82 DOWN
With the curtain lowering this week on the 2004-05 NBA regular season, here are eight story lines that made this the most compelling such season since Michael Jordan left Chicago in 1998.
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Month: April 2005
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[B]AD
Week before last, the Nashville Tennessean ran a story about the ongoing investigation of state senator John Ford and the members of his own party who think he should resign. The online version of the article was accompanied by a banner advertisement reading, “Crown Ford: We always shoot for the best deal.”
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monday, 18
Booksigning tonight at Square Books in Oxford, Mississippi, by Holley Bishop for her book, Robbing the Bees: A Biography of Honey, the Sweet Gold That Seduced the World. The Memphis Grizzlies play the San Antonio Spurs at the FedExForum, 7 p.m.
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sunday, 17
The Cowboy Mounted Shooting Association holds matches in which participants, dressed in 1800s cowboy style, ride horses around barrels while shooting at balloon targets. Just like in the real Old West. Today is the last day of the association’s National Shootout at the Tunica Arena & Expo Center in Tunica, Mississippi. There’s a bluegrass concert by Eric Lewis and Friends at the new performing center at Auburndale High School (8250 Varnavas, Cordova) at 7 p.m.
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saturday. 16
You animal! Today from 1 to 3 p.m. the Central Library is hosting “Paws for Reading,” part of a national program that uses therapy dogs to encourage literacy. At the David Mah Studio, starting at 7 p.m., “Furry Friends” is holding a fund-raiser for its no-kill shelter for dogs and cats. The Crystal Ball is a Junior League of Memphis fund-raiser, featuring an “Old Hollywood” theme, tonight at the Memphis Cook Convention Center. Tickets are don’t choke on your cruditÇs $1,500 per couple.
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Dateline: The Delta
Junior Ray
By John Pritchard
NewSouth Books, 158 pp., $23.95
“This book is not for the squeamish,” warns anthropological philologist Owen G. Brainsong II. “Yet it is essential reading for those who wish to understand the Mississippi Delta, its conflicts of class [i.e., planters vs. white trash] and race [i.e., whites vs. blacks], its angels [e.g., Leland Shaw] and, most certainly, its demons [e.g., Junior Ray Loveblood].”
Brainsong II — not “junior”; there could be a third? — is writing to prepare the reader for a story he heard from his mother, who’d herself heard it from the anthropological philologist’s uncle, the late Owen Glyndwyr Brainsong, former superintendent of education for Mhoon County, Mississippi (pop.: 20,000, 2,000 of them white; county seat: the town of St. Leo).
The story concerns Mr. Shaw, a shell-shocked World War II vet from a prominent St. Leo family, who, one morning, at the “cracker-dawn,” smashed through a “pitcha-window” in the “Rest Wing” of the “new hospital” out on 61. This was in the winter of ’58. Shaw made his escape on foot and ended up inside a silo filled with cotton seeds, the silo belonging to Shaw’s mother’s sister, Helena Ferry, a St. Leo landowner whose brother, “Sticks” Ferry, it was a widely known fact, fathered “Miss High-Yellow” herself, Atlanta Birmingham Jackson, a “Mohammedan” living in Chicago with thoughts of acquiring some land from Miss Ferry for the benefit of “Mr. X.” But to get to our story …
Shaw’s in his silo, but nobody knows it. What Mhoon Countians are afraid of is that a “maniac” is on the loose, and for the first three months of 1959, Mr. Loveblood (Junior Ray to anybody who knows him and who doesn’t, he being the county’s deputy sheriff and all) is on the case, with sidekick Voyd Mudd in on the chase.
Junior Ray’s not Delta-born. He’s of solid-white hill-country stock (hometown: Clay City, Miss.), and as deputy lawman, he’s got his work cut out for him, the work being, in his words, to “shoot the shit out of somebody.” Killing for sport is Junior Ray’s birthright, as is his way with words — e.g., “sunavabitch” (sometimes “sumbitch”), “ruint” (for “ruined”), “one nem” (for “one of them”), “Meffis” (for “Memphis”), “hunnerd” (for “hundred”), in addition to “fukkim,” “fukher,” and “fukkit” (for you know what) along with inventive neologisms such as “in-fukkin-deed” and “psycho-fukkin-logically.” As for Junior Ray’s superabundant use of the N-word … let’s not go there.
Let’s get to the real story here, which is Junior Ray — in his own words, as recorded by Brainsong — in comic pursuit of Shaw in all the wrong places: in a black honky-tonk cum whorehouse; in a “Boy Sprouts” camp; in something called a “bar’ pit” (which lands Junior Ray practically up to his waist in quicksand, saved by the phantom hand of Shaw); in a crop duster to get the lay of the land; in the presence of a U-2 submarine; in the face of the Fruit of Islam; in the sack with his lady friend in Sledge; and in possession of some notebooks written by Shaw. Question: Are those notebooks one (mad)man’s poetic meditations on a mythic time and place (the pre-’60s Delta), or are they, again in the words of Junior Ray, “a pile of crap”? And why’s Junior Ray holding onto the notebooks 40 years down the road? What’s he doing acting as an aged “ambassiter of goodwill” (translation: parking-lot security guard) for a Tunica casino? Answer: meditating on time and place (the post-’60s Delta) too and sharing in (God, he hates to admit it) some of Shaw’s wisdom. “The world’s different now,” Junior Ray says in a micromoment of honest insight. “Of course, I’m not. I didn’t have nothing to change to.”
The words are Junior Ray’s but the author of them is Memphian John Pritchard, Delta-raised and professor of English at Southwest Tennesse Community College. Junior Ray is his first novel, and Brainsong’s right: It is not for the squeamish. It is at the opposite end of politically correct. It is an earful. That Junior Ray Loveblood works his way into our sympathy makes it also something of a miracle. n
John Pritchard will be signing and reading from Junior Ray at Burke’s Book Store on Thursday, April 14th, from 5 to 7 p.m.
We are as awed as the rest of mankind by the nimbleness of Congressman Harold Ford’s political footwork, but it does matter where his feet happen to land, policy-wise. Ford put on a typically virtuoso performance over the weekend at a forum on Social Security — managing to sound both distant from and solicitous toward President Bush.
We trust that the congressman does disagree with the president’s privatization proposals, just as he said he did. Why, then, does Ford persist in suggesting that congressional Democrats should put something on the table — presumably as a negotiating tool?
Congressman, something is on the table. It’s called “Social Security.” And if the Bush plan is as near defeat as it seems to be, with even key Republicans deserting their leader, what’s to negotiate? Congress should let Bush’s misbegotten proposal die the natural death it deserves — not give it a second chance at life. n
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Forward March
Probably the most tiresome of all music cliches is the widespread notion that all new music sucks. It’s a sentiment as common within alternative/underground music circles as anywhere else: “No good music was made after [insert long-lost decade here], unless it sounds identical to [insert same decade here].” People who say things like this should do so into a tape recorder so they know how out-of-touch they sound.
Keep in mind that the same things were said 30 years ago, 20 years ago, and 10 years ago. New and exciting music is happening right now; the naysayers just don’t like it, and that’s a matter of personal taste, not hard facts.
With this in mind, Saturday’s Hi-Tone lineup may come as a stroke-inducing shock to some Memphis music fans, as Hella and Outhudjoin forces to clean some clocks and get some backsides shaking.
The two-man Hella (guitarist Spencer Seim and drummer Zach Hill) make good with the duo lineup favored by noiseniks over the past several years (see also Lightning Bolt, Wolf Eyes, and the Pink and Brown). Of course, a duo communicates unlike any other artistic equation, and perhaps it’s better in the noise-rock universe to love like brothers and fight like a married couple rather than make-nice like an extended dinner party.
Hella’s current album –their fourth — is the ambitious Church Gone Wild/Chirpin’ Hard, a double-disc opus that is essentially two solo albums. Splitting Hella’s sound between its two brains does wonders at adding some breathing room to what can be a dense, demanding listen. Seim and Hill each play every instrument on their solo discs, with Seim’s music the more melodic. His compositions are like Nintendo themes played by some combination of Napalm Death, Devo, and the Residents. (It’s prettier than it sounds, trust me.) Hill goes for the throat with a slightly more assaultive and improvisational style, complete with some absurdly complex drumming and full trick bag of unknown noises. One thing is for sure: Whether you shy away from more abrasive artists or not, you will want to see this pulled off live. (And Hella may be touring with an expanded lineup to make it happen.)
Even if that doesn’t sound compelling, there are tourmates Outhud, whose sound matches Hella’s like oil to water. Hailing from the Bay Area, Outhud have spent two albums and myriad singles transforming into the greatest (largely) electronic dance band in the world, their current Let Us Never Speak of It Again so layered and beautiful that it threatens more celebrated scene colleagues LCD Soundsystem with irrelevancy.
Unlike most dance-oriented rock bands, Outhud look forward eight times for every time they look back, but when they do delve into history, the most fertile pickings originate in the early-’80s New York post-disco/post-punk sound that created hushed legends of Liquid Liquid and ESG. “It’s for You” appropriates the underlying beat of Danish duo Laid Back’s 1983 electro hit “White Horse,” and “How Long” (in the current running for greatest pop song of 2005) is like an ESG, Midnight Star, and St. Etienne blend that’s far bigger than the sum of its parts.
In contrast to the duo approach of Hella, Outhud’s more communal makeup mirrors its music: There are five people in the band, three men and two women (one of whom is the first-class vocalist). What Hella and Outhud do share is a healthy sense of humor. If the above-mentioned album titles aren’t proof enough, Outhud boasts a song titled “2005: A Face Odyssey” and Hella let loose with “Brown Metal.”
Though these bands plumb divergent musical directions, they should come together in the form of great live shows. And the best part of Outhud’s set might not even happen on stage: This is a band that could even get a rock crowd dancing. n
Hella and Outhud at the Hi-Tone Café, on Sunday, April 17th
When does the community’s best interest cease to matter? For months, members of the Memphis City Schools board have pointedly committed themselves to being accountable to the community. Prior to almost every vote, members have said things such as “We owe this to the community,” “The community deserves …,” etc. All of this dedication to the greater good seemed to disappear during Monday’s board meeting, when board members fell into old habits.
During a heated discussion and subsequent vote on a facilities maintenance contract, audience members were taken back to the outbursts and contention that marked the terms of former superintendents Johnnie Watson and Gerry House. Since Superintendent Carol Johnson’s term began in October 2003, the board has been on a relatively even keel, in spite of tough votes on school mergers and corporal punishment.
But the ugly side of school-board politics reared up again as Commissioner Sara Lewis, in a virtuoso demonstration of out-of-control rage, accused Johnson of having lied about a contract for facility management. Lewis then had to be restrained from attacking fellow commissioner Jeff Warren. Even the normally mild-mannered Carl Johnson alluded darkly to backroom deals made by commissioners with “commitments somewhere.”
“I promised you that if you treated me fairly I’d never go against you, but you didn’t,” Lewis shouted at Johnson. Insisting that she had somehow been betrayed, she then produced a tantrum worthy of The Jerry Springer Show.
Sorry, Ms. Lewis, but it’s Memphis that has been betrayed by such a sorry breach of decorum.
The cash-strapped district stands to save $2 million each year with Trammell Crow, the superintendent’s designated provider, managing the district’s maintenance. An alternative option, that of bringing maintenance services in-house, had been backed by several commissioners, including Lewis. But the viability of that course was never made clear. In the end, what Superintendent Johnson decided may have been inevitable.
But right or wrong, surely it was possible to debate the issue without recourse to the kind of spectacle thrust upon the community Monday night. That little performance may have caused irreparable damage in relations between the superintendent and the board. It certainly dealt a serious blow to this board’s reputation.
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Short Cuts :: Record Reviews
Guero
Beck
(DGC)
With every album he’s released and every genre/style he’s adopted, Beck has also taken on a new persona: Bohemian Manchild Beck on Mellow Gold, Weirdo Bluesman Beck on One Foot in the Grave, White Hip-Hop Beck on Odelay, Circa-1982 Party Starter on Midnite Vultures, and “Sincere” Beck on Sea Change.
Guero is his least musically innovative record to date but perhaps the one least anchored to a persona. Instead of introducing a new sound to anchor the album, Beck simply borrows many of his older ones. “Earthquake Weather” and “Hell Yes” revive his early folk-rap and later new-wave sounds, respectively, and “Broken Drum” ebbs and fades like the ballads of Sea Change. Beck also indulges his obsession with Brazilian music on “Missing” and infuses the title track with Kinky-style beats. His one new fascination appears to be with T. Rex: “Black Tambourine” and “Go It Alone” work loose, minimal grooves whose midtempo pace recalls Electric Warrior.
While some of these songs are retreads of past successes, Guero does more than simply revisit the past. Beck sounds relaxed now that he knows he doesn’t have to reinvent his wheel again. As the album progresses, he increasingly mixes up all of these diverse sonic elements so that they bump and grind against each other. “Hell Yes” adds a folksy harmonica solo to its early-’80s keyboard burble, and “Farewell Ride” places a stomping slide-blues riff against mechanical beats and a chain-gang chorus. Ultimately, Beck’s not just revisiting his previous personas; he’s fusing them, possibly to build some sort of MegaBeck.
Beneath this self-redefining tactic runs a current of gloomy futility at odds with the spirited music. “I push I pull,” he sings on “Earthquake Weather,” “the days go slow into a void we filled with death and noise.” Such evocations of detachment and isolation suggest that Guero may be Beck’s most personal album to date. Or maybe not. But it’s definitely as elusive as anything he’s ever done.
—Stephen Deusner
Grade: B+
Listening Log
I Am a Bird Now — Antony and the Johnsons (Secretly Canadian): Following five years after a debut album no one heard, this indie-rock art project marries lachrymose, androgynous vocals to fragile chamber pop, giving way occasionally to blasts of soul horns. In theory, too histrionic for me. In practice, the melancholy yet almost devotional mood is oddly stirring. (“Hope There’s Someone,” “Fistful of Love”)
Grade: B+
Greatest Hits — Tracy Byrd (BMG): At his very best, this Nashville everyman cuts ace honky-tonk and tips his cowboy hat to C&W’s past without ever losing sight of the truth about himself and his audience. (“We like to hunt and golf on our days off.”) At his worst, the macho-man routine is a bore. The rest of the time, he’s as hit-and-miss as most other midlevel male country stars, which means avoid the slow stuff. (“Drinkin’ Bone,” “I’m From the Country”)
Grade: B-
No Wow — The Kills (Rough Trade/RCA): Male/female guitar/drum (machine?) duo putting bluesy spin on indie/alt signifies White Stripes, but the gender role-reversal and starkness of the music/mood is much closer to early PJ Harvey — with more sex appeal but less genius. (“The Good Ones,” “I Hate the Way You Love,” “At the Back of the Shell”)
Grade: B+
Love’s a Real Thing: The Funky Fuzzy Sounds of West Africa — Various Artists (Luaka Bop): This collection of ’70s “psychedelia” captures a generational transition, as West African bands once imitating Western counterculture pop began embracing the more localized sounds embodied in titans Fela and Franco. The culture-collision creates all the expected sparks: Hear James Brown-style grunts segueing into Mahlathini-style grunts as native polyrhythms bubble under American-style bebop; sawing acid-rock guitars giving way to swirling circular riffs. Hip-hop DJs looking for fresh raw material are strongly advised to check out the afro-funk epic “Better Change Your Mind.” (“Keleya” — Moussa Doumbia; “Guajira Ven” — No. 1 de No. 1; “Better Change Your Mind” — William Onyeabor) n —
Grade: A-