Music’s Sour Notes

Music’s Sour Notes

Izzy Stradlin has a new album out. It’s called “Like a Dog.” Oh, don’t look for it at your local record store. First, you don’t have one. Local record stores have become nearly extinct and it will be a cold day in Crawford before the Bush administration adds ANYTHING to the endangered species list, much less competitors of SuperMegaBigBox. Also, Mr. Stradlin doesn’t use major labels so he has some difficulty getting distributors for his work. You actually have to send a money order to “Scooters” at P.O. box 333 Otterbin Indiana, 47970. Apparently the guy’s car trunk now has a branch in the Post Office. Three cheers for the American dream!

But the CD is well worth the money. ($20.00 US) I put the US at the end because it needs to be United States currency, which isn’t necessarily a given considering most of Stradlin’s fans seem to be from not the United States. (For those keeping score, a note is put in parentheses, a note to a note is not put in parentheses, but a note to a note to a note is put in parentheses.) I know this because I have a degree in English.

Anyway, it’s good to listen to an Izzy Stradlin CD. It is rock and roll in its basic form: reggae. I’m just kidding--only a few of his songs are reggae. But, more importantly, none of the songs are “November Rain.” It’s importantly to hear some dirty-three-chord rock because if you listen to the radio long enough you start to think the stuff they play is actually worthwhile. You listen to an Izzy album and then listen to the radio and you can tell the difference. Izzy’s work is gritty, hard, and pulls no punches. He doesn’t always enunciate so you can’t always understand the lyrics, but, boy, if you could you’d say “he’s gritty, hard, and pulls no punches!” See, I told you.

But you may be wondering what’s wrong with the radio (other than the fact it isn’t gritty, hard, and non-punch-pulling). In Rochester, nearly everything. Let’s compare.
Radio: Morning DJs.
Stradlin CDs: No morning DJs.
Wow! The competition is already over.

So here is what we can do to sweeten the sour notes of the radio.

More sour notes. No one wants pretty music. It needs to have a harsh edge or it might as well be elevator music.
Get rid of touchy-feely Country music. Stereotypically, the men writing country music and the men listening to country music aren’t allowed to express their feelings except through song, so they write feely songs. I propose country music men (writers and listeners) have to go to group therapy once a week until they can express themselves in day-to-day life and it doesn’t build up to the point where leaks out through my radio. That will clean up part of the country mess. This way, I don’t have to listen to some clown mournfully explain “I guess that’s just the cowboy in me.” Right; a millionaire cowboy riding from city to city in a tour bus except when he saddles up in an airplane. Yee-ha! Makes me sick!
Match-making. Don’t you hate when musicians sing about lost loves and loneliness? Take all the single men musicians and the single women musicians and put them in a room with speed dating or something until they are all matched up. Good-bye loneliness songs. Good riddance.
But don’t let those who are matched up sing about it. Love songs are not an improvement. Here’s the cure for love songs. Have the dude and the gal stay together for a year. Here’s the life of a newlywed musician: “I love you.” “I love you, too.” “Well, I’m off on a two-year concert tour. I’ll write a song for you!!!” If you make them stay together for a year, with a moratorium on song writing, the love songs will dwindle to practically nothing. And that’s a good nothing.
Musicians must take Success Training course before recording. Every musician seems to have a need to tell us, through song, how bad fame is. Some are good; most are not. For every “Welcome to the Jungle” there are 5 semblances of Bob Seger’s “Turn the Page.” No more. Before a musician gets access to a recording studio, they should make any musician take a seminar on the consequences of success. That way there won’t be any whiny “Who would have guessed success would be like this?” songs.
I shouldn’t have to mention this, but I will: No one who has appeared on American Idol should be played on the radio. That is all.

I must speak against one thing specific to rock music, though: Hammond organs. It is generally accepted that a rock band does not include woodwinds instruments, brass instruments, or a piano. Not even a theremin (I’m looking at you, Elvis Costello). Somehow, a Hammond organ became acceptable. What? Is the keytar in the shop? How is a Hammond in any way cool? I suppose that, for the typical band, somewhere along the way while it’s paying their dues in back alley clubs, the band meets up with keyboard player who is quite personable. They want him to join the band, but he’s a keyboard player. How does a keyboard player rebel against authority? He’s plays the Hammond. No authority figure worth his or her salt wants to hear a Hammond organ. Good enough--he’s in the band. And they thought nothing bad could come of forcing children to take piano lessons. I give you exhibit “A.”

One last note on music: Kumbaya. When did this become a radical extremist’s song? When there’s light group-therapy-esce meeting, they try to comfort us with “Don’t worry; we won’t be singing Kumbaya or anything.” When there’s a religious-type meeting but they want to make sure we don’t think it’s some kind of recruitment session, they say “Don’t worry; we won’t be singing Kumbaya or anything.” When there’s a team-building seminar at work, they try to relax us by saying, “We won’t be singing Kumbaya or anything.” When did Kumbaya become an evil song? Does anyone ever sing it anyway? Furthermore, if they did sing Kumbaya at a team-building seminar, it would typically be the most productive item on the agenda--even if you don’t believe in the power of prayer. (I don’t. God is love, not micromanagement.) I support team-building. It’s just too bad the people who set up the seminars don’t. I just wonder if the song actually exists. I think it may be one of those mythical creatures used to scare people.
“If you don’t practice your piano like a good little boy, Santa’s gonna give you a recording of Kumbaya!”
“I don’t care!”
“Are you sure? It’ll probably be the extended dance-mix version.”
“NO! I’ll be good! I promise!”
So, while it doesn’t rock, I speak on behalf of Kumbaya. It’s not a bad song; it’s just, apparently, hung out with the wrong crowds. Anyway, when I run for President of these United States in 2008, I’m going to have Kumbaya as my campaign’s theme song.

Played on a Hammond organ!

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