I will retire to my dark closet, with the light extinguished

Andrew Keeling is a genius. I recently discovered his epic and breath-taking analysis of King Crimson, and I realized I am unworthy of the task. From this point on I will limit myself to commenting on Billy Squire and Triumph albums. For a glimpse of the beauty and majesty of Keeling's work visit: http://www.songsouponsea.com/Keeling/Keeling-InTheCourtOfTheCrimsonKing.html.

The evil three

Sorry I have been absent from the blogosphere for so long. I know my readers look for me on a daily basis, and to be frustrated by finding no new entry - forever awaiting that message in a bottle on your respective and individual deserted islands - for so long must be, as the kids say, a “bummer.” What moves me to write today is some reflections on treason. Or rather betrayal. Or perhaps to make it more personal, cuckoldry. Of course, in my context, being an unmarried man, I’m not referring to cheating within marriage, but to something more insidious, and much, much harder to explain in a public space such as this. To be honest, the betrayals I am concerned with involve what some less committed music fans might think of as “smart business decisions.” Let’s get it out the way: I would never sit down for dinner with Ian McDonald, John Wetton, or Boz Burrell. I might have dinner with Steve Howe, but I would scowl throughout, and would certainly leave before dessert. Once linked with greatness, these 4 musicians turned their backs on their obligation to carry the flag of progressive rock, and laughed all the way to the bank after forming derivative, commerce-oriented arena-rock bands. (One language note. Observe that I used the term “progressive rock” and didn’t employ the use of a hyphen. But I did use a hyphen when typing “arena-rock.” I’m sure most of my perceptive readers grasp the logic behind this decision, but for new readers, I should pause and explain. Progressive rock is a vast genre, populated by a wide array of music-makers adopting diverse approaches to their craft. Gentle Giant and Jethro Tull are as different as Camel and Genesis. Yes sounds nothing like Starcastle, although unenlightened bubble-heads will always and at every opportunity try to convince you that they do. Arena-rock bands, by contrast, are commercial enterprises, which, like Coke and Pepsi, and Kleenex and Puffs, are, by design, indistinguishable from one another.) To move closer to my point, King Crimson, one of the giants of the progressive era, is unlike anyone else. In fact, one era of King Crimson differs from the next by such a wide margin that one can argue that there are several distinctive ensembles which, over the course of the 1970’s, performed under that name. For the time being, let’s put aside the 1980’s revival of the band, and all that followed from that. Why does progressive rock merit our reverence? Well, one obvious example is the articulate and virtuostic musical talent of these groups. But, even more relevant, for my current purposes, is the fact that these performers employed their skill not for commercial gain, although many of these bands enjoyed global world-wide earth-spanning success, but to advance a vision of life made more magical and mysterious by fantasy and drama and heroic quests. Why would I refuse to break bread with McDonald, Wetton, and Burrell? Because they turned their backs on King Crimson, and all it stood for and aimed to achieve, to “rock out” and cash in with, respectively, Foreigner, Asia and Bad Company. My stomach just did a little flip, as it always does when I contemplate the treachery of these prodigal sons of prog rock. Howe, too, was seduced by the promise of quick money and became part of Asia. But, for me, his betrayal is less egregious because, as Yes showed during their own disastrous detour into commerce-inspired music-making, his original band didn’t have the integrity of Crimson. In other words, while Howe prostituted himself, he merely moved his guitar-playing from one brothel to a new one. But going from Crimson to Foreigner, as McDonald did? From penning The Court of the Crimson King to writing Long, Long Way From Home? Oh. My. God. Not only would I not sit down for a meal with McDonald, I would walk out of KFC if I went there and found him eating. And I would never go back. Ever. Not even for their tasty Popcorn Chicken.

Tribute to tribute bands

I'm sorry it has been so long between postings. The university reorganized the library departments, as part of a massive building project, and I've been getting home too exhausted to be creative. The problem at work, mainly, is that my desk in the reference department, in fact the whole reference department, was moved to temporary quarters much, much farther from the vending area. As a result, my trips to buy afternoon nourishment wore me out, especially on top of the simple psychic weariness that comes from being relocated to an unfamiliar place. Also, my work has been harder because I haven't been easily able to direct library users to the proper parts of the library with my usual patented hand gestures. I'm sitting in a corner and I can't gesture effectively. But I'm back now, and that's the important thing. How many of you noticed that the Who have a new album coming out and will tour? This news, which at first glance thrilled me, began a reflection on the value of tribute bands. Now I know some of the poorly informed out there, and I doubt my readers are part of this sadly misguided group, confuse tribute bands with cover bands. Let me spell this out for you: cover bands play other bands' songs. They belong at weddings. Tribute bands recreate the music, the stage presence, the special effects, and the magic of great bands at the height of their power. They make a crucial contribution to the preservation of our classic rock heritage. There's a web site that has links to sites for all kinds of tribute bands. It's called Tribute City and it can be found here: http://www.tributecity.com/. Anyway, I was reflecting, or at least ruminating over the distinction between seeing the Who, which is, to be honest, just Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey and some hired hands, and OHM or one of the other awsome Who tribute bands that are out there recreating the experience of seeing the Who at their prime, when Roger swung the mic around like a planet in orbit around a star, and Pete was ripping chords with his patented windmills, John was playing his distinctive bass, and Keith was pounding out a controlled chaos on the drums. Isn't it better to see a simulacrum of greatness rather than a faded, sad reminder of it? And, how cool is it that OHM is WHO upside down?

Stealing candy from the bowl of genius

Some folks have complained that I haven't been writing about music enough. I looked over my past entries, and they may have a point. And that last entry didn't help matters (nor get a mouse pad sent my way). What I want to write about today are "mash-ups" or "booties." Have you heard of these things? To get an idea what I am talking about, try this out: http://www.djbc.net/mashes/djbc-hotbreaker.mp3. Evidently, some DJ somewhere thought it would be great fun to mix great contributions from the classic rock canon with percolating synth-pablum from Christina Aguilera and Madonna and Britney Spears. Then, like a nasty cold, or pink-eye this idea spread. And everywhere you look you find someone combining monster chords from Led Zeppelin or Billy Squire with Beyonce singing "Wooty wooty wooty/Gonna shake my booty." I hear Beyonce when I'm shopping at the Gap. And that's fine. It helps me get get out of the store faster. But combining this stuff with music swiped from our collective treasury of classic rock riffdom is wrong. It's desecration. People: have we strayed so far from contact with the divine that we have forgotten how to treat what's sacred? Hands off Zeppelin. If you have to do this stuff, use Deep Purple. But not, under any circumstances, Smoke on the Water.

I'm not in this for the Lum-Lums and Nougat-Logs

After a mention on my blog of two tasty treats I sometimes enjoy, Lum-Lums and Nougat-Logs, I got a case of each from the folks at the factory. How nice. And when I mentioned the film Wayne's World, I got a copy of the Deluxe Director's Cut DVD of the movie (3 discs, with out-takes, side-splitting bloopers and alternate alternate endings). That was nice too. But, listen, I'm not in this for the goodies. I don't practice product placement just to get items sent to me. I know some of my less ethical colleagues in the "blogosphere" practice this unwholesome pursuit, dropping names of goods with the expectation that someone in a marketing office somewhere will respond by sending the "blogger" unholy amounts of the product. This practice even has a name. Begging. So in the future, when I mention things, like size 9 flip flops from Old Navy, or a Star Trek TNG "Make it so" mouse pad, or the DVD Ian Anderson Plays the Orchestral Jethro Tull, I do not expect the manufacturer to send them to me at the library where I work (Northeastern Illinois State University, 6565 Loden Avenue, Chicago, IL 60677).

Diegetic and non-diegetic

I reflect while I sit at my desk in the reference section of the library. Today I was thinking about what makes classic rock such a satisfying meal and "indie" rock such a sad, undernourishing snack. The answer, I think, and I'm sure you'll agree, at least partially, if you give it some thought, and possess my command of vocabulary, is that classic rock is, at its best, non-diegetic. The term, stolen from the world of film, refers to music that finds its way into a movie without being part of the main narrative. For example, when music plays over opening or closing credits (which I always stay around to see because, afterall, it's part of the movie), that's non-diegetic music. But, on the other hand, when Wayne and Garth are driving around listening to Bohemian Rhapsody in Wayne's World, that's diegetic music, because it advances the narrative of the movie, in so far as there is one. In any event, I love the fact that classic rock takes us out of the boring, repetitive monotony of our daily lives, away from the house we share with mom, and the sameness of the peanut-butter sandwich lunch we eat every day in the lunchroom and allows us to visit Xanadu or the Misty Mountains. That is an enormous service! Indie rock, though, tends to be all about the mind-numbing, dreary realities of daily life. Here is an actual lyric from a band called Superchunk: I was a graduate student/but I couldn't finish my thesis/now I'm in a band and I run a record label/you'd think this kind of thing might please us/but it doesn't.

The Web is awesome!

As a reference librarian I was making use of the web long before most of you. I thought I'd take a moment to share some of my smarts. Perhaps more than the rest of you, but maybe not, I would venture to say, cautiously, that I value the role of artifacts (or, perhaps, one could say, relics). The web now gives us a chance to preserve valuable artifacts, in a digital format, and allows the great mass of humanity to grasp these historically significant keepsakes in their fingertips. Well, not in actuality, but it is the next best thing. In my humble opinion, nothing aids recollection better than a visual reminder. I read somewhere that smells help bring back memories. That might be true, and I'll leave it to the laboratory scientists to argue about that. But, and here's my point, even if it is true that smells help bring places and moments back to us, I wouldn't want to reexpose myself to most of the smells associated with the fabulous rock and roll shows I witnessed in the 1970s and early 1980s. I seem to recall that the restrooms reeked of urine, since less patient fans often relieved themselves in sinks and garbage cans and bathroom corners. All in all, I don't want to stick my nose in a big plastic bag of urine just so I can recall the thrill of seeing Rush. But, I can reawaken memories by visiting some of the wonderfully detailed and carefully curated websites that preserve set-lists, ticket stubs, and other "you were there" artifacts from now distant (but legendary!) tours. One great site devoted to the preservation of what might be called a people's history of Rush, for example, features every tour date ever played by the band, with set lists, ticket stubs, fan's photos (from the actual concerts!), and other fantastic artifacts. Imagine my thrill when I found, preserved on the web, a listing for and a facsimile of a ticket from the April 3, 1980 concert I attended at Chicago's International Ampitheatre. Look here: http://www.2112.net/powerwindows/tours/80apr3_collage.htm. They have a set list too! I had forgotten the show ended with a Neil Peart drum solo. Of course it did! Once I saw the set-list, preserved there on the web, it all came back to me. The drum solo was 12 minutes long, and worked the crowd up to an almost tribal level of excitement. Neil ended the solo with a mighty strike of his gong. Spectacular! Thanks for the memory!