Uncle Tupelo: March 16-20, 1992

Froggy's Favorite Albums




It's easy to debate about Uncle Tupelo's place in the evolution of "alt country" or whatever moniker the genre garners, but since I wasn't much older than 9 at the time this album was released, I'm not in a position to pontificate about that. In fact, since my musical adolesence was somewhat delayed, I didn't come to this album until my college years. However, I'm entirely glad I waited. There's a nascent love of Americana music that courses though my ears, from a childhood spend in the heart of Appalachian Pennsylvania and countless hours traipsing through abandoned industry and overgrown riverbanks, and this album, more than any other, tackles that.

A discussion on Murmurs a few weeks ago got me thinking about why I really like this album as much as I do. Certainly it's not all that "I was born to like country music" garbage, or I'd a) like a lot more country music, b) have gotten in to it sooner (rather than spending sophomore year telling then roommate that country music was for hicks. Now I find out I'm just a self loathing WASP.) and c) what realistically determines what kind of music you like? I think this third question is one that can be dealt with in a few different ways, by dissecting the math that goes into notation and chord structures or the simple fact of my dad listened to Dylan and Van Morrison, so I listen to people who similarly listened to those bands.

When it comes right down to it, music snobbery is comprised of two pieces. The first is knowing bands which no one else has heard of, maintaining vehemently that you heard of them first, and ardently collecting all their material so that you can use the phrase "I like the remix on the Japanese tour release EP better". The second is wanting to blow people's minds with music. Sometimes these go hand in hand, and Uncle Tupelo is one of these bands. Nearly everyone has heard of Wilco, if just because Tweedy is a sniveling sycophantic hack, but not as many people (besides those who appreciate the genre which is, in fact, named for their first album) know the story behind Tupes. And since this album, more than any other, encompasses the straight ahead country (regardless of the "alt") and features many of the classic covers (and seamlessly incorporated originals), it is the most representative of the entire Tupelo quatrain. The genius of the title is that this is a timeless album that is intrinsically tied to the four days over which it was recorded so that it is more than a style or a collaboration, it is a moment, and that is what music is really comprised of.

Of course, I also love Swedish pop music, which is about as twee and superficial as you can get. So WTF?

Sellout Perception

Precisely what constitutes the shark leap to sellout status? Big budget record deal? Ad slot endorsement? Neon Bible? If you visit certain websites, it's a lot more ironic than that.

Okay, so I can't be arsed to visit a Postal Service web forum, but I find it rather amusing that a lot of smaller artists have recently fallen prey to full scale spam attacks. When you consider the victimized fanbases, comparatively small in the grand scheme, it can only mean one of two things: 1) online marketing is a crap chute run by inept teenagers; 2) independent music listeners have enough expendable income to justify overwhelming their custom chat areas.

Why is it that Isobel's site has more registered spammers than genuine fans? And the Fiery Furnaces boards had a good month of peace before the jackals swooped in like the place pissed oil. To this I say in a cheap Colbert(ish) voice: the measure of fame is not about the sale of song rights to a cola company or automotive manufacturer; it's not about whether you make six digits or more every time you cut an LP; it's all about which audience is so imbecilic that they believe those photos of Natalie Portman stroking her lady business are genuine. I mean, I compare some of these indie bands with well established acts, and there's virtually no spam shadowing the popular ones. Oh sure, you might suggest they can afford better webmasters and content filters, but that's sloughing off the trend. And trend is king.

Nobody knows that it's M.I.A. singing behind that roof-jumping sedan, but take the fight online and the gloves hit the floor. The web has become so integrated with popular culture that it's become pointless to watch the news; they only show about 10% of the amateur footage and edit the good parts. Why did Pitchfork even know about the Animal Collective/Crayola commercial? As if we needed more fodder to build a case against the 'fork, here they are oldschoolin' it and watching television, telegraph and gramophone's younger cousin. Fuckin' 'ell, man, how do you interrupt a 30-second read only slot with a timeshare plug?

Here's a bit of advice concerning all present and future opportunists (what else can they be called): all online offerings are fake. Every one of them. You give your personal information to them, and they either bill you immediately for a non-existent service or they forward your contact details to 100 firms that will do it tomorrow. There's no way to consolidate your credit through email. There's no shortage of quality amateur porn, i.e. you needn't peruse whatever URL the cheaply composed email is pimping. But if bands who write literary tunes eventually attract fans who would buy into any of the abovementioned bullshit, they've probably sold out and alienated anyone who knows the meaning of the term "undergrad". Except my favorites, of course. They're just plain awesome.

EPs

So in looking through my music, I realize just how many EPs I actually own. I've also, for the time being, slotted Beirut's Lon Gisland EP into the top 5 of albums released so far this year. But how can 15 and a half minutes of music possibly stand up to the scope and diaspora of styles and themes found in a full album? (Well, one that's not released by the Shins, who seem to rerelease the same half hour album every couple years)

For some artists, the EP is a way to try new things, to tinker with a fuller band sound (Beirut) or percussion (Iron and Wine), for some it's a chance to clear out the archives (Sondre Lerche), or even just experiment with a cheesy synth riff (Architecture in Helsinki). The Flaming Lips released two of the worst EPs known to man by repackaging some remixes and one-off covers to capitalize on the expanded visibility they had with Yoshimi, whereas Colin Meloy used the EP to release (for the most part only at tour stops) his covers of Morrissey and Shirley Collins tracks (I'll be honest, the "Sings" series is the only way I'd listen to Morrissey), which ostensibly influenced him, though he followed those quite listenable EPs up with a full length Decemberists album that contained none of that folk introversion.

Anyway, I'm sure these thoughts are quite underformed, but maybe there's a poetic justic in not being able to properly talk about otherwise deserving albums, like Hello Saferide's Would You Let Me Play This EP 10 Times A Day or They Might Be Giants' Why Does The Sun Shine EP, because they themselves don't properly sit with the artists' full length releases.

American Idol Stunts Your Gray Matter

Why even mention such mental poison when the optimistic hipster ought to celebrate good music, you might be thinking. I previously said that a lot of so-called music fans lack the conviction to understand their taste, and that's because a lot of people have no actual semblance of opinion; they're told what to like and blindly accept it.

Friends, a confession: I engaged in some mind-numbing "entertainment" a few weeks ago when one of my best friends visited from abroad. As best I can tell, he's a pretty religious Idol viewer-- in spite of being a talented musician. What I observed that night appalled me for several reasons. First, there was no emphasis on person, just performance. If music is to be reduced to a scientific measure of pitch and timbre, songcraft would be about writing increasingly complex rhythms and not expressing an idea. Contestants were not people with emotions as vehicles to interpret music, they were jukeboxes to be judged as amp and speaker configurations. Sadly for them, and previous winners, when the hype machine dons a new chassis, they lack the individuality to touch a non-Vegas audience. My only consolation that night was having a high school chap with whom to mock every person who thought this a serious foray into the music industry.

I'd like to elaborate on the premise that music, like all art forms, is about expressing oneself. It doesn't take a connoisseur to deduce the likes of Dylan and Cash had shit terrible voices, but the passion that drives their music is irrefutable. How else could you explain their myths, which seem to transcend the generations? At my rural gym, I see metalheads and punk thugs alike who appreciate their output, and that speaks volumes to my skinny ears. I just drowned in Sonic Youth's "Diamond Sea", an epic song if ever one existed, and I've no doubt that most audiences would erupt in an applause of exploding heads if they would attempt a listen. Why? Because they haven't trained their ears or hearts to respond to chemistry or anything reminiscent of a musical journey. It's not an easy sell because people don't tend to extract enlightenment from trivial distractions we dub "culture". Our culture has become a reel of ephemeral camera shots and lightning quick ads. But consider this: architects express themselves technically and aesthetically. Sure, they get to sculpt the faces of cities and towns the world over, but they also have to ensure that beams won't collapse and buildings won't buckle like Paris's jeans in front of a penis. That's what real music is: enough rhythmic and instrumental cues to keep the mind from wandering, but only if built on a foundation that justifies opening your damn mouth in the first place.

On Nick Drake

The time has come to respond to a few of the comments, made, I can only assume, under the influence of having listened to Creed.

First and foremost: I have nothing against Nick Drake. Many are the times I have reflected on the ennui that some like to call "life", and silently, passively air guitared along with Things Behind The Sun. Many are the times I've heard Fly in a movie, and had to endure my friends (who think Guster are underground) loudly exclaim that they "can't wait until this guy just releases an album already". But all that being said, Nick Drake is great.

Secondly and secondmost: People who throw proven albums like In the Aeroplane Over the Sea into the discussion of bad favorite albums are clearly antagonizers. It's the closest-to-perfect album ever recorded, so is free from the conversation. Shine on Jeff Mangum, you crazy weirdo.

David Vandervelde: The Moonstation House Band

The first great debut of 2007?



I've long thought that Jay Bennett was the little plastic prong doowhackeys that hold a CD into a jewl case of alt. country. Not entirely essential, pretty worthless on their own, but damn is it inconvenient if they're not around. When he left Wilco, they devolved into a wankery only seen in dimly lit European porn houses, tentatively titled Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Now, he lends his formidable studio prowess to the two greatest tracks off a relatively brief solo outing by Michiganer David Vandervelde (Michiganese?). Sure, there are other songs besides "Jacket" and "Murder in Michigan" (Sufjan Stevens lodged a formal complaint arguing that this song, in fact, must have been accidentally written by him) worth hearing on this album, but the slightly psychedelic warbling of Vandervelde is a bit of a hodgepodge so it's best to stick to the tried and true.

So here's the situation. You need to buy this album. You need to listen to it in your car, cruising down Pennsylvania's rural roads, singing "Well didn't someone tell you it's raining/because you forgot your jacket on the second floor/you might have got a mind like a fortune teller/but you never know what lovin's for". It doesn't mean anything, but it sounds like it should. And if that's good enough for Ferdinand de Saussure, that's good enough for me.

The Crappy Album Challenge

Froggy and Woodman aren't your ordinary snobs. Occasionally, we endeavor to enlighten you the reader as to why you lack the taste or conviction to appreciate good music. We look forward to your favorite album submissions, which we will painstakingly dissect. We reserve the right to never exert ourselves.

Coldplay Sucks

Sweet god, just end it already.