June 2006 Archives

Ya know what gets a bad rap? Hardcore. As with everything, blame the kids: today's hardcore music is defined by Ozzfest and the Warped tour, and that's fine and all, lots of kids get to see music they really like, can't argue with that. But these fests -- with their theatrics and corporate sponsorship and makeup-clad bands and... Joan Jett (huh?) -- anyway, these fests give folks the idea that hardcore is all histrionic posturing and crass marketing, and while you may very well think it is (and it very well may be), it definitely wasn't always this way, and I have the band to prove it: Good Clean Fun.

I don't know much about Good Clean Fun, but all I need to know I learned in a library basement in DC. There were about 50 of us, this was about 1998. For five bucks you could see four bands, including the aforementinoed. Now, Good Clean Fun plays a kind of music my friend Andrew described as "posi-core." I was about to learn what that was. The band started, the mosh pit erupted. But it wasn't like what you see on those late night news reports, it wasn't a "mosh pit," a thing seething with anger and fear. It was simply kids dancing in such a way that happened to involve pushing other kids and maybe sometimes hitting other kids, but everyone adhered to an unspoken code of conduct which dictated that, say, if someone should fall down, that person must be picked up immediately, lest he or she (yes, there were girls) risk injury. If you smacked someone in the kisser while swinging your arms around like a maniac, then you apologized, gave the guy a hug or a high five, and went on swinging. The overall good vibe presiding over the gathering is best exemplified by a song played that night, this song, "Who Shares Wins." Sample verse: "If I have the cookies and you have the tin/ then we'll eat together 'cause who shares wins." Chorus: "Shaaaaaarrrreeee/ So sharrrreeeeeee/ 'Cause who shares wins." Is this song, and this band, and that scene, a relic of the '90s? Could you pull this kind of thing off today? I dunno. Prolly not. All I'm saying is that there's good hardcore out there, really neat and interesting hardcore. So share.

Supposedly, this is going to be the biggest 4th of July weekend exodus of Americans to the beach ever. (Don't worry kids, you can probably stay in the back of SUV and watch a DVD, or if you're forced to join the family, you can hide under a towel and play video games that have beach themes).

Maybe a few of these once-a-year beachers will sit on the shore and watch the sun as it goes down.   One of my favorite songs that conjures up the beach and sunset images is "Samba da Bencao." What a fantastic summer sunset song that is.

After a day on the shore getting sunburned, fireworks are usually set off. If we really lived in a free country, we'd be able to aim these fireworks at one another but the stiffs in city hall keep limiting our freedom. Until that happy day comes, we'll just have to make do with the fireworks exploding the in the sky.

If you're really lucky, you live in a town that has an orchestra that plays "Stars and Stripes Forever" as the fireworks go off. Of course, the average American wants jazz to be a part of their 4th of July celebration. One of my all-time favorite patriotic songs is Herbie Mann's reading of "Battle Hymn of the Republic." Check it out, it's a beauty.

Enjoy the holiday, and if you see any animals out please muffle their ears so they don't get scared by the insane sounding explosions.

The other day I was jogging in Golden Gate Park here in SF and I saw something I hadn't seen in a while: one of those dudes with a metal detector strolling across the grass, headphones on, head down, searching. Think of it -- all that park, acres of it, and here's someone willing to scan vast swatches in search of... what? Pocket change? A pen? What is it these guys are hoping to find? What's the ultimate get if you're a metal-detector guy? If there's someone out there reading this who knows, please tell me. I've been wondering this for years.

But it's pretty much the same with music dorks. Most people have the dozen artists they like, and they just play those CDs in steady rotation. For music dorks, at least for me, the never-ending goal is to fall in love again and again and again -- kind of like a polygamist. But lest I confuse my metaphors: That must be what the metal detector guy's all about. He knows it's a huge park/dune/whatever, and he knows that on any given day he's only gonna find a pen or a penny or something, but he keeps on keepin' on, because there's gonna be a day when he finds... a quarter! Or... someone's glasses! Or maybe even a gold ring or something. Who knows. Could happen. Point is: here are a few things I've found in the grass of late.

The Shivers, Charades. All I know about this band is that it's basically a guy named Keith Zarriello (pictured above), that Keith Zarriello lives in Queens, that his record came out in 2004, and that it was completely, totally overlooked. Or at least it must have been because I've only just heard about it (thanks, Chris). Zarriello pitches his tent in that Bright Eyes/Devendra Banhart/Will Oldham campground, but he's definitely got his own thing going on. He'll drape his weepy croon over nothing more than an acoustic guitar, or he'll surround it with organs and drums and echoing harmonies, his songs sounding like they were made with whatever dude had around when he dreamt them up. The record as a whole took a few spins to grow on me, but this song "Beauty" sold me from the start. Put it on your next mixtape and the object of your affection will melt right into your arms.

Liars, "The Other Side of Mt. Heart Attack." I really give it up to Liars. They broke out alongside the Strokes, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and all those other retro-rock NYC bands, and probably could have made a boatload of greenchingo (that's money; I'm trying to get the word into circulation), but instead of making stupid hipster dance rock for the next five years they went completely off the reservation, writing songs about witches and German villages and now this mysterious place called Mt. Heart Attack. Their latest, Drum's Not Dead, is not easy listening by any stretch, but it's quite rewarding, a shambolic mess of screams and squelches and nasty percussion. These guys have a vision, which beats a pile of greenchingo any day. But since I'm a nice guy I'm sharing the most accessible song on their latest record. It's very easy to like. (Thanks again, Chris.)

Brightblack Morning Light, s/t. I love me some Brightblack. Now that they've got this record out on Matador everyone's gonna say they're hopping on the freak-folk bandwagon, but it just ain't the case. Siblings/lovers/friends (they're one of those couples) Naybob and Raybob have been quietly doing their thing since their days of living in Alabama, when they called themselves Rainywood. That they befriended Will Oldham there, picked up and moved to Northern California, fell in with Devendra Banhart and Joanna Newsom, starting putting on shows in saloons and campsites, and generally ingratiated themselves with that whole scene, is just simply the kind of thing that happens to good people making good music. This whole record is great. It flows calmly like a shimmering creek, the pair's voices lava-lamping together with the Rhodes and guitars. This track here is an epic jammer, and comes complete with some soulful horns near the end. Hot cupcakes!

After getting on the FBI watch list for linking to a website charting the history of Hitler Cats, I thought I'd get the feds off my back by switching over to something safe, like international espionage.

The new James Bond movie is coming out soon. I like Bond, but I prefer my spy franchises to be more English, depressing, and grimy. I also like my movies to come with glasses.

In other words, I like Michael Caine's Harry Palmer pictures. John Barry did the theme to The Ipcress File, the first (and best) Harry Palmer movie. During this period, Barry was married to the young model Jane Birkin. Jane left John for Serge, who got her into performing music. Jane's three most recent albums have gone live on Rhapsody. Check out her and Bryan Ferry's duet on the freaky Roxy Music chestnut "In Every Dream Home a Heartache."

Nancy Sinatra dated Michael Caine during the Harry Palmer era. She also sang the theme song to my favorite James Bond movie, You Only Live Twice.

You Only Live Twice is not on DVD yet but its worth checking out. In it, Sean Connery fakes his own death and then sneaks off to Japan where he has to battle hundreds of baby penguins. Those penguins are pretty tough. Fuzzy too. Fuzzy but tough. They peck at Bond's ankles a lot. Bond wins with the help of HMB (Her Majesty's Broom). Poor baby penguins.

My old roommate from college came into town recently. He hasn't changed a bit. Back then (early '90s) he was in one of those fraternities. He kept trying to get me to join and finally I had to tell him that it would never happen because I just couldn't listen to all that U2 and Ziggy Marley. Then he called me a music snob. So over the weekend one of the first things he asked me was, "So are you still getting paid to be a music snob? Even I could do that, bro!" And this made me think to myself, "What would it be like if Real Rhapsody had hired him instead of me?" Well one thing is for certain. My blogging would look more like this:

Hey bros! 'Sup? Just blasting some killer tunes I thought I'd share with you. Here's what's been making the rounds at The Sausage House this week. Booya!

That Dude From Men At Work fully rules! I just love Men At Work. Cargo was an amazing album, but it paled under the shadow of the epic that was Business As Usual. Exquisite songwriting, and that song about "Dr. Heckle and Mr. Jive" changed my life! It's as if they were speaking to me--like these men--these men at WORK knew me my whole life.

Huey Lewis & The News is also pretty awesome. Before I hit the Slam Dunk Sports Bar on Friday nights with all my bros, I like to get pumped up and ready to step out in the night with this timeless album. It's so fine. Finer than cracking the seal on a new bottle of Drakkar fragerence for men. I like to crank Walking On A Thin Line as I'm mousing my hair and looking for some pleated slacks to wear. By the time If This Is It comes on, I'm already rolling up the sleeves of my blazer and selecting a chain to wear around my neck. And then when I Want A New Drug comes flying out of the speakers, I'm strapping on a braided belt and combing my hair, ready to greet the crisp air of the evening and hook up with some sluts!

Kenny Loggins is the man, bro. When I first heard Loggins rock that "Danger Zone" song from the Top Gun soundtrack, my bro Jeremy had to stop me from enrolling at the Naval recruiting office. This song fully rocks! So did Loggins! Dude! He was one of the first guys to sport the flat-top and beard combo. And yeah, his contributions to the first Caddyshack film were awesome. But check this out! Nobody's Fool from Caddyshack II is even better! Which makes perfect sense, since the sequel was way better too.

Sting's The Dream Of The Blue Turtles Whoa! What a totally random title for an adult contemporary album! So random! This is such a heartfelt record. Way better than his old band. And that Love Is The Seventh Wave song gets all reggae stylie! Dude, nothing like gettin' irie and dancing with drunk chicks at The Sausage House's annual Reggae Not Rape fundraiser for uh...awareness or something. That first song on there called If You Love Somebody Set Them Free is pretty tight too and it makes perfect sense because after I hook up with one of our frat sisters, I'm usually all, "Get the hell out of my room, Jen!" (For some reason, most girls at my college are named Jen so this works like almost every time).

U2's Rattle And Hum fully rocks! When I put this on, it takes me right back to the dorm room that I first got drunk in. We were sipping Purple Passions and Jeremy's sister popped this bluesy baby in and bro, it's a classic. Especially when Bono sings When Love Comes To Town and the Edge is swappin' hot licks with that old blues dude. Totally hot! I swear, U2 can do anything! They're so talented and smart (and believe it or not, that Bono guy could really teach us a thing or two about foreign policy). But this is the album where they returned to their roots, bro! OK, they're from Ireland, not Harlem, so maybe they're returning to somebody else's roots...but I can just totally dance to this one with my bros like we were Calvin and Hobbs, man.

Ska Funk Rasta Punk, bro!!!

by Stephanie Benson

I recently discovered the thrill of free ON DEMAND movies and while the majority of the selections are random at best, I've found a few in the batch that have always been on my list of must-watch-but-probably-never-will. Well, I watched, and so far my ON DEMAND experience has successfully been an anti-drug campaign and motivation for me to never date a musician. 

Dig! was my first pick – a documentary about the love/hate relationship between the Dandy Warhols and the Brian Jonestown Massacre, specifically lead singers Courtney Taylor and Anton Newcombe. The competition, adoration, and, in the end, pure disgust between the two is priceless and is what ultimately makes this "rockumentary" worth checking out, even if you've long ago thrown away your tie-dye t-shirts and other, well, '60s paraphernalia.

On my last post, I took the controversial stand that baby raccoons are cuter than kittens or puppies. Almost immediately there was a weird feeling in the air, as if evil was afoot. Then, one of my operatives sent me this site: hitlercats.

What was once the domain of fiction, say Hitler being cloned in The Boys from Brazil, the cats have turned into cold hard fact. Don't believe me? Here's all the evidence you need, my friend:

That's Hitler, down to the bad buzz-cut, clipped mustache, and cold, imperial stare!

Instead of warning Poland to prepare for an invasion of mustachioed felines, I decided to stick my head in the sand and watch a video of Corinne Bailey Rae riding a bicycle. Health and efficiency in motion, and a nice summery tune to boot.

Speaking of summery, Felt's debut LP Crumbling the Antiseptic Beauty just went live on Rhapsody. There is even a song on it called "I Worship the Sun." While less poptastic than their later offerings it's still a polite, pastoral, dream-laden essential.

If you want some summer sounds that are more upbeat, I'd try Jorge Gil's "Take it Easy My Brother Charlie." Actually, even listen to this song if you are a downbeat, armless shut-in who hates good weather, waves, and your brother Charlie. Its completely great, and has the ability to put a smile on anyone's face.

by Sam Chennault

I'll offer this supplement to Garrett's Paris post. This quote is from a NY Times article about Storch, who did the production for the Paris album.

While Mr. Storch compared Ms. Hilton's sound to Cyndi Lauper's and Blondie's, he tap-danced when asked if Ms. Hilton could actually hold a note. "If people are given the right circumstances and the right track and the right melody, it's about the conviction," he said. "It's not necessarily about being a God-given virtuoso."

Sure.

Mr. Storch and Ms. Hilton became an item during their time together. The two showed up hand in hand at the 2005 MTV Video Music Awards, and he did buy her a Bentley. (He also purchased one for his ex-girlfriend Lil' Kim when they were an item.) Did the two mix business and pleasure? "It's always a pleasure working with Paris," Mr. Storch said with a sly chuckle. "We were good friends. Let the world figure that out. I take the high road."

by Sam Chennault

The greatest thing about working at Rhapsody is having access to Fantasy Rhapsody. I'm not sure about whether I'm permitted to tell you guys about this, but basically we have access to almost every album ever released, regardless of digital rights issues.

Recently, the higher-ups at Real have rewarded me with Ultra-Fantasy Rhapsody. Not only do I get to listen to classic Led Zeppelin and Eagles material, but I also get a sneak peek at the future and am able to listen to albums that have yet to be released or even created. While I'm not permitted to play any snippets for you, I can offer a few reviews so at least you know what to expect.

Jay Z, The Blue Album
Let's face it -- Jay Z had a tough 2006. First he was canned from Def Jam following what is now referred to as the "Roots fiasco," then Beyonce dropped him due to his rumored affair with Barbados-born teen vixen Rihanna and, to add salt to the wounds, former and current rival Nas delivered  the proverbial nail in the coffin with his Blakian diss track, "Quintessence." So it comes as no surprise that for his comeback album the once-dapper star has lost some of his swagger. The machismo of "Big Pimpin'" has been replaced by the sad alcoholism of "Steady Drinkin'...Alone," while "Sh*t off My Shoe" shamelessly recycles the beat for "Dirt Off My Shoulder."  Though it lacks the bombast of previous Jay Z releases, there's poignant vulnerability in "I Surrender," his response to the Nas diss track. A sure fire hit for those with a fetish for depressed black males.

Diana Ross, Supreme Insanity
Following on the heels of dear friend Michael Jackson's 2007 nervous breakdown, Ms. Ross decided to explore the material of fellow extra terrestrial and former Pink Floyd lead singer Syd Barrett.  The album's maudlin, big band arrangements of "Effervescent Elephant" and "Baby Lemonade" are oddly endearing, striking a balance between sentimental schmaltz and acid-dipped psychedelia. Her phrasing is impeccable throughout, daring the listener to keep a dry eye as she recounts, "inside an eye be the lonely one, my bride/ how I leave on the waddling wheel/ they flail /a gasp shringing/ a bad bell's ringing/ the angel - the daughter." Perfect music to play at your high school reuninion.

Pussy Augmon, Music for Whorehouses
This collaboration between Brian Eno and Snoop owes more than a debt of gratitude to the trailblazing Gnarls Barkely project, which (as of Jan. 1st, 2007) has sold in excess of ten million copies and garnered Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse a dozen Grammy nominations. Though one would imagine that a slight tinkling piano phrase repeating for ten minutes over the sound of bong ingestions would grow tedious, the cumulative effect of "4/20" (Whorehouse's first track) is powerful, reminding listeners of the transience of modern life and marijuana. Less successful is the second and third tracks, which are entirely comprised of a grating atmospheric buzz and the sound of an obviously irritated Snoop threatening, "B*tch, you best cue the beat…I pimp smack ya bald head ." The inclusion of Eno dialing 9-1-1 before the track fades out is oddly satisfying.

by Linda Ryan

In a weird/sad moment of serendipity, Irish footballer Roy Keane has retired because of a persistent hip problem. Wasn't I just talking about him in my last blog? I mean – how weird. I hope I didn't jinx the man. Keane spent most of his career helping Manchester United to one victory after another, and fans were hoping he'd do the same for Celtic, but it looks like he won't get the chance.

Speaking of football/soccer/whatever, does it seem like America is a little excited about World Cup? I mean, as excited as one could hope for, given the flat, shoddy display against the Czech Republic in their inaugural game. But I get the feeling that the games are hit.

That Paris Hilton post has left me feeling all weird. I thought perhaps there was something interesting to say about her song, but ultimately I found myself at a loss for words, and had to fall back on those of Billy Za-- I mean Shakespeare. And now the post is sitting up here, staring back at me and you. So, by way of apology, here's some music that you may or may not like, but which is, at the very least, interesting.

Noise, abstract, ambient, experimental electronica -- Tim Hecker's Haunt Me Haunt Me, Do it Again fits somewhere in there. But even if you're not a fan of those sounds you'll dig this record; it's that purrty. Sonically speaking, the proceedings start with a fog rolling in, a fizzy haze of sound covering tinny, busy chirps. For the next hour the music swirls and crackles, tones emerging into the foreground and dissolving again, a cascade of computer-processed found-sounds thrumming, nothing really recognizable, except for that Regis Philbin sample. And it ebbs and flows and whirs and sparks, man-made circuit-noises sounding as natural as a forest alive -- haunting, haunting.

"I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart: but the saying is true 'The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.'" -- Billy Zane. No, strike that. It was Shakespeare.

A week or so ago, I brought up the essential summer song "Kites Are Fun." Since Rhapsody didn't have Free Design's 1967 original version, I used a faithful indie pop cover of it.

The Blog Gods must have heard me, because next thing you know, the daringly different, startling original, and flat-out kite-tastic Free Design version of "Kites Are Fun" went live on Rhapsody

                           In other controversial Blogosphere news, my wife told me that there is no great Puppies Vs. Kittens battle of the completely adorable. She said that felines and canines had long ago laid down their paws at the strangely human-like hands of the mighty baby raccoon, who won the legendary Cuteness Wars long ago.

She would also like to give a plug to Rhett Miller. Her favorite songs on his new album are "Help Me, Suzanne" and his reworking of his Old 97's number "Question." My favorite is the title track "The Believer," about the tortured life and terrible death of Elliot Smith. The sadder, the better.

There may be one or two of you out there who are more interested in the new generation of jazz marvels than in baby animals. If so, I'd give my Rhapsody radio station The New Breed a listen. You're stuck in the office all week, what else is there to do? Work?

by Stephanie Benson

So, I went to see my beloved Eagles of Death Metal a few nights ago at Slim's in SF, a great intimate venue to get up close and personal with the shenanigans onstage. First of all, lead singer Jesse "The Devil" Hughes is just a straight-up rock star with his flamboyant shakes, tattered mustache, aviator retro sunglasses, and not to mention his constant shout-outs to all the ladies and the "Can I hear an Amen(s)!" Sleazy, raunchy and enough sexual innuendos to make Austin Powers ashamed, their garage rock vibe ran the gamut from the Stones to even the Village People (well, maybe just because I kept thinking Hughes looked like the construction worker one).

The controversy is still raging over the whole shark thing. Jeff S. took the bold stand that he likes sharks. Jeff also wants the public to know that the Tacoma Zoo has a nifty shark exhibit. Sharks may just put Tacoma on the map.

On the other hand, Patricia H. wants less sharks and more blogging about cats.

To prove that music can bring us all together, I'd like to remind people that one day we may all live in a world where Shriekback's "Shark Walk" can swim in harmony with The Cure's "Love Cats." I'd also like to remind all arty bands to sell out their ideals and write more tunes like "Love Cats," because that is one fantastic pop song.

It should never be a crime to put something beautiful out into the world. The Miles Davis/Gil Evans reading of "Concierto de Aranjuez" is justly famous, but I think that Jim Hall's version with Paul Desmond & Chet Baker is even more beautiful.

Speaking of beauty, people have been asking when new pictures of Max will go up. I may pet the dogs, but I listen to the people:

Now that I see this sun dappled photo of Max, I feel bad that he's stuck in the house. Time to take him out for a walk.

I have to move! Underground hip-hop dudes are threatening my cat!

OK, that's not the real reason why I'm relocating back to my old neighborhood in the Mission district of San Francisco. The truth is that I just really miss living there and it's closer to work. Also, the bars are better (hello my old friend, Tecate on tap), the parties never stop (except when the cops show up), there are more venues to see live music and the plentiful Mexican food simply can not be beat. But another thing that I miss about rocking the Mission position is the sense of community I feel amongst the artists and musicians. At the risk of coming off like I'm writing about some kind of scene, here are some of my favorite Mission musicians.

Kelley Stoltz is very popular out here. His music is like a seance where he channels all the ghosts of his record collection. I swear that when he sings, you can hear old musty vinyl crackling under his lyrics.

Paula Frazer from the band Tarnation (who were an early alt country band on 4AD) has a beautiful voice. Her solo stuff sounds just as otherworldly as Tarnation, but more cinematic and dreamy.

Michael Talbott and the Wolfkings recently put out an amazing first album. My favorite song on there is called "Goodnight." Michael has played in a slew of Bay Area bands, but his debut album blends bits of bygone canyon rock that reminds me of "Papa" John Phillips with a hushed Nick Drake influence on the vocals.

I'm also really getting into this new album by the Court & Spark. I have to admit that when I heard they had left behind their alt country sound for a more atmospheric indie thing, my gut reaction was, "How predictable...." But damn, was I wrong. They've really hit their stride here. Check out the second song. Not only does it have the best title of anything ever, but it renews my faith in life-after-twang. The Court & Spark are also the backing band the aforementioned Frazer and Talbott.

Comets On Fire are probably my favorite Mission band. They're harder than nails but more innovative than any other act out here. Words can not honestly describe the heaviness of their sound, so I'll shut up now and let you listen for yourself.

Oakley Hall are a bunch of hippies from Brooklyn who are friends with Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Brian Chase. They look like extras from Little House on the Prairie and their record collection (as evidenced by the jams they squeeze out) would make a San Francisco DJ circa 1968 blush -- country-ish collective space rollers awash in fiddles, organs, guitars and vocal harmonies. Does that make them yet another hipster flavor of the month? You'd think so, but no. They're simply a hard-working, under appreciated, well-dressed troupe of bearded long-hairs (exceptin' for the ladies, of course, who're right purty). They've got three full-lengths out, been doing their thing for about four years now. Their latest is the brand new Gypsum Strings, and it comes on the heels of Second Guessing, released just six months ago. Last week my main man Justin brought me to their show here in SF, where Oakley Hall really turned back the clock, absolutely killing it. Justin says it better than I could right here. And you can check out some sweet Oakley Hall tunage right here.

After spending a nice long weekend out and about, I came back to the luxurious Rhapsody offices to discover another bundle of letters on my desk.

It seems that many concerned parents don't want their kids to learn that sharks are fun. Sorry, parents. Kids: Sharks ARE NOT fun. Sharks are not into playing video games or watching DVDs from the back seat of cars or any of that exciting kid stuff. Sharks are boring.

But, while sharks may have some problems, "Kites Are Fun." They really are.

People mistakenly think that jazz is dull or too intellectual. But I'm here to tell you that jazz can be as fun as a bushel of kites. If you don't believe me, check out my Birth of Soul Jazz playlist. Most of the songs on it are hard bop stalwarts, but the term soul jazz just sounds like it would be a whole lot funner.

OK, Max got scared at all the shark talk. A quick biscuit and a brisk walk will make him forget all about it.

Now then. I'm the Electronica Editor at Rhapsody, and that means we'll have no more talk of stringed instruments and stuff that actually makes sound simply by blowing into it.

If there isn't a switch, I don't want to know.

Let me explain. I actually do like the world outside my machines, and probably attend more 'rock' gigs these days than electronic, but for me there's just nothing to touch that visceral hair-standing-on-the-back-of-your-neck moment of hands-in-the-air madness when it's all coming together. This is not to say other sounds aren't exciting, beautifully played, moving or fulfilling, it's just that for me, other genres never quite provide that moment.

And this brings me to Daft Punk.

Those of you lucky enough to see them at Coachella 2006 know what I'm talking about. The greatest show we've ever seen. Ever. The world is now divided into those who experienced that performance, and those that missed it. For fans of the electronic genre, missing that show is as bad as missing Orbital at Glastonbury (which I missed), or Sasha & Digweed at Twilo (missed that), or Fatboy Slim on Brighton Beach (damn damn damn).

So why were Daft Punk so good? Firstly, as you will either know or learn from listening to Discovery, Homework, Alive 1997, Daft Club or Human After All, this duo have a marked talent for a catchy tune. No amount of good production and wizzy effects can mask a duff song, and as with all genres of music, the true geniuses in electronica understand the importance of melody.

So there's the songs. Then there's the image. Always seen in their hyper-expensive LED helmets, you have to dig pretty deep on the web to find any proof that there are actually humans within after all. Some of us would prefer to believe they really have just beamed down to the US (for the first time in eight years I might add) for our benefit. This is particularly true in my case, since as a Brit it's difficult to admit that the best show I've ever seen, ever, was performed by two Frenchmen.

Next, it was the lights. Emerging from back-lit smoke to the Close Encounters tones, building up to crescendo after crescendo with the huge lighting rig ripping our visual cortex, triumphant atop their black pyramid, the place was going crazy. And then... Twenty minutes into their set the pyramid starts pulsing white light, and tens of thousands of people go airborne. The energy was phenomenal. But that wasn't all - the pyramid was actually made of LED's, so they could display any image moving in any direction, including a vertigo-inducing whoosh into star-lit space effect with DP silhouetted against the infinite night sky, which was nice.

Lastly it was the live performance. Have a listen to Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger, and then imagine it mashed with Around The World, but at ear-splitting volume and with every sense being simultaneously pummelled into submission - for an hour and eighteen minutes. The last song, perfectly, was Human After All, with the show ending on the last "All" to the loudest roar of utter amazement I've heard in, well, ever.

So, that's Daft Punk. Check them out. Those of you who want to hear the actual Coachella show know how to find it. I personally never do that sort of thing your honor, and can't condone such a course of action. Alive 1997 gives you a sense of it, and that was recorded in 1997. Imagine them now. There are a few gigs planned in Europe and Tokyo. Go to those shows - you'll thank me later.

I left an item off my earlier list of songs that can make me cry, mostly because I only got truly choked up the first time I heard it, as it was performed live, by a bunch of kids. And my daughter was one of those kids. I think it was Christmas, to boot.

Still, I insist the song itself is what moved me, not the adorableness of the ensemble, or a dad's perfectly natural (if aesthetically suspect) pride in his daughter, or cheap holiday sentiment. So the fact that I have yet to find a recording of the tune that can match the impact of that first encounter is somewhat disturbing. Especially since there are more than 20 versions of the thing in Rhapsody.

It gets more complicated, though. The song in question was "I Wish I Knew (How It Would Feel To Be Free)." It's a gospel-inflected lament whose power probably derives from its plainspoken delivery: the lyrics make you angry because they don't allow the singer any room to seem angry as he (or she -- check out this version by Nina Simone, or this one by Irma Thomas, or this a cappella stunner from Leontyne Price) wonders what it would be like to live in a land where liberty was something people actually practiced rather than just talked about. It turns out describing how nice that might be is far more affecting than railing about how unfair it is the world doesn't actually work that way. And while the song doesn't insist things will work that way someday, it does leave the possibility open, simply by existing -- by being so reasonable in the face of an unrelenting unreasonableness which the song somehow makes all the more palpable by only daring to hint at (witness such killer lines as, "I wish I could say/all the things I should say," which say everything they need to by saying this particular person can't risk saying any of it).

The song was written by jazz pianist Billy Taylor in 1954, and while the lyrics make it a wonderful civil rights anthem, you can feel how much weight the alternately mournful/joyous melody and less-simple-than-it-seems rhythm carry on their own in any of a number of instrumental versions, like this one by Junior Mance, or this one by Billy Taylor himself.

Still, it's words like, "I wish you could know what it means to be me," and their implicit narrator, that ultimately nail you, so I remain weirded out that my favorite version was performed by a bunch of kids in a private school who've presumably experienced no real oppression in their short, lucky lives.

Please don't misunderstand: I'm not suggesting a performer's age or race or station should (or simply does) matter when singing about, well, anything. But I have to admit this John Denver version of the tune makes my position harder to defend. I'm sorry, but he sounds like he's already living in the world he's supposed to be wishing into existence. (Of this rendition's many sins, pay particular attention to two: 1st, the way his voice actually goes *down* on the line, "say them loud." Canny choice, or simple stupidity? I'm voting for the latter. 2nd: the way furiously strummed acoustic guitar, oddly mixed organ, and out-of-nowhere horns are called on to supply all the emotion his warble lacks as the song attempts to crescendo.)

Folkie Glenn Yarbrough's tenor is every bit as warbly as Denver's, but his version gets much closer to convincing me there's a world we're in and a different world he wants. It still doesn't compare to a roomful of eight year-olds belting it out, though.

Solomon Burke's no folkie, but he's got his own way of adding uneeded sap to the tune. Not only does he begin the song with a spoken bit that goes, "Here's a wish that will come true" (which not only ruins my thesis that the song's majesty is rooted in its refusal to pretend things must get better, but just sounds stupid), he also cuts down the deliberately convoluted title phrase in order to squeeze in the word "yesiree" as an extra rhyme for "free."

Why do moves like that ruin the song for me? Because this isn't a song you need make your own -- it's a song that eloquently insists we're all equal, and should be treated that way. Maybe that's why hearing a bunch of kids sing it moved me so much: I heard the song, not the singer, and for once, that was enough.

(Click here to listen to 17 different versions of the song.)

Down in Palm Beach County, Florida (home of the original hanging chad) (which, come to think of it, would make a great band name), folks in the know have been watching and waiting for John Ralston to blow up for quite some time. Years ago he started an alt country band called Legends of Rodeo that did pretty well in the area. They even scored a record deal with a local label with distro by Sony, but the label went under before the Legends album was released. Deflated but undaunted, Ralston -- one of those guys who lives to write songs -- regrouped and by 2003 had enough material for an album. Recorded in a weekend-long, PBR-and-Parliaments-fueled session in Nashville, Needle Bed, Ralston's solo debut, contains instantly recognizable talent. So recognizable, in fact, that Jay Bennett, former foil to Jeff Tweedy before getting kicked out of Wilco, asked Ralston to come up to Chicago and record in his Pieholden Studios. But that's another album, and another story.

This story is about Needle Bed getting picked up by Vagrant Records, home to Dashboard Confessional and the Futureheads, for re-release. It just came out this week and is already gaining the critical attention it deserves. Baroque Americana, affecting singer-songwriter introspection, uplifting string-and-horn-laden jangle-pop -- man it's good. Like Ralston's song goes, "No one said that this was easy." Nothing worth doing ever is.

Lovely record alert: new Regina Spektor, Begin to Hope, plops down on June 13. If you find Fiona Apple's jams a touch on the maudlin side and like your grand piano cabaret pop administered by a chanteuse with a sense of humor, this chick's for you. Her new one's quite the production: warm synths, shimmering strings and a few thumping drum machines join the cast, supporting the Broadway baby that is Spektor's playful coo and ace piano playing. This new single here, "On the Radio," should give you a good idea. It's cutsey and a touch sentimental, with these quaint little staccato strings and verses that go, "You laugh until you cry/ You cry until you laugh," but the chorus totally charms me: "On the radio/ You'll  hear 'November Rain'/ That solo's awful long/ But it's a good refrain." I mean, who drops a Guns n' Roses reference into their dainty little pop song? Regina Spektor, that's who.

Bonus track: While we're on the subject of pretty female voices singing over melancholy pianos (OK, we didn't get to that above, but there's plenty of that on the new Spektor disc, too), I've been revisiting this litte song by Psapp a lot lately. It's from their daft new record The Only Thing I Ever Wanted. It's sad and pretty, a total rainy day song, so maybe a little counter-intuitive for summer, but damn it, sometimes you just want to be a sad sack. Try it: "Make Up."

by Sam Chennault

While revamping the hip-hop genre tree -- check it out when you have the chance -- I  had to evaluate thousands of artists to determine their style. I was given these really long Excel spreadsheets and the work was incredibly tedious, but I hope that it pays off and makes the site much more user-friendly.

Anyway, I did run across a lot of great new music as well as encounter some pretty bad handles. Here's a list of the ten worst names that I came across.

10. OX da Neighborhood Short Stoppa
If you're a solo artist and you have 8 syllables in your name, you've already lost.

9. Da Muzicianz
I like it when rappers change the spelling of ordinary words, but the key is to make it snappier (JT Tha Bigga Figga), more political (AmeriKKKas Most Wanted) or make some veiled reference to your gang affiliation (DJ Quik). Or, if you have to add a bunch of Zs, slap 'em on the end (Supafriendz or The Hoodratz ). But this sideproject from the Ying Yang Twins just makes it more confusing.  Though judging by their single, they should've named themselves Da Dumb.

8. Don Gotti, Irv Gotti, John Got'ti, Gotti, Yo Gotti, etc… (tie)
Yeah, we know... you're mob affiliated.  At least John tried to throw in an arbitrary apostrophe to distinguish himself.

7. Kingpin Skiny Pimp
Duke used to be just Skinny Pimp before he felt the need to reemphasize his masculinity…now nobodyr really f**ks with him. He is a pretty legendary figure.

6. Queen Boyz
These dudes better be the toughest guys in the world. And I don't think throwing a "kingpin" in there will help out in this case.

Maybe the Queen Boyz can get together with Flame Gang (whose most popular song is "My Ding a Ling"), Swollen Members, and Fairy GodMother (of Rosebud, no less) for a super group of sorts.

4. Flame & Tha Magician Crystyl
Never knew that Jim Henson was in a rap group. At least they threw in a couple of misspellings.

5. Snakez on Da Plane
Okay, not a real one… not yet at least.

3. Buddah Mack
He's down with Da Peazeful Pimpz.

2. Khadafi
The menace and shock aspect kinda wears off now that Khadafi is our friend. If you're going to name yourself after famous villains, go for dead ones. They can't be redeemed. With that said, this rapper is more of monster on the micraphone than the dictator ever was in real life.

1. Tha Klan
I think I'm going to rename myself Delorez Tuka or Jak Whyte. For background on The White Stripes reference, see this.

You think you have problems? Just try forming an underwater rock band with a shark. Much harder than I thought it would be.

Sure, sharks are terrifying, prehistoric killing machines but everyone has a sensitive side. Plus, I figured that sharks had been unfairly branded by the terrorifying theme to Jaws.

Thankfully, Lalo Schifrin knew that sharks, especially great white sharks, just want to get down and party, like everybody else (minus music critics, who hold to a strict "no dance" policy). Check out Lalo's disco version of "Jaws." As a bonus, the songs shows that Schifrin could juggle irony while inventing modern electronica (listen to that high bpm intro).

Lalo did that for the 1970s jazz label CTI. Creed Taylor International is famous for its guilty pleasures, but it also released some great, mainstream jazz LP's too.Take the Stanley Turrentine platter Sugar, for example.

That reminds me, I have to grab Max and run down to the chiropidist.

Sorry to blog twice in one day, but Tim's blog inspired me yet again (for the record I was not calling him a girl in my previous post). But that's one of the rad things about working here--when my coworkers and bosses aren't turning me on to awesome music, they're reminding me of stuff I grew up with. Like when Tim referenced Terry Jacks it totally reminded me of sitting in the back of my mom's station wagon, listening to "Seasons in the Sun" while she drove me to baseball practice (it also reminded me when Nick told me that Jacks used to be a member of the Poppy Family, but I digress).

Maybe you've heard of Yacht Rock and perhaps you've even heard some Dad Rock. But have you ever heard any Mom Rock?

Hmm. I'm pretty sure Eric Shea just called me a girl. I don't mind, though, as I'm more than willing to embrace my inner lady. To prove it, I figured I'd share some songs that have actually made me cry.

Granted, this used to happen a lot more often when I was an overly sensitive prepubescent. Back in the '70s, I was a sucker for story songs, particularly ones that ended with somebody's death. Paper Lace used to do it to me with their version of "Billy Don't Be a Hero," the sad tale of an overeager soldier who ignores his girlfriend's advice to keep his head down, and gets it blown off in the process. Does she admire him for his sacrifice? No, she does not. (In something of a maudlin twofer, Paper Lace's debut album also had another killer story song, "The Night Chicago Died," which would have made me cry if it didn't end with daddy the cop coming home safely from the gang warfare, kissing momma's face, and wiping her tears away, just when my own were getting ready to come spewing forth).

My ears tell me those two are re-recordings of the originals, and though they're pretty faithful, I confess they lack the power to move me much anymore. Not so for David Geddes' "Run Joey Run," which ends with the pregnant girlfriend jumping in between the shotgun her daddy's wielding and the bad news boyfriend he was aiming at. In a brillliant production touch, poor Julie doesn't even get to finish the chorus, because, you know, she dies.

Of course, the absolute pinnacle (or nadir, if you're a cynic) of bathetic '70s pop was Terry Jacks' version of "Seasons in the Sun," which, infuriatingly, isn't yet available in Rhapsody (adding to the frustration: neither is Rod McKuen's original version, nor "Le Moribund," the Jacques Brel tune McKuen translated/reworked to create "Seasons"). Though you really have to hear McKuen's harshly strummed acoustic guitar coupled with beat-poetry-reading-vocal to truly appreciate just how horribly Jacks bowlderized the tune, you can get some sense from this Kingston Trio version, which at least retains the very French, very existential third verse, in which we learn that the dying narrator is not so much a tender soul as a bitter cuckold who threatens to haunt his wife from the grave because she cheated on him with his best friend.

Another death-and-adultery story song that still chokes me up is the Band's recording of "Long Black Veil." Yeah, Johnny Cash's version is fine, too, but I've never heard anybody quite so mournful as Rick Danko when he explains that he let a judge convict him of murder rather than offer an alibi, "because I had been in the arms/of my best friend's wife."

Lest you think I'm confusing irony with genuine emotion, I'll leave you with two semi-recent songs that actually made me cry with no hipster ratonalizations. Amy Rigby's "Don't Ever Change" is as honest a summary of loving/hating your family as I think anyone will ever write, and the bit where she lets her daughter listen to her iPod rather than try to engage her in conversation still makes me crumble, even though I've played the thing at least 100 times.

And the Flaming Lips' "Waiting for a Superman" is one of those sad songs that doesn't try to convince you life does anything but get grimmer and grimmer as you go on, but it does so with such unblinking bravey and compassion that you somehow feel better when it's over, like a sponge that's just been wrung out good.

(Click here for a playlist with all these sad songs on it.)

by Linda Ryan

Yeah, it's been a while. I know. But seriously, can you believe World Cup is right around the corner? I am soooo excited. The only thing that would make the experience better would be if Ireland, was in it, but they will have to wait four more years. Maybe they'll ask the fabulous No. 6, Roy Keane, to manage in 2010. That'd be supercool.

Speaking of World Cup and Ireland, have you seen those commercials that U2 are doing for the "beautiful game?" The game can change the world, and all that. That's some big expectation, don't cha think? If you're a soccer fan or just wonder what all the hype is about, check out this playlist I made celebrating World Cup 2006. Rock on.

Tim's last blog got me all nostalgic for the punk rock. Growing up skateboarding in northern California, I was exposed to a lot of skate punk. But being too young to skate Winchester Skate Park, I didn't get my first taste of vertical skateboarding until 1984 when I moved to Tahoe City in seventh grade. One day when pedaling my Mongoose BMX dirt bike through the woods to get some beef jerky at 7-11, I stumbled upon Mile High Ramp (those of you with skateboard pasts may remember Mile High Ramp from when Lance Mountain lit his board on fire and took home a first place trophy in 1985).

I couldn't believe it. This thing was practically in my backyard. I tried to roll my Mongoose up on the platform, but some high schooler with a mohawk yelled at me, "Hey dude! No BMX-icans." I understood the part about no BMX bikes on the ramp, but how did he know I was Mexican? So I sat down and watched some older kids skate and then I pedaled my Mongoose back home and pestered my parents into buying me a skateboard every day for a week. My dad finally caved and said, "Hey, anything to get him from hucking ninja stars at the cedar tree all day." I showed him this ad that I had ripped out from a page in Thrasher Magazine.

It worked! The next weekend mom and dad subsidized my first set-up: Powell Peralta's new Tony Hawk model complete with Independent trucks and Bones Mini Cubic wheels!

I went back to Mile High Ramp the next day to get my first taste of vert skating but there was a heated session going on with some local rippers. I was too intimidated by the big kids, so once again I sat down and watched. The skating was incredible, but what really blew my mind was the music they had blasting out of the boom box! I believe this was the very first time I heard this album in its entirety

I couldn't believe that music could sound this cool! I mean in 1984 I was still listening to all the KISS solo albums.

Then somebody put on this album

and the place went crazy! The skating heated up with guys singing along to the album and then this one guy with green hair sat next to me asked me if I wanted one of his beers. I was in seventh grade so the only thing I could think to say was, "Hell yeah!" We got to talking and he was a freshman named Cero at North Tahoe High. He asked me if I liked punk rock and I said, "You mean like the Sex Pistols?" He spit out a mouthful of beer and yelled, "No way! They're like the Duran Duran of punk, dude! I'm talking about real punk rock like Black Flag!"

"Wow, I've never heard of them," I admitted. "The only punk rock I know about is the Pistols and the Clash."

"The Clash?!?" He stood up with his fists clenched and I thought that he just might beat me up now. "That kinda music's for girls, dude!" To this remark, one of his friends said, "Actually I went to see the clash in L.A. with my brother last month and there weren't any girls in the audience. It was like all dudes! I thought I was at a Frankie Goes To Hollywood show!"

Cero laughed and sat back down. And thus my schooling began. I made a mental list of bands in my head and the next time I went to Clementine's Records in King's Beach, I made sure to buy some records by these guys

The first time I heard  "Skate And Destroy" I knew it was the anthem of my people. The record store clerk told me that if I was into the Faction that I should check out these guys because like the Faction, they were another skate punk band from San Jose.

Of course he also suggested that I pick up this

and this

and this

and the shop clerk also said that I had to get a seven-inch 45 by these guys

(the A-side blew my mind).

I was only 12 years old then. Today I still enjoy skateboarding at the ripe old age of 35 (especially now that there are tons of new concrete parks popping up all over the world). Hell, I might even have to call in sick on June 21st.

And I believe that my favorite album to skate to is still this.

"Liar" popped up randomly while I was driving around with my mp3 player going the other day, and I had one of those moments when you recall a feeling you'd completely forgotten ever having. I was suddenly catapulted back to being a 13 year-old and hearing the Sex Pistols for the first time.

It was a weekend afternoon in 1977 or 1978, so I was 12 or 13, at a party with a bunch of other junior high school kids. The girl who was having the party had a copy of the album and put it on. And I remember being completely disappointed and complaining, "This is just rock and roll."

I can't remember exactly what I was expecting, but it was definitely something...more. This was before the interweb, kiddoes, so folks in my upper-middle-class New York City suburb had been reading about punk rock for months without having any real means of actually hearing any. The New York Times and Rolling Stone had both been making it sound like the most dangerous, depraved, unholy noise possible. I wanted the music to scare me. And it didn't.

Before too long I'd see them in D.O.A. and be suitably terrified. There's nothing quite like a blood splattered Sid Vicious to freak you out and make you think zombies are real. But Sid never really played his bass, did he? He just kind of wore it, and convinced you there was a decent chance he'd start using it as a weapon if you weren't careful. In 1977, I was still naive enough to think punk was about the music, not the stance.

But that's OK, because it meant as soon as I did hear a punk band whose music thrilled me, I could channel all my adolescent conviction that adolescent conviction could change the world into loving them and everything they promised. This is the song that did it, and it makes me as giddy today as "Liar" leaves me cold.

Good news, folks. The blue, sunny skies are still here. Which means more beach time.

As I have stated on many occasions, the beach means bossa nova.

But the beach can also mean classic rock. Not just "jump in the ocean once a year with your greasy dungarees and biker boots on" classic rock either. For an example, take Jay Ferguson's immortal summertime masterpiece "Thunder Island." Ferguson, BTW, was the lead vocalist for the fine band Spirit.

"Thunder Island" has everything you want in a summer rock song: a catchy "shalala-my lady" chorus, lead guitar lines by Joe Walsh, and lyrics about a woman who "was the color of Indian Summer."

"Thunder Island" was a late '70s favorite on both of San Diego's FM rock stations, KGB and KPRI. I loved that song, but didn't know who did it, so I couldn't bike down to the local hobby shop and buy the single for 99 cents. There was no Internet then to search for clues. Plus, I was only 9 years old, so go easy on me.

Growing up means knowing who is responsible for "Thunder Island." Since I am now old and powerful, I can decree that the song will be my official anthem for the entire summer. Even longer than that, actually. Summer hasn't even started yet and it's already my anthem.

In addition to singing along to "Thunder Island" at every opportunity, I have also decided to befriend a giant, drum playing shark, turn a large clam into keyboards, and form an underwater band.

Enjoy the weekend. It's time for me to get out of here and take Max for a walk, and start giving him scuba lessons. If a shark can play drums, a dog can play bass.

by Stephanie Benson

Hey there, I'm Steph and my claim to fame is I hold the MN State High School gymnastics record in the Floor Exercise and All-Around. While I still like to walk on my hands on occasion, I decided I better get myself a job because gymnastics isn't exactly a high-paying gig. So, here I am an Associate Producer at Rhapsody with headphones in my ears pretty much 95 percent of the time my eyes are open.