Van Zandt
Get Right With The Man
(Sony, 2005)

You know what the world really, really, really needs? OK, maybe not the world, just Nashville, Tennessee. It really, really, really needs RONNIE Van Zandt back from the grave—even if it’s just for one day to kick his younger brothers’ slick, overproduced little asses. This album, supposedly younger VZ bros Donnie (.38 Special) and Johnny’s “return to their country roots” finds the pair laying down a sound that’s one part shit-kicker redneck country rock (and I don’t mean the good kind like Skynyrd’s “That Smell,” I mean the hokey kind like Hank Williams Jr.’s “Are you ready for some FOOTBALL?!”); one part schlcock-y New Nash Trash (see: Toby Keith, or just about any male-fronted fake patriot bullshit that’s come out since 9/11); and two parts rehashed ’80s studio claptrap. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I really, really, really wanted to hear these guys lay down some real country music, stuff like Ronnie’s classic rendition of “The Ballad Of Curtis Loew,” or even a Willie cover. Then, I thought, I could at least partly justify my longstanding theory that, were he alive today, big bro Ronnie would NOT be playing “Freebird” (or at least, not the way classic rock fans would want him to), but rather dueting with guys like Steve Earle and Jimmie Dale Gilmore and breaking new ground in actual country music. Ugh. This album is so hackneyed, so full of modern cliches and obvious pandering to the right-wing fuck-heads who surely laughed and raised a toast the day Skynyrd’s plane went down (You can’t seriously think an anti-gun anthem like “Saturday Night Special” made those self-righteous NRA lobbyists or the crooked politicos they support dance around their gun cabinets with unfettered joy, can you?), that it’s my sincere hope that Ronnie’s spirit snakes its way out of a roadhouse jukebox somewhere on the outskirts of Nashville and pours rotgut whiskey down the infernal machines used to record, master and produce this sad example of what people who should know what country music is supposed to sound like have unleashed upon the planet. In a just world, “artists” like Toby Keith and Vince Gill would release albums crowing about their return to their crappy stadium rock roots, and “Music City” would appreciate true country legends like George Jones and Loretta Lynn. This is just another example of the corporate music world’s never-ending, massively insulting practice of shoving the most obnoxious, base, formulaic falderal upon the Joe and Jane Sixpack music listeners of America. I honestly had more fun puking to the dulcet strains of “Hold On Loosely” at a 10th grade keg party than I did listening to this steaming pile. Shame, shame, shame. I just can’t imagine Ronnie ever singing a corny, bumper-sticker line like, “Never tell a joke that ain’t that funny more than once/And if you wanna hear God laugh tell him your plans/Don’t get too high/On the bottle/Get right with The Man, son ...” Er—praise the Lord and pass the ammo, Bubba—I think I just found us a new practice target in this CD. Yee-haw!!

Guided By Voices
“Some Drinking Implied” (DVD)
(Rockathon Records/MVD, 2005)

Here’s a perfect example of what critics mean when they use the term “fan-centric” to describe a release. Though the late, lamented GBV certainly must have literally hundreds of hours of awe-inspiring (and, I’m sure, an equal amount of besotted, embarrassing material, as well) live performances to offer up, someone (Robert Pollard, I’m assuming, since this is “A Film By Robert Pollard”) apparently decided the world needed 65 minutes of nearly incomprehensible footage of band members and fans tripping their asses off, stumbling around in dewy-eyed fogs, and bizarre, nonsensical aural and visual clips. Of course, this is a Pollard production, and its title is “Some Drinking Implied,” so perhaps if one were to consume the appropriate amount of mind-foozling pharmaceuticals and gut-rotting generic beer, one might glean some nugget of either understanding or enjoyment from this oddball collection of never-released videos (including “Weed King,” which at least makes sense in this context), early studio clips, backstage footage, Bob’s high school home movie (Wild People), early live performances from 1992, and narration by “Geo.” Me, I’d be happy to get loaded right along with Mr. P. and suffer through his hazy home movies and freakish, acid-laced high school memories, as long as he supplied the goods. But man, just one clear, listenable song in the entire 65-minute hoo-ha woulda been nice. Guess I’m not drinkin’ enough. For fanatics and people who just never believe a damn thing I say, check it out yourself at RockathonRecords.com. Enjoy! As for me, I’m off to the liquor store for a pint of Goldschlagger and a warm half-rack of Pfiefer’s. I know Bob would be proud.

Lifestyle Of Wigs
Self-Titled
(Self-Released, 2005)

Local rock trio L.O.W. (Max Edwards, guitar and vocals, Taras Ostroushko, bass, and Ryan Lovan, drums) offer up an eclectic batch of sonic deviltry on their long-awaited (and still actually unofficially released, at least until this fall sometime), self-titled debut. Though their moniker may still produce the inevitable head-scratch from the uninitiated (what, exactly, is a “Lifestyle of wigs?” Is it only for the follicularly-challenged, Phyllis Diller and aging sports broadcasters, or can anyone adopt one?), a quick listen to the band’s music soon puts any lingering doubts to rest. Building on a crafty weave of influences ranging from the lubricated, garage-y nihilism of Guided By Voices to the fuzzy, frenetic assault of classic Sonic Youth to the quirky, sulky bite of Television, this is one of those rare albums that actually reveals layer after satisfying layer upon repeated spins. Kicking off with the tongue-in-cheek “Press Release,” front man/songwriter Edwards immediately establishes both his disdain for the corporate/media music world (“Give ya something to talk about/Give ya something to say/You’re not nothin’ to me/Price-fixed and packaging ...”) and his inherent love for and understanding of the subtle nuances of a great song. Shimmering guitars, rock-solid bass (courtesy of Henry founder Ostroushko), and sharp, up-front beats meld with crackling hand-claps and clear, concise vocals to create a swirling sonic celebration of the joys of honest rock ’n’ roll. “Tryptik” rolls in naturally, a perfect model of Max’s knack for taking a melancholy, mid-tempo track and infusing it with just the right amount of jittery self-doubt and absolutely scathing axe-work. The rousing, politically-charged “All Faithful” (which was featured on a recent Twin Town High compilation), both a live fan favorite, benefits from some delicate production mastering, retaining all of the grand, sweeping power of the original demo while allowing the song some necessary breathing room. “Stars” opens with a radio dial spinning, L.O.W. playing softly in the background, then slams into full force with a bass-heavy punch so visceral you almost feel as if you’ve been slugged in the breadbasket, with Max howling at the cosmos almost as loud and fiercely as his guitar. “Victory Talk” is the poster child for this week’s quote from Robbie Robertson—a hypnotic, half-lidded dreamer one moment, a snarling, roaring electric beast the next. And I guess that’s probably the best description, in a nutshell, of Lifestyle Of Wigs the band, too. I used to call songs done up in this style “grandma songs,” because you could play the first few seconds of ‘em for your grandma, and she’d close her eyes, put down her knitting, and rock that rockin’ chair. And then, in an instant, the master blast would rush from the speaker with hurricane force and blow the unfortunate old chatterbox right outta her seat and out through the living room wall. L.O.W. understands the power and the glory of what lies between the notes, and with a quick, snarky sense of intelligent humor, absolutely nails the naked truths of simply being human in a world that’s not. Typically, Edwards ends the album with his most powerful rocker, one that throws to the ground and spits on every goddamn word I just wrote—and I fucking love it. “You Are A Rocketship” is a spiteful explosion of righteous anger and super-charged guitars that runs on a gallon of white lightning and a precious ounce of self-respect—“But the lessons that we knew/Noone should die for the profits of an evil few/And lately these days, I just feel ashamed ...” Should be the official song of every U.S. Embassy in the world. Great album, guys!! Check out their website and hear a couple tracks at LifestyleOfWigs.com. L.O.W. plays a live gig this Friday night, May 20, at The Turf Club in St. Paul. Also on the bill are Duplomacy, The Get Up Johns, and The Beatifics. Call the Turf at 651-647-0486. Don’t miss this one, gang!

That’s it for this edition of the ‘Dial, boogie chilluns. Tune in again next time ‘round for more rambling, ranting, raving and CD/DVD reviews. Until then—make yer own damn drunken news. ||

If you have local music news/gigs/events/CD’s that you’d like to see mentioned in this space, or you’d just like to take umbrage at my cruel dismissal of the VZ brothers’ “Back To The Country” movement, send replies to: Tmygunn777@peoplepc.