Words. Ideas. Actions.

27 March 2023

I’ve talked about dates here before. Some are more memorable than others. Every date probably has significance for somebody, right? I mean, there are only, at most, 366 of them to go around, and — what? — 8 billion of us. That’s a lot of people cramming a lot of meaning into just a few dates. So, I was surprised when I realized this weekend that a date had passed without me noticing. And I want to remedy that tonight.

Saturday marked one year since Taylor Hawkins died. When I read that, I was stunned. It was simultaneously yesterday and ages ago. It’s hard to put into words the strange place Foo Fighters have in my life. I know I’ve written about them more than enough times at this point, so I won’t be focusing on my connection with them here tonight. Instead, I just want to talk about the first time I ever saw Taylor play drums. I wish I had more of the details documented, but as I remember it, I was watching a music performance on one of the late-night shows. In my mind, it was “Saturday Night Live,” but I’ve never been able to find the clip I originally saw. Odds are better that it was an appearance on Letterman. In any case, Allan’s Morrisette was the musical guest that evening. So, I was watching with a bit of a chip on my shoulder.

Around that same time, flanders was in our early days. We were writing and recording at a break-neck pace. For a long time, we practiced in a trailer outside of the first Cow Haus location on Lipona Road in Tallahassee. I had gotten a subway-sized poster for the then-new Napalm Death album, thanks to my volunteering on “Metal Madness” at V-89, and we flipped it over and tacked it to one of the sweaty walls of that unconditioned trailer to keep track of the names of all the songs we were cranking out. There had to be at least six dozen names scrawled in Sharpie on that big, white canvas. One of the earliest names listed, however, was concocted in the living room of Brain's house. He lived with a bunch of other musicians, so he kept his drums set up there all the time, and different local bands would roll through on different nights of the week, coordinating band practices around gigs and day jobs and shifts at the radio station. And, for us, “Simpsons” broadcasts. Back then, the flanders practice slot was Thursday night, from 7 until about 10, with a 30 minute break at 8:00 to watch “The Simpsons” on Fox. Is it any wonder why we ended up naming ourselves flanders (I was really pushing for Surly, though)?

Anyway, back to the point. We wrote a song called “‘You Oughtta Know” back in those early days. It ended up a manic staple on our early setlists, so we released it on our first cassette (I think. Honestly, all of this is suspect; my brain ain’t what she used to be, and I’m away from my “archives” at the moment). This was around 1994-ish. This part I’m sure of because we also took a break from practice one infamous evening in June of 1994 to watch an unfolding event on TV, then resumed practice to crank out a new song we immediately dubbed “White Ford Bronco”. (Again, apologies for another diversion, but that’s just where my brain is at tonight, as I wrestle with uncomfortable truths. I guess I run back to memories of better times, when finding joy was as quick and simple as heading to a friend’s house, turning some amps up loud, and piling up some distorted pop riffs with a group of people who always inspired.)

So, that’s basically the backdrop. I’m in a new-ish band, struggling to keep track of all the songs we’ve written, playing out anywhere and everywhere we can get a gig, and hoping to ride this nascent “Alternative” wave out of our day jobs and into pop-punk fueled financial and creative security. Obviously, that didn’t happen. We got notable airplay around the country, toured as much as we could, got an honorable mention in a “Late Night with Conan O’Brien” unsigned band contest, and even made it to the finals of a Musician Magazine/TicketMaster contest, where we got flown out to play a show at the Palladium in Los Angeles, along with eventual winners, The Refreshments. (Rumor is they used their winning studio time to record the song which later became the theme to “King of the Hill”. We used our losing prize money to record more of the songs which were documented on the back of that Napalm Death poster, and bought a 1977 Chevy Beauville so we could do more touring. Wow, the tangents are getting a bit out of hand tonight. I blame vacation brain, I guess. Back at it!)

Struggling band? Yes. Grasps at the brass ring? Many. More stories than we have time for tonight? Most definitely. This was all around the same time when other female-fronted, pop-punk acts started hitting our radar. The big, obvious ones were No Doubt and Alanis Morissette. We got lazily compared to them a lot. But those writers were just looking at our line-up and making those connections. We didn’t sound very much like either of them. For the writers who were really listening, they were talking more about Velocity Girl and Letters to Cleo and Scrawl. I always thought we sounded like flanders. But any time I saw No Doubt or Alanis Morissette with yet another huge audience, I was pretty jealous. Especially when I heard that Morrisette was performing her single, “You Oughtta Know” on TV screens across the States as well as all over her native Canada. 

Tuning in, one more time, to let the envy rein, I finally stopped to listen. And watch. And that’s when I noticed it. There was a whirling dervish absolutely destroying the drums in the background of the eponymous band I had grown disdainful of. Her band was solid. More than solid. I started watching even more of their live performances, each time marveling at the man behind the kit. I was awestruck. Each and every set was as if this guy had never played harder in his life. He gave his all. Every time. It was mesmerizing. It was inspiring. It was stardust. And as we know now, it was Taylor Hawkins. 

I obviously have a lot of musical memories I like to talk about. Some I’ve shared here, some only come out at parties or very infrequent band reunions. But getting one shot at a huge opportunity, and having that moment supported by the drumming of this man I had admired years before he joined Dave and Nate, is far and away one of my favorite sonic souvenirs. My disbelief that I had an opportunity like that is matched only by the disbelief that it‘s been a year since we lost him. Here’s to making more musical memories, however you can.

See you tomorrow?

01 March 2023

Let’s start off the month by finally fulfilling a promise from last month: my Noise Pop 30 recap post!

Monday
We’re going to go chronologically, because that’s just how my brain works. My first show was Monday’s bill with Liily and FIDLAR. I’ve gushed about Liily already, so feel free to revisit that post. FIDLAR hit the stage next, and brought all the surfy, punky chaos I was hoping for. The last time I saw them was at a Vice-sponsored show with Metz at SXSW in 2013. They’ve added a guitar player since then, but the combination of volume and carefree sing-a-longs still make for a fun night out. 

Tuesday
Tuesday was a washout. I basically misread the schedule and started to head out to a show after dinner only to realize that the one I had picked out for the night was a happy hour event that started at 5. I had missed it. Boo, me. But I did spend that evening making a more specific plan for the rest of the week; learn from your mistakes, kids.

Wednesday
I was ready for Wednesday. Since the Yo La Tengo show was hopelessly sold out, I headed to August Hall, instead. I had never been there before, and wow is that venue gorgeous. The first band up was Taipei Houston. This is actually the second time I’ve seen them, after they opened up for the Melvins at the Great American Music Hall last year. One of my favorite aspects about this duo is that they’re always playing for hundreds of thousands of people, no matter how small the venue is. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been able to open for your dad’s band.

Next up was a five-piece I’d never heard of, Narrow Head. I don’t know how I missed them; their sound touches all my sweet spots: dropped-D tuning, morose chord changes, thundering drums. But for some reason, I just didn’t connect with them. I remember thinking that they were equal parts Nothing and Hum, and then I remembered the Deftones exist. I was left thinking I should go home and listen to them instead. 

Headlining was White Reaper. People I respect have been saying good things about them, and the few songs I sampled before were good, so I went in ready to be rocked. They are definitely good at what they do, but I found that I’m only fond of about 40% of their thing. And that’s fine. I loved the twin guitar, Thin Lizzy-style breaks from the guitar players, but there’s a little too much Southern California summer in their delivery, despite the fact that they’re from Kentucky.

Overall, not a great night out, but I’m always glad to see people make loud rock and roll, especially in a beautiful venue.

Thursday
It was pouring here on Thursday. But there was no way I was going to miss seeing Bob Mould. When I started looking into getting passes, seeing “Bob Mould (solo electric)” listed in the events was the tipping point for me going all in on the expense of a full pass; I’ve never seen him like that. 

Mark Eitzel opened. I saw him a lifetime ago at a CMJ event. Not much has really changed. Except we’re both much, much older. I don’t listen to him much because his stuff is just too sad for me (which is odd coming from someone who devours everything David Bazan puts his name on). But his set matched the weather, so it felt like a more than appropriate opener.

When Mr. Mould took The Chapel stage, I was a bit giddy. Just like it was billed, it was nothing but him and his Stratocaster. And it was mesmerizing. He tore through a bunch of his solo songs and a handful of tunes from both Sugar and Hüsker Dü (though “New Day Rising” didn’t make the cut). He told stories about his first days in San Francisco, staying with the rest of Hüsker Dü on Jello Biafra’s couch, as well as his love for his new home here in the City. It was a lovely, lovely night. And the rain stopped just in time to give me a dry ride home.

Friday
When I started doing my research after my misplaced Tuesday, I stumbled upon a surprise: Friday’s Bottom of the Hill show featured headliners made up of one of my favorite rhythm sections in rock. But we’ll get to them. First up was Rip Room. They scratched all the right itches for me. A tight three-piece in the same angular vein as Tera Melos, but with more of a Babe the Blue Ox feel. When I went to the merch table after their set to buy their record, I got another nice surprise: They’re from San Francisco. I can’t wait to see them again.

Following Rip Room’s controlled chaos, Fauxes hit the stage. They are definitely something to see live. I don’t know much about them, still, but I do know that they have their live presence worked out. The interplay between the singer and guitar player is particularly intriguing as they blanketed you with layers of dark wave drones and pleading and swells. Not my thing on most nights, but it was definitely a memorable set.

Messthetics took the stage next. Featuring former Fugazi members, drummer Brendan Canty and bass player Joe Lally, the band also includes secret weapon Anthony Pirog on guitar. It was basically loud jazz punk. I believe a lot of the guitar work was improvised, but every single note felt deliberate and specifically chosen to drive the right emotion at the right moment. There was power and poise and playfulness, and it was glorious. His playing reminded me of Sonny Sharrock or Nels Kline or even Vernon Reid. Lally and Canty built the perfect foundation for their collective explorations. And as a treat, saxophonist James Brandon Lewis, fresh from his own trio’s set at the SF JAZZ Center earlier in the evening, joined Messthetics onstage to recreate four songs of their own. Like I said, it was a glorious noise.

Saturday
I had seen a lot of people talking about Friday’s L.A. Witch set at the Kilowatt, so I set my Saturday sights on the second night of their two-night stint there. There was a fun DJ set of 60s blues rock before the opener, James Wavey, started. He and his four-piece backing band brought reinterpretations of some Summer of Love classics with reimagined lyrics rapped and sung through an echo pedal that Wavey manipulated often from the top of an onstage barstool. What stood out for me was the solid, sturdy bass playing, creating a steady groove for their entire set. 

L.A. Witch took over next. And I mean took over. They were so charismatic and accomplished with their reverb-drenched rock, sounding like the forbidden marriage of Mazzy Star and Concrete Blonde. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but each song brought an unexpected twist, either of melody choice or a jaunty bass line or a tempo change. They definitely kept me on my toes, my attention constantly bouncing from guitarist to bass payer to drummer and back around again.

Sunday 
The last day of Noise Pop is a little hard to write about, for a number of reasons. The matinee at Bottom of the Hill was part reunion, part celebration of life for photographer Peter Ellenby (I recommend reading this great remembrance of Ellenby from The San Francisco Chronicle’s pop music critic Aidin Vaziri). It’s hard to put into words what the show meant. I didn’t know Peter. I don’t know a ton about the San Francisco scene he was a part of, either. But, at the same time, I also know it intimately. From what I could tell, the people in the room, and the bands who were on the stage, were held together by this love of a music created by a set of friends, at a certain time in their lives, that created meaning and memories which not only defined those bygone days, but helped build a foundation for the lives that were to come. It felt very reminiscent of my time in bands and clubs and record stores and radio stations in Tallahassee around the same time. 

Like I mentioned in my post about O a few days ago, I discovered a lot of unknown bands through V-89, Overwhelming Colorfast included. I was never part of their scene, but I definitely understand it. I could feel both the love of, and nostalgia for, a time before lives were taken far too soon. The fact that I found out about O’s passing during the headliner’s set just added to the mix of celebration and sadness. It’s all over so quickly, it seems. Those fleeting moments when you’re doing exactly what you want to be doing, for either all the wrong reasons or all the right ones. You think your band will last forever. You think your scene will last forever. You think you will last forever. But then nothing does. The only saving grace is that you have these pressed, plastic pieces capturing these sonic time machines of the lives you lived and the people you were. 

I stayed at the front of the stage for every band’s set. Oranger started the day, followed by a reformed Kingdom First, and an odds and sods supergroup, put together by Kurt Bloch of the Fastbacks, called Sgt. Major 6. Then Overwhelming Colorfast took the stage for as much a conversation as a show. I felt honored to be able to, essentially, eavesdrop on all the stories about Ellenby, and they made me miss the analogous ones I hope we’ll be able to tell about Tallahassee bands of the 90s some day. 

If anyone involved in Noise Pop ever comes across this post, please know that I will think the love y’all have fostered for more than 30 years was bottled up in that single Sunday matinee. Thank you for the opportunity to share it with those who only got to read about your scene from afar. Playing at Bottom of the Hill was always aspirational for me. Up there with playing CBGB’s. I got to check one of those off my list, but being able to witness Sunday’s sets came as close as I can imagine to being on that stage, with those fans, sharing a love for the music of the 90s underground. Thank you, Noise Pop, for making it possible. And thank you, Peter, for making it special.

See you tomorrow?

27 February 2023

I wanted to spend tonight looking back on all the shows and bands I saw during the 30th anniversary Noise Pop event. And I hope to get to that soon. But at the final show on my itinerary, I found out that the legendary O, famous — to me — from his work in Olive Lawn and fluf, died suddenly last week. So, tonight, I want to talk a little bit about him, his music, and why I never got to see him play live.

I don’t really remember how I discovered fluf. I assume it was through working at V-89; it’s where I first heard most of what I still hold dear today. There was just something special about both the growl and melodicism that Otis Barthoulameu could ring out of a Fender. I was hooked immediately. And I added fluf, and later, O’s earlier band, Olive Lawn, to a growing list of San Diego bands I was becoming devoted to. But how was I ever going to see him play in a city which was 2,200 miles from San Diego? Thank gawd  for the Warped Tour (that may be the only time that sentence has ever been created).

At the end of the 1996 edition, the Warped Tour featured my then-girlfriend’s favorite band, Rocket From the Crypt, and was hitting Panama City Beach just two days before her birthday. What could make a better gift than using my radio station connections to get us tickets and backstage passes? The only problem: We left way later than intended to make the 100-plus mile trip from Tallahassee to Club LaVila. Which meant I basically ignored every speed limit sign along US 98. Just outside of Mexico Beach, however, that ignorance resulted in flashing red and blue lights in my rearview mirror. I’ll spare you the negotiating and begging recap, but rest assured, even after explaining the birthday trip circumstances, we got back on the road another 30 minutes later with the most expensive speeding ticket I’ve ever received in my back pocket. 

I screamed into the venue parking lot and we sprinted to the will call window. Rushing toward the stage from the backstage area, I spotted him. O was bigger than life, and carrying a gorgeous candy apple red Fender Mustang with the racing stripe, heading right for us. I frantically asked, “Are you about to go on?” “Nah, we just finished,” he said as he headed past. Crushing. 

Years and years later, I met designer Josh Higgins after an Aaron Draplin talk. Besides helping to shape the look of the 2012 Obama campaign, Josh also played bass for a time in fluf. When I found that out, I told him the 1996 story I just shared with you. He laughed and said O would love it, promising to tell him the next time they were together. I have no idea if that ever happened, but I hope if it did, it put a smile on O’s face. If it’s even half as big as the one I get every time I listen to “Kim Thayil's Paw,” then that’s good enough for me.

See you tomorrow?

21 February 2023

We’re only one night into Noise Pop, and I spent the day giddy. After getting last night’s post up, I headed to the Bottom of the Hill to catch Liily and FIDLAR. I detailed my discovery of Liily here a few weeks ago. I’m not sure how the stars aligned just so, but I’m so glad they did. The show was great. But Lilly’s set was beyond expectations.

I placed myself to the side of the stage because the drums were set up perpendicular to the front, thanks to the compressed space and short change-over times between bands. This meant I would have an unobstructed profile view of three of the four members, but a heads-on view of the drummer. Which is exactly what I wanted. 

Watching their performance on New Year’s Eve, I remember being struck by how fast, but how steady, the timekeeper was. Maxx Morando brought that same controlled chaos last night, too. Equal parts Animal and Steve Gadd, he made you want to dance all night. On the backs of your vanquished.

Singer Dylan Nash’s posture reminded me of the imposing stage stoicism of Liam Gallagher, only if Gallagher loved what he was doing as if his very survival depended on the energy he put into every song. Nash barked and sang and chanted lyrics I'm still trying to learn, but convinced me that whatever he was saying was so urgent, that I was compelled to watch his every move.

But how could I keep watching Nash with bassist Charlie Anastasi creating a whirlwind of low-end growl just to his left. There was so much to love. A blur of limbs and hair. A fierce, punctuating back-up vocal. The rumbly foundation which could have easily been mistaken for plate tectonics. He reminded me of Jason Newstead’s early days.

But the main distraction from Nash’s frontman magnetism was guitarist Sam De La Torre. I know I’m biased as a fellow guitar player, but his playing was mesmerizing. It’s cliche to say some people play guitar like a percussion instrument, so I’ll try to stay away from that. But De La Torre attacked his instrument, specifically its strings, with a passion usually shown only to someone who needed to be taught a lesson. He combined this string spitefulness with a pedal board ballet that opened up so many new ways to make a guitar speak. It gave me gear envy to see all those stomp boxes in action, creating sound after sound that was a welcome reawakening of what six strings can do.

In short, their performance was worth the entire price of the Noise Pop pass for me. I was glowing still this morning as I summed up Liily’s live set to my wife, saying, “If cocaine was addicted to a drug, that drug would probably be Liily.”

See you tomorrow? 

09 February 2023

Tonight, I just want to talk about music. Specifically, this idea I’ve always had that songs are actually tiny magic spells, able to transport you in time and place, both to your past and from your future. That thought is one I’ve had for a long time. The new addition to it which came to me as the lights went down at the Great American Music Hall last night was how we can hold certain moments, feelings, and people, suspended in amber in our minds, even as we continue to change and grow and live our lives.

Just before they hit the stage last night, I had this fleeting thought about the Archers of Loaf, a band I’ve seen probably a dozen times, and opened for a handful of those. I thought, “What if they’ve changed?” On one hand, it was a ridiculous question. Of course they’ve changed. It’s been at least 10 years since I’ve seen them live, so there’s no way they wouldn’t or couldn’t have changed. Especially considering what's happened in the decade since I last witnessed one of their sets. I hope I’ve changed, too, to be honest.

On the other hand, however, what was I expecting? Yes, I like the new album, and I was hoping to hear some from it. But there are definitely certain tickets to certain shows which come with an almost guaranteed shot of nostalgia. And taking in the crowd last night, it looked like every Bay Area white guy dad was in attendance with the exact same hope: Rock me like it’s 1996. 

The show was great. Plenty of hits. Not much signs of aging. Save for the between song banter about aging. Matt still hops around as if possessed by equal parts hyperactive 12-year-old hyperactive soccer player and member of your favorite late 80s-era thrash metal band. So in a sense, not much has changed. Those songs still resonate with me. And definitely worked their individual magic. “Web in Front,” for instance, always opens a flood of memories from my days in Tallahassee, one of which is a much longer story about a friend finding a pile of those seven-inches in a pile on the side of the road. 

But even as other favorites like “Harnessed in Slums” and “Audio Whore” came at us at the speed of cattle, I was hearing them with older ears, watching with older eyes. This new perspective, thankfully, didn’t detract from any of the enjoyment. I was able to appreciate all the same aspects which made me a fan in the first place. That’s not always the case lately, though. Some of my favorite records and bands just haven’t aged as well. And I mean that in a number of ways. Yes, there are perfect albums that have made them timeless in my mind, but other favorites from long ago simply just don’t hold up. So the only reason to hold onto them is for their time machine capabilities. Especially when you need to be transported to another time and another place. To restate all this much more simply: Music is magic.

See you tomorrow?

08 February 2023

I saw a post today on LinkedIn using a music analogy to make a point about content’s importance in solving user experience problems, and thought to myself, “My people!” Part of the post included this idea:

“Content is like the bass player, UX is the drummer. Together they’re the rhythm section. Information architecture is the song arrangement. UI is the melody, the frontperson, and dazzling guitar solos.”

The first thing I like about this is it draws a line in the sand. We can’t really have a discussion until we frame it. And, if you’ll allow a bit of a digression before we get back to the band analogy, I want to highlight a trick I learned from a design colleague at Twitter for framing discussions which need to lead to a decision. As I remember it, he called it something like the “Pizza Lunch Problem”.

In his scenario, when you’re ordering lunch for a group of people, if you don’t frame the question right, you’ll probably end up with cheese pizza for everyone. His logic is that it’s easily shareable, it’s cost-effective for groups, and cheese is the simplest topping which most people will end up agreeing on. But getting there is probably going to be painful. You’ll start by bouncing a bunch of food types around, like Indian, sushi, Mexican, sandwiches, etc., and inevitably end up at pizza. Then, you have to turn to toppings. Now, you’re accounting for those who don’t want meat or hate pineapple or only like a stuffed crust. So, after much deliberating, and probably some frustration, you end up with cheese pizza. And the decision probably didn’t take you 30 minutes or less.

His suggestion, then, is to put a stake in the sand as a starting point; “Hey y’all, let’s order lunch from McDonald’s.” While this may be polarizing, it frames the conversation in a way that starts to better highlight the needs and wants of the group. You may still end up at cheese pizza, but using the constraints of the McDonald’s menu helps draw out the preferences and restrictions which will get you to where you need faster. Hopefully, in time to enjoy a well thought-out lunch.

With that out of the way, let’s get back to this content-band analogy. Making the bass player content is a definite choice, and I like that it works hand-in-hand with the drumming of UX. But in my opinion, the entire band is UX. The bass playing is important, but it works in tandem with a drumming foundation which I think is actually research. Without knowing what your users need, and what other options in the marketplace are offering them, you might as well just be composing “Saucy Jack”.

I really love the idea of including the song arrangements as a part of the discussion, but I want it to be metadata, with an evening’s setlist standing in for information architecture. That way, you’re thinking about where to place certain songs in the set so that the overall performance is enjoyable for you and your audience. All of this gets put together to create your new favorite band, UX. #\m/

Thank you for, once again, letting me torture a music-related analogy. I have a lot of fun with these. And now, I’m actually headed out the door to see a band in action. 

See you tomorrow?

03 February 2023

This post started out with a much heavier topic than I wanted for a Friday night. So, I’ve postponed that one for next week. Instead, let’s revisit part of the conversation I had with my friend, Spencer, yesterday evening over a couple of dark pints, shall we? It may not be any less controversial, but It will certainly be a hell of a lot more fun.

When Spencer and I get together, we always have a ton of topics to talk about. But my favorite is music. And we talk about it a lot. Like, we could probably go on for days talking solely about the bands which were born out of the Los Angeles hair metal scene of the 80s. But I’ll spare you any more of that digression. One other topic which came up for us last night was the idea of perfect albums. And that’s what I want to explore a bit tonight.

For me, perfect albums are different from favorite albums, or even best albums. Perfect albums, in my book, have that magical combination of songwriting, performance, production, and packaging. They are simultaneously both of a time and timeless. Essentially, they’re flawless.

As I type these words, my intention is to list 11 of what I consider to be perfect albums. No greatest hits. No compilations. No EPs or live albums. Just a complete, well-thought out full-length release. Also, please note that 11 is an arbitrary number, based solely on my love of “This Is Spinal Tap”. There are obviously more than 11 perfect albums in the universe, but tonight is not the night to try and name them all. Nope, this is just an exercise to gather together what could probably be an extensive list of dozens down to less than a dozen.

So, in chronological order, here goes:

• John Coltrane– A Love Supreme [1965]
• Beach Boys- Pet Sounds [1966]
• Beatles– Revolver [1966]
• Janet Jackson– Control [1986]
• Cocteau Twins– Victorialand [1986]
• Guns N Roses– Appetite for Destruction [1987]
• Madonna– Like A Prayer [1989]
• Beastie Boys– Paul’s Boutique [1989]
• Public Enemy– Fear of a Black Planet [1990]
• Slayer– Seasons in the Abyss [1990]
• My Bloody Valentine– Loveless [1991]
• Jesus Lizard– Liar [1992]
• Liz Phair– Exile in Guyville [1993]
• Melvins– Houdini [1993]
• Soundgarden– Superunknown [1994]
• Björk– Post [1995]
• Failure– Fantastic Planet [1996]
• DJ Shadow– Endtroducing..... [1996]
• Cornelius– Fantasma [1997]
• Fiona Apple– When the Pawn … [1999]
• Pedro the Lion– Control [2002]
• Queens of the Stone Age– Songs for the Deaf [2002]
• Sigur Rós– ( ) [2002]
• Mastodon– Crack the Skye [2009]

Well, I tried. It’s way too hard to limit this to 11. And if I continued to think about it, I’d probably be able to add another two dozen before bed. But that’s the great thing about music: There’s always more to discover and discuss. Feel free to add your own perfect albums to this list, and we can talk about them together sometime.

See you tomorrow?

31 January 2023

I was listening to This Woman’s Work today, a great collection of essays on music, and about halfway through, a transcribed  interview between Kim Gordon and Yoshimi Yokota called “Music on the Internet Has No Context” popped up. I feel like their conversation is a continuation of some of the ideas I was trying to articulate after the SunnO))) shows earlier this month. So, I want to flush out a couple of ideas from earlier and build on some of the musical analogies I have already stretched — probably — too far.

In the interview, Yoshimi talks about the different ways she contributed to the bands she was part of, most notably Bordems. Although she discovered at a very early age that she had perfect pitch, Yoshimi basically rejected the formal musical training of her youth, preferring to feed off of the energy of the audience and her bandmates on any given night to come up with both what she played and how she played it. For some shows, she was even borrowing another drummer’s equipment, and admitted she wouldn’t even change the heights or positions of the kit. Instead, Yoshimi would use the creative restraints in front of her to work in her favor. It’s a version of an idea I’ve mentioned before about coming up with these posts, but I recently came across this Michale Cain interview which puts it even better: 

“Use the difficulty.”

Now, I understand this may be a leap, but all of this talk of adaptation seems not only to be timely for me, but also a reminder of how much I’ve learned since the first time I tried managing a team. Hoo, boy, was I a terrible manager that first time out. And I’m admitting it to you now for a couple of reasons:

1. Please, learn from my mistakes.

2. If your current manager is mirroring the errors of my ways, find a better manager.

I started running the production team at WFSU–FM after being a producer there for years. This was back in the days when we thought that proficiency in your role meant you could manage a team of people doing that same job. So, I took that mindset and ran with it, trying to get the rest of the team to work like me, make the choices I would make, and hold themselves to the same standards I held myself to. There was no room, in my mind, for doing things differently because I had been so successful doing them my way. Why on Earth would anyone want to do them differently? Seriously, looking back, I was a terrible manager. I feel like I still owe apologies to Ken, Danny, and Aimee (and maybe even that asshole, John) every day since. 

But let’s focus, shall we? Another management tactic I thought was important was to treat everyone the same. That way, there would be no question of favoritism or bias. Everyone got the same kind of direction, attention, and support. Consistency, the path to success! Do I have to tell you I lasted less than a year in that new role? Again, I was a terrible manager.

Thankfully, I have had great managers since then. Managers who I can not just emulate, but could learn from. It’s been a while since I’ve led a team, but I love thinking about doing it again, taking my experience on both good and bad teams, and crafting one where people are encouraged to explore their strengths and passions, while they’re coached and guided in the areas where they want or need some help. If I think about each team member as a part of a band featuring Yoshimi on drums, then we can all take the temperature of the room, assess our own strengths and talents, and put them all together to give the best damn show each and every day. 

As I look at my unwritten future, both musically and professionally, I can’t tell which I miss more, building a team to solve important user problems, or putting a band together to create something entirely new and unexpected. And if I mentioned either of those ideas to the high school junior in the Alf t-shirt playing guitar on the left in the image at the start of this post, he'd probably be a bit shocked. One thing’s for sure, though, I want to do more of both in 2023. If you want to help, please drop me a line.

See you tomorrow?

24 January 2023

Tonight’s post started as an idea before I went to see SunnO))) at the Great American Music Hall on Monday night. And, truth be told, I’m composing these words just before I dash out to see night 2 of their San Francisco shows (my intent is to have a draft done before the second night’s set and, hopefully, post the finished version after the show but before midnight, if I time this right). 

Anywho, the show last night was an almost ritualistic, devotional experience, if you’re devoted to both volume and distortion. For those of you not familiar with SunnO))) (which, I must admit, is probably most of you — they are definitely an acquired taste), most of their music is based on loud, tuned-down, heavily distorted guitars, working in tandem to create monolithic slabs of noise so intense, with so many harmonics and undertones, it’s almost hypnotic. What makes their shows such a spectacle, and such a draw to me, is how the duo has to not only play their guitars, but simultaneously use their amplifiers (there were 16 cranked to 11 at Monday’s show) and the feedback those wide-open stacks of speakers create in whichever venue they’re in, manipulating those rumbles and peals and growls to recreate the songs they want to perform on the night. 

And that cacophony leads to the nugget of an idea I had before I saw Monday’s show. See, I’ve been thinking about how to build teams. And after my recent, unexpected layoff, I have been thinking about which new opportunities in my inbox I want to start pursuing. Some of those involve leading existing teams, some are to bring a seasoned perspective to emerging teams, and some are to build a team from scratch. It’s that last option which is most intriguing to me. 

I liken the idea to being in bands. I’ve auditioned for some, been added to one, and built a few of my own. And those approaches all have their own pros and cons. Auditioning is like trying to convince a group that your skills will compliment the collective and help them head to where they want to go. Being asked to join one means that you’ve already shown enough of your worth on your own to make it past all the initial vetting hurdles in order to add to the greater good. But building something from the ground up means you’re not only defining the direction, but also identifying who is going to help you get there. It’s like playing the instruments and the room at the same time. 

Like I mentioned in an earlier post, adding an element to an existing solution can be tricky. But so can developing one. Do you build a team based on the direction and destination you want to go, picking members based on the specific skills they have which you think will help you get there? Or do you gather people whose instincts, curiosity, and decision-making you trust, putting them together to see where they end up? To make another potentially clumsy music analogy, it’s like deciding between composing for an existing string ensemble, with all the inherent sonic constraints, or booking time in a recording studio and inviting your favorite players to bring their preferred instrument to record whatever they concoct. 

I’m not sure which way my thinking is headed yet. But I need to find something relatively soon. All I know is there are a lot of strings to pull and speakers to hear and venues to try them out in. Like SunnO))). Who I’m headed out to see now. 

See you tomorrow? 

Update: I made it home just after 11 p.m., my ears ringing, head spinning, a smile plastered on my face, and these words posted mere moments before the witching hour. Thanks for letting me force these analogies night after night — it’s definitely therapeutic, at the very least, and sometimes even helpful.

18 January 2023

I read that Van Conner died today. It’s not the earth-shaking news some music-related deaths have had on me, like Lemmy or Chris Cornell or Taylor Hawkins, but it’s a reminder that the artists I enjoy and admire are both mortal and aging. Just like me. There is a sense of dread when I think about this. Their demise. My demise. And what we leave behind. 

There will, hopefully, be a lot of remembrances of Van Conner and his musical contributions over the next few days. So, instead of adding to that pile with a not-very-thorough accounting of favorite songs and bass riffs and side projects, I just want to share a simple story.  

In 1991 or ’92, the Screaming Trees came through Tallahassee. They played a show at The Moon, with local legends Gruel opening. It was a free show for FSU students, and part of the promotion included doing a radio interview at the college station, WVFS. I had been volunteering as a DJ there for a while, but I wasn’t scheduled to be on air that day. I had to work. A job that paid me. As a dishwasher.

So, I was on my way there instead of the studio, in my girlfriend’s large, old, beige Cadillac. I didn’t have a car at the time, and this borrowed boat was my only real transportation. As I sat at an intersection, waiting for a light to change (I vividly remember it was at Macomb and Pensacola, for any Capitol City denizens reading along), a car I recognized crossed in front of me. It was my friend Rob. But more importantly, hanging halfway out the passenger-side window was my other friend Kevin. Now, the two of them had been in groundbreaking Tallahassee bands together for years. Oxenchunk. Blackberry Ripper. Waisting House. 

But in that moment, none of that mattered. Right then, they were fans. Fans of the Screaming Trees. And in the back seat of Rob’s car at that very moment was none other than Van Conner. Rob and Kevin were shepherding him to the station for the interview. And how do I know it was Van Conner in the back seat? Because as Kevin was hanging half out the passenger-side window, his arms were flailing, pointing toward the back seat, and to me at the intersection, and back toward the back seat as he shouted, “Van Conner! Van Conner!”

He was very excited to announce to anyone within earshot that he was sitting in the same car as the bass player for the Screaming Trees! To this day — obviously — I think about that moment and smile. Like I am tonight. As I listen to Buzz Factory and SP48 of the Sub Pop Singles Club and the Solomon Grundy “Spirit of the Radio” 7-inch. 

See you tomorrow?

03 January 2023

Tonight’s post is going to be a little reactive, I’ll admit. It comes in the wake of recent news that Foo Fighters look to carry on without Taylor Hawkins. And I’m having a hard time with that. I know that my thoughts are far from unbiased, but even as just a fan, I still feel conflicted. 

They are consistent, however. In my mind, there’s something a little sacred about a band’s lineup. I know that may be a strange thing to say, but there’s something unique about that special alchemy that comes from the same group of people creating something for years on end. And when that chemistry gets shaken up, the resulting concoction can be a bit diluted.

One of my favorite bands as a kid was Kiss. And they’ve had plenty of line-up changes. But those original four are the starting and ending of Kiss for me. Gene, Paul, Peter, and, obviously, Ace. I know they put out more albums without Ace and Peter than with them, but to me, that’s Kiss. Everyone else is just acting. Playing a part. Literally. Especially if they get hired to put on someone else’s makeup. 

Now, I’m not saying that good can't come out of the new combinations. But they should be their own, entirely new entity. Don’t try to recreate the original thing. Just let something new grow out of whatever disfunction called for the change in the first place. And call it something else. Look at Metallica. Or Slayer. Van Halen. These bands continued making some arguably great music after major line-up changes, but I think a rebranding was in order. If only to weed the Van Hagar out of a Van Halen streaming station.

Making music in a band is a fragile, and often time-bound, thing. As fans, we want to keep the bands we love in suspended animation, continuing to make the music we love over and over. But we’ll never grow that way. And neither will they. We should allow them to grow. To make new concoctions. We should encourage it, even. But when it happens, I want it rebranded. Because it’s not the same. 

There’s obviously a huge flaw in my logic, I know. Foo Fighters of 1999 were not the same as Foo Fighters of 1995. Those first recordings, as I’m sure you know, were essentially a Dave Grohl solo project. He had to build a band around those ideas just to be able to play them live. And that process takes time and fits and starts. After 20 years recombining the same elements in different ratios, though, you tend to understand what that Foo label is going to give you. A new drummer is definitely going to change that, whether it’s Josh Freese or Jon Theodore or even Hawkins doppelgänger Rufus Taylor. And it may be great. But it should be called something different. Either way, I’ll be at the front of the line to buy it.

See you tomorrow?

02 January 2023

Welp, as I type these words, the power just went out at our place, so I have no idea if you’ll ever get to read them. And, to be honest, this is the second draft I’ve done tonight (the first one I did with full, glorious internet!). But it wasn’t the right one. 

See, that first collection of thoughts was about all the things I was starting the year worried about and why I was worried about them. I could quickly list them here to give you the general idea, but the whole reason why I’m writing this new post is because after looking back on the first version, I decided that’s not how I wanted to start off this new year. Instead, I want to tell you a hopeful little story that happened on New Year’s Eve. 

We generally watch CNN’s coverage of the Times Square ball drop because we love it when Anderson Cooper gets the giggles. And, since we watch from California, we get to go to bed at a reasonable hour, if we’re so inclined. Most years, we’re so inclined. Or reclined, if you will. Anywho, after watching about an hour of CNN post-midnight in New York, my daughter quietly singing “Hard Candy Christmas” while playing an iPad game reminded me that NBC’s event this year featured Miley Cyrus and her godmother, Dolly Parton. We changed channels just in time to catch Cyrus’s duet with Fletcher. Pretty good timing. 

Other than Dolly, I didn’t really have any idea who else would be on. And I was pleasantly surprised more than a few times. Yes, the Fletcher duet was good, but it was the “Wrecking Ball” performance with the two co-hosts that really forced me to start paying closer attention. When Dolly came in with her harmony on the chorus, I almost broke into tears. To say “Wrecking Ball” is a favorite around here is a vast understatement. Thanks to our daughter’s playlist curation, we probably hear it about three times a week. At least. But this version was something altogether different. As if that wasn’t highlight enough, then came the most surprising part of the show. 

I’ve mentioned before how much I love record stores, right? The serendipity. A clerk’s curation. Discovering an unknown gem deep in the bins. All of this felt familiar after Cyrus introduced a band I’d never heard of called Liily. I didn’t know it at the time, but they did a song of theirs called “Applause”. I literally sat up to take notice. It was angular and propulsive and just the right amount of noisy and unhinged. And then they broke into a little bit of “Sabotage”. It was great! Seriously, watch it yourself.

It was so exciting to have something so fresh on my TV. But at the same time, I was a little disappointed in myself for having NBC be my musical tastemaker. It’s one of the many reasons I miss Rdio so much. Unlike current streaming services, Rdio used to be a consistent, reliable way for me to find new music. Only slightly embarrassed, I Post.ed about it, and then looked up more information about the band. Turns out, they’re coming to San Francisco in February, opening for FIDLAR as part of the Noise Pop 30th anniversary celebration. I spent the rest of 2022 and the first few hours of 2023 reading about and listening to Liily. Then I cued up some FIDLAR, and threw in some Hella for good measure before finally falling asleep. 

I’m not too happy with how little new music I’m being exposed to these days. But I’m grateful for discovering both Liily and Not on Tour in December. I’m not one for resolutions, but I’m hoping to find more ways to find, hear, and support more new music in 2023. If you have any favorite ways you’re discovering new bands to love, I’m all ears.

(By the way, the power just came back on!)

See you tomorrow?

20 December 2022

Now that the World Cup is over (sobs), let’s talk about one of my other loves: music. A favorite pastime of mine is to wander around in a record store. So last week, while waiting to pick up my family from a local clay studio, I had a few minutes to myself, and headed across the street to our closest shop, Thrillhouse Records.  

While I was flipping through the racks, there was a band playing over the speakers that I’d never heard before. And they were great. They were fast and catchy, equal parts punk and melodic frenzy. I was hooked. But I had no idea who it was. And it took me back to my days in Tallahassee when I was working at an independent store and DJ-ing at the college station.

Back then, most of my days and a handful of my nights were blanketed with new sounds, both from bands that were just breaking out and obscure (to me) sounds I’d never been exposed to during my sheltered, suburban upbringing. Each new dawn provided an opportunity to fall in love with an artist I had no idea existed just the shift before. These were the days of finding out about indie labels and self-distributed tapes and a world of hip hop that was undiscovered for me. From Drive Like Jehu to Rassan Roland Kirk to Buzz•Oven to Freestyle Fellowship, this was, essentially, my musical Renaissance period. 

Back at Thrillhouse, after flipping through all the 7"s and the rows of recently acquired used full-lengths, I finally headed to the counter, purchases at the ready (an original pressing of Spy vs. Spy and the new Archers of Loaf), and to find out who this amazing discovery they’d been paying was. 

“You all set?” the clerk inquired. 

“Almost; who is this?” I asked, pointing to the heavens and hoping he understood I wanted to know who they were playing. 

“Oh, it’s friends of the guy who’s working after me. They’re from Israel, called Not on Tour.”

“Great, do you have it in stock?” I asked, hoping to add one more item to my purchases. 

“No, sorry, they don’t have U.S. distributions yet.” 

Well, shit. I was — and still am —very disappointed. But at the same time, I was giddy. It’s been a long while since I had that rush of discovery. Those moments are so rare now, as we cling to the streaming algorithms of our online-only music services. So, I wanted to take a moment tonight to praise record stores and independent radio stations. Because without the moments of serendipity that these institutions can bring, we’ll end up being stuck listening to the same bands over and over again, never venturing into anything new, and that’s not good for us. Or any upcoming band. 

One reminder I used to end my radio show with every week is still as true now as it was back then: “Everyone’s favorite band was a local band somewhere once, so find a local band you love.” Tonight, I’ll add, “… and keep buying music.” We need to keep some joys alive.

See you tomorrow?