Familiarity breeds boredom, and boredom breeds contempt.  This is a short explanation as to why many acts with career longevity find themselves labeled by audiences and critics as tired or obsolete.  What’s rarely considered is our part in this perception.  An artist’s work is always vital, not only practically, as a living, but also existentially, as a learning experience, a chance to grow.  These insights can be lost on the outsider, the casual listener, or the hardcore fan.  Instances of such mutiny are well documented within the strata of popular music, from folk acolytes denouncing Bob Dylan’s “going electric” in ‘65 to David Bowie’s unfairly panned dance material of the early 80s.  Inevitably, any singer or band that exhibits the audacity to continue to make records and follow their muse will be met with some skepticism or hostility.  Trite as it may be, that’s how it is.

Granted, such charges are not always without merit.  An extended back catalogue certainly encompasses some variation of quality.  Case in point: one James “Iggy Pop” Osterberg.  Depending on where you start counting and what, the Ig has upwards of 20 records under his belt, both solo and with his original cohorts the Stooges.  With a discography that extensive, they can’t all be gold.  Especially spotty are Iggy’s solo albums.  After a strong start with Bowie-helmed masterpieces The Idiot and Lust for Life, Pop briefly courted what was called “new wave” on New Values, which felt more like a bona fide Iggy Pop album than its two predecessors.  The 80s found Pop searching from record to record for a comfortable identity, leading him through a host of collaborators and a series of records that is best described as schizophrenic.  A brush or two with chart success gave Pop some semblance of financial security, but never afforded him the stylistic foundation he needed to thrive.  The 90s saw Pop mostly returning to the Stooges formula – loud, repetitive, instinctive, vulgar – which still didn’t offer an even keel of album-to-album consistency.  Even studio reunions with his old Detroit compatriots Ron and Scott Asheton couldn’t yield Pop anything other than another notch on his belt.  Albums boasted gems in scattered tracks, but nothing ever matched the record spanning cohesion of unabashed masterpieces like Funhouse or Lust for Life.

Strangely, it wasn’t music Pop needed to reinvigorate his artistic qi.  It was literature.  Approached to create music for a film about French novelist Michel Houellebecq, Pop instead opted to make a full album as a companion piece to Houellebecq’s book La Possibilité d'une île (The Possibility of an Island).  Pop had read the novel with great fervor, discovering curious parallels between the book’s protagonist and himself.  It is this understanding that informs Pop’s newest offering, Préliminaires.  Iggy Pop is often regarded as a drug crazed wild man, and in his younger years he consciously fostered this image with outlandish and aberrant behavior, both off and on the stage.  But to anyone who cared to look or listen with a little more attention, or caught an off interview with the guy, it was obvious that beneath all the savagery and bluster there was a keen, restless intellect.  Although applied with caution and subtlety to his work, it was there to be discerned.  Iggy Pop was, and is, and will always remain, a rogue scholar.

Préliminaires is his definitive statement as closet intellectual.  On the surface, the album’s somber, finely nuanced ambience will likely drive away those fans that prefer him bloody and smeared in peanut butter.  But to the rest of the world, the new album is a stunning revelation that Pop’s meditations run far deeper than girls, money and drugs.  Préliminaires is a world-weary study of fame and mortality, the inhumanity of humanity, and life’s oft overlooked simple pleasures.  It opens with a French jazz standard, "Les feuilles mortes" (“Autumn Leaves”), sung in its original language (reportedly because the rights to the English version were too expensive).  Nevertheless, Pop’s sinewy baritone drawls the song out with such effect the language barrier is sidestepped, and the point is made: this is not business as usual.  In one track Pop has proved himself as much more than punk rock’s answer to James Brown.

The true irony is that Iggy’s softest album is also his most defiant.  While press for the album pegged it as an exercise in New Orleans jazz ala Louis Armstrong and Jelly Roll Morton, this is an impetus, not a result.  This is fusion at its best, incorporating jazz (“King of the Dogs”), rock (“Nice to Be Dead), spoken word (“A Machine for Loving”) and electronica (“Party Time”) seamlessly, usually mixing touches of each into an exotic sonic blend.  The music comprises every mood from whimsical to bleak, dropping them gently like fresh linen, rendering the transitions imperceptible.  Sequencing is paramount, opening with "Les feuilles mortes" and reprising it at the end, and repeating "Je sais que tu sais" later on as “She’s a Business”, minus the French monologue.    The circular nature of the listening experience, whether intentional or not, is an appropriate metaphor for the themes addressed.

For all its musical adventurousness, the lyrics are what truly set Préliminaires apart, both as another Iggy Pop album and an album in general.  While there are flashes of Iggy’s trademark vulgarity, in the same breath he will turn from such pedestrian concerns to bare profundity.  His work as a lyricist hasn’t been this consistent or brilliant since his early solo work.  Delivered in a well aged, robust croon over the international miasma of the accompaniment, the closest analogue Pop’s ever crafted to this is The Idiot (Avenue B, Pop’s other “jazz album” from 1999, is basically Préliminaires retarded cousin, and is to be avoided).

This is heady stuff, likely to draw cries of lame or sell out from certain contingents of the fan community.  Those craving the thrash and bash of the Stooges should just spin Raw Power again.  But for those of us interested in something new and just as essential, who long for a relevant peek into the psyche of one of rock’s true legends, we need look no further than Préliminaires.

The Zombies – “The Way I Feel Inside”
Billie Holiday – “Love Me or Leave Me”
Counting Crows – “Monkey”
OutKast – “Happy Valentine’s Day”
Otis Redding – “I Can’t Turn You Loose”
Ronnie Milsap – “Stranger in My House”
Johnny & June Carter Cash – “It Ain’t Me, Babe”
David Bowie – “Modern Love”
Dead Kennedys – “Your Emotions”
Buzzcocks – “Ever Fallen in Love?”
Weezer – “Good Life”
Fiona Apple – “Get Gone”
Gang of Four – “Anthrax”
R.E.M. – “Star Me Kitten”
Iggy Pop – “Fall in Love with Me”
Ben Folds Five – “Mess”
Velvet Underground – “Oh! Sweet Nuthin’”
Magnetic Fields – “The Book of Love”

Charlotte is notorious for cannibalization.  Not in the literal, humans-eating-humans, Alive sense of the word; figuratively speaking.  Architecturally, politically, culturally, this town has a strange appetite for the past, gobbling it up and shitting it out in forms unrecognizable.  It’s this cannibal factor that makes our local music scene seem bland and atrophied when graded against the national curve.  It’s what allows the button downs to function so comfortably, offering them the pastel tones and the hard lines and the granite countertops they find ever so welcoming.

Certainly this isn’t absolute.  There are pockets of resistance to be found, usually in the late hours of the evening, in a smoky bar or on an intimate patio or in some fanatic’s living room.  Just beneath the surface of all this city’s blasé window dressing, there is a glorious DIY veneer, dirty, vital and beautiful.

This aspect of the Queen City is typified in the music of Andy The Doorbum Fenstermaker.  Familiar as the guy who takes our money at the World Famous Milestone Club, Fenstermaker performs skewed and hilarious dirges of brazen lyrical fortitude.  With the aid of friends, The Doorbum cut a record throughout ’05 and 6, titled The Mt. Holly Sessions - a remarkable achievement in its own right - and embarked on tours both local and global.

Now Andy’s back, offering an unabashed masterpiece in his latest recording, Art is Shit.  By any estimation this is an epic, comprising 25 tracks in just over an hour.  The songs range from fractions of a minute (“Burn Barrel”, “Dutch Response 1568”) cycling through tunes of a minute or three (“Join the Great Majority”, “Love Song for Cigarettes”, “Albert”) upwards to arrangements of four and five (“Catching the Moon in a Mason Jar”, “Faith Heal’t”).  Across this spectrum Andy cuts a wide stylistic swath, armed with his trusty acoustic guitar and his busker gruff voice, supplemented with drums, keys, samples and even a xylophone, melding elements into a cohesive whole most musicians ruin entire careers in pursuit of.

It’s definitely acquired taste, and sure to offend the delicate sensibilities of most radio listeners, but to the punks and hipsters and rock n’ roll niggers of this banker burg, Andy could qualify as our very own leper messiah.  Although his language is at times coarse and his voice abrasive, that’s all part of the fun, and if you pay close enough attention there is no shortage to the nuggets of wisdom contained herein.  “Passion’s not enough to save the world,” Andy declares on his opener, “so fuck it, do you wanna buy some drugs instead?”  This is an affirmation.  This is a mission statement.  Andy’s strength lays in exposing not only the hypocrisy of a society that rejects his ilk, but the contradictions that litter his own life as well.  This is paramount to the joke Fenstermaker plays on his listeners: he makes punchlines of us all, but by including himself he becomes the most relatable, approachable, likeable freak at the ball.

To dissect the record track-by-track is a futile disservice to its brilliance.  While no pretentious “concept album” any further than it is a really fucking good record, the thing functions best as an inseparable whole.  In this attention deficit world, filled with IPods set to random and glib quotes substituting for insight, it’s too easy to fall into that trap of capsulation.  No, The Doorbum is something of a gold standard in his timelessness.  This could easily be music made by a 19th century coal miner or something.  It truly is a relic of a time unknown, possibly nonexistent.  It is a bizarre curiosity from a junk shop, an odd relic in the attic of a dead relative, something to be treasured and absorbed on a front porch or a dark bedroom or that aforementioned smoky bar.  Passion might not be enough to save the world, but music like this is enough to save your life.

Antony Hegarty has a gorgeous voice.  It’s hard to dispute.  While songs on his Mercury Prize winning album I Am a Bird Now were well crafted and deftly performed, its many guest stars lent an air of indie superstardom that slightly overpowered Antony’s exquisite vibrato and affecting poetry.  Not so on Antony and the Johnsons’ new EP Another World, a teaser for album proper The Crying Light, to be released in January.  If Another World is a proper indicator, The Crying Light should certainly be received as a timeless, essential record.

It opens with the title track, likened by some to John Lennon’s “Imagine”.  That’s a bit of a stretch.  Hegarty laments the things he’ll miss once he journeys to “another world”.  Where “Imagine” was a plea to the world, “Another World” is a hymn of individual passage.  Whether this signifies literal death or simply a change of environment is irrelevant.  The song’s melancholic melody delivers over a plaintive piano line and ambient recorder wisps, intimate and lonely, yet the simple, direct language builds a sense of raw hope that betrays the inherent sadness.  By end the listener feels a relief much like that which follows the funeral of a hated enemy, or the move away from a stifling hometown.

The EP’s centerpiece is “Shake That Devil”, a bit of sinister, inexorable empowerment.  Once again built on crucial dynamics, Antony insists “That Dog had his way with me, shake that Dog out of the tree” veritably a cappella against bare ambience, until a low voice intones the song’s title and the track takes off on a minimal, jazzy drumbeat.  Antony goes on to indict further characters in Bird and Pig, all three complete with their respective sins.  The verses repeat with slight variations and call-and-response background vocals, punctuated by avant garde saxophone fills.  It all builds to an abrupt climax, Anthony demanding, “Shake that Dog right out of me, that Dog.  That Dog”.  One is left pondering if these wicked animals are simply assorted demons Antony contains, or actual persons who have wronged him.  Or both.

The remaining three tracks, “Crackagen”, “Sing for Me” and “Hope Mountain” are all much alike aesthetically: pretty, soothing lullabies accompanied by circular arrangements.  That is not to suggest unimportance.  The sequence of the entire recording is masterful pacing, the songs informing one another with their sparsity, length.  While not as orchestral overall as the Johnsons’ debut or the more theatrical moments of I Am a Bird Now the tasteful flourishes render the whole thing a rewarding listening experience to return to again and again.  Let’s hope the subsequent LP is more of the same.

Dead Kennedys - "Advice from Christmas Past"
XTC - "Statue of Liberty"
Magazine - "Rhythm of Cruelty"
Public Image Ltd. - "FFF"
Gang of Four - "Damaged Goods"
Iggy Pop - "Tell Me a Story"
Magnetic Fields - "Fear of Trains"
Johnny Cash - "Sunday Morning Coming Down"
Imperial Teen - "Pig Latin"
Wire - "Outdoor Miner"
William S. Burroughs - "Words of Advice for Young People"
Daniel Johnston - "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on your Grievances"
Lou Reed - "Street Hassle"

I have an unhealthy obsession with this one particular Daniel Johnston song.  I'll tell you why: Cedric left the CD out, Yip/Jump Music, and although I've listened to it in passing I never paid it too close attention.  On a lark yesterday I picked up the case, and scanned the titles.  "Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Your Grievances", "Wow, what an amazing title for a song!" I thought.  9 times out of 10 when I am really struck by a title the actual song ends up disappointing me, so I immediately put the album on and checked out the tune.  Imagine my giddy surprise to find it is possibly one of the greatest songs ever.

Don't let the sun go down on your grievances
Respect love of the heart over lust of the flesh
Do yourself a favor: become your own savior
And don't let the sun go down on your grievances

Immediately I knew...this is one for the ages.  The sound of it isn't everyone's cup of tea, I know, but the songwriting itself is remarkable.  It shines through despite being poorly recorded in a basement on a cassette with only a toy organ for accompaniment.  But of course, I personally enjoy that homespun quality.

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I had a dream the other night; I was hanging out with Michael Stipe and Thom Yorke, who were dressed in colonial garb, and skipping down the street.  I said, "You two look like a couple of Victorian pansies,” at which they laughed and made exaggerated gestures of effeminacy.

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I was playing fetch with Gregory yesterday, and he ran into some brush and a twig poked him in the eye.  I flushed it with water, and it was fine for the rest of the day and night.  But this morning it was swollen almost shut, and he kept rubbing his paw over it.  I dropped him off at the vet who was going to try to look at it between appointments.  I'm afraid of how much it might cost. 

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I haven't been writing much here because I've been adjusting to newly single life.  We called it quits almost two weeks ago.  I'm still kind of down about it.  I've been drinking and smoking more because the only decent diversion I have is hanging out.  Drawing, music, nothing solitary really works (except reading, which I usually turn to when all else fails).  I don't know…I don't know.

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We've settled on a band name: Romantik Polanski, although I'm not sure on spelling romantic with a k just yet.