Loss

The most morose example of change being the only constant I can offer is death. Yes, death. And as the features of my mortality become ever-clearer, it's only natural that I take note of those taking their leave. Particularly those who, by virtue of their work as a musician, actor or as a writer, indelibly shaped my life and attitudes.

Musicians seem to have been particularly hard-hit lately, with music-makers known and sadly unknown having passed. Loretta Lynn. Mimi Parker. Jeff Beck. Tom Verlaine. Jerry Lee Lewis. Christine McVie. David Crosby. Hamish Kilgour.

I can't say I was a giant fan of all of them, but as with any good work, their talents survived both fashion and time. Not an easy thing to do.

Take Christine McVie. Amid the 24/7 drama surrounding Fleetwood Mac in the late-seventies, McVie seemed a low-key and fairly grounded personality in the maelstrom that surrounded the band. Yet her singing and keyboard work were essential ingredients in their success.

Next to the vocal histrionics of band-mate Stevie Nicks, her plaintive, erstwhile vocals took on a powerful appeal. She reminded me of the teammate you didn't know you missed until they were gone.

Parker and Kilgour weren't huge stars, but each contributed immeasurably to their band's sound. Imagine “Words” (my favorite Low song) without her. Or “Anything Could Happen” without Hamish. It's difficult.

Tom Verlaine wasn't a star, either. Like Parker and Kilgour, he tended towards the cult artist end of things. While critically renowned, Television wasn't on everyone's lips, even in the musical hot bed of 1977. But those who knew, knew. His knotted, asymmetrical guitar work contrasted brilliantly with band mate Richard Lloyd, and their music was merely unforgettable.

After Television imploded, he went on to a solo career and recorded much that is deserving of your time.

I came to Loretta Lynn late, even having seen Coal Miner's Daughter back in the day. In the nineteen-sixties, she was scoring hits by recording feminist anthems before the vast majority of us even knew what feminism was. Even more miraculously, she was having them on country and western radio.

Yep. To paraphrase an old Panasonic tagline, Lynn was just slightly ahead of her time.

(For a lighthearted counter-weight to that weighty significance, check the duet she sang with Conway Twitty “You're the Reason Our Kids are Ugly”)

I was aware of David Crosby before I knew who he was. The Byrds had a great run of singles in the mid-sixties, and “Eight Miles High” was a ground breaker. And Crosby, just entering the zenith of his career, played a large part in it.

But the first-generation Byrds were splintering, and there didn't seem to be a part for Crosby in the new C&W edition.

Timing is everything goes a popular expression. And Crosby served as proof, encountering two other blokes also in-between-bands. Graham Nash, ex-of the Hollies and Stephen Stills, a former Buffalo Springfield, needed gigs.

Somewhere along the line, the trio realized “Why not create our own gig?” And so Crosby, Stills & Nash were born. Decry their politics, their embrace of the hippie ethos or the epic, ego-driven battles they suffered, some great music came out of those three.

Jeff Beck first excited my hormones way back in the nineteen-sixties via his work in the Yardbirds. I wasn't privy to the internal politics going on within the band, but his work on songs like “Over Under Sideways Down” left an indelible impression.

As I grew and learned more about the music quickly becoming an obsession, I discovered the Clapton-Beck-Page succession that happened within the Yardbirds. Furthermore, the guy who really moved me was a guy named Jeff Beck.

And just as I was learning a re-appreciation of his work, his was embarking on a solo career that would yield the most-definitive work of his career.

Blow By Blow and Wired remain two of my favorite examples of fusion, a genre that has sadly fallen on hard times and even suffered critical dismissal. But I point our that musicians as esteemed as Herbie Hancock and Miles Davis weren't too proud to investigate it, recording some of the best, most invigorating music of their careers.

So there.

What can one say about Jerry Lee Lewis in 2023? He was one of rock and roll's most- dangerous personalities at a time when rock and roll itself was considered a viable societal threat. Yes, the tightly-wound conformity of the nineteen-fifties was deeply afraid.

Not that Jerry Lee couldn't play. Au contraire, my friend. Mr. Lewis could play the ivory out of a piano's keys without breaking a sweat. In that first storm of rock and roll, he was a force of nature.

As were all of them.

2449 N. Lincoln Ave.

I never really fit in—at least on the surface. It was the clothes. Never partial to the neon colored hair, piercings and crudely-ripped clothes of first-wave punk, I looked quite the outsider with my feathered hair, aviator wire-rim glasses and waffle-stomper hiking boots.

I screamed mainstream. No. Worse. Suburban mainstream. But those were just clothes. The inner (and more-important, to my way of thinking) connection to the music was as absolute as an ARC weld.

In fifteen short years my favorite music had gone full circle—f rom rhythm and blues-inspired two and-a-half minute singles through the excesses (not all of them bad) of the acid and art rock era back to concise, highly danceable singles.

And when the record reviews in Trouser Press lit an inner fire that demanded their purchase, the place to get them was a two-flat on Lincoln Avenue with a white, glazed brick facade. That was where Wax Trax! lived, and where a five-year battle over my discretionary income would ensue.

Clearly under the influence, I bought freely. Some might even say lavishly. Rent? Car repairs? Food? Meh. They could wait. How were such mundanities supposed to compete with the new Jam single? Or that 7” Clash EP? Or an import copy of A Kiss in the Dreamhouse, its cover art a million-times more radiant than any domestic printing plant could manage?

Those were important.

And so it went in my youthful, inverted world.

As my appearance shifted ever so slightly (I lost the feathered hair and replaced my Yes and Led Zeppelin concert tees with ones from the Psychedelic Furs) and my visits bordered on weekly, I gained an ever-so-slight amount of cred from the Wax Trax! clerks. They pointed me towards Magazine and A Certain Ratio and the Fall.

And despite my lack of enthusiasm for the sartorial considerations of punk and new wave, it should be noted that when on multi-store shopping trips, other record store's purchases somehow always ended-up within my Wax Trax! bag. Go figure.

Self-conscious artifice? Fashion? I leave it to you, dear reader.

But change is the only constant, and spurred by Wax Trax's high-profile success, they soon had multiple competitors. And, it shames me to admit, most of them were easier to get to. And park at. And whether it was cash flow problems or managerial ones or the success of the in-house record label, the up-to-the-minute inventory began to lag.

The import 45 fixture with yellow dividers painstakingly hand-lettered with red and black felt-tip pens became dog-eared and neglected. Things were changing. Most-tellingly, guys who looked like me sat behind the counter.

Wax Trax's moment had passed.

But like so many groundbreaking things, its impact isn't measured in duration. It's measured in, well, impact. And Wax Trax! left a giant footprint on Chicago's music community.

Sadly, I found out too late about Julia Nash's online petition to have the store front at Lincoln and Montana designated as a local landmark. 

Here's hoping.

Oi Vey!

Deeply involved in cataloging my enormous collection of vinyl, cassettes and compact disc for possible sale, I have been negligent in posting to my blog, The Square Peg.

To those who make it a habit to stop by, please accept my apologies. Your readership is deeply appreciated and I hope The Square Peg has sparked a smile, a laugh or even the comfort of a shared thought or opinion.

I will return to regular posting as soon as I am able.

Until then, let me extend belated birthday greetings to my favorite living rhythm and blues singer, Eddie Levert of the O'Jays.

The esteemed Mr. Levert turned 79 yesterday.

This Is Utopia?

Like so many things, music blogs begin with the best of intentions.

Imagine a utopian community rooted in its love of music, with people sharing hard-to-find treasures and personal favorites at the same time they're exposed to new ones. Excitedly sharing thoughts and impressions with other like-minded individuals.

It's the spontaneous record store conversation given permission to continue beyond the threat of an expiring parking meter.

With this vision in mind, I joined several. I tried to be a nice guy. I shared things, fulfilled requests when I could and thanked those who fulfilled mine. Basic human behavior, right?

But never having been part of “the business” or counted a famous label executive, producer or musician as friends, I rarely dazzled anyone with my shares. Put another way, I wasn't uploading studio conversation between Tom Wilson and the Velvet Underground as they worked out the finer points of Venus in Furs.

Nevertheless, I contributed.

But in these sour and divisive times, it wasn't enough.

Disputes sprang up like weeds. Who got credit for posting something first? Who didn't think Terje Rypdal was Norway's answer to Charlie Christian? Who didn't get thanked enough? And what kind of godless heathen would post anything in a format other than FLAC?

The sniping went on and on and on.

Adding to the problem was that I used the same screen name in those blogs that I do here. And however I comported myself within those blogs, the political opinions expressed here made me an insufferable presence to many.

Why are we allowing radicalized socialists in here? was a persistent concern.

And then there were those who seemingly tracked every download versus every upload and screamed bloody murder if a perfect 1:1 ratio wasn't maintained. Or if posts were repeated. Or if you didn't adore the same bands and musicians they did.

This while one blog incessantly trumpeted itself as a place where “kindness wins”.

(To be sure, there were some incredibly generous individuals who regularly shared amazing music. And to those individuals I hope I made my appreciation clear.)

In my profile, I describe myself as a social critic. And under that aegis, I'll say that only inhabitants of the twenty-first century would complain that after uploading music, people downloaded it.

Seriously?

Yes, there are people in the world who take advantage of things. It is our nature. Pay much attention to the goings-on in Washington DC? Come on. Are you really going to tell me you never took two crackers topped with a delectable sharp cheddar despite being told that only one per customer was permitted?

Of course you have.

Downloading music proffered only with the expectation that said music be enjoyed seems like one of humanity's lesser crimes if you ask me. If this truly disturbs you, you might want to re-evaluate how and where you spend your time.

Firmly disabused of the notion that these communities were first and foremost only about the music and a haven from the ills of twenty-first century society, I drifted away. I drop in occasionally to download things when they appeal to me, but my desire to share has largely died.

Besides, with more music than I could ever hope to listen to and other, more pressing demands on my time, accumulating more seems pointless.

Like civilization itself, music blogs are a great and noble concept. But the reality is far less-appealing.

I realize now that music blogs can't help but reflect the societies from which they spring. And that just sucks.

Ric Ocasek

Ric Ocasek didn't fit the rock star template. There could hardly be a more antithetical one than the 6'4” Richard Theodore Otcasek from Baltimore, Maryland. After his family's relocation, he graduated from high school in the post-Elvis, pre-Beatles doldrums of 1963 Cleveland.

Even Alan Freed had skipped town.

Ocasek attempted college, but was drawn to music even if music wasn't initially drawn to him. He spent the remainder of the decade searching for the right assemblage of musicians that would nurture his creative flame.

He and eventual Cars' vocalist and bassist Benjamin Orr (who met in 1965) relocated to Boston in the early seventies. There, they assembled a folk-rock outfit called Milkweed who became popular enough to record an LP.

It sank without a trace, but provided the groundwork for the Cars. Future keyboardist Greg Hawkes played on the LP, which led to meeting future guitarist Elliot Easton. Drummer David Robinson and Ocasek met up in Ocasek's last pre-Cars band, and the musical aggregation Ocasek had been looking for for over a decade was complete.

So combustible was their sound that the mere demo for “Just What I Needed” received regular airings on Boston's influential WBCN. A signing to Elektra Records followed soon thereafter, and the Cars' debut LP sizzled throughout the summer of 1978.

Of note is the fact Ocasek was thirty-four years-old upon the album's release. The Cars was the culmination of a fifteen-year slog through crappy bands, crappier clubs and too many false starts to count.

Like Ian Hunter (who was thirty when Mott the Hoople got off the ground) and Bob Seger (who was thirty-one when “Night Moves” clicked), Ocasek was a lifer who didn't know how to do anything else but make music.

With less of a track record than either, his persistence is made even more remarkable.

We all know the story of the Cars, and Ocasek's eventual rock star turn in his marriage to Czech model Paulina Porizkova. But even in this he was the outlier: they remained married for nearly thirty years.

Ocasek hit it big after a long climb. He played in front of millions of adoring fans, sold millions of records and married one of the most beautiful women on Earth. There was even a successful reunion LP, which in the long history of pop music can be counted on less than ten fingers.

As the Cars' primary songwriter, Ocasek never had to shop Goodwill or stomach generic spaghetti sauce. I doubt he ever cross-shopped his car insurance.

From my side of the glass, things looked pretty good.

Of course, appearances can be misleading. There was a faded friendship rendered irreparable by an early death and the inevitable long, slow fade endured by so many in the performing arts. Two failed marriages. And a spotty solo career.

It was a life.

I hope you were okay with it, Ric.

An Appreciation of Grand Funk Railroad

In this, the age of “populism” (quotation marks intended), I thought it'd be a good time to expound on Grand Funk Railroad, a Cream-inspired power trio that broke out of Flint, Michigan in 1969.

Recipients of some of the most-brutal record reviews any band ever received, Grand Funk nevertheless became a concert ticket and record-selling behemoth, boosted by the unwavering allegiance of their fans.

But I never cottoned to them. At least not at first.

Just as the Jefferson Airplane and the Allman Brothers Band spawned dozens of uninspired jam-band clones, legions of bands attempted to replicate Cream's power trio approach, which was capable of bludgeoning even the stoutest listener into submission with sheer force.

Grand Funk could only approximate Cream's strengths, appropriating the most-obvious elements and repeating them ad infinitum. It was pretty dull listening.

But one thing stood out. That was Mark Farner's stentorian voice. And when “I'm Your Captain (Closer to Home)” somehow made it to my ears in 1970 (which was odd considering I didn't own a radio capable of pulling in an FM signal), I heard something different. Melody. Strings. Tempo changes. Oh my God—is that a flute???

This was not my father's Grand Funk Railroad.

After more albums of mostly forgettable—but profitable—hard rock, Grand Funk had another epiphany. Towards expanding their sonic palate, they enlisted the talents of keyboardist Craig Frost.

The results were found on Phoenix.

By then immersed in the sounds of War and Sly & the Family Stone and Stevie Wonder (featured regularly on the era's demographic-free FM radio), “Rock 'N Roll Soul” appealed immediately.

A tidy little ditty lasting three minutes and forty seconds, it exposed yet another facet of the Flint, Michigan quartet. It put the funk in Grand Funk Railroad. Edgar Winter? Humble Pie? Eat your hearts out. 

(I should add that I'm an all-day sucker for a throaty Hammond B-3.)

An appearance on ABC's In Concert the following January cinched it. I was a fan.

This sweet spot continued through the We're an American Band LP, released in July of 1973. An invigorating mixture of hard rock and hard Top 40 fare, it had me thinking of Grand Funk in the same manner I did Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple.

(Of course, it didn't hurt than less than a year later I saw Claudia Lennear in Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, which brought to life the carnal delights alluded to in “Black Licorice”.)

And yes, I still have the gold vinyl LP—with stickers.

Alas, it was not to last. Grand Funk made a purposeful move to embrace the hit single aesthetic. Even a fine re-make of the Soul Brothers Six's “Some Kind of Wonderful” couldn't halt the slide.

While they at last had the broad-based radio play they'd always coveted, it came at the expense of many of the core fans who had embraced them sans airplay and critical kudos.

Fortunately, Caught in the Act (a 1975 live LP), captured what had by then evolved into a very tight and very energetic live unit. It melded the old and new Grand Funk into one package that everyone could enjoy.

Citing burnout and internal tensions, the group disbanded shortly thereafter. But not before issuing the Frank Zappa-produced curiosity Good Singin' Good Playin'. Despite possessing one of the most-arch personalities on the planet, the producer claimed to be a fan.

It doesn't get more populist than that.

Record Store Remembrances

With the recent death of Tower Records founder Russ Solomon, I've spent a lot of time reflecting on record stores.

Rock 'n' roll grabbed a hold of me early. Hearing the Beatles harmonize on “She Loves You” electrified me; the resulting adrenaline rush was one of the best things I'd ever felt in my seven years on Earth.

It lured me into the local rec center, where on summer evenings a jukebox would play deep into the forbidden recesses of night (which was probably all of 10 PM). I would wander among the dancing teen-agers while Tommy James & the Shondells' “Hanky Panky” blared its lurid message, aroused by the vague but tangible feeling that something illicit was in the air.

Even in the innocent hours of afternoon, word of a “combo” running through some songs in a local garage would spread like wildfire, and suitably ignited, my friends and I would chase the sound like caffeinated bats honing in on food.

(I remember one band playing an unusually fiery version of “Gloria”, and wonder in retrospect if it wasn't the Shadows of Knight. The home was owned by an open-minded music teacher, who would've been sympathetic to a bunch of guys needing a place to rehearse. Plus it wasn't very far from the Knights' home base. But I'll never know for sure.)

My ability to listen to rock music went through the usual stages, moving from the transistor radio one grandmother bought me to the AM/FM radio another bestowed upon me to the eventual purchase an actual stereo. A very nifty and durable Panasonic.

Bereft of income, I asked for albums as Christmas gifts. The Beatles, Rod Stewart and early Chicago were deemed appropriate by my parents. It took my grandmother (yep—the same one who gifted me with the transistor radio) to introduce the hormonal wail of Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix into the family home.

(To this day, my siblings fail to appreciate the parental tenderizing I did so that they might one day enjoy this music unburdened by the social unease that accompanies being regarded as an alien lifeform by your mom and dad.)

This incremental access exploded with the receipt of a driver's license. Armed with cash from a part-time job, I could now venture to the 'cool' record stores, which invariably lay beyond the confines of my provincial hometown.

When time and money (not to mention a car) were available, I was off to Old Town, where Uno's Bizarre Bazaar—a remnant of the counterculture that had flowered in the neighborhood a decade earlier—offered bootlegs.

The nearby suburb of Norridge featured Rolling Stone, a noisy, enormous store with coquettish cashiers who smoked cigarettes and wished you were David Bowie or Robert Plant. But only E. J. Korvettes could beat their prices.

The demands of higher education soon absorbed the majority of my money and my time, and my record-buying suffered accordingly. It was only after graduation that I began to explore the enormous city I lived in and satiated my lust for vinyl.

Wax Trax was my first obsession, since their remarkable inventory either carried every punk and new wave forty-five and import LP Trouser Press raved about or every punk and new wave forty-five and import LP they should have been raving about.

(That the cooler-than-thou clerks would sometimes condescend to speak with you was just a bonus.)

Unfortunately, this period coincided with the arrival of my first Visa card, and soon I was spending a disproportionate amount of my income there. On the bright side, I was able to list Wax Trax as a dependent at tax time.

When co-founder Jim Nash died, holes began to appear in the rigorously-maintained inventory, and it gradually became a less-urgent destination. While this was a boon to my financial well-being, area entrepreneurs had taken note of Wax Trax's success and it wasn't long before their shops were—to varying degrees—taking up the slack.

Evanston's Vintage Vinyl was probably foremost in my experience. It was similarly pricey, but what I assume was its owner (a very tall guy with clear plastic glasses and unfailingly dressed in leather pants) was at least helpful.

It was also the cleanest record store I'd ever been in. God knows I've crawled through places capable of incubating the Hanta virus, but there wasn't a chance of that at Vintage Vinyl. Hell, sometimes I felt guilty just rifling through the stock.

The only thing capable of marring those carefree days was the burden of parking. I could listen to the extended dance mix of my favorite song more times than anyone ever intended in the time it took to locate a $#@!& parking space.

It was on one such trip to Evanston that I glimpsed my salvation: the CTA. Its Red Line ran all the way from Evanston to 95^th Street, and conveniently stopped everywhere there was a record store I needed to visit. (That's needed, as in involuntary.)

An unintended benefit was that without a trunk, my impulsive excesses were kept in check. I mean, did I really want to lug around a copy of The Country Soul of Mrs. Miller for six hours?

Probably not.

An emerging interest in rhythm and blues and soul led me to the south side and Hyde Park, where Dr. Wax and 2^nd Hand Tunes nourished and sustained it.

Chicago was an ideal place to be interested in R&B, as its sizeable African-American population meant an enormous number of records had been bought and subsequently re-sold to resale shops when supplanted by rhythm and blue's latest and greatest.

Visits to Hyde Park yielded copies of albums by Ray Charles, LaVern Baker, Laura Lee, the Chi-Lites and Little Beaver. 100 Proof (Aged in Soul), Ecstasy, Passion and Pain, Denise LaSalle, Syl Johnson, Esther Phillips and Latimore.

Those record stores were islands of commonality. Places where only one strain of human being existed: music lovers. It was in these shops that the delusion of blacks and whites living peacefully side by side could be entertained.

In between the terminuses of the Red Line lay a raft of great records stores: The one whose name I can't recall on Sheridan Road near Loyola. The three-story monolith on Wabash that was Rose Records' flagship store. And the Jazz Record Mart on Grand, where on a good day owner Bob Koester would regale you with stories.

The purchase of Howlin' Wolf Live in Germany 1964 provoked my favorite.

Koester was backstage at a blues festival in the early-sixties when Sonny Boy Williamson happened to run into Howlin' Wolf, who had just completed his set. Williamson sized up the imposing Wolf, sweating from the exertion of his performance.

Then he spoke.

“I got to tell you something, Wolf. You sing like a motherfucker!”

High praise, indeed. I'd be lying if I claimed not to want that kind of life.

Not that my quests for vinyl weren't fulfilling. 

There was the Saturday night in the early-eighties that I strolled down Michigan Avenue in a light snow, in no particular hurry to get anywhere. At Dearborn and Washington, I descended the stairs to the subway and paid my fare.

Midway through a cigarette, I was greeted by a train consisting of the green and cream-colored cars of the nineteen-fifties. They featured brown naugahyde-covered seats and incandescent lighting and were, in retrospect, almost intimate.

I took a seat, opened my bag and examined my latest treasures.

Engrossed in the liner notes to a “5” Royales or Siouxsie & the Banshees compilation, accompanied by the rhythmic click-clack of the car's wheels on steel and the slight rocking motion endemic to rail travel, I needed nothing else.

Amid the noisy rush of my youth, this was a lesson in how resonant and sublime quiet contentment could be.

Fast-forward to the twenty-first century. Perusing e-Bay and the hordes of online sellers just isn't the same. With instant access to a world of vendors, there is no anticipation, no near-misses. The product is there, first time every time. There is no sweat equity. It is utterly drama-free.

I didn't know it at the time, but I liked the drama. I liked flipping through thousands of albums over countless visits, which only intensified the shock and subsequent slow-motion joy when I finally went face-to-face with a copy of Paul Kelly's Dirt or Willie Hightower's If I Had a Hammer.

Not only did I like the drama, I miss it. For better or worse, life is different now.

My mother was really good at not taking things for granted. Hopefully, so am I.

Concert Bummers (part 2)

With another tip of the hat to Speedy and 'So Many Roads to Ease My Soul', I present part two of the ten most disappointing concerts of my concert-going career. 

As always, comments are welcome.

5. Yo La Tengo/Buffalo Tom/My Bloody Valentine Vic Theater 6/24/92 The most telling thing about this entry is that despite the presence of Yo La Tengo and Buffalo Tom on the bill this show still made the cut.

In the right hands, volume can be a wonderful thing. It amplifies a chord or a riff or a drum beat and makes it larger than life, sort of like a Charleton Heston or Kirk Douglas monologue. It is thrilling.

In the wrong hands, it is a taser. It numbs your neural network, leaving you oblivious to any and all external stimuli. And experiencing stimuli is kind of the reason we attend concerts in the first place, isn't it?

Like you, I adored My Bloody Valentine. And as a certified musiholic leapt at the chance to see them. But after ninety minutes of being bludgeoned by a sound system more appropriate for Glastonbury than a 2,000 seat theater, I was done.

If hearing loss was the point, it was a rousing success.

If hearing one of the most innovative bands of their era was, it was a failure.

Anyone can turn it up to eleven. Not everyone could compose a piece of music like Soon. 

Pity MBV opted to be the former. And every time I listen to Isn't Anything and Loveless I regret it.

4. Johnny Adams Legends 10/22/94 I was hooked on Johnny Adams from the first time I heard his spectacular 1969 rendition of Reconsider Me. It was easily one of the most awe-inspiring things I'd ever heard.

But success was hard to sustain. It was the usual story of singles and the occasional album released on small, obscure labels that disappeared without a trace. It wasn't until Adams signed with Rounder Records in 1983 that his fine and soulful albums began to appear on a regular basis. They even remained in print.

But seeing him live was another matter. However hard I scoured concert listings in those pre-Internet days, I could never uncover one for him. That is, until he landed at Buddy Guy's Legends for a weekend in the fall of 1994.

After a decade of waiting, I was beyond eager. It didn't matter that none of my mates wanted to attend—with Adams' voice for company nothing else was required. 

Unfortunately, my enthusiasm didn't guarantee an unforgettable show.

Adams came on and ran through a pedestrian set of covers, the nadir being Sweet Home Chicago. The *$#@! Blues Brothers have made that the unofficial anthem of Chicago, and too many performers feel obligated to perform it whether they can or not.

I hated seeing Johnny Adams join them.

A second set was marginally better, but for whatever reason it was clear that this flight wasn't going to get clearance for takeoff. Adams seemed determined to avoid the inspired material his Rounder albums overflowed with.

Never mind Reconsider Me.

I gutted out a second intermission. It was getting late. I was tired. The third set began. Nothing. I conceded defeat and left.

After he died in 1998, I learned Adams had struggled with prostate cancer for years. For all I knew, he had just finished a grueling round of chemo before his appearance at Buddy Guy's. As a self-employed musician, he was likely in a financial free-fall following surgery.

I don't know. 

What I do know is that it was a very long walk to my car.

3. New Order Aragon Ballroom 11/21/86 Nothing like the burden of great expectations, is there? 

So it was for New Order when a Chicago concert date intersected with something I rarely possessed—disposable income. Truth is, after missing them in '83 and '85 I would've sold a body part to attend. Long-addicted to the astringent synths and steely bass lines of their austere yet propulsive music, I had been waiting for this show since I first heard Temptation five years hence.

So imagine my disappointment when I was greeted with an indifferent performance, an awkward, meandering set list and sound that could best be described as the aural equivalent of mud. Even for a band that traded in a certain icy remoteness, this was a chill I didn't need—especially with winter approaching.

I had been warned that New Order was a hit-or-miss proposition live, and as any experienced concert-goer knows a live performance is nothing if not a crap shoot. While the show was one of dozens for New Order on that tour, it was a one night only deal for me.

I left feeling as overcast as the weather and as barren as the trees in front of the Lawrence Arms hotel.

By the time they toured in support of the disappointing Technique they had dumbed-down their sound to appeal to a broader demographic. The magic was gone. And lest I forget rule number-one of concert-going, if you don't like the new LP think twice about seeing the show.

2. Tracy Chapman/Neil Young Poplar Creek 8/16/88 I don't believe there is a more stubborn performer in rock and roll than Neil Young. Neil does it his way and damn the consequences. That he continues as an artist capable of filling arenas is a miracle given the capriciousness of audiences and their tastes.

My girlfriend and I decided that a beautiful way to pass a summer's evening would be in the company of Mr. Young, then touring in support of This Note's for You. Nearing the end of his most challenged—and challenging—decade as a performer, tickets weren't hard to come by.

While aware of the potential for disaster, I naively hoped that the signs of reemergence on his latest offering weren't a mirage.

The concert began well enough, but soon veered into a listless, indulgent quagmire from which it never recovered. Its nadir was a twenty-minute-long acoustic dirge seemingly inspired by the Epic of Gilgamesh.

I recall feeling like a parent tolerating the creative excesses of their offspring at a middle school talent show. Young almost seemed to be punishing his audience by offering up the most mundane material he could muster.

The insertion of After the Gold Rush in the middle of the set almost felt like a bribe—or an apology.

When the lights came up afterwards, we all looked at each other. We were flummoxed. We hadn't a clue what to make of it. Beforehand, such a show seemed like an impossibility for someone as abundantly talented as he.

Now we knew better.

We were rewarded two and-a-half years later with a show as fiery and as passionate as this was disappointing.

As the man once said, you pays your money and youse takes your chances.

1. Bob Dylan Chicago Stadium 10/18/78 As someone who grew-up in the throes of Beatlemania, the rock and roll of the sixties influenced me greatly. The Beatles, the Stones, the Yardbirds, the Who, the Kinks and the Animals. 

The Doors, Sly & the Family Stone, Motown, Soul. Jimi Hendrix, Cream, Creedence Clearwater Revival, the Jefferson Airplane and Janis Joplin.

Theirs was the music by which I would judge so much else.

I neglected to include Bob Dylan. He cast an enormous shadow over the sixties, and even if you maintain he didn't influence you, he probably influenced the musicians who did. He pushed the Beatles towards more introspective and topical songwriting, which in turn yielded two of their most highly regarded LPs—Rubber Soul and Revolver.

So yeah, he was a big deal.

Then he disappeared.

When he re-emerged, he was a living legend. His 1974 tour with the Band was eclipsed in media coverage by little else. And while it has its critics, it clearly renewed him. Blood on the Tracks showed up that winter, followed by Desire. They were his strongest back-to-back offerings since Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde.

With the creative juices flowing again, Dylan envisioned another tour. A revolving band of traveling minstrels, joining when they could and leaving when they had to. It would avoid the well-worn population centers of traditional tours and opt for out of the way venues in out of the way places.

The Rolling Thunder Review was arguably the highlight of his career. To my ears, Dylan was never more expressive a singer, nor were his rearrangements ever more effective. Surrounded by influences and peers he was loose and ready to try anything. The music was airborne and magical.

So I was beyond excited when plans for a nationwide tour were announced in 1978. I knew the Rolling Thunder Review had been retired, but its magic just had to rub-off on its successor. 

Didn't it?

After a train ride from downstate, my buddy and I arrived in Chicago just in time for a walk through the remnants of skid row to the old Chicago Stadium.

The glitzy, streamlined staging provided a remarkable contrast, and not only to the wizened, emaciated souls on Madison Avenue. One of rock's greatest chameleons had reinvented himself yet again.

No longer part of a band of traveling minstrels, Dylan was now a polished showman, coiffed and suited. As the show unfolded, it was hard not to feel betrayed. (And no, I didn't stand and yell “Judas!”)

I tried to appreciate this new incarnation of Dylan and his music, but after the soulful, ragged-but-right ecstasy of the Rolling Thunder Review this sounded plastic and rote and fake. Only an overnight wait in a downtown bus station could (and did) compete.

A recently-surfaced bootleg revealed the show wasn't quite as bad as I thought all those years ago. But at an age where passion ruled and everything was felt so keenly, I cannot forget the Dylan I didn't see. 

And my disappointment upon the realization that I had been the kind of fan who put an artist into a box and expected him to stay there.

Concert Bummers (part 1)

Seven years ago, I posted a list of the best concerts I ever attended. Now, inspired by Speedy and his estimable blog So Many Roads to Ease My Soul (and keeping in mind that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery), I am going to share the worst.

Thankfully, it is a much shorter list.

So many things can go wrong at a concert. Traffic. A fight with a girlfriend. A fight with your buddies. A crappy sound system. Crappy seats. The people around you. A tired, intoxicated and or disinterested performer.

It's a wonder more don't go off the rails.

So without further delay, here are my ten worst, most disappointing, most regrettable concert experiences:

10. The Moody Blues Poplar Creek 7/18/81 I had always enjoyed the Moody Blues. So when they regrouped, recorded Long Distance Voyager and went on tour, I agreed to accompany a Moody Blues fanatic-slash-friend of mine to an area show.

There was just one problem: we had gone the night before.

That had been a fine show. Entirely satisfying. The band had even received word beforehand that Voyager had gone to number-one, so they were over the moon. But however much I enjoyed both performer and venue, I didn't need to see either two nights in a row.

But my friend craved them. They were his Springsteen, his Zeppelin, his Who, his Dylan and his Stones all rolled into one. He could not move forward with his life without seeing them again.

So I caved.

It was like going to the same movie night after night: same setlist, same dialogue, same everything. Not the best way to discover your Moody Blues threshold.

It was part of a pattern in those years. See a good show and return again within days, weeks or months, only to be disappointed. This slot could have been filled by any one of half a dozen shows: ELP in '77. UFO and Bad Company in '79. The Kinks in '85. The J. Geils Band in '82. Even Bob Seger in 1980.

But we do these things for our friends, don't we?

9. Stu Daye/Derringer/Jeff Beck/Aerosmith Comiskey Park 7/10/76 If sitting in an antiquated baseball stadium with seating that pre-dated airline's current coach configurations in one-hundred degree heat while one of your favorite bands cavorts on a stage five-hundred feet away at three-thirty in the afternoon is your idea of a good time, then this was the show for you.

You either like the communal buzz of outdoor rock shows or you don't. Personally, I just wanted to be immersed in the guitar interplay of Joe Perry and Brad Whitford and the stinging, loose-limbed funk that emanated from the era's Aerosmith records.

There is no specific criticism I can level at the performers (indeed, all concerned made heroic efforts to give us our money's worth), my seatmates, the PA or anything else, but this was a big, giant non-event. The definition of anti-climactic. It was like watching people attend a concert in the dull, flat light of mid-afternoon.

Afterwards, dismayed by the throngs waiting for buses back to the Loop and irritated by the mediocre show, my buddy, his girlfriend and I decided in our adolescent wisdom to walk downtown. We were already at 35^th street—how far could it be?

That depended on whether you were measuring in miles or socio-economic strata.

After locating State Street we began the walk north. What we didn't realize was that our route cut through the heart of the city's largest housing project—the Robert Taylor Homes. And being a wretchedly hot and humid day, the majority of the project's population was out of doors.

There, they could better observe the two rail-thin long-hairs and the female accompanying them (dressed in the era's halter top—no bra—and short shorts). We passed block after block of young males honing their gangster lean against parked cars with only a “What 'choo all doing down here?” to show for our efforts.

Not that I'm complaining.

Once in the relative safety of the Loop, I wasn't sure it was the byproduct of our walking that darkened the armpits of our t-shirts.

Can you say young and stupid? 

8. Frankie & the Knockouts/Point Blank/Loverboy UIC Pavilion 5/31/82 At the risk of being drummed out of every music site on the Internet, I will admit it: Yes, I saw Loverboy. Paid to do so as a matter of fact.

As do so many tales of regret, this one begins with “There was this girl...” Followed by be careful what you wish for.

After finally getting “Karen” to go out with me, we endured an awkward dinner together before spending a beautiful spring evening listening to Frankie & the Knockouts and Loverboy yelp about all manner of things. Love, falling in love, falling out of love, sex, break-ups, broken hearts, love etc.

I eventually retreated into a semi-conscious state not dissimilar to a coma while my date was standing on her chair, having the time of her life.

Can I have a “Woo-hoo”?

By the end of Loverboy's encore (a fifteen-minute rendition of Working for the Weekend punctuated repeatedly by “Lemme hear you all the way in the back!”), I suspected we weren't destined to be soulmates.

This was confirmed when she criticized me afterwards for my reaction. I confessed to being unaware that I had compromised her enjoyment of the show in any way.

Strangely, there never was a date number-two.

7. Black Oak Arkansas/Molly Hatchet/UFO Alpine Valley 5/22/81 Sometimes, the worst concert is the one you don't see. No external intervention is required.

Even though punk, reggae, new wave and R&B by now dominated my turntable, I maintained a soft spot in my heart for UFO. It didn't hurt that their latest—The Wild, the Willing & the Innocent—was, to my ears, their best LP since the seventies.

So a buddy and I rustled up a couple of tickets and made plans. With no interest whatsoever in Black Oak Arkansas and Molly Hatchet, we decided to arrive late—just in time for the evening's star attraction.

After all, the concert's promoters listed UFO first in typeface three times larger than either Black Oak Arkansas or Molly Hatchet. They were likewise the featured band on radio spots. Was it not entirely logical to assume they would be headlining the show?

You see where this is headed, don't you?

A fragrant spring breeze carried on it a familiar tune as we handed over our tickets. A mounting sense of panic enveloped me. Every step confirmed my worst fears as the music grew louder and more distinct.

We entered the pavilion just in time to see UFO wrapping up their set. “Goodnight Alpine Valley! It's been fun! Rock on!”

The applause felt like jeering. I wondered if the ghost of Ronnie Van Zant hadn't taken umbrage with our plans to bypass Black Oak Arkansas and Molly Hatchet in favor of the English headliner and switched the bill.

We were crestfallen. Alpine Valley was in a remote portion of southern Wisconsin and had taken a two-hour drive to reach. It was the only time in thirty-four years of concert-going either of us saw this happen.

I wrote angry letters to the facility, the promoter and Ticketron. They were made moreso because it wasn't my first bad experience at the venue. It was my second—in two visits.

To no one's surprise, all went unanswered. But it was the last time I bought a ticket for an event at Alpine Valley.

6. John Mellencamp Rosemont Horizon 1/31/92 It has been said that you can't choose your relatives. The same holds true for the people surrounding you at an all seats reserved concert.

Having missed Mellencamp's epic 1987/88 tour in support of The Lonesome Jubilee, I especially wanted to catch him this time around. As was my girlfriend. We were made happy when a pair of main floor seats opened up.

Come the big night, we were filled with anticipation when we discovered our proximity to the stage. The lights went down, the band came on and we were swept up in that opening blast of euphoria when a long-awaited concert finally kicks off.

All was well until an usher's flashlight illuminated the six empty seats in front of us. It wasn't that the attendees had finally arrived. No, it was that they were deeply and profoundly intoxicated.

They stumbled to their seats and promptly stood on them. Then they fell off them. Then they stood on them some more. Even during the slow, ruminative numbers.

Understandably, they were pelted with debris. Since not everyone in the audience was gifted with an arm like Joe Montana's, some of the debris hit us. The half-filled cups of beer were especially annoying. Especially to those of us who wore glasses.

Ecstasy had turned to agony. (And the drunkard in front of me hadn't even fallen backwards over his chair yet.)

I cornered the first usher I could find, a young lad who had yet to touch razor to skin. The specifics were likely lost, but my gesturing, strained sternocleidomastoids and bulging eyes left no doubt as to the urgency of my request.

Several songs later, a half-dozen beefy males in black windbreakers with 'SECURITY' stenciled across the back arrived. The drunks were removed, kicking and screaming, to the applause of the section.

But the damage had been done. Half the show had been spent either protecting ourselves from flying projectiles or fending off stumbling shitheads.

I didn't attend another arena show until REM's 1995 go-round in support of Monster.

And Now for Something Completely Different

That's right. No anti-Trump rants. No dissertations on the evils of business. And not a word about gun control. Just me writing about something I enjoy. Well, mostly.

While it is my belief that the form of communication enabled by the computer will undermine civilization as we know it, the computer-beast does offer one saving grace in exchange for our humanity: the glorious availability of concerts captured illicitly.

Introduced to bootlegs in the mid-seventies, I partook whenever an appealing release intersected with a full wallet. But there was a serious downside—the expense. By the time the vinyl era was drawing to a close, the purchase of bootlegs practically required a bank loan.

And then there was the collateral damage, which consisted mostly of girlfriends and their burgeoning expectations.

“Well, yeah, honey. I did drop seventy-five bucks on that four-record Springsteen boot. But um, I thought it'd be a great way for us to spend some time together. You know those nights where there's nothing on TV? We could cuddle up on the couch and...” 

Thud. 

By the time the CD had taken over, discretionary income barely allowed for legal CDs, much less illegal ones. And let's face it, priorities were changing. The beautiful soul who swallowed her frustrations because she just wanted me to be happy deserved a commitment to financial austerity.

So if I didn't capture it on the radio via the BBC's In Concert series, the King Biscuit Flour Hour, the odd simulcast or WXRT's UnConcert, I did without.

But then the Internet happened. And not far behind, the ability to digitize music and share it.

To my delight, there were more hard-core musiholics out there than I ever imagined. Music blogs were everywhere. And more often than not, so was someone's covert recording. Thanks to the computer, I had been reunited with an old flame. I was able to re-visit the shows of my youth, and attend ones I had missed.

You'd have to go to Wall Street to find a bigger glutton than I.

How to explain the sublime torture of hearing a luminous April, 1987 performance by U2 I had come thisclose to scoring tickets for, or the joy of having my all-time favorite KBFH show (Rockpile New York City 1979) re-enter my life long after the cassette had paid a visit to Jack Kervorkain?

But neither could compare to the once-unimaginable act of going back in time and hearing a favorite concert for a second time.

Bob Seger at the Chicago Stadium on the Stranger in Town tour. All four of the Springsteen shows I saw in support of The River (including the one that so excited me I was unable to fall asleep afterwards and instead drove back to the Rosemont Horizon where I was able to meet and chat with Mr. Springsteen as well as have him sign my copy of Born to Run).

Then there's Neil Young & Crazy Horse on their metallic, amp-shredding Chicago stop for Ragged Glory. U2 on their smoldering 1984/85 go-round for The Unforgettable Fire. And again on their epic, multi-media extravaganza for Achtung Baby.

Siouxsie & the Banshees at the Riviera. Pink Floyd at Soldier Field. Aerosmith, the Clash, Keith Richards and REM—all at the venue we affectionately called the Aragon Brawlroom. OMD at Metro. Led Zeppelin the night Jimmy Page fell ill and couldn't continue. The Dave Alvin-era Blasters and John Hiatt, both at Park West. And the Rolling Stones on their 1981 visit for Tattoo You.

Each was either as buoyant or as ethereal or as fiery as I remembered, a fact attributable to my habit of never imbibing or inhaling before a show. My concert-going mates referred to me as Buzz Kill, which I suppose was better than Stinky.

Apologies to Brooke Shields, but nothing was going to come between me and the music I was about to hear.

Yeah, it was that important to me.

Bootlegs took me all over the globe. I went to London for an otherworldly 1971 performance by Pink Floyd. Belgium for a shimmering and ephemeral one by Dire Straits. (A pox on the house of the person who mistook them for Parliament-Funkadelic, and in the course of remastering the thing pushed the bass up absurdly high.)

I went to Zurich to hear Genesis in 1977. New York City for a wonderous 1997 concert by Bob Dylan. Naples to hear the Rolling Stones in 1982. The same year, I heard the unofficial Tom Petty live album, recorded in Utrecht.

And on and on and on it goes: Bruce Springsteen, Buffalo 1984. Neil Young, Frankfurt 1989. The Cure, Leipzig 1990. Mogwai, Reading 2001. Van Morrison, San Francisco 1974. New Order, Barcelona 1984. And the molten fury of PJ Harvey in London on April Fool's Day, 1999.

Ultimately, I think the thing that most appealed to me about bootlegs is that they were genuine. There was no studio sweetening. No overdubs. No glossing over of bum notes or fumbled passages. They were audio verite. Bootlegs laid it all out there as it happened—documentary-style.

And to their eternal credit, my heroes could go out there and do it. A couple of guitars, a bass, a drum kit and a good voice and they could set an audience on fire. And a bootleg didn't require corporate America's approval to hear it all go down.

Inevitably, there is a downside to this cornucopia of joy and time-travel. To date, I have downloaded in excess of three-thousand shows, performed by over four-hundred musical aggregations.

It poses a question: when did I become a collector and stop being a listener? Despite prolonged underemployment, I find myself with more music than I could ever listen to. And isn't unheard music a kind of crime?

Despite this, I continue to download. I continue to seek unheard doses of musical ecstasy; new-to-me discoveries that stem the contractions of my shrinking world.

To those of you who continue to share the glories of live, uncensored rock and roll, my heartfelt thanks.

People who listen to Justin Beiber on cell phones will never understand.

Something Different on Memorial Day

In 1991 I went to Memphis. It was a stop on a larger trip whose eventual destination was Great Smoky Mountains National Park. In the city famed for Elvis and barbeque, I was struck by a high-contrast example of the disparity between black and white in the United States of America.

On one side of town, there was no detail of Elvis Presley's life too trivial to memorialize. I could have bought a laminated reproduction of his driver's license from one of the half-dozen gift shops across the street from Graceland.

On another side of town, the spot where Otis Redding, Sam & Dave and Eddie Floyd had recorded some of the most resonant and indelible soul music ever conceived was an overgrown vacant lot, with only a U.S. historical marker near the curb.

The converted movie theater that had served as the recording studio for Stax Records was long gone; the undeniable truth being it had been torn down to make way for a vacant lot. There were no opportunities to purchase a reproduction of Otis Redding's driver's license, much less see the building where he and the M.G.s had recorded Otis Blue.

It hit me. Hard.

Let me be clear: the intent isn't to slam Memphis. My mate and I enjoyed an otherwise wonderful visit, topped-off by the elderly gentleman who escorted us from a McLemore Avenue convenience store to the nearby Interstate entrance I had somehow been unable to locate.

But with the exception of Detroit and its Motown museum, this is a story repeated in any city that once served as mecca for black music. My hometown of Chicago has its own woeful record of neglect.

To wit, 2120 S. Michigan Ave. is a parking lot. Record Row, the home to Vee-Jay and Brunswick Records (among others) was reduced by the mid-nineties to a handful of faded, hand-painted company logos in second story windows.

With the wholesale gentrification of the South Loop, I doubt even those exist today.

These locales were the purveyors of what was essentially under the counter music for an under the counter culture. If the pop music consumed by white teenagers was considered disposable, you can imagine the status accorded the latest J.B. Lenoir forty-five.

It is ironic then, that this music could end up aiding and abetting the entity known as the City of Chicago.

As it seeks desperately to avoid being flushed down the toilet with the remainder of Illinois, Chicago is in dire need of revenue. And what better way to lure tourists from points all over the globe than by recognizing its musical heritage?

Sam Cooke, Benny Goodman and Herbie Hancock are just three of the luminous talents birthed by the city. Chuck Berry, Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Waters and Bo Diddley recorded the music that set an entire generation of English youth aflame here.

And yet their connections to Chicago are virtually invisible.

Cities as far-flung as Vienna, Austria and Kansas City, Missouri have acknowledged their musical heritage and acted not only to preserve it, but use it as a lure which simultaneously educates and creates revenue streams.

Even beyond these practical applications, this serves—in many cases—to pay homage to the profound contribution African-American culture has made to the broader culture of the United States, and on a good day might even encourage a rethink of our racial stereotypes.

Given the junk status of its bonds and the tautness of its racial tensions, it is high time Chicago did the same.

Tribute to a King

It started with a $2.99 LP from the Columbia Record Club. It wasn't very good. It was called Bobby Bland and B.B. King Together Again...Live, and I'm sure the pairing looked great on paper.

But the famed blues vocalist had become a bit lazy by this time, and too often resorted to phlegm-y exclamations as a substitute for actual singing. And half of B.B. King's appeal lay in his voice, and reduced to the role of back-up singer, his guitar playing seemed to suffer as well.

I put the LP away and didn't reach for it again until one of my periodic vinyl purges. But B.B. King's name continued to pop up in the rock star interviews I spent way too much of my adolescence perusing.

In a survey of the all-time great live albums, I found the B.B. King album I was looking for: a live LP recorded in my hometown of Chicago featuring perhaps the most scalding performances this side of James Brown's Live at the Apollo.

Live at the Regal had entered my life.

The stinging guitar, roaring vocals and an audience for whom 'engaged' seems woefully inadequate made my first listen one of those indelible events that shape our youth. Live at the Regal swung, swaggered and forcibly insinuated itself into my existence.

Was the band sharp? Let me put it this way: you could shave with some of the performances he put down on that Saturday night in November of 1964.

B.B. King went on to enjoy a long career and a longer life. He was loved. He was admired. He succeeded without the semi-literate menace and unvarnished veneer of his peers. King regularly appeared onstage in tuxes and suits, yet was rarely accused of selling-out or compromising his music for the sake of a larger audience.

With an openness that mirrored his personality, King played and recorded with just about everyone. Fellow blues stalwarts, rock stars, jazz bands—King was always eager to explore, recombine and experiment.

Forty-six years after the fact, it's hard to appreciate just how radical it was to feature strings on a blues song, but that's just what King did on “The Thrill Is Gone”. Naturally, it became his signature song.

B.B. King amassed over ten-thousand gigs before falling ill at one last autumn in the same city that birthed his landmark album. He outlived all of his contemporaries, becoming—fittingly enough—the last of the first-generation of amplified bluesmen left standing.

It's not an overstatement to say that King's death is more than the passing of a single man—it's practically the expiration of a genre. A genre that electrified not only the blues, but so many of us.

In the deaths of those who informed our lives, our own mortality is made painfully clear. With another leaf fallen from the tree of my musical loves, the barren branches of winter move one step nearer.

Bless you, B.B. And thank you.

My Favorite CDs of 2014

Twenty-fourteen was not one of the all-time great rock and roll years. Not like 1965 or 1980 or even 2011. 

There were a passel of good releases plus some noteworthy boxed sets and archival live albums. But nothing I played to the exclusion of sleep or even leaving for work on time.

On the other hand, maybe I'm just getting old. Or more responsible. Being that sixty is closer than fifty, one of these is a distinct possibility.

OK. On to 2014. 

First, the box sets.

I'm taking the road less-traveled and choosing the three-disc Michael Bloomfield collection From His Head to His Heart to His Hands.

The careers of other sixties guitar gods were certainly more celebrated and more thoroughly-chronicled than Bloomfield's. But I can't imagine they were any more deserving than that of this Chicago kid with the unruly hair.

His stinging leads informed some of the sixties most indelible albums, and helped usher the guitar into new and unimagined realms. This collection shines a much-needed light on the career of one of rock's unacknowledged masters.

Every once in a while, a tour attains legendary status. Such tours represent a watershed moment in the career of a band or artist. Examples would be the Rolling Stones in 1972. Bob Dylan in 1966. Or the Talking Heads in 1983.

Another would be Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band in 1978. The uniform intensity of the band's performances (all 111 of them) was staggering. I've never heard a band play so hard so often. They were relentless.

Fortunately for us, several shows were simulcast on radio. And one of them, the August 9^th date at the Agora Theater in Cleveland, recently received an official release by LeftField media on Bruce Springsteen.net.

The sound quality is excellent, as is the performance. Cleveland was an early stronghold for Springsteen, and suitably enlivened, he and the E Street Band turn in a charged performance worthy of release.

Now for 2014's favorites:

1. Hookworms – The Hum On their second album, Hookworms don't just confront the so-called sophomore jinx, they assault and batter it until it's the consistency of porridge. (Which isn't to be construed as an endorsement of senseless violence, but as the Square Peg's way of saying The Hum is really good.)

Dark, aggressive, eerie—The Hum might be how The Doors would've sounded had it been recorded today, rather than a half-century ago. Most amazing of all is that Hookworms are able to infuse the proceedings with melody and, well, hooks.

Who knows—I might just be late for work one of these days.

Check “The Impasse” and “Retreat”.

2. Mogwai – Rave Tapes The spare and austere beauty of Scotland oozes from this collection, a continuation of the work featured on last year's brilliant Les Revenants soundtrack. Call it Mogwai 2.0.

The rock-inspired crunch continues to give way to a subtler, more-nuanced music that is as resonant as it is unhurried. 

Only a labored spoken word piece mars the glorious mood. On planet LPG, Rave Tapes was the grower of the year.

Check “No Medicine for Regret” and “Heard About You Last Night”.

3. Jenny Lewis – The Voyager I wasn't cool-enough to tap into Rilo Kiley until Under the Blacklight, and by then it was pretty much over with. Thankfully, Lewis' solo career has been a fruitful one.

The Voyager finds Lewis grappling with the questions biological clocks and boyfriends who won't take off their headphones pose. Paradoxically, it's all cloaked in a warm pop sheen, burnished by Lewis' oh-so-charismatic voice.

However deeply you choose to listen, The Voyager is a trip worth taking.

Check “Aloha & the Three Johns” and “Slippery Slopes”.

4. Hamish Kilgour – All of It and Nothing Brother David is better-known, but Hamish's solo debut is a smack dab doozy.

In that way a certain generation of Flying Nun alumni have, Kilgour's spare, talk-sung epics have an appealing understatement which is unlike anything out there. The shambling melodies and Kilgour's modest voice imparts an intimate, homemade feel.

Odd bits of instrumentation shine like stars in All of It and Nothing's vast sky, cementing its appeal.

Check “Crazy Radiance” and “Smile”.

5. Temples – Sun Structures Temples hit all the right notes on this, their debut album. 

Inhabiting a sweet spot somewhere between early Pink Floyd, mid-sixties Byrds and a bit of the Walker Brothers, they fashion a hook-laden nugget that's one of the freshest-sounding releases of the year.     

Check song of the year “Keep in the Dark” and “Sand Dance”.

6. Sharon Van Etten – Are We There When Van Etten asks if we're 'there', she's not referring to a vacation destination. 'There' is a place where, if you're really lucky, it might stop raining long-enough for sunlight to animate the particle of color in her endless night.

But with light comes shadows, and the haunted Van Etten can't help but wonder what romantic devilment lies within.

A snippet of lighthearted studio chatter closes Are We There, suggesting the possibility of a happy ending. Which is fine—as long as it doesn't preclude her master's thesis on the dark side of love.

Check “Our Love” and “Every Time the Sun Comes Up”.

7. Gary Clark, Jr. – Live Were it not for the smoldering, electric guitar goodness of this album, I'd be concerned this release masks a case writer's block, coming as it does two years after his last studio release and with no plans for another one anytime soon.

But when you have a talent like Clark who can sing like Marvin and play like Jimi, it's best to just enjoy the music however and whenever it comes. So what if it doesn't follow the prescribed path to success? 

Being on hold never sounded so good.

Check “Catfish Blues” and “If Trouble Was Money”.

8. The Faint – Doom Abuse I'd lost track of this Omaha, Nebraska outfit after 2004's Wet from Birth. Turns out it wasn't very hard, as following a year-long tour for Fasciinatiion they essentially disbanded.

Doom Abuse isn't the rusty release you could rightfully fear after so much time off, but a hit-the-ground-running collection that sounds like it came straight from the kinetic aftermath of a hot tour.

Check “Your Stranger” and the would-have-been Max Headroom favorite “Dress Code”.

9. Rodney Crowell – Tarpaper Sky On one hand, as perhaps one of three guys on this list who could recall the 1976 punk explosion, Crowell is a survivor.

On the other, that would be damming him with faint praise.

Albums like Tarpaper Sky are the reason Crowell isn't appearing at your local casino alongside Eddie Rabbit and the Oak Ridge Boys on those generic, pre-packaged oldies tours.

His remains a fresh and vital talent.

Check “Grandma Loved That Old Man” and “I Wouldn't Be Me Without You”.

10. Prince – Art Official Age September was twofer time in Paisley Park as Prince released a pair of albums, the better and more cohesive of which appears here.

Art Official Age isn't anything you haven't heard before, and it isn't going to replace Dirty Mind or Sign of the Times in your Prince pantheon.

But all of that's forgotten the first time you get up and pop n' lock.

Check “Breakfast Can Wait” and “Art Official Cage”.

Honorable mentions:

Wussy – Attica!

The Black Keys – Turn Blue

Jack White – Lazaretto