Preschool of rock: Ralph’s World versus No Age

This weekend, we conducted an experiment on our child. But there's no reason to call Child Protective Services, unless you think noise rock is a toxic substance. We'd already had a kid's music outing planned to see our old fave Ralph's World at the Echoplex. When we found out that No Age would be playing on the Getty plaza the night before, we thought we'd see which band did a better job hitting a 4-year-old's joy button.

Tomorrow at 7 p.m., Arthur Magazine and Redoubt Press present Joe Carducci reading from selected works, including his new book, "Enter Naomi," at Book Soup in West Hollywood. Carducci (pictured at left) also guests on KXLU radio's "Stray Pop" program tonight at 11; stream it here.

Why should you care? Here's why:

In 1991, Joe Carducci published a massive, brilliant, stupid, exhaustive, exhausting book called "Rock and the Pop Narcotic," which set out a theory of what mattered in rock music that inspired many and infuriated more. Since he was office manager/utility infielder at SST, one of the key labels defining American punk, Carducci had more right than most to spout on about the importance of bands like Husker Du and Black Flag.

I hated that book: Carducci came off as a macho libertarian in love with some romantic idea of the working class, who thought male bonding was the key ingredient in music-making, that establishment rock critics were namby-pamby liberals and that anything aimed at the marketplace (i.e., at girls) was hopelessly corrupt. Worst of all were rock bands with pop pretensions. I was a girl who liked U2 and loved reading rock criticism. Carducci and I were not bound to get along.

Now that I'm less defensive about strong thinkers whose viewpoints contradict my own, I can see the value in Carducci's impassioned embrace of the miraculous transformations that happen when a few sweaty dudes -- and, Carducci acknowledges, possibly a woman or two -- make loud music together. I dip into "Rock and the Pop Narcotic" (which he revised in 1995, and published in a third edition on Redoubt Press in 2005) when I need a shot of provocative thinking or a great description of garage rock.

What brought me back to Carducci, though, was an online tribute he wrote in 2005 (still accessible here) about a woman who never made music, though she loved punk and played a role in its glory days.

The news that Justin Timberlake has offered to write a song for the wedding of Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi got me thinking about the music we choose to mark crucial moments in our lives. Everybody loves to talk wedding songs, graduation songs, even summer songs. Funeral songs, not so much. (My morbid/controlling streak -- what's more controlling than dictating what happens after you've kicked? -- has led me to contemplate the subject. The only choice I'm sure about so far is "Days" by the Kinks.)

Pop is a life force, and it's natural that its fans would prefer talk of love to meditations on death. But sometimes a song comes along that perfectly captures the vagaries of grief. Greg Laswell's "High and Low" is one such song.

First released on "Through Toledo," the San Diego-based singer-songwriter's seductively morose meditation on being violently dumped, "High and Low" isn't necessarily about someone who's literally shuffled off this mortal coil. Yet this gentle torch song builds and diminishes the same way sorrow does after a death.

Laswell's deliberate piano lines push along, like a depressive's step through another gray day. His almost lackadaisical vocals relay a lyric half made of casual observation, half syruped in melancholy. The song goes on and on, soothing at first, then slightly irritating, like a haunting memory. Strings kick in to convey a new mood, but the revelations stay small. Healing, this song says, comes slowly, and just when you think you're better that old ache returns.

Stream: High and Low

An expanded version of "High and Low" appears on Laswell's EP "How the Day Sounds," released by Vanguard Records as an amuse-bouche leading up to his next full-length, "Three Flights From Alto Nido," out July 8. He's also part of this summer's annual Hotel Cafe tour, along with Sara Bareilles, Cary Brothers and Ingrid Michaelson.

Thanks to Alan and Filter magazine for the tip on Greg.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Joseph Llanes

For me, middle age officially begins on June 7 of this year. That's when Prince, whose sexy-utopian music defined my college nights, turns 50. And I've just learned that any attempt to hide from my mid-40s reality will be further hindered by the 50th birthday of Jello Biafra, another formative influence, just 10 days after the Purple One.

Jello's contributions to the punk rock canon aren't as lauded as Joey Ramone's or Johnny Rotten's, but he's been a guiding light (well, more like a guiding car alarm) for Bay Area punks since the turn of the '80s. As lead provocateur in the Dead Kennedys, Biafra helped invent the American take on political punk.

When I first heard the band's debut, "Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables," in 1980, I was a Clash-loving high school girl trying to rebel, but not sure how. The name "Dead Kennedys" alone sent a nervous ripple through my Catholic heart. But it was the music, and most of all Jello's yowl, that secured loyalty -- ripping satirical songs like "Holiday in Cambodia" and "Kill the Poor" were as absurd as Monty Python, way more confrontational than the anti-nuke rallies then on offer for budding lefties, and (in its own ugly way) as catchy as the Beach Boys. No point in resisting. Soon, I'd discover mosh pits and just how sweaty shirtless hard-core boys got in them.

The band's sound got harder and faster, then more experimental, on subsequent releases. Biafra's thinking grew more complex too, but he never gave up one millimeter of edge. After enduring an obscenity trial for bundling a sexually graphic poster created by Swiss surrealist HR Giger inside 1985's "Frankenchrist" LP, the DKs eventually signed off; subsequent encounters between Biafra and his former bandmates would be marred by conflicts in court.

Biafra evolved into a post-punk amalgam of Allan Kaprow and Lenny Bruce, staging hilarious anarchist interventions wherever he went. In 2000, he contended with Ralph Nader for the Green Party's presidential nomination (he'd also run for mayor of San Francisco in 1979, at age 21), delivering a well-received speech at the party's nominating convention. He's done political reporting and commentary for Indymedia, released a bunch of spoken word albums and helmed Alternative Tentacles, the underground label he and DK's guitarist East Bay Ray co-founded in 1979.

He's also continued to play punk rock. Lately, his band has been the Melvins -- a super-heavy band and the perfect match for Jello's jeremiads.

Alternative Tentacles is throwing a big party at San Francisco's Great American Music Hall to celebrate Jello's half-century of causing trouble, so punks old and young might want to plan a getaway to the Bay for June 16 and 17. The birthday man himself will play with the Melvins, and debut a new band that includes some other semi-legendary old punks. Full info here.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Erin Lubin

Joe Carducci gives us some truth

Tomorrow at 7 p.m., Arthur Magazine and Redoubt Press present Joe Carducci reading from selected works, including his new book, "Enter Naomi," at Book Soup in West Hollywood. Carducci (pictured at left) also guests on KXLU radio's "Stray Pop" program tonight at 11; stream it here.

Why should you care? Here's why:

In 1991, Joe Carducci published a massive, brilliant, stupid, exhaustive, exhausting book called "Rock and the Pop Narcotic," which set out a theory of what mattered in rock music that inspired many and infuriated more. Since he was office manager/utility infielder at SST, one of the key labels defining American punk, Carducci had more right than most to spout on about the importance of bands like Husker Du and Black Flag.

I hated that book: Carducci came off as a macho libertarian in love with some romantic idea of the working class, who thought male bonding was the key ingredient in music-making, that establishment rock critics were namby-pamby liberals and that anything aimed at the marketplace (i.e., at girls) was hopelessly corrupt. Worst of all were rock bands with pop pretensions. I was a girl who liked U2 and loved reading rock criticism. Carducci and I were not bound to get along.

Now that I'm less defensive about strong thinkers whose viewpoints contradict my own, I can see the value in Carducci's impassioned embrace of the miraculous transformations that happen when a few sweaty dudes -- and, Carducci acknowledges, possibly a woman or two -- make loud music together. I dip into "Rock and the Pop Narcotic" (which he revised in 1995, and published in a third edition on Redoubt Press in 2005) when I need a shot of provocative thinking or a great description of garage rock.

What brought me back to Carducci, though, was an online tribute he wrote in 2005 (still accessible here) about a woman who never made music, though she loved punk and played a role in its glory days.

The news that Justin Timberlake has offered to write a song for the wedding of Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi got me thinking about the music we choose to mark crucial moments in our lives. Everybody loves to talk wedding songs, graduation songs, even summer songs. Funeral songs, not so much. (My morbid/controlling streak -- what's more controlling than dictating what happens after you've kicked? -- has led me to contemplate the subject. The only choice I'm sure about so far is "Days" by the Kinks.)

Pop is a life force, and it's natural that its fans would prefer talk of love to meditations on death. But sometimes a song comes along that perfectly captures the vagaries of grief. Greg Laswell's "High and Low" is one such song.

First released on "Through Toledo," the San Diego-based singer-songwriter's seductively morose meditation on being violently dumped, "High and Low" isn't necessarily about someone who's literally shuffled off this mortal coil. Yet this gentle torch song builds and diminishes the same way sorrow does after a death.

Laswell's deliberate piano lines push along, like a depressive's step through another gray day. His almost lackadaisical vocals relay a lyric half made of casual observation, half syruped in melancholy. The song goes on and on, soothing at first, then slightly irritating, like a haunting memory. Strings kick in to convey a new mood, but the revelations stay small. Healing, this song says, comes slowly, and just when you think you're better that old ache returns.

Stream: High and Low

An expanded version of "High and Low" appears on Laswell's EP "How the Day Sounds," released by Vanguard Records as an amuse-bouche leading up to his next full-length, "Three Flights From Alto Nido," out July 8. He's also part of this summer's annual Hotel Cafe tour, along with Sara Bareilles, Cary Brothers and Ingrid Michaelson.

Thanks to Alan and Filter magazine for the tip on Greg.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Joseph Llanes

For me, middle age officially begins on June 7 of this year. That's when Prince, whose sexy-utopian music defined my college nights, turns 50. And I've just learned that any attempt to hide from my mid-40s reality will be further hindered by the 50th birthday of Jello Biafra, another formative influence, just 10 days after the Purple One.

Jello's contributions to the punk rock canon aren't as lauded as Joey Ramone's or Johnny Rotten's, but he's been a guiding light (well, more like a guiding car alarm) for Bay Area punks since the turn of the '80s. As lead provocateur in the Dead Kennedys, Biafra helped invent the American take on political punk.

When I first heard the band's debut, "Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables," in 1980, I was a Clash-loving high school girl trying to rebel, but not sure how. The name "Dead Kennedys" alone sent a nervous ripple through my Catholic heart. But it was the music, and most of all Jello's yowl, that secured loyalty -- ripping satirical songs like "Holiday in Cambodia" and "Kill the Poor" were as absurd as Monty Python, way more confrontational than the anti-nuke rallies then on offer for budding lefties, and (in its own ugly way) as catchy as the Beach Boys. No point in resisting. Soon, I'd discover mosh pits and just how sweaty shirtless hard-core boys got in them.

The band's sound got harder and faster, then more experimental, on subsequent releases. Biafra's thinking grew more complex too, but he never gave up one millimeter of edge. After enduring an obscenity trial for bundling a sexually graphic poster created by Swiss surrealist HR Giger inside 1985's "Frankenchrist" LP, the DKs eventually signed off; subsequent encounters between Biafra and his former bandmates would be marred by conflicts in court.

Biafra evolved into a post-punk amalgam of Allan Kaprow and Lenny Bruce, staging hilarious anarchist interventions wherever he went. In 2000, he contended with Ralph Nader for the Green Party's presidential nomination (he'd also run for mayor of San Francisco in 1979, at age 21), delivering a well-received speech at the party's nominating convention. He's done political reporting and commentary for Indymedia, released a bunch of spoken word albums and helmed Alternative Tentacles, the underground label he and DK's guitarist East Bay Ray co-founded in 1979.

He's also continued to play punk rock. Lately, his band has been the Melvins -- a super-heavy band and the perfect match for Jello's jeremiads.

Alternative Tentacles is throwing a big party at San Francisco's Great American Music Hall to celebrate Jello's half-century of causing trouble, so punks old and young might want to plan a getaway to the Bay for June 16 and 17. The birthday man himself will play with the Melvins, and debut a new band that includes some other semi-legendary old punks. Full info here.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Erin Lubin

Greg Laswell’s gorgeous little song about death

The news that Justin Timberlake has offered to write a song for the wedding of Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi got me thinking about the music we choose to mark crucial moments in our lives. Everybody loves to talk wedding songs, graduation songs, even summer songs. Funeral songs, not so much. (My morbid/controlling streak -- what's more controlling than dictating what happens after you've kicked? -- has led me to contemplate the subject. The only choice I'm sure about so far is "Days" by the Kinks.)

Pop is a life force, and it's natural that its fans would prefer talk of love to meditations on death. But sometimes a song comes along that perfectly captures the vagaries of grief. Greg Laswell's "High and Low" is one such song.

First released on "Through Toledo," the San Diego-based singer-songwriter's seductively morose meditation on being violently dumped, "High and Low" isn't necessarily about someone who's literally shuffled off this mortal coil. Yet this gentle torch song builds and diminishes the same way sorrow does after a death.

Laswell's deliberate piano lines push along, like a depressive's step through another gray day. His almost lackadaisical vocals relay a lyric half made of casual observation, half syruped in melancholy. The song goes on and on, soothing at first, then slightly irritating, like a haunting memory. Strings kick in to convey a new mood, but the revelations stay small. Healing, this song says, comes slowly, and just when you think you're better that old ache returns.

Stream: High and Low

An expanded version of "High and Low" appears on Laswell's EP "How the Day Sounds," released by Vanguard Records as an amuse-bouche leading up to his next full-length, "Three Flights From Alto Nido," out July 8. He's also part of this summer's annual Hotel Cafe tour, along with Sara Bareilles, Cary Brothers and Ingrid Michaelson.

Thanks to Alan and Filter magazine for the tip on Greg.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Joseph Llanes

For me, middle age officially begins on June 7 of this year. That's when Prince, whose sexy-utopian music defined my college nights, turns 50. And I've just learned that any attempt to hide from my mid-40s reality will be further hindered by the 50th birthday of Jello Biafra, another formative influence, just 10 days after the Purple One.

Jello's contributions to the punk rock canon aren't as lauded as Joey Ramone's or Johnny Rotten's, but he's been a guiding light (well, more like a guiding car alarm) for Bay Area punks since the turn of the '80s. As lead provocateur in the Dead Kennedys, Biafra helped invent the American take on political punk.

When I first heard the band's debut, "Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables," in 1980, I was a Clash-loving high school girl trying to rebel, but not sure how. The name "Dead Kennedys" alone sent a nervous ripple through my Catholic heart. But it was the music, and most of all Jello's yowl, that secured loyalty -- ripping satirical songs like "Holiday in Cambodia" and "Kill the Poor" were as absurd as Monty Python, way more confrontational than the anti-nuke rallies then on offer for budding lefties, and (in its own ugly way) as catchy as the Beach Boys. No point in resisting. Soon, I'd discover mosh pits and just how sweaty shirtless hard-core boys got in them.

The band's sound got harder and faster, then more experimental, on subsequent releases. Biafra's thinking grew more complex too, but he never gave up one millimeter of edge. After enduring an obscenity trial for bundling a sexually graphic poster created by Swiss surrealist HR Giger inside 1985's "Frankenchrist" LP, the DKs eventually signed off; subsequent encounters between Biafra and his former bandmates would be marred by conflicts in court.

Biafra evolved into a post-punk amalgam of Allan Kaprow and Lenny Bruce, staging hilarious anarchist interventions wherever he went. In 2000, he contended with Ralph Nader for the Green Party's presidential nomination (he'd also run for mayor of San Francisco in 1979, at age 21), delivering a well-received speech at the party's nominating convention. He's done political reporting and commentary for Indymedia, released a bunch of spoken word albums and helmed Alternative Tentacles, the underground label he and DK's guitarist East Bay Ray co-founded in 1979.

He's also continued to play punk rock. Lately, his band has been the Melvins -- a super-heavy band and the perfect match for Jello's jeremiads.

Alternative Tentacles is throwing a big party at San Francisco's Great American Music Hall to celebrate Jello's half-century of causing trouble, so punks old and young might want to plan a getaway to the Bay for June 16 and 17. The birthday man himself will play with the Melvins, and debut a new band that includes some other semi-legendary old punks. Full info here.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Erin Lubin

Critic’s Notebook: A half-century of Jello

For me, middle age officially begins on June 7 of this year. That's when Prince, whose sexy-utopian music defined my college nights, turns 50. And I've just learned that any attempt to hide from my mid-40s reality will be further hindered by the 50th birthday of Jello Biafra, another formative influence, just 10 days after the Purple One.

Jello's contributions to the punk rock canon aren't as lauded as Joey Ramone's or Johnny Rotten's, but he's been a guiding light (well, more like a guiding car alarm) for Bay Area punks since the turn of the '80s. As lead provocateur in the Dead Kennedys, Biafra helped invent the American take on political punk.

When I first heard the band's debut, "Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables," in 1980, I was a Clash-loving high school girl trying to rebel, but not sure how. The name "Dead Kennedys" alone sent a nervous ripple through my Catholic heart. But it was the music, and most of all Jello's yowl, that secured loyalty -- ripping satirical songs like "Holiday in Cambodia" and "Kill the Poor" were as absurd as Monty Python, way more confrontational than the anti-nuke rallies then on offer for budding lefties, and (in its own ugly way) as catchy as the Beach Boys. No point in resisting. Soon, I'd discover mosh pits and just how sweaty shirtless hard-core boys got in them.

The band's sound got harder and faster, then more experimental, on subsequent releases. Biafra's thinking grew more complex too, but he never gave up one millimeter of edge. After enduring an obscenity trial for bundling a sexually graphic poster created by Swiss surrealist HR Giger inside 1985's "Frankenchrist" LP, the DKs eventually signed off; subsequent encounters between Biafra and his former bandmates would be marred by conflicts in court.

Biafra evolved into a post-punk amalgam of Allan Kaprow and Lenny Bruce, staging hilarious anarchist interventions wherever he went. In 2000, he contended with Ralph Nader for the Green Party's presidential nomination (he'd also run for mayor of San Francisco in 1979, at age 21), delivering a well-received speech at the party's nominating convention. He's done political reporting and commentary for Indymedia, released a bunch of spoken word albums and helmed Alternative Tentacles, the underground label he and DK's guitarist East Bay Ray co-founded in 1979.

He's also continued to play punk rock. Lately, his band has been the Melvins -- a super-heavy band and the perfect match for Jello's jeremiads.

Alternative Tentacles is throwing a big party at San Francisco's Great American Music Hall to celebrate Jello's half-century of causing trouble, so punks old and young might want to plan a getaway to the Bay for June 16 and 17. The birthday man himself will play with the Melvins, and debut a new band that includes some other semi-legendary old punks. Full info here.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Erin Lubin