Out Walking

Sipping Beauty: The Songs of Sara Beth Geoghegan

Plenty of gifted female singer-songwriters write out of grief.  Rosanne Cash's beautiful and heart-wrenchingly sad 2006 release, Black Cadillac, is about as good as it gets from a non-believer, a blood-on-the-tracks like confessional after her loss of her mother and father in one year.  Then there's Sand and Water, Beth Nielsen Chapman's songs wrested from the grief of losing her husband to cancer.  Both provide glimpses of hope amid oceans of doubt and struggle.  Yet neither get anywhere near an expression of faith in God.  The best Chapman can do is admit that "I will see you in the light of a thousand suns" ("Sand and Water"), and Cash can look for "roses in the snow" but can't quite come to believe in any afterlife.  That's why Sara Beth Goeghegan's recent independent release, Tired of Singing Sad Songs, is a breath of non-sentimental fresh air, realistically confronting the pain of loss and sadness while affirming a sure hope in Jesus.  Alright, I admit it: I am smitten by these songs.

Geoghegan (pronounced go-hay-gen), a New Orleans native, self-confessed migrating songstress, and now settled Nashville songwriter, is as songwriter mature beyond her 27 years, well able to match lyric and tune with the likes of Sara Groves or, in the mainstream world, Beth Nielsen Chapman, Shawn Colvin, Jennifer Warnes, or Karla Bonoff (just to name a few).  Though a worship leader with a good sense of humor, her gifts extend beyond church and have the promise of reaching deeper into the world.  I think she's done it with this collection.  Indeed, there's nary a clunker on this 11-song release. 

The title cut sets the tone, the melancholy giving way to the affirmation of the chorus, "When the flowers bloom/ darling we will too/ After a hard cold winter/ And the birds fly home/ with a lighter load/ They’re singing a hymn of summer."  Then there's "Lord Deliver Me," a prayer that God deliver her from preoccupation with self: "Lord deliver me from the desire to be noticed, loved, exalted/ Lord deliver me from the desire to be favored, popular, chosen, or acknowledged/ Lord deliver me from the fear of being wrong, forgotten, or ignored/ Lord deliver me from the fear of being humiliated or left behind." All the better that the background vocals come through here like congregational singing, making it more a song from us all.

"Hallelujah, What a Mess," is an admission of our weakness and dependence on God, that even at our best we're a mess.  It has an infectious melody that begs you to sing. "Ooh, We Need Jesus" is simply that --- that, in the end, what she is trying to communicate about is simply our need for Jesus.  The real life struggle of her Aunt Marika --- a former nun who struggled through alcohol and drug dependence before emerging --- is reflected in "3 Sips of Beauty."  Geoghegan channels Karla Bonoff (stylistically, that is) in "Opening," a highly singable folk-pop tune that I keep coming back to.  I could go on, but the whole album is full of poignant lyric and joyful melody: a collection of "best of" on a debut release, with just enough production, just diverse enough arrangement and instrumentation, and, well, just enough of everything right.  It's rare to be so consistently good on any release, much less a first release.  If I gush, it's because I honestly can't find anything to levy a serious criticism against (except maybe the non-inclusion of full lyrics in the packaging or online --- something that can be remedied).

We don't know all the loss represented in the album's songs --- broken engagement, separation, or just that nagging and generalized sense of loss that can infect us all --- nor whether the songs should even be taken as autobiographical (though I doubt Geoghegan can write so well about things she is not to some extent acquainted with).  But it doesn't matter.  What matters is that the songs offer multiple points of connection with listeners who undoubtedly also know loss and grief, and yet Goeghegan doesn't leave them there in a mildly comforting sense of shared grief but points beyond to hope and deeper comfort in Christ.  That's what sets these songs apart.

Tired of angst-ridden, world-weary, stumbling-through-the-darkness tunes that leave you empty?  I recommend Tired of Singing Sad Songs.  Listen to "Hallelujah, What a Mess" here:

Check out Sara Beth's website.  Buy her record. Give some encouragement to a budding songwriter, will ya? 

Our Disembodied Music

When I was a teenager of 14 or so, a big event for me was the purchase of a record album. At that time, music was a full-orbed experience: I saved my money, looking with anticipation to buying an LP (my first, as I recall, cost $3.49), I went to the record store (at that time, The Record Bar), handled all the various LPs of interest on display, talked to other shoppers and the manager, made the purchase, walked home with that large LP tucked under my arm (anticipation swelling), plopped on the floor of my room (often with a friend), took the plastic off, carefully slid it out of its sleeve (I can still smell that new vinyl), put it on the turntable, settled in to listen all the way through each side, and perused art, lyrics, and liner notes as it played. It was a great experience! The impression it made upon me is confirmed by the fact that I can remember many of those early purchases --- picking up the box containing George Harrison's All Things Must Pass collection with the bearded ex-Beatle seated on front, relishing the unusually sunny disposition of Neil Young on the cover of Comes a Time (at which a very long-haired hippie said to me, "hey man, he's smiling, can you believe that?"), waiting eagerly for the release of the Concert for Bangla Desh only to discover with dismay that the whole first side of Disc 1 was taken up by Ravi Shankar playing the sitar (sorry, sitar fans). I could go on. I know, you must think it pathetic . . . but remember that I was only 14.

Those days are gone, of course, and for those younger than 40, perhaps never existed. Since that time I have witnessed the advent of the compact disc, a development which truncated the tactile experience of buying and listening to music to a smaller, less impressive package but, nevertheless, still a visible, tangible commodity. I have the seen the advent of the internet and online shopping, which reduced the communal experience of the record store to just me and my computer and exposed me to a plethora of often mediocre music competing for my attention on the internet, a virtual flood of noise. Finally, I have seen music made portable and ubiquitous. It's on my phone, PDA, and IPod, where it can be instantly purchased and downloaded. It blares at me in every store I enter, from discreetly placed speakers along the streets of our new shopping centers, in restaurants, when pumping gas, and in doctors' offices --- disembodied sounds divorced from context, from tangible package, from artist, from community --- simply floating through my life and rarely coming to rest.

Given the ubiquity and portability of music, it is no surprise that the music industry is in a severe decline, as Mark Geil documents in a "Music in Recession," a summary of the state of the Christian music industry featured in a recent Christianity Today. On every front there is bad news --- artists can't make a living, touring and festivals are cutting back, record sales are crumbling (and have been since the CD reissue market peaked and declined), record labels are folding or shrinking, and commercial radio is down 30 to 40 percent. And yet while the article takes a shot at the amount of illegal downloading and what that has cost the industry, no where does it ask why people regard music as not worth paying for. It doesn't take a genius to conclude that when something is everywhere and at all times available for free, devaluation is inevitable. Even without illegal downloading, music is so plentiful that you can have all you want. So why pay?

As wonderful as it is to have music so accessible and new music so readily discoverable, the disembodied sounds we listen to nowadays are nowhere as rich as what was had in a time when they were heard in the context of a complete album, when buying and even listening were often communal experiences, where listening was multi-sensory with the packaging an extension of the artist's craft. In the end, when you had an LP, you really had something --- a physical work of art that you could hold, persue, talk about with friends, and see on your shelf. I know little about most of the artists whose songs I listen to now, but then I could have told you a great deal about them from perusing their lyrics, liner notes, and art work, supplemented, of course, by Rolling Stone Magazine, then a counter-cultural newspaper, or, in Christian circles, by True Tunes, an art-zine focused on the really cool music of the Christian culture. When I download a song now, I sense that I have almost nothing, sound divorced from context, from artist, from anything tangible that I can hold. I value it little, and that is why I am unlikely to pay for a download unless that is the only medium by which I can hear a song.

For my teenage son, this way of thinking is incomprehensible. That there is no physical product is no big deal to him. That there is no context is also not problematic. He cites the lower cost and portability of downloads as far superior to the album culture. He is interested in the song, not the artist, and certainly not the album which may contain songs he does not want. Lower cost, portability, and selectivity are certainly benefits of the digital music era, but it is difficult for him (and I surmise others of his age) to see that there is a cost. They do not know what they have missed; there is no love lost for albums when there is no loss.

Albums were a richer experience, but you might say so was listening to live music in parlors, street fairs, church, and home sing-a-longs when music to be heard had to be heard live. No one would want to turn back the clock to that era, even if we could. The phonograph and radio were a natural outgrowth of peoples' desire to take the music with them. And yet in all technological progress there is loss. Music has become cheapened both by its ubiquity and portability, more often a subjective, individual experience (think ear buds) and less often a communal experience. Even our buying of music has become an individual experience: one man, one computer screen. Any virtual buying community is a cheap substitute for hanging out in the record store talking about music. That kind of community is consigned to record collectors viewed as eccentrics by most.

We can't turn the clock back, but I suggest that the economic downturn actually can help restore value to music. As Geil notes, the industry collapse can get rid of the stardom mindset that some artists have, lead to greater improvisation, and weed out people who don't have anything to say in favor of those who do, and I would say of those who have not only an inner calling for the music but one confirmed by their community of faith or patronage. It may also restore greater connections between artists and their fans, artists like one of my acquaintances, Luke Brindley, who eschew labels and ask fans to financially invest in their recordings. I also still think a lot of people want to hear music in community, and house concerts retain a following in part because of their intimacy, not only with other people but with the artist. Finally, by buying physical product (CDs or even special vinyl releases), we can let artists and labels know that we care about context, that we want to know more than a song title and artist name. Perhaps we might not only save the CD but also preserve vinyl for those who care.

For Christians, the respect for and love of the physical is bound up in the Incarnation. In Jesus God was not simply a voice but a person one could see, touch, and hear. Christianity is, rightly understood, a sensual religion: the stuff of everyday life matters. Thus, a musical product which is a fuller and more sensual expression of the artist's imagination is more incarnational, and in this case more is better. The analogy is imperfect, of course, but I don't want a disembodied music any more than I want a disembodied Jesus. Just as we have an embodied religion, we need an embodied music. We're made for it.

Pandora’s Box

"[The Internet] creates a permanent puberty of the mind. We get locked in so much information, and the inability to sort that information meaningfully limits our capacity to understand. The last stage of knowledge is wisdom. But we are miles from wisdom because the Internet encourages the opposite of what creates wisdom—stillness, time, and inefficient things like suffering. On the Internet, there is no such thing as waiting; there is no such thing as stillness. There is a constant churning."

(Shane Hipps, in Flickering Pixels: How Technology Shapes Your Faith)

I am awash in music. Whether I am in my car, while working at my computer in my home or on the job, in restaurants, shopping, or putting gas in my car, life is lived out complete with soundtrack. Like most other products, technologically-savvy marketers have found ways to deliver music to me whenever I want it (and even when I don't). I'm part of the problem, as I confess I am a music junkie. What I can't determine is whether all this music is good for me --- and I'm not referring to content or quality as much as quantity. Why the compulsion to listen? Why do I feel the need to have the background of my day soaked in sound?

In this respect, Pandora, a relative newcomer to internet radio, has not been helpful. While our firewall at work blocks most streaming music (it won't allow Rhapsody), Pandora streams through unchecked. If you're not familiar with Pandora, it's a remarkable internet radio service that allows you to pick a song or artist and build a playlist of songs that are in a similar vein to that song. Actually, it's a cooperative process. Based on the song or artist you select, Pandora suggests and begins playing similar songs. You can accept or reject the song. Every time you make such a choice, you further give input to Pandora, allowing it to refine the song selection. For example, I began a station by playing "Baby Blue," by the Seventies power-pop group, Badfinger. Next up, Pandora selected "Who'll Stop the Rain," by Creedence Clearwater Revival. Why? If you want to know, it tells you. In this instance it said because it features "basic rock song structures, country influences, a subtle use of vocal harmony, extensive vamping and mixed electric and acoustic instrumentation." Well, I don't know about all that, but they guessed right --- I liked the song. And it's uncanny, because more often than not they do get it right.

Pandora grew out of the marriage of some astute musicians and computer geeks who conceived the Music Genome Project, a distilling of the essential qualities of music that then allowed them to map similarities. In their own words, they "set out to capture the essence of music at the most fundamental level. We ended up assembling literally hundreds of musical attributes or `genes' into a very large Music Genome. Taken together these genes capture the unique and magical musical identity of a song - everything from melody, harmony and rhythm, to instrumentation, orchestration, arrangement, lyrics, and of course the rich world of singing and vocal harmony. It's not about what a band looks like, or what genre they supposedly belong to, or about who buys their records - it's about what each individual song sounds like." It's ingenious, really, and though it has a significant subjective component, I am amazed at their ability to objectify (and then market) the factors that make up our usually unarticulated taste in music, so amazed that I have spent hours listening to Pandora.

Then lately I have been wondering how all this listening is shaping me, for better or worse. Like any new technology, I suspect it sows good and bad fruit. On the positive side, Pandora has introduced me to new songs and new artists and reminded me of songs and artists I had forgotten. I now listen to Yo La Tenga, when I had never heard of them before, and rediscovered The James Gang (please don't say "who?"), a group I lost to my high school years. It allows me to listen to full tracks at no cost. I either put up with a few advertisements or pay a modest $36 a year to enjoy advertisement-free listening and a longer time-out function. I enjoy the fact that both independent and major artists get paid when I play their song. And finally, I enjoy the element of surprise in finding out what song will be selected for me next. Of course, there is the portability of it as well, but that's nothing new.

On the negative side, I suspect I am also becoming captive to my tastes and less adventurous and patient in listening outside by personalized genres. To be fair, Pandora gives you a tool to deal with this, at least in part, by allowing you to click a button called "Add Variety," but I never do. I like my listening comfort zone, and Pandora feeds that taste-ghetto. Pandora also (and it's not alone in this) provides a veritable and portable glut of music --- at home, at work, in the car, and on your IPhone --- and thereby contributes to the impatient, non-evaluative listening many now major in. I pay little attention to words, know and care little about the new artists, and don't end up buying their album or song (at least not yet). I need not tolerate anything that doesn't immediately grab me by the musical short-hairs: I can skip a song easily enough and blacklist an artist so that their songs never play again. Once again, to be fair, Pandora allows only a limited number of skips or thumbs down on suggested songs before you are bumped from the station, but you can always log back on, so there is little disincentive to impatience and little incentive to listen beyond 30 seconds or so. It propels this propensity to skimming as does any kind of internet listening or browsing.

Consider how long it has been since you carefully listened to a song or, better yet, an entire album. Music now streams through my head and I rarely press pause so I can think about it. I get what I want when I want it, but I probably don't get what I need --- a balance between the stimulating, surprising experience of hearing all the music offered by Pandora and a more reflective, deeper, committed listening to a small cadre of artists that I commit to and support, a balance between the stimulation of music and the solitude and space of silence as I listen and reflect on the world outside and world in my head. Life is more novel than soundtrack, a story so rich that you cannot hear it without a measure of rest from the constant churning of sound (and information and image).

In Greek mythology, Pandora, whose name means sender of gifts, was also the one with the unchecked curiosity who opened the box that brought ill upon the world. It just goes to show that when it comes to new technology, we take the bad with the good. Pandora brings ill and unintended consequences. Its open box walls me in to my own prejudices even while it ostensibly opens me up to new musical vistas. When it comes to music, maybe this good gift of rediscovered or new music should prompt me to stop the flow and go deeper, getting to know a smaller amount of music by a small number of artists in a deeper way. Of course, that requires listening, not just hearing, and thoughtfulness, not distraction. In short, it requires the good sense to put the lid on Pandora's box at some point. Can we do that?

Jill Phillips In Concert

Since last fall, I have rediscovered the pleasure of doing house concerts. We clear out the den, bring in chairs, provide modest sound and lights, and invite 65-75 people to join us for an intimate evening with a singer-songwriter.  It's been great seeing friends and meeting new friends and simply watching everyone have a good time.  In addition, when I have music in the house, it seems to hang around for a while thereafter.

I really pleased to announce our next concert with Jill Phillips on Friday, March 20th.  I only discovered Jill last year and have since bought her entire catalog of CDs.  She's a great writer with a beautiful voice, and perfectly complemented by her fellow musician and husband Andy Gullahorn.  I won't spend precious words extoling her virtues here.  Visit the webpage here for full details and to make a reservation.  You'll be glad you did.

Chase the Buffalo: Pierce Pettis Presses On

One of the earliest singer-songwriter albums I bought during my "folk phase" was one by Pierce Pettis.  At the time, the musical wood were thick with guitar toting troubadours, and Windham Hill, a New Age music label, formed an imprint, High Street, just for singer-songwriters, one of which was Pierce.  My favorite release by Pierce was an album that has been out of circulation for at least 10 years.  Entitled Chase the Buffalo, it was produced by the late and legendary Mark Heard and was marked by some lyrically amazing songs.  He's only gotten better with age, and while singer-songwriters ultimately suffered at the hands of major labels eager to ride a wave of urban music in the Nineties, Pierce has endured and is on tour with his latest release, That Kind of Love.

But to appreciate Pierce, you need to see him live.  And now you can do that in the best way, in a small, intimate house setting in Raleigh, North Carolina on February 13th, as Pierce tours to promote his record.  A reservation is required, and we are filling fast.  So for more information about how to reserve a seat, as well as to check out video and audio of Pierce, see our Brookhaven House Concerts page here.

Odessa: A Bee Gees Pop Classic

My college years (1976-1980) were marred by the advent of disco, with its mirror balls, bumping dance, and mindless lyrics.  I listened to a lot of Jackson Browne and the (then) more novel and fresh sounds of what came to be known as contemporary Christian music.  Sad to say, my memory of the Bee Gees remains tainted by the memory of that sad musical era when, musically, I was just "staying alive." Ugh.

But, I forget, as do most, that Barry, Maurice, and Robin Gibb had a life before disco, crafting great pop songs laced with intricate harmonies and lush instrumentation.  Not only could they sing, but they were multi-talented instrumentalists who also wrote their own songs.  Their 1969 two-disc release, Odessa, was emblematic of that era --- 17 original songs that featured generally simple acoustic arrangements supplemented by symphonic backing, lyrically spanning the gamut from English mythology to love songs, with enough diversity in tempo and sound to keep it interesting all the way through.  But before considering the music, pause for a minute and consider the packaging.  It will remind us of what we have lost.

The late Sixties and early Seventies were still the of the LP, its very size providing artists with a larger palette for their creativity.  Not only could they write and sing their own songs, maybe even produce their own albums, their artistic control extended to packaging.  Jefferson Airplane puts Bark in a brown paper bag, Grand Funk Railroad's E Plurbius Funk is round instead of square, Traffic's Low Spark of High Heeled Boys is a parallelogram, the Raspberries's self-titled debut is a scratch and sniff cover, just to name a few --- and Odessa is released in a bi-fold, 2-disc red velour cover.  It's like a "touch and feel" children's book, or wallpaper from Elvis's bedroom.  Inside there is a drawing spanning the 2-page bi-fold of a capsized boat with a captain throwing a child to the waiting arms of those in a lifeboat (a shipwreck the subject of the album's theme song).  I remember holding that album.  Music was multi-sensory then.  Not only did you hear it, you felt it, saw it, had the tangible reminder (icon) of the album.  That has been lost.

But enough of that lament and on to the music.  What I did not realize before was the proficient instrumentalists the Gibbs brothers were.  For example, there is Maurice Gibb's flamenco guitar work on the title cut, "Odessa," or his bass, piano, or mellotron on other tracks.  Robin also contributed keyboards, and Barry, acoustic guitar.  With Colin Peterson on percussion, they truly were a band, not just singers fronting a band.  Three of the 17 tracks are instrumentals.  "Seven Seas Symphony," for example, was essentially performed live in the studio, with Maurice Gibb playing piano to a backing by choir and orchestra.  All in all, what stands out to me is the masterful songwriting.  These brothers knew how to craft a pop song and how to sustain interest in an album by having a diverse collection of tempos and instruments and topics.

The second disc in the collection is a mono recording of the entire album, released initially in mono.  It's interesting to compare stereo and mono and realize what a significant change it was at the time.  The third disc is filled with early demos or alternate takes of all the songs on Odessa, all good.  Combined with liner notes that discuss the differences with the released version, it's an interesting peek into the creative process, with some lyrics abandoned or changed, instruments modified, and, in one case (with "Pity"), the song never completed.  With the included poster and sticker, it makes for a great package, albeit more for collectors than typical music consumers.

Me, I'm just glad to have some music I can actually put my hands around.  And yes, I forgive them for disco.

A Christmas Gift

I enjoyed all of my Christmas gifts, but it was a real joy to receive a new Christmas song from Bob Bennett today.  I have known Bob longer than any other musician.  Somewhere around 1989, nearly twenty years ago, my friend Craig and I had a thought:  why not have a musician perform at our church.  Novel, huh?  Only problem was we didn’t have a clue how to do that.  I was holding Bob’s great CD, Songs from Bright Avenue, and I noticed a number for a booking agent on the liner notes.  I called the number.  The people were nice.  Bob came.  And since then I have probably hosted 50-75 concerts.  I have lost track.

But I won’t forget the first concert.  Bob proved himself then and afterwards as a gifted songwriter, good guitarist, great vocalist, and funny entertainer that always delights audiences.  He was doing Christian music before there was much Contemporary Christian Music industry to speak of.  His songs have always moved me, and it’s been a delight to see him every few years or so.

But, according to Bob, he’s been in a musical dry season of sorts for going on 18 months, unable to write one of those trademark songs he’s known for.  That’s why it was a pleasure to get word of his new song, Carol of the Moon and Stars, today.  It’s everything he’s known for --- profound lyrics, honey-smooth vocals, and a great melody.  Pure and simple, it’s a gift.

I encourage you to download this very nice demo of the song here.  (You’ll need to click on the Song of the month link).  While you’re at it, buy a CD.  Support a fine artist and very, very decent human being,  Welcome back, Bob.

Favorite Albums of 2008

It would be presumptuous to call this a “best of” list, because I’ve only listened to a fraction of the music out there, but these are some of the albums that I enjoyed the most or found the most interesting, in no particular order:

That Lucky Old Sun, by Brian Wilson  I’m amazed at the energy and staying power of this former Beach Boy creative genius.  After producing the Sixties classic Pet Sounds, he literally descended into personal and creative lethargy for nearly three decades, only to emerge in the Nineties with health, stable family life, and new creativity.  This album is a superb suite of songs, literally a sonic landscape of Southern California and Brian Wilson, who are in some ways indistinguishable.  If you told me I could only have one record from last year to listen to, I would take this one.

Welcome to the Welcome Wagon, by The Welcome Wagon  It may sound like an unlikely recipe for mainstream success.  A Presbyterian pastor and wife, Vito and Monique, sing simple songs of faith, in what one critic described as CCM meets nerdfolk.  With Sufjan Stevens producing, it works. It’s a fun and even worshipful blessing of a record.

Live: Hope at the Hideout, by Mavis Staples  An energetic live album, this former civil rights era singer belts out blues and gospel with a stripped down, swampy three piece band and backup singers.  I love the guitar.  I love the voice.  I love the songs.  And I’m encouraged.  It’s like listening to history come to life.

Captured in Still Life, by Kensington Prairie  This folk-pop album is really the solo project of Vancouver indie-pop singer Rebecca Rowan (of the band, Maplewood Lane).  Having grown up in British boarding schools in Africa and India (a daughter of missionaries), she has a lot of influences, but I simply love the sunny pop and wistful melodies you’ll find here.  I keep coming back to it.

Freedom Wind, by The Explorers Club  They may look like Beach Boys copycats, right down tot he packaging that is made to look like a worn LP sleeve for something like All Summer Long, and yet these guys are more than that.  I feel like I’m listening to original music by a modern day version of the Boys.  And that’s not bad.

Electric Arguments, The Firemen  This album had to be stickered just to let people know that it’s really a Paul McCartney album.  Now in his mid-Sixties, McCartney teamed with the British producer Youth.  All instruments were played by McCartney, and all recorded in the space of one day.  From the classic rock opener to psychedelia to twangy folk, the record has a spontaneity and life missing in the man’s other solo work.  In my opinion, he can stay “The Firemen.”

The Good Things, by Jill Phillips  She’s one of my favorite CCM singers, because she can write great songs, play guitar, and sing.  It’s not sappy or sentimental, and yet full of faith and struggles that we all have.  Every Jill Phillips record is good, and this one is no exception.

Pacific Ocean Blue, by Dennis Wilson  Most people have no idea how creative and talented the youngest Beach Boy, the drummer, actually was, as his life was tragically cut short by his drowning death in 1983, an unbelievable 25 years ago. In this reissue, his only solo release, Pacific Ocean Blue, is remastered with bonus tracks.  But the gem is the inclusion of 17 tracks from the sessions for his never finished or released album, Bambu.  Listening gives you some sense of the unique direction this artist would have taken, but for his death.  Sadly, it’s unlikely that most people, other than Beach Boys fans and collectors, will ever hear this. Too bad!

Meet Glen Campbell, by Glen Campbell  As I’m writing this, I’m thinking “I have become my father,” and in a way I have.  I remember watching the Glen Campbell show in the Sixties with my Dad, and now, I’m buying a record?  Yes!  This is a very talented man, and there are some great songs here, both originals and covers.  Drop your preconceptions.  Give it a listen.

Promise of Summer, by Jackopierce  When I heard the rockabilly opener to this record, “Everything I’m Not,” with the chorus “I’m an open book, she’s a mystery/ I’m black coffee and she’s sweet tea/ You probably wonder why she’s with me/ I’m grateful for everything I’ve got/ She is everything I’m not,” I knew I liked this band.  It’s clever, straight ahead, heartland rock ‘n roll, with a country flavor.  What’s not to like?

And that’s it for 2008.  Next week, post-Christmas music, I think I’ll chuck all this music, set it aside for a few months, so I can return to it and realize how well it holds up (or not).  Happy listening!

For Christmas Listening

This year I'm updating my list of Christmas music suggestions, adding a few new ones.  Christmastime poses some difficulty for me musically, in that I find so few Christmas albums that I like.  Most records are uninspiring rehashes of the same carols, hymns, and other Christmas songs.  Some artists have managed to take the familiar carols and add a depressing note to them, and I'm not in favor of that.  I may find one or two songs I like, but on the whole albums tend to be inconsistent affairs.  Instrumental albums fare about the same.  If I hear one more Windham Hill Celtic Christmas record. . . well, I've had enough of those for a while.  Really, what I cherish is music that is Christocentric, authentic, and original (meaning fresh and timeless arrangement of familiar songs or new songs).

I've tried to consider what my ten favorite Christmas albums are, the criteria being whether I listen to them every year.  In fact, one mark of a good Christmas album is that you want to listen to it all year, not just at Christmas.  Here's my ten:

• The Animals Christmas -- Art Garfunkel, Amy Grant, and Jimmy Webb -- The voices of Amy Grant and Art Garfunkel, the writing, arranging, and production of Jimmy Webb, and the background vocals of the Kings College Choir bring alive a beautiful legend focused on the animal's perspective surrounding the birth of Christ.  This is out of print, but new and used copies can be found on ebay or amazon.  It's consistently good, and not like anything else I have ever heard.
• One Wintry Night -- Jerry and Lisa Smith -- Instrumental versions of classic Christmas carols and three original compositions inspired by Ruth Bell Graham's Christmas story of the same name.  Jerry plays hammered dulcimer, Lisa flute.  It was produced by Jeff Johnson, who also adds keyboards and various Celtic instruments.  The title cut is one of those songs that I never get tired of.
• Winterfall -- Lee Spears and Donna Michaels -- Once again, instrumental, hammered dulcimer and piano, but this is, like One Wintry Night, not standard fare for such records.
• Come Rejoice -- Judy Collins -- Mostly traditional songs sung in a traditional way, but she pulls it off with a great voice.  The addition of "Song for Sarajevo," though it adds a blue note, is a plus.  It's a beautiful song.
• Songs for Christmas -- Sufjan Stevens -- This is a new favorite released last year, and one that grows on me in its lo-fi authenticity and campfire like singalong style.  It's moving.  And it's Christ-centered.  And I think I'll listen to it every year.
• Christmas -- Bruce Cockburn -- Canadian singer-songwriter Cockburn brings some original arrangements to Christmas carols, some little sung jewels, and one original.  My favorite: "Mary Had a Baby."
• December -- The Moody Blues -- Call them prog-rock or orchestral rock, but these guys have been around.  They bring classic vocals and harmonies to classic songs, and a couple originals.  It's playable beyond Christmas.
• Sara Groves -- O Holy Night -- New this year, Grove's gives original carols some new twists and pens a number of great original Christmas songs.  She's a refreshing alternative to the usual CCM fare.
• Mary Chapin Carpenter -- Christmas --  This country-folk staple sings mostly original songs, so if you're looking for recognizable Christmas favorites, this is not it.  But I like the new songs and tire of the same carols at times.
• Alathea -- Christmas -- Folks that I know rave about the new CD from this female duo, with its Appalachian-infused melodies.  I'm a big fan, so as soon as I set hands on it, I know I will like it too.

Well, I'm not saying these are the best, but they are what I'm finding myself listening to. . . this Christmas, and for many of the past Christmases.  My kids like Trans-Siberian Orchestra.  All I can think of when I hear them is big guitars and big hair.  It's over the top, with no subtlety.  I'll stick to the quieter things for the season and save the big guitars for the New Year.  Happy listening!

A Soundtrack for Thanksgiving

For the last two years, I have posted a Thanksgiving playlist of songs for this increasingly overlooked holiday. Since the Christmas shopping season starts so early, Thanksgiving tends to get merged in with Christmas, a brief (but welcome) interlude in the buying frenzy. Maybe this year, with less buying going on, perhaps we can dwell more on a day dedicated to giving thanks and, perhaps, to the One who is due our thanks.

These songs don't all have Thanksgiving as a theme, because what I treasure about the day is also the gathering at home, or maybe the longing for home, or (sadly) in some cases the trials of being home. Like every holiday, its mention also brings a certain remembrance of childhood celebrations of the day. So, that too is reflected in some of my choices. In the end, it is a subjective list, of course, and yet I hope you will enjoy the music and reflect on what light it sheds on this Thanksgiving Day.

I've recorded and posted below two MP3 files, each with eight or nine songs. You won't be able to stream these, as they will timeout before they finish (a function of my blog provider). I suggest right-clicking on each one (where it says "Side One" and "Side Two") and saving it to your desktop. Each will take 3-4 minutes to download. Once you have done that, you can then click on the desktop icon and listen to the songs on your player. Enjoy!

Side One

1.  In the Bounty of the Lord, by Claire Holly.  A gospel bluegrass number that celebrates what God gives us.  The style is reminiscent of music I listened to growing up, as I find it reminds me of those Friday nights when my father's friends would come over and play music and drink black coffee until after midnight.

2. Thanksgiving Day, by Ray Davies.  Kinks front-man Davies can claim the only legitimate song about Thanksgiving!  He eschews his usual sardonic wit and writes a warm tune here, and the most rocking thing you'll hear on this playlist.

3.  Thank You, by Jan Krist.  It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without saying "thank you," and Jan manages to lace the thanks with enough melancholy and angst to keep it real.  She's a good friend, and hearing her music brings many memories.

4.  Gratitude, by Peter Himmelman.  "I'm glad that I can see the brown eyes of my daughter. . . . Forgive me if I lost a sense of gratitude."  Himmelman, an orthodox Jew, knows Who to thank.  His song is a confession of how we take things for granted and forget to be thankful to our Creator.

5. Be Thou My Vision, by Van Morrison.  It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without a hymn, and this is likely my favorite, with a very Celtic delivery by Van.

6.  Covert War, by David Wilcox.  Wow.  If you had a family like this, you wouldn't want to go home for Thanksgiving.  Fireworks at the Thanksgiving meal!  Sad, but real.

7. Come Thou Fount/ Grain By Grain, by Matt Auten.  Gorgeous hymn, and a reminder that God is the fount of every blessing.

8. A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, by George Winston.  Watching Charlie Brown is a part of every holiday.  Besides, it's a bit of a pick-me-up.

Side Two

19. Wanderer's Song, by Brooks Williams.  One of my favorites by Brooks, this song is about how all roads lead home.

10. River Where Mercy Flows, by Julie Miller.  I love Julie's songs, and the tenderness and fragility of her voice is disarming.  Thank God for His mercy.

11. What Wondrous Love, by Jars of Clay.  Another hymn favorite.  Thank God for his wondrous love.

12. Thanksgiving Song, by Mary Chapin Carpenter. New to the playlist this year, this original song is from Carpenter's recently released Christmas album. "Grateful for each hand we hold, around this table. . . ."

13. America, by Simon and Garfunkel. As my Uganda friend reminds me, Thanksgiving is a uniquely American holiday, and this is a song about America, and a nostalgic reminder of another time. This is the unique place I'm thankful for.

14. Somewhere Over the Rainbow, by The Innocence Mission. It seems like The Wizard of Oz used to come on sometime around the holidays every year as I was growing up. Thus, I identify it with home. It has a lullaby quality to it also, as sung by Karen Peris.

15. The Water is Wide, by Karla Bonoff. What a great song! This traditional tune was arranged and sung by Bonoff with some guitar and vocals by James Taylor late in the song. It's a song about trying to get home.

16. We Will Dance Someday, by Brooks Williams. A great upbeat song of hope about the Home we will enjoy someday. That hope makes me thankful.

17. Homecoming, by Jerry Reed Smith.  An instrumental coda which reminds us, I think, of where our real Home is, where it will be Thanksgiving all the time.

 

The New Tribalism?

“If you follow marketing trends, you’ve probably been hearing a lot about “tribes” lately. It’s the idea that our culture is a collection of groups with a shared identity, mission or leader. Seems obvious enough. We’ve all seen Braveheart and have a pretty good idea of what a tribe is. But what does it mean for an artist in the 21st century? I think it provides one model for how an artist can have the freedom to create their art and make a living doing it.”  (Joe, at Noisetrade 101)

I don’t intend to pick on Noisetrade, or Joe, or anyone else who is the business of trying to support themselves as artists.  I’m well familiar with niche marketing, or even tribe marketing.  Find your tribe.  Sell to it.  Develop a loyal following.  Most artists will do well to follow this as a model for trying to get gigs and sell music.  But let’s face it --- as a model for the good society, for a culture built around shared values, it’s detrimental.  To the extent it builds a following, it does so around consumption, around music, and around a person.  That model would seem to contribute to the further balkanization of society, because tribes built around something as innocuous as music (in terms of bringing about societal collapse) may also begin to look alike, think alike, and choose to associate with other tribe members.  It’s one step from that to dissing other tribe members and then, at some point, really losing the ability to appreciate and converse with one another.  This is not healthy!

Music should be a bridge across “tribes,” something that brings people of different political and social views, of different lifestyles and looks, and of different racial and social classes together.  Finding something in common, if only in music, can lead to conversation, and conversation can lead to understanding, and understanding might just lead to some consensus about what is true, good, and beautiful, about what a good society ought to look like.  Sometimes I get the sense that no one is much interested in that anymore.  It’s more about who looks like me, thinks like me, and (well) buys like me.

In the end, it’s not my tribe that matters.   The Apostle Paul said that we are not to seek our own good, but the good of our neighbor (1 Cor. 10:24), and the admonition to do good extends to everyone, not just our immediate neighbor, not just our tribe (Gal. 6:10).  Rather than reach our tribe with music, why not reach out to a larger group?  Some artists do this quite effectively.  For example, I went to a Josh Groban concert with my wife.  I saw the requisite swooning women, of course, but I also saw men and women of every age group --- all attracted by his artistry and a music that really transcended the boundaries of language, religion, age, race, and preference.  I don’t prefer him, but I came away with a great appreciation of his music and his artistry, and his ability to reach across tribes.  Frankly, that should be not just the goal of the artist but of us all.

New Music, Free

I'm quite taken with the new music and marketing approach taken by the folks at Noisetrade. You can download entire albums for whatever you decide to pay, or for referring five friends to Noisetrade. One of the samplers from the site which I have enjoyed is Sandra McCracken's new "Red Balloon." Some of the CDs are samplers, including some songs from a yet-to-be-released or available for purchase CD, and some are the entire CD. McCracken is representative of the quality to be found on this site.

A Perfect Night: Brian Wilson at the Hollywood Bowl

There are not many better concert experiences than seeing a performance at the Hollywood Bowl.  Last night my son and I went with friends to see Brian Wilson live at the Bowl, backed by the Los Angeles Philharmonic, and followed by a tremendous fireworks display.  A real treat was that the Philharmonic came on first (right after a stirring rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner”) and played three works chosen by Brian --- Mozart, Bach, and Gershwin numbers --- before ceding the stage to Wilson and his great band.  The acoustics in the Bowl are tremendous, and even the nosebleed seats have a decent view and good sound as, for the most part, the seating moves from box seats on a gradual slope to a steeply sloped rise up the mountain.  We were about half way back, dead center, with a tremendous view.

Behind us a full moon rose over the mountain.  To the right of the stage, on an adjoining hill, a white illuminated cross was just a great reminder of a Creator who gave us such a beautiful natural environment and gifted us with music and the ingenuity to design such a beautiful place.  And the fireworks display, which was on and over the top of the acoustic shell of the stage, was the best I’ve seen.  During “Surfin’ Safari,” a classic Beach Boys tune, they even lit up a “woody” (one of those 60’s station wagons with wood paneled doors) with surf boards on top.  No humidity and cool temperatures helped make it a comfortable evening as well.

Brian raced through a series of classic Beach Boys songs, mostly familiar to the general population (like “Surfer Girl,” “Fun, Fun, Fun,” and “Do You Want to Dance”), but led off and closed with songs from his most recent album, which were well received.  Nevertheless, I had the sense that this was less concert than social event for many people.  Down below us, in the box seats, people were dining with white tablecloths, four course meals, sipping wine, and obviously dressed for the occasion.  The annoyance to me was the amount of talking during the performance.  It sometimes distracted me from hearing the music.

But all in all, it was a good evening.  I love the music, and while Brian, at 66, is challenged by performing, it is an inspiration to me that he continues to write music, perform, and record after all that he has been through.  He is awkward at times, cannot hit those high falsetto notes (now assigned to Jeffrey Foskett), and makes hand motions during songs that are a bit spastic --- and yet he still does it.  He is the voice of Southern California, a timeless sound.

In the last song of the evening, a new one called “Southern California,” he waxes sentimental about “singing with my brothers/ In harmony, supporting one another.”  He’s the last brother alive, and he’s said many times how much he misses them.  And then both his mother and father are dead as well.  When he sings “All these people make me feel so alone,” I can imagine the sadness that haunts him. 

I saw him after the concert (about the fifth time I have done so).  He’s aging, but he can still flash a smile and say hello for the fans.  As long as Brian Wilson sings, the California dream is alive. What a night.

That Lucky Old Sun: Brian Wilson Comes Home

Brian Wilson is an inspiration.  The genius writer, arranger, and producer of The Beach Boys’ early hits retired to his studio in 1965, petrified of appearing before audiences.  After the masterpiece of Pet Sounds, he launched into a more ambitious project, Smile, which, when rejected by the other Beach Boys as too weird and written off by his label, sent him into a downward spiral that, except for short-lived “comebacks,” was where he stayed for three decades.  Three decades!  That’s a long, long, sad story, but the inspiration is that Brain did in fact re-emerge!  In the late Nineties he married Melinda Ledbetter, adopted two children, and in 1998 released a well-received solo album, Imagination.  Then he performed Pet Sounds. . . live.  Then he toured.  Then he finished the legendary, unreleased Smile album, performed it live, and then re-recorded it for release.  It’s still weird --- and amazing.  Two solo albums followed, both well-received, but neither came close to tapping the genius of Pet Sounds or Smile.  Until now, that is.

That Lucky Old Sun, released on September 2nd, is a suite of songs which are a kind of biography of place, Southern California, and of the artist himself.  While nothing Brian could do will ever live up to the larger than life Smile, this album really does come close.  And in some ways it’s better, in that lyrically it’s much more accessible.  (If you want to test this, please interpret the lyrics of Smile’s “Heroes and Villains” for me.)  It’s personal, nostalgic, and sentimental, and it’s brimming with great hooks, harmony, and a little quirkiness. . . and it’s moving.

It’s a travel map to the place that grew up around Brian Wilson.  Venice Beach.  City of Angels.  “Blue pacific, as azure as the sky.”  Olvera Street.  Hollywood.  The Capital Records Tower.  Surfin’.  And the sun. . . that “lucky old sun,” a song that kicks off the record and reprises several time throughout, a song that sets the tone of the album, that gives you the sense that L.A. really can be loved by someone who has lived there 66 years.  There’s a wonderful variety to the tempo of the songs, and even a musical complexity.  I can forgive Brian the spoken narratives, little observations on the people and places of L.A., all written by Van Dyke Parks.  They may be unnecessary but yet don’t detract from a great record.

As great as this slice of Southern California is, the most poignant parts of the record are the songs that are more autobiographical in nature.  Taken together, you are left with a sense that Brian is a man who was lost but has rediscovered his home.  In “Oxygen to the Brain,” he confesses “I cried a million tears/ I wasted a lot of years/ Life was so dead, life was so dead,” and later, “How could I have got so low/ I’m embarrassed to tell you so/ I laid around this old place/ I hardly even washed my face.”  But then he says “I’m filling up my lungs again/ And breathing in life.”

In a beautifully moving song, “Midnight’s Another Day,” he says “Lost my way/ The sun grew dim/ Stepped over grace, and stood in sin,” and that “All these voices, all these memories,/ made me feel like stone/ All these people made me feel so alone/ Lost in the dark, no shades of gray/ Until I found midnight’s another day.”  And yet the best moment comes in a rocking song, “Going Home,” that is really a celebration of his coming home to grace, his finding piece of mind.  The bridge in the song is beautiful harmonically and lyrically: “At 25 I turned out the light/ Cause I couldn’t handle the glare in my tired eyes/ But now I’m back, drawing shades of kind blue skies.”  But the final song, “Southern California,” while sentimental, is a beautiful reflection on his life, where he remembers “singing with my brothers” (both are now dead), driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, the sun, the ocean, pretty girls, music, and surfing (even though Brian never surfed).  It’s a fitting ending to a story and place that seems a little part of all of us.

This is the best new work from Brian Wilson in years.  He may not have the voice he once did, but he still has genius, and he still gets up there and sings.  Maybe all he needed was a little love and mercy, a place to come home to.  HIghly recommended, particularly the CD/DVD package.  (Note also that the Best Buy version of the CD includes three bonus tracks.)

Wide Angle Radio (Episode Seven): Those Nice Canadians

I first met Canadian singer-songwriter Rick Unruh at the annual Cornerstone Music Festival, or maybe the Folk Alliance Convention in Memphis, Tennessee, circa 1999, but frankly, I have forgotten the exact place.  Rick is quiet-spoken and unassuming, as are many Canadians it seems.  In fact, my Silent Planet Records partner, Tony Shore, used to joke that Rick was so nice that we could tell him we’d put his record out, do nothing for him, and pay him nothing, and he’d say “no problem.”  (Well, come to think of it, that’s not far from reality for most record companies!)  Even Rick’s songs have a subtle way of sneaking up on you, powerfully understated in their approach.

In this episode of Wide Angle Radio, that well-intended but financially underwhelming project of so many years ago, John Fischer interviews Rick in an episode entitled “The Vulnerability of the Artist.”  (Funny, no one ever talks about the vulnerability of the record label or artist manager.  Can you imagine why?)  The acoustic music featured on Wide Angle Radio tends to manifest just that --- vulnerability --- in being stripped down (sometimes, painfully so to my ears today), honest, and often personal.  Listen to any song by Julie Miller, who is also featured on this episode, and you’ll sense the vulnerability immediately.  Sometimes it’s almost too much.  And yet with Rick’s music joy and hope tend to percolate up to the surface time and again.  And he’s just as intelligent and articulate and (yes) nice in his interview.  So, please check out this episode of Wide Angle Radio here.

Warchild: The Testimony and Music of Emmanuel Jal

Even if you’re not a huge fan of rap or hip-hop music, it’s likely you’ll be blown away by the music and testimony of Emmanuel Jal.  One of the lost boys of Sudan, an AK-47 wielding child soldier, Jal was rescued from horrific circumstances by aid worker Emma McCune, taken to Kenya, and after McCune died in a tragic auto accident, eventually ended up in London.  He’s a young man of extraordinary faith who feels called to tell his story in music --- rap music no less.  As he says in the album’s title track, “I believe I’ve survived for a reason/ To tell my story, to touch lives.”

The testimony he gives is captivating, yet not all of it makes for easy listening.  For example, in “Forced to Sin” he speaks of the loss of his friend Lual, and of being so hungry he was tempted to (but did not succumb to) cannibalism.  In another song, “50 Cent,” he critiques the lifestyle of the popular rap singer in language appropriate for the context but difficult to play around young children.  In “Vagina,” he likens the continent of Africa to a repeatedly raped woman --- not just by developed nations by by their own native, Big Man leaders.  Strong imagery, strong message.

But these are the raw songs.  There are also songs of pure joy and praise, of claiming the promises and protection of God in all circumstances.  One of my favorite, “Many Rivers to Cross,” is a celebration of God’s protection and of the need to persevere in the face of hardship.  “Emma McCune” is a tribute to the woman who saved his life.  “Shadow of Death” is as you might expect --- a paraphrase of Psalm 23.

It wasn’t Emma McCune who led Jal to faith.  That faith came from his mother, but he was discipled by Josephine Mumo, a woman who led a home for street kids in Nairobi.  Mumo  not only fed and housed Jal, but she took him to church where he discovered the transforming power of God’s love and music --- gospel music.

Jal has quite a platform for his testimony.  His story is told in a documentary that premiered at the 2008 Berlin International Film Festival, and an autobiography is due out later this year.  But he seems unfazed by the trappings of success, focused on his singular calling to tell the world about Sudan and Africa, to tell his story.

Read more about Emmanuel Jal here.  Buy his record, Warchild, here.  Listen and he’ll get under your skin.  [Use some discretion in playing the album around children, however.]

Hush

When I first discovered Claire Holley in 1999, it was because I was smitten with her then second album, Sanctuary, a tribute to old-time music.  The traditional hymns and other songs, as well as the originals, hearkened back to my life as a child, sitting at the feet of my father and friends on Friday nights, playing just such music until the wee hours of morning enlivened by cup after cup of black coffee.  It conjured up another time, another place, as well it might have for Claire Holley, as she was inspired to do the album by her own father.

Claire's newest recording, Hush, is not like Sanctuary, not filled with hymns or an old-time sound, and yet it still reminds me of those simple, sweet songs and arrangements.  Part of the album has the sound of lullabies, not surprising in that Claire is now a mother.  And yet that's not all of it.  The songs on the record, uniformly well-crafted, are presented in an understated and yet powerful way, testifying not to deep angst or political headlines but to normal, everyday life  ---- missing someone you love ("Visit Me"), leaving someone you love ("Leaving This Town"), a nighttime walk under the moon ("Under the Moon"), a wedding ("Wedding Day"), or the several songs that are no doubt inspired by her child, from shooing away monsters ("Go Away Now") to bath time ("Another Day") to bedtime ("Say Goodnight").  They're not lyrics to knock you over. . . and yet they do, simply by their testimony to the beauty of the ordinary times and events of life.

Musically, the album maintains a low-key acoustic feel, and there is a good variety in tempo, sufficient to keep the record interesting. My favorite tracks are "Visit Me" which, with the pedal steel, gives off a wistful sense of longing, much like Gram Parson's classic "Hickory Wind," and the feel-good vibe of "Leaving This Town."  But really, I like it all.  It may not be Sanctuary, but there's more Claire Holley in Hush, and it's all good.

Pacific Ocean Blue: Long Lost Gem Uncovered

At long last, Dennis Wilson's long out of print solo recording, Pacific Ocean Blue, will be released by Sony in a two-disc legacy edition on June 17th.  I have long thought Dennis, brother to Beach Boy Brian Wilson, was second only to Brian in talent, and it shows on this disc.  The first disc appears to have four unreleased tracks, and the second a full 17 additional tracks, a treasure trove for collectors.  It appears that these bonus tracks are in part drawn from Dennis's uncompleted and unreleased Bamboo project, some rumored to be collaborations with brother Brian.  Others could be collaborations with his then Fleetwood Mac girlfriend Christine McVie.  Sadly, Bamboo was never completed due to Dennis's many personal problems.  He died in 1983 in a drowning accident and whatever genius he possessed was lost.  You can find all you ever wanted to know about Dennis on Dan Addington's website.  And much, more more on the reissue (along with quotes from the producers, video clips, and reviews (uniformly good) here.

Vinyl Pleasure (Part Three): Concept Albums

The heyday of the concept album is long past, and I miss it greatly.  In the late Sixties and early Seventies, such themed albums were all the rage, artists working from a large palette, able to choose and sequence their songs and have input into cover design and liner notes, something unheard of in the music business before that time. 

It's likely that the first person to be given such artistic control was a young twenty-something Brian Wilson, who used it to full effect on 1966's Pet Sounds, selecting songs, commanding a studio full of the best L.A. session musicians, and overseeing the entire concept of the record.  It isn't that such concept albums did not persist after the demise of vinyl, but it became more difficult to pull off.  Compact discs offered less room for artistic choice.  But the whole idea of the album is falling by the wayside with digital music.  Sure, there may still be album releases, but many of these albums are no more than collections of songs, musicians well aware that the individual song is all that matters, that consumers will generally download a song that "pops" for them in the first 30 seconds, that patient listening to a whole planned sequence of songs, whether organized around a theme or simply organized for effect and mood, is not rewarded.  What's happening is a dumming down of artistic expression, a shrinking palette, and a focus on a song rather than a body of work.

This concept of an album as a work of art is becoming so foreign to some that it helps to turn back the clock and use an example, and I choose one of my favorite concept albums, The Kinks' 1969 release of Arthur, or The Decline and Fall of the British Empire.  Arthur is the kind of album that folks who download might zip through, listening to a minute or two of each song, and then downloading a couple that are immediately memorable, like "Victoria," or "Australia," or the beautiful "Shangri-La," and yet completely miss the story told in the other songs or the narrative that streams throughout.

Arthur was a collaboration between Kinks frontman Ray Davies and novelist and playwright Juliana Mitchell, a story and soundtrack of sorts originally planned as a TV musical drama --- only the budget was pulled.  It tells the story of a working class man's love of and then disillusionment with Britain, his flight to Australia, and his ultimate regrets at a life of innocence lost.  In the end,  Arthur's questions about life are best put by Mitchell as "What's it all about then?  Is this what I've lived for (a suburban home, car, job)?  It's been a good life, hasn't it?  Well, hasn't it?"  You're left with that gnawing sense that there must be more, that Arthur somehow missed the point of life, the real meaning.

The songs tell a cohesive story.  "Victoria" kicks off the album in a rocking way, Arthur paying tribute to the "land that I love," the "land of hope and gloria/ Land of my Victoria."  In "Yes Sir, No Sir," he goes to war, ready to do his duty, and yet despite his sacrifice realizes that he can never rise above his class, will always be on the outside: "So you think you've got ambition/ Stop your dreaming and your idle wishing/ You're outside and their ain't no admission/ To our play."  Though Arthur survives, many others don't, the mother in "Some Mother's Son" waiting for a son "who ain't coming home today."  And yet it's not all dark, "Drivin'" providing a light note, with Arthur packing the boys in the car for a drive, telling then to "Drop all your work/ Leave it all behind/ Forget all your problems/ And get in my car/ And take a drive with me."

"Australia," which almost turns psychedelic at the end, is a rocking end to the first side, sounding like a promo for utopia, promising that "everyone walks around with a perpetual smile on their face in Australia," a place where "you get what you work for" and there's "no class distinction" and "we'll surf like they do in the U.S.A."  Flip the album and you realize that Australia is no "Shangri-La," that when you've got what you thought you needed to be happy, you're really "too scared to think about how insecure you are/ Life ain't so happy in your little Shangri-la, Shangri-la."  Lurking underneath the upbeat musical tone of the song is a fair amount of angst, of latent anger at how life's turned out.

Finally, an old, gray-haired Arthur looks back on his life with some nostalgia and regret, as in "Young and Innocent Days," saying: "I see the lines across your face/ Time has gone and nothing ever can replace/ Those great, so great/ Young and innocent days."  The title cut brings a summary conclusion to the story:

Arthur was born just a plain simple man
In a plain simple working class position
Though the world was hard and its ways were set
He was young and he had so much ambition

All the way he was overtaken
By the people who make the big decisions
But he tried and he tried for a better life
And a way to improve his own condition
 
Arthur we like you and want to help you
Somebody loves you don't you know it
How is your life and your Shangri-la
And your long lost land of Hallelujah
And your hope and glory has passed you by
Can't you see what the world is doing to ya

And now we see your children
Sailing off in the setting sun
To a new horizon
Where there's plenty for everyone
Arthur, could be
That the world was wrong

Empire, status, position --- could it be that the world was wrong?  The album asks a great question, planting the truth that there must be something more to life.  It was a question asked a lot in the Sixties, but it's every bit as relevant now.  A great song can ask this question.  But a great album does it far better.  It puts a story in your head that's difficult to shake off.

Davies uses music well in the telling of the story, letting the pace of the song, the temp0, and the mood fit the lyric.  Also (and you would never know this from the compact disc), each side of the album begins and ends with a strong, memorable song, the last song on Side One, "Australia," setting the stage for Side Two, where we find that "Shangri-La" is not what it was cracked up to be.  The album begins strongly with the Arthur of youthful innocence, believing in Britain ("Victoria"), and ends with the title cut, "Arthur,' him wondering if he missed something along the way.  There's something in that pause, that getting up to turn the record, that worked well as an artistic device.  Finally, listening, I'm holding a large gatefold album in my hands, perusing the art, poring over lyrics, and asking myself the question "what am I living for?"  That's a great piece of art: it puts me in the story.  Folks, one song just can't as easily do that.  One song promises but doesn't quite endure.

So that's another reason I like the album, particularly the concept album.  You should try it while it's still possible.  Maybe start with Arthur.

Vinyl Pleasure (Part Two)

Despite my predisposition for vinyl and aversion to a digital only music consumption, I've not yet been labeled a Luddite.  In my last post on the subject, I lamented the passing of vinyl, and yet I know that we cannot go back, that we live in a digital age.  I am remembering for two reasons: first, I want to know what it is I have lost and whether and to what extent it matters; and, second, if I have lost something that is important, I would like to consider how to recapture some of that in a digital age.  As a Christian, I look at remembering not as a wallowing in nostalgia, but as a way of meeting the future, of preserving the good we may lose if we don't take care to translate it into the present.  I do not want to be unaware of a cultural shift that negatively transforms the way I think and live.

I also made the audacious claim in my last post that vinyl was more biblical.  I did that because there is something about that whole experience that is more satisfying and seems to better embody values consistent with Scripture.  Whether you read Neil Postman's Technopoly or Jaques Ellul's Technology, the lesson is that any technological change has not only positive but negative consequences, yet they don't always cancel each other out.  Sometimes change is much, much better (for example, there is absolutely nothing important that was lost with the passing of the 8-track tape), and sometimes the consequences are more negative than positive.  I think the latter holds true with the move from physical media to digital media.  What we lost is greater than what we gained.

So exactly what is it that we lost, or stand to lose, and how do we translate these values into a digital age?  I can think of four areas of loss and opportunity:

• Permanence.  God is not opposed to change, and yet Scripture gives priority to the permanent, to things that do not change.  The ease with which we buy and sell in a consumer era breeds contempt for things that endure.  Something I can have immediately and relatively cheaply (like an ITunes download) is cheapened, less important, more easily dispensed with.  When I used to shop for LPs in stores, the delayed gratification and anticipation fostered a more enduring appreciation.  I waited to find it, to buy it, and finally to listen to it --- all the time thinking about it, anticipating it, and, after buying it, reading it and holding it until I could get it home to actually play it.
• Respect.  Because I cannot easily skip tracks that don't immediately connect with me, I listened through an album, first one side, then the other.  I appreciated the sequencing of songs, the lyrics, the quality of production.  Repeated listenings built appreciation for the more understated and yet powerful songs.  In the late Sixties and Seventies, artists took full advantage of this kind of listening, paying attention to album concept and sequencing so as to produce an integrated work of art.  Consider Side 2 of The Beatles' Abbey Road, where each song anticipates the next.  Or rock operas like The Who's Tommy or Quadraphrenia.  Somehow skipping over songs with the click of a button just wouldn't have been respectful: the artist had produced a whole work of art.
• Community.  As I've alluded to before, buying and listening to records was not an individualistic activity.  When you had a record, you had a visible assemblage of recorded sounds, something you could more easily share with another person, something you could pore over together.  In fact, record stores were great places to hang out and discover new music.  There were simply these large, tangible items that attracted us and around which conversation was fostered.
• Accountability.  Like it or not, producers, record companies, and disc jockeys served as quality control for what we heard.  The downside of this is that some good music never made it to its audience; the upside is that a lot of mediocre or just plain bad music stayed where it belonged (in the garage).  I should know.  I was in a band in high school that needed to stay just there, in the garage, a problem only for the next door neighbors.  These days, when anyone can record inexpensively at home and have a MySpace page, good music is difficult to find in a barrage of noise pollution.  No one is accountable.
• A Richer Incarnation.  The artist who released an album on LP knew he or she was working with a larger palette.  The artistic work, if done well, not only was a collection of sounds embodied in discrete three to four minute songs but could be focused on a concept or theme, with cover art, liner notes, and sequencing of songs that fostered surprise, diversity of sounds, and anticipation to create a richer, multi-sensory experience.

Can you add to this?  I suspect that there is more than this to be said, as well as some counter arguments about digital music.  Yet I have the overwhelming sense that I have lost something, and I want it back.  As we can't turn back the clock, how do we carry these values into a music culture of disembodied sounds?  I'll deal with that next!

Vinyl Pleasure (Part One)

If you are under 25, the following may not make sense to you or, at very least, you will only be able to experience what I describe by some imprecise analogy.  What I am going to describe is the pleasure of thinking about, buying, and listening to a vinyl LP record --- yes, those rather large, archaic looking 12-inch in diameter discs in square cardboard sleeves, probably found somewhere in your parents' attic or grandparents' den.  Even if you're over 25 and have bought a vinyl LP at some time in the past, you may have forgotten what the experience is like.  A cultural shift occurred while you were busy living.  So let me tell you what it was like for me.

First, in my youth and teenage years, other than Rolling Stone Magazine or FM radio, there was little information available on new music releases --- no web pages, blogs, MySpace, or satellite radio.  You found music by going to the record store and cruising the bins.  In addition, there were very few stores dedicated solely to records.  In my hometown, there was one, and it was inconveniently located downtown.  I did most of my record shopping in the basement of Franklin's Drug Store, an area which amounted to about six feet of bins, two deep, all-inclusive of every genre.  My first record cost $3.49 --- an exorbitant amount for me then.  Essentially, I would have to cut two neighbors' grass to earn that much.  Given that gratification was delayed (another feeling many under 25s often do not know), I had some time for dreaming about what I would buy, shuffling through the colorful records in the bins, staring at the artwork, and holding the records.  I can't overemphasize the sense of touch, the simple pleasure of holding something.

Take, for example, the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Band LP, released in 1967 when I was nine (and which I discovered a couple years later).  There is a lot to look at on that cover, a pop art melange of characters, with psychedelic colors popping out at you, the word "STEREO" printed at the top of the cover, an important claim then, and lyrics printed on the back.  Before Pepper it wasn't common to get lyrics with an album.  Rip open the shrink wrap and the sleeve opens like some awesomely oversized CD digi-pak to reveal a full color photo of the Fab 4 decked out in their marching band threads, and there's a similar shot on the back, standing, only Paul is turned with his back to the viewer.  How long did we discuss why he was turned away from us?  What message was being conveyed?  But the fun doesn't stop there: Inside the sleeve is a color page of Sgt. Pepper cut-outs --- a mustache, badges, a stand-up band photo, and more.  And the weight!  With disc, Sgt. Pepper clocks in at 13 ounces, not much less than a pound.  Substantiality!  When you carried an LP around, you had something.

When I'd get a record like Sgt. Pepper, or Jethro Tull's Aqualung, or Jefferson Airplane's Bark (which came in a brown paper bag), I'd take it to school.  A handful of guys in junior high would lug six to ten LPs around, and the after-lunch conversation in the courtyard was all about music.  We'd stare at the album covers, discuss the music and the meaning of lyrics, theorize about the album concepts (they had concepts then), and swap records for an evening.  The creativity!  Grand Funk Railroad's E Pluribus Funk LP was in a round, silver dollar-like package, Traffic's Low Spark of High Heeled Boys LP was a parallelogram, the corners clipped.  The Bee Gees' double-disc Odessa CD was covered in red velvet, like carpet (this was prior to that ugly disco phase for the boys).  On So Long Ago the Garden, pioneer Christian rocker Larry Norman is half naked on the front, the back a pair of snake-skin boots and a half eaten apple.  (Many retailers refused to sell it.)  Records made a statement, and their very size assured that it would be a very public statement.   Carry the zippered front of The Rolling Stones' Sticky Fingers around a high school campus and you've said something, haven't you?

So what's so great about vinyl LPs?  Let's summarize:

• LPs are multi-sensory experiences.  You can touch a record, smell it (whether vinyl, the cardboard sleeve, or something else like the scratch and sniff sound of The Raspberries self-titled debut), hear it, watch it turn on the turntable, lift the needle and set it down on another track, open it, see it on a shelf, and ponder the artwork.  Digital music is for listening only, with only a teaser of cover art.
• LPs are (were) public experiences.  When you bought an LP, you purchased it in a public place, carried it around, and put it on a shelf where folks could see it.  When you carry around a half-naked Larry Norman, people talk.  Junior high girls freak.  People generally don't know what you're listening to on the IPOD and often don't care.
• LPs created a limited, shared  market.  When artists were limited to LPs, the market could only absorb so much, as there was only so much shelf space.  There was a more shared appreciation of music, in that the market was limited.  In today's digital world, there are so many artists and such a broad spectrum of quality that chances are most of the artists a person is listening to are ones you've never heard of.  That being the case, we lose a shared culture and have less to talk about.  We can say "I like X", but it's difficult to discuss X with someone who hasn't heard X and has little reason to.
• LPs rewarded patience.  You could pick the needle up and skip songs, but given the difficulty of it, we were more apt to listen to whole albums.  Given that albums were sometimes conceptual, this promoted deeper listening.  The track that didn't bowl you over on first listen may grow on you and reward on repeated listenings.
• LPs sound better.  It's true, provided the record is well-preserved of course and you have the right equipment.  I wouldn't know, as I never had great equipment, but all audiophiles say this.

That's just a few things that made records better.  Not that they were better in every way.  (That's another post!)  But basically, we traded all this for immediacy and portability.  I think that's an unfair trade. 

Stay tuned for tomorrow:  Why the vinyl LP is more biblical than digital music.  I'm serious, people!  The kids are missing out!

The Manor House

Tonight I drove to Montreat College, a small school on the outskirts of Asheville, North Carolina. They have asked me to do a review of their Music Business Program, They put me up in a huge old house off their main campus called the Manor House. It's pretty creepy.

I'm alone in the house, apparently. It's one of those old houses that has several staircases leading to an untold number of unpeopled rooms, with bookcases lining the walls, huge banquet rooms, and even a swimming pool in the basement. There are even hidden panels in the walls where during Prohibition former tenants hid the alcohol. It reminds me of what old professor Digory's house must have looked like in "The Lion, the Witch, & the Wardrobe," just waiting to be explored. But I haven't found a wardrobe yet. Come to think of it, maybe it's more like Hitchcock's Bates Inn: the only sound I hear right now, besides that of me typing, is the drip drip drip of the bathroom faucet.

Of course I don't believe in ghosts or disembodied spirits of any form, and yet in some way the former tenants of this place remain, their collective memories only vaguely discernible to me etched in the chipped paint on the walls, the creaks in the hardwood floors, the well-worn books, the slightly out of tune piano, and in the depression in that empty chair, just there, outside my door. They're all here. Long ago this was a home, and then they left, or died, leaving behind only the presence of their absence --- and one day that too will be gone.

I need to stop that drip. If I do, what will I hear then?

This (Wretched) Business of Music

One of the bibles of the music business is the multi-authored This Business of Music, now in its tenth edition.  Billed as the "definitive guide to the music industry," the prose is dry and often pedantic, frustratingly anecdoteless, just the kind of thing you avoid reading at bedtime (or maybe you do read it, as a sleep-aid).  And yet there are a precious few light moments in this encyclopedic tome, or more to point, some thought-provoking comments.

On the very first page, for example, there is a quote from sociologist Marshal McLuhan, who said that "The medium is the message."  Though the writers seem oblivious to what the quote really means, as it is disconnected with what follows, it made me realize, sadly, that form has trumped content, that image and sound mark one out as belonging to a particular "tribe," and the lyric has (except in folk music, the poor stepchild of the music family) been neglected.  Being, looking, and sounding like Hannah Montana (Miley Cyrus) is more important to tweens than that which she sings about.  McLuhan's comment, like his disciple Neil Postman's follow-up work (Amusing Ourselves to Death) has proven prophetic.

In a section on Independent record producers, there is a very helpful categorization of producers offered by Jerry Wexler, renowned producer and former co-owner of Atlantic Records.  Wexler (who ought to know) said there are three types of producers --- the documentarian, the project leader, and the studio superstar.  The documentarian simply tries to capture what is there, unadorned and real; the project leader tires to enhance what is there, to get the best out of the artist; and the studio superstar, as you can imagine, takes center stage.  Every record the studio superstar producer makes sounds uncannily just like. . . him.  For some reason this may be the predominant type in the Contemporary Christian Music business, though I won't name any names.  Maybe the three producer types are really just reflections of personalities in the general culture --- those who simply take it in for what it is (a refreshing kind of person to be around, though quite frustrating if you need to get something done), those who accept what is and yet interact with and try to transform it, and those who simply think they are what is, the kind of people that seem to suck all the air out of a room when they enter it.  All this makes it so critical that the artist matches the producer; two superstars in the studio are incendiary; two documentarians spend a lot of money and get nowhere fast; and two project leaders (enhancers) may lose sight of what it is they are enhancing, lose focus.  What is your spouse?  What are you?  Somehow I sense that the somnolent wanderings of The Grateful Dead and Jerry Wexler's production must have been an expensive marriage.

The chapter on copyright infringement yielded some interesting anecdotes, if only that they were court cases.  There's Fogerty v. Fantasy, Inc., which allowed Creedence Clearwater Revival's leader to recover attorney fees from his record company.  Oh my.  It reminds how litigation can sap a life.  Fogerty spent years fighting Fantasy, never releasing a record, sounding more bitter all the time.  A little foresight and better advice and he might have seen a "bad moon arising."

The most dissatisfying chapter of the book was the one on agents and managers.  Now this special breed of prima donnas deserves better.  There's so much material to work with!  I didn't work with many, but one I worked with was a crazy alcoholic who sent me hand-typed single page sizzling faxes at midnight with (count 'em) sometimes as many as 50 profanities on a page.  Listen to the understatement of this sentence: "The close and often difficult relationship between artists and managers during the years of active management makes it desirable that the parties involved be sure of their compatibility before entering into binding contracts."  No, no, no.   These "parties" need marriage counseling before working together, and the manager may need a personality profile.  They tend to be controlling, all-consuming players in an artist's life.  There should be a big stop sign here in the book.

I could go on, but I might bore you.  The music business is a lot more interesting than this book, full of sin, wretched in its on peculiar way, and redeemed the same way anything else in this world is redeemed, by the power of love (love of music) and, in the end, by the One who loves His Creation.  I'm shelving the book.  I don't want to think about copyrights and managers, whining artists and super star producers, lawsuits and licenses.  Just give me the music.  Somehow that never fails me, because even the bad music still reminds me of a Music that just may come, some day soon.

Do You Know This Man? (What Nicholas Giaconia Gave Us)

In these days of MySpace, Facebook, blogs, and an internet that is ubiquitous, it's a rare thing to find that an artist has managed to stay below the radar.  But apparently Nicholas Giaconia has managed to do that.  Nick is a talented singer-songwriter who released an interesting folk-pop record called Center of the Earth in the CCM environment in 1994 --- 14 years ago and what seems like a century in the music world.  Some things don't change much: There are still some greedy corporate types, artists on the make, and some form of payola (no matter how subtle).  However, since Nick's record, the music scene has been transformed more than once.  Whatever brief mainstream attention folk music had in the early Nineties, it quickly vanished, and all the folk music types went back to scrubbing for change.   But Nick Giaconia deserved a better break than he had.

This is fine record with ballads, blues songs, folk melodies, and a tongue-in-cheek defense of Amy Grant --- who was, at the time, under a microscope because she filmed a video with a man who was not her husband, sang songs that weren't filled with biblical references, and dressed like a woman who lived in the Nineties, leaving many to speculate that she had "sold out" or lost her faith.  It all seems silly now, but that's the way it was then, and Nick captured it, singing "she's sold out to the public/ money's all she hopes to find/ she doesn't sing for You no more/ I know because I can read her mind/ She's all strung out on drugs/ In fact I hear she worships Satan now/ Well everybody's judging Amy/ and you can clearly see/ that she has lost her thirst" and so on from there, a fun song and yet one full of truth.

There are some familiar names here, like Derri Daugherty (of The Choir) singing background vocals.  And some interesting sounds, like the steel-hooded national guitar played by Chris Carero.  Lyrically, it ranges from a couple songs that spring form biblical narratives, like "Woman at the Well," to worship, "Psalm," to other songs of psyche and soul, like the title cut, "Center of the Earth," which is no doubt a metaphor for the interior life and experience of the writer, as he beckons us to come along: "I took my journey to the center of the earth/ sent back black and white postcards to people up above/ the weather is nice here, no snow no rain/ but I haven't seen sunshine in days/ it looks like that's how it's gonna stay/ at the center of the earth."  The rest of the song becomes surreal, like something Larry Norman might have written, with Nick introducing all the people he's met at the center of the earth, like Elvis or Jimmy Hoffa, concluding that "you don't know me you don't know my blues/ till you've walked to the center of the earth/ in my blue suede shoes."  All in all, he is reminiscent of Bruce Cockburn --- always a tough sell in the Christian marketplace.

So how did Nick Giaconia's record see the light of day?  David Bunker, one of the principals in REX Records, a CCM label devoted in the late Eighties and early Nineties to Christian heavy metal (like Deitophobia) formed an imprint around singer-songwriters, figuring the time was ripe.  A lot of very good music was released on the imprint, Storyville Records, including Jan Krist, Australian Steve Grace, the UK duo Phil and John, Mo Leverett, Charlotte Madeleine, Eden Burning, and The Crossing.  But the label tanked.  The CCM market wasn't having it.  My own Silent Planet Records was born out of that frustration, though we focused on the mainstream market with better success for a time, until that market changed as well.

But enough of that.  You should hear Nick Giaconia.  You should celebrate the fact that something authentic and well-crafted and not slickly produced made it out in that time, a record that for the few Christians listening was like a breath of fresh air.  Let Nick be symbolic of all that great music that got overlooked.  Listen to just one song from Nick, "Better To Have Loved," here:    And then go buy a used copy of this long out of print record, now selling for the shameful price of as low as $.56 right here.  That's what happens to good music sometimes.

If you know how to get in touch with Nick, let me know.  I'd like to thank him for a good record and remind him that what he did back then still means something now, that he's not forgotten.  Good music endures.

Wide Angle Radio (Episode Six): Phil's Jagged Heart

On the cover of Phil Madeira's Off Kilter recording, there is a picture of Phil standing in his home studio, the floor positively littered with instruments --- drums, various electric and acoustic guitars, keyboards, and much more.  It's a vivid reminder of the immense talent that Phil possesses.  In addition to his ubiquitous session work on the Hammond B3 Organ, a signature sound for him, he plays virtually everything else.  Oh, he also writes great songs and sings and produces!  It was a privilege for me to spend a few years with Phil on Silent Planet Records and to bring his Three Horse Shoes record to national distribution. (You can still buy Three Horse Shoes here.)

Life has been hard at times for Phil, and that shows in one of the songs featured on this edition of Wide Angle Radio, "Jagged Heart."  Listen:

Not like I had a plan
Not like I saw the goal
You got to whittle down to nothing
Before you'll ever be made whole

I've been carving
Stripping off the bark
Rounding off the edges
Of this jagged heart

When I listen to Phil's music, I always get the sense that he is very much a man under construction, a ragamuffin --- just like all of us.  Listening to him in the interview is like sitting by an old friend and finding something in common.  So, enjoy the music on this month's Wide Angle Radio, and meet Phil, right here.  (Oh, and while you're on the Wide Angle page, check out the new recorded introduction I've added!)

Larry Norman 4/8/47 - 2/24/08

God rest his soul, Christian music pioneer Larry Norman passed away Sunday morning around 2:45 A.M.  Though Larry has spent the last three decades suffering health issues, interpersonal conflicts, and likely diagnosed and undiagnosed mental illness, the trilogy of albums that he released in the early Seventies --- So Long Ago the Garden, Only Visiting This Planet, and In Another Land --- were pure genius.  I cannot even begin to recite all the crazy wonder of these songs --- songs like "Six Sixty Six," "I Am the Six O'Clock News," "PeacePollutionRevolution," or "Nightmare."  Wow.  Weird? Eccentric?  You bet.  But he made me a believer then in the power of music to speak the Gospel truth.  The music was good, as good as any secular counterpart.

I met Larry once.  My partner Tony and I were standing backstage behind the Silent Planet Records Acoustic Stage at the Cornerstone Music Festival in 2002.  A whiteish-blond haired guy with a "handler" on each side strode up to our RV "green room" for performers and strode right in, looking like he was straight out of 1970.  That was Larry Norman.  Unchanged.  Timeless.

I'll end with a portion of Larry's liner notes from his 1975 record, In Another land:

some people say there is no God, others
say that we are all God. sometimes i look
out over the city late at night and all the
lights look like diamonds and rubies on a
black jewelers cloth, all set in straight little
rows and sprinkled on the hillsides - and i
wonder how we have fallen so far.
and then i look up in the sky with its far
superior jewels; i look up and i find myself
waiting. and smiling.

The subtitle of that same album might serve as an appropriate epitaph: Death is conquered though you slumber.  Rest in peace, Larry.

[You can find more information on Larry Norman and his last words to fans here.]

Please Stop The Music! (and Bring On the Patrons)

The recent announcement that No Depression Magazine was ceasing publishing, preceded only by a week or so of the announcement that CCM Magazine was ceasing publication, is only further evidence that the music business is in decline. In 2001, sales of blank CDs exceeded sales of CDs with music on them, further evidence that people are downloading music files from the Internet and burning their own CDs. While you might say that artists are now free from the corporate machine (and there’s enough blame to lay on the record labels, who won’t garner a lot of sympathy), few want to pay much if anything for their music. And that’s a problem: when you don’t value something economically, you get exactly what you pay for --- a lot of crappy music.  I can only say: Please stop the music!

If you’ve cruised the aural halls of MySpace Music recently, it’s simply astounding how much music has been placed on the Internet. Most of it is terrible. Any kid with a laptop can record himself singing and playing the guitar, or messing around with his friends in a garage band, and post it. If you compare it to a record store, the shelves are cluttered with a huge inventory of albums literally falling off the racks and begging for attention. There is no reliable filter to assist you in finding something good, and the filters that do exist, while helpful, are of limited utility because their own standards may be too low at least ambiguous. For example, I subscribe to Paste Magazine so that I can get the sampler CD, but I generally find only one or two songs that are listenable, and even then it is rare I buy the album based on that song.

My conclusion is that most people who are making music for public consumption shouldn’t be doing so, and yet they won’t stop since it’s so easy to put it out there. Economic concerns used to weed out poor performers. Not now. Bad music has even been mainstreamed. For example, in the liner notes for the recent soundtrack for Juno (which, I understand, is a good movie), the producer quips how great he thought it would be to record a bunch of teenagers sitting around playing and singing crappy songs. Well, that’s a majority of what’s on the CD, and that’s what some people are paying for.  Sheesh.

Back to the problem: Other than record collectors and the minority of honest record buyers, people no longer want to pay for music. For goodness sakes, it’s everywhere. Why pay? Why? So we can get something worth paying for.  Will that happen? No, it won't.  We're beyond that point.

There are those who have a lot of ideas about how to use the Internet and other marketing techniques to sell music. The latest I read was David Byrne’s Wired Magazine article: “Survival Strategies for Emerging Artists — and Megastars.”  It's all about a more creative approach to using the Internet and digital distribution.  Everyone's trying to find a better business model or tweaking the one we have.  I have another idea.

What if we just went back to patronage?  You know, before the advent of recorded music (and for some, after) artists survived economically because they had patrons.  There was one person or a group of persons, the Church, or even a King who simply gave the artist the financial wherewithal to do what he was made to do: paint, compose music, conduct orchestras, and so on.  There was no music business.  Patrons might sponsor concerts in their parlors and invite friends in to hear the music.  These were the inspiration for today's house concerts.  A group of patrons would literally set the artist free not to worry about the business of making music.  The patrons could be a sounding board, people to whom the artist could be accountable (for use of time, productivity, work product, lifestyle, and so on.)  These patrons are huge believers in the giftedness of this particular artist, their vocational calling, and the need for their music.  Their patronage would free the artist from the warping effect of the market or the fans (who can be fickle and demanding).

So how would they make money?  To some extent, they don't need to.  Patronage sets them free from this economic imperative, but it doesn't free them from accountability for work.  The patrons can insist that the artist write good songs, play gigs in the community, and maintain a relationship with the patrons.  The artist belongs to a community, usually local, and cannot go it alone.  This results in less mimicry and more originality, as the artist is not trying to "make it." 

This kind of function is well-suited to the Church though, sadly, has been little exercised.  Churches go through a process of confirming the call of missionaries or pastors, identifying their gifts and providing a structure of accountability for the exercise of their gifts.  Could they not do the same for artists?  I have no problem at all serving on such a committee and saying to a budding young artist : "You know, we appreciate you, and while we don't know what all your gifts are, we can tell you it definitely isn't in music."  This kind of candor, if listened to, would help encourage the truly gifted and prevent the others who are gifted in non-artistic ways from experiencing a lot of unwarranted hardship and grief.  Artists, like pastors and missionaries, may have to do some tentmaking at the outset or long-term, but they would not depend on a fickle market to validate their gifts and call.

Will this end crappy music?  No, but if those making it get little to no traffic on their web sites, they may eventually stop and do something else with their lives.  Will this stop people from downloading their music for free (you know, from stealing)?  No, but it won't matter.  The artist with patrons will have a community endowing him and little reason to be concerned about illegal downloading.  They'll have an endowment, supplemental income from gigs in the community, and even, if they sense the demand, record sales to the ones who love and support them (the community coming to the gigs).  They don't need radio, labels, or distribution.  You can have the music for free, if that's what you do, but that's not what it's all about.  This artist is set free to really give his music to the community.

And that would be better than this whole business of music.

[For more on this issue, visit a recent post "The Selling of the Free," on my friend Tony's blog here.  I think there's a lot to be said for creative packaging and even releasing in vinyl, but like Tony I don't think that alone will answer the decline of the business.]

Mastering the Bittersweet: A Review of Working Man's Cafe, by Ray Davies

The photo of Ray Davies that adorns the front of his album, Working Man's Cafe, is perfectly fitted to the bittersweet content and the sardonic wit of this former Kinks frontman.  There's Ray, half-smiling, half-frowning, his reflection caught in a window.  Or maybe that's a grimace, a wink, a kind of challenge to the buyer that "you're gonna love this music, and you'll hate it too."  But no, I really like this record.  It's witty, sweet at times, wistful and nostalgic, melodically strong, often rocking, and always interesting.

I first heard the Kinks in high school, about 1973, the melodic, jangly "Lola" blasting out my inexpensive Zenith record player.  You know, "la-la, la-la Lo_la, e-o-le-e-Lo_la."  I didn't know until later that Lola was a transvestite.  In fact, I think Ray may have been a factor in my education on that point.  But in the coming year, I worked my way through the Kinks catalog, like Muswell Hillbillies, where Ray sings "I'm a twentieth century man but I don't wanna be here."  (He still doesn't.)  Or there's the out-of-space-out-of-time alienation of "Acute Paranoia Schizoprenia Blues," or that lovely critique of the social service busy-bodies in "Here Come the People In Gray" who "are gonna take me away to Lord knows where." 

But whereas Muswell Hillbillies is a social commentary on working class woes in North London, Working Man's Cafe reveals Ray's ambivalence about American culture, a wry bit of commentary from a now over 60 rock star.  For example, the lead-off song, "Vietnam Cowboys," finds Ray lamenting the homogenization that flows from globalization, not in any heavy-handed or fully conclusive way (and thus, not shrill or propagandistic) but rather simply pointing out the ironies.  Like "Cowboys in Vietnam making their movies," or hamburgers in China and sushi bars in Maine.  He picks up that wistful theme in the title cut, "Working Man's Cafe," when he says "Everything around me seems unreal/ Everywhere I go it looks and feels like America/ We've really come a long way down the road."  The alienation surfaces again in "The Real World" in the observation that "everything looks the same the whole world over now," with Ray wondering "where is the real world?"

There's echoes of Muswell Hillbillies as well in "No One Listens," where Ray laments the inefficiency and inhumanness of bureaucracy: "Now I'm stuck here in the system/ They ain't gonna listen, nobody listen/ they ain't gonna listen to me."  But the most intimate plea, the focal point of Ray's cry for meaning is found in "Hymn for a New Age," where, after saying what he doesn't believe --- that "God is a man with white hair/ sitting in a big chair/ judging the world and its morals/ Forgiving today so we can sin again tomorrow" --- he admits to the honesty of "I need something to connect to/ Someone to help me through/ Something I can pray to" and says "We need a hymn/ I believe/ I need something to look up to/ I believe I wanna pray but don't know what to."  Ray Davies speaks for all who recognize the God-shaped vacuum in their hearts, the empty place needing filling, and at 62 he probably recognizes that all he has tried thus far won't fill it up.  As other songs on the album make clear, human remedies don't seem to suffice.  Morphine may dull the pain ("Morphine Song"), human love is temporal ("Peace In Our Time"), and idealistic visions of who we are will disappoint ("Imaginary Man").  Ray Davies needs a new hymn.  A lot of us do.

Musically, this album is always interesting and more memorable than last years Other People's Lives.  From the rollicking faux-country of "Vietman Cowboys" to the Kinks-like British-rock of "You're Asking Me" to the ballad "Working Man's Cafe" and rock of "Hymn for a New Age," Ray keeps it interesting.  It's really just the Kinks, oozing out of Ray Davies.

I recommend the Limited Edition CD/DVD set of this record.  It includes four bonus cuts which are worth having, as well as a video of ray's 2001 tour of America, a home movie set to the music of "Working Man's Cafe" and an interesting piece given that he was on the road just after 9/11 and was able to witness eerily quiet airports, for example.  Buy the record here.  Listen to "Hymn for a New Age" here:

Wide Angle Radio (Episode Five)

Intense alternative folk rock.  That's how the website CD Baby refers to the music of Skatman Meredith.  I think it's accurate.  Skat (whose real name is David Meredith), was only the fourth artist I signed to Silent Planet Records and the first artist (make that person) I had ever met who lived in Delaware.  (Do you know anyone who lives in Delaware?)  Not only that, he lived in a tiny town called Hockessin, the name of which has stuck in my mind since I met him ten years ago. 

Skat is honest, generous (when I met him he was giving CDs away at concerts, something more practical in these times than in those times), funny, and laid back --- an extremely easy person to work with.  On this episode of Wide Angle, in an interview with John Fischer, you'll hear that honesty from a guy who has had struggles but remains hopeful.  We were hanging out with John Fischer and Skat in the high desert air of Santa Fe, New Mexico, in February 2000, where we had a blast doing the interview, visiting Folk Alliance, and hiking the countryside.  I haven't seen Skat in years, but I still regard it as a privilege to have known and worked with him on two fine records --- The Garden and Mercyside (both of which can be purchased in the Silent Planet store in the sidebar).

Skat, wherever you are, thanks.

[Listen to this month's Wide Angle radio here.]

40 Days On the Edge (Day 25): Small Graces From a Hand of Kindness

Small graces
Little glimpses of the kingdom come
From unexpected places
These are the small graces

(Bob Bennett, "Small Graces," from the album Small Graces)

Justice and mercy, law and grace.  Both are intertwined in scripture.  When God revealed Himself to Moses, as recounted in Exodus 36:6-7, he spoke of both, describing Himself as "a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin," and going on to speak of justice.  As Stephen Smallman notes, his placement of grace before justice suggests that God wants us first to focus on grace.

There are a hundred judgments I see every day.  Murder, poverty, divorce, hateful talk, coarseness in manner and language, selfish greed, natural calamity --- a panoply of judgments borne of sin --- abound and threaten sometimes to monopolize my attention.  We reap what we sow, we suffer the sins of others, we suffer even the brokenness of Creation.  Difficult providences are all around.  All of this is, in some general way, temporal justice for a fallen world.

And yet God is saying, "look for grace, first."  Like William Cowper's hymn says, "Behind a frowning providence/ He hides a smiling face."  Or like the writer of Lamentations says, in the midst of an oracle of woe: "The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;/ his mercies never come to an end;/ they are new every morning;/ great is your faithfulness" (Lam. 3:22-23).

The sun shines, glistening on the back of still-green magnolia leaves.  The cardinals still visit the feeder in my backyard, the male's red color brilliant against a blue sky.  My wife found her lost earring, and the maids who don't speak much English are giggling about something in the other room.  I'm listening to a song by Bob Bennett, who I haven't seen for four or five years, and listening to him just now I smile remembering the first time we met my then one-year old son pulled his beard.  He's singing "There's a hand of kindness/ Holding me, holding me/ There's a hand of kindness/ holding onto me," and hearing him now is like opening up a door to a long unused room in my memory, rich and deeply peopled.

Grace first, today.

[Do yourself a favor.  Listen to Bob Bennett's "Hand of Kindness here: Then go buy his music here.

[The "40 Days On the Edge" posts are my ruminations in light of Stephen Smallman's devotional entitled "Forty Days On the Mountain," read in conjunction with Harvard Landscape History Professor John Stilgore's "Outside Lies Magic: Regaining History and Awareness in Everyday Places."  Both books may be ordered by clicking on them where they are listed in the sidebar under "Current Reading."]

40 Days On the Edge (Day 18): Orphans Of God

If you consider the praise that Paul gives in Ephesians 1:3-14, you may experience a disconnect between his experience and your own.  I do.  Paul praises God "who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places" (Eph. 1:3).  It's reminiscent of Peter's confident assertion in 2 Peter 1:3, where he says that "His divine power has granted to us all things that pertain to life and godliness. . . ."  These are unequivocal statements of every, and all: nothing has been withheld from us.

As Stephen Smallman says, "[w]e have been adopted into the richest family in the universe and we are constantly lamenting our poverty!"  What Paul prays for through all these Prison Epistles is that we would know what we have in Christ, that we would know who we are.  It's as if when we read Scripture God is reminding us who we are, and when we walk away from it, He says "Remember who you are."  More than that, He is saying "Act like who you are."  But this is really our life purpose, to discover the essence of God and, in the process, discover the essence of who we are.

Singer-songwriter Mark Heard grasped what it would be like to go through life having the riches of Christ and yet acting like an orphan:

I will rise from my bed with a question again
As I work to inherit the restless wind
The view from my window is cold and obscene
I want to touch what my eyes haven't seen

But they have packaged our virtue in cellulose dreams
And sold us the remnants 'til our pockets are clean
Til our hopes fall 'round our feet
Like the dust of dead leaves
And we end up looking like what we believe

We are soot-covered urchins running wild and unshod
We will always be remembered as the orphans of God
They will dig up these ruins and make flutes of our bones
And blow a hymn to the memory of the orphans of God

Like bees in a bottle we are flying at fate
Beating our wings against the walls of this place
Unaware that the struggle is the blood of the proof
In choosing to believe the unbelievable truth

But they have captured our siblings and rendered them mute
They've disputed our lineage and poisoned our roots
We have bought from the brokers who have broken their oaths
And we're out on the streets with a lump in our throats

We are soot-covered urchins running wild and unshod
We will always be remembered as the orphans of God
They will dig up these ruins
And make flutes of our bones
And blow a hymn to the memory of the orphans of God

(Mark Hear, from Satellite Sky)

When I listen to the small but beautiful catalog of music Mark left us, I sense that he struggled in his relatively short life with realizing the riches he had in Christ, sometimes feeling like an orphan.

I'm not an orphan.  I've chosen to believe the unbelievable truth.  I just need to remember who I am.

Listen to mark Heard's "Orphans of God" here:

40 Days On the Edge (Day 10): For the Living of These Days

There's a haunting quote by writer Flannery O'Connor featured on the notes for Kate Campbell's 2006 gospel album, For the Living of These Days: "Go warn the children of God of the terrible speed of mercy."  I'm rolling that sentence over in mind tonight as I drove east and then north from Columbia, South Carolina through palmetto forests, over the Congaree and Great Pee Dee Rivers, by deeply southern towns.  I'm aware of the strange environment created by the interstate highway with its interchanges, how the folk of sleepy southern towns brush against New Yorkers and Latin-Americans moving south and north on the freeway, exiting for gas and food, barely noticing the very different people and very different voices behind the counters of the fast food restaurants.

I drive into one town just to escape the homogeneity of the interchange, and I realize I'm in another world, really.  The very air feels different, the people move slower, walk streets at leisure.  Commercial strips are faded and worn, and yet I can identify the old town center of this place, what existed before the interstate came and skewed the nature of the community.  I know it brought drugs and money and corruption.  Seeing three teenage boys cross the street, I wonder about their lives, about the living of their days, about what they hope for and live for.

Back on the highway, I'm listening to Kate's album made in Muscle Shoals, Alabama with Spooner Oldham.  It's fitting music for driving, reminding me of growing up in my small country church, and it helps me rid myself of the superior attitude I had when I drove through that small town, the wonder that people would or could live in a place like that and be happy.

She sings an old hymn:

For the love of God is broader
Than the measure of our mind
And the heart of the Eternal
Is most wonderfully kind

There’s a wideness in God’s mercy
Like the wideness of the sea.

Full atonement.  Christ has made a way for me, and for the people in this small town, to boldly come before him, clean.

It's terrible what He had to do.  But because of it, we live.

Wide Angle Radio (Episode Four)

Singer-songwriters are a dime a dozen, embellishing the hallways, rooms, and doorways of the folk conventions, guitars in hand or strapped to their backs, eking out a subsistence living at times, living out of their cars.  Why do they do it?  Some because they can't do anything else, I guess. As Pierce Pettis once told me about himself, he did what he did "because he couldn't do anything else."  Pierce said he'd rather do something else, because he could make a better living, and he never counseled anyone to take up the "profession," and yet it's what he did.

So when I was in the music business, why, among the legion of troubadours out there, did I partner with the ones I did?  I'm not sure I can point to one factor.  Sovereign luck, deliberate choice, fortuitous circumstances, poor judgment --- all may have played a factor in my choices.  But I know why I chose Matt Auten:  because of his literary nature, because listening to his lyrically rich songs is trip through countless metaphors, and because Matt himself is articulate, poetic, and a good guitar player to boot.  Listening to his songs on this episode of Wide Angle Radio, I look for more instrumentation, a richer musical palette, but Matt wouldn't have it.  He likes it mellow.  And that's OK --- he's the one who dreamed up the songs in the first place.

Matt Auten, now by day a Black Mountain, North Carolina trim carpenter (he can do something else and, by all accounts, do it very well) is featured on this January 2000 episode of Wide Angle Radio.  You'll enjoy the sounds, the interview, as well as other music by Bruce Cockburn, Matt Jones, Rick Unruh, and Jane Kelly Williams.  Give it a listen here.

Top 10 Favorite Albums of 2007

Though it's certainly not a "best of" list (which is a bit presumptuous), the following list of ten albums released in 2007 does include the 2007 releases that I listened to the most during the year and expect to listen to in the years ahead.  Given a Rhapsody to Go subscription which allows me to listen to whole albums without buying them for only $14.95 a month, I listened to a lot of music, and I'd have to say that most of what I tried out was just not good or was very inconsistent in quality.  When you stack most of them up to the following records (some by veteran artists), the contrast is remarkable.  In addition, while occasionally an album will have an initial appeal, it may not endure.  These albums endured, and repeated listening to them is rewarding.  So, for what it's worth, this is the best I heard last year (in no particular order, as I could not possibly rank them):

1.  Memory Almost Full --- Paul McCartney.  I'm a sucker for a pop tune, and while this ex-Beatle can't quite write a tune as memorable as, say, "Yesterday," he still has the touch.  MY favorite is the lead off track: "Dance Tonight."

2.  We Walked In Song --- The Innocence Mission.  I'm sorry if some folks find this trio boring, but I find them moving in the simplicity of their songs.  It's mellow alt-folk, uncluttered and spiritually refreshing.  While this album isn't quite as memorable as Befriended, I still love it.  Karen Peris has a beautiful voice.

3.  Live On Sunset Strip --- The Raspberries.  The quintessential power-pop band of the Seventies reunites for an amazing, energetic concert.  Eric Carmen and the boys looked and sounded a bit bubblegum back then; I think I like them even better now.  They were second to Badfinger in my book.  It makes me miss album covers: their cover had a scratch off scent of (what else) raspberries!

4.  We'll Never Turn Back --- Mavis Staples.  This is a phenomenal album by the veteran Staples Singers vocalist, one of the few that manages to bring social activism, the Gospel, and music together without stridency or propaganda.  Producer Ry Cooder really brings it together musically, giving it a rootsy, modern feel.  Powerful lyrically and musically.  I particularly like "My Own Eyes." Maybe, just maybe, this is my #1.

5.  Songbird: Rare Tracks and Forgotten Gems --- Emmylou Harris.  This is one of those rare box sets that is worth it, full of true musical gems that you likely have not heard and do not own.  78 tracks from a 40 year career, genre-jumping from country (which predominates) to rock and folk, with a wonderfully designed package as well, includiong a hardcover book.  Four CDs and a DVD of concert recordings.  I paid $52 for this and  feel like I got a bargain.

6.  Traffic and Weather --- Fountains of Wayne.  I suppose this fits in the power-pop category, but these guys write songs of sufficient diversity to keep it interesting.  On top of that, the lyrics are clever --- each song is like a mini-short story.  It never grows old!  I particularly like "Yolanda Hayes," who I think I have met.

7.  Eisenhower --- The Slip.  Again, I like the melodies and cool arrangements of songs in this alternative rock band.  I actually saw them in concert locally and their moody set played well.

8.  Challengers --- The New Pornographers.  If you can get past the inexplicable name (they are not pornographic), you'll love the interesting songs.  Alt-rock, I love their voices --- good melody and harmony.  (If you haven't guessed it, I must have melody!)  I just find the songs here consistently listenable.

9.  Magic --- Bruce Springsteen.   This is the best from Springsteen for some time, a return to a rock band sound.  There's not much here I don't like, and I can't say that about his last.

10.  Everyone --- Grand Drive.  They're not well known on this side of the pond, but these Brits know how to make good alt-country- pop.  Nothing brash here, just nice strumming, a little Hammond B3 organ, occasional keyboards, little love songs.  It grows on you.

And that's it.  Of course I didn't listen to all the music out there, and I have to give a nod to an artist like Josh Ritter, who I simply need to listen to more and would probably put in my list had I done so (or so some friends tell me), but maybe you'll find something here that you will enjoy.  I'm thankful for the gifts represented here, even if the Giver is not always acknowledged. Here's to a New Year full of good music!

Wide Angle Radio (Episode Three): Christmas Special

The Christmas season for me would be lacking without the music of Jerry Read Smith and his wife, Lisa.  Jerry's hammered dulcimer accompanied by Lisa's flute have for years bookended Advent through Epiphany with an instrumental accompaniment.  And today, Thanksgiving, as I write this I am thankful for the contribution that their music has made to my life.

About 15 years ago I was booking a concert series for my church when I remembered an album of hammered dulcimer music I bought some time in the Seventies (that era before the compact disc), The Strayaway Child, the first album recorded by Jerry.  It was awesome.  I had never heard a hammered dulcimer before and was moved by its sound.  When I was searching for artists to appear as a part of our concert series, I thought of Jerry's music, and yet I had no idea if he was a Christian or if he would appear in a church.  I called him.  I asked him an innocuous "how would you feel about appearing in a church?" and was treated to a 45 minute testimony of his conversion and life since conversion.  He told me he was playing at a folk festival where he also sold dulcimers (because he makes them as well) and a bearded hippie simply walked up to him and said "Jesus is the bridge, man," and that haunted him sufficiently that night that it brought him to God.   With that, I invited him to come, and he did, and he kept coming for a number of years until he gave up playing live.

Jerry is one of the most intense people I have ever met, pursuing whatever the need or goal of the moment is with passion --- whether making dulcimers in his workroom, conversing, playing music, praying, or being your friend.  It was natural to invite him to be the focus of this special Christmas 1999 edition of Wide Angle Radio.  You'll hear his passion (and wife Lisa's sweet moderating influence) in the interview and music.  You'll also enjoy Christmas songs, both original and traditional, by Bruce Cockburn, Brooks Williams, Phil Madeira, Pierce Pettis, Matt Auten, and Claire Holley.  It's one of my favorite programs.  Listen to the program here.

It gave me great pleasure to also work with Jerry to bring to fruition a whole album of Christmas music, One Wintry Night, which I highly recommend for this Christmas season.  Purchase it here. 

A Thanksgiving Playlist (Revisited)

Someone once told me that they disliked Fall because everything is dying and it makes them sad.  I suppose I can understand that, but I've never felt it.  For me Autumn is like one last glorious flame before the night of Winter descends, the long-awaited rest after all the activity --- the vacations, the swimming, the compulsion to be outdoors and active when you'd rather curl up inside with a book, the preparations for a new school year and then the beginnings of school and a host of other activities. I get tired thinking about it.  Despite the premature press of the commercial Christmas, like nature, I'm winding down, ready to let it all come to a rest.  I walk the streets littered with leaves and it reminds me a well-lived in home, papers and books strewn everywhere, the litter of life comforting, like my desk and study writ large.

Everyone who sells anything wants me to think about Christmas now, but I try not to.  I want to savor Fall not as a prelude to the real thing --- the secular Christmas --- but as part of the real thing.  Thanksgiving remains decidedly not Christmas for me.  And one thing I do not want to hear until December 1st are Christmas songs.  So I began thinking last year: what is the soundtrack of Fall and, more particularly, the soundtrack of Thanksgiving?

Since there are few songs about Thanksgiving, in picking my soundtrack I did so in perfect subjective freedom.  Revisiting my playlist this year, I found little to change, dropping Brian Wilson as too "pop" for my list, adding Peter Himmelman's "Gratitude" (for obvious reasons) and James Taylor's "Carolina On My Mind" because it reminds me of home, as well as Jars of Clay's rendition of America's "Lonely People" because, well, the reality is that holidays are a lonely, lonely time for some people.  I picked 22, because that's what filled the disc. 

I noticed a few things about what came to mind.  First, I gravitate to the acoustic sounds.  I think that the music of home for me, where I was raised listening to traditional country music (nothing like what is on the radio today), is acoustic music.  Buoyant or quirky power-pop didn't seem to have any place here (though Charlie Brown made it).  Second, these songs are not the "praise - Jesus - I'm - so - thankful" songs of the CCM world, though I haven't anything against them.  They simply do not remind me of Home or Thanksgiving.  Third, they are not all happy songs, as there is a recognition that some people are trying to get Home and can't, some have lost their homes or family members, and for some Thanksgiving with family brings tension and arguments.  Yes, there's a definite streak of melancholy here.  And yet, I think the general feel of these songs is joy, and joy is far better than happiness.  And finally, there are no songs that suggest Christmas.  This is, after all Thanksgiving, the climax of autumn, and while the rest of the world may think it a mere pause in the Christmas shopping that is already underway, I don't.  No Christmas music, and no Christmas lights until the days after Thanksgiving!

So here's my list:

1.  Come Before Winter, by Jerry Reed Smith.  An instrumental start with the title echoing Paul's request for Timothy to "do your best to get here before winter" (2 Timothy 4:15).  I think of it as a call to friends and family to come and gather before winter.

2.  In the Bounty of the Lord, by Claire Holly.  A gospel bluegrass number that celebrates what God gives us.  The style is reminiscent of music I listened to growing up.

3.  Here in America, by Rich Mullins.  The start of a great album, this is a kind of updated "This Land Is Your Land," a non-patriotic celebration of America.

4.  Gratitude, by Peter Himmelman.  "I'm glad that I can see the brown eyes of my daughter. . . . Forgive me if I lost a sense of gratitude."  Himmelman, an orthodox Jew, knows Who to thank.  His song is a confession of how we take things for granted and forget to be thankful to our Creator.

5.  Carolina on My Mind, by James Taylor.  Introducing the song recently, an aging Taylor said, "I miss my Dad, my dog Hercules, and my home."  When we get older, our thoughts turn to our first home.

6.  Thank You, by Jan Krist.  It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without saying "thank you," and Jan manages to lace the thanks with enough melancholy and angst to keep it real.  She's a good friend, and hearing her music brings many memories.

7.  Covert War, by David Wilcox.  Wow.  If you had a family like this, you wouldn't want to go home for Thanksgiving.  Fireworks at the Thanksgiving meal!  Sad, but real.

8.  The Water is Wide, by Eva Cassidy.  Beautiful voice.  Classic song.  Trying to get home and can't get there.

9.   Rumours of Glory, by Bruce Cockburn.  A song about common grace, about seeing God everywhere.  It'll make you thankful.

10.  Follow Me, The Innocence Mission.  I grew up on John Denver, so to hear this song conjures up memories of high school and friends.  But I like Karen Peris's tender vocal on it here.

11. My Father, by Judy Collins.  My father didn't make many Thanksgivings with me, as he died when I was 14.  I remember him on this day.

12. Thanksgiving Day, by Ray Davies.  Kinks front-man Davies can claim the only legitimate song about Thanksgiving!  He eschews his usual sardonic wit and writes a warm tune here, and the most rocking thing you'll hear on this playlist.

13. Be Thou My Vision, by Van Morrison.  It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without a hymn, and this is likely my favorite, with a very Celtic delivery by Van.

14. Love's Gonna Carry Me Home, by Pierce Pettis.  Home again.  Another southern singer-songwriter.

15. A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, by George Winston.  Watching Charlie Brown is a part of every holiday.  Besides, it's a bit of a pick-me-up.

16.  Homeward Bound, by Simon and Garfunkel.  Mainstays of my high school and college years, and this song is again about that longing for home, "I wish I was. . . ."

17. Wanderer's Song, by Brooks Williams.  One of my favorites by Brooks, this song is about how all roads lead home.

18. Come Thou Fount/ Grain By Grain, by Matt Auten.  Gorgeous hymn, and a reminder that God is the fount of every blessing.

19.  Lonely People, by Jars of Clay.  How many lonely people spend Thanksgiving with only their TV?  "Well, I'm on my way back home. . . ."

20. River Where Mercy Flows, by Julie Miller.  I love Julie's songs, and the tenderness and fragility of her voice is disarming.  Thank God for His mercy.

21. What Wondrous Love, by Jars of Clay.  Another hymn favorite.  Thank God for his wondrous love.

22. Homecoming, by Jerry Reed Smith.  An instrumental coda which reminds us, I think, of where our real Home is, where it will be Thanksgiving all the time.

Well, that's it.  I played this for my wife, again this year, and she said it still didn't sound like Thanksgiving to her, and I said what's Thanksgiving supposed to sound like?  I don't know for sure.  My kids don't like it, but this is some of what it sounds like for me.

[You can download the MP3 of the playlist here, but be forwarned, it is a large file. Right-click and save it to your desktop for listening to later!]

The Matter of Why Space Matters

God loves matter, which is why he made lots of it (God must love space even more.) 

(Cornelius Plantinga, in Engaging God's World)

When Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins were hurtling through space toward the moon in Apollo 11, they had no idea what they were hurtling  through.  We still don't.  At least we don't know much. In fact, my cats may know just as much for all I know.

I think of space as emptiness, as the absence of things, or matter, and yet scientists say that's not really the case.  As I understand them, outer space is not completely empty (that is, a perfect vacuum) but contains a low density of particles, predominantly hydrogen plasma, as well as electromagnetic radiation, dark matter and dark energy --- mostly the latter two "dark" twins, except we really don't know what they are or if they're really there (kind of like imaginary playmates).  For instance, dark matter is said to be a mysterious substance which scientists think accounts for most of the mass in the universe but that is invisible to current instruments.  We don't really know for sure that it's there, and yet this stuff we can't see accounts for 96% of the universe.  But you know scientists; they positively live to postulate.

But enough of that.  I think of space more in the sense of spaciousness, an openness filling the yawning gaps between good solid things like trees, stars, and people.  There's a lot of it around.  God made it, so he must love it (says Plantinga), and given how much of it there is, he must love it a lot.

God does love space --- the sparseness of it, the roominess of it, the solitude of it, the wonder of it, the silence of it, and the noise of it.  And so should we, or so do we, but for sin's curse.  Because of sin, some of us can't abide being alone in the solitude of space. Agoraphobics, those who fear open places, hide in their rooms, undone by the expanse of space and place.  And some of us, like nettling bureaucrats, rush to fill every interstice of human experience with a regulation, rule, or command --- legalists to the core who can't abide the inevitable space in our codifications of appropriate behavior.  And yet it was not to be this way.

Our distant ancestor, Job, marveled at the emptiness of space, wondering that "he spreads out the northern skies over empty space; he suspends the earth over nothing," (Job 26:7) and later concluding that "these are but the outer fringe of his works; how faint the whisper we hear of him!" (26:14).  The Psalmist kicks back on the grass outside Jerusalem and wonders aloud: "When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?" (Ps. 8:3-4).  Part of what he considers in those heavens is the juxtaposition of visible objects like stars with the vast spaciousness of space, the separation of what is from what is not.  Kant said space is relationship, a way to order our experience of reality; Newton, that it was absolute, a part of reality.  I think it's both.  Sitting in my office, I enjoy space as something real I can move around in and also the sense of space as a juxtaposition of the empty with definite objects like walls and desks and windows.

I love space.  When I open Scripture to the Creation account of Genesis 1-3, I'm thankful for the vast spaciousness of the Word that made it all.  Behind the words "God made" lies a rich and infinite domain of interpretation, of room for human exploration.  And when I hear the reassuring words of "Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path," (Ps 119:105), I'm glad the Word is the lamp and not the path, that I have a sure guide but a vast landscape through which to find my way.  That's space. That's the kind of space God gives us.

Leaving the space of outer space and the vastness of the landscape of life, I'm thankful for the simple yet profound space of a poem.  No one better illustrates the fulsome nature of space with poetic verse than the spare poetry of William Carlos Williams:

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

(The Red Wheelbarrow).  Writing about the poem in Understanding Poetry, poet Robery Penn Warren said that "[r]eading this poem is like peering at an ordinary object through a pin prick in a piece of cardboard. The fact that the tiny hole arbitrarily frames the object endows it with an exciting freshness that seems to hover on the verge of revelation."  In other words, more is said by what is unsaid than by what is said. 

And consider the short story, the poor stepchild of the literary world.  (Evidence: The Atlantic Monthly, which published short stories by our finest writers for 150 years, abruptly stopped publishing stories in 2005.)  A story like Flannery O'Connor's "The Geranium," which touches in a concrete way on racism, radiates outward into the unknown.  Who was Old Dudley?  What was his early life like?  What will happen to him?  We don't know.  We can imagine.  We can place this snapshot of life in a greater context we supply -- in space.

We may not know if space is matter, but we know it matters.  If we love it, like God does, if we wonder at it and relish its existence, life will open.  We won't be afraid, but free.

Waves can't break without rocks that dissolve into sand
We can't dance without seasons upon which to stand
Eden is a state of rhythm like the sea
Is a timeless change

Turn your eyes to the world where we all sit and dream
Busy dreaming ourselves and each other into being
Dreaming is a state of death, can't you see?
We must live through who we are

If we can sing with the wind song
Chant with thunder
Play upon the lightning
Melodies of wonder
Into wonder life will open

We are children of the river we have named "existence"
Undercurrent and surface pass in the same tense
Nothing is confined except what's in your mind
Every footstep must be true

If we can sing with the wind song
Chant with thunder
Play upon the lightning
Melodies of wonder
Into wonder life will open

(Bruce Cockburn, "Life Will Open," from Sunwheel Dance, 1971)

A Cork, a Rock, a Leaf: Hearing Life Through Brian Wilson

Fans have turned out for Brian's concert tours in recent years to pay tribute to his iconic stature and to witness the valedictory public gestures of one of rock music's most unlikely survivors.  These events are actually very curious affairs, juxtaposing splendid playing and great songs with the odd sight of the sixty-something-year-old man at center stage, sitting at a piano he doesn't play, singing awkwardly and strenuously with help from a teleprompter, sometimes gesturing inscrutably with his hands.  The thousands of adoring fans clapping and dancing in the audience, however, see nothing at all unusual.  They've found their bliss because they're actually hearing something different, something more poignant and more personal.  They're hearing the songs the way they remember them, at summer camp during their awkward years, or at a party in high school, or while singing along with a car radio on a cross-country family road trip.  They're hearing history in each note that comes out of Brian's mouth, an awareness of what he's been through since he first sang that note, and what they've been through since they first heard it.  They're hearing a voice they identify now, colored with overtones of a voice they identified with then.  They're hearing the voices of Dennis and Carl, and remembering the voices of their own departed loved ones.  They're thinking of the web of tumultuous journeys that somehow reached that moment of convergence on that miraculous day.  As the concert winds to a close, Brian's final plea for "Love and Mercy" is not only granted but embraced, effusively and unconditionally.  He accepts the affections with the grace and humility of am unwilling hero, "just a hard-working guy," as he once said.  He helps us see that what we all really want out of life is as accessible as it is profound, that a little love and mercy can go a long way.  (Philip Lambert, in Inside the Music of Brian Wilson: The Songs, Sounds, and Influences of the Beach Boys' Founding Genius)

When I was 14 or 15, I used to sit in my room and listen to the then black vinyl 33 1/3 rpm recordings of Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys.  While I had heard the surfing, car, and girl songs from childhood (I had older sisters), I never truly connected with the music until the 1971 release of Surf's Up, with its cover art (and Brother Records) logo depicting a stooped rider on horseback, a melancholy juxtaposition with the traditionally effervescent Southern California music.  I was perilously deep in adolescence, trying to understand my place in things, wondering if I'd ever have and keep a girlfriend, all the usual concerns of adolescent boys, and so the not so happy music of Surf's Up spoke to me, especially one particularly morose but beautiful song called "Til I Die," a Brian Wilson compilation that, yes, had the ocean in it but no girls, cars, or surfing.  There was a beautiful sadness to the words, Brian singing over and over again in multi-layered vocals

I'm a cork on the ocean
Floating over the raging sea
How deep is the ocean?
I lost my way

I'm a rock in a landslide
Rolling over the mountainside
How deep is the valley?
It kills my soul

I'm a leaf on a windy day
Pretty soon I'll be blown away
How long will the wind blow?

Until I die.

Those words seemed to fit perfectly with the sad horseman on the cover and the caked and dried up lake bed pictured in the inner sleeve.  And they described how I felt at times and, no doubt, how many teenagers still feel at times.  At 15, some days time seemed to stand still, and I'd say "how long?" like the Psalmist at times, and other times fleeting moments of pure joy seemed to rush past.

From Surf's Up I began to work my way back, discovering the sunnier and beautiful Sunflower release of 1970, and then further back into albums released in my tween years and unknown to me, like Pet Sounds, Smiley Smile, Wild Honey, Friends, and 20/20.  I became aware of the mythical lost album, Smile, and sought out bootlegs and various interpretations of its rise and demise.  In that process, I felt like I came to know Brian Wilson, to see his genius and yet the deadening effects of his abusive father and the strength sapping effects of alcohol, drugs, and record labels who cared only about not messing with the formula for success.  There were years of inactivity, of sad and uninspired Beach Boys albums, and then occasional bursts of creative activity, only to see Brian succumb again to some new difficulty.  Only in the last decade has he reached a more stable, productive, and contented position in life.  And I'm amazed.  The first time I saw him in concert I was astounded that he could even walk onto the stage and face an audience.  And as I've seen him five or six times over the last few years, I've watched him relax, enjoy himself, and look more and more normal, that is, less scared.

You might say he's iconic for many fans, including me.  There's a lot I don't mean by this.  I don't mean he's the best performer, musician, or singer I've ever heard.  I don't mean I idolize him or worship the ground he walks on.  I've met him several times and yet never ask for his autograph (which he would willingly give) because I care nothing for it and it seems an indignity to even ask for it.  What I do mean is what Philip Lambert says in the quote above.  Essentially, seeing Brian Wilson I see my life.  I see grace at work.  Given the way Brian treated his body, he should be dead.  In fact, his two brothers and his parents are dead.  Or he could be in a mental institution, suffering his own personal demons.  I look through him to points in my life that were turning points, hinges on which my destiny swung, and I know that my life could at many points have taken a different trajectory, skidding off the road, floundering in a back alley somewhere.  That it didn't is by God's grace.

So when I go to a Brian Wilson concert, I see myself, and then I see more of God.  My overwhelming feeling is of gratitude --- that I'm alive, that Brian's alive, that I'm not a cork floating on an angry sea, a rock careening down a mountainside, a leaf blown here and there by a random wind.  Even when he's awkward, saying mildly inappropriate things, gesticulating oddly, and so on, I'm only reminded of my own awkwardness, my lack of social grace, and my discomfort in certain settings.  In some ways, I'm still an awkward kid, and so is he.

When my partner Tony and I produced Making God Smile: An Independent Artists' Tribute to the Songs of Beach Boy Brian Wilson back in 2002, we released it on his 60th birthday, a present to him.  I was amazed at the love for the man, all the artists contributing their songs, writing about him as one who they appreciated and felt an affinity with.  It would embarrass him to read all that, to know how these younger musicians felt about him when he had never met them.  For many of them, his music formed a large part of the soundtrack for their lives.  Mine too.

I don't know how many concerts Brian has left in him, but I'll catch as many as I am able, riding a wave of emotion right on through that final song, like an altar call, when he sings "love and mercy/that's all we need tonight," and we say Amen.  And when the lights go down for the last time, I'll miss him, and yet I can hope that, after a time, we'll all see him and hear him again, no longer a cork, or a rock, or a leaf, but a whole man, restored, recreated. 

Surf's Up, Brian.

That Lucky Old Sun: A New Work By Brian Wilson

When I heard a couple months ago that Brian Wilson would be previewing a brand new orginal work in a series of concerts at the Royal Festival Hall in London, I wanted to go. . . badly. But, of course, one doesn't just hop across the Atlantic for a concert! Nevertheless, I snagged some great seats for a show and figured that if I could combine it with business I would go, and if not, well there's always Ebay right? As it turns out, I do have business in Europe that I was able to work around this concert, and so my business partner and I are going!

Here's what the official press release says about the new work:

In September 2007 legendary writer, producer, arranger and performer of some of the most unforgettable and inspirational music in rock history, Brian Wilson, returns to the Royal Festival Hall, his “spiritual home away from home” for six nights. The concert repertoire will include the world premiere of a brand-new work. Commissioned by Southbank Centre as part of its opening season, Wilson reveals that the piece “is called That Lucky Old Sun (a Narrative)”, and as he describes it, “will consist of five ‘rounds’ with interspersed spoken word.”

Last summer Brian Wilson found himself singing the 1949 classic song That Lucky Old Sun, which then became the inspiration for a completely new narrative. He went to Tower Records and bought the Louis Armstrong version of the track and was inspired. The new work will have different parts, including the original music of That Lucky Old Sun, a spoken-word narration as well as newly composed songs. One of the new songs, Midnight’s Another Day, has been described by Mojo Magazine as “glorious.”

Brian Wilson teamed with Van Dyke Parks, his old ‘sidekick’ and lyricist behind Smile, over the past year on the narratives for a new album. The piece features ten songs and five narratives which will be interrupted by That Lucky Old Sun, the narrator telling the story. The five narratives are cameos on life and the heartbeat of Los Angeles.

OK, so that's intriguing. Spoken word? I'll admit, I'm unsure what to think about that, but as I enjoy poetry I'll give it a chance. Brian's last solo album, Gettin' In Over My Head, was a bit disappointing, with mostly reworked and unreleased material from some Eighties sessions and a number of superstar appearances (like Elton John and Paul McCartney) that did not save the record.

For this reason, I was pleasantly surprised to hear one of the new songs recently released on his website, entitled "Midnight's Another Day." It's the best original work from Brian (and lyricist Van Dyke Parks) since 1998's Imagination. Give it a listen here. Also, here are the lyrics (which you will not find on the website:

Midnight's Another Day

Lost my way
The sun grew dim
Stepped over grace
And stood in sin

Took the dive but couldn't swim
A flag without the wind

When there's no morning
Without you
There's only darkness
The whole day through

Took the diamond from my soul
And turned it back into coal

All these voices
All these memories
Made me feel like stone

All these people
Made me feel so alone

Lost in the dark
No shades of gray
Until I found
Midnight's another day

Swept away
In a brainstorm
Chapters missing
Pages torn

Waited too long
To feel the warmth
I had to chase the sun

All these voices
All these memories
Made me feel like stone

All these people
Made me feel so alone

Lost in the dark
No shades of gray
Until I found
Midnight's another day

Ah, it reminds me the melancholy of "Til I Die," off the Surf's Up album. And isn't that an interesting line: "Stepped over grace/ And stood in sin?" I'm looking forward to hearing the whole work and, subsequently, the album.

Well, enjoy the song. And if you'd be interested in two tickets for the show on September 15th, email me soon.

Long Live Indie Music

I'm always amazed not only at the quantity of music in the marketplace but also at the gems one can discover in the independent marketplace, that is, band-distributed records. Lately I've been listening to two releases that I think are refreshing, both of the power-pop genre:

Junebug -- Fourth: This North Wales-based band is delightful, and unknown. This simple, no-frills band produced CD-R contains some older material (released in anticipation of their official new release in 2008.) Influences include 60's bands (The Beatles, The Beach Boys), new wave (Split Enz, XTC) and indie (The Stone Roses, Teenage Fanclub). I'm a sucker for jangly guitars and Beach Boys stle harmonies, so this one was a no-brainer for me!

Seaside Stars --- The Magic of Stereo: A Berlin band with a Beach Boys/Teenage Fanclub sound, I love the beautful guitar pop and lush vocals on this record. I'm so attracted to this music that I have a difficult tiem making it to the lyrics to find out what they are singing about!

Check out these recordings at the best distributor of power-pop: Not Lame Records.