(Illustration by Alex Fine) 10 Albums That Were Drivin’ My Plane in 2005 1. Spoon Gimme Fiction (Merge) Mystery loves company, and everyone loves Spoon. Like the hooded figure on the cover, Spoon’s minimalist rockscapes intrigue endlessly because of what they don’t reveal: the obvious. Masters of the art of subtraction, Spoon makes subliminal three-chord guitar chug strip naked and do the locomotion, and in the vast silence that seems to frame every instrument on this record you could almost swear you hear a singalong chorus or a fist-pumping solo. 2. Bright Eyes I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning (Saddle Creek) […]

(Illustration by Alex Fine) A Dispatch From Woody Creek. First a note of justification. I’m about to say a few words about Hunter S. Thompson, the writer, in what is ostensibly a column about music because: a) HST was rock ‘n’ roll incarnate; we’re talking balls the size of cantaloupes. b) Despite the pharmacopia of substances controlled and otherwise he ritually pickled his gray matter in, he was in possession of one of the sharpest minds of the 20th century, possibly even up until he personally disconnected it with a gun to his head. c) I just happen to be […]

Discussed: Girls Gone Wild; Our New Orleans; Charlie Brown Christmas blues; The Fiery Furnaces’ Rehearsing My Choir; The Future Has Already Replaced The PastAs with avoiding the words “funky” and or “gumbo” when writing about Nawlins, it’s nearly impossible to write about a Katrina relief benefit album without bumping up against this ghoulish disconnect: A lot of people died; you should buy this album and party down. So let’s start there. The official death toll is 1,300. But as NPR reported last month, nearly 500 children are still missing. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. How do you […]

(Illustration by Alex Fine) Where 40 Is The New 20, And White Linen Suits Are The New Black. Some men are born with lightning in a bottle, and others have to catch it. I’m not just talking about the forest-fire-starting, little-children-scaring, blasphemers-smiting bolts of electricity that, more often than you’d like to think, strike some Great Plains farmer dead in his shoes. The lightning is just a metaphor, people. Let’s call it the lightning of greatness. Where does this lightning come from, you ask? Nobody knows. It just shows up on the nightstand next to the crib. It waits there, […]

(Illustration by Alex Fine) EXHUMING THE TOMB OF AMERICANA’S KING TUT At the height of the Summer of Love, in the year of our lord 1967, Johnny Cash was fixin’ to die. Men in black were no longer in fashion. It was the time of the Nehru jacket, when people were fair and had stars in their hair. Ten years into an amphetamine addiction that started as a crutch but soon became a truncheon with which he couldn’t help but beat himself unmercifully, Cash could no longer walk the line. Up for days, chain-smoking, with dark circles under his eyes, […]

(Illustration by Alex Fine) WHY THE ROOTS WILL ALWAYS BE PHILLY A friend of mine has a funny I-met-the-Roots-and-made-an-ass-of-myself story. This friend, for obvious reasons, shall remain nameless, but for sheer entertainment value, let’s refer to him hereafter as Horsecock. Around the release of 2002’s wonderfully artsy-fartsy Phrenology, good ol’ Horsecock and his girl went to see the Roots perform at Indre Studios. Joining the Roots for said performance was one Cody ChesnuTT, the dirty South rubber-band man who lent his Smokey Robinson-like pipes to the single “The Seed (2.0).” Later Horsecock and his girl ventured up to an impromptu […]

Van Morrison Astral Weeks WARNER BROS. My current fave Sunday-morning-coming-down album, Van’s transcendental 1968 masterwork still holds its secrets all these years later. The converted need no further preaching about Astral Weeks, so it’s the uninitiated I’m reaching out to here. First you need to dispense with the image of Van as the largely irrelevant pot-bellied sourpuss we know today. Flash back to Belfast in the mid-’60s: Van is winding down his tenure as blues shouter for Them — a roughneck collective of bruising whiteboy R&B and flame-throwing garage-punk snarl — ready to make the leap from drunk-up wailer to […]

(Illustration by Alex Fine) Hello, my name is Jonathan, and I am a rockist. (This is the part where everyone says “hello” back to me in a warm and welcoming fashion. What, like you’ve never been to an AA meeting?) Actually, I’m not really a rockist anymore; I just play one in this column. For anyone who can’t distinguish a rockist from a sexist or a fascist, let me explain. It’s essentially a neutral term that’s been kicking around rock-snob circles for going on 20 years. As of late it’s been seized by Gen Y happy-asses to kick against the […]