Pardon the interruption

 
Hey, hey. We're back for a day. Let's see, it's been 129 days. That might seem like a long time, but not that much has happened since late October. Adele won a few Grammys, Davy Jones passed away, the Boss released an album and, not so harmonically speaking, Newt Gingrich paid a visit to Whitehall, Wisconsin. Honest, his wife Callista grew up in my little hometown, and her mom still lives there (bringing the population to 1,671). It's a small world, but maybe not small enough.

I was sitting on a barstool the other night at Champps in Brookfield and a thought came to me like a Ryan Braun urine sample. You know, the seal hadn't been broken but the idea had been sitting there a few days. It was impossible to tell if it had been tampered with, so I gave myself a pass.

Here I was enjoying a tasty fish fry, in fact one of the most incredible fish fries I've ever enjoyed in Wisconsin, where Friday fish fries are king. At a chain sports bar. Sometimes life rocks. The bartender convinced me to try their potato crusted cod -- amazing! -- and instead of soggie fries and an over-buttered slice of bread, King Cod came with a healthy mound of nutty wild rice and a delicious bouqet of sauteed onions and bell peppers. Ooh, la, la.

Paired with a tall glass of Rocky's Revenge, the astounding brown ale from the Tyranena Brewing Company of nearby Lake Mills, my evening was set. (By the way, Thursday night is Sweater Vest Awareness Night at Tyranena if you happen to be in the neighborhood.) I'd drink a couple more beers and watch highlights of the Honda Classic second round, then head outside to brush the snow off my vehicle (I didn't mention there was a winter storm) and drive home, blissfully, with both hands on the wheel and my shoulders rared back. This is how you live Roger Miller's song "Do Wacka Do."

But that wasn't the game-changing song that rocketed through the Champps sound system as I enjoyed my frothy glass of Rocky's Revenge. No sir. It was a blast from 1965 by the Gentrys, and now maybe you know what i'm talking about. Drummer Larry Wall's staccato lead-in to "Keep On Dancing" is like a short fuse on an M-80, then it's bombs away. You instantly forget about your recent knee surgery (if only for a moment), leap up off your stool and look around, wishing once again that it was yesterday.

And damned if it isn't.

Dave Daniels, and the joy of discovery

Atlanta contributor Mike Tierney has never played a vibraphone. Heck, he probably never even heard of Lionel Hampton! But he is a musical vibemeister with unnaturally ecletric (yep, we just coined a word for the urban dictionary) taste. Do not miss his occasional musings at the Sanctuary.

By Mike Tierney

One of the unadulterated joys of rock 'n' roll is stumbling blindly into a gifted under-the-radar musician in your town and going "Holy moly" -- or, more likely, holy bleep -- "this dude can really play."

In metro Atlanta recently, I was introduced in to Dave Daniels, who offered that he had a band and invited me to see them perform. With modest expectations, I caught Daniels at a free show in a neighborhood establishment.

A few songs into the set, I'm thinking, "Shouldn't this guy be pulling in 15 to 20 bucks a ticket at some semi-spacious venue?"

Then I reminded myself that there are hundreds of Dave Daniels from sea to shining sea who generate sounds as impressively as the artists who make a comfortable living at it. That dynamic illustrates the yin and yang of the business. It might be unfair to the creators, but listeners can dig up hidden treasures without much effort.

Daniels crafts clever tunes that cover a wide spectrum, with sprinklings of folk and jazz and country and blues. If you are a prisoner of pop music, as I am, you are continously amazed at the talent on a level where players must maintain day jobs to support their muse.

The other day, I punched up Daniels' website to check on upcoming gigs, only to read that he is cutting back drastically on shows. "Trying to make a living off my own music actually hinders my life," he explained.

Such a painful transition is inevitable for the bulk of musicians who brighten clubs and bars and basements with their art.

Here is hoping Daniels gets his moly together, reassembles his teammates and cranks out more songs for more audiences.

If not, well, there are plenty more Dave Daniels coming down the pipe. It is all part of rock 'n' roll's circle of life.

A whole lotta love for Wilco

If you watch this video of Wilco performing on NPR's Tiny Desk Concert series and don't go out immediately and buy their new album, well, you can't blame us.

The Whole Love is sounding like the best we've heard from Jeff Tweedy & Co. NPR's Bob Boilen calls Wilco "the best rock band in America," which is begging for an argument, but he won't get one here. There are four songs and more than 18 minutes to help convince you.

Those who know us are aware that when Uncle Tupelo disbanded in 1994 and split into two groups we stubbornly aligned ourselves with UT's leading protagonist, Jay Farrar, and his new band Son Volt -- largely on the strength of Trace, one of the best albums of 1995. When Tweedy and Wilco countered with A.M. a rivalry was born, tipping heavily in Farrar's favor at the start.

We eventually decided it was OK to appreciate both artists, and it didn't hurt when Wilco began to kick out some memorable albums. The turning point actually came in 1998 with a joint effort (how could that not be a success?) when Billy Bragg dragged Wilco into the studio to help produce Mermaid Avenue, a splendid album of songs born out of old Woody Guthrie lyrics.

But it wasn't until the release of the band's fourth album Yankee Hotel Foxtrot in 2002 that Tweedy and Wilco began to gain their now mythic foothold on American rock. That stood as our favorite until 2009's Wilco (The Album). And now, here we are, singing the praises of The Whole Love like it's the best thing that ever came down the pike. This will require further review, which we're more than up for.

They're coming to take him away

By Al Tays

A novelty himself,
Sunday contributor Al
Tays knows a little bit
about whacky songs.

Six million record buyers were responsible for Rick Dees' "Disco Duck" going to the top of the Billboard singles chart on this date in 1976.

I am proud to say I was not one of them.

It's not that I have anything against novelty songs -- I think that's the most interesting music genre.

But "Disco Duck" just ... sucked.

You wanna talk good novelty songs? The problem is not so much where to begin, but where to stop.

I mean, "Weird Al" Yankovic should have his own sub-category. "Lose Yourself," "E-Bay" and "The Hardware Store" are classics, and "Genius in France" is to novelty songs what "Stairway to Heaven" is to classic rock.

As a kid, I remember listening to "Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor," "They're Coming to Take Me Away," and "The Jolly Green Giant." That last one is still on my iPod.

In adulthood, I discovered other gems such as "The Eggplant That Ate Chicago," "Valley Girl" and, of course, "Fish Heads."

In researching this subject, I came across a song I've never heard, but which might have the best title of all time:

"I'm at Home Getting Hammered (While She's Out Getting Nailed)"

Now THAT'S songwriting.

TGI...C

It's Friday, and once you click on this it only gets better...

The song Stephen Colbert is singing sounded vaguely familiar, but we admit we didn't recognize "Friday" until we did a search. Even then, the name Rebecca Black didn't immediately click -- even though we wrote about her hated video some time ago.

Colbert does such a great job we were thinking the song must be something from a popular group like the Smashing Pumpkins.  It isn't, but Colbert certainly is smashing himself as he pays off a bet he lost with Jimmy Fallon.

Catchin' that Yelawolf fever

By Robert Nelson

You can ask Sanctuary rapconteur
Robert Nelson what's in his player,
just don't ask him what's in the trunk.

I discovered Yelawolf through my friend Stan. He told me Eminem signed him to his label and mentioned he’d seen him on BET’s The Cypher. So, that’s where I started, and there was plenty more on YouTube. Then, I bought the Trunk Muzik mixtape on iTunes, and I’ve been listening to it for the past 10 or 11 months.

I usually keep a pretty tight rotation of new music circulating in my car. In the past year, it’s been mostly Trunk Muzik. I continue to develop a new favorite song. It started with Daddy’s Lambo, then Box Chevy, Pop the Trunk, and now, Love is Not Enough. If I’m picky, I might skip through one or two tracks, but it rides from top to bottom. It’s the CD I leave in the deck when there’s nothing else I want to hear. You might say I’m enamored with it.

Guests include Raekwon, Gucci Mane and Bun B over a blend of hip-hop and dirty south beats. Yelawolf raps circles around them with a syrupy twang delivery as dynamic as I’ve ever heard. Despite the proliferation of Southern artists within the genre over the past decade, he’s managed to maintain a distinct point of view and proves capable of incorporating popular hip-hop storytelling elements into his narrative in a fresh, palatable way.

He’s performing Oct. 19 in Minneapolis at First Ave in support of his major label debut, entitled Radioactive, due Nov. 21. I’m not really wild about the first single but anticipating the record nonetheless. I’ll let you know how the show goes. I’m looking forward to that, too.

Imagine John Lennon at 71

By Al Tays

Pretty amazing day today for music-related birthdays. We have John Entwhistle, who would have been 67 (he died in 2002), and Jackson Browne, 63.

But one other birthday dwarfs those: John Lennon.

Lennon, who was murdered in 1980, would have turned 71 today. (He would have shared his birthday with Sean Lennon, his only child with Yoko Ono, who turns 36 today.)

What can you say about John Lennon that most people don't already know? Let's concentrate on the day he came into the world. He was born at Liverpool Maternity Hospital, his parents were Julia and Alfred Lennon, and he was named John Winston Lennon after his paternal grandfather, John "Jack" Lennon, and then-Prime Minister Winston Churchill.

Couple pieces of Lennon trivia: He ocasionally played bass on Beatles songs, using a six-string Fender BassVI on some songs where Paul McCartney was playing piano. And he hated his own singing voice, often asking producer George Martin to help it electronically.

Watching this clip, I think he was too hard on himself. Happy birthday, John.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YLoqGuhuo9Y

Baby steps

By Robert Nelson

Quick, hide the stash: Baby DJ (wearing red cap) checks
out the tour bus with Pete, Sam and Dean of Chevelle.

During my freshman year in college, my buddy Ta and I bought tickets to see Filter in Minneapolis. It didn’t happen. The lead singer checked into rehab and cancelled the tour. So, when I found out they were coming to town with Bush and Chevelle, naturally, I thought of inviting Ta to go with me. We were all Bush fans in high school. Filter would be a huge perk. And Chevelle … well, let’s say they made this experience unlike any I’ve had before.

My DJ career is still in its infancy. It’s not uncommon for me to be referred to as “Baby DJ” around the office. It’s cool. It’s not meant to be disparaging in any way (at least, I don’t think it is). In fact, I’ve received more support from my radio family than I could have ever imagined. Still, when my boss offered to let me conduct my first artist interview with Chevelle before the show last night, apart from being totally elated, the confidence instilled in me got taken to a whole new level.

I walked into the nearly empty venue to find Filter on stage sound-checking “Take a Picture.” That’s when shit got real. I understand, now, why kids line up outside so early before a concert. On the off chance you can catch a glimpse of or hear just a little bit of your favorite band warming up, why wouldn’t you? With nobody else around, it’s so intimate, like they’re performing in your living room. When they started “Welcome to the Fold,” James, Chevelle’s tour manager, approached and took me backstage to meet the band.

Actually, he escorted me to the back of the club and outside to their bus. They’d definitely been living in it for a while. It was in the same sort of disrepair as my bedroom, comfortably disheveled. Pete, the lead singer, sat waiting, flipping through his phone. He seemed somewhat distracted at first. The business of prepping their new record for release in December weighed heavily on his mind. As I set up my equipment, his brother Sam, the drummer, stepped out and helped break the ice. They told me about a recent trip to Vegas where, at 4 a.m., some chick was trying to seduce Pete and his extremely hot wife. Happens to me all the time.

I think the interview went fairly well, not without its moments, but the good news is I got it out of the way, hopefully, to the boss’ satisfaction. I was, then, immediately ready for a drink and a smoke and a kick-ass rock show. All of which were conquered, in that order, with several more drinks and a couple more smokes. Ta showed up just before Filter took the stage, and it felt like high school again. The Baby DJ’s learning to walk.

Follow the musical musings and escapades of Baby DJ on Wednesdays at Six String Sanctuary.

Pssst: Ryan Adams rises above Ashes

Do yourself a favor. Put on a set of headphones and click here.

What you'll be doing is taking a beautiful trip through the gentle peaks and valleys of Ashes and Fire, the latest -- and possibly the greatest album yet -- from Ryan Adams. This is a First Listen freebie from NPR, so enjoy the ride. Don't let yourself be interrupted.

We've been fans of Adams since his barnstorning alt-country days with Whiskeytown. Come to think of it, that may have been our problem. While nursing the hangover that was the breakup of our favorite band, we were slow to embrace Adams' early solo work, good as it was.  Part of our hesitation was the troubled artist's tendency to self-destruct while he was churning out a confounding catalog of music --  some of it very good, but just too damn much of it.  Does that make any sense? We wouldn't have been surprised by a tragic outcome.

Happy to say, with Ashes and Fire, everything has come into focus. We've gone from fans to disciples, and we need to start by thanking Adams, who appears to have grown more as a person than an artist during his two-year hiatus. He already had the songwriting and musicianship down.  What happened to him?  Life lessons and love. He fell in love, really fell in love, as the writing in Ashes and Fire clearly reveals. We don't believe you can write "I Love You But I Don't Know What to Say" without discovering answers about life and love along the way.

I was lost I was lost
I tried to find the balance and got caught up in the cost
I let it go when I met you
The clouds inside me parted and all that light came shining through

I promise you I will keep you safe from harm
Love you all the rest of my days
When the night is silent and we seem so far away
Oh I love you but I don't know what to say

Adams, who is now married and finally clean, also had to deal with a painful inner-ear affliction that made music-making virtually impossible. We're sure it's all much more complicated than that, but the results are crystal clear. Ashes and Fire, produced by Glyn Johns and due out Oct. 11, is one of the best albums we've heard this year. It's going up on the big board as Personal Six String Sanctuary Tout (PSSST) No. 25.

Much LeDoux about cowboys

Chris LeDoux was a true cowboy.

By Al Tays



We're mighty happy
those cowboy boots
didn't fit Al Tays --
not that he doesn't
know a good ropin'
song when he hears it.

 During my country and western period (1990-95, when I lived in Atlanta and decided to "go native") one of my favorite songs was Chris LeDoux's "Whatcha Gonna Do With a Cowboy?" in which he's joined by Garth Brooks. I don't listen to C&W radio anymore, so I hear that song only when the shuffle function on my iPod cues it up. But the witty lyrics, zippy fiddle and catchy tune never fail to make me smile. And I think about how LeDoux wasn't just a guy with a hat singing about cowboys -- he really was one. He won the world bareback riding championship at the National Finals Rodeo in 1976.

And then I think what a shame it is that Chris LeDoux died before his time.

Born on this date in 1948, LeDoux was 51 in 2000 when he was diagnosed with primary sclerosing cholangitis, a chronic liver disease.

He had to have a liver transplant. Brooks volunteered to be a donor, but his tissue was incompatible. LeDoux underwent a transplant from another donor later that year. Four years later he was diagnosed with cholangiocarcinoma, cancer of the bile ducts, and died on March 9, 2005.

Shorty after LeDoux's death, Brooks recorded the song "Good Ride Cowboy" as a tribute. "I knew if I ever recorded any kind of tribute to Chris, it would have to be up-tempo, happy ... a song like him ... not some slow, mournful song," Brooks said in an interview with CMT. "He wasn't like that."

Thinking about LeDoux and "Whatcha Gonna Do With a Cowboy?" got me thinking about how many songs with "Cowboy" (or "Cowgirl") in the title are among my favorites. And make no mistake -- I'm no cowboy. This Boston tenderfoot (literally) tried wearing cowboy boots in Atlanta and found them to be the most uncomfortable things he ever put on his feet. And I'm allergic to horses. But I love these songs:

Whatcha Gonna Do With a Cowboy? (Chris LeDoux and Garth Brooks)
The Cowboy Tune, also known as The End is not in Sight, (Amazing Rhythm Aces)
Honky-Tonk Stardust Cowboy (Jonathan Edwards)
Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys (Willie Nelson)
King of the Cowboys (Amazing Rhythm Aces)
Should've Been a Cowboy (Toby keith)
What the Cowgirls Do (Vince Gill)

Three verses to go

Last weekend I received the biggest boost ever for a song when my brother-in-law Mike heard me play "Red Dress" -- which has only three verses (so far) and no bridge -- and said it would have been perfect at the end of the Jeff Bridges film Crazy Heart. Well he is an old schoolboy friend married to my sister, after all. And Bridges, while no slouch as a singer and musician, is not quite Bob Dylan.

And neither is Donovan, who drew those inevitable comparisons when he came up through the British folk scene in the Sixties. We mention this because it was on this date in 1965 that Donovan made his U.S. television debut on Shindig!  Looking back at him performing "Catch the Wind" we see a poised young songwriter with a positive vibe that would soon play to his laid-back, flower child persona. We also see some really bad fake trees.

In the chilly hours and minutes
Of uncertainty, I want to be,
In the warm hold of your loving mind

To feel you all around me
And to take your hand, along the sand
Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind

When sundown pales the sky
I wanna hide a while, behind your smile
And everywhere I'd look, your eyes I'd find

For me to love you now
Would be the sweetest thing, 'twould make me sing
Ah, but I may as well, try and catch the wind

When rain has hung the leaves with tears
I want you near, to kill my fears
To help me to leave all my blues behind

For standin' in your heart
Is where I want to be, and I long to be
Ah, but I may as well, try and catch the wind

A beautiful song by a great artist. But what was it like battling those Dylan comparisons? Donovan gave this thoughtful response in a 2001 interview with BBC:

"The one who really taught us to play and learn all the traditional songs was Martin Carthy—who incidentally was contacted by Dylan when Bob first came to the UK. Bob was influenced, as all American folk artists are, by the Celtic music of Ireland, Scotland and England. But in 1962 we folk Brits were also being influenced by some folk Blues and the American folk-exponents of our Celtic Heritage...

"Dylan appeared after Woodie [Guthrie], Pete [Seeger] and Joanie [Baez] had conquered our hearts, and he sounded like a cowboy at first but I knew where he got his stuff—it was Woodie at first, then it was Jack Kerouac and the stream-of-consciousness poetry which moved him along. But when I heard "Blowing In The Wind" it was the clarion call to the new generation – and we artists were encouraged to be as brave in writing our thoughts in music...We were not captured by his influence, we were encouraged to mimic him—and remember every British band from the Stones to the Beatles were copying note for note, lick for lick, all the American pop and blues artists—this is the way young artists learn.

"There's no shame in mimicking a hero or two—it flexes the creative muscles and tones the quality of our composition and technique. It was not only Dylan who influenced us—for me he was a spearhead into protest, and we all had a go at his style. I sounded like him for five minutes—others made a career of his sound. Like troubadours, Bob and I can write about any facet of the human condition. To be compared was natural, but I am not a copyist."

That's good enough for me. So is "Catch the Wind," which Donovan completes in five verses without a bridge, just a short harmonica flourish. I'm halfway home.

Movie review in a music blog: Drive

By Robert Nelson


We plan to reward Twin Cities
contributor Robert Nelson for
doing double duty this week
by reimbursing his fiancé for 
her portion of the bill.

 I love movies. I can get into a Rom-Com as easily as an action flick. I enjoy art-house as much as grindhouse. I’ll give anything a fair shake, but I hate crap. So when my buddy Kevin, who shares a similar, perhaps even more rabid flair for cinema, told me Drive was the best movie he’d seen all year, the fiancé and I decided to split the bill on dinner and a movie Friday night.

I thought it was another Fast and the Furious cash cow, but it’s not. They’re just selling it totally wrong. What you see in the trailers is really the backdrop for the main character. The plot evolves into a violent, romantic tragedy delivered in this moody, nuanced tone that calls to mind a litany of influences within a style entirely its own. It’s visually compelling, performances are stellar all around, and punctuating it all is the eeriest score since Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood (composed by Radiohead’s Jonny Greenwood; Drive’s composer: one-time Red Hot Chili Pepper Cliff Martinez who also composed Pump Up the Volume, the movie that made me want to be a DJ).

The title song, “Nightcall” is by French house DJ Kavinsky and features Lovefoxxx, a Brazilian indie singer of German, Portuguese and Japanese decent. She delivers breathy, surfer chic vocals over a slow, haunting synth beat that totally captures the pace and cadence of the film. “Under Your Spell” by Desire, a producer-drummer-singer trio, evokes similar notions with a bit more rising action and even more melancholy. It’s a strange amalgamation of electro-synth-pop on Ambien and coke. Also heard in the film, “A Real Hero” by College featuring Electric Youth, which reminded me instantly of “Mouthful of Diamonds” by Phantogram; both are great tunes.

If you haven’t heard of any of these artists, you aren’t alone. Kevin said he might go buy the soundtrack, something he hasn’t done in a long time. I plan to dig a little deeper into their respective bodies of work, first, maybe go scavenging through iTunes or Grooveshark before I make a purchase. We can agree on one thing, however: Drive is the best movie of 2011.

Pssst: Mercury rising for Pieta Brown

Let us tell you how much we enjoy Pieta Brown's new album Mercury, which is out today on Red House Records. Once we heard it we immediately checked her tour schedule to find the closest venue to our home here in Milwaukee. There is simply no way we're going to miss her this fall. Not the way this music sounds.

There are no dates in Wisconsin, so it'll be an enchanting October Saturday night in Iowa City, Iowa, and do not doubt such a possibility exists. Brown has roots in Iowa, after all, and the Englert Theatre is the perfect place for her CD release show. And for kickers, Iris DeMent is there a night earlier to help celebrate the theatre's 99th anniversary.

Lucky us. And lucky you, if you can make it there or anywhere along the tour to catch the brightest new star in Americana music. (Sadly, not everyone has recognized this. Even our hometown newspaper, which tries be musically hip, ignores Mercury in its weekly New CDs feature while mentioning releases by Maria Muldaur, LeAnn Rimes, Daryl Hall, Switchfoot, Chickenfoot, et al.)

Brown, daughter of troubadour Greg Brown (who recorded Pieta's tender "Remember the Sun" on his new album Freak Flag), has come into full bloom as an artist. She has always had a dreamy, sensual voice with a magnetic pull. And now, on Mercury, we hear lyrical poetry that begins to set her apart from the best in the genre.

Tonight I’m dancing alone
The world left me on my own
I’m not the first
I’m not the last
Rolling stone

There are several gems on the 13-song Mercury, but none more magical than "How Much of My Love." You would love to have this dance with her, but she is confident and content to do it alone. A true rolling stone, as we have suspected since we heard her for the first time years ago at a smoky dive in Minneapolis. Guitarist Bo Ramsey was with her that night and has accompanied her most of the way. His contributions are evident on Mercury, along with those of bassist Glenn Worf, drummer Chad Cromwell, multi-instrumentalist David Mansfield and Mark Knopfler ("So Many Miles.") It is Knopfler who calls Brown's singing "effortless and natural, like rain on earth."

Mercury was recorded in three days in a studio near Nashville, where producer Richard Bennett (Steve Earle, Emmylou Harris, Knopfler) was clearly moved. "Pieta's songs and melodies are beautiful, mystical, at times, frightening," Bennett wrote. "Among the many miracles about Mercury are those disarming vocals, recorded live as Pieta was also playing some very righteous guitar. Records are not made this way anymore and there aren't many artists capable of pulling that sort of thing off for three days running or even just one song. Most artists aren't Pieta Brown."

No they aren't, and Mercury is all the proof you need. It's time for Personal Six String Sanctuary Tout (PSSST) No. 24, Brown's second album to make the big board. We expect there will be more, and by then the rest of the world will surely know of this stunning jewel.

Does bubblegum lose its flavor?

Yep, our guy Al Tays is right:
Susan Dey (front right) was
pretty much the ONLY reason
for us guys to watch
The Partridge Family.

By Al Tays

Now THIS is an anniversary: On this day in 1970, the first episode of The Partridge Family was shown on U.S. TV. The idea came from the Cowsills, a REAL musical family. Apparently the original plans were to use the Cowsill kids, but that was dropped because they weren't TRAINED ACTORS.

You know, I think if someone had told me I was losing a role because Danny Bonaduce was a better actor, I might have gone right over the edge.

As for the other Patridges, well, let's just say that like most males, I paid a lot more attention to Susan Dey than to David Cassidy. I'm not sure I even knew what an overbite was, but on her, it looked good.

The Partridges' biggest hit was their 1970 release, "I Think I Love You," which made it to No. 1 on the Billboard charts. Don't remember? Click here. (And this is a good place to note that only Cassidy and Jones actually sang on the early recordings.) C

Overall, the Partridges released an astounding 89 songs on eight albums. That is a heck of a lot of bubblegum.

The new X games

We had to check out The X Factor last night. HAD TO. Simon Cowell back in the saddle with a new show? And no Ryan Seacrest? We're there, if only for half of the two-hour premiere. Hey, it's a school night.

One pet peeve about American Idol is its limited age group. Why not give an old rocker a chance to show up the kids? (X Factor has four categories: Girls, Boys, Over 30s and Groups.) So while we we're waiting for that old rocker to appear a spunky 13-year-old, Rachel Crow, comes onstage and we immediately become fans of the kiddie corps.  Rachel wins over the judges and audience with an audition more memorable than just about anything seen on Idol. Give her the $5 million now and we're outa here!

Another incredible moment is supplied by Stacy Francis, a 42-year-old single mom with two young kids who says "This is my last shot ... the time is now. I don't want to die with this music in me, Simon." She belts out an amazing rendition of Aretha Franklin's "(You Make Me Feel Like a) Natural Woman" that has nearly everybody spilling tears. Even our no-run mascara springs a leak. Simon, who has often played the bad cop but probably knows musical talent better than all of the judges on all of these shows, proclaims: "One of the best auditions I have ever heard in my life." Well, it's his show and he'll up the ante any way he can.

It isn't all good. Dan and Venita, a married couple ages 70 and 83, sing a dreadful "Unchained Melody" that leaves the judges unhinged, and they trot out some other freak shows just for shock value. The last performer is a recovering meth addict who sings an original song "Young Homie," that we're truly sorry we missed.

We're guessing X Factor will be BIG, with us or without us. Probably without us, at least until baseball is over. We're also guessing (hoping) that Rachel and Stacy will be around for awhile, so we'll have somebody to root for when we check back.

Foo in review: St. Paul rocked

By Robert Nelson

It's true, Woody did the wave.
At a Foo Fighters concert. The wave.
And it was ... cool. 

I ended up going to the Foo Fighters concert in St. Paul last week. We got in line for beer just in time to hear their first song. It was 8:30, which seemed insane until we left the arena at 11:30. For nearly three full hours, we rocked.

They played a cool hour and a half of notable tunes, pulling deeply from their new stuff before they got into the hits. That was the second half of the evening. Twice, somewhere in the middle of the night and again at the encore, Dave Grohl performed from the center of the floor on a small platform that elevated a good thirty feet into the air. The second time around, it was acoustically and without the band. This was the only part of the night they let us catch our breath. That’s when we did “the first ever wave at a Foo Fighters show.”

The wave doesn’t seem like a terribly rock ‘n’ roll thing to do, at first, and I think that’s why Grohl prompted us to go for it. It’s so un-rock ‘n’ roll that by doing it, we were rockin’ in the face of rock ‘n’ roll, and were thus, more rock ‘n’ roll than if we hadn’t rocked it out to begin with.

That's the Foo Fighters. Check out the video above. The wave’s at 4:25.

A Junior moment

By Al Tays

The Sanctuary condones
quitting your job and
driving across the
country like Al Tays,
especially if you get
to see Junior Brown
somewhere along the way.

Mrs. Assistant Music Blogger and yours truly have been semi-crazy about Junior Brown since we stumbled upon him on Austin City Limits while channel-surfing one haze-filled late-1980s night in Fort Lauderdale. We had no idea who this goofy-looking guy with a Blues Brothers suit and a Quickdraw McGraw cowboy hat was, and we SURE as heck didn't know what that double-necked guitar-like contraption was that he was playing, but DAMN, was he ever playing it!

Some research revealed that his name was Jamieson "Junior" Brown, he was from Indiana but had moved to Austin and become a guitar legend. Actually, he became a "guit-steel" legend, as that was the name he had given to his fusion of the neck and pickups from a Fender Bullet electric guitar and a lap-steel guitar.

We bought his CDs and fell in love with his blend of twangy-country witty lyrics ("you're wanted by the po-lice and my wife thinks you're dead") and greased-lightning fretboard work. When you listened to Junior, you weren't just listening to Junior. Through the riffs in his various medleys, you were listening to Hendrix, Page, Clapton, et al. When I moved to California, one of the first things I did was take my car out onto the Pacific Coast Highway, put the top down and crank up the volume on Junior's ode to the Ventures, "Surf Medley." I told friends that the karma was so intense, my head almost exploded.

We had a chance to see Junior once. He was opening for the Mavericks at Foxwoods Casino in Connecticut. We were running late, but weren't worried, because no concert ever starts on time, right? Wrong. Apparently the ones in casinos do, because when we walked in a half-hour late, Junior was already gone.

A second chance presented itself last week. We were moving back to Florida from LA, driving across the country. As luck would have it, Junior was playing in Austin, at the place he got his start, the Continental Club, on the night we were scheduled to stay in that city. We drove 10 hard hours from Las Cruces, NM, hoping we wouldn't get shut out again. We were just a few minutes late, but Junior and his band were delayed, so we didn't miss a thing. We stood at the bar, maybe 20 unobstructed feet from the stage, drinking the Continental's homemade ginger ale (and a Lone Star beer, just for authenticity).

Junior obliged with all the crowd's favorites, even taking requests. When he was done with his 90-minute set, we followed the band to the back door and bought some T-shirts from his drummer (whose name, alas, is on a slip of paper somewhere well hidden among all the stuff that was jam-packed into our car). The guy manning the front door of the club reminded us that our $15 cover was not good for admission to see the night's headliner. Didn't matter to us. We had already seen our headliner, an experience we'll never forget.

Requiem for a rapper

Tupac Shakur: June 16, 1971-Sept. 13, 1996

By Robert Nelson

When I was in junior high, virtually all the boys in my class had divided into two giant gangs. Best friends were separated by allegiances. Guys who’d never spoken before became brothers watching each other’s backs. This went on for a month or so. On the day of the rumble, maybe 50 kids filled the hallway of the second floor, squaring off, ready for battle. When the first bell rang, the melee began: fists flying, bodies being tossed into lockers, and at the second bell, we scattered, laughing and talking trash. It was fantastic.

This was in the middle of the East Coast vs. West Coast rap rivalry, and a year or two after we read The Outsiders in grade school. Blame either, but we were just horsing around. Nobody got hurt. In fact, it was probably the last time we really unified as a class. Ah, the stories I could tell you.

In U.S. History class, I sat next to Jessica Morales. One day I showed up and she was crying. She had these high, strong cheekbones that lifted her smile, almost perky, and a single crooked tooth that could be completely distracting when you saw it, but on that day, was more conspicuous for its absence. Her hair was thick and long, and strands of it clung to the tears running over her lips. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me Tupac died. I don’t know if I ever spoke to her again. It was September 13, 1996.

In 1991, Pac was still a part of Digital Underground when they appeared in the movie “Nothing But Trouble” with Dan Aykroyd, John Candy, Chevy Chase and Demi Moore. An abbreviated version of “Same Song” was featured in the film, and I ran out and bought “This is an EP Release” which included the full track with Tupac’s verse. That year, he released his first solo record 2Pacalypse Now. He was 20 years old.

Over the next five years, he released six studio albums, four of which were certified platinum (All Eyez on Me went 9x platinum), wrote enough material for as many posthumous albums, starred in as many movies, and in the 15 years since his death at 25 years old, has sold more than 75 million records. In 2010, he was inducted into the Library of Congress’s National Recording Registry. His murder remains unsolved.

I watched a few 9/11 documentaries this weekend. Each touched on how quickly we seem to forget. I don’t remember how I felt when Jessica Morales told me Tupac died. I can recall everything about that moment but the feeling. It evolves. Tupac’s legacy is vast and rich and complicated, but that’s not so important to me. What matters is the feeling. Sometimes, it’s for the sake of nostalgia, sometimes it’s sorrow, but more often, it’s just because he was so good. The feeling is why he’s important. That’s music.

Join Twin Cities contributor Robert Nelson on Wednesdays at Six String Sanctuary and gain a temporary asylum for your soul.

A Big Fish story

“I have never seen or heard of such a fish. But I must kill him. I am glad we do not have to try to kill the stars.”

-- Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea

Not every big fish makes a splash: 
Gavel Ridge's 2010 Big Fish
is under the radar but over the top.  

Terry "Doc" Holliday does not sell wine produced at his fledgling vineyard in west central Wisconsin. Not before its time, not any time. It is made in extremely limited batches and reserved for the enjoyment of family and friends. (He did sell about half his Marquette grapes last fall, which helps pay for the fun he is having as a winemaker and grower, and he will do the same this year.)

But Doc, a research and development manager by trade, is quickly mastering his new craft. Perhaps the only thing keeping his 2010 Big Fish Marquette from becoming legendary is the fact that so few will have a chance to put their lips to it. Or perhaps that is why it WILL become legendary. Barely five cases were produced; only a dozen or so bottles remain. And Doc seems intent on killing the rest. His reasoning: If it's this good now, why not drink it?

Robert M. Parker Jr. will never have a chance to rank 2010 Big Fish, critics and aficionados will never discuss its immense possibilities, and Wine Spectator will never devote a spread to the tiny vineyard on Gavel Ridge. They will never know, and neither will you -- unless you join Doc and Patricia Holliday Saturday for the new Marquette harvest on the picturesque wind-swept hills north of Whitehall. Your reward: a Gavel Ridge T-shirt, and a chance to taste the jam-o-licious Big Fish before it disappears.

Already a curious story is circulating about the lush grapes of Gavel Ridge, a story that supports the ancient notion of grapes as an aphrodisiac. One area winemaker who bought Marquettes from Doc last year swears this is true: He gave a bottle of his wine to a brother, who shared it with his wife and later regaled a story of wild love-making that lasted through the night. Believe what you want, that winemaker has already placed his order for the new grapes.

We are very fortunate to have a bottle of Big Fish stashed away, and it might as well be the '61 Cheval Blanc from the movie Sideways. To paraphrase: The day we open that bottle of '10 Big Fish, that's the special occasion. We might even drink it out of a paper cup.

Leaving Rome

Oh, the streets of Rome are filled with rubble
Ancient footprints are everywhere ...

This ain't Lambeau Field: The Colosseum by day.

ROME, Italy -- There is only one way to leave Rome at 4:45 in the morning. By limo. A cab ride to the airport is no way to put the finishing touch on a brief, magical brush with the ancient city.

The streets were nearly empty as a new day began to flicker. The limo arrived at the Baglioni Hotel, exactly on time, with two Italian gentlemen dressed in white longsleeve shirts, ties and black trousers. The driver was slightly older, with thick black-rimmed glasses. (He could have been the guy driving the Charger in the car chase scene from "Bullitt," sans gloves.) The other man, riding shotgun, was much younger. He carried a clipboard and spoke English well enough for a conversation.

When the door to the limo opened you could hear music blasting through the speakers. This was not music to help ferry passengers around the city, but rather something to help these men get into the spirit of their work day.

We weren't expecting Emilio Pericoli singing "Al Da La," although that would have been a nice touch. The Band's version of Bob Dylan's "When I Paint My Masterpiece" (lyrics above) had been buzzing around in my head throughout our tour of the city the previous day, but again, the limo music hadn't been chosen for our listening enjoyment.

So what do a couple of sharp looking Italian men jam into the player before their first morning cappuccinos? The music du jour was the Allman Brothers, with Berry Oakley's instantly recognizable bass line to "Whipping Post" filling the limo and making, for a brief moment, this big old world seem just a little bit smaller.

Strumbum adds: I couldn't resist the Rome, Italy dateline. I mean, how many chances do you get?