Every month, Cosmik Debris brings you many CD and record reviews, but the writers manage to find a little time for other pursuits, like reading, going to movies and watching videos. That's where Everything Else In Review comes in. Sorry 'bout last month. Everything Else In Review was one of the casualties of the computer virus, but we're back up to speed, so have at it.


PAUL SIMON IN CONCERT
Wiltern Theater, Los Angeles, November 16th, 2000
Reviewed by Rusty Pipes

The Wiltern is a great place to hear any band. It's not that special looking on the outside but inside it's a marvel. Its interior is early art deco, the West Coast kind of gilded 1920's deco, with an angular almost Aztec look on almost every surface. The entrance brings you quickly to a two story oval foyer before the doors to the theater itself, dominated by a chandelier made of plates of glass, sporting stylized etchings of flapper fatales. The foyer balcony area also gives you a chance to look at the crowd from above. For this Simon concert it was mostly older people, often with that studied casual look that says money, but also with a few old hippies and a very light sprinkling of Latino, Black and Asian faces.

The hall seats maybe four thousand with its ample balcony seating. I was in the center of the balcony's second row. Great view, great seats. The stage was shielded by a sheer curtain and flooded with blue light and through it you could faintly see the light's rigging hung over the back of the stage in two intersecting arcs, forming an eye shape. There was no opening act. Paul and his band came out at 8:20 and without a fanfare, they launched into song. The band was eleven strong and included, two keyboardists, three horn players, two guitarists a bassist and four percussionists. Make that twelve? No, one guy switched off between trombone and various percussive duties. Drums were everywhere. Guitars were everywhere.

Paul immediately had the audience under his spell, starting with a number from his new album, That's Where I Belong. The audience was more than appreciative, but Paul didn't wait to unleash a terrific version of Graceland, bringing the hall up to its feet. I thought he was bringing out his big worldbeat hit a little early but little did I realize that this was only the first high point he'd hit. Other Simon favorites followed, One Man's Ceiling, 50 Ways to Leave your Lover and a couple of new songs, You're the One and That Was Your Mother.

A sizable portion of the crowd was dancing in the aisles for each number, in fact I've never seen a mostly 40-something audience so willing to move and jump. Their bouncy mood went to new extremes when the band hit the first notes of "Me & Julio Down By the Schoolyard." It was immediately recognized by the audience and the Wiltern started rocking to the beat. LITERALLY. At least the balcony was. I was in the center, the furthest point away from the walls, and it all was shaking to the music like it was about a 4 on the Richter scale. Not enough to make you go screaming for the exit, but disconcerting enough to make a possible disaster headline run through your head a couple times. Fortunately they built the place nice and strong and everyone just kept rocking.

The amazing Paul displayed little flowing dance moves throughout the show but especially in Spirit Voices, and of course sang in his soft edged style all night, solo, except for the Diamonds On the Soles Of Her Shoes where several band members helped out. Alain Mallet was a standout on several different guitars, mandolin and cello, along with Cameroon native Bakhithi Khumalo doing beautiful African lead work on songs like You Can Call Me Al. In Boy in the Bubble the crowd got into clapping mightily and the percussionists in the band, led by Steve Gadd, did a terrific drum TRIO, a real jaw dropper.

In the middle of the show was a poignant set of early work, starting acoustically with Old Friends and Bookends but adding musicians each song until he did a version of I Am A Rock that was an was all out ROCKer. I was aware of Paul's work in the old Simon and Garfunkle days, but generally I didn't follow the first round of solo work as much as I do now. His earliest work often has a melancholy edge to it, but since Graceland he's found a deep lode of optimism to incorporate into his music. All told, as a lyricist Paul stands right alongside immortals like Bob Dylan and John Lennon and he proved it again with his new song Old, where he sang

"We celebrate the birth of Jesus on Christmas day
And Buddha found nirvana along the lotus way
About 1,500 years ago the messenger Mohammed spoke
And his wisdom like a river flowed
Through hills of gold
Wisdom is old
The Koran is old
The Bible's old
Greatest story ever told"

Other highlights included "The Late Great Johnny Ace," "Late in the Evening" -- where the crowd hooted at the "smoked myself a jay" line -- and a terrific set of encores that included "Kodachrome," a dynamite update on "Bridge Over Troubled Water" and "Still Crazy After All These Years." The crowd was on its feet for most of the last hour of the show, and demanded a third encore for which Paul seemed a little unprepared, offering another new song and then, during "Mrs. Robinson," the right harmonic was hit again setting the upper deck moving to the music. It was all simply amazing.

Moreover it was total class all the way through. No trinkets and T-shirts in the lobby. No dot-com ads anywhere, no beer, credit card or long distance underwriting -- just the work of a master. This was one for the ages, easily one of the best concerts I've ever been to.

P.S. For those cities not on the tour and for any fan who missed the show, here's the best news about Simon's show: In October he taped concerts in Paris which will be shown on PBS this December. Trust me, you won't want to miss it.


(C) 2000 - Rusty Pipes



BOOK: TAKE ME TO THE RIVER
by Al Green with Davin Seay (Harper Collins)
Reviewed by Shaun Dale

Al Green is often billed as the last of the great soul singers. I hope that's not true, because I love great soul music and I'd hate to think we've really reached the end, but it's hard to make a good counter argument these days. If not truly the last, though, there's no doubt that Al Green is a great soul singer, and the experiences that contribute to the making of music like Green's are bound to be a great story.

Indeed they are, and Green and co-author Davin Seay do a great job of telling it in this new autobiography. One of the most familiar chapters of the saga of Al Green is, of course, his shift from Al Green, soulman and sex symbol, to Rev. Al Green, sanctified preacher and gospel singer. That part of the tale gets its due here, but if you're among those fearful about it dominating, those fears are unfounded. He gives full account of his early days and his once wicked ways, speaking frankly of both the joys and pain of his upbringing, his struggle to become established and the excesses that came hand in hand with his eventual successes. This is a book about Al Green the whole man.

A good deal of attention is given to his relationship with Willie Mitchell, the production mastermind behind songs like "Tired Of Being Alone," "Let's Stay Together" and others that kept the soul fires burning in the seventies. His on again, off again relationship with his father, who started him out on the road to a musical life in the family gospel group and eventually reconciled to his move into the R&B field is a particularly gripping element of the story.

The events that led to his religious awakening and the path that awakening set him on get appropriate review as well, but don't dominate and Green is careful not to get self righteously preachy as he relates his story. The book is as much about the music as the man, which is appropriate, because the man really can't be separated from the remarkable music he has made over the last three decades. It's a solid read. The release of the book was accompanied by the release of a two disc greatest hits collection of the same title, reviewed in this edition of Cosmik Debris. The two combine to as essential documents in the history of rhythm & blues.


(C) 2000 - Shaun Dale



BOOK: I'D HATE MYSELF IN THE MORNING
By Ring Lardner, Jr. (Thunder's Mouth Press)
Reviewed by DJ Johnson

In the last issue I wrote a farewell to Ring Lardner, Jr. It was a heartfelt tribute. I've always had an anger issue with the people on the government side of the entire Anti-American witch hunt of the 40s and 50s, and with it comes a soft spot for their victims. Lardner was most certainly one. In fact, he was one of the famous Hollywood Ten who refused to name names or play Senator McCarthy's games. When Ring Lardner, Jr. died on Halloween, there went the last of the Hollywood Ten. I wrote the article on the spur of the moment. Imagine my surprise when his newly published autobiography arrived, unsolicited, on my doorstep two days later.

I've just finished reading this book, which is entitled I'd Hate Myself In The Morning because that's what he told the House Un-American Activities Committee would happen if he played their game. What I knew about the man when I wrote what amounted to his obit last month was all surface. And while it just wasn't Lardner's style to tell you his deepest feelings, there was a basic honesty about the man. Even in summation of events that you expect him to raise hell over, he chose to break it down to basic truths. He made no excuses for the famous names in Hollywood who almost cheerfully spewed out other famous names as the flashbulbs popped and the stenographers took down every word. Others have called stars such as Robert Montgomery names that even we don't like to print, but Lardner just states the facts clearly and lets the reader make the decision. The man who sat in judgment of him, Chairman J. Parnell Thomas, was convicted of embezzlement and ended up an inmate at the same prison where Lardner was doing time, yet there's nary a "ha ha". Only some mention of the work detail Thomas was assigned.

So does this mean you'll hate the book because it doesn't dish dirt? I don't know. Dirt is already dirt before it's stirred, and Lardner didn't avoid telling the truth about who did what. In short, he finally named names. Just not the ones they asked him to so long ago. If you need a mini-series of talon-sinking, blood-drinking viciousness, go elsewhere.

If, on the other hand, you're fascinated by the Hollywood sub-culture of the 40s, this might be for you after all. Lardner's fond memories of his fellow writers and other behind-the-sceners goes well beyond outlines to fill in the characters, giving us the feeling that we know and, as much as possible, understand Dalton Trumbo. We want to hang out with Paul Jerricho, and damned if we don't want to kiss Kate Hepburn for staying real and sticking with her friends even when it could have killed her career. We get to experience the blacklist from the inside, from more than one perspective. We experience Lardner's frustrations, the sheer anger of some of his co-listees, and we get a fascinating glimpse of the thrust and parry of an almost amused Dalton Trumbo, who took on an almost Zorroesque approach to it all, writing brilliant work under assumed names, then leaving strong clues once the work was hailed as such.

In later years, as the blacklist finally melted away, Ring Lardner, Jr. did get to do some more good work, making him one of the lucky ones. Only 10% of those blacklisted ever made it back into Hollywood. Cream rises, and Lardner was very good at his craft. The one thing that had always puzzled me was the football game in his movie, M*A*S*H. It baffled me, in fact. I liked the movie until the football game, which went on and on, and it struck me as odd and perhaps a sign that Ring had lost it. What a joy to read that I wasn't the only one who hated that. Ring hated it. It was done by the director against Ring's wishes. Guess the old boy stayed sharp right up to the end, if the writing in this book is any indication. No apologies, for himself or others, not even much in the way of regrets aside from a brief mention of what we lost by taking away the prime years of such creative people. I'd Hate Myself In The Morning is just what you expect from a man who stood up and took hard lumps for integrity at a difficult time in our nation's history. It's a book marked by honesty, dignity, and a clear vision unobstructed by judgment or vendetta.


(C) 2000 - DJ Johnson



CONCERT: WILLIE NELSON
Lane County Fairgrounds- Eugene, OR - 8/20/00
Reviewed by Tim & Ananda Owen

Under sunny Eugene skies, in the midst of a festive County Fair atmosphere, Willie Nelson graced the stage with his full veteran band. Effortlessly he wove a seamless tapestry of signature songs and familiar hits, with a freshness of jazz-tinged arrangements that wowed an exuberant audience. I was completely taken by the diversity of the crowd. Punks, rednecks, bikers, students, farmers, hippies, old ladies, ... it was amazing to see them all up front, reveling in the presence of Willie, as he scanned the crowd, waving and smiling at anyone whose eye caught his. Still playing his old beat up acoustic guitar, except on a pair of blues numbers, for which he broke out an electric for some tasty leads. With a set list of 43 songs, Willie turned out such well-crafted tunes as, "On the Road Again," "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain," "Mama Don't Let Your Babies...," "Crazy," "Hello Walls" and "Blue Skies." The honesty reflected in his songs and music is, I would say, a good measure of the man who plays it.


Article (C) 2000 - Tim & Ananda Owen
Photograph (C) 2000 - Tim Owen



CONCERT: THE CLARKS & BLUE RODEO
AJ Palumbo Center, Pittsburgh, PA - 11/24/2000
Reviewed by Melanie Campbell

For years, I've been trying to figure out why it is all the really great bands sorta go unnoticed until years and years go by, or else never get a break at all, while yer Britneys and yer Limp Whatchahoozits come out of nowhere and suck up all the glory. I'm getting better at trying to reason it all away (to save my sanity, you see, and you wouldn't believe some of the stuff I've been able to come up with...), but every so often, I'm completely confounded. Take the Clarks, for example. For the last fourteen years, these four guys-same as they ever were from the beginning-have been pounding the pavement up and down the East Coast. After conquering the hometown crowds in Pittsburgh, PA practically from day one, they've diligently and doggedly set out to convince the rest of the world that they're here to stay. But are they sitting on top of the charts yet? Nooooo. Doesn't matter though-after this long, nobody, especially them, can imagine them doing anything else anyway. There is no doubt that by now, the backyard gang must sit and wonder, dumbfounded, just why it is that the rest of the world hasn't caught onto this band yet. But in the meantime, they've been plenty happy to keep the guys all to themselves, especially on a frigid holiday weekend evening back home.

Just as an FYI to you, should you be one of those lost souls who never heard them before, the Clarks--Scott Blasey on vocals and guitars, Rob James on lead guitars, Greg Joseph on bass and Dave Minarik on drums--have honed enough chops in the last decade to start a couple of other bands and still keep some leftovers for themselves. But having stayed together these many years, it must have become a different kind of challenge for them at some point-just how many different styles can one band get away with playing, and not confuse people, anyway? In this just-shy-of-two-hours set, the Clarks showed the audience all the things they've been about all this time--ballads, rock, rawk, punk, twang, roots, and funk, and lemme tell you-not one person in that audience was the least bit confused.

With 6 original releases in their catalog at this point, the Clarks were able to showcase that they've been up to that challenge and then some, over the years. Cuts from their latest release, "Let It Go" (Razor & Tie) were liberally sprinkled throughout the set, which clearly delighted the audience. Singing along word-for word (like they did for about every other song the entire evening) with the two singles from this release, "Better Off Without You", and "Chasin' Girls", this audience surely proved that the Clarks must have what it takes to write catchy tunes. Meanwhile, "If Memory Serves" (a tune that would make any country crooner downright misty-eyed), was a nice surprise, as was Joseph's vocal turn on what justice dictates ought to be their next single, "Butterflies And Airplanes". But the crowd also raised fists and/or voices (depending on the tempo) to the fine flailings of "Think Of England", "Snowman", and a definite treat, the somewhat jazzy ballad, "the Flame" (not to be confused with the Cheap Trick tune of the same name).

There were plenty of other delights too--since this was a headlining set for the band, they dug into their vaults a bit, going back to '94's "Love Gone Sour, Suspicion, And Bad Debt" and un-mining "I'm The Only", "Treehouse", and the crowd-mega-favorite singalong, "Cigarette". And then there were all those--well, look, maybe they didn't sell gazillions, but they were hits, dammit--from that flirt with the Big Time in 1996, the cd "Someday Maybe", which foisted the likes of "Caroline", "Stop", and everybody's favorite sway-along-and drink-till-you-drop song, "Last Call", on the rest of us. The guys served all this stuff up with winks and smiles and amazement and delight--it was obvious that even though the Clarks were used to being on stages large and small, they seemed a bit overwhelmed at the sight of 4500 people crammed into this little arena, all there to see them. It is worth noting that the band is not now, nor have they ever been, the least bit affected by impending fame (or any fame, for that matter), in fact, it's said that they're still rather awestruck by the notion that they're really as good as people say they are.

But what fires them up, and what fires up everybody, is their funk. Yeah, the funk, can you believe it? The r & b get-on-up-and-get-on-over-here kind of thing. These guys, for all their rock-and-roll pedigree and down-to-earth, working-class-sort-of work ethic, have got some serious funk in their pajamas, boy, and every so often, it just has to come out. And anybody that has the cojones and the talent and the chops to cover Mr. Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" had better have some kind of funk going for them. I mean, besides the fact that the band has sorta made this their own sweet little thang anyway, what with Joseph and Minarkik rolling-along-rhythm section, and James' just-perfect guitar fills on this tune, Blasey's vocal turn here is getting women of all ages just all kinds of riled up. We knew it wasn't going to be long before the lingerie started flying in his direction anyway (in fact, none of these guys are real hard on the eyes, nudge-wink). And damn, we're good at our predictions--during this tune and not long after, we counted 2 lacy gutchie-type garments and some sort of camisole-looking thing besides, floating through the air. It was alluded to much later that several other Fredericks-type couture went airborne in the general direction of the stage as well, but no doubt they're somebody else's souvenirs. Hubba indeed. Before every hair metal band you can think of (which doesn't count anyway, because all those guys were way too pretty to do anything else but collect said lingerie except to wear later, when nobody was looking, hehe), who's the last artist that had this kind of stuff happen regularly? Surely there's been someone else since Elvis, but if there hasn't been, well, it's about time somebody stepped in and picked up the slack here, hehe...

It probably sounds hokey to say it was goosebump-inducing to experience a two-hour sing-along, but bully for you if you find it that way, because all in all, that's exactly what it was. Hell, it was even worth putting up with the wretched discomfort of being in a basketball arena, fer gosh sakes. So if you get the opportunity, take in a Clarks show for yourself sometime, and see how many minutes it takes you before you get up off yer ass and started moving. We're betting you'll be hugging whoever turned you onto them with glorious and effusive thanks in no time.

And just so you know, whether they're headlining or opening, you can usually find them hanging out with some stellar musical company, which is just so refreshing, considering all the little one-offs, wannabes and has-beens that hang around the charts these days. This particular show was no exception, as Blue Rodeo practically defines the phrase "stellar musical company". Here's another bunch of guys who certainly know the meaning of the word "chops", taking the brief interlude of their set to share some of their stunning new material from their release "Days In Between". They haven't sounded this good in years, it's great that they're making their way around again. Some of us missed them. At any rate, this was one of those evenings that could do no wrong, all the way around. It was nice and toasty, musically, and no doubt was the perfect antidote to the winter blues brought on by the first real sub-freezing chill to hit western PA this winter. Brr! We know of very few ways to keep warm that could have been any better than this.

www.clarksonline.com
www.bluerodeo.com



(C) 2000 - Melanie Campbell



CONCERT: DAVID GRISMAN QUINTET
Richardson Park - Eugene, OR - 8/13/00
Reviewed by Tim & Ananda Owen

Showcasing and blending bluegrass, Jewish, blues and Latin influences, the David Grisman Quintet conjured up an unique brand of instrumental acoustic music through an intricate interplay between its members. Solos were passed like torches amongst the players, each elevating the jam and keeping a creative flame burning hot. The current quintet, now in it's 13th or 14th configuration, has given Grisman his longest project to date, with guitarist Enrique Caria from Argentina joining most recently. Unfortunately, the longest standing member besides Grisman, bassist Jim Kerwin, was absent due to a family emergency. Sitting in was the young, competent Sam Bevan. Filling out the quintet are Matt Eakle on flutes, and the versatile Joe Craven on percussion, violin, mandolin - and body parts. And of course, David "The Dawg" Grisman on mandolin. When Grisman wasn't in visual communication with bandmates, he continuously gazed into the crowd with expressive eyes, as he strummed and picked his masterful mandolin expertise. Through the course of their set, the sun sank and the full moon rose... and all was feeling right.


Article (C) 2000 - Tim & Ananda Owen
Photograph (C) 2000 - Tim Owen




[Editor's note: Our apologies for the delay in bringing you the Willie Nelson and David Grisman concert reviews. They were among the items lost in the great virus attack of '00. Yeeeep, I still remember it like it was just last month.]