8 - The Michigan Daily - Tuesday, March 16, 2004 ART S a I ALEX WOLSKY DETROIT ROCK CITY LOCAL BANDS DROP NEW LPs Bozo Dionysius Revisited Country-infused Blanche break the mold with multifaceted debut By Andrew M. Gamrlg Daily Music Editor Let me preface this by stating that I never bought Jim Morri- son, neither as the Lizard King' nor the poet. Since the 30th anniver- sary of Morrison's death, there has been a mid-level revival of The Doors. Morrison's popularity has become glamorized and iconic, as a typical mode of operation for rock'n'roll stars. In an era bent on the guttural exhibitionist antics of reality televi- sion and the loss of culture and sophistication in art, Morrison's resur- gence is all but expected. Morrison was always a jerk. At 10 years of age, he rubbed dog shit in his little brother's face and later put cello- phane over his brother's mouth, nearly suffocating him. His brother had chronic tonsillitis at the time, and impeding his breathing for such a long period of time nearly killed him. Mor- rison pissed on himself, would threat- en to throw his body out the car window to gain attention from his par- ents and constantly ridiculed para- plegics. Once, while tobogganing, Morrison even barricaded his two sib- lings in the front of the cart where they couldn't move, got up to a good speed and aimed the shackles towards a cabin. Surely this man is a god. In the fall of '66, when the band went in to record its first album, Mor- rison covered the building in chemical fire extinguisher foam. Around the same time, he packed a taxi full of people and drove out to Elektra records president Jac Holzman's apart- ment in the middle of the night, where Morrison ripped out carpet and vomit- ed all over the lobby. This is the type of behavior that was accepted, if not encouraged by people. Granted, reality TV stars aren't always whipping out their genitalia in public (except Richard Hatch on "Survivor"), but we, as a society, are encouraging them to be as vile and inept as Morri- son. If he cared so little about his life and was so willing to make it one big joke, why should anybody care, if not for shameless, trashy entertainment? Morrison was a failure as a musi- cian and one of the most overrated people in music. He couldn't sing, he couldn't write a single note of music, he never played on any of The Doors' records and his lyrics were pretentious bullshit. Most reali- ty TV stars today can't act, they can't write and they sure as hell aren't winning any Emmys. Morrison's life and death should be written off as a blueprint to the pathet- ic "artist as a star" system. The very idea that stars, whether they be TV rubes or rock'n'roll dropouts, are somehow a race apart and thus able to piss on their wives, trash hotel rooms and commit unthinkable acts of socie- tal taboo is beyond me. One of the more ridiculous claims I've heard is that somehow curbing this exhibitionism would be detri- mental to their art and their creativi- ty. The ironic thing about this (despite the fact that it assumes that they have talent in the first place) is that the tolerance of such acts con- tributes to them eventually drying up as artists. How could you truly emote when you have absolutely zero input from the real world, because every- one around you is catering to and sheltering you? Morrison couldn't, and the very thought that he would be alive today, singing about chaos and revolution is laughable, much like the idea that any reality star will be whoring themselves on the small screen a decade from now. If he did indeed die in a bathtub in Paris, it was a suitable ending for a narcissistic parody of '60s rock like Morrison. He belonged in a daycare center for counterculture casualties, another one of those chil- dren ruined by drugs and left scratching for some kind of authori- ty as a significant artist. Rock critic Lester Bangs branded this type of glamorized, moronic behavior, "Bozo Dionysius," the ami- able blend of divine grace and bozo idiocy. Morrison wasn't a poet or a god. Instead, he was a drugged and drunken maniac, a propitious male prostitute who lives posthumously as an icon for the vapid and inane. - While Jim Morrison may not appeal to Alex, Clay Aiken sure lights hisfire. Send fan mail to wolsky@umich.edu For a scene that has been in the spotlight since 2001, Detroit has produced very few middle-of-the road sounds. The Gories and The Detroit Cobras are straight garage. The White Stripes mix genres, but polarize within hard rock, blues and punk. And so it goes with Blanche, the first overtly coun- try act to emerge from the Detroit scene. Blanche is, above anything else, refreshing. They play country music that would Blanche If We Can't Trust the Doctors Cass stab at the traditional "Wayfaring Stranger" is techni- cally flawless, if a bit boring. Just like Lovett, Miller's got a redheaded bride of his own: Bassist/vocalist Tracee Mae Miller plays the vampy/virginal sidekick role. Unfortunately, she has all of the attitude and none of the chops: Her vocals, occasionally prodding the wit out of her husband, too often sound vapid and uninspired. Tracee's subpar voice is, in a way, a compliment to the rest of the band. Backing a thousand twang-rid- dled fakers, Tracee might go unnoticed. Not in Blanche. The band ties knots of warm, fresh country Scoutmaster-tight, exposing the best - and worst - of the vocalists. The ingredients are all typical, but the outcome is always crisp, hauntingly atmospheric and charmingly familiar. Country music has always had issues with identity and Blanche will undoubtedly be accused of plagia- rism. After all, what does the Midwest know about country music? Blanche doesn't care. Somewhere up north, in a ghost town on a shore, there's a ghastly, awkward barn raising. And Blanche is the only band that dressed warm enough to take the gig. ,.. , , ,,, .. 0 ,,,,,,,,,,,,., Newest on Bondies release lacks knockout punch By Scott Serilla Daily Arts Writer MUsic REVI EW records (The Ramones, The Smiths, The Replace- ments), The Von Bondies have made hefty career strides since their days as D-town's favorite warm-up act. With ex-Talking Heads keyboardist Jerry Harri- son tackling production duties, Pawn Shoppe deftly balances radio sheen and Motor City grit, easily off- setting the lingering cries of "sell-outs" still echoing off the walls of the Magic Stick. There is a showroom efficiency to the album that reflects a band intent on going places in the industry, with nearly every track clocking in at less than three minutes. While you have to admire the economy, ultimately it might be adding to The Von the static sameness of Pawnheon Shoppe, which seems desper- Bondies ately in need of mood shift. Pawn Shoppe The opening tide of feedback Heart on "No Regrets" and the irre- Sire sistible slinking bass line on the lead single "C'Mon, C'Mon" are the spine-shivering seeds of something great. Anywhere the group's blasting boy/girl call-and-response choruses between Stollsteimer, bassist Carrie Smith and guitarist Mar- cie Bolan crop up showcases excellence. But some- how just when you're ready to air drum along to Don Blum's pummeling antics on "Maireed" or get lost in the buzzing distortion, Stollsteimer kicks back into his "woe is me" bit and ruins everything. Things perk up when Carrie pulls a Kim Deal and hijacks the show on "Not that Social," a welcome, unexpectedly poppy change-up to Stollsteimer's exhausted fastball delivery. A perfect kiss-off to an over-inflated drunk's ego, the girly vocals and manic crank of guitar allow for the whole picture to briefly crystallize, but Stollsteimer's refusal to flash a sense of humor or take a stab at a well-crafted melody over jackhammer attack infuriates as much as it engages. offend non-country fans. That ol' Nashville twang has seen a resurgence as of late, but it has as much to do with misnomers as it does with men in black: Contrary to underground myth, The Old 97's and Wilco are not - and have never been - country. In contrast, Blanche throw back the moonshine like sea- soned veterans: fiddles, banjos, pedal steel, finger picking and female harmony all echo like the lost ghosts of the Midwest's past. The catalyst for the hootenanny is Dan John Miller, who busts out of the starting block like an indie rock Lyle Lovett: tall, dapper and hopelessly unkempt. He's got a lot of Michigan in his thick, res- onant voice, but he's got enough inflection to pull off the dilapidated doctor role. Miller's no one-trick pony. The album's catchiest track, "Who's to Say," finds the old hobo pleading like a helpless romantic over gorgeous, organic swells. He plays up his cornball poet role on "Do You Trust Me?" ("It doesn't take an honest man to sing an honest song") and the hammy "Garbage Picker." Elsewhere, "The Hopeless Waltz" brilliantly wilts like a sun-drenched garden, and if the lyrics of the Gun Club cover, "Jack on Fire," draw the Detroit con- nection a bit too clearly it's probably done intentional- ly ("I am like Jack and I'll tell you this / I will be your lover and exorcist"). If there's a criticism to be levied against Dr. Miller, it's that he's somewhat vanilla: His Courtesy of Sire tU c.m I*.:' -t¢o ~e rrM, nwik~t % .: El' 'r. The Michi an Dall J.SSIFIED CRUITME "V -* / ' .._ \ Need a job for next Fall/ Winter?? Earn some and SALES EXPERIENCE asa Classified Sales Account Executive. excellent We are looking for dedicated individuals who are energetic and adaptable, with excellent communication skills. If you think you lit the bill, d b THE MICHIGAN DAILY A 420 MAYNA R D to pick up an application form and sign up for an interview. We are located next to the Student Activities Building. I 1 " 1 1 n o u nmm-errnnnus1 - lgls aha al i I