Hero Takes A Drink

I love this song because it is so. dang. country.

I love the way these guys -- all four are credited as composers of this track -- plant us right smack in the middle of their seedy, Southern short story with minute, literary details: "Lookin' at your watch a third time/Waiting at the station for the bus" and "Goin' where nobody says hello/They don't talk to anybody they don't know".

I do not, however, love their protagonist, who confesses that, "At night I drink myself to sleep/And pretend I don't care that you're not here with me," never once imagining that his problem drinking might be the reason his special friend went to Rockville in the first place.

Like all addicts, he's also addicted to his own personal drama: "But somethin' better happen soon/Or it's gonna be too late to bring me back".

Oh, cue the violins, you emo squirt.

They were young when they wrote this, R.E.M. How else to explain the presentation of naked, emotional blackmail as a romantic gesture?

Here's R.E.M., in a bid for your sympathy with "(Don't Go Back To) Rockville".

't

Bluegrass Pop From Massachussetts

I’ve talked before about how the first and best lineup of The Seldom Scene took combined un-bluegrass elements to create a progressive bluegrass masterpiece.

Massachusetts indie kids, Darlingside, do the opposite, using fat harmonies, a heaping helping of banjo, and a lead guitar line suggestive of the mandolin to craft a stunning pop symphony.

Their work has been compared to the best of CSNY and, while I hear a little of that, I am reminded far more of the ringing harmonies of The Hollies and the classical sensibility of The Beach Boys.

Those influences are best heard on the studio version of “My Gal, My Guy”, but you might be forgiven for wondering if Darlingside can cut it live. Yes, they can.

The Ache That Never Goes Away

I never used to get sentimental. Once something is gone, it's gone, I figured.

The problem is, when someone dies, they never go away. So, I ache for what they deserved and never got, for what we could have had, if one of us, at least, had only known. Try as I might to will them, pray them, or rationalize them away, those aches never go.

That's not what this song is about. But, on a day when ugly greedy, vastly-inferior people show up making demands -- again -- that's what this song ignites in me. Memories. Sentiment. An ache for lost love that haunts me years later. I don't mean romance; I mean the enduring kind -- compassion, sacrifice, friendship, shared pain, shared joy, integrity, loyalty.

These people I miss are not the only people I ever loved but, in their clumsy, imperfect, and now-absent ways, they were the only two people who ever loved me. Dead and gone since 1994 and 2009, forever loved, and forever called to mind by The Innocence Mission and "Martha Avenue Love Song".

Paying Tribute, Paying Attention

EDITOR'S NOTE: I'm re-upping this piece with additional notes to be found here. The notes address precisely the kinds of issues on which David examined me. No Christian could have had a better bat mitzvah.

I knew David Berman in a different context than just about anyone else on this planet knew him -- outside and completely ignorant of his music.

David played a fiduciary role for another, dearer, friend and myself as we entered into the process of making one of the most important decisions you can possibly make.

My interactions with David were not those of musically-literate fan and indie rock god, but of teacher and student (We swapped those roles so seamlessly we lost track of who was who). They were the interactions of watchman and thirsty pilgrim approaching the gates.

David Berman didn't give a damn whether I liked him. He was more interested in why I liked ... anything else. He didn't care whether we shared the same taste. He searched to know how I had developed mine.  He especially didn't give a rat's ass whether I knew what his values were but, like the angel wrestling Jacob, David wasn't going to let me go until he knew for certain what my values were.

That's what our introduction was about: whether we shared a sufficient number of core values to share space in a community, to protect one mutual friend in particular, and to protect the planet in general.

Some of those answers he knew without knowing: In conversation we discovered that he and a group of friends had been following my blogs on various platforms going back to 2007 -- FM and Uncouth Utterance on Blogger; Gospel Bluegrass Blog, Bluegrass Bohemian, Bluegrass Universe, and Sunday Is For Sounds on Tumblr; as well as Davis Mae Music and Uncouth Utterance on Twitter.

The things he didn't know, he asked for; the list of books that changed my life is here only because of him. One day into starting a new blog on Tumblr, I woke to the news that David Berman had passed.

And so, I lost one of the few friends I've ever had who wanted to make friends for the same desperate reason I did -- because it would matter. To our tiny, insignificant community, to the planet, it. would. matter.

I knew David Berman as someone who believed that social justice began within one's own walls. He tried to live those values, and all he got were random rules.

Here, in tribute, is First Aid Kit, singing that very song with every drop of the midnight sun melancholy it deserves.

Before I go, thank you for everything, David. I believe, as you do, that we will meet again.

To the rest of you, may his memory be a blessing.

Here's First Aid Kit with Silver Jews' "Random Rules".

Ten Favorite Post-Millennial Records

I apologize to all the artists who'll be mortified to learn that a boomer who is not their parents likes their music.

It all started with a song you'll expect to find on my list. The song, Coldplay's "Clocks", isn't on it, but has a place of honor in the story of how I finally came to terms with the fact that I was an adult.

The year was 2003. We were sitting in the theater, watching the trailer for the live-action adaptation of Peter Pan, scored with "Clocks". Imagine the sense of peace that came over me when I found myself sympathizing with Mr. and Mrs. Darling, over their missing kids. "I. Am. An. Adult," I thought. "And I'm good with that."

Yes, I'm an adult, and a boomer besides. And now, here we are with this list.

Artists I was predisposed to listen to (e.g. Mogwai, Jose González, Magnetic Fields, Neko Case, The New Pornographers) don't count. Ditto obvious song choices like Coldplay's "Clocks", "It's Been Awhile" from Staind, and "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster The People.

Millennials, prepare to be mortified.

Happy; Pharrell Williams: Because who doesn't want more old-school Motown sound? The universality is as infectious as the groove, and Williams' cool jazz style contrasts beautifully with the unfettered joy of the lyrics.

Rumour Has It; Adele: It's got a good beat, and you can dance to it (boomers shall understand), but the beat is supplied by war drums, as befits a song about gossip in the Information Age.

Take A Bow; Rihanna: And, in an age when everybody crafts their personal dramas to be reality-show-ready, Rihanna delivers the ultimate insult: "You look so dumb right now".

Somewhere Only We Know; Keane: A striking moment in millennial culture, this realization that privacy just might save you, and your relationship, too.

Bust Your Windows; Jazmine Sullivan: It was supposed to work -- it was. Jazmine Sullivan, hoping against hope that her target is thinking the same thing.

Mas; Kinky: Polyrythmic grooves for those who missed music in the vein of Santana's early work. I first heard this track in Episode 6 of Kingpin -- the drug family soap opera miniseries, not the Farrelly Brothers flick.

The Man Who Can't Be Moved; The Script: Remarkably sweet-natured for a song that's borderline stalker-ish. Aside from that, Daniel O'Donoghue has one of the lushest voices on this list, and the group harmonies are something I'll never tire of.

99 Problems; Danger Mouse: This version comes from Mouse's The Grey Album, which featured mashups of songs from Jay-Z's The Black Album and The Beatles' self-titled record, popularly known as The White Album. I expect this choice can be viewed as misogynistic, and I reckon it is, coming out of some mouths. That said, the titular line has become a catchphrase used by people on all points of the gender spectrum, which feels like nothing so much as empowerment.

The Infanta; The Decemberists: The Decemberists are the sort of band about which you think, "They sound insufferable" when you first read about them. Then, somebody spins their debut album, and you realize that Picaresque will forever be the album that every music/drama/art/dance geek needed in high school, and needs still.

Found: Dear Lemon Lima

I have raved elsewhere about Dear Lemon Lima, a dreamy, indie film that doesn't shoehorn its characters into the Disney/junior executive mold that has polluted an entire subgenre of American films -- those for and about adolescents.

British viewers hadn't been able to find either the film or the soundtrack, but I have good news: both are available at Amazon and iTunes.

If, however, you'd like to hear the full soundtrack, the composer, Sasha Gordon, has made it available on her YouTube channel. It took some digging to locate, so bookmark the link, or this post, if you're interested. Once you have navigated to Ms. Gordon's channel, simply click the "Videos" link, and look for videos bearing the image you see at the top of this post.

The Best Albums of 2017

This year's records were so good that even I didn't know which way this was going to go until the bitter end. It seems that real country has a fighting chance, real blues is still alive, and Europe cares deeply about what's going on here in America -- so deeply that their art reflected their concern in unsettling ways.

That said, let's get to it.

9. Midland, On the Rocks: The rap on these guys is that their brand of country has an authenticity problem, which is funny for an industry that bestows its highest accolades on guys who do bad Gregg Allman imitations for millennials.

I hear echoes (no, waves) of Keith Whitley (the really good stuff before he left J.D. Crowe and The New South), Glen Campbell, and George Strait.

If there's routine pop with a twang here, blame it on a record company and a willing producer; you don't sing and pick like this if you want to be the next big thing in bro country. Nashville desperately needs these sounds. If music like this is the way back to real, so be it.

8. The Medlars, The Medlars: The contrast is so jarring it's almost unbearable: a delicate, pastoral setting sketched out with banjo, cello, flute, and doleful horns. And then, that voice -- big, brassy, untutored, and raw, singing the harsh realities and rough-hewn joys of English country life.
The pentatonic scale hasn't had a workout this vigorous since the heyday of traditional bluegrass.

7. Karen and the Sorrows, The Narrow Place: There are echoes here of modern country, and Tom Petty's country rock, circa 1980s. Karen Pittelman's vocals take some getting used to. Even so, she reveals herself to be an able writer of tunes that fogies like me still call "real country music".

If you're in a bluegrass or classic country outfit, and you're not thinking of covering one of these songs, you're doing it wrong.

6. Gregg Allman, Southern Blood: Much was made of the fact that Gregg Allman was dying as he recorded this, his final album. In one sense, this was as it should have been; the physical effort alone made him a tragic, heroic figure.

In another sense, that narrative couldn't have been more wrong. At his best, Gregg Allman always sang this kind of music, with precisely this level of world-weary desperation. If we lost anything when he passed, it was the crucial presence of the down-and-out in popular music.

5. Eric Bibb, Migration Blues: A singer and picker of uncommon subtlety and skill, Eric Bibb grabs a listener's attention from the first hushed and urgent notes. Like all true blues people, he has a heart for the oppressed and forgotten, and he's at his best when he's bringing equally-marginalized music, like blues and gospel, to the fore.

This is the kind of music for which the NEA was founded, and for which, so many plutocrats would like to shut its doors. It's no accident that our country was a lot kinder when music like this actively influenced the music in the Top 40.

4. I'm With Her, Little Lies: Separately, I'm With Her got their start in progressive bluegrass bands like Crooked Still and Nickel Creek, but the drive, instrumentation, intensity, chops, and even some of the repertoire on display here have more in common with high-octane traditional grass.

That said, the trio handles contemporary fare with equal skill. This is a band of tremendous versatility; in that, they remind me of the classic Seldom Scene. Next year promises a full CD from them, and I can't wait.

3. Offa Rex, The Queen of Hearts: Although you'll hear strains of Pentangle, Steeleye Span, and Fairport Convention here, with their debut album, Offa Rex has created a sound that's lush, textured, entirely unique, and instantly identifiable as their own.

A collaboration between American indie faves, The Decemberists, and English folk singer, Olivia Chaney, Rex shines brightest when classically-trained Chaney handles the vocals. Decemberists frontman, Colin Meloy, lacks the diction and drive to pull this singing style off, but makes up the lack with crunchy guitar work that sometimes verges into early Black Sabbath territory. Bonus: A cover of "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" that restores the song to its folk roots.

2. Brian Owens, Soul of Cash: With this CD, soul crooner, Brian Owens, gives the music of Johnny Cash a stoned soul makeover, and gives us the album the world has been waiting for since 1962, when Ray Charles released Modern Sounds In Country and Western Music.

The songs are entirely familiar, yet completely reconstructed. There's not a predictable moment on the record, so it's impossible to choose highlights. The closing track, initially disappointing because it's not a Cash tune, serves as Owens' raison d'être for anyone who, in these polarized times, wonders why he bothered.

1. Judy Dyble and Andy Lewis, Summer Dancing: It's been said that crisis reveals character, and any casual observer of current events has seen character revealed in surprising ways since Donald Trump became the 45th president of the United States.

What I didn't expect was the way character was revealed in ... home design.

Ikea teamed with Hay Designs for rooms that looked like kindergarten classrooms doing double duty as funeral homes. Liberty of London's noisy-scary florals with their goth backgrounds and muddy, clashing colors brought Maurice Sendak kicking and screaming into the Donald Trump era.

There were black houses, and black rooms -- the kind of places that might have inspired this record of sun-dappled nightmares.

Art is the first world's great escape, but Dyble and Lewis won't stand for it. They insist that adult problems be faced in an adult way, which usually means they're never quite solved.

Yet, in Dyble and Lewis's psychedelic world, as in the real one, dew still sparkles on the grass. The sun still shines. We still get our silly moments after nights without sleep, and those casually-vicious betrayals that add up. All aspiring adults must face the fact that it's never either/or, but both/and -- both climate change and Summer Dancing.

30-Day Music Challenge: Day 4

4. A song that reminds you of someone you would rather forget about.

I suppose it looks idealistic, romantic, and super-holy when Gandhi does it. Wandering the planet with nothing but the few, small things other people haven't stolen from you is anything but.

I'm talking about more than physical belongings. Love, dignity, intimacy, community -- people can steal those things from you, too. I'd like to forget about every one of those people.

Nevertheless, here are Kacy and Clayton to reopen the wounds with a song called "Strange Country".

Half and Half, Hard-Wired

This is not my kind of music, but it is my kind of mission, in that I am, like the writer of these lyrics, hard-wired. I couldn't excise the missional part of me if I tried. And society loves to tell you to try whenever you make them uncomfortable.

There lies a vast ocean of difference between me and the songwriter, however. I, at least, can find kindred spirits: #SJW #MeToo #radical #disabled #LGBTQIAAlly

There are hashtags supporting the songwriter and her community (see that last one), but they exist as afterthoughts. Our ingrained habit of carving up thoughts so as not to exceed Twitter's character limit sees us deleting QIA -- communities already marginalized by "If they find out ...."

We can tell sexual and gender minorities they're beautiful and mean it. We can demand that they love themselves and stop obsessing over what the world thinks.

"If they find out ..." has more power. 

"If they find out ..." guarantees the intersex person a lifetime of dying hope. 

Friendship, relationship, meaningful work, neighborhood, community? "If they find out," the intersex person dies a million emotional deaths, and one physical one -- bloody, protracted, and brutal.

Do you, as a gender-normative person, really need to be told what to do about that? Do you really need to be told that getting over yourself could mean the difference between difficult and deadly? 

Do you really need to be told that it's okay not to "fix" someone? Do you really need to be told that it's actually humane to let sexual and gender minorities live difficult and painful lives without targets on their backs? 

Do you, in your narcissism, really need to be told that, if you let your revulsion make the rules, you should be the one with the target on your back?

Does your deity of choice create freaks that have to be hunted down, exposed for how they're made, and murdered? What about their friends, partners, spouses, since there are even fewer of those? Well?

Let me help you with that -- those of you who have souls, anyway. Lyrics, by Amanda Palmer, first. Then, video from her band, The Dresden Dolls, with "Half Jack".

Half Jack

Half underwater, I'm half my mother's daughter
A fraction's left up to dispute
The whole collection, half of the price they're asking
In the halfway house of ill repute

Half accidental, half painful instrumental
I have a lot to think about
You think they're joking? You have to go provoke him
I guess it's high time you found out

It's half biology and half corrective surgery gone wrong
You'll notice something funny if you hang around here for too
Long ago in some black hole before they had these pills to take it back
I'm half Jill and half Jack

Two halves are equal, a cross between two evils
It's not an enviable lot
But if you listen you'll learn to hear the difference
Between the halves and the half knots

When I let him, when I feel the stitches getting sicker
I try to wash him out but like they say, 'The blood is thicker'
I see my mother in my face but only when I travel
I run as fast as I can run but Jack comes tumbling after

And when I'm brave enough and find a clever way to kick him out
And I'm so high, not even you and all your love could bring me down
On 83rd he never found the magic words to change this fact
I'm half Jill and half Jack

I'm halfway home now, half hoping for a showdown
'Cause I'm not big enough to house this crowd
It might destroy me but I'd sacrifice my body
If it meant I'd get the Jack part out

See Jack, run Jack, run Jack, see Jack
See Jack, run Jack, run Jack, see Jack
See Jack, run Jack, run Jack, see Jack
See Jack, run Jack, run Jack, run Jack, run

Girl Talk

There's a new world order, right? We're going to make America great again, right?

Then, why are so many people so very afraid? And why do so few people seem to care?

I've been thinking a lot about that. Where the hell do I get the idea that people shouldn't be afraid? The idea, not that we should help each other, but that we do?

It isn't Christianity; I've only rightly been able to count myself among the faithful since 2009. This conviction goes back farther than that. I've done more than just feel it.

I've lived it.

People used to help each other. People used to be on the lookout for folks in trouble -- not so they could prey upon them, but so they could lend a hand. And, even though I've lived it, my memories of it go back even farther.

This dynamic is plainly shown in the movies of the 1930s and 40s. People who have never even met before help each other through doorways, through car trouble, through the sudden realization that someone doesn't have a nickel for the phone. It's no accident that these films were made to appeal to a largely female audience. Some were even written by women, or based on source material from women novelists and playwrights.

I don't know how those movies were reviewed. I do know that the 1980s saw the dawning of a brutal new age during which Americans, at least, stopped helping each other, and started helping themselves.

Women writers and musicians began to comment obliquely on this phenomenon in the 1990s. They sang songs about helping, about comforting; and about how no one had helped them through abuse and abandonment.

Predictably, male critics savaged these efforts. It had been "morning in America" for a decade or more, and you could damn well get along by yourself.

And now, we're here. 

Here's what I have to say about that:

To hell with the critics; we need help and we need to help. We need people to start thinking like this again. 

Here's October Project with "Eyes of Mercy".

More Dangerous Than Guns

“People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands - literally thousands - of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss.”

-- Nick Hornby, High Fidelity

What Nick Hornby doesn't say is that the vast majority of love songs don't even present a realistic picture of relationships in general.

Unless you're a teenager, it isn't all moon-June-spoon, immediately followed by a tidal wave of heartbreak. In real life, what happens is something like what Mindy Smith sings about here. You volunteer for the process, or you don't. If you're really smart, or previously wounded, but probably both, you go through it before you get to the moon-June-spoon phase.

The violence intrinsic to love songs isn't in the way they encourage us to marinate in our own pain, but in how they swear up and down that true love isn't true if it takes any work on our part.

This is a song about what it means to work on a relationship -- every damn day when you're positive you can't do it for one more second.

Mindy Smith with "Out Loud".

Catching Up On A Genius British Band

I've been raving about Reef here and on Twitter, but I hadn't properly heard the work of the whole band. It seems I was wrong, too, about Reef's stateside success; this was a huge hit on M2 and, eventually, a Buzz Clip on MTV. See what happens when you ditch MTV for public radio?

Jesse Wood kicks this one off with the kind of simple riff that sets 10,000 lighters blazing at stadium shows. It's just Wood, and Dominic Greensmith's minimalist drumming until the first verse ends, the piano kicks in, and Jack Bessant joins in with a bass line so fat and rich that it's almost a countermelody. And the NHS Choir? They don't even come in until the end of the second verse. This is a band that knows how to build excitement; I love their musicality.

And you need this kind of old, familiar music-making when the lyrics are as tender and raw as are Gary Stringer's here. Again, I'm impressed with the way this band uses contrast. This is Reef, who I still think should be all over the planet, with "Place Your Hands".

The 70s Are Back -- In A Good Way

EDITOR'S NOTE:
I was all wrong about how long Reef has been around. I corrected the oversight in this post.

Just when I never thought I would hear sounds like this again.

I mean, there are plenty of new bands that incorporate retro sounds and textures into their work, but what rock band even does gospel anymore? And how many singers have the pipes to stand up to a full gospel choir?

Gary Stringer of Reef, for one. Stringer's vocals are more Axl Rose than Lou Gramm, and the contrast with the rollicking keyboards (piano and organ!), handclaps, and Dominic Greensmith's propulsive, no-nonsense drumming is delicious. No other band sounds like this, and in this age of cookie-cutter "artists", half-baked on increasingly-dull vocal competition shows, that's a genuine triumph. The only thing missing is the sound of Jesse Wood's guitar (Yeah, he's Ronnie Wood's boy, and Reef's newest member, having joined in 2014).

These guys have had some good luck; they opened up for Coldplay just last week. But they've been laboring in semi-obscurity for well over a decade, and they deserve a higher profile. I'm just doing my part.

Oh, and before you start whingeing as they say in the U.K. -- it's almost onomatopoeic, isn't it? -- about how I, as a Christian, shouldn't be endorsing "worldly" types who take the Jesus out of Jesus music ... don't.

Here's Reef, with a song popularized by gospel great, Clara Ward -- "How I Got Over".

More Than A Football Anthem

OK, I get it: Winona Ryder loved "500 Miles", and it was in a movie that she, also, was supposed to be in, before she broke up with Johnny Depp. Whatever.

I still resent the fact that the vastly-inferior "500 Miles" is ubiquitous, while this treasure, also written and sung by The Proclaimers, is relegated to ... whenever some Scottish team wins something?

Yeah, the comments on this video are something else.

Anyway, here are The Proclaimers with the title track from their album, Sunshine On Leith.

New, But Hardly Improved

The first time I ever heard this song was in this video, and I was instantly captivated. The almost fairy-tale imagery, brought down to earth by the confessional, terrifyingly grown-up third verse -- this was astounding songwriting, I thought.

The Church Sisters have made this song a fixture in their sets ever since this 2013 performance, and several YouTube folks have captured different performances of it on video. So, why would I choose this clip, mistakes and all?

Because, ultimately, the song is about honesty, and the girls have since started singing this in the third verse:

So, what are we doing on the seventh floor
Of a high-rise apartment, dreaming of more?

It's a surprising change, given that these girls, their parents, and their producer/mentor, Grammy-winning bluegrass artist, Carl Jackson -- are evangelical conservatives. Given that they don't mind driving loyal supporters to unfollow them on social media, just to escape their hateful rhetoric.

So, what are the original lyrics?

So, what are we doing on the seventh floor
Of a high-rise apartment, praying for more?

It's a small change, but it means everything in terms of declaring who you are. I mean, I'm a climate change-affirming, LGBTQ-loving, Black Lives Matter-supporting, ministering-to-poor-folks liberal, but I'm also a Christian, and nobody makes me do or say otherwise just to calm folks' nerves.

Here's to authenticity ... folks.

In the meantime, here are The Church Sisters with "Love Will Be Enough" -- 'cause that's not ironic, or anything.

Acting Your Age

I don't know which of the vocal competition shows I was watching -- you know how they all look alike after awhile -- but I learned one thing.

During that season, one of the competitors was an older roots-rocker. On a show where the audience and the other singers skewed younger, the roots rocker made a decision to play to that audience. It turned out to be his fatal mistake.

One of the judges gave the singer a note about the inadvisability of choosing a song from a younger generation. At the time, it didn't make sense to me, but now, I see the wisdom of it. What listener wants someone at or near their parents' age to interpret their music for them? What singer wants to make the mistake of failing to account for the considerable cultural baggage that all popular music comes with, and offering a disastrous reading in the process?

If I'd had kids, they'd have grown up watching Pete and Pete, and likely singing this song. Even so, I'd be tempted to make an exception for this one, because it turns out, Polaris is singing about a situation in which we're all little children, regardless of our chronological age.

There is one subject -- and only one -- about which it is socially-acceptable for all of us to wonder: whether there is some thing or Someone bigger than ourselves out there.

Among Christians, that childlike wonder is the price of a ticket to heaven. This song is about tens of thousands of people who gave in to the wonder at a Billy Graham crusade in Central Park -- and one who was selling his own brand of it outside the gates.

Somehow, one crazy guy knew that all the people inside were looking for a daddy. He knew that most of them would not, much to Graham's frustration, fix on Jesus, but on Graham himself. If they could just tell him their problems!

The massive scale of the event would have made that impossible, of course, and here was this nut job subconsciously offering himself as an alternative. Because, let's face it: The guy who's currently dangling advice or approval in front of us can be kind of a prick on his off days. A new daddy holds out the promise of understanding, even if the only thing he understands is our disillusionment with the current authority figure.

So, we spill our deepest darkest for the price of attention, welcoming new restrictions as though they are holy. When, months or years down the line, we find out that they are anything but, we succumb to disillusionment once again, lashing out at the futility and hypocrisy of it all until the next daddy comes along. All the while, we're singing our own, bratty version of Polaris' "Waiting For October" in yet another act of hopeful rebellion, never imagining that we could avoid the whole vicious cycle if only we'd walk the other way.

The Real Heaven Tourism

The first two verses of this song are fine; you've heard these sentiments before. But the third? Who uses a pop song to teach you how to die?

There have been enough people all across the belief spectrum who have had near-death experiences that match what's being described here -- closely enough that Mindy Smith's deity-of-choice shouldn't be that off-putting.

Besides, the recent spate of debunked "heaven tourism" books from the Christian Industrial Complex is as opposite this song as a pink plastic Christmas tree is opposite a Douglas fir. As if to underscore the bald reality of the lyrics, the melody has some distinctly-modal elements that recall Ralph Stanley more than contemporary Christian music.

Here's Mindy Smith, with "Come To Jesus".

In the context of why -- or if -- certain genres suck, somebody asked me, "What makes some music great?"

That's the question I try to answer with every post.

The truth is, it's all subjective, isn't it? For example, I'm not a fan of grunge, yet here's a song that stuck with me whether I was hearing it on the radio or not.

What makes this song great is what makes any song great. Music is made up of three basic building blocks: melody, harmony, and rhythm. The way those building blocks are combined in any given piece of music either works for you, or it doesn't. Whether you generally like a certain genre or artist is irrelevant to the discussion.

One example of this is David' Gray's cover of Soft Cell's "Say Hello, Wave Goodbye". Many have remarked that one David Gray song sounds pretty much like the next, and I have to agree -- even when he's covering another artist's work.

Yet, in the comments on the video, someone cites the crucial difference that harmony makes throughout the record, and that's true for me as well. Something about the contrary motion on the phrase "take a look" encapsulates the wild anger, the deep pain, the sense of loss and futility, that the song otherwise spends over nine minutes trying to get across. That's great music!

You may like a certain genre much more than you do others. For me, that's bluegrass, but if a song is bad, even the greatest singers and players in the world can't save it.

I wonder what Sinead O'Connor might do with Pearl Jam's "Black.