RIP Dennis Hopper

Looking for adventure... and whatever comes our way

When I was a kid, it wasn't cool to like the music from the 60s. (Well, except maybe the Beatles; the Beatles were somehow beyond categorization.)

The flower-power movement quickly gave way to self-indulgence (which quickly and unintentionally became comedic). The psychedelia and experimentation turned darker and gave way to the realities of addiction and death.

The working-class rebels became the establishment, hiding out in castles that the common people could only dream about.

And when punk came around, it resonated and reflected the initial rebellion that formed rock and roll.

I loved punk because it always reminded me of the music of the 60s (but generally played a lot faster).

But for most of my friends, the word "hippie" was a high insult. And so when classic 60s movies would play in our local arthouse, I'd go. And usually there would only be 4 or 5 people there.

Yes, 60s movies (especially 60s rock movies) were often sprawling, incoherent, and self-indulgent. Yes, the stories often made no sense.

But there was something vital and vibrant about those movies. Even if the plots didn't make sense, the tone was usually clear. And that tone crackled and rang true in the same way that punk rock did.

RIP, Dennis Hopper. And thanks for helping me connect the dots between James Dean and the Ramones.

One more from Farrah

Seriously, how can you resist this?

One more thing to make you wish MTV still played music videos:

Nearly 10,000 still photographs combined to make this video:


On a more serious note, what kind of world do we live in where two days ago I somehow knew who Justin Bieber is and had never heard of Farrah?

Farrah in 6 Clicks

Power Pop Through A Series of Tubes

I like to imagine that there's a country somewhere where everyone loves power pop, where melodic guitars and great harmonies thrive like flowers in the sun. But whenever I try to book travel to that country, I can't find the nearest airport. So maybe it's not a country, maybe it's a city. Or a valley, nestled between mountains. And maybe I don't get there by plane, but by pontoon boat. Or through a few clicks on the internet.

I was reading Peter's Power Pop blog today and he posted a couple of songs by the Wellingtons (as he frequently does). It's hard not to like the Wellingtons and I was going to write about them. And while clicking through their YouTube videos, I found one where they talked about playing with the band Farah. And that band name sounded familiar, but I couldn't think of why.

But there on the "related videos" box of the Wellingtons video I was watching was this video by Farah:


You may want to listen to that song five or six times. Go ahead; I'll wait.

Click. One of the guys from Farrah produced a Wellingtons album. Click. Critics compare them to Squeeze and XTC and Fountains of Wayne. Click. Several Wellingtons appear in this cool video, which (like the Nines) channels the best of Paul McCartney, XTC, ELO, Fountains of Wayne, Marshall Crenshaw, Ben Folds, and just about every band I love:


Listening to Farrah, I had no idea where they were from. England? Australia? Sweden? Brooklyn? In the end it doesn't really matter. They live in that place where power pop thrives in the wild... and you don't even need a pontoon boat to get there.

The new Farrah album is out now in England and will be out in the U.S. in a couple weeks. In the meantime, visit their site or listen to the whole thing here on their super-cool widget thing:

Two From the North

Two Nordic ear-worms, briefly noted.

Flamboyant Swedish pop-rock sound? Check.
Absurd 80s key-tar? Check.
Amazing sky and partially frozen sea? Check.
Band seemingly floating away on a chunk of ice soon to be eaten by a polar bear? Check.

Nom de Guerre's "Run Run Run" (h/t Swedesplease):


You want more? Need some charming tinkly keyboards and little-girl vocals? And maybe some zombies? And death imagery in a remote church? Lára Rúnarsdóttir's got what you need:

That's Im Poss

I guess it's just someone who looked a lot like I remember you do

Gretchen lived in a castle. Behind a moat. Fortified by alligators.

Okay, maybe not.

But Gretchen lived in the urban equivalent -- an art-deco apartment building whose penthouse had stained-glass windows. Up a steep winding hill. With no on-street parking.

And she knew all the local restaurants. Owners would greet her by name when she came in. Chefs would prepare her off-menu sampling menus.

The owner of the convenience store would give her flowers from the day before and she'd stick them in her hair.

She owned that city. But she didn't know it.

Everyone she was with knew it. But God help you if you mentioned it -- she hated talking about it, hated thinking about it.

She drove a 40-year-old European convertible that her mechanic had rebuilt nearly from scratch. She knew nothing about cars but everything about obscure tropical fruit.

And she'd sit up in the castle (okay, her second-story apartment in the art-deco building far below the penthouse) and sketch street scenes in half-filled sketch pads.

Everyone who spent time with her thought she was amazing. Because when you were around her, anything was possible.

Then she'd vanish. For weeks on end.

The restaurant owners would ask me about her because they'd seen us together once. And I didn't know anything, so I had nothing to say.

Then she'd come back -- convertible overflowing with exotic souvenirs from somewhere I could never spell that she'd pronounce perfectly. And the neighborhood would swell and flow back towards her. And for a while, everything seemed fine.

For a while, everything was possible again.

Until Gretchen vanished one last time. And took the convertible with her.

The chefs looked downcast whenever I'd see them. The mechanic sighed loudly and turned back to the brake job on the '88 Saab. And the convenience-store flowers turned brown and wilted out in the dumpster.

The castle was eventually torn down. But she never came back.

I moved across town. To an area whose streets weren't pulsing with memories of when she'd walked on them. To a street where some things were definitely impossible. To a place where the chefs didn't know her... and didn't know what they were missing.

I'd still sometimes think I saw Gretchen -- but she never reappeared. Eventually I left the city. Years later, she still appears every once in a while in the corner of my eye. And I still sometimes sense she's been here. But whenever I look around, she's gone.

Almost, but not quite, without a trace.

Cover Me

You Know I Know When It's a Dream...

Brandon Schott, whom I first wrote about here, has a new single coming out next week on iTunes: "God Only Knows" b/w "Strawberry Fields Forever." And he's performing this week to celebrate the release.

More on that in a minute. But first:

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As listeners, we hear covers in a very different way than the way we hear original songs.

This is more pronounced when the songs are well known. Many "classic rock" songs from the 60s and 70s are so deeply imprinted after decades of radio play (not to mention hours spent listening to these songs on vinyl, cassette, CD, and MP3) that they're nearly a part of our DNA.

For songs that are well-known, we carry our memory of the original with us as we hear the cover. That makes Slavishly Faithful covers purely an exercise in nostalgia. It makes Radically Rearranged covers more interesting for how they differ from the originals than in how they are similar. And it makes Slapped Together covers something best enjoyed in the moment during a live show (where hopefully there's enough else happening to distract us from how crappy and poorly executed the cover is).

For most musicians, covering really well-known songs is just asking for trouble.

Because, really, does the world ever need another version of "God Only Knows" or "Strawberry Fields Forever"?

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Which loops me back around to Brandon Schott.

These two songs aren't your typical covers. The arrangements are neither radically different nor slavishly faithful.

Instead, Brandon's versions tunnel inside the songs, letting us rediscover essential truths we might have forgotten, combining the very familiar with the revelatory and peeling back layers of songs we thought we knew everything about.

Brandon's "God Only Knows" opens with Indian tabla marking out percussion, infusing the track instantly with a 1966 vibe. Bells and organ echo the original, but veer off from the Beach Boys arrangement. Harmonies are understated here, sneaking up on you instead of hitting you over the head Beach Boys-style. The song builds and builds as it moves along, confidently gaining momentum, and power. And then there's the ending.

Holy ****.

Brandon's son Tyler sings a boy-soprano counter-melody at the end of the song that completely takes my breath away. (And if you don't get goose bumps from it, you either don't like music or you're a robot passing for human -- and in either case I wonder what you're doing reading this.) Close your eyes when you listen to this and you'll swear for 3 minutes and 50 seconds that Brian Wilson really could write teenage symphonies to God -- at least for a few months in 1966.

Here's a taste of Brandon's take on the Beach Boys:


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"Strawberry Fields Forever" is a song most people know backwards and forwards. Originally recorded to be a cornerstone of the Sgt. Pepper album (whose loose concept had something to do with childhood... and nostalgia... and LSD), it was rushed out as a single (a double-A side with "Penny Lane") in early 1967 when EMI realized that Sgt. Pepper would take many more months to finish.

Brandon's take on "Strawberry Fields" is simple and stark, mostly just a piano and voice. All through the song, you'll wait for familiar instruments to come in -- starting with Paul McCartney's mellotron that opens the Beatle version. But for the most part, things are kept austere here, with ghostly reverb and faint glimmers of instruments substituting for the full psychedelic orchestration of the original. Time and again, I find myself waiting for Ringo's familiar drum fills, then feel thrown off-balance when they don't appear. Instead, backing vocals emphasize the ethereal nature of the song, underscored by a piano that sometimes sounds like it was stored in a damp basement for several decades. The overall effect is mesmerizing -- and wallops you with the full force of something long-forgotten but vitally important.

Here's a taste of "Strawberry Fields":


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For those of you in or around Los Angeles, Brandon will be doing a special release party for his "God Only Knows" single on May 20 (this coming Thursday) at the Renaissance Hotel and Spa in Hollywood. Admission is free (my favorite price) and open to all ages. Great music and maybe a few surprise special guests. 25 people will also win a special limited-edition CD single of the songs.

Then, a week from Tuesday (May 25th), you can buy the single from iTunes. For more info, go here.

Very highly recommended.

Craigslist Ads and the New Wave Songs That Love Them #2

The Oneders don't care -- they don't give a damn

Guitarist Wanted -- Hollywood

We want you to be part of our crappy band.

If you're obsessed with being "in tune," playing the "right notes," and having everyone play in the "same key," don't waste our time. We may technically suck, but our vibe trumps the suckage and results in an awesomely great band. Which is why you're reading this ad.

Prepare to be judged, buddy. We will judge you by your ringtone, your shoes, your playlists, and where you live.

Playing songs is good, matching our vibe is awesome, but having a van might be the most important thing of all.

(Link for Gmail subscribers.)