Singer-songwriter Brett Dennen has been getting a bunch of attention of late - appearing on Jay Leno among other late-night staples. He appears at the free Green Apple Festival show in Golden Gate Park on Sunday, April 20. Word had it he was a major-league recycler and composter, so I spoke to him in honor of Earth Day; here's what he said.
SFBG: So you're a pretty eco-conscious guy - would you say you make green music?
Brett Dennen: I guess the biggest reason is that it seems like the smartest thing to do, to invest in and live in a way that creates instead of destroys. Y'know, leave as little trace as possible. I don’t think it really inspires me on an artistic level - I don’t think I'm passionate about it in that way. It's just something I've always lived with - it was the way I was raised. I grew up composting, recycling food scraps, recycling, walking, and riding a bike everywhere. It's not like a cause I found - it doesn’t move me to write about it.
A recent performance by Kate Maki in her home province of Ontario.
By Todd Lavoie
Front porch romantics and summer sunset swooners, set your heartstrings a-flutter in anticipation. Canadian alt-country-folk songstress Kate Maki will bring her enchanting "No Depression" melodies to Café du Nord Thursday, April 24, opening for weirdly wonderful Giant Sand mastermind Howe Gelb. Trust me: if you've ever tumbled weak-kneed and flustered over the down homey charms of a blue highway-rambling singer-songwriter in your lifetime, you'll fall hard for Maki. I certainly have.
Boasting an arrestingly gentle, plainspoken delivery, Maki fashions impressive levels of pull-up-a-chair-and-stay-awhile intimacy out of uncluttered arrangements and emotionally direct lyricism. A cross between Suzanne Vega and Iris DeMent, perhaps, though I do detect threads of similarity with Gillian Welch - albeit with considerably less of that tattered black-and-white Dorothea Lange photo vibe going on here - as well as with fellow Ontarian Sarah Harmer.
It's immediate, familiar-as-an-old-friend kind of stuff - and yet it's all quite stimulating and at times even challenging. It ain't easy to craft deceptively simple, homespun little charmers like those on Maki's recently released American debut, On High (Confusion Unlimited/Ow Om) - a lot of folks try and fail, often out of succumbing to cliché or insisting upon self-perceived limitations of the genre. Not an issue here: this 27-minute introduction is loaded with forcefully understated little wonders. Can't wait to hear 'em live.
A recent clip of Tony Scherr performing "I Could Understand."
By Todd Lavoie
So so so many choices of what to do this weekend, I know, but let me throw another one your way: this Saturday and Sunday, April 19 and 20, the Independent will be hosting a mighty fine double-bill for fill all your strummed-up twang-age needs. As part of the Green Apple Festival, Brooklyn singer-songwriter and endlessly versatile collaborator Tony Scherr and Australian roots-folkies the Waifs will be playing two nights of rustic goodness at the adventurously booked Divisadero joint.
Now, the Waifs are a marvelous folk-rock group; their latest, sundirtwater (Compass), was just released over here after hitting it big back home in Australia last year. The disc offers a looser, dustier version of their familiar harmony-rich folk meditations, instead opting for deeper forays into the blues and country-soul. Particularly ear-catching is the title track, a swampy little rumba driven by Josh Cunningham's jazz-sweating guitar slinks and Vikki Simpson's lusty vocals:
I want to focus on Tony Scherr, though: the guy boasts a massively impressive resume, as a band member, collaborator, and solo artist. Before eventually heading down the dirt roads and rolling fields of country- and blues-flavored songwriting, he was a jazz bassist, adding both acoustic and electric low-end to a variety of ensembles. Scherr started off - and only a teenager at the time - as a member of one of Woody Herman's latter-day lineups, and then went on to perform with Russ Gershon's Either/Orchestra, an ensemble well-known for its anything-goes approach to interpreting the work of others. (Bob Dylan, Bobbie Gentry, Robert Fripp, and Duke Ellington have all at one point or another been given the Either/Orchestra overhaul.)
Tift Merritt is giving something away. It seems delicate but could be strong as steel, a gift from a solitary place but one that she openly shares. It is Another Country (Fantasy). When Lost Highway Records broke things off with the Grammy-nominated songwriter in 2006 she retired to a room in Paris to put down this portrait of a spirit that is at once resilient and vulnerable. "Sometimes you fall up these stairs," Merritt sings on "Tender Branch," bruised but not beaten.
If there is a bit of the expatriate in this record it is not the decadent self-destruction of Papa Hemingway but the anxiety and awe of a stranger navigating a mysterious place. In "Love is Another Country" her sentiment is simple and perfect: "I wanna go with you."
Produced by George Drakoulias, whose clients include the Black Crowes and the Jayhawks, Another Country both reflects and refracts country music. "Tell Me Something True" and "My Heart is Free" illustrate what all the Bonnie Raitt and Lucinda Williams comparisons are for, but mostly Merritt's is an Americana of the mind - the vernal pleasures Saint-Sulpice, a pastoral stroll along the Seine, the silver needle of a Parisian clothier pushing through a linen summer dress.
TIFT MERRITT
With Sara Watkins of Nickel Creek
April 14, 8 p.m., $16 Great American Music Hall
859 O’Farrell, SF
(415) 885-0750
SXSW: Scoping out Daryl Hall, Darondo, Bonnie Bramlett, Justin Townes Earle, David Garza, and more
A little bit o' London Souls.
By Kandia Crazy Horse
A SXSW diary concludes...
SATURDAY, MARCH 15
As mentioned before, other than an in-and-out at Brush Square Park for a Japanese lineup, I simply did not make it to day parties, including the Frank 151 one where I had hoped to catch Game Rebellion again on Friday since they’d so courteously invited Kimberly and I en route to the Ironworks for ‘cue (did catch them rush the stage during N.E.R.D.’s disappointing non-starter of a late-night set at Stubb’s). Thus I missed Harp’s own shindig at the French Legation (and thus the chance to commiserate with my fellow contributors), the ‘ting of NYC-based Kemado Records for which I actually had a lam, and my annual Sunday trip down South Congress for western wear and eats (sorry Andy!).
Last minute, I did make the scene at Jelly NYC’s rooftop thang down West Fifth in the vicinity of Town Lake. And I am glad I did, as this foot-hobbling sojourn off the beaten track enabled me to let some ghosts go while hip-switching through the sequential, heavy volume-dealing sets of London Souls (actually from Brooklyn also, and fronted by a palpably Hendrix-loving brer) and Earl Greyhound. Before a rickshaw took me back to the Hilton, I made and re-met some friends, was hailed by some cool new folks (like sometime Rolling Stone lensman Michael Weintrob) and finally scored a decent drink.
The afternoon was enjoyable due to a very satisfying morning during which I arose early, 9 a.m., from the groggy swamp to breakfast at the soon-to-be-defunct Las Manitas on Congress with NYC friend Tim Broun and his Oaktown musician bud Paul Manousos - all in order to see Daryl Hall’s official SXSW interview at noon. Not only were Tim and I first in line, but we had a great front row view of Brother Hall being interviewed by my colleague Ann Powers of the LA Times. Seeming to be aloof behind shades, seated next to his compadre T-Bone Wolk and their six strings, the sometime 50 percent of Hall and Oates was actually very engaging and sharp, and it was clear from his responses that he never suffers fools gladly.
"Engaging and sharp": Daryl Hall and Kandia Crazy Horse.
SXSW: Kimya baby sighting no. 1, meathead hair-tossing at RTX, She and Him hrumphed
Saw your baby, lady: Kimya Dawson.
By Kandia Crazy Horse
A SXSW night-and-day diary continues...
THURSDAY, MARCH 13, AND FRIDAY, MARCH 14
The day began with my first IHOP run, and the late rising set me permanently behind on the day-party trail. In fact, I ultimately only made the scene at one on Sixth with our fearless leader/SX roomie Kimberly Chun, wherein we were irritated by “free” drink tickets that only provided low-shelf liquor.
It was fun to make the scene in the upper reaches of the Convention Center, catching up with such friends and colleagues as Manhattan cultural instigator Jim Fouratt, NC-born upstater Holly George-Warren at her trade show book signing for Punk 365 and her fine Gene Autry bio, Perfect Sound Forever honcho Jason Gross, veteran esteemed rock critic Dave Marsh, and (erstwhile) Harp editors Fred Mills and Randy Harward who, alas, came bearing bad tidings about the music magazine’s demise. I also met rock scribe/wife Laurie Lindeen, rockbiz vet Danny Goldberg (whose account of apprenticing to Led Zeppelin’s famed manager Peter Grant was thrilling), Hanson vox Taylor, rockwrite/rock orbit luminaries Jaan Uhelszki and Danny Fields, and played text tag with some other folks before and after dropping too many ducats at Flatstock for posters of the Black Crowes, Stevie Wonder, and the great Alejandro Escovedo (who I was saturated with in ’07 but very sadly missed this year).
The Day Stage tended to be dull or between bursts when I breezed through from the trade show, but I did see Kimya Dawson and her man keeping up with their toddling baby girl. That’s not to say there were no good-to-great performances provided within the Convention Center’s walls: in succession, I saw Hanson, the Noisettes, and (an amazing set by) X, all mercifully recorded for DirectTV.
Old Weird America, indeed - the spectral-twangin', gorgeously raggle-taggle ghost-folkster Matthew Houck, a.k.a., Phosphorescent, will be throwing mad shadows upon the walls of the Independent Sunday, March 23, when he takes the stage in support of his October-released spine-tingler Pride (Dead Oceans).
Now on album number three, the Athens, Geo./Brooklyn-based Houck has expanded beyond the largely go-it-alone parameters of Pride to include a backing band for this tour; should be interesting to see how the deep-in-the-earhole intimacy of the almost entirely self-recorded disc translates to the stage in the form of a full-fledged quartet. Not that there's much cause to worry: if the guy can bring backwoods-gothic to Bed-Stuy, by crikey, I'm sure he'll find a way to channel onstage the same gossamer-gospel hocus-pocus that makes Pride such a fascinating listen.
It's an intriguing proposition, fashioning such distinctly rural sounds while surrounded by so much concrete, but Houck has done exactly that, and quite convincingly as well. This is no pard'ner-grabbing, knee-slapping hoedown, however: instead, Pride arrives in misty drifts, sighing and swaying over pine-cloaked hills, across Civil War battlefields and weed-overrun graveyards. If there's a trace of Brooklyn on this record, I have to hear it - and while we're at it, most of the time I'm not picking up too much 21st century here, either. (Other than the production, of course, which is goose-pimplingly exquisite.)
Diving into Or, the Whale, Bodies of Water, and Willow Willow
Thar she blows: Or, the Whale. All photos by Brandon Joseph Baker.
Photographer Brandon Joseph Baker checked out Noise Pop's sold-out Dodos/Or, the Whale/Bodies of Water/Willow Willow show at Cafe du Nord on Feb. 28. The sets were eclectic with Willow Willow quietly starting the evening out. The crowd grew as Bodies of Water took stage and played a fierce yet short set due to time constraints - much to the audience's dismay. Next, Or, the Whale prepared the listeners for the Dodos' set with their strong ballad-driven Americana tunes.
Curious about what some of the groups we feature in this week's Noise Pop cover story sound like? Anyone remember when reading about music meant that the quality of the writing alone had to convey individual sonic textures? Well, no more! Thank you, Internets! Behold!
Below are some introductory vids -- more info on these stellar performers (as well as a full fest schedule) is available at www.noisepop.com/2008
Love me some Dolly...and pass the birthday pie at El Rio
By Todd Lavoie
All right, I’m giving some heads up time here so you can plan your weekend accordingly: Dolly Parton turns 62 this Saturday, Jan. 19. Oh, the possibilities for celebration are endless, aren’t they? Maybe a spin of her 1971 classic Coat of Many Colors (RCA), or how about slappin’ 9 to 5 (oh, my sweet baby Jesus, so that flick is really from 1980?! Now I feel old) into the ole DVD player, or if you’re feeling particularly ambitious, you could always fry up some catfish and hush puppies (two of the Dixie diva’s favorite dishes, which must always be paired together: “One without the other is like pickin’ without grinnin’,” she once famously declared, and who am I to disagree?) Or, how about this: you could Dolly yourself up and swing on over to El Rio this Saturday night for their Tennessee Mountain Birthday Bash! Yep, a night of Dolly music, movies, and homemade pie! Ah, pie - who doesn’t love pie? And did I mention the Dolly-look-alike contest? I smell a photo op!
Whatever your plans may be, methinks some serious Happy Haps are in order for Ms. Parton. Sure, we’ve all probably succumbed to Dolly the caricature at one point or another, but the fact remains this: she’s one of the sweetest-voiced, savviest, and most successful artists of our lifetime: 25 number-one singles at last count, and 41 top 10 country albums so far - no one else comes close, even. She has penned some of the most touching, soul-baring, achingly tender melodies of the past five decades. But wait, there’s more: a star in the Hollywood Walk of Fame, inductions into the Country Music Hall of Fame and the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame, the distinction of being honored as a Living Legend by the US Library of Congress, as well as being rewarded the National Medal of Arts (the highest honor given by the US government for cultural excellence.)
Oh, and let’s not forget: she wrote “Jolene." Covered by everyone from Olivia Newton-John to the Sisters of Mercy to the White Stripes to Susanna and the Magical Orchestra, it’s an absolute classic in the whole infidelity-song genre, an area with plenty of competition, particularly in country music. Here, in a more recent performance, she gives a shout-out to her drag-queen fans, then kicks up a mighty row with a wicked bluegrass version of the song.
Player's club: Todd Lavoie's best of 2007 playlist
Bat for Lashes are in your corner.
By Todd Lavoie
Well, it wasn't easy, but after endless hours of fretting and ruminating and studied, stressed-out headphonery, I have at last been able to compile a play list of the tracks that got me most excited this year. What can I say? This year was a stunner - look no further than these twenty lil' ditties, kiddies.
1. SOULSAVERS: "Revival" (Red Ink/Columbia)
Mark Lanegan + gospel singers + narcotized electronics = unmitigated bliss. The former Screaming Tree, Isobel Campbell collaborator, and bedrock-baritoned emissary from the darkest of gutters has teamed up with British downtempo dramatists Soulsavers for some post-apocalyptic spirituality and brokenhearted confessionals. And if that ain't enough, they snagged Wendy Rose and Lena Palmer - probably best known for setting full-throated fires behind Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds on their last album and tour - to usher in the rapture with their serious gospel know-how. Ah, "Revival" - Lanegan leads the congregation in a river baptismal, spitting hellfire and salvation while still teetering close to the edge of the abyss himself, a Flannery O'Connor character brought to song. Until Spiritualized's new one hits next year, this might be the next-best-thing to fill our medicated-soul prescription.
2. BAT FOR LASHES: "What's A Girl To Do?" (Echo/Caroline)
Rolling out of the darkness on her forlorn little bicycle, transmitting mesmerizing sparkles from her glittery sweater, Natasha Khan - the mastermind behind the curious Bat for Lashes moniker - made quite a first impression with the opening seconds of her video for "What's A Girl to Do?" - an ice-choked exploration of the previously undiscovered intersections between PJ Harvey, Broadcast, and the Ronettes. I won't spoil the surprise twist of the video, but I will offer that this might be the catchiest bummer I've heard all year: "And when he asked me/ 'Do you love me?'/ I had to look away/ I didn't want to tell him/That my heart grows colder with each day." Ouch.
3. BEIRUT: "Nantes" (Ba Da Bing)
European romance? Yes, please! Scott Walker might have long since abandoned any consideration for evening promenades and moonlit kisses in song - now that he's a bonafide avant-garde artiste hellbent on making Stockhausen seem like sissy stuff, that is - so thankfully the world has Zach Condon, a.k.a., Beirut, to carry the torch for all of us swooning pie-eyed dreamers. Oh, the rhumba rhythm! The Montmartre-ific accordion! The swaying brass section! And atop it all, Condon waxes far more nostalgic than his 21 years should ever allow. Not as lurid as Walker or his idol Jacques Brel - honestly, who is? - but croonably smooth nonetheless. Me, I'm enchanted.
Yup, it’s true. The girl who writes about The Nutley Brass and Richard Cheese likes the kind of music that a guy with no hair except one neon yellow tendril plays. Which is to say, Stark Raving Brad and I have great fucking taste. And so, apparently, does the Eagle, who’s booked his band the Winsome Griffles to play this Thursday, the 13th.
By Todd Lavoie
It's Not How Far You Fall, It's the Way You Land - a dead-on appropriate proclamation, indeed, for Britain's pre-eminent emissaries of unsettled downtempo electro-soul and whiskey-and-gin street corner spirituality, Soulsavers, whose breakthrough Red Ink/Columbia release glows like divine inspiration wafting out of the darkest gutter. Consider the title a riff on the whole "it's not the journey, it's the destination" mantra - only in this case, the daily affirmation comes from a rough-and-ragged 12-step program that says failure is inevitable but redemption is possible. Redemption with style - ah, even better.
And what style it is. Producers-electronic wizards-consummate tastemakers Rich Machin and Ian Glover cook up languid rhythms, rawboned organ arrangements, and ominous string samples - along with bringing in some evocative lap-steel guitar and weepy six-string twang from session musicians - to create brooding, occasionally post-apocalyptic soundscapes that could speak plenty of lurid truths all by themselves, as evidenced on their mostly instrumental debut, 2003's Tough Guys Don't Dance (San Quentin). The recipe's been improved on their latest, thanks to the lead-vocal contributions of Will Oldham, Jimi Goodwin (Doves), and - the greatest coup of all - the gravel-wrapped-in-velvet baritone Mark Lanegan, whose eight contributions inform the album's duality of forbidding menace and soothing sanctity.
Even better, they've upped the ante with the addition of gospel heroics from backing vocalists Wendy Rose and Lena Palmer - perhaps best known for setting fires behind Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds on their last album and tour. The result is a potent futuristic-gospel - witness opener "Revival," a thundering transmission from the River of Jordan, Lanegan leading Rose and Palmer in a tearful baptism while the flames rise around them. Cover-lovers, begin your rejoicing: Lanegan's and Oldham's duet on Neil Young's "Through My Sails" is pure lip-biting heartbreak. Soulsavers, you've made a believer out of me.
Soulsavers, with Mark Lanegan, appear Saturday, Dec. 1, 9 p.m., at the Independent, 628 Divisadero, SF. Great Northern opens. $18. (415) 771-1422.
Yeehaw for more twang-age! At last! Detroit's delightfully skewed goth-country crackerjacks Blanche have finally seen album number two receive an American release, nearly a year after its European release, nearly a year after their former label V2 shut its doors suddenly and left its roster in the lurch. Happy endings have never been synonymous with these folks - murder ballads, yes, and odes to wronged love, certainly, but good news? Hardly!
But here we are, endless months after they got screwed over by Mister Record Company Man, and Little Amber Bottles (Original Signal) is finally available in the States. The wait's been worth it: no "sophomore slump" for this nattily attired mob of medicine-show revivalists and Flannery O' Connor torch-bearers. Dare I say it? Aw, shucks, why not? Little Amber Bottles is a quantum leap forward for the band - hell, it had quite firmly settled into my Top Ten of 2007 within its first half-dozen spins, even. Christ knows how many times I've listened since, but I remained just as intoxicated by it as I was the day I'd skinned it of its shrinkwrap and handed myself over to its many gauzy, dusty charms. Truth is, I could probably get drunk just from looking at it. Won't you join me, then, in some good old-fashioned inebriation?
I'll pour the first drink: Blanche is a quintet of old-school country-devotees who think like punks, write like O'Connor or William Faulkner, and sing like snake-oil salesmen, saloon floozies, and end-of-the-road auctioneers. Frequently performing in early 20th century vintage-wear, they very much look and sound like a mob of country-folk who high-tailed it to Birmingham or Chattanooga or Lynchburg and got themselves "citified," so to speak. And it's all entirely convincing, I should add. No mere dress-up here, Blanche manage to inhabit the world of 78 records, magic elixirs, and old black-and-white Sears & Roebuck catalogs straight from the printing press. It's as if they just hiked down from Walton's Mountain and hit the studio - only these folks are less John Walton/Olivia Walton and more Ike/Corabeth Godsey, the fancy-schmancy owners of the general store who left the mountain more than once every couple of months.
The Dan Wilson peppermint latte, or how it feels to be free
By Benedict Sinclair
Sometimes there’s a mood. One where dessert must coat the human drama. You need a pleasure, perhaps a guilty one. The kind of sublimity you’ll find in the songwriting of Dan Wilson, Grammy Award-winning craftsman behind the Dixie Chicks’ “Not Ready to Make Nice” and frontperson for alt-rockers Semisonic. Wilson once penned the Grammy-nominated radio classic “Closing Time” with the band. Nowadays he’s mechanically churning out sweet, catchy, safe, comfortable songs about the ladies of his pop life.
His latest release, Free Life, is mixed in the direction of lite Nigel Godrich: its clean and balanced sonic landscape focuses on a sparse set of pleasing soft-rock ballads about relationship politics. There's a dash of lush country, a sprinkling of candy chords, a hint of Coldplay, and a smidgen of chorus harmonies. For better at times and worse at others, Wilson also reveals a '90s alternative attitude beneath his polished top layers.
As traditional as the album is there’s something to be said for its professionalism. Wilson’s a born performer, as he will surely prove on Sunday, Nov. 11, opening for the equally lush folkalist Sondre Lerch at the Swedish American Music Hall, above Café du Nord. Yet Wilson’s lyrics aren’t written or placed in a terribly evocative way - definitely his weak spot here. “Runnin, all around all around / all kinds of beautiful,” he sings between verses composed of toss-away free advice on “All Kinds."
Grand Ole Opry mainstay and sartorial icon Porter Wagoner, one half of the great duet Porter and Dolly team, died of lung cancer in Nashville on Oct. 28 just days before Halloween.
The country musician was the epitome of the “hard workin’ man,” whose declining health in recent years failed to sideline a career that continued to entertain young and old through 50 years at the Opry. In addition to the critically received comeback Wagonmaster (Anti), a darkly psychedelic album released this summer, Wagoner made a one-time appearance in July at Madison Square Garden opening for the White Stripes. On his death bed he was surrounded by family, musicians and friends, and his one-time singing partner Dolly Parton. According to an Associate Press article, Opry vice president and general manager Pete Fisher said of Wagoner: “His passion for the Opry and all of country music was truly immeasurable.” Wagoner’s funeral ceremony was appropriately at the Grand Ole Opry House this past week.
Much like another recent passing musician, Lee Hazlewood, whose incredible career was often reduced to a footnote in the rise of partner Nancy Sinatra, Wagoner was similarly touted as the man who discovered Parton in the late 1960s. In truth, his work in country-western extended to the post-WW II days of Louvin Brothers-style folk with a local Missouri band, the Blue Ridge Boys, and on TV’s Ozark Jubilee.
Bet you didn't see this one coming. I sure as hell didn't, not even in my wildest music-nerd tag-team reveries. Yep, I might've floated off into la-la land over the what-ifs and fancy-thats of pairing such unlikelies as PJ Harvey/Del tha Funkee Homosapien or Dolly Parton/Spiritualized or even Bryan Ferry/CocoRosie, but somehow I'd never gotten around to scratchin' my noggin over what would happen if Robert Plant and Alison Krauss ended up in the same studio for a patch of time. Somehow a Neko Case/D'Angelo collab seems like a perfectly reasonable expectation from your humble Guardian blogger, but a meet-up between the sweetest voice in bluegrass-pop and Mr. Banshee-Wail himself? Ah, that's just crazy.
Or is it? Call it a lark, call it a sign of the apocalypse, call it a coup for the rest of us, but one of the greatest who'da thunks of our time has arrived: Robert Plant and Alison Krauss recently released Raising Sand (Rounder), and it's breathtaking. No kidding. It's almost as if they've always worked together - yep, it's that good.
Much of the credit should be given to producer T-Bone Burnett, he of the miracle sepia-tone touch, the man behind the rustic charms and warm glows of Gillian Welch's Revival (Acony), Elvis Costello's King of America (Columbia), and the O Brother Where Art Thou? soundtrack (Mercury). (And no, don't let that last one put you off. Sure, maybe you too found yourself maxed-out on the banjo-and-holler-fest after every single coffeehouse and café played the sweet holy hell outta that thing back in 2000 and 2001, but enough time has passed to be able to listen again with a fresh pair of ears. Go on, give it a play. It really is a marvel.)
Teddy Thompson (that’s Thompson as in spawn of Richard and Linda) may be an English boy by birth, but the 31-year-old's rock-folk-country sound will make you think he’s spent years fine-tuning his sound deep in the land of the American south.
Taking on the greats - Merle Haggard, Dolly Parton, George Jones - Thompson’s latest CD, Up Front and Down Low(Verve Forecast), is a thoughtful collection of interpretations of C&W classics and not-so-well-known gems, with dad Richard and pal Rufus Wainwright lending their talents. A New Yorker by residence, Thompson takes his show on the road opening for Suzanne Vega; he appears Monday, Nov. 12, at the Fillmore.
Bay Guardian: How did Up Front and Down Low come about? Why an album of covers?
Teddy Thompson: I came home after touring after the last record for a year. I didn’t have a lot to do. I started just recording some songs for fun, but I liked the way it came out and I thought maybe it would make a good side-project album.
Tacos, "Widow"'s peak, Gold beats: make it Fiery Furnaces, Chuck Prophet, and Fool's Gold
Whoa, there's a lot going this weekend, as usual in the fairest of 'Friscos. Let's take a tip from our sponsor and take it a one day at a time this weekend.
First, the Fiery Furnaces are up tonight, Oct. 19, with Pit er Pat at Independent - and dang, their new album, Widow City (Thrill Jockey), rocks it old-school. As in feathered hair, air-brushed vans, and double gatefold vinyl, which by chance, Widow City is available on. Hey, it's a great time to be a widow! (Cue video "Ex-Guru.")
Next up on Saturday, Oct. 20, you got a hoedown to throw down: the Fool's Gold Showcase at Mezzanine with A-Trak and DJ Mehdi, Kid Sister, Kavinsky, Nick Catchdubs, and Trackademicks. Let's hope Kavinsky actually does something (check Michael Harkin's CMJ blog) - but whatev, Chicago's Kid Sister will make it all happen - here at SXSW.
Meanwhile on Sunday, Oct. 21, SF singer-songwriter extradordinaire Chuck Prophet is going to be toasting his new acclaimed CD, Soap and Water (Yep Roc) - with tacos, natch.
Dude has hired a truck to treat the fans on Sunday at the Make-Out Room. Of the aforementioned grinds, Prophet said, "Yes, you heard right. Free tacos for all my friends! The taco truck will be courtesy of El Tonayense. I'm a carne asada man myself, but I hear they do a killer al pastor." (Dig it - after paying the $10 cover.) Prophet also performs free at Amoeba on Oct. 21, 2 p.m. - so now you've no excuse to miss him! (You can also hear the album online here.)
Teddy Thompson (that’s Thompson as in spawn of Richard and Linda) may be an English boy by birth, but the 31-year-old's rock-folk-country sound will make you think he’s spent years fine-tuning his sound deep in the land of the American south.
Taking on the greats - Merle Haggard, Dolly Parton, George Jones - Thompson’s latest CD, Up Front and Down Low(Verve Forecast), is a thoughtful collection of interpretations of C&W classics and not-so-well-known gems, with dad Richard and pal Rufus Wainwright lending their talents. A New Yorker by residence, Thompson takes his show on the road opening for Suzanne Vega; he appears Monday, Nov. 12, at the Fillmore.
Bay Guardian: How did Up Front and Down Low come about? Why an album of covers?
Teddy Thompson: I came home after touring after the last record for a year. I didn’t have a lot to do. I started just recording some songs for fun, but I liked the way it came out and I thought maybe it would make a good side-project album.
In honor of the late Lee Hazlewood, here is Edward E. Crouse's unfiltered conversation with the great singer-songwriter, from the Guardian in 1998:
Love Lee A duet over the phone with Mr. Hazlewood.
By Edward E. Crouse
LEE HAZLEWOOD writes, produces, and sings ambrosial pop songs. Ambrosial in both senses: the Greek (what the gods ingest) and the American (that picnic mystery made of canned fruits in heavy syrup and whipped cream). Hazlewood claims never to have met Serge Gainsbourg — a Gallic strategist with a similar dark, drunken heart and thick basso profundo–bizarro pipes who shares his knack for perverse idioms and knocking out hits with boy-girl, Beauty-Beast arrangements. Hazlewood is by no means as fashion-ready as Gainsbourg, which means that clubs won't charge a premium for lacquered and booted neo-modistes to frug on his birthday, and the prospect of cats aping Hazlewood's trademark stealth fighter–shaped mustache is doubtful.
Blessed be to the advances in technology that allow alert concertgoers to capture performers at their most uncouth.
Most recently, Faith Hill upbraided a front-row fan for gettin' too gropy with hubby and tourmate Tim McGraw's private parts (TMZ has the video here). And of course there's the now-famous Beyonce tumble (TMZ has it here).
Who needs concert videos when the between-songs shit is so juicy? Anyone who owns a copy of Having Fun With Elvis On Stage -- no songs, just banter, some of it quite rambling and surreal -- knows what I'm talking about.
This week's vid: Kanye, Zach & Bonnie "Prince" Billy's country grammar
Children of the corn. Collage courtesy of Harp.
OK, we give - Kanye is still king, especially after we peered at the inspired new, YouTube-y video for his single "Can't Tell Me Nothing," which was posted this week on his site. Call it "Menace II Future Farmers of America"? Behold comedian Zack Galifianakis - glowering manfully on his North Carolina farm, dancing with John Deere shit and cavorting with fresh-faced milk maids in some St. Pauli's Girl commercial gone horribly, hilariously wrong. Check musician Will Oldham, aka Bonnie "Prince" Billy, striking gangsta pose on country roads. And naturally Galifianakis's tummy is a marvel to observe (see more of it on his recent live comedy DVD filmed at SF's Purple Onion).
Apparently West enlisted Galifianakis after seeing him perform standup in LA, sayeth Billboard. So kudos to Kanye for letting the silly pair undercut the lyrics' toughness with wit and a little weird, backwoods Old Joy. Expect more when West's LP, Graduation (Def Jam) - oooh, scary! - emerges in August or September.
Step right up for the git-pickin' pick o' the litter at the first annual San Francisco Picker’s Picnic on Friday, July 6, at Bottom of the Hill.
King City with child.
Joe Price with Vicki Price, King City, Craig Ventresco with Meredith Axelrod, Gaucho, and Pat Johnson will be your shred-meisters. Your host: Chewy Marzolo - player of heavy metal, bluegrass, cartoon swing Latin soundtrack, rag, burlesque, abso-futurist black/death metal, gypsy jazz, cabaret, country, and he says, "a few other types of not-very-popular-to-the-hipsters styles of music in San Francisco for...well...let me see here...um...a very long time."
Joe Price in action.
This time Marzolo bites into a first - the Picker's Picnic. Among the offerings are the Iowa Blues Hall of Fame inductee Joe Price; gypsy jazz combo Gaucho (with Ralph Carney); and Marzolo's own band, King City, who describe themselves as "a five-piece ragtime/tango/Latin/spaghetti western
instrumental San Francisco bonifiedly warranted excuse for a good time." By the way, King City's first official CD, The Last Siesta, comes out this summer on Spencer Muray's Antebellum label and the cover was painted by graf giant Twist, aka, Barry McGee.
It's all on July 6, 9 p.m., at Bottom of the Hill, 1233 17th St., SF. $10. For more info, go to www.myspace.com/pickerspicnic. Be there - or be home pickin' on your own.
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