My tastes revolved around rock music, especially the louder and faster kind I was in high school. Previously, they were pop-oriented: The Beatles are my first and ever musical love.
My two older brothers were into music. One of them skewed Pop / Top-40. The other skewed doors, psychedelic, and prog. Both were influential. My best friend at the time had an older sister who was well-known in rock music and the 70s rocker girl lifestyle; she took me to the Rolling Stones, Black Sabbath, Cream, and in other ways. Also, it was the heyday of rock FM in the vibrant Metro-New York City market. I started making mixtapes early.
Later, that friend with the cool sister went to prep school, got fired, and returned a fan of the Chicago Electric Blues. Another friend introduced me to Pink Floyd, and together we discovered David Bowie. I grew up in the Burbs, which meant more hard rock and metal than punk and New Wave, but some of that music was on the radio and caught my ears. One of my brothers brought back a bunch of punk albums and singles from a semester in the UK. Another influence.
Through all of this, my parents (footnote 1) worked hard to inform a love of classical music – which made Rock’n’Roll all the more attractive – but in the end it “lasted.” There was jazz in the house – I played a few in my high school band – but it took me a while to get used to it.
Little rock music that was recorded in the 21st century moved the needle for me. I find a lot of it repetitive, derivative and boring, or it’s by artists from the 20th century. A lot of pop tries to reference heavy hip-hop too much, or it’s too obviously derived from the Beatles or Beach Boys. Since the demise of the 1990s grunge, for me it’s slim pickin’s.
Every year, however, a handful of new albums are added to my rotation, and a few remain. Sometimes a new album or artist manages to bend my rock aesthetic. Hope springs up forever.
Streaming, for me, is a dream come true: I can now listen to almost anything I want, at any time, in any setting I choose. It’s a wide-ranging, efficient way to watch new music.
Every week I get an email from “Sebastian at Qobuz” with the latest releases. (Sebastian does not exist, the people of Qobuz tell me; “he” is an amalgam of Qobuz writers who contribute re-release announcements.) I then scroll through the new releases and give at least some of the songs a Test for 30 seconds. Usually I feel like Charlie Brown is playing football, or trying; so often, modern-day musician Lucy pulls the ball away at the last second. I was not thrilled and not engaged. But the rare exceptions are joyful discoveries.
A few weeks ago, in a single week releases, five rock (or rock-ish) albums made it into the current rotation. Here is a list.
Jack White is an old-ish modern rocker with an old blues soul. His new album, Fear of the Dawn, is modern in its hard, jangly, hard musical edges, but his songs feel and sound a bit like early Black Sabbath with a cut of Led Zeppelin and a sprinkling of Iron Butterfly-style psychedelia. It’s a booming, rugged hull, and it feels as rough and manic as these times.
Wet Leg’s self-titled debut is also loud and rude. Have fun. The British Rhian Teasdale and Hester Chambers are the core of the band. The album sounds modern with its produced-in-computer feel. Wet Leg blatantly references David Bowie, and her attitude reminds me of former women rockers: Chrissie Hynde, Exene Cervenka, Poly Styrene, even some Joan Jett in the Runaways. There’s a hint of Velvet Underground in that Lou Reed spoken-word song.
One of the freshest sounding debut albums I’ve heard in a long time is Growing Up by The Linda Lindas, a group of California teenagers and preteens – also this issue Recording of the Month. They can play as loud and fast as the runways but have a bit of that go-go sound. They feel like a spring breeze and are just as welcome after two-plus years of COVID and Mopey, inside looking albums by other pop and rock artists. The future of rock music can be feminine.
Old-rock Tex-Mex band Calexico has been around for a while. Their music refers to Los Lobos, but they are more eclectic. El Mirador, her latest, stands well on repeated listeners. It makes great driving music – plus, it’s fun: Look no further than “The El Burro Song.”
My recent stretch-of-envelope find is Bronco by Orville Peck, an obvious pseudonym. Interwebs sleuths say the peck is actually Daniel Pitout, a South African-Canadian drummer from the punk band Nü Sensae; apparently they have the same tattoos. Peck makes masks, often with fringes covering his mouth. His album is Old-School Nashville Country meets Elvis Presley near Bakersfield. Peck’s stick may be too thick for some, but if you listen without prejudice, it’s far too much to like. The pearl of the album is the last song, “All I Can Say”, a duet with Bria Salmena by the Canadian rock band FRIGS. This could work on repetition as you drive west, post-breakup. If you love Bronco, check out Peck’s first album, Pony.
You have to dig deep, but there are some good new things out there. Finding it requires persistence and happiness.
Footnote 1: The recording and mastering team Wilma Cozart and C. Robert Fine.
