Revolution rock
I suggest you skip this. Nothing of essence here, but since your eyes are still impaled on these bloody paragraphs, then proceed if you must.
The year 2007 in music is like Daffy Duck with a hangover: deadbeat, despicable and yet capable of dazzling antics. It was a year of reunions. Sting put down his silly lute in order to play more interesting music with Andy Summers and Stewart Copeland. Only the people who lived during the Renaissance were disappointed. Even if Peter Gabriel didn’t want to don his fascinating fox, flower head and Britannia costumes again, the rest of Genesis reassembled and did mammoth tours in Europe. With Phil Collins on drums. I’m sure it was less of Supper’s Ready and more of Invisible Touch. Two-fourths of Smashing Pumpkins reunited, which was about as interesting as Zwan on tour. So did Crowded House. Talk about dreaming it isn’t over. The bad news is, the Spice Girls have reunited. The good news is, we are spared from more ghastly Spice Girl solo albums.
Robert Plant, Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones of Led Zeppelin will play alongside Jason Bonham (the son of the late great Bonzo) on Dec. 10 at London’s O2 Arena as a tribute to the late Atlantic boss Ahmet Ertegun. Tickets for the show were made available through an online lottery, and the result? According to MOJO magazine, “20 million hits crashed the website the same day it was launched.” Tsk, tsk, 20 million people vying for 20,000 seats. That’s like the number of people who’d want to ride the last rocket ship out of Earth if the planet were on its last gasp. Despite playing sloppily at Live Aid in 1985 and the Atlantic’s 40th anniversary in 1988, Led Zeppelin onstage is still something monstrously majestic, a must-see gig. Imagine being at O2 and watching the band revisit In the Light or Ten Years Gone or Tangerine. One journalist said, “There’d be a riot if they don’t play Stairway to Heaven.” Yes, it would be a highway to hell. I hope Puff Daddy doesn’t show up for a duet on Kashmir.
The rest of us mortals who won’t be watching Zep could just make do with the reissue of The Song Remains the Same on DVD. (And to watch lackluster foreign bands hustle through our shores, regurgitating past glories.)
Jordin Sparks was crowned American Idol, beating the guy who does sound effects like the dude in Police Academy. We heard Fergie tunes (without the rest of the Black Eyed Peas) and agreed her best work so far is not her Shakira impersonation but her role as zombie chow in Planet Terror. The hottest-selling product right now in the music industry is Gwen Stefani. In fact, you could practically see a bar code across her forehead.
A bunch of multi-millionaire rock stars and pop stars came together to warn us about global warming in the “Live Earth” gigs. The following day for most of them (not the ones who actually give a damn such as the Beastie Boys) involved a regimen of lattes, shopping for blings, Botox injections, private jet flights, Hummer joyrides, and Jacuzzi sessions in homes that consume the same amount of electrical power that could light up half of Ethiopia. (Reminds me of the South Park sketch wherein a moping Lars Ulrich can’t afford to build a new wing to his mansion and Britney Spears a new Boeing, having lost royalties due to Napster. How pitiful.) The “Live Earth” folks have a point, though: global warming concerns everyone — even those who own monolithic mansions in different parts of the world (or those who “don’t do stairs” or oblige promoters to make sure that everything in their dressing room is white — even M&Ms). There is no escape — unless they build a condo on the moon. Thus follow the obligatory feature on MTV Cribs.
While Paul McCartney and the Eagles altered the music consumerism structures by directly distributing albums through Starbucks and Wal-Mart, the guys from Radiohead gave theirs away online (months before they are slated to offer digital-pack versions on their website, as well as traditional CDs in record stores). You argue till the subterranean aliens come home about how revolutionary this move is. But the bottom line for me is that “In Rainbows” is still a brilliant album in whatever format. Nude recalls Jeff Buckley, Faust Art recalls weird ambient bands, and Bodysnatchers recalls Radiohead.
Britney Spears bared everything but good music. This is not the year the person that could stomach Kevin Federline’s rap album will be born. Not next year, not in 2009, not in 2020. Ever.
In our own neck of the woos, uh, woods, a female singer managed to make a killing once again by transforming pop and rock songs into bossa-nova tunes. Even something that utterly lacked bossa-nova soul like a Spice Girls song. What’s next? Slayer’s South of Heaven, Pantera’s Cowboy’s from Hell, or Metallica’s Master of Puppets sang in a faux-Astrud Gilberto style with an acoustic guitar drowned in Chorus? We shudder at the very thought. (That’s why I have more respect for Barbie Almalbis and Kitchie Nadal who sing mostly originals. That’s the point of the whole enterprise, isn’t it?)
Wait, there’s more. This diva did a Barry Manilow cover, that diva did a Claire Marlowe cover. The music videos even have the “First Seen” tag embossed upon them. First seen nga, hindi naman first heard. Isn’t it a waste of resources to make music videos for lazy revivals of ’70s and ’80s hits glossed over with slick R&B beats? What’s the point, anyway? Think of how many people in depressed areas that money could’ve fed. It’s different when bands such as Radioactive Sago Project and Kamikazee reinvent an Andrew E. or APO (or even an Ariel Rivera) song. You hear those hits played in a way you never dreamed of. Makes listening to the radio or watching music video channels exciting again.
A pop singer managed to abbreviate our National Anthem when he sang at the opening of a boxing match. The expression on his face as he flubbed the lyrics was priceless. A Kodak moment. Come to think of it, a grade one pupil could’ve done a better job. We Filipinos should hold Lupang Hinirang dearly, even sacredly. Our ancestors sang it during times when colonial rulers were breathing down their necks, when dictators wanted to milk our beloved republic dry, when they stare at our flag being hoisted up into the azure sky during dark, dark times. But most of us (including myself) take it for granted, as if we were singing something automatic like Happy Birthday, which is unfortunate since our DNA is stamped all over the lyrics of Lupang Hinirang. I think Mr. Pop Idol should stick with Breathe covers in the meantime.
And now for something completely different.
Radioactive Sago Project came out with its most cohesive album so far. Brilliant, brilliant CD with a killer title and a killer album-cover art. Lots of other interesting bands to watch. Sinosikat? has this great song to listen to just as when you make a comedown from all that drinking and staying awake for days. So Blue is one of the best OPM songs this year. I used to watch the singer, Kat Agarrado, perform with maestros Wally Gonzales and Dondi Ledesma two to three years ago. Through the fog brought on by beer, I saw Kat perform Janis Joplin and Juan Dela Cruz songs. Ayos. Altough I didn’t like it at all when she sang Lupang Hinirang in a past NU Rock Awards gig, I sure appreciate her now: more restrained, more soulful, and with all that sensuality. Another good band is Hilera. Up dharma Down and Paramita always come up with great performances. They’re the future of rock n’ roll in this country. And when I saw Lokomotiv drummer Wolf Gemora early this year he raved about a band called Kastigo — especially the female bass player who Wolf said could let things rip. Watch out for that band composed of singer Carlo Ordonez, guitarist Joshua Montecillo, drummer Mark Santiago and bassist Sans Fojas (they’re playing a gig tonight at Kublai’s Rock in Magallanes). To steal a line from The Who, these kids are alright.
More bossa nausea to rail against, more bands to rave about before we ride the silver spaceship out of here.
