Known for their work in soundtracks and having more lineup changes than one can count on two hands, Italian progressive rockers Goblin are finally bringing their live show to North America for the first time ever. It just happens to include a stop at the 9:30 Club this week.
Often compared to the likes of other progressive music giants such as Genesis or King Crimson, Goblin rose to fame through frequent collaboration with Italian horror filmmaker Dario Argento. They contributed many recordings to his films, while struggling to keep a consistent lineup and remain credible. Having had on-and-off reunions since 2000, a latest incarnation in the band is ready to venture into North America after forty years of playing.
This tour will see the band perform all of their classics, including selections from the scores of Deep Red, Suspiria, Tenebrae, Roller, and more. Other famous scores that have never been played live before will be dug out from the vault to treat audiences on every North American date.
Goblin will be taking the stage at 9:30 Club on December 13, and we have a pair of tickets to send you on your way to take in this progressive rock spectacle.
Vincent Vocoder Voice is your darkest nightmare and most secret of thoughts, he dares to make music that reflects the inner psyche and explores the deepest corners of the human soul.
His self-titled debut album is out now on Brighton based Sonic Anhedonic Recording Co. and it’s one of the best alternative art rock records you’ll hear this year.
Many have already compared VVV to bands like the legendary Cardiacs and The Icarus Line, but The Paper Chase are probably the closest comparison, especially in VVV’s more “melodic” moments. Speaking of the melodies, they’re always tinged with a haphazard darkness, wonderfully brought together by this genius mind. ‘MEMEMEMEMEMEMENOW’ is probably the best example of this, a beautiful song when you scratch beneath its twisted surface.
I saw the Doobie Brothers live a long, long, time ago. It was an afternoon show at a suburban amphitheater, and I smoked a shitload of what I thought was pot but turned out to be PCP. And before long all the Doobies were 9-feet-tall and changing colors like chameleons, and played every single song at about 300 mph, in effect inventing hardcore. Or at least that’s how I remember it. That PCP was some good shit. I recommend it to everybody.
Nobody pays much attention to the Doobies nowadays, except to laugh at them. I know I laugh at them; I can’t even hear their name without cracking up. They were, even during their heyday, the least hip and most faceless big-name act in rock, and since then they’ve become the punch line to a joke that goes something like, “Why did the Doobie Brothers cross the road? To get away from the Doobie Brothers.”
Unhip and faceless the Doobs may have been, but back in the day they were big—scary big, in fact—with rock’s protletarian audiences (i.e., the same folks who loved BTO, Grand Funk, etc.). This can be attributed to one of two things. Either The Doobie Brothers were a pretty decent rock’n’roll band, or the musical wasteland of the early to mid-seventies left rock fans so hard up they were reduced to lapping up all manner of crapulous corporate swill, including the Dööbiemeisters.
I may be the only one, but I think it’s high time for a reassessment of the Doobie Brothers. And since their career was so neatly bifurcated into pre- and post-Michael McDonald periods, I decided it would be only fair to review 1976’s Best of the Doobies, which while skewed toward the band’s earlier work includes two McDonald-era songs, although it omits (because they were, duh, released later) such McDonald hits as “What a Fool Believes” and “Minute by Minute.”
It’s been two weeks since I sat in my garage office and cut an episode of the Idelic Hour. Between a short trip to NYC and Thanksgiving week off, I had a lot to think about as I sat between the “1′s and 2′s” up here in the now-crispy cold canyon.
The two major influences of this week’s playlist: a couple of hours spent with old friends at WFMU’s record fair and this month’s delightful 20th anniversary issue of Mojo magazine.
First off, thank you, Phil Alexander, and congratulations to Mojo for inspiring and entertaining record freaks for these last 20 years. If there is one concept that Mojo consistently plays up and hits home, it’s what I call “the obscure gem.” The term “gem” goes back to the ancient Greeks and begins with the distinction of being precious. As record collectors, our instincts make the more obscure and harder-to-find records closer to our hearts.
This weekend, Tipitina’s is hosting a two-night jam session featuring the acclaimed guitarist and many of his special musical friends. There are two-night passes available for a discounted price.
Anders has been riding a serious wave for months now. His new album, Peace, on Alligator Records, is getting rave reviews. He recently recorded a video piece for Yamaha guitars. But most significantly, his national profile has grown considerably due to his work with Grateful Dead bassist Phil Lesh’s ever-evolving band lineup.
I have heard nothing but stellar reports from friends who have seen the shows, which also feature North Mississippi Allstars guitarist Luther Dickinson.
With hip-hop music being at times a vehicle for opening one’s conscious mind to the world through music, one of its biggest and most notable users is none other than Lupe Fiasco.
The rapper from Chicago, IL first developed an interest in the genre after initially not being a fan of its vulgarity and misogyny. With his career starting in the late nineties, he is largely considered a pioneer of the conscious hip-hop movement, along with the likes of Common, Mos Def, and Talib Kweli. With his 2006 studio effort Lupe Fiasco’s Food & Liquor bringing him greater exposure, the man took on subjects such as absent parents, war, religion, prostitution, and terrorism in his bars.
Despite his distaste for misogyny and vulgarity in hip-hop, Lupe Fiasco is strongly opposed to censorship in music. “If we’re going to (censor things) that are offensive, then were going to have to blind and deafen everyone. Come on, man. Let’s focus on education and literacy and poverty,” he told the Chicago Tribune.
There is a famous story concerning the cynic philosopher Diogenes of Sinope. Invited into a rich man’s home, Diogenes was asked by his host to please not spit on the floor. Whereupon Diogenes spit in the man’s face, saying, “In a rich man’s house, there is no place to spit but his face.”
I think about that story when I listen to Anal Cunt, the defunct grindcore band that became infamous for its heinous name and truly vile sense of humor (“I Became a Counselor So I Could Tell Rape Victims They Asked For It,” anyone?). Because I think—and I know this may sound outrageous—that Anal Cunt front man Seth Putnam, the so-called “GG Allin of Grindcore,” had a lot in common with the great Greek philosopher. It is my contention that Putnam was, like Diogenes, convinced there were no honest men, and so spent his career spitting in our faces. I believe he had a lot of hate in his heart, but it was a hatred of hypocrisy, and not the women, minorities, gays, and other folks he mocked in his songs. He coolly dredged up the crudest, sickest jokes he could, believing in his heart of hearts that he was just saying what we were all thinking.
And boy, did it work. It’s not so difficult to offend somebody; but to deliberately set out to offend everybody, well, that takes pluck, chutzpah, and a willingness to wave bye-bye to the respect of all ostensibly decent human beings. “Better in the gutter than a pedestal,” wrote E.M. Cioran, and Putnam gleefully relegated himself to the gutter by stomping on every taboo and shibboleth in sight with his vulgar, crude, and often very funny lyrics. If I thought for a moment that Putnam actually believed what he was saying I would despise him. But I think his sense of humor was based on a belief that morality was a façade and a sham, human beings were vile, and what they really needed was to have all of their worst impulses thrown back in their faces.