Big as Grapefruits!

So Janet’s asked about the nineties. I knew we’d get here eventually. But the truth is, the nineties was the decade where I turned off the radio and said “There’s gotta be something better, because this stuff fucking sucks." No offense to any of you that like grunge, but the ascension of Nirvana is when music turned to noise for me, and it’s never fully come back. Kurt Cobain is a genius and all, but I think he makes a better wallpaper.

Okay, that was unnecessarily cruel. So without further venting, here are my top ten artists that ruled MY nineties, while the world turned without me.

1) Dan Bern. I heard him singing “Jerusalem,” and thought He sounds like Bob Dylan’s crazier little brother. His music has changed a bit since then, and the Dylan comparison isn’t as apt, but when you listen he’s simply a fount of engaging, sometimes outlandish songs. And as much as I love his early stuff, his later album New American Language is probably my favorite, with the sprawling “Thanksgiving Day Parade” and the hopeful “Albuquerque Lullaby” and the title track.

2) Sharon GR said it, and I will, too. Neo Pseudo. You’re poorer for having missed them. Ceaselessly inventive, they were like a cross between William Blake and the Talking Heads. The number one reason I’ve gained weight over the past ten years is that I haven’t been dancing my ass off at their shows.

3) Joan Osbourne. To be honest, I bristled when I first heard her single, “One of Us”—the question it asked, “What if God was one of us, just a slob liked one of us?” seemed deliberately provocative without any compelling reason. Then one day I heard it on the radio something struck me—the very reason this song seemed offensive was actually the central tenet of Christianity. And suddenly I loved that offensive veneer it gave it. Listening with new ears, and then getting swept up in “Pensacola,” I bought her album Relish and played it over and over again. There’s not a bad song on the album, and her follow-ups have been terrific, too.

4) Dada. Male harmony. I got a chance to interview Dada, and they said male vocal harmony was what they built the band around, since there was so little of that on the radio. There’s also not enough music that surprises the listener even half as much as Dada does. “Dizz Knee Land” was catchy, but every one of their albums has better stuff, including “Dorina,” “Feet to the Sun,” and “Sick in Santorini.” I’m sorry I never got to see them live. And the episode of Homicide that featured “Feel Me Don’t You” was out-of-my-mind good.

5) Lyle Lovett. What first caught my ear was the lighthearted mix of big-band and country music on his And His Large Band album, but his sheer songwriting ability kept me around, from through more thoughtful releases like Joshua Judges Ruth and The Road to Ensenada to lighter fare like I Love Everybody. I wish I could find my copy of Step Inside This House, though. I haven’t seen it for years, and he sings some great versions of songs by other Texas songwriters.

6) Richard Thompson. Yeah, he’s been around forever, but I didn’t know about him until 1991’s Rumor and Sigh. Come to think of it. His “1952 Vincent Black Lightning” may be the closest thing I could name to a “standard” from the decade – I’ve heard so many other artists cover it I’ve lost count. Red hair and black leather; my favorite color scheme. But his 1993 box set Watching the Dark is not to be missed, either. And “Beeswing” never fails to make me happy I’m not so sad as I could be, if only a certain girl had stuck around longer. “Cook’s Ferry Queen” is probably my most recent favorite song of his, about a 70s gangster thug’s love affair with a granola girl.

7) John Hiatt. Slow Turning and Walk On are my two favorite Hiatt albums, but you can’t go wrong with any of his stuff. Y’all Caught? is a good sampler of his earlier stuff, too – pulling out the gems from when he wasn’t quite as polished. I saw him play live once at the TLA in Philly, and he was a real goofball onstage, which was an added bonus.

8) Wilco. I got into Wilco because I loved Son Volt’s first album, and wanted to hear what the other half of Uncle Tupelo sounded like. Man, they’re a great listen, and a great band to see live as well. (We caught a short set at an XPN-sponsored concert years ago, around when Mermaid Avenue came out.) Speaking of which, the two Mermaid Avenue albums, in which they interpret Woody Guthrie songs will Billy Bragg, are incredible. There’s magic on every track.

9) Largo. Just one album, by a collection of talents too great to be ignored. Sadly, they were ignored anyway. But there’s guys from The Hooters and The Band, Taj Mahal, Joan Osbourne, the Chieftains and a revelatory performance from Cyndi Lauper singing “White Man’s Melody.” And it’s all based on Dvorak’s New World Symphony. This music seeps into your genes: If you play it during sex, any kids that result will be born humming it.

10) Daniel Lanois. He’s best known as a producer, but his album For the Beauty of Wynonna is a layered, atmospheric masterpiece. Check out “The Unbreakable Chain,” “Rocky World,” and “The Abduction of Marie Claire.” Also, his song “The Maker” has been covered by a number of great people, among them Emmylou Harris, Dave Matthews and…

11) Bet Williams. Around the same time I was going to dance my ass off to Neo Pseudo, on weeknights I was heading out to hear Beth Williams, a singer-songwriter of singular lyrics and astonishing voice. She now splits her time between The Epiphany Project, a showcase for her ethereal vocals and her husband John Hodian’s piano chops, and leading the Bet Wiliams band in more rock-oriented tunes. Whatever the genre, she knows her way around a song like nobody’s business. And as far as I know, she’s no relation to…

12) Lucinda Williams. Very early on as I listened to Lucinda Williams, I started comparing her to Neil Young. Like Neil, she’s not everyone’s cuppa tea, but her songs and her singing have such a bracing honesty that commands the attention. Most critics think 1998’s Car Wheels on a Gravel Road is her best album—and songs like “2 Cool 2 B 4 Gotten” and “Can’t Let Go” make it easy to believe—but my favorite is 1988’s self-titled album. It’s a little less ambitious, perhaps, but “Crescent City,” “The Night’s Too Long” and “I Just Wanted To See You So Bad” say everything anyone’s ever needed to about longing.

Well that was a lot longer than I expected. Whew!

Rob

UPDATE: I forgot Morphine. How could "Buena" slip my mind?