Return to Rock – London Souls

New York City’s CMJ music festival is known for showcasing the most fervent up-and-coming indie music acts around. In no way did 2008 disappoint, but it did, however, cast a psychadelic light on an old-school anti-indie act: The London Souls.

Brooklyn born and raised, comprising guitarist/vocalist Tash Neal, bassist Kiyoshi Matsuyama and drummer Chris St. Hilaire, these guys play rich blues-infused ROCK AND ROLL. If you like Zeppelin, if you like Jimi Hendrix, then you’ll be transfixed. The homage paid to their fore-bearing blues rockers is evident not only in the grooves they inevitably fall into, but also in their musicianship; it’s truly surprising for such a young band- ages ranging from 22- 25 to boast stellar musicians on each instrument, including vocals.

The Souls’ style could bring the traditional blues crowd at Blue Note in the Village to their knees, and yet they also incited a roar of soulful dancing from a pack of hipsters crammed into foggy Webster Hall. Oh yea, the afro-sporting lead singer and guitarist, Tash, bears a stark resemblance to the aforementioned God of the guitar himself, Jimi Hendrix. Not just aesthetically though, the guy has legit chops and can sing at that.

True as their website declares, this music is meant to be played LOUD.

THE TRANSFIGURATION OF M. WARD

His sound is familiar as it is foreign. Somehow you have heard his songs, though they weren’t songs, they were thoughts, stories and experiences of your own life. I had the privilege of watching a genius in his prime strum and pluck his guitar alone on stage as he billowed his signature sandpaper voice onto a packed Town Hall in Manhattan’s Times Square.

Uncertain whether he would be accompanied by his usual band, M. (Matt) Ward walked out confidently though his head hanging low, hiding all awareness of this specific night’s magnitude. Never before had he been billed, promoted or sold out in such a venue at such a frenzied pace… in New York City.

His opening song transfixed the spotlight and the crowd. Neither could shy from his face until the very last wave of his hand and subsequent attempt at a third encore. It was an instrumental piece displaying intricate finger picking in between the bang of his open palm on the face of the guitar, which allowed only a glimpse into his unique style. The absence of lyrics strategically compounded anticipation for that hair-raising voice to come.

The emotion is intrinsic in his voice as he held back the last couple octaves like a yawn that wouldn’t fully develop, until… finally. His vocal climaxes are so rare and perfectly dispersed in his music that waiting for them is just as pleasing as when they arrive. Even within the low raspy notes that frequented his more rhythmic songs, noticeable were the layers contributing to the rough tension that makes his voice so enthralling.

As Ward played the majority of songs from his latest, most acclaimed album, Post War, he dabbled in a few from his first LP, End of amnesia in 2001, while the crowd whispered along so as not to dilute the sound coming from the stage.

Familiar as he is foreign. While the looping of some guitar riffs sounded like those of an uppity Johnny Cash, other songs progressed through a classical maze in which you don’t care how to get out because when you finally do, you’re enamored and grateful for the ride.

The crowd was gifted with a cameo at the end of his hour and a half set when Bright Eyes lead singer, Conor Oberst appeared unassumingly for a vigorous cover of “Vincent O’Brien,” from Ward’s 2003 album, Transfiguration of Vincent O’Brien. If one did not recognize the indie star and celebrity-superior, Oberst, he would appear minimized and perhaps intimidated by the presence of Ward playing alongside.

His lyrics embody life lessons told through stories, not of the other day when he serendipitously fell in love, but of some conjured character, a “dead man” or “poor boy.” The kind of stories that your Grandfather would have told you; in the innocent way he would describe a beautiful woman or falling in love.

Heightening the cliché, M. Ward indeed gave an unforgettable performance. It was almost a coming-out party; the last hurrah of exclusivity before fans are forced to share their appreciation for his music with others. Though not quite as recognized to modern folk-rock fans as Irish native Damien Rice or the smooth Ray LaMontagne, M. Ward is not far behind. His finger-picking and guitar slapping percussion conjure a blues saunter of the past. When infused with his inexhaustible voice, we are reminded that one cannot experience familiarity, without the foreign.

 

Skier died doing what he Loved

From the Vail Daily in Vail, Colorado: a friend who is owed universal acknowledgement and respect for achieving his personal legend…

Vail resident Matt Horton, 32, died of apparent natural causes Tuesday while hiking near Vail Pass

J.K. Perry
October 25, 2006

VAIL — A dozen locals gathered upon Loveland’s slopes Wednesday to honor friend Matt Horton, who died Tuesday during a backcountry ski trip near Vail Pass.

“That’s what he would want us to do – that’s how big a part of his life skiing was,” Matt “Tooth” Toth said on the phone while driving to Loveland. The two worked together at Vail Ski Tech in Lionshead.

Horton, 32, died hiking Shrine Ridge west of Vail Pass with friend Beau Jacobs.

The morning began without incident, Jacobs said. The two skinned up and ate lunch and drank water before ascending the ridge’s main pitch.

Jacobs went first. He lost sight of Horton and twice climbed higher to get a better view. Jacobs yelled down, and hearing no answer, he skied down to find Horton. He lay face down in the snow, dead.

“He had already lost color and was getting cold,” Jacobs said.

Jacobs performed CPR for an hour until paramedics arrived in a helicopter and pronounced his friend dead.

“If he knew he was going to die that’s how he would want it to be – he had his ski boots on,” said Craig Arford, Horton’s friend and boss at Vail Ski Tech.

Horton likely died of natural causes, although the exact cause won’t be known until an autopsy is performed this morning, said Summit County Coroner Joanne Richardson.

By all accounts, Horton was in good health.

“I’ve been hiking with him for awhile and he’s always been in front of me,” Toth said.

Toth and Horton met 10 years ago and worked together at Vail Ski Tech. The two actively began backcountry skiing four to five years ago. They often searched in the summer for new areas to ski the following winter.

“Him and I pretty much got out there as much as we could,” Toth said.

The two received local fame for their exploits in a 2003 newspaper article titled “Addicted to skiing.” The story chronicled Horton and Toth’s ski trips to Mt. Massive and the Tenmile and Gore ranges.

“I remember going up the lift at Vail and looking across at the Gore Range and saying, ‘Wow, how do I get up there?’” Horton had said. “It’s really like going out and playing. It’s actually easier in the winter because you can wear your gear instead of carrying it. You get out your ax and crampons and go.”

Horton grew up in Virginia. He went to college at Colorado State University for less than a year and moved to Vail to be near the mountains.

“I wouldn’t say he was an extremist,” Jacobs said. “He lived for the day, lived for the moment.”

Funeral arrangements are still pending.

Staff Writer J.K. Perry can be reached at 748-2928 or jkperry@vaildaily.com.

Vail, Colorado

BACK

A Tribe Called Quest Reunites to Revive Hip-Hop at the Wiltern Theater in L.A.

The entrance was groundshaking, affirming and undoubtebly surpassed the expectations of thousands packed into the Wiltern Theater in Hollywood. After an eight year hiatus, the anticipation to experience A Tribe Called Quest was boiling over the brim. New York City was L.A. for a night. Brooklyn, Manhattan, Staten Island, the Bronx and of course, Queens were indecipherable among the bobbing heads staring wide-eyed at the dark stage. And then I heard it- the walking bass line belonging only to “Buggin Out” off of The Low End Theory, Tribe’s second album.

After the first eight bars, permanent smiles were slapped on the faces of every hip-hop fan in the theater. The socially conscious trio comprised of MC’s Q-Tip and Phife Dawg and DJ Ali-Shaheed ignited a tidal wave of mind-expanding, heart-felt hip-hop that is sorely needed in this current hip-hop generation. But you’ve already said, it’s been killed in conversation all over the country: Hip-Hop is barely alive and is in dire need of resuscitation.

It would be simply ignorant to ignore the Common’s, Talib Kweli’s, Nas’, Little Brothers’, Kanye West’s, etc. of today. Ironically though, ignorance is the theme of today’s “hot” rappers- sprayed all over MTV and radio. Is there no other choice but to chalk it up to the staggering trends of ongoing generations of music? Or is it an issue reserved for the age-old dichotomy of mainstream/ungerground culture?

No matter, A Tribe Called Quest made me a believer once more. Hip-Hop will forge on without these new pathetic acts. True hip-hop music will continue to convey cultural/social/economic issues that force thought and analysis.

Music is truly inspiring only if it is treated like a Love Movement.

-JB

Zidane Humbling in Light of Controversy

Are my eyes deceiving me? Did I really witness Zinedine Zidane attempt to impale his head into the heart of Italia’s Marco Materazzi? After exhailing a few hungover breaths early this afternoon in hopes of magically erasing what my mind had begun to interperet, I realized the sight was strangely too real.

What a fitting topic for my very first blog entry- a generational icon and one of the greatest football players ever to lace up the boots, Zinedine Zidane, showed us all how flawed those celebrities for which we hold our breath, actually are. And concurrnetly, flawed are our perceptions of these celebrities.

Zidane, or Zizou, for those of you inept to the dignitaries of the world’s biggest sport, is a profit, a messenger. To put his mastery into American standards, I venture to compare Zidane’s guidance and leadership to Magic Johnson, and his graceful ball-handling to Pistol Pete Maravich. He instantaneously increases the efficiancy, excitement, and beauty of the teams for which he played. As a center mid-fielder, Zizou conducted the French symphony with the vision and philosophy that Magic did the Lake-Show. His unparalleled touch and fluidity with the ball conjure images of the Pistol sifting throught a defense, playing tricks with the ball as he moves closer toward the goal.

Now that we’re beyond the uncomparable comparisons, we can focus on the head-butt seen ’round the (literally) world… Actually I’m sorry, I got a bit ahead of myself, we’re not quite ready yet. I forgot to mention that this was Zinidine Zidane’s last appearance on the pitch. He proclaimed early in his club team, Real Madrid’s season, that he would retire at the conclusion of the World cup. The grand finale of the month long spectacle against Italy was supposed to be his deserved fairwell.

Shockingly, a sendoff no one could have anticipated occured. There is no doubt that you will have seen the lasting image of Zidane walking past the World Cup Trophy into a tunnel leading him to a state of regret, a familiar sensation to many.

Well, I (an Italian fan) respectively said goodbye to Zidane today, much to the chagrin of Brent mussberger, who for the last month was even more out of his element than Donny in The Big Lebowski. Zidane is a player who, no matter the on-the-field altercations in which he was involved, cannot be belittled in my opinion. We should all thank Captain Zizou for showing us all just how human he is, for reminding the world that he truly is a mistake-prone mortal. We all assume that, say, Joe Montana, Mickey Mantle, or Lance Armstrong are halo-sporting Gods. But they aren’t, they are people just like you and I who encompassed the desire, skills and ability to be astounding at throwing a ball or riding a bicycle. This, of course, is simply speculation, but even the names I just listed endured losses of consciousness at one point in time and/or another just as Zidane did.

The critic must also take into account the bewildering amount of pressure a World Cup finalist feels. And not just any football player reaching the final stage, but one of the best football players the world has seen attempting to live up to his shadow-casting reputation in saying fairwell. Think about it; once every four years. Could you imagine how many nights the French players will think about this one game and what they could have done better? When pressure, exhaustion and adrenaline set in, one can do anything- sometimes they are miraculous feats, other times they are inexcusable embarassements.

It is unfortunate that Zinedine Zidane will be remembered for that infamous head-butt in his final match. Wrong he was, but credit and respect we still owe him. Zizou will hold his head up again soon and the soccer world will forgive because of how legendary a player he was. The fans around the globe will forgive because although they may now feel betrayed, they understand.