More than once this week I had this exchange with puzzled friends and acquaintances:

“I’m going to see Jamie Foxx at the Grove on Thursday.”

“Wait, what … is he singing?”

It’s a curious thing, how Foxx can be so widely regarded for his acting –- who doesn’t know he won the Oscar for his uncanny performance in Ray? –- yet not garner even half as much attention for his records, strong sellers though they continue to be.

It was the breakthrough of Ray, in fact, that led Foxx to take a second stab at a music career (his first album, Peep This, came and went in 1994 with little notice). Enlisting production help from the likes of Timbaland, Kanye West and Babyface –- and loading up his discs with cameos from, among others, Lil Wayne, Ne-Yo, T.I., Fabolous and Mary J. Blige –- Foxx has certainly made a name for himself in urban-soul circles these past few years, first with the double-platinum Unpredictable (2005), then with his December release Intuition. (He’s also only the fourth person in history -– behind Sinatra, Streisand and Bing Crosby –- to have nabbed an acting Oscar and topped the Billboard album charts.)

But while he definitely has a secure reputation, what Foxx still lacks musically is an identity. As was evident time and again during Thursday night’s nearly sold-out Grove gig –- a warm-up for a 63-date tour that arrives Oct. 16 at Nokia Theatre -– Foxx so strains to emulate influences and peers that he often fails to just be himself.

At best, he’s R. Kelly with class, randy but not too raunchy.

“How many ladies are mad at their boyfriends?” he asked at the outset of his show. “Well, I’ll be your boyfriend for an hour and a half. No strings attached, I love it.” Later, infusing bits of comedy into his set (a wise move), he pretended to be a female fan: “I just got my hair did. Cost me $65. You can pull on it later, but I don’t want to sweat it out right now, there’s a recession on!”

It was because of asides like that, in addition to resolutely strong vocals that proved he doesn’t need Autotuning vocal effects to make his songs click, that Foxx came across so instantly appealing, even to male admirers just looking for some sweet soul. All the same, I still had a hard time locating the real Jamie amid his energetic performance.

To rephrase the hook he sang in Twista’s hit “Slow Jamz,” he’s a little Marvin Gaye, some Luther Vandross, all parts of New Edition, maybe a little Usher, a splash of Ginuwine, a touch of Prince in his falsetto … oh, and he’s still plenty enamored of Brother Ray.

His people greatly discouraged any press coverage of this low-key kickoff. (That’s why there are no photos attached; the one above is from his appearance at the 9th annual BET Awards last Sunday.) So perhaps some constructive criticism won’t be welcome. Still, if there’s one recommendation I’d make, it’d be to ditch the Ray Charles shtick a third of the way in -– or at least downplay it.

Turning his back to the crowd, clenching his arms close to his side and swaying a bit so that we know exactly what’s coming, Foxx spins around in character, cracking jokes in Ray voice before leading some call-and-response on “What’d I Say” and sliding from “I Got a Woman” into the smash built out of it, “Gold Digger.” Absolutely he should keep those songs in his set; “Gold Digger” especially makes ’em go wild. But to lace it with impersonation was flat-out corny and misguided: At this point in his career it smacks of trading on his greatest performance, rather than putting himself across as a star on his own terms.

Otherwise, Foxx’s show, abetted by an eight-member ensemble including DJ Irie, two keyboardists and two backing vocalists, is a well-prepped winner that’s ready to roll into larger venues pronto. Is it groundbreaking like some of Kanye’s spectacles? No. Is it in fact anything more than something special for the ladies, a chance for them to revel in all things Jamie while savoring all of his radio hits, from “Extravaganza” to “Just Like Me” and “Blame It”? Of course it isn’t.

And what’s wrong with that? He may feel re-energized after the passing of Michael Jackson, as he mentioned here, but that doesn’t mean he’s trying to be the next King of Pop. Like his song says, he’s just letting it do what it do –- and that’s good enough. For now.

Also:

• O.C.’s Hootenanny turns 15 with a bang
• Steve Howe does double duty with Yes and Asia
• John Fogerty adds heat to fireworks show at the Hollywood Bowl
• Clapton & Winwood retrace faded footsteps at the Hollywood Bowl
• Daughtry to play the Fonda on 13-date small-venue tour
• Adele still charming but not quite ready for the Hollywood Bowl

Post from: Soundcheck

Our resident classic-rock guru Steve Fryer reports from Hollyweird …

It doesn’t get more Americana than this: American rock icon John Fogerty kicking off a celebration of that most American of holidays, at an only-in-America place called the Hollywood Bowl.

Not enough? Well, there also was an orchestra playing John Philip Sousa marches. And a big fireworks show.

Need more? How about fat guys in tropical shirts dancing? That is very, very American.

Fogerty teamed with the Los Angeles Philharmonic on Thursday to start a three-day engagement at the Bowl for the Independence Day holiday. It was a curious concept, yet it turned out to be a lot of fun. (The Associated Press photo, by the way, is from a performance in Berlin last summer.)

Fogerty’s career is in full vigor, on record and on stage, and it is great to see him really tear into the hits from his Creedence Clearwater Revival days. Four songs played with the L.A. Phil had magic moments, but cohesion was amiss in spots -– something likely to be eliminated by Saturday’s third and final show.

The program: the L.A. Philharmonic revived some American compositions … then Fogerty and his band rocked the place … Fogerty and the L.A. Phil teamed up on a couple of Creedence classics … and the L.A. Phil closed with “Stars and Stripes Forever,” accompanying a long and loud fireworks exhibition.

Fogerty, 64, was his usual smiling and hopping self. His guitar playing was as sharp as always, and vocally he’s never been stronger.

But with a 10 p.m. curfew, a busy schedule that included the orchestra and the fireworks show, and a start 10 minutes past the planned 7:30 p.m. kickoff (typical traffic made for plenty of late arrivals), Fogerty had to hurry through a 13-song set. Three songs from Centerfield – “Rock and Roll Girls,” “The Old Man Down the Road” and the title track — were played as a medley.

Brevity was emphasized. Fogerty and his six-piece band, with Kenny Aronoff standing out as usual on drums, led with a version of “Hey Tonight” that clocked in a couple of seconds quicker than the original 2:45 . And “Keep 0n Chooglin’,” a jam of close to eight minutes on CCR’s Bayou Country, was finished in not much more than half of that here.

Political statements and social commentary figure frequently in Fogerty’s music. He played on the Vote for Change tour that supported Democratic presidential nominee John Kerry in 2004. But Thursday Fogerty steered clear of the anti-Iraq invasion songs that were highlights of his Déjà Vu (All Over Again) album of ’04.

The collaborations between Fogerty and his band and the L.A. Phil were interesting. The big orchestra threatened to overwhelm “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” during the first chords, but then slid back into the mix. Three other songs were played with the orchestra: “Don’t You Wish It Was True” and “Broken Down Cowboy” from the 2007’s Revival album, and of course “Proud Mary,” with the brass section lending some feel from the Ike & Tina version to the performance.

The L.A. Phil, led by enthusiastic guest conductor John Morris Russell, bookended Fogerty’s set. The orchestra opened with “The Star Spangled Banner,” during which “the rocket’s red glare” and “bombs bursting in air” lines were accompanied in perfect timing with a couple blasts of fireworks.

Then came varied slices of American music, including Leonard Bernstein’s beautiful overture from “West Side Story,” a rousing take on Aaron Copeland’s “Hoedown,” a stirring play of John Williams’ “Hymn to the Fallen” from Saving Private Ryan and a bopping run through “Sing Sing Sing” on which drummer Perry Dreiman handled the Gene Krupa bits quite well.

The big surprise of the night? A salute to Michael Jackson. The L.A. Phil played “Thriller.” And it worked.

On this night of celebration, of course it worked. Everything else did.

Also:

• Clapton & Winwood retrace faded footsteps at the Hollywood Bowl
• Daughtry to play the Fonda on 13-date small-venue tour
• Adele still charming but not quite ready for the Hollywood Bowl

Post from: Soundcheck

Click here to see more photos of Eric Clapton, Steve Winwood and fans at the Hollywood Bowl!

Comparing the merits of contemporaries 40-some years after their arrivals is about as sensible as measuring Michael Jackson’s exit against Elvis Presley’s. At some point the hairs of debate get split so fine, they cease to exist.

And yet I feel this is now inarguable: At this stage in his storied career –- especially in relation to the purposeless nostalgia-peddling so many of his peers resort to -– it’s fair to say that Eric Clapton, like Neil Young, is absolutely in a class all his own.

Further proof: his slow-to-burn but ultimately terrific performance alongside old friend Steve Winwood Tuesday night at the sold-out Hollywood Bowl, another retraced footstep in Slowhand’s spectacular and rocky past.

Mind you, he’s not so singular because his showmanship is somehow superior to, say, the Rolling Stones or Elton John or Fleetwood Mac (if they count). Hardly –- he will always be mesmerizing to those of us addicted to gazing at guitarists in flight, but to the average “Lay Down Sally” fan, snail races might be more interesting to watch.

Yet Clapton’s playing –- virtuosity bested in rock only by Jimi Hendrix’s unearthly knack for daring and innovation -– well, that’s another matter. Leave the entertaining to Mick and Rod. When Clapton is on, he’s still untouchable, still worthy of fervent godhead adoration.

What really separates him from other surviving boomer heroes, however, is the deeply personal approach he has taken this decade to revisiting the past, both his own and that of the bluesmen whose music molded him.

With the exception of his last overly slick sop to the marketplace, 1998’s Pilgrim (which at least hinted at introspection with “My Father’s Eyes”), every release since 1994’s overlooked and underrated blues assortment From the Cradle has found Clapton journeying backward. Even relatively non-thematic (and middling) fare like Reptile (2001) and Back Home (2005) wafted in on winds of cozy memories.

But it was his long-overdue collaboration with B.B. King in 2000 -– and soon after that an excavation of Robert Johnson for 2004’s Me and Mr. Johnson, one of Clapton’s finest recordings since his early ’70s triumphs –- that first suggested the guitarist wasn’t just mining the past for gems to play on tour. He had actually begun a process of replenishing his roots.

That became even more obvious in 2005, when Clapton regrouped with drummer Ginger Baker and bassist Jack Bruce for a four-night Cream reunion in London. And by the time of his 2006-07 tour –- which positioned the ridiculously gifted slide guitarist Derek Trucks as a Duane Allman stand-in for stellar shows that played like Derek and the Dominos reincarnated –- it was clear that a pattern had developed.

Short of patching together some version of the Yardbirds, Clapton, now 64, seems intent on revisiting and re-examining all the signposts of his younger days one by one. And Tuesday night, the final stop on his co-headlining outing with Winwood, was in many ways the culmination of another then-to-now chapter in the increasingly interesting autumn of Clapton’s career.

Here was someone –- the supremely talented Winwood, a fellow Hall of Famer so easily taken for granted these past 20 years –- whose history of collaboration with Clapton goes all the way back to Eric’s days with John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers and Stevie’s teenage time with the Spencer Davis Group.

Those two outfits would jam out quite a lot while trekking around the U.K. in the mid-’60s. So, naturally, when Clapton grew weary of the bickering and ballyhoo of Cream and wanted to pull away from the limelight to create something different, Winwood was the first person he called.

The resulting supergroup collaboration, once Baker adhered himself to it and bassist Rick Grech was wooed away from the group Family, was dubbed Blind Faith and managed to cut one treasured six-song album in 1969 amid heavily hyped but iffy live appearances. (So they say, anyway.)

Nearly four decades later, Clapton and Winwood finally played together again, reviving a handful of favorites at Slowhand’s Crossroads 2 festival in Texas Chicago in summer 2007. The following February, the duo took their reteaming one step further, performing for three nights at Madison Square Garden, the highlights of which are now available on CD and DVD.

And now ends this 14-city run, which has given thousands more the opportunity (at high triple-digit prices) to witness these two Englishmen light fires under each other — and in a live arrangement that, for Clapton anyway, has long been abandoned. For the first time in a great while he did not employ sharp support guitarists like Andy Fairweather Low or Doyle Bramhall II. I may be missing an outing along the way, but I don’t recall him performing in such a lean-and-mean setup since that ’86-’87 tour with Phil Collins on drums; even the over-celebrated Unplugged (1992) featured a bigger band.

Here, in addition to his co-star and two backing vocalists (Sharon White and Michelle John), there were only three players to round out the sound: Chris Stainton on keys, Willie Weeks on bass and the deft and powerful Abe Laboriel Jr., Paul McCartney’s fave drummer as of late, anchoring the enterprise.

At times the lack of layers was noticeable, especially early in the set, when the robust and overlapping guitar duel that closed a thickened “Had to Cry Today” was followed by tepid takes on “Low Down” and “After Midnight.” Such a less-than-cookin’ cool-down so quick out of the starting blocks drained some juice out of at least the first third of this two-hours-plus show.

On the other hand, the leanness of the overall instrumentation amounted to more than just a sturdy bedrock for Winwood’s liquid organ flourishes and Clapton’s crisp runs up the neck. It was also the right touch to apply to looser, Band-y pieces like the heavenly “Presence of the Lord” and the Buddy Holly rethink “Well All Right,” transcendent here the way “Let It Rain” often can be. It also was the perfect feel for the tempered yet still tribal Traffic standout “Pearly Queen” … not to mention the luminescent soulfulness of “Can’t Find My Way Home,” achingly lovely as ever.

At the same time, the entire ensemble was capable of massive sonic impact. During the roaring highs and swooping lows of their tremendous 16-minute take on Hendrix’s “Voodoo Chile,” the night’s most jaw-dropping moment, their marshaled forces packed all the wailing mightiness of Pink Floyd deep in the throes of “Shine On You Crazy Diamond.” (And they nearly matched themselves during the final moments of “Dear Mr. Fantasy.”)

What I mean, then, is that this group was expertly dynamic, capable of roaring through “Forever Man” like it was a sequel to “Layla” and yet delicately deconstruct that grand heartbreaker down to its Unplugged essence.

Yes, of course, Clapton’s solos grew more inspired as the evening wore on, and Winwood, so skilled yet so stoic, picked up on the heat, his organ and guitar work teeming with more passion than his records ever allow. Yet, as befits a brief tour in some way designed to re-create Blind Faith, what I came away with was the memory of a band in bloom -– just like with the Trucks-abetted lineup.

I mean no slight on Winwood by focusing so much on what this means to Clapton’s chronology, but it can’t be helped: This is simply the latest step in a remarkable revision of an already legendary past. What’s next? Another gathering of Delaney & Bonnie & Friends is next to impossible at this point.

Any other unfinished business, sir, or shall we move on to 461 Ocean Boulevard?

Eric Clapton & Steve Winwood at the Hollywood Bowl, June 30, 2009
Main set: Had to Cry Today / Low Down / After Midnight / Presence of the Lord / Sleeping in the Ground / Glad > Well All Right / Tough Luck Blues / Pearly Queen / There’s a River / Forever Man / Low Spark of High Heeled Boys / Driftin’ / How Long Blues / Layla (acoustic) / Can’t Find My Way Home / Split Decision / Voodoo Chile
Encore: Cocaine / Dear Mr. Fantasy

Post from: Soundcheck

The band’s namesake and his trusty pals are about to drop Leave This Town into stores on July 14. The follow-up to 2006’s quintuple-platinum self-titled debut, the album is already garnering critical buzz for its diversity, ranging from a Vince Gill duet to tracks that evoke the best of Guns N’ Roses and Alice in Chains.

Chris Daughtry alone wrote the lead-off cut, “You Don’t Belong,” and elsewhere on the disc collaborated with Nickelback’s Chad Kroeger, Lifehouse’s Jason Wade, Eric Dill of the Click Five and former Evanescence guitarist Ben Moody. (A song co-written with OneRepublic’s Ryan Tedder, however, appears to have been left off the final cut.)

Now, to showcase the  new material, Daughtry is headed out on a 13-date tour of clubs and small theaters, including an Aug. 19 stop at the Music Box at the Fonda in Hollywood. Tickets should go on sale July 11.

A limited number of VIP packages will be available via pre-sale July 8-10. Meanwhile, the first 50 fans who pre-order the new album at Daughtry’s official site will also score a free ticket to the Fonda gig. (Bet those are already gone by the time you read this.)

Finally, look for a full-blown North American tour later this year.

Elsewhere, South American outfit Bajofondo will play Sept. 18 at the Glass House, $15, on sale now, while the Longhair Illuminati Fest 2 arrives at the Pomona venue on Oct. 3, featuring the Bronx with Abe Vigoda, Lemon Sun, Technology (featuring Chris Tsagakis of Rx Bandits), Henheart and Ojos Rojos, $13, on sale Friday at noon.

New at House of Blues Anaheim: Smile Empty Soul, July 21, price tba … popular Neil Diamond tribute act Super Diamond, Aug. 8, $20 … and Mexican singer Yahir, Sept 2, $22.50. Both of those go on sale Friday at 10 a.m.

Mutemath will play Oct. 10 at Club Nokia in the downtown L.A. Live complex. Tickets, $23-$25, go on sale Friday at 10 a.m.

Remember how the Pharcyde had a show slated for July 10 at the Grove of Anaheim, and then last week it got canceled? Yeah, well, now the L.A. hip-hop outfit is playing the venue on Sept. 11. Tickets, $25-$28, are on sale now.

And at L.A.’s El Rey Theatre: the Dodos with the Ruby Suns and Sian Alice Group, Sept. 27, $17, on sale now … violinist David Garrett, Oct. 16, $50, on sale Wednesday at 10 a.m. … and Mum, Nov. 6, $20, on sale now.

Stay tuned for any further announcements … but I wouldn’t expect much more.

Post from: Soundcheck

Click here for a slide show of Adele, Chaka Khan and fans!

Headlining the Hollywood Bowl is an auspicious occasion for any performer, even well-seasoned ones who have played there many times. So it’s understandable that it would be a positively mind-boggling first experience for a fast-rising new star like Adele.

The Britsoul charmer, just 21, has broken America in a big way these past six months via a wise-beyond-her-years debut (19) that nabbed two Grammys in February, including the prize for best new artist. An overnight sensation like we don’t see much anymore, Adele has skyrocketed from smaller venues like the Wiltern to selling out the 18,000-capacity Bowl on a Sunday night, with only her favorite vocalist, the legendary but not exactly reclusive Etta James, initially planned for added value.

(A few days earlier, though, Etta fell ill and had to fall off -– so promoters replaced one big bad mama with another, the still-robust Chaka Khan.)

It had to be nerve-wracking just to prepare for this performance, bolstered in spots by the somewhat superfluous and underused Hollywood Bowl Orchestra strings. Just 48 hours earlier Ms. Adkins had witnessed the Queen of Soul herself deliver what some have called a rousing, class-act show at this same historical amphitheater, and before an even more celeb-studded audience.

(Certainly it sounds like Aretha gave more to her first Bowl show in 35 years than she did to her Greek Theatre appearance of 2004.)

“She thinks the Wiltern is big?” I wondered of this leap to the Hollywood Bowl in my review of Adele’s endearing yet slightly green gig there in January. “Let’s see how overwhelmed she gets when she steps on that hallowed stage.”

Turns out she was instantly overcome, so nervous she immediately kicked her heels off and announced, “You are the biggest crowd ever. I can’t see any of you, which is a good thing. I’m gonna forget a lot of words.”

She got through the first song, “Crazy for You,” without fault, acquitting herself quite nicely alone on guitar. (Her most memorable moments, in fact, like “Daydreamer” and “Best for Last,” found her unaccompanied.) But her amazement seeped out of her between almost every tune.

She cutely chattered on nervously any chance she got: “I feel like Beyoncé or something, there’s so many of you” … “I got sunburnt today, I’ve got makeup on like a drag queen” … “I feel like Shirley Bassey now!” … “American Idol’s here tonight! I got to meet him” (my guess is that it was Adam Lambert, not Kris Allen, but I could be dead wrong) … and “I’m sorry I keep forgetting words. It’s very unprofessional, but you’re blowing my mind.”

It’s not unprofessional at all … in small doses. When it becomes excessive, though –- when there’s a frequency of flubs across 15 songs in 75 minutes –- that’s when it stops being charming and starts seeming careless.

Granted, Adele’s just-a-girl informality is part of her appeal; it lends an intimacy to her Dusty Springfield revamps and choice covers that can leave a Bowl full of fans hanging on every word of her revealing, autobiographical songs. When she really put her mind to it –- and tuned out the enormity of the gig, no mean feat indeed –- she would zero in on her confidence with dead aim, soulfully mourning failed romance and jazzily dancing around smoky melodies like a knowing chanteuse twice her age.

Almost as often, though, she came off even younger than she is, at times bordering on amateurishness -– her well-intended but half-hearted attempt at a tribute to Michael Jackson consisted of her singing one line of “Thriller” then letting her band groove on it through the first chorus.

Fun asides like phoning her mum so the cheering crowd could give her a 6 a.m. wake-up call brought a smile, sure, and even halting “Melt My Heart to Stone” when she blanked on a lyric –- and then blanked again when it was restarted -– was just another reason to root for her. Yet too often I felt she was easily distracted by the wonderment of it all. More so than other first-timers caught like deer in the Bowl’s bright spotlights (Norah Jones much earlier this decade leaps to mind), Adele had a tendency to forget that she was here to wow us, not the other way around.

When she did wow, mind you, she reminded why she deserved those Grammys — and why she has the most promising start of all the Britsoul sisters, save for Amy Winehouse, who immediately trashed hers. “Talk to Me,” another classically structured ballad Adele unveiled here, with only Miles Robertson assisting on grand piano, held its own in the company of her debut, of which she played all but one song, seven backed by strings. (This is the last date of her North American run, by the way. In a few months, she says, she’ll be back, recording her second album in Malibu.)

Even if she weren’t carving out a conversational songwriting corner for herself, Adele’s considerable skills as a revivalist (if not a full-blown interpreter just yet) would be enough reason to celebrate her. She’s been doing Etta’s “Fool That I Am” live long enough to have made it her own, so much so that “even if she were here I’d do this song.” (It almost brought the house down at one point.) Her snazzy run through Sam Cooke’s “That’s It, I Quit, I’m Movin’ On” let her pay tribute to another prime influence, and as I mentioned in January, her version of Bob Dylan’s “Make You Feel My Love” is, to my ears, the loveliest around.

Once she settles into her newly famous skin and accepts that this many people will gladly gather all at once to hear her sing –- at least for now -– there’s no telling what a powerhouse Adele might become. Cut her some slack, yeah, that’s fair -– this wasn’t just her Bowl debut, it was, she said, the first time she’s ever played outside, as she’s apparently been fearful of playing festivals at home.

“This has been a night I will never, ever forget,” she sincerely declared at the conclusion. I hope she never does –- so she can always savor its high, and remember what not to do next time.

“I’m gutted about Etta James,” she said about the fairly late removal of her idol from the bill, and I surely wasn’t the only attendee who shared her disappointment. “But I don’t know if she would have put on a show like Chaka Khan.”

All due respect to the voice of “At Last,” but no, she wouldn’t have. And the night was better for what Chaka impressively brought to it on two days notice –- namely, a perfect, album-length sampling that covered all her highlights, from “I Feel for You” and “Ain’t Nobody” and “Hollywood” in the opening to her uplifting anthems “Through the Fire” and “I’m Every Woman” (as well as a rendition of Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Goin’ On”) toward the end.

Clad in thigh-high crinkled leather boots and black tights held in place by a tight bodice, Khan, 56, proved again and again that she still has potent pipes, effortlessly scaling vocal heights to shame Mariah Carey -– yet also coasting a bit once she’s up there, which sometimes led to a slight lack of intensity and crispness of phrasing. She’s sharp overall, and very personable –- her confessional about once upon a time being a “bad, bad girl” who “used to partay-yay-yay-yay … who used to put the p in party” was no less effective for being well-rehearsed. (When she says, “Hell, I’ve been through the fire five, six, seven times –- I’m going through it right now,” you tend to believe her.)

Yet she and her seven-member band could also be professional almost to a fault. “Tell Me Something Good,” for instance, had a bit too much Vegas in it to really burn. Perhaps that’s why it wasn’t that sultry jam or the rest of her Rufus medley (“You Got to Love,” a breezy “Sweet Thing”) that got the crowd on its feet -– it was “I’m Every Woman.”

Out-of-place opener Janelle Monàe, on the other hand, was an ill fit made worse by unfulfilled intro hype that left a mostly indifferent crowd waiting several minutes for her entrance. Strutting bizarrely in tapered tux duds, her overgrown pompadour bouncing about wildly, she had the visual magnetism of Cab Calloway on steroids and a musical eccentricity that left every song more unpredictable than the last.

First she was a jittery electro-pop queen retrofitting the edgier ’80s for the future, with the spaced-out weirdness of Nona Hendryx and the nervy approach of Laurie Anderson … then she was belting Charlie Chaplin’s “Smile” (for Michael) with almost operatic fervor while standing on a stool … then she smear-painted like a grade-schooler all through a meandering jam called “Mushrooms & Roses,” giving the canvas away to an admirer … and she wrapped up with a rote cover of the Beatles’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand” … for obvious reasons, OK, but it was still a weak finish to an already baffling performance.

That said, her Moonwalk is fully liquid –- she moves like spilt mercury.

Adele / Chaka Khan / Janelle Monae at the Hollywood Bowl, June 28, 2009
Adele: Crazy for You / Right as Rain / Melt My Heart to Stone / Many Shades of Black / Daydreamer / Best for Last / Tired / snippet of Thriller / Cold Shoulder / First Love / Fool That I Am / That’s It, I Quit, I’m Movin’ On / Hometown Glory // Make You Feel My Love / Take It All / Chasing Pavements

Chaka: Overture / I Feel for You / Ain’t Nobody / Hollywood / Angel / Through the Fire / Rufus Medley: You Got to Love > Tell Me Something Good > Sweet Thing / I’m Every Woman // What’s Going On

Janelle: Violet Stars Happy Hunting! / Many Moons / Smile / Sincerely Jane / Mushrooms & Roses / I Want to Hold Your Hand

Post from: Soundcheck

Click here for a slide show of fans and more at the fest!

Click here for pics of Bad Religion, NOFX, Thrice and more bands at Warped Tour!

The following are excerpts from a small notepad found atop one of many heaps of trash left behind Friday at the Fairplex at Pomona, where the annual punk-metal-and-more bash known as Warped Tour kicked off for the 15th time.

At press time the author’s whereabouts remain unknown, though we have located his Twitter feed. With luck, he’ll turn up before the bacchanalia returns to Home Depot Center on Aug. 23.

1:45 p.m.: Sets started more than two hours ago –- Dear and the Headlights were over and done with before noon, and the main stage has already hosted Anti Flag and Underoath -– but we only have so much stamina for a fest that won’t end until just before 9. Pass by the A.K.A.’s (solid, not lame) and Orange (from England, not Anaheim) on our way to the Old School Stage for Guttermouth.

“It’s been four years since we’ve done one of these Warped Tour things -– I’m happy about that,” says barefoot frontman Mark Adkins, though I think it was five, since that acrimonious 2004 trip that ended with the Huntington Beach band dropping off the tour. Adkins crowd surfs, then badgers security, then hands his cutting-out mic to a little kid, who outshines him. “You’re the next Henry Rollins!” he declares. “But you’re gonna be straight. You’re not gonna (bleep) that dude from the Misfits in the (bleep).”

2:30: More than a decade on, Kris Roe and the Ataris are still going strong, and their bubblepunk has worn surprisingly well. “In This Diary” and “San Dimas” and their cover of Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer” (with a Black Flag sticker on that Cadillac) still stand out amidst so much unintelligible muck … like the electro-porn of illustrated he-she Jeffree Star (amusing to look at, not much to listen to; passerby: “You’re not Marilyn Manson!”) … or the pointless guttural rap of the Brokencyde. Note what Gallows’ vocalist Frank Carter had to say at the end of the day: “Don’t listen to that (bleep). Don’t encourage that. Listen to Bad Religion, Black Flag, NOFX (pictured, left), Circle Jerks and Fear.”

2:50: Hop onto Warped creator Kevin Lyman’s air-conditioned tour bus for a quick chat. “Every year it doesn’t change a whole lot,” he tells me when I say this year’s lineup looks better than the last. “Maybe for the fans of certain bands, but it’s always had a backyard party feel … with someone’s iPod on shuffle.”

But in recent years that’s included several “neon bands” that punk purists detest. “I get attacked a lot, people saying, ‘Don’t you feel some responsibility to punk rock?’ I’m as punk rock as anyone. I haven’t sold out to Live Nation or AEG. It’s still just me, at 48 – I couldn’t go get another job, I’m too old.” Can he do it another 15 years? “I don’t know. But only one of these little kids could take it over. My daughter is 14 – maybe she’d do it. But not a big corporation. They’d (mess) it up.”

Expected attendance: roughly 16,000, he says. “But, you know, 3,000 are on the guest list. Hard to keep ’em away when it’s a hometown show. I just ordered 100 double-doubles!”

3:30: Walked away from D.I. after they stormed through “Richard Hung Himself,” same ol’, same ol’ … what the hell is Therefore I Am and why can’t someone shut them up? … The Devil Wears Prada is the stupidest name ever for growling, post-screamo blech-band … Civet, on the other hand, another Tim Armstrong discovery for Hellcat Records, are like a reincarnated L7 in fishnets with the sloppy roar of Rancid. “I better see you punk rockers move out there,” one of them shouts out – and the 150 people standing at the small stage erupt.

3:50: Is that stringy-haired thing up there with A Skylit Drive a boy or a girl? Hard to tell. And where the $#%@ is the Hurley Stage amid this mash-up of booths? Sorry, Saosin, can’t find you. I’ll take in Steve Soto and the rest of Fullerton’s never-say-die Adolescents instead, still packing raw power nearly 30 years after forming.

4:45: Thrice’s playing was first-rate on the main stage -– they keep wiping away the sludge so that songs old and new attack with a newfound crispness. But like everyone else, they’re suffering through technical glitches. “We’re changing our name to the Fiasco,” says Dustin Kensrue (pictured, right), and I’m not entirely sure he realizes there’s a band named that playing at the same moment on the other side of the field. Once I get over there, some meager thing called Longway is faithfully reviving Nirvana’s “Breed” before the VH1-hyped Breathe Carolina serve up limp dance-rock with bass so heavy you can’t hear anything else. Even their not-so-ironic cover of Miley Cyrus’ “See You Again” gets buried.

5:15: TSOL’s Jack Grisham, in a black suit and with a shaved head: “Who the (bleep) is throwing half-dranken (sic) beers up here? Kids are dying in Iraq and you’re throwing beer? Don’t you think that after their house gets bombed they’d like a cool one?” Once he sings, however, I can’t make out a word he’s saying.

5:30: How and when did 3OH!3 get so popular? Don’t get me wrong, the boys from Boulder (the moniker is their area code) are fun and all, like Asher Roth without so much weed. But wasn’t it just last year that they played to 75 lookie-loos on a small stage at the Bamboozle Left in Irvine? Now you’d think the humorous electro duo were the main attraction, considering the huge crowd they drew and the chanting that accompanied “Don’t Trust Me.” (Its hook: “Shush girl / Shut your lips / Do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips!”)

6:20: It’s really amazing the jokes that Fat Mike, El Jefe and the rest of NOFX get away with –- gross, perverse, gay-bashing, Jew-baiting … you’d think you were at a Lisa Lampanelli show set to punk thrash, and I can’t even repeat the Michael Jackson putdowns. “This is practice here,” Fat Mike announces at the outset, “a rehearsal gig. We’re gonna do 11 songs, and it’s gonna be the best day of your life.” They blast through everything from the caustic “Murder the Government” to the gag-filled “Arming the Proletariat with Potato Guns” –- but honestly, they could goof off for 45 minutes and you wouldn’t know the difference.

6:35: Alien Ant Farm borrows NOFX’s gear for a surprise performance of “Smooth Criminal,” in tribute to MJ. Meh. Across the way I can hear someone shouting through OutKast’s “B.O.B. (Bombs Over Baghdad)” and Face to Face’s “Disconnected” during Punk Rock Karaoke. Wish I had walked over there.

7:30: Less Than Jake (at left is guitarist Roger Manganelli) got off to a choppy, almost discombobulated start, so I high-tailed it to see Gallows at the other end of the field -– only to find singer Frank Carter already hoisted high in the air by fans. Chaos ensues, and security gets scared out of its wits when he calls for (and gets) a raging mosh pit so large it encircles the soundboard. “Now I want to see a field-wide beatdown!” Very obviously the most dangerous (and arguably) best band on the bill.

8:15: After noticing that Lee Ving is stuck having to explain to 25 people on hand at the Old School Stage who Fear is/were (“we’re on iTunes now, too!”), I glance over my schedule, notice that there are at least three stages and two dozen bands I never bothered with (oh well), and head off to take in another reliably ripping Bad Religion set.

Kelli Skye waited for them all through what she says wound up being a particularly robust Less Than Jake set -– lotsa oldies, lotsa goodies, plenty of smiles, and they eventually worked out the kinks in the mix. But we after spending all day in the Pomona heat, 10 songs from Greg Graffin & Co. proves plenty –- especially since they open with “21st Century Digital Boy” and then quickly cram in “I Want to Conquer the World,” “Let Them Eat War,” “Los Angeles Is Burning” and “New Dark Ages.”

“We have nothing to sell to you,” Graffin says. “We just wanted to spend some time with 20,000 of our friends.” Uh, at this point it’s more like 6,000 – most split after 3OH!3. But this isn’t the ideal showcase for Bad Religion anymore, anyway. 2010, on the other hand, “is a big year for us.”

Right: the band’s 30th anniversary. Might I suggest a month-long residency at the Mouse House, during which they play every song they ever wrote?

At this point the critic’s notebook runs out, with only “HELP! GET ME OUT OF HERE!” scrawled on the final page. Any reliable information about his undoubtedly tragic fate will be rewarded with a $5 McDonald’s gift card.

Post from: Soundcheck

George A. Paul, moved like everyone else by the King of Pop’s passing, sent this our way this morning …

My brief encounter with Michael Jackson happened unexpectedly.

It was March 1992. I had gone to West Hollywood to see the British band James perform at the Roxy. Living in Riverside, I tended to head down to the Sunset Strip solely for concerts, and that was usually paired with a trip to the infamous Tower Records on Sunset, where I could pore over the wide selection of CDs — especially import singles.

Being an early Monday evening, the store was fairly empty. I had been browsing awhile when suddenly there was a commotion. Jackson had entered Tower with a bodyguard and a young disabled boy, maybe 9 or 10 years old. A few people watched them from around the corner of an aisle.

I did the same, and heard Jackson say, “Go ahead and pick out whatever you want” to the child.

Meanwhile, several employees — no strangers to celeb sightings at the retail establishment where musicians often worked and routinely made in-store appearances — went a little crazy. They made a beeline for the ‘J’ section of rock/pop/soul and ripped open the cardboard long boxes for Jackson CDs so he could sign them. (I wondered what their manager would say.)

Since I already owned every album Jackson had released since Off the Wall and didn’t feel like re-purchasing one, I quickly looked around to find an item he could sign for me. I saw an issue of Tower Pulse magazine that happened to feature Jackson on the cover (a fantastic beach shot by photographer Herb Ritts). I hurried over to where he was signing stuff, squeezed my way in and asked for an autograph.

Michael was very gracious. I mentioned how much I liked the “Black or White” single from the current Dangerous album. He smiled and softly said “thank you.” I also asked whether he was going to play Los Angeles on the upcoming tour and he replied something like “I hope so.”

A few minutes later, Jackson, his bodyguard and the boy left. Although I’ve met many amazing artists while writing about music over the past 19 years, a few minutes with the King of Pop is something I’ll never forget.

More about Michael:

• The greatness of Michael Jackson, in 25 songs
• Michael Jackson’s brilliant, eccentric, tragic life
• O.C. fans mourn Michael Jackson’s passing
• O.C. Twitter users tweet about Michael’s death
• Selected Michael Jackson discography

Post from: Soundcheck

Forget for a minute that one of the most iconic figures in the music industry passed away mere hours before this show. Even without the specter of Michael Jackson’s death (wow, that ’s a strange thing to type) hanging over the heads of everyone in the Wiltern, Thursday night’s show would have been strange.

Midway through, after a run from A.M.’s “Pick Up the Change” to Summerteeth’s “Can’t Stand It” and on to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot’s “Pot Kettle Black,” my partner-in-Wilco-crime Meg looked at me and said, “Wow, they’re really bringing it tonight!” But despite some impassioned feedback squalor from guitarist Nels Cline on “Wilco (The Song)” and Jeff Tweedy ripping through the build in “You Are My Face,” it didn’t really seem that way to me.

In fact it seemed … predictable.

Wilco (The Week):

• Off to a stunning start at Pomona’s Fox Theater
  
• Impressive once more in Wiltern opener
• Turning more intimate in second L.A. show

That’s not a term I throw around lightly, especially when it comes to Wilco. But it soon became clear that this set would be nearly identical to the one they so powerfully played in Pomona last Saturday. In fact, before the encore, there was only one difference — “Theologians” was removed from the set, replaced (in an earlier spot) by the ’70s rave-up “Pot Kettle Black.”

For most bands, this would be no surprise. But for Wilco — who must know by now that at least half of the jammed audience had been following every note of this mini SoCal tour — such set-list repetition is a disappointment in and of itself, thanks to their ability to mine a vast catalog of less obvious material at least as beloved as the standard choices they play each night.

Couple that with nary a mention of MJ (not even before “The Late Greats,” a song about lost rock singers that would have been an appropriate place for a shout-out), and you’ve got something definitively strange. Add to that a passiveness among the audience that had Tweedy literally berating the crowd for not clapping at the end of “Spiders (Kidsmoke)” — I’m paraphrasing, but it was close to “None of you will be on your deathbed thinking it was great, that time when you didn’t clap at the rock show” — and you’ve got a Wilco show that’s just good … not great.

That’s not to say it didn’t have moments. Gorgeously-voiced chanteuse Leslie Feist showed up to sing her album part on the first-ever performance of “You and I,” an unquestionable highlight of the new Wilco (The Album), due next week. “Hummingbird,” long a highlight, this night seemed to pick up the flacid audience, with Tweedy’s now-standard singalong on the chorus joined in by seemingly all 2,200 fans on hand. Also, Glenn Kotche, the band’s underappreciated drummer, was in fine form, adding unexpected texture even to staples like “A Shot in the Arm” and “Misunderstood.”

But all that said, Wilco had walked into the opportunity to make this fourth local show a special night, even more so given the unexpected news of the day. It’s too bad that instead of capitalizing, they were content to just be themselves, as great as they always are, but not as good as they sometimes can be.

Desert Jeff Miller, a regular contributor to Soundcheck, is Los Angeles Editor for Thrillist.com

Wilco at the Wiltern Theatre, Los Angeles, June 25, 2009
Main set: Wilco (the song) / I Am Trying to Break Your Heart / Bull Black Nova / You Are My Face / One Wing / A Shot in the Arm / Radio Cure / Impossibly Germany / Deeper Down / Pick Up the Change / Can’t Stand It / Pot Kettle Black / Jesus, Etc. / Hate It Here / You Never Know / Walken / I’m the Man Who Loves You / Hummingbird
First encore: Passenger Side / You and I (first time performed, with Feist) / California Stars / I’m Always in Love (in a different key) / Misunderstood (44 nothings) / Spiders (Kidsmoke)
Second encore: The Late Greats / Outtamind (Outtasite)

Post from: Soundcheck

Prologue, and you’d best believe this beast of a post is self-indulgent …

The thing that frustrates me about my initial appreciation of Michael Jackson is that it had to come rushing out in a hurry –- and therefore needed to be just the facts, ma’am, keep all that critical chatter to yourself.

The startling suddenness of it all demanded that. Frankly, I think anyone who tried to tell you anything more about what his death signifies -– who attempted to sum up his role in the Greater Everything of Pop Culture, as if something so vast could possibly be captured in a tweet –- uh, yeah, they were probably half-lying.

Not deliberately, mind you –- out of shellshock, I mean. Memories are fragile things. They get jogged very easily. And something like the reclaiming of a pop god at least a quarter-century before he might really needed to have been put out to pasture – well, the more jarring the trigger, the more likely the emotions behind those memories are going to get amplified. Quite possibly, and quickly, to the point of distortion.

Distortion for good, though, if that makes sense. No professional I know wants to make an ass of him/herself by tearing a guy apart at a time like this.

It’s just so … well … rude.

Obit writers, what I know of ’em, aim for class and honor in a remembrance, maybe with a sensible sprinkling of sentimentality if it’s called for. Even when the deceased was undeniably despicable –- and c’mon, how often is that really a celebrity? –- the dogged folks on the dead beat will still relate his life as it was, without negative embellishment. (Why paint someone bad with words when facts do it for you?)

So when it comes to someone millions of people liked … and yes, all you Jacko haters, even people who deeply wonder and question his behavior (like myself) still liked the weirdo … well, writers instinctively want to write something, um, nice. Something that reminds people why the famous person they loved was worth loving.

I mean really, you insensitive clods who have been leaving cruel and contemptuous comments everywhere, including all over this site: Can’t you for a moment stifle your First Amendment right to boringly berate Michael Jackson once more? Can’t you instead recognize that an American institution –- a tremendously gifted musician, dancer, songwriter and entertainer, for whom words like “unparalleled” and “unprecedented” are not overstatement –- has died, and too soon?

(And isn’t it just like him to do it as extraordinarily as Elvis Presley … eh?)

Let’s not whitewash his past, agreed, or stop peering into it to get at the truth, to what extent that we have a right to know that, anyway. But how about instead of crucifying him all over again, we celebrate the greatness of the man now that he’s gone?

I view what follows as some kind of penance. I took potshots. Plenty of potshots. Mean ones, too. Really mean. I don’t even wanna go dig ’em up right now. I know one or two are bound to make me cringe.

I’m not kidding myself: Just because he left too soon doesn’t mean he didn’t deserve a whole lot of that. Like so many mavericks of rock ’n’ roll –- and he’s been one at least since “Beat It” –- Michael was clearly a complex figure with a profoundly troubled mind who was thrust into a limelight so scorching, few others have dared gaze into it.

No wonder he always wore sunglasses. No wonder he remains so unknowable. No wonder it was so easy and all-too-human to ridicule him. Face it: You’d have to be pretty freakin’ strange, too, to endure what he did … yet still accomplish so much.

All the same, I feel I owe this much to Michael –- a testament to his music, 25 personal favorites, so that I can remember how deeply his wonderful, joyful, insanely catchy music affected my life, my upbringing, even my world-view. And so that I won’t forget to journey through my past now and then by journeying through his.

• “I Want You Back” (Motown single, Oct. ’69, and included on Diana Ross Presents the Jackson 5, Nov. ’69) –- “ABC” and “The Love You Save” are equally essential, of course, but for as charming as they also are, they’re kinda quickie Corporation formula regurgitations. It all starts here –- the innocent joy of Michael’s voice, the utterly irresistible bass line, the infectious sparkle of it all that never left his music, even in the darkest times. A pop masterpiece, of course, though maybe I’m biased because it came out 12 days after I was born. I like to think I boogied in my crib to it at some point.

• “I’ll Be There” (Motown single, Aug. ’70, and included on the Jackson 5’s Third Album, Sept. ’70) –- Precious and twee, barely ripe and oh-so-cute -– and also deeply soulful and stunningly moving the more the years roll by. One of the loveliest songs in the English language. Mariah at least did it justice. Michael and his brothers, at their liquid harmonious best, made it a sublime work of children’s art.

• “Goin’ Back to Indiana” (from the Jackson 5’s Third Album, Sept. ’70) –- The thing everyone forgets about the Jackson 5 -– because, let’s face it, most people only remember four songs, five if they still dig “Dancing Machine” -– is that for a buncha kids coming of age in a Detroit song factory, they sure learned how to lay it down with credible Stax groove and funk. This bit of autobiography, manufactured by the Corporation –- the Berry Gordy-led songwriting and production team behind most of its music -– is Exhibit A. I wish Otis Redding had lived long enough to cover it.

• “Never Can Say Goodbye” (Motown single, March ’71, and included on the Jackson 5’s Maybe Tomorrow, April ’71) –- Here, mere months after the little-boy sweetness of “I’ll Be There,” Michael, not even 13 yet, eerily channels all the yearning and ache and insecurity that comes with love in bloom, as well as love that has lasted. And just listen to him wail: he’s already got that angry grit in his high notes. Perfection, every note of it.

• “Doctor My Eyes” (Tamla Motown U.K. single, Feb. ’72, and included on the Jackson 5’s Lookin’ Through the Windows, May ’72) –- Yes, that “Doctor My Eyes.” Jackson Browne’s tune. It’s a little beyond his years, OK. But just tell me it doesn’t cook. He also could sing the hell out of a Sly Stone jam, too.

• “Got to Be There” (Motown single, Oct. ’71) –- Michael’s first solo single, and the luscious third piece in a trilogy begun by “I’ll Be There” and toughened up by “Never Can Say Goodbye,” with a chorus to shame the Deflonics, the Chi-Lites and the like. Marlon and Jackie on back-ups.

• “Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground)” (First single from the Jackson 5’s Destiny, both Dec. ’78) –- The opening piano riff, the staccato ’n’ syncopated horn blats and the heavily processed, left-field vocal accents in the later choruses (a Prince trick at least two or three years before he figured it out) are what make this track for me. Not that Michael isn’t finding his groove all over it – is this, in fact, the first instance of his vocal hiccuping and accented ahhh, unnh kinda scat? Still, compared to what’s just around the corner, never mind by the time of “Smooth Criminal,” this track only smolders in rays of sunshine.

• “Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough” (First single, July ’79, from Off the Wall, Aug. ’79) –- And just like that he’s “melting like hot candle wax.” I blame this nearly six-minute workout for all the Lionel Richie party music that came soon after. But its Santana shimmy over Parliament strut is simply irresistible, and the horn-y climax is “Shake Your Body” taken to a scorching degree. “You know,” Michael says, kinda like a perv about to burst out of his clothes in the opening moments, “the force, it’s got a lot of power. It make me feel like, uh … make me feel like, unnh… OOOH!” Exactly.

• “Rock with You” (Second Off the Wall single, Nov. ’79) — I was 10, and falling in love with every girl I saw. This helps me remember their faces, if not all of their names. Also, the opening drum doodle is as unmistakable as its warm Heatwave glow. Also-also: I still think the cheap rhinestones-and-green-lasers video is cool. And I love the way Michael makes that first “ROCK with you” really snap.

• “Off the Wall” (Third Off the Wall single, Feb. ’80) –- More than 25 years later I’m still sick to death of “Thriller.” When I want Jacko in mock-ghoulish mode, I reach for this slick live-it-up anthem for 9-to-5 disco denizens. Why? “Cuz we’re the party people / Night and day / Living crazy / That’s the only way.”

• “Workin’ Day and Night” (Off the Wall album track, Aug. ’79) -– He has never, ever been funkier. Dig it out, put it on. Speaks for itself. On fire. You can keep the rest. I have to have this one.

“Can You Feel It” (Single, May ’81, from the Jackson 5’s Triumph, Sept. ’80) -– Totally over-the-top catch-that-vibe positivity. Also, the video was all kinds of awesome when I was 11. Just look at it! You can’t buy special effects like that today, I tell ya …

• “Billie Jean” (First single, Jan. ’83, from Thriller, Nov. ’82) –- Oh that snaky bass line, that strange video (exactly where was he, anyway?), that amazing Motown 25 performance … no, no, you know what? This requires no explanation. If you don’t already know why, stop reading. You’re insulting everyone.

• “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’ ” (Fourth Thriller single, May ’83) -– To me, the sound of utter global jubilation, equally evoking images of South Africa when Mandela was set free and all those Benetton ads of the era, selling racial harmony as fashion and vice versa. Again, I blame it for Lionel Richie. But it’s his second most funky track. Three hyphenated words, adapted from Cameroonian artist Manu Dibango say it all: “Mama-se, mama-sa, mama-coo-sa,” indeed.

• “Human Nature” (Fifth Thriller single, July ’83) -– I can’t get through “She’s Out of My Life” without laughing. But this airy little gem I still find positively dreamy. I’m pretty sure when Sherry Southard kissed me on the cheek that day at nutrition break in year-round 7th grade –- see what buying a girl a grape-juice slushie just becuz will get ya, Sam? –- I hummed the chorus of this all the way back to algebra class and failed the pop quiz.

• “State of Shock” (First single from the Jacksons’ Victory, both July ’84) –- Not a popular choice, I realize. But I fell in love with it for three reasons: 1) Michael sounds as ridiculous as his duet partner, Mick Jagger … 2) to this day, I’m still convinced one of ’em yells out “C’mon, lemonhead!” at some point … and 3) the day it was released, Michaelmania was in such massive effect, one of our long-gone radio stations – I wanna say KIQQ, which used to be 100.3, but don’t hold me to that – played this song and NOTHING BUT THIS SONG for 24 straight hours. No, seriously. They’d say, “And now, Culture Club’s new hit, ‘Karma Chameleon’!” And then they’d play “State of Shock” again. “Coming in at No. 4 tonight, it’s Thompson Twins with ‘Hold Me Now’!” And then they’d play “State of Shock” again. Unbelievable. And it ticked off a lot of people. And the next day I still liked the song. Even bought the 45.

• “Bad” (First single from Bad, Aug.-Sept. ’87) –- “Beat It” can stuff it. When I want Mike to rock, I want him to say “Sszhjjam-on” again and again over a percolating electro groove. And I want the guitar to be less ham-fisted Eddie Van Halen and more sleek and crisp Prince. Thought it was a ridiculous piece of self-aggrandizing crap at that time. Now I dig it almost as much as “Smooth Criminal” and the later Dangerous jams. Even Weird Al’s parody doesn’t kill it for me.

• “The Way You Make Me Feel” (Third Bad single, Nov. ’87) –- No amount of no-talent American Idol hacks attempting to nail its hard, high melody has dimmed its happiness for me. The best Smokey Robinson single the great poet of pop never wrote. And the video was the last time Michael was truly charming.

• “Smooth Criminal” (Seventh Bad single, Oct. ’88) -– Did I just write seventh single? I know what the ones from Thriller are, but Bad? Seven singles? “Man in the Mirror” is probably more important and meaningful –- it’ll outlive all of our great-grandchildren, as well it should –- but when I think about Michael losing his mind, I hear him start to unravel here. Must be all that “Annie, are you OK?” cross-chatter and the unrelentingly grim and abrasive tone of the track. Plus, the dancing in the video is sick.

• “Black or White” (First single, Oct. ’91, from Dangerous, Nov. ’91) –- The controversy over the video was such nonsense, wasn’t it? Seemed gratuitous then, seems downright tame now; Do the Right Thing, it ain’t. But Slash’s insistent guitar riff and Michael’s chipper melody – they really stick, don’t they? More than any song on this list, if I hear a few bars, the hook will be with me the rest of the week.

• “Remember the Time” (Second Dangerous single, Feb. ’92) –- Supreme New Jack slickness, the best Teddy Riley production from Michael’s still-underrated last great album. Along with the next track, this is proof that the manchild with the Peter Pan complex actually had grown up and understood adult emotions like mistrust and lustful desire. And with the exception of a few really out-there Dangerous cuts (“Jam” comes to mind), the way he rants at the end of this is as raw as he ever got.

• “In the Closet” (Third Dangerous single, May ’92) -– Positively his weirdest record; Prince, babbling on “Batdance” at the time, didn’t sound so far down the rabbit hole of his own paranoia. So fractured and desperate, so horny yet so terrified because of that, it’s sexual torment set to a big fat Jodeci beat -– and with Princess Stephanie cooing in the corners. Think he was trying to tell us something? The video, by the way, makes me uncomfortable.

• “Gone Too Soon” (Dangerous album track, Nov. ’91) –- Never thought it would apply to the man himself. But as it turns out, yes, he is “like a rainbow fading in the twinkling of an eye … here one day, gone one night … like the loss of sunlight on a cloudy afternoon … like a castle built upon a sandy beach … like a sunset dying with the rising of the moon.” Who knows if he ever would have recovered enough spark and sanity to be the Michael Jackson who made so many of us marvel? Sad, though, that we’ll never find out.

• “Why You Wanna Trip on Me” (Dangerous album track, Nov. ’91) — Why indeed? “You got world hunger, not enough to eat … strange diseases but there’s no cure … gang violence and bloodshed on the street … homeless people with no clothes on their back … drug addiction in the minds of the weak … so much corruption, police brutality …” So, yeah. Ask yourself the title question.

• “Tabloid Junkie” (Track from HIStory: Past, Present and Future, Book I, June ’95) –- The second half of his self-glorifying double-disc opus featured Michael at his most outspoken, angry, volatile and controversial. Much of it begs to be reheard, especially this condemnation. He was furious: “Just because you read it in a magazine or see it on a TV screen don’t make it factual,” he sang repeatedly, before concluding, “You’re so damn disrespectable.” After the media coverage of his later life and death –- the insane immediacy of the latter, for starters -– this one sure has taken on deeper resonance.

Post from: Soundcheck

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UPDATE: TMZ is reporting he’s dead. Stay tuned for confirmation.

If you follow breaking news on Twitter — and believe what you read — you already know: Michael Jackson has been rushed to UCLA Medical Center after paramedics were dispatched to his home shortly after noon today. He wasn’t breathing when they arrived, but administered CPR to revive him.

His condition at the moment is unknown, though it’s believed he went into cardiac arrest.

Without sounding insensitive to what may indeed be a very real health issue, one can’t help but wonder about the veracity of this, considering that it comes within weeks of the launch of his 50-date sold-out run at London’s O2 Arena.

That stretch of shows is intended as the launch of a massive would-be comeback for the tarnished pop king. But other recent reports (albeit from not entirely reliable sources) have suggested he’s unhappy with the number of dates he’s booked to perform and not fully prepared for opening night.

Post from: Soundcheck