Close to seven years ago, I wrote a piece for Earvolution entitled The Ten Greatest Books About Rock And Roll. Motivated by arrogance, entitlement and a desire to prove that Largehearted Boy wasn’t the only Internet journalist that reads, I felt perfectly comfortable in proclaiming a finite set of books as the elite strata of rock and roll journalism. In a revelation that should surprise no one, I was quickly disabused of the motion that I covered the subject adequately. Even subjective endeavors such as “best of” lists can have some objectively egregious omissions.

[Photo by Petr Kratochvil]

With a little less arrogance and entitlement (but equal desire to show that others beside LHB can write about the written word), the original Earvolution list of ten has been refined and expanded to a full dozen. Anyone wishing to become well-versed and well-rounded in music from the business side to the listener side could do much worse than to stock their library, in no particular order, with the following twelve books.

Fargo Rock City: A Heavy Metal Odyssey In Rural North Dakota – Chuck Klosterman (2001)

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Using generous math, over the last quarter century, The Allman Brothers Band have cultivated a sense of reverence and loyalty around their annual March residency at New York City’s Beacon Theatre. For a band that traces their origins to the south, it’s a slight curio that the legacy of their autumn years will unquestionably be the evolution of their yearly northern stints into one the most hotly anticipated classic rock events of each year.

[Photo By Dino Perrucci]

The Allmans aren’t the only band that plants roots in New York City. Phil Lesh & Friends and Furthur often spend significant stretches of time in town and this past month has seen Soulive host Bowlive, their own residency in Brooklyn and the Black Crowes return for a series of four shows split between Port Chester and New York City. Artists with deep catalogs are starting to see the allure of extended visits to one venue with Tom Petty exploring the viability of his own residency at the Beacon with five shows in May. Still, no residency comes close to generating the excitement of the Allmans slate of March dates, which raises the question: “what makes The Allman Brothers Band’s Beacon Theatre residency so special?”

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Historically, Saturday, the last day of SXSW, tends to be the thinnest day of the week. Most of the bands and quite a large number of industry folk flee town before the weekend, smartly avoiding the mass exodus on Sunday and the overwhelming crowds that descend upon Sixth Street in hordes that seem greater than normal. Unlike the Olympics, there are no “official” closing ceremonies but unofficially John Fogerty, Vampire Weekend and Justin Timberlake will play “closing” sets. Oh yes, there’s also Prince, but that seems to be Samsung-sponsored boondoggle and it’s unclear whether badge holders are even encouraged to go. Timberlake’s gig appears to be a guerrilla-style affair with the location being tweeted by MySpace like a siren call during the day. Yes, I too am surprised that MySpace has money to afford this.

[Vampire Weekend Photo by @kiasuchick]

Despite the fact that there is no MOG showcase this year, the line for Mohawk extends well down Red River and the day showcases are filling up much earlier with locals making SXSW their Saturday activity.

At the All Things Go Music/Indieshuffle day party, Haerts, from Germany are entertaining a crowd that would be deemed healthy under normal circumstances but for shortly after noon, it’s quite impressive. From Germany, you would have to think that the odd spelling of their name owes less to a Gaelic homage to the Irish on St. Patrick’s Day and more to solid advice from their intellectual property attorneys. Their set consists of pleasing pop that flows nicely from one song to the next.

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With many of the artists that make SXSW so appealing fleeing before the weekend, Friday usually provides one last chance to catch bands that you’ve missed so far on the theory that you’ll catch them later. On a separate note, the two things I think I’ve enjoyed most when they occur: a lead singer talking to the audience while forgetting that their reverb level is still set to maximal distortion and a set simply ending without fanfare as the band simply puts down their instruments and everyone disperses. The latter is such a corporate way to end a set. There’s also the tall person that parks themselves in front of me and then immediately ignores the band to tweet, text or facey-spacey. But I get that in New York too. Apparently, it’s a universal social skill possessed by crowds in all states.

[Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears Photo by Joan Bowlen for Glide]

The Sam Chase Band entertains the early risers at Red Eyed Fly as part of the After The Gold Rush party which treats the guests to Bloody Marys (and tasty ones at that). With fiddles, banjo and sax, they are reminiscent of a rowdy band that plays the saloon where the villains hang out in a western flick.

Wild Belle bisects their set on the airier outside stage. The siblings from Chicago offer up high quality reggae-inflected, indie pop and with added confidence, the attractive Natalie Bergman has the makings of a fine front woman.

• Hitting The Trunk Road @ SXSW: Intro, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday

One of the inanities at SXSW is the pre-festival pressure to RSVP for certain day parties. For the most part, it’s a non-sensical endeavor. With a couple exceptions, no one is getting turned away from a free party because they didn’t click on a virtual button two weeks prior. Unsurprisingly, the party host simply wants your e-mail address and demographic information. The Fader Fort holds to the mandatory RSVP policy but allows plus ones and gives deference to badge holders. Another, a bit pretentiously, is SPIN magazine, who unnecessarily complicates the process of coming to their showcase by adhering to the RSVP policy. Quite frankly, if this works to keep you out, it’s a moronic mess; if you get in, it’s a minor inconvenience and a reward to forethought. Either way, SPIN shouldn’t be doing anything that paints them in a bad light. How many times have they gone bankrupt?

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It seems somewhat strange that getting to downtown Austin shortly before 2 feels like running late and that opportunities are being missed. Will there only be 12 hours of music instead of 14? How terrible. How slothful. While there may be no rest for the weary, sometimes the weary get to rest. On the way downtown, there is solace in the comment from Foxygen’s Sam France, who in feeling that they weren’t at their best explained that they generally aren’t awake and playing music this early.

[Foxygen Photo by @glidemag]

En route to Emo’s, there’s a quick pit stop that involves The James Douglas Show, doing a tremendous impression of Living Colour from the late ’80s. High octane vocals from the blond coiffed, heavily muscled Douglas (presumably) and hi-hop metal ease into deep and smooth funk nicely augmented with organ and keys. Their allure fades quick as the move to more standard fare.

• Hitting The Trunk Road @ SXSW: Intro, Tuesday, Wednesday

On the Jr. stage at Emo’s, the home for the Brooklyn Vegan festivities, PAWS from Glasgow, Scotland beckon the crowd closer to the stage before unleashing a burst of Vaselines inspired rock. The rest of their set is a high-paced Nirvana-influenced set with deep bass, powerful drums and vocals at a near scream. We are finally at an age where the younger bands of today are growing up with Nirvana and grunge rock as a deep influence. PAWS is definitely in a happier place than much of the grunge rock godfathers.

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In years past, Wednesday’s unofficial day parties would, for most, officially start their SXSW. Six years ago, Jeff Davidson and I contributed to the festivities with Earvolution’s inaugural (and only) afternoon event. (Two artists from that showcase will be playing SXSW 2013: Joshua James and Ace Reporter’s Chris Snyder formerly of The States). With Tuesday becoming the new Wednesday, there is tempered excitement while heading into downtown Austin.

[The Lone Bellow Photo by @pastemagazine]

As it their custom, Paste Magazine has taken over The Stage At 6th for the week, this year pairing with HGTV, running two stages making it The Stages At 6th. As is also their custom, they’ve booked eclectic showcases featuring a wide variety of genres as well as a nice mix of buzzbands and soon to be buzzed about bands.

After a quick run down Sixth Street due to a change in bus routes, it’s a Lone star with The Lone Bellow. Well, it would be but for Red Hook Brewery’s sponsorship and free IPAs and ESBs. The bartender responds to my query about what makes the ESB extra special with a tired “I don’t know.” I suspect I’m not the first person to ask this. The Lone Bellow may owe a debt of gratitude to Mumford & Sons and The Lumineers but with gorgeous harmonies and lovely acoustic folk melodies, they can definitely stand their own ground. Their debut record may not do justice in showing how solid they are.

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Before shifting its focus to music, SXSW encompasses Internet/technology and film. As you might expect, the tech portion has grown in importance in the last few years and those here for that part of SXSW cast mocking glances in my direction whenever I make use of my Blackberry. This Tuesday afternoon, it’s interesting to walk around downtown Austin as the festival starts to shift its focus to its noisiest and rowdiest component. The gigantic Dominos stage that irked Father John Misty last year is in the process of being built and many of the outdoor stages still look like the parking lots and vacant fields that they are the other 51 1/2 weeks of the year. The tech kids are taking fabulous photos for their Instagram pages. No such luck for me, I have a Blackberry and had to research what Instagram is – twittering with pictures – all hail illiteracy?!?!

[Photo by aj_kyle]

Walking up Red River towards Mohawk, I pass Metal & Lace, which I have been told was the subject of some TLC or Food Network Gordon Ramsay renewal TV project. It’s a sunny day and Metal & Lace is too dark, metally and headbangery. Plus, I hear the locals aren’t impressed by the attempted rescue of the bar (which may have once called Headhunters, that was also dark, metally and headbangery). After getting to Mohawk in time to hear Thurston Moore bash out the last notes of Chelsea Light Moving’s set, I opt to not stick around for Delorean. I think they’re electro-dancey and quite frankly, the car really doesn’t travel through time.

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I was somewhere outside of Austin when the drugs began to take hold. Wait, stop right there. I’m cribbing from someone who might have an incredibly litigious estate. (Parody! Fair Use! Prank caller! Prank caller!). However, when writing about the annual South By Southwest Festival it’s quite easy to feel as you’re borrowing from others as several themes are universal. There is an ocean of free beer and a plethora of fine food spanning Tex and Mex cuisines as well as a wide range of fine BBQ; the lengthy days are often an exhausting ordeal leading to sore feet, tired legs and aching backs; there is music coming from every nook and cranny of downtown Austin; lines and queues are aplenty and, if done right, you leave knowing dozens more bands than you did one week prior. If you’ve read SXSW coverage before – including last year’s Trunk Road dispatches – you are familiar with the usual tropes.

For the uninitiated, SXSW or South-By is an annual music industry boondoggle that attracts more than 1,000 bands to Austin, Texas for a slew of showcases that last from noon to 2:00 AM. (and often later). With influential executives and tastemaking cognoscenti present, it’s a phenomenal opportunity for up-and-coming bands to solidify their reputation, gain exposure or make their name. Each afternoon, there are a whole host of parties that are open to the general public and at night, the official showcases take place with access (mostly) restricted to badge holders and wristband bearers. If you are a music fan, this is Disneyland.

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Over the last two months, Steven Hyden of Grantland has been offering his take on a part of rock and roll history that often goes overlooked by music connoisseurs: successful mainstream rock. Noting that there’s nothing more to be learned by reexamining the career path of the Velvet Underground or once again rehashing the history of punk rock – all stories that have been more than twice-told – Hyden posits that the best way to analyze rock and roll’s slow retreat from the mainstream is to take account of those rock bands that thrived on a widespread basis.

In his Winners’ History of Rock & Roll, Hyden explored the career paths of Led Zeppelin, Kiss, Bon Jovi, Aerosmith, Metallica, Linkin Park and The Black Keys and found that remaining true to your core beliefs may give you mountains of indie-credibility but there’s an element of compromise that’s inextricable from finding a wider, nationwide audience. By the conclusion of his series, Hyden somewhat leaves open the question of whether a true rock and roll band can find success in the same manner as those in the Seventies (possible but highly unlikely).

For a band like Vintage Trouble, a climate where something approximating mainstream rock still existed would work to their benefit. Tipping their hat to history without becoming its slavish adherents, Vintage Trouble maintains a vintage look, their suits a relic of an era when showmen dressed the part, and revels in a vintage style.

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Depending on the age of the company you keep, the complaints concerning the dearth of bands keeping the spirit of classic rock and roll alive is either an intermittent interruption or a perpetually persistent protest. Unsurprisingly, those that rend their vintage Led Zeppelin T-shirts and Grateful Dead tie-dyes like rock and roll martyrs often profess ignorance at the existence of bands like My Morning Jacket, though they tend to have a fleeting knowledge of Grace Potter and “that one song” by the Alabama Shakes (except everyone remembers a different song). If you’re growing weary of cycling though the Rolling Stones, Allman Brothers and Band catalogs, rest assured, there is Justice is in this world: Leroy Justice.

If this were 1973, Leroy Justice would be headlining Madison Square Garden as part of a rambling caravan style tour. Alas, in 2013, heartfelt rock and roll that soars to enthralling levels when aired out on stage doesn’t have the ready-built audience that it did in the Seventies. It’s not that bands that draw their inspiration from the vinyl era of rock and roll are a rare breed; quite the contrary, they are legion. What makes the majority of them unfulfilling is their inclination to imitate or reinterpret riffs long perfected by classic rock radio mainstays and the bluesmen of yore rather than use them as the jumping off point for their own sound. That Leroy Justice isn’t the first band to draw on their earnest love of true rock and roll doesn’t diminish the fact that they have perfected its craft. This past month, during their civically-entitled Bowling For Justice residency at Williamsburg’s Brooklyn Bowl, Leroy Justice offered a nice reminder that bands keeping the rock ethos alive can still be a glorious revelation. READ ON

Since going platinum eleven times over with Devil Without A Cause, Kid Rock has adopted the not-so-variegated guises of the Bullgod, Rock & Roll Jesus, the early morning stoned pimp and Detroit’s favorite son. With a style that’s equal parts rock and roll history lesson and multi-genre mash up, Kid Rock’s live shows tend to be a veritable jukebox of country, classic rock, metal, southern rock, hip-hop and rap. He covers enough ground that his presence on stage with Phish, Hank Williams Jr., Lynyrd Skynyrd, Sheryl Crow and Reverend Run (of DMC fame) fail to even raise a quizzical eyebrow over the propriety of his appearance. Over the course of a career that has lasted longer than many might have suspected, Rock has cultivated a populist rocker-of-the-people persona that has found just as many detractors as fans. Regardless of your personal opinion of the scruffy Michigander, it would be disingenuous to ever call Kid Rock boring . . . until now. Once a red state redneck rebel at the center of tabloid headline quality brouhahas involving Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee and sex tape scandals that involved Creed’s Scott Stapp, he’s now more likely to found gladhanding the likes of Mitt Romney then waving his middle finger at the nearest authority figure.

As any artist gets older, it’s no crime for their musical output to reflect their changing worldview. Bruce Springsteen’s career wouldn’t have lasted to the present day if he hadn’t moved on from wistfully documenting the Jersey shore and anthemically wooing women to run off with him. Rock surely hasn’t turned his back on those that share his love for the boisterous pursuit of the American Dream and eloquent, if not profane, reprisals towards those who could be best deemed haters. It’s a mindset and a philosophy that has gained him fans across all strata of society. His spirit may be still be willing but with Rebel Soul, his latest album, he’s simply become uninteresting and starting that dangerous slide into self-parody.

In being one of the first to places genres in a blender and hit puree, Rock has always been one to embrace disparate styles. Unfortunately, his view of current trends has led him into the arms of the Autotune. While the voice flattening device added an interesting dimension to the studio version of God Only Knows, it seems forced in its use on Detroit, Michigan, which, though not overused, distracts rather than adds. On his ode to his hometown, Rock employs his road-tested songwriting trick of simply name checking bands that he likes. On American Badass and Forever, it was defiant and demanded that his tastes be recognized; on Detroit, Michigan, it comes across as a joyless roll call of bands that draw inspiration from the Motor City. Where Rock’s crassness on songs like Sugar and So Hott gave them a cheeky irreverence, if not earthy wit, now on songs like Cucci Galore, he sounds like he’s become amused with his own bawdy-bada.

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After the passing of any musician respected by his peers and/or beloved by a widespread audience, it’s become customary for their friends and family to organize one final concert to serve as a public memorial. Experience Hendrix tours notwithstanding, these commemorative shows are typically charitable affairs and often produce some memorable and genuinely heartfelt moments. At Wembley Stadium, the surviving members of Queen welcomed a slew of singers to honor Freddie Mercury (and raise AIDS awareness), Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr offered moving tributes at the Concert for George held at Royal Albert Hall and the unfortunate passing of Ahmet Ertegun brought the surviving members of Led Zeppelin together for their finest performance since the death of John Bonham. This October, those touched and influenced by Levon Helm gathered together at the IZOD Center in East Rutherford, New Jersey to honor The Band’s lovably cantankerous drummer. As far as concert memorials go, the Love For Levon concert may go down as one of the best.

[Photo by Jeremy Gordon]

By now, especially if you’re reading this column on this site, you are intimately familiar with who sang what with whom and that the fantasy booking revolving around Bob Dylan and Robbie Robertson never gained hold outside of the active imaginations of those that likely still believe they can clap Tinkerbell back to health. Larry Campbell, Levon’s long time bandleader, anchored the house band which featured those integral to the warmth and success of the Midnight Rambles, namely Teresa Williams, Levon’s daughter Amy, guitarist Jim Weider, bassist Byron Isaacs, keyboardist Brian Mitchell and the horn section of Steven Bernstein, Eric Lawrence, Clark Gayton, Jay Collins and Howard Johnson as well as Don Was and Kenny Aronoff.

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Although it shouldn’t, it may surprise you to know that success in the music business, especially on a sustainable financial level, is extraordinarily hard to attain. Artists like PSY and Rebecca Black have their moments of fame with viral videos of questionable quality but all righteous music-loving folk rest easy at night knowing that their fame will be fleeting. Like most of the winners of American Idol or The Voice, they will soon fade quietly into our collective unconsciousness, only to arise as answers in a future version of Trivial Pursuit. In making success seem like it’s only a quirky dance or insipid phrase away, it’s easy to forget that a significant majority of worthy bands never get that moment and by the time many get around to seeing them on “the next time they come around,” their window for success has closed.

It was just last decade that The Secret Machines seemed ready to ascend the ladder of success, one of the many tabbed as “the next big thing.” Brothers Brandon and Ben Curtis and drummer Josh Garza, a veritable beast behind a drum kit, crafted a near-industrial blend of rock that found them attracting the attention of David Bowie and opening selected shows with U2 while still building their audience with tremendous albums like Now Here Is Nowhere and Ten Silver Drops. One night, The Secret Machines are playing majestic shows in the round and recording Beatles covers with Bono, the next, there’s an announcement that Ben Curtis will be leaving the band to devote more time to School of Seven Bells. A new guitarist was found, a new album recorded but the magic was pretty much gone and the band slowly receded into the “where are they are now” recesses of the musical world as interest turned elsewhere. Sadly, the story of The Secret Machines is neither unique nor archaic.

“Musical tastes are ephemeral and the time that any band spends in the critical spotlight is fleeting. With live taping no longer considered bootlegging and streaming sites and outright piracy cutting into sales of recorded music, the line between a band independently standing firm on its own two feet and one on the verge of collapse is thinner than you might expect.” – Schultz

The relatively brief prime for fledgling bands isn’t relegated to the so-called indie-scene or Pitchfork-minded artists. U-Melt appeared to possess everything that was needed to succeed in the jamband world. Classically trained musicians that mastered a style they proclaimed progressive groove, a wicked blend of electronica-style dance riffs, prog-rock intricacy and wildly compelling improvisation from guitarist Rob Salzer and keyboardist Zac Lasher, U-Melt built a following whose sense of community compared to the ones that grew around the Grateful Dead and Phish. Despite being one the few bands that could master the complexities of Frank Zappa opuses while also possessing the ability to send audiences into a rhythmic frenzy, it wasn’t sustainable. Salzer left the band and within a year, U-Melt was playing a farewell show at the Highline Ballroom.

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The most well-known farewell concert in classic rock history took place on Thanksgiving night in 1976 when The Band played their final show together at the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco. Forever known as The Last Waltz, the Martin Scorsese helmed documentary of the star-studded event may not be beloved by the majority of the film’s subjects but it has become the benchmark for any final musical soiree. One of the most notable aspects of the evening was the inclusion of the wide swath of musicians that The Band touched, both personally and professionally. In that respect, The Last Waltz indirectly captured a facet of the music business that while well-known, often evades explicit discussion. Namely, that over the course of any musician’s career, they are formed by and help form dozens of other musicians along the way.

[Photo by Robert Bloom]

David Lott, a guitarist most likely known to Hidden Track’s readership from his time with Licorice and The Whitewalls as well as his recent solo work that includes the marvelous EP, The Gates Of Brooklyn, will be moving his base of operations from the hip environs of Brooklyn to the spacious mountains of Colorado. In leaving the Tri-State area with one final hurrah, Lott served as the focal point for the whimsically titled Lott’s Waltz, which gathered nearly every musician he’s worked with over the past decade for one last show. Never maudlin, Lott’s farewell soiree was one of the more musically satisfying, emotionally uplifting shows of the summer.

In addition to bassist Matt Epstein and drummer Josh Bloom, current members of The Whitewalls, the band into which Licorice evolved, musicians from all periods of Lott’s career appeared at the Bowery Electric. Licorice’s keyboardist Chad Dinzes and Josh Kessler, the producer of Licorice’s sole EP, sat in on an extended versions of A Million Grains Of Sand and Freeze. Singer Rebecca Hart, whom Lott, Epstein and drummer Dan Barman backed for many years as The Sexy Children, revisited covers of Miss Ohio and Whipping Post. Upright bassist Adam Roberts, lap steel guitarist Riley McMahon and guitarist Thomas Bryan Eaton, frequent collaborators on Lott’s solo material, periodically eased on to the stage to leave their distinctive mark on Lott originals and Eric Silverman (Silvertone) and Rob Ward (Food Will Win The War) enlivened covers of Breakdown, Million Dollar Bill and a medley of Where Is The Time and Say It Ain’t So.

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When he wasn’t instructing everyone on how to be the man, Ric Flair would occasionally punctuate his rambling tirades about his own greatness with the exhortation that “whether you like it or not, learn to love it, cause it’s the best thing going.” If the Nature Boy had been in Williamsburg for White Denim’s two night run at the Brooklyn Bowl, he might have been tempted to revive one of his most memorable catchphrases. Already masters of leaving their mark with concise festival length sets like the one recently delivered at Bonnaroo, White Denim possess that rare abundance of both quality of musicianship and quantity of songs to establish themselves as legitimate headliners.

At Shapiro’s Alley, White Denim unleashed a potent and vibrant combination of punk, grunge, hardcore, classic rock and alternative rock, distilling everything that is great about those genres, into its purest essence and offering it up in highly concentrated doses. Firing off enervating guitar riffs as if they’ve bought them wholesale, White Denim isn’t a band to dally on one too long, moving at a lightning quick pace; by the time one has grabbed you, they’ve likely moved on to another. On top of this intoxicating brew, lead singer and lead guitarist James Petralli spits out a rapid succession of hipster jive that would make Jack White sit up and take notice. He echoes Gordon Gano’s sardonic rhyming catechisms on Mess Your Hair Up and on El Hard Attack DCWYW, he barks out the Spanish lyrics with the gusto of a Spaghetti western villain.

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