With this post, we inaugurate a new running series in the Halls of Rock Town, in which we collectively examine a single, stand-out performance, to focus on and assess its “mach schau” factor. To kick things off, I bring you Tom Jones in 1969, doing what he did best: moovin’, groovin’ and making women get all twitchy *down there*.
I once read an insightful comment comparing Elvis to Tom Jones, suggesting that Elvis had all the talent he needed to be a great soul singer, but all he ever wanted was to achieve whitebread success on the stage in Vegas. Tom Jones is/was the opposite: someone who clearly yearned to be a soul shouter, but was blessed with a God-given knack for Vegas-style entertainment excellence. Sometimes I agree with this assessment. When I watch things like this, though, I’m not so sure — and I’m not sure I care!
So join me, won’t you? Watch Tom Jones doing his thing, then tell me: did he or did he not MACH SCHAU?
This is your Rock Town Hall! Do your part to keep the kids united!
If you’ve already got Back Office privileges and can initiate threads, by all means use your privileges! If you’d like to acquire such privileges, let us know. If you’ve got a comment that needs to be made, what are you waiting for? If you’re just dropping in and find yourself feeling the need to make your voice heard, don’t hesitate to register and post your thoughts. The world of intelligent rock discussion benefits from your participation. Your own Mr. Moderator, in particular, gets a day off from himself. It’s a good thing, believe me!
Here’s an oldie but goodie that gets to the heart of our “This Is Your Rock Town Hall!” reminders. Alexmagic had connections to at least one Townsman before delighting us with his comments, but like a number of other regular participants we now take for granted he wasn’t part of my personal inner circle. I believe this was Alexmagic’s first Main Stage contribution, appearing under my byline, as he had not yet had Back Office privileges in place. I still get chuckle out of it, and I still look forward to his comments and the promise of some more original posts. He’s not the only Townsperson whose take on rock we’d benefit from seeing on the Main Stage more regularly. This is your Rock Town Hall.
This post initially appeared 7/20/07.
Regulars in the Halls of Rock might have noticed a post from a newcomer, Townsman Alexmagic, in the comments section of yesterday’s hypothetical Beatles question. Those who do not follow as closely or who’ve been away might have missed it, so we’re bringing it to the Main Stage. Enjoy. Thanks, Alexmagic, and may you make yourself heard in these hallowed halls on a regular basis!
Unfortunately, this premise is flawed and presents a question impossible to answer, since the 1967 musical landscape would be radically different had the Beatles not shown up until this point. Instead, this should be approached as a complete alternate history (such as, “what would World War II have been like if aliens had attacked?”), contemplating the musical landscape of 1967 if the Beatles had never formed, though all would still have existed. We begin, then, with a starting point of Lennon and McCartney never meeting at the St. Peter’s Woolton Parish Church Garden Fete.
This new history means that there was no British Invasion as we know it. The “Fab Four” are Frankie Avalon, Bobby Rydell, Chubby Checker and Fabian, as the Original Philly Sound (which it would come to be known) sweeps the United States, and the Four make a series of popular, hijinx-filled teen movies about their shenanigans at the Jersey Shore, one of which debuts a young Bill Cosby. Chubby Checker will later spend the mid-1990s through the 2000s demanding that he receive the Academy Honorary Award prior to every Oscars telecast, dubbing himself “the soil Hollywood grows on.”
England responds to the clean-cut, genial sound gripping the States by countering with its own exports of boyishly-handsome actor/singers, possibly led by a young Davy Jones and (as he would be billed) Jimmy McCartney. I speculate that this Alternate Timeline Paul McCartney ends up with the lead in Alfie. John still ends up working with George Martin, but as a comedy record producer and part-time member of the Bonzo Dog Band. He gets into a fistfight with Peter Sellers on the set of I Love You, Alice B. Toklas! – which, for reasons that will soon become clear, is a film about surfing instead of hippies. Continue reading »
Before I deliver this stern message to Stereolab‘s Chemical Chords album can you help me work through my reactions over the past 2 or 3 months? Since buying this CD I have spun it a good dozen times at work and in the car? Townspeople have helped me in the past in such moments of utter befuddlement, and I hope you can help me now.
Over the years I’ve heard some other albums by Stereolab with songs that make some sense to me, but this new album, Chemical Chords, which reviews and blog postings I’ve seen indicate that longtime Stereolab fans dig just fine, sounds to me like an endless stream of Target ads. I’m reminded of the opening scene of Fight Club, with the Ed Norton Jr. character in his Ikea catalog-like apartment, with the descriptions and price tags popping up all around him. I feel like I’m being sold something, like a neon beanbag. Do I need a neon beanbag?
This song title catches my eye with its hints at postmodern art and the use of single quotes within the standard song title’s double quotes. The song title would look great on my glass and chrome coffee table…if I had a glass and chrome coffee table! Actually, if I had such a coffee table and this slight song was playing atop it I’d half expect Alex and his droog buddies to break in and smash my living room to bits. I know, like, and greatly respect many of you who like Stereolab. The stuff you’ve played me over the years is usually interesting. Do you like this new album, or have I been reading the reviews and blog postings of ass-kissing Cool Patrol wannabes? Tell me, my friends, that you know what I’m talking about – or point out the error of my ways.
Here’s another song with a museum-piece title that, at best, makes me horny for tastefully tarted-up 35-year-old women spending their newly acquired excess cash at an upscale department store. Is this what I’m supposed to be feeling while listening to the new Stereolab album? Is this what they’d consider “mission accomplished” and high-five, or celebrate through whatever polite variant would suit their style?
I’ve been giving this album a sincere try. I’ve been trying to get inside of the mind of someone who might fancy this platter, and all I can think of is catalog blurbs, slim models, and my credit cards. I badly want to dash off the following note to Stereolab’s new album:
I am not for sale!
Before I do, can you help me check my line of reasoning? Thanks.
(Make sure you skip ahead to 3:15 for the key bit of dialog.)
In a recent conversation, I blurted out something in a very matter-of-fact way — the way that usually sets me up for a rhetorical pin-fall from somebody who thinks more than me before they open their yap. This time, however, everybody involved in the chat nodded their head in agreement. What I said was:
“The most totally rock and roll movie star ever? Bruce Lee.”
There was no disagreement during that conversation, and there should be none now. Bruce had swagger, balls, an intelligent, improvisational perspective on ass-kickery, wore cool shades, racing stripes, and was just generally all that.
Hand over the belt!
HVB
p.s.: Bruce Lee was called to mind as I watched an incredibly awful Matt Helm movie last night. The credits listed Bruce Lee as “Karate Consultant.” As I watched the movie, Dean Martin’s lumpy ineptitude at the business of chops and kicks made it clear Bruce couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Every now and then, though, an obvious stunt-Karate dude made an appearance, and that dude could kick some ass! Using the marvel of digital freeze-framery, I slowed the film down to the point where this guy could be identified. Sure enough: it was Bruce Lee in a leisure suit with a curly wig on!
Quick: What’s Davy Jones‘ best moment with The Monkees?
…
His appearance as himself on The Brady Bunch does not count. He wasn’t appearing as a Monkee, and chances are a stoked Marcia was doing all the heavy lifting in the appeal that Davy appearance may hold for you to this day. Continue reading »
I’ve been promising/threatening to write this RTH Glossary entry for a while now, so here goes.
We mean it, maaannnnn!
Sincerity fallacy: The idea that the quality of a song (or of any literary or artistic work) can be measured by the extent to which it sincerely reflects the beliefs, emotions, or experiences of its creator. This is not to say that a “sincere” song is necessarily a bad song, merely that its sincerity is not a useful tool in judging its merit.
The idea that sincerity matters is a holdover from the Romantic era. The Romantic artist was supposed to have been a special creature who felt more deeply than ordinary people, and thus his poetry or music was thought to embody these deep emotions and give the reader or listener access to states of being he or she could not ordinarily experience. This gives rise to a corollary of the sincerity fallacy – the idea that more powerful emotions, whether greater joy or deeper pain, lead to greater works of art. To take an example from a recent RTH thread, because Phil Lesh’s father was dying while the bassist was writing (the music to) “Box of Rain”, the song is thought to achieve a level of profundity it might otherwise not have.
And this idea leads to another favorite RTH charge – backstory alert! When discussing the merits of a particular piece of music, allusions to the life history of the artist of the “real life” experiences that are depicted in the song are always suspect. The backstory of a song or album may be interesting, but any use of it to bolster an argument regarding the quality of said song or album leaves one open to being on the receiving end of a severe backstory-alert smackdown.
Awareness of the dangers of the sincerity fallacy is an important corrective to dangerous assumptions, among even the most sophisticated rock fans. We are in a sense still living in the Romantic era. But it’s easy to go too far in the other direction and end up with an attitude that all song lyrics are simply word games and nothing means anything to anybody. If you actually knew a songwriter personally, I think you might be justified in basing at least some of your opinion of his or her work on what you knew about the backstory. But in our media saturated age it’s all too easy to think you know about an artist’s life, but what you know is filtered through publicists, journalists, etc., and you’re better off sticking to the song itself. The problem is that there’s all that media out there leading us away from the song and toward the songwriter. And if you say you’re talking about authenticity and not sincerity, you’re going to to have to prove to me what the difference is or I’m not buying it.
All of this was brought into focus for me recently by Randy Newman, the master of the unreliable narrator. In recent years Newman has started working more autobiographically. There’s a song on his new album, Harps & Angels, called “Potholes”, which he introduces in concert as “the truest song I’ve ever written.” He claims all of the details in the song happened exactly as he relates them in the lyrics. In the linked video that follows he performs and talks about the song:
