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CULTURE ARCHIVES From The Archives From The Archives MUSIC ARCHIVES Pazz & Jop

1990 Pazz & Jop: Hard News in a Soft Year

The night Voice music editor Joe Levy and I began tabulating the 17th (or 18th) Pazz & Jop Critics’ Poll, the war had been on for more than a week, and my CNN habit was in remission. So we played music uninterrupted as we counted from 8:30 till 4 and 9:30 till 1. Though Public Enemy led for the first quarter (wouldn’t that piss people off?) before giving way to Sinéad O’Connor (who dominated straighter, smaller polls), by bedtime Neil Young looked like the shoo-in we’d figured. We were having fun, sampling dark horses (matched Replacements surrogates Soul Asylum and Goo Goo Dolls) and cracking wise about other people’s tastes (today Tim Buckley, tomorrow Essra Mohawk). Glimpsing the top of the mountain (289 voters, 34 more than the 1989 record), we broke for lunch, picked up a paper, and there it was: oil slick all over the front page, for me an even worse nightmare than the bombing of Tel Aviv. Suddenly fun was beyond us. Back upstairs, after a brief TV fix, I felt compelled to hear music that was painful and familiar: Wild Gift, Exile on Main Street.

As it happened, our return-mail date was January 17, so that many out-of-towners found themselves trying to say something clever about their fave albums as the UN deadline passed and the countdown began. Geopolitics put our little world in perspective — or so it seemed in late January. But one reason the gulf war is the most disastrous event of my conscious lifetime is that it tempts us to obsess on it at a time when so much else desperately requires our attention. Culture vulture though I am, I wouldn’t put the death of rock and roll up there with nationwide bank robbery, semitropical winters, the future of excommunism, or even the budgetary suicide every public school parent is up against — especially since I suspect the obituaries are premature yet again. But there they were, set off by Billboard chart-watcher Paul Grein’s observation that 1990 was the first year since 1963 that not a single guitar band had a number one album. And as I pored over the mountain, I realized that for many critics, especially sharp young ones and bitter old ones, 1990 seemed like a turning point. Something is happening, and nobody really knows what it is — me included, so don’t get your hopes up.

Poll results reflect this uneasiness only insofar as they represent small departure from recent trends — fail to provide so-called trendmakers the breakthrough they crave. Never have albums seemed more irrelevant. As Mike Rubin notes in the “Yesterday’s Papers” section — and I recommend you read the conversations I’ve constructed from the ballots before winding through my inescapably inconclusive comments, which I’ve held down to make room — 1990 was a year in which press coverage of the usual profusion of product gave way to larger thematic concerns. Or maybe smaller. Hard news, maybe. Or maybe just what hard-news hardheads (the guys who churned out videogame criticism and called it military analysis) dis as “back-of-the-book copy” — reported, even investigated, “stories” instead of celeb profiles or (ugh) reviews.

Censorship was the heavy deal all year, and don’t tell me it’s a red herring, not with retail chains prescreening sex ’n’ violence and so-called parental warning stickers keeping tapes out of Saudi Arabia. Though metal took its licks, rap obsessed the watchdogs, generating racial controversy and racist hysteria even as the Oreo and the Sno-Cone topped the charts, and rock/rap sexism (though not, fancy that, homophobia) ballooned from boring old left-lib plaint into national nightmare. Everywhere, Public Enemy and Madonna angled for the ink Sinéad O’Connor dove into. Predictably, all these headline-stealing issues and personages inspired mucho respondent analysis — especially rap, which remains “the new punk” on formal and cultural momentum alone. But to my surprise, it was Silli Vanilli that really stirred the critics up. I assume you know how dumb the shit was — John Leland found ghostsingers behind Frank Farian’s video-friendly concoction a year before Rob and Fab confessed their sins. And the voters were hip, only rarely bemoaning the shame and scandal of it all. But among many conservatives, as I’ll label them — the Clubrats described toward the top of the long section called “Mass Culture Theory,” or professionals like Geoffrey Himes, who spends his life reviewing the “news events” hardheads demand (the reason concerts rather than records dominate daily rock coverage) — the story struck a spark.

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So suddenly I get eight or 10 letters hyping live over Memorex, and with common sense on their side. After all, which came first — the juke joint or Sun Studios? But even if Sam and Elvis did recreate a roadhouse music, which is highly debatable, so what? The medium may not be the message, but the medium sure changes the message, and Stayathomes like different kinds of messages than Clubrats. Or vice versa. Himes’s “unmasked emotion” is cant — it happens once in a while, usually when the sound man fucks up, but the most you can expect from someone who’s singing the same song for the 200th or 2000th time is the variation on authenticity quote-unquote that the forgotten popular culture theorist Reuel Denney termed “self-stimulation.” David Sprague’s “wild abandon,” on the other hand, is more subject to performance discipline and its obverses, though it sure gets faked a lot. And the question of who can “really” play or sing isn’t altogether meaningless — while technical skill obviously doesn’t guarantee artistic innovation or listening pleasure, it does help sometimes, even on record. But the main thing that happens at shows is that you see other people there. The artiste first of all, with all the extra inflections that fabricated intimacy, physical detail, and interpretive variation can afford. Even more important, listening to music live puts you in contact with other listeners. Instead of imagining a pop community, you encounter one.

This isn’t the main thing the conservatives care about, of course. That would be art in all its truth and beauty — especially truth, a truth associated with unmediated perception and “human” scale, though some wise guy might wonder why it so often comes in a four-four box. Relatively speaking, their opposite numbers, who I’ll call the couch potatoes, are relativists, skeptics, pop intellectuals. Truth and beauty aren’t their game. One reason they stay at home so much (almost as much as the average fan!) is that they like to read and watch television, which ain’t so easy when you hang out in bars three-four nights a week. Whether this makes them smarter or stupider is beside the point — either way they feed on secondhand information. I say civilized human beings have always shown this sort of bent for abstraction, though not to the extent of fashioning pomo theories out of it. And although that doesn’t end the discussion — people who like rock and roll have always had their problems with the way civilization quote-unquote defines the civilized (as non-Islamic, say), not to mention the human  it’s why I side with the couch potatoes even as I dream of getting out more.

So say it loud — what all our deliberations and computations add up to is a bunch of ABSTRACTIONS. The points are abstractions, the results are abstractions, and, oh fuck, in many ways the albums are abstractions too. Sure they have physical reality, even in the digital form so few critics resist any more. And sure our judgments proceed (can proceed, should proceed) from our aural experiences. But not only are these experiences intangible in themselves, they generate intangibilities of a greater order of magnitude. We have the presumption to construct imaginary communities around them even though we can’t swear our significant others went to the same heaven we did last night. And we assume they can stand in for barely expressible ideas — certainly when we write about them, and too often when we vote for them as well (many critics feel obliged to augment their favorite records with representative black/white/female/male/indie/pop/disco/metal/jazz/worldbeat mentions, a piety I deplore). One reason voters are forever discovering that they prefer singles to albums is that singles aren’t so burdened with abstraction. They’re usually experienced publicly, on the radio or the street or the dance floor, and — in the famous guilty pleasure effect — less subject to superego review (although I confess to leaving Bell Biv Devoe’s jack-swinging “Poison” off my list solely because I found its sexism intolerable). Albums are still supposed to resonate like Great Works even though we suspect the concept of the Great Work is an oppressive fiction.

Statistically, that fiction held this year. As music has factionalized and consensus softened, the top Pazz & Jop albums haven’t been getting such Great numbers — in recent years only Prince’s Sign ‘O’ the Times has won big. So it’s no surprise that the 1990 triumph of Neil Young & Crazy Horse’s Ragged Glory was less than sweeping — its points-per-voter quotient fell about midway between that of 1988’s controversial It Takes a Nation of Millions and 1989’s flukey 3 Feet High and Rising, which had the shallowest support of any winner in poll history. Although the point strength of the top 10 albums was respectable, the wan kudos volunteered on The Rhythm of the Saints and Interiors and Graffiti Bridge and even Time’s Up made you wonder how much the critics raved about their faves after their reviews were in. But I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got and Fear of a Black Planet were powerful second- and third-place finishers in both votes and corroborating commentary. Different as the top three records were — the Young an atavistic garage stomp, the O’Connor a singer-songwriter effusion bursting with rock/rap/worldbeat juice, the PE the impossible followup to a revolutionary LP — they obviously entered many different voters’ lives (61 named at least two, 10 all three). And most of us can take comfort in the one overarching value all three artists share: they don’t have much use for the American flag as it’s currently displayed. Ragged glory indeed.

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In general, though, the album list was inconclusive if not stagnant if not meaningless. Though rap is said to be hurting artistically, it landed exactly as many albums in 1989 as in 1990 — six, with Queen Latifah placing the same record twice, 3rd Bass a late-’89 release, and the other full-fledged debuts by unreconstructed middle-classniks Digital Underground and A Tribe Called Quest in a year when street Afrocentrism was the power move. More debut albums charted in 1990 (10 counting Ice Cube and the Texas Tornados) than in 1989 (eight counting Bob Mould), but only sophomore-in-disguise Cube made top 10, whereas last year De La Soul–Neneh Cherry–N.W.A–Soul II Soul placed 1-5-6-9. Thanks partly to inspired poaching by Deee-Lite, Lisa Stansfield, and 3rd Bass, the top 40’s black-artist total dipped from 14 to 11, but once again half the top 10 was black. There were seven albums by women in 1989, six (counting Deee-Lite) in 1990. Dance heroes Soul II Soul broke in a little higher in 1989 than dance heroes Deee-Lite did in 1990. Non-English-speaking Caetano Veloso finished 27th in 1989, non-English-speaking Youssou N’Dour 25th in 1990.

In fact, the only album “trend” I see is, of all things, white rock and roll. Early in the decade new indie groups bum-rushed Pazz & Jop every year, but not lately. In 1989, the only indie-style poll debuts came from NRBQ, who are older than Gavin Edwards, and Galaxie 500 (who plunged to an astonishing one mention in 1990); in 1988 the Cowboy Junkies (who plunged to a less astonishing zero mentions in 1990) were the new kids on the block, though art-rockers Jane’s Addiction and metalists Metallica and Guns N’ Roses also made their dents; in 1987 it was two more sad stories, 10,000 Maniacs and That Petrol Emotion. This year five newish bands charted for the first time: the Black Crowes were 31st, Faith No More 27th, Yo La Tengo 19th, and World Party 15th, while the Chills scored our cult record of the year, finishing 12th even though they made 11 fewer ballots than 13th-place Deee-Lite. Precedent suggests that some of these artists will never darken our poll again; except for the smart, sublime jangle-pop of the Chills’ Submarine Bells, I found all their music slightly annoying myself. But flashes in the pan they’re not — only the flashy Black Crowes placed a debut album. With the junk syncretism (kitchen-sink eclecticism? styleless mish-mash?) of Jane’s Addiction up from 34th to 24th, it’s my reluctant conviction that Faith No More will be around. And World Party might just turn into a Squeeze for our time — Beatles fans (also Tim Buckley fans) with their fun-filled conscience on Karl Wallinger’s sleeve. Hold the obits, please. Critics can be so stubborn.

On the singles list, meanwhile, things changed plenty, and in the opposite direction. Women sang lead on only four of our 1989 top 25; in 1990, the figure was 12. And for all the rap-dance futurism of last year’s comments, 12 rock/pop singles underwhelmed seven rap and six dance singles on the list itself; this year, rock/pop singles were down to eight and dance up to 11. For all you category-haters out there, I’ll hasten to emphasize that mine are dubious. People obviously dance to rap, especially the likes of “Bust a Move” and “Humpty Dance,” while dance records like “Buffalo Stance” and “Poison” get half their shit from rap (to make matters worse, I counted Snap’s “The Power” as dance and Chill Rob G’s as rap even though the tracks are identical). “Tom’s Diner” is a dance record that owes an immense debt to rock (or folk, or whatever); “Epic” is a rock record that owes a medium-sized debt to rap. In fact, though dance singles obviously achieved some critical hegemony in 1990, with the crucial side effect of a surge in female voices (a bow to Martha Wash, who belongs on MTV no matter what you think of authenticity as concept and construct), this category-hopping is the story. For all their syncretic dreams and cute little experiments, the Pazz & Jop albums categorize pretty easy. The singles, which in the top 12 or so all got airplay in a dismal year for pop radio, ignore genre boundaries the way Neil Harris planned it.

I don’t think rock and roll is dying, even in its square old guitar-defined form. Not because Warners signed the Chills, or because the Black Crowes are younger than the Rolling Stones, or because Yo La Tengo is the most shameless critics’ band since the Pet Shop Boys. The poll has never had that kind of precise predictive value. It’s just that after 17 (or 18) years I know years are funny things — they’re all atypical. Grein didn’t count Sinéad or Bonnie Raitt because girls who play rock and roll ruin neat theses. Two rappers, one worse than the other, topped the pop charts for more than half of 1990, and though rap isn’t dying by a long shot, I bet that never happens again. Springsteen takes over the racks in April. And so forth. But though it hit a blank with the commercial shortfall of Amerindie (a hardy cottage industry in any case), the poll has always had general predictive value. What it predicts is that’s something’s gonna happen and we don’t know what it is. What I’m hoping is that eventually we’ll figure it out.

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For years young critics have been pointing toward the rock-dance fusion Billboard has been bruiting lately — maybe not in the form of one famous professional (Phil Collins, say) jiving up his schlock by hiring another (Shep Pettibone), but that’s biz for you. Critics rarely understand biz — they just sense what people need to hear a little quicker than bizzers do. So for a neat thesis we can posit rock-dance fusion as if no such thing had ever happened before — though in fact it was a fad (and a Pazz & Jop theme) 12 years ago, and what Brit New Pop was about, and also, from another angle, what rap was, is, and will be about. This thesis carries with it the usual unexceptionable abstractions — serious fun on the mind-body continuum. And not only is it all over the singles chart, it’s revitalized the EP chart, which is topped by some postpunk guitar heroes’ dance record (because they’re reserving the real stuff for a new label?), a gangsta rapper moving on indie-rock turf (or getting paid more per song), and guitar uglies gone New Romantic (really new age). Extry, extry: Amerindie redoubt goes DOR.

But the thesis doesn’t explain the out-of-nowhere showing of pop pigfuckers Pavement, who finished fourth (surrounded by Two Nice Girls and major-label product of wildly disparate quality) on one of the tiny labels the EP list is supposed to give a crack to. It doesn’t explain a reissue chart dominated by Brobdingnagian CD reclamations of music that safely predates postmodern fuss. It doesn’t explain the top three albums, each of which honors the great god beat in its own cerebrally undanceable way. It doesn’t explain Sonic Youth even if their drumming’s better, much less Living Colour, whose jagged, pretentious art-rock qualifies as DOR only if you subscribe to the theory of natural rhythm. It doesn’t explain Rosanne Cash, whose songs sang clear when she toured without a drummer. It doesn’t explain Los Lobos or the Texas Tornados, roadhouse-rooted though each may be. It doesn’t explain Jane’s Addiction or the Black Crowes, Iggy Pop or Eno/Cale, Reed/Cale or Robin Holcomb, Van Morrison or Bob Dylan, the Pixies or the Replacements. It doesn’t even explain the Pet Shop Boys.

All right, we’ve been here before. Electoral processes are rarely unanimous, trends are never monolithic, and different critics like different kinds of music. Big deal. Radical pluralism or a thousand points of light, it’s an old story, and as such a long way from the divine rupture of something-is-happening-and-we-don’t-know-what-it-is. Indeed, I’m almost as sick of the metaphor as you must be. Like any concept, pluralism risks turning into a shibboleth unless it absorbs new data — it’s losing its explanatory aura. But what can I do? According to many respondents, 1990 was the latest in the endless line of worst years ever, yet having freed myself to seek out only good records, I put together my longest Dean’s List ever. And as usual my picks were all over the place, including 13 and counting representatives of a black Africa that from Ladysmith to the Oriental Brothers has far more to offer than the estimable Youssou N’Dour. Internationalism is built into the dance-rock thesis — I don’t just mean Hull’s own Beats International, I mean Snap — but as the term is usually understood it remains a far-future projection of indeterminate shape. Even for this radical pluralist, whose list was dominated by what we jokingly call rock and roll — 17 guitarslingers as far-flung as Ministry and the Flatlanders and the Beautiful South, as differently same-old as Sonic Youth and Living Colour and the Chills and the Pixies and, well, Neil Young.

As Elena Oumano says somewhere hereabouts, we dance to Armageddon to the beat of our own drummer. And as Joe Levy says somewhere else hereabouts, there’s no reason to think guitar rock won’t be a viable residual subgenre for a long time to come. It would be tasteless to make any grand claims for its ability to save or even improve the world at this horrible moment, but it certainly speaks to a little group of paras and professionals who’d like to see the world save or improve itself, and who take hope in the best of popular culture — “people’s” culture, to and/or from as the case may be, generously accessible in both its renegade-seeker and utopian-hedonist forms. Looking over my own list, I was struck by all the high-ranking faves I’d classify as pop rather than rock, pop with historical perspective — Red Hot and Blue and The Civil War, and also Evan Lurie’s all faux, all true tango and Madonna’s blindly underappreciated camp. They reminded me of Jason Weisbard’s modestly visionary suggestion — a grander version of whatever inspired a vocal minority to campaign for the return of the video ballot — that our interest group comprises not just rock critics but all popular culture fanatics. And what are our interests? How about free expression for those human X-factors Victorians referred to as the dangerous classes? Spiritual growth from the ass up? Pop history as art history? The old ideal of art as community? Trial by disco for Allan Bloom? Like that.

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Reclaiming mass culture is a couch potato’s dream. Insofar as live-over-Memorex partisans hope to encounter a community instead of imagining one, it’s a community fixated on difference — a community of people who already agree with them. There’s admittedly something very abstract about the commonality couch potatoes posit as an alternative — real human beings are far more unpredictable than any work of art, however “complex,” “vital,” and so forth it may be, which bothers aesthetes no end. But there’s something even more abstract about the Clubrat-Stayathome polarity itself — most of us fall somewhere in between. So let me tell you a story and turn the speculation over to my colleagues.

Like most of the voters in this pluralistic interest group, I didn’t put Ragged Glory in my top 10 — thought it dragged, basically. But though those who don’t get Young may dismiss his victory as pure reaction, I like the record, which makes good on several potent fantasies — eternal renewal, the garage as underground, the guitar as shibboleth and idea. And I wasn’t going to miss his gig, especially not with Sonic Youth opening. When’s the last time two such Pazz & Jop eminences shared a bill anywhere, much less Madison Square Garden? (Answer: in Chicago a month before, when Chuck & Flav and Kim & Thurston occasioned a police riot you may have read about.) But between the display ad and the event fell the bombs, which transformed the concert as they have everything else. Ordinarily the kid from the cheap seats wearing an American-flag T-shirt with the legend TRY BURNING THIS ONE…ASSHOLE would have served as a neat symbol of mass culture and its contradictions. Now he brought to mind Toby Goldstein critiquing Madonna’s morality one minute and nuking the barbarians the next.

Young has made some exceptionally asinine political comments in his time, so I didn’t know quite what to think when he skronked out an invisible Hendrix-style “Star Spangled Banner” after Sonic Youth went on and off. Wasn’t so sure about the giant yellow ribbon hung around the giant microphone prop, either. Sure was nice to see that peace symbol up there, even if it was Freedom’s logo. But though I’ve heard complaints about the predictability of his set list and the automatism of his abandon, I don’t think he’s ever exalted me like that. I admit his every-word-counts claim on “Blowin’ in the Wind” — as if to say, “This is my song now, Bob, but I’d love for you to try and take it back” — put me in a receptive mood, especially after the huzzahs for “Before they are forever banned.” But though he didn’t utter a nonlyric for two hours, that painful and familiar beat provided respite from Armageddon, with warhorses like “Powderfinger” and “Cortez the Killer” and for that matter “Rockin’ in the Free World” ideologically focused for once. And when during a delirious encore of “Welfare Mothers,” he kept yelling “Day care, day care,” I felt he understood. I didn’t especially deserve the respite, of course — not the way they do over in the gulf. But we haven’t figured out how to effect the transfer. All we can do is contest symbols and abstractions — rhythms and sonorities, flags and ribbons — as we mourn and marvel at the incursions they make on our physical lives. Ain’t much, is it?

Oh shit. Peace. And salaam.

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Top 10 Albums of 1990

1. Neil Young & Crazy Horse: Ragged Glory (Reprise)

2. Sinéad O’Connor: I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got (Ensign/Chrysalis)

3. Public Enemy: Fear of a Black Planet (Def Jam)

4. Sonic Youth: Goo (DGC)

5. Living Colour: Time’s Up (Epic)

6. Ice Cube: AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted (Priority)

7. Paul Simon: The Rhythm of the Saints (Warner Bros.)

8. Rosanne Cash: Interiors (Columbia)

9. L.L. Cool J: Mama Said Knock You Out (Def Jam)

10. Prince: Graffiti Bridge (Paisley Park/Warner Bros.)

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Top 10 Singles of 1990

1. Deee-Lite: “Groove Is in the Heart”/”What Is Love” (Elektra)

2. Sinéad O’Connor: “Nothing Compares 2 U” (Ensign/Chrysalis)

3. Digital Underground: “The Humpty Dance” (Tommy Boy)

4. Madonna: “Vogue” (Sire/Warner Bros.)

5. (Tie) Faith No More: “Epic” (Slash/Reprise)
Lisa Stansfield: “All Around the World” (Arista)

7. Black Box: “Everybody Everybody” (RCA)

8. Madonna: “Justify My Love” (Sire/Warner Bros.)

9. Soho: “Hippychick” (Atco)

10. Public Enemy: “Welcome to the Terrordome” (Def Jam)

—From the March 5, 1991, issue

 

Pazz & Jop essays and results can also be found on Robert Christgau’s site. His most recent book, Is It Still Good to Ya? Fifty Years of Rock Criticism, 1967–2017, was published last year.

 

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GOD BLESS AMERICANA

Capping a week of live performances, including last night’s Roseanne Cash bash with Buddy Miller & Jim Lauderdale, this afternoon’s Roots Symposium and documentary screenings make up the finale to Americanafest NYC’s inaugural shindig devoted to the power of soul. Daptone recording artist Charles Bradley, a former James Brown impersonator with an impressive comeback story, shares the bill with fellow survivor Bobby Patterson, whose recent sophomore release arrives four decades after a debut featuring “This Whole Funky World Is a Ghetto.” And “revivalist” doesn’t begin to cover the feel and appeal of powerful young Alabamans St. Paul & the Broken Bones nor apply at all to the Music Maker Blues Revue featuring Carolina Chocolate Drop Dom Flemons, Beverly “Guitar” Watkins, and Ironing Board Sam.

Sun., Aug. 10, 5 p.m., 2014

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Rosanne Cash

After a three decades of wrestling with the music industry to be recognized as a legit songwriter instead of just as Johnny’s daughter, Rosanne Cash has traveled a long hard road from California to Arkansas to Nashville to New York (where she now resides) to tell us her stories. Her most recent release, The River & the Thread explores that road, sometimes literally, and is frosting on the cake after four supreme album reissues in 2005 and an acclaimed memoir, Composed, in 2010. Fans of the Cash clan would thus be wise to catch her on this current supporting tour, as she’s clearly forged her way to a career sweet spot.

Tue., March 18, 8 p.m., 2014

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Cash Rules Everything

A secret about country music in 2014: Eric Church’s The Outsiders is getting the crossover critical love it deserves, but Rosanne Cash’s The River & the Thread is the best album of the year’s first month and a half, a journey through the Southern states that represents Americana in the most open sense of the term. Tonight, in conjunction with the Met’s ongoing “Early American Guitars: The Instruments of C. F. Martin” exhibition, the singer journeys back to her adopted hometown in order to play a show of music written and performed on father Johnny’s guitars. Hopefully that includes plenty of her own as well.

Sat., Feb. 22, 7 p.m., 2014

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Rhett Miller

The Old 97’s front man spent much of last year tending to his day job, but he’s got a tall stack of crafty solo songs always worth revisiting. (Request “World Inside the World” from 2002’s The Instigator.) Last week, on his Twitter, Miller confirmed a rumor that he’s been working on new material with Rosanne Cash. Maybe he’ll sneak-peek something tonight? With Bobby Bare Jr.

Fri., Jan. 14, 8:30 p.m., 2011

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COUNTRY GIRL

One could think of less patriotic ways to celebrate Independence Day than by checking out this free Governors Island gig by Rosanne Cash, who is playing in support of last year’s The List, on which she covered a dozen of the 100 classic country songs once recommended to her by her dad, the late, great Johnny Cash. (Those that made the cut include “Long Black Veil,” “Bury Me Under the Weeping Willow,” and Bob Dylan’s “Girl From the North Country.”) No word if Cash plans to fill out her set this afternoon with the likes of “America the Beautiful” and “The Star-Spangled Banner,” but, given her flair for interpretation, it might just happen.

Sun., July 4, 2 p.m., 2010

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Rosanne Cash in A-Minor

Rosanne Cash, Johnny Cash’s daughter with his first wife, Vivian Liberto, is a true New Yorker, right down to coming from somewhere else (Memphis and Los Angeles, for starters) and her flair for multitasking. She has blogged for The New York Times, and will soon grace the paper’s Arts & Leisure Weekend festivities with a performance and live interview moderated by house critic Jon Pareles. A week later, she plays Rubin Museum with “special guest” Loudon Wainwright, an evening of song with an overarching theme, the 54-year-old singer-songwriter explains, of “heritage.”

Heritage is a huge part of The List, Cash’s latest CD, released in October. When she was 18, her father gave her a list of “100 Essential Country Songs.” This record covers 12 (13 if you buy it on iTunes), which leaves plenty for a follow-up, we hope. “Sea of Heartbreak,” her duet with Bruce Springsteen, just received a Grammy nomination—her 10th. (She won in 1985 for “I Don’t Know Why You Don’t Want Me,” off Rhythm & Romance.) A memoir is due in August, but it won’t be her first book: The PEN member has published both an acclaimed collection of short stories and a children’s book.

She found time to talk to us as well.

What did you learn from making The List?

The songs opened themselves up to me. I learned a lot about my own place in this tradition, about musical DNA, what connects me to my father and to my daughter. [Her daughter, Chelsea Crowell, also released her first CD in October.]

Musical DNA?

Our use of minor chords, for example. Why that is so moving to me and to my father and to my daughter—our use of an A-minor chord. It’s like a particular way of walking, or a particular eyeshade. We all share a love of the ballad tradition. If the Barrymores were great theater actors, our family is equally connected to the ballad tradition.

I’ve known my whole life what a great song “Long Black Veil” is. Once I started singing it as a narrator, I saw how cinematic it was. It’s a ghost story, a murder ballad, a period piece with a scaffold . . . and it resonates with people. It has an important place in the American canon.

You studied theater as a girl. Do you use that training to explore the roles in your songs?

It’s like going into a tunnel. I go in so far, and John [Leventhal, her producer and husband] would go, “You can go in further. There’s still light.”

Will we ever see you acting?

I just did a part in a Stephen King radio play, The Ghost Brothers of Darkland County. I played the mother, Elvis Costello played Satan, and Kris Kristofferson played my husband.

I have to tell you, I’ve never found Dylan’s ‘Girl From the North Country’ so sad before. What does it mean to you?

The part about the coat [“Please see if she has a coat so warm/To keep her from the howlin’ winds”] always struck me as ineffably sad, and I always thought about my daughters. You would be thinking that if they were far away in the cold North—you’d hope she had a coat—just that sense of longing . . . that was my entry into the song.

Did recovering from brain surgery in 2007 inspire this recording?

It made it feasible for me. I did feel a sense of urgency thinking about: What do I really want to leave? What did my parents leave me? What connects me to the past and the future?

Are you making a list for your children?

I am. I have to put “Born to Run” on it, and “Gimme Shelter.” My list will be different from my dad’s.

Rosanne Cash appears at TimesCenter Stage January 8 as part of The New York Times‘ Arts & Leisure Weekend, and plays the Rubin Museum January 15

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CULTURE ARCHIVES Datebook Listings MUSIC ARCHIVES

Noise from the Front

Triskaidekaphobia:

Fear of the number 13
Function: noun
Etymology: New Latin, from Greek treiskaideka thirteen (from treis three + kai and + deka ten) + New Latin phobiafrom Merrian-Webster Online

Isley Brothers
It’s Your Thing,” from Greatest Hits (Sony, 1973)
[Music listing for Friday, April 13]

Palomar
Our Haunt,” from All Things, Forests (Misra, 2007)
[Music listing for Thursday, April 12]

Placebo
Because I Want You,” from Meds (Virgin, 2007)
[Music listing for Wednesday, April 11]

Rosanne Cash
Runaway Train,” from Super Hits: Rosanne Cash (Sony, 1981)
[Music listing for Friday, April 13]

Stew
Essence,” from Guest Host (Telegraph, 2000)
[Music listing for Monday, April 16]

Ozomatli
La Gallina,” from Don’t Mess with the Dragon (Concord Music Group, 2006)
[Music listing for Tuesday, April 17]

Lily Allen
Everything’s Just Wonderful,” from Alright, Still (EMI, 2007)
[Music listing for Wednesday, April 11]

The Queers
I Can’t Stay Mad at You,” from Munki Brain (Asian Man, 2007)
[Music listing for Sunday, April 15]

Calla
Malo,” from Strength in Numbers (Beggars’s Banquet, 2007)
[Music listing for Saturday, April 14]

Jandek
They Told Me I Was a Fool,” from Songs in the Key of Z, Volume 1(Gammon, 2002)
[Music listing for Saturday, April 14]

Art Garfunkel
What’ll I Do,” from Some Enchanted Evening (Rhino, 2007)
[Music listing for Friday, April 13]

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Calendar Datebook Events NEWS & POLITICS ARCHIVES THE FRONT ARCHIVES

Not Just Johnny’s Girl

Throughout her almost 30 years in the record business, Rosanne Cash has notoriously taken her time between albums—but every one of them has been worth the wait. Her latest, this year’s spare and introspective Black Cadillac, should not be reductively interpreted as a meditation on the loss of her famous father and stepmother; indeed, as she told Paste magazine earlier this year, “it’s not a tribute to him, it’s not any of that.” Fortunately, anyone who knows her work from Seven Year Ache to Interiors to the present knows she’s much more than Johnny’s little girl—with her Americana roots, Buddhist contemplations, and honest voice, Rosanne’s everything the No Depression movement aspires to represent. She’ll unpackage more of her life, her career, and what’s on her mind in a sit-down with Rolling Stone‘s Anthony DeCurtis, one of the true nice guys in music journalism, who knows how to extract it all. Good thing, as the empress of understatement needs to be coaxed sometimes.

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CULTURE ARCHIVES MUSIC ARCHIVES

Mourning After

Therapy’s been good for Rosanne Cash. So has mourning. On Black Cadillac the 50-year-old wisely positions herself as a survivor, not a Survivor, responding to the deaths of her father, mother, and stepmother with an anger she hasn’t approximated since 1987’s King’s Record Shop. More than 15 years after Interiors signaled Cash’s abandonment of her unmatched honky-tonk–Pat Benatar hybrid for confessional tropes plucked on Joni Mitchell guitar tunings, she emerges with her genius for genre-bending intact: This time the doom-buggy rattle of Bob Dylan’s Time Out of Mind meets the controlled hysteria of Fleetwood Mac’s Say You Will. Makes sense too, for King’s Record Shop remains studio pop’s apex, on which Cash played Stevie, Christine, and Lindsey: She was a gypsy, a chanteuse, and a mad studio boffin, chasing a wife-beatin’ husband away so that she can plant a wet one on his wife. Meanwhile the drums and guitars crunched like post-punk never happened. (Fuck the Mekons: Seven Year Ache and Rhythm & Romance are the real alt-country totems.)

Cash’s hubby John Leventhal—who, like his predecessor Rodney Crowell, knows the difference between spit and polish—produces and handles instrumental duties on Black Cadillac‘s quieter songs; these seethe with a convincing menace. Since Cash can court the absurd and the vulgar, we have to endure a couple of numbers that edge into Shawn Colvin territory (mandolins, sparrows, roses, yick) as well as one tune that calls shit on lawyers as if Rosanne’s forgotten how good divorce has been for her artistically—personally too, as she’ll likely admit. The Bill Bottrell–helmed songs evince a surprising range, and Cash is up to all of it, even if the welcome apostasy of the New Orleans death-boogie “World Without Sound” (“I wish I was a Christian/but I cannot believe”) ensures that she’ll never get played in the modern Nashville she helped create.

Black Cadillac doesn’t have much to say about why Cash is so sad; it’s as if she’s trying to figure out why she has to work up the emotions to miss her parents and stepmother in the first place, which, when you come to think about it, is how the death of loved ones often affects us. “All those years to prove how much I care,” Cash admits on “I Was Watching You,” resigned, not needy. Rest assured: Her ache’ll last longer than seven years.