TRACKS
1. Manu Chao - Rainin' In Paradize
2. Okkervil River - A Girl in Port
3. Grace Potter & the Nocturnals - Ah Mary
4. Birds of Avalon - Bicentennial Baby
5. Charles Walker & the Dynamites - Way Down South
6. Cass McCombs - That's That
7. Bettye LaVette - Take Me As I Am
8. Chuck Prophet - Would You Love Me
9. Yeasayer - Waiting for the Summer
10. Sally Shapiro - I'll Be By Your Side

REISSUES
1. Pylon - Gyrate Plus
2. Young Marble Giants - Colossal Youth
3. Wild Magnolias - They Call Us Wild
4. Sneakers - Nonsequitur of Silence
5. Weirdos - Destroy All Music

ARTISTS
1. Warren Haynes
2. Robert Wyatt
3. Girl Talk
4. Feist
5. Bruce Springsteen

COMMENTS
Fred Mills
Managing Editor, Harp Magazine
PO Box 8789
Asheville NC 28814

STOP THE MADNESS AND STOP MAKING ALBUMS!

There is too much music being released nowadays. To anyone thinking of starting a band and recording a record, and to those labels and publicity flacks who feel compelled to keep this machine rolling (and, not so coincidentally, keep grabbing your undeserved pieces of the pie) Stop. Please. Take a year off. Don't release any more music for awhile. The world will thank you.

Any chimp with a hard drive can record an album on the cheap and, thanks to the miracle of affordable CD manufacturing and/or modern digital distribution, get that album out into the marketplace. On paper I'd say this is a good thing, a win-win scenario for music makers and music lovers alike. But any time there's a glut of what's essentially an unregulated product, there's tends to be an accompanying decline in overall quality. Let's face it: just because we have, say, 1,000 new young singer-songwriters as opposed to 10, that doesn't actually increase the odds of us getting a bunch of budding Elliott Smiths or the "next" Brian Wilson—it decreases those odds. Most of those hard drive-wielding chimps aren't ready for prime time yet; I don't care how level the playing field may have become in the wake of technology's demystification of studio recording, to be a genuine artist takes a lot of hard work and a lot of time spent honing one's craft. And don't forget the William Hung factor: some people simply don't have any talent, and no amount of hard work and honing-of-craft is gonna make that talent magically come to the surface. Like my daddy used to say, ya can't polish a turd.

I'm not trying to come across as anti-artist here. I just think there needs to be a little more discrimination employed when it comes to releasing music. Today's home-grown/self-released record is the digital equivalent of yesterday's crappy cassette demotape, so while I instinctively want to applaud the D.I.Y. instinct, just because you can doesn't mean you should. Likewise, even though you've saved enough dough from gigs to afford some real studio time, maybe the question you should be asking yourself isn't "When do we record?" but "Do we have enough strong material to justify making an album?"

By extension, to all you aspiring moguls out there: Do you really need to start up a record label just because you really, really love your friend's band and want to be the one to put out record? Did it occur to you that if his band is that great, then other people have probably noticed it too and that an established label might have offered a deal by now?

Speaking of established labels: Once upon a time the term A&R was synonymous with R&D—research and development, with the implication that once a hot prospect was discovered, he/she/they would be nurtured and coached and given a chance to let the proverbial rose bloom. That all changed after the major labels succumbed permanently to the fiscal pressures of quarterly accounting and talent scouting became an exercise in protracted cynicism. For awhile, the R&D model became the domain of indie labels who, realizing there was a void in the music industry, eagerly stepped up to the plate and into the gap, signing up new and older artists who they weren't necessarily looking to have a massive hit with on the first release.

Nowadays, though, upper-tier indies—the Sub Pops, the Bloodshots, the Thrill Jockeys, the Drag Citys, the Matadors, the Yep Rocs, etc. of the world (not to single any one label out unfairly)—seem to have adopted the Spaghetti Noodle model: throw as many records as possible out there, regardless of actual quality or long-term potential for the artist, and hope some of 'em will stick. It's like a rock 'n' roll Field of Dreams: if you release it, they will come. But "they" are not gonna come, because the modern consumer is confused. There are too many choices available, and there's certainly not enough time to listen to everything anyway, and when people get confused and frustrated they're likely to shut down altogether and walk away.

Me (the consumer, not the critic), confused? Sometimes. Frustrated? Frequently.

***

WHERE'S THE BEEF(HEART)? FUN MOMENT OF THE YEAR:

On April 1 — note the date —I penned a Captain Beefheart news item for the Harp magazine website. A number of people wrote in to thank us for the chuckle; others wanted to get more details as they were stunned by the "news" but excite as well; and quite a few very tight-assed types wrote in to complain that we should be drawn and quartered for mocking a "very sick man" and that it was the rock equivalent of telling Helen Keller jokes. What did Frank Zappa say? Does humor belong in music? Postscript: For about 48 hours, the news item was posted to Wikipedia as part of their Beefheart entry before some wise, presumably sober, guardian of the gates removed it.

The news item read in part:

MOJAVE, CALIF., APRIL 1, 2007: The legendary Captain Beefheart, whose last foray into the music industry was in 1982, has recorded a new album and will be reconvening his Magic Band to tour behind it.

The tour will have its official debut at Bonnaroo in June and then get into full gear in late July, to run through October. The opening act is to be P.J. Harvey, whose John Parish will also be pulling double-duty on guitar in the Magic Band due to Gary Lucas' prior commitments with his own Gods And Monsters. The other players include John "Drumbo" French and Michael Traylor on drums, Rockette Morton on bass, and Denny Waller on guitar, plus an as-yet-unnamed keyboard player.

The eponymous album is described as "a mixture of folk, rock and extemporaneous da-da boogie, along with at least one avant-garde Tex-Mex medley, and a freewheeling cover of Robert Johnson's country-blues classic "Me and the Devil Blues." Sessions were produced by Ry Cooder and featured the Magic Band augmented by some of the same players who appear on Cooder's recent My Name is Buddy (e.g. Jim Keltner, Mike Elizondo, Cooder's son Joachim and, on the aforementioned Tex-Mex number, accordionist Flaco Jimenez). Captain Beefheart will be released by Nonesuch (also Cooder's current label) on July 10.

***

KILL YR TEACHERS

I had the somewhat dubious pleasure this year of being interviewed by a college student who was preparing her senior thesis on music journalism. I say "dubious" not because it was an unpleasant experience. Her questions were straightforward and information-based—how and why I got started writing about music, what are my goals as a journalist, how has the field changed over the years, etc. Plus, I've been interviewed enough in the past by journalism students to know the drill as well as the subtext; on one level, they're seeking validation for their career choice from a so-called professional, and I'm flattered to be the one who can offer a budding scribe some encouragement.

But there's inevitably a disquieting moment of truth that arrives at some point during the interview. I call it the "unlearn everything they've taught you in college" moment, and I know it can be taken as insulting, but I feel compelled to speak as frankly as possible. Here's part of what I said to the young lady when she asked me what I thought of the current state of rock criticism:

"The modern trend towards the discipline being journalism first and music appreciation second has injured the beast. It's certainly important to have some grounding in the who/what/where/when/how elements of straight reporting, but anyone can be taught that in school. It's far more important to be able to listen to and assess music with your ears, your heart, and your soul, and that's something that can't be taught in any classroom. You get that by staying up late at night listening to CDs, or hanging out in dingy rock clubs, or haunting vintage record stores, or combing through music magazines and blogs, or swapping letters and emails with fellow enthusiasts. It's about how music makes you FEEL, and WHY it makes you feel that way, and learning how to express that in such a manner that it's meaningful to the people who are reading you."

Don't get me wrong; I would be the first person to tell a writer that if he or she doesn't own a current copy of The Associated Press Stylebook, run, don't walk, to your nearest bookstore. Just the same, at the end of the interview I added this parting sentiment:

"I have an old saying: Just because you had a Stereolab CD review published in your college newspaper doesn't mean you can, or will ever be able to, write about music with any depth of passion or even an understanding of the form. Most of the finest music writers never even took a journalism class. They were English majors."

It's funny how often I've used that same line, one part shock value, one part tough love, several parts real-life evaluation based on the hundreds of writers' resumes that have come across my desk over the years. I once was invited by a college journalism class to come speak at a workshop, and after I made my Stereolab comment, from the nervous laughter in the room you'd think I'd pulled a Michael Richards or something.

Do I seriously think I prompted any of those journalism students to switch majors the next day, or to reevaluate their career path? Nahh. College kids, for all their so-called free thinking, are notoriously close minded. But maybe one or two of them at least considered enrolling in additional classes at the School of Rock.

***

WHAT WOULD JOHN DO?

Indeed, what would John—Lennon—do, and think, about the seemingly endless parade of Beatles-related projects? Each year some well-intentioned but clueless clown assembles yet another Beatles tribute album, irrespective of the fact that there hasn't been an interesting trib record since 1988's Sgt. Pepper Knew My Father (you ain't lived until you've heard the Fall deconstruct "A Day in the Life"). At last count the list of former associates of John, Paul, George, Ringo, Dirk or Stig who have not published an "intimate" memoir was down to the live-in partner of Ringo's gay hair stylist and "that guy who helped Magic Alex construct the invisible sonic force field at Apple Studios." And Yoko Ono keeps finding imaginative new ways to market her dead husband's lyrics, artwork and bathtub farts; when my son was born I thought the Lennon infant wear line was cute, but I've since come to my senses.

Which brings us to Across the Universe. The Julie Taymor-directed film is described as "a fictional love story set in the 1960s amid the turbulent years of anti-war protest, the struggle for free speech and civil rights, mind exploration and rock and roll... with many Beatles songs that defined the time." Uh-huh. See the movie, buy the teeshirt. Will this be the iPod generation's Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, the 1978 turd-bomb starring Peter Frampton and the Bee Gees. But if you're undecided about seeing it, you could always rent Forrest Gump instead.

What about the Across the Universe soundtrack, then? It contains sixteen songs featuring performances from cast members plus the highly-publicized cameos from Joe Cocker ("Come Together") and Bono ("I Am the Walrus"; "Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds"). The first time I listened to the record, essentially as background music, it was an unthreatening, pleasant experience. The next time, though, as I focused on particular songs and their nuances, a nagging sense of unease crept over me, like I'd wandered into a karaoke bar (or, worse, American Idol trials) by mistake.

What's the point of re-recording Beatles tunes? If these cover versions weren't part of a high-profile film, nobody would give a rat's ass about them. Why not simply use the original songs, the ones we grew up with? That might carry some emotional heft, and it would make the cultural connection relevant as well. But I'm voicing the purist's argument. The other afternoon, while ATU played on the stereo, my six year old was sitting nearby having snacks and reading. He's pretty familiar with the Beatles, having been exposed to the group's songs at an early age. Glancing over at him I noticed that he was swinging his legs in time to the music and singing along softly, a big smile on his face.

And it hit me: these songs aren't my songs. Beatles music belongs to everybody. Who am I to judge when, where and how someone else chooses to enjoy it? Maybe that's the point. If you've never seen a child light up in the presence of a Beatles song, try it some time: trust me, the image will stick with you for life.