Guthrie Plays Bass

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Record Review: This Criminal Soul

This Criminal Soul, American Millennial Cowboy

This record is the most unapologetic flaming heart on a scuffed leather sleeve I have heard in years. Others have struck the pose, but their antics seem like ironic bilge theater; they are mocking what they think they know, churning out riffs and monotonous machismo like it was 1986 on the Sunset Strip and they had better hair.

To compare them to this is to strike a Faustian bargain; in exchange for the ease in comparison, the critic is assured a place in some swampy nether region…possibly New Jersey. Not the nice bits, the orange quagmires outside Elizabeth where the chemical plants used to dump exotic effluence.

I can’t even review this in order. It won’t let me, and I have learned better than to fight this record. I cannot win.

“Fuck You, California” is, in either iteration, possibly the best love song ever (especially the session version, because I am a fool for kazoo solos or solos that sound like kazoos are playing them. I blame Depeche Mode.) As a fortysomething who was alive for Steve Perry’s stint in Journey, I know power ballads when I hear them. Such is not the case; a man knows he is the second choice after career or adventure, and he deals with it, almost like a mature adult (please reread the song title), right in front of you. When Christoph Whitbeck loves you, you stay loved.

Speaking of that, if his character from “Mostly Naked” is any indication, you might want to get tested for some really exotic diseases…but he loves you no less. I believe it. The debauched protagonist knows better but chooses to impede higher brain function. If you have never been there, you have probably never been in a failed relationship. More power to you, if so, but we’re not here to talk about you. Write your own material.

This whole record is love songs. There is no schmaltz, no whole-notes soaring into the ether while doves descend or vinyl pants attain maximum stretchpoint. On “Burn”, Whitbeck delivers the even darker side of Schoolhouse Rock’s “Energy Blues”…this planet is in trouble, and the people responsible should know much better. I don’t want to think he’s right, but his conviction is not as fluttery as, say, Olivia Newton-John’s “Silvery Rain.”

“65 Corvette” is the song Rob Zombie would have written if he wasn’t afflicted with terminal gorehounding. It sits between “Thunder Kiss” and “Black Sunshine”, but its heart, that most curious of interlopers, renders them miniscule guitar-store deedlings in comparison.

“Ride Or Die!” is a behemoth of riffology; in addition to its posthypnotic implant of a chorus, it is genuinely cool and funny and I really want to know what happens to this set of characters next. I won’t spoil it, but there are fleur-de-lis jeans and future mercenaries and toddlers with the gift for speed.

I don’t want to talk about “Sharon.” I don’t. Listening to Whitbeck, I’m amazed he can. Not all love ends well, or is entirely fair, or occurs between two people who are on equal biochemical footing. I’ve been there a couple of times, and while this didn’t trigger me, I certainly recognized some parts of it from past lives. If he concocted all of it, he’s a genius. If he lived all of it, he’s a saint.

Of course, some saints are Augustine of Hippo, which brings us to the title track, “American Millennial Cowboy.” It is here to steal your lunch money, although not literally. America has an addiction to cities; Alexis de Tocqueville noted this during his post-Revolutionary War travels around the former Colonies. The evolving grandeur of New York, the nascent glory of Washington, DC…these were spires atop the American imagination. Again, the riffs are infectious and a character you might easily call the cops on, any other day, becomes the kind of antihero most of us wish we were. It is adolescent, puerile, and utterly irresistible.

“Animal” is an intimate look at fear and our deepest instincts and death and love. Again, and pretty much always, love is a cosmic force that anneals the vertebrae like an X-Men character’s (although no adamantium is used, in this instance) and acts as a shield against the dark. Sometimes, that darkness wins. Not today.

“Yo-Yo Blues” would be a ubiquitous paean to self-respect if it wasn’t so self-aware. The lover spurns our hero, but expects him to return when she snaps her fingers. That is not happening. The martial imagery of the hero as arrow, bullet, or boomerang, makes sense in context (thus elevating above most lyrics about arrows, bullets, or boomerangs that I can recall) because he cites some of the rudimentary physics involved. If you let him go, he is gone. He is not, in the words of Sir Mix-A-Lot, to be played that fool…but there is an underlying wound in Christoph Whitbeck’s voice, even as he reaffirms that he doesn’t do rematches.

“Filibuster” is, I think, a joke of a title; if you know what the word means, you get an idea of how it might have been selected for the album. The fact that it is a great, solid instrumental that doesn’t indulge in lofty braggadocio makes it a B-side worthy of one of the old Iron Maiden picture discs (I recall transcribing the Steve Harris interview from one, only to realize that his lyrics are deep, and his bass playing legendary, but his accent is impenetrable.)

As a musician, I often joke about pure rock fury. I know that, most times, I am aping for an ambivalent crowd…and that’s before I step onto the sticky floor of some dim hovel to share my love of Cheap Trick for four hours.

This is what it actually sounds like, though. Love, fury, and 30th-century gynoids on motorcycles. I can’t wait to hear what these mutants do next.

-Thom Guthrie, 11/30/2017

[guthrieplaysbass]

My copilot.

[guthrieplaysbass]

Me and Christoph Whitbeck, performing as LUMP at the Ideat Village Rock Lottery Finals. That is not my real hair, but that is my real bass. Also, yes, that fantastic dragon shirt is mine. I save it for special occasions.

[guthrieplaysbass]

I Do But I Don’t.

I hate Jazz. There we go. I've said it. Now your first instinct is to start qualifying the blurt; it's either “you haven't listened to the right material,” “you need to see it live,” ”that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it,” ”did anyone tell you it was for geeks or losers when you were growing up?” or something cheerfully intrusive like that. Obviously, a well-rounded musician cannot scoff at an entire genre. It's unthinkable, pagan in its dismissal of this important art.

But that's not what I said, is it? No.

I think a lot, occasionally with some success, about music and culture. I play in bands, as many different kinds as will pay me, and I don't actually care what the genre is. Done right, any of it is absolutely inundating to an audience. That's what it's supposed to do. Get right in through the earholes and make the heart do foolish things. Hopefully, that will prove contagious, an arenavirus of joy for everyone within hearing. I've been to those shows, on either side of the beleaguered sound guy, and it is magical. That I can ape the genius of others and accomplish such a thing seems charlatanic at times. I took up bass to make people dance. I learned later that I could make them think, but I don't know if that's as rewarding. (Also, most of the people I play alongside are much smarter than I am, which makes me insecure enough to write something like this and hope they don't see it.) So yes, I have a vested interest in music. Learning it, playing it, pretending to know what I'm doing with it...that's kinda my calling.

But don't ask me what style or genre it is. That's where we get into such trouble. Our first human instinct is to liken or to label; it is literally how we learn colors, to a very vague degree, but it does not serve us. It was a source of amusement in one band; every week we had a new descriptor, like “music for astronauts” or “future primitive” or “if you call it jazz we will ignore you.”

You don't need the name. Names are for coffee orders. The quality goes in, hopefully, but leave the name off, to riff on the old television ad.

It doesn't work here. Go see music. Don't follow the “If You Like (band), You'll Like (other band)” thing on any streaming platform. No, really. Don't. And ignore my recommendations too. I'll be insulted, mostly because you suck, but for its own sake, go get messy and anonymous. Forget jazz. Forget rock. Forget Americana and do not let it back into your vocabulary. Forget hip hop OR spoken word; they're beyond such simplistic terms anyway. Find the sound that resonates inside your ribcage or your dome. It isn't there to be named...unless you work for a record store, in which case I have to tell you that “easy listening” is usually anything but.

Let it breathe. Let it sing. Let it insult your mom, if that's what it's trying to do.  

Also, when people try to name their own work, errors abound. Brick's “Dazz” is hardly “disco jazz”; it's neo-primitive compared to its fusion contemporaries, and the arrangement is obviously a hamhanded stab at the Sound of Philadelphia style or the Brothers Johnson. Judas Priest's “Heavy Metal” is overwrought to the point of parody. If you think Eric Clapton has a rock-n-roll heart, ask him why he's living on blues power.

See? Didn't help, did it? For me, that's jazz. A bunch of people attaching a social stigma, class expectation, and artistic ethos to what is best left to its moment, anonymous and undistracting. And if you don't hate that, fine. But I do. It chafes like a bad Christmas sweater, and none of my aunts would have done such a thing. Really. Even Aunt Shirley, and she could be really mean sometimes.

[guthrieplaysbass]

The intro to a book I shouldn’t write...

Why Do You Want To Be In A Band?

(Or: What To Tell Your Analyst)

             Imagine this: you and a bunch of your friends, four or so, are on a stage bathed in crimson light as guitars wail and the gender of your choice is appropriately aroused by your incredible musical prowess. A handsome, well-dressed, smiling bar manager waits to pay you; the minute you finish, he will pay you even more than you’d agreed upon. He has waited all his life for a moment like this.

           If you think this is what is going to happen, put this down now. Do not take financial advice from anyone. You probably can’t pass a drug screen, either. You are alone in this world. You were born alone (assuming you aren’t a twin), and you will die alone. In between, you can have a lot of fun and make a little money playing music with people who, if you pay attention, will march under your sweat-stained banner until the end of your performing days. No, really. In a couple of billon year, it’s all going to be vaporized or something anyway. Sweat now, stiff it later, I say.

[guthrieplaysbass]

Disclaimer: "This blog is being used as part of the educational coursework for CO 229 - Introduction to Digital Communications at Albertus Magnus College. The postings on my site are solely my own and do not reflect the views of Albertus Magnus College or any of its employees nor do they offer any professional, legal or medical advice.”

[guthrieplaysbass]

This is a practice video of me singing The Cars' "Drive" with Cleo Blue.