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Stuck In Normal
by Chris Bertolet - bertolet@earthlink.netIt's a crowded musical universe, and there's a lot of space junk in my fucking way.
Anyone who has the free time and questionable taste to read these rants of mine with any frequency shouldn't feel blindsided by the aforementioned opinion. I have many opinions, and sure, they're occasionally contrary, but I try to keep them grounded in reality. Case in point -- click on the Links section of this web site to see how many acts are scrapping for a suck-hold on the milky teat of the jam band phenomenon. Get a feel for the room.
Go ahead... I'll get a drink.
Welcome back. At first count it seems that 214 acts merit, in the eyes and ears of our esteemed editors, Jam Band Status. While probably half the names on that list are vaguely familiar to me, I must confess that I've only actually heard music from 55 of them. Pretty small percentage. As a devotee of some of the gorillas of the list -- and as someone who enjoys jam music as part of a balanced diet-- why are my drawers in no particular twist to hear the other 159?
Maybe there's enough recycled jam-spam amid the 55 artists I have heard to discourage me from the rest. But I don't really think so; in retrospect, finding the occasional Slip or John Scofield in the poop heap has made the wading worthwhile. Maybe I've just got enough great music in my collection and my life that I don't need any more. No, that's not it, either. In general, the more good music I hear, the more I'm starved for good music. So why the apathy?
I think it starts with the names.
The names? What's in a name? Shouldn't a band be judged on the merits of its music alone, blah, blah, blah? Well, sure, if you've heard their music. But when was the last time you heard a truly great band playing in a bar and had to ask, "who are these guys again?" The fact is, a band's name serves as its identity. It suggests its persona, its sound, its style, its ideas. It causes us to imagine the listening experience without ever hearing a note, even if on an unconscious level.
The value of a strong name can't be measured. The Rolling Stones' name embodies the band's early dynamism, its forward movement. The Who's moniker suggests the existential angst and alienation in its songs. Led Zeppelin's name invokes the band's lumbering crunch. The connection of name with sound is forged deeper the more one listens to the music. Witness the fact that with the possible exception of The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, no savvy musicians ever abandon the name that bring them to the dance.
Jam band names range from the crafty to the absurd to the forgettable to the downright derivative. Consider the following patterns I discovered in the anointed 214:
Names with animal references: 31
Jam spam artists are obsessed with animals, though not always in the cringe-inducing faux-Indian spirit animal regard one might expect. Strangely tied for the highest concentrations of animal names are miscellaneous reptiles and sundry aquatic life, with six each. Newsflash: clam and lizard imagery isn't likely to get anyone laid. Props to the incrementally more creative choices of bug, buffalo and duck, but enough with the mules already. For the record, I counted Ratdog twice.
Names with one or more of the members referenced: 30
You can read this one of three different ways: virtuoso (Charlie Hunter and Pound For Pound), flaming ego (G Love and Special Sauce, Dave Matthews Band), or utter lack of invention (Jim Miller Band). Bonus points to Medeski, Martin & Wood and KVHW for their egalitarian approach to egotherapy. The upshot? Frontmen like Omar Torrez and Oakley Krieger had better smoke the hair off my head unless they want me to laugh them off the stage.
Names that invoke pastoral or homespun images: 27
Warm Waters, Into the Woods, Max Creek, Sourwood Honey - aww dang shucks, Jimmy, these hucksters know their market! I reckon these names can jess about conjure up a June day by the waterin' hole, swillin' a jug of wine, a blade of sawgrass jammed in the gap of yer teeth. The hound ain't far off neither, howlin' at some polecat, and you can almost hear the band plink-plunkin' their way through a ditty 'bout the road or the moon or the time the tractor broke. Hint: if you got a banjer or a jew harp or you live within spittin' distance of Burlington, consider using the word "root" in your name.
Names with references to God, spirituality, or things otherwise "cosmic:" 17
You can bet the same bands with these kinds of names also sing about the trippy-dippy marvels of the universe, aligning your chakras, and getting in touch with your inner child. A piece of advice to any band who dares to call itself cosmic, whether explicitly or implicitly: there's only one "Dark Star." Outside that realm, the kind of depth you're attributing to yourself cannot be reached with sheer force of will, a vial of liquid and a pocket copy of the Tao of Pooh -- it's about insight and experience, and it's about the music.
Names that reference colors: 15
Blue is popular. Shockingly, no one called themselves paisley.
Names with strange or alternative spellings or word play: 10
Certainly not the exclusive domain of jam spammers; witness Limp Bizkit and Boyz 2 Men. But Ekoostik Hookah? Oh, you wacky funsters, get over here and let me slap you silly.
Names with flagrant or veiled references to drug use: 8
Ekoostik Hookah? Sorry, easy shot. But does anyone really need to know you're a bong owner? Can't we all just assume everyone's a scorching pot-head by now and be done with the cheeky pseudo-subversion, already? It doesn't make you madcap and it doesn't make you down -- it just plants you firmly in the majority.
Names with the word "Orchestra" in them: 4
Three words: Electric Light Orchestra. Do I really need to say any more?
In my enduring amusement, I created a computer program to synthesize the most commercially viable name for the jam band of the new millenium, based upon the common criteria found in the jam bands list. I plugged in the elite 214, kicked back with a phatty Sam Smiths, and waited. In due time, JAM 2000 spit out a strange name...
"Phish."
SHAMELESSLY POSITIVE COMMENTARY ALERTI haven't felt this way since 1995.
That summer, when I was busy building a collection of live Phish and immersed in their novelty, a friend of mine heard me grooving out to 12/30/93 and told me he knew of a band I might dig. I lent him Picture of Nectar, and he lent me GodWeenSatan, the debut release from Ween.
I played the first three tracks from the album and gave it back straightaway. Ween was too noisy for my taste, or so I thought, the melodies too obscured beneath angry jangle and fuzz and puerile lyrics. Clouding matters was the fact that Jerry had just died, and so my chakras weren't precisely aligned with my spirit duck, or soul clam, or something. Anyway, in the years that followed, I managed to absorb and enjoy a little Chocolate and Cheese through osmosis at the occasional party, but I never Got It.
Then, last month, I saw my first Ween show. SOLD to the man in the third row!!!
Four albums later, I'm hooked. It's like a drug. I find myself writing with live, streaming Ween oozing out of my computer speakers, my fingers flying across the keys, ideas pouring out of my head too quickly to capture. I find myself whistling those elusive melodies while I walk down the street, singing them in the shower, fumbling for them on the guitar.
It's a crime that I was so shut off to Ween four years ago, but it's an even worse crime that there's no Ween link on this web site (www.Ween.com in case you're reading, Dean). While they're not regulars on the festival scene and they don't wear Birkenstocks or play on oriental rugs, these guys jam like dervishes live, mixing up set lists and throwing curveballs galore. Dean Ween is one of the most versatile improvisational guitarists I've ever seen, and I've seen plenty. Most impressively, Ween vomits non-stop creativity.
Their influences are as numerous as their songs; in fact, many of their songs reference two or three ("Don't Get 2 Close 2 My Fantasy" sends up Prince, Queen and prog rock bombast in one joyous, bust-a-gut-laughing paean). But Ween's single greatest influence is everyday life. They vehemently refuse to self-censor, leaping gleefully into life's dark, prickly corners armed only with a sense of humor and (by their own admission) plenty of drugs. Take my word -- listeners need not medicate.
As satirists, Ween are often compared to Frank Zappa, a comparison that seems to fit like a glove until you dig a little deeper. While Ween's compositions and lyrics lack the complexity of Zappa's, they also lack the pomposity and smug superiority. While Ween takes its music very seriously, it doesn't take itself seriously in the least. In the best sense of the word, they're interpreters; they freely process the mundane experiences and emotions of their lives through their musical language and the fun-house filter of their perception. What comes out on the other end can be sweet, sour, or positively terrifying, but it's nearly impossible to ignore.
If I've managed to pique your interest, know that there's a way to approach Ween. Their more experimental work (GodWeenSatan, Pure Guava) can be off-putting at first listen, and it makes more sense to toe the waters with a later release like The Mollusk or Chocolate and Cheese. Hank Williams fans will appreciate 12 Golden Country Greats, a collection of mostly faithful country ditties infected with Ween's twisted localities.
No, Ween isn't for everyone, and it's hard to predict who'll take to their music. Frankly, my wife doesn't care much for it, but my cat loves it, so go figure. One way or another, you'll be better off having heard them, sort of like eating brussels sprouts. Or having a colonic.
Chris Bertolet promises not to talk about Ween at all next month. His spirit animal is the sock puppet.
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