Author: David L. Dunlap Jr.

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Music Music Features

Ramble On

There’s some great dialogue in the 1971 art-damaged road movie Two-Lane Blacktop, a substantial part of which was filmed not half an hour from Memphis at the Lakeland Drag Strip. The film’s best line is delivered by Warren Oates as he tends bar from the trunk of his Pontiac GTO: “I’ve got other items, depending on which way you want to go. Up, down or sideways.” It’s poignant because it perfectly encapsulates how, for many people, the direction is not nearly as important as the idea of staying in motion. 

Jason Molina, the prime mover for the band Magnolia Electric Co., can certainly relate. He’s like a fugitive, perpetually moving and changing names; over the years, he’s recorded as Songs: Ohia, Magnolia Electric Co., and under his own name. Lately, he’s been performing about a hundred tour dates a year on three continents. In Molina’s songs, as in the tradition of many blues and rock numbers, there’s always a beckoning highway, and someone is inevitably leaving someone else behind. 

Last month, the prolific Molina released his most intriguing work yet, Sojourner, an extravagant box set that features four CDs, a tour documentary DVD, a map of the stars, postcards, and, finally, of all things, a medallion imprinted with the band’s logo. Normally, these grand productions provide a sweeping overview of an artist’s career. Sojourner, though it features newer versions of some fan favorites, isn’t a greatest-hits package. In part, Sojourner celebrates Molina’s productive decade with his label, Secretly Canadian, but mainly, the bulk is meant to be, in Molina’s words, “a last gasp, an act of defiance” in the incorporeal digital age of music. The set’s container is a literal and figurative “pine box” for the physicality of music.

As Molina says, “I don’t download songs.” And he’s worried about writing and recording a song “only to have it nonchalantly dumped into the ether.” 

The first disc in the set, Nashville Moon, was recorded in Chicago by Steve Albini and captures Molina and his band at their bar-rocking, Crazy Horse best — tight when they need to be, loose when they don’t. That one is followed by Black Ram, which was recorded by head Cracker David Lowry in Richmond, Virginia. Black Ram is darker, moodier, and spartan. The remaining discs are Sun Session, a four-song EP recorded here in Memphis, and Shohola, a solo acoustic set recorded by Molina himself. 

The origin of the Sun Session disc is one of those stories that could only happen in Memphis. Sherman Willmott, founder of Shangri-La Records, was planning a shindig to celebrate his 40th birthday last year. Willmott, a fan of Magnolia Electric Co., tried to get the band to play the party. 

“Keep in mind, playing birthday parties is not a thing we normally do,” Molina says.

However, Molina had befriended Willmott on previous trips to Memphis and was a fan of his work from Shangri-La Records to his more recent projects. Molina knew that Willmott would have musical connections in the city and asked that he arrange some studio time at Sun Studio as payment for the performance. Willmott happily obliged, and Magnolia Electric Co. agreed to come to town. It probably didn’t hurt that Molina loves being in Memphis and that he and his bandmates are self-described “barbecue maniacs.”

Soon after the band played their party gig at the Hi-Tone Café, they went through the hallowed doors of 706 Union to cut some tracks. Apart from being a musician, Molina is an amateur musical historian. “I’m a fan of Memphis music, from the pre-war blues artists up through the Sun Studio era and on into Stax Records,” Molina says. 

Molina was inspired enough to write a song, “Memphis Moon,” right on the spot.

“I was  impressed with his professionalism,” Willmott says. “He walked around downtown the night before, just soaking up the city, and then he sat down and wrote a song extemporaneously.” 

Molina captures the downbeat beauty of the city in a few lines: “Everything is fine/I know it’s soon to be fading out/But oh, didn’t we shine/Didn’t we shine?” 

It’s no “Walking in Memphis,” but it’ll do in a pinch. The band also recorded an eased-down version of the blues standard “Trouble in Mind.” Buffeted by warm organ tones and crystal-clear guitar strums, Molina mourns, “I’m gonna lay my head on some lonesome railroad line/Gonna let that big 800 satisfy this mind of mine.” It’s as devastating and gorgeous as any rendition recorded before. 

Molina gives credit for the songs to Sun Studio engineer James Lott. “He would sit there in the booth, playing these beautiful guitar accompaniments to each of the songs,” Molina recalls, “but he wouldn’t put any of it on tape. He said that he just enjoyed our vibe.” 

Maybe we can keep luring Molina & Co. to Memphis with our city’s rich musical history, the great food, and our genial, Southern humility. It won’t matter which way he’s coming — up, down, or sideways — just as long as he comes back around. 

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Music Music Features

Blister Christian

Several years ago, while cheerfully performing my filial duty, I attended a morning service with my mother at the First Baptist Church in Euless, Texas. It is a monolithic megachurch in the sprawl of Dallas/Ft. Worth and features a replica of Jesus’ tomb — complete with a roll-away stone. At one point during the service, stewards in ornate robes and tall white hats brought out a replica of the Ark of the Covenant. I whispered to my wife, “If the lid falls off that thing, avert your eyes. Bad face-melty things will happen.”

During the sermon of this already memorable church visit, the pastor began talking about his daughter, who had recently started college. After bemoaning the high cost of textbooks, he stated that all college students, or any of us for that matter, need to read one book, and one book only. (I’ll give you a hint: It wasn’t the vegan advice book Skinny Bitch.) I left the church feeling miffed, silently crafting a defense of Western literature. However, there was still a part of me that wanted to peek inside that faux Ark and try to roll the replica stone away.

As I Lay Dying

The Christian church has been aware of the value of entertaining the masses ever since Michelangelo got a crick in his neck painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It may seem a long way from the art of the High Renaissance to the concussive sounds of Christian metalcore, but the bands of today understand the evangelical value of theater and, more importantly, how to appeal to that most desirable of demographics: the kids. 

Thankfully, two of the more popular Christian metal bands of the moment have not followed the bibliophobic advice of the goodly pastor from Euless. In fact, they’ve both taken their names from works of fiction. Other than cribbing the title from Faulkner, As I Lay Dying seem to have little connection to Yoknapatawpha County. I suppose that it just sounded hard, heavy, and suitably morose. The San Diego quartet’s fourth full-length, An Ocean Between Us, debuted at #8 on the Billboard 200 chart. That’s impressive for any metal band, much less a Christian one. 

Without prior knowledge that As I Lay Dying is a Christian band, it would be difficult to determine their beliefs. The word “Christian” doesn’t appear once on the band’s promotional materials. The closest we get is the fact that “the band always has something thoughtful and positive to say while still playing a combustible, aggressive style of music.” They’ve played the decidedly not-Christian Ozzfest and Sounds of the Underground tours. No offense to vocalist Tim Lambesis, but his indiscernible words could just as easily be espousing a belief in the Baha’i faith. Even the addition of a visual element doesn’t necessarily help clarify As I Lay Dying’s faith. The video for the album’s lead single, “Nothing Left,” features a sci-fi dystopian theme but no overt symbols of Christianity. 

Thank God, then, for printed lyrics in CD booklets. “Nothing Left” contains the lines, “If all my sorrow has led me here/Then I would cry all of my tears/To have this chance again/And know there’s more than this.” It’s a little clearer that As I Lay Dying is talking about the limitations of the material world and Christianity’s promise of a life beyond. If that’s still not overt enough for you, try these lines: “For what use is there in praying/If you only hear what you want to hear?” from “The Sound of the Truth.” The words, though simple, are actually thoughtful and profound, careful to sidestep the pitfall of preachiness. Those who continue to doubt As I Lay Dying’s devotion are directed to the liberal use of the reverentially capitalized second person “You” in the album’s last song, “This Is Who We Are.” 

The music on An Ocean Between Us is leaner and more direct than on previous releases. Gone are the galloping, Maidenesque twin-guitar solos. However, there is a sense of urgency in the new, stripped-down sound. The two guitarists, Nick Hipa and Phil Sgrosso, still get to showcase their chops on occasion. “Forsaken” has a brief, drama-building intro before the pair of ax-men launch into a propulsive riff. Lambesis alternates between singing and growling, with more emphasis on the latter. Those qualities are certainly nothing new in the world of metalcore, but Lambesis does it well and knows when to get out of the way of the rest of the band. 

As I Lay Dying’s motivational lyrics offer a faith-based twist on the positive words found in many emo, screamo, and metalcore songs. It’s easy to see the band’s appeal to kids who feel isolated, as if there were, indeed, “an ocean between” themselves and others. Judging from record sales and all the young folks in As I Lay Dying T-shirts, it seems that they have found a perfect formula of understated Christianity and musical severity. 

The Devil Wears Prada took their name from Lauren Weisberger’s 2003 novel, not necessarily the resulting blockbuster movie. (We can only suppose that another band had dibs on The Nanny Diaries.) Plagues, the band’s second album, comes less than a year after its debut. To be fair, the Devil Wears Prada also had a respectable showing on the Billboard 200 chart, debuting at #58 with Plagues.

The members of the Dayton, Ohio, sextet are barely out of their teens, but they have shown considerable musical growth in the short time between their first and second releases. However, in comparison to As I Lay Dying’s professionalism, the Devil Wears Prada are amateurs. Song structures are random and cobbled together. Chugga-chugga guitar solos get ambushed by James Baney’s epic, swooshing keyboards. Andy Trick’s bass licks trip over themselves. On “Goats on a Boat” and the following songs, the band uses two vocalists to achieve the scary-screaming/anthemic-singing dynamic. Primary lyricist Mike Hranica is the bad cop, and guitarist/vocalist Jeremy DePoyster is the good one. 

The Devil Wears Prada is much more obvious about its Christianity than As I Lay Dying. Apart from the biblical wrath of the album’s title, the band’s Web site and MySpace page are very up front about the band’s beliefs. Hranica has defended the band’s much-derided name by stating that the band rails against the rampant, un-Christian materialism of our culture. Hranica really does have it out for the fashionistas. On “Number Three, Never Forget,” he yells, “You’ve surrendered yourself to fashion/Come back to your faith/Come back to grace.” I hate the thin and rich ones too, but a lot of people deserve Old Testament wrath more than Vogue’s readership. Remind me not to invite the dudes from the Devil Wears Prada over for a Project Runway marathon.

Chalk it up to youth, but the lyrics of “The Scorpion Deathlock” are straight out of Teenage Self-Pity 101. It’s hard to imagine anyone being converted by this lyrical gem: “In this moment I am helpless/Why is it so difficult to see ourselves?/No poem I’ve wrote, nor song I have sung/Can halt the army of wrath.” 

The religious spectacle of these bands may pale when compared to a replica of the Ark of the Covenant, but at least they are promoting literacy, and, no matter what your faith is, that’s a good thing.

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Music Music Features

The Weirdness

On his latest release, Double Up, R. Kelly, the self-proclaimed “King of R&B,” is quick to play the persecuted artist. The leadoff track, “The Champ,” finds Kelly alluding to his pending child-pornography trial in his own colorful way: “Some would like to see me [in a] ball and chain/But I’m a child of God/So my destiny’s ordained/Undisputed is the title I claim/’Bout to shoot the world up with this lyrical cocaine.”

Admittedly, with his legal troubles, pending divorce, and the sheer amount of derision heaped upon his absurd, epic hip-hopera “Trapped in the Closet,” the pity party is not unexpected. However, his sales don’t seem to be affected by the accusations of pedophilia (2005’s TP-3: Reloaded went double platinum) and, as ridiculed as “Trapped” was, it sure got a lot of people talking about him. Hell, it even received one of the highest accolades in popular music: a “Weird Al” parody, “Trapped in the Drive-Thru.” As much as any celebrity, the Quiet Storm bringer should know the adage about how there’s no such thing as bad publicity as long as your name gets spelled right, especially when it’s as easy to spell as “R. Kelly.”

Though Kelly claims to have “been through hell” and “lived in the belly of the beast,” his marketability seems to be intact. Double Up debuted at #1 on the Billboard chart its first week. One reason to explain his appeal is that he is undeniably a funny man. It seems that critics and hipsters who just discovered R. Kelly through the “Trapped in the Closet” video think that the joke is on him, that it’s all unintentional comedy. Do they really think that Kelly wasn’t aiming for the funny bone when he included a midget crapping his drawers in a “Trapped” episode? Or that he wasn’t trying to get a laugh out of the lines “Put you on the counter by the buttered rolls/Hands on the table, on your tippy toes/We’ll be making love like the restaurant was closed,” from the foodie-friendly sex ode “In the Kitchen”? A TV promotional video recently featured him sensuously eating a large chocolate-chip cookie, wondering if his gluttony would turn him into “R. Belly.”

Fans expecting more of his hilarious, admittedly unsophisticated sex puns will find much to like on Double Up. On “The Zoo,” Kelly faithfully delivers, “Girl, I got you so wet/It’s like a rain forest/Like Jurassic Park/Except I’m your sexasaurus” right before a chorus of unmistakably chimp-like sounds — “Oooh, oooh, ooh/Ahh, ahh, ahh.” “Sweet Tooth” offers up the saccharine gem “All up in your middle/Oooh, it tastes just like Skittles.” Kelly is happy to play the role of the randy ass-tronaut on “Sex Planet,” letting loose with “Girl I promise this will be painless (painless)/We’ll take a trip to planet Uranus (anus).” Try and parody that, “Weird Al.” To these ears, Kelly’s silliness is more suitable for bedroom talk than the grand, lyrical proclamations that are standard for quiet storm songs.

If R. Kelly was nothing more than a sexed-up jester, he wouldn’t merit the attention or the sales numbers. The real draw here is that Kelly is — how do you say? — a complicated man. Though he is more than happy to portray himself as a carousing Casanova, he’s not afraid to bare his vulnerabilities. On “Leave Your Name,” right after the very catchy, straightforward party anthem “Get Dirty,” Kelly starts to question his own alcohol dependence. On what is ostensibly the world’s longest outgoing answering-machine message, he confides, “Sleeping while the club is crunk/Don’t make no sense to be that drunk/Arguing through the night/Pushing on people and starting fights/I was fucked up/I confess/People saying Kells is a hot mess.” With Kelly’s patented smooth delivery, it’s the sexiest cry for help ever.

“Real Talk” is an unexpectedly intense depiction of a relationship’s last gasp. Near the end of the argument, he angrily croons, “I wish you would burn my motherfucking clothes/With your trifling ass,” before calling for “Milton,” presumably his chauffeur, to drive him home. Imagine all of the marital vitriol of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? compressed into an urban, contemporary slow jam.

“Rise Up,” Kelly’s timely tribute to the victims of the Virginia Tech massacre, is a well-intentioned, well-crafted song. The sincerity might seem incongruous after a stream of humorous, erotic ditties, but with R. Kelly, it’s just another wrinkle in his satin sheets.

Just as his erotic allegories continue the tradition of dirty blues, Kelly’s flair for melodrama is a direct descendant of the soap-opera themes of Southern soul music. On “Best Friend,” Kelly discovers that his lady is getting with his pal while he’s doing time in the joint. It’s not hard to imagine a chitlin-circuit stalwart like Bobby Rush ruminating on the same theme. Usher and R. Kelly discover that R&B star status isn’t the only thing they have in common on “Same Girl.” It is very reminiscent of the tragicomic soul song “He Kept on Talking,” penned by Swamp Dogg. Of course, amid the puns, confessions, and relationship drama, Kelly offers plenty of tuneful, club-ready tracks. The first single, “I’m a Flirt,” is already, deservedly, omnipresent on the airwaves. It’s this combination of various elements that results in Double Up being one of the most enjoyable records released this year.

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Music Music Features

Blues Travelers

As summer vacation season arrives, it’s hard not to immediately dread the rigors of travel — security-check congestion, speed traps, and, of course, escalating gas prices. Well, imagine that you’re a group of four dudes who look like members of the Charlie Manson Appreciation Society and you’ve been on tour since October, getting hassled along the way. Oh, and the name of your band is VietNam, which may or may not be an incendiary political statement. “Crossing the Canadian border was the worst,” says lead vocalist and guitarist Michael Gerner. “We got strip-searched and quarantined, and then they brought out this CSI-looking equipment to check the van.”

Gerner seems pretty laid-back about the grueling, extended tour. “Maybe it’s because I’m a military brat,” he says, “but I’m very comfortable being on the road.”

In fact, growing up in a military family also served to be one of the inspirations for the band’s name. Both Gerner and lead guitarist Joshua Grubb have parents who served in the Vietnam War. Gerner and Grubb, the core members of the group, met in Austin in the late 1990s when Gerner was at the University of Texas and Grubb was kind of hanging out. After moving to Philadelphia and back to Austin, the pair finally ended up in Brooklyn in 1998. They played under a couple of names before deciding on “VietNam.” Gerner recalls, “Our favorite band is Suicide, and, like them, we wanted a one-word name that packed a punch and had some significance.”

The other members, bassist Ivan Berko and drummer Michael Foss, helped the band arrive at a signature sound — druggy, blues boogie in the tradition of the Velvet Underground and Royal Trux. In 2004, they released an EP called The Concrete’s Always Grayer on the Other Side of the Street on Vice Records. The relationship between VietNam and Vice ended badly, and the band is tired of talking about it. The Vice entertainment conglomerate, which includes a magazine and a record label, has always represented everything hipper-than-thou. A backlash was inevitable. “I think it’s died down by now, though,” says Gerner.

A particularly mean-spirited review of VietNam’s self-titled debut on Kemado Records in The Village Voice earlier this year seems to indicate that at least a little of that backlash may still be there. In the review, critic Garrett Kamps writes, “These guys think they’re ripping off Derek & the Dominoes, but they’re actually jacking the Black Crowes” and “Throughout, guitarist Josh Grubb slathers on the reverb the way shitty cooks use too much butter, sounding more like Eric Johnson than Eric Clapton.” Ouch. Gerner refuses to get all riled up about the negative press, saying good-naturedly about the review, “That’s cool. I think we sound more like the Rolling Stones, though.”

The self-titled record owes its existence to an unlikely source of funds: Mickey Madden. That’s right, the bassist from Maroon 5, the nice-looking Hall & Oates revivalists who are currently sitting pretty on top of the Billboard charts.

“Josh met him through a mutual friend,” Gerner says. “Mickey was wearing a Moss Icon T-shirt, and they started talking.” Madden came to see VietNam, became a fan, and ultimately their primary patron. He paid for them to fly out to Los Angeles and record at the legendary Sound City and Sound Factory studios with vintage, analog equipment. He helped get vocal contributions from indie chanteuse Jenny Lewis and production help from “Farmer Dave” Scher and Rick Rubin’s protégé Jason Lader. Of the album and Madden’s help, Gerner says, “It definitely wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t come along.”

VietNam also has some unlikely connections to Memphis. When Rolling Stone asked Gerner to name some of his favorite records and influences, he listed Three Six Mafia’s Most Known Unknown. “I love their cadence and lyrics and their whole grass-roots origin,” he says. Another local tie-in is their cover of “The Dark End of the Street,” the classic soul song written by Dan Penn and Chips Moman in a Memphis hotel room and recorded by everyone from Elvis Costello to Dolly Parton.

“When we first started playing it live,” Gerner recalls, “people would tell us that they liked our Gram Parsons song. I told them I hadn’t even heard his version. I knew it from a Percy Sledge cassette that was one of four tapes that we had in the kitchen at a barbecue restaurant I used to work at back in Austin.”

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Music Music Features

Three’s Company

Jem Cohen, the ascot-sporting bassist for the Ettes, has got it made. He gets to play energetic ’60s beat rock, and, as the only male in the band, he gets to spend a lot of time with two beautiful ladies and travel around in a psychedelic van solving mysteries. Okay, I made up the last part. Nonetheless, the L.A.-based trio with a vintage look and sound seems to be having a blast and getting along as they head into the final weeks of a two-month tour through Canada and the U.S. Drummer Poni Silver quips, “Ask us how well we’re getting along in another three weeks.”

All three members, including guitarist and frontwoman Coco Hames, are from the East Coast but didn’t meet until they were in Los Angeles. They are finding that La-la Land isn’t the easiest place for a retro-rocking, non-trendy group to survive.

“It’s hard because you’re competing against the sons and daughters of famous people who have all of these connections in the music business,” Cohen says. “Though the place is big enough for different styles, the scene is so fragmented.” Hames half-jokingly adds, “We tour all the time because everyone in Los Angeles is so industry.”

In 2004, Hames and Silver decided to form a band. Where the girl group in Dreamgirls drops the “-ettes” from their name, Hames wanted to embrace the feminine aspect of the name and “be the suffix.” After trying out a couple of girlfriends on bass, the two decided on Cohen, sacrificing the gender purity of the group for band chemistry. Cohen says, “One of the reasons we do get along so well is that we love the same music — Carl Perkins, Buddy Holly, the Beatles.”

After months of rehearsal and songwriting, the Ettes decided to cut their first proper record. They aimed high and far away. They contacted Liam Watson, who had produced Billy Childish, Holly Golightly, and the White Stripes, and arranged to record at his Toe Rag Studios in London. The Ettes financed the trip themselves.

“We wanted to do it and didn’t think about what would happen next,” Hames remembers. In London, the group got to meet their musical idols, Childish and Golightly.

Soon after, the Ettes were able to convince the Sympathy for the Record Industry label to release their debut, Shake the Dust. Though the label is based in SoCal, many of its acts hail from Detroit or, in the case of Jack Yarber’s multiple projects, Memphis. In fact, Falling James Moreland, Courtney Love’s first husband and noted transvestite punk rocker/critic, recently wrote, “Let’s hope we don’t lose this ever-touring group to Detroit or Memphis. The Ettes fit in better with rootsy revisionists like the Detroit Cobras and the Oblivians than they do with most L.A. bands.” He might have good reason to be fearful. The Ettes are indeed looking for a nice place to relocate. According to Hames, the phrase “shake the dust” is about moving on from the past.

One place the Ettes are considering is Asheville, North Carolina. Hames’ folks live there, and it’s also the home of former Memphian Greg Cartwright and his band the Reigning Sound. The Ettes aren’t ashamed to admit their admiration for Cartwright’s music, both the Oblivians (which Cartwright was a member of along with Yarber and Goner Records’ Eric Friedl) and the Reigning Sound. The Ettes have even recorded a cover of the Reigning Sound’s “We Repel Each Other.” Their streamlined, poppier version lacks the raw power and emotional urgency of the original, but it does have a charm of its own.

Hames’ voice, equal parts Ye-Ye girl sweetness and party-gal rasp, is much better suited to Shake the Dust‘s low-key, melancholy closer, “I Wanna Go Home.” It would also seem to be a perfect match for “My Baby Cried All Night Long,” a Nancy Sinatra cover that the Ettes have been working into their live repertoire. Hames, in a stylish baby-doll dress, could easily be Nancy Sinatra’s understudy. The band’s impeccably mod fashion sense is evident not only in their publicity shots but offstage as well. Hames says, “I dress the part every day. People need to understand that it comes from my history as a debutante.”

To give you an idea of how many shows they have played on the recent tour, the Ettes’ upcoming show will be their second in Memphis this year. Even with the relentless touring schedule, Cohen seems more than content in his role as the Jack Tripper of the garage-rock set.

“We are excited about coming back to play,” Cohen says. “Everyone was very energetic in the audience, and we even attended a late-night dance party after the show.”

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Music Music Features

Beware of Geek

At first glance, Rob Crow seems to be a likable enough guy. He’s got a great voice and a disarmingly schlubby appearance. On the artwork of his most recent solo release, Living Well, Crow is pictured with his new bride and even newer baby in a tableau of indie-rock domestic bliss. The press release for his latest even states that “the intensely personal lyrics document Crow’s courtship with his wife, their marriage, and the subsequent birth of their first child.” He’s a geek of the highest order; his popular band, Pinback, is named after a character from John Carpenter’s sci-fi comedy Dark Star, and on the song “Jedi Outcast,” he sings, “Remember Yoda!/And what he said/’There is no try/ There is only do.'”

Well, despite all of these endearing qualities, it seems that someone out there doesn’t think that Crow is such a mensch. On Living Well, there are not one but two versions of a song entitled “I Hate Rob Crow” — an album and a single version, naturally. The song is pleasant enough, and the blandly cryptic lyrics (a Crow staple) — “Wanted to be/Some kind of mess/The pain of it all/And not too impressed” — don’t offer any clues to what could have inspired such vitriol. No help comes from the song’s goofy video, which features Crow stumbling into an operating room and singing into a microphone attached to an intestine. Reportedly, the title came from a “particularly unpleasant roommate Crow had earlier in his life,” though Crow himself declines to comment on the

song’s origin. Perhaps it could have something do with his off-putting personality and anemic sense of humor. You’d think that Crow, the newly minted family man, would have found inner peace and that the guy who called a previous band Goblin Cock would be a laugh riot. Well, you’d be wrong on both counts.

Despite his new family, Crow remains the tortured artist. When asked if it was harder finding inspiration after settling down, he tersely replies, “I’m never satisfied.” Crow is a staunch vegan and an avid comic-book collector, and he exemplifies the more unsavory personality traits that both of those stereotypes confer. He is known to be sanctimonious and more demanding on contract riders than an artist with 10 times the star power. Though an indie-rock vet, he was more than happy to lend his sweet voice to a Clorox commercial, and Pinback contributed a lackadaisical cover of Black Flag’s “Wasted” to the cred-sapping compilation Music from the OC: Mix 6: Covering Our Tracks.

Surely, though, the guy who titled a Goblin Cock release Bagged and Boarded (a comic-book term) must have a hell of a funny bone. Again, no. The humor with Goblin Cock, his heavy-metal outlet, ended with the name and the song titles. Some of the more refined fans might claim that the humor never even began. In a fit of literal-mindedness, the not-ready-for-big-box-store-display artwork for Bagged and Boarded depicted the ridiculously large member of some underworld demon. Though Goblin Cock did, indeed, set off false metal alarms for the genre’s purists, Crow claims, “It’s not jokey. I’m just doing the band I want to see.”

On Living Well, Crow is still flying his geek flag, though not in a silly way. He titles one song “Liefeld,” after an oft-derided comic-book artist named Rob Liefeld, whose popularity peaked in the ’90s. Crow joins the chorus of Liefeld detractors, and the lyrics seem to be a critique of Liefeld’s drawing style and his trademark anatomical inconsistencies — “I know it’s strange, their eyes don’t match.”

Crow’s sparkling personality aside, the short, melodic songs on Living Well are enough to sate fans of Pinback until the duo releases its next record. Crow handles everything on the record — from playing to recording to producing. He compensates for his lack of rhythmic prowess by crafting complicated XTC-esque melodies with his guitar (“Over Your Heart”). Overall, Living Well is a tuneful, pretty bore. The trick, then, is how to translate the low-key home-recorded solipsism of the songs on the album into ones played by a full band in a live setting. So far, Crow seems happy with the results.

“The tour is going really well,” Crow says. “To the point where I wish I could record some of it over again with this band.”

While the band may be gelling on tour, the pressures of what Bob Seger chronicled in “Turn the Page” may be getting to Crow. When asked about balancing family life with life on the road, he replies, “Well, right now I’m just trying to finish this interview so I can spend some time with my family who came to visit me in New York for a couple of days between shows. It can be stressful.”

Perhaps the doughy malcontent isn’t living as well as it might seem.

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Music Record Reviews

Slightly Sorry-P.G. Six

Patrick Gubler at least deserves credit for doing the whole American-indie-version-of-British-folk thing before the latest gaggle of acoustic-instrument-wielding hipsters had donned woolen scarves and listened to their first Pentangle albums. In the mid-’90s, he helped found Tower Recordings, whose output ranged from hissy, lo-fi rock to droney ragas. Since 2001, Gubler has been recording as P.G. Six, which serves as a vehicle for him to demonstrate his love for the bucolic sounds of Ol’ Blighty.

Slightly Sorry, Gubler’s fourth record under that moniker, is certainly indebted to the folk minstrels of Albion — witness his drowsy but tuneful rendition of the traditional ballad “Lily of the Valley.” However, Gubler also finds inspiration in some late-’60s/early-’70s Canadian rockers: Neil Young’s downer vibe and chord progression on “The Dance” and Garth Hudson’s keyboard style and multi-instrument virtuosity on practically every track (an incomplete list includes guitars, Wurlitzer electric piano, Hammond B3, Mellotron, and the hurdy-gurdy). Local music fans will have their own fun trying to discern the dulcet vocals of former Memphian Megan Reilly amid a quartet of female background singers on several songs (“I’ve Been Traveling,” “Bless These Blues”). — David Dunlap Jr.

Grade: B+

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Food & Wine Food & Drink

Hash It Out

CREDIT: Justin Fox Burks

Diners aren’t usually so highfalutin: They’re typically known for the greasing of spoons, the slinging of hash, and the kissing of grits. It’s not necessarily the kind of place where a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America is in the back preparing herb-infused mashed potatoes. But such is not the case at King Biscuit Diner.

The graduate in question is Paul Willis, chef and part owner of the diner, which opened in December in a Cordova strip mall. Willis admits that the name is a calculated attempt to lower expectations. However, he also maintains that the King Biscuit Diner does indeed share something with the great diners of America: “We offer good-tasting, quality food for an affordable price.”

The restaurant also does its best to maintain the impossibly long hours of an all-night diner. They are closed for just four hours, from 3 to 7 a.m.

Despite his established pedigree, Willis, 41, is never too snobby to relate to the tastes of his customers. He was, after all, once the personal chef to would-be everyman, truck-pitching country singer Toby Keith. Of Keith, Willis recalls, “He’s the kind of guy who would probably be just as happy with a fried-bologna sandwich, but he does appreciate good food.”

Willis owned a number of boutique restaurants in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. Willie Nelson and his backing band became regular customers, and Willis was introduced to Keith through Nelson. Willis developed a positive reputation among country recording artists and helped Keith design and create his I Love This Bar restaurants in Oklahoma City and Las Vegas.

Willis soon came into contact with Thomas Pak, 31, a longtime Memphis resident who was born and raised in Hawaii. Though Willis still maintains a residence in the Dallas area, he agreed to move here and help start Swanky’s Taco Shop with Pak and several other investors in East Memphis. Willis and Pak then split from Swanky’s to start a new place. The pair — along with Rob Carter, Steve Fleming, and Greg Harper — decided on the King Biscuit Diner.

The Cordova location was selected because, as Willis says, “The whole area of Cordova has a huge population, but they are underserved in regard to restaurants.” Chain restaurants constitute the majority of the culinary landscape in Cordova, so the group created King Biscuit as a way to appeal to as many people as possible.

The popular breakfast, which is served from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m., features the hearty staples of a traditional Southern breakfast (including the delicious titular biscuits) with a few twists, like the Migas Con Chorizo and the wickedly enticing Cheesesteak Omelette.

There are, however, some healthier options available, such as a wide selection of smoothies, egg-beaters, fresh fruit, chicken sausage, and turkey bacon. And while it seems that a lot of diners serve weak coffee, Pak made sure that King Biscuit paid attention to that particular detail. “We serve our own blend that is made by a local company, Lambert’s.”  

Other items on the menu are well-served by that careful, deliberate approach. The lasagna, for instance, is a simple dish but is enhanced greatly by the fresh, homemade pasta, and the sandwiches, especially the savory marinated rib-eye, are complemented perfectly with freshly baked bread. And while the menu is mostly up to Willis, Pak did manage to sneak in some items from his birthplace, like the hearty Hawaiian BBQ Beef Rice Bowl.

The interior of King Biscuit Diner is both cozy and cosmopolitan. It’s got Wi-Fi, a couple of flat-screen televisions, and an inviting fireplace along one wall. “It’s got a lot of character for a restaurant in a strip mall,” says Pak.

A little after 9 p.m., one of four DJs begins playing some easygoing music — Marvin Gaye, Lena Horne, classic Motown hits. Around 10 p.m., the staff rearranges some of the tables, the music becomes louder and more dance-friendly, and King Biscuit transforms into a hip nightclub. They serve food until 2 a.m. and close at 3 a.m.

“We wanted to keep it open for 24 hours, but it takes four hours to clean everything up and get the place ready for the breakfast crowd,” says Pak. “Sometimes we have customers who were in here partying at night and then come back the next morning for breakfast and almost don’t recognize the place.”

King Biscuit Diner, 8050 Dexter Rd., Cordova (754-6344)

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Music Record Reviews

Hip-hop needs help, but not by aging scolds with sparkling resumes and mediocre new albums.

I suppose it was inevitable in the finance-minded world of hip-hop that “CEO-ing” would join such money-making gerunds as “pimping” and “hustling” in the rap lexicon. It also seems preordained that it came from Jay-Z, who, these days, seems more comfortable helming corporations in boardrooms than he does actually treading the boards.

Returning from his half-assed retirement only three years after his last legitimate solo album, the artist born Shawn Carter hopes to save hip-hop from its present-day malaise. He even takes the album’s title, Kingdom Come, from a comic book in which Superman returns to save the world from a new generation of reckless, irresponsible superheroes. He is right about one thing: Hip-hop needs some help. It’s been a down year in every way. There’ve been no multiplatinum releases and very few standouts. Even artists such as the Game will be lucky to do half the numbers they did in 2005.

Kingdom Come debuted at #1 but has been in free-fall ever since. It will eventually creep into platinum status, but it is hardly the genre resuscitator that Jay-Z claims it is. The title track is, by far, the best on record. Over a backward sample of Rick James’ “Super Freak,” Jay-Z triumphs his own return and drops more names from the capes-and-tights set than the Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons. The song has energy to spare, though, and is catchy as hell. It’s a shame that the rest of the record is so boring and uninspired. On “Hollywood,” his duet with girlfriend Beyoncé, he raps of his incredibly dull jet-set life. And look, there’s Coldplay’s Chris Martin, collaborating on the snoozer closing track, “Beach Chair.” It’s understandable in this US Weekly world that Jay-Z would think that the public cares about every nuance of his privileged life, but even the starlets have to make a sex tape or have messy divorces to get a whole lot of ink. There is so much self-absorption that his Hurricane Katrina song, “Minority Report,” seems perfunctory and hollow. The only things more predictable than his “socially conscious” lyrics are the thunderstorm sound effects.

Jay-Z’s mature approach is appealing and irritating, sometimes in the same song. On “30 Something,” he plays a grumpy Mr. Wilson to a generation of Dennis the Menaces, chiding the young’uns for their sagging pants and their blunts. Of course, it is nice to see him bragging about his credit score (“Now I got black cards”).

Another nice side effect of Jay’s aging is the fact that he’s letting beefs slide. Nas used to be the Hova’s primary target. Entertainment Weekly once ran a two-page spread chronicling the pair’s bilious barbs. But now, Jay-Z’s company, Def Jam, is releasing Hip Hop Is Dead, the latest album from his former nemesis.

The entertaining title track features Nas’ quick history and analysis of hip-hop over a stirring sample of Iron Butterfly’s “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” and, for old school’s sake, the Incredible Bongo Band’s “Apache.” As good as that is, the best song is the Jay-Z collaboration “Black Republicans,” which is every bit as impressive as their combined cred and skills suggested it’d be. Over a stately sample from the The Godfather II soundtrack, Jay-Z and Nas spit lyrics about the flipside of monetary success, “Then you mix things/Like cars, jewelry, and miss things/Jealousy, ego, and pride, and this brings/It all to a head like coin, cha-ching/The rule of evil strikes again, this could sting.”

Other highlights include “Play on Playa,” his laid-back duet with Snoop Dogg, and, surprisingly, the somber “Blunt Ashes,” produced by Sixers forward Chris Webber. Hey David Stern, the mere fact that Nas kicks this joint off by asking, “Yo, I wonder if Langston Hughes and Alex Haley got blazed before they told stories” should earn Webber a five-game suspension, right? There are also several missteps, most noticeably the maudlin “Let There Be Light” and the milquetoast “Not Going Back.” The biggest embarrassment is “Who Killed It?,” where Nas misguidedly imitates Edward G. Robinson. It’s the funniest ’30s gangster accent since Johnny Dangerously. “Carry On Tradition” and “Where Are They Now?” are both humorless history lessons that directly or indirectly scold the youngsters for a lack of hip-hop knowledge.

Maybe Jay-Z and Nas bonded while bitching about all the meddlin’ kids in the game. Hip-hop isn’t dead and it doesn’t need Supes to save it. Hip-hop is just walking wounded, but it will need better albums than this pair to be healed.

— David Dunlap Jr.

Grades: Jay-Z: B-; Nas: B

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Cover Feature News

Love and Let Love

Before Fonzie ever jumped the shark on Happy Days, he attempted an even more arduous task: telling Pinky Tuscadero, “I love you.” Whenever he got to the L-word, he would twitch uncontrollably and mutter unintelligibly, as if he were suffering from an aphasic seizure. That TV moment was what first clued me in to the power of the word “love” and the particularly male aversion to it. Thankfully, Arthur Lee, founder and frontman for the psychedelic rock group Love, didn’t have that same fear. Lee was tougher than leather and was given to self-destructive and violent tendencies, but he embraced love, the term and the concept. He was the self-proclaimed “first black hippie” after all.

In 1965, Lee’s folk-rock group, the Grass Roots, was forced to change its name because of a pre-existing band with the same name. The name Love came as a result of an audience vote at a club. In the wrong hands — anyone’s but Lee’s — the band would have come off as a parody of hippie-dippieness. However, there was a hard-bitten quality to Lee’s songwriting and performance that lent Love some gravity and helped distinguish them from the stereotypical psychedelic bands of the time who trafficked in treacly arrangements and wispy lyrics about toffee castles and lemonade lakes.

Love’s pre-punk swagger was sometimes out of place in the summery scene of late-’60s L.A. Big Brother and the Holding Co. bassist Peter Albin once said of the band that “their name should be Hate rather than Love.” That may be a bit of an overstatement. Songs like “Seven and Seven Is,” a salvo of lysergic rock, and “Signed D.C.,” a moving cautionary tale about heroin, were as gritty as any California rock song, but Forever Changes, Love’s ornate orchestral pop masterpiece, was one of the downright prettiest American responses to Sgt. Pepper’s.

These somewhat contradictory traits are ultimately what have made Love such a unique band of their era. The mélange of stylistic influences kept listeners guessing — from the mariachi blasts of “A House Is Not a Motel” to the gospel accents of “I’ll Pray for You” to the never-ending blues beat of “Revelation,” a sidelong track that wouldn’t have sounded out of place being played some beery night at Junior Kimbrough’s juke joint.

Lee was still shattering expectations in his final years. Performances by nostalgia acts can often be sad jokes, more reminders of what has been lost than of the enduring power of song. In 2003, Lee teamed with an L.A. band, Baby Lemonade, on the Forever Changes tour. They performed the entirety of the classic album, complete with strings and brass. I was initially reluctant to attend, worried that it would be as disappointing as seeing an aging Willie Mays during his time with the Mets. I saw Lee at the Birchmere in Alexandria, Virginia. Most of his bandmates, as well as everyone in the crowd, were seated. He strode out confidently after everyone had gotten settled and took command. He seemed tireless that night, perhaps just happy to be out and on the road. He enthusiastically tore through the songs and seemed to have more energy than anyone else on stage. There was nothing pathetic or sad about it.

It was such a surprising and positive experience that I jumped at the chance to see him in concert the following year. This time it was a double-bill with the Zombies. Though the Zombies were great, it was clear that the night belonged to Lee & Co. He was reunited onstage with Johnny Echols, whom he’d known since childhood. At one point, Echols did a perfect lead solo while holding the guitar behind his head. Lee grabbed the mic with authority and fed off the excitement of the crowd. He sang with a young man’s fury.

Lee was always a walking contradiction. Sometimes a peacenik, other times a gangster. On one hand, his impact on rock was indelible, yet on the other, he had the relative anonymity of a cult figure. I’ve seen obituaries and memorials in papers from Japan, Turkey, Holland, and England. I’ve seen words of respect paid on conservative Web sites and on record-collector forums. He didn’t always get his due from the critics or the fans. He may not always have known it, but he was loved and he left a lot of love scattered all over the world. Regarding his troubled life and recent comeback and acclaim, perhaps one of his own song titles says it best: “Love Is More Than Words (or Better Late Than Never).”