Bob Edwards

Bob Edwards, the Peabody Award-winning veteran host of NPR's Morning Edition, was controversially removed from the program in 2004, right before his 25th anniversary on the airwaves. Instead of keeping the correspondent job he was offered, Edwards made the jump to satellite radio, and brought many of his listeners with him. He published his memoir A Voice in the Box just last month, and tonight he comes to Politics & Prose to discuss the book and his lengthy career. 7 p.m. Free.

Tonight, Ford's Theatre hosts a discussion called "Fanning or Diffusing the Flames: How the Media Influences the National Dialogue about Difference." Washington Post columnist Eugene Robinson, Cynthia Gordy from The Root, and author Steve Oney will discuss the media's sway over the national conversation about diversity. Wade Henderson, president and CEO of the Leadership Conference on Civil and Human Rights, moderates. 7 p.m. Free.

MUSIC

Avant-pop personality John Maus, whose last show at Black Cat was squarely panned by WaPo's David Malitz, returns to the venue tonight. Maybe it's his "I"m sorry for that terrible Pitchfork interview" tour. 8 p.m. $10-12.

Attack of the '90s: Both Bush and Smashing Pumpkins are in town tonight. Arts editor Jonathan L. Fischer is attending the (long sold-out) Pumpkins show. Watch this blog tomorrow for his review—or at least something review-like.

FILM

The LGBT film fest Reel Affirmations kicked off Thursday and runs through this Saturday. Tonight, movies will be shown at West End Cinema and the Embassy of Israel. Check out the sked.

A good day for liberals: Break out the IPA and organic guacamole—PBS won't face drastic federal budget cuts after all! While you're celebrating that, you can stream Paul Simon's beloved new album on NPR! And more good news from the other Washington: Seattle children shall no longer suffer the dogma of Easter eggs!

Poetry to the people: Dischord announces the next edition of Story/Stereo at The Writer's Center, and awww, today is National Poem in Your Pocket Day.

Yesterday on Arts Desk: Arin Greenwood told the story of a crunchy Japanese electro-pop band that relocated to D.C. in the aftermath of the tsunami; City Paper staff dreamed up a few plot ideas for the H Street sitcom; Marcus J. Moore dove deep into Wu-Tang jazz; I reported on a not-quite-planned two-day rock festival at a local Eritrean restaurant.

On Oct. 24, 2000, Dischord Records released No Kill No Beep Beep, the classic debut by Q and Not U. The cover is an arresting, whimsical snapshot of the punk-rock community that spawned the record—the band asked its friends and peers, most of them under 25 at the time, to pose for a portrait that would show D.C. wasn’t just a town of old punks. In this week’s Washington City Paper, Q and Not U’s members reflect on their rookie achievement. On Arts Desk, we’re catching up with some of the community Q and Not U immortalized.

Left to Right: Marie Coma, Paul Jickling, Caroline Hostetler, Leigh Smith

"At the time, it seemed like the best place in the world to play music," says Paul Jickling. As scene regular at the time, Jickling considers D.C. circa 2000 to be a golden era. "Bands were friendly and approachable," he says. "When Q And Not U started out, it was always the same people showing up. So over time strangers became good friends, you would see the same people at each others shows, people would get together for parties, and that sort of thing."

That sense of familiarity spilled over into the band's art. "That was part of the concept behind the album cover," says Jickling. "Everyone featured in that cover was in a band, or booking shows, or was somehow contributing to the little community we had. It was an announcement of who we were. Chris Richards would sometimes say at shows how it was all about the community of people and friendships involved, and he was totally sincere."

Marie Coma remembers the shoot fondly. "At the time, the album seemed huge to me. I thought the music was monumental—smart, modern, weird. I loved it's energy. I listened to it a lot, and was proud to be on the cover." Of course, as a Pittsburgh, Pa., resident at the time, Coma didn't expect to be there at all. "I wasn't actually supposed to be in the photo," she says. "My boyfriend at the time, Shawn Brackbill, was the photographer, and I went to D.C. with him that weekend to hang out and visit a friend. I remember the shoot seeming pretty huge—a lot of planning went into it, and everyone was pretty excited, though stressed and busy, that day. The friend I was visiting, who I was having dinner with at an Indian restaurant in Georgetown, was hit with a migraine in the middle of dinner, so I went to the photo shoot to see if I could help or just watch. I hadn't considered being in the photo because I thought it was supposed to be only people living in D.C., but the band had me get in on it anyway."

When the album came out later that year, the band put on a particularly memorable show. "One of my favorite Q And Not U shows was the record release party for No Kill No Beep Beep," says Jickling. "The power went out in the middle of the set, and there were a bunch of other technical problems too, but they played with a lot of intensity as a result, rather than let it beat them down." Jickling felt like this was simply the way bands of the day dealt with difficulty. "That was my favorite thing about a lot of bands that were playing from that era, is that bands would often play with all this fucked up equipment, and still sound great."

Out in Pennsylvania, Coma still connected to the music of the day. "I totally felt like I was a part of something exciting. It was as if the I was right up in the music that meant the world to me. I went to so many great shows back then, so often, and every one of them meant the world to me. I definitely felt like there was a great momentum to the scene then, at least in my little world in Pittsburgh. Most of the touring bands that played there seemed to feel the same thing."

The beauty of the scene came partly from the overlap of varying styles and approaches, according to Jickling. "There was also a really great intermingling of musical ideas in the punk community at the time," he says. "It didn't really matter what subgenre you listened to, everyone was going to the same shows together, so any show you went to would have people into hardcore, art punk, avant-garde music, indie rock, etc., etc. All those people were hanging out together so all these different ideas kind of naturally started rubbing up against one another too." (Coincidentally, NPR posted an article today about the intermingling of punk and free jazz in Q and Not U's music.)

For Coma, the scene struck a chord internally, and the music resonated with her in a powerful way. "Punk rock opened up new worlds for me, whole new parts of myself," she says. "Music, and specifically punk, was my primary artistic world then, therefore my main connection to, for lack of a better word, spirituality. That sounds silly, but really, it was like music, especially live music, was our connection to the universal creative consciousness. There was definitely a tremendous sense of group energy, of being a part of something bigger than myself."

After 2000, Jickling headed to Chicago for college, and eventually he found himself on the other coast, along with former D.C scene kids like Leigh Smith, known as "Leigh Vega" at the time, and Caroline Hostetler, who helped run a D.C. zine library with Jacob Long back in the '90s. Jickling says: "I live in San Francisco now, which seems like a common location for former D.C. residents to move to. Music is still as important to my life now as it was back then, and I play in a band called Body Swap." Coma left her town too, and she settled down in Louisville, Ky., to work at Whole Foods. "It's weird," she says. "I never would have believed it ten years ago, but I've become so much more of a laid-back hippie. I teach yoga now, and I am so much more relaxed and comfortable with myself."

In case you missed it, here's the rest of the series.

Far be it from Washington City Paper to spend a whole interview talking about some other town. But drummer Mike Reed is not only a Chicago musician: He's devoted an entire band project to exploring the Windy City's jazz legacy. Specifically, Reed's People, Places and Things quintet gives a free-jazz spin to the rarely trodden ground of Chicago's scene during the hard bop era—approximately 1954-60. In advance of PP&T's performance tomorrow night at the Black Cat, Reed spoke to Arts Desk about his city's music, past and present, and how he spreads its gospel to farflung towns.

Washington City Paper: People, Places and Things was formed specifically to explore the music of Chicago in the mid-to-late '50s. What is important about that era?

MR: It’s the missing piece of the puzzle. People think about Chicago jazz in terms of the AACM and the Chicago Underground of the '90s, on the one hand, and on the other hand, the Austin High Gang, or maybe Louis Armstrong when he first came here from New Orleans. This is the link between them.

There was so much going on in Chicago at that time, from folks like Sun Ra, Frank Strozier, Booker Little, and the jam-session culture that existed there at the time. I heard a whole hourlong interview not long ago with Sonny Rollins, about when he was in Chicago and living at the Y, and one of his memories was that there were just so many more places to work, even more than in New York. And that kind of fell apart because of that myopic view that New York is the place to be, and when great Chicago musicians like Clifford Jordan and Wilbur Ware decided they had to move to New York, it killed that culture not just in Chicago but in Detroit and Philadelphia.

Chicago rebuilt its culture of jazz and improvised music in the mid-‘60s with the AACM, of course. But this music, from the hard bop era, is the precursor to that progressive nature. Roscoe Mitchell recorded an album, Old/Quartet, really early on—it was recorded in 1967, but it wasn’t released until much later—and you can really hear that he was influenced by the hard bop language of the early ‘60s. And that’s interesting to think about, because here’s this guy who’s so known for essentially modern art through music. Everything has its roots in something, and this isn’t talked about enough.

WCP: But you make it a point to filter this older material through the prism of that “progressive nature” of Chicago.

MR: Here’s the thing about it: when that music was originally made, it was fresh, it was in the moment. If you do it that way now, trying to make it sound just like it did then, it doesn’t have the same spirit and that’s obvious to everyone who’s hearing it, the musicians most of all. It has to be as fresh and in the moment as it was when it was originally made.

People, Places and Things is not meant to be a repertory band. We have to do it in a way that says “This is our tune.” It’s like wearing someone else’s suit, but letting it in or out so it fits you. And then, of course, when we do original material as well, it still sounds the same. It still sounds like us.

WCP: An interesting point, since your new album features original material written specifically for veterans of that Chicago era [trombonist Julian Priester, trumpeter Art Hoyle, tenor saxophonist Ira Sullivan]. Do you write those with an eye toward pastiche, or to best capture their sounds?

MR: Not particularly for their sound. That record, Stories and Negotiations, is a live concert and the original tunes were written with a program of live music in mind. But I was also considering variables of working with people of that era. Age, for one thing. The horns are very punishing on the mouth muscles, especially brass players like Julian and Art. You don’t want to give them big burners for their features. But also, bear in mind that those three weren’t there just for themselves, but to represent a lot of other people who’ve come and gone.

WCP: Is there a distinctive flavor to Chicago’s jazz?

MR: Well, I can’t say either way, in the overarching sense. There’s so much more jazz here than even I know. But I think that from what I’ve been able to see and hear and examine, that it’s really about doing things on your own. The one thing that everybody says when they come through is how the community makes it possible to do it yourself. There’s no industry here, no publicists, no producers, no A&R, one or two small record labels like Delmark—no machine to support you, but also none to put you in a box.

WCP: One of the city’s greats, Bunky Green, told NPR this week that Chicago has less pressure to conform. It sounds like you’re taking that one step further, and saying that it directly encourages you not to conform.

MR: Maybe. Maybe. But on the other hand, it’s kinda like walking into a place and discovering there’s a bunch of people just like you. What you have in common is that you all want to do your own thing in your own way, granted, but they’re still people just like you. So in a sense I think you are conforming.

WCP: Conforming to the non-conformists?

MR: Yeah. Exactly. But still, there’s a good ability in Chicago to grow, and a lot of it is because, as I said, there’s no industry there, and as such there’s no big gig. In New York there’s a hope, an ideal even, that one of these days you might get a call to be in Dave Douglas’s band. Or to work on a large-ensemble Cecil Taylor project. In Chicago—who’s gonna call you up? Everybody’s too busy trying to get their own gigs. So there’s not that pressure and competition.

WCP: You’re working with and talking about the history, culture, and aesthetic specific to Chicago’s jazz scene. Does that stuff lose resonance when you take it on the road, as you are now?

MR: Well, the cultural part doesn’t matter in that context. Musically—I’m definitely not one to be self-aggrandizing, but this band kicks a lot of ass. It is very good at what it does. Audiences don’t have to know anything about what the tunes are. It’s cool if people want to know more about it, and in fact I hope they do and I’m very happy when people want to know more about it, but as long as they like it that’s what matters.

1. I'm not sure it's appropriate to use the word "Southern" to describe Deerhunter anymore, except in the most plainly geographic way. Frontman Bradford Cox dedicated the first song to John Cage, which is pretty much a quiet fuck-you to Southern-ness, no matter how you size it up. And there's nothing particularly region-specific about the live versions of songs from Halcyon Digest, the band's latest and richest disc.

2. These days there's not much wasted energy in the composition, arrangement or performance of any Deerhunter song. For a lot of bands, that kind of economy might be a recipe for boredom. But for Deerhunter, polish and maturity mean bigger, more impressive sounds. The guitars fill up a room, all right. NPR taped the show; that sense of ease-without-easiness will probably come through.

* Without overselling Deehunter's potential, I say the list of similarly improbable-looking bands includes, but is not limited to, Husker Du, R.E.M. and the Minutemen.

Morning, everyone. Rain, rain, rain. The District's under flood warning this morning—hope your commute isn't too dreadful. Looks like the kind of day to stay in bed.

Speaking of the weather, the Phillips Collection is throwing an End of the Summer White Party where they'll pay tribute to Snowpocalypse, and they're taking any memories you'd like to contribute—sounds kind of Giver-ish. In case you missed it, Tabi Bonney and Kokayi are channeling NPR, Crooked Beats is moving its digs, and Paul McCartney really is dead, apparently.

In other news J.D. Salinger's toilet's on sale–sigh. Sounds like it's time for a beer. The sixth annual Capital Irish Film Festival, the largest in the nation–Boston's is lagging, it seems–is set for December, reports TBD. HBO is launching, "Boardwalk Empire," a prohibition drama, in September. The show, set in Atlantic City, is based on actual events from the 1920s.  Apropos of nothing, it sounds more promising than the lackluster film that was Eat, Pray, Love.

Mary Roach, intriguing author of Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers has published another novel, Packing for Mars, dropping pondering facts on life in space, writes WaPo:

During a week in space, with no gravity tugging at their spines, astronauts grow two inches taller.

Researchers requiring a vomit-like substance for scientific studies use Progresso vegetable soup.

A V-2 rocket launched in New Mexico in 1947 zoomed wildly off course and crashed three miles from downtown Juarez, Mexico.

In 1965, astronaut John Young smuggled a corned-beef sandwich aboard the Gemini III capsule and into space.

For today, have a gander at Syracuse-based indie band Ra Ra Riot's sophomore LP. It drops Aug. 24, and NPR's currently streaming the whole album. Don't get too wet, and don't fret, it's only water.

Best-of-the-year lists are built around the fallacy that the "year" still matters. YEARS ARE FOR OLD FARTS WHO LACK THE TECHNOLOGY TO TRACK THINGS MINUTE-BY-MINUTE ON TWITTER. I'll tell you this right now: I do not wish to see your Best Albums of 2010 list, because I know you will have spent lots of time on it, and thus you will be self-conscious about your decisions. It will be boring. And, really, I don't want to be told in December about the obscure-but-shitkicking mixtape that you heard 12 months ago but forgot to write about back then. You are a total slacker, and your concentrating oh-so-hard on a little list during Christmas vacation cannot hide this fact. Trust me, I've done it, and I am ashamed.

But your Best Albums of 2010 So Far? Hellz yeah, I'll read that, because I know you probably had fun writing it. How can I be assured of its fun-ness? Because there's nothing at stake for you. If you dork-out and overrate something, nobody's gonna call you on it in December. YOU ARE FREE TO BE YOU. You can be complicated and interesting or no-nonsense or kinda charming.

You can create a bunch of categories. You can limit the task to people who have the word "Editor" in their titles. Or, similarly, you can let a rabid pack of psychopaths choose the list for you. And if you're a jerk, you can require your readers to click on a gajillion fucking links.

Anyway, yay! It's possible that I actually read one or two of those lists, maybe even the one by the guy who has "Web Editor" in his title. A lot of people like that Flying Lotus album! I am supposed to like Big K.R.I.T.!

In summation, if you believe in what I have said to you in this blog post, consider these options:

1. Next year, only do a Best Albums of 2011 So Far. It does not matter when you do it: March, July, whatever. Do not do a Best Albums of 2011.

2. Base your "Best Whatever of Whatever" on the federal fiscal year. Or create your own fiscal year. Labor Day to Labor Day? Yeah, that would probably work. If you write about metal, base it on some sort of pagan calendar. Call it the Equinox II Equinox List. BETTER YET: Name your band Equinox II Equinox and only perform awesome songs from the previous 12 months.

3. Post your Best Albums of the Year So Far list in the Comments section below, because we probably won't delete it or make fun of it. I'm not making any promises, though.

National Public Radio is no longer. Don't worry, it's a change in name only–you'll still hear Renee Montagne and Steve Inskeep as you wake up in the morning. The D.C.-based organization will now officially go by its familiar acronym: NPR.

The two remaining Beatles reunited last night during Ringo Starr's 70th birthday concert at Radio City Music Hall. Paul McCartney took the stage with a rendition of "Birthday," from the White Album.

Mel Gibson, why don't you just take your millions, build yourself a nice compound, and go into self-imposed exile? You're not only a racist, but now you're a practitioner of domestic violence? Well, your ex "fucking deserved it," after all. You are a terrible person. Seriously.

It's fashion week in Paris, let the crazy couture begin. Skunky bouffants, 5-inch neon heels, and nun-inspired fashion are all here. And these women are considered fashion icons because...?

Capital Fringe opens tonight! Check out all our obsessive coverage here. The Gypsy Tent's open 'til 1:30 a.m., so even if you have to work late, you've still got plenty of time to check out all the action afterward.

Oddisee unpacks his sounds and the DMV's, but the piece ends on this disappointing note:

Despite Oddisee's ties to D.C. and the DMV sound, he's decided to move on. He says that while it's a great place to create music, there's no industry. He plans to move to New York in the next few months.

Bummer, even though I can't blame him. Still: If this city's hip-hop is anything like its punk and indie rock, then he'll be considered a D.C. artist ad infinitum, anyway.