If you’re like me, you appreciate it when musicians work to innovate, to come up with cool new sounds and things that we haven’t heard before. But there’s that old saying: “there is nothing new under the sun,” and that goes double for music. Even the best and most creative artists are really just synthesizing old influences in novel ways, right?
Sometimes we get movements that are heavy on the revivalist, though, and in the past few years we’ve seen a real doozy in all the various iterations of Neo-Soul. Honestly, some of the acts are ethically little more than Holiday Inn cover bands, but damn damn, damn, the best of these bands are just fantastic, even if you think you’ve heard it all before. Continue reading
She didn’t remember me when we met again.
It was at a tiny club in San Cristobal de Las Casas. Her boyfriend, Lucas, had offered to buy me a Bohemia, and in exchange I was enduring a well-rehearsed diatribe on the evils of NAFTA. That’s when she sat down. Her name, it turned out, was Marietta, with a soft “a” – Mar, like the sea in Spanish. She was taller than I remembered, muscular, and her eyes were a pale, stony gray. Her dirty blonde dreadlocks were tied back loosely, and she had an unconventional, audacious kind of beauty.
There was small talk. In the background a local band belted out reggae covers of Pink Floyd and Nirvana. She told me she was a filmmaker, and I feigned familiarity with her PBS documentary. I asked her where she was from.
“Pretty much everywhere,” she replied. “How about you?”
“Everywhere else,” I said.
“Tyler was born here,” Lucas interjected, apparently to impress Marietta, “and he went to Berkley.” Continue reading