The rock manifesto of a 32-year-old who's gotten a little out of touch

I've been thinking a lot about music lately: why I love it, what it means to me, why I've gotten away from it in the past few years. I'm having my own little sonic rediscovery, if you will. I don't have any good reason for letting the daily enjoyment of the rock and roll slip away from my life; I am not old, I do not have children, my CDs were not burned in a house fire. Maybe it's a consequence of working at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum for six and a half years: at some point, rock and roll became my daily grind and, in retrospect, I do not appreciate that. I had Word documents on the subject matter. Rock and roll exists in the heart, mind and soul, not on a shared server.

So it is with great relief that I welcome music back into my day-to-day life like an old friend whose companionship used to be more vital to my well being than oxygen. In much the same way humankind's ancestors slithered out of primordial sludge, my 2007 Great Music Reawakening began slowly. In January I saw Sloan: always a favorite, they can do no wrong (even on "off" nights, which this was, because at least half the band was stricken with some sort of rock-deflating illness). In March a fortunate gene mutation helped me develop little legs, the better to traverse the rock and roll landscape: Australia's phenomenal but little-appreciated-in-these-parts You Am I played one of the best shows I've ever seen (and that includes Pearl Jam at the old Chicago Stadium on March 10, 1994, the night that will live on as The Night I Realized What Music Could Do). In May I was surviving like the fittest, and broke one of my old stupid habits of not seeing live shows of bands that I was not totally and completely mind-alteringly into: I saw Southern Culture on the Skids at one of the best live music venues in town. (Take that, naysayers! You know who you are.)

(In order to understand the importance of my going to three shows in three months, it is critical to realize that I used to go to shows all the time. Certainly when I lived in Chicago, but even after I moved back to Cleveland. There was even a time where I would drive all over the damn place, to states near and far, across Mason-Dixon lines and international [well, Canadian] borders, to see the finest in live rock and roll. But then I randomly stopped. As previously stated, there is no good reason for this other than the fact that, I don't know, I might have been tired.)

The live element is returning for me. I'm planning at least two shows in June, followed by what is sure to be the TRIUMPHANT return of the Old 97s to Cleveland in July. Beyond that, however, is my attendant rediscovery of the recorded music of bands that went missing from my life years ago. A lot of this has to do with the (un?)fortunate breaking of the 10-CD changer in my car. I have been forced to bust out some old mix tapes that have been rattling around in my car like coins that appear to be of negligible value but that, taken together, comprise a significant amount of useful American currency. For the first time since Bill Clinton was not having sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky, I am listening to Morphine again. Morphine is (was) a unique, dark, low, sexy three-piece made up of a drummer, a singer/slide bass player and a baritone saxophonist. It is nearly criminal that I have not heard "Thursday" or "All Wrong" or "Super Sex" in a decade. I mean, what is up with that?

Morphine is just one example. Soul Coughing. That is another example. Remember Soul Coughing? I didn't, for a long time there. But I am once again enjoying how "Screenwriter's Blues" perfectly captures the sound of Los Angeles in the middle of the night (or, I suppose, how I imagine Los Angeles would sound in the middle of the night, seeing as how I've only been out and about in the middle of the night in Los Angeles once, and I feel like that's what it sounded like). Midnight Oil? They deserve to be listened to, savored, for at least one hour per day. That is the least I can do for a band that writes lyrics about Holden wrecks and four wheels' scaring cockatoos and road trains and Kelly's country and our poet Henry Lawson and ANZAC Day and Truganini and Norfolk Island pines and currency lads -- a band that awakens such a strong desire within me to visit Australia that when I hear them I am thisclose to clicking over to the QANTAS Web site to see if I can get any good deals from LAX to SYD.

I just finished reading Nick Hornby's Songbook, and his connections with the songs about which he writes were, for me, the straws that broke the camel's back in terms of getting my rock and roll lifestyle back in order. I'm not familiar with all of the songs in Hornby's book, but it doesn't matter. His articulation of precisely why the songs touch him is so universal that we all can apply them to our favorite compositions. I don't get a deep-seated, visceral feeling of warmth and comfort when I hear Paul McCartney because he is such an astounding bass player and a brilliant songwriter (though he is both of those things); my knees get weak because both Beatles and post-Beatles Paul McCartney sounds like the entirety of the 11-year relationship my husband and I have shared to this date. I don't smile idiotically when I listen to Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot because of Jeff Tweedy's roots-music-influenced genius or because I once had a crush on a girl who fell in love with a heavy metal drummer; YHF floods my senses with what it was like to travel around the country with my best friend in 2002, trailing Sloan, losing our ability to remember what it was like just to enjoy a band from afar, gaining a friendship that will last forever.

How could I have pushed something so powerful and personal to the back burner? I should be flogged for my behavior but, like a loyal and loving dog, the music was waiting for me to return, happily greeting me with its fucking awesome rock and roll leash in its mouth, welcoming me home.

Indianapolis Colts Are Now!

Husband and I went last night to see CanRock superstars the Sloans. As a perennial favorite mount in my stable of rock and roll horsies, I never miss them on their way through town and, in many instances, have followed them to other towns for additional rocking.

Though half of the band was considerably under the weather, their overall rocking was not proportionately diminished. Then again, I'm not sure it's physically possible for Sloan to put on a bad show. They played many songs from the new and genius Never Hear The End Of It, and given that album's 30-track run of variable length-tunes, I wasn't sure how some of the songs would translate to a live format. But they did, fantastically. Sloan worked them into little three- or four-song packages, one right into the other. The band was in good spirits and their famous wit was on display per usual -- save for Jay Ferguson's general demeanor of misery (he seemed the sickest) and the one time Andrew Scott started into a song before Chris Murphy and Patrick Pentland were done with their clever banter, as if to say, "Shut the hell up, fuckers, I want to be done with this."

Anyway. All of this was to be expected. The unexpected portion of the evening came in the way that one of the opening acts, a group from Detroit called Thunderbirds Are Now!, ruled. Now, typically, I am miserable at the mere thought of standing through opening acts. I go out of my way to avoid them, even if it means, in some cases, sacrificing precious position at the front of the stage (a must for short chicks like me). So it was rather convenient that the NFL AFC Championship game between the Indianapolis Colts and the New England Patriots was going on during the two Sloan openers. Something to do instead of stand there, bored, staring at some local rock and roll hoodlums. That should tell you something: I am no football fan, but I'd rather watch a championship game than watch an opening act.

It was an interesting scenario: people who like Sloan enough to come out on a frigid Sunday night are generally not huge NFL fans, while people who are big enough football fans to be cheering wildly with each play are generally not really into Nova Scotian power pop. Not to make generalizations or anything. And it's not like you could be in the bar without paying the Sloan ticket price, so I'm guessing someone only in it for the game would have gone to one of the other no-cover bars just a few doors down.

So poor Thunderbirds Are Now! start their set, and they sound pretty awesome. Keyboard! I hear a keyboard! But the plays taking place as the Colts beat the Patriots were garnering much larger cheers. You had to sort of feel sad for the band, that Tony Dungy was getting a louder reaction from indie rock fans than they were. One dude was such a huge Colts fan, I thought he might strike me down in his exhilirating attempt to share a high-five. Dude turned out to be a huge Sloan fan, too, standing right behind us for most of the show until he disappeared, no doubt too overcome by all the football and CanRock excitement to remain upright any longer.

What I want to tell you is this: once we made our way to the stage after the game was over, we were treated to one hell of a show by Thunderbirds Are Now!. Specifically, their keyboard/tambourine player. Their sweaty, hyperactive, phenomenal keyboard/tambourine player, who is nothing less than the heir to the Flashing Lights' keyboard playing, tambourine shaking, cape wearing savant Gaven Dianda. Though Gaven continues to make music with various outfits -- and though my Thunderbirds hero was not wearing a cape -- I am glad to see someone else continuing in the general direction of misunderstood genius keyboarder tambourinist.

You should all go buy their albums.

Help me, Patrick Pentland, you're my only hope

I am compelled to point you in the direction of sloanmusic.com, where you will find 30 short films that document the recording of Sloan's newest masterpiece, Never Hear The End Of It.

Episode 16 is particularly brilliant. I kind of understand why 3PO is always so pissy; nobody ever asks him to sing on their album.

Hear The End Of It?!? I don't wanna hear the end of it!

It is important for all (two) of you out there who read this blog to understand that the new Sloan album, Never Hear The End Of It, is one of the finest albums they've released in their entire career. (Yes, I realize that, of my two precious readers, one of you already knows this fact. And the other doesn't even care about music. So I guess this post is an exercise in futility. Yet I blog on.)

Never Hear The End Of It is up there with Twice Removed, One Chord To Another and Between the Bridges, and it gives me hope in the future of Sloan. I wasn't sure they'd make it, given the difficulties they've had getting their albums released in the United States and the somewhat middling success of their last non-greatest-hits release, Action Pact. I was a tad fearful of what might happen next.

This new offering has no fewer than 30 (30!) songs, and is NOT a double album. My husband has described each harmony-laden track as the sonic equivalent of the 100-calorie pack. (I am ravenously jealous that I did not come up with this metaphor.) The tracks are short, sweet, satisfying and perfectly timed: the best ones leave you wanting more, and the not-as-fabulous songs end before you have time to reach for the "skip" button. Not that there are very many not-as-fabulous songs; only two or three, tops, which is an admirable percentage when you're listening to an album with nearly as many tracks as Christ had years.

Additionally, most songs include handclaps, the most excellent "instrument" there is next to the cowbell.

It's hard to pick favorites, but a few exceptional gems rise to the top o' the Beatle-y heap:

"Fading Into Obscurity"* (This song is easily among the best songs Sloan has ever recorded. Easily. It is Chris Murphy at his most phenomenal: witty turns of phrase, self-deprecating sentiment, semi-crippling insecurity, meter changes, internal rhyme, handclaps. Of course, handclaps.)

"I Understand" (As track 14, "I Understand" sounds like it's the last song on the album. But with another 16 tracks remaining, the song's chime-y fadeout is a marvelous reminder that you still have more than half the album to enjoy. It's like that feeling you get when you wake up early Saturday morning only to realize that, thrillingly, you don't have to go to work.)

"Another Way I Could Do It" (The hey-la-la-la-las at the end of the song will be stuck in your head after one listen. Go ahead, try it.)

"Something's Wrong" (Andrew Scott at his arena rock best.)

The tragedy, if you could call it that, is that this album probably won't bring Sloan any more success than that which they've already established for themselves. Their fawning mass -- a relatively moderately-sized yet vocal and enthusiastic audience -- will always be with them. But the blog and print space devoted to other indie darlings probably won't yield to Sloan, even though Sloan could show them all a thing or two as elder statesmen of rawking out. This album is better than anything Paris Hilton's done this year; though Jay Ferguson might not weigh as much as Ms. Hilton, Never Hear The End Of It should be garnering the heiress' share of attention from the music media at the very least.

Alas, it's the cross Sloan bears. You can hear it in a lot of the lyrics on this album, especially Chris Murphy's tracks*. I only hope that they continue to find artistic satisfaction in songwriting and recording, so that those of us in the know can keep appreciating their wares.