The duo’s latest album, “As Far as Yesterday Goes,” continues the Beatles-esque harmonies cemented on their debut disc, “She’s About to Cross My Mind.”

The new disc remains retro down to its fab cover photo, a glimpse of a mod harpist playing in a field of honey-wheat grass. But there’s nothing moldy about the melodies spread across this luminous 12-track release.

The Red Button’s Mike Ruekberg and Seth Swirsky share lead vocal duties once more, with the latter’s voice the silkier of the two. Ruekberg’s gentle rasp comes in handy on the opening track, “Caught in the Middle.” A harmonica blast sets things in motion as Ruekberg recalls a stunner with two many male options, much to the narrator‘s chagrin.

“Picture,” arguably the album’s emotional peak, recalls how a forgotten snapshots triggers remorse over a romance all but over. A cautious piano opening gives way to Swirsky pining for one last chance.

“I thought of all the things I never got to say… I had words but I lost ‘em,” he sings, regret and reality burnishing the moment.

Some songs jump off the disk, like a giddy portrait of romantic angst called “I Can’t Forget.” The beauty of Button’s best tracks lies in their stubbornness. You’ll be humming “I Can’t Forget‘s” chorus seconds after it roars out of your speakers, but you’ll need to hear it over and again to suss out its audio delights. Credit the duo’s lush production that make every listen a fresh experience. The Red Button knows exactly where to deposit a sugary backing vocal or perfectly attenuated guitar riff.

“Girl, Don’t” plays out in conventional fashion, lulling you toward a paint by numbers finale that never arrives. Ruekberg and Swirksy ditch expectations with a fade away plea for a reunion that will never be.

“Sandreen” shakes up the duo’s musical palette, nudging the album into the early 1970s. An insistent bass line sets up the choruses until Swirsky shushes them to a halt. That casual touch may have take a dozen takes to nail, but it plays out like a pair of musicians giddy with their own musical gifts.

“Easier” captures a lover’s quarrel in the album’s most efficient verse structure. It’s a cry for peace set against moody guitars and a kiss of percussion. But “She Grows Where She’s Planted” starts off like a giant lyrical overreach before turning into a freshly tilled look at that rock staple, the unattainable beauty.

“She blooms in the morning and sways so gracefully,” Swirsky sings before yet a lush arrangement washes over us. Just when you think “as far as yesterday goes” can’t get any lovelier, another layered harmony crests over the sound mix.

If pressed to pick a throwaway track one might finger “You Do Something to Me,” but it’s hand-clapping elan makes such criticism sound churlish.

The beauty of both Red Button albums is how current they feel despite their ‘60s era influences. It’s one thing to mimic an era or ape its stylistic touches. A million cover bands do that well enough, thank you.

But The Red Button gleans inspiration from the past to make music that feels oddly at home in 2012 – and beyond.

It was with great sadness this thirteen year old heard the news from Howard Cosell, thirty years ago today in fact, on Monday Night Football, that he’d been murdered by that scumbag Mark David Chapman.  Actually, if I may borrow from Dennis Miller, I take that back for that would be an insult to bags of scum.  

Fact: John Lennon changed the music scene for the better and enriched rock-and-roll and all off-shoots from the Sixties onward in a profound way that only a truly gifted artist could.  Still, like his partner Paul, John’s music was never quite so there after the Beatles broke up, showing that a unique synergy did exist, even if by the end they were writing by themselves and for themselves.

That last observation is just a hint of honesty that I think is necessary to remember him properly.  To eulogize Lennon the man rather than just the music takes some frank talk.  And no Lennon song so instills in me the urge to have an adult discussion with the legions of fans who see not just a musician but rather a  mystically enlightened figure than his anthem of the hippy pacifist culture:  “Imagine.”  It is a beautiful piece, elegant in its simplicity of melody.  But the lyrics, quite frankly, irk me.

“Imagine no possessions.  I wonder if you can.”   What I wonder more is whether those who sing this modern-day kumbaya, an homage to an equalitarian society that Orwell would scoff at, are aware that the man who penned these words was worth an estimated $150 million when he died – much if it in real estate, including five apartments claimed in the Dakota co-op on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Three units just for storage—for all those possessions he couldn’t imagine … I guess.  It sort of deflates the message, does it not?  At least it reveals that, for all his talent, Lennon was at his core a textbook limousine liberal who bounced from four-star hotels, to luxury private jets, to castles in the country and posh penthouses in the glitziest of cities to pontificate his world without class, borders, countries, God or, of course, possessions. 

Still, the faux sanctimony of  his political and social views do not in my mind diminish by one iota the beauty and sheer musical genius I hear in that incredible whirlwind of creativity and almost vertical artistic development that would bring us from Rubber Soul to the amazing Abbey Road in an astonishingly short span of five years.  (Yeah, yeah, I know. They were roughly 1962-70, but the Soul to Road period is when they went ballistic!)

So for me, John Lennon has always been what he truly was.  An artist.  And that is how he should be remembered.  Like other members of the creative class who find so much fault with how the rest of us unenlightened trolls live our lives while never getting a whiff of the aroma of their own hypocrisy, Lennon may have been so lost inside himself that he never bothered to peer through his signature horn-rimmed glasses far enough see the world as it was, and his role as a willing participant in that same world he would have denied others. 

All this being said, one’s shortage of political clarity should not lessen our appreciation for him as an extraordinary artist and, more important, a decent chap. 

Lennon was both. 

And so I plan on going home tonight, chilling out, and maybe, just maybe, allow myself to “turn off my mind, relax and float downstream.” 

Thank you, John.  You are missed.

Watercolor Day is only Swirsky’s second solo album, but his decades of experience are more than readily apparent.  And for being, essentially, a rehash of ’60s and ’70s Britpop, the album sounds fresher than much of the flamboyant dance-floor fodder bleeding out the kiddies’ headphones these days.  Is it shocking to anyone else that to go against the grain in the music world, you have be to modest and subtle?  Not “look how profound and nuanced I am cuz I made this understated” subtle, but, you know… actually subtle?  For Swirsky, who’s had nearly a decade to explain to his leftists colleagues how they’re absolutely wrong without burning bridges, you get the impression that subtlety comes second nature to him.

The album’s received plenty of praise and lots of adjectives like “shimmer,” “shine,” sweetness,” “bounce,” and the like, but to peg Watercolor Day as a happy record is leaving out the true meat of it.  The best pop is music is sad pop music, and Swirsky’s got boatloads of melancholy oozing through his sweet, shimmery bouncing.  Single “(Never Knew You) Harry” may sound like a goofy tribute to Harry Nilsson, but you get the sense that he’s not just saying, “Hey, you were a great songwriter,” but he’s lamenting the boundaries that time can place between people.  If only he hadn’t been born so late, he could have been in the business when he first heard “Everybody’s Talkin’;” He could’ve been one of Harry’s contemporaries.

And this feeling of displacement hangs over the whole album– a yearning for some other time or place, even though this one is already so beautiful.  It almost veers into breakup concept album territory.  The narrator comes across as an introvert recounting his thoughts through a single day.  He’s nerdy, full of romantic fantasy but held back by his timidity.  We catch his mind admiring nature, longing for women past and present, and cursing himself for lost opportunities.  “Distracted” shuffles around an insanely catchy trumpet riff as he realizes he never gets anything done because of his conflicting interests.  On “Melancholy Rainbow,” the album’s longest song (at 3:25– score!), our protagonist muses about the titular omen of impending heartbreak shining through a window as he lays with his lover:  “I don’t wanna let go,” he sighs.  This theme of lost love continues through “Matchbook Cover,” “Living Room,” “Big Mistake,” “Stay,” and “She’s Doing Fine,” whose ambiguity suggest that Swirsky imagines this is woman still with him after she’s left.

But that’s not to say that the album is a total downer; from the laid-back whimsy of “Song for Heather” to the folksy brightness of “Sand Dollar,” Swirsky still makes sure the listener has a ton of fun while getting lost in the record’s introspection.  And with impeccable production and orchestration that even the Fab Four might envy, he strolls through multiple styles of classic pop and rock effortlessly.  The drums are crisp but full; the guitar creates a pleasant bed to hold up the non-rhythm tracks, and Swirsky’s crooning voice evokes George Harrison almost uncannily.  His performance shines through on “Fading Again,” a song which he notes is very autobiographical for him.  As he reflects on aimlessness and losing himself in day-to-day ennui, his longing is palpable.  Finally, he resolves, “I just need the air and this guitar to be free.” 

For Swirsky, art is not an escape from the real world; music and creativity are his links to the real world.  And, though his music is absolutely apolitical, this chorus reveals an important truth.  For how much we gripe about our circumstances (either the Left talking about how big corporations are keeping us down or the Right talking about how big government is keeping us down), we still have this vital freedom:  no one is keeping us from going to some solitary place and doing whatever we love that keeps us sane.

Watercolor Day is just about everything that classic pop could and should be:  emotionally meaty without literalistic lyrics, fast-paced without sacrificing dynamics and structure, and immediately accessible while offering tons of subtext to draw out in subsequent listens.  This kind of laid-back pop isn’t the style of music I normally go for, but it’s easily apparent that Swirsky has crafted a work of true passion and skill, and it’s an ultimately satisfying listen regardless of any difference in taste.  If you’ve hated my music reviews in the past, I’d recommend you pick this one up.  You just might fall in love with it.

“Watercolor Day” brims with youthful enthusiasm all the same, a psychedelic toast to the ‘60s layered with tasty melodies. From the efficient beauty of “Summer in her Hair” to the sumptuous title track, “Day” is both timeless and retro. The 18-track album leverages our affection for the Summer of Love as a starting point for thoroughly original compositions.

Musical success struck Swirsky early – he had barely entered his 20s when he penned a jingle for Thomas’ English Muffins. He soon found steady work supplying songs for some of the music industry’s biggest acts.

“I really wanted to make it, but wasn’t sure what form it would be,” Swirsky recalls. Writing for fellow musicians held instant appeal for him.

“I could write R&B music for bands I grew up listening to, then switch and do real pop stuff,” he says, adding he remembers buying the albums of bands for whom he‘d later write songs.

“It’s a tremendous feeling to hear their voices on my songs,” he says. The singer/songwriter just couldn’t write music for himself.

“In my 20s I didn’t have enough to say … I didn’t have the confidence yet,” he says. His songwriting career fed his musical appetites – for a while. That changed in 2004 with the release of his first solo album, “Instant Pleasure.”

“Now, I can never turn back. I can’t write for other artists,” he says.

Swirsky’s musical career often gets set aside for other creative projects. He’s written three baseball-themed books, contributes to right-of-center outlets like RealClearPolitics.com and National Review Online and just wrapped a documentary five years in the making.

“BeatlesStories,” makes its world debut at 12:30 p.m. Sept 20 at The Berklee School of Music at 939 Boylston Street. The film finds Swirsky interviewing notable Beatles fans like Art Garfunkel, Sir Ben Kingsley and Davy Jones, plus three of the band’s former engineers.

“Watercolor Day” might sound like the work of a tie-die clad hippie, but Swirsky left his liberal thinking behind a few years back. He once wrote hate letters to President Richard Nixon and voted for Vice President Al Gore in the 2000 elections. Watching the Left react to the 9/11 attacks helped convince him to switch ideological sides.

“My liberal friends say, ‘you write such Beatles-esque ’60s songs. Where’s the love, dude?,’” he says. “All you need is not love … you need a strong U.S. military. You need food on your table. Love is great to have, but it’s about eighth on the list. That‘s the transformation.”

His conservatism “comes up a lot” with his liberal friends in the music business, he says, but he rarely kick starts a political debate with them.

“I find my friends on the left get very emotional very quickly,” he says. “I don’t want to bring a vibe into a writing session that I know will make them frustrated.”

And rather than hammer home his ideology, he prefers to point out how many of his left-leaning pals actually lead lives brimming with conservative values.

Sometimes Swirsky feels compelled to share his political thoughts with the world, only to follow up an op-ed with an impromptu jam session.

He first picked up a guitar at the age of seven and says he has no desire to stop making music. He might not have the name recognition of, say, Lady Gaga, and his records are more likely to be spun on SiriusXM’s The Loft over Top 40 radio stations. That doesn’t matter in an age when hundreds of fans can follow him on Twitter or Facebook as easily as tuning in a local FM station.

“My records have sold very well. They’ve asked me to tour in Europe. It’s amazing to have this happen at this time in my life,“ he says.

He said we should all initiate our afternoons with a global “peace and love” moment. He says it would be fab for folks from all over the world (which I presume includes gentle souls hiding in the mountains of Afghanistan), to say such things at noon everyday – by any form of communication you have at hand.

Here’s his announcement:

—–

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with this. It’s a nice sentiment from a semi-attractive grandmother.

Oh, I kid. Of course there’s something wrong with this. There’s everything wrong with this.

For that proclamation represents the reason why people die in this world.

They die because people listen to aging hippes like Ringo Starr. The idea that all the evil in the world will dissolve if we all chant peace and love is what enables evil in the world to flourish.

Threat of war, however, makes peace possible – not silly proclamations of hugs and kisses.

Of course, I’m probably picking on Ringo a bit too much here. But really, jackasses who spout peace, can only spout peace, if the more sensible folks around him are willing to wage war.

And the fact is, if these massive celebrities actually applied the notion of “peace and love” to their own personal lives, they’d be about as successful as Pete Best.

So my suggestion is to replace Ringo’s “peace and love” mantra with something like “God bless our troops,” or “The Beatles were a poor man’s Badfinger.” (true, that!)

Now some people might accuse me of harping on Ringo, because he didn’t return our calls when asked to do Red Eye. Of course, I’m not that sort of fellow. In fact, I wish Starr all the peace and love in the world – which will get him next to nothing in midtown at three a.m when I’m chasing him home with a broken champagne bottle and a copy of Caveman.

And if you disagree with me, you’re a racist homophobe who ripped off the Knack.

Tonight a whale of a show!

Jeff “skunk” Baxter!

Lauren Sivan

and for the first time ever: Mancow!

Plus other stuff!

(note, if you have any questions for Skunk, of a musical, or missile nature, send em here!)

The large party room with stage at the Senior Center was filled to capacity by the time Elvis appeared.  He brought a ten-piece band including five back-up singers wearing black suits and ties and one black dress.  Elvis wore a dazzling white preacher’s suit with a crimson cravat.  The first half was devoted to Gospel, beginning with a stunning a capella “Swing Low Sweet Chariot,” and proceeding through a remarkable set of songs including “Walking With the Spirits, “The Battle of Jericho” (which employed a heavy doo-wop style,) “Rock My Soul,” and an a capella “Johnny Saw a Big Number” that stunned.

This is much more than homage.  George Gray has a huge emotive tenor that evokes Elvis with ease.  Gray and the band worship the King and his music and it shows in every note.  Bass vocalist Charlie Spillman, from Fort Collins, anchored the chorus with freight train authority.  The first half ended with “Amazing Grace” and “How Great Thou Art.” 

The band returned for the rock and roll half in fresh costume, singers wearing shimmering ivory and slate dashikis, Elvis in sequined white jumpsuit with a belt buckle the size of Texas.  This was the mature Elvis.  Anyone looking for that skinny guy in the black leather jumpsuit was advised to seek elsewhere.  Trombone, flugelhorn and the rhythm section played Strauss’ “Thus Spack Zarathustra,” the official over-the-top pop intro since Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. 

Elvis leaped into “That’s All Right Mama” and his whole demeanor changed.  Whereas before he had been rooted to one spot, this rockier Elvis moved around and struck Elvis poses which were both homage and parody.  There was nothing parodistic about the singing, however, as Elvis ripped through “Return to Sender,” “Heartbreak Hotel,” “Teddy Bear,” a mash-up of “Hound Dog” and “All Shook Up,” “Love Me Tender,” and many others.  Periodically he would summon some granny from the audience, allow her to mop his brow before bestowing a silk kerchief.  The grannies loved it.

Elvis slowed it down for “Suspicious Minds,” showcasing his powerhouse range and mastery of dynamics.  He ended with a mash-up of “Dixie” and “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

Out in the hall was a poster for Steve Lippia, the Sinatra impersonator who is bringing a full orchestra to the Civic Center.  The tickets are over thirty-five bucks but hey, if you close your eyes…

As I contemplate the current music scene I wonder which contemporary performers will spawn the sincerest form of flattery.  There are already numerous takes on the Beatles.  The Rolling Stones are problematic.  Future imitators will focus on individuals.  Elton John, Billy Joel, the Boss?  Will there be Springsteen imitators?  Anything is possible but no contemporary figure compares to the iconic status of an Elvis or a Sinatra.

I went on Amazon yesterday to purchase The Beatles Stereo Box Set and was informed it was still on back order. Borders noted that the set will be available on a limited basis in October on a “first-come, first-served” basis. The Mono version, which sells for $30 more than the Stereo version, is also on back order. So the Beatles obviously remain popular.

One topic I have always found interesting is the distinction between Lennon’s songs and McCartney’s songs. Of the 200 plus songs the Beatles wrote, perhaps about 30 had some form of  collaboration between the two, with maybe 20 being jointly written completely. Yet, I have always found this distinction very misleading. Their influence on each other was so deep that their individual songs really were effectively collaborations. Besides the obvious difference in sound between, say, Wings and McCartney written Beatles songs, I have constructed a “Beatles” trivia quiz below to demonstrate this point.  I assert that we think we can tell the difference because most of us know the songs well. But in reality, they were highly influenced by the other and are more similar than we sometimes realize.

I think the quiz is of high difficulty.  Of course, for some it may seem easy. Listed below are 12 YouTube links to well known Beatles’ songs. The object of the game is to guess the song writer. Being statistically oriented, to pass one needs to beat the “coin flip test.” The probability of guessing nine or more correctly by randomness alone is about 7% (I am ignoring  some factors–see below).  So 75% will be considered passing. My guess is the average score of all participants will be lower than that. You can cheat, of course, and do better.

Some hints.

One of the 12 songs was written jointly by Lennon and McCartney. I doubt anyone will guess this one. One song was written by neither. Guessing “neither” correctly results in a full point. Guessing “who” correctly gets another point; guessing “who” incorrectly subtracts 1/2 point.  Three of the songs were written where, for example,  one of the two was dominant with an “assist” by the other. These songs are also worth double points. These are usually listed as follows: “Lennon; with McCartney,” or vice versa. This means a total of 16 points can be earned and 9 still be passing. If one guesses “Lennon,” but it was really “Lennon; with McCartney,” one still gets a full point. A guess of an “assist” which is wrong subtracts 1/2 point. I doubt many will get extra credit.  Seven of the 12 songs were written by either Lennon or McCartney.

A really good amateur should get 11 points. I assume even a good amateur will not guess the joint song. To achieve 12 or higher means you are either in the business, you cheated, you have a photographic memory, or you are way too into the Beatles. I thought I was a Beatles expert but I would be borderline to pass this. The best I could have possibly done was 11.

Answers to each question can be found at a link provided at the end. Feel free to submit your score.  No cheating! I will attempt to list them from most easy to most difficult, but that is subjective of course. I begin with two very simple ones.

Here we go:

12) “I’ll Be Back”

This song is from Hard Day’s Night.  If you miss this one, then your odds of passing are pretty slim. Still, the sound of this song is very similar to number 11.

11) “Things We Said Today”

Also from Hard Day’s Night.

10) Do You Want to Know a Secret?

Sung by George Harrison on the their first British hit Album “Please Please Me.” Is this a trick by me or a gift?

9) Day Tripper

This song was recorded during the Rubber Soul sessions, but was only released as a single with “We Can Work it Out” as a “double A sided” single.

I’m Happy Just to Dance with You

Also from the album Hard Day’s Night and sung by George Harrison. Is this a trick by me or a gift?

7) If I Fell

Fourth one from the Hard Day’s Night album. Is this a trick by me or a gift?

6) What Goes On

Sung by Ringo on the Rubber Soul album. Is this a trick by me or a gift?

5) Money

Recorded in 1963 and appeared on “The Beatles Second Album.” Is this a trick by me or a gift?

4) Bad To Me

One of three hits by Billy J Kramer and the Dakotas, who were managed also by Brian Epstein.  It was recorded in demo form by the Beatles but never released.

3) A World Without Love

Never recorded by the Beatles but was the single biggest hit by the twosome, Peter and Gordon.

2) Good Night

This is the last song from the “White Album.” Ringo sings and is the only Beatle who appears on the song. Is this a trick by me or a gift?

1) I Call Your Name

This song was recorded live in 1967 at the Monterey Pop Festival by the Mamas and the Papas. The Beatles also previously recorded, and wrote, the song.

For answers to the above questions one can go to this Wikipedia Link—List of The Beatles songs

People not familiar with copyright law might be surprised to hear that McCartney-one-half of music’s most-successful songwriting duo-must pay royalties to perform his own hit songs.  The fact certainly seemed to grate on McCartney, who frequently made mention of it in interviews.  But even more surprising, at least to those not acquainted with the intricacies of copyright law, is that Sir Paul will one day be able to re-acquire the rights to his music without even having to pay to buy them back.

This is true because of the Copyright Act’s reversion provisions, which allow the original author of a copyrighted work to reclaim the work many years after assigning it away.  It is this same right to reclaim lost copyrights that will soon make millionaires of the heirs of Joe Shuster and Jerry Siegel, Superman’s creators, when they conclude their pending lawsuit against Warner Brothers. 

Congress, seeking to protect content creators who sell the copyrights in their works before understanding the works’ true value, inserted in the Copyright Act the right to reclaim a copyright-generally by terminating an earlier assignment-after a certain number of years have passed.  For copyrighted material created before 1978, these rights will most often be available 56 years after the work was created.  So in McCartney’s case, he should be able to reclaim the copyright to a Beatles song first published in 1964 in the year 2020, and he (or, likely, his children) will retain those rights for the final 39 years of the copyright term.  

For newer works-specifically, anything created after January 1, 1978-the original author has the right to terminate a copyright assignment after 35 years.  So, sticking with McCartney, he and Wings released the album “London Town” in 1978.  Assuming he immediately assigned the copyright to the record company-which is common in the industry-he would most likely be entitled to terminate that assignment 35 years later, in 2013.  These reversion provisions, then, will become an important news item in the coming years, when composers, authors, artists, and other content creators begin to reclaim works they created and assigned away in the late 1970’s.  Because of the complexity of the reversion provisions, these efforts to reclaim copyrights will no doubt spawn dozens of high-profile lawsuits as well. 

There are media rumors that Jackson has left to McCartney the publishing rights in Jackson’s Beatles catalogue.  If so, we may never see the coming legal clash between two of music’s biggest superstars.  But thanks to the Copyright Act, even if Jackson left the rights to somebody else, Sir Paul may still get his music back soon enough.

People once heard, told, acted out and retold these tales, taking active roles in creating visions of life and its possibilities in imaginative ways, instead of flopping on couches with a Monster Burger in one hand and a Bucket o’ Suds in the other, passively awaiting the predetermined outcome of one steroid-based extravaganza or another. This says something disturbing about the contrast between ancient and modern civilizations and the ways the perception of reality can either be generated by humans or imprinted upon them, unless you’re the CEO of an international fast food conglomerate or a viewer engaging in a fierce wind-breaking competition during a broadcast’s inevitable male-enhancement advertisements or rain delays. 

In terms of giving one’s ears and mind something more interesting to do, then, where is the contemporary equivalent of music as interesting as “Dharma For One” by Jethro Tull or Pink Floyd’s “Money“? Heard anything as refreshing and widely accessible as a “Cars” by Gary Numan or a “Walk On The Wild Side” by Lou Reed lately?  And where are geniuses the likes of George Clinton and Prince, lavishing funk beyond measure upon the collective consciousness and contributing to a more harmonious cultural groove?  

Consider for a moment that the Captain of the P-Funk Mothership and the Artist Formerly Known As He Is Now did not have to fill James Brown’s shiny boots or restrict their expressions to genre-specific limits, but made it up themselves and let it fly.  So did the aforementioned musical luminaries, and the earth rocked on its axis between listener’s ear-holes.  Therein lies the clue to the death-rattle of rock music.  The verdict: Murder One with a bullet, even with Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr reuniting briefly for David Lynch’s Transcendental Meditation benefit. 

This has nothing to do with the good work floating around by the likes of Crystal Method, Flyleaf, or Radiohead, for instance.  Music is not dead, nor are musical ideas, popular or obscure.  It’s the culture that has been laid low, with the aid of the old scapegoat “corporate greed”, true, but more so by conformity of thought regarding the disposability of music and artists.  Creative writers and musicians, that is to say, real artists, do actually exist, as opposed to hacks motivated solely by “stardom” and its blandishments. These genuine artists, capable of growing and expanding their audiences for lifetimes, are essentially defenestrated by the media conglomerates that snatch them off the streets as soon as they either fail to turn a profit or bring in a profit that is smaller than that required of them. 

Meanwhile, absurdly, record companies will willingly hemorrhage money in the maintenance of “stars”, throwing hundreds of millions after them with the net result of bringing in a fraction of that investment as profit.  If, say, for some reason, “99 Red Balloons” had sold 27 million units of product years ago, Nena would have been packing venues for years afterward, with sales driven by high-dollar promotional hype in the expectation of the record label for lightning to strike twice. Forget Economics 101.  If that sounds like an allusion to the career of Michael Jackson, how dare anyone think such a thing of such a fabulous, larger than life superstar?  So now we’re back to myth and legend, and regard to proportionality in terms ancient and modern.  If it is impossible to wait for a hit to come into existence, it becomes necessary to create one, regardless of the cost.  That cost comes in the loss of what someone like Nena might well create with a modicum of long-term vision on the record label’s part.  This implies, however, the somewhat metaphysical notion that, in art, as opposed to mere product, anything is possible, particularly with conditions conducive to creativity. Such conditions are sorely lacking in the outlined scenarios, which have deteriorated for decades now.

Such narrow thinking applies not only to struggling artists, but to established ones as well. John Kay of Steppenwolf and Boz Scaggs spring to mind as musicians having earned previous acclaim who could even now produce fine works, and likely hits, if the machinery in place made more room for respect for artists, as the American Recordings label did with the late Johnny Cash. This would mean wasting fewer resources throwing whatever a company thinks some mindless demographic will buy at the wall and hoping it will stick rather than stink, as it usually does, so that’s probably out.  That does not change the fact that Cash took Grammy Awards for those recordings in the last decade of his life. 

When legend and myth reflect reality, they evolve over time.  When they are created in fifteen minutes and tossed aside fifteen minutes later, with that method of production being a paradigm and a fixed idea leading to permanent stagnation and atrophy, what happens is what is happening now.  A music culture built on originality, defined by unpredictability and dependent on freedom, dies.  Something new, something unknown, or different in that it comes from outside the understanding and control of the failed system, gradually appears to replace it. 

Presently, the funeral wake is ongoing, prior to Rock’s interment, for which no plans have been made.  Rock Music is survived by its stepchildren, Bombastic and Melodramatic Pop (no relation to Iggy), Max Volume of Interminable Adolescence, and Dim Nostalgia of One Hand Clapping.  

Pass me that Beatle and I’ll sing you a bottle song.

Unanimity of public opinion over popular song has passed.  Music, which used to unite, now divides.  Eminem and Ludacris would have been unthinkable thirty years ago.  We live in an antinomian age where it’s hip to defy conventional wisdom long after every vestige of conventional wisdom lies in tatters.  Where Keats’ Grecian Urn once proclaimed, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” today’s antinomian consumer proclaims, “Whatever,” in a voice oozing ennui.

Cultural arbiters such as The New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, and People regularly cover hip-hop as serious art, generally in the music section.  But if music is a combination of rhythm, harmony, and melody, where does hip-hop, with its chanting and choruses “sampled” from better songs fit in?  Is it music?  Not by definition.  It’s a perpetuation of “the dozens,” the tradition of black cultural put-downs and sports-style cheerleading set to a beat.

The Billboard Top 100 is depressing.  The artists are either rappers or American Idol survivors.  It’s great that Stevie Wonder sings a song with the Jonas Brothers, but where is the new Stevie Wonder?

Thank God for the divas.  Thirty years ago, the divas were Diana Ross, Aretha Franklin, Martha Reeves, Patti LaBelle and their ilk–real women with real songs.  Today’s divas are Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Whitney Houston, and Ashlee Simpson.  Can anybody hum anything by Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera?  How about the Back Street Boys, ‘N’ Sync, or Justin Timberlake?  Today’s divas, exemplified by the vocal acrobats on American Idol, prove their divaness by avoiding the melody.

There are Top Forty artists who still value craft.  Occasionally, a real song makes it on the play list.  Maroon 5 and Leona Lewis suggest song craft is not entirely dead.  It has merely been driven underground.

What an underground.

If you’ve never hummed a Beatles song, have no love for The Who, Cheap Trick, the Raspberries, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Stone Roses, Tom Petty, Linda Rondstadt, the Bangles, the Beach Boys, the Beckies, Badfinger or the Byrds, stop here.  Go back to your X-Box.

Like Australian convicts, eucalyptus trees and the nutria, pop music has flourished in exile.  Thousands of bands have taken advantage of new technology to record themselves, and offer their product over the Internet.  Thanks to downloadable programs like GarageBand.com, you don’t even need to produce CDs.

Most self-released records go for twelve to thirteen dollars.  Not cheap, but they offer things no major label can match: unalloyed joy and soaring pop song craft.  Peter Townshend, lead singer and guitarist for The Who, coined the term “power pop” to indicate the type of complex, joyful, upbeat music pioneered by the Beatles.  Power pop songs use harmonies and have at least three chords.

PowerPop keeps track of many of these bands.  Most have their own websites.  All pursue song craft with skill and passion: The Offbeat, The Churchills, The Davenports, The Wigs, The Wellingtons, Scott Miller, Sloan, L’Avventura, Superdrag, The Shazam, Heavy Blinkers, Bryan Scary, Hindu Rodeo, Michael Carpenter and Ness, to name a handful of the more important bands.

Independent popsters are more politically savvy than their gargantuan Top 40 Counterparts.  (Did you ever imagine that Bruce Springsteen, who started so well, would end up spouting socialist crap?)  Hindu Rodeo in particular gets it.  On their first, self-titled album, “Evil White Man” gleams with pop smarts and a great hook.  “I wish I was a woman/ So I’d think with my head/Not just the one ‘tween my legs/So I’d live twice as Long/Dance on my grave when I’m gone/But I’m an evil white man.”

Their second album, Nalladaloobr, is even better with brilliant, incisive, and danceable songs such as “McLife,” “American People” and “Somebody’s Eyes.”

Greg Pope’s Popmonster which dominated ‘08’s Top Ten Lists, proves the power of the lone artist working by himself.  Unbelievably, Greg Pope recorded every sound: drums, guitar, keys, you name it, and provided all the vocals.  The results are one of the most dynamic shout-it-out rock records since Born to Run.

The songs are way beyond my baby don’t love me, dealing with family responsibility in “I Got a Life” and individual responsibility in “Burden.”

Other power poppers who do it all themselves include Bryan Scary on his first record, Ed James, Josh Fix whose Free at Last came out of nowhere to land on everybody’s Top Ten, Jason Falkner, Roger Joseph Manning Jr., Michael Behm, and the Well Wishers to name a few.

Bill Majoros of The Foreign Films released a two disc debut set in 2007 that compares favorably to The White Album for sheer breadth and scope.  The Foreign Films play with an overwhelming emotional power that most modern bands can’t grasp.

Some power poppers achieve major label success but they are the exception and not the rule.  Barenaked Ladies and Fort Collins, Colorado’s Color Me Pink are two such bands.

Seattle-based Sub Pop has offered haven to The Shins, Fleet Foxes, and Flight of the Conchords.

Not Lame Records is foremost among the tiny independent labels carrying the power pop torch.  Not Lame’s premier act is the Nashville-based Shazam, a trio with soaring, anthemic songs and enormous guitar.  Not Lame’s owner, Bruce Brodeen, is a devout Christian who trained to be a Lutheran minister.  One day he had an epiphany: he was to start his own label.  Not Lame has rescued stunning power pop from the past such as the two Toms records, another one man band in the person of Tommy Marolda.

New York-based Rainbow Quartz Records is another outstanding power pop label, specializing in finding acts from all over the world.  Especially Sweden.  During this season of ABBA revival it comes as no surprise that the dark Scandinavian countries produce some of the sunniest music ever recorded.  In particular, Rainbow Quartz’ Marmalade Souls is a haunting evocation of Mommas and Poppas era rock with a spark of fresh genius.

Rainbow Quarts is also home to Andy Bopp (Myracle Brah) and RockFour, the tightest rockin’ psychedelic band to ever emerge from Tel Aviv.

You can find most of these bands on fan sites such as Powerpopaholic and Absolute Powerpop.  Every year going as far back as I can remember has been notable, but 2008 was one of the very best.  You can find my Top Ten list and numerous others at:  Not Lame Blog.