A column in which Josh does his job and also doesn’t
I’ve been writing for the Metro Spirit for almost five years now, across two different regimes — that I’m aware of; it got sort of Slovakian there for a while — and almost always at a distance. Seriously, I’ve only been inside the original building maybe six times: one for my first meeting with former Editor Tom Grant, four to rummage through the bins of CDs no one else wanted, and one because I thought Alice was cute.
Never actually been to the new location — at least I don’t think so. Joe invited me to the office once, but all I saw was a 10 X 12 storage unit with the words “METROE SPIRRIT” spray-painted in black on the door. That can’t be it, right? Right?
And there have been certain advantages and disadvantages to working for this paper at different points in time. On the one hand, I get paid now. Which is nice. I can’t disclose how much, but I just bought a spare Playstation 3 for my chinchilla’s whirlpool bath, and bankrolled a reboot of “Dolemite” starring Floyd Mayweather and Chris Tucker. I’m also granted a pretty generous degree of autonomy. This was the ad I answered to get this job:
WANTED
One semi-coherent human to pick a thing every week and make fun of it. Reading and writing skills at least at a fifth grade level. Also must avoid more than three erection jokes per column, and moderate bi-weekly 8th Street cockfights. Inquire at 706-496-2535. Ask for “Pitbull.”
There’s really only one caveat: I can’t do album reviews anymore. It was my old job here, and even though I didn’t really get paid for it, I enjoyed it. And I’ve tried very hard to refrain, but it’s been almost a year since I’ve done any music-related writing, and I can’t take it anymore. Plus, we go to press in like three hours. So please enjoy this list of Three Unpredictably Awesome Albums of 2011:
Mastodon, “The Hunter” — Before the release of this, their fifth album, Mastodon seemed to have found their niche as an accessible, prog-heavy metal outfit with clout to spare. I’ll be damned if I can parse any plot points from “Blood Mountain” or “Crack the Skye,” but their intricate, finger-busting riffs and Southern-skewed howls moved a few hundred thousand copies.
So when the guys started talking about a “change in direction,” “simplicity” and, most egregiously, “having more fun” with their new album, I was prepared for a misfire of Load-type proportions. And I couldn’t have been more wrong. “The Hunter” is their best, most earnest-sounding effort since debut “Remission,” the band finally indulging their swamp-rock pedigree. Guitars laser-guide fuzzed-out, drugged-out melodies through the din, the compositions are tighter than ever, and there’s even an honest-to-god power pop song in “Blasteroid.” Cred maintained.
Paul Simon, “So Beautiful or So What” — I know, I know. Paul Simon. The man is a national treasure, has reinvented the folk genre a handful of times, and is probably our greatest living songwriter. His less successful albums are only so because they aren’t quite as mind-bogglingly perfect as “Graceland.” Simon has of course released several good albums since that watershed, but nothing that’s made people really perk up and re-realize what a talent he actually is. And if “So Beautiful or So What” doesn’t surpass “Graceland,” it is only by a slim margin, and at worst a startling reimagining of that album’s South African and Malian musical themes. “Rewrite” is a sly, self-jabbing autobiography that crests and waves over desert blues percussion; “Dazzling Blue” deconstructs and grounds “Under African Skies.” Rare is the occasion that an artist so deftly casts a glance to his past while moving inexorably forward.
SuperHeavy, “SuperHeavy” — It sounds more like a bad joke than anything: On little more than a whim, Mick Jagger, first family of reggae member Damian Marley, Eurythmics’ Dave A. Stewart, British soul singer Joss Stone and Indian musician A.R. Rahman formed a supergroup. This couldn’t possibly work. For one thing, Jagger is already so dead that every time he grabs his crotch during a performance he’s indicted on necrophilia charges. More damning, however, was the slapdash nature and style-clash novelty of the project. Lou Reed and Metallica made a hell of a lot more sense, and they ended up making the musical equivalent of Dr. Seuss drawing anime rape: nonsensical and horrifying.
And yet… this group of divergent miscreants ended up making one of the year’s best albums. To be fair, reviews were mixed: Rolling Stone named it the No. 34 album of 2011, while the Observer gave it one out of five stars. But come on, even mixed reviews for an album that had as much potential for disaster and incoherence as this one has to be considered a rousing victory. And from a personal standpoint, the whole thing is pretty incredible. Jagger sounds more exuberant than he has in years, and does well melding his classic sneer with more worldly, experimental instrumentation. Marley owns every spot he has, Stone’s full-bore contralto beefs up the mix, and Rahman’s compositional skills smooth out every disparate edge. Uniqueness alone does not great art make… but this is so much more.
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