The Rake Magazine

Irvin Mayfield and Ellis Marsalis
Love Songs, Ballads and Standards
Basin Street Records

Trumpeter Irvin Mayfield has often been an artist who wears his heart on his sleeve. This sentimental exuberance has helped put the panache in Los Hombres Calientes, made his breakup concept CD, How Passion Falls, especially vivid, and has fueled his tireless efforts (as musician, cultural ambassador, library board member, you name it) to resurrect New Orleans after the hurricane and flood that took the life of his father. But the combination of overripe ballads and the chance to record with his mentor, the pianist and patriarch Ellis Marsalis, makes Mayfield's most every bleat bathetic, and the sum of Love Songs corny and starchy. I wouldn't quite call it elevator music. But if I heard it on an escalator, I'd want to get off.

The disc's problems are symbolized by the fact that there are not one, but two versions of the hoary, somnambulant Beatles standard, "Yesterday," bookending the record with a studio opener and concert closer that aren't different enough to justify the redundancy even if the improvisational acumen were more apparent. The song selection sets a high bar—"Superstar" and "A House Is Not A Home" have plenty of stirring versions even without Luther Vandross's definitive takes, and material like "Round Midnight" and "In A Sentimental Mood" require more than lush atmosphere and a few swoons to become distinguished.

The best things here are a solid version of "Mo' Betta Blues," a "Don't Know Why" that provides much needed whimsy, and Marsalis's elegant piano on Corinne Bailey Rae's "Like A Star." Not coincidentally, they are three of the four tunes recorded last June, post-Katrina; whereas the other ten numbers are from 2004. Most of these arrangements were sufficiently dewy just with a quartet (drummer Jaz Sawyer and bassist Neal Caine abet the leaders), but the Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra is brought in for further sweetening, another sign of overreach. In the liner notes, Mayfield says he "didn't intellectualize" his song choices. Next time, a few more brain cells might be a better investment.

Love Songs, Ballads and Standards * (one out of five stars)

 

 

Ellis Marsalis Quartet
An Open Letter to Thelonious
ELM

An Open Letter To Thelonious, likewise, had the potential to be stodgy and hackneyed. Monk tributes come a dime a dozen, and Ellis Marsalis—the father of Wynton Marsalis, after all—is a thorough but resolutely orthodox jazz scholar and musician. He remains that way on Letter, and proves you don't have to take liberties with classic material to keep it refreshing.

Marsalis admits in the liner notes that he didn't initially "get" Monk, and there is the diligence of atonement in the way he burrows into the crevices of Monk's fractured rhythms and invests himself in both the earnest and wry aspects of the great composer's work. Ellis himself takes the lead on songs involving the ladies in Monk's life, unveiling the languid contentment of "Crespuscule With Nellie" and the sweetness of "Ruby, My Dear." He delivers a brief but memorable two-handed solo on "Light Blue" (misspelled "Light Bue" on the disc) that helps portray an essential Monk contradiction, relaxed complexity. And his dappled notes showcase the beauty of "Monk's Mood," including a solo that captures Monk's ability to be elliptical and allusive yet never lax or otherwise inattentive.

The other star of the quartet is Ellis's youngest son, drummer Jason Marsalis, who among other things was Irvin Mayfield's cohort in Los Hombres Calientes. His drum solos on Letter are plentiful and thus inevitably garrulous on occasion, but his turn on "Jackie-ing" is pure delight, an adventurous mixture of crisp Monk and New Orleans march time, and his hard-bop propulsion on "Straight, No Chaser" gives the tune the feel of Blakey's Jazz Messengers. Saxophonist Derek Douget and bassist Jason Stewart round out the ensemble, with Douget's soprano horn leading the dialogue on "Epistrophy" and the whole band exuding a light-hearted vibe on "Teo" (Monk's paean to his longtime producer, Teo Macero) and the irrepressible "Rhythm-A-Ning." After a nifty solo that drops in a "Sweet Georgia Brown" quote on the latter tune, Marsalis closes out the disc with a solo rendition of "Round Midnight" that is luscious with sentiment yet never cloys. Compare its acuity to the pro forma romance contained in the "Round Midnight" on Love Songs, and hear why good intentions don't suffice without an artistic follow-through.

An Open Letter to Thelonious **** (four stars)

The howling is deafening. The screaming. The hooting. The pumping legs and shaking hips. Is it... the real David Bowie onstage? The Thin White Duke himself?

For the first three chords of "Ziggy Stardust" it's hard to tell it is the house band Kitty Stardust playing and not the rock icon. The crowd is losing it in high-decibel ecstatic moaning. The pair of women in glow-in-the-dark earrings look like they might faint. And everyone is shrieking the lyrics.

Ziggy played guitar!

Tonight is the fifth annual Rock For Pussy, a David Bowie tribute extravaganza, at First Avenue. Founded by Current DJ Mary Lucia, the evening not only serves as a glam rock community brouhaha, but also as a fundraiser for the Minnesota Valley Humane Society.

Fundraising strategist Adam Mehl says he is excited about the opportunity to mix music with his Humane Society work.

"I've made it a habit of combining work with non-profits and music together," he says. "As an organization, we're excited to get exposure and to have the support of local music community. With all Humane Societies, it's really hard to convey to people we don't get government support."

This is the second year the organization has linked with Rock For Pussy. But for Mehl, his Bowie fanatisim goes way back.

"I got into Bowie with his influence in early punk," he says.

It is a night of music and fashion. Errant Aladdin Sane lightning bolts speckle the faces in the crowd. The pants are tight; the skirts are short. The rabid Bowie fans in front of the stage are neon and glittering and twisting and shimmying as if melding into one sleek creature.

On stage, it's a different story.

Kitty Stardust looks surprisingly un-Bowie. Spare the lead guitarist wearing a black boa and another in a fancy fedora, the band looks like a brood of renegade hippies in paisley print shirts and long, flowing skirts. The drummer is donning a *cringe* mullet. The sound, however, is right on-even including a few nice flourishes. A slick, white Les Paul lends "Queen Bitch" a crunchier sound than the original. "Jean Jeanie" sounds nice with raspy female vocals. And, in some ways, watching Kitty Stardust is better than seeing Bowie in the flesh because concert-goers don't have to wade through a string of new tracks in between the tried and true hits. Rock For Pussy is all about the gems.

The show is laid-back and friendly with a revolving door of notable locals taking spins behind the mic. Among them are singer/songwriter Jeremy Messersmith and Minneapolis celebrity writer Jim Walsh, who is tricked out in glittery eye makeup for his version of "Heroes." Local popsmith Sam Keenan is the glammest of them all in a see-through black shirt and silver choker. His version of "DJ" is sexy and riotous, easily one of the evening's best renditions.

The show's highlight is "Fame," played by Minneapolis goth act, All The Pretty Horses. The intro thumps on, vamping and vamping, as two sultry waifs in scandalous police costumes shine mini spotlights on the evening's star, the infamous drag queen Venus De Mars. De Mars, outfitted in a black corset, is passionate and expressive, and best of all, extremely lewd. But it is All The Pretty Horses' drummer, however, who should be Rock For Pussy's poster boy, wearing a cat ear headband and David Bowie tee. Between the band's high-powered glamour and the fashion-forward audience, in that moment, everyone looked like stars.

 

^{Originally written for Realbuzz}


Never has an entire decade of music been so thoroughly consolidated within the confines of a single album. Because we're talking about the 1980s here — or more precisely, 1983-1993 — this can be viewed as either a good or bad thing, depending very much on your personal taste. If you didn't like hair metal (and, just as importantly, hair ballads) the first time around, you won't now. Regardless, and this is sort of amazing: Def Leppard's aesthetic has by no means been softened by the two decades of safe-pop-rock that has infiltrated the mainstream since their 1987 hit "Pour Some Sugar on Me." Or rather, it has softened - their last album, X, was derided for ‘not having much kick to [its] rhythms' — and now re-calcified. Abrasive, spasmodic, at times just plain noisy, Songs from the Sparkle Lounge is, for better or worse, a return to a lost era.

If you miss shaking your perm'd mullet to power chords, or if you were too young in the ‘80s to appreciate the charm-less allure of bands such as this, there is presently cause to rejoice.

The worst one can say about Sparkle Lounge is that it's put together like a comeback effort. Despite the fact that Def Leppard has been releasing albums fairly regularly, this one in particular cycles through so many sub-genres that it does, regrettably, feel a bit like a cry for attention. That said, the group attacks each style - rock ballad, thunder metal, New Wave metal - with such sincerity, and even mastery, that when you're listening to it you really feel as if you're in a different (louder) era.

Though it may attract the same fan base, this isn't the campy, half-ironic rock of artists like Andrew W.K. who capitalized on the resurgence of ‘80s culture; this is the real stuff, the prima materia. "Gotta Let it Go," for example, would be a pretty good match for a movie montage. Again - not the satirical sequences of Wet Hot American Summer or Team America: World Police; this is suitable for Top Gun, or even Rocky IV. There's really fast, meandering electric guitar work that serves as filler, but its strength is a never-ending chorus, with the mantra "Gotta let it go!" shouted over and over, reinforced by some heavy chords and drums.

"Love," then, serves as a nice counterpoint, as the hair ballad is, after all, the inverse of the rock anthem. I think even Meat Loaf might tip his hat to this one. After a bastardization of the introductory licks to "Stairway to Heaven," lead singer Joe Elliot comes in crooning, "Love! Love! Why do I keep searching high and low?" One imagines candelabras and white poofy shirts, just like twenty years ago.

The rest all falls within the spectrum of leather jackets with lots of zippers, professional wrestling, patriotic bandanas, and the straightforward punchlines of Andrew Dice Clay. "Bad Actress," "C'mon C'mon," and "Go" all hold the elements of an oversized culture. That Def Leppard is British in origin seems incidental to me; I would say this is a profoundly American album. "Nine Lives," the single featuring Tim McGraw, has just enough twang to sound a bit like recent commercials for Ford Trucks. To show their versatility within the U.S. canon, they've even thrown in "Tomorrow," which sticks its nose into the mid-90s, emulating a bit of the Boy Band pastiche. Even this, though, is pulled off with the blunt confidence of the rest of the album. If there are a few adjectives that can be used describe every song, here they are: Loud, bold, and impossible to ignore.

Track listing:

1. Go
2. Nine Lives
3. C'mon C'mon
4. Love
5. Tomorrow
6. Cruise Control
7. Hallucinate
8. Only the Good Die Young
9. Bad Actress
10. Come Undone
11. Gotta Let It Go
12. Love

When the glitz and the flash and the devilish showboating are stripped away, Ace Frehley shines as the true powerhouse behind KISS. In his legendary band, the "spaceman" often got swallowed by Gene Simmons's fire-spewing antics and Paul Stanley's notorious onstage preening. But it was Frehley's axe-wielding that gave musical credibility to the band's campy allure. He is currently proving his fury on his first solo tour in 13 years.

Despite his being only one-fourth of the '70s scare-glam troupe, the packed crowd at First Avenue lauded Frehley with a fervent welcoming that could only come from hardcore KISS fans. We're talking decades-worth of KISS t-shirts, hazardous air-guitar, vocal cord-shredding screaming, and a mass of head bangers that would have clogged the stairwells if not for one over-worked club employee. Everyone was trying to make it feel like 1975 again. And, through squinted eyes, it kind of looked that way.

 

Frehley's band emblazons the epitome of hard rock attitude: not a stitch of non-black clothing; black-rimmed eyes; way too expensive haircuts. Ace is the only one who doesn't fit in. The pale white make up has long been washed down the drain. Tonight he's wearing leather pants and an unfortunate beer gut. The only remnants of his past-glamdom showing as he swishes his still-long hair about. The sound is different, too. Frehley's newest incarnation is way heavier than KISS ever was. When Frehley is in control, it's a loud beast.

 

Frehley dabbled in his solo material. "Rock Soldier" from his Frehley's Comet days, was a particular sweet spot early in the show, with Ace embarking on a 10-minute blitzkrieg of a solo. Mostly he took from his KISS material. "Into the Void" and "Torpedo Girl" were sing-along favorites. "Love Gun" was a riotous encore after nearly two hours of KISS deep cuts. This was Frehley showing his authentic KISStory, even luring the band into the trademark side-to-side bobbing of the original quartet.

It was another solo tune, however, that became the stand-out show stealer. During "New York Groove" Frehley played with a blinking Les Paul fitted with LED lights. Nearing the end, his band left him, and Frehley switched guitars to a custom-made Les Paul that shot out flames and left thick, white clouds of smoke hanging over the audience. It was Frehley's shining moment, as he embarked on a solo only rivaled by the top of metal's elite. It is an onslaught of noise, which doesn't try to have a melody or any kind of chord progression. Its only goal is to be loud as hell. And, well, he overshot the mark into ear-ringing madness.

Aside from musicianship, the performance gave a good glimpse at the rest of Ace Frehley. When Simmons and Stanley aren't stealing the spotlight, Frehley proves himself to be quite a character. His onstage banter includes talking about his favorite science fiction novel from high school, his 1976 onstage (and accidental) electrocution, and how he is "having so much fun on tour it should be illegal." His candor was awkward, but charming, and often interrupted with bouts of his notorious, dorky laughter. He could quite possibly be the biggest nerd in rock, but he rolls with it.

Originally written for Realbuzz 

There's something deliciously lame about Clay Aiken's new album, On My Way Here. On all his previous outputs, Aiken's milked his boyish, Pee-Wee-esque persona, happy to satisfy both the teenie-boppers and their wannabe moms. On this release, though, young Clayton is trying to mature. Sadly, it seems he's playing dress-up in his father's clothes, without realizing he's just playing.

On songs like "Ashes," Aiken is full of angst, sadness, and remorse (lately this has become the standard emotional cocktail for young, disgruntled pop artists...perhaps it's always been that way). Maybe it's an unfortunate condition of having come up knowing nothing but the interior of the industry, but whatever emotions he has can only be expressed through the most commonplace clichés.

"Someone told me what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger," he leads off. Which sets him up for the reprise, "Now I can rise above the ashes."

But "Ashes" presents us only with general, widely relatable emotions. It's not until the introspective "The Real Me" that Aiken really gets into his groove.

"Foolish heart/looks like we're here again
the same old game of plastic smile/don't let anybody in
hidin' my heartache/will this glass house break?"

I haven't done the investigation, but there's no way this wasn't ripped from the journal Aiken kept in junior high. Unless maybe Jewel helped him with his songwriting. The Chorus:

"You see the real me/hidin' in my skin/broken from within"

Apparently The Real Him is a fourteen-year-old boy whose date to the spring dance has just rejected him. Now he's looking in the mirror, of course.

Underlying each track is a predictably undulating progression: When the songs are loud and over-produced (which is often), Aiken is defiant and/or angry and/or triumphant; when the instrumentation dies away and we're left with only his voice (which is also often), Aiken is morose and/or contemplative.

The guitars have been filtered through so many computers they sound like electrical currents; the drums have been softened and tweaked so they sound like guitars. Sure, Aiken's got a good voice. But it's so obviously manipulated that even this, which should be his strength, gets ruined. The term for magazine models is airbrushed; I'm not sure what it is for musical artists.

I guess what it comes down to is, Aiken is now professing sincerity, and yet his music hasn't really changed at all. Before, at least, he was (outwardly) content to be a poster boy for the industry. Now it seems he wants to break away and become independent - if we're to take his lyrics seriously at all, this is the message he's sending - and yet, he is completely without the faculties to do so.