With Prince William announcing his engagement and people simulating interest in the British royal family, it seemed like a good time to roll out another of my “Rolling Stone Hall of Fame” entries, this one a four-star review for the Kinks’ Arthur (not to be confused with Christopher Cross’s tribute to getting caught between the moon and New York City).

The Kinks, Arthur or The Decline and Fall of the British Empire (1969)

Thrill to the searing, pulse-pounding drama of Arthur! A man grows up in England, doesn’t get killed in World War II, emigrates to Australia, and lives out his life in the suburbs! Upon its release, the Kinks’ seventh studio album was considered a pale imitation of the Who’s rock opera Tommy, which debuted earlier the same year–but now Arthur sounds like a quiet masterpiece. On commission from England’s Granada TV, Ray Davies wrote a musical, a fictionalized biography of his brother-in-law; due to budget cuts, it was never filmed. What remained were twelve songs that summed up Davies’ lyrical obsessions: Britannia and the subjects who lived underneath her gray skies.

Davies’ tunes are spilling over with ideas and melodies–and on the waltz “She Bought a Hat Like Princess Marina,” even sound effects from car horns and kazoos. The excellent “Australia” starts off as a catchy jingle (“Opportunities are available in all walks of life in Australia!”), and somehow turns into a psychedelic jam. The two best songs on the album are written from converse perspectives: “Victoria” is a rowdy tribute to the austere nineteenth-century queen and the colonies she presided over. The melancholy “Shangri-La,” on the other hand, the portrait of a modern man and the dominion he presides over: a fireplace, a rocking chair, and a TV set. The tone throughout is bittersweet, and filled with sympathy for the blinkered middle class.

As it turned out, Arthur was a valedictory not just for the British empire, but for the Kinks’ run of elegant ’60s albums. The following year, they would release “Lola,” a huge hit, the gateway to American arena tours–and the beginning of a long period where the band traded civilized subtlety for crass success.

(By Gavin Edwards. Originally published in Rolling Stone 917 (March 16, 2003).)

I was curious about the original Rolling Stone review of the album; it turns out that there were two. A short and elegant one by Greil Marcus pondered the Kinks’ relationship to British culture (“Christine Keeler died for their sins”). Mike Daly wrote a long track-by-track exegesis, which in passing mentioned this amazing fact: at the time (1969), the Kinks’ previous two albums, Something Else and The Village Green Preservation Society, stone-cold classics both, had sold a combined total of 25,000 copies in the United States.

posted 16 November 2010 in Reviews. 4 comments

Discovered in a hallway during a school tour in Los Angeles; I assume it’s the work of a high-school student.

posted 12 November 2010 in Photos. no comments yet

As mentioned previously, I wrote a feature article for Wired on the cartoon series Phineas and Ferb; you can now read it online.

“I had never seen anybody draw anybody that looked like a triangle.”

posted 8 November 2010 in Articles, Outside. no comments yet

posted 5 November 2010 in Photos. no comments yet

(New to the countdown? Catch up here.)

Adam Curry: “In at number forty-eight, we find George Michael. He’s had a great year, of course. His Faith tour that everybody went out to see; in fact, MTV covered it, we broadcast two songs live from his show in, what is it, Massachusetts, I believe. And his album Faith spent seventeen weeks at number one on Billboard’s album chart.” (In reality, it was twelve weeks.) “Billboard actually voted the album the number-one album of the year, and the single ‘Faith’ the number-one single.” Which leads to the question, assuming Curry hasn’t mangled those facts–why isn’t the song ranking higher on this countdown? I believe the answer is that its ride at #1 straddled 1987 and 1988 (not a problem at Billboard, where the year ends circa December 1).

Curry throws to the video: we’re getting the extended version, where we see an old-fashioned Wurlitzer jukebox playing (a tinny, low-volume version of) “I Want Your Sex.” We zoom in to see another record lifted up to the needle: it looks like a regular 33 rpm 12-inch vinyl album. While an organ plays a liturgical version of Wham!’s “Freedom,” the camera pans around George Michael’s body, counterclockwise and up, like a corkscrew. (This is all in black-and-white.) Michael’s jeans have white bleach spots and strategic rips.

Leaning against the jukebox is a woman, who appears to be naked except for a pair of high heels. (We can’t see her above her waist, and she is artfully framed in a side view.) She has one leg bent. Her shoes are bright purple, although the rest of the screen remains black-and-white: this was a computer-aided colorization technique that became popular around this time and can be seen in Hershey’s commercials of the era, a Michael Jackson video that will come later in the countdown, and five years later, Schindler’s List.

We pan over to George Michael, who is leaning on the other side of the jukebox, also with one leg bent. The video’s introduction is carefully building up the iconography that Michael would literally set on fire just three years after this single, in “Freedom ’90.” The intro takes 55 seconds; the rest of the clip clocks in at just 2:35 (which I believe makes “Faith” the shortest #1 single of the last thirty years).

We return to the corkscrewing camera, which has reached Michael’s unsmiling face. He’s wearing mirrored aviator glasses. A cross dangles from his left earlobe. His stubble appears to have been carved with the steady hand of a cardiac surgeon: extremely short, and with two triangular indentations. Now, this overall look is just “George Michael costume,” but at the time, it seemed dead cool: a fashion-forward outfit that roughed up Michael’s pretty-boy glamour a bit.

The music starts: a strumming guitar, with Michael’s steel-toed cowboy boot tapping against the jukebox in time (which should knock the needle off the record, right?). We get a tight shot of Michael’s pelvic region: he’s wielding a National guitar and shaking his hips from side to side.

Reverse angle: we see Michael shaking his ass. This is the most attention paid to a male pop singer’s butt since Bruce Springsteen’s cover for Born in the U.S.A.

Lots of fast cuts, whip-pans, and zooms in and out. The back of Michael’s studded leather jacket is emblazoned with the message “Rockers Revenge” and the letters “BSA”–much as we might hope for a cheeky endorsement of the Boy Scouts of America, it apparently stands for the Birmingham Small Arms Company.

We’re treated to an assortment of post-production tricks: some shots are straight black and white, some have a purple hue superimposed, some are monochromatic except for the blue jeans, and some are in lurid color against a yellow background. It’s all unnecessary frippery–Michael is giving a hugely charismatic performance, bursting with energy and getting in touch with his inner Elvis.

The camera zooms in and out; Michael pouts and spins. The cross has switched to his right earlobe, either because he moved it or because somebody flipped the footage in the opening. Closeup on Michael’s clapping hands: he’s wearing a leather glove on his right hand, in tribute to either Michael Jackson or Ron Guidry.

We see the leggy naked woman’s purple shoes again, and Michael swinging his hips next to the Wurlitzer. He’s got a crazy strand of pearls on his left shoulder; they keep flapping around as he gyrates. We reach the line “Before this river becomes an ocean / Before you throw my heart back on the floor.” Twenty years ago, in a pizza parlor, Rob Sheffield pointed out that this lyric is a missed opportunity: if “floor” were “shore,” it would sustain the aquatic metaphor. I agree, but that’s pretty much the only blemish on a great pop song. I think of it as the cousin of Queen’s “Crazy Little Thing Called Love”: British male singers with big voices finding ways to make rockabilly into modern pop. It’s also an elegant counterpoint to “I Want Your Sex”: the singer spurns a hot lover because he knows it’ll only lead to heartache.

Shimmering guitar solo: Michael, silhouetted in a doorway, rocks out and plays his six-string. The guitars on this track were actually played by somebody named Hugh Burns, but Michael’s learned to play well enough to do a good job faking it. Which is the secret of pop music, and arguably, life.

“Faith” topped the Billboard singles chart for four weeks. You can watch the video here.

posted 3 November 2010 in 1988. 14 comments

For your consideration, another five-star review from the “Rolling Stone Hall of Fame.” This time around, an often-ignored Dylan classic:

Bob Dylan, Nashville Skyline (1969)

When Nashville Skyline, the last of Dylan’s brilliant ’60s albums, was released, fans examined every one of its twenty-seven minutes for portents of musical revolution like fortune-tellers poring over the intestines of a goat. Now, without the weight of those expectations, Skyline just sounds like a great country-folk record. It’s warm, full of love songs, and even features Dylan employing a baritone croon rather than his trademark wheeze. Dylan told Rolling Stone in 1970 that he hadn’t actually changed his singing style–he had just given up cigarettes. “When I stopped smoking, my voice changed so drastically, I couldn’t believe it myself,” he said. “I tell you, you stop smoking those cigarettes and you’ll be able to sing like Caruso.”

The album begins with a casual duet with Johnny Cash, “Girl From the North Country,” recorded when the two friends were both working in the same studio. Throughout the record, Dylan trades in his usual torrent of lyrics for a relaxed feel, and does well on the exchange; even slighter songs such as “Peggy Day,” “Country Pie,” and “Nashville Skyline Rag” (an instrumental!) are confident and charming. “Lay Lady Lay” with an offbeat percussion track built around bongos and cowbell, was the most successful of these, becoming Dylan’s last top-ten hit.

And the album contains “I Threw It All Away,” one of Dylan’s most gorgeous ballads ever. “Once I had mountains in the palm of my hand / And rivers that ran through ev’ry day,” Dylan sings ruefully. “I must have been mad / I never knew what I had / Until I threw it all away.” With a simple, heartfelt lyric and restrained finger-picking accompaniment, the song is the sound of a man with oceans of sorrow within him, asking you to taste just a few salty drops.

(By Gavin Edwards. Originally published (in a slightly shorter form) in Rolling Stone 949 (May 27, 2004).)

posted 1 November 2010 in Reviews. 1 comment

The pumpkin I carved a couple of weeks ago:

And a lesson learned: the Southern California climate means a carved pumpkin rots in about three days.

posted 29 October 2010 in Photos. no comments yet

I’ve been writing for Wired on and off for fourteen years now, and although it’s been three years since I worked with the magazine, I have two recent bylines I’d like to call your attention to. The first is in the current (November) issue, with breasts on the cover: an article on the cartoon Phineas and Ferb. That’s on newsstands now; I will provide a link to the online version when they put it online. The other piece is from last month, and is short, goofy, bloody fun: a study of how zombie movies and TV shows correlate with the United States economy–or as I like to think of it, the Undead Industrial Average.

posted 25 October 2010 in Archives, Outside. no comments yet

(New to the countdown? Catch up here.)

The commercial break begins with the promo for “The Year in Rock 88.” The people deemed newsworthy enough to get a quick video clip of them flashed in this spot: Chuck D. (in a Pittsburgh Pirates cap), Tracy Chapman (looking dour), Keith Richards (with cigarette), Billy Joel (playing guitar!?), the “Addicted to Love” “Wild Thing” video girls (pouty), Bruce Springsteen (reclining), Madonna (red-carpet glam), Bono (earnest, and with an earnest hat), Axl Rose and Slash (both uncharacteristically amused), all of U2 (at the Grammys), Sammy Hagar (looking bloated and drunk), Jon Bon Jovi (bangs teased over his eyes), D.M.C. (hat, glasses, gold rope, toothpick), George Michael (very tan), Michael Jackson (grainy), Sheila E. (hair piled high), Bjork (backlit), Cher (in front of a trellis), Iggy Pop (in a swimming pool, hair dyed bright red), Neil Young (with wooden beads and a Cirque du Soleil shirt).

We then get a repeat of the two-minute spot for Time-Life’s book series about paranormal phenomena, Mysteries of the Unknown. It’s framed by vignettes about a woman who has a sudden premonition that her daughter was in an accident. (It can’t be a premonition if it already happened, can it? A postmonition? A monition?) In the opening scene, the set designer has taken care to have lots of circles: the large dots on the mother’s shirt, the polka dots on a flowerpot, the ball that the little girl chases. When mother and daughter reunite at the end, the daughter is wearing a checked dress: the circles have changed to squares, to symbolize how enduring mysteries have been neatly put into a box for you.

“How would you explain this?” the narrator asks, as we see a series of pencil sketches. “A dozen people around the world who have never met each other describe an encounter with a being from space. And their illustrations of the creature match almost exactly.” Well, judging by the sketches, I’d guess they all saw Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

We’re told about more mysteries, and then we make the pivot to the sell: “Maybe no one can fully explain these things, but they can no longer be ignored. That’s why Time-Life takes a serious look into this world with a remarkable new series, Mysteries of the Unknown.” This was not only before the AOL merger, this was before Time Inc. had joined forces with Warner Communications.

“How can you explain this?” the narrator asks again (and of course, you can’t, which proves your need for these books). “Four men are drawn to an ancient Anglo-Saxon fort, the site of a fierce battle. They enter the shadows of a ring of trees.” We see three dudes who look like they were extras in St. Elmo’s Fire. “And without warning, one of them is grabbed by an unseen force, lifted five feet in the air, and suspended for thirty full seconds.” The three dudes stare at their fourth friend, who is horizontal, floating in the air (it looks more like three feet up, though), and wearing a cable sweater. I tried Googling to see if I could figure out what incident this described, but I came up dry. We get ordering info ($12.99 per book plus shipping and handling).

Another MTV promo: some sculptures in an art gallery. Stainless steel, spraypaint: it all looks very ’80s. The camera pans right, and we learn that viewed from the correct angle, the art forms an MTV logo. It happens again with a different installation, and then a third one (at which point there’s really no surprise). It’s a cute idea, but doesn’t really come off.

The intro to “Welcome to the Jungle” signals our return to the videos. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Adam Curry has entered the building. He’s wearing a black tuxedo jacket decorated with three medals. But is his hair resplendent, you want to know? Oh, yes it is.

Curry tells us he’ll be taking us through the second half of the countdown, and thanks Kevin Seal for doing the first half. “I actually watched a lot of it,” Curry says in a flat tone, “and he comes up with some stuff that is just incredible, don’t you agree?” I don’t know if Curry’s being ironic or not! Which is the most fitting tribute possible to Seal.

posted 22 October 2010 in 1988. 5 comments

I finally watched The Promise: The Making of Darkness on the Edge of Town on HBO, and was reminded anew how much I love Bruce Springsteen’s fourth album. This is a discovery I seem to make periodically: the last time was in 2003, when I reviewed the record in Rolling Stone (as part of the “Rolling Stone Hall of Fame,” which occupied a slot in the reviews section for about five years and provided an opportunity to reconsider neglected classics or revisit past favorites, even when they hadn’t been reissued).

Since it’s the season of Darkness, with the megabox coming out, I thought I’d pull out that five-star review:

Bruce Springsteen, Darkness on the Edge of Town (1978)

For his fourth record, Bruce Springsteen cut off his beard–and also shaved the shaggy romantic epics of Born to Run. What emerged were ten taut rock songs about people crushed by family, by lust, by living in this world every day. “When I made this particular album, I just had a specific thing in mind,” Springsteen told Rolling Stone in 1978. “It had to be just a relentless… barrage.” (He was so focused on the theme of living with broken dreams, he left off “Fire” and “Because the Night,” which became hit singles for the Pointer Sisters and Patti Smith, respectively.) Despite its lyrical weight and dour title, Darkness on the Edge of Town is not a bleak record. Its characters are groping towards redemption: “I believe in the hope that can save me,” Springsteen sings on “Badlands.” The narrator of “Racing in the Street” may never find the absolution he seeks by winning small-time drag races, but his vision of a better life is what keeps him driving and keeps him alive.

The album isn’t punk–Springsteen got a shave, not a mohawk–but it’s colored by the raw sound happening in rock at the time. The E Street Band members play each four-minute anthem like it’s their last chance to make music before their hands get cut off. Max Weinberg drums with particular passion, anchoring the record that stands as the E Street’s best.

More than half the songs make some reference to driving, from streets of fire to the dusty road from Monroe to Angeline. But while Bob Dylan had Highway 61 and AC/DC had a highway to hell, Springsteen knew that the highway went everywhere: heaven, hell, and the world men make for themselves.

(By Gavin Edwards. Originally published in Rolling Stone 918 (March 20, 2003).)

posted 20 October 2010 in Reviews. 8 comments