Eagerly awaited EP due in stores on December 15. Meanwhile, the group is going to Sundance next January.

By Meryl Trussler

In its first many moments ‘Graze' tips tinny synth chord into tinny synth chord, back and forth like one of those executive toy see-saws full of strange immiscible liquids, and you get to worrying that maybe the new Animal Collective EP, Fall Be Kind (Domino), will be about as affecting/relevant to your fervent hipster lifestyle as said little see-saw - because maybe you've seen Animal Collective on the Merriweather Post Pavilion tour, and maybe in between tweet-worthy crescendos of awesomeness you've had to check your watch to see how long they've been faffing around with white noise, fading out of one song and not, perceptibly, into another - and maybe you're sort of unnerved at this seeming return from the pop beats to the unending, groggy experimentalism, experimentalism without the batshit crazy folk stuff that made the early albums so good - and maybe you're thinking that's what AC are now, they're all about the drone and delaying the pleasure and never playing goddamn ‘For Reverend Green', and that's seeped onto record for good and you have to give them up and they have to be one of those bands you get really heartrendingly mournful about, like a dead dog but then -

But then halfway through ‘Graze' and the lazy chant of  "let me begin..." it kicks in. Cymbals! Bass stripes! Pan flutes! "Why do you have to go? / WHY DO YOU HAVE TO GOOO-ooo?"  Back to that Strawberry Jam ecstasy that crawls over you like kittens. But, but -

But then they present this turd called ‘What Do I Want? Sky' which relentlessly slobbers out the title over this sunny California one-hit-wonder pop melody that sounds simultaneously like Len (remember ‘Still My Sunshine'?), the New Radicals (‘You've Got the Music in You'?) and Sugar Ray (‘Every Morning' there's a halo hanging something something?) except far less enjoyable. But and yet and bloody however -

But there's this gem called ‘On a Highway', that starts off slow with the same three-chord, Fuck Buttons-kinda pulsations they dig, that grows to a happy, hippy drumbeat and rising harmonies, and Avey talks about being, yeah, on a highway, jealous of Noah's dreaming. And ‘I Think I Can' comes in with another queer, quacking, thundercracking synth riff, and demonstrates their abilities to make any old mutant made of notes catchy as hell, and culminates in a jubilant "I think I can I think I can I think I..."

I think they can too. But on this EP they don't. They can't achieve whatever it is. Unity, perhaps. The constant inconstancy, the tugging about between good and bad and mediocre like a failing marriage, is taxing to listen to. That said, with albums as near-unanimously adored as the last three looming behind them, one patchy EP is naturally going to stick out so sorely and so ten-thumbed. Not one to have on a ten-lap repeat, but worth its half-hour's attention, and not in the least worth throwing in the towel over (you know, the tea towel embroidered with Noah Lennox's face - I saw it). It is nice to not be hit over the head with AC's talent every now and then.

And damn, those are some tasty pan flutes.

***

More Animal Collective News:

Fall Be Kind is released December 15 and was recorded by Ben Allen at Sweet Tea in Oxford, MS in February 2008 and at Mission Sound in Brooklyn, NY August 2009. From the band: "It includes recent live favorites Graze and What Would I Want? Sky (featuring the first ever licensed Grateful Dead sample). Fall Be Kind will be available worldwide on CD, 12" vinyl and via digital download."

Track Listing
1 - Graze
2 - What Would I Want? Sky
3 - Bleed
4 - On a Highway
5 - I Think I Can

Animal Collective kicks off a short tour next week; details and dates at their MySpace page: www.myspace.com/animalcollective.

Meanwhile, the upcoming Sundance Film Festival will be showcasing an Animal Collective film titled ODDSAC, directed by collaborator Danny Perez. Speaking to NME.com, bandmember Avey Tare commented, "We tried to make the music go along with the visuals as much as possible.  We didn't want it to sound just like a soundtrack, but then we didn't want it to be like a music video either. It's kinda like a psychedelic film, it's not like a narrative film or anything. There are more cohesive moments in it, but then there are some that are a little more abstract."

[Photo Credit: Adriano Fegundes]

Things apparently are "better." Oh, and something about live dates, too.

By Fred Mills

Yesterday both Billboard and the BBC broke the news that the Arcade fire is just about done with its next album and is eyeing a May release. It will be the followup to 2007's Neon Bible and features, as with that album, the engineering talents of Markus Dravs (Bjork, Coldplay, Maccabees, Mumford and Sons).

While the Arcade Fire has been notoriously close-mouthed about the sessions, the BBC was able to pry some details out of the latter group's Marcus Mumford, who apparently got his news directly from Dravs.

"I don't know if I'm allowed to say this but yeah, he's working on the next Arcade Fire record at the moment," said Mumford. "I'm sure that's public knowledge, because he's been there for about six months. I keep asking Markus how it's going and he's like, 'Yeah, it's okay', and I'm like, 'What are the songs like?' And he goes, 'Better'."

Well there you go. That's what we in the biz call "really specific and detailed information"...

Billboard wasn't able to supply much more, only adding that their "sources" say a single will precede the album, and that the group is "weighing multiple offers" for live dates, including summer festivals.

"The classic-album-in-sequence trend is a lamentable one": Alt-rock godfathers perform their classic album in sequence at DAR Constitution Hall, Washington, DC, Dec. 1.

By Chris Klimek

So, what can we learn from watching the no-longer-newly-reunited Pixies march professionally through their major-label debut, Doolittle, 20 years later?

The album, with its surreal lyrics and volume-seesawing dynamics and abrupt finishes, is aging just fine.  This we know because on Dec. 1, at the second of two nights at DAR Constitution Hall, the band - after a subdued opening of four Doolittle-era B-sides that sounded like the sketches they were - conjured it up faithfully, with plenty of muscle but sans interpretation or elaboration.  It was as it was.

Also, frontman Black Francis (a.k.a. Frank Black, nee Charles Thompson) remains the owner of a nonverbal war cry to rival any in the arty-indie genre his band did so much to shape during its first go-round, circa 1986-1993 - you know, back when they made new music together.  He's been more forthcoming than most nostalgia merchants about the purely fiscal motive for the Pixies 2004 reunion and for this latest outing, ostensibly celebrating 20th anniversary of their quintessential disc.  Back in '04, he even claimed that a new album was in the works, but none has materialized in the half-decade since.  Where's the money in new tunes?  You're better off selling a $25 official bootleg of each Doolittle redux tour performance on a "collectible" USB drive bracelet.  (The encore set of Tuesday's show replaced "Caribou" and "Nimrod's Son" from the prior night with "Vamos" and "Broken Face," so maybe each show on the tour isn't entirely identical -- just 92 percent.)

It's perfectly honorable for the Francis and company to pay some tuition bills this way, of course, especially given the quality of the product.  On stage Tuesday night, his old band sounded committed and even feral at times, biting into Doolittle's deeper cuts ("There Goes My Gun," "Silver") with as much firepower as they brought to "Monkey Gone to Heaven" and the epileptic "Into the White" that closed the first encore set, after Doolittle had done finished.  The 2007 Police tour happened sans the usual, nominal raison of new music, too, but in that case the band couldn't have sounded more bored, or boring.

Doolittle's unimpeachable standing aside, the classic-album-in-sequence trend is a lamentable one, wherein the artist abdicates an opportunity to recontextualize the songs for us.  (Bruce Springsteen is the shining, eternal exception, if only because he's been playing Born to Run with an additional 18 or 22-song grab-bag on top of that.)  You can still see why it's caught on:  In a sluggish concert market, it lets a performer satiate fans' thirst for hits and deep cuts alike, and without having to think about it too much.  It also addresses the near-impossibility of surprising a live audience in the 21st century.  Most acts play the same setlist every night, and if the song selection and sequence can't be delivered fresh to any audience with an Internet connection, well, here's a sequence the audience already knows they love.

As at other dates this tour, The Pixies left what little talking there was to loveable bassist/singer/Breeder Kim Deal, whose incandescent smile - perceptible from the nosebleeds - said more than her superfluous banter.  "We're gonna do B-sides," she said at the top of the show, as if apologizing that we'd have to wait another 10 minutes for them to rip into "Debaser."  (Totally worth it.)  "This is the last song on Side One," she announced later.   "These songs aren't on the record," she explained before the final sprint, comprising bloody readings of "Broken Face," "Vamos" and "Where Is My Mind" and "Gigantic," all performed with house lights up, possibly thanks to the intruder who'd managed to shimmy his way across the stage during "Into the White" before leaping back into the crowd.

If Deal's vapid chitchat at least come off as friendly, Francis's attitude toward the whole enterprise seemed captured in the film that accompanied their biggest hit, "Here Comes Your Man," featuring four continuous close-ups of each band member listening, presumably, to the recording of the song.  Deal played air bass and cracked up at regular intervals.  But Francis wore an irritable expression, rolling his eyes, bobbing his head, and clapping out of time to the virulent melody he pretends to be mad that he wrote.  The truth hurts, but the tune kills.

***

Veteran Danish (would-be) stadium-rockists Mew opened the show with dizzying 45-minute space odyssey through their best-loved tunes, drawing heavily from 2006's "And the Glass-Handed Kites" and dipping a toe into this year's "No More Stories."  Swirling, widescreen daydreamers like "The Zookeepers Boy" found their natural habitat in the (kinda) cavernous hall.  If anything, the venue might have been too small for a group that dreams, and sounds, this big.

--

Photographer - http://www.photokyle.com
Writer -  http://www.informationleafblower.com
Twitterer - @kgustafson

In which the erstwhile Talking Heads frontman gets in the van, er, make that, gets on the wheel....

BY JAKE CLINE

"I don't think my personal life is very interesting or unique," David Byrne admits by way of explaining that Bicycle Diaries (Penguin Books) will offer no juicy details about what went on backstage, behind closed doors or underneath those infamous oversize suits during the performer's days with the Talking Heads and beyond, as if anyone would want to read about such things, anyway.  Providing a welcome antidote to the ever-present glut of celebrity tell-alls and self-aggrandizing autobiographies, Byrne focuses on the external in his book, namely the artists, thinkers, musicians and other interesting people he's met while pedaling his fold-up bicycle through and around some of the world's greatest cities. Along the way, he makes a convincing argument that there may be no better way to get to know a place, its people and its culture than while seeing it from two wheels.

Armed with a wide-open mind and a seemingly boundless curiosity about all manner of subjects, Byrne makes for an ideal traveling companion. He largely eschews familiar landmarks and tourist attractions in favor of small art galleries in Berlin; nightclubs at which indigenous musicians perform in Buenos Aires; solitary detours (by car) to the Australian Interior; and, in Manila, a karaoke bar where he is surprised to find a "guy who looks like an '80s Bon Jovi" singing "Burning Down the House." Nearly every encounter with a resident or visit to a local institution sets Byrne to musing about a more-universal  topic. A dinner with a gallery owner in Berlin leads to a discussion about the meaning of beauty. A bike ride through the outskirts of Istanbul  causes him to consider the "religious, ideological, and emotional element inherent" in the cheaply made new buildings that are crowding out old and historic ones. A visit to a museum in London, where everyday objects such as plastic combs and toothpaste dispensers are on display, prompts a brief discourse on the act of creation, a topic he revisits after attending a wild, impromptu party in San Francisco complete with a marching band and guests dressed in "Victorian hats and fake mustaches on some of the men, wigs on some of the women, and some folks [wearing] not much at all." Try finding any of that in a book by Rick Steves.

Byrne closes Bicycle Diaries with an essay about the benefits for cities that adopt bike-friendly attitudes and policies. In large metropolitan areas such as New York, he argues, bicycle transportation can provide a cheap and clean way to minimize congestion, pollution and other traffic-related problems. But he's also pragmatic enough to realize the world would not suddenly become a more peaceful and beautiful place if everyone were to toss their car keys into the deep, blue sea and begin exclusively riding bicycles. In the end, he admits, "I don't ride my bike all over the place because it's ecological or worthy. I mainly do it for the sense of freedom and exhilaration."

Shutterbug's images rank among the most iconic ever in rock, pop and jazz history.

BY FRED MILLS

The title, we learn in the introduction, is instructive. "Without trust between the subject and myself," legendary photographer Jim Marshall (pictured above) writes, "I couldn't work the way I did and still do. I have to have total access, be allowed where I want, when I want, and do my thing the way I do."

The book is called Trust: Photographs of Jim Marshall (Vision On/Omnibus), and the theme is, indeed, trust. You know Marshall's work: iconic images of Jimi Hendrix and Otis Redding at the Monterey Pop festival; LP sleeves for Johnny Cash At Folsom Prison, The Allman Brothers At Fillmore East and the first Moby Grape album (the classic photo of Johnny Cash flipping the bird at the camera is also Marshall); photos both onstage and off- of the Rolling Stones from their '72 American tour (particularly if you're old enough to remember Life magazine, which put one of Marshall's shots of Jagger on the cover); some of the most penetrating portraits ever taken of Miles Davis - former president Bill Clinton owns a  print of Miles backstage at the 1970  Isle Of Wight Festival, resplendent in crimson shirt and silver-studded jeans and staring off into space while clutching his horn.

The 166-page, coffeetable-sized Trust: Photographs of Jim Marshall chronicles a life in music photography, in particular illuminating that total access Marshall was lucky enough to be granted (or insist upon, take your pick). The photos aren't arranged chronologically or thematically, but merely according to what was satisfying to Marshall himself; for most of them he adds brief anecdotal or explanatory text. Some are live, capturing his subjects in full flight - the aforementioned Jagger, Redding and Hendrix photos, a pair of Janis Joplin images depicting her framed against an astonishingly bright blue sky, a multiple-exposure take of jazz great Rashaan Roland Kirk for the Bright Moments album cover, a black-and-white shot of BB King at the Fillmore West in '68 whose uncharacteristically grainy and blurred-action quality is what lends it authenticity (King has just thrust his arms wide and Marshall captured the motion of his hands and guitar headstock). And some were specifically posed for some project or assignment, such as a backstage shot of Dr. John in full voodoo-shaman regalia, the Grateful Dead in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park forming a circle and staring down at the camera, and more contemporary photos of Velvet Revolver, John Mayer, and (ahem) Limp Bizkit's Fred Durst.

It's the candid, unscripted portraits, however, that form the heart and soul of this wonderful volume; they're indicative of what photographers mean when they say they try to capture the essence of their subjects. Three here in particular stand out to this longtime lover of music photography:

• A black-and-white shot of Miles Davis at a San Francisco gym, interrupted in the middle of a workout and talking intently on a pay phone - clutching the receiver while still wearing his boxing gloves.
• John Coltrane looking pensive while standing in the back yard of his Queens home, illuminated from behind with what appears to be late afternoon sunlight; the photo shoot was for an album, but a different image was ultimately selected, and this particular one evokes that "what is he thinking about?" feeling in the viewer.
• Frank Zappa (also color), sitting up in bed in the morning sun, shirtless with mussed hair, a quizzical smile on his face; Marshall's note indicates that he'd made Zappa sit up long enough to take a couple of shots, then the musician went back to sleep. Talk about trust. It's not particularly composed other than to ensure the natural lighting was good, and its charm comes from the very fact that you realize it is indeed spontaneous and totally candid; I don't know if I've ever seen a picture depicting Zappa with that exact type of smile.

Marshall, whose first album cover was for a Horace Silver LP (Prestige Records paid him the princely sum of $75), indirectly summarizes his experience in his introduction:

"I had the trust of the artist, I would work with them, and they knew I wouldn't fuck around or do anything they didn't like... No one I've shot, not Dylan, not Miles, not Cash, has ever complained about how my pictures of them have been used."

One can't help wondering whether that long, rich journey Marshall traveled would have been a different one in another era, one marked by the elbowing, intrusive antics of paparazzi and a corresponding lack of trust from the artists. In their heyday, Marshall and his peers - virtuoso lensmen and lenswomen like Baron Wolman, David Gahr, Annie Liebowitz, Ethan Russell, Elliott Landy, etc. - unquestionably broke new ground. Some would say they broke the molds, too.

Many of Marshall's classic images can be viewed (and purchased) at his official MarshallPhoto.com site.

Indiedom's nü-Bard makes the most of trying circumstances at Philadelphia's Theatre Of Living Arts, Nov. 24, 2009.

BY ZACHARY HERRMANN

From the second the concert was announced, something about Devendra Banhart playing the Electric Factory just didn't seem right. Whether or not he could bring out enough of an audience to fill the notoriously awful Philadelphia venue was one worry, especially when many of his free spirit demographic would be across town seeing Phish at the Wachovia Center.

But the bigger issue would have been one of sound and scope. Banhart - despite having a real kicking live band, dubbed the Grogs - started his days as a solo acoustic act and still devotes a great deal of his set to those songs. The cavernous design of the Electric Factory doesn't really cater much to intimacy, and frankly, the result probably would have been somewhat disastrous.

As luck would have it, a water main break forced a last second venue change to the much smaller, better-suited Theatre of Living Arts (TLA). In concert, as on album, Banhart requires some patience and sifting through, especially of late. Not surprisingly, his live show is very much a reflection of that. You have to get past some lightweight hippie-dippiness, but when you do, the guy has some real gems in his catalog.

In this sense, Banhart's music is a pretty accurate reflection of the musical era he most channels: the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. His stage persona is loose and spacey, which belies his more complex, darker sensibilities. Maybe it's just a matter of personal preference, but "Long Haired Child", "Rats" and "A Sight To Behold" have a lot more going on lyrically and musically then his lighter fare.

Critical consensus has been sort of lukewarm on Banhart's latest, What Will Be, and not completely without reason. The album tracks "Baby" and "Angelika" slowed things down early after the opening buzz of "Long Haired Child". "First Song for B" put even the most zealous Banhart followers into a lull.

Banhart certainly didn't help his case by taking the album's best pure pop song, "16^th & Valencia and Roxy Music", and grinding it to a barely mid-tempo halt. Similar to the way Ryan Adams started playing a slow-build version of "New York, New York", Banhart's shift sapped the number's potential as an early-set crowd pleaser.

Eventually, Banhart acquiesced to a lot of what the cat-calls were crying for - "Little Yellow Spider", "Seahorse" (silly, but well jammed) and several others that were in highly audible demand. Oddly enough though, Banhart and the Grogs had some of their best moments playing the non-Banhart tunes, which carried the band into the late set highs ("Lover", "Carmensita").

In addition to all being extremely versatile musicians, the four members of the Grogs are all fairly talented songwriters in their own right. Noah Georgeson's "Find Shelter" fit naturally into Banhart's set, while drummer Greg Rogove's "Diamond" displayed a dirtier, thrashing blues buried under the group's Tropicalia/neo-psychedelia. Ever the gracious band leader, Banhart stepped back to handle bass duties at one point, encouraging his band members to step up and take the spotlight.

As much as the group gives up a clear communal hippie vibe, the Grogs are an incredibly tight and disciplined band. And Banhart - who came on in a bowtie and jacket and left the night shirtless - may not look the part, but he is every bit the serious musician. His guitar work - acoustic and electric - is both clever and tasteful, referential (Nick Drake and The Electric Prunes both come to mind) but independently wrought. 

With or without the Grogs, Banhart got the best out of the sound at the TLA, the crowd mostly hushed in the quieter moments, even when everyone had cause to get a little restless. "16 & Valencia and Roxy Music" aside, the weaker moments had everything to do with the material, not the performances.

A couple years from now, it would be nice to see a few of those What Will Be numbers drop out of the set list rotation. But for now, as long as the guy offers up 105 minutes of music, we can let a few indulgences slide.

***

Set list:

1)      Long Haired Child

2)      Baby

3)      Shabop Shalom

4)      Angelika

5)      16^th & Valencia and Roxy Music

6)      Little Yellow Spider

7)      A Sight To Behold

8)      I Remember

9)      First Song for B

10)   Charles C. Leary

11)  You Can't Put Your Arms Around a Memory (Johnny Thunders cover)

12)  How's About Tellin' A Story

13)  Maria Lionza

14)  It's Gonna Take Some Time To Get Alone With You (The Pleased)

15)   Foolin'

16)  Find Shelter (Noah Georgeson)

17)  Seahorse

18)  (Rodrigo Aramante song)

19)  Lover

20)  Diamond (Greg Rogove)

21)  Carmensita

22)  Rats

23)  Chinese Children/ I Feel Just Like a Child

More of the same ol' bullshit, only this time with an even smaller pool of nominees hogging the whole goddam field.

By Fred Mills, Blurt Managing Editor

It's either an indicator of the Grammys' inexorable, torturously slow decline into irrelevance or simply another sign that in the 21^st century the query "If a celebrity falls in a forest, does he or she make a noise if there's not a camera crew to film the event?" is no longer merely a rhetorical one.

Last night, as you've probably heard, judging by, as of this writing, the approximately 1,800 Google citations listing "Grammy nominations," there was a special prime-time broadcast of the noms and the accompanying concert, all held at Los Angeles' Club Nokia. Performing were the Black Eyed Peas, DJ Guetta, Maxwell, Nick Jonas & The Administration, Sugarland, and LL Cool J, who hosted. There were celebrity presenters on hand too: Linkin Park, George Lopez, Katy Perry, Smokey Robinson, Ringo Starr, T-Pain, and Dwight Yoakam.

"The nominations this year truly reflect the talented community of music makers who represent some of the highest levels of excellence in their respective fields," said Neil Portnow, President/CEO of The Recording Academy, in a statement. "Once again, the Grammy Awards process has yielded a well-rounded and diverse group of impressive nominees across multiple genres. Coupled with the second year of our primetime nominations special, which featured stellar performances by past Grammy winners and nominees, the road to Music's Biggest Night and the 52nd Annual Grammy Awards in January is off to an exciting start."

Right. As you might imagine, once again there were no real surprises in the nominations, with all the usual suspects being named, as you can read at the Associated Press report here or the official Grammys site here. Beyonce and Taylor Swift landed 10 and 8 noms, respectively, while the Black Eyed Peas, Maxwell and Kanye West all landed 6. Following close behind: David Guetta, Jay-Z and Lady Gaga received five each; and Colbie Caillat, Michael Giacchino, Kings Of Leon, John Newton, RedOne, Bruce Springsteen, T-Pain, and Keith Urban each received four nominations.

See what I mean about "irrelevance"? Sure, if you look at the full, unexpurgated list, there are tons more nominations, many of them reasons to cheer - for example, Best Americana Album has Dylan, Levon Helm, Willie Nelson, Wilco and Lucinda Williams all getting nominations (we're not sure if Wilco can be called "Americana" anymore, but we'll take it for now). But when you have folks basically hogging the field with four, five, six, eight and ten noms apiece, the sheer level of white noise drowns out everyone else as far as the public is concerned, and the media is overtly complicit in this stuff, too.

The nominating "event" has always been pimped to a degree by the industry - as I write, p.r. emails are trickling in to my inbox from labels and publicity firms expressing their congratulations to their clients who received nods -  but having a concert is a relatively new twist clearly aimed at giving the Grammys a bit of preemptive shelf-life boost as we lead up to the January 31 presentation ceremony in Los Angeles. But does manufactured buzz equate with genuine "buzz"? Is everybody glued to their Facebook pages and Twitter feeds, sucking all this shit down like chocolate milkshake, or can people actually detect the stench? (Hint: you actually have to get up and walk away from the computer or smartphone since no one has created scent apps yet.)

It's a further sign that public interest in the Grammys is on the wane in an era when every time you turn on the television there's yet another peoples'-choice type ceremony or a ceremony involving a musical niche or subgenre. Before the dust settles, I fully expect to be viewing the National Kazoo Association Awards

Initials add up to an impressive collection of names.

By Blurt Staff

Pennsylvania's Initials, the more-or-less punk supergroup made up of former members of Hot Rod Circuit, Once Nothing and the Color Fred, just announced they've made another addition to their colorful roster. Joining guitarist Fred Mascherino, guitaris Andy Jackson and bassist Steve Lucarelli will be drummer Josh Eppard, previously of Coheed & Cambria. He replaces original drummer Anthony Martone.

According to Alternative Press, Mascherino was quoted as saying, "We'd been trying out a bunch of drummers looking for the right fit. We had some shows coming up and Anthony Martone took the time to do us a huge favor and learn the songs and play them with us. Since the lineup hadn't been totally solidified yet, and Anthony had other projects coming up, we wanted to makes sure we were all committed to Initials, and that's when Josh [Eppard] walked in and the chemistry was solid. Anthony is a good friend and an amazing drummer, and we wish him well on his other projects!"

You can see a video interview with Initials from October at the A.P. website.

More tuba!

By Blurt Staff

Brooklyn's Clare and the Reasons get the opportunity of a lifetime in February when they tour with legendary singer-songwriter Van Dyke Parks. Parks collaborated with the group on their debut release, The Movie, and Clare and the gang say they are "eager to join up with him once again"behind the release of their new album, Arrow, out now on Frog Stand Records. As the band prepares for tour, they are releasing their tuba and strings-laden cover of Genesis' song "That's All" for free mp3 download - this just might redeem the British band in the eyes and ears of indie rockers after all these years of smirks and stifled giggles.

"That's All"

Clare and the Reasons is fronted by collaborators Clare and Olivier Manchon. Their sophomore album, Arrow, features a guest appearance from Shara Worden of My Brightest Diamond and live, they have a steady list of contributors (including members of The National and Beirut). The band recently returned from a North American tour with The Vic Chesnutt Band, and will be playing a final NYC show of the year with Keren Ann at the Knitting Factory on Monday, December 14th.

The band talks about their upcoming dates with Parks here:

Some things come along, like a sunny day after weeks of rain, or a good baguette, or a comfortable, yet good looking pair of shoes... That stuff is exciting, brings joy. When you find out you're touring with Van Dyke Parks, well, that's something entirely different.

The legendary musical genius will be playing some rare (as rare as a good baguette in a small US city) concerts of his very own songs - not anyone else's - his masterpieces. I'm assuming you will want to come to these shows,I know we would - wait, we are! Some Reasons will be joining Van Dyke on stage.

If the world is still a good and decent place, these tickets will go fast. Don't wait until the last minute, procrastinators will be missing out on goodness. Guest appearance by songwriting wunderkind Josh Mease.

We're so honored to be sharing this tour and making evenings filled with music with THE REAL VAN DYKE PARKS.

Clare and the Reasons tour dates:

12/14 Brooklyn, NY - Knitting Factory w/ Keren Ann
2/9 Seattle, WA  - The Triple Door w/ Van Dyke Parks
2/10 Portland, OR - Mississippi Studios w/ Van Dyke Parks
2/12 San Francisco, CA - The Swedish American Hall w/ Van Dyke Parks
2/14 Los Angeles, CA - McCabe's w/ Van Dyke Parks

First, we take the Bay Area: three musical legends mount epic concerts in San Francisco and San Jose in October and November.

BY JUD COST

Music fans were vividly reminded of the temporal nature of the lifespan of the touring musician during a particularly fertile recent fortnight in the San Francisco Bay Area. From October 29 through November 13, you could have witnessed epic concerts by master Indian sitarist Ravi Shankar, American free-jazz alto saxophone legend Ornette Coleman and Canadian singer-songwriter-poet Leonard Cohen.

Shankar and Coleman appeared on different nights at San Francisco's upscale Davies Symphony Hall as part of the fall season of SF Jazz, and Cohen wrapped up the most recent segment of his world tour at San Jose's cavernous HP Pavilion. Houses for all three events seemed to be running at about 90 percent capacity, perhaps filled with fans who realized these three musical icons won't be touring forever. Cohen, at 75, is the relative youngster of the group, Coleman is 79 and Shankar is still going strong at the ripe old age of 89.

Unlike revenge, its more volatile cousin, regret is a dish that lingers on the tongue, no matter what temperature you dish it up. And its pungent after-taste doesn't go away anytime soon. In the summer of 1966, I entered the box office of the St. Claire Hotel in San Jose, Calif. to buy a pair of tickets to see the Beatles at San Francisco's Candlestick Park. I was stunned to learn the coveted cardboard strips would set me back a gaudy $5.50 apiece. It may be hard to comprehend in the era of the six-dollar hamburger, but eleven bucks was a lot of money back then. Reckoning that I might have a little more ready cash the following year, I reluctantly passed on the Beatles tickets. I've regretted it ever since. When it was announced the Fab Four would stop performing live, I grabbed a fistful of red Georgia clay and took a retooled version of the Scarlett O'Hara oath: "I swear I will never again miss an important musical act."

Easier said than done, of course. I decided not to go to a local appearance by R&B star Jimmy Reed in 1976, and then he died the following week. When I tried to buy tickets for the 1980 U.S. appearance of Joy Division at tiny East Bay club Berkeley Square, I found out the tour had been canceled due to the suicide of Ian Curtis. Over the years I somehow missed seeing Ray Charles, Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley and Little Richard, but not much else.

Recent weeks have seen a mother lode of musical genius pass through northern California.

Ravi Shankar: In his introductory remarks, SF Jazz founder Randall Kline announced that the evening's first set would be played by Shankar's daughter, Anoushka, also a master of the sitar. But Anoushka appeared moments later on the arm of her esteemed father, and the two of them enthralled the audience for the next two hours, trading off thrilling, improvised runs on the ancient Indian instrument. Accompanied by the dynamic yet sensitive rhythmic patterns of Tanmoy Bose on tabla and Pirashanna Thevarajah on mridangam (a longer drum, about twice the size of the tabla), some were lengthy and complex, others as soft and caressing as the first rays of the morning sun. Ravi mentioned that he's always loved playing in San Francisco (probably the reason he decided at the last moment to play the entire program, rather than just the second set) since the very first time he visited the city as part of his older brother's dance troupe in 1932. It's obvious that when Ravi decides to retire from public concert, Anoushka is fully capable of carrying on the family name in customary grand style.

Ornette Coleman: The first time I saw Ornette Coleman play with his own group he was accompanied by bassist David Izenzon and drummer Charles Moffett at San Francisco's tiny Divisadero district jazz club Both/And in 1966. Last week he was flanked by two bassists, one acoustic, the other electric, and his son Denardo on percussion, continuing a tradition begun in 1966 when Denardo first played drums on his dad's Empty Foxhole LP at the age of six.

Ornette's mostly playing that familiar white plastic alto sax these days with only occasional forays on violin and Don Cherry-inspired trumpet that lasted no more than half a minute. He sounds as lucid and forceful as ever. Coleman began his set with the ear-opening "Blues Connotation," an exciting number first heard on his 1960 album This Is Our Music. Coleman's songs, of course, are just launch pads for his mercurial improvisations that leave behind the bebop tradition of using chord changes for a roadmap. Coleman sent the crowd happy into the night with an encore that included his eternally sad "Lonely Woman" from his landmark 1959 longplayer The Shape Of Jazz To Come.

Leonard Cohen: As he apparently does for every show he plays these days, Leonard Cohen literally ran onto the stage of what on other nights serves as the ice surface for the San Jose Sharks. Dressed in a sharp blue serge suit and rakish fedora, Cohen has brought along a crack band that doesn't need to play loud-or vary the tempos much from a gentle stroll-to penetrate every dark corner of the arena. Whether he's serenading the audience on bended knees in his rich, weatherbeaten baritone or roaming the stage like a troubadour in search of a balcony, Cohen never fails to connect with his adoring crowd. He didn't use the classic, self-deprecating line from the three shows he played at Oakland's Paramount Theater last spring. When mentioning that he hadn't performed live here in ten years, Cohen referred to himself back then as "just a crazy 65-year-old kid with a dream." It's such a thrill to hear him perform his classics-"Suzanne," "Hallelujah," "Bird On A Wire" and "First We Take Manhattan"-that the nearly three hours Cohen spent onstage went by like a bullet train headed for points unknown. He certainly got no argument from his energetic legion of fans when he burst into the title song from his 1988 album I'm Your Man.