Just say no

Look, I know part of this is due to the natural effects of aging, but I think Keith Richards is a walking testament to the virtues of not using drugs.

This used to be an attractive man.

See?

Albums in the era of downloads

Last week on Sound Opinions, the Chicago-based rock ’n’ roll radio talk show, hosts Greg Kot and Jim DeRogatis were talking about the big music events of the last decade. Jim affirmed my stance that, while there was a lot of innovation in how music is delivered and listened to, there weren’t any major innovations in music-making itself in the ’00s or any specific genre that defined the decade. On the one hand, I was glad to hear someone else say this (because it makes me feel like less of an old crank going around saying “Nothing new has happened since the Dust Brothers”) but at the same time, it’s dispiriting. Jim and Greg seemed optimistic that something new would happen, but I’m not so sure.

Jim posited that in the age of downloading music, album covers and liner notes are almost a thing of the past, that no one is interested in them anymore. In the case of liner notes, I’d argue that the general public was not terribly interested in them in the first place; it was just the hardcore music geeks, who can still find all the same information (lyrics, producers, songwriters, musicians, recording locations, etc.) online if they are so inclined. The end of cover art, however, is something that makes me sentimental. I think it’s an inevitable but sad side effect of downloading music.

I just finished reading David Byrne’s new book, Bicycle Diaries, and funnily enough there’s a passage where he talks about that issue. He rightly points out that albums and album cover art were never wed to one another; records existed before album cover art did. The covers themselves were created as a practical matter to protect the fragile vinyl records, and the artwork followed later. I’m not sure of the source for this, but Byrne says that a classical record that sported the first album cover art sold many, many more copies than other records, hence the decision to start putting art on all album covers as a marketing tool.

This got me wondering when album covers came into being. God bless the Internet, because I actually found the answer on Wikipedia. In 1938, Columbia Records hired a graphic designer, Alex Steinweiss, who is now widely credited as the inventor of album cover art. Steinweiss is still alive and many of his album covers can be viewed online, so check them out if you have a chance. (Wikipedia also provides interesting background info on how records came to be called "albums" – which has to do with storage solutions, of all things.) Those links provide a nice little history lesson if you’re a music fan or interested in graphic design.

It could be argued that not only album covers but albums themselves are becoming less relevant in the era of downloads. Don’t most people download a song or two by an artist they like, not an entire album? As much as I love albums, I’m pretty happy that downloading has helped us reclaim the single, since record labels in America phased out CD singles quite awhile ago. There might not be a picture sleeve or a B-side anymore, but the single lives on, and usually it’s 99 cents – cheaper than the vinyl ones I bought as a teenager.

Boys on Film

I am making a declaration that I will update my blog at least once per week. Send the militia after me if I don’t stick to it.

Other than being caught up in the usual holiday stuff that most of us are preoccupied with this time of year and fretting about the condo on which I put an offer nearly seven months ago, I’ve been doing a bit of pop culture archeology lately. Yesterday I finished reading Wild Boy: My Life in Duran Duran by the former guitarist Andy Taylor. He’s widely known among Durannies as the least interesting one (and/or the least attractive one) but having been obsessed with them in my tween years, I figured it was worth a read. The book itself is not that great. He doesn’t talk much about writing and recording the music, which I love hearing about, he’s pretty diplomatic toward the other members of the band, and he claims they didn’t really fool around with groupies, which… I call bullshit.

However, the one major pleasure I’ve gotten out of this book is digging a bit deeper into the early history of the band, which is much easier now, in the era of the Internet. I always knew that Stephen Duffy, Simon Colley, and Andy Wickett were members before the lineup that landed a record deal. Duffy went on to become sort of a cult figure, mainly for his work as the singer of the Lilac Time. After having a couple of minor pop hits in the early ’80s, he went in more of a singer-songwriter direction, and he’s actually really good.





Wickett was in a band called TV Eye at the time Duffy and Colley were in Duran Duran. When TV Eye broke up, Duffy and Colley left Duran and formed Subterranean Hawks with former TV Eye members, while Wickett joined Duran. So, they basically traded members. I had never heard about Subterranean Hawks, but lo and behold, there is actually a clip of one of their songs, “Big Store,” online. Duffy and Nick Rhodes from Duran recorded a new version of “Big Store” a few years ago when they got together for a project attributed to Devils. The album featured new versions of some of those pre-fame Duran songs – a very good album, actually (much better than any Duran stuff has been for years).



Andy Wickett apparently wrote an early version of “Girls on Film” and a song that was the basis of “Rio.” He now performs in drag as Candy Wicked and did an updated, kind of industrial, version of “Girls on Film” a few years ago. Not really my cup of tea, but interesting all the same.



I love this stuff, because I’m really interested in the process of making music: how the different lineups click, who writes what, which songs are recycled and updated after lineup changes, how the production changes the song, who “makes it” and who is forgotten, etc. I find it really fascinating.

Sometimes I think this is the story of my life.

Paralysis through analysis

Today I was listening to Duran Duran on the way to work and was thinking how good the self-titled album they put out in the '90s was. I think it was John Taylor who said in an interview that the reason the album was so good was that they approached it as if it were their last. Marianne Faithfull has said the same thing about her masterpiece, Broken English. That got me thinking, why doesn't every recording artist approach each album as if it is their last? Obviously, going about things in that way presents a huge emotional commitment. But why put out music, or art of any kind, in which you don't have a major emotional investment? Of course, not everyone is going to make some heavy statement, but even for a pop act the logic works: Shouldn't the B-52's put out the best party album they can? And Michael Jackson consciously strived to put out the genre-crossing pop album with Thriller.

The danger in putting so much pressure on yourself, of course, is that you can end up with what Quincy Jones called "paralysis through analysis" -- his phrase for Michael Jackson's problem post-Thriller, when he fretted so much about doing something significant that he ended up not doing much of anything. I have this problem when I write. I dabble with fiction, then I figure it's not going to be Grapes of Wrath so why bother -- pretty self-defeatist, right? I also find it very difficult to write without editing myself as I go along, and those are supposed to be two separate processes. I've started writing a few poems again and trying not to worry too much about whether they're good. I'm trying to start another blog, too (which might replace rather than supplement this one; I don't know yet), but my biggest issue is finding the time. My life seems to be very busy lately, and mostly with things that aren't fulfilling. It might be time to discover the power of saying no.

Fashion inspiration: Michelle Phillips

Today would have been Papa John Phillips' birthday, but I'm honoring Michelle's great style. No slight to Papa John, however -- I love him!

I guess I'm feeling nostalgic

Thursday evening's entertainment

Robert Irving III's Sketches of Brazil, a tribute (of sorts) to the 50th anniversary of Miles Davis' and Gil Evans' collaboration on Sketches of Spain. Another beautiful night at the Pritzker Pavilion in Millennium Park, with two friends, sandwiches from Caffe Baci, and a bottle of red wine.