From the monthly archives: March 2010
Chilton was virtually a child star, a Memphis born blue-eyed soulster, who at 16 experienced a top of the chart hit while fronting the Box Tops with “The Letter,” followed by two more legit hits, “Cry Like a Baby” (which marched all the way to No. 2) and “Soul Deep.”
a slack-tuned guitar, power chords churned out
like chum for a circling school. Did you fall
for your own press?
I am retired grunge girl who now dabbles in housewifery. The angst coveting girl in flannel and cut-off grey sweats who listened to Nirvana, The Cure and Violent Femmes was left in the mid-nineties. Since then I had been looking for something. Music that excited me the way Smells like Teen Spirit had when I first heard it. The way The Pixies Bone Machine made me crave Japanese fast food. And though my torment had morphed from wild and dramatic teen agony to a quieter rebellion, I still needed a voice for it. I needed angst with
A long channel of breath, Ginsberg
called him, the old stroked-out poet
with half-shut eyes and stiff lips
limning an image of the lean
smokestack…
Song I listened to the summer I turned fifteen: Radiohead’s “High and Dry.” I was studying writing for six weeks at Andover and there was a boy with a guitar singing beneath a tree on the quad. I still remember his name: Jeff Agia. He introduced me that day to Radiohead. What a crush I had. What a silly girl I was. He never knew I existed.
Crazy Heart’s well-traveled tale concerns itself with Bad Blake (Bridges), yet another country and western macho poet with a fistful of magical songs, heartsick and stumbling towards oblivion with a lungful of cigarette smoke and gut full of bourbon. Blake bounces from Bowling Alley stage to straight-up saloon gig, often puking mid-song, piloting himself with laid back charm or churlishness, almost broken with regret, yet nursing dreams about reversing his showbiz status. His shaky encounters with a trio of antagonists set the stage for an admirably unforced and neatly ambiguous tale of redemption
He left behind the frozen landscape
and empty mines of his Midwestern home
to head east, for New York
where he heard it was all happening.
This past Saturday night, fifty-plus hearty spirits crowded the Mediator Fellowship Hall in Providence, RI, braving the churlish end-of-February weather for a night of shiny music, shimmering poetry and shaking prose. It was shaking’s maiden voyage public-wise, a shakingdown cruise so to speak. Everyone survived. Yea, I dare say even flourished__ to the delight of the writers and presenters (Jericho Brown, Marita Andrade, Jo-Ann Reid, R.A. Stovetop Lawson, Liz Carter, Scott Duhamel and shaking editor Mr. Don), and a trio of fine singer/ songwriters (Mark Cutler, Chris Monti and Anthony Loffredio).The next one’s already on the drawing table; check these pages for announcements of more shaking evenings to come.
Another writer once proclaimed Patti Smith to be the “Godmother of Punk,” and it would be tricky to dispute that she doesn’t deserve the title. Her 1975 debut album, the seminal Horses, uses an effective blend of well-crafted poetry and three chord guitar rock with beautifully placed feedback to set a standard for a generation of rockers. Bands such as R.E.M. and The Smiths, which fielded influential musicians of their own, have remarked on the impact of Smith’s music on their own development.
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