Close your eyes.

Following some recent comments regarding a couple of Townspeople's distaste for Cheap Trick, BigSteve suggested the following advice:

It's too late for y'all to get Cheap Trick, but, as with Herman's Hermits, they're a great example of the 'listen but don't look' principle.

The listen but don't look principle should be of assistance for Townspeople who can't get past a variety of visual beefs: from silly stage wear and goofy antics to the vagaries of aging and genetics. Think of all the artists whose music might benefit from the application of this principle in your own listening life. Certainly this principle has its limits, but BigSteve may be onto something. This may be why some of us find rock 'n roll most enjoyable when holed up in a dark room, alone and listening to recorded music.

Rock 'n Roll Iwo Jima

On some as-yet-undetermined date in some as-yet-undetermined city (surely a United States city), Bruce Springsteen and His E Street Band struck the powerful, unifying, healing pose that's come to be known through the Halls of Rock as Rock 'n Roll Iwo Jima. This is a pose that had never before been perfected on stage, not by Seger, John Mellencamp, or U2. Today we will attempt to define this term for future generations of musicians, rock critics, and music lovers, and we will begin to trace its development.

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Why does the term "Dad Rock" bother me so much? Malcolm McClaren is dead, Bill Wyman is his own grandpa. Rap has sustained for over 30 years, rock for over 60. The surviving original rebels have traded whiskey for tea and weed for Metamucil. They can't play in this young man's game, even if they invented it. Let's face it: "Dad Rock" is code for, "you are old, uncool and your music is lame." You don't need to have kids to like "Dad Rock," it just means that you are bland and safe... like a dad.

I think the first time I saw the phrase was in a review for Wilco's Sky Blue Sky and it struck me as a way of saying that the quality of the music wasn't the issue, rather it was a lack of cutting edges that left it milquetoast, nothing that would upset daddy's delicate old heart. Yesterday I saw the phrase attached to the new Arcade Fire album, and that felt like crossing a line. Sure, they were cool a few years ago, but now they are filling up the seats of Madison Square Garden. With dads. Playing, "City With No Children."

A quick web search reveals sketchy opinions that "Dad Rock" is either music of the '60s and '70s that baby boomers listen to exclusively, or that it is bands such as Coldplay, U2 and Wilco, or even just selected songs. Or maybe it's a few more notches down the ladder of hipness - Phil Collins, solo Sting, Steely Dan. To an extent, it's not that different from "Yacht Rock," but without the cocaine and soft-rock overtones. But these goalposts are moving too easily, and who decides where they go?

Of course, we'd like to think that wisdom comes with age. Those kids will regret those M.I.A. albums, just like I regret, well, I regret.... My best friend in high school was embarrassed by his father's fanatical fandom of Leonard Cohen. Cohen toured, the whole family went, my friend missed a big party. When asked why our friend wasn't at the party, and told why, another friend said, "I wish my dad were that cool!" and I experienced a shift in perspective.

If I have any goal at all with this post, it is to ask the simple question: What do you think "Dad Rock" is? Does it actually exist? If it does, what are its defining characteristics? Or is "Dad Rock" simply a bracket that moves through time, a continuous parade of young people having the label applied to them and their favorite bands, when the inevitable grey hairs sprout? Like an animal urinating to claim its turf, does a dad's appreciation of any music automatically categorize it as "Dad Rock?" Does a dad's enjoyment of music ruin it for everybody else? It almost seems absurd to ask these questions, but I think they should be asked.

Let us take a few minutes to celebrate The Power and Glory of Rock - with four tambourines, no less!

In our recent thread examining things singers do during long solos and other instrumental breaks, we discussed the move known as The Anderson, named after Yes singer Jon Anderson's surprisingly effective, drama-free approach to commanding the stage during long stretches when he could have had nothing better to do than iron out the wrinkles in his dashiki. Someone wondered if the reference to the move's lack of "drama" was a commentary on the brief period when the Drama-era Yes was led by Trevor Horn, then of The Buggles' fame and soon to be better known as a producer of slick, fairly interesting '80s (and beyond) pop. Although the reference to the Horn era was unintentional, this observation necessitated a full-blown examination of the contrasting instrumental break styles of Anderson and Horn.

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It's nothing dramatic, but check out Blood, Sweat & Tears' replacement singer (did you know someone replace the fantastically bad David Clayton Thomas, who was a replacement singer himself?) during the solos in this cover of Traffic's "Empty Pages." The solo starts at 1:43, and you'll catch the replacement singer doing the Half-Hearted Blinded by da Blooz move at the 2:06 mark. This pedestrian move is commonly employed by lead singers during instrumental breaks. It involves some pseudo-blind man head bobbing and swaying that quickly degenerates into the posture of a dude following a humorous conversation around a keg. If I were ever a lead singer without a guitar to holster, I fear I'd resort to some lame move like this one.

Typically the singer has at least three responsibilities to uphold during instrumental breaks: 1) direct the audience toward the soloist; 2) offer support and encouragement to the soloist, thereby actually cueing the audience to applaud the singer's re-entry in the song; and 3) stay the hell out of the way of the musicians and their chords and effects boxes!

It's fascinating to watch a singer who knows how to make something distinctive of those long instrumental breaks. David Thomas of Pere Ubu has been known to employ the age-old Hat Wave technique to cool off his soloing guitarist's axe. A little touch of the singer's showmanship goes a long way during a long instrumental break.

When I saw Yes, tiny Jon Anderson had to fill long stretches doing nothing more than banging an inaudible tambourine and letting his dashiki flow to the music. His movements are extremely awkward but sincere, as you'll see in the background of the instrumental break in "Roundabout" (beginning at the 5:27 mark). Devoid of drama, the Anderson, as I'll call this move, projects confidence and keeps the singer front-and-center, commanding his band through challenging instrumental passages. It's a subtly effective approach.

So what things that singers do during long solos impress you? For future discussions, is there a term that can be given to these moves? Beside the three I listed, what other responsibilities might a singer have during his musical breaks? What moves should a singer avoid during instrumental breaks?

I look forward to your thoughts.

Sorry, kitty...

We've all got our "Wait, wait...check it out!" musical moments, those special, super-cool points in a song that you want, no, you need your friend to hear. In all the years we've had rock videos in our lives, are there equivalent moments, which I will call drop-the-cat moments, as the sweaty, muscular factory worker in Madonna's "Express Yourself" video does when surprised to see the back of our tastefully naked, freshly milk-bathed Madge?

Despite my silly (yet sincere) example, a moment that follows in the video shortly after that cat lands on all fours, these drop-the-cat video moments need not be salacious. Whatever video moment puts you in that factory worker's state of surprise and wonder will do. Links to your video with the time at which the drop-the-cat moment occurs for you are more than welcome!

I don't know that we've ever put a name to the "big-boned" offspring of classic boogie and arena rock until now: Burly Rock. Did any band display the strengths and weaknesses of this genre better than Bachman-Turner Overdrive?

Of course the genre dates back to an early band featuring Randy Bachman, The Guess Who.

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This clip is a good demonstration of the Musician Proximity Effect (MPE), where musicians who have plenty of room onstage periodically move closer to one another, intensifying their facial expressions and deriving more power to Rock from temporary nearness to one of their bandmates.

The Effect is most powerful when two players, usually guitarists and/or bassists, actually lean against one another back to back, shoulder to shoulder being slightly less powerful. Rocking while simultaneously being involved in male-on-male physical contact is tricky but achievable with the introduction of varying amounts of humor and/or irony.

The increased ability to Rock provided by the MPE lasts even after the musicians disengage, though it is not permanent and may need to be replenished by additional bouts of proximity.

The attempted use of the Effect by more than two musicians at a time, or by direct instrument-to-instrument contact, (cf. Blue Oyster Cult) is risky and not advised or endorsed by Rock Town Hall.

Why bring back the following series of clips? To ensure we never forget the true essence of Mandom. That's why.

This post initially appeared 4/30/07.

This pretty much sums up my life. Maybe your's too. Mad props to would-be Townsman Jay for pointing this out.

UPDATED!

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