Album Review: FOUNTAINS OF WAYNE.

TRAFFIC AND WEATHER

Fountains of Wayne

Virgin Records

           

Fountains of Wayne, you have disappointed me.

 

            Traffic and Weather is their new album, and it is a decidedly mixed bag. 2003’s Welcome Interstate Managers seemed to find a perfect balance between witty humor, adolescent reflection, and psychedelia. Last year I interviewed Chris Collingwood, the band’s front man. In response to a question on his writing songs for the follow-up, he was blunt: “I’m getting more serious, sadder, more political and angry. That’s probably either the era we live in or middle age.” Buzz was created for the eventual follow-up; it could’ve been a classic album about teenage life in suburbia, or even a shift towards political themes. Instead, this album is lighthearted to the point of blandness, so Collingwood didn’t have his way. But I’ll get back to that later.

“Someone To Love” kicks the record off. The song’s chorus hangs on the disco-era synth that permeates the record, and its intentions are made clear: it is “Stacy’s Mom” redux, and it is doomed to fail. “Stacy’s Mom”, though a great song, was a fluke; the rhyming chorus, backed with the titillating music video, made it a hit. In contrast, the best part in “Someone To Love” is its Beatlesesque bridge, and I’m not quite sure that’s enough to make it a hit. The pop culture references found within the song date it and degrade its long-lasting appeal. Coldplay and The King of Queens are sung about, with the former’s last album already two years old and the latter having its series finale in a couple weeks. Thanks to Chris Martin’s songwriting, Coldplay has a chance of being worth a damn in forty years, but the King of Queens? I don’t think so.

I’m not saying this is a bad album. The word bad connotes shoddy songwriting, which is not the case. The problem lies in the fact that most of the songs feel like commercial jingles. Among the following companies referenced: Subaru, Greenpeace, The Gap, Costco, and Doritos. Verses rife with iPod-generation pop culture culminate in uncatchy choruses (“This better be good / oh this better be good”, “I’m just a little strapped for cash”, “I’m just looking for a new routine”, etc.). “’92 Subaru” has a nice guitar line, and most songs on the album have some nice soloing near the end. But “Planet of Weed” may be the album’s biggest offender. The band has always skewed on the corny side, but this song ups the factor to cringe-worthy proportions. It’s saved only by a reference to Oliver Stone, bringing two Hill school alumni together in a song about reefer.

All of the above songs were written by Adam Schelsinger, who has made a side career out of writing disposable schlock for film and television. His credits include That Thing You Do! and the recent Hugh Grant vehicle Music & Lyrics. He may be musically talented, but lyrics like those from “Traffic and Weather” are painful: “Don't run away baby, hear what I say / You know I sit here reading to you day after day / Don't be scared, sit back down in your chair / All I want to do is just stroke your hair / Ooh, we belong together / Like traffic and weather.” What does that even mean? Weather affects traffic, but it itself is not really dependent on traffic at all. Cars release carbon-dioxide, affecting the ozone? I’m probably looking too much into it, which is the problem of most of this album’s songs. As you try to look further into them, you realize that you’re staring at an empty shell.  

To me, Chris Collingwood is Fountains of Wayne. He started the band and was the primary songwriter on their first album. Now, he dominates the band in vocals only. On Traffic and Weather, he has written only three of the fourteen songs, though they constitute the album’s highlights. You wouldn’t know this from the liner notes: The band takes the Lennon-McCartney approach to crediting, listing both men as the writers of each song. But, like later-period Beatles, each song is dominantly the work of either songwriter (I found out who wrote what through a recent interview).

Collingwood’s songs save the album from being the album equivalent of a Happy Meal. “Fire In The Canyon” is a country song which displays organ, piano, and acoustic guitar that contrasts Schlesinger’s disco-dreck. His voice soars on the chorus, and the harmonies on the verses are pop perfection. He offers up some of the album’s best lyrics: “Well I'll ride the motorway / For a thousand miles a day / ’Til the road runs out of blacktop / Or I will this world away / And each town is steeped in rain / And I know each one by name / Cause this road is wrapped around me / And I wear it like a chain.” “Hotel Majestic” is his second offering, and it feels like a return to Fountains of Wayne’s first two albums. Punchy guitars and piano complement lyrics about people stuck with nothing to do but lounge around, a common theme in the band’s earlier work. Collingwood has hinted at plans to record a solo country album, and I’m looking forward to it more than the next FoW release. “Seatbacks and Traytables” is his third song, and it ends the album on a wistful note. The acoustic guitar and harmonica evoke Dylan, and the lyrics appear to be the only ones that don’t take a Ray Davies approach (songs about other people’s lives). It is about the rigors of travel, how each city seems to blend into the next in a haze. “New city, same stuff”, he sings; “New album, same stuff” is what I hear. 

Pavement.

            Pavement is my favorite band.

I’ve been asked the question multiple times, usually after people realize that I’m a music aficionado (read: prick). Choosing Pavement over other groups was not an easy decision. I listen to a lot of bands; I can connect with Dylan, Springsteen, Westerberg, and so on. They all offer something musically and aesthetically pleasing to me (“You’re an idiot, babe”, “This town is full of losers, and I’m pulling out of here to win” (I’m eighteen years old…let me have this one for now). But Pavement gets the top spot. Why? I’m not entirely sure, and I sort of like it that way. Since my childhood, I had held an appreciation for the classics: The Beatles, Beach Boys, Stones, etc. Those bands, while excellent, were of another time – my parents’ generation – and not mine to own. I would never be able to see Dylan or Jagger at their prime (and some, like Hendrix, were an impossibility). I needed a group that spoke to me, that was of my time, a bastion for the disaffected youth of tomorrow!

It was sometime during the fall of my sophomore year of high school that music began to take its inextricable hold on me .I was browsing the internet when I happened upon a web page for the defunct rock band Pavement. The more I read about them, the more certain phrases kept reappearing: “kings of 90’s indie rock”, “low-fi techniques”, “smart slackers”, “cryptic lyrics”, and “a seminal masterpiece”. Needless to say, I was intrigued.  I decided to watch the video for their song “Gold Soundz”, off the 1994 album Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain. It features the band dressed up in Santa costumes tooling around Santa Monica, California. They run around a mall with bow-and-arrows, shoot a store-bought chicken out of the air, and find keys to a convertible inside it. The video ends with them sliding down a hill and eating Oreos and milk.

I loved it. The internet’s descriptions were apropos: the guitar seemed to float through the song, creating a lazy summer atmosphere that Pavement, as a whole, exuded. They were loose and imperfect in a good way. Their lyrics were literate without being pretentious. At first glance, they appeared nonsensical, but little phrases soon became ingrained in my consciousness. The line “You can never quarantine the past” is buried within “Gold Soundz”, and I find that one could do worse in terms of economizing deeper meanings. Stephen Malkmus, the group’s lead singer and songwriter, loves the way words sound, and often juxtaposes odd ones to fit his melodies. He is the poster boy of the apathetic academic: an intelligent college-grad who decided to be in an indie band as a career.  

I think you need to sympathize with a band’s general disposition before you can call them a “favorite”. The Beatles seemed like nice guys, right? If they wrote those songs, but were unlikable people in their interviews, I don’t believe they would have been nearly as successful.  Don’t take this to mean you need a political statement; Pavement seem so agreeable to me because they seemed to genuinely love being in their band. “Gold Soundz” is featured on an album that could be described as “sunburned California dreamin”. Within the song “Newark Wilder” is Pavement’s ethos, and one of my favorite lines ever: “It’s a brand new era, it feels great / It’s a brand new era, but it came too late.”

Maybe this is why Pavement is my top band. They are music lovers who created a group on a lark, managed to become critically acclaimed and respected, and broke up before they became pastiches of themselves. They realized that they weren’t going to be Hendrix, or Dylan. They made music that they liked and never tried to become something that they weren’t. Malkmus now has a solo career that functions as a sonic playground for his guitar skills. Two years ago, I had the chance to see him play in Philadelphia with his new band, the Jicks. Here was my Hendrix, alive and kicking. He tore through songs from his latest LP, and as the sheer squall of his guitar caused the building to shake, I knew I found something of my time, something special.

From The Vault: REM - MURMUR

MURMUR

R.E.M.

I.R.S. Records – 1983

 

In 1980, mainstream music was in a state of change. Disco and Prog-Rock were dead. Two years earlier, punk had been slowed down, reconfigured with new embellishments, and dubbed “post-punk” (clever, right?). Meanwhile, Michael Stipe, Peter Buck, Mike Mills, and Bill Berry met in college at Athens, GA and decided to form a band. They were all fans of post-punk groups like Mission of Burma and Wire, but also loved the melodic pop of The Byrds and The Beatles. The four art-school students called themselves R.E.M and managed to not break up (They outlive The Replacements by about sixteen years, who chose the “abject failure” path to mainstream success). In the twenty-seven years of their existence, they have released thirteen albums, moved to a major label, played to stadium-filled audiences, and sold millions of records. Recent inductees into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, they join the ranks of their idols including The Clash, Patti Smith and The Velvet Underground. The big hits are known: “Losing My Religion”, “It’s The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)”, “Everybody Hurts”, and “Stand”, but what of their humble beginnings?

The Chronic Town EP gave the world a taste of their sound, but their first album Murmur defined it. Michael Stipe begins the album and a career’s worth of obtuse lyrics with the single “Radio Free Europe”: Beside defying media too fast / Instead of pushing palaces to fall / Put that, put that, put that before all / That this isn't fortunate at all.

Even Stipe himself has said that the lyrics, while catchy, don’t always make sense. In lieu of Dylanesque wordplay, the album conveys its message through the music and production. A desolate mood is reflected (the album’s cover features sepia-toned plants looking like something out of an impressionistic nightmare). Present within the dense fog of songs on Murmur are Byrds-inspired vocal harmonies and jangly guitar courtesy of Pete Buck’s Rickenbacker. The folk-inspired playing complements Michael Stipe’s mumbled vocals, taking away the harshness of punk while keeping the pulsating rhythm and the econo-size; the longest song is 4:30. Bill Berry’s drumming has a machine-like quality to it that recalls Stephen Morris of post-punk poster boys Joy Division, and Murmur’s production resembles the cold, detached mood of their albums. Big Star gets a nod in “Sitting Still”, and Gang of Four’s influence is found in the bass riffs on “Laughing” and “9-9”. The latter song has a tape loop of Stipe’s vocals being played backwards, further entrancing you in the mysterious atmosphere. These disparate influences add together to create highly memorable songs.

Murmur is a spectacular album. Yes, it’s cerebral rock, and not listening for every mood. However, if you wish to take the trip that the album has to offer (a wholly different one from Dark Side of the Moon or others of that kind), I doubt you will be disappointed. The choruses are catchy despite you having no clue what they mean, which speaks for the quality of the songwriting. In recent years, both the creativity and cultural relevance of R.E.M. have waned. Most of their post-Automatic For The People work can be found in pretty much any record store’s used-CD bargain bin, and they haven’t had a big hit in eight years. Yet this first album reminds us of the potential this band once exhibited. Their big hits were extensions of the groundwork laid within these obfuscated tunes. R.E.M. helped create college rock, and in turn, spawned hundreds of alternative bands. Murmur shows why.

Ten Songs That Define Me.

“I Will Dare”, The Replacements

 

Hormone-fueled adolescence summed up perfectly through Paul Westerberg’s ragged vocals.

 

“Gold Soundz”, Pavement

 

A “sunny afternoon” in the summer encapsulated in a song that even The Kinks would be proud of.

 

“Idiot Wind”, Bob Dylan

 

The best put-down ever put down to tape.

 

“Hey Jude”, The Beatles

 

A simple yet powerful song with an ending that still sends chills down my spine.

 

“Rock & Roll”, The Velvet Underground

 

Simply put, the essence of this course.

 

“Random Rules”, The Silver Jews

 

“On The Road” in 3:45.

 

“In My Eyes”, Minor Threat

 

Anger and frustration (the essence of punk) sped up even faster.

 

“Radio, Radio”, Elvis Costello

 

A song written three decades ago that shows what’s wrong with popular music today.

 

“Born To Run”, Bruce Springsteen

 

One of the most American, romantic songs ever written.

 

“God Only Knows”, The Beach Boys

 

My argument for a higher power.

From the Archives.

To the non-existant readers of this blog:

I'm going to be posting some older, possibly revised music writing that I did in either high school or my first year of college. Please enjoy them.

Song of the Day: "One of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)", Bob Dylan

from Blonde on Blonde (1966)

"But, sooner or later, one of us must know
You just did what you're supposed to do
Sooner or later, one of us must know
That I really did try to get close to you"


I've been a huge fan of Bob Dylan for a couple of years now. Seeing him live during his baseball stadium tour of summer 2006 was an important moment for me, and to this day it seems a little unreal that I was mere feet away from the man. Going into the venue, I was fully aware of Dylan's current appearance, as well as the degeneration of his vocal skills (all those iconic photos of him smoking a cigarette eventually caught up to him). But perched over his keyboard, looking like an old cowboy, my mind still had trouble connecting the man before me to the image of Dylan I had in my mind. Eventually, I just became awed by him and his wrinkled face, trying to fully comprehend the life he has lived and the fact that he was right in front of me, if only for one night.

I distinctly remember the first time I listened to Dylan, sometime during my junior year of high school. On a lazy Sunday morning, I laid in bed with Blonde on Blonde and a pair of headphones, prepared to hear what all the fuss was about. I must have been up late the previous night, because I keep kept dozing off at intermittent points throughout the seventy-minute album. Having Dylan directly stimulating your brain as you sleep is an interesting experience, especially with the "thin, wild, mercury sound" found on Blonde on Blonde. I finished the album, not really picking up on the lyrical subtleties that make Dylan so great. Still, I had a sense that this music was something special.

The Dylan that wrote and recorded Blonde was a sick man. He was physically and emotionally exhausted from constant touring, with a steady supply of drugs being his main source of sustenance. The drugs also helped fuel his songwriting process, taking his wordplay to new, surrealistic heights. "Visions of Johanna" is a perfect example of this, but I want to focus on the song that follows it. "One of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)" is the sound of a regretful man, offering up some consolation to a relationship gone sour. It's also one of his best songs.

Dylan was rumoured to have been having an affair with socialite Edie Sedgewick around the time of its writing. It would make sense that it's about her, it being a send-off ending Side A and "I Want You" starting up Side B as a love letter to Sara Lownds. Musically, "One of Us Must Know" is magnificent; Al Kooper and the Band (sans Levon Helm) brought excellent performances to back Dylan's vocals. Blonde on Blonde is one of my favorite Dylan albums, and most critics agree that it is one of the highlights of his career (I'll get to Blood on the Tracks, another personal favorite, another time). With the honesty and musical brilliance that Dylan displayed here, it's no big wonder why.