This weekend, she will be showing at the 14^th annual Art on the Farm, which is held in a lovely, rustic 19^th century barn in Manheim, PA.  Today she was featured in an article on the Handmade in PA online journal, replete with a stunning picture of one of her pieces.

Back in the summer, she was included in the juried exhibition “From Raw to Refined: The Creative Path of Master Craftsmen of the Pennsylvania Guild” at the Reading Public Museum, and later this month (November 21^st and 22^nd) she was invited to participate in the 7^th annual Art of the Craft show, also at the museum.

She’s frickin’ awesome, people, and I just had to bring it to your attention.

Monsoon

Thursday 10/22: pleasant and unseasonably warm with plenty of sunshine.  High 74, low 48.

Friday 10/23: overcast and a bit cooler with showers developing by late afternoon, continuing and becoming heavy at times overnight.                     High 62, low 54.

Saturday 10/24: cloudy and windy with a shower or thunderstorm early, then clearing, remaining breezy, and cooling off.  High 64, low 45.

Sunday 10/25: partly cloudy, seasonably cool and breezy.                           High 57, low 39.

Monday 10/26: partly cloudy and autumnally appropriate.                         High 60, low 41.

Tuesday 10/27: more clouds than sun; a few showers.  High 62, low 48.

Wednesday 10/28 & Thursday 10/29: partly to mostly cloudy and a bit warmer with some showers possible late Thursday.  Highs in the mid to upper 60s; lows in the upper 40s.

Friday 10/30 and Halloween weekend: cloudy, turning colder and perhaps a little rainy on Friday night (high 58, low 36).  Clear and colder on Saturday and Sunday, with highs in the mid to upper 40s, and lows in the low 30s.

The first week of November: More of the same.  Those of us who haven’t yet seen the first frost will see it this week.  As temperatures could dip into the upper 20s at night and there is at least one interesting system moving through, we could see some…no.  I dare not speak its name yet.

Monsoon

P.S. Major weather outlets have released (or are preparing to release) their 2009-2010 winter weather outlooks.  I am preparing such a package of prognostication and will release it by month’s end.

Not.  I hate him.

Well, before long folks will be grumbling about the weather skipping autumn altogether and heading right into winter…and if you take a look at the forecast below, you’ll see the grumblers may actually have a point.  Average highs for mid-October round here are in the mid 60s; average lows are in the low 40s.  Check out what we’re in for…

The weather:

Weather narrative: The weather feels more like late fall than early fall, with temperatures well below normal.  A bit of rain is possible every day from Wednesday through Sunday, but I’m seeing a lot of showers and drizzle rather than downpours and washouts, so outdoor plans for those days are still feasible.  (The Renaissance Faire trip for students on 10/15 is looking cloudy and cold right now, but should not be spoilt by an abundance of rain.)  There have even been some models producing a rain-snow solution for Friday night 10/16 in some outlying areas, but I think that’s highly unlikely to come to fruition.

By the latter part of next weekend, expect clearing and dry conditions with some warming toward seasonable levels by midweek. 

Beyond the forecast: The trend for the last week in October is for seasonable conditions (highs in the low 60s, lows in the upper 30s to low 40s) and some more precipitation.  I do think the first frost will hold off until the first or second week in November.

Monsoon 

I’ve caught my breath after the beginning-of-the-school-year sprint and thought I’d produce a forecast—complete with the first WeatherTable of the 2009-2010 school year.  Weather-friends, I am also looking for suggestions: weather features, forecast tweakage, topic ideas…

The weather:

Weather narrative: Fall-like weather is here.  Highs will be mainly in the 60s, lows in the 40s.  (Toward the end of the forecast, it’s looking like 50s-30s!)  Days to be on the lookout for rain include Saturday 10/3 (relative washout), Sunday 10/4 (just a few showers or a storm), and Thursday 10/8 (a few morning showers).

Beyond the forecast: At this point it’s looking like we’ll have a rainy start to the week, with precipitation possible on Monday 10/12 and Tuesday 10/13.  Look for temperatures cooler than normal and a bit more precipitation than normal as we head into mid-October…

Monsoon 

Now, onto the weather...

We've been in a dry period of late, and it looks like high pressure will predominate for the foreseeable future here in the region: even when I'm forecasting rain over the next two weeks or so, it's just a sprinkle here and a shower there for the most part.  Enjoy...

Mon 9/7  partly sunny, clouding up late; slight chance of a shower or two.  High 76 / Low 56

Tue 9/8  more clouds than sun, breezy; perhaps a bit of drizzle or even a shower.  High 79 / Low 58

Wed 9/9  breezy, clouds dominate; drizzle or a few showers in the evening or at night.  High 74 / Low 62

Thu 9/10  partly to mostly sunny, breezy and cooler; isolated showers late.  High 69 / Low 56

Fri 9/11  partly to mostly sunny and pleasant.  High 75 / Low 58

Sat 9/12  mostly sunny with patchy clouds.  High 78 / Low 60

Sun 9/13  sun mixed with clouds.  High 79 / Low 61

Mon 9/14  increasingly cloudy.  High 76 / Low 54

Tue 9/15  partly sunny, more humid and cloudy with a few showers in the evening.  High 79 / Low 53

Wed 9/16  cloudy with periods of rain; clearing late.  High 72 / Low 53

Thu 9/17  mostly clear and pleasant.  High 68 / Low 50

Fri 9/18  cooler; sunny and pleasant.  High 65 / Low 46

Sat 9/19  sunny, clear, and damn near perfect.  High 70 / Low 48

Beyond  high temperatures climbing through the 70s for a few days following the forecast period, then seasonably cooler as we head into autumn.

Monsoon

If our first nine months with The Bunk have taught us anything, it's that the standard poodle may just be the crème de la crème of the canine world.  He is even-tempered (ask his cousin Emily how tolerant and patient he is when being ordered and tugged around by a kindergartener), obedient (usually, when it comes to "sit" and "down" and "leave it," but we're still working on "no bark" and some other things), does not beg for table scraps, does not shed, and is the lovingest, cuddliest dog in history.  (These are objective observations, by the way.)

A few days ago I found a book called Pet Poodle from the 1950s while poking around at the Clay Book Store.  In it, Arlene Erlanger writes with unabashed sentiment and charming effusion about the poodle, a breed she calls, with typical hyperbole, "all dogs to all men."  One passage in particular reminded me of The Bunk, and what we have come to love so dearly about him: "Food and exercise are not as vital to his well-being as human companionship: he can get along under almost any conditions; he can do without regular meals; he can do without adequate exercise, but he cannot live without love."  (She also writes, when discussing a male poodle's elimination habits, "Sometimes lifting the leg is merely a form of courtesy in a dog, corresponding to the gesture of a gentleman's lifting his hat."  Now, I know it's been rather a long while since gentlemen wore hats and regularly tipped them at folks they passed in the street, but I don't think The Bunk means a friendly greeting when he lifts his leg on a tree...)

The Bunk was born August 24, 2008 in Reamstown.  (Can it have been a year already?  "Sunrise, sunset / Swiftly flow the days...")  The earliest known pictures we have of him are at nine weeks, when he was still named Mercedez (which sounds like the name of some spoilt, odious little prat that would be featured on a show like MTV's "My Super Sweet Sixteen").  He came into our lives around Thanksgiving (at 3 months) and, well, he's perfect.  In fact, sometimes we'll be watching him play, or sleep, or we'll be petting him or brushing him, and we'll literally look at each other and say, "He is the perfect dog."  And it's damn right.

The Bunk at nine weeks old, less than a month before we got him. 

The Bunk, Christmas 2008, aged four months.The Bunk chills by the window a couple of weeks ago; note that his right ear is blowing in the breeze created by the air vent on top of which he has positioned himself. The Bunk, recently trimmed by his friends at the Total Dog, relaxes in the chair on a lazy Sunday (just yesterday, in fact), and looks out the front window at some perceived interloper; soon, there will be barking.

The Bunk poses on his birthday specially for you, his adoring fans. 

Monsoon 

But contrary to my worst fears, Bunk’s powers of sweetness and devotion were not contained, Samson-like, in his hair; he’s been the lovingest, cuddlingest little four-legged companion a guy could ask for. And his hair is growing back in, so he’s got far more “poof” going on.

As the months go by—we’ve had Bunk now for eight months, and this coming Friday is his 11-month birthday—more and more of his enchanting personality emerges. When one of us opens the door to the pantry, for instance, he will daintily take a treat out of the bag on the floor and carry it out to the living room, where he happily (but systematically) devours it. He never takes more than one at a time—though he’s been known to return for seconds when the pantry door is left ajar.

Bunk’s new favorite spot to lounge is in the chair by the window whose color has been the subject of ongoing and vociferous disagreements in the Monsoon household. (Mrs. Monsoon insists it’s green; I say it’s tan. What say you, dear reader? See pictures below.)

Though he has his moments of vigor and verve, and he surely enjoys a bit of roughhousing or a long walk through town, Bunk seems to love nothing more than to join one of us in a nap, or to fall asleep at our side while being petted. We’re still trying to work on “down” (as in, “Bunk, please don’t signal your enthusiasm for our guest by engaging her in an involuntary chest-bump”), and the oddest things set him off to barking (“No bark!” doesn’t seem to have any effect on him; nor do “Bunk, Jesus!” or “Give it a rest!”).

Back on Memorial Day weekend, Bunk had his first exposure to fireworks during the Adamstown Community Days celebration. In short, he hates them. He spent the whole time cowering and trembling next to Mrs. Monsoon, and he still gets spooked when he hears thunder or gunfire; the Adamstown Rod & Gun Club is across the valley, so when they’re open, Bunk is pressed up against me, tail tucked between his legs. (I thought about taking this opportunity to insult the folks who patronize the above-mentioned gun range, but then I remember that they have guns, and I don’t.)

Here are the pictures...

The Bunk lies surrounded by his toys, as is his wont; here he has actually fallen asleep while chewing on his bone  The Bunk in the chair by the window with head propped adorably on armrest The Bunk's favored deep-sleeping position: on his back with top half of his body torqued 90 degrees--and of course, toys arrayed about him The Bunk at the ready, eager as always to please

Monsoon

Before I reveal the top tier, though, we have a winner in the contest announced in the last posting! There were several good entries, but one reader in particular emerged well ahead of the pack. This reader correctly guessed two albums in the list below—and three of the other guesses named the correct artist, but the wrong album. Impressive, Megan King! You have now earned the right to select one CD to receive free from among my 20 Desert Island Discs.

[I can’t resist listing the albums that almost made the cut for my 20 D.I.D.s: The Who, Who’s Next; Cream, Disraeli Gears; Stevie Wonder, Innervisions; Miles Davis, Kind of Blue; Sly & the Family Stone, A Whole New Thing.]

Alright, without further ado...

John Coltrane – Africa/Brass, Volumes 1 and 2 (1961)

Coltrane’s first release for the Impulse! label is also the most searing and accomplished of his career. For the album, Coltrane’s backing quartet—which included McCoy Tyner (piano), Elvin Jones (percussion), Reggie Workman (bass), and Art Davis (bass)—was joined by a fifteen-piece brass section that included such luminaries as trumpeter Freddie Hubbard, trombonist Britt Woodman, and Eric Dolphy on the reeds. The compositions were arranged by Tyner and Dolphy, which contributes to the staccato (Tyner) and avant-garde (Dolphy) quality of the music.

In the liner notes for Africa/Brass (Volume 2 was released posthumously, and included alternate takes and an unreleased track), Dom Cerulli wrote, “John Coltrane is a quiet, powerfully-built young man who plays tenor saxophone quite unlike anyone in all of jazz. His style has been described as ‘sheets of sound’ or as ‘flurries of melody.’ But, despite the accuracy, or lack of accuracy, of such descriptions, it is a fact that Coltrane’s style is wholly original and of growing influence among new tenor players.”

The notes go on to describe Coltrane as a restless artist, always seeking to expand his musical palette and explore his influences—Cerulli remarks that Coltrane had immersed himself in the rhythmic character of Africa and had been studying folk musical traditions as well, and on Africa/Brass this is wholly evident. Two of the cuts are Coltrane/Tyner arrangements of traditional songs: “Greensleeves” and the elaborated Black Code spiritual, “Song of the Underground Railroad.” In the first, Coltrane uses a languid time signature to create plenty of space for the saxes and piano to open up; the latter becomes a propulsive hard-bop masterpiece, with goosebump-inducing brass swells and interplay between Tyner and Coltrane.

The Coltrane originals in the Africa/Brass sessions are “Blues Minor” and “Africa.” The former is solid but unremarkable in the Coltrane canon, but the latter is breathtaking. In “Africa,” John Coltrane takes full advantage of everything before him in the studio—the brass section, the work of Tyner in adapting his piano voicings for the orchestra, Dolphy’s artistry, and his own fearless improvisation, not to mention his own tireless investigation of African rhythms, aided by Nigerian percussionist Babatunde Olatunji—and brings it to bear. The music is by turns austere and florid, as Dolphy’s reed work seems to mimic human wails and joyful noise. And while listening to Africa/Brass, I can never shake the neatness of this fact: Coltrane sought to incorporate African musical elements into an art form that itself had already incorporated so many of those elements—jazz.

Crowded House – Time on Earth (2007)

I wrote about this outstanding album in a review post last summer, so I’ll just direct you to that page on my weblog for the details—standout songs, a bit about the band, and more.

The album has only grown more appealing since I wrote that piece. What is most remarkable about this fact, going back to my introductory remarks in Vol. 1, is that the album hangs together as a coherent musical statement despite the fact that part of it was conceived as a Neil Finn album and part for Crowded House.

The Jimi Hendrix Experience – Electric Ladyland (1968)

This is the one. On the BBC Radio show, the host typically asks the guest to name the one album (of the eight Desert Island Discs) he or she would select if only one could be taken. For me, the last album released by The Jimi Hendrix Experience would be that one disc.

The recording of Electric Ladyland began in fits and starts during the summer of 1967, but wrapped up in earnest during the spring and summer of 1968; the double album was released in September 1968, two years before Hendrix’s death of an apparent drug overdose.

The Electric Ladyland sessions are the stuff of legend, not only in their scope and the number of guest performers/devotees/hangers-on that packed the studio, but also in terms of Hendrix’s perfectionism. Not only did he record take after take of each song—“Gypsy Eyes” is said to have run through more than 40 takes before Hendrix could be convinced that the song was album-ready—but he also laid down the bass tracks (using a right-handed guitar) on the frequent occasions that Noel Redding became frustrated at the pace of things and stormed out to have a pint. The recording process is the subject of a documentary in the Classic Albums series and countless articles. In short, it’s been done. So let me more on and tell you a little bit about why I love this album so much.

First, the liner notes (or “Letter to the Room Full of Mirrors”) by Hendrix are a study in psychedelia (or more to the point, psychotropia) that can’t help but make one wonder what kinds of narcotics may have helped him envision this sonic landscape and make it a reality. A sample: “That sound was from those cellophane typewriters—exactly, constantly from the south side of those carpets.” It sounds profound, almost poetic, until one realizes that it doesn’t make a damned bit of sense.

The first cut is the trippy instrumental piece “...And the Gods Made Love,” replete with backward vocals, reverb, echo, and speed-release effects that Hendrix himself called “a 90-second sound-painting of the heavens.” This song is followed by the lovely title track, which sounds like a somewhat more fully realized version of “Little Wing,” and for which Hendrix himself performed both the lead and backing vocal parts. After the disarmingly straight ahead (but in reality, marvelously multilayered) “Crosstown Traffic,” Side A concludes with the 15-minute blues jam “Voodoo Chile.” Much of the track consists of an electrifying musical interplay between Hendrix’s guitar wizardry and Stevie Winwood of Traffic on the Hammond organ. It’s one of those perfect creations that demands the listener’s full attention. I can remember taking my dad’s copy of the album over to Mark Shewchuk’s house and playing this song; we just sat in dumb awe as every last second of “Voodoo Chile” washed over us.

[A note: I am a proponent of the vinyl experience in general, but for most music, there’s little discernible difference to the casual listener. I’m telling you, though: you haven’t heard Electric Ladyland—not really—until you’ve heard it on vinyl. It’s like the difference between seeing a very good color reproduction of Thomas Eakins’ The Gross Clinic and seeing the piece—with its brushstrokes, its subtle shadings, its minutest details—in person, as I did a couple of years back after it was acquired by the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It’s worth the effort.]

I could go on, and on. Other standouts on this double album include the melancholy “Burning of the Midnight Lamp” and “1983 (A Merman I Should Turn To Be)”; the reprises of “Rainy Day, Dream Away” and “1983”; and a furious reimagining of Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower.” Side D closes with “Voodoo Child (Slight Return),” a composition that calls to mind indigenous creation stories and may connect to Hendrix’s own part-Cherokee heritage. “Voodoo Child” begins with liberal use of the wah-wah pedal and intersperses spare, iterant lyrics with Hendrix’s taut solos, which veer from the left audio channel to the right and back again: “Well, I stand up next to a mountain / And I chop it down with the edge of my hand / Well I pick up all the pieces and make an island / Might even raise a little sand.”

Jethro Tull – Stand Up (1969)

“Some new songs for you.” So ran the opening of the spare liner notes for the band’s second album, written by bandleader, principal songwriter, flutist, organist, mandolineer, and lead vocalist Ian Anderson. Stand Up was Tull’s first release with its most accomplished lineup—Anderson; Martin Barre on guitar; Clive Bunker on drums; Glenn Cornick on bass—and marked a revolutionary moment in rock.

[A note: I almost selected Tull’s Aqualung for the list, but ultimately decided that Stand Up is the stronger album, and the one I return to more often. And there just seemed to be something a little bit hinky about having a work that begins with the lyrics “Sitting on a park bench / Eyeing little girls with bad intent” on my D.I.D. list...]

The album kicks off with the propulsive blues “A New Day Yesterday,” which mixes Barre’s guitar artistry with Cornick’s progressive drum signatures and Anderson’s trademark flute. Other standouts on the release—whose original gatefold cover revealed a “pop-up” image of the band’s members—are “Bourée,” a reimagining of Bach’s classic piece; and “We Used to Know,” a minor-key rock ballad that reportedly inspired the Eagles’ “Hotel California.”

Two folk-inflected ballads, though, are the real centerpieces of this album. First, “Reasons for Waiting” is a celebration of love and how, in the best of cases, it can transcend space: “Came a thousand miles / Just to catch you while you’re smiling.”

“Look into the Sun” is one of the most evocative songs ever written, and is actually my dad’s favorite of all time. Its lyrics are an astonishing balance of loss and hope, bitterness and circumspection: “I had waited for time to change her / The only change that came was over me / She pretended not to want to love / I hope she was only fooling me / So when you look into the sun / Look for the pleasures nearly won...”

[A recent development on YouTube is that users have begun uploading complete songs accompanied not by video, but by still images of the band members or album covers. This is one such instance: Here is “Look into the Sun” – just the song, no video.]

Branford Marsalis – Royal Garden Blues (1985)

When one hears the name “Branford Marsalis,” one might think of his membership in a famed New Orleans musical family; the pretensions of his older brother Wynton, self-appointed guardian of jazz authenticity; or Branford’s brief stints as a member of Sting’s group or as bandleader on Jay Leno’s “The Tonight Show.” But the criminally underrated Branford Marsalis is one of the most exciting saxophonists working today, and has a mean body of work to back it up.

On his second solo album—the first was the very good “Scenes in the City,” built around a reworking of the kaleidoscopic title track by Charles Mingus—Branford stuck to the classics while paying homage to the Crescent City that gave him musical life. It opens with the taut “Swingin’ at the Haven,” with Branford’s father Ellis—the composer of the tune many years back—on piano.

[I have never before seen a jazz music video, but here is the video for “Royal Garden Blues,” another tribute to New Orleans with a bop twist. It was shot by Spike Lee in New York’s Bronx Botanical Gardens, featuring the quartet performing a four-minute version of the album’s title cut.]

The two most moving tunes on this warm, accomplished album are ballads composed by pianists. Larry Willis’ “Shadows” (on which he also plays piano) ebbs and flows and features a brush-wielding Smitty Smith playing at his most restrained. But it’s Kenny Kirkland’s “Dienda,” one of my favorite songs ever, which truly sets the album apart.

I always end up feeling some kind of way when I listen to this song, as I am doing now. It’s not sad, exactly—it’s wistful, reflective. Branford’s soprano saxophone takes the melody laid down in Kirkland’s piano intro and imbues it with new depth and color. It’s one of the most terribly beautiful songs I have ever heard. Rest in peace, Kenny.

[Here’s a 1987 performance of “Dienda” – the video and audio are slightly out of sync, but it is a fantastic rendition.]

Minutemen – The Punch Line (1981)

For those unfamiliar with the peculiar post-punk stylings of the Minutemen, the best place to start is probably the 1998 compilation Introducing the Minutemen, a 35-track retrospective covering much of the band’s roughly five-year career (which ended following the death of lead singer and guitarist D. Boon is a van accident). But its finest single release is not the uneven, somewhat meandering Double Nickels on the Dime—though there are great songs like “Corona” and “History Lesson – Part II” on that double-album—but the trio’s debut LP, The Punch Line.

An outstanding documentary about the band’s history was produced a few years ago. It’s called We Jam Econo (in reference to the band’s penchant for reusing recording tape and recording songs in the order in which they’d appear on an album, as they reportedly did on The Punch Line) and the film includes interviews with contemporaries as well as both Watt and Hurley.

The Minutemen’s sound is difficult to describe: Mike Watt’s two-fingered bass plucking and husky-voiced singing, George Hurley’s frenetic drumming, D. Boon’s high-treble guitar and hollered lyrics. At least at the beginning of the band’s career, few Minutemen songs reached beyond a minute, but the band could pack more insight and authenticity into 40 seconds than many bands could squeeze out of an entire album.

Here’s a video to acquaint you with this incredible band: it’s the Minutemen performing “Little Man with a Gun in His Hand” in 1984.]

Indeed, the album’s 18 songs clock in at little more than 15 minutes, and each of the three members sings vocals on the album, though in later years only Boon and Watt handled the vocals. Standouts include the instrumental “Song for El Salvador,” “Straight Jacket,” “Tension,” and “Static.”

The best song on The Punch Line is the title track, a deliciously revisionist account of Custer’s Last Stand: “I believe when they found the body of George A. Custer / Quilled like a porcupine with Indian arrows / He didn’t die with any honor, dignity or valor / I believe when they found the body of George A. Custer / American general, patriot, and Indian fighter / That he died with shit in his pants.”

Ozomatli – Ozomatli (1998)

“O-zo-mat-li / Ya se fue / Ya se fue!” So goes the chant as Ozomatli leaves the stage at the end of one of its live shows (it means “Ozomatli have left”) and continue to play as the band members wend their way through the crowd. The best way to experience this multicultural Latin/funk/hip-hop collective from Los Angeles is live, in concert, during one of its rare appearances on the east coast. Mrs. Monsoon and I have seen them six times—once with Jon and Megan, once with just Megan (what what!), both at the World Café Live—and I’ve been lucky enough to meet some of the band’s members.

Ozomatli’s constantly evolving lineup finds as few as eight or as many as twelve musicians onstage, but the “original six” (who have been with the band since its formation in 1995) are Asdru Sierra (vocals, trumpet); Wil-Dog Abers (bass, vocals); Ulises Bella (reeds, guitars, vocals); Justin “Niño” Porée (percussion, rap vocals); Raúl Pacheco (guitar, vocals); and Jiro Yamaguchi (percussion).

The band’s members met through their involvement with the Peace and Justice Center in L.A., and Ozo continues to be politically engaged on behalf of the rights of indigenous peoples, eradicating racism, and other causes. (Wil-Dog just sent me information through Facebook about an L.A.-based organization called Encompass, which develops and implements programs to eliminate homophobic bias from school classrooms.)

Ozomatli has released four studio albums, but its self-titled debut still stands as its sharpest and most engaging. Ozomatli is built around the band’s seamless blend of cumbia, funk, rock, hip-hop, reggae, and Middle Eastern elements, with Spanish and English lyrics—sometimes in the same song. Many of the cuts are punctuated by sections rapped by Chali 2na, who left the group after this album to join the hip-hop collective Jurassic 5 (but recently rejoined Ozo for its autumn and spring tours). There’s not a weak cut on the disc, but highlights include the infectious “Cumbia de los Muertos”; the strident “Chota,” a Spanish-language song of resistance to police brutality; and “Aquí No Sera,” which is a remake of Enrique Ramirez’s protest song against U.S. intervention in El Salvador.

[Here are two videos from the BBC show “Later with Jools Holland,” both of which are performances by Ozomatli from 1998, the year Ozomatli was released. In the first video, they perform “Como Ves”; in the second, they perform “Super Bowl Sundae.”]

The Roots – Do You Want More?!!!??! (1995)

Back in May 2008, I wrote an open letter to The Roots asking them to reconsider their championship of the noise-rock outfit Deerhoof.

While The Roots regrettably ignored my pleas, I received plenty of feedback from those who also attended An Evening with The Roots or The Roots Picnic and wondered what in sunny hell they had done to earn the aural assault of Deerhoof. Now, sadly, it’s too late. The Roots’ downfall happened more rapidly than even I anticipated: as of March 2009, The Legendary Roots Crew has been working as the “house band” for Jimmy Fallon’s late-night talk show. Yes, Black Thought is now a third-rate Doc Severinsen. (Breathtakingly afroed drummer Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson playing in and out of commercial breaks on an after-midnight chat show is a little like Miles Davis sitting in a corner and playing the “Jeopardy” theme while the contestants record their responses during Final Jeopardy. It hurts just to talk about it.) Hip-hop is dead. Not to be dramatic or anything.

But hey! Let’s talk about what The Roots accomplished during a 15-year recording career before they sold out. Their strongest album is The Roots’ major label debut, Do You Want More?!!!??! Though 2002’s Phrenology and 2004’s The Tipping Point came close, ultimately I had to choose Do You Want More?!!!??! for my Desert Island Discs list.

Again here, I am drawn to The Roots because they bend and blend genres deftly, as did A Tribe Called Quest in the same era. Present on this album are the boastful rhymes, beat-boxing, and heavy beats one would expect to find on a hip-hop release—but what listeners also found were a jazz sensibility; live instrumentation; bagpipes (!) on the title track; and the graphic, uncompromising spoken-word poetry of Philadelphian Ursula Rucker. The album begins with Black Thought’s announcement that “You are all about to witness some organic hip-hop jazz,” and the listener is transported from there.

It’s an unforgettable and impressive album from beginning to end. Outstanding tracks include “Proceed” and “Distortion to Static.” “Silent Treatment,” a lost-love lament, is superior even to later, more well-known Roots songs of that ilk like “You Got Me” and “The Hypnotic.” Longtime Roots collaborator Dice Raw makes his debut (at the tender age of 15) on “The Lesson, Pt. 1.”

[Check out The Roots’ first music video, for “Proceed.”]

U2 – The Joshua Tree (1987)

Each U2 album—particularly through to the early 1990s—has its own tone, its own heart, so it was difficult to select one for my D.I.D. list. In the end, the roots majesty of The Joshua Tree beat out the atmospheric anthems of The Unforgettable Fire and jaded reinvention of Achtung Baby.

The Joshua Tree was bigger than an album; it was a phenomenon. It made the world take notice of U2 and turned even casual popular music fans into devotees of the quartet from Dublin.

In a post earlier this year, I wrote extensively about this album specifically, and in general about my love for this band. There’s not really a whole lot I can add to that, as there’s not much that hasn’t already been said or written about The Joshua Tree. It’s a masterwork.

Incidentally, I consider the seven songs on B-sides to the “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” “With or Without You,” and “Where the Streets Have No Name” 45-rpm singles to be legitimately part of The Joshua Tree, as the album was originally conceived to be released as a double album. I’m just saying.

Every single song is great, and the songs themselves are really hard to consider outside the context of the entire album—a testament to its cohesion. The album as a whole is quite a bit darker than one might realize at first: its songs deal with heroin addiction (“Running to Stand Still”), bellicose U.S. foreign policy (“Bullet the Blue Sky”), and death squads in San Salvador (“Mothers of the Disappeared”). The words that most haunt me, though, are at the conclusion of the swelling, shattering “Exit,” the tale of a desperate man driven to violence by his own demons: “The hands that build / Can also pull down / The hands of love.”

Bunny Wailer – Blackheart Man (1976)

The lilting strains of Tommy McCook’s flute on the opening title track welcome the listener deep into the Jamaican hillside, and one feels instantly transported to a back-to-nature Rastafarian commune. Blackheart Man is the first solo album by Neville Livingston, aka Bunny Wailer, one of the original Wailers (with his half-brother Bob Marley, as well as Peter Tosh). Following the international success of the Wailers, Bunny began to feel marginalized as Bob’s was featured more prominently as the leader of the band—he also disliked leaving his homeland and became more entrenched in the Rastafari faith—and so both Bunny and Peter left in 1974 to begin successful solo careers.

Blackheart Man is a masterpiece, and surely one of the finest reggae albums of all time. Subtitled on the album jacket The Ten Messages, its ten songs elaborate on mystical Rasta teachings, Biblical messages of deliverance, and on the struggles of the African diaspora against oppression. Bunny is backed by most of the Wailers band, not to mention Peter Tosh on rhythm guitar and backing vocals and the Skatalites’ Tommy McCook on horns and woodwinds. Bob Marley even shows up to contribute backing vocals on the album’s richest, most redolent track, “Dreamland,” a fantasy of African repatriation: “We’ll get our breakfast from the tree / We’ll get our honey from the bee / We’ll take a ride on the waterfalls / And all the glories, we’ll have them all...”

[Here’s the song “Dreamland” as uploaded to YouTube—no video, just the song and a series of still images of Bunny Wailer.]

____________________________________________________________

Whew. This list of Desert Island Discs was more difficult to write than I’d anticipated. It’s hard to articulate why I love something that reaches me on such a pre-verbal level. Why does Edge’s guitar leave me in awe? Why does Coltrane’s “Song of the Underground Railroad” make the hairs on my arm stand up? Why do I well up sometimes when I hear “Dienda”? These are matters of emotion, of subconscious association, and it’s best just to accept them and enjoy.

I’ve had lots of musical mentors throughout my life—Mark, Amy, Rob, Dave, and others—who have introduced me to new bands discovered great music with me. Kachina has been my partner not just in love and friendship these nearly 18 years since we met, but in music—and the soundtrack of our relationship is accompanied by great artists like Charlie Parker, Crowded House, Cassandra Wilson, Blind Faith, Nick Drake, and Jill Scott.

But I might not have so deep an appreciation for music—nor would it likely be such an integral part of my life that it’s impossible to imaging existing without it—if not for my dad. From the time I was very young, his massive record collection and patient indulgence of my curiosity have guided me in discovering my own musical preferences. He has never been hemmed in by labels and has never confined himself to one specific genre; his record collection includes classic and progressive rock, jazz, bluegrass, comedy, classical, fusion, blues, folk, metal, and so much more. The extent of his musical palate continues to amaze me to this day.

I always caution my students to avoid ending their work with someone else’s words, but in this case, I’ll break my own rule. In the last scene of the must-see film Almost Famous, fifteen-year-old William Miller finally gets an interview with lead guitarist Russell Hammond after following his band, Stillwater, around on tour. Sitting in William’s bedroom at the end of a poignant exchange, Miller thrusts a tape-recorder microphone at the rock star and asks, “So Russell ... what do you love about music?” Russell considers the question, settles in for a long response, and says, “To begin with ... everything.”

Monsoon

Monsoon

So here’s my spin—no pun intended—on the Desert Island Discs format.

First, whereas the participants on the BBC show often chose pieces of music or individual songs, I will confine myself to entire studio albums. I realize that the studio album is an endangered format in the age of iPods, when so many music lovers can simply buy individual songs rather than having to get a whole album. But I would argue that the studio album, as a coherent, fully-fledged musical statement, is inherently valuable. On an album, an artist can draw in a listener with a single straight-ahead rock and roll tune, for example, and then expose him or her to blues, to folk, to bluegrass. An album lets the artist explore a range of influences and experiment, to engage the listener with more expansive ideas and expound upon musical themes.

The album is really a creation of the 1960s, and the heyday of vinyl platters lasted into the 1980s, when cassette tapes, and later CDs, supplanted records as the dominant format. Technology actually broadened what could be offered on one release—albums can generally hold 25 minutes or so per side without loss of sound quality, while CDs can hold more than 70 minutes of data—and now, with low-cost mp3 files, has truncated what most music fans hear from a single artist.

The changes in format are quite staggering to consider: since I became aware of (and in love with) music in the early 1980s, the way music is consumed has undergone several major transmutations. I can think of albums, like U2’s War, that I purchased in vinyl format, then got the cassette because it was more convenient and portable, then got the CD because it was supposed to be clearer and more durable (meanwhile, I still insist that vinyl usually has the fullest sound, but that’s a rant for another time), and now I’m ripping the tracks off the CD and onto my computer in mp3 format in anticipation of the purchase (someday) of an iPod.

Because I believe in the primacy of the studio album, I have limited myself further: no “greatest hits” or “top singles” compilations (eliminating the work of such artists as Bill Withers, Dionne Warwick, and the Commodores, which I would like to have with me on the island, but their strongest output was scattered throughout their careers rather than on a single album. Maybe another series of posts will focus on my favorite songs of all time). In addition, I considered no posthumous collections of unfinished or unreleased material, which eliminates more than half the catalogues of artists like Jimi Hendrix and Tupac Shakur.

And I have decided to eschew live performance albums, so Live by Bob Marley and the Wailers, the Rolling Stones’ Get Yer Ya-Yas Out, and even comedic masterpieces recorded live, like Richard Pryor’s Is It Something I Said? or Bicentennial Nigger, must be removed from consideration.

Other favorites of mine that didn’t quite make the cut include Living Colour, G. Love & Special Sauce, Robert Cray, and the Dave Matthews Band. The Skatalites aren’t here because they primarily released singles and backed some of the greats of ska and rock steady in the germinal days of Jamaican reggae; Neil Diamond isn’t here, and neither is David Hasselhoff, because their greatness really transcends one album, one list—or one career, for that matter. Not sure what that means, but we’ll forge ahead.

Lastly, I realize the whole Desert Island Discs notion is a conceit—if I am stranded on a deserted island, I am overwhelmingly unlikely to lack the electricity and the equipment necessary to enjoy these discs, in whatever format. (The D.I.D. show began talking about phonograph records, of course, and modern participants are generally referring to compact discs.) And furthermore, anyone who knows me at all understands that if I were actually stranded on a deserted island, I would not be sitting around thinking about which CDs I wish I had brought; I would be alternately curled up in the fetal position, screaming for Wet-Naps to combat the ubiquitous sand, and bemoaning the fact that the only thing to eat or drink is coconut, which is about my least favorite thing on earth. So do me a favor, folks, when it comes to the D.I.D. thing: just go with it.

I’ve ditched Plomley’s eight D.I.D. selections in favor of 20. (I know, I know. When have you ever known me to be disciplined, or precise? But I’ve divided that number into two lists: second-tier D.I.D.—included in today’s post—and top-tier D.I.D., which will be posted next week.)

Before I reveal the second tier, I want to unveil a Monsoon Martin contest: email me at monsoonmartin@gmail.com with the list of albums you think I will include on my D.I.D. top tier next week; the person with the most correct guesses will win one CD of his or her choosing from my D.I.D. list. Deadline for entries is Friday, June 26^th, 2009, at midnight EDT; winner will be published in the next posting...

Here goes the second tier, in alphabetical order by artist...

The Black Crowes – Amorica (1994) 

The Crowes have always seemed a bit anachronistic—a group of southern-fried hippies making music that would not have seemed out of place alongside the Allman Brothers, The Band, or even Little Feat in the early 1970s. And yet there is a modernity to the Black Crowes in its employment of Middle Eastern influences, its inventive blending of seemingly disparate guitar lines and rhythm time. Chris Robinson’s souful, smoke-wrapped vocals are deeply evocative, and among the most recognizable in rock; his brother Rich turns in piercing, wickedly effective lead guitar work.

The first thing one may notice about Amorica is its cover—and many hand-wringers, so-called patriots, and inveterate prudes surely did. As the illustration shows, the cover depicts a woman wearing a skimpy, stars-and-stripes thong while wisps of pubic hair poke out of the top of the draws. It’s actually from a bicentennial issue of the magazine Hustler, and the record company capitulated to complaints by cropping the skin and hair around the flag image.

Here on Amorica, the Crowes more completely explore the heartbreak of “She Talks to Angels” (from their debut album) and tighten the arrangement evident on such messy, seemingly slapdash songs like “Thorn in My Pride” and “Sometimes Salvation” from 1992’s The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion. Standout tracks include “A Conspiracy” and the sweeping double-ballad, “Ballad in Urgency” / “Wiser Time.” The album’s concluding track, “Descending,” is a dirge for the addict’s helpless repetition of mistakes—a plea for steadfastness and against sanctimony in the face of self-destruction: “No sermons on ascending / No verdict on deceit / No selfish memorandum / No confusion for me.”

Dead Kennedys – Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables (1980)

The early and mid 1980s were my punk/hardcore period, and I still listen to a couple of artists from that period whose greatness transcends any genre or craze: The Minutemen and the Dead Kennedys. The nimble, furious guitars of East Bay Ray and the uncompromising, manic vocals of Jello Biafra are unnerving and enthralling. The Dead Kennedys’ influences are as diverse as the Ramones and the Mothers of Invention. 

I will admit that song titles like “I Kill Children” and “Let’s Lynch the Landlord” were jarring for my parents, and that I only gradually came to appreciate in Biafra’s deft lyrics the irony he had clearly intended. With an unmistakable wink to Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal, in which he suggested that the Irish address their financial dire straits by selling their children to by eaten by the UK’s rich, Biafra wrote lyrics that sought to question United States foreign and domestic policies from the far left; this was particularly meaningful during the Reagan administration.

One of my favorite DK songs is on this album; it’s called “Kill the Poor” and centers around the notion that the U.S. could deploy nuclear bombs domestically to address its poverty crisis: “The sun beams down on a brand new day / No more welfare tax to pay / Unsightly slums gone up in flashing light / Jobless millions whisked away / At last we have more room to play / All systems go to kill the poor tonight.” Jello Biafra continues to disseminate his trademark satirical wit and storytelling prowess via a series of spoken-word albums with such titles as I Blow Minds for a Living.

Digable Planets – Blowout Comb (1994)

Doodlebug, Ladybug Mecca, and Butterfly had a brief run (they released only two albums, of which Blowout was the second), but their impact on hip-hop is immeasurable. Digable Planets burst onto the scene in 1993 with the single “Rebirth of Slick (Cool Like Dat),” which featured a walking bass line with a sly beat and lounge horns. The rapping was self-assured, but also understated: the rhymes were floated to rather than spit at the listener. Their debut album also included the masterful pro-choice study called “La Femme Fetal.”

Expectations were high for the Digables’ 1994 follow-up, and the resulting masterpiece was disappointing only in the commercial sense. The album instantly immersed the listener in an aural landscape that recalled spy movie soundtracks from the 1960s, blending jazz and political hip-hop in ever more sophisticated ways: the opening lyrics of the first song are “One time for your mind / Two times for Mumia’s saint crew.”

[Check out the music video of "9th Wonder (Blackitolism)" from this album.]

Digable Planets also revolutionized the nature of sampling; while rap artists had been sampling the likes of James Brown and Curtis Mayfield since the genre began in the late 1970s, the Digables sampled from jazz greats like Roy Ayers and Miles Davis, hip-hop pioneers The Last Poets, and funk/soul stalwarts like The Crusaders and The Ohio Players. All of this was reimagined in an urgent, incisive, and fiercely independent creation. The resultant work, Blowout Comb, is remarkably seamless and compelling.

Isaac Hayes – Hot Buttered Soul (1969)

Isaac Hayes began his career as a songwriter for the legendary Stax records, where he and writing partner David Porter turned out a string of hits that included “Soul Man” and “When Something is Wrong with my Baby.” Hayes was invited to record an album for the label, but his first effort resulted in commercial and critical failure. He decided to reinvent his music and his image for the next album—while insisting on complete creative control in its recording—and the results were wildly successful.

Hot Buttered Soul turned Isaac Hayes from an unknown songwriter to an African American icon—who would become known as the “Black Moses”—in just a few short years. The arresting album cover, which featured a bird’s-eye shot of Hayes’ clean-shaven head and the thick gold chain that graced his neck, was as instrumental in creating the Isaac Hayes mythos as were its contents. The album itself contained only four tracks, starting with a half-time, orchestral, rhythm-heavy reimagining of Burt Bacharach’s “Walk On By.” The next track is an original, “Hyperbolicsyllabicsesquedalymistic,” a blistering up-tempo funk ensemble piece propelled by a repeated wah-wah guitar and Hayes’ breathy bass vocal. His backing band, the Bar-Kays, really shine here.

Side B (remember, this was the time of vinyl platters, folks) begins with a rather pedestrian ballad about love and loss, yet what makes the song work is Hayes’ admixture of vulnerability and toughness. The album closes with a reinterpretation of the country classic “By the Time I Get to Phoenix,” a song which opens with a seemingly ad-libbed monologue and builds to a crescendo of lament. Hayes, of course, is known for his starring appearance at Wattstax, but may be more well-known by today’s audiences for his role as Chef on TV’s “South Park.” But Hot Buttered Soul is where the legend began.

Linton Kwesi Johnson – Tings an’ Times (1991)

LKJ pioneered the “dub poetry” genre of reggae music, which consists of speaking over a dub, or reggae track. His first albums, Dread Beat an’ Blood and Forces of Victory from the late 1970s, are his most well-known, and dealt with racist police brutality in Britain and the struggle for autonomy among the African diaspora. Johnson’s work paved the way for other well-known practitioners of dub poetry like Oku Onuora and Mutabaruka.

His 1991 release on Shanachie Records, Tings an’ Times, redefined the genre. The album features his most sophisticated musical arrangements and his most biting, accomplished lyrics. Musically, the dub of longtime collaborator Dennis Bovell hinges mostly on a mid-tempo rock-steady beat, but also includes such disparate instruments as accordion, flute, and violin to provide a foil for the urgency of LKJ’s lyrics, delivered in a measured Jamaican patois.

The best song here is “Sense Outa Nansense.” In this cut, LKJ ponders the difference between the innocent and the fool: “Di innocent an di fool could pass for twin / ... / Yet di two a dem in common share someting / Dem is often confused an get used / Dem is often criticized an compromised / Dem is often vilified an reviled / Dem is often foun guilty witout being tried / One ting set di two a dem far apart, though / Di innocent can harbor doubt, check things out, and maybe find out / But di fool ... tsk!”

Led Zeppelin – Led Zeppelin IV (1971)

Sometime in the early 1980s, when I was 9 or 10, we were visiting my uncle and his family up in Red Hill (where my dad grew up) and I was hanging out with my cousin Troy, who was a couple of years older than I. To say we were opposites would be a gross understatement: he liked to ride dirt bikes in the mud, while I felt bitchin’ jumping my Huffy over a low curb; he liked to play army games in the marshes and creeks near his house, and I liked to organize my baseball cards or arrange my Star Wars “people” into dramatic battle scenes; he and his friends liked to make me ride up to the McDonald’s drive-thru window and try to place an order, then laugh hysterically when I was informed that sort of thing is not allowed, and I liked to avoid any such potentially embarrassing situations. (Come to think of it, he was kind of a dick.)

Anywho, on the aforementioned visit he turned on some AC/DC and when I did not readily begin nodding my head in approval, he asked, “Don’t you like AC/DC?!” Having only heard the racket he was playing, and seen their videos on MTV in which the guitar player bobbed his frizzy mop so insistently that I took to asking questions of the screen—“Are you a jerk? Does your music suck?”—and he would just keep nodding in the affirmative, I said no. “Well, who’s your favorite band, then?” he asked. “The Pointer Sisters,” I heard myself reply.

Now, I was a little dork, to be sure, but even in that moment I knew that was not going to go over well. I mean, the Pointer Sisters? It’s the first thing that popped into my head. At least he didn’t ask me what my favorite song was, or I might have blurted out “Slow Hand” or “He’s So Shy” and sent him into another paroxysm of derisive laughter. As it was, Troy now felt it was his duty to introduce me to music he found acceptable. And so, a few years later, he yanked me out of our grandmother’s funeral as it was wrapping up, took me to his older brother’s car, and played a cassette recording of the song “Stairway to Heaven.”

Putting aside the obvious inappropriateness of my cousin playing me a hard rock epic about drug abuse while I was mourning my Nannie’s death, the song did stay with me, and before long I sought it out among my dad’s massive record collection.

I could have easily selected Led Zeppelin I or Led Zeppelin II here—and almost did—but Led Zeppelin IV is really the supergroup’s most accomplished and well-crafted album. Obviously the cut I mentioned above is hauntingly beautiful and one of the most popular and enduring hard rock songs of all time, but the album has so much more: the ethereal “Battle of Evermore,” the fierce, straight-ahead “Black Dog,” the plodding blues “When the Levee Breaks.” Led Zep co-opted the motifs, the arrangements, and sometimes even the lyrics of its blues and soul heroes, but the band always paid tribute to these influences. Led Zeppelin IV represents the band at its most consistent, incorporating the best of the sonic experimentation, exploration of American musical traditions, and impeccable musicianship of its first three albums.

Meshell Ndegeocello – Bitter (1999)

Neo-soul icon Meshell Ndegeocello has experimented with dance, drum-and-bass, spoken-word, R&B/funk, ambient, rap, hard rock, and much more in a mesmerizing oeuvre that now spans more than a decade. But her most coherent release is the gorgeous Bitter. It is an album of spare, folk- and soul-inflected arrangements, orchestral accompaniments, and sweeping emotional turmoil. The songs center on the themes of love and loss, trust, loyalty, and faith; and the austere, seemingly simplistic lyrics belie a depth and insight that is revealed by Ndegeocello’s deep, versatile voice.

The album’s crowning achievement is the closing pair of songs, “Wasted Time” and “Grace.” On the former, Ndegeocello sings an unconventional duet with indie artist Joe Henry (though for all these years, I could have sworn it was Marianne Faithfull singing with her). “Wasted Time” is a five-minute lament of unrequited love set over orchestral flourishes, steel guitar, and an insistent, dirge-like beat: “You rarely notice but I hang on your every word / Everything you say / You’re much too busy to notice me / You turn and walk away / Into another’s arms, hopeless ashamed / I wish I could hold you that way / Brokenhearted I dream for you to notice me.”

When it ends in the middle of a word (they don’t quite get out the words “broken-hearted” in a later verse), the song “Grace” begins. Over an acoustic arrangement and a metronomic beat, Ndegeocello ends the album with a statement of renewed hope in finding love: “Your love’s my only saving grace / You caress my heart, kiss my face.”

Augustus Pablo – East of the River Nile (1977)

Augustus Pablo (born Horace Swaby) was a progenitor of dub reggae, and one of the first (and only) musicians to prominently feature the melodica—an instrument which is basically a combination harmonica and keyboard and had theretofore been used primarily to teach music to young school children. Pablo’s albums typically consisted of instrumental explorations of Rastafarian truths set in an almost trance-like sonic milieu. The “dub” label meant that echoes, reverberations, loops, and cut-outs (abrupt removal of certain instruments) were used liberally while emphasizing rhythmic elements to create a composition that is both unpredictable and fluid.

East of the River Nile was no different, and yet it ascended to new heights in terms of its melodic structure and continuity. Produced by the great King Tubby, it featured Pablo not only on his trademark melodica, but also on organ, clavinet, synthesizer, and other keyboards. Also included were some of the greats of Jamaican musicianship, such as Family Man Barrett and his brother Carlie; the Soul Syndicate’s Chinna Smith; and Robbie Shakespeare (one-half of the celebrated dub/production team Sly & Robbie). The songs are imbued with Pablo’s “far-east” style, an eclectic blend of Asian influences and dub reggae. The album’s best song is the title track, a crucial, atmospheric track propelled by a nimble bass line, exhibiting these Asian inflections.

On a personal note, listening to this album is like entering an ancient dimension. For a long time I would only listen to the album when it was raining (seriously) and at one point in my early teens I even had a nature sounds cassette (“Thundering Rainstorm,” I believe it was called) that I would play at the same time in my dual-cassette stereo. Dweeb.

Rage Against the Machine – The Battle of Los Angeles (1999)

Rage burst on the hard-rock scene in the early 1990s with such iconoclastic anthems as “Killing in the Name” and “Bullet in the Head,” boasting the guitar pyrotechnics of Tom Morello and the relentless, politically charged lyrics of Zack de la Rocha, who hollered his words with anarchic abandon. The band had both deepened its ideas and broadened its sonic palette by the release of its third studio album—and its last featuring original material—The Battle of Los Angeles. Named after the infamous 1942 incident a few months after Pearl Harbor when Los Angelinos were awakened by air-raid sirens and a barrage of anti-aircraft artillery—only to later find out it was a paranoia-induced false alarm—the release explores the abuses of U.S. power, the efficacy of protest, heritage and the plight of illegal immigrants.

Here on Los Angeles, the creative tensions that ultimately undid them—the band broke up in the late 1990s, unforgivably going on hiatus during the criminal Bush administration, when we needed them most—are laid bare, with thrilling results. This is perhaps nowhere so evident as on tracks like “Mic Check,” which skews heavily toward de la Rocha’s hip-hop preferences, and “Sleep Now in the Fire,” a straight-ahead rock song that reflects Morello’s hard rock inclinations. The almost hymn-like “Voice of the Voiceless” pays tribute to Philadelphia journalist and cause célèbre Mumia Abu-Jamal, but the most biting comments about Abu-Jamal’s case appear in the song “Calm Like a Bomb”: “There’s a widow pig parrot / A rebel to tame / A whitehooded judge / A syringe and a vein / And the riot be the rhyme of the unheard.”

Rage put on one of the most electrifying live shows I have ever seen (circa 1997, in Camden). I think what appeals to me most about RATM is that they are uncompromising and direct in their criticism of government, of industry, of the justice system, of religion. Most people with strong opinions are forced to tone them down, make them more palatable, sugarcoat them. Rage is a release, a furious cry against these stultifying forces.

Red Hot Chili Peppers – Freaky Styley (1985)

This remains the best album—even better than 1991’s breakthrough Blood Sugar Sex Magik or 1999’s Californication—by one of my favorite bands ever, Red Hot Chili Peppers. After their self-titled debut album failed to capture “the groove of who we were all the way,” the Chili Peppers decided they needed a producer who could harness the seemingly disparate musical directions the band seemed to want to take: punk and funk. Soon the band had its answer in George Clinton, the legendary architect of Parliament-Funkadelic, whose musical sensibilities could help the boys achieve maximum funkitude while staying true to their hardcore/punk roots and indefatigable energy.

The result is Freaky Styley, a loosey-goosey funk masterpiece distinguished by Flea’s snapping bass lines and the wah-wahs and nimble harmonics of guitarist Hillel Slovak (who died of a heroin overdose a few years later). I remember back in 1985 when the album came out, my friend Mark Shewchuk played the album for me, and I was immediately hooked. The music fell into a hypnotizing groove, but also wore its eccentricities (off-time beats, psychedelic guitar diversions, affected vocalization) proudly. This is apparent even on the outstanding covers that appear on the album, the Meters’ “Africa” and Sly Stone’s “If You Want Me to Stay.”

[Check out the music video for "Jungle Man."  Be warned that there is brief nudity; it seems the boys' penchant for performing nude with only sweat socks covering their genitals dates back to this period.]

Maybe the most recognizable aspect of Freaky Styley—aside from George Clinton’s knob-twirling—is Anthony Kiedis’ employment of gleefully bawdy lyrics: one relatively mild example from “Sex Rap” runs “I can tell you’re like a horny bloodhound / Feel the bass line hump the ground.” The most amusing lyrical story here, though, might actually be the one surrounding the song “Yertle the Turtle.” The song itself is a languid interpretation of the Dr. Seuss book bearing the same name, but the truly incredible part comes at the beginning and throughout the song, when George Clinton’s drug dealer says, “Look at the turtle go, bro.” Yes, that’s right: Clinton owed money to his drug dealer but couldn’t pay up, so offered him a part on the Chili Peppers’ album.

_____________________________________________________________

Well, that marks the end of my “second-tier” Desert Island Discs, with the top tier forthcoming. Remember to send in your guesses about what albums might grace that list; the winner gets a choice of any of the 20 D.I.D.s...

Monsoon