Rubber City Review

LeBron, post-LeBacle

The Cavs crashed and burned, the team’s fragile chemistry in ruins. LeBron’s making noise about leaving town. The Indians can’t hold a lead, and Asdrubal Cabrera broke his arm diving for a ball. Meanwhile, in my mom’s hometown of Milledgeville, GA, world-class whackjob Ben Roethlisberger is doing his best General Sherman as he cuts a wide swath of destruction through the countryside.

And that’s just the bad news in the world of sports. The economy’s still in the crapper… Dan of The Black Keys is thinking about moving to Nashville (Pat’s already in NYC)… Oh, and HBO’s “Treme” still sucks, for the most part – even though the music is first-rate.

I got the blues, baby, and I got ‘em bad.

Of course, the best antidote is more blues – or maybe a little old-school soul or rock ‘n roll. Anything to get my mind off this sad state of affairs here in America’s heartbreak… I mean, heartland.

Now, I won’t weigh in on the many rumors swirling around the Cavs following yet another gut-wrenching postseason in Northeast Ohio. And I have no idea who will show up to play when the team gets back together later this year for training camp. But I can’t help but think that “the plan” LeBron keeps referring to is all about getting a Ring for the King, no matter where he plays. Meanwhile, the goal of bringing the next major sports championship to Cleveland remains as elusive as Lady Ga Ga’s good taste.

Future home of RCR

Lots of theories about where LeBron will end up. I’m guessing Cleveland is now a long shot, even though the Cavs built the Taj Mahal of training facilities only minutes away from LeBron’s Dubai-scale house, which is just down the road from a large architect’s model of Rubber City Review’s new world headquarters (at right: pending stimulus grant approval). One theory has him hooking up with Dwyane Wade and several other A-listers in Chicago, where they could bring back the glory days of Michael Jordan and Scotty Pippen. But I think the great bluesman Jimmy Reed knew all along where LeBron would land – so if you’re from Northeast Ohio, listen and weep… Jimmy Reed

Actually, at this point I’m sort of agnostic when it comes to LeBron and The Black Keys leaving town (in Dan’s case, it gives me another cool place to visit). But I’m also not sure how it would help advance their careers. We live in a world where some punk kid skyping in his bedroom in Duluth can become a global phenomenon. Why would anyone think that someone like LeBron needs a bigger stage to achieve his goal of world domination? Hell, he’s already there. Might as well stick it out in Akron, where livin’ is easy and people pretty much leave you alone. And besides, it’s easier to find a qualified contractor who can maintain a home that’s the size of a shopping mall.

The Tribe? I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over seeing them lose the ’97 Series – in extra innings of Game 7, no less – to this Frankenstein creation of a team from Florida. A team with absolutely no tradition. A team that was systematically dismantled the next year by its owner, like he dumped off a bunch of cats on someone’s farm after they killed all the rodents in his house. I was devastated. But I have to admit, I thought of this next song when I was sitting in a beach house in Captiva, watching Game 1 on TV with the snow falling in Cleveland… Muddy Waters

With Roethlisberger, I could take the easy way out and simply play “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” but there has to be a more appropriate song… one with a lot of big, dumb swagger – preferably by a band with a strong connection to the Deep South. Yeah, I got it right here. Just imagine this tune being reworked by that big-voiced blonde chick from American Idol. Whatever the hell her name is… Lynyrd Skynyrd

I can come up with a whole slew of songs about economic hardship. How Can a Poor Man Stand Such Times and Live, Money Honey, Depression Blues, All My Money Gone, Sidewalks of Chicago, Hard Times Killing Floor Blues… But I get tired of all that bitching about not having two nickels to rub together. In these times of short-selling scam artists and massive ponzi schemes, I want songs of retribution. I want to know that, even though my ill-conceived investments have tanked, some former Wall Street wunderkind is getting passed around federal prison like a joint at a jam-band concert. Time for a sermon from Rev. Scott H. Biram… Scott H. Biram

Then there’s “Treme,” which I already complained about a few posts ago. Fact is, even a half-baked show with great music is better than anything involving real (incredibly annoying) housewives or snotty rich kids from California.

So I’ll try to end on a more hopeful note. Here’s hoping that the Cavs rise from the ashes and the Indians rise above .500 and the South Rises Again and my bank account… well, you get the picture. But when everything seems to be swirling down the drain, the best way to lift my spirits is to play me some funky brass-band music – straight from a city that makes sports heartbreak seem trivial. Funky Liza/New Orleans Nightcrawlers

Everyone’s an expert… Dan and Pat of The Black Keys weigh in on LeBron and the miseries of Cleveland sports (starting at 1:25). Excuse the commercial at the beginning:

This article was first published as “Guilty Pleasures” on Blogcritics.org.

It’s all in the ear of the beholder, isn’t it? For a blues hound, a guilty pleasure might be ZZ Top. For a soccer mom, maybe it’s 50 Cent or Kanye West. If you’re a fan of New Orleans music, it might be a tune that Steve Zahn wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot Mardi Gras scepter (more on that later).

For me, it’s really quite simple… Given that some of my friends and family members are a little nutty about American roots music, it’s usually anything that would make these music snobs recoil in horror if I admitted that I own it, much less listen to it.

In the movie “Office Space,” a computer-programming Michael Bolton calls his more famous namesake an “ass-clown” – then tries to ingratiate himself with a couple of soulless consultants (the two Bobs) when he tells them that the other Bolton is “pretty good.” In one of the movie’s best moments, the first Bob then confesses, “I celebrate his entire catalog.” So basically, a guilty pleasure is like admitting you’re a bit of a Bob, or even worse.

Recently, I connected with an old friend from college (check him out here). We quickly shared notes on stuff we’ve been listening to – turns out both of us are addicted to Sixties jazz – then we started talking about albums we couldn’t do without back in the Seventies. It got even better when we compared our expansive playlists of songs from the era.

Both of us listed the obvious culprits – the Rolling Stones, Taj Mahal, Joni Mitchell, the Allman Brothers Band, the J. Geils Band, Bob Marley, Little Feat… then things started to get a little more debatable, with forays into blooze-rock limbo (Humble Pie, Foghat, Savoy Brown), prog-rock purgatory (Yes, Genesis, the Moody Blues), and glam-rock hell (David Bowie, Mott the Hoople, Roxy Music). Now I enjoyed listening to the latter dreck back in the day, just like any other self-respecting stoner. But it’s hard to slap on the Pie’s “Rockin’ the Fillmore” or Yes’ “Fragile” today without a healthy dose of ironic detachment – the old wink-nod, as they say. And god help the ass-clown who whips out “The Best of Bread.”

Most of my guilty pleasures probably fall more into the category of cocktail music, and I can probably blame college life for this too. Back when I was struggling to graduate from Ohio University (see post on “Guns, Drugs, Money and Vinyl…”), I fell in with a few misanthropes who had lost the will to rock – probably the result of spending countless hours during our teen years in front of huge banks of PA speakers, head-banging to the Pie. We were searching for more sedentary pleasures involving smoking jackets and cocktail dresses (from Goodwill, of course), mixing high-balls in front of the hi-fi, and slow-grooving to Frank and Dino.

Yeah, I know… it’s a tired cliché. But it worked for us at the time. And we somehow convinced ourselves that we weren’t turning into our parents, mainly by throwing a few contemporary artists into the mix. The clear favorite? Robert Palmer… blue-eyed soulman Robert Palmer, that is – not the guy who hit the jackpot on MTV with his backup band of supermodels. (About 20-some years ago, one’s preference regarding the two Palmers seemed like something worth arguing about… today, not so much.)

Anyway, Palmer put out a few albums in the Seventies that seemed to us like unabashed love letters to the cocktail culture – particularly “Pressure Drop” and “Double Fun.” Since then, I’ve discovered the obvious pleasures of reggae legend Toots Hibbert, which makes it even more difficult to listen to Palmer’s cover of the Maytals’ Pressure Drop. But some of the stuff on these records holds up surprisingly well, in an earnest, pseudo-soul kind of way. Just don’t toss out any Marvin Gaye to make room for it on your CD shelf.

As I grew older, I abandoned any pretense of being “relevant” and started celebrating the catalogs of other artists from the original cocktail set. And I’ll thank the movie “Big Night” for giving me a greater appreciation of Louis Prima (a New Orleans native) and his sultry sidekick, Keely Smith. The movie is really an extended riff on “Waiting for Louis.” In short, a hapless entrepreneur and his brother, a master Italian chef, bet that their fortunes will change when Prima pays a visit to their struggling restaurant (he never shows up, but the party goes on without him). It’s also a commentary on the age-old divide between elitists and “philistines,” as the chef – wonderfully played by Tony Shahloub – likes to call diners who don’t appreciate his carefully prepared seafood risotto.

I certainly was familiar with Louis Prima before I saw the movie. You had to be if you spent any amount of time in Akron’s North Hill or Cleveland’s Little Italy neighborhoods. But I used to think of him more as a jokey purveyor of novelty songs (Just a Gigolo, Angelina/Zooma Zooma), as opposed to a real player, with a first-rate band run by fellow Crescent City badass Sam Butera… Oh Marie/Louis Prima with Sam Butera

Louis Prima and snobbery – cultural, musical, culinary, you name it – are just two of many topics covered on “Treme,” HBO’s new series about post-Katrina New Orleans. I’m getting a little tired of the show’s constant trashing of tourists, the very people who help keep the city afloat. And I’m still hoping to find one character I actually like. But the music alone makes “Treme” worth watching. In one episode, an especially annoying DJ portrayed by Steve Zahn refuses to play any of the old warhorses – like Iko Iko or Walkin’ to New Orleans – during a fundraiser for his radio station (you’d be hard-pressed to find more self-righteous blowhards in one program). Instead, he sits back and savors the joys of a less-obvious choice, Prima’s Buena Sera: Buena Sera/Louis Prima

A nice moment, musically speaking – but not exactly what I’d call “sticking it to the man.”

There’s really no moral to my story, other than this: With a little time and the right context, one man’s garbage can turn into the same man’s gold. Or vice versa. And if you visit New Orleans, don’t be afraid to request Iko Iko.

At the risk of losing my mail-order degree in ethnomusicology (and your attention), I’ll leave you with a few more of my guilty pleasures:

• “Reggae Pulse 2 Hit Songs – Jamaican Style”: Reggae versions of Motown and soul hits like Just My Imagination, Ain’t No Sunshine and Papa Was A Rolling Stone… Beats the polka covers.
• Dolly Parton – Jolene: Honky-funk? Jolene
• Ramsey Lewis Trio – The “In” Crowd: It’s a real toe-tapper, daddy-o! The “In” Crowd
• Shakira: You had me at hola.
• Junior Brown – Venom Wearin’ Denim: Sometimes the name of the song is all you need.
• Dazz Band – Let It Whip: The Bucket Shop was Akron’s ultimate den of iniquity. When this song started playing at glass-shattering volume, you’d just blown right past the point of no return. Let It Whip
• Lou Reed – “New Sensations”: I’d never admit it to cousin Robert, who left Reed right before this album was recorded, but I’ve always had a soft spot for I Love You, Suzanne.
• Greg Allman – “Laid Back”: The Voice of Southern Rock croons over big, orchestral arrangements. This album was big in Milledgeville GA back in ’73… Maybe the locals had it right all along. Multi-Colored Lady
• Chris Isaak: because he steals from the right sources.
• Mahavishnu Orchestra – The Dance of Maya: Head-banging for nerds, in a time signature I couldn’t even begin to identify (a waltz, maybe?). The Dance of Maya
• Robert Gordon: Reheated rockabilly… But when your guitar players are Link Wray and Danny Gatton, who cares?

What are some of yours? If you prefer to send them anonymously, don’t worry… I’ll only share your true identity with a few friends and family members.