Joe Boyd

My, I've been lax, haven't I? To be honest, Alma does a much better job at this than I do.

Anyway, this morning I interview famed producer Joe Boyd. My final piece won't translate to this space that well, so I'll just let the new New Yorker do the heavy lifting for me.

Shortly before the interview I finished Boyd's intermittently fascinating but mostly just fine memoir "White Bicycles: Making Music in the 1960s." I also read Max Brooks' mock zombie oral history "World War Z," which was OK but really could have been fleshed out a little more (if you pardon the pun). I guess I'll have to wait for the inevitable movie.


Why so busy, by the way? I've been writing a regular DVD column for my friend Jeff, writing reviews for Pitchfork, seeing shows for the Trib and otherwise stretching myself thin while Baby Z. otherwise runs me down. As any parent will attest, having kids turns years into months, months into weeks, weeks into days, days into hours and hours into mere minutes, accelerating everything into such a blur that there's barely time to look ahead without being dragged behind by all the stuff that's already passed you by.

"Heat," Etc.

I just finished Bill Buford's excellent "Heat," but unlike most food books it didn't make me hungry. In fact, it made me a little sad to learn how hard it is and how long it takes to learn just a fraction of all there is to know about one type of cooking and, in particular, one region's cuisine. As Buford (like many New Yorker writers, apparently independently wealthy and with tons of time on his hands) hops around between New York City and Italy, learning the ins and outs of the kitchen (via Mario Batali) and interning at various Old Country butchers, pasta shops and whatnot (to a series of seriously nuts Masters), we learn about not just the death of tradition but the way the holders of those sacred traditions often stubbornly take their secrets with them to the grave. After all, to give up their secrets, to too many, guarantees that the very methods that make them special will be replicated and automated to the point of irrelevance. Heck, to this day no one knows who first added egg to make pasta noodles!

Great book, though, colorful and casually thought provoking, even though it proceeds with little to no firm agenda other than intellectual curiosity.

"Heat," Etc.

I just finished Bill Buford's excellent "Heat," but unlike most food books it didn't make me hungry. In fact, it made me a little sad to learn how hard it is and how long it takes to learn just a fraction of all there is to know about one type of cooking and, in particular, one region's cuisine. As Buford (like many New Yorker writers, apparently independently wealthy and with tons of time on his hands) hops around between New York City and Italy, learning the ins and outs of the kitchen (via Mario Batali) and interning at various Old Country butchers, pasta shops and whatnot (to a series of seriously nuts Masters), we learn about not just the death of tradition but the way the holders of those sacred traditions often stubbornly take their secrets with them to the grave. After all, to give up their secrets, to too many, guarantees that the very methods that make them special will be replicated and automated to the point of irrelevance. Heck, to this day no one knows who first added egg to make pasta noodles!

Great book, though, colorful and casually thought provoking, even though it proceeds with little to no firm agenda other than intellectual curiosity.

I also saw Jon Brion!

And wrote about him, too. And if it intrigues you enough, here's where you can actually download a copy of the Steppenwolf show. Ain't technology great?

I saw the Pogues!

Here's what I had to say in Billboard.

What a Coincidence

The Dept. of Justice is embroiled in a big scandal, and folks high and low are calling for the Attorney General to resign. Surprise! The White House suddenly gets results.

Why now? Do I need to ask? That's why they're keeping all these people detained indefinitely. Ironically, locked up down in Cuba, they work like get-out-of-jail-free cards for the administration. Something goes wrong? Leak a confession. In deep legal shit? Find another terrorist plot. Everyone hates you? OK, it's not a perfect system. It is, however, a whole lot better than that awkward, color-coded terror alert scheme, which, you know, scared the hell out of everyone and often backfired. It's also a whole lot more reliable than the administration's most recent go-to distraction.

Baby Z.'s Adventures in English

Little kids say the darndest things. It's true! Here are some fresh gems and exchanges from and with Baby Z.:

Me: Let's go buy some bread, for you, and me, and Mommy.
Z: And for my baby sister, too!

Me: Would you like any of your special soup?
Z: Nope.
Me: Would you like some pizza?
Z: Now, that sounds good!

Last, but not least, I heard Z. clunking around in her room rather than napping. When I went in to check on her, she was lying on her bed wearing nothing but her diaper and a big pair of brown boots. She sat up slowly, looked at me, and stammered:

Z: I just wanted to wear my boots!

No kidding, Z.

Nickelback

This band is hugely popular, and they suck. As usual, the group missed any opportunity to prove its detractors wrong when they played over the weekend. Here's my take, more or less as published in the Tribune:


Last year, Nickelback sold over three million copies of its album "All the Right Reasons," making it the top selling rock act of 2006 and the third highest selling artist overall. Yet "All the Right Reasons" was released not in 2006 but back in 2005. It just keeps selling. And selling. And selling.

No surprise, then, that Nickelback easily packed the Allstate Arena Friday night. Top selling bands tend to do that. More mysterious is what keeps drawing people to this most pedestrian of hard rock bands. Maybe it's not a mystery after all. Candlebox. Creed. Every few years the critics get their multi-platinum punching bag, and every few years the critics are ignored or dismissed. Rock fans aren't picking up the new Arcade Fire or the new Hold Steady, at least not in large numbers. They're picking up the old Nickelback.

Inside the arena, it could have been 1986 or 2026 as Nickelback plodded through its smug parade of unremarkable lunk-rock, each song's biggest distinction little more than its lack of distinction. But songs such as the hackneyed "Photograph," the hooky "How You Remind Me" and the hilariously banal "If Everyone Cared" proved the mundane and mediocre could still be timeless. It was prehistoric caveman rock right down to the ancient, fossilized ur-riffs, ready to be recycled by the next risible band down the line.

The hits came easily - effortlessly, even - for Nickelback, and the fans clearly loved the equal lack of pretense and progression (not to mention the perfunctory pyrotechnics, canned banter and drum solo). Indeed, to their credit the band didn't bother disguising its lack of ambition Friday night. At one point, they wielded hand held air cannons that fired t-shirts into the crowd, an apt metaphor that neatly summed up both the band's modus operandi and its broad appeal.

Thermals Vs. MCR

In some ways it's a lot of fun to stumble upon a band well after everyone else has already stumbled upon them. In other ways it's just a bummer that reminds you why you overlooked them (intentionally or not) in the first place.

Last year, the Thermals released the well-received album "The Body, The Blood, The Machine," a concept album set in an America run by the Christian right. I know I heard it, but for some reason none of it stuck, but I did just as mysteriously hold on to the disc. Two weeks ago I took it out again, gave it a fresh listen, and you know what? I love it. Great songs, spirited performances. It’s like Green Day's "American Idiot" for the indie set. I saw the Thermals play Thursday night and they were great then, too. I can only imagine what's in store for them as more and more people follow my (belated) lead and discover them.

My Chemical Romance, on the other hand, needs no discovering. They're one of the most popular bands in the country right now, and their last album "The Black Parade" earned several rave reviews from People Who Count. Somehow, though, I not only managed to not hear it but had managed to not hear anything from the band, period, including anything from their previous hit album "Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge."

That was rectified a week or two ago when I dove right in, in preparation for seeing the group live. And you know what? There's nothing special about them at all. In fact, the only elements that make "The Black Parade" worth a listen are borrowed wholesale from Green Day (the editorial review on Amazon.com jokes that they share the same label, same producer, same theatricality and same janitor). Live, however, they were a pretty pallid proxy for the real thing, and when they came out to play their old songs I was shocked by how banal and tuneless they were. Really? This is the best they can do, this cookie cutter alt-metal made for 12-year olds? More power to them, but this no longer 12-year old couldn't imagine ever gleaning much enjoyment from something so facile. The band's all surface at best.

Needless to say, MCR’s the ones headlining arenas while the Thermals hump it out in clubs, but that’s how these things always go, isn’t it?