The 50 Something or Other Songs of 2016: Part 1

Here we are, so deep into March you can taste April at the back of your brain, and I have thus far put off doing the second version of an exceedingly fun project that I inaugurated last year. In January of 2016, I had just read Rolling Stone’s The 50 Best Songs of 2015, and realized about halfway through that I had heard hardly a song on their list. While I own thousands of albums in my music collection, my interests in recent years has been in tracking down obscure items or adding to the discographies of my already favorite artists, not in seeking out new music that might expand my palate and range. I would perhaps purchase and download a couple of dozen new albums per year, but not really go out of my comfort zone. And radio was a mystery to me. My wife’s car radio is usually tuned to stations that play classics from the ‘70s, ‘80s and some ‘90s (and that radio is under her control). I only heard the latest pop music in malls and grocery stores, or if dropped into a TV show or movie that I was watching.

As a result, I undertook a project to present what was basically my own running commentary to Rolling Stone’s list, but which would also jumpstart my own interest in current music… it was hoped. The plan was to listen to each song on the list – the vast majority of the songs for the very first time – and then write a quickie review of my experience along with my first thoughts upon listening to them. I would also qualify my experience based on these four questions: 1) Had I heard of the artist before that listen?, 2) Did I already own any of that artist’s music?, 3) Had I heard the song before?, and 4) Would I ever try to purchase the song based on that initial listen?

The final tally from my listen to Rolling Stone’s 50 Best Songs of 2015 went like this:

Total number of songs: 50
Songs I had heard before: 13, with 3 maybes.
Songs that I owned already: 6
Reactions: Loved: 10 | Liked: 18 | Hated: 2 | Meh: 20
Songs that I planned to purchase: 14 definitely; 8 maybes.

I called my own article The 50 ________ Songs of 2015, since I was pretty certain that, overall, I wouldn’t think most of them were the “best” songs of the year. [You can read Part 1 of last year’s list here: http://cinema4pylon.blogspot.com/2015/12/the-50-songs-of-2015-pt-1.html, and Part 2 here: http://cinema4pylon.blogspot.com/2015/12/the-50-songs-of-2015-pt-2.html.]

Cut to 2017. Rolling Stone had actually released their Best Song list for 2016 on November 30 of that year, but there was a serious hitch in my ability to do the project at that time. (I also hate it when "Best of" lists come out before a particular year is even finished.) I was still tied up in recovering from my injured hip and could not sit at the computer and write for very long during nearly all of December all the way through the first two weeks of February, I decided that I should, in addition to most of my normal writing, postpone doing such a list for a bit.

Taking into account listening to every single song, researching each artist in a cursory fashion, writing paragraphs for 50 separate songs, and then building the articles on the blog (not to mention possible graphics), doing this project is a pretty involved piece. It takes a good amount of hours to knock it out properly. So, since I am not working right now, I decided to do it during a week while I sat around waiting to find out if I had jury duty or not. But then I just got caught up in other family stuff, trying to secure physical therapy appointments when the gym I use is short-staffed for the week because the doctor is on vacation, worrying about having to do jury duty the next day, and my main vice, watching movies endlessly. Thus, any momentum I had in being excited to do the project fell apart quickly. Luckily, after three days of calling in to the courthouse, I was let off the hook and found myself with a solid couple of days free and open to really dig into this thing.

To play along at home (or on the mobile device of your choice should you be a-ramblin'), here is the link to the original Rolling Stone story, which has links to the full music videos (or a couple of select live performances) for all 50 songs (though a few short samples are on only on Spotify): http://www.rollingstone.com/music/lists/50-best-songs-of-2016-w452313

And so here we go, the first part of what I am now calling The 50 Something or Other Songs of 2016, Pt. 1:

#50 - Van Morrison, "Going Down to Bangor"
Heard of the artist? Do we still breathe air on this planet?
Own any of his music? Over a dozen albums.
Heard this song? I’ve heard plenty that sound like it, and yet…
Would you purchase this song? There is little chance that it won’t end up in my collection within a short while.

The quintessential Northern Irish soul belter. (Who knew that was a job description one could have?) I have an odd memory sense that I saw Van Morrison live at some point in my childhood, and yet, all evidence seems to point to that being a falsehood. (A phony form of Deep Purple in 1980 is usually considered to be my first true concert experience, though I had seen other live music before that in sporadic instances.) His music is all pervasive in my memory, whether it be his early days with Them knocking out Gloria, his purple suit-clad self ambling onto stage in Scorsese’s The Last Waltz while earnestly growling and kicking his way through Caravan, hearing Moondance at nearly every theatre party or shopping mall that I have entered, or simply having owned some of his music at most points of my life. 

While I have owned numerous albums of his in my lifetime, the last time that I bought anything with Van’s name on it was his 2000 live collaboration with Lonnie Donegan and Chris Barber, The Skiffle Sessions. I knew that Van was still touring and putting out albums, but as my music budget degraded, so did my interest in keeping up with the man. As a result, I didn’t even know about his latest album – his highest charting one in the U.S. ever – Keep Me Singing. If this basic blues take is an example of what is to be found on the album, I will probably give it a go. The lyrics are no great shakes, but it is fun to hear the man sing about things not usually listed in what is otherwise a blues song: Bangor in County Down, Pickie Pool Funpark, Northern Island and geographical features like Napoleon’s Nose at Cavehill. (It is the first time I have ever heard the word "charabanc" in a song, so it has that going for it as well.) I guess some would see it as cultural appropriation; I see it as an experienced musician using music that he deeply loves to give a shoutout to the roots of his younger self, bringing his influences full circle.

I pulled up some live performances of Morrison doing other songs from Keep Me Singing, and yes, we should keep him doing just that. His voice is still remarkably supple at 71, and his music, even with (and especially because of) the occasional purposeful growl, still goes down smooth without making you feel like you are being used. Since it is becoming increasingly more obvious that we are all just seen as mere products on a conveyor belt by our would-be global masters, we need Van’s voice to remind us there is still something beautiful left somewhere in this world.

#49 - Nicki Minaj, "Black Barbies"
Heard of the artist? Ow! Her incessant twerking just dented my head…
Own any of her music? Oh jeez, I hope not… Ahhhhhhhh… NO.
Heard this song before this? Nope.
Would you purchase this song? Only at gunpoint. (Don’t test me…)

The description on Rolling Stone’s piece about this song is that Black Barbies is “Nicki’s answer to Black Beatles”. When I started listening to her track for the first time, I immediately thought, “But it IS Black Beatles, Rolling Stone. IT IS!” (Sorry, been watching Feud: Bette vs. Joan pretty intensely lately…) Nicki's version is really a remix of the Rae Sremmurd w. Gucci Mane track that took the charts (and the viral video world) by storm to the point where even I have heard it a zillion times, as self radio-deprived as I am. Minaj’s take splashes the original with a gender viewpoint switch, tosses in the obligatory (already by then, but still necessary) Trump dig, and a lot more profanity. Nicki has been in my purview for a few years now – but not my “perv-view”, because frankly, she doesn’t do it for me – and I have heard or seen her perform her songs a handful of times now. She is not un-entertaining on stage, but even with that I cannot find an entryway into her music for me. Even with the fact that I may possibly actually like Black Beatles (stay tuned, because it may reside a good deal higher up the rankings on this list), Black Barbies is not that ingress to the greater Minaj world in my case. Outrageousness, influential fashion sense, and twerking skills aside, I just see superficiality in her music. I get that there is a "power" aspect at play within her posturing and attitude, and I am not one to take that away from her, but I would like to understand her music beyond that level. I don't want this to be simply a case of "It's not meant for you." I like a lot of things that aren't specifically meant for me. Anyone care to change my mind on Darling Nicki?

#48 - Sturgill Simpson, "Keep It Between the Lines"
Heard of the artist? Oh, yes…
Own any of his music? Sure do.
Heard this song before this? Sure have.
Would you purchase this song? Already have it.

If I tell you I am a Nirvana fan, it should be of no surprise that I came around to singer-songwriter Sturgill Simpson mostly because of his low key, countrified cover of In Bloom on his Grammy-winning third album, A Sailor’s Guide to Earth. The Daily Show also gets some of the credit, because that is precisely where I saw Sturgill first perform the song, though I also know him more recently from his appearances (not all musical) on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert. Just as I complained about finding an in-point to Nicki Minaj’s music, on a fairly regular basis I might gripe about finding a similar entrance into the current world of country music. Sturgill has provided that for me, though I am still looking for anyone in the current batch of artists that I like as much. What could have been tremendously cheesy or come off like a mere novelty in lesser hands turned out to be a revelatory moment for Cobain’s song, giving it even greater depth. For a country artist, Simpson’s music fairly rocks when he allows it, but not in the “aiming for the stadium sellout” way that has made modern country mostly an annoyance to me. The odd psychedelic and alternative rock influences and the addition of R&B-style horns gives material overall a greater range as well, but still reverent to his home genre. The effect is more Steve Earle than Garth Brooks for me, and delivered so evocatively that it makes me believe that if more country music were like this, I would visit more often. I’d love to see Sturgill co-headline with Drive-By Truckers. As for Keep It Between the Lines, yes, it is driven along pleasingly by the Dap-Kings horn section, but what comes off most for me is how immediately I was reminded of the great Delbert McClinton due to Sturgill’s impressively soulful vocals on the song. If anything, Simpson has combined genre in such a way as to nearly become anti-genre, despite the Best Country Album Grammy. Sounds like I will keep listening to this sailor as long as he tacks to the current wind…

#47 - D.R.A.M. feat. Lil Yachty, "Broccoli"
Heard of the artist? Not a chance of it.
Own any of their music? Hell, no.
Heard this song before this? I suppose that I could have just written “Not a chance of it” for each of these answers.
Would you purchase this song? Um… Not a chance of it?

Reefer, solo cups, twerking, partying in general… junk that everyone else seems to adore but not me. OK, the recorder playing and the piano creek placement in the video are humorous to me, but I am not basing my opinions on whether the videos for these songs are entertaining. This is about the song itself. Other than the video elements, and apart from a couple of clever lines, this song does not a thing for me. And let me enter Lil Yachty in the sweepstakes for Dopiest Hip-Hop Name…

#46 - Helado Negro, "Runaround"
Heard of the artist? Nope.
Own any of his music? Not yet.
Heard this song? Nope.
Would you purchase this song? Absolutely. Plan to get it rather immediately.

Here is the first song where my immediate impulse is “I simply must have this in my life.” (There are bound to be at least two or three others in the list.) Rolling Stone describes it as “a song about robots in love”. Further digging on my part reveals that the key line in the song, “No love can cut our knife in two,” is derived from an Isaac Asimov story, Runaround (also the song’s title) from his I, Robot collection, wherein Asimov laid down his famous Three Laws of Robotics for the first time. While the story itself is more about a robot’s confusion and eventual self-destruction in trying to maintain its protocol in relation to the Three Laws, if Helado wants his song to be about robots in love, then that is fine as long as the results are as intoxicating to my ears as this. Asimov’s lines spoken by Speedy, the robot in the story – “Hot dog, let's play games/You catch me, I catch you/No love can cut our knife in two” – are sandwiched by Helado’s words, equally non-sequiturs in their own right, but once together, the basis for what could be robotic romance may be derived from them. The backwards walk through this leopard garden is enjoyable enough for me that I want to see what else surrounds the song on the album.

#45 - Car Seat Headrest, "Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales"
Heard of the artist? Yes, during last year’s 50 Best Songs review.
Own any of their music? I do now.
Heard this song? Not yet.
Would you purchase this song? I will, once I decide to pony up cash for the latest album.

I said on the previous song on this list that “I simply must have this in my life.” That is precisely what I also said about a song by Car Seat Headrest on last year’s list, Something Soon, and I did not lie. I found the style invigorating enough that I truly did require its presence in my life at the time. Do I feel the same way about Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales? Not exactly, or at least not ye. While I find its metaphor and title a little strained, it is still pretty topnotch work from a band that I fully intend on following as long as they maintain this level of quality. Once I am in better financial waters, main member Will Toledo’s new album, titled Teens of Denial, will be mine.

#44 - Desiigner, "Tiimmy Turner"
Heard of the artist? Yes, surprisingly.
Own any of his music? Nope.
Heard this song? Nope.
Would you purchase this song? Not my scene, man, but don’t count the artist out yet.

Not only am I hearing the vast majority of these songs for the first time, but often the first tidbit of information that I read about each one is included in the paragraph that Rolling Stone has paired with it in the original article. Having only seen one episode of The Fairly Odd-Parents (the pilot, and I did not enjoy it, an example of overly obnoxious voicework absolutely crushing any actual animation fun that might have been had), I had no memory that Timmy Turner was the main character in it. Thankfully, Stone reminded me of this, and so the line about Turner “wishing for a burner” made sense when I heard it (though Desiigner added an extra "i" to Timmy's name, just as the rapper did to his own). The “wish” part I should have expected because of the character, but in the song, Turner seems to have gone pretty dark with that wishing. My own wish would have been for the song to not be quite so repetitive and about a third shorter, but my wishes are never heard. Why Desiigner’s Panda, a better, more artistically intriguing song with a distinctive sound that does not grate on my nerves after a couple of minutes, is not on this list instead of Tiimmy Turner is beyond me. Panda makes me believe that with a couple more interesting songs, I might actually buy an album of Desiigner's in the future, at least a greatest hits collection. Of course, I would then probably have to hear Tiimmy Turner more often, but who knows? Maybe I should wish hard that I would get used to the song by then.

#43 - Free Cake for Every Creature, "All You Gotta Be When You're 23 Is Yourself"
Heard of the artist? Nope.
Own any of her music? Nope.
Heard this song? Nope.
Would you purchase this song? It seems likely for one reason or another.

Just like with the brief Rolling Stone paragraph providing my first info on many of these artists, so too do the accompanying videos aid me in often providing my first visual sense of them. I have decreed that I don’t want the videos to color my opinion, but there is just enough Phoebe Cates with a bob-cut (and maybe a little bit of Aubrey Plaza) in singer Katie Bennett’s look in Free Cake for Every Creature's video for this song to keep me hanging around for a little while longer. (Cates, like most males of my generation, had a longstanding effect on us, though mine is not necessarily from the red bikini scene in Fast Times, glorious as it is.) While I do find Bennett's sound a little bit twee (though it is likely the intent, and tweeness is not necessarily always or even mostly a bad thing for me), sometimes twee is exactly what the moment or even the sentiment requires. Bennett’s voice seemed more hushed and often monotone on a couple of her other songs that I listened to after this one, but here her voice occasionally breaks into a slight squeakiness when she attempts to go higher, and it is pretty endearing. The name of her group is as absurd as any band name and I could see some being annoyed with the overarching cuteness, but it sure sounds like a party that I would like to attend. Who doesn’t want free cake (as long as it is gluten-free)? And I am simply all about creatures. Based on this song, Bennett could whisper-squeak me into doing just about anything right now… 

#42 - Bob Mould, "Voices in My Head"
Heard of the artist? Absolument.
Own any of his music? Oooohhh yeah…
Heard this song? No, but had planned to get the album regardless already.
Would you purchase this song? See above statement.

A longtime fave of mine, both in his bands Hüsker Dü and Sugar as well as his solo efforts, Bob Mould is always on my “to get” list when a new album is on the horizon. It may take me a while to get that album, but since music appreciation is timeless to me, I can listen to it whenever I get it. The song itself is a solid reminder of just how perfect Mould is nearly every time he straps on a guitar and sings. I just watched the documentary focusing on old bandmate Grant Hart, and Mould comes off like a major dick throughout (though, since the movie’s only interview subject is Hart, we don’t get the other side of anything). He may be a major dick – hell, he may have a major dick – but who the fuck cares? I don’t know him personally, except through the glimpses we get via his superlative songs.

#41 - Yohuna, "The Moon Hangs in the Sky Like Nothing Hangs in the Sky"
Heard of the artist? Nope.
Own any of their music? Nope.
Heard this song? Nope.
Would you purchase this song? If Mazzy Star or Julee Cruise don’t do anything new, I could definitely make room…

I don’t know how the moon hangs, but I prefer the Douglas Adams line that goes “The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don’t.” Yohuna is all synthesizer build over soaring, ever more layered vocals, and it makes my brain hang in the sky in the way that only the best dreamy pop can. This is pretty gorgeous sounding and makes me feel a bit out of my body. I feel like I should say more about it, but all I want to do is listen to it again. Ethereal.

#40 - Lil Uzi Vert, "Original Uzi (4 of Us)"
Heard of the artist? Oh, fuck no…
Own any of his music? Unlikely. Nope.
Heard this song? I have now.
Would you purchase this song? Nah.

So what is the deal with rappers starting their names with either Big or Lil? Where are the rappers with "Mid" names, like Mid-Syze Kompakk or Mid El Earth? (Copyright on both of those, BTW, 2017 Rik Tod Johnson.) Here is another Lil, this time with Uzi Vert attached, which I guess is supposed to make him sound dangerous. (Look out! He could go off at any time!) He does go off in this song on the usual gangsta subjects: bitches, guns, jewelry, banging other bitches, Greek cheeses (you think that I am joking, just you wait), having his bitch have a threesome with he and another bitch, etc. Like much music built around such a superficial sense, this is all pretty much a wash with me. If lyrics are truly inventive or at least catch my year with clever rhyming, I will take note, but this really had nothing that made me do so. Outside of a couple of fun lines (I liked “But I want World Peace just like Metta/Wait, countin' cheese that’s that feta”), it’s really just business as usual. Lil Uzi Vert is simply not my weapon of choice...

#39 - Paul Simon, "Cool Papa Bell"
Heard of the artist? Been with me my whole life.
Own any of his music? A vast amount, but much of it with some Garfunkel guy.
Heard this song? Very surprisingly, no.
Would you purchase this song? Is our world doomed?

The fact there is a new Paul Simon out for the past so many months and I have not heard one thing about it is absolutely staggering to me, especially since it charted so high (his highest ranking on the U.S. album charts ever as a solo act) and seems to have garnered massive critical acclaim. This track could almost have been a cut left off of Graceland, with its gentle, off-kilter African guitar and rhythm, but the lyrics would have been entirely different at that point in the late ‘80s. Here, Rhymin’ Simon muses on matters existential. This is nothing new for him, but one of those matters involves the usage of “motherfucker” in the current lexicon (“Ugly word/Ubiquitous and often heard/As a substitute for someone’s Christian name"). I don’t think the resulting joke involving the repeat of the word is all that funny and sounds a bit hokey – the man has been in the music biz for a full 60 years now – but I still enjoy how pliable his range of lyrical interest remains after all that time. The chief takeaway for me is this: Paul Simon sings (well, half-speaks) “motherfucker” twice in this song. He should also get a thank you for singing about James “Cool Papa” Bell, the base-swiping speed demon from the old Negro Leagues. I cannot resist baseball references in music in the first place but in a song this odd and ultimately fun, my resistance deteriorates even further. A must buy for me (eventually).

#38 - Maren Morris, "80s Mercedes"
Heard of the artist? Nope.
Own any of her music? Nope.
Heard this song? I believe that I did in Downtown Disney, but did not know who it was.
Would you purchase this song? Nope. Once again, not my sort of ride.

This one sounded a bit familiar to me, but that might have been just because it just sounds like generic fake country cum pop to me. It has a chorus that will have all the soccer moms singing along for the next twenty years, and yeah, while that may mean Maren Morris is going to make a lot of green for herself, it is still a knock on soccer moms. Wait a minute… OK, at the end of watching the YouTube video, I saw an ad for a video from Morris for her song My Church, and it just made realize where I definitely heard 80s Mercedes before: Saturday Night Live late last December. Morris appeared as the musical guest on that show, and after being subjected to her music for the first time that night, I mentioned the next day to someone else that Maren’s songs made me angry at just how obvious and vanilla her lyrics were. I also may have said that her performance was under-baked but still exactly what I expected from her when she appeared onscreen. Oh well, sometimes a certain style is just not a good fit for everyone. I find this entirely disposable and not worthy of my continued attention. No apologies for that either.

#37 - Tacocat, "Night Swimming"
Heard of the artist? Nope.
Own any of their music? Nope.
Heard this song? Nope.
Would you purchase this song? Oh yeah.

Ooh, Tacocat! Great name. Stupid name. Great stupid name. Ooh, and it's a palindrome! Makes me want to own the album just for that aspect alone. The song is dopey fun, with amusing lyrics about skinny dipping in the lake at midnight, trying to “see some UFOs,” and banning a certain Athens, GA band from being played on the boombox, even if that more famous band also sang a song with the same title (albeit, with no space between the words). The vocals sounds a bit like a punkier Go-Gos but backed with crunchier guitars, and to that I say... Let my Tacocat Go-Go! (But please stick around for a while, Tacocat, once I purchase your album. Hmmm... now I want to name a dog Tacocat...)

#36 - Drive-By Truckers, "Ever South"
Heard of the artist? Indubitably. 
Own any of their music? A good deal of it.
Heard this song? Yes.
Would you purchase this song? Already have.

You want lyrical depth? Drive-By Truckers has it in spades, and always has, especially since they have always relied on multiple songwriters within the group; two now, but three for a big chunk of their history, and all keeping to the same high mark of lyrical excellence. The thinking man’s Southern Rock band (not that certain other Southern Rock bands weren’t capable of intelligent lyrics… and then there was Molly Hatchet), Drive-By Truckers has been a favorite on my iPod and computer since their epic Southern Rock Opera appeared over 16 years ago. I haven’t liked them quite as much since third songwriter and guitarist Jason Isbell (not an original member anyway) left (not happily) in 2007. Oh well, they still have Patterson Hood and Mike Cooley to spin exceedingly detailed yarns about nearly every aspect of modern Southern life with the occasional foray into name-checking pop culture tokens such as Buford Pusser and the one-time friendship of Ronnie Van Zant and Neil Young. “Ever southern in my carriage, ever southern in my stance/In the Irish of my complexion and the Scottish in my dance/In the way I bang my head against my daily circumstance” goes the emotional steeling of the soul in Ever South, a high lyrical point that nonetheless lies deep within a rather long song, where the music’s inability to open up wider means that the song overstays its welcome with me. It makes me admit that Ever South is not amongst my favorites in their catalogue. It’s a solid turn, however, and if it brings new listeners to the band, that’s great. I am already there with them.

#35 - Japanese Breakfast, "Everybody Wants to Love You"
Heard of the artist? Sort of…
Own any of her music? Not yet.
Heard this song? Nope.
Would you purchase this song? Fell in love with the music straight away.

This is precisely why I made it a point to do this project again, even a couple of months late. I did not want to miss out on discovering a band like Japanese Breakfast, really just a front for non-Japanese singer, guitarist, and songwriter Michelle Zauner (she is actually Korean). The vocals made me think of Blondie;s Deborah Harry at the very beginning, then veered sharply from that feeling (but only in the most positive way). The lyrics are so brief as to almost be non-existent, if one could describe a song where its title refrain is sung over and over again through its length. What words there are in its two verses, however, are teasingly memorable [“Can I get your number?/Can I get you into bed?/When we wake up in the morning/Will you give me lots of head?”], and while I said that the videos were not to interfere with this process, I must add that it is quite amusing to see Zauner wandering the streets of Portland in a kimono/wedding dress combo in full geisha wig, while she is also seen sitting (or otherwise) while smoking in a pool hall toilet, drinking beer while playing billiards, gassing up her hog, and playing the guitar solo on the hood of a semi. One of the more charming videos I have seen in a good while, and it just so happens to accompany an equally charming song. [Bonus points if you watch her KEXP performance of four songs while also discussing her mother’s death on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kP3oo08kfis.]

#34 - Britney Spears, "Clumsy"
Heard of the artist? Geez…
Own any of her music? I own Fountains of Wayne covering “Oops, I Did It Again”… Does that count?
Heard this song? I sure hope not. If I did, it blended into all the other pap playing on the tinny speakers at the outlet mall.
Would you purchase this song? Goddamn, no!

Good… Christ. Seriously, Rolling Stone, you are having me listen to… H-H-HER? Thankfully, YouTube blocks out most of the videos containing this song, so I had to resort solely to the Spotify clip that Rolling Stone provided. (Rest assured that I will not head to that app to hear the full song as requested.) So, this will have to be based solely on the 30 seconds in the clip, and from that listen I am able to determine that a) everything that I heard sounded like any humanity within the song had been Auto-tuned, synthesized, and beaten to an inch of its life, b) girl chipmunks in Walt Disney cartoons might be sporadically sexy but adult women singing like a chipmunk is not just not sexy but also highly irritating, and c) I just fucking hate this dead-eyed style of dance music. She may have needed to make a comeback, but I didn’t need to be around for it. This selection on their list really makes me mad at Rolling Stone and makes me wonder if some inclusions are bought by record companies.

#33 - Mitski, "Your Best American Girl"
Heard of the artist? Yes, but only fleetingly (explanation below)…
Own any of her music? Not yet, but it will happen for sure.
Heard this song? Nope.
Would you purchase this song? Absolutely. On the list.

Stunning. Simply stunning. This is probably the best song I have heard thus far. I have only run across Mitski Miyawaki’s music once before, and that was when Marceline covered one of Mitski’s songs on Adventure Time, which made me look up the song after watching the episode. It didn’t make me buy it, but it did make me wonder about the artist/band. This may be the deepest song lyrically on this list thus far, with a sharp point of view ogling the heartbreak and resolve at the center of sexual politicking. I am now not just highly interested in the full album, but everything else Mitski has produced. There will be a day in the near future where I will end up purchasing all four of her albums in one shot and digging in for an afternoon. Once more, the rather provocative and excellently produced video for this film was somewhat instrumental in making me give this song more attention. As did some further listening to her output. I felt it necessary to know more immediately. Sublimity defined. 

#32 - Kodak Black, "Everything 1K"
Heard of the artist? Nope.
Own any of his music? Nope.
Heard this song? Nope.
Would you purchase this song? Not out of the discussion.

I have been pretty down on the hip-hop tracks that have been represented thus far on this list, though I did note that I thought Desiigner might still get my attention owing to a different song not on this list. But this is the first such track that I didn’t dismiss outright after my initial listen. I didn’t know anything about Kodak Black going into the listening, but I came out of it enjoying the sincere concern at the root of his words: a man who has seen the inside of a prison cell, who now shows a genuine empathy for those falling into the same traps that he did. Judging from the news articles and biography I have now read about him, he is still not immune himself to trouble, but who better to rage against the system than someone who is trapped within it? 

Listening a bit further to his output just now, I am finding that Kodak’s songs fall more in line with what I find most – not troubling, no – but BORING about the genre, as I have similarly expressed already above. My further comments on this subject will be taken merely as evidence of my supposed white privilege, and therefore expendable in the greater conversation. If you want to discuss it with me in the comments, I am more than happy to oblige, but in the interest of finishing this first part up, let’s move forward…

#31 - Miranda Lambert, "Vice"
Heard of the artist? Of course.
Own any of her music? One song on a New Music Sampler from Amazon.
Heard this song? Not before this.
Would you purchase this song? Surprised to say… yes.

Color me shocked… I loved this song. I guess it falls into the country music category, especially owing to Lambert’s vocal style, but the marvelously produced music is pretty indistinguishable from the rock form in recent years. I know that part of why I dislike certain country music was the gradual switch years (now ages, really) ago to a more rock-based sound in order to capture a slice of the pop audience, but when it is done at a high level like this and still has a sincere edge to it, I respond accordingly. (Unlike say, Shania Twain's obnoxious themes... sorry, not sorry.) This is a terrific song, no matter the genre or mixed genres. Smart lyrics, perhaps reflecting her trouble dealing with her famous divorce from Blake Shelton, lay out in steady detail each resulting vice in her life in succession of the damage each may be causing. (This song, too, has a fairly standard but well-conceived video, but I chose to not watch it and read the lyrics instead during my first listen.)

*****

Well, that is twenty songs down and another thirty to go. My score thus far reads:

Total number of songs: 20
Songs I had heard before: 3
Songs that I own already: 2
Reactions: Loved: 7 | Liked: 6 | Don't Care at All: 3 | Hated: 4
Songs that I plan to purchase: 10

That is pretty astonishing to me that there are already 7 songs that I really loved out of just the first twenty. Last year, there were 10 out of the full 50 songs, and even that shocked me. Now, one's tastes shift constantly, and I do wonder how I would rate last year's list right now. Who knows if I would even give some of those songs I marked as having loved at one point even a nominal butt-sniff 6 or 12 months later? I will save such musings for a possible future date.

See you in Part 2!

[To be continued in Pt. 2, where I will count down Songs 30 through 11…]

Coachella Festival Introduction: I learned the name of this place from Bugs Bunny...

OK, Raw Meat is going to murder me, because I just found out Mike Patton is appearing at Coachella tonight. Why is this a problem? Well, because I am going to be there. Raw Meat loves Mike Patton slightly more than he loves being pissed off that he is not watching Mike Patton. So, I am sure I am about to get an evil message on my phone telling me to "suck it," or something else in the vernacular, and this is most likely because I just sent him a message alerting him to this condition moments ago. Mine was couched in apologies, but still might contain some form of passive-aggressive jerkiness... or surely it will be taken that way.

But I truly did just find out, because they hid him under the name Patton & Rahzel, and I never thought to look up most of the bands with which I was not familiar until this morning before we take off for the Colorado Desert in Indio, CA. Jen's grandfather lives thereabouts, but we will be staying with her aunt, and it is her aunt's and mother's lifelong obsession with the Beatles that has me attending my first "major" music festival. Sande surprised us with tickets to this a couple of months back, all in the hopes of getting about a half mile away from the stage where Paul McCartney and -- various up-and-down rumors have it -- some drummer who might be a combination of Dave Grohl, Ringo Starr and Macca's tour drummer will appear.

Macca puts on a fine show, but we saw him two years ago, and I have found myself getting far more worked up over seeing Leonard Cohen and M. Ward than anything. Early on, my money was on the Black Keys, until I started to develop a definite taste for Ward, thanks to both my brother and my borderline obsession with Miss Zooey Deschanel, who performs with Ward under the moniker She & Him. Since Ward and the Keys cross over their sets, I finally settled on trying to see half of each, but naturally, crowds and distance will play a part in such decisions, since I have never been to the place, and do not know the logistics.

A quick walkabout (my walkabouts are always quick) should give me the lowdown on either the plausibility or futility of such plans or actions. But I need to figure things out pretty well, because Patton will be hitting the stage about 15 minutes before McCartney does. I am certain Sir Paul will play for about 2-3 hours, since he is headlining and closing that stage, and because he played for nearly 3 hours when we saw him in Staples Center two years ago.

I am keeping tenuous plans to grab a ticket for Saturday's show, solely because I adore TV on the Radio, though Drive-By Truckers, Calexico and Bob Mould would be pretty sweet to see as well, but this will depend on how today goes. I despise crowds of even minor size, which keeps me from seeing too many shows, and I am fairly certain that I will be sick of the situation within about thirty minutes. Also, don't really have the money to blow on another day. And if I did, Sunday would be a far better fit for me, what with the Brian Jonestown Massacre, the Murder City Devils and my beloved X all going 1,2,3 on the same stage in the afternoon. (Paul Weller would be a draw for me too.)

Looking at any day's lineup reveals a definite shock to me: even with all of my music magazine reading and time spent listening to new music broadcasts, I am still only definitely sure of who half to three-quarters of the bands are on any of the three days. Jen and her mom and aunt will know about four or five groups through the whole weekend, which will make things interesting as we are mucking about waiting for McCartney. Well, they will be. Me, I am going to be taking in everything I can. I might discover new bands that I think are pretty swell. I might learn that bands I like really suck in a live setting. I might even find out that I like new kinds of music. The one thing I will definitely solidify is how much I hate dirty hippies -- not the politics, because more often than not, I am simpatico with much of their drivel. I'm not mad at them... I just hate the dirt.

And we are off to Coachella...!

Coachella lineup: Friday, April 17 (links to Wikipedia pages)

The Aggrolites, The Airborne Toxic Event, A Place To Bury Strangers, Alberta Cross, Bajofondo, Beirut, The Black Keys, Buraka Som Sistema, Cage the Elephant, Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band, Crystal Castles, Dear and the Headlights, El Gran Silencio, Felix da Housecat, Franz Ferdinand, Genghis Tron, Ghostland Observatory, Girl Talk, Gui Boratto, Leonard Cohen, Los Campesinos!, M. Ward, Molotov, Morrissey, N.A.S.A., Noah and the Whale, Patton & Rahzel, Paul McCartney, Peanut Butter Wolf, People Under the Stairs, Ryan Bingham, Silversun Pickups, Steve Aoki, Switch, The Bug, The Courteeners, The Crystal Method (Live), The Hold Steady, The Knux, The Presets, The Ting Tings, We Are Scientists, White Lies

"We're Your Fucking Friends, Yo!""

Gogol Bordello Live @ The Catalyst in Santa Cruz, April 26, 9:00 pm

I would follow this band everywhere.

If I didn’t have a job… if I didn’t have goals… if I didn’t have plans… if I didn’t have responsibilities… if I didn’t have concerns for the well-being of others close to me… if I didn’t have some semblance of a life, however degraded it may seem to others, I would follow Gogol Bordello to the ends of the earth.

It’s not often that someone will use the immediate aftermath of a concert to sum up how they felt about the entire performance, but when Gogol Bordello ringmaster/bandleader Eugene Hütz strode back onto the stage after closing the show with a massive 23-minute encore version of their defiant (and imaginatively stated) anthem Undestructable, his words echoed precisely what I was feeling inside. Grabbing the mike to say goodnight, Hütz asserted, “We’re your fucking friends, yo!”

My brother and I already felt like his friends. And in a far more personal way than one normally feels when watching an amazing band absolutely enthrall an audience. This seems a strange statement to make, especially from someone who never got the chance to meet the band, and in fact, stood at the rear of the balcony area, back and away from the show for the entire length of the concert. And, sure, any fan of any band wishes to believe that they are as one with their influences. But despite the distance, and despite the building noise and aggression of the music throughout the show, and despite the vast array of racial, economic and class distinctions dispersed amongst the audience members, there was still the sense that for just a couple of too brief hours, everyone in the place had come together as one people.

Yeah, it sounds cheesy and it sounds trite. It’s a hippy thing to say, too, but hell, the show was in Santa Cruz, so what can one expect? This mood, though, was definitely in place there, and it certainly existed in a way where its ultimate influence must have pleased Hütz. It almost certainly reflects part of the message at the core of his music: a universal brotherhood that blows past all of the systematic bullshit that ties people down or keeps them from opening their eyes and hearts to those around them.

Our traveling companions at the show, Raw Meat and Roar-achel, did get to meet Eugene and the band post-show, but I’ll speak no more of their adventures through the use of my voice. How and why is up to them to tell from here on out. (I also won’t discuss the anonymous bra that may or may not have been involved in the deal…) No, my presumed friendship with the band is forged solely through how thoroughly moving and entertaining Gogol Bordello were on stage, and in a way where you could not mistake Hütz’ mission to cause every single person in that crowd to leave the show feeling the same sort of elation and mental evolution which he himself has endured. My friendship is forged through finding a band with a distinct voice that just happened to speak to my secret heart, even if it may seem that outwardly there is little the same between us except for, perhaps, distant European genealogical connections.

Assuredly, I am not of the Romani distinction, nor am I from the Ukraine. I am not even close to being a gypsy, though perhaps my Irish blood may bespeak a bit of the traveler somewhere in my family history. I doubt it, though. And before this band came along, my exposure to the roots music at its core has been minimal at best, and mainly through Hollywood bastardized examples of gypsy music in Frankenstein and werewolf movies. Certainly there is a similarity in emotion and instrumentation to some of the klezmer and polka music to which I have exposed myself in varying quantities, but I am still a relative novice to Old World folk music, particularly this style.

And there I am, clapping hands and stomping feet along with the raucous tunes, feeling more from the immediacy of the experience than I have at concerts where I had gone into the shows fully immersed in the band and their music. I was too far along already with Gogol to be considered a convert (after all, we did drive several hundred miles specifically to see this band), but this was the shining moment where I realized just how in love I was with Gogol Bordello and their maniacal circus.

And were circumstances a little broader for experimentation economically for me, this band would become my version of the Dead, getting followed from show to show, all so I might feel that vibe just once more. To feel that reassurance that somewhere, on a tiny stage in a decrepit club miles from my home, there is someone that I don't even personally know who is bold enough to announce, even in a collective sense, that they are my friend, fucking or otherwise.

You should all be so lucky to have such friends. See this band for your own well-being, and at all costs...

[P.S. Yo, fucking friend, here is some fellow fan-shot footage from the show I found on YouTube courtesy of OpenFire...]

Zzzzzzz...

Tired... sleepy...

So much happened on the trip...

Tell you about it...

Later...

(Yawn)

So... much... later...

...And Cultural Revolution Right Away Begun!!!

Around a year ago, after seeing them appear fleetingly on some show as I flipped through the music channel area of the cable box, I got into Gogol Bordello. Sort of a gypsy-meets-The Pogues-meets-The Clash vibe (sort of, I say...); marvelously energetic and crude; breathlessly fascinating. Along the way, my buddy Raw Meat got into the group on an entirely different path, though we eventually ended up playing them quite a lot in the office, shutting the door of course for some of the rawer language to not drift out to the far more innocent ears of our office mates. Meanwhile, on a third, divergent course, my brother Otis discovered the group up in the confines of the extended Bay area.

What luck, then, that the group ends up playing in Santa Cruz tomorrow night.

And so it begins. A road trip by Raw Meat, his girlfriend Roar-achel and myself to see Gogol Bordello. It's more of a pilgrimage really, as Raw Meat and I have tried previously to get near the group, but our plans have gone awry. I pulled out of a spontaneous overnight trip to Vegas to see them a couple months back, riling the Raw One and forcing him to bite a chunk out of a passerby's arm in his anger and his rage. (He is leaving, he is leaving, but the fighter still remains, tra la la la la la la...)

We considered attending their appearance at Coachella, but decided it was just too damn hot to stand in the middle of the desert and watch bands for 472-1/2 hours. Our last resort was to drive several hours up the coast and grab a hotel and turn the whole shebang into a mini-vacation. We definitely need it -- I had to chain the boy up this week to keep him from devouring our I.T. guy, Steve, whom we shall refer to here as "NOT the I.T. guy," since that is what he wrongly insists -- thus, as a reward for just getting something done at work, we are hitting the road.

So, no posting for a couple of days. We are leaving the laptop behind, so we won't get sucked into any work distractions, and we are going to just simply have fun. No real schedule, just some loose directions and guidelines, an area that we have never visited, and a whole lot of open road (once we get out of LA). We're talking Monterey Bay Aquarium, hopefully some Cannery Row, possibly the Mystery Spot, and checking out some beach-like substances. Maybe we will even take in the new Harold and Kumar flick. For me, the best part is that my brother Otis and the family are heading down to meet us tonight to join us on our adventure.

Oh, yeah... and then there's that concert. (I'm bringing the GPS just to increase the chances that we actually get there...)

Spout Mavens Disc #3: Clean (2004)

Clean
Director: Olivier Assayas // 2004 [Palm Pictures Promo Screener DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 7

At a certain point in Olivier Assayas' addiction meditation Clean, we are asked to accept the fact that not only would Maggie Cheung's breathy meander of a voice warrant the attention of a record producer, but that someone would ask her to fly all the way from Paris to San Francisco to record it. It's not that there isn't a sort of intriguing dreariness to the music on her demo tape; it's just hard to imagine the commercial possibilities for it. One reason it could hold such possibilities is that her character, Emily Wang, is a minor celebrity (video jockeys are all minor celebrities, no matter how famous they actually got) whose life partner just ended up on the fatal side of a heroin overdose. So, certainly there is commercial potential in that not necessarily blessed combination. Hearing her music in a movie tangentially about rock music but lacking any real fire musically, I was as lost in context regarding her music as Cheung's character is emotionally wayward within her screen life. But the moment where I go, "Ah, of course he would be interested..." is when they mention the producer in question is David Roback, the fellow from Mazzy Star. Once we hear of that particular band, everything -- the music, Emily's possible appeal to the industry, Cheung's mild voice -- is no longer to be questioned, and neither is the notion that she might indeed believe herself to have some potential. Although I don't particularly care for the music in the film (especially for the horrendous act that opens the film), the Mazzy-style music (actually written and produced by Roback for the film) chosen for the character is perfect for Cheung, and thus the scoffing attitude I had towards Emily's belief in her rumored talent was turned into mute assent; I knew it was more than just another lie Emily was telling herself.

No one lies to Emily Wang but Emily Wang. Everyone calls her an addict, which she is. Everyone, including her estranged six-year old son, says she killed his father, and, yes, she technically did. Heroin that she provided him did him in, but she purchased it, even if she maintains to everyone within earshot that she didn't. Because of her son -- currently being raised by her late partner's parents -- Emily has to struggle with more than just her own drug addiction. She has to move on; she has to regain more than just physical possession of her son, but also his love; most of all, she has to clean up her act. To do this, she has to stop lying to herself. The mad scramble to find money to purchase drugs, stabbing a needle into her veins, and losing the trust of everyone in her life seems an easier pursuit for her than simply facing up to life and its consequences. After a jail stint for possession, she trades heroin for methadone, and brings her remaining friends in on the quest for fulfillment of that curse. And when her "addicted" lifestyle keeps a hold on her -- party friends, record producers, jail companions -- even when one wishes deeply to clean up, how does one do so?

My struggle going in to Clean would be my fear that I would merely be watching The Beautiful Side of Addiction. I have been immensely taken -- physically -- with Maggie Cheung since Police Story in the mid-'80s, considering her to be one of the most lovely things on the planet, and I would be hard-pressed to accede my own denial that the thought of her as a heroin addict doesn't exactly jibe with my Idealized Version of Angelic Loveliness. Taking Ms. Cheung off the pedestal on which I have clearly seated due to her physical appearance alone -- owning up to my own inherent American Male Misogynistic Streak -- I will have to admit that her beauty actually makes the role even more difficult to pull off, and thus, makes her achievement here even more impressive. It's one thing to play the role of addict if you already look like Courtney Love run through a washing mangle -- if you always look like you are trashed, it's easier to persuade an audience that you are; it's another thing altogether if you look like you just stepped off a modeling runway (even though we know full well by this point that most models are addicts of one form or another, as a society, we remain blithely tied to the concept of outward beauty as inner perfection).

Cheung is a fireball of barely contained nervousness here -- the success comes in not showing how lost she has become, but in how normal she can seem. Her every emotion is sorrowfully conflicted: when she should stay, she wants to run; where she should immediately get away, she lingers far too long. She shrieks and practically growls and pisses away relationships and locales which can no longer serve her any purpose. She can no longer judge which people are really her friends, who is merely around because of her reputation and who is around for the chance to burn her (don't even ask about her family members in Paris; they have become convinced that she is ashamed of her Chinese heritage). She reaches out in every direction she can, hungry to find a foothold on which she may begin to lift herself out of the hole she has dug for herself, but everything ends up a cruel and ironic dead end. Cheung's outward mask may seem too strangely placid to some, given her circumstance; what I see is an ocean rife with turmoil. What we have here is an actress whose character is clearly and desperately thinking her way through her character's state of unthinking blindness to her own situation.

And yet, the key to success for this movie, and in keeping my interest in it, lies not with Cheung, but with a man who in recent years has had his own struggles with addictions of various stripes, Nick Nolte. As Albrecht Hauser, the stoic grandfather, and a man who is likely going to soon be losing his own life partner, Nolte holds the keys to Emily's future relationship with her son. He knows that she has a right to see him, and even regain custody of him, but unlike his dying wife, who sincerely believes Emily is a murderer and is blinded by this hatred, Albrecht wants to ensure that when, not if, Emily takes the rein as a parent, that she is ready to do so. He is always fair-handed with her, and even when she disappoints him, he is not a man prone to snap judgments.

There is a scene where we see Emily's son commit a robbery on the grandfather, stealing money from his coat to sneak out and buy comic books. We later see, in an extremely underplayed sequence, that Albrecht is fully aware of these small strikes of rebellion and thievery, finding them amusing with a "kids will be kids" sort of attitude, and preferring to absorb the small betrayal to keep peace in the household. He uses the same tactic on Emily, whom I assume he sees as something of a daughter herself, and instead of reprimanding her for a small indiscretion, he gives her a pair of well-weighed options, letting her figure out the path to reconciliation her way. A way that she needs to work things out. Others may not lie to Emily, but Albrecht is the only one willing to give her what she really needs: enough trust to get her to the next step, which is faith in herself. It's a trust that many of us could do with more in our lives, and Nolte plays it so naturally and warmly, but not cloyingly (this film is certainly never cloying in the least), it's a wonder the man hasn't collected a shelf full of Oscars. Whatever his own struggles are, on screen in Clean, Nolte is perfection.

Too bad the music isn't. It works within the context of Cheung's character, and helps to serve as her grace note, but for a film based around music, it's a sorry state of affairs. Luckily, director Assayas (Cheung's ex-husband) knows full well it is the weakest part of the film, and lets the actors carry the day, an end to which Nolte and Cheung rise wonderfully.

Spout Mavens Disc #2: You're Gonna Miss Me (2005)

You're Gonna Miss Me
Director: Keven McAlester // 2005 [Palm Pictures DVD Screener]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6

Why is it the traits that we would find repulsive in an everyday, common person if we passed them by or ran them over in the street -- lack of hygiene, shabby clothes, drug addiction, alcoholism, mad ravings, abusive language, foul temperament, outright insanity -- are perfectly fine if they are contained -- in any combination of column A or B -- in the body of a rock star? Behavior that most would find deplorable or from which most would at least attempt to shield the eyes of their children in public has now turned into a cottage industry on film and television, propping up any number -- hell, half the lineup -- on many stations like MTV, VH1 or their short attention-spanned and money-grubbing ilk. Sure, it makes a nice human interest story if Johnny Bollocks cleans up his act and goes back on the road for the first time in twenty years with the Sex Pickles, but it would be even more fun if he were to flame out halfway through the tour and rape a teenybopper groupie, wouldn't it, MTV? Certainly you would be among the first to wag your finger at the rotter -- he's been a baaaad boy, Abbott! -- but you'd never turn the camera off of him, would you? It's not the media's fault, really... after all, we, the doting audience, are lapping up this crap, absolutely unable to stop watching the bad behavior. Because we know, given the opportunity and given free license to act like a juvenile dickweed, we'd jump on it. We'd smoke that; we'd inhale this; we'd inject whatever you threw at us. And we would have hit that groupie, as well. We're all rock stars in our secret hearts these days, and if we happen to discover that Mr. Raving Lunatic in the park used to Mr. Somebody, well, then suddenly it's OK if he craps on the lawn. After all, he's a rock star.

In 2005, I saw a documentary about a mentally fragile individual who had achieved, by almost sheer force of underground celebrity, a legendary status as a sort of musical idiot savant. A man almost wholly trapped inside a childlike world known only to his inner eye, and he would occasionally grace the world with tender and none-too-revealing slices of his mad vision. Damaged, almost babyish, longing, crystalline pop, as delicate as the animals in the glass menagerie. The film was called The Devil and Daniel Johnston, and the film dealt with attempts to get Daniel to perform again after a long hiatus, and attempts by his family, friends, hangers on and fans to try and capture even a sliver of understanding regarding his vision of the world. There is a payoff of sorts in that film, however small, where it seems like something of a catharsis for the subject, his supporters and the viewers as well.

Take that film, replace the artist with a different cult hero living in his own drug-and-asylum wrought inner hell, take away the relatively feel good ending, and you have You're Gonna Miss Me. The difference in my preference between the two films, for me, is based on the fact that while I have been privy to Mr. Johnston's development and eventual regression as an artist since the mid-'80s in any number of rock magazines on which I have thrived since that time, Roky Erickson, the wildman subject of You're Gonna Miss Me, has been known to me since I was 16. I found a copy of Roky Erickson and the Aliens at my old haunt, Budget Tapes and Records, when I was 19, and at that time, I had already bought the seminal collection of psychedelic rock called Nuggets, which featured this film's titular song by his original band, the 13th Floor Elevators. Unlike Johnston -- a minimalist recluse who re-recorded his album material by himself over and over each time he wanted to give somebody a copy -- Erickson was actually a full-blown rock star, with a rough but soaring voice, an edgy way with rhythm on a guitar, a major record deal, a hit single, and a real band that toured and went on American Bandstand. Erickson was the shit. And his music -- jagged shards of Erickson's blues howl spitting out paranoid tales of vampirism, aliens and the walking haunted of the world -- appealed to me immensely in that latest of my teen years. It approached the same spot in my keening soul as when I found Here Are the Sonics! at a garage sale a couple of years later. It was the music I had been looking for; the music I needed to shoot me out of the Top 40 ghetto in which my ears were raised. Subsequently, I spent years, in the era before the internet made it simple to find anything, fruitlessly trying to locate more of his material.

Through the '80s, the happy purchase of Don't Slander Me and Gremlins Have Pictures on cassette kept the Erickson train moving for me, but through reviews in Rolling Stone and other magazines, I was starting to hear tales about Erickson that went far beyond what I knew about him through the songs alone. Tales of madness, tales of woe; his wild appearance and his life of relative squalor; that he was another Syd Barrett, another tragic figure of the drug-fueled rock industry, barely hanging onto whatever sanity electroshock therapy hadn't buzzed out of him. Then, Where the Pyramid Meets the Eye, an Erickson tribute album featuring R.E.M. (amongst others), came out, and since I was an adherent of that band as well, it was a must buy for me. I remember reading about Erickson's proclivity for turning on every appliance in the house to the loudest level possible to create a wall of white noise to which he might fall asleep, and I adapted it into an only-slightly effective means by which to write for a handful of months in the mid-'90s. There I was, a slightly well-adjusted job-holding member of society, and I was seeking to duplicate in my own home the ravings of a man whom I only knew through a couple record covers and a handful of photos in a magazine, of a man whom I would cross the street to avoid based on his appearance alone. And how was I to know whether all of this reportage on Roky was bullshit or not?

Hence the film. The most ironic thing in You're Gonna Miss Me is the title, because truly, how can you miss someone that you don't really know at all? I certainly knew little about the man directly through those albums, record reviews and scant photographic evidence. And much of the film merely corroborates what I knew before, hitting all of the usual touchstones upon his road to paranoid schizophrenia: his old band, the LSD, the electroshock, the marijuana bust that sent him eventually to a maximum-security insane asylum, his release and eventual solo career, and then his virtual seclusion alongside his tree-mother, from which apple-Erickson clearly fell in relatively close proximity. And through the entire film, outside of too-little footage of the man in his true element - the stage - Erickson is practically a cipher, lost deep within his head, blankly staring at everything with a slight smirk, watching far too much television at sound levels that the Who never approached, or merely mumbling a few non-sequiturs to his mother or brother. The brief sound and film clips of his previous life do nothing to convey to us who he really is. We only know what he was at one time, and where he ended up. Unlike Johnston, who may be as trapped in his illness as much as Erickson but who nonetheless still conveys a certain sense of creative activity underneath it all, Roky is all but unknowable.

We are given glimpses of a possible opening up, though, and after he is, via court action, given over to his brother for caretaking, Roky starts attending therapy. It gives us (and his family) hope, but the film leaves us dangling, unlike the Johnston film. Perhaps, in the cliche, it's more like life that way, but for someone who has never had enough of Erickson, the film's ambiguous finish is not enough for me. Maybe the film came out just a little too soon. Erickson is currently performing once more, on his first tour in two decades and even playing at huge festivals like Bumbershoot, but the film gives us no mention of this, not even in a postscript. Perhaps the DVD has some extra mention of his successful therapeutic sessions, but on the screener I saw, we are only left with the possibility that some good may come out of them, even if in the last session they show, he cannot remember what he was told in the previous session. Am I to derive some sense of change from this? Because that is not what I get from it. And the saddest part, for the video company, is that they have lost some money by my receiving this screener. This film was a no-brainer purchase for me -- I am the target audience for this doc -- but now, after seeing it, even if I had to give the screener back, I still wouldn't buy the film for my collection. There is not enough performance in it for me to return (I know the full DVD has a series of them on it, but why couldn't they be in the regular film?). It's just Roky on the rocks, and no real sense that anything has been lost by his absence.

This is the real crime, because the best moments in the film are two instances where he is persuaded -- actually, goaded -- to pick up a guitar and sing. Stunningly, this shambling recluse somehow has it in him to start strumming again like he had never stopped, and then out of his dilapidated three-toothed maw comes that weathered but oddly beautiful voice. And the songs really sting, because we then see the artist inside the wreckage. The man we would otherwise never allow near us. The man we're gonna really miss...