Steve's Blog

Goodbye to a dancer...
 


...singer...



... songwriter...



... and all-around entertainer...



... the likes of which the world may never again know.

You heard me. It's due in equal measures to the fact that I'm so excited about this item here, and that said item forecasts Hell's Ice Age.

The Beatles: RockBand. It was announced almost a year ago, but it was only on Monday at the E3 video game conference that demos, introduced by Ringo and Macca themselves, were revealed to the public. It's a gorgeous sight. The most famous and most successful band of all time has been notoriously reticent about licensing its music (or likenesses, logos, etc.) to, well, anyone. They ain't even on iTunes. Almost never do they show up in ads or soundtracks. And yet, on 9/9/09 we will see the release of the newest installment of the RockBand franchise, dovoted to the Fab Four and chock full of untouchables. It's a fully independent game, built ground-up rather than as an expansion of previous releases. Not only will it feature 45 classic Beatles tunes (only ten have so far been revealed), but renderings of the Lads themselves in highly accurate detail-- from chronological settings like The Cavern, the Ed Sullivan set, and Shey Stadium to models of instruments according to when they were actually used like Paul playing a Höfner early on and later a Rickenbacker. It's clear that the most painstaking attention has been put into this project in order to appease fans, and rock historians.

Take a look for yourself.

The demo.

It's June, and I'm doing a best-of list for last year. The lack of motivation should indicate an underwhelming year.
I don't mean to be too harsh; of course some truly great artists released some truly great music in 2008. But the overall caliber compared to 2007 is, well, disappointing. I'm almost temped to forgo grading on a curve, and just start my list at #6. That would be a jerk move, though. Shame on the audiophile who takes for granted those who make the art he consumes.
Regardless of the dip in quality, the Top 10 list is an annual requisite for me. Herein you will find, in addition to the countdown, in-depth reviews, album covers, and audio samples (yes, that's new) courtesy of Lala.com. Do enjoy.

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Runners-Up

20. Ratatat - LP3
19. Gang Gang Dance - Saint Dymphna
18. Max Richter - 24 Postcards in Full Color
17. John Zorn - Xaphan: Book of Angels, Vol. 9 (Secret Chiefs 3 Plays Masada Book Two)
16. Sigur Rós - Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust
15. Elephant9 - Dodovoodoo
14. Dosh - Wolves and Wishes
13. NOMO - Ghost Rock
12. Department of Eagles - In Ear Park
11. TV on the Radio - Dear Science,

The Top 10

10. Portishead - Third

Portishead - Third

Get out your "Taboo" game buzzer: I'm going to attempt to review this album without using the word "haunting". Quite a challenge, as no word perfectly encapsulates the Bristol trio's tertiary LP like that gerund. Coming eleven years after their previous release, many feared if the group would remain caught in the trip-hop mold they helped create, and which has since been interred in the trend graveyard. Portishead prove they are far above the fray by presenting a record which acts as a clear answer to their past selves--heavily tied to the studio yet with a more post-rock-by-way-of-Radiohead ethic--, but also stands alone as a major creative charge. Nothing is played straight; everything is distorted like a portrait that seems to have a different expression each time you look. The keyboard riff in "We Carry On" remains unsettled, changing itself at irregular intervals, and the guitar in "Silence" plays just so much faster than the other instruments that it ends up a sixteenth note ahead with each new measure. In "Magic Doors", as the drums saunter (didn't say it!) from the left and reverb in the right, while a cowbell does the opposite, you can't figure out how to orient yourself... and it doesn't help that the two rhythms don't really match. What brings these elements home is singer Beth Gibbons' quivering, mournful voice, which you may know as the soundtrack to your neuroses. Third is a daunting (don't buzz me!) and sophisticated listen, but one which rewards immensely with attention and a strong psyche.

9. Steinski - What Does It All Mean? 1983-2006 Retrospective

Steve Stein, a Jewish copy supervisor for a New York advertising firm, was already in his thirties when in 1983 he decided to enter a competition that called for original remixes of the rap song "Play That Beat, Mr. D.J.". He and his then-partner Double Dee (Doug DiFranco) painstakingly assembled a five-minute track they called "Lesson 1 - The Payoff Mix", which weaved samples from The Supremes, dance instruction records, and Humphrey Boagart into the original song. It took first prize and because a major hit in the hip-hop world. This illustrates what can be off-putting about Steinski: despite his many watershed mixes, his influence on generations of DJs, and his mastery of turntablism, he could be seen as undeserving. He didn't really come from within the hip-hop world, nor did he work like those who did (having access to high-tech recording equipment certainly gave "The Payoff Mix" an edge). However the unbiased will immediately see how, as often happens, an outsider had the advantage to reshape and focus what was being done before. What Does It All Mean? is more than a retrospective, seeing as how many of these underground and highly litigious mixes have never before seen official release. But it also presents a mostly forgotten hero helping to define how it should all be done. A good DJ works with an astoundingly eclectic palette in the obscure records and audio sampled, but a great DJ matches that eclecticism in emotion and mood as well. The tracks here sample Marx Brothers films, the Spider-Man theme, a Mozart concerto, "Hernando's Hideaway", and George H.W. Bush, yet through it all Steinski is satirical, playful, grave, immature, aggressive, insightful, and silly. "Lesson 2 (James Brown Mix)" celebrates the grunts and horn hits of the Godfather. "The Motorcade Sped On" reflects upon the JFK assassination. "I'm Wild About That Thing" giggles about sex. All of this alone would be solid enough for a retrospective, yet a second disc is included, devoted entirely to the hour-long "Nothing to Fear: A Rough Mix", made in 2002 for the BBC hip-hop program Solid Steel and also never before released on record. Its inclusion is a revelation; with a detailed glimpse of how Steinski constructs his art (plus some nasty beats for your right brain), it is the trees to disc one's forest. A socially-conscious party-starter, and a virtuoso of the decks, Steinski's work can now live on.

This album is available as a legal, pay-what-you-want download from the Illegal Art label website. Click here.

8. David Byrne & Brian Eno - Everything That Happens Will Happen Today

NOTE: Lala.com does not have this album, so I am not able to include a playlist for it. However you can still enjoy these mp3 samples that I have personally uploaded.
 
Strange Overtones

Poor Boy

I have one major complaint about Everything That Happens Will Happen Today, and it has to do with truth in advertising. See, I would love to wax on the sublimity that results when two geniuses collaborate, or how two musicians can mutually inspire and end up with something greater than the sum. But that's not what we have here. This isn't a meeting of the minds; in actuality, this is a very good David Byrne album on which he has a superb producer. Marketed as the 28-years-in-the-making follow-up to the duo's legendary new-wave-meets-musique-concreté record My Life in the Bush of Ghosts, the two records actually share very little DNA (it's telling who got first billing on each album). But I said Happens is very good, and I do mean that, lest it be misunderstood that this music could have been improved upon by a different system of government. Byrne is refreshed here, penning some of the most wry, incisive and self-effacing songs of his career. The music is carried along by melody after hummable melody, held together with a unified vision but varied enough to avoid feeling heavy-handed. Eno, for his part, has scored some very nice programming ("Strange Overtones"), but should be credited primarily for successfully reigning in Byrne's usual indulgences. There are deliciously odd moments such as the atonal piano blurts in "I Feel My Stuff", but most of the time things are done in a safe zone, saving the album from the occasional strained juxtapositions that have been known to drag down Byrne's solo records. So perhaps the duo just don't like a completely even working relationship, but instead take turns driving a car powered by the others' mojo. Nothing wrong with that at all.

7. Anthony Braxton, William Parker & Milford Graves - Beyond Quantum

If the jazz world were a pro sports league, this would be my fantasy pick roster for the New York Shronkers. You've got free jazz pioneer and general reed enthusiast Anthony Braxton as pitcher and team captain; astoundingly versatile bassist William Parker as point guard; the wildly frenetic, otherwordly, and reclusive percussionist Milford Graves as full back; experimental music's go-to recording producer Bill Laswell as goalie; and the king of the avant-garde himself, executive producer John Zorn as team manager and ballboy. What sport is this, anyway? Who cares, if it's this thrilling to spectate. Over five freely improvised tracks (titled as "meetings"), the three performers force all variety of sounds and textures onto one another, with little pretense for actual, deliberate collaboration. It's a noisy, difficult and highly esoteric affair, but it's no less inspiring to hear these geniuses do what they do (I don't use the term "genius" lightly; both Braxton and Zorn have previously been awarded the MacArthur Genius Grant). You can stand by and tsk tsk and say this isn't music and what's the point?, but it's futile. You can't defeat this dream team.

6. Rudresh Mahanthappa - Kinsmen

We're through the looking glass here, people. There have been several attempts in the past by jazz musicians of adopting and infusing Indian classical music into their own: Coltrane's often raga-like solos, Miles' modal landmark Kind of Blue, John McLaughlin and his fantastic work with his 70's group Shakti. Within Kinsmen, alto saxophonist Rudresh Mahanthappa shows how it looks from the other side. Mahanthappa, who was actually born in Italy and raised in Colorado (and who studied at Berklee), is technically an outsider to Indian musical traditions. It took a record by the great Indian saxophonist Kadri Gopalnath, who has spent his career finding a place for his chosen instrument in his native music, to inspire Mahanthappa with similar thoughts of cross-breeding. The marriage here is seamless, cosmopolitan and accomplished, thanks as much to the expertise of Gopalnath, who co-leads this session, as to the vision of his protegé. This is thrilling, mixed-media art. Sometimes the strokes are broad, like during "Kalyani", where a lithe faux-sitar solo by guitarist Rez Abassi is later followed by a Mahanthappa solo that skirts honking, free-jazz atonality, yet the picture never loses its measured subtlety. Indian facets abound, such as employing modal structures built upon a single note (here from a double bass rather than a droning tanpura), rephrasing and re-exploring the same improvised line repeatedly, and a liberal dose of grace notes and microtones. Further, both saxes affect a pinched tone, no doubt with the shehnai in mind. Interspersed among the five main compositions are five relatively brief "Alaps" (the term for the introductory section of an Indian classical performance), which are vehicles for solo displays by various members of the band, and which not only showcase their talents well but also add a deeper context to the whole affair. "Convergence (Kinsmen)" is an ideal denouement, featuring a fierce trading of solos by Mahanthappa and Golpanath and a reserved mridangam solo by Poovalur Sriji. With the various and disparate elements carefully folded in together, Kinsmen should stand as a redefinition of fusion--and a beautiful sound to boot.

5. Why? - Alopecia

Why?, aesthetically speaking, is Animal Collective's answer to hardcore rap. It's anathema-- most hip-hop purists deny it even belongs in their camp. To someone like me, who yearns to find validity in every musical style but whose principals are let down by the unchecked pomposity and forsaken creative pulse of mainstream hip-hop, this makes an item like Yoni Wolf's Why? the revolution we crave. A founder of the thoroughly iconoclastic hip-hop label anticon. (apparently punctuation in titles is part of their culture subversion strategy), Why? indeed acts in every way like an indie rock artist. First off, yes, they're all white. Second, Wolf defies various conventions like alternately treating Why? as a solo stage persona and as a full band. And, perhaps most scandalously, he eschews vainglory: Alopecia's garish folk-art album cover lacks his countenance flanked by half-naked shortys or flaunting bullet wounds, and his lyrics, when they even are about himself, are disturbingly self-effacing confessions about vomiting in a Whole Foods parking lot or being conned by Gypsys ("The kind of sh*t I won't admit to my head-shrinker," Wolf raps in "Good Friday"). Because of this, Alopecia is new and unusual to the point of feeling unstable, like plutonium. And like plutonium, it houses great power. Wolf challenges Timbaland in his production: while he almost always prefers live instruments to beats, the use of jingling change as a backbeat, or a Reich-ian mallet ostinato as a song's foundation, results in a similarly spooky and disorienting sensation as the work of the famous beat-maker. The song structures are unsettled and nonlinear, favoring neither the traditions of rock or rap. And Wolf's flow is relaxed and apathetic, like a stoner possessed by the spirit of Kurtis Blow. The hipster kid shouldn't look at Why? as a safe way to claim he listens to rap, just as no involved party should ever call into question their refreshing vision of the popular music landscape.

4. Vampire Weekend - Vampire Weekend

Damn context. Damn the tastemaking mill. If weren't for the highly faulty system currently in use, a charming little band like Vampire Weekend wouldn't suffer the whiplash of being trumpeted in the blogs one day (in their case, that day was months before their debut was even released), then torn apart the next as over-hyped and pretentious, and of course fervently defended the day after. All the same, as much as a din was created from personal baggage, the quality and charm of Vampire Weekend's eponymous debut album was still well-heard by many. To be fair, providence was at work: this album was released at a time when nothing sounded like it. It contrasted nicely with all the records featuring heavy moods and heavier music (see: the rest of this list). Perhaps becoming so accustomed to the weightiness of that other music is what made some balk at such an effervescent record... but being used to the darkness is a terrible reason not to go outside. Vampire Weekend doesn't try to be anything more than it is. The guitars are clean and jangly, the mix has an unassuming spaciousness, and the lyrics are peppered with various references to New England life (Charles Ives would like this band). But of course what propels this album beyond mere feelgoodery is the Afropop. When the band employs such highly engaging syncopated rhythms and riffs in songs like "Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa" (itself named after a Congolese dance music), a tasty new cocktail is made. It was 22 years before that Paul Simon first broke through with African-infused success, and another take has long since been due. Sit back and enjoy, because you won't be getting this anywhere else.

3. Janelle Monáe - Metropolis: The Chase Suite (Special Edition)

An R&B concept EP loosely based on the classic sci-fi film "Metropolis" was certainly one of the most left-field debuts of the year. Unconventionality appears to be Monáe's M.O.: for starters, she's a little firecracker of a performer, a woman who sports an intimidating pompadour and who favors archaic male attire (the fact that she is a former protegé of OutKast may help to explain all this). Hand-in-hand with her personal style goes the style of Metropolis: The Chase Suite (Special Edition), where Tin Pan Alley arrangements are punctuated with a delicious balance of digital and acoustic instruments. As a singer, Monáe shows her prowess by belting cries in the dance number "Violet Stars Happy Hunting!!!", moaning melismatic runs in the soulful "Mr. President", and even crooning sweetly along to a soft, fingerpicked electric guitar in "Smile". She packs even more oomph into her voice by deftly multi-tracking it at times, overlaying lines, creating her own call-and-response, and utilizing surprisingly evocative contrapuntal harmonies. Monáe is a promising new artist, poised to bring high art back to popular music. And while the album's story may be more "Blade Runner" than "Metropolis", robots are robots and there are enough gleefully weird aspects to this album to surely tickle all walks of carbon-based lifeforms. There is no escape. You will be assimilated.

2. Philip Glass - Glass Box [box set]

A picture is worth a thousand words, but Philip Glass' music is worth a thousand pictures. Therefore I will refrain from attempting to "review" this lovingly assembled and lavishly packaged ten-disc retrospective of the most renowned and influential living modern composer. Please take the time and listen to the sample pieces provided, and allow these exponents to unfold before you.
For Context: "Spaceship" is a movement from Glass' most famous work, the 1976 opera Einstein on the Beach, and it features the recurring techniques of repeated mathematical sequences, both in the text and in the music. "Façades" is the fifth movement of Glassworks, an album release intended as Glass' most commercial and accessible work. "Powaqqatsi" (Hopi for "life in transition") is the title track to the third installment of a film trilogy, each for which Glass composed the score. You may also recognize it from the film The Truman Show.

1. Bon Iver - For Emma, Forever Ago

When Justin Vernon sequestered himself in his father's winter cabin in northern Wisconsin he was only thinking of recuperation: from a dissolved band, from a broken relationship, from mono. He wasn't thinking about recording an album, so of course that's what naturally occurred. That complete lack of pretension is the second key to this gorgeously bare and moving record. But we're getting ahead of ourselves. First, we must acknowledge that For Emma, Forever Ago is as much a product of, and soundtrack to, its environment as any record could be. This music is a winter cabin in the woods, a snowstorm, frosted and foggy windows, cold and sweaty toes, seclusion, melancholy introspection, and the promise of a new spring coming, all manifested in strums and hums. It's an urgent and arresting emotional result, and it can't be shaken. When you factor in Vernon's adopted stage name--which is a variation on the French bon hiver meaning "good winter"--and the moody cover photo, the "depressing wintertime" theme may begin to feel like a gimmick. However to dismiss this record on such grounds is to only cheat yourself. Vernon, while bearing almost no intentions to create a professional record, made many subtle yet astute choices in the recording of this music. The soft acoustic guitars are close-miked, contrasting disorientingly with the reverberant vocals ("Creature Fear"). The chord progressions are colored by extended, pentatonic harmonies ("Lump Sum"), like a hero made more ambiguous by a drinking problem. And Vernon's vocals are the pièce de résistance; a fragile falsetto with a bluesy inflection that can get roughed up when needed, it, like the album itself, wields the combined bare emotionality of soul and stripped down indie rock. Vernon adds further dimensions by fervently multi-tracking his voice into landscapes of harmonies and choruses, and adding dashes of auto-tune and other modern studio tricks ("Wolves [Acts I and II]"). After all this, the album concludes with "re: Stacks", which strips away even the modest accouterments of the other tracks, leaving six minutes of a strummed guitar and Vernon's lone voice. It is the best song released this year. The simplest, most basic and most common setup for a song leaves nothing between the listener and the aching, bittersweet longing. Like a seagull over the ocean, the vocals dip in a lovely interplay with the guitar, which responds with a few hammer-ons. Vernon alters the melody with each stanza, and when he does something so incredibly simple as go up to the fourth instead of down to the second, we catch our breath for the sheer beauty of it all. For Emma somehow plays both the part of the vulnerable wounded animal, and the kind hermit who takes it into his winter cabin to care for it. As Vernon whispers the final line "Your love will be safe with me", you find the hope to believe it.
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Honorable Mentions

Bill Frisell - History, Mystery
Ben Folds - Way to Normal [fake version]
DJ Shadow & Cut Chemist - The Hard Sell
Fleet Foxes - Fleet Foxes
Flight of the Conchords - Flight of the Conchords
Jamie Lidell - Jim
No Age - Nouns
Ponytail - Ice Cream Spiritual
Shugo Tokumaru - Exit
S.M.V. - Thunder

A classic Bill Frisell moment occurred very soon after the musicians took the dais affectionately called a stage in Annapolis' beloved Ram's Head sit-down club.

The 858 Quartet--Frisell, accompanied by violinist Jenny Scheinman, violist Eyvind Kang and cellist Hank Roberts, as well as his own trusty Fender Telecaster--entered to eager applause. As the string players settled themselves, Frisell approached the microphone and introduced each member in turn. After a pause he added, "And I'll be right back." The audience laughed and murmured awkwardly as he hurried back stage to retrieve a pick.
When Frisell returned, Kang whispered to him, "They want you to explain." Meaning, to explain where he just went.
Frozen in front of the microphone, Frisell asked, "I need to explain myself?", with a hint of sincere exasperation. The crowd laughed again. Frisell unfolded a piece of paper in his hand, as if about to read a prepared statement, then looked about the walls of the club. "The music is... (pregnant pause)... Well, I can't explain it!" More confused laughter, and Frisell sat down. I had already felt as if I had gotten my money's worth, and not a single note had been played.

Bill Frisell doesn't understand human beings, I don't think. He's a wholly separate kind of entity. He's quiet, extremely introverted, unapproachable. Mentally, he's plugged in elsewhere. And that is, of course, what makes his music so unique. Even the label "jazz guitarist" doesn't do Frisell justice, a misplaced synecdoche that fits him like a thrift store tuxedo. First, there's his musical style, which borrows just as much, if not more, from American indigenous musics such as folk, bluegrass, country, and rock as it does from blues and jazz and classical. Frisell has recorded covers of Bob Dylan, George Gershwin, Henry Mancini, Sam Cooke, Charles Ives, Willie Nelson, Gilberto Gil, Leadbelly, Stephen Foster and Madonna (he also contributed to the most recent album by the drone-metal group Earth, among other curious guests spots). America is often called a cultural melting pot, but few musicians actually serve up that stew.
But just as radical is his playing style. Frisell has pioneered an open-string style which has inspired many imitators and devotees in all walks of life. He employs an arsenal of loop, delay and effects pedals, sometimes choosing to spend his solo in a given tune by tweaking knobs rather than plucking notes. And when he does pick out a solo, it is still in defiance of the standard philosophy of weaving a new melody into the song, of exploring and expanding the harmonies. Instead, Frisell has a somewhat minimalist style, playing brief melodies or just single, sustained notes, waiting until the exact right moment to say the exact right thing. Listening to Frisell play is like sitting at the feet of a monk, waiting for him to open his mouth and bless you with pearls of wisdom.

Bill Frisell originally formed the 858 Quartet in 2002, to record a series of completely improvised pieces inspired by the paintings of Gerhard Richter. For this current tour the quartet performed a handful of extended pieces, some newly composed for the group and others radically re-worked from previous Frisell projects. Each piece began without apparent direction, and would end abruptly, but in between was electricity. The music would lurch and evolve from free-form, polytonal improvs to bluesy grooves before transfiguring into something else entirely; disjointed in the best way possible. The quartet displayed a wonderful rapport, coalescing ever more into one another as the concert progressed (a companion of mine noted how they even physically mover closer and closer). Eyvind Kang struggled initially with pitching but shook it off as he warmed up. He was at his best during his solos, when he would forsake his bow and engage in what could only be called pizzicato pandemonium. the veteran Hank Roberts looked like my high school geometry teacher but played with a punk rock attitude, hunching and grimacing and punishing his instrument. A pregnant Jenny Scheinman was the MVP, equally adept to play perfect support as to soar about in lyrical, emotional solos, echoed in her own fluid mannerisms. Frisell kept close to his pedals, focusing on textures and atmosphere for large portions of the evening. On the guitar he blended and took precious few (and regrettably quiet) solos, which indicated that he saw himself as a member of the group rather than its leader. The show lasted just over an hour, at which time the group encored with an energetic version of "Baba Drame" by the Malian guitar hero Boubacar Traoré, a Frisell favorite.

If you have an opportunity to see Bill Frisell play, 858 Quartet or otherwise, take it. You need to see him, flesh and blood and Telecaster, to even hope to understand who he is and how he does what he does. Don't just listen to me, because... well, I can't explain it.

= Hard Format

A blog celebrating the (dying) art of design for music media. Some stunning and outrageous works are chronicled therein.

Several months in the making, down to the wire, this hotly anticipated bad boy was scheduled to be released to press at midnight tonight, EST. Only problem is some of the artists on the lineup already had it, and they didn't know the rules. This was posted about an hour ago (10pm, EST) on TV On The Radio's MySpace page. Whoops.



 

Superfly Productions and A.C. Entertainment are excited to announce the initial lineup for the 2009 Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival. The eighth annual four-day camping and music festival will be held on June 11 - 14 on the same beautiful 700-acre farm in Manchester, Tennessee, 60 miles south of Nashville. Every year Bonnaroo seeks to make history by offering unique and exclusive performances by rock's greatest legends as well as its most significant newcomers. A full list of confirmed acts follows, and more will be announced in the coming weeks. The final Bonnaroo 2009 lineup will total over 120 bands and over 20 comedians performing on 13 stages over four days. Tickets go on sale exclusively through www.bonnaroo.com on Saturday, February 7 at 12:00 PM Eastern.

Official festival website is www.bonnaroo.com

2009 Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival Confirmed Artists:
Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
Phish (2 Shows)
Beastie Boys
Nine Inch Nails
David Byrne
Wilco
Al Green
Snoop Dogg
Elvis Costello Solo
Erykah Badu
Paul Oakenfold
Ben Harper and Relentless7
The Mars Volta
TV on the Radio
Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Gov't Mule
Andrew Bird
Merle Haggard
MGMT
moe.
The Decemberists
Girl Talk
Bon Iver
Béla Fleck & Toumani Diabate
Rodrigo y Gabriela
Galactic
The Del McCoury Band
of Montreal
Allen Toussaint
Coheed and Cambria
Booker T & the DBTs
David Grisman Quintet
Lucinda Williams
Animal Collective
Gomez
Neko Case
Down
Jenny Lewis
Santogold
Robert Earl Keen
Citizen Cope
Femi Kuti and the Positive Force
The Ting Tings
Robyn Hitchcock & The Venus 3
Grace Potter and the Nocturnals
Kaki King
Grizzly Bear
King Sunny Adé
Okkervil River
St. Vincent
Zac Brown Band
Raphael Saadiq
Ted Leo and the Pharmacists
Crystal Castles
Tift Merritt
Brett Dennen
Mike Farris and the Roseland Rhythm Revue
Toubab Krewe
People Under the Stairs
Alejandro Escovedo
Vieux Farka Touré
Elvis Perkins In Dearland
Cherryholmes
Yeasayer
Todd Snider
Chairlift
Portugal. The Man.
The SteelDrivers
Midnite
The Knux
The Low Anthem
Delta Spirit
A.A. Bondy
The Lovell Sisters
Alberta Cross

I am at a loss. I won't move to hyperbole and claim that this is the greatest festival lineup ever made (that would still have to be the original Woodstock, at least in hindsight). However this has achieved three things simultaneously: it has been the penance for last year's rather lackluster lineup, it has been a swift and powerful volley to their main industry rival, Coachella, and it has raised the bar for American multi-day festivals across the board.

Now, indulge me to enumerate on just what makes this lineup so spectacular.

1. The Boss. Not a huge fan, but clearly one of the greatest and most consistent rock musicians in American history. His band has their own legendary status, and they are known to put on killer shows (the Superbowl halftime didn't do them justice).

2. Phish. Reunion. Two nights. Insider info indicates that this does not mean two headlining spots, but rather one night headlining and one late night show on a different day. Phish continues to be one of my all-time favorite bands, and to see them in action again is a blessing I wouldn't have thought to ask for.

3. The Beastie Boys. Is this Bonnaroo's very first hip-hop headliner?

4. Nine Inch Nails. Have released highly acclaimed albums within the last couple years. Their recent live shows have also gathered a lot of praise for their technical innovation.

5. David Byrne. At worst, he's a loveable kook; at best, he's a genius. I was never expecting to see him return to Bonnaroo after his blazing set in '04, but here we are. I welcome it.

6. Al Green. An honest-to-goodness R&B legend. The Good Reverend. Enough said.

7. Snoop Dogg. This will be entertaining at the very least.

8. The Mars Volta. Irascible and unpredictable, this band is heavy and spacey and avant-garde and will do what other bands would be scared to try. Thank you for pushing rock ahead as an art form.

9. Merle Haggard. Are you kidding me? Merle?!

10. of Montreal. I saw them once, in late 2007. They had set-pieces, costumes, fencing, partial nudity and more. Supposedly their live show has gotten exponentially crazier.

11. Animal Collective. Two weeks into January they released the Best Album of 2009 (and that's not just my opinion). Their live shows are more about creating new music than playing their hits. It's a refreshing change of pace.

12. Femi Kuti and the Positive Force. Much like David Byrne, I wouldn't have expected them to return, but here they are. Femi fills his father's shoes nobly and ably. A wild time.

13. Bon Iver. He is responsible for my favorite album of 2008. You write beautiful songs, and I will be captivated when you release your soft falsetto to mingle with the summer breeze.

14. TV on the Radio, Erykah Badu, Girl Talk, Andrew Bird, Grizzly Bear, Yeasayer, St. Vincent, Kaki King, Lucinda Williams and Booker T are all superb undercards.

There are many others I haven't even mentioned, and I really should, but will refrain for your sake. If you read my Bonnaroo 2008 recaps at all, and at any point the thought passed through your mind that it might be fun to go one day, just imagine that fun of a time PLUS this awesome of a lineup. C'mon, you know you want to.

Part IV: Sunday and Departure

Sunday is a day of relief. Coming off the constant rush of Friday and Saturday (and their late nights), it's the time to relax and move at a more leisurely pace. It's the time to soak Bonnaroo in and really remember what it's like to stand on the farm, to feel the bright sun and warm breeze, to see all the happy people and hear all the diverse music. You will be holding onto those memories for many long months.

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8:30am - Wake up. Oh, it's hot again. Everything is hot. I'm in a sensory deprivation tank that's been placed over a burner. What an alarm clock.

8:31 - Breakfast and lounging. Others were up, and I met them in the shade of the canopies. As I ate dry cereal we discussed last night. Jamie said he was at all of Kanye West's show, and that it was pretty good. Others who were at Phil Lesh & Friends repeated the same story Ryan had told me, and we all relished the schadenfreude.

10:00 - "Shower." As much as I or anyone else might wish it to be, Bonnaroo is not paradise: the funk in my pits and the grease in my hair was reminding me of that. Baby wipes are a staple, but they only do so much. Bonnaroo does have pay showers, but I've never felt it was worth going that route. I opt to do what many of the crunchier attendees do, and take a military shower at the water stations. All I need is a couple washcloths, soap, a little inhibition and a lot of ingenuity. Sunday is a good day to do it, as a way to be relatively fresh for the long trip home the next day.
With a new springtime scent and a bounce in my step, I walk back to my camp. By the time I'm there, the dust from the dirt roads have caked on my legs and feet, and one can hardly tell I've bathed at all.

11:30 - Head to Centeroo. After an attempt to sleep in a camping chair in the shade, I decide it's time to get to Centeroo. As it happens, I'm not on my way to more fun and music; Sunday was actually a light day for me in terms of artists of interest, and my first show of the day didn't begin until 2:45. I was actually on my way to a sponsored attraction called the Fuse Barn, "powered" by Fuse TV. They were the one location in all of Bonnaroo that advertised a free cell phone charging service.
Let me go on a tangent and say that my phone and I do not get along. I think of me and my phone as having a comically dysfunctional, Odd Couple-ish relationship. See, my phone is lazy. Incredibly lazy. It needs to be charged at least once a day, and more frequently if I have the audacity to actually use it. Two or three calls and it's all tuckered out, informing me it's going to turn itself off. Occasionally when I try to turn it back on, it thinks the better and turns itself back off. It's battery bar is perpetually at one block, warning me that at any time it may need to sit down and take a break. My phone drives me bonkers, but what can I do? We're a pair!
Anyway, I'd been conserving my battery life by keeping the phone turned off almost the entire time I was on the farm. But it was Sunday, and I knew Matt and I would need to get in touch to finalize plans of how to meet up and when to leave. I also was painfully wishing to talk to my wife. So, armed with my phone charger I went to give the lazy guy a cup of black coffee.

11:50 - Fuse Barn. The phone charging booth opened at noon, and I arrived early to find about thirty-five people more motivated and frantic than me. I got in line and waited. At noon they had not opened, the line had doubled, and it had become blazingly hot (we had no shade). At five after, while still not open, one of the employees came out and told the line that they only had thirty slots and so only the first thirty would get the phones charged and that others could come back in an hour. They also listed off a few major manufacturer's brand names that they did not have equipment for, sorry everyone. I counted the people in line, and I was thirty-third. I stayed, thinking that perhaps I had miscounted or someone would leave or not be able to charge their phone. At ten after another employee went through the line and handed out combination battery-powered fan and water spritzers with Fuse's logo. At twenty after, the booth opened, and the line... didn't move. I was unsure of the details, but I gathered that the process taking a phone from someone and plugging it in was much more technical and complicated, and therefore the line could move not faster than one step forward every couple minutes. When I looked at my watch and realized I had been baking in the sun for almost an hour, I wished everyone around me good luck and left, making sure to kick off the dust from my heels.
I did have an alternate plan. There is a small, child-oriented tent called Kidz Jam. Walking by it the day before I noticed an electrical outlet patch peeking out the back of their tent. It was still there, and so I sat down, plugged in, covered the phone with my backpack, and attempted to look like I was just relaxing in the shade, reading the day's issue of the Bonnaroo Beacon.

2:00pm - Talk to Jocelyn. After an hour of charging I took the phone and my gear and moved to a more secluded spot under one of the farm's grand oak trees. There I called my wife, Jocelyn. I must say, her voice on the other end was the most beautiful music I heard all weekend. I missed her fiercely. We spoke for twenty minutes, me giving her highlights of my time, and her giving me the scoop on the wedding she photographed the day before. I told her about The Bluegrass Allstars, Chris Rock, SuperJam, Mastodon, Sigur Rós, karaoke, losing the lens cap, and so on, but with so much left to say (as you now know), I didn't fear having nothing left to tell her when we would be reunited. I also had the opportunity to hear my little baby daughter coo and yelp and laugh, melting my heart all the more.
After saying goodbye, I gave Matt a call and left him a nervous voicemail about plans for departure. It was then time for my first show, which helped to put the precarious situation out of my mind.

2:45 - Orchestra Baobab. This group from Dakar, Senegal has been fusing African traditions with Cuban and Caribbean music for four decades. They experienced a slight resurgence in popularity in 2002 when Dave Matthews and Trey Anastasio filmed a documentary about meeting, learning from and performing with the group.
I arrived a few minutes before the show, and found only a scant attendance with easy opportunities to get very close to the fence. To my chagrin, most of those in attendance appeared to be merely holding good spots for one or both of the indie rock shows later in the day: O.A.R. and Death Cab for Cutie. In fact, several of these self-absorbed hipster wankers were lining the front fence, sitting down with their backs to the stage, taking turns napping and staring at the dirt, while one of the most significant African musical groups performed behind them. On the other hand, I was able to get in front of a guy after telling him I was there for Orchestra Baobab and would be leaving right afterward. All the same, there were enough of these indie kids around that I feared the band, while up there giving their all, would feel unappreciated. As it turned out, only my side of the crowd was really a problem (a fenced-off path leads from the stage to the soundboard, bisecting the grounds). I watched as the folks across from me danced jubilantly in a tight pack, offering cheers to the band, who in turn grinned and waved back. The grass did look greener on the other side of the fence. One of the band's tenor saxophone players was a particularly entertaining ham, shuffling on stage and teasing the vocalists while they sang. Behind his sunglasses he would identify specific people in the audience, offering them huge smiles and thumbs up. Towards the end of the show, they invited a young, shirtless guy in the crowd up on stage. The guy, for whatever reason, had with him an alto sax, and he joined the horn section in their antiphonal licks. I found this to be a beautiful statement from the band: we view music as a communal thing, and will dance and cheer for you like you do for us. I would bet that O.A.R. doesn't hold the same sentiment. Too bad, because Orchestra Baobab was the most fun show of the weekend.
After the band finished and the dust had settled and we all caught our breath, I made my way to That Tent for my next show. I had just spent almost two hours standing in an unprecedentedly scorching Bonnaroo 2008 sun, and the tent's muddy shade was looking very attractive.

4:20 - Not what you think, just Solomon Burke. The show that just ended was by vanguard Bonnaroo artist Robert Randolph, and the show later on would feature two beloved blues-rock guitarists, Derek Trucks & Susan Tedeschi. Between these packed shows the tent was nearly deserted; I found myself once again with the opportunity to be very close to the stage. Yet it surprised and saddened me that performances by these younger (albeit respectable) players would draw three or four times the crowd as a mythic soul singer with a half-century career and a place in the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame. In fact I quickly learned that many of the folks around me didn't even know who Mr. Burke was, and were just waiting for "Trucks". I would assure them that they were indeed in for a treat.
Setting up the stage meant lots of instruments, mics and a horn section. It also meant a very large and colorful custom-built throne front and center (Mr. Burke is a man of great, er, status). All this, in turn, meant that the band wasn't ready to take the stage until 5:25, forty minutes late. The band played Burke on, who was lifted onto the stage in his wheelchair, then moved to his throne. He is a very large person.
As I watched the show, the hindsight finally came to me that I didn't actually have high expectations for this show. Solomon Burke is getting on in years and clearly not in the best of health, so he was not likely to be much of a fiery, passionate performer. Also, the R&B and Soul singers from the golden age that are still with us are often notoriously flat and disappointing live nowadays. Chuck Berry is known for not showing up at all for his gigs. Even The Hardest Working Man in Showbusiness' set at Bonnaroo 2003 is often cited as one of the worst shows in the festival's history. Perhaps this trend partially explains the low attendance at Burke's show? In any case, it fully defied these probabilities, and shame on anyone who would call it a nostalgia act. Burke was seated at the center, and created a hurricane of excitement around him. He thoroughly engaged the audience and seemed so genuinely pleased to be playing for us.
Burke announced that this was a request show, but it wasn't readily apparent that we were not the ones requesting songs. I eventually noticed a small video monitor at his feet, and presumably requests were coming in from the Internet (was the show being broadcast somewhere?). The selections were stellar, including "Diamond in Your Mind" by-- you guessed it-- Tom Waits. Burke also invited "all the ladies" to come up on stage and dance, and soon dozens of wide-eyed and grinning young women-- and a couple dudes-- had peppered themselves throughout the musicians.
As great a time as I was having, I had my own schedule to keep even if none of the artists seemed to be cooperating. As I left the tent and headed towards The Other Tent, I looked back to see just how small the audience really was: the people only filled the area right in front of the stage, and barely anyone occupied the back half of the tent. It is still heartbreaking to think of how very many people missed out on this joyous time.

6:15 - Broken Social Scene. Broken Social Scene falls just above The Hold Steady and just below Wilco on the list of bands that I really should like but just don't. And in yet another sincere attempt to develop that affection, I made the time to see them perform. I left the tent not fifteen minutes later, still unmoved. I may have stuck around a bit longer if the lovely and talented Feist were with them, but no such luck; instead I spotted a middle-aged topless woman noodle dancing. I high-tailed it over to the main stage for my one last big must-see of the weekend.

6:40 - Robert Plant & Alison Krauss with T-Bone Burnett. I again took advantage of the lopsided crowd and took the long route around to the far side of the field, then entered into the pit directly in front of the stage. It was understandably packed, but all present were thoroughly entranced and had no use for any activities that would annoy their neighbors (yelling, flailing about, asking for a fix, etc.). It came as no surprise whatsoever that such a duet of stunningly talented singers would put on as fantastic a show as they did. Further, I would say that the show (as with their album) was made all the more profound because of such an unlikely pairing rather than in spite of it. The song selection covered many gems from their album including "Gone, Gone, Gone", "Fortune Teller" and "Trampled Rose" (hey, another Tom Waits composition!). However, the crowd favorite by a mile was an energetic performance of the classic Led Zeppelin, Lord of the Rings-inspired song "Battle of Evermore". Even the security guard who yelled at me to put my fancy camera away (yes, I finally got caught) could not dampen my spirits.

7:50 - Jake Shimabukuro. It was bittersweet walking to the small tent in the back of the main stage field, knowing that inside I would find my last Bonnaroo show. Perhaps I was a bit overly sentimental about it, but Jake Shimabukuro felt like just the right punctuation to a sentence that could've kept going. A young Hawaiian whose ukulele chops have all but earned him the middle name "Virtuoso" among music critics, Shimabukuro is as humble and appreciative a performer as he is skilled at his instrument. He sat solo on the Troo Music Lounge Tent's small stage by himself for a hour-long set, and the only change was when the spirit of the music would lift him from his stool. Shimabukuro engaged the audience. He asked us questions, repeatedly thanked everyone he could think of (sound crew, bartenders, other artists at the festival), and took the time to explain a bit about each piece performed. He also took the award for most diverse repertoire, reprieving his own pleasant originals with covers of The Beatles, Chick Corea, Led Zeppelin and Franz Schubert.
Shimabukuro won over the dedicated audience by deftly removing himself from the spotlight. He didn't showcase how great he was; instead, he simply asked those present, "Isn't it wonderful, the sounds that can be created?" To which we grinned and replied, "Yes!"

8:45 - A few more kernels of amusement. Leaving Centeroo for what would be the last time, I passed by a young man and woman standing by the long wooden fence that separates the concert grounds from the camping grounds. The woman had chosen to festoon herself not with clothes but with paint, and the man was out working the crowd, asking strangers to sign a 3'x4' canvas they had with them, as a keepsake. I was happy to acquiesce; it felt as if they were claiming that their Bonnaroo experience would not have been complete without me. Picking out a color from their packet of markers, I looked over the canvas and decided to be different, as people in our generation are wont to do, and sign the side border. See you next year! - Steve
A few minutes further down the road, I was admiring the graffiti that the festival encourages its patrons to apply to the same wooden fence. One particular statement caught my eye. I suppose not everything at Bonnaroo 2008 was worth its wait.

9:10 - Spending time at camp. Nearly everyone at camp wanted to skip the evening's headliner, Widespread Panic. There is a backstory to such a sentiment, and the gist is that WSP is a respectable southern-rock jamband that has simply headlined Bonnaroo too many times. The point is, we all were determined to thoroughly enjoy one another's company in the relaxed atmosphere of Camp Inforoo, content to let the jams drift unobtrusively into the environs. I lit up my second cigar, we lounged and chatted, put one another into hysterics, and watched as occasional smuggled fireworks were set off, from around the grounds, into the balmy night sky.
Early on, we had some visitors: the young man and woman with the canvas. It turned out the man posted infrequently on Inforoo, and wanted to stop by and meet us. I was impressed by how many more signatures were on the canvas (including the border) in just an hour or so, and all present signed as well.
Someone had brought a watermelon that had gone untouched all weekend, so Jamie, The Dude and I smashed it.

Monday, 2:00am - Bedtime. By the time the collective decision to turn in came, it had gotten surprisingly chilly. I had not packed any blanket, to maintain a light load, but now I was very thankful that others at camp weren't so lean. I was lent a thick comforter, and slept like a baby.

8:30 - Awaken. While still on the cool side, the sunny Tennessee day was warming up rapidly. Outside the tent I was surprised to see that everyone else in camp was already up and packing. I hopped to it, knowing that I needed to catch Matt and Joe at the location of the car. I freshened up, ate a little, rolled up my tent and organized my belongings. The bittersweet goodbyes. The memories.
A fellow camper graciously offered me a ride over to the car (at this point I was realizing just how much I had relied on other people for things during this weekend. I'm very grateful for all the charity). She dropped me off just a block away, and with my gear on and in tow, I met up with Matt and Joe just as they were done loading their gear in the vehicle. We squeezed mine in, then squeezes ourselves in.

10:00 - Leave Bonnaroo. Thoughts of being reunited with my family by day's end was all that could soften the pain of leaving this magical place and returning to the real world. From the back of the car I watched as we rolled down the rural dirt road, the tall grass and modest hills overtaking the view of the arch and the ferris wheel and the pod balloons.
It was slow getting back on the highway, although compared to the congestion getting in on Thursday, we were fast as lightning. I asked Matt and Joe how they enjoyed their first Bonnaroo, to which Joe replied, "Well, my backpack was stolen and I got detained by security." I knew this had to be good, and it was. Let me relay the story to you.
It all went down on Friday afternoon, not long after Matt and Joe had finished setting up their camp. While others went off to explore, Joe went to nap in his open tent. He woke up about an hour later to find that his backpack, which was placed just outside the tent, was now gone. He searched around the camp, but quickly determined that it must have been swiped. Soon Matt returned, and they used his cell phone to call Joe's (which, along with other valuables, was inside the backpack). The thief picked up. Joe pleaded with him. He told him he didn't need the whole bag back--which Joe reiterated in truth to me--, but just the cell phone, seeing as it was his address book and calendar and all. The thief, probably sensing a trap, refused. That was the last that Joe heard from him or the backpack.
While walking the roads between camps, looking in vain for his stolen belongings, Joe was kicked in the head by a horse. I'm unsure of the details of how this happened, but I do know that Joe fell to the ground and blacked out for a couple seconds. When he got himself up, the long wait in line, the brutal heat, being stolen from and now getting assaulted by a horse made him snap. He walked over to the horse and shoved it with all his might. The horse was startled, but of course it didn't topple; it was unharmed. However it's master, a female mounted security guard, saw what had happened and rushed over. She was irate with Joe, but Joe would have none of it, yelling back at her. Eventually other mounted guards came, and Joe was taken into custody.
He was escorted to a chain-link detainment cage, apparently not far from the parking-only grounds. There he was kept until he could cool off. He relayed his experiences to the guards, and after a couple hours was let go, with some very harsh warnings from the security captain.
I told Joe that I was very sorry to hear he had such a terrible time this weekend.
"Are you kidding? I had the best weekend of my life!", he replied.
I didn't know how he could say that; I remembered how bummed I was when my backpack was stolen at Bonnaroo the previous year, but I at least was able to get it and all its contents back. He said that it did suck to have lost those things, but between all the music he saw, all the people he met, and all the fun and wild times he had he couldn't really care about that. The rest of the weekend was just too amazing. "Plus", he added, "I now have some great stories to tell." I had to agree with him there.

10:45 - Errands. Matt promised his wife he would bring home some big-ass fireworks, which are legal in Tennessee. Off one exit, he found a store he liked, which also had gas. I offered to cover this tank, and Joe told me to get premium. I went inside, handed my card to the young man behind the cigarettes and Lotto tickets, pointed out the window to our car, and said, "Fill it up. 93, please." Then, I gave Jo and quick call on my half-dead phone. When I came back to the counter, the clerk handed me my card and a receipt... for $93. I questioned him, and got the answer you're probably expecting: "Well, you asked for $93 worth of gas."
"No," I shook my head urgently, "I was asking for 93-grade gas!"
"Oh. I was wondering why you needed so much gas!"
At that point I punched him in the face, then the police came to take me away. When I snapped out of my Scrubs-like fantasy, I asked, "So, can you revoke the charge on my card?" Turned out he couldn't, as the transaction had already taken place. He also didn't know how to use the machine to credit me back the difference, nor, as we were to learn, did his manager. Finally an offer was made, to charge my card again for the gas bought, then give me $93 in cash.
"What took you so long?," Joe asked when I finally got back to the car. I repeated the story, showing them the wad of bills. Joe chuckled. "Tennesseeans," he remarked, then drove us across the street for lunch.
I had never been to a Krystal before, but apparently it's the South's answer to White Castle, which I also had never been to. I had the sampler: a mini-buger, a mini-chicken sandwich and a mini-chili-cheesedog. Disgusting, yes, but filling and comforting. No one can really expect anything more from fast food.

5:30pm - Dinner. By the time we were heading back through Roanoke, we were all ready to eat. Since every Bonnaroo trip must include at least one stop at a Waffle House, it went unsaid where we needed to go. Matt knew where the closest location was, and apparently even knew our waitress. The waffles, of course, were delicious.
Once back on the road we were making good time, listening to hip-hop, reading, napping and quoting Spinal Tap.

10:15 - Home. Late on a dark and quite Monday night I finally was home. Matt and Joe dropped me off at my apartment, and they also helped me bring my stuff inside, then we said goodbye. I kissed my beautiful wife and baby. Then I took a shower.
After almost a week of being away--after four solid days and nights of spectacular music, art, comedy, dancing, food, friends, spectacle and experiences--, I found myself lying in my own bed with my wife beside me. I needed to get some rest before returning to work in the morning... but my mind was already thinking about what might be coming in another 362 days.

The ever-reasonable Chinese government reveal a dangerous plot, fourteen years in the making.

America, for our part, is no less suspicious of activity we do not understand.

On September 30th, 2008, a declaration was made. A flag was planted atop the mountain range of classical (or serious, depending on which word tastes less bad in your mouth) music. It signaled that Philip Glass, groundbreaking composer, commercial success, septuagenarian and Baltimore native, is officially to join the ranks of historically great composers; those venerated selection whose musical inventions have critically changed the medium itself.
This flag was a white cube, or more specifically a 10-disc boxed set retrospective of Glass' work titled Glass Box. Produced by the ever doting and conscientious Nonesuch label, the set features famed artists' portraits of the composer on each side of the cube, and housed inside are each disc in a separate digi-pak plus a 200-page booklet of notes, essays and photographs. The discs are packed, totaling over 12 hours of playtime. A more flattering tribute one cannot imagine. And when I first laid eyes on it, I had but one thought: I want that.
After acquiring a copy in mp3 form, I had to give pause. How to best approach this mammoth? I mean, I'm always throwing on new albums for investigation, but this was quite different, and I don't simply mean the exponential size. Glass is a name I know well, but for his music I cannot say the same. My experience of his work is limited to a 1990 album he did with Ravi Shankar entitled Passages, and the coda he wrote for the little-known Paul Simon song "The Late, Great Johnny Ace" off his 1983 album Hearts and Bones. I'm a fan of other minimalist composers like Steve Reich and Terry Riley (although Glass has stated he prefers the term "music with repetitive figures"). As mightily prolific as he is, and as renowned as he continues to be, I'm at a loss to explain why it has taken me until now to really delve into his work.
I suppose the consternation over this question is what afforded me the alacrity in my decision: listen to the whole damn thing, front to back, and don't disrupt the process with any other music.
It has taken three days. As I write, I am listening to the tenth and final disc.
Reflections are muddled and numerous. Let's go one by one.
The first disc focuses on Glass' "early works" by selecting three of his better-known extended pieces from the late 1960's. These pieces each follow nearly identical rules of multiple ostinato figures as they change slowly and subtly. It's very close to Reich's principles of metric phasing, but I think Reich did it better. Perhaps that's why it's good that Glass later took the idea of repetitive figures in different directions. But this first disc was the low point; the 45-minute "Music with Changing Parts" was torturously long, even with 20 minutes edited out from the original recording.
Disc two did not improve my outlook much, as it focused on Glass' best-known--and perhaps not coincidentally, longest--early work, "Music in Twelve Parts". The disc included four movements, each around 15 or 20 minutes. The tedious development of the music was relieved by the dramatic changes that would happen when a new movement began.
Even into disc three, I was feeling rather put upon. Here were selections from arguably Glass' most famous and significant work, the opera Einstein on the Beach, and I was having quite a difficult time digesting it. Perhaps it might help to see the opera performed, but moments like hearing a woman repeat the same four sentences endlessly with almost no variation in inflection drove me to madness. By the end I was in a fetal position, compulsively repeating sequences of numbers and solfedge syllables.
Disc four brightened considerably, and I must owe it to the fact that it included music from what Glass designed as his commercial success, the rather accessible Glassworks album. It's times like these when he impresses me profoundly with his mastery of chord progressions. I would say his overall success is owed as much for that as for his compositional innovations. The way he can move through major and minor chords in the most unorthodox way and still end up with something highly emotive and wrenching reminds me of Radiohead. The back half of this disc followed in the same vein with selections from the album Analog.
Disc five, comprised of selections from the opera Satyagraha, washed over me pleasantly but without leaving lasting impressions.
Having just seen the film Koyaanisqatsi (which can be described as a breathtakingly beautiful documentary for the art house), I anticipated hearing the music from it again, along with music from its sequel Powaqqatsi, on disc six. This is some of Glass' most ethereal and moving music, ranging from the despairingly bleak to the unabashedly joyful.
Disc seven included three string quartets and four piano études. I enjoyed these pieces, but at this point I felt I'd almost been tricked into believing that no other music exists but for what Philip Glass has conceived. However, that's just a byproduct of fasting in this way.
The mishmash of material comprising disc eight (including selections from other operas and a symphony) did not coalesce, and each piece was shortchanged while the whole amounted to less than the sum of its parts.
Two beautiful and sophisticated symphonies, Nos. 3 and 8, filled out disc nine. By this time I felt I knew Philip Glass so intimately, and his music so intuitively, that I had a supernatural connection to them. Classic Stockholm syndrome: I've fallen in love with my captor.
Disc ten has just finished. A collection of pieces for films ranging from "Mishima" to "Dracula" to "The Hours", Glass has proven that he does not support the film, but steals the show. He does not make incidental music, and don't you dare call it ambient. It's up to the actors and directors to make sure they can keep up.

This ends the great experiment. I would say that in the end I have developed a love/hate relationship with Philip Glass and his music. But, the strongest relationships always have some amount of love and hate. So I guess you can count me as a fan. I don't know if I would recommend this trial to others, but I would recommend to you, the reader, to go out and find something do to that you have never done, something that you think might change you, and see what happens. And if you need some music for this activity, I might recommend something delicate yet strong, something simple yet ingenious, something through which one can view the world...