Think about it like this. Not only are you competing with a bijillion other musicians out there --- both established and off the couch --- but now, thanks to Twitter and Facebook (MySpace is soooooooo last century) you're competing with my mom. Seriously. If her micro-blogging content is more compelling than yours, you're screwed.

After all, fans are semi-limited. There's only so much room we have in our hearts. And only so much time in the day. And only so much money to give/spend. And we are hella choosy [...]

Please vote.


Let's consider who deserves to be on the Mt. Rushmore of Funk.
That's Four Faces of Funk, etched on a monument somewhere suitably funky.

That could be a debate right there; where to put this monument to the monumentally funky. Memphis, New Orleans, Detroit? James Brown's front yard? And what are we going to call it? Mt Funkmore? The Funk Rock?

We could also cheat a little and perhaps add a Fifth Face of Funk. As I'm hoping to make this a collective effort, I hope you will jump in with an opinion and an argument.

The criteria would have to be that they are a true founding father and inventor, not just an innovator--we're talking about the building blocks, the very Fabric of Funk. It's not enough to just be an icon to make it to Mt. Rushmore; they have to be a master, a member of a small and select circle that is the well-spring of everything funky that came after them.  

So. It seems pretty irrefutable that James Brown and George Clinton deserve two of the slots. Is this even debatable? Between the two of them they pretty much represent the two major rivers of funk of the last forty + years. Brown is the sine qua non of funk, the original master that took R&B, dropped the 4/4 in favor of an off beat and presto! bingo! originated funk as we know it. The popping or slapping bass, chunky guitar, horn charts that jump in and out and call and response vocals are still being worked out today. Brown produced a body of work, on record and in performance both, that will most likely remain untouchable in it's quality, quantity and influence. So, there's one.

George Clinton took Brown's R&B generated funk and turned it on its ear, then inside out and back again. P-funk sometimes sounds like funk in slow-mo, other times in like funk in a mescaline and steroid frenzy, or Sesame Street with huge hair and shoes and synths doubling the crazy Space Bass line while a whole extended families of vocalists and players jump in for a never ending interstellar houseparty. Clinton and his cohorts in Parliament, Funkadelic, Brides of Funkenstein, etc. brought the Freak to Funk. The musical landscape will never be the same. I say there's two. You may say different.

Where do we go from there? Consider the candidates: Sly Stone, Issac Hayes, Curtis Mayfield, Stevie Wonder, Bootsy Collins, Fela, The Meters (groups are problematic for Mt Rushmore), Prince and...who? No women? Does Miles Davis qualify due to his mind-blowing early 70s recordings? How about the producers (Norman Whitfield, Willie Hutch, etc.)? Can we nominate Stax Records as a whole (including the MGs), or the Funk Bros., or the whole city of New Orleans? Was Thriller a funk album? How about Madonna's bubble-gum funk? Or Latin Funk? Are there any Brits or Jamaican's that qualify? Any DJs? Hip hop artists?

I'm going with Sly Stone for the third spot. His biggest hits are both true funk classics and true cultural signifiers, his performances (Woodstock!) the stuff of legend and his mixture of rock and funk smashed thru a boundary desperately in need of smashing. He also had hits - lots of them. I say Sly qualifies for the number three spot.

It's gets pretty complex from here and will naturally devolve into personal taste. You could certainly make arguments for Hayes, Mayfield, Wonder Fela and Prince. "Shaft" was such monster that it practically qualifies Hayes by itself, but spotty quality control and a propensity for ballads dilutes Hayes funk factor. Curtis Mayfield qualifies with an abundance of great songs and an intelligence and social conscience that perfectly mirrors the revolutionary times he was recording in. Ditto Stevie Wonder, who revolutionized the sound of funk in a peerless series of hits in the 70s that also had the social consciousness down. Fela's influence and world-wide popularity are hard for American's to fathom, but he really was an funk ambassador to the world. And Prince? Well, he brought funk into the modern world, sexed it up to a delirious degree and blew through all the boundaries between rock, pop, funk, soul, R&B, and hip hop.

One peer has already made an impassioned argument for Bootsy Collins. Who have we missed? Who deserves to be up there with the Godfather?

If you please, vote with your opinion on who the Four Figures of Funk might be - or a fifth, if it pleases you. I'm leaving the fourth spot open, and hoping for a Funk Epiphany.  

You can leave comments below or e-mail them to me directly at modmedia@theriver.com. 

Carl Hanni is a music writer, music publicist, disc jockey and vinyl archivist living in Tucson, AZ. He  hosts the vinyl-only Scratchy Record Show every Tuesday night at the Red Room in downtown Tucson, and spins records wherever and whenever he can. He believes that in a better (all analog) world all records would be released on vinyl, but takes good music from wherever he finds it--even on CD. His feature piece on legendary bass player/record producer Harvey Brooks was recently published in Goldmine.

Guest post this week from an astounding singer-songwriter, Peter Mulvey, whose new record Letters from a Flying Machine streets this August: "Eight songs, interspersed with four prose pieces over music, framed as letters to my various nieces and nephews written on airplanes. The first one sets the place and the theme and they go from there." Brilliant.

Hear Peter reading the below letter here. Hear the song that goes with it here.

17th of June 2009
Over the Great Lakes

Dear Edgar-

Last week your father and I hooked up trailers behind our bicycles, and trundled you and your sister into them over your initial strident protests. Then we all rode twelve miles along the Hank Aaron trail, down by the ballpark and through the Menominee River valley. As we rode along, I marveled, as I often do, at these extraordinary machines, which allowed us to cover the distance at a brisk but relaxed clip in a little over an hour.

But that is nothing: courtesy of a very different machine, I am at this moment hurtling Eastward, eight miles over Ontario -- over land, and water, and little herds of cumulus clouds far below.

Further, I am writing this letter with yet another machine; a mechanical pencil that would have flipped DaVinci’s wig. And who knows what he would have made of the pocket-sized computer that is currently playing a Bach sonata through tiny speakers hidden in my ears...

Oh, the gadgetry! To make this recording, these amazing sounds must have leapt from an Italian violin, into a German microphone, to be rendered as ones and zeros somewhere in the dark of a Japanese hard drive.

And I wonder, did Bach write these notes down with a goose quill? With ink made from [...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

It's been a long time since Michael Jackson penned a hit song, but he did write one last nationwide sensation: the script the mainstream media has followed since his death. Jackson, we're told, was the "king of pop," who had "the biggest selling album of all time," and "broke MTV's color line." Every one of these dubious factoids was devised by Jackson or his agents.

In 1979 Jackson commenced a great solo run, starting with Off the Wall and on through 1991's Dangerous. The latter was knocked off by Nirvana's Nevermind, and henceforth Jacko was a "legacy" act, working his back catalogue-when he was working at all. (Speaking of that back catalogue, the singer's Motown-era solo albums - 1972's Got to Be There, 1972's Ben, 1973's Music & Me and 1975's Forever, Michael - yielded a sprinkling of hits, including a #1 in '72, "Ben," although all four records were wildly inconsistent. Hip-O Select has just reissued them, along with bonus and unreleased tracks, as a deluxe, limited-to-7000 copies three-CD set titled Hello World: The Motown Solo Collection.)

The first pedophilia charge came in 1993, and for the next 16 years Jackson was an object of scorn, horror, and ridicule: His music was upstaged by financial reversals, phony marriages, children by surrogates, and skin whitening and plastic surgery. So it's no small triumph that obituary and appreciation writers now hail Jackson as a culture-shaping luminary rather than a nose-mutilating freak.

I yield to no one in my admiration of "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" and "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'," and I don't doubt Jackson's talent. Lots of people want to remember the guy as the King of Pop, or whatever, which is their right. But then many other people love the Jonas Brothers, Phish, or Slipknot. In their time, Pat Boone and Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass enjoyed chart-dominating epochs. None of them changed society, and neither did Jacko.

MJ did take credit for the three best numbers on Thriller, including "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'," a song that's heavily indebted to Manu Dibango's "Soul Makossa." (According to the New Yorker's Kelefa Sanneh, the two musicians eventually reached a "financial agreement.") But the most of the album is unlistenable, and today would be extremely vulnerable to single-track downloads.

Jackson was primarily an impresario, not a musician, and his instincts soon failed him. Even with only one act in his stable - himself - he couldn't keep on track. By 1995's HIStory: Past, Present, and Future, Book I, Jackson the image-builder was portraying Michael the music-maker as both an abused child and a totalitarian dictator. He sent a 60-foot plaster statue of his Michaelness to tour major European cities.

 
Such weirdness continued for many years, yet has been largely excluded from the career recaps. This is partly because the non-trash media-from op-ed pages to Sunday morning talk shows-have to justify the amount of coverage their newspapers or networks have given Jacko. If he's just dance-pop's equivalent of a brain-damaged professional wrestler, the attention is unjustified. So MJ must have been significant.

This yields such straw-grasping punditry as the claim that "we" all identified with Jackson because he blurred racial and gender identity. But he did so in a way that was creepy, not inspiring, and revealed self-loathing, not self- acceptance. Anyone who seriously identified with the latter-day Jackson should seek professional help.

To some mainstream eulogists, Jackson's momentousness is all in a large and charmingly tidy number: 100 million. That's the supposed worldwide sales figure for Thriller, which very well could be the best-selling album of all time. But the international numbers are speculation, and in the U.S. Thriller was overcome by The Eagles' Greatest Hits almost 20 years ago.

In his essential blog, Hitsville, Bill Wyman questions the 100 million total. He thinks it likely that "this bogus figure comes from Jackson, who learned early at Motown that it was OK to out-and-out lie to the press about anything and everything. (If it came from Sony it would raise immediate questions from the Jackson camp about royalties, right?)"

But music sales are a matter of longstanding mystery to the establishment press, which equates big numbers with widespread cultural influence, and seldom checks to see if either truly exists. (Thus newspaper hacks regularly proclaim hip-hop the country's top-selling musical genre, which it never has been.) "Best-selling album of all time" authenticates Jackson's place in the universe-and therefore on the front page - so best not to check its accuracy.

Repeating the "king of pop" tag is even lazier. It makes for a succinct headline, but its source is Jackson himself, who adopted it in 1991, just before it became undeniably false. If Jacko had named himself "Lord Protector of Jupiter," would that also feature in the obits? Probably not, because Jupiter belongs to the "Science" section, which insists on facts. But pop music is the province of "Life" or "Arts," whose truths are squishier.

On the charts, "Billie Jean" was arguably Jackson's biggest success. In death, it becomes something greater: his racial-pioneer badge. For, as every TV or a newspaper commentator now knows, with that song Jacko "broke MTV's color barrier" and became "the first black musician to appear on MTV." So beat it, Rosa Parks, beat it.

Actually, before "Billie Jean," MTV programmed videos by Eddie Grant, Tina Turner, and Donna Summer, as well as a whole lot of Musical Youth's "Pass the Dutchie." MTV skipped Thriller's first single, "The Girl Is Mine," not because Jackson was black-the tune also featured the quite famous and rather white Paul McCartney - but because it was doggone treacle.

Then a relatively small operation with a largely suburban teenage audience, MTV programmed uptempo, moderately noisy music by performers who made videos, which at that time meant mostly Britons. (Music promo vids developed earlier over there, because BBC radio played so little rock.) "The Girl Is Mine" was unsuitable, but "Billie Jean," with its driving beat and high-gloss video, was ideal.

According to the myth, executives at Epic, Jackson's label, gave MTV an ultimatum: Play "Billie Jean" or else. But that was a publicity stunt. In Hit Men, his 1990 history of the music biz, Fredric Dannen recounts: Around this time Jacko added a new lawyer, John Branca, to his all-white management team. Not long after, Branca was also representing MTV. As racial showdowns go, this one sounds a lot like a boardroom shuffle.

Whatever Jackson's gifts, he was above all a guy in the right place at the right time. Thriller arrived as MTV was booming, and the era of made-in-the-U.S.A. videos dawning. Also, it was released just as labels decided to milk albums as long as possible, rather than scuttling off to the next prospect for a hit or two. So seven of the disc's nine songs became singles, and Thriller lingered over the charts like a stationary front, eventually selling 28 million copies in the U.S. (and another 40 trillion intergalactically, I'm pretty sure).

Great timing. Garth Brooks had it, too, but don't expect his obits someday to assert that he transformed society.

Selling lots of albums is consequential, but not in the way Jackson's analysts earnestly wish. So maybe it's time for the legit media to let Jacko go. He belongs not to
history, but to TMZ.

Michael Jackson has moon-walked out of the building!
 
Like many other cynical mofo critical critics out there, I've got my share of mixed feelings about perhaps our strangest (but no denying talented and entertaining) American icon dying from an apparent longtime addiction to painkillers.  Yes, MJ has to be the strangest.  You want proof?  Try being the proud owner of the following:  Elephant-Man's bones, hyperbolic oxygen chamber, life-sized androids, exotic jungle animals and children's amusement-park rides.  Why would a man of 50 have these things in his collection?  The latter items (robots, creatures and kids' rides) because the guy who most of the world placed on a God-like pedestal was an incredibly lonely, insecure man-child who just wanted to be loved.  He lived in a place called Neverland Ranch where he could fancy himself Peter Pan.  The former items because, let's face it, he was a freak.
 
When Michael was a mere large-afro'ed, groovy-clothed lad in the Jackson 5, he knocked our sox off working his adult James Brown dance moves and emotionally charged voice.  But by now we're all aware that the group's controlling, angry prick of a father brutally beat--and probably molested--a few of his own children, so Michael definitely never had what you'd call an "ideal" childhood.  Fucked-up, at best, from that kind of abuse.  The boy was damaged goods and that's painfully sad when you really think about it.  His own mother just let this shit happen and will forever live in denial that anything was wrong in her (f'ed up!) "loving, perfect family."  It's no wonder why Michael wanted to distance himself from his parents; wouldn't you?!
 
If the troubled young man had someone looking out for him (Berry Gordy, Diana Ross, etc.) who sought out serious therapy for him, the screwed-up pop idol might not have written or performed so powerfully.  Instead, he took comfort in Demerol and Oxycontin to try to kill the horrors of his life.  But, without those emotional demons--deep anger and sorrow--would his onstage performances and recordings be that intense?  The drugs only temporarily squashed them, but he held on to those demons and used them to fuel the fire in everything upon a stage or studio.
 
I wasn't a fan of "Thriller" and his disco-era material, but nobody can deny the talent he displayed throughout all his catalog.  I dug the Jackson 5, and a young Michael's solo recording about a killer rat named "Ben."  The song was written for the soundtrack of a B-horror movie by the same name.  The heart & soul that the teenaged Jackson sank into this tune dedicated to vermin is beautiful--and poignant enough to've made the cut for my wife's and my wedding CD.  (And check out Crispin Hellion Glover's video version of the song used to promote the rat-infested remake of "Willard," the prequel to "Ben."  It's definitely not as cool as Jackson's, but it's worth your attention).
 
A friend of mine recently posted some of Michael's mid-1990's lyrics to a song that speaks volumes--yep, it's called "Morphine":

He got flat baby
Kick in the back baby
A heart attack baby
I need your body

A hot kiss honey
He's just a bitch baby
You make me sick baby
So unrelying ...

A hot buzz baby
He's one of us baby
Another drug baby
You so desire

Trust in me Trust in me
Put all your trust in me
Your're doin' morphine

Hoo!

They got place baby
Kicked in the face baby
You hate your race baby
You're just a liar ...

Always to please daddy
Right up and leave daddy
You´re throwing shame daddy
So undesirable

Trust in me Just in me
Put all your trust in me
You're doin' morphine

Go'on babe

Relax
This won´t hurt you
Before I put it in
Close your eyes and count to 10
Don't cry
I won't convert you
There´s no need to dismay
Close your eyes and drift away

Demerol
Demerol
Oh god he's taking Demerol
Demerol
Demerol
Oh god he's taking Demerol

He's tried
Hard to convince her
To be over what he had
Today he wants twice as bad
Don't cry
I won't resent you
Yesterday you had his trust
Today he's taking twice as much

Demerol
Demerol
Oh god he's taking Demerol
Hee-hee-hee
Demerol
Demerol
Oh god he's taking Demerol
Hee
Oooh

OH!!!!! ...

Hoooo! ...

Hoo-Hoo!
I'm going down baby
You're takin' Morphine

Go'on baby!
Hoo!
Hoo!
Morphine!
Do it!
Hoo!
He's takin' morphine
Morphine!
Morphine!!

I know ... damn, right?  That's pretty raw.

After the news hit, I found out, much to my surprise, that one of my wife's ex-boyfriends (who runs his own private-jet company) flew MJ to certain destinations.  On hearing of Jackson's death, he didn't have flattering words:  "Knew him. Flew him. Scumbag, pedophile, drug addict, alcoholic, freak. Good fucking riddance.  When he shows up way down south, I only hope Lucifer says, 'Where the fuck is yer nose??? I paid for that!!!!'  Rot in Hell, "Thriller"."
 
The troubled (was anyone in that family NOT?!) Jackson--like father, like son--was probably laying his hands on small boys and that's not cool.  Actors Corey Feldman and Macauley Culkin should've "beat it" as fast as their little legs could run when Michael took a liking to their cute, boyish looks.  MJ was quoted to say he really loved Culkin's bee-sting lips--and soon got his own done to resemble the "Home Alone" tyke.  But, no matter what accusations were made involving his "spotted penis," the millions of adoring fans loved that crazy dude.

What will be the backlash of MJ's death?  There have been at least a few fathers of small children that I know exclaim, "It's a very good day.  With Michael Jackson dead, all the children of the world are safe!"  Despite those out there who are pleased that one more (alleged) pedophile is gone, there are a zillion more fans who are cleaning out the Michael Jackson CD sections across the nation, and the globe.  And, sometimes, those people are one and the same: my wife's ex quickly followed his scathing personal comments about MJ with, "On the other hand, I enjoyed much of his music."

Musicians like Alien Ant Farm (with their remake of "Smooth Criminal") and Weird Al Yankovic (with his numerous parodies) will gain another 15 minutes of fame from Jackson's death.  But is that a bad or good thing?

The bottom line is this: Michael Jackson touched a lot of people's hearts ... and a few people's parts.    

Unlike the millions of fans mourning Michael Jackson, my thoughts are with Sky Saxon. In this multi-dimensional universe we live in--it is often the obscure and obtuse moment(s)undocumented by the masses which affects us in the most profound of ways. Let me explain:

I did'nt discover Sky Saxon & the Seeds by being the studious record collector I am. I discovered the Seeds by chance and learned to love them by circumstance. The year was 1967 and I was living in Lahore West Pakistan(while in the  8^th and 9^th grade). This was before the area was marred by muslim terrorism and Taliban bullshit. In those days, Lahore was a sleepy 3^rd world backwater destination and for us American expatriates who lived there, our Mayberry (minus the conveniences). There was no TV and only a few houses had telephones that didn't even work half the time. The news was always 3 days old and if you were lucky, your short-wave radio might just might pull in the BBC for a minute or two. There was no peanut butter or chocolate milkshakes or record stores or sneakers or anything cool. We did have record players and Akai reel-to-reel tape recorders. And our American  school had 250 kids in grades 1-12. We were all tuned into the Beatles, Rolling Stones and Beach Boys, always looking for the next big thing. The only time we heard new music was in September when the new kids came over there from the states. Our group hung out at the Jones' house (they had a pool table)—two very popular brothers who set the scene for all of us.

The Summer of 1967 one of the gang Richard Shaw brought the 2 Seeds albums over to Duke Jones' house. The Seeds and Web of Sound. These records became the Jones brothers' favorite records and they played them ad nauseum. When we weren't shooting pool we were looking at the album jackets for hours. "Do you think you would grow your hair this long?" I wonder where this photo was taken"? We had arguments lasting hours what song was better-"Try to Understand" or "Can't seem to make you mine"(actually he same song) To us 9^th graders the Seeds were Gods.

Fast forward to 1974-I was at Georgetown University and was doing a radio show called "Mystic Eyes."  Lenny Kaye just released his compilation Nuggets-and the world was getting their first formal introduction to garage music. I played the Seeds—and If I may be so bold to say—I was playing "garage music" as a radio format light years before the thousands who now carry the torch. As a record collector, I became interested in the post Seeds "Discography" looking for "Little Richie Marsh doo-wop records" and willing to kill for the rare Seeds single "Love in a Summer Basket." My father recently died and his favorite Seeds song was "Faded Picture" which I pulled out and listened to in his honor.

Fast Forward to May 2009. I am having a dinner at my dear friend and radio co-host of yester-year Dr. Joe Sasy (the man behind all those Time-Life informercials you see at 3 AM!!) We talked about the upcoming Seeds tour and it was decided the good doctor would buy tickets for the local Birchmere show and my wife Nancy & I would spend the night there. We all thought-what a great fun way to spend an evening.

Fast Forward to the evening of June 26-I am bored at home and surfing the net. I see the headline "Singer Dies from Infection." Of course I click the link. A wave of sadness descends over my body. I didn't know what to do. I call "Duke" in Utah--a prominent dentist now --and still a very dear friend. The Secretary say's "can you hold and I will see if Dr. Jones can take your call." In the few seconds that I am waiting I think back to the Dukes' condom collection--all 120 brands he was so proud of and filled many up and used as lethal water balloons(but's that's another story). Duke jumps on the phone and says, "Hey Herc!" (my 7^th grade nickname) how are you?'" I tell him, "I am calling you because something very sad happened today." What? "Someone Died" Who? -your not calling me about "Farrah" are you Herc?" No Duke, Sky Saxon died today." A noticeable silence come sover the line..... "You know Herc, he was from Salt lake." I tell him, I know duke." " You know his real name was not Sky Saxon," No it was Richie Marsh--and he was probably a Mormon." "Yeah Herc, Marsh is a well known Mormon name, the Duke replies. We continued chatting making the same jokes we made in 8^th grade. Who would have ever thought we were 56 year old adults?  

In conclusion I have to say Sky Saxon's passing was sad and beginning of the realization that my Generation is entering the twilight of our lives. I was very upset with NPRfor not doing even a small story on Sky. Those holier-than-thou Ivy League  ectomorphs who pride themselves on the unique and forgotten news story--totally dropped the ball on this and this was a story that begged to be told. Instead, NPR was indistinguishable from Fox news in their coverage of Michael and Farrah. In their lame coverage of Michael, they even  forgot to mention the only cool thing Michael ever did was name his kid Blanket! But then again,  Sky talked to Dogs and played with Father Yod &  Yahowa 13.

Yes, it's a "Faded Picture,a picture of my childhood," RIP Sky.

Steve Lorber is a founding member of the Rock Institute- an organization started in the 70's to interdict and stop the export of rare American Rock and Roll records sold and smuggled to Europe. A life-long promoter of cassette technology and is currently working on a diet & philosophy book tentatively titled The Porky From New Yorky's Guide to Weight Loss and Positive Mental Health.     

Not unlike the rest of the world, Outlandos HQ has had Michael Jackson on perpetual replay. RIP the King.

1. Michael Jackson, Thriller



I'd forgotten what a monster album this was. I'd also forgotten [...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

Yesterday's Ring

The divide between hardcore punk bands and acoustic cradling country crooners is growing narrower nowadays.  Avail's Tim Barry, Hot Water Music's Chuck Ragan and even Social Distortion's Mike Ness have all added a little Highwaymen outlaw vibe to their solo records of late.

Yesterday's Ring, comprised of a handful of members from Montreal's hardcore heroes the Sainte Catherines, prove even Canadian's aren't immune to power of the twang and a good drinking song.

Yesterday's Ring, lead by singer Hugo Mudie have just released their third full length (and first for Suburban Home Records) "Diamonds in the Ditch".
Hugo was kind enough to answer some questions recently about the new record, the future of the Sainte Catherines and why punk rockers can't say no to country records.

Prior to this band, you were known more for a harder punk rock sound. What made you decide to play alternative country?
We still play in our punk band the Sainte Catherines. We started to enjoy listening to softer music while on the road with the Sainte Catherines. Our old drummer really liked country and he kind of turned us on to it. It was perfect for driving through the south of the states.
 
So you haven't always had country music influences?
No I think it started around the year 2000 while on tour with the Sainte Catherines. But growing up my mom was a big fan of Kenny Rogers and John Denver and my dad was a into Springsteen and Dylan...I guess I got it from them also.


Do you approach writing songs for Yesterday's Ring any differently than the way you write and record Sainte Catherines' records? 
Yes, definitely. The Sainte Catherines is more of a collaborative effort. Yesterday's Ring is a band, but it's written more in the songwriter tradition, where someone from the band comes up with a song and we work around it.

There are actually a lot of punk rockers who have started writing more country and folk-influenced records (Tim Barry, Chuck Reagan, Frank Turner, etc.). What is so appealing about this type of music that it attracts so many former punks?
It's simple and heartfelt like punk rock but it's not so fucking loud (ha).


Are the audiences any different or the same punks who came to see you with the Sainte Catherines?
There are more girls at Yesterday's Ring shows and more NOFX fans at Sainte Catherines shows.

Do you still plan on writing and recording more albums with the Sainte Catherines?
We just started writing a new record for the Sainte Catherines. We are really excited about it. I think it's gonna be a lot catchier and rock than previous records.

What music have you been listening to lately?
Colin Moore, John Prine, K'Naan, Steve Earle, Dirty Tricks, Koriass and Lake Of Stew.


 

Not exactly an Ozzie & Harriet childhood...

By Coco Hames

Ricky Nelson's creamy version of Gene Pitney's "Hello Mary Lou" was one of my mom's lunchbox 45s, and that worn little case took up residence next to the bunk bed I shared with my little sister for a good portion of the '80s.  Tom Jones' "What's New, Pussycat?" and a gospel "One More River To Cross" were in there, too.  But I digress.

I liked Ricky Nelson's songs with the same ambivalent tolerance in the way I liked Davy Jones' slow numbers: inoffensive, playful singalongs.  Children like these things.  So when my older sister told me that Ricky Nelson had twin boys, and they had a pop song out, you can imagine how excited I was!  Then she showed me a picture of them, and I was just flat out confused.  I believe we all remember Matthew and Gunnar.  Gunnar.  However, this family name obviously carried some weight in the world, so when I was desperate for a parakeet, and my parents finally relented, I named him Nelson. 

Nelson was a bird.  And I have a long history with birds, and not a good one.  Basically they like to die in my hands.  Just last summer, whilst repairing my parents' porch after a Nor'easter tore through some of the screens and chucked patio furniture willy nilly, I lifted an overturned chair to find a little hummingbird, sitting very still.  He had to have been trapped under there for several days.  I didn't know what to do, or how to help him.  I picked him up and tried to take him outside, and his little heart was beating so fast in my hand, it was not a good sign.  I think he had a heart attack?  Well anyway, he died and I buried him and gave him a little grave marker from a potted plant.

And another time, we ALL heard the chirping in the fireplace, it was quite clear that a bird had her nest up in there somewhere, and the eggs had now hatched.  And I said, "Mom, you'd better take care of that."  And she said, "I know, I know."  But when we came back from tour a few weeks later, my parents were out of town, so Poni and Jem and I walked our luggage into the living room, exhausted, only to find DEAD BIRDS EVERYWHERE.  And if they weren't dead yet, they were SCREAMING.  And then WE were screaming!  And we had to get a GARBAGE BAG and pick them all up, and then the mama bird hid out in the upstairs bathroom for a day and spooked Jem big time!

One tried to live.  But he didn't have eyes.  Or a beak.  I named him Phoenix and tried to feed him Capri-Sun and saltines, but HE died, TOO!

Anyway, Nelson didn't die, but evidently you're supposed to get parakeet's wings clipped every so often, so that they don't fly away, and I think we were remiss in this maintenance activity, because one day, I was walking around the house with Nelson perched on my index finger (as I often had him do, because I love that scene in Disney's Sleeping Beauty, "I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream...") and all of a sudden, he immediately flew up into the air (he wasn't supposed to be able to fly, you see) and into the bathroom!  I chased after him, but he was so high up there, so I climbed onto the counter-top to try and reach him, but right as I got him in my hand, one of my feet went into the sink and I tripped, smashing Nelson against the mirror! 

He did NOT die, but we had to built a splint for one of his birdie legs out of a toothpick and medical tape, and then my mom gave him to our babysitter, because I obviously couldn't take care of him.

I also had a pig named Elvis Pigsley. 

*****

Blurt "co-co-editor" Coco Hames fronts The Ettes - Hames on guitar, Jem Cohen on bass and Poni Silver on drums - whose latest album Look At Life Again Soon (Take Root) is still a hot item, and they also have a new EP, Danger Is, released by Take Root and also available digitally, www.myspace.com/theettes), and a Dan Auerbach-produced limited-edition single. They recently completed recording sessions for their third full-length with Greg Cartwright (Reigning Sound) producing. Look for a release this fall.

I can't say this enough. Assume everyone's a lazy idiot. Make it as EASY AS POSSIBLE for me to find you. Make it as EASY AS POSSIBLE for me to care. Make it as EASY AS POSSIBLE for me to give you my money.

No matter what your business (musicians included), it's your job to go out and find fans. Assume that they otherwise won't find you. So while putting up a website is nice, who cares? It's nothing if you can't get people to GO TO IT and BUY YOUR SHIT. Newsletters, blogs, Twitter, Facebook, etc... if you're still pooh-poohing any of these, wake the fuck up (and then call me).

Because it's not enough to just get out there... you have to lure your fans in [...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.