Father John Misty at the Riv

A year ago I didn’t even know that Father John Misty existed, but last night I found myself at Chicago’s Riviera Theatre (which, despite being a shithole, has its charms) to see the singer-songwriter perform before a packed house. Backed by a terrific five-piece band (and sometimes extra backup singer) the artist plowed through a powerful set that faithfully reproduced the lavish production of his most recent album, I Love You, Honeybear, and enhanced the sound of 2012’s Fear Fun.

A commanding presence on stage – tall, bold and limber – Father John Misty uttered virtually not a word between songs, but what he lacked in banter he made up for with his intensity, taking over center stage with passionate dips, angry kicks and desperate gesticulations. He knows how to get an audience excited. Midway through “Nothing Good Ever Happens at the Goddamn Thirsty Cow” I witnessed what had to be the longest and highest launch of an acoustic guitar I’ve ever seen (the stagehand caught it – but just barely), and it was met with enthusiastic approval. 

Like the production of his most recent album, the extensive layering and reverb of the live performance sometimes masked what is one of the singer’s greatest strengths – his witty, sardonic, and occasionally moving lyrics. Listening from the balcony, had I not already known songs like “I Love You, Honeybear” and “The Perfect Husband,” I wouldn’t have understood more than a few words of these performances. Perhaps it sounded clearer on the first level, though I distinctly remember Joe Jackson complaining about the acoustics of the Riv back in 2001. Judging from the peeling paint on the ceiling, I suspect the theater owners haven’t done much to improve the sound or anything else in the intervening decade and a half.

Most effective to me were the times that the band broke down and allowed Father John Misty to shine in a more intimate setting. “Bored In The USA” – a song that would have felt right at home on Elton John’s Tumbleweed Connection – was the highlight for me, with the fans interjecting faithfully the canned laughter of the recording. First encore “I Went to the Store One Day” – the sparsest performance of the evening – was also terrific, along with “Holy Shit,” whose mellow first half was interrupted by such a frenzied finish that the downbeat jolted a listener to my left practically out of his seat.

These moments of potency were supported by the most impressive lighting I’ve ever seen at a small venue, especially the effective use of moody backlighting that bathed the stage with eerie reds that silhouetted the band, and the strobes used prominently in the frantic finale of “Perfect Husband.” 

Aside from a cover of Nine Inch Nail's “Closer,” the 110 minute performance consisted entirely of tracks from Father John Misty’s two albums, ignoring the repertoire of the singer’s previous monikers. Surprisingly absent to me was the song that first introduced me to the artist: “The Night Josh Tillman Came to our Apt.,” and I wonder if he’s already grown tired of its overly mocking, cynical lyrics. 

At thirty-five, the former drummer of Fleet Foxes has been recording and performing for a hell of a long time, reaching his recent success a little late in life. It was worth the wait. Here’s hoping he hangs in there for a while and releases a few more gems along the way.

When Music Meant Going to Hell

As a thirteen year-old in 1981, I was faced with the unpleasant realization that my favorite pastime of listening to rock music was leading me into the fiery depths of hell.

Word of the subliminal message craze had reached the masses, and as a soon-to-be confirmed Lutheran, this was serious shit. I’d already worn out the black Led Zeppelin T-shirt I’d purchased in sixth grade, my copy of Physical Graffiti wasn’t far behind, and now I was being told that they were devil worshipers. Just look at the symbolism on the intricate artwork of their third album, people told me. A goat’s head! Pentagrams! When I’d purchased the album I thought nothing of stars and goats. So what? Ah, but this seemingly innocuous artwork was code for something more sinister, to say nothing of the discovery that “Stairway To Heaven,” when played backwards, invited the listener to worship Satan, and – if interpreted a certain way – when played forward notified the listener of this very fact. (“In case you don’t know, the piper’s calling you to join him.”) 

This was an unwanted addition to the growing list of concerns in my life. As if acne, divorced parents and a math teacher who entered my school straight from the Third Reich weren’t enough to worry about. Now I had to fear for my very soul.

I was a good, church-going-because-my-mom-makes-me kind of kid. Sure, I’d toilet papered a few (dozen) homes, hung out with a boy who shall remain nameless who vandalized a car, and shot off firecrackers on the front stoops of people’s homes from time to time, but deep down in my essence I was a pretty decent human being.  (This would become more apparent a decade or so later – call it a long road to maturity.) So hearing that my favorite pastime of rock music was jeopardizing my cushy afterlife was extremely troubling.

I’d avoided the overtly satanic bands like Black Sabbath and Iron Maiden. Their covers alone were enough to put the fear of God into me. But even comparatively airy fairy band favorites like Supertramp were under fire. While driving up to northern Wisconsin with my friend Todd, his brother’s girlfriend informed me that the song “Goodbye Stranger” included the line, “Say the devil is my savior/but I don’t pay no heed,” and she said this was a sign of devil worship.

I shouldn’t have paid any heed to the stupidity of that conclusion, but as a young teen who’d been taught about the very real existence of hell and who’d made the serious blunder of watching The Exorcist on network TV a year earlier, I absorbed this information with great trepidation. After all, if Satan could enter the body of Linda Blair, what was stopping him from entering me?

I soon learned about a lecture taking place at nearby Brookfield Assembly of God, where a pastor was to discuss rock and roll lyrics. I don’t know what the heck I expected. I guess I was secretly hoping he would say, “This is all nonsense.  Don’t worry about it.” Instead, I sat through a litany of offenses committed by my favorite bands. I may have been in the clear with the hard core metal groups, but the pastor went on to attack many of my favorite artists, concluding with a long dissertation about the Pink Floyd song “Sheep,” in which an alternate version of Psalm 23 is recited. The pastor found particularly offensive the use of the word “bugger,” even reading aloud the word’s definition from the dictionary (but avoiding – if memory serves – the anal intercourse meaning).

I went home distraught, wondering how I was going to live my life without rock music, knowing full well I couldn’t, which only meant one thing: eternal damnation. My mom was in her familiar perch on the family room recliner with a bowl of popcorn in her lap, our dog Butch begging for a piece from the floor. Noticing the apparent look of dread on my face, she asked me about the evening. When I shared with her my concern, she responded with something along the lines of, “You’re a good kid.  I don’t think what you listen to matters all that much.” This was from a woman who to this day is a God-fearing Lutheran. 

Chalk one up for level-headed parenting.

I’ve learned since that lyrics are a slippery thing, often meaning little if anything at all, sometimes meaning much more than they would suggest. Just yesterday I listened to the song “Dance Hall Days” by Wang Chung, reading the lyrics to the song for the first time ever, and was floored to learn that the line isn’t “We were cool on Christ” as one of my Christian friends told me back in high school, but rather, “We were cool on craze.” 

Hey, whether it’s craze or Christ, I’m cool with all of it. Whatever. You aren’t the words you listen to, and in my case, I’m not even the words I sing, as I’m now a Jew who in my classic rock band sometimes has to sing, “Jesus Is Just Alright” from The Doobie Brothers.

As Rick Davies of Supertramp sang, “I don’t pay no heed.”

Leon Bridges in Milwaukee: Why Now?

It’s a question that must drive record executives crazy: why do some performers destined for greatness garner little more than a shrug of the shoulders while other performers who on paper should land with a thud receive accolades and notoriety? The question could easily be applied to the modern soul performer Leon Bridges. Why does a singer/songwriter whose repertoire would have felt right at home in 1965 reap the enthusiasm of music listeners in 2016? It’s a mystery to me, but a pleasant one at that, as I had the chance to see Bridges and his terrific band perform at the Riverside Theater in Milwaukee last Saturday night to a full house.

Bridges, riding high since the release of his debut album, Coming Home, has had a hell of a year, receiving radio play, appearing on Saturday Night Live and participating in a Ray Charles tribute at the White House. Sporting a gray suit, red tie and black shoes, Bridges oozed class at the Riverside, from his silky voice to the smooth dance moves he employed throughout the show. Opening with his best-known number (to me, at least), “Smooth Sailing,” he kicked off a string of short, uninterrupted songs reminiscent of Sam Cooke and Otis Redding before briefly addressing the audience. In addition to playing all ten tracks from his only album, he scattered a few new compositions along the way, plus a few standards, including a short version of Neil Young’s “Helpless,” a song that was surely unfamiliar to much of the largely 20-something audience, though there were several folks in the 40-70 age range. What was disappointingly absent from the audience was diversity in race. I thought the makeup would be a similar to the one who attended Stevie Wonder’s show last fall in Chicago, but at least for this particular show in Milwaukee, Bridges attracted a decidedly white crowd.

Bridges’s backing band was stellar, with all six musicians tasteful and selective in their approach. There were times when a song begged for a fuller horn section or larger group of backup singers, but in a way the sparser band has helped to define Bridges’s sound.  Brittni Jessie’s backup singing is extremely exposed, with no one to lean on but herself, but there she was, weaving seamlessly in and out of the lead vocal lines. Sure, she leaned a little flat at times, but I love that her performance and the entire band’s performance was live – no backing tracks, no auto-tune – so a few missed pitches was cool with me. And when was the last time you heard a modern band employ a solo saxophone? For me it might have been Supertramp in 1985. It was nice to hear again.

Upon receiving his induction to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1999, Billy Joel said, “And I know I’ve been referred to as derivative. Well, I’m damn guilty. I’m derivative as hell!” So is Leon Bridges. But as with Billy Joel, I argue, “Who gives a shit, as long as it’s good?” What’s surprising to me is how young people have latched on to a modern singer that harkens back so strongly to an earlier time. I imagine a few record executives are scratching their heads, wondering if 60s soul is a trend or a fleeting blip on the charts. Time will tell, but I sure hope Bridges sticks around for a while.

Rock and Roll Count Ins

For as long as tempo has mattered, musicians have needed some sort of count in (sometimes called a count off) to begin a piece of music.  But whereas in classical music tempo is typically communicated visually and silently by the conductor, rock and roll music has embraced a tradition of audible count-ins, even including them in the final product of a studio recording.  Often these serve mainly as a way to get the band starting in unison, but sometimes a count in can heighten the energy and increase the tension for the ensuing climax (my favorite example: Springsteen’s count in before the final verse of “Born to Run”).

There are undoubtedly hundreds of examples to choose from, but below I’ve created an audio montage of twenty-seven verbal count ins, some obvious, some not so obvious. I’m afraid my examples lean heavily toward my white, suburban, middle-class upbringing, but I’d love to hear your favorite count ins.  See how many of these you can get, and send your examples to me so I can include them in an extended count in montage sometime down the road.

A Touch of Guilt: Music and Guilty Pleasures

Anyone who has relatives probably knows that although guilt is an emotion we feel internally, it can be externally induced. Guilty pleasures are no different. We might feel self-conscious about liking a song because we’re afraid of what other people might think or because they’ve already shared their opinions. I remember my poor junior-high classmate, Andy, who let it be known that he liked the group Abba. Boy, did we set him straight and make him wish that both he and Frida had never been born.  In hindsight, Andy was right – Abba has its merits – but it was a catastrophic failure of self-awareness to divulge his taste to a bunch of ignorant 13 year-olds.

I thought of Andy last month when my friends and I trudged through the theme of Guilty Pleasures during our regular album night in suburban Milwaukee. I’ve found that guilty pleasures change depending on who you’re with and correlate inversely to one’s age.  Today I have no problem at all admitting to my friends that I like the song “Mandy” by Barry Manilow, but back in high school?  Forgetaboutit! 

I approached the theme this way: a guilty pleasure is a song that I wouldn’t play on the jukebox in a biker bar.  That seemed to open the theme up a bit!

Here’s my list from that evening (and the list could go on and on):

Invisible Tough, Genesis

Girls Chase Boys, Ingrid Michaelson

The Name of the Game, Abba (thanks Andy!)

Without You, Harry Nilsson (this was written by Badfinger, so naturally it didn’t become a hit until later)

Our Lips Are Sealed, The Go-Go’s

Rainy Days and Mondays, The Carpenters

Tubthumping, Chumbawamba

If You Could Read My Mind, Gordon Lightfoot (fun fact: Lightfoot sued the composer Michael Masser for the Whitey Houston hit “The Greatest Love of All,” which shamelessly stole from the B section of Lightfoot’s song.  I understand the case was settled though I’ve been unable to find specifics on-line.)

Unwritten, Natasha Beddingfield

The Middle, Jimmy Eat World

Let’s Talk About Me, The Alan Parsons Project

Walking On Broken Glass, Annie Lennox

Even Now, Barry Manilow (I’d have played “Mandy” if I owned it!)

Too Late, Journey (This band has made a comeback to give them an air of legitimacy, but try admitting to liking them back in the 90s – it was tough.)

Add to this list the multiple show tunes I could have played (Fiddler on the Roof songs, anyone?), campy songs by Ella Fitzgerald (“A-Tisket, A-Tasket”), a song from the Brady Bunch (“When It’s Time to Change”?  That song rules!), songs by Burt Bacharach, Paul Williams and Marvin Hamlisch, and virtually every song written by Alan Menken (except “Beauty and the Beast” – I could kill him for that one).  Plus the entire James Taylor repertoire, Carol King, Sara Bareilles, many of the old Motown girl group hits, ballads by Ben Folds, yada yada yada.

Which begs the question: after all of this, what would be left to play in a biker bar? Not much, I’m afraid, except for classic rock and a few songs by The Replacements. I prefer the songs that induce just a touch of guilt.