There can be no question the the life of Michael Jackson was a sad one, that his story is one of tragedy. The general narrative is this: overbearing, abusive father drives kids, and particularly young, fragile Michael, to show business stardom. Great talent, great records, horrid home life. Awkward teen years, great solo record (Off the Wall), unbelievably greater follow-up (Thriller), capitalizes on new form of music video to become biggest star on planet, appears at height of fame on the Motown 25th anniversary special, kills there, does the moonwalk, thus convincing the world he can indeed bend physics and gravity to suit his whims. Co-writes "We Are the Word," feeds the hungry. Burns hair in Pepsi commercial... and... slowly, excruciatingly, it all goes bad from there (literally.)

Somehow he went from looking like this:


to looking like this:

He claims this was all resulting from various diseases; TV plastic surgeons have diagnosed him with dysmorphia, the syndrome that drives people to become "addicted" to plastic surgery. He also claims that his skin turned white from a rare skin disease, vitiligo; but others assume it was some sort of bleaching process. Hard to miss that the nose, the hair, the skin all ended up looking as "un-black" as possible.

Where I come out on MJ is that he is less a freak than a victim. Take a very troubled, disturbed, abused little boy, give him all the money and fame in the world, and get out of his way, and, well, watch out. He's going to live in an amusement park. he's going to buy a monkey. He's going to have a lot of sleep-over dates.

See, Michael has said numerous times that his father robbed him of his childhood. But I think he had that wrong. It looks to me like he had a 50-year childhood. What Joe robbed him of was adulthood. I believe something very bad happened to MJ in his early teen years, happened at the hand of his father, and that thing scarred him badly for life, essentially trapped him forever psychicly as a 13- or 14-year-old. On some sad level, when he had boys over and they spent the night, in MJ's head it was a playdate among eqals, not a man/boy thing. And definitely not a sex thing.

So I choose to remember him three ways: singing "I Want You Back" and "ABC" with his big brothers (the former may well be one of the 10 greatest recorded songs ever); spinning and gliding through the "Billy Jean" video; and moonwalking at the Motown anniversary show. The moments when the light shone through the darkness and filled us all with song. The rest is the tragedy, and I'm letting it fall away from memory.

Labels: The tunes; michael jackson

Labels: the kid

So a belated dropping of the other shoe on the Fox shows, a week out, re: night 2...

Labels: allman brothers, review, The tunes

So I had the great good fortune to find myself in San Francisco concurrent with the first-time-in-six-years arrival of the Allman Brothers Band in the Bay Area, at Oakland’s laid back, lovely (well, I thought so) Fox Theater last night.

Don’t Want You No More >
Not My Cross to Bear >
Trouble No More
Walk on Gilded Splinters
Who’s Been Talkin’
Statesboro Blues
Don’t Keep me Wonderin’
And It Stoned me
Jessica

Melissa
Aint Wastin’ Time No More
Rocking Horse >
Dreams
Black Hearted Woman >
Mountain Jam

Preachin’ Blues
One Way Out

Let me tell you up front, this was one mofo of a satisfying show. It left me wondering what they planned to do for the next night; they didn’t leave a whole lot on the table.

On the bluesy slam into “Not My Cross to Bear” Warren brings me back to 1969, a heck of a feat because I was only 10 years old and 4 years from even hearing of the Allman Brothers. A timeless, grounded evocation; then Derek rings out with a wave of tone that unfolds across the room.

“Gilded Splinters” rides in on an easy, greasy wave of percussion, an especially funked-up, swampy N’Awlins version. At the end the two guitars intertwine like dancing flames.

So now it’s the slot in the set for Warren’s first vocal, and as if often the case, “Gilded Splinters” is followed by the steady voodoo Latin-tinged beat that underscores “Who’s Been Talkin’,” for my money one of the best songs in the repertoire right now. It is as if Howlin’ Wolf has been re-imagined, with Carlos Santana in the Hubert Sumlin role. Derek and Warren play wispy Latin lines, a beautiful extended Yin/Yang conversation that gives way seamlessly to the song’s melody, then Warren’s vocals. Warren plays a graceful, flowing solo, then ignites; Derek takes the band into hyperdrive, then the crowd erupts when they hit the mark and are back into the song. Warren, again, appears to be the causin’ of it all as the music gently fades.

“Statesboro” is next, recognizable and popular, but the fact that it is better-received by the crowd than the previous song is anomalous…

A passionate “Don’t Keep me Wonderin’,” a tight songish rendition of “And It Stoned Me” (apparently big in the Bay Area), and then the band tumbles into what turns out to be a truly epic read on “Jessica.” The drums crash through as the band romps into the theme. Derek goes all shiny-light, then Warren grabs you by the ass and gives a good yank. Then, instead of a rush to the climax, the music seems to spontaneously fall away. From the chaotic stillness Derek and Warren embark on a new melodic excursion that, of course, picks up momentum, hits critical mass, and seamlessly turns back into “Jessica.” A big, big close to a big song. As I say, epic.

Thank God this is intermission, because I am emotionally exhausted.

The second set begins with a particularly lush and breezy “Melissa.” On “Aint Wastin’ Time No More” Derek takes us on a little vacation; then Warren lays down a nice little three-day weekend. The sound, I should mention, is exquisite, at least where I’m standing; full and clear as a bell. It’s one of those nights where you’re a thirsty flower and the band is the sun…

Oteil lays down a sprightly little vamp, the drummers fall in, Warren sears over the top (it’s kind of like a blackened Cajun jam); Derek speckles over that; inevitably the music creeps toward resolving into “Rocking Horse.” Warren goes deep into the big muddy on his solo section, then Derek takes the band major key for what Ron E. calls his “happy kid-on-a-tricycle song.” “Rocking Horse” has become another epic, and tonight it is redolent of narrative. Back into the darkness of the “Horse,” then a fat hanging note that the band grabs onto and uses to whip itself around into “Dreams.” Mostly I drift away; Derek squeezes out shimmering gobs of molasses.

“Black Hearted Woman” is next, an assault; the mid-section, where they switch over into the Dead’s “The Other One” riff, is made of the intensity of forward motion. It feels like the drum solo, but no… they finish the song, then fall backward into “Mountain Jam.” Maybe it’s just me, but it is a dreamy version. As the music falls away after the front end, Oteil lays down some narrative from the underside (which rhymes with “thunda-cide.”) Then he gets to the end of the story, and the drums…

…some time later ensemble “Birdland” quotes call me back from my drum-induced trance reverie. The band moves into a beautiful musical space, full and rubbery, elongating space and time… “Little Martha” bubbles up, quite distinctly… then, back, back to the theme and close. More narrative, more epic.

After a show like this, I know there’s really only one way out… but because this is a night of just a little bit more, Derek and Warren come back alone and offer up “Preachin’ Blues,” Warren singing, Derek playing the delta blues. Then, “One Way Out.”

All in all one heck of a show. The bar is high for tonight.

Labels: allman brothers, review, The tunes

Usually when I write about a concert, I jump right in. But this one was to epic, too profound not to step back and ponder it, holistically, in the light of the morning after.

To bottom line it: OMFG. O. M. F. G.

Thursday night The Clapton rumors were all over the Internet. Tickets outside were going for hundreds of dollars apiece. The anticipation was so high that it would have been easy for the thing itself to miss the mark. That the band so thoroughly exceeded expectations is a profound credit to all involved. The first set was a monster-an entire three-hour Allman Brothers show crammed into one bulldozing, stampeding whirlwind assault. "I could go home happy now," I heard more than one fan say. Then the second set offered up some lovely palate-cleansing and preparatory music before finally Clapton came onstage, three songs in, for a six-song suite that was brilliantly conceived, well-rehearsed, beautifully executed, well-paced, fluid, seamless, delightful. Up there on stage is Warren Haynes, Derek Trucks, and Eric Clapton; that isn't a front line, it's a freaking pantheon. After the show we all just looked at each other with stupid grins.

But I digress...

...something jazzy rises from the stage like a purple mist, dissolving into the 3-man "Little Martha," chiming, gorgeous. Then 'Statesboro Blues;" I don't know if it is the band, or being surrounded by friends, but every note sounds extra good. Warren pulls the sunshine through his slide. Gregg shines, then Derek. Then the band eases into the laconic shuffle of "Done
Somebody Wrong," stays there a bit until Derek plays the lines of the riff. Warren's solo is fat and round and slippery and in the pocket. "Revival" features some tasty and deliberate slide work by Derek on the extended break, then Warren picks it up and plays the second half of the solo Derek began. As Warrant takes over, Derek summons Farmer over to switch guitars.

"Woman Across the River" is OK, if you like hard, relentless, forward-hurtling face-melting blues. Warren's solo about halfway in begins auspiciously, Warren calling out precise notes; then Derek does fast runs up the neck over a center of chewy drummy goodness. Warren brings the song to a big, arcing finish as Derek finishes it out with a busted string.

A swampy "Don't Keep Me Wonderin'" gives way to a rare-as in, I've never seen one before-first set "Whipping Post." Part of you is wondering, what are they trying to prove, but then part of you sort of knows. Warren puts a lot of body English on his opening salvo, then the band falls apart around him, and Warren plays the notes between the silences. Then muted forward thrust, Warren piercing and true. He makes a deal with the devil, and explodes into hot waves of dark light. It is something to behold. Then the vocal section, then another sprint up the hill before the music dissolves into waves. Derek plays a trademark Derek solo, using the volume knob like he does to squeeze out dewy green droplets. Then a magnificent
crescendo and decay, Derek flirts with "Liz Reed" territory, then he goes all impressionistic, then back to the song for a big, thundering ending to a big, thundering set.

And, damn, it is only intermission.

Gregg comes on alone to begin set two with a solo piano rendition of "Oncoming Traffic," immediately evocative of the '05 acoustic sets. And it is a lovely, moving rendition. But there is an extra mic set up on stage, and a light green strat set up nearby, and the effect is inevitably one of showing your five year-old a giant cookie before serving dinner. Sure, she may like chicken and broccoli. And she'll eat it with gusto. But she's fixated on that damn cookie.

To be clear though, "Oncoming Traffic" was sublime. Same with "Come and Go Blues," which features thick juicy work by Derek. "Good Morning Little Schoolgirl" features Danny Louis from Gov't Mule on keys, and Marc on Jaimoe's kit. The song comes on with a snaky, insistent waddle into the opening vocal section. Then Derek goes for the gut, Warren stings, Derek stings. Then Derek goes off the hook, as the kids say, before returning perfectly to the song. Derek steps up on the post-song stretchy play-out, then shrinks down to a tinkle.

And finally, the cookie.

The ovation is intense.

"Key to the Highway," and immediately the mofo is ON it. Clapton takes the vocals, Warren spanks it, Derek soars, then Gregg takes a verse ("Give me one kiss mama."). Then Clapton goes off and gets it again. It's just an 8-bar blues, but there is a multi-minute standing ovation. Butch, sticks aloft, bows to Clapton in the "We're not worthy" mode. Big fun. But we're just getting started.

Next up is "Dreams," a brilliant choice. It is to Clapton's credit that he wants to assay this ultimate Allman guitar vehicle; he could have easily fallen back on something familiar to him from his own or the classic blues repertoire. Derek is the focal point, as he is for much of Clapton's time on stage; the song rocks like a boat on a lake in summer. Clapton takes the first solo slot, peeling off note clusters; then he floats off on his back into the song. We drift along for the ride, until he pulls up and Derek enters. His solo builds and builds until he is bouncing bright shards off the walls. Then an exquisite moment as he hits the return note and the band throttles back onto the waltz time of the verse. The stops and changes are almost too much fun.

Next Clapton and band ask the musical question "Why Does Love Got to be So Sad." Derek tosses in the arty flourishes on the chorus, then Clapton takes a vintage Clapton run, and Warren sears; smoke rises from his strings. In front of me, Becca turns back, smiles. then Derek takes us all the way home, truly, home to that happy place deep inside. Then Derek and Clapton fly together. Eric sings through his guitar, Derek an angel above. Warren has stopped playing, letting the two of them have the space they need; then he joins in, the music is like colorful tears of light streaming down your face, three men taking turns reaching in and touching your heart, the band in the opposite of a hurry, until finally, inevitably, the song touches down. It almost makes you want to cry; to call this music beautiful would be trite.

I need a moment.

"Little Wing" is different, elegiac, yet picks up in the exact spot "Why Does Love." leaves off. Warren and Clapton sing the verse together, then Warren takes a soaring solo, evoking-well, evoking the British gentleman on the right of the stage, He hits that spot that hurts with pleasure, lingers there. Derek's lead gives way seamlessly to Clapton, Oteil throws down, finally everyone turns to face Butch, who drives the song home.

When Susan Tedeschi comes on we know it's going to be "Anyday." Warren does a little nasty, then Susan sings the verse, Warren plays skronky. Warren and Susan sing into the same mic for the chorus, a happy song radiating its joy; then Derek renders that joy on guitar.

If you've come this far then really, I don't need to tell you that they come back and encore with "Layla." Derek plays the Duane licks over Clapton's vocals, and Clapton positively sings the crap out of it. Danny Louis is back onstage, joining Gregg for the classic piano coda to the song; Clapton provides some chiming strat tone, then Derek, Derek, Derek. The band locks onto the classic groove, drums, bass, guitars all melding together, Derek peeling over the top, just leaning on the endorphin lever, quite literally causing the room of 3,000 to secrete joy. Finally, inevitably it is over.

The lights come up, we look around at each other, smiling. There is nothing to say; just an unspoken, "I know, you know." This is why we have come. It is why we keep coming back.

Labels: allman brothers, clapton, review, the Beacon, The tunes

The band launches right into “Statesboro Blues”; Derek takes two nice solos. Then “Don’t Keep Me Wonderin’” keeps on going, refusing to end, Derek pulling the squawking blues, Oteil bouncing back the bottom. Together the two of them hit the note.

“Don’t Keep Me Wonderin’” has pulled us all the way into the show; “Hot ‘Lanta” sounds immediately great. Gregg and the guitars take a round of crisp solos, Warren, Derek and Oteil lock in, push, into a big, deliberate end.

One of my favorite junctures in an Allman Brothers gig is the point, a couple songs in, where Warren gets his first vocal. This song often sets the direction for the rest of the set. Tonight there is a long, slow simmering run of picante foreplay; Warren is a total tease… then finally, the music flips over into “Who’s Been Talkin’.” Warren ladles on the gravy, Derek goes off, then he slips into double time, the band rolls and tumbles forward, Derek rings the bell, rings it till Warren calls everyone home for dinner. Then the final verse, and Derek and Warren get small, sublime over a gentle drums and bass bed.

A tight, cascading version of “Come and Go Blues” is followed by “Desdemona;” Derek plays a fiery, building solo that totally connects with the crowd. On his turn Warren hits on the “My Favorite Things” theme, to the inevitable delight of all, then works on variations over the chords; soon he’s into prolonged 12-alarm territory (this feels like a “Warren night.”) When he pierces his own pyrotechnics with the return note, the crowd goes nuts.

Beacon vet and Duane Allman cohort John Hammond comes on for a three-song stint to close the set. On “So Many Roads” the energy in the room drops, as gauged by the ratio of sitting-to-standing in the orchestra… but midway in they lock in and pull you back up. Then “Shake for Me,” a jaunty little song they’ve played with Hammond twice before; Gregg takes a nice turn, Derek takes several. Warren adds some nice slide on “Cryin’ for My Baby,” a nice bluesy way to end the set.

The second set provides something you don’t often get at an Allman Brothers concert: an estrogen buzz. The divine Bonnie Bramlett joins Gregg in a duet of “Oncoming Traffic,” Gregg on piano, the two of them on great, soulful weathered vocals. You can hear the whiskey and smoke. She stands center stage; the rest of the band is clustered off stage to the right, watching. Then Bonnie’s lovely daughter Bekka and the rest of the band come on for “Comin’ Home,” a song Bonnie wrote with some ‘60s Brit guitarist named Clapton. It is raucous and unbridled, with both women wailing; Bekka especially is over-the-top pumped to be here and whips up a tiny, demure little frenzy.

“Only You Know and I Know” follows, Warren is lovely on the verse, Derek on the outro, and Oteil is the rubber band man, but this is a song, not a jam, and it is a full-on party. The answer to “are we having fun yet?” is an emphatic “Yes!” (Actually, more like, “Yes, lawdy!”) Bekka leaves, Hammond comes on, and a painfully sweet “Come On In My Kitchen,” in retrospect inevitable. Gregg sings, slurs, growls; Hammond plays very slowly very, very well, putting the whole world into a simple lick. Then Hammond sings a verse, then Bonnie; Derek begins to tart it up just a tad, then he busts out, Warren’s aggressive chording egging him on. Hammond vocals, Bonnie vocals, a fast veteran round robin; Warren plays some slide into a nice Gregg run, into the closing, “Goin’ to be rainin’…” Mmm-mm.

Hammond off; Bekka back, Susan Tedeschi joins the Bramlett gals in the Allman-ettes over on the right, Bruce Katz is on keyboards for “The Weight,” back to the Aretha version. Susan sings the blazes out of the first two verses, Bonnie takes the third, Bekka the fourth, the three of them wrap their dark honeyed voices together for the gospel-style chorus. Katz rolls out a sprightly solo, the girls with call-and-response vocals over the top. Derek takes a melodic solo, then Susan glances over, and with a tiny crook of the finger takes the song from him for the final verse. Oteil is over by the girls, and if he were any happier, he’d burst. Bekka instigates a round of “on me” over Derek soloing that pushes the happy needle to 11.

Chicks. You gotta love ‘em.

The guests are off for a nicely played “No One Left to Run With,” an extended but earthbound version to ground the set to a close.

Derek and Warren come back alone for “Preachin’ Blues,” Derek playing, Warren singing. Then “Jessica,” Derek playing nice, round lines; his section has happy feet. Warren pokes, probes at that spot, you know what I mean… you don’t know what it is, but you know you’ll know when he hits it. He keeps poking, the band falls away from him, Oteil gets fast fingers… the band stills, Warren sets down his ax, walks off. Oteil and Derek make beautiful watery tonal exposition together, not a bass solo, but a lovely piece of music. Derek does gentle chiming with the drummers as Oteil goes all slappy; finally Oteil busts a move to hand off to the drummers. A brisk drum solo, the players return, Warren picks right up where he left off, rides the melody, hard, and then, yes, thank you, THAT’s the spot! Exactly!

See y’all Thursday.

Labels: allman brothers, review, the Beacon, The tunes

The first Saturday night is an epic show, a heaping helping, double-stuffed, supersized, meaty, beaty, big and bouncy. It’s also jazzy, but we’ll get to that…

Another “Little Martha” opener, lovely, with Oteil joining Derek and Warren. Then Derek works it on out on “Aint Wastin’ Time No More,” a song that was made for him; Warren offers a nice solo at the end. Then right into “Walk On Gilded Splinters,” heavy on the back end as Warren and Derek slather on the Tabasco. Next Oteil turns around, offers the drummers a funky, almost Philly soul bassline. Warren pours hot lines over a happenin’ little groove, Derek soars over the top… then it flips over into “Rocking Horse” with a mighty oomph.

Out of Warren’s solo on the mid-section break, the music ebbs, slows to an almost-stop; Derek plays gently over the sound of winding down. Oteil pulls out into a happy gallop, and Derek paints over the top, then he’s taking his “Rocking Horse” solo, but over what is now a totally different song. Then, finally, bam-bam, Warren takes us back to the Horse for the back end vocals… and out of the song, beautifully into “Gambler’s Roll,” dripping with dewy blues. Warren squeezes out teardrops of tone. All it is, is the blues, but no other band, anywhere, makes the blues this epic. Gregg sings the hell out of the song; the “Rocking Horse” into “Gambler’s Roll” is a stone cold highlight, bluesy and sweaty and perfect.

“Revival” starts and ends as a dance party, with a hot jam in between. “Woman Across the River” is twelve minutes in the smokehouse, nothing subtle, just the fire, Warren and band shoveling coal with frantic urgency. Then Randy Brecker and drummer Lenny White join the band for a rare, divine first set “Dreams.” Brecker’s trumpet embellishes the verse as he punches in between Gregg’s vocal lines; Warren comes in for his solo like a lion, goes out like a lamb. Then Brecker does the dance of life at the precipice of the abyss, the pure essence of the song after all; Derek gets on his pony and rides. Brecker blows cold steel over a hard outro.

Gregg strums into a lovely, lilting “Melissa” to start the second set. Then Robert Randolph comes on for “Lovelight;” with drummer Adam Nussbaum sitting in for Jaimoe. Brother Robert testifies on the pedal steel, then Brother Gregg on the vocals. I’ve heard from the Moogis home audience that Randolph was low in the mix; but he was plenty loud in the house. Randolph rollicks with band, throwing off white light until the song is almost “Jessica,” with Randolph shining over the top. Then the music yields to a muscular drum interlude, Nussbaum still on Jaimoe’s kit, then out of the drumming a slow, gradual, snaky entrance into “One Way Out.” But it picks up speed quickly; Warren goes around two times, then Randolph goes around two times, the second time going through the roof.

Nussbaum and Randolph exit, Lenny White and Randy Brecker return, and slowly music begins to seep out that takes shape as the Miles Davis tune “In a Silent Way.” The Brothers have assayed this number before, but never like this. Brecker sounds vaguely Spanish, directly evoking Miles Davis himself on a slow opening theme that is clear as a bell (and of course, if you were a bell, you’d go—well, you know.) Derek floats overhead, Brecker runs the voodoo down, Derek and Oteil are totally simpatico, drawn visibly, physically to him. The Allman Brothers sound bubbles up through the jazz at the part near the end that hints at “Birdland” (why does this song sound like “Birdland”? “Well, Zawinul wrote ‘em both,” Oteil pointed out to me once.) The Allman Brothers blues and the Miles jazz blend together, Derek composes on the spot as the music wanes, then 1, 2, 3, 4 and “Liz Reed.”

Brecker goes all Spanish/Latin/jazzy, right in tune with the song; Derek rips, it is a less introspective, more hard-charging night for him. He leans over to Oteil, and they put their flames together. Gregg’s solo is “on,” Warren careens out of time, frenetically, perfectly forward, faster, hotter, then the riffs deliver a release into the drum solo; more nights than not so far, there has not been a true drum solo. This one is taut, muscular;, then Oteil joins in, then legend Stanley Clarke strolls out to appreciative applause. He checks in with Lenny White, still on Jaimoe’s kit; then leads the furnace, laying down a rumble of low thunder. He adds an exclamation point of bass, high-fives Oteil, then walks of. Very “who was that masked man?” Hard not to wish he’d been on stage for the entire “In a Silent Way” and “Liz” interlude, but he had a gig on Long Island and probably got out of a car, dashed in the door, strapped on the bass and hit it.

Derek is back, he and Oteil improvise over drums; then Warren and Gregg return and Derek and Warren do the push me/pull you into the closing theme.

So now it’s 11:40, already a long show, so you figure, a quick “Southbound” and out. But no—Butch thump thumpa-thumps into “Mountain Jam.” Warren, Derek, and Oteil each suggest the theme to “Birdland,” a brief consensus is reached and Warren solos over the melody; then he goes off the page, and back into the “Jam” jam. Soon Warren gives a sort of a Norse head toss, and the music turns over into “Dazed and Confused,” a big scary vibe, Warren puts it to bed, Butch brings “Mountain Jam back, and an awfully big finish. This one will stick to your ribs.

Labels: allman brothers, review, the Beacon, The tunes

There is a trade-off with the guest-heavy shows; you get some magical, once-in-a-lifetime moments, but the flow of the show can seem a bit choppy. Instead of one long narrative arc, you get more of a short story anthology…

The “Midnight Rider” opening is a sprightly version; then “Don’t Keep me Wonderin’.” On the end, Oteil erupts in joy, bending from the waist; Greg is moved to actually stop playing, and raise his hands in the air. The band tumbles through the pocket to the close. Then a slow groove intro with some Warren nice slide builds into the “Done Somebody Wrong” shimmy.

Next up is the new instrumental; it seems to meander a bit at first, then Derek brings some bite, and the song climaxes nicely, ending in ringing, lingering tone. Then the Asbury Jukes Horns take their places on the right of the stage, over past Oteil, for Warren’s rendition of “Into the Mystic.” Derek’s twangy slide lines give way to Gregg’s swelling organ, then the chorus; it is a moment. Then the horns, then horns, organ and vocals, and it is sweet soul music; the band rocks your gypsy soul. As always, the Jukes horn section is spot-on, tight, campy swingin’ fun.

Speaking of which, Warren brings out “TV’s Bruce Willis” for “One Way Out.” Last time he sat in, I thought he overplayed; but tonight Willis was almost remarkably good, playing blues harp like a harder-dying Sonny Boy Williamson. The crowd obviously loves him. Warren tosses Butch a nod, there is a drum break, then the two guitars spin out the licks, Willis wailing over the top. Gregg sings the hell out of the close, then Warren launches immediately into the snaky riff of “Smokestack Lightening.” Willis is immediately on it, into Warren’s vocals. Then Haynes and Willis roll all around in the bluesy mud together; Willis shouldn’t be this good. Derek moves to the fore, plays faster, higher up, the band follows him, then a crunchy return to riff, Willis blowing, and Warren singing the final vocals. I liked it.

The horns come back out for ‘Southbound,” and they are glorious high camp. There are other horn sections that sit in with the Brothers, and everyone is good; but the Jukes are the only ones who also have “an act.” Here they work it for all it’s worth, blowing synchronized, syncopated brassy bursts. La Bamba takes a solo over the other horns, then some speed demon guitars and sax locomotive. The horn players are swaying together to the beat like an old time horn section from the movies; if they are southbound, it is to south Jersey. The song ends the set with a happy exclamation point.

Boz Scaggs is onstage for the beginning of set 2, fronting the band for a sweet, self-contained four-song mini-set. Dylan’s “It Takes a Lot to Laugh (It Takes a Train to Cry)” is an 8-bar blues, Warren is pure sweetness. Boz and Gregg trade verses, then the band lays on a rubbery “Rainy Day Women” groove and they are immediately deep down in the pocket. Then Boz quickly counts in the jaunty “Sick and Tired.” The horns are back, and it is instant soul revue, and right in Boz’s strike zone. Then “Aint No Love in the Heart of the City,” a minor blues with a serious “Thrill is Gone” vibe. Boz, Gregg and Warren trade off the vocals.

Then, finally, the blues juice spills over into “Loan Me a Dime.” Derek, of course, announces himself immediately. The next 13 minutes flow by in a state outside of time; it is 1969, when Boz’s version of this track with Duane came out; it is summer 2000, when the Brothers played this almost nightly. Of course the horns are still out, punching those charts for the part that on record is the extended fade. Derek pierces your heart, deft, fierce… the horns blow. Please, you think, don’t end. Then Derek steers the band beautifully down and around, slow again, to the verse. It is a little slice of heaven. The place erupts in a spontaneous ovation; Warren and the horn players are all applauding vigorously as Boz exits the stage.

Inevitably when the Jukes are in the house, you know you’re going to get “The Same Thing.” This take is full of fury. Oteil busts out in his mid-section slot after the first run-through of the song, then some Oteil/Derek/Jukes fury. Then Derek meets Warren in front of the stage for some guitar fury… the horns play the riff, brightly, full of color, to a shimmering end.

“Wasted Words” follows, Warren offering a nice extended slide attack on the outro, then a nice hand-off to Derek, who questions, probes over an insistent rhythm. Then, imperceptibly, they have moved into “what song was this again?” territory, and Derek tears through what is essentially now an entirely different song. Finally he nods to Warren, who pulls the jam back to the “Wasted Words” stopping place and close. Highlight.

Several times during “No One Left to Run With” Warren looks up at Allen Woody’s image on screen. There is an extended, monochrome jam, then the Bo Diddley riff, and they decay into spaciness and color. Warren provides an extended, valiant attack, with Duane literally looming overhead (courtesy the slide show.) Finally he chords the riff to call the band back; this takes a while because they don’t wanna come. Then finally the Bo Diddley beat and out.

The “Whipping Post” encore is dark and colorful and full. About a third of the way in, Derek, Warren and Oteil are hosing out colorful purple washes of tone; they all run together and ring. The music falls apart, then moves through different places until it has circled perfectly back to the pre-vocal slam. It is a cool, watery version, now go enjoy the rest of your Friday night.

click here to see why.

So my daughter comes home from neighbor Jack's house this weekend and announces, "Guess what I ate? Apple slices!" Turns out she actually likes them! A fruit! But I did not appreciate the depth of her affection for the spherical source of sustainance until the following day at the supermarket...

Labels: the kid

Not a lot of preamble. Here are my favorite 25 records of 2008, a little late. As always, these are one old guy's favorite records of the year, not an attempt to quantify some objective measure of the "best." And no, I haven't heard TV On the Radio.

1. Cowboy Junkies, Trinity Revisited: The original Trinity Sessions came out in 1988; I discovered it 2 years later. That record, recorded in Toronto's Trinity Church with one mic, is a haunting 3AM classic, music that exists outside of time. It is the Junkies’ blessing and curse that they will always be the band that made that record. Here, on CD and DVD (I still haven’t watched the DVD), the Junkies try to catch lighting in a bottle a second time, re-recording the same song cycle in the same place 20 years on, this time assisted by friends Natalie Merchant, Vic Chestnut, and our home boy Ryan Adams (this, for me, was the recorded Ryan Adams highlight of the year.) Is it better than the original? Probably not. But it is better than a remake has any right to be. Is it the songs? The church? Don’t know. This take is richer and more colorful than the original, although the starkness of the original was the source for much of its charm. I didn’t expect the Cowboy Junkies to top this list, but this record came out early in the year, and I kept coming back to it, and nothing else felt right rated higher. RIYL: The Trinity Sessions.

2. Drive-By Truckers, Brighter Than Creation’s Dark: Their rep is as a modern-day, smarter Lynyrd Skynyrd crossed with alt.country. I’d never listened to them before. Now I’m wondering where the hell I’ve been. This is their first record without guitarist Jason Isbell, and I think I’m going to have to go and buy some back catalog (used, of course.) The characters in these songs feel real, flawed, and somehow heroic (or anti-heroic, like the guy with the crustal meth addiction.) And something about the sound of this record keeps evoking the Stones’ Sticky Fingers (and specifically, “Dead Flowers.”) I may be rating it too high, but time will tell. RIYL: Sticky Fingers, Jayhawks, Lynyrd Skynyrd.

3. Alejandro Escovedo, Real Animal: Escovedo makes weather-beaten, manly rock’n’roll, influenced by the Velvets and the Stooges, making judicious use of a violin. He’s sort of like Austin’s answer to Lou Reed. No less an authority than Bruce Springsteen swears by him. I was bummed at his last record, which was all synthed out and slick and did not do him justice. This one, on the other hand, is one of the best works of his career. He’s a world class songwriter, simple and honest and true, and the music that wraps and delivers the lyrics is earnest and beautiful. Check out the achingly beautiful “Swallows of San Juan” (“like the swallows of San Juan, I’m gonna get back some day…”, sung over a melancholy violin.) And the rockers rock. Escovedo’s probably never earned more than $30K in a year, but he’s a hero. RIYL: Lou Reed, the Silos, alt.country.

4. She and Him, Volume One: The him is M. Ward; the she is indie cinema’s favorite best friend, Zooey Deschanel. She wrote and sings the songs (although there are two covers; a Beatles and a Smoky Robinson.) Evocative of the light and breezy radio pop of the early and mid-70s (think “Brand New Key”), and if you’re scouring this list for something new to check out, probably the most immediately and universally likable record here. Nice vocal arrangements (remember her singing “Baby It’s Cold Outside” in Elf?); happy music that suits a weekend morning to a T, and which wouldn’t sound out of place at your local Starbucks, but don’t hold that against them. Check out “This is Not a Test.” I hope there will be a volume 2. RIYL: “Brand New Key,” Dusty Springfield.

5. Jim Boggia, Misadventures in Stereo: You can pretty well triangulate Jim’s musical DNA by the covers he’s done over the past two years, through podcasts or other one-offs: among others, the Faces (“Debris”), the Kinks (a stellar “Waterloo Sunset," complete with a lesson on the backing vocals), Queen (“Somebody to Love”) and of course the Beatles (“Penny Lane.”) Often thought of as a power popster, but I think he’s somewhere between power pop and singer-songwriter; brilliant melodies (I’m talking, McCartney-brilliant), great vocal arrangements, winning songs, tasteful playing. The record plays to me like a love song to his—and my—record collection, and it will make you long for the days when you cruised around listening to Foghat on the 8-track in your Camaro back in ’74, even if you weren’t born yet. RIYL: CSN, Josh Rouse, the Beatles, the Kinks.

6. Calexico, Carried to Dust: A nice return to form after their 2006 release, Garden Ruin, which went all glossy and pretty and citified. This is back to what they do best… moody, elusive Americana with a heavy dose of Tex-Mex, music that unfolds slowly, breathes, washes over you, makes time slow down. Every instrument that is here, is here for a reason. I love a record that makes a mood. Thanks again to K-dub for turning me on to them. RIYL: Moody Tex-Mex Americana. Los Super Seven, Ollabelle, Mariachi.

7. Mudcrutch, Mudcrutch: I wrote about this band here, but that was before the record came out. Mudcrutch was a band of kids from north Florida who’d relocated to LA in the early ‘70s, and were very much in the style of contemporaries the Eagles (Mudcrutcher Tom Leadon’s brother Bernie was in that band) and the Flying Burrito Brothers, and of course the Gram Parsons-era Byrds. After a couple of singles the record company decided they liked the singer, so he moved from bass to rhythm guitar, and the band reformed as Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Here, 35 years after the fact, comes their first record. Petty is back on bass, joined by the original Mudcrutch line-up, which features Heartbreakers Mike Campbell (lead guitar) and Benmont Tench (keys). Everyone sings, although of course Petty sings the most. It’s mostly country rock (Petty called it “space age hippie music” in concert), including “Lover of the Bayou,” a Byrds cover. But for me the centerpiece is the nine-minute "Crystal River"—which, Petty said at the Fillmore (the real one, in San Francisco), “runs through Florida, and occasionally my mind.” Nine minutes of slow burn, in the tradition of the Crazy Horse classic “Cortez the Killer,” and a tour de force for Campbell, one of the great unsung heroes of rock'n'roll. RIYL: The Heartbreakers, the Byrds, the Flying Burrito Brothers, the Eagles.

8. Bob Dylan, The Bootleg Series Volume 8: Telltale Signs: My own rules generally prohibit the inclusion of an anthology on the year-end list, and really, I’m not sure where to rate this. But most of these songs have never been released, and the thing plays like a cohesive work, and hell, Rolling Stone had it on their list, so I’m putting it on mine. Comprised of outtakes and a couple of rarities, dating from the Daniel Lanois-produced Oh Mercy album in 1989 through 2006’s Modern Times, and just basically one hell of a bluesy root-rock record. This is a 2-CD set, with a collector’s edition 3-CD version running a hundred bucks (of course, some people, I aint condoning this mind you, but some people just bought the 2-CD set and found the elusive third disc on bootleg download sites.) Moody, down-in-the-groove, an alternate history of Dylan over the past two decades in much the same way Springsteen’s Tracks was an alternate history of the E Street Band. RIYL: the real folk blues.

9. Gary Louris, Vagabonds: Louris, ex-Jayhawk, makes a lovely record that lives somewhere between that band’s alt.country on the one hand, and timeless ‘70s folk rock on the other; the companion piece Acoustic Vagabonds, an EP with acoustic versions of 6 of these songs, underscores the folk-rockiness. This record is a worthy follow-up to the ‘hawks’ 2003 Rainy Day Music, and augers well for the pending Louris/Marc Perlman release Ready for the Flood, due in January and an early contender for the 2009 version of this list. Nicely produced by Chris Robinson (Black Crowes, father of Kate Hudson’s kid) with a winning organic vibe; Robinson will also be on board for Ready for the Flood. RIYL: The Jayhawks, swampy alt.country hold the twang.

10. Lindsey Buckingham, Gift of Screws: Buckingham put out three solo records between 1981 and 2005; now this is his second in three years. We Lindsey fans are wholly unaccustomed to such abundance. 2006’s Under the Skin was all soft and acoustic-like; this one rocks out. The original Gift of Screws was apparently rejected by his record company in the mid-90s, so he raided it to populate the 2003 Fleetwood Mac record Say You Will; this is then the second iteration of Screws. I’m a sucker for that signature plunkety plunkety, thumpety thump sound of his (think “Tusk”) and the brittle, glassy guitars and the hot/cool, passionate vocals. Like all Lindsey B records, this one sounds like a million bucks. RIYL: Fleetwood Mac but not Stevie Nicks, “Tusk,” Go Insane.

11. BoDeans, Still: One of four T-Bone Burnett productions this year that I considered for this list (along with Mellencamp, B.B. King and T-Bone’s own.) Their first album in 1986 (also produced by Burnett) was called Love & Hope & Sex & Dreams, a line from the Stones song “Shattered.” The title of this record references the next line of that song: “And STILL surviving on the streets…” Twenty-two years on, Kurt and Sammy continue to tap into the vein of rock’n’roll mined by Springsteen, the Everly Brothers, U2, Chuck Berry, the Stones. Their voices—Kurt’s watery singing, Sammy’s gravely sandpaper voice-- wrap and melt together like honey and scotch, like leather and lace, like a grilled ham and Swiss. There is a simple, earnest truth to their songs that has made growing older with them particularly rewarding. Good work if you can get it, indeed. If there was any justice these guys would be in the rock’n’roll hall of fame. RIYL: Harmonies, simple guitar songs, the idea of rock’n’roll mattering worth a damn in life.

12. The Fireman, Electric Arguments: The Fireman being comprised of Flood, who maybe you know as an in-demand producer (U2, Nine Inch Nails, Smashing Pumpkins, Killers); and Paul McCartney, who you recall is The Cute One. Unlike their past instrumental recordings, this one has songs on it; Macca plays all the instruments and sings, while Flood, uh, produces. Some have called it McCartney’s best record in years, and while I quite liked last year’s Memory Almost Full, those folks may be right. I tend to like McCartney least when he tries to sound contemporary (as on Chaos and Creation, where he worked with Nigel Goodrich, who produced Beck and Radiohead.) But if you like the Beatles you’ll love “Two Magpies” (I wish my friend Joe could have heard that one.) Meanwhile, some of the tracks are really onto something here, with McCartney soaring jubilantly through Flood’s heady, swooshy textures (“Sing the Changes.”) It sounds, others have said, like he’s having a blast. Song titles include “Light From Your Lighthouse,” “Sun is Shining,” “Dance Till We’re High,” and “Universal Here, Everlasting Now.” Damn if it isn’t uplifting. RIYL: Paul McCartney.

13. Lucinda Williams, Little Honey: Ooh, snap! It’s Lu’s curse now that every good record will be “the best since Car Wheels.” But this might be, even though I loved World Without Tears as well. It lets its hair down and rocks. She’s got herself a fella, and whereas last year’s West was all downbeat, dealing with the death of her mother, this one is all, “My boyfriend’s back.” RIYL: alt.country, rock’n’roll, the Shangri-las.

14. Ani DiFranco, Red Letter Year: Wherein Ani has a baby and gets all happy on yo’ ass. “I’ve got myself a new mantra,” she sings; “it goes, ‘don’t forget to have a good time.’” The songs are great—among her best collection of songs ever—but they come off better live with the 4-piece than on record, where the studio seems not to be her friend. (Although I may be punishing the record for how much I dug the shows.) Still, the opening (title) track—on which the protagonist takes mushrooms in New Orleans on New Year’s Eve, and which is bookended by a reprise with a New Orleans band that closes the record—sets the tone for a personal and global exploration. See her live though. RIYL: The Happy Woman Blues, Out of Range.

15. Ollabelle, Before This Time: Surprisingly, this live record doesn’t have the magic that their debut studio record had. But it has Amy Helm and a lovely cover of the Dead’s "Brokedown Palace," and I think it’s better than their second one. RIYL: Cowboy Junkies, Levon Helm, the first Ollabelle record.

16. Todd Rundgren, Arena: Todd did a guitar rock tour with a band in late ’06 and early ’07, and liked that so much he holed up in his closet in Hawaii and recorded this—an entire album of big, stoopid (not the same as stupid), loud, fist-pumping, guitar-driven arena rock. Usually he’s a studio whiz, working out the songs live after the fact (see, 2004’s Liars.) Here, the songs were writ to be played live, and in fact his tour this year—which culminated in a private gig in Philly on New Year’s Eve that we were lucky enough to attend—featured the entire album, played front to back. To my ears, the songs don’t entirely work on the record, not given the way they come alive on stage with the interplay of the band inhabiting them, and the size and scope and force and 3-dimensionality of the live experience. If the record was as good as the show it would rate way higher. As it is, there is more hot guitar playing here from Todd than he’s offered up in years, and I think I’ll pick “Weakness” and “Bardo” as my two favorite tracks. RIYL: AC/DC, “Black Maria,” head banging.

17. Fleet Foxes, Fleet Foxes: I kind of had to put this one on here for hipster cred… Like a lot of new artists I like, the Foxes (5 guys from Seattle) are enamored, a good two generations removed, of the more poppy music of the ‘70s, which is to say, my youth. All harmonies up the yin yang, kind of like CSN meets the Benedictine Monks. Strangely pastoral, lots of layered voices and acoustic guitars. RIYL: CSN, Gregorian chants.

18. Susan Tedeschi, Back to the River: Back to the river indeed. After her last release, which was a departure from her hard blues sound and more of a ‘70s soul record, a la Al Green, she’s back to the deep muddy river of the blues, belting them out like a 250 pound black woman at church (the sight of Susan demurely strolling out at an Allman Brothers show, in sweats and glasses, all soccer mom, then singing like this, continually amuses.) Husband Derek Trucks is on four tracks, and Doyle Bramhall II (from Clapton’s band) makes appearances as well. This is what the studio blues sounds like today. RIYL: A little gospel, a little hot mama in your blues.

19. Matthew Sweet, Sunshine Lies: Poor Matthew Sweet. Like the Cowboy Junkies and Trinity Sessions, he’ll forever carry the weight of Girlfriend, a classic power pop record and one of the best break-up records of all time. Every release is greeted with the expectation of, “Will it be as good as Girlfriend?” And it never is, because there are bands in the rock’n’roll hall of fame who’ve never done a record as good as that one. Sunshine Lies sounded way better to me on the beach in July than it does now—it needs the summer to activate its charms—but this is a rockier record from Sweet and a good one. I’m looking forward to his next collaboration with Susannah Hoffs, wherein they cover songs from the ‘70s. RIYL: the rockin’ side of Sweet.

20. Ryan Adams and the Cardinals, Cardinalogy: Ryan’s first sober record, and so I’m prepared to give him a little slack; getting sober seems to be the primary theme here, which is probably a one-record detour (and then back, let’s hope, to dysfunctional relationships.) The band sounds great, and there are some great songs here—“Cobwebs” is especially intense when he opens his live shows with it, and “Fix It” could sit next to anything on Easy Tiger. But the second half of the record drags, and given the artist’s high points this decade, it’s hard to call this one of them. But I still love the guy. RIYL: The Band, sobriety.

21. Brian Wilson, Lucky Old Sun: It is easy to criticize Wilson, saying for example that nobody’s home, that he’s a shell of his former self, that he pretends to play the piano while talented acolytes surround him and prop him up. Well, fine. Call this record an homage to Wilson and the Beach Boys, with his shaky but charming vocals over the work of those acolytes. But we’re talking about the people responsible for some great records, like this one and this one and this one. Wilson has managed to attract and surround himself with a modern-day all star team of musicians who grew up shaped by his pop sensibility, who arguably do Wilson better than Wilson does. Lucky Old Sun is essentially a pop opera memoir, "my life in music" in 45 minutes. Main criticism: Brian does the spoken word interludes (written by Van Dyke Parks) himself, instead of getting a professional voiceover guy. Mistake. Otherwise, solid B+, and really, who would have thought we’d get a B+ from Wilson at this stage? RIYL: Wondermints, Jeff Foskett, Nelson Bragg, SMiLE.

22. B.B. King, One Kind Favor: Another T-Bone production, and according to many, the best B.B. record in years. Truly amazing that the guy makes so vibrant and compelling a record at the age of 83. Burnett surrounds him with a great combo, including Jim Keltner (drums) and Dr. John (keyboards) and the result is a rootsy, fresh but timeless blues record. Like the Mellencamp record (see below), a meditation on mortality. One criticism: 50+ minutes is too long for a blues record. RIYL: The blues.

23. Sheryl Crow, Detours: I discovered her opening for the BoDeans in 1993 (“All I Wanna Do” wasn’t all over the radio until the summer after.) I bought her first record the next day. It remains, I think inarguably, her best, but she’s managed to carve out a niche as a classic rocker, with Clapton (461 Ocean Boulevard), Neil Young (Harvest) and the Stones (Sticky Fingers) as touchstones, and hell, that stuff is popular. At least it is with people my age… This is, I think, one of her stronger outings since the debut. Some of the lyrics are heavy-handed (a little too much on the spurning boyfriend and the evil administration), but my advice there is, don’t listen to them. Just feel the songs and sway to the rhythm guitars. RIYL: Tuesday Night Music Club, Harvest, 461 Ocean Boulevard, Sticky Fingers.

24. John Mellencamp, Life, Death, Love and Freedom: Despite the title, there’s really not a lot of life, love or freedom here. And that leaves the big ol’ dirt nap. Not exactly a Saturday night dance party record. Mellencamp has mortality on his mind, making this record—and not Buddy Guy’s—the logical bookend to B.B. King’s; both are beautifully underplayed, T-Bone Burnett-produced ruminations on creaky old bones and the footsteps of the grim reaper just off in the distance. Honestly I’d rate it way higher if it were more cheerful. But you can like this even if never moved byy this artist before. RIYL: Mortality, Lou Reed’s Magic and Loss.

25. David Byrne and Brian Eno, Everything That Happens Will Happen Today: I have to say right off, not the best work of either collaborator, alone or together. Eno made the music, then Byrne wrote lyrics and melodies and added the vocals; I don’t think they were in the same city once for the recording. It works though, in a sort of disassociated, eerie way. I have a feeling that one day this record will “pop” for me and I’ll wish I rated it near the top of the list. But until it does… RIYL: I’d like to invoke Remain in Light here, but that wouldn’t be fair. Probably more apt: the Eno/Cale collaboration, Wrong Way Up.

I also liked: the live disc that came in the Prince book that my wife got me for Christmas; the Old 97s; Counting Crows (more Sunday mornings than Saturday Nights), Van Morrison; T-Bone Burnett; the Black Crowes (a lot of people rated this one very highly; the addition of Luther Dickenson from the North Mississippi Allstars was a brilliant stroke); and Beck.

Labels: Mudcrutch, pop culture, review, The tunes, Todd Rundgren, Top CDs of the year

Why didn't someone think of this sooner?

Labels: pop culture, The politics

Karl Rove was wrong about everything.

Perhaps the best news about this election is that it looks like we as an electorate are finally at a point where we can no longer be suckered into voting for the one guy because the other guy is (pick one) a terrorist, a socialist, the guy who freed Willie Horton, a Muslim, OK-not-a-Muslim-but-we-don’t-like-his-church, a northeastern liberal elite, a baby-killer, or whatever.  Today’s young voters, God bless ‘em, look right through that as if it weren’t there. 

In hindsight, it was inspiring, the extent to which Obama steadfastly refused to play the dirty game. Whereas McCain, who said there was a “special place in hell” for the Bush operative who was responsible for tarring him in South Carolina in 2000 with push polling that suggested he fathered an illegitimate black child, actually went and hired that same guy in ’08.  Nice. 

Obama talked issues; McCain (and Palin) said nasty things about Obama.  Today’s voters, especially you youngsters, look at that and conclude that McCain must have nothing positive to say about his own candidacy.  And so you take your patronage elsewhere.  Good for you.

It has always gone that if you spent all your air time smearing the other guy, you could probably win.  Now, I think if you spend all your air time smearing the other guy, you’re going to lose.  Hallelujah.

With respect to leadership: stupidity and closed-mindedness are not, in fact, assets.

The reason so many on the left were so irate over Sarah Palin was precisely this.  While the main thing said on her behalf by the red meat Republicans was, “she reminds me of me!” many of us outside that narrow band prefer the idea of a leader of the free world who is actually better than me.  Someone smart, successful, curious, measured, open-minded… dare I say, someone elite. 

Obama told us that his victory means that anyone can grow up to be president.  Maybe I’m in the minority, but I kind of like to think it means just the opposite. 

When you have the most important job in the world, and you do it very, very, VERY badly, there are going to be consequences.

The combined movement in the house and senate over the past two elections is seismic; we voters have been punishing the Republicans for George Bush quite sternly for some time now.  Both parties need to hear that; the Republicans need to understand that they failed the American voter badly, and the Democrats need to realize that punishing the other guys is not the same as awarding you a mandate.  In sports terms, if the other team fumbles on their own five yard line, do not conclude that you have a great running game.  Instead, figure out a way to capitalize on the serendipity and get the ball into the end zone.

So for the Dems, it’s first and goal.  But we’ve all seen them cough up the ball enough times in this situation to be concerned.  This time, though, they do have one hell of a quarterback.

There is no right and left; there is only forward and backward.

The Democrats—and Barack Obama—are looking forward; the Republicans, and especially the Sarah Palin Republicans, look back.  Specifically, they look back to the ‘50s.  The “real America” that Sarah Palin speaks of, the small town America where there are no liberals, no questioning the government, no abortion, no birth control… that town is Mayberry.  It is Pleasantville, if you saw that movie.  In short, it is a fictitious idealization of a bygone era, shot in black and white.  If it ever really existed, it doesn’t now. 

But Republicans like to look backward.  It is why, from Reagan to Bush I to Dole to McCain, they like to nominate old white men for president.  And like the movie Pleasantville, there is no cramming the genie back in the bottle; there is no returning to the ‘50s, no wiping out the color and returning to black and white. 

Republicans don’t like the future.  They don’t like, for example, gay marriage, which is out there in the future.  They don’t like easy access to affordable health care, also out there.  Many of the things they don’t like loom large and inevitable off in the distance, and so they face backward.  Using McLuhan’s metaphor, they look at the present through a rear view mirror; they march backward into the future.  Invariably, when you do that, the future smacks you in the back of the head.  That thud you hear about now…

A year ago I thought Obama was one election away from being ready.  I’m glad I was wrong.

Bellicosity is not a foreign policy.

It is very easy to stand in front of a cheering crowd and announce, “We’re going to show those other guys what for!”  And it is wholly appropriate… when the milieu is, say, college foot\ball.  When it’s foreign policy, though, it remains unclear what such rhetoric accomplishes.  I totally get, speak softly but carry a big stick.  But “boast like an ass and don’t have the wherewithal to back it up”?  Not so compelling.  War should be, truly, a last resort, not the feel-good movie of the summer.

The Republican party as we know it is dead.

The social conservatives and evangelical Christians, around whom the Republicans have built their winning coalition since Reagan, are increasingly a fringe element of their party, and of society.  All the conservative pundits on CNN last night (such as the insufferable William Bennett) insist that this is a center-right country.  But it isn’t.  It is a center-left country. Just watch daytime TV if you want to understand the “real” America.  For every fundamentalist Christian, there are 5 baby daddies.  Rank and file Americans are not intolerant of abortion rights, gay rights, non-traditional families and so on—rank-and-file America embraces these things.  Rank-and-file Americans live these things each day.

Here in the real America, we live in or near cities, we are multi-racial, multi-cultural. Some of us are gay, some of us are divorced and share child custody.  Some of us are single moms.  We are black, white, Asian, Hispanic, and more.  We are Indian, Korean, Japanese, Jewish, Latino… and that’s just my daughter’s pre-school class.

Not all of us are Christians, not all of us are religious, some of us have gone to graduate school, some of us question the government when it does something stupid.  That is the America that I live in, and it is the America that you live in.  That other America, the Sarah Palin “real America,” the one the Republicans keep trying to sell us and appeal to—for the overwhelming majority of us, it doesn’t exist.  Maybe 20% of Americans live in the kind of place where Sarah Palin thinks real American values can be found. 

Like many of my friends and loved ones, I was offended and mortified by the Republican convention, and especially by Fred Thompson, Rudy Giuliani, and Sarah Palin.  Sport was made at the expense of us liberal citified northeasterners; for Palin, “northeast” is a laugh line. 

The northeast is not America?  Well, you know, there are 63 million of us here (New England; New York and New Jersey; Pennsylvania; Delaware, Maryland and DC.)  Can you imagine the outrage if Democrat party leaders mocked and disparaged “the conservative south” from the stage of their convention? (Southern states comprise some 60 million people; I exclude Florida, which is not the south but is actually past the south.)  Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity could go two weeks riffing off the faux outrage they’d muster off that.  And yet it is OK for Republican Party leaders—for their Vice Presidential nominee—to disparage the liberal northeast?  Here’s a hint: no.  It is not, in fact, OK.

Living in New York City in the ‘90s I watched Giuliani’s government by us-versus-them in action.  His first move as mayor was to get rid of the squeegee guys—the vagrants who hovered by the entrances to the city off the bridges and tunnels, and began to wipe your windshield in order to intimidate you into giving a gratuity.  Everyone (except the vagrants) loved it; we were all “us,” and the squeegee guy were so clearly “them.” 

But the problem with “us-versus-them” governance is that inevitably the circle of citizens who qualify as “us” gets smaller and smaller. And indeed this characterized Giuliani’s tenure as mayor: eventually almost all of us had become “them.”  Did you want to fly a kite in the park with your kid?  In Rudy’s New York, that made you one of “them.”

The electorate has passed the Republican Party by.  Their base is dwindling—really, literally, dying out.  According to a study Sam Donaldson quoted on ABC”s This Week a couple weeks ago, and which no one disputed, Obama was running ahead of McCain by about 3 points… but among first-time voters, Obama was ahead by seventy(!) points.  How does all this bode for Republicans?  They fare worst among the fastest-growing population segments: Blacks, Hispanics, urban dwellers, and people born after 1980 (and 1990.)  They do quite well, it has been noted, among white men.  But white men are a minority who represent a smaller and smaller portion of the electorate. 

This is not a thing that can swing back with time.  I’ll say it again: Obama was up seventy points among first time voters. The Republican Party has to reevaluate everything it stands for, keep the good, lose the bad, and undergo a profound reinvention.  Otherwise we will end up with only one major party.  For all the haplessness of the Democratic party—really, save for Bill Clinton, unabated since JFK—they have managed to undergo just such a reinvention.

Now it is time for the blame game.  There will be a fascinating struggle for the soul or the Republican Party.  Already the extreme right is floating the debrief that the problem is, the party just isn’t conservative enough.  That would be scary if it wasn’t so funny.  Or maybe the other way around.

Labels: hope, obama, The politics