Euphoria Mourning

In my time of dying I want nobody to mourn
All I want for you to do is take my body home
Well well well, so I can die easy
– “In My Time of Dying” by Led Zeppelin

 

As 2017 began, I had hoped the black plague of untimely rock star deaths that blighted most of the previous year had come and gone. Sadly, that is not the case. On Thursday, May 18th I woke to the news of Chris Cornell’s tragic death at the age of 52. To say I was shocked is an understatement. While the dark and depressing details had yet to emerge that morning, Chris Cornell is one of the last iconic musicians I would have ever pegged for an early, self-destructive exit. Yes, he emerged from a music scene rife with premature deaths (Andrew Wood, Layne Staley, Kurt Cobain). Yes, the music that defined “grunge” was the sound of existential misery and the fight for meaning in a meaningless world. Yes, that music was born in Seattle, a city known for its endless rain and high-depression and suicide rates. And yes, Soundgarden’s song catalog was almost exclusively a paean to the dark side of life: “Fell on Black Days,” “Let Me Drown,” “Ugly Truth,” “Blow Up the Outside World,” “Zero Chance,” “The Day I Tried to Live,” “Black Hole Sun” and, most prophetically, “Like Suicide” and “Pretty Noose”. Yet for all the creative alliances with his shadow self, Cornell never came across as outwardly tortured as his contemporary Kurt Cobain (or even a young Eddie Vedder for that matter). He’d had his battles with addiction and the music business during the crazy heights of the ‘90s grunge scene and his first marriage to manager Susan Silver ended in bitter divorce, but he somehow survived pretty much intact and externally none the worse for wear. He was part of the Mount Rushmore of grunge (along with Staley, Cobain and Vedder) and had navigated a career that now encompassed the best of all creative worlds. He’d also managed to find stability and, by all outward appearances, genuine happiness in marriage and fatherhood the second time around. For his legion of passionate fans, this is where the mysteries truly begin.

I’ve been a huge Chris Cornell fan ever since the early ‘90s. Weaned on classic rock, it was so refreshing after years and years of being subjected to party clown hair metal and the dance pop of MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice, and C+C Music Factory on constant radio and MTV rotation, to watch the alternative music scene explode and wipe the slate clean. For all the labels like “grunge” and “alternative,” it was essentially the return of guitar-driven rock; this time, from the perspective of the disenfranchised. It was also the return of socially conscious sensitivity in the songwriting, with genuine rage and indignation defining most of the anthems of the era like “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” and “Jeremy”. While never as fully mainstream as Nirvana and Pearl Jam, Soundgarden were the true pioneers of the Seattle scene and musically more diverse, virtuosic, and hard-hitting. Using complicated time signatures and muddy, droning guitar tunings, the band rocked harder and heavier than pretty much all of their contemporaries. With influences ranging from Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin to psychedelic-era Beatles, Soundgarden sounded both current and classic at the same time. And then of course, there was The Voice.

Chris Cornell could sing. Really sing. Having picked up the mantle of ‘70s-era Robert Plant, Cornell’s voice could be startling in its raw, operatic power. It was a voice that enthralled both men and women equally. I was blessed to see Chris perform live during Soundgarden’s reunion era and his solo acoustic shows and can readily attest to the visceral and enrapturing spell of his singing. He was the real deal and to share a room in his magnetic presence is something I will never forget. He also had incredible depth as an artist. While his rock and roll vocal chops are unquestioned and respected by all peers, Chris was equally rooted in R&B and folk, genres he would explore throughout his solo career following the dissolution of Soundgarden after 1996’s Down on the Upside. The sensitive singer-songwriter side would emerge in his contribution to the Singles movie soundtrack (“Seasons”) and his first solo album, 1999’s Euphoria Morning (re-titled Euphoria Mourning in recent reissues due to Cornell’s original intention, the album is filled with many undiscovered gems like “Moonchild,” “Sweet Euphoria” and “Steel Rain”). He would also band together with members of then-defunct Rage Against the Machine to form Audioslave. The supergroup would produce a string of memorable fan favorites like the blistering “Cochise,” “Like a Stone,” “I Am the Highway” and “Be Yourself”.

For 2007’s solo Carry On, he tapped into his R&B side, with the great takeaway being his epic cover of Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean”. He crashed and burned with 2009’s Scream, an ill-conceived foray into Timbaland-produced EDM. As a fan of Prince and soul music, Cornell experimented with taking his vocal gifts into completely new sonic terrain, but to his longtime rock base it seemed like he’d lost his mind, chasing then-current music trends (and bad ones at that). Scream was very poorly received, but in hindsight is the only creative dud in his entire catalog, an incredible fact for someone with his output and longevity.

Personally I am thankful for the Scream album, as the critical and commercial failure seemed to refocus him. Not long after, Cornell reunited with the members of Soundgarden for a tour that soon re-kindled the creative spark in the group. They followed the reunion tour with a strong (and unexpectedly final) studio album, 2012’s King Animal, and would tour off and on until the night of Chris’s passing. He also managed to balance life in Soundgarden (and a brief Temple of the Dog reunion) with his ongoing, and equally compelling, solo career. It was the ideal Neil Young career model, being both rocker and acoustic troubadour, which both Cornell and Vedder followed faithfully. His solo acoustic tours produced 2011’s Songbook, a live album keepsake of truly stunning performances, especially set opener “As Hope and Promise Fade”. The acoustic jones would also produce his final and arguably best solo album, 2015’s Higher Truth. Filled with bittersweet poetry and organic arrangements that blanketed his still-unmatched vocals, Higher Truth was a creative triumph and one last excavation of deep insight, heartache and ultimately love from an often underrated master.

As further details surfaced throughout Thursday and Friday about Chris’s death, the story became even more heart wrenching. At the same time, the myth-making media machinery went into overdrive. There were the cryptic final Facebook and Twitter posts (fans will forever read into the #nomorebullshit hashtag in Cornell’s final tweet). During “Slaves & Bulldozers,” the final song of Soundgarden’s Wednesday night set in Detroit (Rock City of all places), Cornell slipped in the refrain from Led Zeppelin’s “In My Time of Dying”. While the official cause of death is listed as suicide (by hanging) with rampant speculation about the amount of prescription medication involved, it still leaves a black hole of uncertainty as to how much, if any, premeditation was involved. Did Chris plan on taking his life that night? Was it just the result of one too many Ativan’s (an anxiety medication often prescribed to former addicts)? It’s still too soon to know, but certain things do not add up and probably never will. The real answers died with Chris that night.

For me personally, it ultimately doesn’t matter what really happened. Whatever it was that led to Chris’s demise, it still comes down to a tragic end for a gifted and brilliant artist – one of the best of my generation. While my own shadow side would love to know and understand what was on Chris’s mind that final night after show time, the answers might already be staring me in the face in the rich, deep and slightly tortured legacy of his art. His words and music triumph over the demons that ultimately took him away. The same finely tuned sensitivity it takes to create work of this caliber can also make life itself quite unbearable. Whether or not that was Cornell’s final dilemma remains to be seen (or not). All I have now is gratitude for what he gifted me through his incredible songs and performances. Looking like the long-haired rock god he was to the very end, Chris Cornell gave us everything he had before slipping off into the Superunknown. From the bottom of my heart Chris, I thank you for the trail you left behind.

 

Won’t you take one link from this misery chain
Keep it to remind you of a long forgotten time or a place
So that you recognize it ‘til it’s understood
And that every trace of this misery chain is gone for good
‘til every trace of this misery chain is gone for good
Chris Cornell (1964-2017)

 

 

 

 

Review: You Want It Darker – Leonard Cohen

Another tablet of grim mortality and haunting beauty from the master

Continuing a late-career renaissance that began with his return to the concert stage in 2008, Leonard Cohen is redefining the creative life span of the singer-songwriter. At 82, Cohen has just released his latest album You Want It Darker, a collection teeming with poetic, bittersweet power.  Following 2012’s excellent Old Ideas and 2014’s solid Popular Problems, Cohen continues to delve deeper into his obsessions (spirituality, mortality, relationships gone wrong) with the unwavering eyes of a man who knows his time is running out.

The album opens with the title track, an instantly classic Cohen meditation that manages to sound atmospheric, sinister, and sensual all at once. Cohen’s voice is now far removed from the one that was featured quite meekly on 1967’s Songs of Leonard Cohen.  His gravelly baritone now carries the weight of deep authority and hard-earned wisdom. It is not for everyone and certainly not a Top 40 staple, but it’s become a distinctive signature that fully compliments his writing style. When he sings “I’m ready my Lord,” with the gravity and resignation so clear in his delivery, it is like the encapsulation of his entire body of work and personal quest.

Produced by his son Adam, along with longtime collaborator Patrick Leonard, You Want It Darker benefits from simple, tasteful arrangements that wisely place Cohen’s voice and poetry front-and-center. Each song is ruminative in a way only Cohen can pull off: the sacred and the suffering all delivered with biting wit as on “Leaving the Table,” where he bids adieu to his infamous ladies’ man persona with the words “I don’t need a lover/The wretched beast is tame.” On “Treaty,” he owns up to the existential angst of his years by admitting “I’m angry and I’m tired all the time.”  This is not easy listening, but that is not what the Cohen faithful seek.

Along with the pervasive gloom (or simply the mood of mortality now fully felt and expressed), Cohen also writes with characteristically heartbreaking beauty: “If I Didn’t Have Your Love” may be about a lover or about God (or both), but the haunting images of desolation and darkness only serve to underscore how lost the singer would be “if I didn’t have your love to make it real.” As on the album cover, Cohen might be ready to step into the light, but he still has one arm draped over the darkness. If You Want It Darker is Cohen’s final artistic statement, it is a faithful and uncompromising summation of all that has come before and a shining inspiration to any artist in search of longevity and relevance well into seniority.

Arrested Development – The Troubled Legacy of The Police

[The following piece was first published in 2009]

I had a very odd reading experience recently. As a fan of rock history, I try to keep up with any decent biographies that crop up, especially of favorite artists.  While at Borders a month or so ago, I came across Chris Campion’s Walking on the Moon: The Untold Story of the Police and the Rise of New Wave Rock. Being a huge Police fan, I eagerly grabbed the first serious bio written about the band (outside of the principal players) in ages, forked over the money, and headed home expecting a fun and insightful look at the blond trio’s compelling story.  At the book’s conclusion about 270 pages later, I found myself a bit depressed by Campion’s thoroughly clinical and joyless take on the subject matter.  While well-written and detailed in its research, the book is startlingly imbalanced.

While not an Albert Goldman-level hatchet job, Campion’s book is more a damnation than a celebration of the band. Not every rock bio has to be fawning in its approach or devoid of journalistic integrity, but with most of the best ones you at least get a sense that they were written by fans.  While detailed in recounting the group’s calculated and meteoric rise, Campion has virtually nothing positive to say about the band and offers no additional insights about the music itself. There is no real acknowledgment of their incredible talent as players and no appreciation for the songs or albums. The book is really about the group’s cunning management via the equally legendary Miles Copeland, with the implication being that it was clever strategy and not the songs themselves that drove the Police to world domination in the early ‘80s.

The book is symptomatic of a larger problem that faces the Police: history has not been kind to the band.  By 1983, there was no doubt that the trio had secured a place in rock history among the greats. The group released their fifth album Synchronicity, which catapulted straight to no# 1 along with what has since become their signature single “Every Breath You Take,” a deceptively seductive song about a stalker.  They were already being written about as heirs to the tradition of intelligent and crafty pop once staked out by the Beatles, and with their similar upward trajectory as well as their own Shea Stadium moment on record, there was no denying the similarities. They straddled that fine line of being a pop group (girls loved them), while having rock cred as players with chops (guys loved them too).  And by this point most critics, once resistant to the band’s lack of punk credibility, photogenic looks and unavoidable presence, had come around. Synchronicity and the world tour that followed, was largely greeted with enthusiastic praise. And the group topped Rolling Stone magazine’s annual reader’s poll that same year. From that point on, the group was minted and poised for greater and greater things.

Perhaps it was the decision, largely driven by chief songwriter/bassist Sting, to call it quits while at the very top, another Beatlesque move calculated to leave the audience wanting more. Or maybe it has to do with Sting’s largely MOR solo output since disbanding the group. One way or another, time has robbed the band of its once-omnipotent aura.  Their legacy has not grown in stature in the way that, for example, Led Zeppelin’s or Pink Floyd’s has.  They no longer crack the top 10 of any 100 best album, song, or band-of-all-time polls. Though songs such as “Roxanne,” “Message in a Bottle,” and the indomitable “Every Breath You Take” have withstood the test of time, the Police have not fully transcended their era like most of the elite, classic-rock greats have. They have not joined “The Canon” as once expected, which is a shame as, based on talent alone, they are certainly worthy.

While not doing himself any favors with the guardians of rock history as a solo artist, particularly with his lute and “winter” music (not to mention bragging about his tantric sex practices), Sting is a uniquely talented and complicated figure. Most songwriters are either gifted with a strong sense of melody or a unique way with words. Sting was one of the few in rock history gifted with both. His Police songs have pop hooks that would’ve made Lennon and McCartney envious and his best lyrics (when he stepped away from the rhyming dictionary) dealt with power, control, and twisted love in a way far removed from most pop song conventions. Long before Live Aid, Sting was writing about the plight of the Third World in “Driven to Tears” (from 1980’s Zenyatta Mondatta).  And from his dark, but spiritual meditations on 1982’s Ghost in the Machine to the more personal and psychologically troubled songs on 1983’s Synchronicity such as “King of Pain,” and “Wrapped Around Your Finger,” Sting rose to the level of first-rank songwriters (all this without mentioning his keening, signature tenor and melodic bass playing). Though rife with intellectual pretensions, his best Police songs (and loose album concepts) were all the better for the scope of his ambition. The ‘80s really needed him, but he certainly would not have made it to true superstar status alone.

The Police is drummer Stewart Copeland’s band and without his initial drive and vision, Sting most likely would’ve ended up an unknown jazz wannabe or fringe songwriter at best.  He dragged Sting along on the crest of 1976’s punk rock movement in England, added muscle and firepower to his singing/bass playing, had the concept and name for the band, and contributed a completely unique (to rock) polyrhythmic drumming style that would become a key signature of all great Police music. He was also the most interesting member of the band to watch in a live setting with his manic energy and long, flailing limbs seemingly all over the kit at once.  While by no means a songwriter’s drummer (he completely lacked the restraint and humility), he was the last of the truly great stickmen before the plague of the infamous gated drum sound of the mid-‘80s took over. He was also the perfect foil for Sting’s more introspective personality.

By his own admission, Sting would not have been able to fully flourish as a songwriter without Andy Summers’ equally unique guitar playing.  With his long history in the music business (he was a contemporary of Beck, Page, and Clapton), Summers was probably the furthest thing from punk possible. But his sophisticated extended chords and use of space, textures, and echo effects were also very far removed from the self-indulgent and pointless guitar solos coming from the lazy dinosaur acts at the time. In that sense, he was the perfect guitar hero for the New Wave era, as well as the ideal third element needed to fully alchemize the Police magic. For all of his subsequent success as a major solo star, Sting has never worked with better players; guys who were in a position to challenge his lesser ideas and toughen up his songs.

In 2007, 30 years after “Roxanne” first charted, the Police finally bowed to inevitable and gave fans the official swan song tour. One of the last major holdouts of the big bucks reunion lure, the band hit the road for a world tour that extended well into 2008, eventually becoming one of the most commercially successful of all time.  This spoke volumes about their enduring popularity, at least with first-generation fans of the band that had waited 23 years since the final Synchronicity show in Sydney, Australia to see them perform live once again. But did they deliver on the (too) high expectations? Reviews were largely positive across the board (if you discount Stewart Copeland’s infamous blog entry ripping on the tour’s debut in Vancouver). While the performances lacked the coked-up intensity of the early ‘80s, the reunion was a huge gamble that paid off more than it didn’t. No one was screaming “fiasco” and none of the band members embarrassed themselves. Sting still had the voice and ripped physique, Stewart still had the hyperkinetic chops and wowed audiences with his star turn on “Wrapped Around Your Finger,” and Andy was the overall MVP of the tour, nailing impressive solos on “When the World is Running Down…” and “Driven to Tears.”  While the early performances never fully gelled, by the time they returned to the states in early 2008 they were as tight and muscular as they’d ever been (taking into account several key and tempo changes in the material). Once again, the future held promise. And once again, the band made the same decision: to walk away at the top. Or perhaps the decision was to walk away from potentially killing one another in the studio.

In some ways, the Police deserve credit for sidestepping the typical rock and roll pitfalls. There were no drug casualties. There was no poor reunion album to tarnish their recorded legacy (they are 5 for 5 there).  They never overstayed their welcome (something U2 missed the boat on ages ago). They’ve wrapped up the loose ends with one another and with their fans. And the songs have lasted. They still sound crisp, particularly on the first three albums, due to the tasteful three piece power-pop aesthetic.  As with the perfect instrumental combination of guitar, bass, and drums, the artful blend of existential lyrics and upbeat, catchy hooks will always work in rock and roll. The Police were masters of the form. They started as pseudo-punks, but eventually created their own unique sound, which is something very few acts in rock history have accomplished.  They are Hall of Famers, but deserve much more credit than they’ve been given and they certainly deserve a better book than Chris Campion’s disheartening work.

A Good Time Victory Lap

Here they come and they are not monkeying around

Fifty years (!) past the original wave of Monkeemania comes a new album from 1966’s made-for-TV pop group the Monkees. Having slowly gained more and more credibility with the passage of time and excellent touring work, the surviving members of the group (Micky Dolenz, Michael Nesmith, and Peter Tork) and custodians of the brand are marking this milestone anniversary with an onslaught of Monkee product. While reissues of the TV show and classic back catalog of albums are a no-brainer, there was genuine risk involved in putting together a new studio album. Past attempts at doing this (1987’s Pool It! and 1996’s Justus) have produced greatly mixed results. Considering how most people engage with vintage acts today, there really is no need to even do so. It is much easier for an act like the Monkees to simply trot out their old hits, of which there are many. The only reason to produce a new record would be to add to an already significant legacy, which in the case of the Monkees is a pretty Herculean task.

Thankfully, the brain trust at Rhino Records including John Hughes, Mark Pinkus and the ever-reliable archivist Andrew Sandoval came up with the perfect strategy: go back to the Brill Building formula of the early records while aiming for the high-water mark of 1967’s Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd. This involved digging up unfinished recordings from the group’s heyday along with enlisting a new crop of tunesmiths simpatico with the Monkees’ aesthetic. Another key decision was paring the surviving members with Adam Schlesinger of Fountains of Wayne as their producer. His sensibilities along with his multi-instrumental and songwriting talent prove to be a perfect fit for gently guiding the Monkees into 2016. Each member of the Monkees also contributes strong original material (and instrumental support) to Good Times!

 So the big question here is did they pull it off? As a longtime follower of the group (being a child of the ‘70s re-runs of the show) and more than familiar with all of the larger-than-life, bizarre twists and turns in their history together, the answer is an unequivocal yes. Good Times! is far better than could reasonably be expected and a true gift to fans. Perfectly conceived and beautifully executed, it arrives as an effervescent time capsule of the ‘60s and more than achieves its lofty goal of standing tall with their best work.

The album opens with the title track “Good Times,” salvaged from a surviving demo by the late songwriter Harry Nilsson who posthumously gets to sing along with old friend Micky Dolenz (much like the Beatles created “Free as a Bird,” but done here with a more seamless vocal mix). It’s a rollicking start, reminiscent of a Ray Charles R&B groove and a nice showcase for both singers. In fact, Dolenz sounds great throughout the entire record, whether singing lead as he does on most tracks or providing some of his signature harmony parts. Though his voice has a slightly more mature timbre to it, his range is still incredibly strong and he sounds vibrant (and youthful) on tracks like Andy Partridge’s “You Bring the Summer” and the stomping “I Was There (And I’m Told I Had a Good Time)”. With Davy Jones now gone, Dolenz lives on as the voice of the Monkees.

Speaking of Davy Jones, he is thoughtfully (and effectively) included on Good Times! in the form of a vintage recording of Neil Diamond’s “Love to Love”. Tastefully completed, the song is Jones through and through, providing the requisite corny (but welcome) love song that was his stock-in-trade on all Monkees albums. It’s a real treat hearing his boyish vocals once again. Peter Tork, the group’s soul and multi-instrumentalist is also perfectly showcased on this album. On both “Little Girl” (originally written by Tork as a song for Davy) and Goffin & King original “Wasn’t Born to Follow,” his voice sounds the best it ever has, warm and supple. His banjo prowess also makes a few key appearances as well.

This brings us to the wild card of any Monkees reunion: the appearance of Michael Nesmith. The once-ornery Texan has always hovered as a big question mark over any attempts to re-kindle the brand since they originally disbanded in 1970. Having made significant contributions to music since going solo and well worthy of inclusion in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame on his own, never mind as being a member of the Monkees (his genre-defining work with the First National Band and coming up with the concept that would later morph into MTV), Nez has always had a one-foot-in, one-foot-out approach to any reunion projects. He did spearhead the spiritual follow-up to Headquarters, 1996’s Justus, but has kept his touring participation minimal. That said, any serious attempt at a new Monkees record needed his voice in the mix. His Monkees songs have always been among their best, providing the deep cuts in the catalog that bear repeated listening. On Good Times!, Nesmith again provides the gravitas: “Me & Magdalena” is easily one of the best things the Monkees have ever recorded. Written by Ben Gibbard of Death Cab for Cutie, the song is wistful, breezy and bittersweet with the classic Mike and Micky vocal harmonies front and center. The Noel Gallagher/Paul Weller-penned “Birth of an Accidental Hipster” is Head-trippy, with Mike’s spacey vocals sounding straight out of ’67/’68. Nesmith also contributes “I Know What I Know,” a plaintive piano ballad that is a real departure from the rest of the material here (as well as their entire canon). The song starts off quite naked and gives way to fuller orchestration. It’s unlike anything in the Monkees discography and makes for an effective penultimate track on the album.

Everyone involved in this project deserves major kudos. There is a lot of heart and soul behind Good Times! and if it proves to be the group’s swan song on record, it is a more-than-worthy one. Faithfully retro without being kitschy, it covers the group’s entire trajectory, from the innocence of the first two albums and the psychedelia of the middle period, straight through to the roots sound of the Nesmith-led late ’60s work. It’s a thoroughly satisfying listening experience. As promised, you’ll have a good time.

 

P.S. The iTunes version of Good Times! includes two bonus tracks that are equally notable: Zach Rogue’s “Terrifying” is worthy of inclusion on the album proper and the melody and harmonies of “Me & Magdalena” work nearly as well in the up-tempo second version. Worth seeking out.

Reign of Disdain

He looks like a million dollars, is a three-time WWE World Heavyweight Champion with only three-and-a-half years on the main roster, and is poised to be a main eventer for as long as he remains healthy. So what the hell is the problem with Roman Reigns and why is the so-called “WWE Universe” so openly hostile towards him? I mean, this guy is getting some of the greatest heel heat since John Cena. The problem is, again like Cena, he’s another polarizing babyface (good guy in pro-wrestling parlance). It’s all pretty simple really and could’ve easily been avoided by anyone who is even halfway familiar with Wrestling 101, which excludes most of the current WWE writing staff.

Roman Reigns has been very poorly served by WWE booking (basically, those in charge of charting the pre-scripted course all WWE talent follow). This comes from the top down, so ultimately it falls on owner Vince McMahon’s lap. It has nothing to do with Roman Reigns, who is a much better athlete and performer than he needs to be and is still a young talent learning the game. Reigns could easily coast on his looks and size much like Kevin Nash did for his entire career, but Reigns has much more heart for the business than that. The real shame is that Reigns, originally a cool villain, was organically gaining traction with the fans before Vince decided Roman was “THE guy” and proceeded to force him down the everyone’s throat as a fan-favorite waaay ahead of schedule. Now Reigns gets the same dueling chants that follow Cena to this day: woman and children love him; men and smart marks (knowledgeable fans), not so much.

Reigns made his main roster debut in November 2012 as part of a super-cool heel group of young talent called The Shield. Decked out in S.W.A.T. gear, it was a great gimmick and the right balance of talent with Dean Ambrose as the brains and mouthpiece, Seth Rollins as the Shawn Michaels-like wunderkind worker, and Reigns as the silent, but deadly muscle. All three were genuinely over with the WWE audience and could’ve ridden the wave of this gimmick (and merchandise sales) for at least another two-to-three more years than they did. Instead, they were disbanded in June 2014 to allow for each member to become an individual star, with a top spot specially earmarked for Reigns. He had the right size, the right hair, and the right pedigree (being part of the same Anoa’i dynasty that produced Yokozuna, Rikishi and, in a roundabout way, The Rock). His key weakness, not being particularly dynamic on the microphone, was actually a plus while part of The Shield, creating an aura of mystery around him. So there was no way this could not work, right??

Wrong. It was too clear and simple for the WWE not to mess up. They turned Dean Ambrose into the second coming of Brian Pillman, gave Rollins the heel spot, and tried making Roman the fan favorite. What happened? Ambrose gets over with his goofy shtick, Rollins gets over with his unbelievable athleticism, and Reigns gets rejected by the majority of fans who see through the backstage machinations and pandering. Had Reigns been allowed to remain a villain for at least another year or two, and been aligned with a brilliant mouthpiece like Paul Heyman while building up a great highlight reel as the company’s top bad guy, fans would’ve naturally clamored for him to emerge as a hero down the line, as they have for all great company heels dating back to “Superstar” Billy Graham. Heyman managing both Reigns and Brock Lesnar (another heavyweight superstar weak on the mic, but nonetheless super-over due to intelligent booking) could’ve been epic, filled with great teases until the time was right to present Reigns vs. Lesnar as the climax of a long-term, well-thought-out storyline – and finally the beginning of Roman’s face turn.

All of that aside, the truth is that whether fans like it or not Reigns is still money. As the company learned with Cena, the polarized audience reaction still translates into cash. The kids who snatch up the t-shirts and dolls are with Roman. And the “smart” fans continue to buy tickets to root against him. As in any form of entertainment, the worst reaction is no reaction. Passionate dislike can be unbelievably profitable, just ask Floyd “Money” Mayweather. But it’s also a bit jarring when it is obviously not the kind of reaction the WWE or Reigns had in mind. In the long run, the brand name supersedes the individual stars of the WWE anyway. As CM Punk once said in his infamous “pipe bomb” promo, the wheel keeps spinning regardless.

So where do Reigns and the WWE go from here? He is undoubtedly a star and we seem to be stuck with him in this current role for quite a while (WWE can be quite obstinate that way). Right now, he is embroiled in the early stages of a feud with A.J. Styles, probably the best possible opponent for him, both athletically and storyline wise, until Seth Rollins returns from his untimely injury. So far, both Reigns and Styles are “good guys,” but the seeds have been planted for several interesting possibilities. As we saw in their match at Payback last weekend in Chicago, Reigns was nearly booed out of the building in his first title defense as champ, while Styles definitely ascended to the next level as a believable main eventer. The match itself, while almost comically overbooked, succeeded in sustaining fan interest in their feud. But now a clear-cut villain must emerge in order to take this rivalry to the next level. Will it be A.J. Styles and his New Japan posse the Bullet Club or will WWE go with an Attitude-era swerve and give us an unexpected, dramatically-effective heel turn from Roman Reigns? Though I wouldn’t bet on the latter, only time will tell.

My Super-Deluxe Top 10 Music List…Volume 1

A fellow music-lover recently asked me via Facebook to compile a Top 12 list of most influential albums in my life. The rules were simple: do not overthink the process or take too much time. Of course, I did neither. While I did spare him my endless annotations and explanations for each choice, I definitely overthought the whole thing. My basic list was simple enough to put together. Each was a clear enough milestone in my life and musical education. But a funny thing happens when you put together lists like this for public view, especially as a self-professed music historian: a bit of self-consciousness enters the fray. Each of the artists I chose has such a diverse, wide-spanning catalog of music I love. How do I best represent that? Do I go with the albums that helped me discover each artist (and thus, the most personally influential)? Do I go with the cooler entries in the catalog to show off my insight and “superior” taste? Or do I simply go with what I believe to be the best albums made by each?

The critic in me finds these distinctions interesting.  Most Influential Albums is a very personal list tied to specific life experiences and might not always have the same resonance for others. Coolest Albums is a list I’d put together for inside and hardcore fans. And Best Albums is a list of the records I’d throw in a time capsule for posterity. The choices were pretty tough. Categorization of any kind is often hazy.  I honestly believe that if you ask most people to compile a Top 10 list of anything, there would be a substantial difference in the response depending on the intended audience. I’m certain that writers for Rolling Stone or Mojo often put together contrarian lists filled with underground obscurities just to be hipper-than-thou. My list is filled with artists firmly planted in the mainstream (no Velvet Underground or Big Star anywhere to be found, though I respect each). I make no apologies for that. While I love many undiscovered artists, a large part of being truly impactful as a musician is world domination, which is how I was exposed to most of them in the first place. For this blog entry, I have put together a Top 10 Most Influential Albums list identical to the one I sent my friend, but have also included the highly nebulous “coolest” and “best” albums by each artist as well (there is occasional overlap for each act represented). Again, keep in mind that this list represents most personally influential, not most influential of all time.  I’m still waiting for “all time” to come and go so I can put that list together. Might be a while.

My Top 10 Most Influential Albums (in order of release date)

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1. The Monkees by The Monkees

This is the first album I ever owned, passed down from relatives, and set the template for much of what I still look for in music: well-crafted melodies, sunny pop harmonies, and concise songwriting all delivered in tasteful analogue production. The early Monkees albums were the product of a Tin Pan Alley mindset. Later albums (from Headquarters on) only benefitted from the Monkees asserting their independence and taking more control of the music. Probably the coolest album they ever did was the soundtrack to their totally freeform movie Head. It has a loose cut-and-paste quality much like the film itself and was well ahead of its time. But without a doubt, their best album is 1967’s Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd., a combination of the Brill Building approach (the use of professional outside songwriters) and the greater hands-on musical involvement of Headquarters. They were a misunderstood pop phenomenon from the very beginning. Thankfully, time and hindsight have placed them in a better light.

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2. Abbey Road – The Beatles

I’ve been a Beatles fan since early childhood. There are pictures of me at 3 years old listening to the White Album on headphones. What can I say, I’ve always had excellent taste in music. Abbey Road is the first album I actually went out and bought as a pre-teen and is still my favorite Beatles album.  You can’t go wrong with any Beatle record, but something about Abbey Road hooked me early. It has pretty much everything that made them great: catchy songs, great vocals, tight ensemble playing, and clever production. Abbey Road has the advantage of maturity and Ringo’s one and only drum solo on record. There is whimsy, silliness, joy and deep heartache on this record. Perhaps the greatest swan song ever committed to vinyl. If you’re looking for the coolest Beatle records, the common choices are Revolver or The Beatles (aka the White Album). In my opinion, their best records are A Hard Day’s Night, Rubber Soul, and my desert island choice Abbey Road.

 

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3. The Wall – Pink Floyd

I casually discovered Pink Floyd on classic rock radio as a teenager, but never put together the vast catalog of great songs until a neighbor threw a Saturday afternoon yard sale where I picked up Dark Side of the Moon, The Wall, and The Final Cut on vinyl. The former two already had legendary reputations, so I bought them to satiate my curiosity and was blown away. At their peak (the ‘70s run from Meddle to The Wall) Pink Floyd were as great as any band that’s ever existed, each album loaded with classic songs on par with the Beatles. I was 16 when I first heard The Wall all the way through and it was the perfect soundtrack to that angst-ridden period of my life. The music had space and beauty to it, but it was Roger Waters’ lyric-writing that took me on the deepest ride. In terms of cool Pink Floyd albums, hipster types might opt for The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, if for no other reason than to pretend that they know who Syd Barrett is. Musos might opt for Animals or Meddle. I love all of their work and they’ve since become one of the seminal bands of my life, so choosing their best is tough. It’s a toss-up between The Wall and Dark Side of the Moon, with Dark Side getting a slight nod due to a tighter narrative (a single disc versus the four sides of The Wall) and greater cohesion.

 

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4. In Through the Out Door – Led Zeppelin

Zep purists would find this choice abominable. It’s not my fault that this, not Led Zeppelin IV, was the first Zeppelin album I was exposed to. With punk and New Wave having shaken up the music industry at the time, the mighty Zep now represented the old guard and were the target of snotty derision (along with other ‘70s institutions like Floyd and Yes). They responded by incorporating new sonic textures onto their heavy blues and hard rock palette. Synth-heavy and a bit proggier than anything in their prior catalog, this album still rocked. Some have noted that it’s the album where bassist John Paul Jones got to shine most, relying heavily on his keyboard arrangements and production ideas. To my ears, it has the same epic, symphonic scope as Abbey Road. I still rate it highly and listen to it more often than the others. If I had to choose their coolest record, I’d have to go with Led Zeppelin I. If you take that and III, you have everything they ever were distilled to its very essence: a heavy new form of blues on one hand and beautiful English folk textures on the other. And if I had to choose the best album by Led Zeppelin, first I would cry at having to make such a cruel decision and then I would put on the man pants and go with Physical Graffiti, probably the greatest and most listenable double-album in the history of rock and roll.

 

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5. Synchronicity – The Police

The biggest and best band on earth in 1983. This album was omnipresent and the single “Every Breath You Take” was inescapable. The band’s good fortune was having the release of Synchronicity dovetail perfectly with the explosion of MTV. As a then 14 year-old, the ballad “Every Breath You Take” did not set me on fire (the sinister stalker subtext flew completely over my head at the time), but the industrial aggression of “Synchronicity II” certainly did. The Synchronicity tour was my first concert experience and as far as concert initiations go, it’s hard to top this band at the peak of its powers on what looked to be their final tour until 2007’s highly-successful reunion. As with Zep, Floyd, and the Beatles, I soon snatched up everything else in their back catalog. Looking back, the coolest Police album is probably the first, Outlandos d’Amour. It has the spiky pseudo-punk energy and passion. Their best is Regatta de Blanc, where all the elements came together to create their classic, signature sound. It has the best balance of energy between all three members before Sting grew too domineering.

 

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6. So – Peter Gabriel

By the mid ‘80s, Peter Gabriel had managed to make a successful transition from prog god in Genesis to edgy and credible  solo star. Beneath the genial, photogenic façade was a slightly twisted mind (just revisit the video for “Shock the Monkey”). After releasing several solid solo albums and signature singles (“Solsbury Hill,” “Games without Frontiers”), So was the album that finally made him a superstar. For the time, the production was state-of-the-art with a polish that gleamed brighter than a new Ferrari. This was adult pop that would set the tone for many grown-up artists, including the solo work of Sting and Don Henley. Overall it has aged pretty well too, with many of its biggest hits still staples of classic rock and pop radio such as “Sledgehammer,” “Big Time,” “That Voice Again” and “Red Rain”. Still, his coolest and best album is Peter Gabriel 3, aka “Melt”. It’s not as polished and for that particular set of songs, that’s a plus. The album has space to breathe. It pulses along with menace and ultimately, in album-closer “Biko,” catharsis.

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7. Nevermind – Nirvana

The perfect marriage between the energy of punk and Beatlesque pop hooks. This was Cobain’s musical ethos in a nutshell, polished to a perfect diamond. He would later grow self-conscious about the slick production work and rebel with the low-fi In Utero, but in reality Cobain’s songwriting and Nirvana’s raw power were never better showcased than on Nevermind. The album still plays like a greatest hits compilation (“Smells like Teen Spirit,” “In Bloom,” “Come as You Are,” “Breed,” “Lithium,” “Polly,” etc.), though its culture-shifting success would ultimately have very dark ramifications. Nirvana’s coolest album is Bleach and their best is Nevermind, non-punk production and all.

 

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8. Achtung Baby – U2

A Sgt. Pepper –sized reinvention by the world’s most popular band at the time. U2 hit a slump with critics and some fans with the overly-earnest Rattle and Hum project (following the mega-triumph of The Joshua Tree in 1987). Achtung Baby finds them on the verge of a breakup, with the tidal wave of grunge firmly approaching. The album sessions were turning into a Let it Be nightmare until Edge came up with the signature riff of “One,” which gave them the courage to soldier on. From album opener “Zoo Station” to funereal denouement “Love Is Blindness,” Achtung Baby soars along with great power and genuine risk-taking. They laid everything on the table and came up aces. Their coolest record is Boy, brimming with idealism, punk-influenced song structure, Edge’s echo-laden chime and Bono’s then pubescent-sounding voice. Their best is a toss-up between Achtung Baby and The Joshua Tree.

 

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9. The Eminem Show – Eminem

Following the post-grunge fallout of the music industry in the late ‘90s/early 2000s, where everything devolved to teen pop, Disney starlets and American Idol, pop-culture was devoid of the all-important lightening rod rebel figure. Out of this apathetic scene emerged a young white rapper so gifted with words and cursed with anger that the world couldn’t help but take notice. Like most everyone in rock and pop music, he benefitted greatly from cleverly appropriating an African-American art form. But he did so with reverence for the bedrock. I would put Eminem’s first three albums up against anything in the classic rock, pop, or R&B canon for sheer creativity. For me, his personal peak was The Eminem Show before substance abuse temporarily derailed his focus and talent (he would powerfully rebound with 2010’s Recovery). His coolest album is The Slim Shady LP. His best is The Eminem Show, though he will probably be most remembered for The Marshall Mathers LP.

 

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10. Rodrigo y Gabriela – Rodrigo y Gabriela

As someone weaned on rock guitar, I’ve also always loved nylon-string playing, whether it be classical, flamenco, etc. Rodrigo y Gabriela are the perfect synthesis of both styles, having started as metalheads in their native Mexico before evolving into a fierce, brilliantly synchronized nylon-string duo while busking in the streets of Ireland. Rodrigo y Gabriela captures them at an early peak, with fiery, passionate and sexy playing throughout (the male/female energy exchange is subtle, but powerful), as well as classic covers of Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” and Metallica’s “Orion”. The concept behind their brand was too ingenious not to work. Rodrigo y Gabriela is their coolest record as well. Their best is probably 11:11, though 9 Dead Alive is not too far behind.

 

Bonus Cuts:

Pretty Hate Machine – Nine Inch Nails: This looked to be the natural heir to grunge – hook-filled songwriting couched in Industrial music soundscapes and revitalized synth and drum programming.

What’s the Story (Morning Glory)? – Oasis: Shamelessly “borrowing” from the Beatles, Stones, the Who, etc., these cheeky Manchester brothers still had a genuine sibling swagger all their own. And it felt damn good to hear these familiar sounds again in the mid ‘90s.

Lonerism – Tame Impala: For someone constantly bemoaning the state of today’s music scene, discovering this album was a godsend, like coming back full-circle to something you love. Essentially a one-man band on record, Kevin Parker channels the psychedelic ‘60s, plays bass like McCartney and sings like Revolver-era Lennon, all while sounding fresh and relevant (e.g. “Elephant”). Catnip to these ears.

 

My thanks to Andy Pulliam for the initial inspiration for this piece.