation of songwriters, lyricists, and, more accurately, poets. You might not hear Cory on your Top 40 station, but chances are the next Dylan or Cobain will have studied his entire catalogue.

And, if Cory's most recent live performances are any indication, his latest batch of songs might well be his best. What 12 Songs proves is that Cory Branan's best remains as good as anyone's.