A conversation with Martin Lewis is a lot like a celebrity benefit show: there’s name-dropping, obligatory roasting, flash and panache, and a definite hint of the self-congratulatory. The man has helped manage Eric Burdon and Donovan, produced records, films, and festivals on both sides of the Atlantic, and served as HuffPo’s resident “least-reserved Englishman.” Hell, when he was 15 he compiled the discography for Hunter Davies‘ Beatles bio; by 19 he was recruiting Pete Townshend to write dust-jacket blurbs.

These days, Lewis is making the interview rounds in celebration of the thirtieth anniversary of the first Secret Policeman’s Ball, an Amnesty International benefit launched in 1979 after modestly successful incarnations as “A Poke in the Eye With a Sharp Stick” (1976) and “The Mermaid Frolics” (1977). (It was the 1981 SPB that inspired an initially skeptical Bob Geldof to found Live Aid four years later.)

Read More “The Secret Policeman’s Ball(s):
Martin Lewis, John Cleese, and the Origin of the Superstar Benefit Love-Fest” »

The American Office is a cartoonish, sanitized, safe place to spend time—funny, for sure, but essentially escapist. The British original, by comparison, is a wartier, more authentically miserable place. Pam and Jim are an All-American couple; Dawn and Tim are working-class grunts making it through the day. Michael Scott is a broad, white-bread buffoon; David Brent is a deluded alcoholic.

U.S. audiences now have an excellent opportunity to compare the two: While NBC continues with the sixth season of the American iteration (Thursdays at 9/8c, or 24/7 on Hulu for everyone else), Adult Swim is now syndicating the 12 episodes of the British Office (Fridays at midnight and 4 a.m.).

“I’m a big fan of the American version,” says Kim Manning, Adult Swim’s director of programming. “But it’s so much sillier and broader comedy than the British version, which is as much tragedy at times as it is comedy.”

Adult Swim’s acquisition of the Office is the fourth in a string of imported English cult favorites, including The Mighty Boosh, Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace, and Look Around You. Arts Desk hung at the water cooler with had a nice phone chat with Manning to discuss stoners, cartoon-lovers, and why Adult Swim is syndicating shows that appeal to neither.

Read More “The [British] Office: Fridays After American Dad on Adult Swim!” »

Dear Ms. Beasley,

One of my higher-ups alerted me to your valedictory XX Files column in yesterday’s Washington Post Magazine. Imagine my surprise to discover that it was all about me!

Surprise and chagrin, to be honest. Because your column paints a horrifying picture of post-college male decadence, including but not limited to 1.) gluttony 2.) a dependency on beer and 3.) suggestively redacted Tenacious D lyrics.

Read More “An Open Letter to Sandra Beasley
Or: So long, and sorry for the a cappella!” »

Van Morrison’s gift was the ability to cop a religious experience from the little stuff—the shade of a redwood tree; Jackie Wilson on a staticky radio; a glass of water. Oh, and women—not for nothing was his first hit (with Irish rockers Them) an elision: Gloria, the chick, and gloria, the great hosanna.

That spiritual suggestibility came off rather muted on Thursday night, when Morrison brought his Astral Weeks revival tour to DAR Constitution Hall. Clad in his signature pinstripe suit, tinted sunglasses, and the fedora that’s been glued to his head for the past decade, Van addressed the audience only once—at the end, to thank the band—and otherwise seemed more concerned with PA glitches than with, say, his immortal soul. Read More “Van Morrison at DAR Constitution Hall ~ The Concert and the Interview” »

I headed to Chesapeake Beach last weekend equipped with the essentials: sunscreen, The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, and Chopteeth’s self-titled debut. Sunscreen was unnecessary (the day, though steamy, was overcast), the pillars a bit heavy (WWI Turkish politics ≠ beach reading). But man, the Chopteeth was right on the money. Whether funky-murky (”Dog Days”), feel-good-shimmery (”Upendo”), rappy (”No Condition Is Permanent,” feat. Head-Roc), or pseudo-political (”Struggle”), the disc’s ten tracks never fail to deliver blood-pumping, Afrofunking goodness.

And how ’bout onstage? From our last write-up:

Chopteeth is a fearsome live act, especially when Anna Mwalagho steps up to the mic to add a gradual, shimmering Swahili lyric to “Upendo.” Maybe the band’s decided that there’s no percentage in edge (it bleeps guest MC Head-Roc, who lends a verse to “No Condition Is Permanent”), but it’s hard not to get swept up in its urgent beat. And if you still need more grit in your groove, Justine Miller’s snarling trumpet pits Maynard Ferguson acrobatics with the deep syncopation of Fela’s great bands.

Catch ‘em this Friday at the Strathmore; deets below the jump.

Read More “This Friday: Chopteeth at the Strathmore” »

Beatles freaks love milestones, and when it comes to the big one—what moment portended the group’s demise?—there’s no shortage of possibilities. Was it the phone call Paul received chez the Maharishi informing him that the Beatles’ business guru had died of a carbitral overdose? The half-baked Magical Mystery Tour project, Paul’s money-hemorrhaging power-grab that Bob Spitz says “provided the first signs of their fallibility”? John’s first meeting with Yoko Ono in 1966 (after which, John told Jan Wenner, “I decided to leave the group”)? Any of the handful of times a Beatle traipsed out of the Let It Be sessions, swearing off the group forever, only to return?

…or, as numerous rock critics as well as the PR wing of Shout! Factory would have us believe, was it the Toronto Rock and Roll Revival Festival in September, 1969?

Read More “Reviewed: John Lennon & The Plastic Ono Band Live in Toronto ‘69” »

Who knew that the best way to enshrine Crosby, Stills & Nash would be to remove the harmonies?

Out today, CSN Demos covers some of the group’s more memorable early takes between 1968 and 1971, including rough cuts of “Almost Cut My Hair,” “You Don’t Have to Cry,” “Déjà Vu,” and “Chicago.”

As outtake/demo discs go, the appeal of CSN Demos is closer to that of the Beatles‘ Anthologies than of, say, the Exile on Main Street Outtakes. (The former offered substantial insight into the songs’ geneses, whereas the latter was a mash of B-takes and unmastered irrelevancies.) All of which is to say that the new disc accomplishes something of which only the best vaultstuffs are capable: re-illuminating the original takes while standing as a damn decent record in its own right.

Read More “Thoughts on CSN Demos:
Record review, streaming, and tour dates” »

Say what you will about Ben Harper; the guy creates a sense of community wherever he goes. Sure, he’s a bit self-serious, and all those dramatic pauses strain credibility, but it’s hard to begrudge the man his Bob Marley complex when people treat him with such reverence. The crowd at the 9:30 Club last week had heard only a handful of these songs before—a Zeppelin cover, a Queen cover, and “Another Lonely Day”; the rest were new and, for the most part, unleaked—but they went nuts (and sang along) as though he’d plied them with a greatest hits medley.

Most of the concert was a live performance of White Lies for Dark Times (released the day after the concert)—material that stands up much better in concert than on wax, thanks to sheer energy of drummer Jordan Richardson, who uses sticks only part of the time, relying otherwise on maracas or hard mallets for a edgy backbeat best exemplified on the record’s first single. Choice cuts like “Number With No Name” got nice, if overlong dueling guitar workouts, and Harper’s lavish slidework made even the duds sound worthwhile. (Including, um, the disco track.) General shredding, melting of faces, the works. It was a great show.

It was also the birthday of Jesse Ingalls, R7’s bassist and a D.C. native. Before the show, he took a few questions…some which he was unable to answer until yesterday. Full Q&A below the jump.

Read More “Ben Harper & Relentless7: Interview with Bassist Jesse Ingalls” »

Sharon Jones‘ first record, Dap-Dippin’ With Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings, was a driving soul LP penned almost entirely by her ace bassist, Bosco Mann; metronomically speaking, it clocked in between 100 and 140 beats per minute. Her sophomore effort, Naturally, was a more mannered affair, with Lee Fields doing his best Otis Redding impression (on the soap opera/soul-recitative “Stranded in Your Love”) and the frontwoman expanding her repertoire into down-tempo balladry.

You won’t need a metronome to guess that it was the James Brown-type grooves off the first record that kept the 9:30 Club audience (at $30 a pop) shaking and sweating past midnight on Saturday. Jones’ show is structured along the lines of a gospel revue, a single extended exhortation that includes a lot of flop-sweat and audience participation. Anchored on the low end by a belch-y bari sax and on the high end by squealing trumpet and a two-guitar attack, Jones lays down her brash soprano with the confident intimacy of an old lover who sees right through you (cf. “What Have You Done for Me Lately?”). She sees right through herself too—ribbing things like her age (53) and her height (unspecified, though she notes that her legs are about half as long as Tina Turner’s). That low center of gravity matches a barreling live presence, one not easily effaced by the occasional Wedding-band funk of her otherwise groovy associates.

Read More “Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings: Soul-Shakin’ at the 9:30 Club” »

It was hard to cop a buzz from most of the northeast collegiate bands in the early oughts; the music was by and large unexceptional, and most of the musicians spent as much time in front of an easel—or wrapped around a bong—as they did practicing. But then there were the rumors coming out of Harvard: the college’s most convincing band had a retro, jammy thing going on; they performed cheeky pop songs while wearing Bermuda tuxedos; their lead guitarist had a Trey-worthy tone but played with his back to the audience, Miles Davis-style, too aloof or too shy to give a proper rock ‘n’ roll performance.

A year later, I saw Chester French play a stuffed, sweaty Harvard venue known as the Fishbowl, and the guitarist had transformed. He gamboled about the stage, wagging his tongue at the audience and coining a curious update of the Chuck Berry duck-walk. Shredded, too. Their songs were generally OK, their stage presence above average, their ODB cover insolently upper-crust and a total slam-dunk.

The bow-tie, white-boy hooks were enough to catch the attention of rhythmic prepster Kanye West, who called during the spring of their senior year to offer them a record deal. Smart-alecks that they were, they turned him down, opting to become the first white guys ever produced by Pharrell Williams. Two years in L.A. and one trendily short-lived debutante marriage ensued (that shy freshman guitarist? He grew up fast!). And now we have Love the Future, the first full-length from the two remaining members of the undergrad lineup.

Read More “Chester French’s Love the Future: Apathetic Pop With a Brit-Invasion Complex” »