Once the frontman of Pulp — the fantastic UK band that found middle ground between The Kinks and The Smiths in the 1990s — he’s embarked on a fruitful solo career. Indeed, his ‘09 album Further Complications is tops and up there with the best of the best this year.

He’s also released this nifty video for the record’s title track that harkens back to the days when people made entertaining videos based on clever ideas (without spending a billion bucks on them — looking at you, Green Day).

This has helped me beat the sniffles this Friday afternoon, so I hope it helps you out, too.

Post from: Michael Abernethy - The Homegrown Snob

The first — which no one really cares about — was swimming with wild dolphins on the coast of Naples, Fla., a few weeks back. The second, more relevant to this blog, is Monsters of Folk.

The term “supergroup” used to mean something, thanks to the enduring work of the Traveling Wilburys and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. More recently, it’s said with a derogatory sneer about groups who are less-than-super: Chickenfoot, Audioslave, Alter Bridge, Velvet Revolver. (The Raconteurs and Broken Social Scene are excluded from this list of modern rock’s nadir, for obvious reasons.)

The Monsters of Folk is a supergroup that shouldn’t work but does.

I’m probably the most surprised of anyone.

Monsters of Folk isn’t really folk music at all. It’s A-list indie folk-pop-rock, created by Bright Eyes’ Conor Oberst, My Morning Jacket’s Jim James, folk-rocker M. Ward and producer/instrumentalist Mike Mogis.

There are so many reasons why this shouldn’t work, the least of which would seem to be ego. Here’s some reasons:

– Conor Oberst/Bright Eyes was once an indie darling, inspiring rapturous praise and next-Dylan adulations from the press and hordes of fans. In the beginning and up until about 2004, his constant complaints of life on the road spent drinking too much, drugging too much and sleeping around too much mixed with a leftist political lean made him seem worldly and misunderstood. But after three albums of this, he just seemed like a spoiled, self-indulgent jerk. People stopped caring what he had to say. Well, I stopped caring what he had to say.

– As the front of the psychedelic Southern Rock band My Morning Jacket, Jim James amazed with his glass-shattering falsetto and his growth as a songwriter on 2005’s modern classic Z. But after a 3 1/2 year hiatus, James led the band to 2008’s Evil Urges, a sprawling, incoherent mess of a rock record, with throwaway lyrics and almost zero memorable tunes on its first side. It’s safe to say the band’s (and James’) cache was growing thin.

– M. Ward has been workmanlike from the start, with subtle and solid — but not amazing turns — as a singer/songwriter. Last year’s She & Him project with Zooey Deschanel attracted tons of attention, but didn’t hold my interest over time.

– Mike Mogis is an awesome producer who had a lot to do with those great early Bright Eyes records. Unfortunately, he also had a lot to do with those last couple not-so-great Bright Eyes records and disappointing albums by The Faint and Azure Ray.

But damn if this Monsters of Folk record isn’t one of the best records of the year. Hell, at this point I’m tempted to say it’s THE best record of the year.

All it takes is a listen to the opener, “Dear God (Sincerely, M.O.F.)” to find out why. The James-led song about spiritual yearning and our never-answered questions about God plays over a Marvin Gaye-ish tune. It’s a serious song — played without the irony of the band’s jokey name – and acts as a left-hook. On top of that, it’s just plain magical.

The second track, “Say Please,” announces one of the record’s many left turns, into sun-drenched power-pop harmonies and an effortless hook. The three frontmen are still trading vocals and lyrics and still sound like a true band.

The ego-less streak continues on “Whole Lotta Losin’,” where M. Ward pushes 12-bar rockabilly into a song about friends leaving town and good times passing you by.

That quality control stays in place for the majority of the album’s longish 15-track run, and most of the material feels unified by a spirit of fun and adventurousness, where each of the mainplayers drops their self-consciousness enough to let their best performances — not their most indulgent ones — come through. Only Oberst’s preachy “Man Named Truth” loses the plot.

Song for song, the winner is James, who bookends the album with gentle religious themes (”Dear God,” and “His Master’s Voice”) and plays in between with effortless ditties about elephant tusks and Tootsie Roll Pops. It feels like M. Ward was the enabler, and his songs — “Whole Lotta Losin’”, “Baby Boomer,” and “The Sandman, The Brakeman and Me” — are good-natured and fit the group dynamic best.

But “Tezmacal” and “Map of the World” are really solid Oberst songs, too.

Rave, rave, rave. It’s all I seem to be able to do for this band.

And this record is enough to make me wish these guys never worked separately.

Get your fix:

Post from: Michael Abernethy - The Homegrown Snob

Is it a healing? A birthing? An exorcism?

Listening to Embryonic, it could actually be any of those things and 1,000 others.

I’ll say it: This is the strangest album I’ve heard in a long, long time. But I’ll also say this: It’s very, very good.

Coming more than 25 years after their formation; 16 years after they first made mainstream waves with 1993’s “She Don’t Use Jelly” (which I viscerally hated at the time for its nonsense and casual disregard for any discernible message); 10 years after The Soft Bulletin, widely regarded as a psych-pop masterpiece; and seven years after they began flirting with radio-friendliness on Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, the Flaming Lips’ Embryonic is a return to their freaky, jarring, psychedelic stew of yore.

What’s supposedly a double LP (ahem! I bought mine on a single disc for $7.99), is a conglomeration of 18 experiments in spacey, trippy, indiscernable sound. Searching for its musical roots and cousins, think the more obscure tunes on Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon meets Sonic Youth’s squallor.

This is a restless, dark record. Nothing like the melody-drenched fantasies of their last three albums, which were still daring but sound like trifles in comparison. The few moments of accessibility here — “Convinced of the Hex,” “Silver Trembling Hands” and “Watching the Planets” — still sound like they were recorded in a cave.

Yet for all that, Embryonic is oddly warm and most surely intriguing. Even as I’m weirded out by a lot of the sounds they’ve come up with here, I’m still sort of infatuated. The messages don’t seem clear right now, but I’m pretty sure they’re in there, underneath the fuzz bass and tremelo guitars whipping around.

And there are moments here that are unbelievably beautiful, where the instruments seem to melt together (”Evil”) or fall apart or just float away.

I’m not a massive Flaming Lips fan. I’ve liked them and disliked them in the past. This record excites me — part free-form jazz, part psychedelic jam, part nursery rhyme — and I’m ready to see where that excitement leads.

I give it:

8/10

Post from: Michael Abernethy - The Homegrown Snob

There were three things I thought the first time I heard Hanson in 1997.

1. This is bad music.

2. This is bad for music.

3. I don’t like where this is headed.

Hanson – followed rapidly by the Spice Girls and then Britney Spears — ushered in teen pop (and one of the worst years ever for popular music). Of course, that’s arguing that grunge wasn’t teen pop (which it might have been in the beginning and almost certainly was toward its demise — looking at you, Bush).

Anyway, if any of you ever wanted to witness the perils of teen pop and had forgotten the lessons learned by New Kids on the Block, you should stop a second and look at the Backstreet Boys.

Hard and painful to remember now, but this boy band was the most popular for the first few years of the sugar-crazed, late-’90s teenybob radio — before Justin Timberlake became a household name and Britney released her second massive album.

And they were TERRIBLE; embarassing in nearly every way.

Buzzfeed.com has your visual proof here.

Cringe and learn, children. Blind pursuit of wealth and fame makes one, well, blind.

Post from: Michael Abernethy - The Homegrown Snob

Enter: Dead Flies Art.

Seriously.

It made me laugh out loud (You can ask Brent Lancaster if you need verification).

There are about 14 more of them following the link.

Man, it’s worth it.

And once again, I wish I had been bored smart enough to come up with yet another odd, ingenious and vaguely creepy idea revealed on the interwebs.

Thanks to Andrew Sullivan and The Daily Dish for the find.

Post from: Michael Abernethy - The Homegrown Snob

If you weren’t, I’m sorry.

And if you were trying to get there but missed it because you were stuck in traffic for four hours, you have my eternal sympathies.

On Saturday, U2 — the biggest band in the world — rolled out the largest, most extravagant rock show this state (and maybe the world) has ever seen . 60,000 people filled Carter-Finley Stadium in Raleigh for U2360, a visual spectacle reported to be the most expensive world tour ever mounted.

Following the two-hour set, there was no denying that U2 is still the best band in the world.

U2 have been known as rock’s best stadium band for years, decades now. Whatever it is about them — the universal appeal of their songs, their 30 years of hits, Bono’s unabashed earnestness and stage presence — they are able to make massive spaces feel intimate. That’s a particular goal of U2360, which uses a circular stage in the middle of arenas to emote to every corner of the stands.

It works.

I saw U2 eight years ago (?!?) on March 29, 2001 at the Charlotte Coliseum. It’s as close to a religious experience as I’ve ever had at a concert, and I don’t use the phrase “religious experience” lightly. Anything seemed possible and achievable, any great problem solvable, in that moment — where strangers in an arena openly embraced each other. I distinctly remember Bono telling the crowd, “Whatever you feel in this moment, whatever is heavy on your heart, dedicate yourself to change it.” It felt miraculous.

I wasn’t sure what I was in for for a second viewing of U2. Certainly the open-air arena was a little less intimate than Charlotte’s smaller coliseum. But I wasn’t disappointed.

The band was as tight as ever. It’s a true musical feat to be able to wander hundreds of feet away from your bandmates and keep the music tight. Watching The Edge perform solos while walking up and down steps to and from the stage blew my mind. I can’t play those solos standing still.

Bono was in particularly fine voice. I was sort of worried, because his voice has taken on a more ragged, gravelly edge on the last couple records. He can still nail all those high notes, though, and he still makes it seem effortless.

He did, however, show his age. He no longer runs laps during the opening of “Where the Streets Have No Name” before launching into the first line, “I want to run…” He did do a lap with the 10-year-old kid he pulled out of the crowd during the opening of “City of Blinding Lights” though.

Besides the band, the stage setup was the best part. The video screen — a circular panel made up of hundreds of heaxagonal screens — would descend and rise during differnent songs, projecting random images along with close-ups of the band performing. I’ve certainly never seen anything else like it, and at times it was breath-taking.

If you get a chance to see this band, don’t miss out.

 Here’s the setlist:

Breathe, Get On Your Boots, Mysterious Ways, Beautiful Day / C Moon (snippet), No Line On The Horizon, Magnificent, Elevation, In A Little While, New Year’s Day, I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For / Stand By Me (snippet), Stuck In A Moment You Can’t Get Out Of, The Unforgettable Fire, Mofo (snippet) / , City Of Blinding Lights, Vertigo, I’ll Go Crazy If I Don’t Go Crazy Tonight / Thank You (Falettin Me Be Mice Elf Again) (snippet), Sunday Bloody Sunday / Rock The Casbah (snippet) / People Get Ready (snippet), MLK, Walk On / You’ll Never Walk Alone (snippet)
encores: One / Amazing Grace (snippet), Where The Streets Have No Name, Ultra Violet (Light My Way), With Or Without You, Moment of Surrender

Here’s a rundown of some of my favorite moments:

• An acoustic version of “Stuck in a Moment (You Can’t Get Out Of),” a duet between Bono and The Edge.
• “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” segued into a chill-inducing rendition of “Stand By Me,” with the crowd singing along.
• “Ultraviolet,” in which Bono dangled from a glowing circular microphone lowered from the rafters while dressed in a suit lined with red LED lights. This has always been one of my all-time favorite U2 songs. It’s on 1991’s Achtung Baby.
• The band transformed the limp “I’ll Go Crazy If I Don’t Go Crazy Tonight” into an effervescent, disco remix – where drummer Larry Mullen left his kit to wander the edge of the stage with a bongo. That they turned a sucky song into something that didn’t suck was nice enough. That they made it somehow magical was a welcome surprise.
• “Where the Streets Have No Name” is still the band’s best live song.
• The crowd singing the opening verse to “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” was awesome.
• The Euro-gospel of “Moment of Surrender” — the best song on their new record, No Line on the Horizon – was the perfect way to close the show.

Post from: Michael Abernethy - The Homegrown Snob

I didn’t like a lot of the movies he made but I always admired him, his choices and his attitude.

Swayze died this week after a two-year battle with pancreatic cancer, through which he worked almost non-stop on his A&E show “The Beast.” That’s guts. That’s mettle. That’s determination we can learn from: He did the most with the time he had.

If you weren’t a child of the 1980s, I can’t tell you how ubiquitous “Dirty Dancing” was. I lived on a street where there were few other children to play with. Those three or four other children happened to be young girls, all of whom were obsessed with the movie, its soundtrack and Swayze. I felt forced to watch it a few times, but I never enjoyed it.

But in hindsight, looking at the roles he chose before his career ran out of steam early this decade shows an interesting disregard for playing to type.

After the one-two of “Dirty Dancing” and 1990’s still terrific “Ghost” (that one feels more and more like the last of movies old Hollywood could have made in the 1950s and 1960s), Swayze could have gone his last 20 years retreading the epically romantic lead he perfected in those two films. But he didn’t.

He chose camp. “Road House” is a terrible movie, but it’s enjoyable. (It’s also the most-shown movie on television, no lie — I read that news story last week, before Swayze’s death.) “Point Break” was never going to be great. Surfers and cops and Keanu Reeves just don’t go together. “To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar” turned Swayze into a ridiculous drag queen, but he wasn’t too macho to revel in the chance to shake up his manly-man image.

Before all that, he made big splashes in “The Outsiders” and TV’s “North and South.”

When I think back to the 1980s, and think of male leads and superstars, I can only count them on one hand: Tom Cruise, Patrick Swayze, Ahnold, etc. It’s interesting to see where they are now. Cruise is putzing around with Scientologists and still begging for an Oscar. Ahnold is governator of California. And Swayze — he went his own way and is far more interesting for it.

Who can forget his hysterical and legendary Chippendale’s send-up with Chris Farley on SNL?

I will always choose to remember him as a likeable, charismatic performer and be grateful that he chose to be interesting in his own terms rather than pander to a particular demographic into middle-age.

And I will always, always remember him for his stellar turn in “Donnie Darko,” one of my all-time favorite films. If you want to see Swayze dodge any imaginable typecasting, you’ll dig his turn as a skeezy motivational speaker that’s as hilarious as it is tragic.

Thanks for the memories and the good times, Mr. Swayze.

Post from: Michael Abernethy - The Homegrown Snob

Unless you live under a rock, you’ve probably heard that Wednesday also saw the release of The Beatles edition of Rock Band — the video game that allows non-musicians to pretend they’re not only musicians, but great, world-class virtuosos capable of playing the classic rock/hair metal canon of the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s. Along with that, 14 Beatles albums and compilations were re-released in re-remastered form.

The previously available 1987 digitally remastered transfers weren’t horrible but they were starting to sound dated and suffer under the scrutiny of classy remastering jobs done to other artists’ work in the last five or six years (Dylan, Costello, Bowie, etc.). Close, picky listeners probably noticed that the earlier discs were mastered at a lower volume than CDs today. You could actually only get them to play so loud before the sound got distorted and muffled — making screaming along to “Get Back” or “Help!” in your car with the windows down feel maddeningly like an a capella effort of the driver.

Improved sound quality for Beatles hits came with 2000’s wonderful Beatles 1 album. But the message to touch up the Beatles’ work or else! came from 2003’s Let It Be … Naked, where the 1970 album was stripped of the wretched Phil Spector production and remastered to pristine condition. The first time I heard “Two of Us,” it sounded like John and Paul were in the room with me and gave me goosebumps. The sound was immaculate and pure and as ageless as those timeless songs.

So, to say I’ve been ready for this for a few years is an understatement.

But 14 records on a reporter’s salary is a lot of dough, man. So I made a deal to ration them out, piecemeal, until I own all 14. The good news: Target has them on sale for $11.98 this week, plus you get a $5 gift card for every two you buy.

After much deliberation, I chose to begin with 1966’s Revolver (my vote for the best Beatles album) and 1969’s Abbey Road. I chose Abbey Road because I felt like its CD transfer was a little muddier than the rest of the Beatles’ late-period albums. It’s a record of disparate ends: of the deep, wide bass McCartney throws down on “Come Together” and “Sun King,” and of more precious moments like “Because” and “Oh Darling.” Plus, that Moog synthesizer sounded harsh in the mix, overpowering the other instruments.

I’m happy to report these two records sound wonderful, and I heard the difference almost immediately. The louder songs are more aggressive but crystal clear. The quieter songs have a natural space in between the notes and instruments; like a greater depth in the mix. You can hear the interplay between the band members and the nuances of their styles of playing. If you’re a Beatles fan, these discs are worth investigating just to hear that.

When “Taxman” opens Revolver, the guitar really punches. The tinny-sounding treble and hiss are gone and everything is clear as a bell, with all the instruments and melodies separate and easily identifiable. The background vocals are also more distinct. Paul’s bass on “I’m Only Sleeping” is other-worldly, and “For No One” — especially that amazing French horn solo — is transformed. “Tomorrow Never Knows,” the first pop experimentation with tape loops, sounds revelatory: All its swarming details — especially Ringo’s incredible drumming — come to life.

I’ve about the same report on Abbey Road. I was initially wary of the new mix, because I wasn’t didn’t hear the difference within the first 10 seconds. But when the organ kicked in, and Harrison’s guitar solo slid in, the evidence was there. Lennon’s vocals also sound fuller and less nasal than before.

The biggest revelations on Abbey Road, for me, were “Here Comes the Sun” (How had I never noticed the handclaps before?!) and “Because,” which sounds epic with the new treatment , and “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” — where, again, Paul’s bass sounds incredible and the interplay between the band members is clearer.

So, audiophile that I am, I ended up running back to Target to pick up 1968’s The Beatles (The White Album) — the first Beatles album I ever bought and heard end-to-end on my own terms, outside of my mom and dad’s vinyl collection. It was my freshman year of college and I can say — as a then-Beatles skeptic, a band whose music I regarded as my parents’  — that album made me a believer and changed my life to a certain extent. Within a year, I had all the 1964 to 1970 releases and had come to know the songs on my own terms.

This, again, is a wonderful new way to hear this miraculous band.

Of course, if you want a different opinion, you can read In This Economy’s take on the collection.

Post from: Michael Abernethy - The Homegrown Snob

This could be the most bizarre.

A german scientist has named a rare, newly discovered species of spider after Bowie. This guy thinks naming it after the rock musician will draw attention to threatened insects, often overlooked in favor of cuter creatures like panda bears and koalas.

Heteropoda davidbowie is a large, furry, yellow spider that is endangered. It has large fangs. It is native to Malaysia. It may or may not also dress in drag, make wildly bizarre claims of being extraterrestrial and simulate felatio on lead guitarists at live shows.

The story, via Pitchfork and The Telegraph.

Post from: Michael Abernethy - The Homegrown Snob

I caught the episode late one night this weekend while recovering from a stomach flu and was reasonably impressed with the results. Maher is often too arrogant and impressed with himself for his own good, but this quieter, one-on-one format suits him fairly well.

Needless to say I’m not a huge Jay-Z fan (rap, mostly, ain’t my thing) but I do admire him for injecting a certain amount of artfulness and wit into his music. Say what you like about rap in general, but Jay-Z’s output is consistently high-grade and there’s no one of his generation within spitting distance of him.

ANYWAY, here’s the clips, pilfered from YouTube. Mind the naughty language.

Post from: Michael Abernethy - The Homegrown Snob