Happy Christmas!

As a teenager, The Lemonheads were my gateway drug to becoming a music junkie. Without Evan Dando, I might have had ended up with a decent selection of albums on my iPod, but I certainly wouldn’t be the kind of music enthusiast that could have a 30-minute discussion with a buyer at Amoeba Music, and leave the store earning a hearty handshake, an employee discount off my purchase.

More than just being an overall favorite in my iTunes library, the Lemonheads–more than any other group—turned me on to an army of new musical options: Who was this Big Star? Oh! Alex Chilton! THAT’S who the replacements were singing about! This guy is awesome! Oh my gosh, Victoria Williams? I need to listen to everything she’s ever wrote. What’s the band her husband’s in? The Jayhawks? Holy cow, this band is fantastic. Who is this Gram Parsons? This stuff is amazing. Who is this woman singing along with Gram? Emmylou Harris? Who is are all of these people Emmylou Harris is covering? Lucinda Williams. Gillian Welch. Whoa? I must own everything ever written by Lucinda Williams and Gillian Welch. Why does this CD sound so good? Oh, it was produced by Daniel Lanois! What else has Daniel Lanois produced? Wait a minute—who is this Fugazi he’s touring with?

Knowing my rabid fandom, Ryan surprised me on Thursday night by taking me to see the Lemonheads perform “It’s a Shame About Ray” in its entirety at the El Rey. It was an awesome show, and we were in spitting distance of Dando. If his guitar string broke, it would have hit me in the eye. I sang every word, to every song he played–and I sang them loud, in unison with just about every other person in the venue. Just a few hundred of us die-hards, there for nothing but the love of the music and a little bit of nostalgia.

We were tempted to stick around so I could gush to Dando about all the ways we were meant to be best friends. Then I could invite him over for a few beers and we could laugh about growing up in Boston, and about summers hanging out on beaches of the North Shore. I could tell him how one of my middle school boyfriends had the same dentist as him, and then Evan could tell me how he loved that particular dentist’s nitrous oxide.

I’ve played the scenario in my head a hundred times but, alas, it was an opportunity missed at the hands of security guards and lack of backstage passes. Meh. At least I have some photos.

So it’s kind of cool that I was introduced to a musician who describes himself as a “Musician. Nerd. Not in that order.” through the nerdiest venue of all, a Star Wars meme on the internet.

Their construction paper interpretation mashes more than six hours of sci-fi legend into a few minutes of poignant paper animation, and hits deeper at the emotional core of the Star Wars trilogy than any 3D rerelease by a culturally void dino-vulture who cares nothing for the fact that he is raping and pillaging something so deeply treasured by a generation.

George Lucas: I am so fucking mad at you!

Did I say that out loud? Just visit the video and download Messersmith’s other stuff. It all kinda rules.

A little-known fact: My very first boyfriend was a redhead. We dated for about 36 hours in kindergarten. He let me play with his blocks and I’m pretty sure he let me cut in line at the monkey bars. He dumped me by snack time the next day.

I’m not going to apologize for stereotyping here, because the type-cast redhead is my favorite kind of redhead. Maybe it’s their tendency towards passion, or perhaps it’s their propensity for craftiness and cleverness that makes me feel like they’re my perfect fit. Whatever it is, there’s something about redheads and me that just seems to click. As the aptly named Amber G. once pointed out: I have a type.

It would seem that my love for the ginger-tressed goes beyond housemates, soul sisters, and BFFs, because I’m nothing short of obsessed with the inferno-haired Neko Case. I’d call her a tough cookie, but that would undermine her. In terms of cookies, she’s more like a brick, which I guess is appropriate, all things considered.

No one does eerie dust-bowl balladry like her and with lung-power the strength of a cyclone, her vocals leave me happily blown away, rolling in the tumbleweeds. Too romantic for you? Then listen:

Basically, my life is going to totally suck until Neko Case becomes my best friend. Until that time, I’ll just see her perform any chance I get… like next Monday at the Fonda with The New Pornographers, for a start.

And a little photo montage of some of my favorite Gingers. Those who have dyed their hair blond or brown don’t make the cut. Those who have lost their hair due to time and circumstance do.

No photos here were taken by yours truly. Sorry.

For the procrastinators in all of us, the RPM Challenge poses musicians and wannabe musicians with the Herculean task of writing, recording, and producing a 10 song, 35 minute CD in 28 days.

RPM Challenge recording session, February 2008. Photo by Liam King.

It’s an insane challenge that tells you to shut up and create; if you take a minute to check out the site’s listening station, you’ll be pleasantly astounded by what comes out of sleepless nights and horrific deadlines.

I participated in 2008 and my good friend and accomplished musician Brandi Emma and I will give a stab at being alumnae of the RPM class of 2010. Tomorrow is our first “practice”, or whatever you want to call it… and then I’m going to Massachusetts for a week. On second thought, maybe we’ll just inspire each other to write more, ’cause I don’t know how on earth we’re going to get this done in about 10 days total, but maybe the point isn’t to finish but to push ourselves as far as our restricted time frame will allow. Sometimes we get too focused on the destination, when the journey is equally–if not more–important. I’m looking forward to seeing what we discover.

Photo courtesy of some guy's Wordpress site. I'll assume he swiped it from someone.

I know I’m late to the party with this whole Charlotte Gainsbourg thing. For years the daughter of Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin has been floating in my periphery; but I guess I got confused as to whether she was an actress or a musician or a starlet more famous for being famous than anything else.

Never mind that I’ve actually seen her in half a dozen movies and, though her performances were staggering, for some reason I never got around to IMDB her. No, I didn’t see Antichrist. I’ll get on it. Gad, stop looking at me like that!

Call me a dolt, but there is so much talentless progeny of creative icons out there; I get confused and throw up shields impervious to any sort of cultural osmosis whenever I hear a famous last name attached to a new first name. In this instance, I’m a total idiot. I admit it. I’m trying to change.

I first (knowingly) heard Gainsbourg on KCRW a couple of weeks ago. I had no idea who was on, but I loved the song enough to whip out my iPhone and Shazam it–because I had to know who it was AT THAT VERY SECOND.

Then, this week I read a recent New York Times article on her new Beck-produced CD, “IRM.” My favorite part of the article (I’m not missing the point, I swear.) is her mother’s quote: “She is she, not Serge, not me. But, sweetly she has our voices in her head.” It’s like a tiny poem that needs not one more sentence to complete it. It’s also a two-sentence parenting philosophy–just tape it above your kid’s bed and think about it every day. That’s all you’ll ever need to have a perfectly well-adjusted kid, right?

Anyway, since you probably missed her David Letterman appearance on Friday (and her drummer in a wolf man mask!), opting instead to watch Conan O’Brien’s swan song, give the kid a moment of your time and watch her charmingly shy, inherently cool performance–and watch Beck back her up on guitar and vocals–at the KCRW studio. You won’t regret it. Promise. They even do a little bit of insightful chit-chat at the end.

Courtesy of Lissie's Myspace page

Lately, it seems Los Angeles has become a hub to an ever-growing collection of alt country artists. Great timing for me, an ardent fan of alt country and Americana music. One blazing young star in Los Angeles’ ever expanding milky way of hopeful starlets is Lissie Mauris.

Hailing from Rock Island, Ill she relocated to LA about five years ago and now resides in Ojai. And having gotten herself in with the right people who knew the right people who knew the right people who knew the right people, she scored herself a touring gig with Lenny Kravitz without so much as a debut CD.

With all the promise and charm of a young Jewel (give me all the flack you want, “Who Will Save Your Soul” is a good song), but without a hint of the affected optimism or naiveté, Lissie’s sound revels in the catharsis of heartbreak before she kicks it to the curb and moves on in a “take no prisoners” sort of way, with her tar and nicotine soaked vocals.

After hearing her on KCRW back in November, I downloaded her new EP “Why You Runnin’”. Listening to it is like taking a rambling roadtrip through the past five years of heartbreak and self-discovery in Lissie’s life.

The lyrics and music are great, but it’s Lissie’s vocals: a blend of raw refinement reminiscent of a Bonnie Raitt, Patty Griffith, Stevie Nicks, late-night, cigarette-smoking, slumber party that’s the real star of the CD. All of the songs are great, but the standout is a cover of Hank Williams’ “Wedding Bells”; a rendition so powerful and true it will send a chill down your spin, a knot in your stomach, and an ache in your heart.

Here, have a listen, why don’t you.

And here are some great originals that didn’t make it on her EP. Obsessed? Yes. What of it?

Your Chest
I Don’t Know