SONG OF THE WEEK: “Tampa to Tulsa” — The Jayhawks

Why? Well, ‘cause these very important addendums to the tale didn’t make the space cut for our recent cover story on Twin/Tone co-founder/hometown boy done good Peter Jesperson’s latest venture. We’ll be back to finish up the ‘05 bidness in two weeks (have no fear—it’s some great stuff! We’ll be checkin’ out the latest albums from Steve Wynn & The Miracles, Gini Dodds & The Dahlias, Curtiss A, Dan Israel, The Capital Sons and Brett Larson, plus killer DVDs from Syd Barrett, Michael Franti & Spearhead, Devo, New Order, The New York Dolls and Drive-By Truckers!!)—so have a safe and happy New Year, kids, and thanks to all of you for reading and writing those great letters—keep ‘em comin’!!

Vic Chesnutt
Ghetto Bells
2005
New West

Georgia-based singer/songwriter Vic Chesnutt’s twelfth album proper finds him dealing with subjects both old and new, while musically going beyond almost anything he’s done in the past. From the stately, string-laden melodrama of opener “Virginia” (“... yes Virginia, I love you enough to die ...”) to the timely, spooky shakes of “Little Caesar” (“... little Caesar has a mandate/ Now there is no doubt/ The blessing of the senate/ And the citizenry/ Rome is bowing at his feet/ What will he do with all his power ...”) right through to final cut “Gnats,” with its bizarre log drum percussion and half-silly, half-mystical lyricism (“Bumps and stumps and green tattoos/ I know why your crutches bruise/ Biscuit dough and oleo/ I know where the time goes ...”), it’s clear that Chesnutt is not just hot on the heels of his latest muse, but that he’s tagged, bagged and stuffed it already.

With a slew of top-notch musicians—wife Tina on bass, jazz legend Bill Frisell on guitar, Brian Wilson cohort Van Dyke Parks on keys and legendary drummer Don Heffington (Lone Justice, The Jayhawks)—on board and melodies that waver between Beach Boys’ bombast and George Martin-esque mellowness, the album comes off like an ethereal, other-worldly collision between late-Sixties recording ethics and post-everything musical daredevil-ism. Parks expertly blends his patented, soothingly creepy arrangements with Frisell’s lone arranger axe-work, while Heffington and Ms. Chesnutt provide just the right amounts of skittery, off-kilter/spot-on percussion and solid, comforting bottom end to a whirl of off-the-cuff musical brainstorms, accidental found sounds and cross-breeding genres of the most unlikely acquaintance. Such is the combined force of these unlikely conspirators that one might almost be tempted to say the songs could’ve been almost as powerful if done strictly instrumentally.

Thankfully, though, Chesnutt lays his multi-hued, mind-dazzling lyrical prowess (“logic squeezed out like mustard on a corn dog,” as he so accurately observes in “Vesuvius”) down in thick batches here, producing another solid stack of future faves for fans and musicologists to pore over. “What Do You Mean” is a dreamy, wispy ballad, Vic trading vocals with an angelic backing chorus (thanks, Liz Durrett!) on lines like, (him) “It is a vibration, it moves in a wave” (her) “You are a surfer on that clarion tone” (him) “I hope so” (her) “we know so ...” It should be noted that Vic is in absolutely top form vocally here, as well—and though he’d probably blush at the mere suggestion, his once-peculiar Southern croon has slowly morphed over the years into a smooth, sexually-suggestive beast that seems equally at home conquering a bedroom ballad as it is a raucous rock anthem. Then again, this is the guy who once sang, “I just wanna be Aaron Neville ...”

“Ignorant People” rolls in on a wave of choppy percussion and island guitars, Vic revisiting a past (real or imagined) he’d sooner forget: “Born as I was to ignorant people/ Too traumatized to take me home ... but instinct saved me/ The schemer looked down upon the screamer ... and trained me to be what is here in front of you/ A ticket to see ... fate has been so good to me/ You may not understand how I can be thankful to be where I am ...” Maybe not, Vic, but we understand how good fate was to bring you to us, and for that we most certainly are thankful. Another classic from America’s answer to Leonard Cohen.

Chuck Prophet
Age Of Miracles
2004
New West

Former member of alt-country godfathers Green On Red and musical experimenter deluxe Chuck Prophet’s second album for New West, Age Of Miracles, came out a year ago but is definitely worth a quick re-visit. Building on the hippety-hoppy, funked-out, rocked up, smoothed-down grooves of his last knock-out release, No Other Love, Prophet and “long-suffering wife/bandmate” Stephanie Finch (along with keyboardist Jason Borger, Red Meat alum/pedal steel whiz Max Butler, four bassists, five drummers, a beatbox and a programmer) gleefully continue to break all the rules here.

The lyrics at first seem deceptively simple—straight-forward love songs or story-songs or thematic current event songs or dark, cosmic-surfer songs—but upon closer listen, one finds Prophet to be among the rarest of song-writing talents: One who’s able to meld the sage observations of the omnipotent Outsider with the painful, all-too-human declarations of what he calls “... the smallest man in the world ...” to create tunes that let the listener both peer autonomously into fascinating tales and simultaneously experience the emotions of the subjects thereof.

He probably nails his own wonderfully twisted psyche and gloriously original oeuvre best in his own words: “All roads lead to Dylan I suppose, beyond that, if I mention one influence I’d have to leave out a hundred. One definite influence on this record is my increasingly acute awareness that we’re living in the modern age. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not about to throw my laptop into the river any day soon. I’d probably end up developing some kind of a tic without it. There’s just no time. No time to daydream, even less time to think. Fast food express lines, meth?paced TV, medications marketed to women who ‘have no time for yeast infections’ (as if the rest of us have the time). Genetically cloning the family pet, prescription miracle drugs, mad cows, madder scientists ... watch those carbs! The psychosis! On second thought, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Neither would we, Chuck. Neither would we.

That’s it for this time ‘round, ‘Dial-heads! Tune in next week for a few more New West reviews, and don’t forget to kick Old Man Time in the ass for Tommy this New Year’s Eve ... Until next year—make yer own damn news.

If you have local music news/gigs/events/CDs you’d like to see listed in this column, or you’d just like to help me ferret out the REAL Grinch who stole Xmas, send replies to: Tmygunn777@peoplepc.com. ||