Tag: #ledzeppelin

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Old Glory — Four by Four for the Fourth

It being the country’s big day today — a country of which at least half is in an ever-escalating sense of panic and unease over the agonizingly bad performance the other night in the presidential debate and what it means for us moving forward — it felt right to pop in and set off some fireworks with a few recommendations for some recent releases. And since today is all about celebrating our decision all those years ago to not live under a monarchy (which makes the court’s decision this week to establish imperial protections all the more galling) and do so with familiar faces, we’ve got four of them who’ve shown up repeatedly here over the years.

We’ll start with the oldest of the bunch and the ninth album from New Orleans’ Alynda Segarra, better known as Hurray for the Riff Raff.  Released back in February, The Past is Still Alive has been on relatively steady rotation since that point, serving as a solid return after 2022’s somewhat disjointed and disappointing Life on Earth. (Segarra’s previous one, 2017’s The Navigator landed at #8 on my year-end list.)  This one was recorded in the wake of Segarra’s father’s passing and as such seems to have found her probing her past to process the grief, returning to the introspective, spare folk style and confessional lyrics that characterized her excellent early albums. Rather than try to deal with it all on her own Segarra invited some noteworthy musicians to help her out, such as Hand Habit’s Meg Duffy and Bright Eyes’ Conor Oberst (the latter of whose stately duet with Segarra on “The World is Dangerous” is one of the album’s many highlights.)

There’s images of being poor and eating from the garbage on “Hourglass” (or shoplifting to eat as on “Snakeplant (The Past is Still Alive).”) There’s descriptions of her struggles in early adulthood, characterizing herself as “a war correspondent, a wandering loser” on “Dangerous” and “becoming the kind of girl that they warned me about” on “Hawkmoon.” (While singing from the “bomb shelter of her feather bed” as on “Colossus of Roads.”)  There’s also the resilience that’s characterized Segarra’s best work — declarations that “nothing will stop me now” (“Snakeplant”), “I won’t stop dreaming” (“Dangerous”), and “this year tried to kill us, baby, well good luck trying, you can’t catch me.” (“Buffalo”) It all leads to a very personal album, one that feels as heartfelt and sincere as you’d expect for someone dealing with the departure of someone so close. The album closes with audio clips of her father’s encouraging voice messages, which is a poignant punctuation mark to a really good album. Check out one of my faves (the aforementioned “Buffalo”) here:

We’ll stay with our chronological approach to things and visit the latest release from New York’s Vampire Weekend next, Only God Was Above Us. It’s their first in four years and their fifth overall (the HAIM-heavy Father of the Bride landed at #8 on my 2019 list in spite of that dreaded collaboration) and similar to Segarra seems to have found the band in a more introspective mood than usual. Where the last album — described by frontman Ezra Koenig as a solo project (one that still used the band’s moniker despite neither drummer Chris Tomson nor bassist Chris Baio appearing on it) — found him confronting elements of marriage and becoming a father, this one finds him far less sunny and optimistic, rattling off lyrics that can best be described as bleak if not outright defeated.

The album opens with the line “‘F#$k the world,’ you said it quiet” on the deceptively giddy “Ice Cream Piano,” so you know you’re in store for something a little different this time around. Koenig sings of fatigue, futility, and a growing “f#$k it” attitude in light of what’s facing him — “I know you’re tired of trying…too old for dying young, too young to live alone, sifting through the centuries for moments of your own” on “Capricorn;” “I was tired, but waking up, I was dying to try my luck…you could lose some teeth that way” on “Prep School Gangsters;” “cynical, you can’t deny it…you don’t want to win this war cuz you don’t want the peace” on the aforementioned “Ice Cream.”  Koenig and the band disguise these depressions under a blanket of sunny-sounding instruments and amping them up on speed — there’s delirious piano on “Ice Cream” and “Connect,” there’s frenzied violin and guitar on “Prep School” and “Gen-X Cops.” There’s even echoes of the past, whether it’s of the band itself (the drums from their classic “Mansard Roof” being recycled in “Connect”) or their pop predecessors (the riff from 90s one hit wonders Primitive Radio Gods on “Mary Boone”). It all swirls together to create a rather compelling listen, despite the darkness of the lyrics.

Even as Koenig lists a litany of disappointing realities on the closing “Hope” — “the phoenix burned but did not rise, now half the body’s paralyzed, there’s no one left to criticize…the sentencing was overturned, the killer freed, the court adjourned, a hope betrayed, a lesson learned…” — he balances that with the encouraging entreaty, “I hope you let it go.” It’s a surprisingly honest and embraceable set of songs (something that has always plagued a band as overtly esoteric and elitist as one that names songs after punctuation marks, boarding school holiday locales, and the aforementioned architectural features), one that isn’t afraid to openly confront some familiar and sincere emotions. It’s a winning shift, one I hope they keep up in the years to come rather than revert to their distancing defense mechanisms of old. Check out one of my faves, the aforementioned “Mary Boone,” here:

Up next we’ve got the return of Nashville’s Kings of Leon, back with their ninth album, Can We Please Have Fun. It’s a fitting title for a band who’s long been accused by their critics of having sapped all the joy and enthusiasm out of what they do (as on their exceptional first two albums Youth and Young Manhood and Aha Shake Heartbreak), leaving us instead with an increasing number of instances where the band seems to be living up their own backsides and admiring their flatulence. And while there’s some merit to these critiques (those first two albums remain my far and away favorites from their catalog) I’ve mostly enjoyed their evolution over the years, admittedly rocky as it’s been at times. Their last one, 2021’s When You See Yourself, landed at #5 on that year’s list and its moodier, more ethereal vibe was a nice extension (and perfection) of sounds they experimented with on its glossy predecessor WALLS. (Easily the weakest of their outings, in retrospect, though one I still enjoy several tracks from — it landed at #13 on 2016’s list, their lowest showing to date.)

This one by contrast finds them really trying to capture the feeling from the album’s title and bring a little heat back to the proceedings. For the second outing in a row bassist Jared Followill holds the key, having largely been a secret weapon up until this point. Whether it’s with simple riffs dancing in the background as on “Nowhere to Run” or the swimmy “Split Screen,” or more prominent, earwormy runs as on “Actual Daydream,” his riffs are the ones that get stuck in your head and humming them later. The rest of the band do a solid job keeping up with his pace, adding Walkmen-style guitars to “Hesitation Gen,” a surf rock feel to the aforementioned “Daydream,” or some Aha era energy to the fiery “Nothing to Do.”

Frontman Caleb Followill’s lyrics again cause eyerolls at times, whether it’s talking about eating dinner from a can as on the opening “Ballerina Radio,” getting pumped reading muscle mags on the can or posing the nonsensical juxtaposition of a mustang and kitty on lead single “Mustang” (which we can now add to the annals of odd animal showdowns alongside eagles vs sharks (a closet fave) and tunas vs lions.) Similar to the last time, though, these ultimately are minor aberrations, carried along by the strength of the music and melodies surrounding them. (Even though the thought of any of these guys eating canned ravioli — with their supermodel wives, private planes, and big houses — is more preposterous than those fictional animal battles.) Current fave is the bouncy “Don’t Stop the Bleeding,” which has another solid little bass line and some strong vocals from Caleb. Give it a listen here:


Last but not least comes the most recent release of the four, the sixth album from Kentucky’s Cage the Elephant. It’s their first in almost as many years (their last, Social Cues, landed at #14 on my list in 2019) and it’s been an eventful span for the band. In that time they won a Grammy for the aforementioned album (their second), frontman Matt Shultz’s (and guitarist brother Brad’s) father passed away, and Matt was arrested for possession of a pair of loaded firearms at a Manhattan hotel, narrowly avoiding jail time by pleading guilty and agreeing to check into a months-long rehab program (he reportedly appeared drunk at the time of the arrest). As part of his this process Shultz and his doctors apparently determined he’d been having an adverse reaction to a prescription medication the last three years, which caused “an utter mental health crisis” and outright “psychosis” in the singer, potentially leading to impaired decision-making such as that which led to his arrest. (Shultz now credits that arrest with saving his life.)

Unsurprisingly these events are evident throughout their latest, giving us a dozen songs whose lyrics are littered with allusions to the confusion and chaos Shultz appears to have felt. Sonically it continues the synthetic, 80s-inflected vibe of their last one — bright melodies, glossy production, and shiny little hooks — but the lyrics belie a darker side, one riddled with disorientation and regret.  For the former there’s the opening “HiFi (True Light)”, which has Shultz going “up, down, turn around,” while the subsequent “Rainbow” has him floating like the titular entity “up when I get down, right round.” Lead single “Neon Pill” has him “knocked down (not out).” (This track is probably the most explicit regarding his pharmacological problems, finding him “double crossed” by said substance.) “Float Into the Sky” finds him “laying down….at the bottom of the pile…floating into the sky.”

Meanwhile back half tracks like “Metaverse” and “Out Loud” start to dive into the alluded to sense of regret. The former has Shultz “all checked out” while the latter has him admitting “man I really messed up now, too afraid to say it out loud — who am I tryin’ to be?” (“on a cocaine buzz and caffeine high,” no less…) There’s references to “golden handcuffs” and a “ball and chain” on the song of the same name; acknowledgments of his “human condition” on “Shy Eyes;” “trying to put the pieces together” and “wanting the world to disappear” (while his partner lies on the bathroom floor unable to breathe) in the Strokes-y “Silent Picture;” nakedly confessing “I don’t want to play those games — will we ever be the same?” on “Same;” and describing “walking the plank just like [his] mother” on the closing “Over Your Shoulder.” It’s a surprisingly honest and mature take on things for a band normally known for its hedonistic, “heaven can wait” attitude. Current fave is the stutter stepping “Good Time,” which hearkens back to that bacchanalian band of yore (and its imperatives to “get lit”) — give it a spin here:

We’ll close with a quartet of lists to keep you busy over the long weekend. As with most lists they either intentionally or accidentally spark some strong reactions — whether by their inclusions, omissions, and/or rankings — and these have some doozies in them, so hopefully they’ll help fuel some hearty debates amongst you and yours. We’ll start slowly with the one that will probably rile the least amount of folks — if only because not enough people know/care about the band (which is a travesty as they’re one of my absolute faves, one dating way back to my childhood as described in my recent walk down memory lane). Said band is British indie icons The Smiths and the ‘Gum recently did a list of their top ten songs, which has some obvious selections but also some glaring omissions — where’s “What Difference Does it Make?” Or “Hand in Glove?” “Shakespeare’s Sister?” “Bigmouth Strikes Again?” I’d even take “William, It Was Really Nothing” over something like “Still Ill.” I know it’s tough to pick only ten songs for a band with this many great ones, but still…

We’ll move to another band-specific one next and the AV Club’s ranking of the best Zeppelin songs of all time. They went with forty for whatever reason, so while we have a little more room to maneuver they still left out some absolute killers — things like “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You.” “I Can’t Quit You Baby.” “How Many More Times.” “The Lemon Song.” “Moby Dick.” “D’yer Maker.” “The Wanton Song.” “In my Time of Dying.” I know you can’t include everything, but damnit man these songs rule. Any of them could replace something like “For Your Life” (a decent tune, don’t get me wrong, but definitely not the FIFTEENTH BEST THING THEY EVER RECORDED?!?!) and not cause any concern. I bristle a bit at the top ten, too (TWO from In Through the Out Door?!?), but overall think they mostly got it right. See which of your faves are missing and sound off…

We’ll shift now to a pair of multi-act attempts — the first trying to rank the best albums of all time (even I’m not dumb enough to try that one), while the second seeks to only quantify a single decade — and begin our descent into madness. We’ll start with the former and Apple’s list of the 100 best albums, which came out recently  Unsurprisingly it’s got a slick interface and design, but those bells and whistles can’t cover up the craziness that lies within. You can always find things to quibble with in the lower half of these types of lists (Robyn? Burial? Travis Scott?), but once you get into the upper portion you’re supposed to be dialed in and dealing nothing but haymakers. And while they do a decent job making sure the masters are represented, things start to go off the rails as they get near the top. Frank Ocean and Kendrick Lamar in the top 10 of ALL TIME?! Lauryn Hill’s admittedly excellent solo album as #1?! Even having Amy Winehouse and Beyonce in there was a stretch — in the top 100, sure, but top 10?! There’s loads of insanity here, but nowhere near as much as on the next one, Pitchfork’s attempt to rank the best 100 albums of the 90s.

Overall I think they did a pretty good job — some of my all-time faves are in here (Elliott, Tribe, BTS, GBV, Modest, Portishead, the Lizard, etc), but the rankings on a lot of these are wild (The Chronic in the high 70s? Oval, Boredoms, and Godspeed You! Black Emperor in the 40s? Yo La Tengo in the 20s?!?) The omissions, though, are where things become indefensible. That there’s no Rage, Nails, or Tupac (to name just three) is bad, but that NEITHER Oasis nor Pearl Jam make the list is f#$king buffoonery — they were two of the biggest bands of the decade and the opposite side of infamous rivalries with several bands you DID include. If you include Blur, then you have to include Oasis. If you include Nirvana (twice) then you have to include PJ. Hell, you included Pulp and referenced the Blur/Pulp/Oasis competition in your writeup — you KNOW the music warrants inclusion.  This one was utterly asinine the further along we went, but see if you think I’m overreacting. If nothing else I guarantee it’ll stir up some conversations…

That’s it for now — enjoy the long weekend and we’ll see each other soon. Until next time, amici…
–BS

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Beast of Burden — Bonzo, the Lips, and a Pair of Perennials

In order to complete the annual springtime trifecta of Thursday’s “May the 4th be with you” (which spawned this fantastic trailer, made even more amazing by the fact it was apparently created completely by AI(?!?)) and Friday’s Cinco de Mayo (celebrated with tacos, pambazos, and chicharrones like a good member of La Raza) it’s time for the much-awaited dawning of the sun(shine) and an appearance from yours truly. (The Kentucky Derby is today, too, but we all know I’m the real show pony here…) As such, wanted to share some recent finds with my beloved sunbeams (aka the eight of you who still check in here every once in a while), the first of which is the biography of the legendary John Bonham that I happily stumbled upon recently.

Aptly titled Beast (which you learn was the name the band/crew had for Bonham’s destructive drunken alter ego — ie “I wouldn’t go in there, the Beast is out tonight”) it takes us from his early life in rural Worcestershire, England through his rise into the stratosphere with the legendary Zeppelin and his unfortunate, untimely death at the appalling age of 32. Somehow it’s the first biography on Bonham and it fittingly comes with a foreword from living legend Dave Grohl (an homage from the best rock drummer of this generation to the best of the one before). It’s a solid read for any fan of the Zep (which should include 95% of the population — the other 5% being deaf) or anyone who’s ever been enchanted by (and/or wanted to play) the drums — because Bonham is almost always held to be the best there was. (I can’t remember which musician said it in an interview, but essentially their answer was “the right question to ask is ‘who’s the next best drummer’ — because obviously he’s alone at the top.” It might have been Grohl himself, actually — doesn’t really matter, though…)

It’s thanks to that universal acclaim I was so surprised there’d never been an official biography on him to date, and even more so to find this sitting unannounced on the shelf at the book store as I hadn’t heard a peep about it on any of the music sites I regularly traffic — but there it thankfully was.  Even if you’re a huge fan of the man/band and think you know most of the story, author Kushins has plenty of wonderful little nuggets in here to round out your appreciation. Things like the night Bonham and JPJ were in an airport bar in Brisbane and ended up singing Everly Brothers songs to the Fijian Police Choir while they waited for their plane. Or when he went and saw Bob Marley in concert with Ringo Starr and Keith Moon because they were all such fans. Or when he was mistaken as a farmer by Stones bassist Bill Wyman’s girlfriend because he was going on and on about his prized livestock one night at dinner. Or when he jumped onstage and dragged the drummer off the kit at a Chuck Berry concert because he wasn’t doing his beloved icon justice, filling in for the rest of the show. Or his love of the Police (the band, not the civic servants) and how he took his siblings to see them in concert, nearly getting into a fistfight with Sting backstage. These little details serve as bright contrasts to the contours of the more well-known, darker story, which Kushins effectively portrays in all its sad destruction.

Yet even that story had some unknown elements (at least to me), which help make more sense of that broader narrative. Yes, Bonham (and his bandmates) are almost as legendary for their off-stage antics as their timeless tunes, destroying innumerable hotel rooms and imbibing inhuman amounts of alcohol and drugs over the course of their meteoric rise. What I didn’t know was how this behavior was apparently driven not by boredom or an impish (some might say immature) sense of humor, as was the case with fellow icon and friend Keith Moon (who also died at the ridiculously cruel age of 32 and whose equally good biography this one now sits alongside on my shelf), but by a debilitating sense of homesickness.

Over and over throughout the book Kushins paints a picture of a somewhat reluctant superstar — someone who hated to be away from his wife and baby son rather than out carousing with the seemingly infinite number of groupies (and other illicit substances) at his disposal. Someone who was equally (if not moreso) comfortable working construction jobs and tending to the livestock on his farm rather than touring the globe and playing to hordes of thrilled fans onstage every night. Someone who would get panic attacks before shows as late as ’75 when they had long since become the biggest band on the planet. (And when when he would regularly command the spotlight for 20-30 minutes each night on his own with his epic “Moby Dick” solos. )

It’s against this backdrop that the well-known drinking and destruction take on a new light and become inordinately sadder — not just for how they end with Bonham’s early demise, but for how unnecessary and avoidable it all seems. The most agonizing section comes with the “never ending tour” of 1975 when the band was essentially exiled from England in order to avoid its crushing tax codes. (A topic which British bands from the Stones, Beatles, and Radiohead have all covered over the years.) Time and again Kushins relates instances where Bonham was drinking too much (literally ordering and consuming dozens of drinks in one sitting before heading to another bar to do it all again), acting out (whether smashing hotel rooms, driving/crashing cars, or storming stages/getting into fights with other bands he’d go see), and just going further and further down his dark spiral, unable to return home and just lashing out as a result.

Today you feel like he’d have hopefully gotten medical help (either for the anxiety, depression, or alcoholism, if not all three) and his family would have maybe flown to be on tour with him rather than stayed in the UK, making matters worse. (Plant and Jones also apparently were much more family oriented and homesick than I’d known — although far less destructive than Bonham — so maybe in today’s age we’d have had a different version of the touring band. Sure, we’d be deprived of the depraved decadence and excess that’s detailed in Hammer of the Gods, but I’m sure every single fan would gladly trade that in if it meant saving Bonham and giving the world more years of music.) The security situation around the band would likely also have been different — they apparently regularly received death threats, which aside from being inscrutable and confusing (why would you possibly want to threaten one/all of these guys — just on account of their fame?) also fed this sense of isolation and paranoia that apparently ran in the background and fueled some of the more destructive behavior. (And also helped keep the family members away, one would assume, only making matters worse.)

It all fed into this reinforcing cycle of bad behavior — another town, another show, another death threat, another stretch of hours without family or the comforts of home, which garnered more booze, more drugs, more destruction to distract himself (themselves) and make him/themself feel more calm. It’s tough to keep reading after a certain point (I can only imagine how horrible it was to see firsthand) and by the time the band is touring in ’77 it leads to the official “Rules of Engagement,” which were sent ahead to all venues/journalists prior to the band’s arrival. Rule number one? (Actually 1a) “Do not make any sort of eye contact with John Bonham. This is for your own safety.” That this went on for another two and a half years speaks to both his (and the band’s) capacity for punishment and their love of making music (and money, I’m sure). The band was still pushing themselves and evolving, trying new sounds and arrangements instead of just coasting on their immense fame and laurels — if only they could have better controlled their inner demons, things might have turned out differently…

————-

My love of the band dates back to middle school and idolizing Bonham’s playing was one of the primary reasons I wanted to learn the drums. (Note to anyone aspiring to play drums (or any instrument, for that matter) — do not start out by trying to play Zeppelin songs. You will immediately become disheartened and want to quit because of how good a musician each of them were on their respective instruments.)  Zeppelin was the first band from my parents’ era that felt like my own — my mom was always playing Beatles songs while Pops was a huge fan of the Stones — but these guys I found on my own. (Sure, I heard their songs a lot on the radio when the local station would “get the Led out,” but I never really knew who they belonged to.)

I vividly remember finding the first album in their record collection — the one with the iconic flaming Hindenburg photo on the cover in eye-catching black and white — and instantly being converted when I put it on up in my room.  By the force of the sound, sure, but also by that first irresistible lick of a riff — DUH DUH……DUH DUH…. — it was like the Jaws theme being played on a fuzzed up guitar and only got better from there, with Bonham slowly slipping in to pummel you shortly thereafter.  I remember listening to Houses of the Holy while I contentedly drew comics at my desk, thinking “this is the sexiest sh#$ I’ve ever heard” without having any clue what sexiness actually was. (I was in middle school after all — not that I’m much more savvy now.)

I remember laying on the carpet with the shades down, the smell of lilacs and the summer breeze blowing over me from the open window, while “How Many More Times” or “Levee” blasted out at high volume and Pops coming in to say, “I love what you’re doing here — really, I do — but we’ve got to turn it down.  The neighbors are complaining” with a proud twinkle in his eye. (Incredibly, I learned here that the version of “Levee” we hear on their fourth album — the one with the miraculous, cacophonous sound of Bonham’s drums, quite probably the most emblematic example of his prowess — was the only recording of their initial sessions that survived. All the rest — “Black Dog,” “Rock and Roll,” etc — were lost and subsequently had to be rerecorded, but thankfully those iconic, incredible drum sounds on “Levee” were spared.)

In recent years I’ve begun revisiting some of their later albums, spending time with some of the ones I didn’t wear out in the years since middle school. Physical Graffiti has been a primary target — one I’d always thought was a little disjointed and just felt off compared to the others (which I now know may in part be because it’s at least half pulled from remnants of earlier recording sessions, possibly accounting for that differing feel as the Zep of the first album had changed quite a bit by the time of this one). And while I still think it pales a bit in relation to some of those flawless earlier albums, there are some killer tracks on there I’ve been wearing out again, particularly after reading this book — none moreso than “In My Time of Dying” and “The Wanton Song.”

I was recently down in Austin (more on this in a minute) and was drunkenly gushing to my buddy about how bananas Bonham’s kicks are in these two, particularly the latter. Known for his furious triplets — which I learned in this book were not the product of him using a double kick as I’d long assumed, but even more astoundingly were just done with a single pedal — he throws down an almost unending string of quartets in the latter, something we flailingly tried to replicate on my buddy’s kit at two in the morning, avoiding both a half-decent approximation of the drumming (not a surprise), as well as having the police show up. (A borderline miracle.) It’s worth giving both another listen (as well as those aforementioned classics that annoyed the neighbors 30 years prior), and checking this book out when you’re done. Long live the Beast…

We’ll close out with a few more recs, first this list of Depeche Mode’s 30 best songs, according to the gang over at the Onion. It was compiled in anticipation of their recently released Memento Mori, their first since the death of keyboardist Andy Fletcher last year. The list does a pretty solid job of sampling from the band’s fifteen albums, appropriately centering on the run from Music for the Masses to Violator and Songs of Faith and Devotion as the best of the best.

As always happens with these types of lists there’s a few I would have included that they didn’t (and vice versa) — songs like “Pleasure, Little Treasure,” “In Chains” (a fantastic opener that I got to see them play — appropriately to open their set — years ago at Lolla, which was a definite bucket list moment), and the sultry, sinister “I Feel You,” one of my all-time faves. Overall, though, theirs makes for a heck of a playlist, so give it (and my omitted trio) a listen when you can. In the meantime enjoy this one from the new album — it sounds like Depeche channeling Massive Attack, which is every bit as tasty as it sounds. Give it a ride here:


Up next comes one of the reasons I flew down to Austin (other than to spend time with two of my favorite humans) — Toronto’s Wine Lips, who were playing at the stacked second day of Psych Fest. Even if my best friend and wife didn’t live there it would have been hard to pass up — the evening run went from Night Beats (a solid mix of garage rock and spaghetti Western sounding tunes) to a 13th Floor Elevators tribute, the Raveonettes (playing their stellar debut, Whip it On, in its entirety to start the set), hometown faves the Black Angels, and the ever-awesome BRMC to close it out.

In the middle were the scrappy Lips in all their trashy glory, playing a blistering set that crammed about 100 songs into its scant thirty minutes.  They remind me a bit of Bass Drum of Death (before he added synths and polish) and are every bit as high energy/attitude as that act at their best. We got to chat with half the band afterward and they seemed lovely, more gracious and down to earth than you might expect from a band playing this type of brash, snotty punk music. I’m a big fan — I’ve been listening to their most recent album, 2021’s Mushroom Death Sex Bummer Party, a ton lately, and it grabs you from the outset with the killer blast of fire that is the opening “Eyes.”  Give it a listen here and go see them if they come to town — it’s a hell of an enjoyable workout:


We’ll close with a track from one of my all-time faves, the ever-epic Built to Spill, who I got to see live again this week. It’s the final leg of their tour for the latest album, When the Wind Forgets your Name (which landed at #6 on my year-end list last year), and possibly the final time touring with bassist Melanie Radford (normally from Blood Lemon) and drummer Teresa Esguerra (normally in Prism Bitch, who were opening for the band). The two have been with Doug since the tour for his Daniel Johnston cover album (which landed at #10 on my 2020 list), though they didn’t appear on that or the following album for whatever reason. That said, they more than meet the bar set by the previous three piece incarnations of the band — Radford even took the lead and sang vocals during a cover of the Heartless Bastards’ “The Mountain.”

It was a solid run through the majority of the band’s history — six of their nine albums were represented — but I almost didn’t go because of how little they were playing from the new album.  One of my favorite things to do is see how new music from long-running bands stands up next to perennial favorites — particularly from albums I enjoyed/enjoy as much as this one — so was a bit bummed to see how little was showing up from their latest outing. (Don’t get me wrong — I love this band and have seen them dozens of times (and will continue to for as long as they keep touring), but always like to hear the new stuff as much as I can since it’s not like they tour every year.)

Perusing the recent setlists they didn’t appear to play more than three songs from it a night (sometimes only one!) and they’ve never played the epic closing track, which is fantastic and screams to be heard live, stretched out even further by one of Doug’s deliriously leggy benders. Sadly they didn’t that night either, but the pain of omission was dampened because they DID close with “Broken Chairs,” one of my all-time faves (and one of my three selections from our game Gimme Three Steps for why someone should listen to this band). I listened to that and the missing track multiple times on the ride home (and several more times the following day) so feels appropriate to share and close with here. Check out “Comes a Day” here:


That’s all for now — until next time, my friends…
–BS