Mysteries Of Life
Years Of Operation 1995-present (?)
Fits Between Blake Babies and The Rosebuds
"Going Through The Motions" by Mysteries Of Life
Personal Correspondence I have a fair-sized list of critics I count as personal heroes, and towards the top of that list would be Ira Robbins, one of the founding editors of Trouser Press magazine and record guide, and a writer who's always struck me as appropriately measured in his analysis of music, and not inclined to ape or reject the prevailing critical opinion just for the sake of it. In the late '90s, Robbins began championing Mysteries Of Life, a straight-ahead pop-rock band from Indiana that released a couple of records through RCA and a couple of records on indie labels, but never garnered much in the way of radio play or press plaudits. I got a copy of MoL's Keep A Secret—either used or through a publicist, I can't recall—and enjoyed it immensely. It was clean-sounding and catchy, with a strong emotional undertow that especially appealed to my wife. But because no one was talking about them much—and because none of the friends I loaned Keep A Secret too were overly impressed—I'd chalked them up as just another pet band that I liked because they struck me right, not because they were anything worth getting excited about. Then I learned that Robbins liked Mysteries Of Life too, and his reviews gave me a framework for appreciating the band. Robbins used words like "unassuming," "economical" and "eloquent," and about their album Come Clean, Robbins wrote, "From the haunted title track to a lonely, solemn cover of O.V. Wright's 'That's How Strong My Love Is' that channels stirring soul power through the delicate folk-pop voice of a white Midwesterner, the album is a marvel… one melodic song after another deftly outlines an emotional moment of regret, desire or disappointment and leaves an echo to ponder once it's done." And summing up the band's discography on trouserpress.com, Robbins wrote, "Ultimately, it's the sound of the records as much as their content that conveys what Smith and company are getting at, and therein lies the fineness of art." I know it may sound weak to say that I couldn't fully appreciate a band until another critic told me they were okay, but that's not really what I'm getting at here. It's not just Mysteries Of Life that Robbins gave me the okay to praise—it's every band that speaks to me, and few others. Being aware of the trend of critical thought is important, and being a knee-jerk contrarian isn't especially fruitful. But the best critics are the ones who learn to love what everyone else is ignoring, and can express that love in such a way that wins converts.
Enduring presence? All three of Mysteries Of Life's albums are good, but Keep A Secret is the one I'd call one of the '90s' forgotten classics. Because there's never been a huge fanbase for MoL, I couldn't find any info on-line about whether they'd broken up for good or if there will ever be another album. Even if they're gone forever, Ira and I will always have our memories.
Negativland
Years Of Operation 1979-present
Fits Between The Firesign Theater and Steinski
"A Most Successful Formula" by Negativland
Personal Correspondence I bought Escape From Noise when I was in high school, based on reviews in Rolling Stone and Spin that described a visionary record that stitched found audio into a comic commentary on Reagan-era paranoia and popular culture. Which, indeed, sums up Escape From Noise fairly well. But I wasn't prepared for Negativland's freeform approach to song structure, born of years spent improvising sonic collages on the radio. I don't know that I was expecting "hooks" exactly, but I'd thought there would be a certain degree of concision, as opposed to the jumble of archival sounds and avant-garde electronica that constitutes a typical Negativland track. Still, the luxury of being a teenager with a collection of only about 150 or 200 albums is that you tend to return over and over even to the ones you don't like that much. (I can't tell you how many times I played Paul McCartney's Pipes Of Peace album when I was 15, and that album's terrible.) Eventually, I got on Negativland's wavelength and began to enjoy Escape From Noise; I also eventually realized that compared to the rest of the Negativland discography to that point, Escape From Noise counts as a pop record. Nevertheless, I continue to be disappointed every time I hear a new Negativland album that such smart, talented guys show such little interest in couching their message in actual music, as opposed to largely indistinguishable rambles. But their style is their style, and there are times when it really works—most notably on their soda-wars deconstruction Dispepsi, which isn't any more song-oriented than their other albums, but does put all the frenetic sampling to fair use (no pun intended), replicating the blitz of advertising messages that corporate psychologists and marketing gurus sweat over, and they we all largely tune out. (Or do we?)
Enduring presence? I had a lively conversation a few years back with the two main Negativland dudes about copyright law, piracy and commercialism. I talked to them separately for about 45 minutes each, edited the transcript together into a seamless conversation, then as per request, submitted the rough draft to them both for any edits or clarifications. That's not standard procedure, but I didn't mind; I'm not in the business of "gotcha" journalism, and the reasons they both wanted to see the interview before it went into print struck me as legitimate: each didn't know what the other was going to say, and given the legal trouble they'd had in the past with bands and individuals they'd sampled, they wanted to make sure that neither one of them said anything that might land them both back in court.
Neil Diamond
Years Of Operation 1962-present
Fits Between Bobby Darin and Barry Manilow
"I Got The Feeling (Oh No, No)" by Neil Diamond
Personal Correspondence For a large chunk of my life, I was convinced that I hated Neil Diamond. I've always had fairly broad taste in music, even in my snotty punk years, but riding in the back of my mom's car listening to adult contemporary just about drove me bonkers sometimes—especially when Diamond came on the radio with that deep rasp and shmoozy persona, singing "Love On The Rocks" or "Heartlight." In the '90s, I grew more familiar with his bouncy '60s pop, and grew to like the songs, even if I was still skeptical of the man who wrote them (Why do so many of them sound alike?) and the way he sang them (Why does he seem so emotionally removed from the actual content of his lyrics so much of the time?). Over the past decade I've adjusted to Diamond, and have started to lump him in with Judy Garland and Liza Minnelli (and others) as a quintessential example of a showman who actually expresses his true self through schmaltz and cliché. The difference is that Diamond isn't as ebullient a figure as most showmen, and his run of hit songs over the first decade of his solo career are almost preternaturally great—to the extent that I almost have to wonder what kind of deal he struck with what kind of devil in order to write pop music so simple and perfect.
Enduring presence? Neil Diamond is responsible for some of the snappiest hits of the late '60s, like "Cherry Cherry," "Solitary Man," and "Sweet Caroline," but he's never been a slave to quality control, and his catalog is littered with rhinestones. More people think of him as an adult-contemporary schlockmeister than a classic pop craftsman. Rick Rubin had Diamond tone down some of his Middleville Performing Arts Center theatrics for the recent album 12 Songs, and the result is an intimate recording with a rocker's restlessness and a showman's confidence. I haven't heard the follow-up, but I'll be curious to see it continues the rehabilitation of Diamond's rep.
Neil Young
Years Of Operation 1968-present (solo)
Fits Between John Fogerty and My Morning Jacket
"The Loner" by Neil Young & Crazy Horse
"Thrasher" by Neil Young & Crazy Horse
Personal Correspondence Speaking of riding in the back of parents' cars—and when do I not?—it was in the back of my dad's car where I once heard the old man refer to Neil Young as a "whining faggot" and switch the station when "Heart Of Gold" came on the radio. I carried that impression of Young as not-good with me until high school, when my English teacher made me a tape of "American Rock Classics" that included "Down By The River" and "Helpless." (Yes, I'm sure my teacher knew Young was Canadian; so let's call them "North American Rock Classics.") That was in 9th grade, and Young has been such an integral part of my music-listening ever since that I had a hard time settling on a song to post to represent the Young I love best. Something from my first year of Young fandom, when I was all about Harvest and After The Gold Rush? Something from the second wave, when I got into punk and blasted Rust Never Sleeps, Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere and Tonight's The Night? Something from Freedom, which came out when I was a freshman in college and restored Young as a vital player in the decade to come? Something from one of the underrated '90s or '00s records, or from one of the hit-and-miss '70s albums that Young turned into Decade-fodder? Eventually I settled on the Live Rust version of "The Loner," from Young's first solo album (a song as explosive yet finely shaded as any of the artists Young has inspired over the decades) and the Rust Never Sleeps version of "Thrasher" (a gentle country ballad featuring Young in subtle character sketch mode… a side of himself that doesn't get enough play with people talk about him as the godfather of alternative rock).
Enduring presence? Neil Young is easily the most vital rock star of his generation, but that doesn't mean he can't fall into a rut. Young continues to take chances with his albums—writing ambitious multi-song narratives, hiring veteran session men and fledgling alt-rockers, turning records into movies, and so on—but his style remains stuck in the same dichotomous mode it's been in since 1970. Either Young plays loud and droning, or he plays soft and melodic. And since his gifts have mellowed greatly over the last decade, the noisy Young tends to be kind of dull these days, while the gentle Young creates beautiful things almost in spite of himself. I really loved the recent Prairie Wind, and I'm sure that before Young dies, he'll record another album or two that I'll love just as much, and a slew of stuff that I'll find boring and beneath him. (And I'm sure he'll infuriate me by postponing the Archives project again… probably right after I buy a Blu-Ray player so I can listen to the damn thing.) When Young finally does expire, I expect I'll be as sad about an entertainer's passing as I've ever been. I feel like I felt when Robert Altman died—like I've lost a true companion.
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Stray Tracks
From the fringes of the collection, a few songs to share….
The Mooney Suzuki, "O Sweet Susana"
"O Sweet Susana" by The Mooney Suzuki
I used to hunt for big record stores with big inventories, where I might stumble across some of the harder-to-find albums on my wish-list. Now I can find pretty much everything I know about on-line, and I'd rather look for record stores where I might discover something I don't know. Such a place is Grimey's in Nashville, which opened after I left town but quickly became one of my go-to destinations whenever I returned. Grimey's was especially helpful in the early '00s, when I got interested in the neo-garage movement and needed tips about what avenues to pursue. That's how I found The Mooney Suzuki, the star-crossed New York rock band that briefly seemed like one of the best things going on the scene, until they made their big push by hiring Avril Lavigne's sound technicians The Matrix to lube and tighten their sound into a smooth-running, high-powered mechanism. The band's major label debut Alive & Amplified was a shlocky record ideal for TV ads and strip-club DJs—and not much else. Prior to that album though, The Mooney Suzuki made one fine album, Electric Sweat, about which I wrote: "The Mooney Suzuki are all about old clothes, unkempt hair, and loud music with handclaps. They're cooking up the essence of retro adolescent hormonal surge, and making music that's all 'go,' recalling an exact out-past-curfew, hours-before-bedtime moment. The Mooney Suzuki's one moment of pure rock glory is the uptempo ballad 'Oh Sweet Susanna,' with its tire-skid guitar sting and frug-friendly shuffle. When the song tails off after three-and-a-half minutes, it matters not a bit whether the band is stuck in the past, perpetually recycling. What matters is that the song demands to be played again, like immediately."
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