Writing Fuel: 5 More Songs to Jump Start Your Creativity

It’s a short holiday week for some of us, but we all know writers can’t really take days off. Our minds aren’t wired to relax because the muse could come at any time or place and force us to start filling up Word docs, notebooks, and journals.

The Writer’s Bone crew came up with a few more songs to add to your writer’s playlist and help you get the most out of your writing session.

Sean Tuohy: You can only do two things when listening to a Johnny Cash song: Listen to the story that unfolds and creating something damn good.

Robert Hilferty: I find that anything with lyrics is really distracting to me so I typically end up listening to a lot of classical music. Chopin in particular is a favorite of mine. It may be snobbish, but it totally works and keeps me focused.

Lisa Carroll: I'm sitting here listening to the Sara Bareilles Pandora station. It’s a mellow mix that doesn't distract me but warms up the environment. I’m Too ADD to work in silence.

Danny DeGennaro: Uncle Acid & the Deadbeats is good "in the zone" writing music. They sound like Thin Lizzy if Thin Lizzy did LSD instead of downers and worshipped Charles Manson.

Daniel Ford: Bruce Springsteen’s “Devils & Dust” album is completely underrated. If you’re in the mood to kick the crap out of your main character (or at least give him a few reasons to brood) this is the song you want to start with. There’s a tinge of hope in this song as well, which makes you think that not all is lost.

Album Review: Neil Young’s ‘A Letter Home’

Neil Young's "A Letter Home"

By Daniel Ford

I own Neil Young’s “Fork in the Road.”

I have never listened to it. Not one note, verse, guitar lick. Nothing. As much as you love an artist—and I love Young to the point I wrote a jewelry blog on his songs that mention diamonds and jewels—sometimes you can’t buy into the premise of a particular album. Young’s love letter to his car, and the auto industry in general, was such an occasion.

However, I was all in after hearing that he recorded an acoustic album in Jack White’s 1947 Voice-O-Graph vinyl recording booth that captures sound as if it were from a different, more musically advanced, era.

I’ve never been a Jack White fan, but his musical contraption brings out the best in Young, who has had a run of so-so albums (“Le Noise,” a few good tunes, but dispensable; “Psychedelic Pill,” not bad, but Crazy Horse tends to bring out some of Neil’s least endearing qualities, like thinking a prolonged guitar solo consisting of feedback is a good idea;” and “Americana,” which I think is probably underrated, but still not a great album). I was primed to hear great Neil Young.

I had read the pissant, whiny, worthless comments on iTunes from listeners that hated the sound quality and wanted a clean, clear, and boring album that wouldn’t offend their babied, digital ears. You know what? They would have shit on that too. Because that’s what online commenters do. I hate them.

So there I was, filled with pseudo-hipster rage and drinking my eighth cup of coffee, about to start the writing half of my day. I opened up my iTunes (I’m a digital homer too, but what of it?). I needed Neil and I needed him now.

First of all, the sound quality was anything but crappy. It’s beautiful. Even digitally, it haunts you the way old recordings of George Gershwin, Robert Johnson, Miles Davis, and Edith Piaf do. The whole album feels like it’s a relic of the past and brand new at the same time.

Every song choice is inspired and Young delivers them in a beautifully stripped down manner reminiscent of Johnny Cash on his last studio albums before he died (you know, the ones you could actually hear Cash dying on). However, while Cash’s albums were dark and brooding, there’s a real joy that comes out of Young’s “A Letter Home.” His premise is built on him writing a letter to his dead mother—for more on her, check out Jimmy McDonough’s Young biography Shakey…you won’t be disappointed—so there’s a reverence and hopefulness that permeates each track. Even the above “Needle of Death” never completely melts into completely into dark despair.

His covers of “Crazy,” “Girl From North Country,” and “Reason to Believe,” led me to brew more coffee and open up a fresh notebook. My musical mind and heart were on fire and my muse demanded I write words accompanied by this splendid music. That’s what good music is supposed to do: propel you to act and not just listen passively. If you’re not completely inflamed with the holy writing spirit listening to this album, then there might not be hope for you as a writer or human being.

Young has long been an advocate for bringing music back to its true, vinyl form (his Pono music player raised more than $6.2 million earlier this year), and this album goes a long way in proving that digital music is lacking a certain charm that past music fans got to enjoy in full force. Dave Grohl got yanked of a Grammys stage once because he had the nerve to tell today’s musicians that music didn’t have to be perfect to be good. This album proves why Grohl is forever right.

Young also proves why most of today’s music sucks. The old masters keep experimenting while the next generation overproduces the next cloud-ready radio hit you’ll hate after the 4,000th time you hear it. I hope archeologists find this album in the future and not Justin Bieber’s next manufactured polished pop-turd.

Final verdict:

Buy into White and Young’s premise and let it wash over you like a classic 1940’s noir film. It probably sounds better on vinyl, but you’ll appreciate it on anything you listen to it on if you’re a Neil Young fan or an advocate of great music.

Vinyl Review: Led Zeppelin I Reissue

"Led Zeppelin I"

By Dave Pezza

Led Zeppelin reissuing its albums on vinyl may not seem like a tent pole inducing event for you, but Led Zeppelin fans across the world are currently cleaning out their underpants.

Led Zeppelin is my favorite band of all time, so posit that as you read this attempt at an impartial review. Last Tuesday, after much hype and pomp, the band reissued its first three studio albums—the newly remastered “Led Zeppelin I,” “II,” and “III”—on CD, vinyl, and digital download. The albums can also be purchased as a super deluxe, ridiculously expensive, box set with all manner of collectable gems such as a booklet, lithographs, and whatnot.

On the day of the albums’ release, I purchased “Led Zeppelin I,” the band’s freshman album from 1969, remastered on 180 gram vinyl. The album is famous for setting the band’s rock/blues foundation, the sound that immediately established them as a rock powerhouse and the faithful disciples of blues rock ‘n’ roll. It features greatest hits tracks “Good Times Bad Times,” “You Shook Me,” “Dazed and Confused,” and “How Many More Times.” I won’t waste my time reviewing the albums songs; that would be ridiculous. The remastering, however, is totally up for comment. Apparently, Zeppelin’s famed and genies guitarist, Jimmy Page, spent the last few years holed up in his mansion in England remastering the entire Led Zeppelin canon. The result is this onslaught of merchandise that is most certainly taking advantage of vinyl’s rebirth. I, however, am not complaining. I have been waiting for Zeppelin reissues since I bought my first vintage Zeppelin album.

The deluxe edition features the original remastered album on a single vinyl disc, as well as two additional discs containing an unreleased 1969 concert in Paris, France. Those of you familiar with vinyl know the always present and ignored snap, crackle, and pops. Well, Page has presented his work on some pretty heavy duty and clear vinyl. The smooth transition from outer groove to “Good Times Bad Times” is impressive. Page’s efforts become apparent in the albums’ next two songs, “Babe I’m Gonne Leave You” and “You Shook Me."

If you’re not familiar with Zeppelin, these songs immediately break the fast blues rock of the opening song, pull the barking brake on the album, and slow everything to an anguished crawl. This bluesy tandem spans a combined 13 minutes and withdraws every imaginable emotion from the human gut. On the reissue, Page meticulously sharpened every guitar note, which was expected from the band’s lead guitarist. Robert Plant, the band’s lead singer, sings a difficult range in these songs, and Page was generous with the vocals. Plant’s voice sounds little more robust than in earlier versions.

Side B opens with an arrangement by the band’s bassist and organist, John Paul Jones, titled “Your Time Is Gonna Come.” Page smooths over the song’s cacophony of electric organ into what I would consider the song’s most enjoyable incarnation. The B side’s meat, “Black Mountain Side” and “Communication Breakdown,” sound better than ever, an amalgamation of Page honing of band’s signature sounds.

“Zeppelin I" ends with “I Can’t Quite You Babe,” followed by the eight and a half minute powerhouse that is “How Many More Times.” These two songs showcase two remarkable characteristics of this reissue that make it entirely worth its nearly $50 price tag. Page has broken out John Bonham’s drum kit remarkably well. If you have even a decent sound system and listen to “How Many More Times” with your eyes closed, you can feel Bonham hit every drum in the exact position it would be if it were playing in front of you. I was floored, weak in the knees, rocked to my core. John Paul Jones’ bass track is left untouched, but this is a good thing. The best bassists play so in sync with their drummers that the bass and the drum notes slip in and out of differentiation. Page does a great job here of letting Jones’ skills speak for themselves.

Lastly, this deluxe edition contains a previously unreleased concert in Paris, France. Admittedly, you are not buying the reissues for this concert, but if you are a Zeppelin fan, it’s a nice and pleasant addition. The concert includes songs off of “Zeppelin II,” such as “Heartbreaker” and an early version of “Moby Dick.” The concert’s highlights, however, are most certainly “Dazed and Confused,” where Page breaks out the violin bow on his guitar, and a surprisingly concise and beautiful “White Summer/Black Mountain Side.”

Final verdict:

As personal tastes go, on a scale of one to five, the “Zeppelin I” reissue scores a solid 4.5. Should you spend your hard earned cash on it? Definitely. If you’re a fan, go nuts and indulge on one of the deluxe editions. But if you are not a huge fan, just pick up the original remastered album on CD or vinyl or, if you really must, digital download. You’ll be getting the best version yet of one of rock ‘n’ roll’s best albums.

Writing Playlist: 5 Songs to Help You Get Your Words Out

Neil Young's "Harvest Moon" will be on the soundtrack of the movie version of my novel. Hahaha. Okay, Daniel.

Neil Young's "Harvest Moon" will be on the soundtrack of the movie version of my novel. Hahaha. Okay, Daniel.

By Daniel Ford

While writing my first novel, I continuously added to an iTunes playlist that eventually grew to 200 songs. Looking back on the list, I was able to track my progression as a writer and as a man. Each song had a memory attached to it—both good and bad—and helped me shape my main character, Sid Sanford.

I accidently deleted the list when I gave my mother my old laptop. Such is life. The playlist served its purpose. A new one aimed at inspiring novel number two is already underway.

Here are five songs from the list I can recall that might help you craft your best-seller:

“Going to California”

Do you have a main character who does a lot of brooding and longs for the love of a good woman? This song will help you get into his head.

“Homeward Bound”

This song will always make me think of college and being homesick my first several weeks in New York City. Whenever I felt the city was breaking me down and filling me with the belief that I’d never become the writer I wanted to be, I’d play this song and remember there was a place that had full faith in me. I couldn’t give up.

“Harvest Moon"

There’s no better song to bring two love-struck characters together.

“Mississippi”

Replace “Mississippi” with “New York City” and this song was pretty much written for the starving writer version of Daniel Ford.

I was raised in the country, I been workin’ in the town/I been in trouble ever since I set my suitcase down.

Enough said.

“Blow At High Dough”

Whenever the switch flipped in Sid Sanford’s mind and forced him to embrace his inner demons, I had this song in my head.

Dancing 'Til The World Ends: Ben Frost and Electronic Dance Music

Ben Frost

By Robert Masiello

For a moment, set aside all connotations you have with the phrase “electronic dance music.” Popular American EDM is somewhat akin to a bag of Doritos—instantly gratifying, but lacking substance or complexity, and ultimately regrettable. Though EDM’s commercial influence is huge, these ostentatious acts are pretty disposable. And while Avicii sells out festivals, other lesser-known producers continue churning out their own stunning interpretations of dance music.

One such artist is Iceland-based composer Ben Frost. Frost has a small yet impressive resume, having already released a smattering of solo albums and film scores. He has also contributed to notable works by Colin Stetson and Tim Hecker. Frost’s latest release “AURORA” will undoubtedly stand as one of 2014’s most magnificent records, electronic or otherwise.

“AURORA” will entirely alter your notion of what dance music can be. You don’t fist-pump to this music. You don’t grind to it. You certainly don’t sway to it. This is music that demands as much as it gives. The whole album has a certain industrial quality, and the persistence of a jackhammer. However it’s also strangely graceful, offering fleeting moments of warmth (just listen for those distant chimes). Fortunately, Frost doesn’t rely on cheap tricks in production or songwriting to make an impact. As a result, the album is relentless, but not cloying.

Listen to “AURORA” on headphones, and the sounds you hear no longer seem to qualify as music. It is too primitive and raw to be anything other than your body’s own natural rhythms. It is the sound of a million neurons firing in your brain. It is the sound of the tide inching closer to the ground you tread. It is the sound of your ancestors, screaming to be released from your bloodstream. This all reads rather dark and morbid, but “AURORA” is remarkable for just how alive it feels. While many producers lately tend towards the shadowy and mysterious, Frost’s style is nearly flamboyant. Yet there is complex beauty here as well, and even a degree of accessibility. Delicate melodies whither in and out of the noise. Stand-out track “Secant” builds to a grinding coda that could easily soundtrack an action-sport highlight reel.

There are no obvious reference points for comparison purposes. The Knife also explored tribal, percussive dance music on their brilliant “Shaking the Habitual,” however, ”Habitual” was sometimes cold and alienating while “AURORA” is far more visceral.

Spanning a scant nine tracks, Frost wisely ensures that “AURORA” does not overstay its welcome. Closer “A Single Point of Blinding Light” is three minutes of rhythmic fury before disintegrating into static. The end is so abrupt, you wonder if you actually heard anything at all. It’s the feeling you get when stepping out of a club at 2 a.m., as your senses adjust to the silence and streetlights. The album is filled with disorienting moments like this.

Although comprised almost entirely of synthetic noise, “AURORA” feels more human than machine. It has a pulse that beats steadily, despite the violence surrounding it. And even if “AURORA” heralds the apocalypse, we might as well dance our way to destruction.

Sad and Big: ‘I Never Learn’ and the State of Music Criticism

Lykke Li

By Robert Masiello

Is music criticism dead?

This has been the subject of much dispute lately, with various journalists and even artists offering their two cents. In response to the ongoing debate, composer Owen Pallet recently published an article which attempted to explain the “genius” of Katy Perry’s hit ‘Teenage Dream’ using solely music theory. It was an interesting turning point for the discussion, not to mention humorous, but did not quite resolve or expand the issue. Even Pallet himself seemed to be acknowledging the soullessness of such an exercise. But the question remains: is theory the only valid way to assess music, or is there value in subjective critiques?

To explore this issue in-depth, let’s look to Swedish songwriter Lykke Li’s latest album, “I Never Learn.” Her third release is a breakup album in the truest sense, full of moody, sweeping torch songs. Although the album has garnered praise from music criticism titans such as Pitchfork Media and Consequence of Sound, others have been less receptive. Drowned in Sound states that “it has a tendency towards bombast and shallow self-indulgence,” while The Guardian opines that the songs are “just sad and big.”

And herein lays the fundamental problem of music criticism: it is bullshit. It relies more on the attitude of the listener than the songs themselves. Most modern music reviews are simply a masturbatory exercise by the writer rather than a thoughtful analysis. I will demonstrate this by presenting two contrasting reviews (both written by me) for seventh track on “I Never Learn,” ‘Never Gonna Love Again.”

1. Worst of all is the albums seventh track, "Never Gonna Love Again." The song is almost laughably overblown as well as overproduced, sort of like slapping an Instagram filter onto a cheesy 1980s power ballad. “Every time the rain falls, think of me,” pleas Li, consumed by selfishness. So obsessed with her own misery, Li seems to have forgotten that wallowing is not a flattering trait, in a person or an album.

2. “I Never Learn” peaks with its seventh track, the soaring "Never Gonna Love Again.” Cavernous production gives the song an atmospheric quality as Li launches into a heart-wrenching chorus. “Every time the rain falls, think of me,” she pleads, terrified of evanescing into her ex’s past. It’s a selfish ode to love lost, but also profoundly human.

The above analyses are nearly identical in describing the song, but differ drastically in my own attitude. As a lowly blogger, I probably have no clout as to whether or not you purchase this album (I personally find it impeccable). But the gods over at Pitchfork do have influence, and it’s a sad truth that subjective opinions can determine an artist’s success. At the very least, reading a review will influence the way a listener hears an album, whether said listener wants to believe it or not. Now I certainly recognize that I am not the first person to make these points, but I would like to offer a way that subjectivity and music criticism can coexist.

An album should not be judged based on its intended goals, but how well it achieves its goals. This will buffer the influence of a reviewer’s attitude and provide a basis for a more valid analysis. Previously cited reviewers knock “I Never Learn” for being too sad, too monotonous, and too indulgent. That’s like criticizing a chocolate cake for being too…chocolate-y. Their opinions seem to represent a general dislike for breakup albums, rather than stating why “I Never Learn” fails as a breakup album.

Anyone who’s ever been dumped knows that heartache is typically followed by a period of mourning and self-indulgence. So of course the album is self-indulgent; it was born from late nights, red wine, and long drives. And spanning a slight 33 minutes, the record is hardly overdone. As such, criticizing Li for selfishness and bombast is irrelevant and unproductive. The album proudly flaunts the irrationality of heartache, even in its title, and that’s what makes it an unequivocal success.

On the final song, Li sings “save your heart for my heart, we’ll meet again.” It’s a foolish, beautiful, and devastating sentiment to conclude a new breakup album classic.

Queens of the Stone Age: The Hand That Ticks On

By Danny DeGennaro 

Queens of the Stone Age is a band I've always wanted to worship.

I wanted nothing more than to throw myself onto the holy alter of phlegmy distortion, caterwauling vocals, and sunbaked riffing. I've never been able to, though. Their issue has always been one of consistency—where one song may feature simple repetitive elements utilized to great effect ("Feel Good Hit of the Summer," "Sick, Sick, Sick") other songs lose steam, or worse yet, never pick up momentum to begin with ("Burn the Witch", "I'm Designer").

The world they created within albums would stutter to life, shambling Frankenstein-with-a-greaser-coif style, only to hit a brick wall in the form of a tempo shift, a lack of emotional continuity, or a plain ol’ boring riff. By contrast, artists like Ween or Brian Eno would come up with albums so full of fucked up, damaged, personal statements (Ween) or albums of such sublime beauty that a listener's only choice was to submit completely or revisit it at some other time (or not).

So, what makes the recent "…Like Clockwork" different than the past output of the Queens?

Interestingly enough, this album makes no allusions to any Desert Sessions output. There are no reworked songs here; everything was crafted from a particular place strictly within the band itself. Josh Homme has gone on record saying that the band always has a direction whenever they go into the studio to record an album. Well, with the exception of "…Like Clockwork", that is. Rather like giving someone a synopsis of a movie before they watch it, certain perceptions are levied upon the viewers that are impossible to shake. Their viewing experience is largely defined by the almost incidental description that was given to them. In that same way, the band having a destination imposed certain limitations, unconscious though they may have been. Walking into a studio and asking your bandmates to please trust and respect one another's decisions is an entirely different kettle of fish.

The principal difference between this and every other QOTSA album most likely comes down to Josh Homme himself; after going into knee surgery, Homme was declared legally dead after choking on oxygen tubes. As if that weren't enough, he also contracted MRSA, and was bedridden and depressed for four months. As a result, every note, every syllable uttered on "…Like Clockwork" possesses a desperation and hunger for vitality missing from their other albums. Snotty asides no longer seem dismissive; they seem invigorating, like each breath that escapes is a blessing.

Where there was swagger, there's now a much more deliberate stagger—not that the songs don't cook, but the hypersexual bass glissandos and is-it-hot-in-here-or-is-it-just-you guitar work are more focused (partially due to bassist Nick Oliveri's absence, though to be fair this is the third album he's been absent). If other albums were concerned with transcribing high noon in the Mojave, this album proves they've mastered it. Riffs crackle with a natural intensity, informed equally by Kyuss, Yawning Man, and most importantly, the Queens themselves. If brutal distortion and crushing riffs were once about the ultimate expression of masculinity, the distortion is only present now because there's a desperation and immediacy that has to be expressed, and there simply isn't any other way to do it.

With the release of "…Like Clockwork" Josh Homme has revealed himself to be an orchestrator of Frippian proportions. Robert Fripp, the only constant member of King Crimson through it's multitude of lineup changes, is famous not just for his manic, expressive, methodical guitar playing, but also for collaborating with everyone from Brian Eno to David Bowie to Andy Summers. Similarly, Josh Homme has made it his beeswax to utilize and give a platform to any artist he finds interesting and worthwhile. PJ Harvey, Dean Ween, and Brant Bjork have all found outlets for their own unique brand of mayhem in the form of the Desert Sessions.

The Desert Sessions is precisely what you think it would be—a collective of musicians who, informed not only by the creative energy of one another, but by various chemical refreshments and the intoxicating San Bernardino heat, endeavor to make music purely for the joy of making music. When he's not orchestrating blissed-out desert rock conceived of and delivered at breakneck speeds, he's playing with The Eagles of Death Metal, or shredding with rock royally John Paul Jones and Dave Grohl as Them Crooked Vultures. Did I mention he produces and is handsome? Tall, too.

Josh Homme has a knack for tilling greatness in his own ultra-fertile musical soil. It takes a big personality and a big talent to do this many things this well. That's not to take away one iota of credit from any of his (numerous) collaborators; he understands the value of laying back and supporting just as much as stepping forward and laying down a face-melting solo. The Queens have finally succeeded in making a statement where the sum of the whole is greater than the individual parts. Even more exciting, this album could've only happened right now, with these people, in this era. "…

Like Clockwork" is the rarest of treasures—an album that's timeless but simultaneously totally of it's time. Unshackled by the burden of straddling or defining genre boundaries, the Queens came up with an album that flies directly in the face of the macho posturing and the Me! Me! Me! mentality that seems to pervade everything that's foisted on us as art.

How does a band reconcile being a rock band without succumbing to the inherent trappings of being in a rock band? I'll let Josh Homme sum things up: