Continuing the Don Dixon/Marti Jones jag of the past week, here's another double-shot of Don Dixon and Marti Jones.
Because great songs are great songs no matter how much (or how little) instrumentation they have, here's Dixon and Jones with a stripped-down live version of "Praying Mantis" (complete with instructions on the secret hidden chord):
And the full-band version of Marti's great cover of Bland Simpson's "Follow You All Over the World" (which, in a more just universe, would have made her bigger than Madonna -- and capable of better choices in movie roles):
England had a big rockabilly revival in the early 1980s. No one knows why.
And while everyone remembers the Stray Cats (who followed Chrissie Hynde to London to become stars when everyone in America was ignoring them), not a lot of people remember the Polecats.
Which is too bad.
Because they may not have been the most original band in the world (and the singer may have had the misfortune of sharing a hairdresser with A Flock of Seagulls), but they left behind one amazing blast of sheer pop mastery.
Sure, they were one-hit wonders. But man.... that one hit!
If you can listen to this without smiling or bobbing your head, check your pulse cuz you might just be dead. (In which case, you might require something with enough power to run a small defribilator...)
In another 20 years, the phrase "wait by the phone" will seem as antiquated as crank starters for horseless carriages. When the phone goes everywhere, there's no waiting. And when the caller ID pops up all the time, there's no surprise about who might be on the other end. But even when that happens, "You Can Still Ruin My Day" by Jon Brion will be a great song.
I don't wait by the phone like I used to I don't hope for kind words you might say You don't prey on my mind like you used to But you can still ruin my day.
The call comes, he tells me.
If you wait long enough, it always comes.
And you think enough time has gone by. You think the feelings aren't there anymore. You think you're over her.
But sooner or later the call comes.
And he pauses, sucking deeply on the cigarette he shouldn't have been smoking. Looking up at the ceiling and as if the meaning of life could be found there.
And it seems innocuous. Because by the time she makes the call, she's fine.
And maybe it doesn't matter for her.
He slides his legs out of bed. Determined to go outside. Willing the decades of cramps and pain away.
But the feelings never go away. You can't destroy them. It's like an emotional law of physics.
The feelings, they lurk around in your brain or your gut.
Waiting for the next time they can jump out and knock you for a loop.
If you're lucky, they change. Transform into something else.
If you're lucky.
He puts on a sweatshirt. Grabs the cane. Then shakes his head and carefully tips it up against the wall.
The ironic thing is you think you want the call.
You dream about it for months, years, decades.
Then, when it comes...
And he gestures with his hand. Some old-fashioned gesture that maybe meant something 50 years ago, maybe means something now, and maybe is the only thing to do when there are no words.
And I follow him out into the hallway. Out towards the sunshine of the terrace.
Not saying anything. Watching him grimace in pain. And knowing the pain in his legs is easier to bear than the pain in his heart.
In an alternate universe, Jon Brion is more popular than Madonna and Justin Bieber combined.
Here, he's known and loved as a record producer, songwriter, aficionado of melodic pop music. His Friday-night gigs at Cafe Largo in L.A. were legendary even if his own music (especially 2001's amazing Meaningless album), production work (for Aimee Mann, Fiona Apple, Elliot Smith, Robyn Hitchcock, Of Montreal, etc.), and film scoring work (Magnolia, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and many more) failed to make him a household name.
In this world, we've got to settle for the occasional song that squeaks through on his film work, his great live shows, and the hope that he'll someday get around to releasing the follow-up to Meaningless.
By the way, I'd be much obliged if anyone from the alternate universe where Jon Brion is a superstar could slip me a live recording of the shows he must have done with the supergroup he must have assembled (which most likely includes Robyn Hitchcock, Don Dixon, Scott McCaughey, and Marshall Crenshaw). Thanks.
Bonus: "Walking Through Walls," another great song from Meaningless, this one co-written with Grant Lee Phillips (and featuring great call-and-response vocals and a dash of profanity). Listen here.
It wouldn't bother me so much that their tech support is never helpful if they'd only stop reading their infernal scripts that talk endlessly about offering "excellent service."
And when they tell me there's no direct line to US-based Tech Support... well, that's just a lie.
Don't get me wrong, there's plenty of incompetent techs in the US, but no one from my ISP's outsourced tech support islands in the Phillipines or India has ever solved any problem I've had. Literally, they keep you running around in circles for 20-30 hours until you insist on escalating the issue to the US-based techs... and at least then there's a chance.
I’ve always wondered if it’s possible to meet someone famous and not seem like a dork.
I’m not talking about when you work with famous people (in which case you’re collaborators or at least colleagues and there’s less inequality). No, I’m talking about when you meet someone and you’re the fan and they’re the artist.
It’s always made me feel weird.
What can you say?
I’m a big fan. Well, obviously. I’m your biggest fan. A) Creepy, and B) probably not true. I love your work. Better, but it drips of phony show-biz. I loved XX. What, you don't love anything else they did?
So I generally try to avoid the situation. Because, no matter what I say, I feel like a dork.
But when Don Dixon rolled into town a couple summers ago, I took the dork bullet.
If you don’t know, Dixon was one of the hot producers of the 1980s, bringing what’s now called “jangle pop” to the masses. Dixon, along with Mitch Easter, produced the first couple of REM albums, along with records from Marshall Crenshaw, Dumptruck, Marti Jones, the Smitherens, Chris Stamey, Kim Carnes, Hootie & the Blowfish, and many, many more.
He was also a great songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, sometime member of the Golden Palominos, and a singer with an intensely emotional voice. For years, he was part of the legendary band Arrogance and, after REM’s success, he signed as a solo artist with Enigma.
For his first album Most of the Girls Like to Dance But Only Some of the Boys Like To, he wrote, arranged, and performed everything. It's a great record, anchored by one of the finest singles that should've topped the charts (but somehow didn't).
After producing the first Marti Jones album, Dixon married Marti Jones. For a while, they were the King and Queen of alt-rock, superstars in waiting. It was just a matter of time. (The Chi-Town Budget Show, a live album they released together around that time, remains an absolute joy.)
In the early 90s, I saw Dixon and Jones several times. Small venues, packed houses, great shows.
But the superstardom never quite happened. Dixon continued recording and performing (as well as doing producing gigs -- rumor has it, he was tapped to produce Nirvana's Nevermind, but lost the gig when he asked for too much money), but grunge took over and jangle pop fell out of favor.
In an alternate universe, Don Dixon may have been a superstar, but here he faded from prominence. Never quite gone, but nowhere near as almost-famous as he'd been in the 80s.
And then, years later, I saw a notice that Dixon and Jones were playing in L.A. I bought tickets and dragged my friend Tom with me to the concert. Great show, amazing music, small but devoted audience. (Link for Gmail subscribers.)
I brought my vinyl of Most of the Girls Like to Dance... with me. Afterwards, I waited patiently on line and got him to sign it. I shook his hand. I thanked him for the great music he'd made (and produced), told him how much it meant to me, and shook his hand. It was dorky, but I meant every word.
And then I went to get Marti's autograph. On my way out, Dixon called out to me by name and waved. (Maybe it's okay to be a dork as long as you're a sincere and grateful dork.)
All the way home I thought I couldn't have taken the dork bullet for a nicer or more talented guy.
They say celebrities die always die in groups of 3. Based on my inbox today, it seems like music-related news stories always land in groups of 4.
Music licensing company Rumblefish is offering a new service called Friendly Music, that lets you buy a song for $1.99 and have the rights to use that song in your non-commercial YouTube video. The initial selection of available songs is very small and it's not clear that people will pay 2 bucks to license music just so that they can post on YouTube (especially when there are other video sites that are not quite as zealous as the Google-owned YouTube about unlicensed music in videos). Just saying.
Indie Music Community and early online music store GarageBand.com is shutting down. Apple Computer's GarageBand software claims to have a good alibi, but I'm not sure.
Tired of carrying around clunky guitar effects pedals? Now all you need is your iPhone and a $40 piece of hardware.
If you don’t know, Dixon was one of the hot producers of the 1980s, bringing what’s now called “jangle pop” to the masses. Dixon, along with Mitch Easter, produced the first couple of REM albums, along with records from Marshall Crenshaw, Dumptruck, Marti Jones, the Smitherens, Chris Stamey, Kim Carnes, Hootie & the Blowfish, and many, many more.
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