Shallow | Center

The Return of the Prodigal Daughter

New Pornographers Play Philadelphia With -- Sigh -- Neko Case in Tow

HER VOCALS turn New Pornographers from a decent band to a very good one, but Neko Case (on whom I have a wicked vocal crush) has found success as a solo artist, so when tickets for last weekend's NP show went on sale over the summer, I took a pass, featuring she'd be off somewhere else doing her own thing. Then I read Sam Adams's review of the show in yesterday's Inquirer and came across this:

... [A]fter the August release of Challengers, their fourth album, both Case and [Dan] Bejar were back in the fold, although Bejar was constantly drifting on and off stage, beer in hand, like a mad genius wandering in off the street. ...

Although they're occasionally more clever than smart, the New Pornographers' best songs strike a perfect balance between insidious catchiness and passionate enigma. The fact that Newman's lyrics sometimes verge on the indecipherable doesn't make them any less enjoyable to belt out. As the band closed its set with "The Bleeding Heart Show," Case's voice rang out over a chorus of ooos and hey las, belting out the phrase "We have arrived." There was no reason to disagree with her.

I'd say that counts as a missed opportunity. Come back, guys -- and bring Neko with you.

Wait, Haven't We Done This Before?

WXPN's Latest Countdown Has a Too-Familiar Feel to It

Countdowns and lists are great parlor games, and WXPN, Philadelphia's unparalleled noncommercial music station, has been having an awful lot of fun with them over the last few years. This year's initiative, though, is lacking. The station's countdown of the 885 Most Memorable Musical Moments feels slapped together and lame, as if, when planning what to do earlier this year, the staff and DJs sat around quietly stirring their coffee until someone timidly suggested "most memorable musical moments," and because ideas were few and far between, no one said, "Well, how does that differ from what we've already counted down?"

For example, moment No. 78 was Bob Dylan's release of Highway 61 Revisited. Well, Dylan was recognized as No. 2 on the previous list of the 885 All Time Greatest Artists. The record itself was No. 16 on the list of the 885 All Time Greatest Albums. And the album's songs "Like a Rolling Stone" (No. 3), "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues" (No. 92), and "Desolation Row" (No. 252) all made the list of the 885 All Time Greatest Songs. Not only that, but 'XPN played "Like a Rolling Stone" to commemorate Musical Moment No. 323, the opening of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

I'm all for recycling, but I'm hoping the station comes up with something more original next year. They're simply slogging through this year's list -- it's not engaging at all, and, unlike past years, I have no sense of anticipation or suspense over what the top of the list will reveal. Put on some more coffee, guys, and get to work.

Wrapped Around Their Finger

A COUPLE of hours before we headed to Citizens Bank Park with our respective spouses for Thursday night's Police show, my sister-in-law and I were discussing whether there were any specific songs we were hoping to hear. We agreed that what we were looking forward to most was a solid roster of the band's greatest hits.

We got that, and much more.

k.d. and Ozzy and Squeeze, Oh My!

'XPN's Latest Countdown Offers More Eclecticism Than the Station Might Have Hoped For

DURING THE station's annoyingly self-satisfied fund drives, WXPN DJs and staffers hammer home that you hear music on 88.5 that you simply can't hear anywhere else on the radio. This is true, of course, and is a major reason why so many of us treasure 'XPN and why so many of us pony up some scratch to support it. But there are times when I feel 88.5 plays stuff simply because no one else is playing it. The latest in the station's series of "885" countdowns, of "all-time greatest artists," makes me think I'm not alone in this assessment. Mixed in with the k.d. langs and Shawn Colvins and John Hiatts -- the usual suspects, in other words, and deserving honorees, all -- are such unexpected acts as Black Sabbath, Rage Against the Machine, R Kelly, Barry Manilow, and Wu Tang Clan. I'm not saying that 'XPN should start adding hip-hop, speed metal, and schmaltz to its playlist, but I do hope that the station realizes that there is very enjoyable and musically adept pop that could be played from time to time without shame. Its ads proclaim a love for "real musical diversity," but by excluding mainstream stuff to the extent that 88.5 does seems to belie that mission.

gr Unplugged

A Phlogger's Alter Ego Makes a Public Appearance

From former blogger and current Shallow Center brother Chris:

From his contributions to Shallow Center's comments section, readers know the mysteriously initialed GR as a fellow phan and a phlogger in his own right, not to mention an afficianado of Kristin Bell. But in Washington, DC, last night, in a cozy bar on funked-up U Street, GR added another phacet -- uh, facet -- to his persona: singer-songerwriter. And not a bad one. He performed a 45-minute acoustic set of his own material, which leans toward wry lyrics and sturdy hooks, buttressed by amusingly self-amused between-songs banter. Not that you have to take my word for it. GR has posted two of his songs online. Give 'em a listen. Can a cover of Terry Cashman's  "Baseball and the Phils" be far behind?

Wrap Music

As Chestnuts Roast, I'm Waiting on the Waitresses

WITH TWO RADIO STATIONS playing wall-to-wall Yule tunes and a four-year-old who can't sit in the car for a nanosecond without asking for Christmas music, you wouldn't think it would be all that difficult for me to hear the greatest of all modern holiday songs, the Waitress' "Christmas Wrapping." Yet with just over two weeks to go till the Claus comes out, I'm still waiting. Just as I did last year. Now, look, I'm okay with a lot of the new stuff -- Death Cab for Cutie brings a cool emo vibe to "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)," for example. But do we really need to hear Celine Dion and Mariah Carey defining "over the top" with sonic-boom covers of the old classics, played wall to wall? Come on, Sunny; come on, B. Let's find some of that Christmas magic to bring this tale to a very happy ending, shall we?

Seth Cohen Would Be Proud

A Liking of Emo Helps Stave Off the Inevitable

ONCE IN A GREAT while, you get some small confirmation that the clueless thirtysomething fogey you are most of the time can be transported to an earlier time of occasional cool. I've never sent a text message in my life, I'll be playing Quizzo next week for the first time, and my AIM traffic is barren compared to the constantly scrolling windows of my younger coworkers. Yet yesterday, while on a university campus outside of Pittsburgh, I scored some validation. I sat in the student center drinking a cup of lousy coffee and exulting that I knew not one but two of the songs clanging out of the ceiling speakers. In fact, not only do I know and like Rilo Kiley's "It's a Hit" and Death Cab for Cutie's "Soul Meets Body," I actually own the CDs from which those sings come. It was a small victory over inevitable unhipness, for sure, but one I gladly accepted.

Radio Daze

'XPN's Greatest-Albums Playback: The World's Strangest-Ever Mix Tape

WXPN is meandering its way through a massive undertaking, playing back songs from the 885 greatest albums of all time, as voted on by its listeners. 'XPN has always prided itself on the diversity of its playlists; indeed, during pledge drives they put the diversity in front of a microphone and have it ask listeners who their daddy is. They've really outdone themselves, though, by polling us masses on our faves. Over the last week or so, I've heard, mixed in with such typical 88.5 fare as Indigo Girls and Patty Griffin, the likes of Public Enemy, Interpol, Metallica, Frank Sinatra, Rush, and, I swear to God, Black Sabbath.

It's an interesting little diversion, designed to spark discussion, I'm sure, as these lists usually are. The obvious move here would be to post my own top-10 list, but as much as I love listening to music, my CD collection is shamefully lacking in many records universally acknowledged as must-haves. I don't own Pet Sounds, or the White Album, or London Calling, or Exile on Main Street. I don’t even own Exile in Guyville.

I will now duck while you throw your old 8-tracks at my head.

When you're done doing that, feel free to share your picks in the comments section below.

Mad Love

A Throwback Singer Delivers an Enchanting Set

Madeleine Peyroux is not a famous singer. She doesn't make slickly produced records that get marketed to the 12-to-17 demographic. She doesn't film videos in which she slinks around, barely dressed, while fake falling rain plasters what little she's wearing to her body. She doesn't get much airplay on the radio. She doesn't do shows in cavernous arenas where you have a better view of the beer vendor than the stage.

And thank God for all of this.

I'm all for bitter complaints that gifted musicians too often get shafted because their stuff is too smart or too good or too complex for the music-buying populace to appreciate. Nickelback and Creed, for example, have amassed obscene wealth for producing aural sewage, while the likes of the sadly late Kirsty MacColl, the sadly late Jeff Buckley, and Old 97's have had to contend themselves with being critics' darlings. That just ain't right.

Peyroux, though, belongs about where she is -- a cult fave, wrapped in a flowing red dress, taking six years off between albums, and then showing up in an intimate suburban venue to offer her trademark mix of covers, standards, and originals, all sung in a voice and style that are equal parts Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, and Patsy Kline. She is not famous, and likely never will be; the work is understandably just too esoteric to earn a listen from the masses. That's just fine by me -- Peyroux doesn't belong in the limelight. It would be too blinding, too much; let her sing instead in the hazy shadows of a jazz club, with only the true aficionados there to listen and rapt silence and then applaud wildly when she languorously concludes a drawn-out syllable from the lovely tune she's just delivered.

Last Friday in Glenside, Peyroux was in fine form, with the famed whiskey in her voice cut by a splash of water. Her studio work is marked by a seductive, nearly growling quality, as if Lauren Bacall had been put to music. Live, there was just a hint of a lilt, an endearing, almost girlish lift that gave interesting spins to familiar tunes. About the only misstep of the evening was Peyroux's stage presence. As wrapped up as she gets in her material, as perfectly as she offers it, she's a tad awkward while chatting, as if, well, she hasn't toured in a good, long while. Her jokes fell flat, and with the exception of the middle-aged groupie sitting next to the missus who would periodically bellow, "Sing it, Madeleine!" (no, really), she couldn't quite connect with the audience. But this is a small gripe. In a world of 30-packs of Bud, Peyroux is a fine, single-malt Scotch, a taste meant to be sipped, not gulped, and savored in small batches.

Rating: **** (of 5)

Live from Philadelphia

MAYBE IT WAS WHERE we had hunkered down, in a grassy, shaded area off the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, away from the more packed-in crowds standing on the asphalt. Maybe it was the lack of a superstar act; whereas London had U2 and R.E.M. and Paul McCartney, we had to make do with the likes of Maroon 5 and Toby Keith and Keith Urban, and our biggest musical name was Stevie Wonder. Maybe it was the gorgeous weather, or the noble cause, or the breezy seriousness of homeboy host Will Smith.

    Maybe it a little bit of everything. Amazingly, the presence of nearly a million Philadelphians, lubed with a great deal of alcohol and buzzed with a fair amount of weed, resulted in nothing catastrophic. Rather, the overwhelming vibe I got from Live 8 last Saturday was one of peace. People of all ages (well, except for the elderly) hung out together to listen to some music and hear a few words about poverty and debt relief from obscenely wealthy celebrities. Nobody that I could see got stupid, at least toward anyone else -- those who were under the influence generally focused their drunken efforts toward themselves and their pals.

    As for the music, its eclecticism reflected the thrown-together nature of the event, which lent a kind of disjointed feel to the afternoon. Wonder was wonderful; Rob Thomas delivered a fun and varied set; and Linkin Park, playing with and without Jay-Z, was surprisingly good. Disappointment came from Bon Jovi, the Dave Matthews Band, and Sarah McLachlan, none of whom seemed to realize that with such short sets, they would have done better to stick to greatest hits only. Many of the bands I'd heard of but not really listened to -- Black Eyed Peas, Kanye West, the aforementioned Keiths (Toby and Urban) -- so it's hard for me to judge their performances, except to say that they sounded good. Then again, so did everyone, really. All of the bands were tight, and everyone on stage seemed to be having as much fun as those of us jammed on and around the Parkway.

    I know there were complaints that the Philadelphia portion of Live 8 was overshadowed by the shows in other cities, but that's not the city's fault. With the notable exception of SEPTA, which can't get out of its own way, the civic end of things was rock-solid. Philly threw a hell of a party, and for once on one walked away thinking, "What a bunch of losers." There's nothing like exceeding low expectations, huh?