Out Walking

Hush

When I first discovered Claire Holley in 1999, it was because I was smitten with her then second album, Sanctuary, a tribute to old-time music.  The traditional hymns and other songs, as well as the originals, hearkened back to my life as a child, sitting at the feet of my father and friends on Friday nights, playing just such music until the wee hours of morning enlivened by cup after cup of black coffee.  It conjured up another time, another place, as well it might have for Claire Holley, as she was inspired to do the album by her own father.

Claire's newest recording, Hush, is not like Sanctuary, not filled with hymns or an old-time sound, and yet it still reminds me of those simple, sweet songs and arrangements.  Part of the album has the sound of lullabies, not surprising in that Claire is now a mother.  And yet that's not all of it.  The songs on the record, uniformly well-crafted, are presented in an understated and yet powerful way, testifying not to deep angst or political headlines but to normal, everyday life  ---- missing someone you love ("Visit Me"), leaving someone you love ("Leaving This Town"), a nighttime walk under the moon ("Under the Moon"), a wedding ("Wedding Day"), or the several songs that are no doubt inspired by her child, from shooing away monsters ("Go Away Now") to bath time ("Another Day") to bedtime ("Say Goodnight").  They're not lyrics to knock you over. . . and yet they do, simply by their testimony to the beauty of the ordinary times and events of life.

Musically, the album maintains a low-key acoustic feel, and there is a good variety in tempo, sufficient to keep the record interesting. My favorite tracks are "Visit Me" which, with the pedal steel, gives off a wistful sense of longing, much like Gram Parson's classic "Hickory Wind," and the feel-good vibe of "Leaving This Town."  But really, I like it all.  It may not be Sanctuary, but there's more Claire Holley in Hush, and it's all good.

Pacific Ocean Blue: Long Lost Gem Uncovered

At long last, Dennis Wilson's long out of print solo recording, Pacific Ocean Blue, will be released by Sony in a two-disc legacy edition on June 17th.  I have long thought Dennis, brother to Beach Boy Brian Wilson, was second only to Brian in talent, and it shows on this disc.  The first disc appears to have four unreleased tracks, and the second a full 17 additional tracks, a treasure trove for collectors.  It appears that these bonus tracks are in part drawn from Dennis's uncompleted and unreleased Bamboo project, some rumored to be collaborations with brother Brian.  Others could be collaborations with his then Fleetwood Mac girlfriend Christine McVie.  Sadly, Bamboo was never completed due to Dennis's many personal problems.  He died in 1983 in a drowning accident and whatever genius he possessed was lost.  You can find all you ever wanted to know about Dennis on Dan Addington's website.  And much, more more on the reissue (along with quotes from the producers, video clips, and reviews (uniformly good) here.

Vinyl Pleasure (Part Three): Concept Albums

The heyday of the concept album is long past, and I miss it greatly.  In the late Sixties and early Seventies, such themed albums were all the rage, artists working from a large palette, able to choose and sequence their songs and have input into cover design and liner notes, something unheard of in the music business before that time. 

It's likely that the first person to be given such artistic control was a young twenty-something Brian Wilson, who used it to full effect on 1966's Pet Sounds, selecting songs, commanding a studio full of the best L.A. session musicians, and overseeing the entire concept of the record.  It isn't that such concept albums did not persist after the demise of vinyl, but it became more difficult to pull off.  Compact discs offered less room for artistic choice.  But the whole idea of the album is falling by the wayside with digital music.  Sure, there may still be album releases, but many of these albums are no more than collections of songs, musicians well aware that the individual song is all that matters, that consumers will generally download a song that "pops" for them in the first 30 seconds, that patient listening to a whole planned sequence of songs, whether organized around a theme or simply organized for effect and mood, is not rewarded.  What's happening is a dumming down of artistic expression, a shrinking palette, and a focus on a song rather than a body of work.

This concept of an album as a work of art is becoming so foreign to some that it helps to turn back the clock and use an example, and I choose one of my favorite concept albums, The Kinks' 1969 release of Arthur, or The Decline and Fall of the British Empire.  Arthur is the kind of album that folks who download might zip through, listening to a minute or two of each song, and then downloading a couple that are immediately memorable, like "Victoria," or "Australia," or the beautiful "Shangri-La," and yet completely miss the story told in the other songs or the narrative that streams throughout.

Arthur was a collaboration between Kinks frontman Ray Davies and novelist and playwright Juliana Mitchell, a story and soundtrack of sorts originally planned as a TV musical drama --- only the budget was pulled.  It tells the story of a working class man's love of and then disillusionment with Britain, his flight to Australia, and his ultimate regrets at a life of innocence lost.  In the end,  Arthur's questions about life are best put by Mitchell as "What's it all about then?  Is this what I've lived for (a suburban home, car, job)?  It's been a good life, hasn't it?  Well, hasn't it?"  You're left with that gnawing sense that there must be more, that Arthur somehow missed the point of life, the real meaning.

The songs tell a cohesive story.  "Victoria" kicks off the album in a rocking way, Arthur paying tribute to the "land that I love," the "land of hope and gloria/ Land of my Victoria."  In "Yes Sir, No Sir," he goes to war, ready to do his duty, and yet despite his sacrifice realizes that he can never rise above his class, will always be on the outside: "So you think you've got ambition/ Stop your dreaming and your idle wishing/ You're outside and their ain't no admission/ To our play."  Though Arthur survives, many others don't, the mother in "Some Mother's Son" waiting for a son "who ain't coming home today."  And yet it's not all dark, "Drivin'" providing a light note, with Arthur packing the boys in the car for a drive, telling then to "Drop all your work/ Leave it all behind/ Forget all your problems/ And get in my car/ And take a drive with me."

"Australia," which almost turns psychedelic at the end, is a rocking end to the first side, sounding like a promo for utopia, promising that "everyone walks around with a perpetual smile on their face in Australia," a place where "you get what you work for" and there's "no class distinction" and "we'll surf like they do in the U.S.A."  Flip the album and you realize that Australia is no "Shangri-La," that when you've got what you thought you needed to be happy, you're really "too scared to think about how insecure you are/ Life ain't so happy in your little Shangri-la, Shangri-la."  Lurking underneath the upbeat musical tone of the song is a fair amount of angst, of latent anger at how life's turned out.

Finally, an old, gray-haired Arthur looks back on his life with some nostalgia and regret, as in "Young and Innocent Days," saying: "I see the lines across your face/ Time has gone and nothing ever can replace/ Those great, so great/ Young and innocent days."  The title cut brings a summary conclusion to the story:

Arthur was born just a plain simple man
In a plain simple working class position
Though the world was hard and its ways were set
He was young and he had so much ambition

All the way he was overtaken
By the people who make the big decisions
But he tried and he tried for a better life
And a way to improve his own condition
 
Arthur we like you and want to help you
Somebody loves you don't you know it
How is your life and your Shangri-la
And your long lost land of Hallelujah
And your hope and glory has passed you by
Can't you see what the world is doing to ya

And now we see your children
Sailing off in the setting sun
To a new horizon
Where there's plenty for everyone
Arthur, could be
That the world was wrong

Empire, status, position --- could it be that the world was wrong?  The album asks a great question, planting the truth that there must be something more to life.  It was a question asked a lot in the Sixties, but it's every bit as relevant now.  A great song can ask this question.  But a great album does it far better.  It puts a story in your head that's difficult to shake off.

Davies uses music well in the telling of the story, letting the pace of the song, the temp0, and the mood fit the lyric.  Also (and you would never know this from the compact disc), each side of the album begins and ends with a strong, memorable song, the last song on Side One, "Australia," setting the stage for Side Two, where we find that "Shangri-La" is not what it was cracked up to be.  The album begins strongly with the Arthur of youthful innocence, believing in Britain ("Victoria"), and ends with the title cut, "Arthur,' him wondering if he missed something along the way.  There's something in that pause, that getting up to turn the record, that worked well as an artistic device.  Finally, listening, I'm holding a large gatefold album in my hands, perusing the art, poring over lyrics, and asking myself the question "what am I living for?"  That's a great piece of art: it puts me in the story.  Folks, one song just can't as easily do that.  One song promises but doesn't quite endure.

So that's another reason I like the album, particularly the concept album.  You should try it while it's still possible.  Maybe start with Arthur.

Vinyl Pleasure (Part Two)

Despite my predisposition for vinyl and aversion to a digital only music consumption, I've not yet been labeled a Luddite.  In my last post on the subject, I lamented the passing of vinyl, and yet I know that we cannot go back, that we live in a digital age.  I am remembering for two reasons: first, I want to know what it is I have lost and whether and to what extent it matters; and, second, if I have lost something that is important, I would like to consider how to recapture some of that in a digital age.  As a Christian, I look at remembering not as a wallowing in nostalgia, but as a way of meeting the future, of preserving the good we may lose if we don't take care to translate it into the present.  I do not want to be unaware of a cultural shift that negatively transforms the way I think and live.

I also made the audacious claim in my last post that vinyl was more biblical.  I did that because there is something about that whole experience that is more satisfying and seems to better embody values consistent with Scripture.  Whether you read Neil Postman's Technopoly or Jaques Ellul's Technology, the lesson is that any technological change has not only positive but negative consequences, yet they don't always cancel each other out.  Sometimes change is much, much better (for example, there is absolutely nothing important that was lost with the passing of the 8-track tape), and sometimes the consequences are more negative than positive.  I think the latter holds true with the move from physical media to digital media.  What we lost is greater than what we gained.

So exactly what is it that we lost, or stand to lose, and how do we translate these values into a digital age?  I can think of four areas of loss and opportunity:

• Permanence.  God is not opposed to change, and yet Scripture gives priority to the permanent, to things that do not change.  The ease with which we buy and sell in a consumer era breeds contempt for things that endure.  Something I can have immediately and relatively cheaply (like an ITunes download) is cheapened, less important, more easily dispensed with.  When I used to shop for LPs in stores, the delayed gratification and anticipation fostered a more enduring appreciation.  I waited to find it, to buy it, and finally to listen to it --- all the time thinking about it, anticipating it, and, after buying it, reading it and holding it until I could get it home to actually play it.
• Respect.  Because I cannot easily skip tracks that don't immediately connect with me, I listened through an album, first one side, then the other.  I appreciated the sequencing of songs, the lyrics, the quality of production.  Repeated listenings built appreciation for the more understated and yet powerful songs.  In the late Sixties and Seventies, artists took full advantage of this kind of listening, paying attention to album concept and sequencing so as to produce an integrated work of art.  Consider Side 2 of The Beatles' Abbey Road, where each song anticipates the next.  Or rock operas like The Who's Tommy or Quadraphrenia.  Somehow skipping over songs with the click of a button just wouldn't have been respectful: the artist had produced a whole work of art.
• Community.  As I've alluded to before, buying and listening to records was not an individualistic activity.  When you had a record, you had a visible assemblage of recorded sounds, something you could more easily share with another person, something you could pore over together.  In fact, record stores were great places to hang out and discover new music.  There were simply these large, tangible items that attracted us and around which conversation was fostered.
• Accountability.  Like it or not, producers, record companies, and disc jockeys served as quality control for what we heard.  The downside of this is that some good music never made it to its audience; the upside is that a lot of mediocre or just plain bad music stayed where it belonged (in the garage).  I should know.  I was in a band in high school that needed to stay just there, in the garage, a problem only for the next door neighbors.  These days, when anyone can record inexpensively at home and have a MySpace page, good music is difficult to find in a barrage of noise pollution.  No one is accountable.
• A Richer Incarnation.  The artist who released an album on LP knew he or she was working with a larger palette.  The artistic work, if done well, not only was a collection of sounds embodied in discrete three to four minute songs but could be focused on a concept or theme, with cover art, liner notes, and sequencing of songs that fostered surprise, diversity of sounds, and anticipation to create a richer, multi-sensory experience.

Can you add to this?  I suspect that there is more than this to be said, as well as some counter arguments about digital music.  Yet I have the overwhelming sense that I have lost something, and I want it back.  As we can't turn back the clock, how do we carry these values into a music culture of disembodied sounds?  I'll deal with that next!

Vinyl Pleasure (Part One)

If you are under 25, the following may not make sense to you or, at very least, you will only be able to experience what I describe by some imprecise analogy.  What I am going to describe is the pleasure of thinking about, buying, and listening to a vinyl LP record --- yes, those rather large, archaic looking 12-inch in diameter discs in square cardboard sleeves, probably found somewhere in your parents' attic or grandparents' den.  Even if you're over 25 and have bought a vinyl LP at some time in the past, you may have forgotten what the experience is like.  A cultural shift occurred while you were busy living.  So let me tell you what it was like for me.

First, in my youth and teenage years, other than Rolling Stone Magazine or FM radio, there was little information available on new music releases --- no web pages, blogs, MySpace, or satellite radio.  You found music by going to the record store and cruising the bins.  In addition, there were very few stores dedicated solely to records.  In my hometown, there was one, and it was inconveniently located downtown.  I did most of my record shopping in the basement of Franklin's Drug Store, an area which amounted to about six feet of bins, two deep, all-inclusive of every genre.  My first record cost $3.49 --- an exorbitant amount for me then.  Essentially, I would have to cut two neighbors' grass to earn that much.  Given that gratification was delayed (another feeling many under 25s often do not know), I had some time for dreaming about what I would buy, shuffling through the colorful records in the bins, staring at the artwork, and holding the records.  I can't overemphasize the sense of touch, the simple pleasure of holding something.

Take, for example, the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Band LP, released in 1967 when I was nine (and which I discovered a couple years later).  There is a lot to look at on that cover, a pop art melange of characters, with psychedelic colors popping out at you, the word "STEREO" printed at the top of the cover, an important claim then, and lyrics printed on the back.  Before Pepper it wasn't common to get lyrics with an album.  Rip open the shrink wrap and the sleeve opens like some awesomely oversized CD digi-pak to reveal a full color photo of the Fab 4 decked out in their marching band threads, and there's a similar shot on the back, standing, only Paul is turned with his back to the viewer.  How long did we discuss why he was turned away from us?  What message was being conveyed?  But the fun doesn't stop there: Inside the sleeve is a color page of Sgt. Pepper cut-outs --- a mustache, badges, a stand-up band photo, and more.  And the weight!  With disc, Sgt. Pepper clocks in at 13 ounces, not much less than a pound.  Substantiality!  When you carried an LP around, you had something.

When I'd get a record like Sgt. Pepper, or Jethro Tull's Aqualung, or Jefferson Airplane's Bark (which came in a brown paper bag), I'd take it to school.  A handful of guys in junior high would lug six to ten LPs around, and the after-lunch conversation in the courtyard was all about music.  We'd stare at the album covers, discuss the music and the meaning of lyrics, theorize about the album concepts (they had concepts then), and swap records for an evening.  The creativity!  Grand Funk Railroad's E Pluribus Funk LP was in a round, silver dollar-like package, Traffic's Low Spark of High Heeled Boys LP was a parallelogram, the corners clipped.  The Bee Gees' double-disc Odessa CD was covered in red velvet, like carpet (this was prior to that ugly disco phase for the boys).  On So Long Ago the Garden, pioneer Christian rocker Larry Norman is half naked on the front, the back a pair of snake-skin boots and a half eaten apple.  (Many retailers refused to sell it.)  Records made a statement, and their very size assured that it would be a very public statement.   Carry the zippered front of The Rolling Stones' Sticky Fingers around a high school campus and you've said something, haven't you?

So what's so great about vinyl LPs?  Let's summarize:

• LPs are multi-sensory experiences.  You can touch a record, smell it (whether vinyl, the cardboard sleeve, or something else like the scratch and sniff sound of The Raspberries self-titled debut), hear it, watch it turn on the turntable, lift the needle and set it down on another track, open it, see it on a shelf, and ponder the artwork.  Digital music is for listening only, with only a teaser of cover art.
• LPs are (were) public experiences.  When you bought an LP, you purchased it in a public place, carried it around, and put it on a shelf where folks could see it.  When you carry around a half-naked Larry Norman, people talk.  Junior high girls freak.  People generally don't know what you're listening to on the IPOD and often don't care.
• LPs created a limited, shared  market.  When artists were limited to LPs, the market could only absorb so much, as there was only so much shelf space.  There was a more shared appreciation of music, in that the market was limited.  In today's digital world, there are so many artists and such a broad spectrum of quality that chances are most of the artists a person is listening to are ones you've never heard of.  That being the case, we lose a shared culture and have less to talk about.  We can say "I like X", but it's difficult to discuss X with someone who hasn't heard X and has little reason to.
• LPs rewarded patience.  You could pick the needle up and skip songs, but given the difficulty of it, we were more apt to listen to whole albums.  Given that albums were sometimes conceptual, this promoted deeper listening.  The track that didn't bowl you over on first listen may grow on you and reward on repeated listenings.
• LPs sound better.  It's true, provided the record is well-preserved of course and you have the right equipment.  I wouldn't know, as I never had great equipment, but all audiophiles say this.

That's just a few things that made records better.  Not that they were better in every way.  (That's another post!)  But basically, we traded all this for immediacy and portability.  I think that's an unfair trade. 

Stay tuned for tomorrow:  Why the vinyl LP is more biblical than digital music.  I'm serious, people!  The kids are missing out!

The Manor House

Tonight I drove to Montreat College, a small school on the outskirts of Asheville, North Carolina. They have asked me to do a review of their Music Business Program, They put me up in a huge old house off their main campus called the Manor House. It's pretty creepy.

I'm alone in the house, apparently. It's one of those old houses that has several staircases leading to an untold number of unpeopled rooms, with bookcases lining the walls, huge banquet rooms, and even a swimming pool in the basement. There are even hidden panels in the walls where during Prohibition former tenants hid the alcohol. It reminds me of what old professor Digory's house must have looked like in "The Lion, the Witch, & the Wardrobe," just waiting to be explored. But I haven't found a wardrobe yet. Come to think of it, maybe it's more like Hitchcock's Bates Inn: the only sound I hear right now, besides that of me typing, is the drip drip drip of the bathroom faucet.

Of course I don't believe in ghosts or disembodied spirits of any form, and yet in some way the former tenants of this place remain, their collective memories only vaguely discernible to me etched in the chipped paint on the walls, the creaks in the hardwood floors, the well-worn books, the slightly out of tune piano, and in the depression in that empty chair, just there, outside my door. They're all here. Long ago this was a home, and then they left, or died, leaving behind only the presence of their absence --- and one day that too will be gone.

I need to stop that drip. If I do, what will I hear then?

This (Wretched) Business of Music

One of the bibles of the music business is the multi-authored This Business of Music, now in its tenth edition.  Billed as the "definitive guide to the music industry," the prose is dry and often pedantic, frustratingly anecdoteless, just the kind of thing you avoid reading at bedtime (or maybe you do read it, as a sleep-aid).  And yet there are a precious few light moments in this encyclopedic tome, or more to point, some thought-provoking comments.

On the very first page, for example, there is a quote from sociologist Marshal McLuhan, who said that "The medium is the message."  Though the writers seem oblivious to what the quote really means, as it is disconnected with what follows, it made me realize, sadly, that form has trumped content, that image and sound mark one out as belonging to a particular "tribe," and the lyric has (except in folk music, the poor stepchild of the music family) been neglected.  Being, looking, and sounding like Hannah Montana (Miley Cyrus) is more important to tweens than that which she sings about.  McLuhan's comment, like his disciple Neil Postman's follow-up work (Amusing Ourselves to Death) has proven prophetic.

In a section on Independent record producers, there is a very helpful categorization of producers offered by Jerry Wexler, renowned producer and former co-owner of Atlantic Records.  Wexler (who ought to know) said there are three types of producers --- the documentarian, the project leader, and the studio superstar.  The documentarian simply tries to capture what is there, unadorned and real; the project leader tires to enhance what is there, to get the best out of the artist; and the studio superstar, as you can imagine, takes center stage.  Every record the studio superstar producer makes sounds uncannily just like. . . him.  For some reason this may be the predominant type in the Contemporary Christian Music business, though I won't name any names.  Maybe the three producer types are really just reflections of personalities in the general culture --- those who simply take it in for what it is (a refreshing kind of person to be around, though quite frustrating if you need to get something done), those who accept what is and yet interact with and try to transform it, and those who simply think they are what is, the kind of people that seem to suck all the air out of a room when they enter it.  All this makes it so critical that the artist matches the producer; two superstars in the studio are incendiary; two documentarians spend a lot of money and get nowhere fast; and two project leaders (enhancers) may lose sight of what it is they are enhancing, lose focus.  What is your spouse?  What are you?  Somehow I sense that the somnolent wanderings of The Grateful Dead and Jerry Wexler's production must have been an expensive marriage.

The chapter on copyright infringement yielded some interesting anecdotes, if only that they were court cases.  There's Fogerty v. Fantasy, Inc., which allowed Creedence Clearwater Revival's leader to recover attorney fees from his record company.  Oh my.  It reminds how litigation can sap a life.  Fogerty spent years fighting Fantasy, never releasing a record, sounding more bitter all the time.  A little foresight and better advice and he might have seen a "bad moon arising."

The most dissatisfying chapter of the book was the one on agents and managers.  Now this special breed of prima donnas deserves better.  There's so much material to work with!  I didn't work with many, but one I worked with was a crazy alcoholic who sent me hand-typed single page sizzling faxes at midnight with (count 'em) sometimes as many as 50 profanities on a page.  Listen to the understatement of this sentence: "The close and often difficult relationship between artists and managers during the years of active management makes it desirable that the parties involved be sure of their compatibility before entering into binding contracts."  No, no, no.   These "parties" need marriage counseling before working together, and the manager may need a personality profile.  They tend to be controlling, all-consuming players in an artist's life.  There should be a big stop sign here in the book.

I could go on, but I might bore you.  The music business is a lot more interesting than this book, full of sin, wretched in its on peculiar way, and redeemed the same way anything else in this world is redeemed, by the power of love (love of music) and, in the end, by the One who loves His Creation.  I'm shelving the book.  I don't want to think about copyrights and managers, whining artists and super star producers, lawsuits and licenses.  Just give me the music.  Somehow that never fails me, because even the bad music still reminds me of a Music that just may come, some day soon.

Do You Know This Man? (What Nicholas Giaconia Gave Us)

In these days of MySpace, Facebook, blogs, and an internet that is ubiquitous, it's a rare thing to find that an artist has managed to stay below the radar.  But apparently Nicholas Giaconia has managed to do that.  Nick is a talented singer-songwriter who released an interesting folk-pop record called Center of the Earth in the CCM environment in 1994 --- 14 years ago and what seems like a century in the music world.  Some things don't change much: There are still some greedy corporate types, artists on the make, and some form of payola (no matter how subtle).  However, since Nick's record, the music scene has been transformed more than once.  Whatever brief mainstream attention folk music had in the early Nineties, it quickly vanished, and all the folk music types went back to scrubbing for change.   But Nick Giaconia deserved a better break than he had.

This is fine record with ballads, blues songs, folk melodies, and a tongue-in-cheek defense of Amy Grant --- who was, at the time, under a microscope because she filmed a video with a man who was not her husband, sang songs that weren't filled with biblical references, and dressed like a woman who lived in the Nineties, leaving many to speculate that she had "sold out" or lost her faith.  It all seems silly now, but that's the way it was then, and Nick captured it, singing "she's sold out to the public/ money's all she hopes to find/ she doesn't sing for You no more/ I know because I can read her mind/ She's all strung out on drugs/ In fact I hear she worships Satan now/ Well everybody's judging Amy/ and you can clearly see/ that she has lost her thirst" and so on from there, a fun song and yet one full of truth.

There are some familiar names here, like Derri Daugherty (of The Choir) singing background vocals.  And some interesting sounds, like the steel-hooded national guitar played by Chris Carero.  Lyrically, it ranges from a couple songs that spring form biblical narratives, like "Woman at the Well," to worship, "Psalm," to other songs of psyche and soul, like the title cut, "Center of the Earth," which is no doubt a metaphor for the interior life and experience of the writer, as he beckons us to come along: "I took my journey to the center of the earth/ sent back black and white postcards to people up above/ the weather is nice here, no snow no rain/ but I haven't seen sunshine in days/ it looks like that's how it's gonna stay/ at the center of the earth."  The rest of the song becomes surreal, like something Larry Norman might have written, with Nick introducing all the people he's met at the center of the earth, like Elvis or Jimmy Hoffa, concluding that "you don't know me you don't know my blues/ till you've walked to the center of the earth/ in my blue suede shoes."  All in all, he is reminiscent of Bruce Cockburn --- always a tough sell in the Christian marketplace.

So how did Nick Giaconia's record see the light of day?  David Bunker, one of the principals in REX Records, a CCM label devoted in the late Eighties and early Nineties to Christian heavy metal (like Deitophobia) formed an imprint around singer-songwriters, figuring the time was ripe.  A lot of very good music was released on the imprint, Storyville Records, including Jan Krist, Australian Steve Grace, the UK duo Phil and John, Mo Leverett, Charlotte Madeleine, Eden Burning, and The Crossing.  But the label tanked.  The CCM market wasn't having it.  My own Silent Planet Records was born out of that frustration, though we focused on the mainstream market with better success for a time, until that market changed as well.

But enough of that.  You should hear Nick Giaconia.  You should celebrate the fact that something authentic and well-crafted and not slickly produced made it out in that time, a record that for the few Christians listening was like a breath of fresh air.  Let Nick be symbolic of all that great music that got overlooked.  Listen to just one song from Nick, "Better To Have Loved," here:    And then go buy a used copy of this long out of print record, now selling for the shameful price of as low as $.56 right here.  That's what happens to good music sometimes.

If you know how to get in touch with Nick, let me know.  I'd like to thank him for a good record and remind him that what he did back then still means something now, that he's not forgotten.  Good music endures.

Wide Angle Radio (Episode Six): Phil's Jagged Heart

On the cover of Phil Madeira's Off Kilter recording, there is a picture of Phil standing in his home studio, the floor positively littered with instruments --- drums, various electric and acoustic guitars, keyboards, and much more.  It's a vivid reminder of the immense talent that Phil possesses.  In addition to his ubiquitous session work on the Hammond B3 Organ, a signature sound for him, he plays virtually everything else.  Oh, he also writes great songs and sings and produces!  It was a privilege for me to spend a few years with Phil on Silent Planet Records and to bring his Three Horse Shoes record to national distribution. (You can still buy Three Horse Shoes here.)

Life has been hard at times for Phil, and that shows in one of the songs featured on this edition of Wide Angle Radio, "Jagged Heart."  Listen:

Not like I had a plan
Not like I saw the goal
You got to whittle down to nothing
Before you'll ever be made whole

I've been carving
Stripping off the bark
Rounding off the edges
Of this jagged heart

When I listen to Phil's music, I always get the sense that he is very much a man under construction, a ragamuffin --- just like all of us.  Listening to him in the interview is like sitting by an old friend and finding something in common.  So, enjoy the music on this month's Wide Angle Radio, and meet Phil, right here.  (Oh, and while you're on the Wide Angle page, check out the new recorded introduction I've added!)

Larry Norman 4/8/47 - 2/24/08

God rest his soul, Christian music pioneer Larry Norman passed away Sunday morning around 2:45 A.M.  Though Larry has spent the last three decades suffering health issues, interpersonal conflicts, and likely diagnosed and undiagnosed mental illness, the trilogy of albums that he released in the early Seventies --- So Long Ago the Garden, Only Visiting This Planet, and In Another Land --- were pure genius.  I cannot even begin to recite all the crazy wonder of these songs --- songs like "Six Sixty Six," "I Am the Six O'Clock News," "PeacePollutionRevolution," or "Nightmare."  Wow.  Weird? Eccentric?  You bet.  But he made me a believer then in the power of music to speak the Gospel truth.  The music was good, as good as any secular counterpart.

I met Larry once.  My partner Tony and I were standing backstage behind the Silent Planet Records Acoustic Stage at the Cornerstone Music Festival in 2002.  A whiteish-blond haired guy with a "handler" on each side strode up to our RV "green room" for performers and strode right in, looking like he was straight out of 1970.  That was Larry Norman.  Unchanged.  Timeless.

I'll end with a portion of Larry's liner notes from his 1975 record, In Another land:

some people say there is no God, others
say that we are all God. sometimes i look
out over the city late at night and all the
lights look like diamonds and rubies on a
black jewelers cloth, all set in straight little
rows and sprinkled on the hillsides - and i
wonder how we have fallen so far.
and then i look up in the sky with its far
superior jewels; i look up and i find myself
waiting. and smiling.

The subtitle of that same album might serve as an appropriate epitaph: Death is conquered though you slumber.  Rest in peace, Larry.

[You can find more information on Larry Norman and his last words to fans here.]