YouTube Concert #1

(UPDATE: Today's YouTube Concert just got some love over at the Official Big Star Blog!  Thanks y'all.)

Today kicks off the YouTube Concert series!  10 songs, 8 covers, 2 originals debuted.  Each new video goes up every Wednesday morning, so be sure to subscribe to stay updated.

Also, there's going to be a lot of Blog-activity in the coming weeks, so here's the run-down:

YouTube Concerts:
2/2, 2/9, 2/16, 2/23, 3/2, 3/16, 3/23, 3/30, 4/6

Song of the Week:
2/4, 2/11, 2/18, 2/25, 3/4, 3/11, 3/18, 3/25, 4/1

Another Cup of Coffee (new feature the Vinyl District):
2/14, 3/14

Here you go--cover #1!  Enjoy!

Song of the Week: Big Star "The Ballad of el Goodo"

This week's Song was inspired by a recent tweet.  Last Thursday, I tweeted this while caught at a red light:

"Gorgeous fall day--windows down, driving (sure, recklessly) to @romancandleband "Early Aubade." http://bit.ly/dzhqz7 #goodwaytogo"

Ahh, fall: joyful driving times and kinda-weird driving thoughts!

Later, I got to thinking (I'll warn you: this gets slightly morbid, but it's a fun question, so come along with me).  Say (God forbid) you're in a terrible car accident and don't survive.  Somehow, through the crash and wreckage, your stereo continues to play whatever song you were driving to when the crash occurred.  Say this is the song that inspired you to drive recklessly and crash.  And say this song is stuck on repeat, full blast, while the police and ambulances and (sure, why not) media show up to the scene.  Nobody can turn it off.  It is, for better or worse, the immediate soundtrack to your death, and the musical postscript to your life.

Now...what would be the best possible song to be playing in this moment?

Before we get there, I'll pick a few superlatives for me, inviting you to chime in with yours:

Most Likely Song: Pearl Jam, "Animal"
Be forewarned: I drive like a complete lunatic whenever this song is on my stereo.  If I need to get somewhere really fast, I simply pop in Pearl Jam's Vs and throw caution to the wind.  One time I made it from my house in East Nashville to my friend's in Belle Meade in 9 minutes.  I didn't even get to the last verse of "Daughter."

In my defense, Jesus Christmas have you heard this lately?

Least Likely Song: Iron and Wine, "Love and Some Verses"
First, I don't own a hard copy of the CD, so it's never in the car.  Second, I like them (and this song), enough to still be engaged/not fall asleep.  Third, it's the least aggressive four minutes of music I've ever heard.  It makes me want to do nothing but hang out at a four-way stop and wave everyone else through (in awful driving circles, that's honored as the "East Nashville Special"). 

Most Prescient Song: Beatles, "Day In the Life"
An obvious (and totally worthwhile) pick, top to bottom.  I'm putting it here because our quasi-hero dies in an implied traffic accident.  Also, would there be a creepier sound on repeat than the noise-chatter that closes the song?  

Least Prescient Song: Oasis, "Live Forever"
Because, you know, irony.

Most Funereal: Dropkick Murphys, "Amazing Grace"
Because I'd want my funeral to be 100% Celtic and at least 50% rock.

Most Embarrassing Song: Olivia Newton-John, "Physical"
Because...a lot of reasons.  But reason #284: in this scenario, you're driving alone.  Hmmmm....

My Pick (2nd Runner-Up): My Morning Jacket, "I Will Sing You Songs"
The 5:28-7:20 section is, for me, maybe the most resonant piece of song I've ever heard.  It sounds like heaven.  (Side note: couldn't find an album version online, but this video is awesome.  The section I'm talking about comes at the 5:42-7:45 mark.)

My Pick (1st Runner-Up): Beatles, "In My Life"
A popular pick, and with good reason: what does this song say that you wouldn't want said, and what does it leave out?  Bonus points for childhood memories attached to it.

And finally...My Pick: Big Star, "The Ballad of el Goodo"
Longtime readers might've seen this coming.  Five main reasons this beat out all the other contenders (Beatles and Dylan abounding):
1) I can't think of a song that I relate to more.
2) They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die.  Many of those scenes involved Big Star as they happened, so it's only appropriate Big Star plays as they flash by.
3) It's just perfectly, transcendently, impossibly gorgeous.  It's too damn pretty.
4) My greatest passion has always been music.  I can't think of a song that more perfectly embodies everything I love about pop music, and contains more things I personally look for in favorite songs (anthemic choruses, perfect harmonies, jangly production, brave lyrics, etc.). 
5) I heard a rumor that you get into heaven automatically if you die to Big Star.

So...what are your picks?  Hit up the comments and let me hear it!

December Boys (On Life and Alex Chilton)

When I heard that Alex Chilton died last Wednesday, I didn't play his music. I didn't nod mournfully over "Thirteen." I didn't light a candle and meditate to "Thank You Friends." I didn't pillage the Big Star catalog searching for answers or epitaphs. For the first time since the first time I heard Alex Chilton, I didn't want his music. Instead, I half-watched a British Office episode and turned out the lights.

-----------------------------------------

Alex Chilton spent his musical life testing the limits of his enormous gifts and the patience of his devoted fans. He was a conflicted artist, equally talented and mistrusting of his talents; music came easily, so he made it harder. He was a peerless melodist who sometimes deliberately wrote inferior melodies. He'd create something beautiful, then distort it, stretch it, pull it, modulate it into something unexpected and anguished. He'd rattle off a brilliant riff only to play it on a detuned guitar. Perhaps his most famous song, "Thirteen," started as an experiment to write, sing, and play like a thirteen year-old, a challenge to himself, as if to give his muses a head start, as if to handicap his own success. His art was erratic, honest, scattered, beautiful, frustrating, challenging, and--when he'd finally give in--effortlessly brilliant. He had a #1 hit at age 16--the only man that year to dethrone the Beatles--then spent much of his career trying not to be so successful again, as though he didn't trust anything that came so easily.

You can hear this conflict in his solo records. You can hear it in his raw, precociously soulful vocals in the Boxtops. You can hear it (perhaps best) in the enigmatic, maddening masterwork of 3rd/Sister Lovers. You can hear it in his production credits for cacophonous, grungy, underground bands with few pop aspirations. Everyone has a favorite Alex Chilton, a stage of his career that they relate most to, a shade of the chameleon that looks most like them.

But for me, Alex Chilton will always be Big Star.

(Side note: this is not to say "Big Star was Alex Chilton," which would be totally untrue.)

I've written extensively about Big Star in this space, mostly from a critical perspective. I've written about individual songs; I've tackled their career and legacy; I've gushed, I've analyzed, I've rinsed, I've repeated. But if all criticism is indeed autobiography, it's time I owned up to mine: I write about Big Star not out of objective critical appreciation but out of subjective, unconditional, schoolgirl love. It's the best kind of love, not for the music that enriches life, but for the rarest music that guides it, affects it, and becomes an irrevocable part of it. Ever since I met Big Star, they've affected my life. In fact, the story of #1 Record/Radio City has helped define my own.

---------------------------------

My family moved from Memphis to Arkansas when I was in college. I'd grown up in Memphis; it was home, and one I loved. I didn't know Little Rock, and didn't know Nashville (yet), and was suddenly displaced from what I knew. I split time between three cities and the same 400 ugly miles of I40, and no place felt like home. Before one of those drives, sophomore year, I got #1 Record/Radio City. I still don't know how I first acquired it--who gave it to me, or who put the idea in my head. I could guess it was my brother's recommendation, but I'm not sure. It was just there one day, in my car. I hit play. I hit play for the next 400 miles, and then the next, and then the next.

I played it every time I crossed the De Soto bridge, heading west into Arkansas. The road's straight enough and the land's flat enough that you can watch the Memphis skyline recede behind you, inch at a time, drifting out of the rearview until only the Pyramid's silver apex remains. Then it sinks into the mud and grass and all that's left is sky. The bridge of "El Goodo" would harmonize "hold on," I'd fix my eyes forward and keep driving.

"Thirteen" played one night on a TV in a dark room. I'd fallen in love, or out of love--I can't remember--and heard it in the background as I washed dishes. I remember wishing I was thirteen again. I remember wishing I'd known the song when I was thirteen. I wanted to be thirteen when the song itself came out, picking out the chords in my bedroom before an unimpressed girl. I wanted to write something as simple and good as it was. I wanted to write something that could transport anyone of any age to that time and place where the world is small, and it's love and a record spinning.

Big Star kept playing.

"Watch the Sunrise" played in the spring mornings of 2006, driving around coffeehouses and barrooms of the South and Midwest, show to show, day after red-eyed day. Big Star played in band rehearsals, my constant request to "get some 'O My Soul' on those drums."

One day after graduation a friend told me that "life starts now." He slapped the side of my car and took a deep breath; he looked happier than the world can afford, and "What's Going Ahn" rang through the background of my car. I wanted to turn it off, but couldn't.

In a few hard-luck months in 2007, I lost a lot: some love, some loved ones, some direction, some of myself. I didn't play "Try Again" those days, but didn't need to. It played on, an infinite repeat, the dual voices of the guitars sounding like a prayer and an answer.

Today, when something great just isn't right, I hear the opening chords of "September Gurls" and know I've been there before. I hear "I'm In Love With a Girl" all the time: every time I am, or anyone is, or anyone should be. It plays on. If I'm broke down, busted, defiant, nostalgic, euphoric, lonely, out of place, a December boy in a September world, I remember there was one before me, and millions just like me. It plays on and on and on. I hear it and know I'm not alone.

And what I'm trying to say is this: the music of Alex Chilton and Big Star has always been there for me. Some music--the best music--gives so much that you feel like you owe it something in return. In many ways, I owe Alex Chilton--and Dylan, Lennon, and many others--every time I write a song. I'm always trying to give something back, even if it's just a fraction of what I've received.

That, to me, is the defining quality of Alex Chilton's work with Big Star: it gives so much. We're told every day that the world is a selfish place. Co-workers look out for number one. Strangers are rude, thoughtless, and indifferent. Acquaintances are self-involved and dishonest. Friends are solipsistic, impatient. Loved ones can disappoint. We're told this constantly. It's in our punchlines, it's in our headlines, it's the unhappy ending of our most treasured movies. And yes, even our favorite artists (Alex Chilton included) can create selfish, alienating art, leaving the audience disconnected and alone. When it comes to love and music, it's easy to find the worst in people, to be let down, to have a bad day. It's so easy.

But #1 Record and Radio City--the Alex Chilton I'll remember best--never gives in. It takes that harder road of redemption every time. It's without self. It simply gives, and gives, and keeps giving. It doesn't just go out of its way to find the silver lining; it creates the silver lining. It makes hope when there is none. With every passing verse and refrain it gives the listener more and more--commiseration, friendship, hope, love, and always beauty. These are songs that defiantly, convincingly remind us that we're not alone. They remind us that feeling alone is as universal as a schoolboy crush, or spending a Saturday night in the back of a car.

More than anything, that remains Big Star's legacy. It's what makes artists as disparate as REM and the Butthole Surfers cite Big Star as a major influence. It's what will last long after its members are gone. It's music that becomes a part of us, and our collective story.

As for me, I'm alright. I'm typing in my apartment and it must be spring in New York, because I've opened the window. I haven't been home in a long time; it's been a while since I've seen that skyline sink into the rearview. I don't know when I'll get back again, and I miss it more than I can say. Sometimes we revisit a place, or a song, to re-experience our first love of it. We go back hoping to feel the same thing. Sometimes it works, and many times it doesn't. When I heard Alex Chilton died Wednesday night, I couldn't play his music. It would've sounded too much like home.

But it's playing now.

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A few quick footnotes:
1) The picture at the top is by an artist named Brian Casabella, posted by Ardent Records' Facebook page.
2) If you'd like to read some good Chilton obits, here they are:
GQ
Rolling Stone
Spin
Austin360 (from SXSW)
Village Voice (a round-up of obits with one must-read anecdote from Michael Azerrad's Our Band Could Be Your Life)

Monthly Mailbag (Thanksgiving Edition)

The Monthly Mailbag is back!

This time, it's got a decidedly Thanksgiving-ish flavor. The readers have turkey on the brain, methinks. This Mailbag's a veritable Greatest Hits:
--Big Star
--Otis Redding
--Arbitrary List-Making

***And a List of Things I'm Thankful For (scroll to the bottom for that).

As always, these are actual emails from actual readers--if you'd like to be in a future Mailbag, drop me a line!

Here we go...

"Chris,
Listening to the song "Alex Chilton" by the Replacements raised in me two mailbag questions. I present each so that you may choose either or neither. 1. What is your take on the Replacements? I always read about them as being an Influential Band, but I did not try out their catalog until recently. It seems like they have a lot of connections to the music you write about (Big Star, 96X). 2. What are your top ten songs involving Memphis? As criteria, I would say songs involving Memphis can either be songs by artists associated with Memphis ("Blue Suede Shoes", "Green Onions"), songs which mention Memphis briefly in a verse ("Proud Mary"), or songs which mention Memphis in the chorus ("Sequestered in Memphis"). As a side note, the Rock n' Soul Museum claims that Memphis has been mentioned in song more times than any other city (link here).

Thanks for the writings,
Seth, Illinois"

Great questions. I'll take them both!

#1:
The Replacements: I'm theoretically a fan, but I rarely listen to them.

I love your capitalization of "Influential Band," because there is a subset of artists generally mentioned as "Influential" first, as if to distinguish between importance-through-influence and importance-through-popularity. These are often the bands people mention in "overrated/underrated" discussions. There's usually a disparity between a band's perceived influence and their actual impact on the masses during their career arc. The Replacements, among others, occupy this weird chapter in the book of pop history.

For example, the Smiths were very popular in their time, but their legacy today is more one of "Influential Band" than "Pantheon Pop Band." People consider their influence on pop culture and the subsequent generation of artists bigger than their actual commercial success. In a way, the Ramones are the ultimate exemplars of this phenomenon: everyone recognizes their influence, everyone knows individual songs from their catalog, yet they never approximated "pop star" status during their career (no Billboard chart hits, etc.). It's often said of the Velvet Underground that every initial fan they had started a band, and those bands became famous. They typify this phenomenon, and are perennially mentioned as an underrated, yet massively Influential Band. And, of course, there's Big Star. The list goes on...

Which brings us to the Replacements, Paul Westerberg's seminal rock project before his successful solo career. The Replacements were critically acclaimed and popular in their time--seminal to the 80's "alt-rock" movement that brought us The Smiths, REM, and U2 (to a degree), among many others--but not as commercially successful. As you say, they're regarded now as an "Influential Band" more than "Lasting Pop Success." So, what's the influence?

Anyone seeking Big Star comparisons can find ample fodder: earnest lyricism, intensely vulnerable songwriting, and a penchant for the happy-sounding-sad-song device Big Star pioneered and perfected. But while Big Star was a 70's powerpop band, the Replacements took that influence in an 80's alt-rock direction: they don't sound like a punk band, but they often feel like one. They're more aggressive percussively, rawer vocally, less polished production, etc. That ethos especially carried their reputation as a live band: Replacements shows were frequently self-destructive performance art pieces, frequently an hour-long descent into drunken dissolution that the crowd participated in, and cheered on.

(Hence, another Memphis band, Lucero, earned Replacements comparisons early in their career for their live antics.)

It's easy to see why the Replacements were so influential on alt-rock bands in the 90's. Their combination of vulnerable lyricism with sonic aggression helped defined the music of GenX. You can hear their impact on everyone from the Gin Blossoms to Soul Asylum, good bands of the 90's and bad. Paul Westerberg's decidedly more pop-friendly solo material also impacted 90's songwriters like Matthew Sweet and Adam Duritz, to name a few.

While I don't love the Replacements entire catalog (I admire it, I just don't always enjoy listening to it), there are some standout songs I'd recommend to anyone wanting a sampler.

"Skyway" is a gentle and generous love letter, a simple, pretty melody borrowing wisely from Big Star. You can hear "Skyway" in everyone from REM to Son Volt.

My favorite Replacements song, however, is arguably their most popular: "Unsatisfied." It's a 4-minute nugget of pop-rock outrage; anyone who's ever felt misunderstood will automatically relate to Westerberg's bewildered outcry: "Look me in the eye and tell me that I'm satisfied." With every repeated refrain, it becomes more desperate, and the singer sounds more alone, and more in awe of his isolation--what should be evident to everyone is understood by no one. It's a wonderfully brave song, and one of their best melodies.

#2:
Because there is no way for me to ever sort through the 900+ songs with "Memphis" in the title or lyric, I'll list ten of my favorite songs by Memphis artists that I think characterize what I love about the city. For fun, though, here are a few personal favorites of the first category:

Gin Blossoms - "Memphis Time"
The Hold Steady - "Sequestered in Memphis" (although I'm ambivalent about that refrain)
Chuck Berry - "Back to Memphis"
Paul Simon - "Graceland"
Lyle Lovett - "I've Been to Memphis"
John Hiatt - "Memphis in the Meantime"
Cory Branan - "Prettiest Waitress in Memphis"

And my all-time favorite with Memphis in the title:
Bob Dylan - "Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again"

But now, let's get down to business...

Here are eleven of my favorite songs by Memphis recording artists that characterize some aspect of the city. Some I just have a strong memory of, or visceral connection to; some lyrically crystallize a part of the town; some sonically sound like the city, or a piece of its past. They're all indispensable, and they're as different and varied and weird and powerful as the city that's inspired them. Here they are, in no particular order...

1) Elvis, "Jailhouse Rock"
It's easy to forget in 2009--because that blues riff is standard now--but it wasn't then. Today's pop cliches were actually invented once, and "Jailhouse Rock" is one of rock's most influential song structures. But beyond its rockabilly skeleton, and its lyrical kitsch, it's Young Elvis's vocal that remains essential. It's this vocal--the impossibly controlled scream, the raw tone, its wild fluctuations, its boundless energy--that inspired so many after it. You can hear it in John Lennon's "Twist and Shout" and Daltrey's "Won't Get Fooled Again." When Cory Branan wants to "take a good swing at him/and turn and scream into the wind" in "Greenstreet Lullabye," this is what that feeling literally sounds like. It seems incapable of holding back, yet somehow does--a vocal that somehow coasts on its breaking point. It typifies the infectious, manic energy of so many Delta-based singers of the last century--blues, rock, pop, and folk alike.

2) B.B. King, "Every Day I Have the Blues"
Prototypical Memphis-blues in the Beale Street tradition. One of a million songs I could've picked, but a personal favorite. Like so many great blues standards, it celebrates feeling low.

3) North Mississippi All-Stars, "Shake Em On Down"
From the (relatively) old school to the (relatively) new: NMAS' take on a classic. At once faithful to each song's lineage and refreshingly innovative, the All-Stars can sound like a purist blues outfit and a hip-hop-infused hybrid within minutes. A 21st Century musical mish-mash of the Delta's best influences--performed with exuberance, innovation, and jaw-dropping musicianship.

4) Sam & Dave, "Hold On! I'm Comin'"
There's nothing that sounds more like the city of Memphis than the soul classics of Stax. "Hold On! I'm Comin'" is my personal favorite--it's a blistering, gorgeous tornado.

5) Booker T & the MG's, "Green Onions"
No list of Memphis's finest would be complete without the greatest house band in history: Booker T & the MG's. If Elvis personifies excitement, and B.B. is the truth, and Sam & Dave are the heart and soul, then "Green Onions" is effortless, wordless Cool. Try to remember a #1 hit since that was entirely instrumental, and try to think of another slice of pop music that communicated more without saying a word.

6) Otis Redding, "I've Been Loving You Too Long (To Stop Now)"
My God, the parenthetical of the title. I mean, this song gets a mention for that parenthetical alone--it's a better line of poetry than anything Sufjan Stevens will ever write (please note: I've nothing against Sufjan Stevens...just making a point about what can, or should, be considered "deep" in pop music). Seriously, take out the capitalization and that's an e.e. cummings poem.

Anyway, of the million gifts Otis gave us, perhaps one of my favorites--and one of the most influential on Memphis artists since--is that a singer can be a bigger man by showing vulnerability. Which brings me to...

7) Lucero, "Sweet Little Thing"
I remember the first time I heard this song. Friends back home had told me that Memphis had their own nascent alt-country band, and their second album was a quiet tour de force. They passed along "Nights Like These" and "Sweet Little Thing," and I was sold within seconds. "Sweet Little Thing" was remarkable for its immediate placement in the alt-country canon, yet its refusal to wear its influences on its sleeve. Unlike Wilco, Son Volt, Whiskeytown, and Memphis-labelmates Pawtuckets, Lucero simultaneously sounded familiar, yet not explicitly derivative. Sonically, they were both more muscular than their peers, yet way, way sadder. All of these characteristics were on full display in "Sweet Little Thing," a perfect nugget of songwriting, made sadder by its brave face, and pushed over the top by Cory Branan's incomparable background vocals.

Seriously, Cory never sang a better three words in his life (which is saying something). They're dripping with angst, the perfect counterpoint to Nichols' false front of stoicism.

This song made me incredibly excited about the next generation of Memphis musicians, and was my introduction to two artists that would influence my own songwriting over the next several years.

8) Pawtuckets, "Broken Heart"
Cause no girls take longer to get over than the girls back home. Cause it's a perfect alt-country powerballad, in songwriting, in performance, and for its haunting lyricism: "This broken heart is fixed on you." When the singer needs a "familiar sound" to lift his spirits, the piano plays a Beale-street-infused barroom melody--a wonderful nod to Memphis's musical heritage, and an admission that no one can live in the past.

9) Three 6 Mafia, "Who Runnit"
Quintessential Memphis rap for the last decade: raw, squarely rhythmic, call-and-response vocals, combined with visceral, brassy, incredibly powerful production. In the mold of Stax soul classics and original rockabilly, it's impossible to hear Three 6's club anthems and not move. (And yes, this is the video where they hit the baby carriage with an Escalade.)

10) Big Star, "The Ballad of el Goodo"
I've written tomes about Big Star, and this song specifically. Nothing to more to add, except that it's the perfect pop anthem for the city: nothing this sad has ever sounded this happy. It goes down swinging heroically.

11) Cory Branan, "Greenstreet Lullabye"
I could've picked twenty different songs here--no hometown artist has meant more to me in my relationship with Memphis than Cory Branan. Like Edwin Arlington Robinson's Tarrytown, or Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha, or even the unreal London of Dickens, much of Branan's lyrics occupy, explore, illustrate, and eventually define a specific place. Usually , that place is Memphis. Perhaps no other Branan song is more firmly entrenched in this world, or is more lyrically successful in characterizing it:

"The copperheads fill all the ditches
The kudzu chokes the trees
Mosquitos hum like window units
But you gotta move if you want a breeze"

It places our narrator squarely in the Memphis of his--and our--youth. There's a local music scene that's at once exciting and alienating. There's a collection of people and places that are familiar but oppressive. There's a "dark, sad song stuck in the throat of this town," but it's too painful to ever sing out loud. Then, balancing a hopeful refrain ("there's always tomorrow") with a crucial rejoinder ("there's always...this dark, sad song"), the song erupts into the very cacophony it describes: guitars shriek, percussion explodes, sounds scratch and scrape against each other as Branan finally gives a musical voice to the "dark, sad song" he lyrically defined. It's a wonderful, multi-dimensional moment, and it characterizes a wonderful, multi-dimensional city. Sometimes, the beauty's in the noise.

"Hey Chris!

What are you doing for Thanksgiving? Will you be in New York? And what are you thankful for?

Happy Thanksgiving,
Megan, Chicago"

Hey Megan! Thanks for writing, and Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.

I've taken some heat lately for implying that Thanksgiving might be overrated. I actually really enjoy Thanksgiving, and still think it's overrated. November's Fan of the Month, for example, loves Thanksgiving, and thinks it's underrated by its proximity to Christmas. I think that Thanksgiving is overrated by its proximity to Christmas. Here's a basic schedule for a standard Thanksgiving (leaving out each family's individual traditions):

--Wake up
--Watch a parade on television, which is a fancy way of saying "a ton of middle school bands from Ohio"
--Eat
--Fall asleep while watching the Detroit Lions lose
--Eat again
--Wake up the next day and realize it's Christmas season

Without the last bullet, this is a wildly anticlimactic holiday. If you put the same agenda in February, it would probably depress people. And sure, I really enjoy Thanksgiving, and get why other people do: it's time to spend with people you love, it's time off from work, it's fall's swan song, the food's good, there's football, and it's generally a snuggly time (thanks, Dr. Benway).

But Thanksgiving's best characteristic is that it ushers in the Holiday Season. You enjoy it because you know it's only the beginning of good, fun, holiday festivities. You know Starbucks is breaking out the red cups. You know all girls look good in sweaters. You know lights will go up. You know parties will abound. Merriment and frivolity will ensue. Peoples' hearts will double in size.

Thanksgiving is great because it's an awesome, yet distinct, prologue to the entire holiday season. Without the next chapter, though, that prologue is just a bunch of words.

All this to say...

I'm stoked about this year's Thanksgiving. I'm spending it in New York, which means it's my first away from home. As much as I'll miss my family and all the traditions and familiarity and shared experience that come with spending Thanksgiving at home, I'm excited to spend it with friends, and spend it in a new place. Thanksgiving is great, but it's not Christmas; it's meaningful, but it's not sacred. I'm coming home for Christmas, I'm always coming home for Christmas, and that's not open for discussion. With Thanksgiving, I'm open to change.

Some friends in Brooklyn host a Thanksgiving dinner every year, and invited me. So, that's how I'll spend Thursday. Eating an awesome meal hosted by three gracious hostesses and probably watching a ton of Christmas movies and doing none of the things I usually do, but kind of all the things I usually do.

I'm bringing the Fruit Roll-Ups.

And I'll take the last part last! As much as I've waxed poetic about what Thanksgiving means to me, I've overlooked its basic premise: it's a time to appreciate the good things in life. And I've got a lot to be thankful for this year. Here's a sampling...

What I'm Thankful For (a randomized litany by Chris Milam)

I'm thankful for Fruit Roll-Ups.

I'm thankful for my Thanksgiving hostesses. I'm thankful for people who can make any place feel like home. I'm thankful for that, because home can be a hard thing to find.

I'm thankful for the updates I get from Jack Daniels on Facebook.

I'm thankful for direct flights to Nashville. And Little Rock. And Los Angeles. I'm thankful that I'll be seeing all of you sooner than you think.

I'm thankful for Ray Rice. I'm thankful for Steven Jackson. I'm thankful for Brett Favre. I'm thankful for DeSean Jackson. I'm thankful for all of them, and the things they do. And I'll continue to be thankful through Week 16, please. Thank you.

I'm thankful that being an Alabama fan in 2009 is easy. Cause it usually isn't.

I'm thankful for Mark Ingram.

I'm thankful for Elixir Phosphor Bronze guitar strings. I'm thankful to have three unopened packages of them. There are few little things that make me happier than a new pack of strings, and what they do for Rose.

I'm thankful for healthy family, and healthy friends. Every day I can say that is a little miracle.

I'm thankful for wood to knock on.

I'm thankful for the last three episodes of Mad Men's Season 3. I'm thankful for anything in pop culture that continues to surpass expectations, anything that's so great you feel embarrassed for doubting it. Those things are rare.

I'm thankful for the kosher bakery across the street and the woman behind the counter. I'm thankful that she considers it her personal responsibility to feed me well. She always knows what I want, especially when I don't.

I'm thankful for ramen noodles, the antithesis of the kosher bakery across the street. I'm thankful for the bunch of nothing they are.

I'm thankful for sweaters that work.

I'm thankful for girls in sweaters that probably don't work.

I'm thankful for the trampoline I'm getting this Christmas. Fingers crossed.

I'm thankful for Christmas, a most wonderful time of the year. I'm thankful for Christmas music, and Christmas parties, and Christmas lights. I'm thankful for all the other holidays, too, if they'll have me.

I'm thankful for Christmas movies.

I'm thankful for Love Actually, which I only watch in December, but every December. I'm thankful for the condensed brilliance of Alan Rickman. I'm thankful for "Mmm...would we call her chubby?" I'm thankful for what that movie makes me want to do every time I see it. Which is become a terrific moron and call everyone in my phonebook, especially the people I normally wouldn't call. I'm thankful for the reminder that it's always a good time to tell someone "I miss you," or "I thought about you," or "I love you," or "I like you."

I'm thankful for Better Than Ezra. Way more than I should be.

I'm thankful for any music that's generous. Any music that gives without asking for anything return. This is the season for that music. I'm thankful for REM, and Big Star, and the Beach Boys, and so much Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Paul Simon, Pearl Jam, Gram Parsons, and so many more. And I'm thankful for Tom Petty, who's typically great, never The Best, but is always perfect.

I'm thankful for the guy at the corner store. I'm thankful for him carding me by saying, "how old are you," but refusing to look at my actual ID. He wants an answer, not a license.

I'm thankful for the morning smells of Thanksgiving. Turkey, and fresh bread, and three different pies. I'm thankful for the parade sounds buzzing from Mom's television in the kitchen. Thankful for the pots and pans waking me up. I'm thankful to be missing them.

I'm thankful for a new record, Up. I'm thankful for iTunes. I'm thankful for December 1, which is when these three things meet your ears, I hope.

I'm thankful for Steve Martin, his studio, and his immeasurable, indefatigable talents. I'm thankful for his belief in this record, these songs, and his commitment to them.

I'm thankful for you, listening, reading, and generally supporting. I'm incredibly thankful that I get to do this for a living. I don't know what I did right in a past life, but I'm thankful for that. I'm already thankful for 2010. It's going to be great.

I'm thankful for my family. Much more than I can say.

I'm thankful for my friends. Much more than I would say.

And I'm thankful for Fruit Roll-Ups.

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What are you thankful for? Hit up the comments and let me know!

And Happy Thanksgiving...have a great, safe holiday!
CM

Songs for November

(***BONUS NOTE! Now just click here to hear the whole playlist. Thanks, Michael!)

About the same number of Americans are born every month. It's true, I read it somewhere. The exceptions to the rule are August and September, which have slightly higher birth-rates than the other months. There's not a spike in the chart, but there is a bump.

Why are (a few) more Americans born in August in September than the other months? Why do we have more Leo's than any other sign? And why, dear God, am I telling you any of this?

Because if you're born in August-September, you were probably conceived in November-December (assuming you're human). More specifically, if you were conceived November 15, your due date was approximately August 15. What I'm about to say might make some of you uncomfortable, but you'll have to deal with it: November-December, evidently, is baby-making season. And if you were born in August-September, your parents fell victim to its snuggly charms. In a big, big way. Think about that.

There is something in the air in November. It's not fall's best month (September), and it's not fall's prettiest month (October), and it's not The Most Wonderful Time of the Year (December). The weather's worse than you remember (way more rain), and the leaves don't fall at the rate you expect (usually all-to-nothing, which can be jarring). It features a major holiday, but that holiday has no gifts and showcases food-you-don't-eat-any-other-time. November's lacking some typical fallish delights, but it's got something else:

Mojo. I noticed it first in college, long after my brother had warned me: November (and into December) is the time when stuff goes down. Relationships start, relationships get serious, relationships get turbulent, relationships end. These things can start, or finish, or become anything in between--one way or another, It Happens in November. And if It doesn't, the scene is set for a truly frightening and heady December. Don't believe me?

Think about all your past relationships. Think about their chronology. Now, think about how often you consider your exes. How often you wonder what they're doing. How often you think about calling them just to see. I will bet you $9 and a cardigan that number rises in November. I know mine does.

What is it? Is it the first rush of cold weather? The fear of winter and the anxiety of spending five months indoors by yourself? The fact that people look good in sweaters? The holiday season, and heart-warming activities therein? Does the cider go to our heads? All of the above?

Some months are great on paper, but November's great because of its intangibles. It's a strange and magical time of year, and it works in mysterious ways. It's a time when people get together, or think about getting together, or drive circles at midnight obsessing about getting together. It's a time when all experience seems amplified, all feelings heightened. The emotional stakes are raised. It's the beginning of the end of the year, and it's fall's tipping point.

Now, thirty songs that typify its mysterious mojo...

30 Songs for November!

(Oh, and as always, there's the iTunes' Randomly Selected Pick.)

Counting Crows, "Hard Candy"
A lyrical layup ("On certain Sundays in November..."), but concrete proof that the Counting Crows can enact the sound of a season as well as anyone. This song is quintessential fall.

Ryan Adams, "Gimme a Sign"
As much fun as fall is, there's an end-game to the festivities. This song marks the turning point from October (inconsequential fun) to November (needing more).

Magpies, "Cobblestone Road"
An Americana outfit I discovered a while back, the Magpies have a catalog full of rootsy, Band-inspired, harmony-laden, rollicking songs. "Cobblestone Road" is my favorite--all some songs need is a wide open space, and breathing room.

Monsters of Folk, "Say Please"
Desire. Supplication. Acoustic guitars.

Josh Ritter, "Good Man"
One ongoing theme of this list--and every November relationship--is the conflict between what you should do and what you are doing. Josh Ritter sets the right example.

Teenage Fanclub, "Falling Leaves"
Layup!

My Morning Jacket, "Just Because I Do"
The flip side of "Good Man's" coin. It's not My Morning Jacket's best song, but it might be their most fun, and one of those wonderful times Jim James says exactly what he's thinking. This song makes sense, even when it doesn't make sense.

Wallflowers, "Sleepwalker"
"Educated virgin" is one of my favorite lyrical moments from the 90's. The song's minor-major battle plays out the way November usually does: a constant push and pull with a bittersweet ending.

REM, "Half a World Away"
Who hasn't been here? REM take the singularly painful experience of feeling detached, alone, and heartbroken, and make that feeling universal. By singing about loneliness, Michael Stipe shows us that nobody's truly alone.

Pearl Jam, "Just Breathe"
Eddie Vedder, via Faith Hill.

Big Star, "I'm In Love With a Girl"
That thrilling, silent, terrifying realization that she's gotten to you. Again. And you never stood a chance.

Black Keys, "All You Ever Wanted"
The next realization, and a haunting reminder to to "be careful what you wish for."

White Stripes, "You've Got Her In Your Pocket"
By November, we've replaced the harmless dalliances with something more consequential, and more troubling. Even when a relationship involves less, it means more. Suddenly, everything matters.

Uncle Tupelo, "Atomic Power"
In 2004, I made a fall mix to commemorate that semester at school. The mix was split into two halves, with "You've Got Her In Your Pocket" ending the first half, and "Atomic Power" starting the second. Something about that pairing always stuck with me, the way Uncle Tupelo's instrumental wordlessly communicates everything the rest of the mix wants to say. It's a departure, a turning point, the moment when everything that came before suddenly isn't enough. There's something in that repeated acoustic phrase, something about the bent notes and the steady pace beneath it. It's the sound of needing more, and searching for it.

Loretta Lynn and Jack White, "Portland, Oregon"
And sometimes that search includes Oregon, sloe gin fizz, Loretta Lynn, and a corner booth.

Kings of Leon, "Fans"
This song is a wide open, acoustic-driven, backbeat-fueled, soaring, sustained, Petty-infused pop rock tune that should be titled "The Highway, And Why You Love It," or "Cruise Control" or "Roll Down Your Window and Roll Up the Rock" or something equally ridiculous and appropriate. I don't have a clue what this song has to do with "Fans"; that's for a better linguist to decipher. I put the song here because of what it is, not what it says it is.

Simon & Garfunkel, "Leave That Are Green"
Layup! Also, something in that baroque arrangement sounds wintry to me--it makes a smooth transition as we head toward December.

Ryan Adams, "Tears of Gold"
What is November without images of home?

Band of Horses, "Marry Song"
Ditto.

Coldplay, "Trouble"
1) Personal ties to this one.
2) Yeah, you heard me.
3) I think this is a legitimately good song.
4) That gorgeous piano melody, the somber musical imagery, the stark lyricism...this is what Adam Duritz' bothersome November weather (in "Hard Candy") actually sounds like.

Avett Brothers, "Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise"
By late November, we're building momentum, and well-past the point of self-delusion. Also, bonus points for any songs with keys--they connote the holiday season to me.

Jimmy Eat World, "Crimson and Clover"
Jam right. I'm bringing out the JEW, and they're singing a round, and everyone on the home stretch will have to deal with it.

Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Someday Never Comes"
One of my favorite John Fogerty melodies, and lyrically appropriate.

Bob Dylan, "4th Time Around"
Many Dylan songs explore semi-relationships: the thing that happens when two people are holding back and can't make it work. Many Dylan songs have an entirely "wintry" arrangement, from the bright acoustics, to the light keys, to the spare, haunting rhythm section. "4th Time Around" brings both to the table, and tells the story perfectly as we inch toward December.

Scott Miller, "Loving That Girl"
Dylan's "4th Time Around" scene revisited, now a day, or a week, or years later. Sometimes, November's too much.

Ben Nichols, "Toadvine"
You knew Ben Nichols was coming. But wait...

Lucero, "Nights Like These"
...There's more. Remember at the beginning, when I described "driving circles at midnight obsessing about getting together"? That's Lucero's genre: "Music to play in your car at midnight while you obsess about a relationship, with nobody to talk to, and nowhere to go." This is a gorgeous song, and my all-time favorite by Lucero, and it enacts a breaking point.

(Side note: "She had a weakness for writers and I--I was never that good at the words, anyways" is the moment I fell in love with Lucero. This was the first Lucero song I heard. When that line came--at the song's climax, breaking into the instrumental section--I had a new favorite band. Seven years later, it still hits home.)

Wilco, "Someday Soon"
Alt-country arrangements sound like a homecoming to me, which is exactly what late November brings. "Someday Soon" is Tweedy's version of Tom Petty's final sentiment; it's optimistic, but less certain.

Tom Petty, "It'll All Work Out"
Petty tells a story with simultaneous intimacy and distance: you can never fully tell if he's singing about a faraway past or an immediate one. There's wisdom in the detachment, but there's pain in the closeness. When he sings the chorus, he's halfway convincing. And that's really all anyone needs by November's end: an easy, hopeful, pretty refrain they can sing and even believe. After all, the story's not over.

iTunes' Bonus Random Pick!
"Making Believe" - Emmylou Harris.

Alright, iTunes, way to pull out the Emmylou trump card. Now you're not even playing fair...

What about you? Are you an August baby? Is November the start of Something for you? Did you call an ex last night? And, most of all... What are your songs for November? Hit up the comments and let me know!

That's the way it goes,
CM

Eye On the Sky, Ear to the Ground

Much more soon, but I had to pass along some news for the uninitiated.

Big Star's long-anticipated box set, Keep An Eye on the Sky, is now available for purchase, consumption, hand-holding, long walks on the beach, potentially spooning, but is not yet ready to meet your parents. Don't rush it.

Of course, the jury's back, the verdict's in, and it's unanimous: somewhere between "best box set ever" and "best thing humanity's made since democracy."

Pitchfork: "...rock's greatest cult band."
Rolling Stone: "4 1/2 stars...stubborn, brilliant defiance."
Onion A/V: "...perfect power pop and a beautiful shambles of a third album."

And then there's this prescient gentleman's Two-Part Big Star lovesong from this past spring.
Big Star: The Music (Part 1)
Big Star: The Band (Part 2)

So read up, whet your appetite, and buy the darn thing already. You're out of excuses.

I am the cosmos,
CM

Songs for September

September.

It's the month I've been waiting for. It's the month I really want when I need warm weather in March. It's summer's kept promise, it's the payoff for August, it's the end of the dog days and the beginning of fall. It's the month so good, I ranked it #1. Here's what I said at the time:

"If March is the worst of both worlds, September's the best: it begins with the lingering heat of summer, it ends with the slowly-falling temperatures of fall. It has all the remaining energy of summer but the renewed exuberance of a new school year, a new football season, a new everything. September's the time when things start to happen, the payoff from the overlong waiting game of summer, the beginning of the end of the year. I swear (in Nashville anyway), you can feel the energy pick up September 1st. And while it's got all the perks of fall (weather, football, girls looking their best, amped-up music releases, etc.), it's got the bonus of being first. As it's happening, you can still look forward to the next months and all implied greatness therein. There is no downside to September.

Unless you're a UT fan. In which case your season's probably over by Week 3."

I wrote that in April, when fall seemed as far away as the Olympics. Now I'm writing from Hillsboro Village, on August 26, and the sun's going down, and it's the end of a cloudless day, but it feels like dawn.

Now, thirty songs about possibility, promise, expectant energy, fire, vitriol, fervor, and the last great payoff. Thirty songs about new storylines, new loves, heightened senses, a fresh, better, more memorable season. Thirty songs about the months you'll want to revisit next winter, and five winters from now, the songs you've been waiting for.

Thirty Songs for September!

(Plus the one iTunes Random Pick.)

Sacred Harp Singers, "Idumea"
Like this song, there's something intangible about the eve of fall--it swells up, and bowls you over.

Paul Simon, "Boy in the Bubble"
It sets the stage as well as any.

Josh Ritter, "To the Dogs or Whoever"
And we're off. September is so all-encompassing and jam-packed it's in constant danger of derailing. Then a familiar refrain takes shape, renews its structure, and it races on.


The Hold Steady, "Stuck Between Stations"
I'm a pop music fan. I need a melody. I need a singer. But sometimes, the Hold Steady are so good, so undeniably powerful, I don't need the melody. The band says it all.

Cory Branan, "Miss Ferguson"
From the band who says it all to the man who does. Arguably Branan's most famous song, "Miss Ferguson" is Episode 1 of a new old story. It's the opening chapter of a season-long relationship. Like the two people involved, the song is incapable of holding back.

Counting Crows, "Angels of the Silences"
Remember when the Counting Crows could do this?

Gin Blossoms, "Lost Horizons"
The first of many Gin Blossoms appearances this fall. Maybe I'm crazy, or maybe this is entirely related to my own history with the Gin Blossoms, but no other band from the 90's feels more entrenched in the fall. Their entire catalog feels like the offspring of Zeus and a gold leaf.

Scott Miller, "Goddamn the Sun"
A jaw-droppingly tight vignette from another fall favorite. The song borrows equally from REM and John Donne, is beautiful, and forceful, and inspired. "My window creeps across my wall" alone merits inclusion.

North MS All-Stars, "Drinking Muddy Water"
The third song you want to hear on Gameday.

Wilco, "Kingpin"
Usually, if Jeff Tweedy allows himself a moment of pride or confidence, it's undermined by irony, sadness, or general pessimism. "Kingpin" is a noteworthy exception, and better for it.

Band of Horses, "The General Specific"
Find a quiet road, find a cool breeze, roll down the windows, hit play.

Ryan Adams, "Firecracker"
Something about the harmonica has always felt autumnal to me, so "Firecracker" gets bonus points. But really, it's the song's tone that does it: even when it's desirous, it's at ease. It's comfortable. It's happy. It can take or leave her. It convincingly saves the angst for later.

Teenage Fanclub, "Ain't That Enough"
My introduction to Teenage Fanclub was hearing this song in my brother's car one September. I never stood a chance.

Old 97's, "Question"
Very specific, very goofy memory attached to this one. Still, it sounds like fall.

Ole Miss Marching Band, "Dixie"
The first song you want to hear on Gameday.

Billy Bragg & Wilco, "Airline to Heaven"
Arguably the best cut from the Mermaid Avenue sessions, this song takes a Guthrie song to an even higher place. It's soaring and infectious and sounds like gold.

Tom Petty, "Free Fallin"
Speaking of soaring and infectious and sounds like gold... Some things are cliche for a good reason.

REM, "Radio Song"
If for no other reason than the sheer exuberance during the opening line. For someone so obsessed with the "end of the world," why does Michael Stipe make it sound so good? The song, like the season, is undeterred.

The Wallflowers, "The Difference"
A band entrenched in late fall, "The Difference" is their deceptively sunny exception. It invites complication and races right past it.

Magpies, "Picture Me In a Love Song"
Yes, it's a beautiful song, and yes, its jangly guitars and doo-wop rhythms fit the month. But it's the brilliant piano-work during the outtro that strikes the right, ambivalent chord. A bittersweet song that's much more sweet than bitter.

Lemonheads, "Into Your Arms"
A different version of the story told in "Kingpin," but here the sweet-sounding blues is replaced by suspended chords and sunny melodies.

Nirvana, "Son of a Gun"
Heady memories attached to this one. Moving on!

Pearl Jam, "I Am Mine"
I first heard this song in late September, 2001. Pearl Jam had played a benefit shortly after 9/11, and debuted this new song written in its wake. The bootleg quickly made the internet rounds. Even though the song didn't appear on record until the next spring, I'll always associate it with September.

Green Day, "Wake Me Up When September Ends"
Layup!

Kings of Leon, "Slow Night, So Long"
Once the days start getting shorter, and the air gets cooler, this is the sound of the beginning of your night.


Lucero, "What Else Would You Have Me Be"
A song with so much anthemic energy, every second has a thousand possibilities. The song not only enacts that feeling, but celebrates it.

Rolling Stones, "Loving Cup"
Only "Like a Rolling Stone" features better key-work to start a song. Something about the melody--and the performance of the harmonies--feels like fall. It doesn't sound like home; it sounds like coming home.

Pawtuckets, "She's Gone"
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Pawtuckets' Dogsbody Factotum is the best alt-country record you've never heard. My life was forever improved by my introduction to it one August. "She's Gone" was on constant rotation by September. It is, exactly, the sound of lost love at the beginning of the year's end.

Big Star, "September Gurls"
Layup!

My Morning Jacket, "Anytime"
September doesn't ease into any conclusion. It doesn't stop to consider itself in a moment of sober melancholy. It doesn't take a breath. It turns up the volume and dares October to follow.

And the iTunes Random Pick:
White Stripes, "I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself." Hmmm. Aesthetically off, thematically perfect. Touche, Machine. Touche.

What about you? What are your Songs for September? Hit up the comments!

Words only got in the way,
CM

I Am the Cosmos (Part 2)

America is losing. We haven't lost, and there's reason for hope. But over the last several years, there's a been rising, unspoken sense of loss among average Americans. In the million different battles a nation or a nation of individuals can face, we are cumulatively losing.

Some battles are big: the economy, health care, foreign conflicts, civil rights, etc. Some are small: a crumbling bridge, a public school without heat, a broken music industry, etc. America's success as a nation has always rested on the successes of its individuals. But there is a sense that individuals are losing, that they have less say in their own private destinies. Millions of Americans are down a touchdown with two minutes left, primed for a comeback drive...but they don't have the ball.

You can see it in an abandoned Detroit auto-plant. You can watch it like the Dow. You can hear it--and the absence of it--on the radio. You can hear it in the music of so many artists who quit, shut down, re-tooled, stopped trying to matter to America, and started trying to matter to their zip code. If you can't be universal without Universal, you're losing.

Or, you've already lost.

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In 1971, a band without a name started recording an album without a title. They had never performed publicly, never received any press, had no money machine behind them to catalyze their success. Like so many other bands of talent, they found each other, then found the music, then found some mics and hit record. There was nothing about this band--excluding their talent--that would suggest they would take on the world and win someday. There was no omen for success, no path laid out.

So, the band without a name took a break one night from recording their album without a title and stared across the street at the neon blue sign of the neighboring grocery: Big Star. It was perfectly tongue-in-cheek, as epic and self-deprecating as the songs they were writing. What to call the unreleased album/future classic, then? #1 Record, of course. Like any good band, they laughed at their dreams and got back to work. But, like good band, they were only half-kidding.

#1 Record was released by Ardent Records in 1972, in conjunction with Stax and Columbia.
Hailed at the time as a contemporary masterpiece, the record's influence only grew. It inspired generations of new artists, from REM to the Replacements to the Counting Crows, Paul Westerberg, Matthew Sweet, Teenage Fanclub, the Posies, SubPop founders Jonathan Poneman and Bruce Pavitt...the list is endless. For its tragic heroism, its vulnerability and self-awareness, its aesthetic triumphs and its wounded lyricism, #1 Record was a ground-breaking record and instant classic. Decades later, it would take its place among so many publications' Best Albums of All-Time lists, lauded by everyone from Rolling Stone to Robert Christgau.

The record's leadoff single ("When My Baby's Beside Me" b/w "Don't Lie to Me") was predictably embraced by radio. The record's distribution, however, was nonexistent. While the music was played nationwide, the album itself was practically unavailable for purchase. Additionally, a promotional tour was never fully planned, much less booked. All across America, The Brilliant Big Star became a tantalizing rumor, and you couldn't find out if they were true.

#1 Record sold 4,000 copies.

Disenchanted by the commercial failure--and ego-bruised by the songwriting credited to bandmate Alex Chilton--Chris Bell left the group near the end of 1972. With no tour booked, no money, and no viable business plan from the businesses they were tied to, Big Star was without momentum.

The group informally disbanded until a one-off concert at a local convention reunited them a year later. The reunion led to new songs. The new songs led to new sessions at Ardent. Those sessions would become Big Star's sophomore album, Radio City. For its dynamic songcraft, confident production, and daring innovation, Radio City drew even more critical acclaim than #1 Record. The second record expanded upon the first in every way, delivering its aesthetic promises while pushing the limits of what a pop song can be. In many ways, it was the flip side of the same coin, the Dr. Jekyll to #1 Record's Mr. Hyde, a gorgeous payoff after a cagey setup. As such, the two are rightly packaged today as one giant double-album, #1 Record/Radio City.

While Big Star artistically progressed (with press and radio in tow), business history repeated itself. Short, disjointed tours were booked to promote the new record and introduce the band to the cities that heard them. The record's distribution was again woeful, guaranteeing that even rabid fans would need a bootlegged-miracle to own an album. It was a perfect storm of bad ideas and neglect by a triad of defunct and failing companies. The Big Star Story could be taught in MBA classes today as a cautionary tale, a virtual "what not to do" guide for breaking bands.

Despite the failure, Big Star continued to succeed. With every fawning critic, every friend-who-has-a-copy, their legend grew. Being a Big Star fan became akin to joining a club, exclusive not for intellectual snobbery but for sheer material wealth. It meant something to own a Big Star album. All across America, millions of teenagers picked up a guitar and sang "Thirteen" without irony. Then they formed their own bands, and those bands formed new bands, and those bands are on your iPod, your theme songs, your car commercials, your movies and TV. They inform your lifestyle, then the next generation of bands.

But that's now. Back in 1975, as Big Star's legend grew, the band faded. Bassist Andy Hummel left the group after Radio City, understandably "tired of being broke." A third record (Third/Sister Lovers) was a glorified Chilton-solo project, frequently brilliant but something other than Big Star. Predictably, it was under-promoted and languished. In 1978, original guitarist, singer, songwriter, and co-producer Chris Bell died in a car accident, ending any hope of a Big Star reunion.

As the original foursome (Alex Chilton, Chris Bell, Andy Hummel, and Jodi Stephens), Big Star released two classic albums, played 20-25 concerts, sold no records, never glanced a Billboard chart, had no hits, made no money, then they quit, shut down, stopped trying to matter to America. A group of individuals created something invaluable, something transcendent, put it out into the ether, and walked away. For all their success, they failed. For all that they should've won, Big Star lost.

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Just before his death, Chris Bell made a solo record called I Am the Cosmos. The title track*** is classic Big Star, as fine as anything from the first two records and finer than anything he or Chilton made after. The song begins with a defiant strum, a clarion call, then a declaration of spiritual victory:

"Every night I tell myself I am the cosmos/I am the wind."

It is a mantra, a ritualized chant, a desperate plea with the gods: put me in charge of my own destiny. It is intensely vulnerable, helpless but not yet hopeless. In a few opening seconds, we get the sound of one man's effort to reclaim his own autonomy, to take control of his own life, to reclaim his own success. Hope hangs in the air.

Then, a jarring minor-chord and a sign from above:

"...but that don't get you back again..."

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A friend of mine believes the best band on earth is unknown. He says that, at any given time, there's an anonymous band in a South Pacific tiki bar, or a Eastern European living room, or anywhere, that is as good as anyone...but we'll never hear them. He says it's luck's unhappy math, a cruel numbers game: for every great band we know, there are dozens equally as good but less fortunate. They toil in obscurity, then fade away.

I've always disagreed with my friend, because I think the best bands earn their breaks. I think that ambition, and competitiveness, and a relentless, obsessed pursuit of success is a key characteristic for any great band. The cream rises to the top, because part of being the cream is that you don't let yourself fail.

I believe this because my favorite artists--and pop culture's favorite artists--did earn their breaks. I know the stories of the Beatles getting rejected by every shortsighted rep at every major label until a bastard stepson subsidiary picked them up and pawned them off on George Martin as an afterthought. The Beatles were the Beatles partly because they and Brian Epstein simply wouldn't be denied, no matter how many rejections came first.

In the late 60's, the best unknown bar band on earth created something so new, vital, exciting, fully-formed, and accessible that they became superstars on sheer merit and force of will; they became Led Zeppelin because no bar could've contained them.

At the time he was writing letters to friends about an inevitable major label bidding war and writing songs for Nevermind, Kurt Cobain was sleeping under a bridge.

And if you really, really, REALLY believe that there were hundreds of Bob Dylans, just wandering around the West Village in 1962, simply unlucky not to run into John Hammond...you should go your way and I'll go mine.

The fact is, luck exists. But it's often the preemptive excuse of the lazy and untalented. It is what people say to make themselves feel better when they 1) aren't good enough or 2) are too lazy to try***. I've simply never bought the theory that some of our best bands toil in obscurity and die anonymous. Big Star is closest we got to "Rock's Great Unknown Band," and it took a once-in-a-generation perfect storm of three businesses failing at once for them to tank commercially. Even then, they were praised in national publications and played on hundreds of radio stations. Today, they're as popular as ever, and their legacy thrives. In other words, we had one Big Star in forty years, and even they didn't go unknown.

In the post-Napster world, however, the landscape has changed. The music industry (outside country and hip hop) still isn't selling music, and still doesn't know how. A fractured--and potentially failing--industry leaves out one half of the winning equation. Bands that would've flourished with their major label in the 60's and 70's now might not seek a major label deal at all. They might not seek any label. They might not seek a national tour. They might not seek radio play. Any band--even good bands--have necessarily redefined what success means.

Take My Morning Jacket, one of America's best and most successful post-Napster bands. Their first classic album (It Still Moves) went nearly unnoticed despite major label backing. Ten years and five records in, they're just now pushing gold status. They've lost members due to the strain of touring and limited financial gain. And they're a model for post-Napster success, an example of what it looks like when the cream rises to the top in 2009.

For every My Morning Jacket striving for global popularity, there are dozens of worthwhile bands just working the neighborhood. Nobody's sitting on the front stoop, staring at a grocery store, contemplating world domination. Artists carve out a tiny corner of a subgenre of a miniscule fragment of a section of the population and try to become a part of that person's lifestyle.

For the first time, I think, our destiny might not be entirely up to us. Maybe the talent and determination of the individual matters less. Maybe the downside of the post-Napster world (and all its supposed artistic populism) is the upshot of star-crossed bands. We had one Big Star in forty years. How many in the next forty?

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There is a sense that America is losing. There are plant-workers and night-shifters and artists alike working toward their own destiny, and there is a sense that what we're doing might not matter, that we're fighting a battle that we might not win. Then we wake each day and keep fighting, keep working.

So every night I tell myself I am the cosmos. I hit play in the morning when I get up sore; I hear it at night when I'm breathless and down; it hums through the daylight like an old song in space, shot back through the ether, crystallized, new again; I hear it each time like a plea, I sing it like a prayer, I repeat it like a chant, and it hangs in the air like hope.

Every night I tell myself I am the cosmos. Then I hit repeat, and the lights go out.

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***Out of necessity, I'm linking to the Posies' cover, which is adequate and loyal to Bell's original.

***Please don't mistake this point for the ever-popular "anyone can do anything if they pick themselves up by their bootstaps" credo. I'm talking about talent and work ethic in one artistic field, not all job opportunities for those in less fortunate circumstances. You will not hear me tell people on welfare to "stop crying and get a job" in this space. (But you will read it on the side of my truck.)