I was coming up with ideas for the follow-up to Elvis Costello Weekends and it occurred to me that if my CD collection and musical knowledge were sufficient, The Rolling Stones would be perfect candidates.
Here’s a band that often comes up in the same breath as The Beatles, who have written as many classic songs, and who have released three times as many albums. I’ve always fallen on The Beatles side of the old “Beatles or Stones” question, but there is no doubt that it’s a legitimate contest.
Here’s another of those acoustic demo tracks that stocked Elvis Costello’s CD reissues. ‘Running Out of Angles’ showed up among the bonus tracks of This Year’s Model.
I have a very clear memory of listening to this song on a late night drive from my apartment to my wife’s office (which was just a mile or two from the house). She was working as a night cops reporter, meaning her hours were something like 3 p.m. to midnight, and I’d often stop by to meet her on her dinner break.
I heard this song long before I heard it performed by Elvis Costello. In college, a friend’s band covered it in a very different arrangement (a little punk, a little Prince if I remember it correctly).
At the time I wondered where the guy had dug up this obscure Elvis Costello song. I had all of Costello’s albums by then and considered myself a serious fan, so it was weird to hear “new” material.
Music about music is pretty hit or miss. While many artists have had success writing about their experiences as professional musicians, just as many have come across as whiny and annoying.
Wilco made the bold move of writing an entire album — a double album, no less — about music with 1996’s Being There.
Frontman Jeff Tweedy wanted to write songs about his experiences both playing and listening to music and, despite the obvious dangers inherent in taking such a path, wound up crafting a superior album.
I’m the farthest thing from a Deadhead you can imagine. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a jam band. One of the reasons I don’t seek out more live music is the inevitable tendency for artists to stretch their songs to epic length while the crowd sways as if in a trance.
Screw that. I like songs. Get in, get out, don’t make it a second longer than it needs to be. Jam bands are public masturbators, and who needs to watch that?
That said, the Dead’s American Beauty is a damn fine album, one I revisited recently after not hearing it since college.
Meet Me In Montauk 