Rockers in the Kitchen

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You can relate to this.

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The night went by in a blur. The music was loud, the dancing pumped you, and the drinks just kept you moving. But after that last call for alcohol, and you were informed you didn’t have to go home, but you couldn’t stay there, it dawned on you that you were hungry. Any respectable restaurant had closed hours ago, but Denny’s or IHOP served breakfast 24 hours, and coffee sounded like a good idea at this point.

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For bar bands, rock journalists, and serious clubbers in general, those forays into the food stops that never close were an essential component of survival. Every once in a great while, though, you’d run into somebody who wasn’t ready to throw in the towel yet, and an impromptu dinner party of sorts would happen at someone’s apartment. The snacks would be, well, interesting, but they beat the hell out of the obligatory 4AM pancake breakfast. Of course, they were on the fly recipes, lost forever once the sun was high in the sky.

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All of this brings me to I Like Food, Food Tastes Good: In the Kitchen with Your Favorite Bands, perhaps one of the most essential cookbooks ever written. Okay, that may be stretching a point just a bit, but it’s far and away the most entertaining cookbook ever written. You’re not going to find nutritional information or calorie counts here — you’re usually not going to find precise measurements for ingredients (as if anybody follows them anyway). What it may lack in precision, I Like Food more than makes up for in verve, though.

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What author (and music/food/travel journalist) Kara Zuaro has accomplished here is really quite amazing, given that her contributors are all indie-rock musicians — over 100, in fact — bound together by their common fondness for food. We’re talking base instinct fondness for food here — these guys are on the road much of the time, and there’s only so much fast food the palate can tolerate before the brain gets creative. And as this book demonstrates, hungry musicians can be dangerous when they get creative in the kitchen.

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Actually, there are some good recipes here, ranging from the purely survivalist to the surprisingly epicurean. The breakfast section, for example, admonishes the reader to first ask, ”How drunk am I?” before taking on some of the more involved menus. Matt Cherry’s southern cheese grits are a safe bet. Silkworm’s cheesy sleazy also is a good bit to forestall an impending hangover, and it doesn’t require precision, calling as it does, for “an onion, some red or green peppers ... and sausage and some other stuff to throw in there, if you’ve got it.”At the other end of the spectrum, Violent Femmes offer up a wild boar ragu, and Rahim’s drummer Phil Sutton shares a recipe for sauerbraten that he inherited from his dad. For more pedestrian tastes, Aloha shares a quick and simple fried chicken with biscuits and gravy. There’s also a section devoted to vegans, with such offerings as Vicki Pilato’s baked barbecue tofu and a very good eggplant parmesan, courtesy Houston McCoy.

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There are sections devoted to sandwiches, soups, desserts, and, of course, drinks. And while the majority of these are no-brainers, there are a few jewels. I never knew that sake and root beer complement each other, or that Tang serves as a perfect mixer for either Absolut or Jack Daniels. I seriously doubt I’ll try Death Cab for Cutie’s veggie sausage and peanut butter sandwich, though — at least not without having consumed one or two of those Tang highballs.

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In all seriousness, I Like Food, Food Tastes Good is an interesting compendium of recipes not likely to be recommended by the Food Channel or Martha Stewart. That’s not really the point of this book. It does give you an idea what humans can come up with in desperate road conditions, when money’s tight and Burger King just isn’t going to cut it. All the recipes are written by the band contributors themselves, and appear unedited. Some of them are actually quite tasty, while others I’ll leave to braver souls than myself.

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If nothing else, I Like Food, Food Tastes Good finally explains why rock and roll will never die. It may get a hangover, it may get indigestion, it may even pack on a few pounds here and there. But as long as it maintains its unruliness in the kitchen the same way it does on stage, it will outlast anything that dares challenge it. In the kitchen, as on the stage, the first rule is there are no rules.

The Circuitous Journey of Circle of Iron

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Let’s begin with what the newly remastered, two-disc “kick ass” edition of 1978’s Circle of Iron is not. Despite the promo blurb, there is very little “kick ass” about this film. It has its moments, but if you’re expecting nonstop martial arts action, you’ll be sorely disappointed. If, on the other hand, you think this film might give you some insight into Taoism, you’ll end up with a few kernels of SoCal pop Zen that might leave you amused, but hardly enlightened.

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Once those two minor issues are dismissed, Circle of Iron (aka The Silent Flute) is an enjoyable, if simplistic parable, best regarded as a guilty pleasure. The protagonist of the film, Cord the Seeker (Jeff Cooper), is a headstrong, undisciplined fighter on an unsanctioned quest to find the Book of All Knowledge, guarded by the wizard Zetan (Christopher Lee). As is usually the case with quests, Cord’s journey to enlightenment is fraught with challenges and perils, all borne, in one form or another, of the trappings of his own ego. It’s sort of Siddhartha meets TV’s Kung Fu.

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Despite its shortcomings, Circle of Iron offers some interesting performances, most notably those by David Carradine, who shines in four separate roles. As Blind Man, he’s an extension of his Caine role, older, perhaps more jaded, but even more predisposed to fortune-cookie bits of wisdom. His portrayal of Changsha, chieftain of a nomadic tribe (who apparently got their clothes from whatever happened to be available in the costuming department), is equal parts greasy biker and crown jester. He’s unrecognizable as Monkey Man, leader of a half-simian, half-human race who are the first line of defense against those who would take the Book of All Knowledge. Here, as in his brief appearance as Death the Panther, his performance relies more on his background in dance than in martial arts.

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Jeff Cooper, who would go on to a stellar, if short-lived career as a Dallas bit player, doesn’t fare so well as Cord. Looking like a cross between a surfer dude and Beastmaster, he romps through his quest with a “whatever, dude” emotional range. Even when he finds his lover from the night before (Erica Creer) crucified the next morning, he can only muster a grim expression before sallying forth on his search for the damn Book.

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Shot in some gorgeous, remote locations in Israel, Circle of Iron manages to evoke an otherwordly atmosphere befitting the nature of the story. Cameo performances by Eli Wallach, Roddy McDowell, and Christopher Lee also save the movie from complete mediocrity.What’s most fascinating about Circle of Iron, though, is the circuitous journey it made from concept to “product.” It was originally penned by the then relatively unknown Bruce Lee, along with James Coburn and Stirling Silliphant, back in the late sixties. Lee at the time was known to American audiences as the Green Hornet’s sidekick, Kato, and he desperately wanted to break into mainstream films. He had an idea for a film, which he called “The Silent Flute,” that he thought might not only propel him to stardom, but would also promote his own vision of Zen and Martial Arts. James Coburn and Sterling Silliphant, both Hollywood names and both students of Lee, helped him flesh out his idea into a script — well, actually, more a treatment, since it was only seventy pages long.

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To make a very long story short, the project stalled for years. Lee was passed over for the lead role (which went to David Carradine) in the Kung Fu TV series because he was too Asian, and departed to Hong Kong, where he became the ultimate action star. Perhaps embittered when he returned to the States, he was no longer interested in the project. He died under still mysterious circumstances in 1973, and in death, he achieved superstar status. Suddenly, his forgotten project was a hot commodity. Five years later, The Silent Flute, now titled the focus group-approved Circle of Iron was released.

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All of this is detailed in this two-disc edition via interviews and commentary with and by the principals. Most informative of these is the interview with Carradine, who considers it his best work, but sidesteps the irony of how he took a role intended for Lee not once, but twice. Besides the interviews, obligatory theatrical trailers and assorted miscellany, this edition also includes the original treatment by Lee and cohorts, reproduced in DVD-ROM, down to the typewritten page. The audio and video reproduction on this widescreen edition are nothing short of superb.

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Circle of Iron, for all its flaws, remains a cult classic. This is a set that is worthy addition to any student of film history. It’s a so-so action film, but the extras provide a glimpse into the machinations of moviemaking, and how compromise rules in Hollywood.

Sandinista Rides Again

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It’s not like the world really needs another tribute album. There are already hundreds out there, running the gamut from the obvious (like the Beatles or Hank Williams) to the asinine (like string quartet renditions of Evanescence.) Still, the idea of an album recreating the Clash’s Sandinista! is outrageous enough to pique a perverse curiosity. It certainly wasn’t their most cohesive effort, rambling as it did through a myriad of musical styles. What it may have lacked in focus, however, Sandinista! stands alone as the Clash’s most audacious album.

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It makes sense, then, that The Sandinista Project would be equally audacious in its attempt to recreate the original work’s 36 tracks, using almost that many artists, interpreting them in often unexpected styles. Certainly not an album for Clash purists, TSP often draws its inspiration more from Appalachia than Kingston, and at least as much from the honky-tonk as the disco. What rock journalist turned producer Jimmy Guteman and the diverse assemblage of musicians represented here have done is taken the original album’s material and placed it in a present-day context.

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Think of it as a renovation project of sorts.The world is a much different place (at least, superficially) now than when the Clash released Sandinista! in the dying days of 1980, but the themes they expressed on the album are as relevant now — if not more so — as they were when 1984 loomed on the horizon of uncertainty. It’s only the context that’s changed. So when Jason Ringenberg and Kristi Rose take “Ivan Meets GI Joe” out of a frenetic London disco and have them face off in an East Texas honky-tonk, it’s not only amusing, but somehow more relevant - we get two over-the-hill adversaries in a beer-soaked bar fight. Likewise, Ruby on the Vine’s rendition of “Rebel Waltz” conjures up images of American warriors fighting grimly against hopeless odds, just as the Coal Porters’ version of “Something About England” brings it home to the mines of Kentucky, rendered in a purely bluegrass idiom.

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While TSP often transports the original album from reggae and dub to acoustic bluegrass and country, it explores other translations as well, with somewhat mixed results. The new version of “One More Time/One More Dub,” featuring swirling guitar runs by Voidoid alumnus Ivan Julian and spectral vocals by Iranian-born Halle, is a haunting soundscape of Middle Eastern beats melded to psychedelic trappings. Ethan Allen brings a sleazy back alley feel to “Corner Soul,” evoking a B-movie noir feel to the material. On the other hand, the Lothars’ theramin-inspired rendering of “The Call Up” merely sounds cold and robotic. The least said about Stew’s “Broadway” cover, the better - it would have been a bad disco song in 1977, and it certainly doesn’t fare well in 2007.

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Even though much of TSP consists of radical rethinkings of the source material, there are some nearly spot-on covers here. ”The Magnificent Seven,” as performed by Joe Grushecky and the Houserockers, opens the album, and more or less evokes the spirit of the original’s white boy rap. Sadly, Camper Van Beethoven could have called in their version of “Kingston Advice.” Willie Nile’s scorching cover of “Police On My Back,” however, reminds you why the Clash were the “only band that matters,” at least in 1980.

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The Sandinista Project has its flaws, just as its namesake did. Labors of love are like that. Where Guteman and the various artists succeeded here is in their passion for the project. In many ways, it’s as experimental as its source material, and in that regard, they’ve done the Clash proud.

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(I should note here profits from the album’s sales are split between two charities - Amnesty International, and the Joe Strummer Memorial Forest, which is a division of Future Forests, an organization fighting global warming.)

Questions of Life and Death

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Cynthia Tello is a Los Angeles-based artist whose work is not defined by boundaries. There’s a sort of dark whimsy about her art, especially in her current collection, “Life and Death.” In it, she juxtaposes X-ray images of the human skeletal form with imagery of insects, birds, and plant life, essentially creating a stark yet moving tableau that comments on the universal cycles of life.
What makes it even more remarkable is that these pieces are presented on what Tello calls “movable canvases”. Working with French fashion designers Philipe Naouri and Alex Caugant, best known for their Antik Denim clothing line, she has created an exhibition of “wearable art” with the Life and Death line of clothing. It’s been embraced by rock and rap celebrities alike, and is available at upscale stores like Neiman-Marcus and Saks Fifth Avenue. We recently spoke with Ms. Tello about the Life and Death collection, her approach to her work and her plans for the future.

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How does the collaboration between you, and Philipe Naori and Alexander Caugant work? Are the pieces geared to your design, or vice versa? Or does your art work independently of the clothes?

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When we create a collection we always come up with a theme first, so that we feed off each other when choosing the color palettes, the fabrics, and our silhouettes. The artwork then enhances the original concept, almost like a symphony performed by different instruments to create a harmony. The L&D designs seem to me very organic in the way they fuse various elements of biology and botany into a cohesive whole. Is there a conscious effort on your part to make a social or environmental statement with these designs? Absolutely. As an artist it is almost inpossible not to react to our environment. I've always tried to evoke emotions from my work; with L&D, I got the freedom to explore the evolution of life and contrast it with the dark concepts that are associated with death. It is hard not to react to the social problems around us. We are very passionate about the ideas we put out there — we even want to incorporate environmentally friendly concepts into our upcoming collections. We feel it is our responsibility to raise awareness of our tendency as human beings to unconsciously destroy ourselves.

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Your mother worked as a Disney illustrator. Now while there is an eerie element to your art, it also has a sense of whimsy about it. How did growing up around animation influence your own sense of wonder?

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The influence comes in the quality of my linework. The way I sketch and layer my drawings stems from the early principles of animation passed down to me by my mother. Perspective, positive and negative, composition were second nature to me by the time I went to art school. My need to tell a story with each line also comes from these principles, almost like a dark fairytale, with a beginning, a middle, and an end.

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There's no denying that fashion, film, and music share a symbioticrelationship in the fabric of pop culture. From your perspective, at what point do they intersect, and how does that play into how we view ourselves as a society overall?

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There is no doubt about it. Society has the need to be constantly surrounded by beauty and entertainment. It is only the mixture of all three that can satisfy our very demanding needs. I like to remain an outsider, observing its transitions and absorbing what I can to inspire me. I like things that are unique and sometimes bizarre, dark, and almost ugly, which is not considered very popular. I find comfort in that.

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Right now the L&D line is available in upscale chains like Saks and Bloomingdales. But you're also expanding into online venues. In what ways do you see online marketing altering the accessibility of fashion design?

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I am a product of the Internet generation. I like the idea of making the line available to a variety of customers. It's important to give people the chance to see, learn more about the line so they can identify with it.

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I understand you see L&D as more of a lifestyle brand than a fashion line. Could you elaborate on how that will evolve and what that ultimately means?

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Our first step will be to make a sports line. It's something I've always wanted to do. We will start with the clothing and hopefully progress into sports gear like skateboards and snowboards. We all have different passions we would like to explore with Life and Death. Alex loves the idea of making home furnishings to give costumers an edgy and dark option to decorating interiors. We are also in the process of starting our accessory line, which i would like to expand into fragrance and beauty products and incorporate unusual colors and scents.

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Beyond L&D, what themes do you want to explore with your art in the future?

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I try to give a new approach to the artwork with every collection by exploring different types of media. Right now I am experimenting with photography for our holliday collection, and we have talked about perhaps doing limited hand-painted items for stores like Maxfield and h. Lorenzo, which used to sell my hand-painted vintage jackets from the Great China Wall. Eventually I would like to try to do costume design for a motion picture, to see my creations have life on the screen.

And the New American Idol Is. . .

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For two hours tonight, time will stand still. There will be no random crime, no political debates, no chaotic weather. The planets will realign in perfect harmony. Even that giant killer asteroid hurtling towards Earth will momentarily alter its course.Only one event could have that sort of global impact. Tonight we hold our collective breath as the fate of Blake and Jordin is revealed, and the reign of the new American Idol begins.

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I realize some of you may be previously committed to pressing engagements, and I know how heavily this must weigh on your shoulders. It’s okay, really. I feel your pain. They set you up for disappointment last night, pitting the “better performer” (Blake) against the “better singer” (Jordin), as if the two were mutually exclusive terms. They billed it as a showdown, and presented it as a singing version of a WWE spectacle. And then, as if we hadn’t been battered enough, they had to offer proof that all AI contestants are winners. To prove it, they paraded the ultimate poseur, Daughtry, on stage. (I’m unclear if that’s what he calls his ~ahem~ band, or if he just got too cool to use his first name.)

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It was at that moment that my damn epiphany swept over me. For all its posturings, American Idol was never about fulfilling dreams. It’s about crushing them. Even worse, it makes us gleefully watch as the no-talents, the lesser talents, and even the really good talents are cut down like chaff. Seeing them fall makes us feel better about our own shortcomings. And when our favorites make it through the ranks, thanks to the “power” of our votes, we feel like we actually call the shots in where our world is headed.

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What it gets us is a prefab version of pop culture, where “performer” and “singer” are mutually exclusive terms, and where “rockers” are transformed into manufactured charlatans, replete with choreographed guitarists and perfect eighties-era leather pants.Once I got over my epiphany, I focused on tonight’s momentous occasion, and my mission to save would-be viewers from mass suicide.

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Here’s who will win. Jourdin will take it, and this is why.

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As I’ve said before, I believe the voting block consists primarily of teenage girls, mainly because teenage guys don’t have that much of an attention span, and adults have more pressing matters to attend to than voting on singing competitions. The reason Blake and Jordin are the only ones left standing has less to do with their talents (as good as both of them are), and more to do with how they resonate with that block. Both performers have personalities that teenyboppers think are — well, way cool.

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But it’s down to the wire now, and with the attendant publicity surrounding the finale, the voting block has shifted and expanded. That effectively seals Blake’s fate. His performances last night proved him to be a one trick pony. The beatbox vocals are cool, up to a limit, but they certainly are not enough to make a career. His Maroon Five impression is nothing more than that, and he doesn’t have the range to pull off a ballad. He’ll have a chart-topping album out of it, and then he’ll be quickly forgotten.

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Jordin, on the other hand, has what the labels want. She’s young, but she sings well beyond her years. She has a well-scrubbed look, the sort that can evolve over a career (hopefully more Joss Stone than Whitney Houston), and, dammit, the girl’s got chops! She’s taken everything they’ve thrown at her, and she’s never failed to deliver a performance.In the end, the voters will identify more with Jordin than Blake — she’s the fairytale ending they want. With all that in mind, the American Idol title this season goes to Jordin. I just hope she wears it well.

American Idol: Why So Surprised?

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It’s down to Jordin and Blake now, and America appears to be collectively aghast about Melinda going home. I’m hardly aghast, but I am a bit surprised so few people saw it coming. There was no way Melinda Dolittle was going to be the next American Idol. Sure, she can sing, but as much as Simon likes to refer to the show as a “singing competition”, it’s hardly that cut and dried.

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Video killed the radio star over 25 years ago, and from a visual standpoint, Melinda was... well, mundane. No matter how she belted out the vocals, she was never able to project a visual presence. Had she thrown her shoulders back a bit and ditched that “I’m not worthy” facial expression, she might have had a chance. But I doubt it. AI is all about the youth factor, and at 29, she was, sadly, too old for the 18-24 demographic.It’s that demographic, coupled with my sneaking suspicion that the voting audience is largely female, that made it obvious to me that Melinda would be leaving.

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Chicks dig Blake. His beatbox style resonates with teenyboppers. He has that bad boy aura, but he’s a guy they could take home to mom. The problem is, a ‘hood ‘tude quickly wears thin without something to back it up. Suburban white boys rarely have it. On the other hand, Sir Mix-A-Lot has given Blake his blessing. And when a one hit wonder from the early nineties endorses you, that has to be a good sign, right?

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Not necessarily. Seventeen-year-old Jordin has a certain post-adolescent gawkiness that’s endearing to the audience, and especially endearing to that teenage voting block I mentioned earlier. Plus, she can actually sing. Despite Simon’s occasional admonitions that she’s choosing songs “too old” for her age, the fact remains she pulls them off by virtue of her phrasings and the sheer power of her voice. More importantly, she knows how to emanate a presence. Add to that equation the fact that she’s young enough to be molded into whatever persona the labels desire at any given whim, and she has to be the odds on favorite.

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That said, it’s still anybody’s guess. No matter how it goes down, nobody really loses on American Idol — except perhaps the viewers who thought they held the future course of pop culture in their hands by virtue of their vote. It will all be forgotten by the time next season rolls around. Ask Taylor Hicks.The truth is, American Idol has always been a sleight of hand con game. Melinda, Jordin, and Blake will all have their moment in the sun. So will the almost-rans. They’ll all have a nice little run on VH1 (aka the American Idols Rejects channel), but they’ll add nothing of substance to the fabric of pop culture. It doesn’t matter. We’ll be back next season for another round of bread and circuses. So will Simon, Randy, and Paula, all looking even more disinterested than they did this season. And once more, the viewing audience will choose yet another American Idol.

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God help us all.

When a Sequel Isn't a Sequal. . .Exactly

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Fay Grim is a fascinating movie, albeit not always for the right reasons. Ostensibly a sequel to 1998’s acclaimed Henry Fool, Fay Grim works more as a cross between the Bourne movies and The Girl from U.N.C.L.E. As a result, it can be maddening at times, leaving us to wonder if it’s intended as farce, espionage thriller, social parable, or a combination of all three.

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Writer/director Hal Hartley picks up the story ten years after the events of Henry Fool in a deceptively pedestrian way. The characters from the original film return intact, if a bit altered. Henry is presumed to be living in Sweden, Fay (Parker Posey) is trying to raise their now adolescent son Ned (Liam Aiken) in Queens, and her brother, the Nobel Prize-winning poet Simon Grim (James Urbaniak), is doing time for aiding and abetting Henry’s flight from prosecution on a murder charge. It’s typical suburban mayhem until CIA agent Fulbright (Jeff Goldblum) comes visiting one day, and informs Fay that Henry wasn’t what he appeared to be, and that his unpublishable “Confessions” are actually encoded texts with enough information to destabilize several governments.

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From there, things get a bit convoluted. After negotiating Simon’s release from prison, Fay is sent to Paris by the CIA to retrieve the notebooks. Other governments want them, too — the Israelis, the French, the Pakistanis, and though it’s never clear how damaging these notebooks could be in the wrong hands, Fay finds herself at the center of an international web of intrigue. The story often borders on the ridiculous, but manages to keep us poised at the precipice of disbelief.

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Shot in high def video, and on a shoestring budget, Fay Grim is in some ways reminiscent of the low-key espionage thrillers of the sixties. Hartley’s use of off-kilter camera angles (in almost every frame) heightens that sense of tension, in counterpoint to the otherwise deadpan pacing of the film. But it’s the inimitable Parker Posey in the title role who ultimately makes the film work. Her portrayal of Fay is a fascinating character study in self-awareness.When we first meet Fay, she’s a single mom with a moody adolescent son, trying to hold things together, depending on her brother’s royalty checks to make ends meet. Even at that, she confronts potentially adversarial situations with a blasé attitude. Nothing fazes her in that regard — an attitude that serves her well as she gradually evolves into a woman of international sophistication. In fact, the only moment she becomes visibly flustered involves a scene in which her cell phone, set to “vibrate”, rings at an inopportune time.

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As much as Fay Grim is a satire on the paranoia of the 21st century political mindset, it’s ultimately about a woman’s journey to discover her potential. Every action Fay takes, especially when she’s following directives, has unforeseen repercussions. It’s only when she takes matters into her own hands that she becomes a fully realized character. Given the somewhat cliffhanger nature of the ending, Fay remains a work in progress.

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Hartley has said he envisions Fay Grim as the second part of the Henry Fool trilogy. Let’s hope he doesn’t wait another decade before filming the final installment. For all its faults, Fay Grim remains a testament to the power of the independent film, proving mega-budgets do not necessarily a good film make.

One Last "24"Theory Before the Season Ends

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The more I think about, the more I think my superfluous theory that Mike Doyle might replace Jack Bauer as 24's action man, taking orders from Bauer as CTU director, the more I think it might happen. A worse scenario would have Doyle playing Robin to Bauer's Batman. Either way, I have no doubt the Doyle character will play a more prominent role in Day Seven. The producers of the series said earlier this week that there will be changes next season, but kept mum regarding any details. We do know 24 is going to go at least another two seasons, and it's obvious, after watching Day 6, it's in dire need of some retooling.

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Day Six has two hours left for Bauer to save his nephew, kill all the bad guys, find some sort of closure with Audrey and save civilization as we know it from annihilation. Of course, he'll do it, with at least ten minutes to spare, just enough time for the denouement and the teaser for Day Seven. If it goes anything like the rest of Day Six, it's going to defy any semblance of logic. FOX promises an ending that's totally unexpected, though.

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Maybe the lack of logic this season is the key to Day Six. From the moment the Chinese released Bauer to CTU, nothing has rung true. Maybe there's a reason for that. What if this is all happening in Bauer's mind? What if the reality is he's still in that Chinese prison, being fed all kinds of psycho-meds in an attempt to break him? That would explain a lot of plot inconsistencies. There are a lot of Freudian things going on, too — Bauer's father, brother, nephew, even Doyle — are all different faces of Bauer.

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Could it be? Naaah. I don't for a second think this is how the writers are going to paint themselves out of this corner. Besides, it would shoot my whole Mike Doyle theory out of the water.

When Sly Stone Took a "Stand!"

Some things are simply not open for discussion. Debating the merits of Sly and the Family Stone’s groundbreaking Stand! is one of them. When it was released 38 years ago, America was embroiled in an unwinnable war, racial tensions were high, governmental corruption was rampant, the voices of change were wafting in the breeze and it seemed the world was about to blow at any moment.
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Wait! That’s 2007—my bad.
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“Political correctness”—a term that’s never made any sense to me—had yet to be coined in 1969. If it had been, I have to wonder if Stand! would have been released, at least in its original form. Let’s face it—if the song had been called “Don’t Call Me the N Word, Person of Caucasian Persuasion,” it just wouldn’t have resonated with the same impact.
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It wasn’t that they were going for shock value back in the day of Sly and the Family Stone. It was more a matter of understanding that in order to ultimately defeat an evil, it’s sometimes necessary to attack it unafraid. With Stand!, the band released a manifesto of peace and understanding whose message is every bit as important today as it was in 1969.

It’s like this: Stand! is probably the most life-affirming album to emerge from the sixties. Its message was simple: rise above whatever life throws at you. A line like “there’s a midget standing tall/ and the giant beside him about to fall” (from the title track) pays homage to the underdog in all of us. “Don’t Call Me Nigger, Whitey” was among the first songs to tackle festering race relations, and did so in such a darkly satirical way, accentuated with vocoders and anguished beats, that it rendered racial slurs utterly impotent. It wasn’t an angry song so much as it was a more aggressive version of the band’s constant cry against discrimination from any quarter. Next to it, “Everyday People” seems almost contrite, though certainly no less heartfelt. The constant in almost all the songs here rings of self-determination, most obviously in “You Can Make It If You Try.”
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Sly and the Family Stone walked the walk they talked. They were racially and sexually integrated at a time when it was unheard of among touring bands. Women weren’t relegated to just vocals—they were playing instruments with the guys, black and white, jamming together in a psychedelic soul show the likes of which had never been heard before. It was a new sound that mixed soul, James Brown proto-funk, acid rock, gospel and blues, stirred it all together, and invented a recipe that shaped the face of funk’
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On Stand!, they pretty much laid the groundwork for funk as we know it today. “I Want to Take You Higher” and “Sing a Simple Song” are powerhouse raves, replete with shoutouts, symbiotic polyrhythms, slap bass and primal beats that still make the blood race and the feet stomp. People took notice, from Clive Davis to George Clinton, and a new genre was born. They called it “psychedelic soul” then, and every body from the Isley Brothers to Diana Ross and the Supremes wanted a piece of that new sound. I think it’s safe to say that Parliament and Funkadelic, not to mention the various incarnation’s of Prince, would have been very different acts had it non been for the influence of Sly and the Family Stone.
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Drugs and internal conflicts are usually blamed for the dissolution of the band’s decline and dissolution a few years after the release of Stand!. There’s probably some truth in that, but I think deeper issues were at play, too. The muse of creativity is fickle, and frequently peaks early. Orson Welles, though he had a lengthy career, was never able to top his early triumph Citizen Kane. With Stand!, Sly and the Family Stone mad the perfect album at the precisely perfect time. That’s hard to replicate, much less surpass.

Whatever frustrations or addictions led to the band’s demise aren’t nearly as important as what they accomplished with this album. They took a chance and embraced their convictions, and they did it in such a damn funky way, we just had to listen. You don’t get that kind of daring often, and certainly not in our walking on eggshells world today. But that’s why Stand! endures as one of the all-time most important rock albums ever, and it’s why Sly and the Family Stone will always be remembered as one of the great bands.

The Deeper Tones of Peace

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Perhaps it’s indicative of the global climate in which we labor that the mere mention of the word “peace” elicits a spectrum of emotions, from tranquility to rage. We throw the word around, using it in conjunction with “victory” or “surrender”, as if one had anything to do with the other. In the process, we’ve almost succeeded in rendering the word “peace” another casualty in our headlong march to a politically correct, colorless world.

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That’s partly why Santana: Hymns for Peace, Live At Montreux 2004 is one of the most engaging live performances to be released on DVD this year. At first glance, the title is a bit of a misnomer, since this is a concert that is anything but somber. This is a celebration of peace as it applies to the universal healing power of music. There’s no overt political agenda here—it’s more a cleansing of the soul, and the inevitable party that ensues as a result.And what a party it is.

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Carlos Santana had been planning this since 1988, when he and sax master Wayne Shorter found themselves touring with the Miles Davis Band. They began to envision a tour that would also include Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea and other musicians who envisioned a world of shared cooperation and aspirations on a global level. It would be 2004 before the dream was realized. Miles Davis had passed on, but Santana still clinged to his dream. So when Montreux Jazz Festival organizer Claude Nobs, gave him free reign to do what he wanted at the Jazz Festival in 2004, the dream reached fruition.

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On 15 July 2004, Santana and a few of his friends played a concert that redefined live performances. It lasted for over three hours, and watching it even now, the mind boggles at how tight it is. First, there is Santana’s band itself, a formidable lineup that works seamlessly between Latin, African, jazz and soul rhythms, augmented by the vocals of Andy Vargas. They’re the backbone of all the performances in the concert, with Santana’s inimitable guitar stylings providing a unique flavor to all the proceedings.Had it only been Santana and his band performing, it would have been a memorable show.

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But this was designed to be an event celebrating peace and freedom, as interpreted through music. The tour wouldn’t happen, but they could deliver the inherent message in one show. To that end, Santana’s band was augmented by a number of guests of legendary status—Wayne Shorter on sax, Herbie Hancock on keyboards, John McClaughlin on guitar—and that was only for the warm-up piece. Within minutes, they’re joined by a stellar array of luminaries such as Ravi Coltrane, lending his sax as counterpoint to Shorter’s phrasings, and Chick Corea melding his Fender Rhodes seamlessly with Hancock’s keyboard stylings.

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What’s most amazing about this DVD is how it transports the viewer into the spirit of that night. One by one, guest performers join the lineup, their enthusiasm for the message obvious by sheer virtue of their delivery. Angelique Kidjo’s Afro-jazz vocals are complimented by the soul-laced renderings of Patti Austin and Barbara Morrison, with Chic singer Sylver Sharp adding a dose of funk to what is an incredibly silky female vocal ensemble. Before it’s all done, Steve Winwood and rapper Sam Totah (who leads the performers in a fiery hip-hop infused version of “Give Peace A Chance”) have joined the stage. It’s not so much a concert as it is one glorious jam session.

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Given the context of the show, it’s not surprising that some of the songs have vaguely political overtones: i.e. Bob Marley’s “Get Up Stand Up” and Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On”, but they’re performed in such a celebratory way that they become testaments to the enduring power of the human spirit. In fact, the entire show succeeds in doing what it sets out to do—it celebrates the universality of inner peace as a means of world salvation. The fact that it rocks nonstop for three hours doesn’t hurt one bit.