Issue Five

CD REVIEW:
Red Hot Chili Peppers
By the Way

In 1999, Red Hot Chili Peppers rose from the ashes of stardom with a somber, life-affirming masterpiece, Californication. It was the band’s best effort in nearly a decade, and undeniable proof of just how crucial was the presence of guitarist John Frusciante, whose melodic contributions have become the backbone of the Chili Peppers’ sound. Frusciante’s miraculous comeback from years of heroin addiction was the defining moment for the band–it came at a point where things probably would have fallen apart, and we would have been left with 1997’s lackluster One Hot Minute as the band’s swan song. Instead, the members of the group are tighter than ever, both personally and musically, and they have found themselves on the opposite side of adversity, clear-headed and primed to write glorious 3-part harmonies until the end of their days.

By The Way completely bypasses the ‘70s funk and ‘80s punk influences that had become the band’s trademark, instead focusing on writing tender, falsetto-laden beams of California sunshine, embracing all the right qualities of mid-60’s Beach Boys records. Lead singer Anthony Kiedis has never sounded better, especially on the astounding harmonic swirls of tracks like "Dosed" and "Tear." The man has taught himself to truly sing, leaving his shouting days behind and taking his angelic voice to surprising new heights.

As always, the X factor on By The Way is Frusciante. His guitar playing is subdued and beautiful, wrapping itself around Flea’s equally reserved and effective bass lines. His backup vocals are staggeringly pretty, spiked with a few drops of sadness and regret, much like the songs themselves. Considering how close to death the soft-spoken guitarist was, each subtly expressive solo, each trembling oooo or aaaa is quite a special gift.

This band that most had written off five years ago has made a triumphant, damn-near-perfect album of gorgeous, sun-tanned pop songs, soon to be devoured by rock radio and VH1, serving as a reminder of just how painful existence can be, and that you’d better not be going it alone. The title track is a touching and majestic acknowledgement of the inherent family dynamic that has kept the Peppers together for two decades, through death, addiction, fame and controversy. The record as a whole serves largely as a look back at these dark years–a testament to undying friendship, and a glimpse at what it feels like to finally break the shackles of the past and come out on the other side.

There is honestly no band akin to Red Hot Chili Peppers in this day and age, and By The Way is the most meaningful record of its career; one that takes an outdated image and discusses it fondly and candidly, like it was a yellowed photo in the band’s tattered old scrapbook.

CD REVIEW:
Herbie Hancock
The Herbie Hancock Box

Quick: try to think of an artist who has divided his/her career into several distinctly different and important creative stages. After the knee-jerk reactions of Miles Davis and David Bowie, the only other obvious choice is Herbie Hancock. Perhaps the best jazz pianist to ever vamp a chart, Hancock was also quite adept at musical reinvention.

There are his monster acoustic contributions to Davis’ mid-60’s ensembles, as well as his legendary traditional compositions of the period (which include “Cantaloupe Island,” “Maiden Voyage” and “Watermelon Man”). His electrified, Fender Rhodes-driven funk/fusion of the ‘70s. His boundary-breaking dabblings with synthesizers, turntables, world music and pop song structures in the ‘80s. Hancock’s canon is one of the most diverse in modern music, which is the intended message of the brand new, four-disc Herbie Hancock Box.

Running out and buying the latest box set or greatest hits compilation is usually a terrible way to really become acquainted with an artist. It’s the musical equivalent of reading the Cliffs Notes for The Grapes Of Wrath and wondering why it doesn’t quite have the same punch as the full novel. The same is true of this set, a somewhat flawed overview of the jazz piano great’s ‘70s and ‘80s output. Practically all of the 34 tracks on the collection are tremendous–Hancock has been one of the most consistently interesting and relevant jazz artists of the past 30 years – but the package as a whole can’t come close to replicating the incredible ambiance and personality of classic Herbie records like Headhunters, Secrets and V.S.O.P.

Columbia/Legacy organized much of the material in an effective fashion, devoting the first two discs to Hancock’s more traditional acoustic material. Disc three explores the pianist’s funk-influenced explorations. The final disc is billed as a collection of “crossover material,” and this is where the direction of the box becomes a bit dubious. With a few strange exceptions, the fourth disc focuses on the synthesizer-soaked forays that dominated Hancock’s work in the ‘80s. These cuts show that while many artists decided to throw in the towel around 1985, Hancock was at his most experimental, and far away from the ebbs and flows of the mainstream. The disc does contain “Rockit,” Hancock’s lone cross-over smash, but that’s not enough to warrant the “greatest hits” tag. Tracks like the funk masterpiece “Chameleon” and the smooth electro-fusion of “Spider” are alarmingly out of place here; their surroundings deaden the usually powerful, moody dynamics of the songs.

Even so, longtime Hancock fans will likely adore the set, which is packaged in overtly lavish fashion–the CDs rest on stacked, invisible trays, seemingly hovering in the middle of a dark, rectangular box. It’s actually quite an impressive work of art, one fitting the artist whose music the package so delicately holds. The first two discs contain the best material of the set, offering up a handful of never-before-heard treats for the Herbie junkie–there are many live performances with supergroup VSOP that were previously only available in Japan, as well as a live cut of Freddie Hubbard’s “Red Clay” that has never before seen the light of day.

For a second, let’s forget the fact that these songs were never meant to be jumbled up and reorganized. This is a collection of the best of Hancock’s ‘70s and ‘80s material. No matter how it’s structured or packaged, nothing can change the fact that Hancock was and still is one of the greatest jazz pianists of all time. His more reserved compositions are strikingly vivacious and soulful, and his electro-fusion romps are some of the most visionary jazz pieces of recent memory, directly influencing current torchbearers like Medeski Martin and Wood and James Carter.

To truly introduce your ears to Hancock’s music, in the way he originally intended for you to hear it, pick up a copy of Headhunters and move on from there. But by no means is the Herbie Hancock Box a mistake to own. It’s a valuable look at an especially creative period in the career of a jazz/funk/fusion superstar, packed with some of the best performances of his career. And if you really need to cram for tomorrow’s jazz history mid-term, the collection is perfect.

ESSAY:
All the News That Fits?
The Death of The Spirit of Rolling Stone

  From the 1970s on, Top 40 rock music has been just plain bad. Boston, Bad Company, Phil Collins, Styx, Creed and Nickelback are just a few of the countless offenders of the past 30 years. But until the last decade or so, audiophiles always had a safe haven that would arrive at their doorstep twice a month, a place where they could run from the new Journey single and scream for sanctuary. Once a significant voice of a ravenously creative and political counterculture, Rolling Stone magazine basically decided what was cool each month for millions of thirsty music fans. And for the most part, their suggestions were spot-on. The publication was the epitome of hip, a mecca for music journalists and depraved rock junkies everywhere. Rolling Stone always seemed to get the most value out of each and every impressive feature the magazine landed. Bob Dylan. Joni Mitchell. Bob Marley. John Lennon. Janis Joplin. Marvin Gaye. Run DMC. Not to mention the mind-bending, controversial contributions of Hunter S. Thompson, whose cumulative works continue to generate passionate followers. Most importantly, the general feeling of the publication was that its readers were intelligent, open-minded Americans who would not stand for any kind of worthless pop culture drivel. Rolling Stone could seemingly do no wrong.

Fast forward to present day. Pop music is in positively dire straits. Limp Bizkit is selling millions. Britney Spears is doing movies. Jennifer Love Hewitt has a goddamn album out. MTV is ruining our impressionable minds with pitiful, brain-numbing programming. Brilliant albums are sitting on the shelves. At this crucial time, subscribers to Rolling Stone have been greeted with covers such as these: Jennifer Aniston. Staind. Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee. ‘N Sync. The Rock. The Girls Of American Pie. Britney has appeared on the cover four times, twice in 2001. Instead of crackling political commentary, readers were subjected to Jenny McCarthy gleefully squirting mustard on a hot dog. Somewhere in the ‘90s, for whatever reason, the once revered publication became an empty, miserable rag. Pathetic exploitation of women became the norm for RS, the Random Notes section becoming nothing more than a glorified tabloid, perpetually chronicling the latest idiotic act committed by Kid Rock or Carmen Electra. By the time readers get to the still relevant socio-political pieces and album/film reviews, their intelligence has been insulted, their willingness to trust the magazine soured. Of course, the decision to treat the average RS reader like a drooling, sexist frat boy has been a rousing success, especially among drooling, sexist frat boys across the country (a scary thought: they make up a larger percentage of the population than you think). Rolling Stone is still ridiculously popular, but for reasons decidedly opposite those of the publication’s content and opinion-driven glory days. It originally became popular in the ways of The Nation and The Village Voice, but now Rolling Stone has taken the same road to success as Baywatch and Temptation Island. Instead of telling people what was hip, the magazine began following the crowds, particularly the ones who ruined Mardi Gras and made the Girls Gone Wild videos a huge success. The past few years have spawned some amazing achievements, mostly ignored by the covers of RS. While devoting huge coverage to Creed and Dave Matthews, the magazine missed the boat on incredible efforts by Bjork, Cannibal Ox, Tom Waits, Ed Harcourt, Mos Def, Jill Scott, Wilco and Lucinda Williams. (Take a deep breath, America; don’t get too mad, because they did give us that huge feature on the cast of the WB television show Smallville, which I was just itching to read, even though I’d never even heard of the damn show.)

The question is, what the hell are the priorities of Rolling Stone today? Do the editors set out each week and plan on injecting the magazine with nothing but T&A and coverage of bad music and talent-less movie stars? One of the most important publications out there for fans of music and youth culture has been run into the ground. Once on the side of art for art’s sake, Rolling Stone has become that which they fought so valiantly against: a whimpering product of corporate America. Those of us without car CD players who have to endure Puddle of Mudd, Nelly and Sugar Ray every day deserve a well-written apology from editor and publisher Jann S. Wenner. And while we’re at it Jann, could you please put a moratorium on those patently idiotic 10-page fashion spreads people have to dredge though once a month? Oh yeah, and nobody gives a shit about Sarah Michelle Gellar. Got it? Good. Toodles!