 "Radio that listens to you" |
This Week's Music News: |  |
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"Radio that listens to you" |
This Week's Music News: | |
A band by any other
name |
by Celeste Tabora | |
Horse of a different color |
by Celeste Tabora | |
'Round the Dial |
by Tom Hallett | |
They Play Like Girls |
by Celeste Tabora | |
European
Vacation |
by Tom Hallett | |
Keepin' it on the
down-low |
by Dallas Apold | |
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| We continue our fairly comprehensive
overview of New West Records’ stable of artists this week (no, I’m not receiving
payola, these records just kick ass) with a look at former Wall Of Voodoo frontman Stan
Ridgway’s 1999 release, Anatomy. Listening to Ridgway’s impressive back catalog,
it’s easy to understand why his rabid fanbase call themselves “Ridgnauts.”
His music and songwriting is simply out of this world, uncategorizable and wonderfully
off-kilter. Born in the mid-’50s in
California, Ridgway was imaginative and musically inclined right from the start. His
obsession with B-grade horror and sci-fi flicks, warped detective stories, Merle Kilgore,
Johnny Cash, Woody Guthrie, Little Walter, Ennio Morricone, a mysterious wooden dummy
named Jack and the piano and banjo eventually led to his ambition to become the
world’s greatest film soundtrack artist. After punk entered his world in the mid-’70s, he decided to “Mix all my influences into a 3 or 4 minute song.” He formed Wall Of Voodoo in 1977 as a vehicle to produce his soundtrack ideas, but the band soon found that Ridgway’s catchy, aural mini-dramas were equally suited to (and more profitable on) the stage. After heavy gigging and an appearance in a late-’70s rock documentary, they were signed to IRS Records and released their self-titled, debut EP in 1980. Ridgway stuck with the outfit for two more full-length albums, the second of which, Call Of The West, spawned the popular single “Mexican Radio.” Citing creative differences, he left the band and began a successful, if underground, solo career. He’s released six albums on his own (not counting soundtracks and three records with the band Drywall, featuring his vocalist wife Pietra Wexstun, and playing on the debut CD of her latest band, Hecate’s Angels), and worked with and/or influenced two generations of popular artists, including Tori Amos, The Police’s Stewart Copeland and ’90s alt-rockers Possum-Dixon. Anatomy is another wonderful, careening jaunt through the slightly-blown imagination of a true rock ’n roll survivor. Though he’s never veered far from the soundtrack approach (damn near every song he’s ever written would make a great movie on its own), he sprinkles a healthier-than-usual dose of melancholy emotion and come-of-age wisdom over the album’s trippy, desert-drive-inspired story-songs. Kicking off with “Mission Bell,” a slow, dreamy observation on loneliness and desperation, the album offers the listener both above-standard musical enjoyment and below-the-surface lyrical dichotomy; how deep you want to dive is up to you. “Train Of Thought” glides out so easily it feels as if it’s been playing all along inside your head, and you just caught up to the song. The instrumental “Murray’s Steakhouse Story” tells its forlorn tale without uttering a word, and leads into the album’s first (and loudest) shot o’ rock, “Susie Before Sunrise”, an in-your-face blast of biting, vitriolic guitars and gurgling electronics. “Sweet Pig Alley”, another instrumental, features Indian-style grooves under a blatty trumpet, and introduces the unsettling, neo-classic murder ballad “Valerie Is Sleeping.” The story is familiar, yet horrifyingly, voyeuristically exciting in its delivery. This track is quintessential Ridgeway, stark, scary and so visual you can almost see the grimace of anger on the killer’s face fade to stunned realization as he moans, “My life went wrong when I met Valerie.” Instrumental number three, “Mickey The Priest,” is full of horrific, warbled/backmasked monk-chants and spine-tingling, spoon-like clicks and preps the listener’s ear for the Twain-inspired “Mama Had A Stove.” The countrified groove of “Whistle For Louise” follows, and once again showcases Ridgway’s detached, macabre penchant for turning everyday tragedy into garish headline news: “The wind will always whistle for Louise / Working at the pump she knew gasoline, maps...beer, and methedrine.” “Picasso’s Tear” bounces in on a randy, Irish-jig-gey stomp, and raises a stiff middle finger to aging, ego and the music business with caustic lines like, “Yeah the kids can fuck themselves / Yeah, they’ll find out soon enough.” The album closer (note: CD-Rom users will find three live bonus tracks in Liquid Audio format), a cover of the Tennessee Ernie Ford classic “Sixteen Tons”, transforms the simple coal-miner’s lament into a six-plus-minute opus on life, music, love and inspiration. This record catches a jittery ride on that ole Mystery Train through the bright lights and wicked nights of Real America, and deserves the reverence of the best of fellow soul troubadors Randy Newman, Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen. Though Ridgway once said, “The nature of my voice...doesn’t allow me to hide behind the music”, Anatomy (and his crack band) proves that his music is a powerful voice on its own, and is just as much a part of this album’s fantastic, heard-but-not-seen collection of musical mini-movies as his classic, Raymond Chandler/Johnny Cash-inspired songwriting. Next week: Bocephus King, A Small Good Thing. P.S./RIP/VIP: I thought it very weird and karmic that I received word while writing the above review that former Wall Of Voodoo drummer Joe Nanini recently passed away. He was 45 years old and left behind a family. Though Ridgway recorded Anatomy long before this untimely event, listeners might find some eerily prescient connections on the album. Rest in peace, Joe. GIGS OF THE WEEK: Local roots-rocker Lee Rude plays an acoustic gig at Dunn Bros. Coffee in Linden Hills on Saturday, Dec. 16th...Until next time—make yer own damn news. If you have local band info (gigs, events, etc.) that you'd like to see mentioned in this column, or you'd just like to share some of that wicked ol' gossip with someone who's not talking about you, send replies to: TMygunn777@aol.com. |
The date is Fall, 1988. The place, St. Olaf College,
Northfield, MN. Freshmen John Ostby and Eric Fawcett are randomly assigned to the same
dorm room. Their personalities click and their musical styles mesh. This is the beginning.
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