Music For That Not So Fresh Feeling

I'll warn you right now. I'm probably gonna have to use the word 'fuckable' in this column. Maybe more than once. I apologize in advance. But it's about the Mavericks.

Last thing I wanted to do Tuesday night was stand for three hours at the Bowery Ballroom, for a band I was only a medium-intensity fan of. I'd gotten up at 6:00 am (middle of the night, for me) to do four hours of radio, including pitching a pledge drive and playing the least disappointing song on the new self-titled Mavericks album, which sadly wasn't speaking to me. But my friend, who's a high-to-combustible-intensity Mavericks fan had asked me a month earlier, and reminded me twice since.

We arrived a few songs into the opening act, and snagged a hanging-on-the-edge-of-the
-stage spot, all the way at the who-needs-to-see-the-keyboardist-anyway end. Can't say enough about the fierce talent compressed into the three souls of Western Swing band Hot Club of Cow Town, who opened. I won't even try here. They deserve their own column (and not to be sullied by the naughty stuff I'm about to sully the Mavericks with). In the meantime, go if you have the chance, and buy, regardless.

While waiting for the Mavericks to take the stage for a show guaranteed to begin on time, because it was being broadcast on WFUV, I scanned the other stage leaners. All women. Women who weren't giving up their spots, even for a trip to the bar to refill their empty plastic cups. I soon found out why.

Out comes frontman Raul Malo, at his metrosexual finest. Sporting a dashing new coiff, complete with highlights, Elvis collar, and the flowers on his shirt parting to expose some short-n-curlies, the portly sexpot moves like he's grasped what Tom Jones figured out long ago. Following him is lead guitarist Eddie Perez, dressed like an East LA pimp. The ethnic caricature did nothing for me. Then he started playing. Tearing it up, in fact. And "connecting" with the audience, though perhaps only the ladies. Suddenly it all, uh, worked for me. Not despite the get-up, but kinda because of it.

I dunno. I don't get it, either. But I suddenly knew why they fainted at Shea and screamed in the Ed Sullivan Theater. You can't argue with physiology. A tiny silver-haired woman, another stage-hanger who knew every word and danced without missing a beat, excitedly waved her hand at the band in between songs, in that yoo-hoo way your grandma used to embarrass you with at the mall. I think nature was working on her, as well.

Perez' lush guitar isn't what you'd expect would work for the Mavs' rootsy, Latin, Mariachi-esque sound, but that added a surprising element of interest, and a burst of respect for the band who recently chose to add Perez to their roster.

Bass player Robert Reynolds and drummer Paul Deakin more than ably provided the tight, tight rhythms, and a respite for my scorched retinas. Wish I could tell ya the keyboardist's name. The horn section of Brits gradually loosened by the end, and appeared brimming with stories to take home.

In live shows, the new material doesn't usually meet with as much enthusiasm as the trusties, and in this case, even less so. Maybe I was influenced by my own feeling about their latest, but this is what I'm discovering: Ragged works for recorded music, and polished to perfection works for live. For me, anyway. Seems contrary to the way most tastes run, but that's the way I hear it.

They ended with encores densely packed with spot-on covers and teases, and a show-stopping showcase for the solo Malo. I could tell you exactly what the songs were, had that silver-haired woman not snagged the bassist's setlist (and probably his phone number), following the show.

Whether or not their new Pop sound is one they'll abandon before their next recorded effort, I'll not miss another Mavericks show. Ever.

Does it sound like I was swayed by wiggledy hips and smoldering glares from behind a guitar? Well, in my defense, let me say…. wait. I have no defense. Except to say that it even happens to Vulcans every seven years, and that's without amps and sequins.

Music is about sex. Long live the Mavericks.

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Finger-Licking Free

With free and nearly-so music downloads quickly being replaced with costlier fare and dragnets snagging grannies and 9-year-olds engaged in peer-to-peering, what's a broke-ass music lover to do? Let your Fingertips do the walking. This new clearinghouse of freegal music streams and downloads is run by an erudite music lover with his ear to the ground and a taste for the grown-up stuff.

Bookmark it and check back often, as it's rapidly expanding.

http://www.geocities.com/fingertips_03/

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Selective Enforcement

About the NYPD canceling the Springsteen tour's paid security escort following their performance of "American Skin (41 Shots)" on Shea's opening night, I can't say it any better than the press release of music writer and Springsteen biographer Dave Marsh, whose wife, Barbara Carr, is Springsteen's co-manager:

Date: Sat, 04 Oct 2003

"The following might be interesting to some of you and perhaps even useful to others, such as those who might ask the Mayor and the Chief of Police whether there is still free speech in the NY city limits:

"NY city police at Shea Stadium refused to allow Bruce Springsteen and his band a police escort from the premises tonight. The chief of police made the decision personally, the band was told, because Springsteen refuses to stop singing ["41 Shots (American Skin)"], his song inspired by the police shooting African immigrant Amadou Diallo 41 times for brandishing his wallet when they ordered him to put his hands on his own doorstep.

"Springsteen, like any other performer who plays Shea Stadium, pays for the extremely heavy police "security" presence in the building. It is common around the world to allow performers at stadium concerts an escort before leaving a stadium show, in order that they not be held inside the building for several hours while parking lots clear.

"When Springsteen first sang "41 Shots" during his 1999 tour, NYPD union officials and mayor Rudy Giuliani went into a total snit and the police union leader even said of Springsteen, "First he was born in the U.S.A. and now he's a floating fag."

"No one has ever figured out what the hell that comment meant but it is pretty obvious what the current petty foolishness signifies.

"Incidentally--or not--Springsteen paid tribute tonight to the memory of the first firefighter to die on duty since 9/11/01.

"Personally, it don't make me no nevermind--I didn't go to the show and my wife will be a whole half hour or so late getting home, probably
about the same tomorrow night unless I make the mistake of taking out my wallet instead of my tour pass and we have to detour for the funeral. Just thought y'all might like to know that New York's concept of freedom still doesn't extend to any level of controversy about the racist behavior of the local cops. This certainly isn't as serious as the NYPD refusing to take seriously a local shooting on Staten Island because the victim was black, as the city has essentially acknowledged that it did.

"That happened all the way back in September, 2003."

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The Springsteens phoned from the road last week. They called award-winning music producer and radio host, Peter Bochan. Bochan has had The Boss as his boss once before, but this time Bruce wanted something a little different. Non-musical, in fact.

In Bochan's syndicated radio series, Shortcuts, he drags the lake of current events and snags the most significant and moving quotes from talking heads and newsmakers, then empties the net into his signature spoken word montages punctuated with music. Some of these stream of consciousness collages also pepper All Mixed Up, his weekly mostly-music show on WBAI. These pieces expertly abbreviate a world that resists abbreviation, and Bruce Springsteen wanted one to use for the rest of his tour. The Shea Stadium shows.

Bochan obliged.

The thing was produced and delivered, and while limo and backstage pass details were being worked out the day of the first show, Bochan was asked to bring an extra copy. The Boss had left his at home.

Bochan arrived at Shea to find that Springsteen wanted a bit more editing. The minute-long mix was a rapid-fire daisy chain of recent Presidential quotes, with a smidge of commentary by personalities from Gore Vidal to Mister Rogers. Bruce wanted the piece distilled to its essence. He felt Bush's words could stand alone, and should. They did.

But not without some quick last minute dices and dashes through the tunnels beneath Shea. Bochan, along with Springsteen's concert sound engineer (and his computer's editing program) abandoned the non-work-friendly environment of the noisy hospitality suite, and worked out in the hall, until invited to finish the job in The Boss' dressing room. With The Boss. Both in and out of the adjoining shower.

Bochan's piece opened the show, leading into "Souls of the Departed" followed by "The Rising."

Lest you think the Springsteen shows so many of us have enjoyed for decades have surely become "entertainment by committee" as they've grown to burst the seams of stadiums, think again. Bruce Springsteen is hands-on, right down to dripping over the editor's shoulder minutes before the show.

Recognizing that everything said to a Shea Stadium crowd of 50,000, is said to the world, Bruce Springsteen, unafraid of being Dixie Chicked, didn't shy from expressing his views on his country and how it's run. He exercised not only the right to speak, but also the responsibility that comes with doing so.

Peter Bochan, the only person I know who's seen Bruce Springsteen wearing only a towel and a smile, hosts All Mixed Up, Saturdays 5pm to 7, on WBAI 99.5 FM in New York City. Tune in this Saturday to hear the details.

Please, God. Let there be details.

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Whining and Dining with Nick and Jessica
by Kimberly Massengill
September 12, 2003

No review of the MTV Video Music Awards this year. Sorry.

MTV's been largely out of the music business for some time, and now that they're skimpy on video play, too, the VMAs are suffering. Not even all the same-sex shenanigans could keep me interested (for long). I'm so skeeved at the idea of Justin Timberlake invoking the names of Johnny Cash and Coldplay,
I may just be off the awards for a while. (Hell, I can't even stand the idea of Timberlake sharing a stage with Duran Duran. That's disdain.)

But MTV is using one boy band boy correctly these days, though perhaps not as he intended.

I couldn't pick a Nick Lachey song out of a steaming pile of other boy band product, and I only know Jessica Simpson for her carefully crafted and much publicized virginity, but the new reality show about these young newlyweds has me completely enthralled, and on the edge of my seat waiting for the episode where he shuts her up with the fireplace poker they got as a wedding gift, and her parents help him bury the body.

Ooop. Sorry. Didn't mean to spoil the season finale for you.

Newlyweds: Nick and Jessica drags us along the soiled-midriff-tee-strewn path of young celeb coupledom, from nuptials to "now you're breathing too loudly," with frequent stops at all the bickering and belching along the way. And just as oysters make "I'm sorry I slept with Margery in Accounting" jewelry from irritants, so do these two.

And pearls they are. Many of the shinier nuggets on the strand come from the painted piehole of the former Christian Youth Conference cocktease, herself.

On courtship: "After I met him, I went on the computer and looked up what his favorite soda was."

On domestic issues: "Do you even know if there's, like, maids for celebrities?"

On laundry: "It's fun putting it in, and putting all the stuff in, but after it's done, you have to fold it."

On maintaining Christian ideals and resisting the pitfalls of celebrity that Satan and his emissaries thrust upon you: "I'm working on hanging my towels up after I take a shower. I guess it keeps us normal and humble."

On lavatorial dereliction: "You love my stinky ass."

Yes, she's a keeper. But not all the best lines belong to Jessica.

A guest who's forced to step over a medium-to-large hill of dirty clothes left on the floor of the foyer asks the ageless question, "Don't you have someone who comes?" And the minister who marries the young songbirds announces, "Jessica got to stand up here in a white wedding dress, because a long time ago she committed her purity to God."

No word on to whom she'd committed her dignity and couth, and at press time, God could not be reached for comment.

And what of the groom? The 98°-er is not without his quirks. He punctuates conversation with lengthy, audible farts. He won't trust a maid, though he trusts a house full of reality TV cameras. And when they move into their McMansion, he "doesn't want to spend the money on movers," so he rents a U-Haul and enlists the aid of his kid brother/bandmate, and a third young man, whom I believe went by the name Ensign Rabinowitz.

Throughout the marital mischief, he often looks angry and her parents sometimes look concerned, but oddly, none of 'em appear to be embarrassed. Nor do they ever, at any point, not look pretty. Very pretty. If you ever thought pretty was enough, this show'll clear that up for ya. Promise.

Still, none of the "characters" can do more than orbit helplessly in the powerful gravitational pull of Ms. Simpson's screechy childishness.

After getting her feathers ruffled at an audition for the bump-n-grinders who'll dance in their undiepants for her husband's next video, she seeks solace in a lingerie shop, then phones her husband in a full-out panic that she'd just accidentally spent $750 for two bras and two panties. She retaliates against the inclusion of dancing girls in her husband's performance at a USO show, by bringing a soldier up on stage for a soft-core lapdance. She spills water meant for the trash compactor (!) on the kitchen floor and calls for help.

"I've got a five-year plan to rid her of her spoiledness," says Lachey. But he only hints at what Plan B might be. "It's a good thing I don't have a gun…"

Next episode, swear to God, Jessica tells her mom they're getting a gun. She then shares the rules for its use, as laid down to her husband. "I told him, Baby, if you ever cheated on me, I'd shoot your dick off." In a rare occurrence of Jessica's former Baptist youth minister father speaking aloud, he timidly offers to give her an extra .22 he has. Jessica ignores the offer, and continues discussing conflict resolution with her mother.

"I could never cut it off. I'd rather just shoot it off."

The only adult exchange throughout the first episodes (and that includes what's exchanged between the actual adults) was the following. In the car. After lunch. The bride complains.

Her: "Stinks."

Him: "Too much onion."

Her: "You know you can get it without onions. I always ask you to do that. You'll get more kisses."

Him: "I'm not gonna blow a good meal for a kiss."

That was the only time I liked either one of 'em.

But my absolute favorite scene has been when, with a mouth full of the stuff, Jessica asks her young groom whether Chicken of the Sea is fish or fowl.

Jessica: "Is this chicken, what I have, or is this fish?"

Nick: (Silently glares at her with the seething hatred of one who's already dreaming of the "Did she jump or was she pushed?" headlines.)

Jessica: "I know it's tuna, but it says chicken… by the sea."

Nick: (More silent glaring, and a little bit more seething.)

Jessica, whining now: "What?"

Tuesday nights at 10:30. MTV. Watch it soon, because, if by some weird twist of fate it doesn't end in bloodshed, it'll be going the way of The Osbournes, and nobody wants to see that (anymore).

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Warren Zevon: Wise Ass, Heavy on the Wise
by Kimberly Massengill
August 22, 2003

The Outfit's Back On
by Kimberly Massengill
June 2, 2003

The bigger the chimney, the hotter the fire. Don't believe me? Sit through one of these American Idol/Star Search/Future Bratty Tabloid Diva singing competitions where all the big folks are winning. Don't wanna? Yeah, me neither. Then here's what ya do: go see Josh Max's Outfit.

The classically trained Julie James can go from guttural to operatic in nothin' flat, and her guitarist/husband Josh Max puts the "rrrrrr" in retro with his clever songwriting. (Only those who can roll their 'R's will get that.) I imagine it's one part study (he claims to know thousands of songs spanning the past hundred years - "And I can't help learning them, either---I hear it and I know it") and two parts genes, as he's the grand-nephew of mid-century Pop composer Al Hoffman, who wrote a number of hits for stage and screen, including "Black Coffee," "Mairzy Doats," "It Takes Two to Tango," and Disney's "Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo."

The result is a show produced by sound holes made of wood and respiratory bellows made of strong, pink lung. Rockabilly meets Puccini in Tin Pan Alley (and gives him a swig off his flask).

While both possess more than worthy voices, the magic happens when the two come together, creating lush vocal harmonies greater than the sum of their parts.

And some of their parts are great.

From their Make it Snappy CD (the liner notes of which include the personal ad that launched the happy couple's happy coupling), the audience was treated to a cover of the 1930s chick-chicky-booming hit "Cuban Pete," a rousing road trip through "Cattin' Around," and "Ding Dang Dough," a rumbling nu-Blues lament for empty wallets, which I'm not sure, but seems to suggest that Humpty Dumpty's demise was more about his having a bad HMO than any futile efforts on the part of all the King's horses and all the King's men. The showstopper follows. "Diva with a Fever" is their "silver platter" song, showing Ms. James to have a vocal range as wide as her swivelin' sweltatude. Then came the speed-a-billy "Keep Your Paws Off My Cat" and "Mambo Dolly," an especially Beatle-ita-esque tune that had Ms. James shaking all her rhythm fruit with a more interesting assortment of tempos than the svelte Carmen Miranda could ever muster.

Also served up this night were a dozen or so freshly-penned-despite-their-vintage-sound songs, including some new faves "Please Don't Swear in Front of Mrs. Tompkins" and the more sedate "Dear Sir or Madam." I trust most of these will find their way onto a future release.

Those in attendance were further rewarded with a trip to the "Beatles Salad Bar," a solo segment, complete with a prize for whomever knows how many Beatles songs they just heard rapid fire snippets of, in a medley of short length and varying content. This night it took Max no more than a couple of minutes to touch the bases of 48 Fab Four ditties. All served on a leafy bed of impossibly energetic guitar work, with rhythm to beat the band.

And speaking of rhythm, let's meet the band.

Behind the drums sits Rich Zukor, who's nailed Ringo, both on the kit and vocally in a "Honey Don't"/"Octopus' Garden" medley, with Jeremy Allen on bass, who was kind enough to help me pass the time waiting at the bar for my margarita by answering the question of whether stand-up bass players are forced to take the subway everywhere. (Until you get a van, apparently.)

The two make up a rhythm section that feels it to the toenails, and makes sure you do, too.

Guests joining the Outfit this night included Tina Stafford lending vocal assistance (as luxuriously superfluous as me picking up Donald Trump's lunch check) and Veronica Graff-Bowen on harmonica and hair (she's also their stylist).

There was a friendly/chatty/dance-y couple behind me, the guy of which got up and followed me to the bar (for those counting, that's two trips so far), chatting me up and leaning in for what I thought was gonna be yet another example of The Fat Girl Phenomenon. (When a guy finally gets his girlfriend to agree to a three-way, her answer's often a "well, okay, but only if she weighs more than I do." We big gals walk a minefield when in a bar filled with jittery young couples.) Instead, he asked what I knew about the band. "We came down for a drink and stumbled into something great!"

Didn't think to ask whether said stumbling might be responsible for the empty sneaks outside.

The show ended with an alternately beautiful and bouncy take on "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," among the most inventive Beatles covers I've heard.

Seeing Josh Max's Outfit at The Rodeo Bar was not unlike seeing Lucy and Ricky playing Liverpool's Cavern Club, except the emotional burst of "whaaaaa…" at the end of the show is likelier to come from an audience member who's just stood up to realize that, like the band, those Rodeo margaritas are packed with more than they appear to be.

Making their giddy enthusiasm even more unfathomable, I found out later that Josh and Julie had gotten dressed up, loaded up, and trekked up to The Rodeo to bang out two fierce sets, then had to go home and pack all night to move into a new apartment the next day.

I spent that next day cursing tequila and trying to reach the TV remote with my foot.

Town Hall Meeting with Todd Rundgren
by Kimberly Massengill
May 2, 2003

Standing outside Town Hall last Wednesday evening, eyes scanning the westward sidewalks of 43rd Street, watching for my companion, I spotted an approaching head of black and white mane, bobbing above the others. A man had apparently Rundgrenized his hair, and gone all Todd-like, only more so. Poseur, I thought. And not a good one, either. That's not how Todd does his hair. Pish. As he got closer, I saw he was with a petite blonde and a similarly skunk-haired young boy. That's no poseur, I thought. That's a superfan. A true hot dog. Then I noticed. This "fan" was Mr. R, himself, carrying his suit, shirt, and shoes, and hunting for the artists' entrance.

Based on Todd Rundgren's appearance on Letterman a couple weeks ago, I feared his voice could no longer lasso the ambitious vocal arrangements of his songbook. I found out Wednesday night that it must've been the temperature in Dave's Late Show studio. Todd Rundgren is in excellent voice.

It was family night. Rundgren's family. He flew them in from Hawaii, where he's lived for seven years, and opening for him was Royston Langdon, husband of Liv Tyler (three days away from a wedding, in fact), therefore Rundgren's sort of stepson-in-law. Langdon flew his clan in, as well.

The audience gave Royston Langdon the traditional opening-act-we-don't-care-about welcome, being so impolite I even had to use my "hush now" glare a couple times. Except for Wynona Ryder. She sat quietly behind me and appeared to leave after Langdon. (And yes, I had all my credit cards when I got home.) Langdon's not big on banter, but he did a nice little set where he channeled Freddie Mercury a time or two, and did "In the Meantime," from his days with Spacehog.

I don't tolerate silliness very well, but I found Rundgren's glee completely palatable. And I'm talking full-out Prozac-munching silliness, here. Referencing The Three Stooges, The Jetsons, SARS, Ashcroft, "A Mighty Wind" (said he saw it as "homework" in preparing for Town Hall), and encouraging the audience to feel one another up, this is one giddy grown-up, obviously thrilled to be doing what he's doing, and hopefully feeling our joy that he still does it so well.

With an easy charm and an off-the-rack innocence, Rundgren filled the stage with no more than a guitar, a grand piano, and a handheld something-er-other, through which he summoned a shufflin' Bossa Nova band to accompany his With a Twist selections. Best segment of the show. Also did a few Beatles tunes, couple Utopia songs that surprised and delighted me ("Hammer in My Heart," "There Goes My Inspiration"), covered Red Rider's "Lunatic Fringe," amused us with "Bang on the Ukulele Daily" (his Hawaiian uke-powered comic version of "Bang on the Drum"), played an endearingly rusty update of "Yo, Wassup...It's Me," then infected me with a renewed love for "Influenza."

He held court on all things contemporary. "If you want to support the anti-war movement," he joked, "that's your right. If you want to support the troops, that's your right. If you want to support George Bush.... well, I just can't get behind that."

And Rundgren's apparently big with the drunk-in-public crowd. Who knew? One woman had to be carried out by Town Hall staff, crying about her $42, and another was responsible for the following serendipitous highlight. I'm paraphrasing...

Todd: The next song, I could only play in a venue like this, for an audience as...
Loud Drunk Lady: Show us your tits!
Todd: ...courteous as this one.

An earnest rendition of "Kindness" then shut her up. For a while.

Though I was filled with more love than lust by the end of the show, I may have to move Mr. Rundgren into the "I'd do him" column. And we had backstage passes we didn't even use!

Ah, morning after. Thy name is regret.

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Taking the Airwaves Again

I'm joining the team of fine folks at WPKN, who're allowing me to "git my freeform on" on a fill-in basis, until something regular opens up. My first air shift will be Thursday, May 8th, when I'll be guest hosting for Ruth Eddy, 2:00pm - 5:30. Tune in to 89.5 FM if you're in the Bridgeport, CT broadcast area, or on Long Island. Otherwise, go to www.wpkn.org to listen online.

I'll surely be spinnin' some major Todd.

We Loves You, Nina
by Kimberly Massengill
April 25, 2003

Like many, I've always thought of Nina Simone as confident and mighty. As resolute as the jagged bedrock that juts from the green of Central Park, revealing only the tip of its defiance. Thus was the source of my surprise when, after listening to her "Feelin' Good" a bazillion times, I gave it a turn with the headphones and heard our Nina drawing a few very nervous breaths at the top of the song. Ms. Bedrock was experiencing the sort of unease that sucks your throat dry and blows butterflies into your stomach.

That's why the first time I went live on New York City radio, I launched with that song. Made me feel like I was in good company. The fact that my young niece called to ask her "Auntie Kimberly" who that was, made me feel even better.

In order to support herself while attending Juilliard in the '50s, she began singing only as a job requirement for a piano playing gig. She changed her name so her father back home in North Carolina wouldn't discover she was singing in night clubs. Today, her daughter stars in a major Broadway musical. A master of interpreting standards and traditionals, altering their course for those who followed, the genre-defying Simone didn't need vocal range. Her voice was as focused as her drive. Like a laser's beam.

And she freakin' wrote "Four Women."

But one mustn't mourn the passing of one who lived long and much, and was, in the end, suffering. Instead, her fans are today wallowing in Nina, getting her legacy all over us. And giving the bedrock in Central Park an appreciative nod, as we pass.

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If You're Music-Lovin' and Kosher

...or can fake either, have I got a film series for you.

Beginning Sunday, May 4th, Makor Cult Café brings you the tastiest music movie double-features in a booze-friendly setting (it's in the lower level café, not the screening room). And admission is free! Check out the schedule below. Even music nerds like me haven't seen some of these on the big(ish) screen. (I couldn't nail 'em down on the exact dimensions, but I've been assured we can comfortably call it "big.")

And since Makor Publicist Meryl Wheeler obviously "gets it," I've left her adorable descrips intact for ya.

Sun / May 4 / 7 PM
HEDWIG & THE ANGRY INCH (2001) + ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW (1975)
This week, embrace your inner (or outer) transvestite with a pair of
cinematic classics that take the drag out of Sunday nights and put it back
on the screen where it belongs.

Sun / May 11 / 7 PM
THIS IS SPINAL TAP (1984) + THE LAST POLKA (1984)
Spend Sunday night with Nigel Tufnel, David St. Hubbins, Yosh and Stan
Schmenge. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll turn your accordion up to 11.

Sun / May 18 / 7 PM
A HARD DAY'S NIGHT (1964) + THE RUTLES: ALL YOU NEED IS CASH (1978)
It's a Battle of the Bands! The Fab Four - John, Paul, George and Ringo vs.
The Pre-Fab Four - Dirk, Nasty, Stig and Barry. Who will last a lifetime,
who will last a lunchtime? One features the music of the criminally
underrated Neil Innes, the other by some group called the Beatles.

MAKOR
35 W. 67th St. (between Central Park West & Columbus Ave.)
Manhattan

For more info, go to www.makor.org

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Lower the Inhibitions and Raise the Money

Would you humiliate yourself in front of a bunch of people if there was alcohol involved and it was for a good cause? We hope so.

Karaoke Happy Hour to Benefit Musicians On Call
IGGY'S
1452 Second Avenue @ 75th Street, Manhattan
Wednesday, April 30
7:00pm to 10:00pm
$20 at the door includes one free drink ticket for beer, wine, or well drink.

To learn more about Musicians on Call, go to www.musiciansoncall.org

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This Byrd Wants to Feed People

...and is asking you to help.

On Saturday, May 31, singer/songwriter Roger McGuinn, founder of the legendary 1960s folk-rock band The Byrds, and Appalachian folk artist Jean Ritchie will perform a concert at The Landmark on Main Street in Port Washington, NY. McGuinn and Ritchie will then join World Hunger Year supporters for a post-concert dessert reception.

Tickets are $100 each, or two for $150, and are available by calling 212-629-8850.

For more information on World Hunger Year, go to www.worldhungeryear.org

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Tap into "A Mighty Wind"
by Kimberly Massengill
April 18, 2003

Guy I know once said he loved Folk music, and to hear it live, he'd just have to put up with the folks. Though traditional Folk music has wildflower-filled meadows of room for satire, A Mighty Wind chooses to go after the folks, instead.

And it's a surgical strike.

I saw a Folk reunion concert on PBS a year or so ago, and realized two things. 1) This is the most gawdawful music ever, and 2) The "If I Had a Hammer" set who made up the audience were as curious as the girls who cry at Michael Jackson shows. They enthusiastically sung along, and though many were approaching the age where they won't know their kids' names, they knew every word. No matter how old you are, these people are your corny parents.

I think Christopher Guest and Eugene Levy were watching PBS that night.

For the most part, Guest's cast of usual suspects occupies these hammy characters with brilliance. Katherine O'Hara, handily stealing every scene she's in. Jane Lynch as a New Christy Minstrils-esque (a singing group whom Mad Magazine effectively renamed The New Crusty Nostrils) singer who describes her porn past with the sunshiny spin of a preacher's wife (perhaps the best moment of the film). Fred Willard's hot dog style slapstick, reined in to perfection. Ed Begley, Jr's Swedish public television exec who clumsily overuses Yiddishisms with the Jewish promoter he's courting. Bob Balaban as the humorless promoter suffering the hilarious ill-effects of an overprotective mother. Parker Posey (criminally underutilized) with a MacKenzie Phillips story. (This character would've made for many more laughs, had it been given room to stretch.)

There's much about Eugene Levy's playing-to-the-cheap-seats appearance and manner that distract me from what I believe are his intentions, and I didn't come close to understanding his portrayal of Mitch, the something-er-other-addled half of Folk's long-parted sweetheart couple. Maybe it's me. From the three-quarters full Manhattan audience with whom I saw it, the biggest laughs were at the broadest humor, including his.

Anyone who grew up with vinyl will enjoy the sweetly dated album covers peppering the film, but may also note the songs perhaps weren't as funny as actual Folk songs. Worthy exceptions are "Never Did No Wanderin'" and the title song.

A mighty wind's a'blowin’
'Cross the land and 'cross the sea
It's blowin’ peace and freedom
It's blowin' equality
Yes it's blowin' peace and freedom
It's blowin’ you and me

An earnest cover of the Rolling Stones' "Start Me Up" is easily the funniest cut on the soundtrack (You make a grown man cum... baya), but didn't make it into the film. Yet another reason to fog up the store windows when it's DVD time. Unscripted films always have the best outtakes.

This outing has a smidge more plot than its predecessors. Even has a surprise twist at the end, and a tender moment that actually made me folkin' cry! (Jah help me, I cannot stop singing "A Kiss at the End of the Rainbow.") And Guest and Levy are careful to avoid taking on the more valid Folkies, sticking instead to the more orderly, buttoned-down breed of the genre. In my humble, it's a genre unto itself, and shouldn't be lumped with the likes of Dylan, Guthrie, and Havens.

But like a term paper turned in too early, there were a number of missed opportunities. The fans for whom time stopped 40 years ago are nonexistent in this story. And have any of these performers outgrown their youthful liberalism, as they've outgrown their belts and wallets? The Spinal Tap front men are here a now bald trio (though one cozies his shine beneath a toupee he out-grayed three shades ago) of Kingston Trio -like Folkies who seem graced with neither personalities nor families. The ladder missed opportunity made me long for the days of "my special new friend, Cindi."

Though the faces of The Guest Players never let us lose sight that this film is more closely related to Waiting for Guffman and Best in Show, I found it to share more genes with it's older step-sibling This is Spinal Tap, than with its full bloodeds. There are shining similarities like editing and interview scenes which seem to trace those of Tap. Harry Shearer's mugging to the audience, and his technical stage woes (a la getting trapped in the cocoon). There's a scene where The Folksmen are lost and bickering. I fully expected Michael McKean to start fussing in foppish Brit, "Other way! Other way!"

While it would be unfair to compare it to This Is Spinal Tap (particularly since that's my all-time favorite comedy), I think I might not have enjoyed this one as much, were it not for the affectionate nods. A Mighty Wind is certainly no Spinal Tap. It's no Guffman, or even Best in Show. But are you going to let a Christopher Guest film (about music, no less) to go by without seeing it?

Yeah. I wouldn't, either. The signal-to-noise ratio still works out in its favor. I'm an opening night kinda girl, when it comes to Guest's mockumentaries, and this one hasn't changed that.

Nor would I dare miss a movie with a "Catheter Consultant" listed in the credits.

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What is it Good For?
by Kimberly Massengill
April 10, 2003

"...One wonders if War and Peace would have been as highly acclaimed as it was if it was published under its original name, "War -- What Is It Good For?'"
~ Elaine Benes

"It's the second worst thing happening in a desert right now." ~ Lewis Black, on Celine Dion's Las Vegas show

I was watching The Saddam Show on TV the other day. Fireworks blooming across a sky of nightvision-green. CNN's caption read, "Shock and Awe Underway." I'd describe how it felt to me, but "surreal" has been overused of late. Then the most wonderfully inappropriate music began accompanying the bombing. Opera music. The fierce female voice seemed odd and wrong and, well, too beautiful for words. I could feel myself being reprogrammed, Clockwork Orange style. This is sick, I thought. And then it occurred to me. I muted the TV. The Opera continued.

There's an Opera singer next door, whom I can sometimes hear singing through my bedroom wall. (Sure hope she can't hear when I sing in the bedroom.) This woman rarely rehearses at home, but when she does, she sounds like an angel on steroids. There's nothing like a powerful, unamplified voice, and this is perhaps the best such I've ever heard.

Though it'd been more than a year since I've heard her do this, the scene has now been repeated several times over the past week. I've found an odd sort of solace in it. When I hear her, I turn everything off and go sit in the bedroom to listen, focusing my hearing like a hunter stalking elusive tiptoeing prey. It seems to happen when the horror is peaking out, like it's my own personal gauge, alerting me to when I've had my fill of the world. It signals that it's time to escape, and it gives me something to escape to.

We've all seen the lists now going 'round. Links to mp3s of songs for peace. I salute both the sentiment and the generosity of the artists offering them for free (not to mention the technology that allows them to do so). However.

Lot of 'em kinda suck.

But since you probably don't have your own personal Opera alarm, what're you gonna do when the current crop of peacemonger songmeisters leave you limp? Dig deeper. Maybe even go retro. (We've done this before. Remember?) Some suggestions to get you started:

"Oil Change," "Mr. PC Goes to DC," and "Beat the Bushes" - Supaclean
Three of several good ones from whomever Supaclean is. They have everything -- irreverence, humor, anger, manipulated sound bytes, and actual toe-tappin' beats. Theirs is the first link in the list below. Go root around in their stuff.

"Peace Train" - Yusuf Islam
The former Cat Stevens has revamped and Africanized this daisy-in-the-barrel classic, and has done a good job of it.

"We Want Peace" - Lenny Kravitz
As much fun as it is to make fun of Lenny Kravitz, I actually like this song. It's got sort of a Prince groove, and works nicely, if only on a visceral level.

Most everything from Urinetown
I finally saw this hilarious slab of social satire this week (thanks again, David), and was knocked out by how timely it is. Timelier still was the fact that the intermission ladies room line was obnoxious, so my teeth were swimming through the whole second act. They speak what needs to be spoken. No one is innocent, and there's more gray area than black or white.

LITTLE SALLY:    What kind of musical is this?! The good guys finally take over and then everything starts falling apart.
LOCKSTOCK:     Like I said, Little Sally. This isn't a happy musical.
LITTLE SALLY:    But the music's so happy!
LOCKSTOCK:     Yes, Little Sally. Yes it is.

"War (What is it Good For?)" - Edwin Starr
Often imitated, never improved. Before he passed away last week, Edwin Starr left a blueprint for recording a proper anti-war song. We can't give him writing cred, Strong & Whitfield earned that. But Starr knew that, to move listeners to emotion, to action, to protest, you'll likely need more than tinkly voice and delicate string plucking. Edwin Starr knew that if you want to change people's beliefs, or fortify their existings, you gotta have rhythm. You gotta have bottom. And you gotta have "good God y'alls."

"Why O Why Must We Attack Iraq" - The Youvees
Don't let the earnest delivery throw ya. This one's not bad.

We gotta kill em before they kill us
After all we're the good guys so what's all the fuss
And God's on our side in fact he's driving the bus
So you better get on board there's nothing left to discuss

South Park
The current episode details why the US needs both anti-war and pro-war factions. One serves as our nation's conscience, while the other keeps us from looking like wusses to the rest of the world. Stupid and sweet and contains just enough truth to make you believe Cartman has found the answer. Till the end of the credits, anyway. The highlight was a protest versus "pro troops" song-off between Stan's dad and a Toby Keith-like Country music dude.

I like to Rock
But I don't wanna Rock Iraq
The only kinda Rockin' America should do
Is the kind that we can all dance to
~ Mr. Marsh

Some honorable mentions:
"March of Death" - Zack de la Rocha/DJ Shadow
"War" - The Cardigans
"Games Without Frontiers" - Peter Gabriel cover by Bob Holroyd
"The Price of Oil" - Billy Bragg
"Jacob's Ladder" (Not In Our Name) remix - Chumbawamba
"He War" - Cat Power
"Peace Love & Understanding" - Elvis Costello

Need a break from misguided triumphalism and if-it-moves-shoot-it-ness? Go find yourself some escape. Fill it with music.

http://www.bumpsy.org/
http://www.protest-records.com/
http://pollstar.com/home.pl
http://www.resistwar.com/other_music.htm

2003 Grammy Awards
by Kimberly Massengill
February 25, 2003

I haven't submitted a column in a while. A clergyman would call it a spiritual crisis. To a surgeon, it'd be a shaky hand. A farmer might think of it as a dry spell, and to a gambler, a streak of bad luck. I've been suffering a run of debilitating indifference. Not to music. Never to music. I continue to spend just as much time beneath the headphones, and I've kept up with new releases (except I didn't know until a couple days ago that Vanessa Carlton and Michelle Branch weren't the same girl). But I became indifferent to something I normally love, sharing music. Writing about it. Call it "dancing about architecture" disease.

I never miss the Grammys, but I'm usually expecting more train wreck than trance. Though it was plagued with sound problems and irresponsible presenters, this year's performance-heavy broadcast was one of the most entertaining and soulful I've seen.

Simon and Garfunkel's launch gave me goose bumps and moist eyes. I love that puffy old men can move me more than Puffy does. The New York Philharmonic playing something furiously hot from West Side Story (made me wanna don the chiffon and dance with a boy that'd kill my bruddah), and then being joined by Coldplay with Chris Martin at the spinet (!) on a stool that could barely contain his fervor. The Foo Fighters getting seemingly Soy Bombed by a B.B. King fan, resulting in Dave Grohl delivering the evening's funniest line (but y'had to be there). Faith Hill giving us a little glimpse of her Basic Instinct.
John Mayer admitting to "always thinking about being palatable to the people at home." Aretha Franklin looking like an ice blue layer cake Christmas tree angel. An entirely tolerable rendition of "The Rising." Harvey Fierstein and Rod Stewart unwittingly creating a Wigstock moment, the likes of which even Lady Bunny couldn't've conjured. Norah Jones, of all people, getting bleeped. And that spit-flyin', neck-vein-bulging cover of The Clash's "London Calling," as a too-brief tribute to the late Joe Strummer.

There was even a great Saturn commercial tucked in there, a Bacharach enhanced nightmare-fantasy where cars shop for people. I swear I wasn't high. I just really enjoyed every drop of it.

The show had such a hold on me, I didn't even mind when Justin Timberlake and Kylie Minogue tried so hard to put the breaks on the bliss, they jammed the pedal. I didn't mind that that I don't know who Yayo is, or from what he needs to be freed. I didn't mind that the producers didn't let us see what the lining of Avril Lavigne's coat said (Rock on?). I didn't mind that Erykah Badu (who is determined that no one seated behind her will ever see the stage) held us hostage for a minute or two. I didn't mind that Queens of the Stone Age didn't win. I didn't mind that Sheryl Crow thought that telling us on the red carpet that she's "known for my anti-war T-shirts" is the same as wearing one. I didn't mind that, though newly humble, we still don't know whether Eminem has teeth. I didn't mind the beatboxing Boy-Gees. I didn't even mind that teensy-voiced girls who have nothing yet to write about get recognized, while Americans have no idea who Johnny Dowd, American, is.

Hmmm.... scratch that last one. Totally minded that.

Favorite full circle moment: When Norah Jones accepted the Grammy for Best Album with her purse still on her shoulder, just as she'd done the first time I heard her sing.

Favorite nose-thumbing moment: When our semantically confused sitting mayor took the stage, reminding us that the Grammys vacated New York because of our previous mayor's bratty insistence that he be included. But in another step toward recovering from Rudy, the Grammys are back in New York, bringing together two of my favorite things, music and this vibrant city.

And yes, I know how corny I sound.

On a girly note, Deborah Harry's outfit was righteous, I'd so do Gwen Stefani, and at the aforementioned Rock Star party, I stalked the completely fuckable Elvis Costello a bit, then, in a tight squeeze, I accidentally brushed the back of my hand against somebody good's butt.

Sorry, Mr. Lofgren. I swear it wasn't on purpose.

I do have a genuine complaint, though. Why were presenters and performers warned by the anti-anti-war producers not to speak or wear peace messages? I suspect they were also told not to mention anything remotely negative or controversial, otherwise we surely would've heard condolences to Rhode Islanders, and jokes about the French. Whether a response to advertiser pressure or to time constraints, I believe it was foolish and unforgivable. I guess allowing musicians to be musicians might've cut into the time spent on closing shots of the audience stretching and purse-finding and squeezing swollen feet back into their Jimmy Choos.

And I'm not kidding about the Vanessa Carlton/Michelle Branch thing. Did you know they were two separate people?

So, thanks (in part at least) to The Grammys, I'm returning from hiatus. In the coming weeks, I'll be weighing in on the best of 2002 ('bout damn time, don't ya think?), and "How I Spent My Summer Vacation," aka "Seventh Ring of Radio Hell," aka "Running from The Rising." I'll also be catching you up on lots of new releases, answering some of your mail, and I might even tell my story of the musical side of marching in the February 15 anti-war protest. Next time I'll be on the radio is March 8th (mostly non-musical this time, though), so watch KimberlyMassengill.com for details.

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Kimberly Massengill's a big ol' Southern belle who likes gray matter, a slow, grindy groove, and cucumber dip. She lives in Manhattan, where she talks dirty on the radio and bellies up to the bar when nothing good's on TV. Don't be afraid to say hey.
www.KimberlyMassengill.com/

If you would like to be notified when this column is updated, please contact Kim at KimMassengill@aol.com

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