End of the Line at Duke University, August 2007

The horde has descended. Hundreds of freshmen now crowd the halls of Duke’s East Campus dorms and by some stroke of cosmic weirdness I found myself among them, awash in Natty Light and listening to Dre’s “Let Me Ride,” semi-audible above the din.

I write this facing the reality of leaving school indefinitely. We never gelled, me and Dear old Duke, so I’m high-tailing it to the city to try clawing my way into this terrifying writing business for real.

At the party. This is where the flashbacks come mile a minute, let me tell you. I remember this walk I’m pulling off now, the freshman sideways shuffle. It’s an off-campus party, in the relatively spacious, actually extremely spacious high-ceilinged Erwin Square apartment building, and yet inside the apartment, where seniors and freshmen mixed in a pulsating surge that ran both ways, mutating and shifting, the claustrophobia is reminiscent of some of the worst nights fall semester back in the day waaaaaaay back in ought four, remember? Crammed into Few Quad hallways, my belly squeezing embarrassingly past the foxy ladies as I struggled to wind up in a room where I’d be given beer, shitty beer.

The same bleak realizations may hit a few of these revelers weeks down the line, but not too many, I’d reckon. A surprising amount stick with it long enough to smooch up the ass ladder of fraternal brotherhood and eventually reap the rewards when they sit as kings, watching freshmen fill their rooms and halls, demanding shitty beer.

Having existed at Duke as something of a fringe element, I throw people off at parties like this. They’ve never seen me, or rarely, and a blonde senior girl pops up in front of me with a “hi my name’s Suzy what’s your name,” seemingly having mistaken me for a freshman or a kindergartener.

I explain the situation. She says, yeah, you looked old for 18.

True.

Inevitable that these sights and sounds provoke intense reflection on three years of collegiate mishaps, but all is not dour.

Parked by the keg is a short solid bro with a hat that reads REMINGTON, holding court with a couple of new arrivals. It is one of those totally rare moments where one registers genuine surprise at the fact that the words being said aren’t out of some third tier collegiate virginity-loss caper currently being pounded out of the iBook of some sweaty, desperate Los Angelean:

“DUDE, YOU’RE IN COLLEGE NOW!! YOU’RE GONNA GET LAID! IT’S GONNA HAPPEN!”

“I know, man! My RA said to come to him if we need condoms!”

“Yeah! Yeah man. Totally. It’s like, you can get condoms everywhere, the vending machines, the health center, everywhere.”

The sound of the room is thick and fluttering and I’m unable to keep up with all of it.

“You’re not in high school, bro, you don’t have to go home and do your homework with your mom, man. You wanna go get fucked up you go get fucked up, but you gotta work hard too man, this is Duke. . .”

Indeed, this is Duke. My own fucked-upedness is getting the better of me and I can’t hear much of the rest, apparently Remington’s laying some career advice upon his newfound bro . . .

money isn’t everything you gotta live life man I’m gonna retire ten million, that’s my limit, you know bro, dude breh bra brobrobrehbreuxbro

In the hall I encounter a truly wet freshie named Joe who reminds me he’s the cousin of this dude from my freshman dorm. He’s telling me about when he visited, back in oh fo’ (fo’ sho) and got shithammered in Alspaugh. Sounds about right, I say. He tells me he remembers me playing the guitar, and that he plays too now. He says he remembers me more than almost anything from that visit. He is very drunk. I give him a Parliament and he lights the wrong end.

Outside, smoking and talking to M---- M---- a truly indestructible party monster with an uncanny knack for school, memorization, and all around academics. It never seemed fair, and neither did his “Wolverine-like powers of recuperation,” to quote a popular description, but you couldn’t hold it against the guy, not even with the country club name to end them all, cause he had a big melon grin and loved beer and football and weed, and loved to have fun and ensure that others were entertained as well.

I knock on the door trying to get back in the bay of apartments. It doesn’t open on the outside. Somebody notices when a girl comes up and knocks and he toys with her for a second, a drunken jackal, fucking with her until he finally shoves the door open, smacking her in the forehead with a dull thump. The gaggle of folks nearby dissolves into giggles and amazingly, the only “holy shit, are you all right?” comes from me. Then they see her tears and the way she’s holding her hands over her face and there’s much commotion. I slip inside and wait for an opportunity to leave. It’s all a bit much right now.

Right place, wrong time. Outside I hear it: “Man I love college.”A wet freshman still buying the essential myths. But on my end, faith broken down, smoking a lonely cigarette in front of the bays next to the cars and spent cans of Natty Light dotting the bushes like fantasy gumdrops. Reeling, rocking, gut protesting rumbling but ok, muted by sweet smoke and light beer (have another, along for the ride now, it’s late and this scene has been building for hours)

They’re mostly leaving now and I’m talking to some remaining friends, good ones that I haven’t seen in awhile, and that I’ll be bailing on before too long. Inside awhile for smoking and scribbling and then slowly creeping towards the act of going home.

Waiting for my ride to finish his phone call in a spacious Erwin bay, seemingly deserted now. Losing it a bit swaying a tad but I’ve found an ally, somebody to lean on. Me and the wall, we’re ok.

Positive Jamming in Chicago

The Hold Steady - Metro, 10/30/07
Chicago, IL

Some nights you really need a dose of rock romanticism. There’s no way around it; shit has gotten rough, inside or out, and you need power chords and the rants of a crackpot cockeyed optimist to help you through.
It happened that Tuesday was one of those nights, and it happened that the show I was seeing would be my first since moving to Chicago. And after working and commuting to the Metro, it happened that a few Pabst tall cans were needed to get into Hold Steady mode. “Bar Band” being after all the most beat-to-death descriptor of the band in question, I felt I’d do their live show an injustice if I wasn’t a little soused. No doubt they would be.
My buddy arrived at the Full Shilling Pub with our scalped (craigslist!) tickets with time to spare. Once Hold Steady mode was… holding steady, we made our way inside, and jockeyed a very respectable pit standing. The band ambled on stage maybe two minutes later, beers in hand, and opened with “Party Pit.”
The ratio of Hold Steady songs with shoutalong parts to Hold Steady songs without shoutalong parts it pretty one-sided. This makes for a wonderful, cynicism-destroying concert experience.
The music was tight and loud. The keyboards lost a bit of their authority to the overdriven guitars, but the sound was exciting and anthemic, more Cheap Trick than E Street Band. If the Hold Steady have a major flaw, it’s the relative predictability of their classic rock-indebted song structures. But as a flaw it’s debatable, or even delectable, given the satisfaction delivered by such a familiar, greasy taste. Who doesn’t love meat and cheese?
The unique aspect of the Hold Steady is Craig Finn, and his motor-mouthed, Boss-flavored storytelling. His verbosity can be polarizing (a woman at the Full Shilling was claiming she preferred the “Whoa-oh-oh-oh”s in “Chips Ahoy” to any of Craig Finn’s actual lyrics), but live it’s less of an issue, simply because it’s impossible to catch every breathless phrase. But good bits came through, even if it was only glib couplets like “it started in the vestibule and ended in the hospital.”
You couldn’t ask for a more generous and gregarious frontman. His rapport with the crowd was easy and sincere, and he never shook his slight air of ‘aw shucks’ disbelief at his popularity. It was that disarming spirit that informed the entire event, and it makes the Hold Steady more than the sum of their parts. You knew that he cared about what he sang about, and that when he sang “certain songs are scratched into our souls,” he couldn’t believe his luck that, for many watching, some of those will be his.
I got what I came for and left happy. But craving a cheeseburger.

Jennifer Herrema of RTX: Down with Democracy

Jennifer Herrema doesn't think too much about the expectations that inevitably follow RTX, the Royal Trux offshoot she formed four years ago without her former partner of 13 years, Neil Hagerty. There's no goal in mind and certainly no ulterior motive. It wasn't even a decision, she says.

"I'm still myself. There's no conscious or super-conscious effort to take on some kind of put-on genre," says Herrema. "Royal Trux was a phenomenal way of working, but it was like big government. Major checks and balances both ways. I wanted to move a little bit more fluidly."

RTX has afforded her that freedom, but it didn't come easy. The band's 2004 Drag City debut, Transmaniacon, was recorded by only Herrema, her second guitarist and an engineer. Something was lost in trying to replicate the record's sound on a subsequent 35-show tour; Herrema felt frustrated and disappointed.

"[It was just] playing the songs. There weren't enough liberties taken," she says. The length of the tour added to the dissatisfaction, and Herrema overhauled the band before taking RTX to Europe, scrapping two members, hiring a new drummer and moving her guitar player to bass. It clicked. She says, simply, "It was a lot more fun."

On this year's Western Xterminator, their second album, the band is newly functioning as a collaborative unit, and it shows: Xterminator is a focused chunk of deeply fucked-with classic rock, reminiscent of Royal Trux's most sonically dense and hooky late records but with a sensibility that is Herrema's alone. And this tour seems up to the task of bringing ferocious, spontaneous performances of the album's monstrous tunes.

"Tonight's gonna be our eighth show, and I'm the happiest I've ever been," Herrema declares. And she's dealing with her band politics in admirable fashion this time around. "Any good band could never possibly be a democracy. But there's nothing like sharing common ground and respecting it and letting it breathe."

Rock v. Art Rock

TV on the Radio – Cat’s Cradle, 4/15/07
Carrboro, NC

It rained buckets on Sunday, which no doubt contributed to the giddy atmosphere building in anticipation of TV on the Radio’s set at Cat’s Cradle. As the familiar, mural-adorned room began to fill with kids of all stripes – skirted and booted hipster gals, UNC students, bespectacled males who all vaguely resembled TVOTR producer and guitarist

Dave Sitek – London’s Noisettes played a pummeling set of baroque punkabilly, surprising the early crowd with their exuberance. Frontwoman Shingai Shoniwa sang acrobatic melodies with snotty ferocity, and the music’s meaty grooves kept up impressively.

With the crowd warmed up and the exodus to the smoking patio restructuring the floor somewhat, I secured a reasonably close, not-too-off-center spot and waited. At exactly 10:00, Kyp Malone’s hair became visible in the booth, and TV on the Radio began to take the stage. Enough ink has probably been spent on Mr. Malone’s ‘fro and beard, so I will only say that in person, it is quite majestic. Lights were cued, an electronic drone swelled in the speakers. Kyp spoke into the microphone, asking in a surprisingly high, meek voice, for the soundman to turn up his guitar a little. Drummer Jaleel Bunton started in on a shuffle, as Tunde Adebimpe shook sleighbells into his mic. The guitars came in, and Adebimpe began “Young Liars.” The hypnotic mix of the rolling tempo, atmospheric guitar noise, and cymbal crashes reached an overwhelming peak, which was pulled back with expert finesse before the band tore into a frenetic, stripped down reading of “The Wrong Way.” Where the version on Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes bounded along on a synthetic bass rumble and saxophone honks, this incarnation was all backbeat and crunching rhythm guitar. As always, Kyp Malone’s Gibson Les Paul provided the musculature of the song, on point at all times, while Dave Sitek’s Telecaster churned out sheets of effects-drenched atmosphere and shredded melodic lines.

Adebimpe’s energy as a frontman was astonishing, and he seemed to have struck an improbable balance between chaos and precision: he careened wildly about the stage, but his free hand’s gestures were sharp and committed and he never missed a lyric, even when out of breath. The vocals were impressive throughout the set. In the best moments, the twinning of Adebimpe’s strong lead with Kyp Malone’s falsetto was hair-raising.

As “The Wrong Way” was a different song without its studio production elements, “Dreams” was similarly stripped of its more synthetic qualities and given the rock treatment. It took a little time to adjust to this different side of the band, but when the wall-o’-guitars hit hard and Tunde hit the fantastic line “Leave your treadmill power trip behind,” I was sold.

TV on the Radio is difficult to pin down into a genre classification, but “art rock” might be the most accurate term, not due to any pretentious attitude, but rather cerebral sensibilities and dense sonics. Their records are constructed and arranged with infinite creativity and intuitive experimentalism. Live, these production qualities are not so much lost in translation as set aside, as the band tears its songs apart with visceral attack and boundless enthusiasm. This is still art rock – the art isn’t in the audio trappings, it’s in the songwriting and the vision of the band members.

After a brief conversation with the audience in which he confessed to being “a little” inebriated, and asked whether Cat’s Cradle was technically in Chapel Hill or “Carlsboro,” Adebimpe proceeded to go apeshit on a juiced-up run through “Wolf Like Me.” This was the only song that absolutely everybody seemed to know, and given its clever video’s MTV2 and YouTube exposure, that’s not surprising. But popular doesn’t mean bad, and if TV on the Radio have gotten sick of playing “Wolf” on late night, it doesn’t show.

The set’s latter half offered some sonic variety as bassist Gerard Butler manned a deck of synths and constructed oceans of echo and ghostly harmonies around some of the spacier numbers from Return to Cookie Mountain, with the controlled din accentuating “Dirtywhirl” in particular.

The set ended almost precisely on the hour, and an encore followed about ten minutes later, with the after-partying Noisettes taking the stage to join in on hand percussion. As Adebimpe and company skipped through the playful “A Method,” the drum circle mentality made perfect sense, and seemed to symbolize the something wonderfully right about the experience of watching a group of musicians in a hot, cramped room full of strangers.

They closed it all with “Staring at the Sun,” playing one of their most quintessential tunes at breakneck pace, sloppy, dirty, and saturated with distortion. Early in the set, it would have felt cheap, but at that moment it felt perfect.

Phenomenizzle

Every now and then, more often than not when watching VH1, I reflect on what has become a recurring quandary for me, and that quandary is the man history will remember as Snoop.

Before I begin to make any comments about Mr. Dogg that could be even remotely construed as negative, let me first say he is one of the most likeable personalities in the history of rap music. Since his near instantaneous rise to national stardom in the early ’90s as the featured guest MC on Dr. Dre’s inescapable gansta monolith The Chronic, Snoop Dogg has been famous. Not just famous. Really really really fucking famous, like Kansas soccer moms know who you are famous. And that fame is due in large part to his charisma, humor, and general way that he very pleasantly did not give a fuck. He was (is) just one cool motherfucker. But it’s pretty damned important not to forget a critical element here: Snoop Dogg’s flow. All of the above characteristics came through in that lazy, stoned-ass drawl. His best performances, like “Tha Shiznit,” take their time and give incredible attention to individual syllables, and have a narrative coherence lacking in the verses of many of his peers. His ability to change up frequently and ride the rhythm in unexpected ways made his verses musical and lilting, and unusually appealing to crossover hip-hop fans who may have initially been alienated by harsher contemporaneous voices such as Ice Cube (sorry to use another West Coast example but it was the first one that came to mind).

But here’s the thing, man. Let’s look at Snoop’s discography. It can be agreed upon that Snoop Dogg has made a few good albums. But he’s only really ever made one truly undeniably great album (that is under his name, The Chronic is a major achievement as well, obviously). Snoop Dogg has also definitely made a few really fucking awful albums, many of which are not just bad but, in hip hop tradition, really really fucking looooong. Now, Doggystyle is about an hour long, but unnecessary length can usually be forgiven in the event that an album kicks ass, which Doggystyle so obviously does. But dig this: Snoop’s first album for No Limit records, Da Game Is to Be Sold Not to Be Told is 79.28. That’s as long as a fucking movie. Even the title’s too long. And it’s filled with slapdash, whateverish productions by Master P and groaning under the weight of too many No Limit guest rappers. No Limit Top Dogg and The Last Meal were improvements, as the Dogg’s production skills continue to develop from his more rudimentary work on The Doggfather. But 2002’s Doggystyle All-Stars, a limp posse album (and obvious contract fulfiller) with minimal contributions by the posse’s ostensible leader, was a step backwards. Luckily some talented production teams were on hand for Paid tha Cost to Be da Bo$$, most notably the Neptunes, who produced the hit single “Beautiful.”

But despite this comeback, it’s guest spots that have been Snoop’s bread and butter in recent years. This seems to be logical, since his career began by guesting on an album, and indeed when Dre’s 1999 follow-up 2001 rolled around, Snoop appeared on the high profile, Grammy-nominated singles “Still D.R.E.” and “The Next Episode,” which are, not surprisingly, among the best tracks on the album. Snoop Dogg was nominated again in 2004 with the Neptunes for “Beautiful” and with Pharrell Williams alone in 2005 for the killer “Drop It Like It’s Hot.” Other more unfortunate collaborations include his guest spot on the vomit-inducing Pussycat Dolls hit “Buttons” and his current hit single with Akon, “I Wanna Love You” which is also recommended for those needing to induce regurgitation, either for medical reasons or a modeling career.

But no matter the legal troubles (which have been on and off ever since Snoop’s much publicized acquittal on a murder charge in February 1996) or the occasionally atrocious choice of collaborators, it seems Snoop Dogg will always be with us. Perhaps it’s because the personality he has created over the years is not really human. He is a gun-toting, blunt smoking gangsta cartoon, and so when his arrested for possession of marijuana and firearms, the public response is a resounding “duh.” Its not as though we can hold someone who is essentially a court jester figure in our celebrity pantheon accountable for acting out their shtick in real life. He tells us that he carries guns and smokes weed. That’s pretty much the basis for his career. We aren’t surprised and we aren’t mad.

But it makes you think a little bit. Or me, anyway. Gangsta as a concept has been around so long its not even offensive anymore to anyone under the age of fifty. We are willing to accept that for the most part, Snoop is a harmless figure. But then again, he is carrying a gun (and large quantities of ganj, but one of these things is not like the other, if you know what I mean). And although aside from Jam Master Jay, it’s been awhile since a high-profile murder has shaken the hip-hop community, no one should forget the potential for tragedy in a musical culture still deeply and intrinsically linked to a culture of violence. And that’s not racism or gross generalization, that’s fact.

So what? So nothing, I guess. I will go on loving Snoop Dogg, even though I know he carries a gun, because he smokes a lot of weed, he’s funny, he says izzle a lot, and he made Doggystyle.

Snoop has worked that fly gangsta shit so long and so over the top that it’s been forever since it felt like anything but a fantasy. Maybe because of things in his life that I don’t understand and never will, he has to arm himself. I don’t expect him to be a role model. His whole persona is that of the unrepentant rascal, and I wouldn’t want him to change that for the world, because its cool and it’s what makes him so much fun to listen to.

But the threat of cartoon violence turning real spoils the fantasy somewhat. Like any thinking white liberal dude who digs rap music, there’s always this back-of-the-mind worry about the IMPLICATIONS. Is the music I enjoy socially irresponsible? Some of it, yeah. Is it still worth listening to? Definitely.

Snoop Dogg is the man. His legacy is safe, and he’s pretty much impervious to any criticism. And that’s ok with me.

I’d just feel more comfortable knowing that gun was full of blanks.

T. Rex- The Slider

The recent Rhino reissue campaign and Quentin Tarantino’s sly deployment of “Jeepster” in Death Proof could spark a criminally belated T. Rex revival in the states. That is, if there’s an ounce of rock and roll karma in this world, which one hopes to Christ there is. The illegitimate spawn of T. Rex’s dirty boogie are scattered all over three decades; at best, these descendents nail the inspired silliness and infectious groovitude, much to their credit. At worst – well, in the words of Mr. Marc Bolan “It’s a rip off, it’s a rip off.”

Well, it sounds cooler when he says it.

Regardless of what could or could not have happened to T. Rex if they had conquered America as well as the U.K., the aforementioned Rhino reissue of the band’s back catalogue does them an amazing service by reminding us all of how incredible the best of Bolan’s work was.

The Slider is the third proper T. Rex’s all-electric albums following the name change from Tyrannosaurus Rex, and a change of direction away from acoustic, drug-fried Renaissance Faire balladry. It represents the continued evolution of the T.Rex sound – string-saturated arrangements replete with falsetto choirs all centered on the thick, fuzzed riffs of Bolan’s incredible rhythm guitar. The Slider’s predecessor, Electric Warrior used similar tactics, but not to such an extent as this. The all-out tidal wave of sonic bliss that is the record’s first 2.29, that is the entirety of “Metal Guru.” Bolan’s sublime kick-off shriek (“whoa-AUGHH-oohh yeeaaah” is a reasonable approximaton) sets the tone of unhinged, decadent fun which runs through each song.

In much the same fashion as “Cosmic Dancer” on Electric Warrior, “Mystic Lady” uses a rolling, narcotic folk groove to contrast the energetic opener, complete with more strings (note to listeners: there’s gonna be a lot of fucking strings on this album, so if you’re not down with that, be forewarned) more backing vocals, and an utterly gorgeous choral fade out.

And this is all just a prelude to the incredible title track, working its magic with a slow bump and grind and indelibly solid drum track, punctuated by egg shakers that sound like coke snorts and incidentally, one of the most melodically brilliant choruses ever devised in the name of glam rock.

U.K. hit “Telegram Sam” (which Bolan claimed to have written in its entirety in his head in an elevator) goes back to basics with a simple choppy guitar figure more than a little reminiscent of “Get It On,” but with great nonsense lyrics about dudes like “Golden Nose Slim,” who knows where you’ve been, and “Jungle Face Jake,” about whom Bolan warns us to make no mistake. But it’s the nutso, cello-accompanied, guitar workout of “Buick Mackane” where he really brings the rock, getting his stomp on and screaming more crazy shit about cars. “Rabbit Fighter” is another highlight, with those omnipresent strings providing a epic backdrop for Bolan’s story of . . . space war, or something.

So if you can cough up for that fancy reissue, by all means do, because it’s loaded with alternate versions and liner notes that will tell you pretty much anything about the recording of this album that you would ever want to know. Regardless, seek it out.

"Some Different Thunder" - Independent Weekly, 2/7/07

Deerhoof doesn't sound much like any other band you'll hear. Crunchy, mercurial guitar lines bob, weave, clank and chime, prog-rock fashion in tight jeans. Tumbling, thunderous drums turn decidedly funky when you least expect it. And then there's the five-foot tall, Japanese X-factor: Satomi Matazusaki.

This is where most people stop listening, and for good reason: Satomi's high-pitched voice is the most polarizing element of Deerhoof. It's a sound that prompts reviewers to use words like chipmunk, schoolgirl and helium. All Music Guide's Jason Nickey likened the band to "Yoko Ono fronting the White Stripes." You know, because all female Japanese singers are Yoko Ono, and all less-than-thou rock bands are The White Stripes, right? But that's only as inaccurate as it is reductive, essentially ignoring a simple fact: Without Satomi, there would be no Deerhoof. Or, if there was, no one would care.

Sure, Satomi's voice is unexpected, even discombobulating. Lots of people never get over the initial hump her wail presents, and that's excusable. But, as with many polarizing vocalists, the very individual sound of a band's voice is central to that band's aesthetic. Corin Tucker's Viking bellow in Sleater-Kinney articulates that band's righteous fury and muscular feminization of rock. Craig Finn's gnarly speak-sing in The Hold Steady is central to his widescreen nostalgia. Any old rock snob will tell you that having a "good" voice has not mattered since Bob Dylan broke.

Deerhoof is all childlike melodies and surrealistic, sometimes creepy lyrics. From their incisive riffs to their exuberant rhythms, Deerhoof lends a giddy enthusiasm to its surroundings. All of that is expressed with Satomi's every chirp. Were Deerhoof to have a traditional indie rocker—that is, a whiny white male—in the one-spot, they would lack much of their wild originality. Perhaps it would make it easier for Deerhoof to sink into the ocean of short-lived hype bands, and that would make those other whiny indie rockers happy. Let's be thankful that's not the case.

"Cat Power Finds Solace and Soul" - 11/15/06 Duke Chronicle

Chan Marshall may be a reformed enigma, but she remains an enigma nonetheless.

Innocently alluring and possessed of one of the smokiest, most hypnotic voices in modern music, she has been recording and performing under the Cat Power moniker since 1995. The end of the '90s saw her gaining critical and underground respect for her intriguing and often disquieting albums. Chan-pronounced "Shawn"-also gained notoriety for her erratic live performances.

But with the January release of her seventh album, The Greatest (Matador), things have changed. Her media presence has grown, and in recent interviews with high profile publications she has candidly discussed her depression, performance anxiety and substance abuse.

Now, a newly sober Marshall is breaking new ground. The Greatest has been re-released with new packaging and a new ad campaign, and her tour with the Memphis Rhythm Band comes through Cat's Cradle on Sunday.

The nature of Marshall's fans and the words they so often use to describe her suggest such a change might not be welcome. Duke's own Cat Power group on Facebook, "Cult of Chan," describes her as a "shy, troubled troubadour." Scanning the back archives of Matador Record's message board, words like "timid," "fascinating" and "tortured" come up evey few posts. There is no question that the mystique of Cat Power is deeply important to her devotees.

On stage, she used to be a totemic figure, playing her simple guitar lines with little body movement and intoning her mysterious and sometimes harrowing lyrics in a sweet half-whisper. For many years, this (with or without a minimalist backing band) was the core of her act. Atmosphere did the rest. The silence around the sound of her guitar and voice somehow amplified the intensity of her words and music, and audiences stood rapt.

That intensity came at a dear price for Marshall.

Until recently, her drinking had become heavier and heavier, and she was in the habit of taking Xanax before shows to control her stage fright.

"It was about the uncomfortableness of just being in my own skin," she told the New York Times in September. "And that's why the alcohol was always with me."

In January, weeks before the release of The Greatest, she was admitted to Miami's Mt. Sinai Medical Center, forcing her label to push back tour dates.

The album, although recorded before her breakdown and recovery, sounds hopeful. Stylistically, it's a far cry from hazy, meandering Cat Power classics like "American Flag" or "Cross Bones Style." Marshall has said the record is a return to the soul music she loved as a child: horns, strings and clean guitars carry her voice to beautiful heights.

In light of such a striking new direction, backlash was inevitable. Indie pundits in particular seem worried about the accessibility of her less oblique sound. Amy Phillips, in her review of The Greatest on pitchforkmedia.com even groused that the album "could be battling [Norah Jones'] 'Don't Know Why' for airplay supremacy on Mom's car stereo in the coming months."

Female musicians walk a delicate line. The public expects them either to be glamorous pop stars or demure folkies. As Richie Unterberger noted in his All Music Guide essay "Women In Rock," since the alternative explosion of the early '90s, indie and underground rock has been the most rewarding area for unconventional female artists. But in the end, many careers have suffered at the hands of an audience that doesn't want them to change.

And yet Marshall's fans, including those at Duke, seem to be embracing her personal achievements, even if not everyone agrees on the album.

"I think it's great," said senior Anne Rosenbarger. "Some friends of mine saw her last year and she stopped the show early. I think [her new attitude] will help her a lot."

It's easy to understand the morbid curiosity involved in attending a performance by a notoriously unstable artist: it's spectacle, it's performance art. Many male artists, from Jim Morrison to Kurt Cobain, have suffered and profited from such audience expectations.

Tellingly, Marshall's 2003 album You Are Free opened with "I Don't Blame You," a wistful piano ballad written to and for Cobain, and addressing his turbulent relationship with fame from a personal standpoint.

But Marshall seems to have an important asset on her side: supportive fans.

"I never noticed they really liked me before," she told the Times. Here's hoping she comes onstage smiling Sunday.

Kings of Leon - Because of the Times

For months prior to the release of Because of the Times, those tricky-dicky Followills had been alluding to a challenging change of direction, and I will concede that kicking the new record off with a 7.10 epic does smack of trying to engineer that “difficult album” mystique. Especially when said epic is as echo-swathed and oh jeez, here we go – atmospheric. But I don’t care what nobody says, because “Knocked Up” is an expertly constructed exercise in dynamic tension, with a strong melody and a surprisingly clear vocal performance from Caleb Followill.

It is true that the difference in sound from the Kings’ two previous albums is the most initially striking thing about Because of the Times. But that difference goes deeper than just the trippier, more spacious production. It’s down to the songs, as well as Matthew Followill’s increased willingness to spice up his (already killer) lead lines with effects pedals and chiming harmonics.

There’s a good deal more stylistic variation here, which makes sense when you look at the progression from Youth and Young Manhood to Aha Shake Heartbreak. But where Kings of Leon’s sophomore release remained rooted in the ‘70s-style Southern rock which had been the group’s foundation from the beginning, Because of the Times sometimes leaves it behind entirely. There are a number of distinctly modern-rockish here, and as you’d expect, the results are mixed. Smartly following “Knocked Up,” “Charmer,” a three minute blast of steady ‘90s bass, gnarly riffs, and Black Francis-esque whoops and shrieks fares well, especially when good old Matthew goes all Joey Santiago on his axe at the end. Thankfully, the moments where the idiosyncratic guitar chug feels like a bit much–and there are a few–­are usually softened by clever touches like the ghostly backing vocals in “True Love Way.”

The light skank of “Ragoo” may appeal to some and annoy others, but there’s no denying that it feels a little affected. But at least the lyrics really seem to be pulling their weight this time, and they are assisted by Caleb Followill’s newfound powers of enunciation. He’d always been an affable frontman, and now that he’s managed to keep that appealing raggedness without completely mangling the words, the songs somehow feel a little more complete.

“Fans” and “Black Thumbnail” both do a good job of expanding the band’s sound within the roots-rock idiom, as does “Arizona” of twisting their usual formula for pensive, ballad-style numbers. It’s also worth noting that even when this record loses focus, which it unfortunately does on a few occasions, the playing is top-notch. W should not forget that Kings of Leon has had a superb rhythm section from day one.

The main regret most fans will have regarding Because of the Times is the relative lack of the big choruses that both Youth and Aha had in such abundance. The refrain of “On Call” stands with their very best, but most of these songs are just not as immediate. But don’t despair. Listeners, especially longtime fans, will find much to enjoy if the album is given the scrutiny it deserves. It’s a grower with a big yield.

Rock and Roll Redux

Age. The eternal rock and roll paradox. The original wave of pioneers has now become what it hated most. As ironic as it has since become, it’s not difficult to see what Pete Townshend meant with his deathless line “Hope I die before I get old.” How do you continue to purvey a brand of art meant to symbolize rebellion when you have been integrated into the establishment and live comfortably, extravagantly off of your glorious millions?

Keep working, it seems, is the consensus. Understandable, really. What the fuck else is Keith Richards (rather obvious reference, I know) going to do with his life? Sell insurance? Drive buses? Those leathery viking warriors soldier on because it’s the only goddamned thing they know how to do, god bless ‘em.

But here’s an essential question to ask: what’s the deal with reunion tours?? There’s been a spate of them lately. The Pixies, Rage, Dinosaur Jr., and that’s just the hip ones. The Police played the Grammy’s for Christ’s sake, which to me perfectly symbolizes the show’s tendency to keep pop music entrenched, celebrating and rehashing the past to the point of ignoring the present and future.

Is it really ever about anything but the money? Who knows? After years and years in the music biz, do these people have any feelings left? I was under the impression that Kim Deal and Black Francis (Frank Black, Charles Thompson III) of the Pixies hated each other’s guts, ditto for Lou Barlow and J. Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. Now I cannot comment upon the former band’s concert performance post break-up and reunion, but I did see Dinosaur Jr. on the second date of the original lineup’s first tour in sixteen years. J. Mascis looked at little worse for wear, but he, Murph, and Barlow all rocked with a vengeance, and Mascis’s signature guitar noise terrorism left that awesome/annoying post-concert “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” in my head for 24 straight hours. So one could argue that whether or not their reformation was motivated by sweet moolah is fundamentally irrelevant, given the fact that they delivered the goods with such gusto and played with all the fire and brimstone of their early days.

Given the fact that many reunions don’t produce new albums, it could be fair to give some rockers the benefit of the doubt and assume that they genuinely missed playing with their former band mates. And hell, making albums could just be an extension of that. The New York Doll’s first actual album since 1974’s Too Much Too Soon was well received by critics, and expectation for the new Stooges album featuring original fuzz/wah fetishist guitarist Ron Asheton are high.

(READER'S NOTE: I wrote this thing before The Weirdness actually came out, and ironically enough it was almost universally critically lambasted.)

So as lame as the idea of a reunion tour is in the fundamental rock and roll sense, it’s not always a bad thing. The ones that make me uncomfortable are the mega-band reunion tours. It just seems as though they looked at the Rolling Stones, consulted their accountants, and said “I want in.”

Bands that never really cracked the mainstream are much easier to root for. And anyway, who said economics isn’t a valid reason to do anything? If I had a job that cushy to go back to, I don't think I'd have to think about it that hard. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pay my power bill.

Black Sabbath - Paranoid

I could go on and on about my personal history with Black Sabbath’s Paranoid. I could bury my point in backstory, saying how I was turned on to the album by the guitarist in my first ever band, that our first cover was the title track. I could dredge up the memory of blaring “Iron Man” from my car while stopped in traffic next to cranky geriatrics at Myrtle Beach my senior year of high school.

So what? None of that actually tells you how I feel, personally, about the music. How to get to the point at hand? How can I put in words what this record does to me?

Three specific moments within the grooves of Paranoid tell the story of why I think this album is great. They are as follows:

1. The pull-off guitar lick immediately following the line “In the fields the bodies burning,” in the first verse of “War Pigs.”

The impact of that single guitar lick on my adolescent ears cannot be underestimated. It’s placement within the song illustrates the subtle genius of the band as arrangers that is not always apparent to casual listeners. Black Sabbath’s sound is not terribly subtle, but the implementation of that lick is. It comes right off of the taut, pressure-building verse intro, consisting only of Bill Ward’s ticking hi-hat and Tony Iommi’s thick, two chord punctuations. The entrance of Ozzy’s brash, unpretty, declamatory voice kicks up the tension another notch, and then comes the four-note lick, barreling through the headphones, mixed significantly louder and closer than the rhythm guitar. The muscular trill that follows the next line prolongs the pressure-valve ecstasy, and two lines later the song explodes with massive drums and glorious overdubbed guitar mayhem.

2. The explosive push into the final verse of “Fairies Wear Boots,” and Ozzy’s vocal on its last four lines. Like “Hand of Doom,” the song is structured in evolving movements, mixing in the instrumental “Jack the Stripper.” The relentless back and forth power chords that accompany the verses-of which there are only two-and chorus-which consists essentially of one line-constitute one of the most monstrous riffs on the album. After numerous instrumental breaks and guitar solos, the riff returns, muted, under the chorus, before all hell suddenly breaks loose, and Tony Iommi lets it rip at full blast, a good two or three notches louder than anywhere else in the song. Ozzy delivers the next lines with a gibbering, lunatic ferocity “So I went to the doctor to see what he could give me/he said son, son you’ve gone too far/ ‘cause smokin’ and trippin’ is all that you do,” before ending it all with an apocalyptic YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAH” drowning in echo, resigned to his waste-case fate, utterly justifying the ridiculousness of the lyrics. This climax is the final glorious release in an album full of them, and a perfect example of the genius of a band that knows exactly when to dig in and fire on all cylinders.

3. The one-two, one-two, CRASH entrance of Bill Ward’s drums over the inimitable opening riff of “Iron Man.” There is little I can say about this, except that this moment embodies everything right and wonderful about big, dumb, LOUD rock music. And that’s it folks. That’s all I gotta say.