Neil Young is not exactly the most neutral person in the world. His discography is filled with jagged guitar solos, caustic finger pointing, lawsuit-causing genre jumps, and a fierce artistic integrity. Even among his listeners, there is no middle ground. Those who love him love him fiercely and without apology. Everyone else can’t stand him.
So anyone who thought tossing him into Crosby, Stills & Nash would keep the boat from tipping doesn’t know who they’re dealing with.
It is my understanding that super groups aren’t always as successful as CSN (and sometimes Y). Which is surprising, considering that the Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, and The Hollies don’t really traffic in the same sorts of rock.
I am a very late arrival to the Black Flag fan club, and I am kicking myself for it. In high school, I was all over the Drive-Thru, Victory, Tooth & Nail, Dischord, and Kung Fu records catalogues, not realizing that almost every single one of the bands I had on repeat had cut their teeth listening to Black Flag.
And this record is truly worthy of its following.
There’s no point in arguing the matter: Relationship of Command is the best At the Drive-In record, and At the Drive-In was one of the absolute best of the punk/emo/hardcore scene of the late nineties/early oughts, if not the outright best.
Speaking of punk/funk hybrids, consider Gang of Four–contemporaries of the Clash and spiritual antecedents to Fugazi’s brand of political bass-heavy punk fury. Continue reading
Watch carefully, because in the next sentence, I’m going to make all of my punk credibility disappear. This is the only Clash record I know. I know, right? I tried listening to Sandanista, but what do you even DO with Sandanista? I tried listening to London Calling, but (whispers) I found it really boring.
But, when I stole my dad’s Combat Rock cassette and popped it into my car stereo, my world was turned upside down.
For many people, the words “Iron & Wine” and “full band” do not compute. After all, doesn’t Iron & Wine work because of the stripped minimalism of Sam Beam’s hushed acoustic folk? Less is more, right?
After two full lengths and an EP comprised largely of solo acoustic guitar and voice with the occasional harmony overdub, Sam Beam must have finally realized that he can get a little louder in the studio than he can in his attic.
It’s almost unbelievable that in the early 2000s, in the wake of a huge rock revival that glorified DIY guitar rock (the White Stripes), sneering punk vocalists (the Vines, Hot Hot Heat), cooler-than-cool swagger (the Strokes, the Hives), attitude-is-everything post punk (Interpol, the Killers), and ironic hair metal (the Darkness, Jet), one unassuming man with an acoustic guitar could whisper-sing his way to notoriety.