Dinosaur Jr.
Years Of Operation 1984-present
Fits Between Neil Young and Mountain
Personal Correspondence I had an intense five-year love affair with Dinosaur Jr. and J. Mascis, even though neither the band nor the man ever really loved me back. I even once pitched a (sadly rejected) Dinosaur Jr.-themed idea to the good people over at the "33 1/3" book series. My volume was going to take You're Living All Over Me as the starting point for a pair of intertwined stories: one about how the evolution of alt-rock in the '80s and '90s mirrored the emergence of Generation X from the long shadow of the Baby Boomers, and the other about my personal evolution from honors student to slacker and scofflaw. (If I recall correctly, I either shoplifted nearly every Dinosaur Jr. album or stole the money to buy them.) I even had what I thought was a pretty cool analysis of You're Living's cover image, talking about how my generation went from being the hunched over figure in the corner of the picture to being the guy crowding that dude out. So when I say I could fill a whole Popless column with thoughts about Dinosaur Jr., I'm really selling myself short; I've actually got an 80-page essay in mind. Since I'm trying to conserve space these days though, I'll spare you the long ramble, except to say that it would've started with hearing side one of You're Living All Over Me played in full on Vanderbilt's college radio station when I was a senior in high school, then gone to include two mediocre live shows (one with bassist Lou Barlow in '89, and one without in '92), before coming to an end the night that I sat in a record store parking lot and listened to Where You Been three times straight, trying to convince myself that I liked it. I eventually succeeded, but I also came to a realization: When true love turns into hard work, it's time to reassess.
Enduring presence? When I was a freshman in college, right after Bug came out, I figured Dinosaur Jr. might be one of those bands like The Velvet Underground or Big Star, that never sell many records but become hugely influential. I was half-right on both counts. In the wake of the grunge wave—which Dinosaur Jr. arguably started—the band cleaned up just enough to get some airplay, even though Mascis himself kept his nigh-unlistenable whine and roaring guitar more or less intact. (For the record, it's that squalling, barely controlled guitar that made me fall in love with Dinosaur Jr. in the first place.) Mascis kept the band name around long enough to drain it of some of its cachet, although I found the band's last post-Barlow album Without A Sound to be one of their best, and their recent comeback record and tour with Barlow also quite strong. My hope is that the reunion of Mascis and Barlow has helped bring Dinosaur Jr. back into the awareness of young alt-rock fans. Then maybe someone will take an interest in my book proposal.
"Kracked" by Dinosaur Jr.
Dire Straits
Years Of Operation 1977-1995
Fits Between Blind Faith and Stealer's Wheel
Personal Correspondence While we're on the subject of guitar heroes, here's another band whose main appeal to me has always been the sound of the guitar more than the songs they're in. I do like a lot of Dire Straits songs—well, the ones on Dire Straits and Making Movies anyway—but because of Mark Knopfler's competing maudlin and puckish streaks, I have a hard time digesting all his sap and corn. Still, there's an allure to songs like "Water Of Love" that I just can't resist, and it's almost exclusively due to the soft flick of Knopfler's guitar, which can't possibly be being played by human hands.
Enduring presence? I've all but given up on any Dire Straits LP that's not the first one or the third one (though once upon a time I was a Brothers In Arms fan). I'm mainly fascinated with how Dire Straits fit into their era. In the midst of punk and New Wave, they came out of England making smoky FM-ready music, tailor-made for a yuppie generation still in the process of becoming. I've always thought of the sound of Dire Straits as the sound of sophistication and affluence, early '80s-style. Luxury cars and loft apartments, but not so much cocaine.
"Water Of Love" by Dire Straits
DJ Shadow
Years Of Operation 1991-present
Fits Between Double Dee & Steinski and Kid Loco
Personal Correspondence I may be more captivated with the idea of DJ Shadow than with his actual music—which, to be honest, I rarely listen to. I like Shadow; I'm just rarely in the mood for dense, 13-minute, sample-heavy soundscapes. Still, I'm a believer in the concept of digging up forgotten old records, extracting their essence, and stirring them all together into songs that reflect the associative leaps of one artist's imagination. There's an urgency and ominousness to a DJ Shadow record that can almost be too much to take at times. In the right context though—like on the soundtrack to the superb documentary Dark Days—his sound adroitly captures the loneliness and relentlessness of the multitasking age.
Enduring presence? I have more tolerance for 2006's all-over-the-map The Outsider than some, perhaps because I interviewed DJ Shadow shortly before the album came out, and came to appreciate what he was trying to do with that decidedly sloppy, imbalanced record. But there's no doubt that The Outsider dinged Shadow's reputation a little. It won't stay dinged long… the dude's a genius.
"The Numbers Song" by DJ Shadow
Dolly Parton
Years Of Operation 1964-present
Fits Between Kitty Wells and Faith Hill
Personal Correspondence Even people who aren't that deeply into country music usually have a few country artists they like and respect. Johnny Cash is a perennial, and Willie Nelson, and for me, Dolly Parton too has always been one of those artists that transcended genre-bias. Maybe it's because when I was growing up Parton was as much of a TV and movie personality as a recording artist. Plus, a lot of her hits in those days were pop crossovers. I later got better acquainted with Parton's early albums, which are about as old-school country as it gets: full of acoustic picking, steel guitar, rural settings and twangy vocals. Once she became a reliable hitmaker, Parton's label pretty much built albums of filler around her single-of-the-month, but even the filler has a brightness and sincerity that's fundamentally enjoyable.
Enduring presence? How is that someone can simultaneously play up her impressive physical attributes and yet avoid becoming a sex object? Facelifts and Dollywood aside, Parton has maintained her relatability over the years, and though a good Parton anthology should serve anyone well enough—I recommend the double-disc The Essential Dolly Parton—I find that the more I listen to her early records, the more I appreciate them. Parton's arguably produced one of the richest discographies of any country artist ever, male or female.
"The Bargain Store" by Dolly Parton
The Doors
Years Of Operation 1965-72
Fits Between Love and The Cult
Personal Correspondence I checked a copy of No One Here Gets Out Alive from our local public library back in the summer of 1984, when I was 13 years old. Needless to say, its tales of drug-fueled orgies and breaking down "the doors of perception" were pretty impressive to my precocious adolescent self, and I spent a good portion of that summer trying to find my inner Jim Morrison. I still have a Polaroid my aunt took of me on a state park picnic table, doing my best "young lion" pose; and an even more embarrassing photo of me sprawled out seductively on that same table while three septuagenarian relatives stand behind me. (Let's just say that it's hard to be a Rider On The Storm at a family reunion.) The inherent ridiculousness of trying to be a Doors disciple in a loving middle-class suburban home is probably what killed my Doors fandom early. I was a huge fan… but only for about three months. After that, revisiting The Doors periodically has mainly been an exercise in self-flagellation in the name of nostalgia. I still like a lot of Doors songs, and if I focus hard enough, I can almost ignore the aroma of "gone-to-seed ex-hippie shop teacher" that lingers around The Doors' more faux-badass numbers. But mainly I keep thinking about the fall of '84, riding on a bus to school with my best friend and playing him "Light My Fire" on my Walkman, telling him, virgin-to-virgin, that, "Janis Joplin once said this song was the closest thing to sex on record." After my friend listened expressionless for seven minutes, he handed me back my tape player and said, with unearned authority, "Janis Joplin was wrong."
Enduring presence? "You gotta buy this: Waiting For The Sun. It's the departure point. Listen to it around dusk every night for about a month. Take this. It's an 8-track tape. It's one of the last in existence. I want you to steal a car. I want you to get in it and drive west. Play the tape full blast. When the tape ends, get out and get into a fight, then get back into the car, come to town and meet me at the Carcass Club."
"Five To One" by The Doors
Drive-By Truckers
Years Of Operation 1996-present
Fits Between Lynyrd Skynyrd and Drivin' N' Cryin'
Personal Correspondence It's weird to write about a band without all the data, especially when the band is Drive-By Truckers, whose new album (which, obviously, I haven't heard) comes on the heels of them losing a major member, as well as coming after an album, A Blessing & A Curse, that was a slight dip from the two that preceded it. (Granted, those two records, Decoration Day and The Dirty South, are two of the best of the '00s.) Still, I admit to being curious to see where DBT is headed. After a couple of pretty good early albums, they made their big move with Southern Rock Opera, which foregrounded bandleader Patterson Hood's simultaneous embrace of and ambivalence about his heritage—and thus, rather predictably, impressed all the northern critics. (All except me; I liked the live album Alabama Ass Whuppin' better, because it had actual songs, not just essays set to tuneless two-steppers.) The Dirty South and Decoration Day improved vastly on SRO, restoring the songcraft the band had shown earlier by spreading the load around between two other strong singer-songwriters. Those albums explore multiple aspects of southern life, from the lurid to the transcendent. But A Blessing & A Curse found the band trying to shed some of the twang and the gothic sensibility, with mixed success. So where does DBT stand right now? I wish I could tell you. I'm dying to find out.
Enduring presence? I've read that the new album is pretty good, and I look forward to checking it out, because whatever my qualms about how the Truckers play up the shitkicker clichés, they're a powerhouse band. I might not be so alert to the their borderline rednecksploitation if they didn't do it so goddamned well.
"Outfit" by Drive-By Truckers
Drivin' N' Cryin'
Years Of Operation 1985-present
Fits Between Molly Hatchet and R.E.M.
Personal Correspondence In the first week of my freshman year at the University Of Georgia, I went to see Drivin N' Cryin' on three consecutive nights at The Uptown Lounge, beginning a music-focused spending spree that, by the end of fall quarter, left me so broke that I couldn't afford to buy books for the winter quarter. But I couldn't help it. I'd never had such immediate access to such well-stocked record stores and well-booked rock clubs, and I was flush with the scholarship money that was supposed to last me all year. Plus it was Drivin' N' Cryin', who at the time had put out the scrappy alt-rock record Scarred But Smarter and their big AOR push The Whisper Tames The Lion, and were already legendary for their sweaty, smoky, hairy shows. During those three nights they played pretty much all the songs that would be coming out the following year on Mystery Road—including "Honeysuckle Blue," which became an instant favorite the moment I first heard it, and was the main reason I was happy I had tickets the next two shows. This song was going to be my generation's "Free Bird." What happened?
Enduring presence? The biggest knock against DnC is that they never became Drive-By Truckers. Kevn Kinney was content to fulfill his arena-rock fantasies with the band and use his solo records and shows to let his more nuanced singer-songwriter side out. But Drivin' N' Cryin' suffered as they muscled up more and more, and they lost the diversity that made their first three albums so entertaining and deeply felt. Like a lot of the country-rock bands of their era—especially Jason & The Scorchers, from my corner of the south—their label urged them to be more like the crushing rock bands out on the west coast, and less like themselves. It's a damn shame.
"Honeysuckle Blue" by Drivin 'N' Cryin'
« Previous | 1 | 2 | 3 | Next »
- Comments