Love Hurts

I Don't Play No Rock n' Roll

             Amongst a sea of plastic, prepackaged marionettes masquerading as artists and musicians, it’s ironic something so authentic sits at the core of it all. A flashlight through the thick, dark, shallow passage of “all singing, all dancing crap”(as Phaliunuk once described) projected on the population through our televisions and car stereos, dial tuned to your favorite top 40 station. A generation that bases the talent of an individual on the regurgitated verdict of a three panel karaoke judgement system, whose personalities are equally responsible for a watered down product in the first place. The blind shall truly lead the blind. But the problem is just that, music can be a product. A shiny material item you can hold in your hand, wear on your chest, put on your wall, and sell for a profit. Sell enough units and you’re either offering something special, or you’re a great marketer. Art versus Entertainment. Aesthetic versus Substance. But If you trace the roots of western music deep enough you’ll find the nutrients that feed them. Blues isn't the tree, it’s the soil.

Blues music, in it’s purest form, is simply the raw cry of the disheartened human spirit. How else could you describe it? Sure, it assumes many shapes. It hangs suspended in the thick, stagnant summer Delta humidity and thunders through the hill country of Mississippi. It rips through alleyways like the biting, unforgiving winds of Chicago. Sure, technically it can be “accomplished” with something so simple as three little chords. But it couldn't be anything further from the logistics of a fret board, a row of ivory keys, a flat fifth minor scale degree, or a sheet of paper polluted with the mathematics of staffed musical notation. To truly appreciate this music, you must grip the plant by it’s roots. Crawl inside it’s arteries and hold your hand over the palpitating broken heartbeat that spawns it.

So what makes a man bend a note so hard a string snaps, or strangle the neck of a guitar so hard your fingers would buckle? What possesses a man to build a crude instrument made of shed tools and common kitchenware? What commissions a person to drag the neck of a broken bottle of cheap wine across stretched steel wire? “What is the soul of a man?” as Blind Willie Johnson asks. It stews in the age old question of humanity: so what’s the point?

Blues is something you feel, period. It’s something inside your heart. It’s something that crawls up your arm late at night when you’re tossing to sleep. It gets inside your chest cavity and haunts the very bones that construct your stature. It’s the dirt under your finger nails, the virgin skin of a popped blister on your heel, the telephone phone that won’t ring, and the itch you can’t reach to scratch. It’s the hot, serrated steel blade lodged in your back by your closest friend. It’s the exhaust note that carried everything you hold dear off into the blind night. It’s a curse.

The music is the outcome, the vehicle for release. The soundtrack of a dejected psyche. Blues music, like the feelings that propel it, often messy, unorganized and demanding. At times a cluster of rapid, bent, scrambling notes sprayed like shotgun blasts over a somber rhythm. At other times soft, silken and delicate like a woman’s voice. It holds the power to infect your feet like a bad case of Dancing Fool or the innocence to lull a newborn to sleep. It’s what drives a man to the edge but restrains him from falling. Blues music is a healer. A grieving tool and a coping mechanism. True blues music takes no prisoners. It’s as much music as it is a bold headline on newsprint. The great disgust. The inability to gag the screaming voice that floods your thought process. “One man against the world,” as Jack White once said of Son House’s craft.

It’s the only thing left for show when you peel the layers back. Real blues music cannot be faked, and that’s everything I love about it.

To be a blues artist is to wear Hell around your neck like a glowing neon bar sign. One must bare the devil’s music like a naked suit of tired, rusty armor. To play the blues is to be an open channel, the transparent middleman between your heart and your amplifier. To possess the ability to reverberate sonic soul off the walls of a filled room, convincingly. A hustler that commands your feet into motion. One must pull you by the guts down their own personal rabbit hole.

Mississippi Fred McDowell is an artist that possesses the competency to do so. The man, who’s personal slogan proudly boasts “I do not play no Rock n’ Roll”, is as authentic as the soil he grew up farming. A journey down such a rabbit hole can be navigated through a listening of Live in New York, McDowell’s final 1971 release, a year before Fred’s death. The album showcases the artist in a raw, live setting at the Gaslight Cafe in Greenwich Village. The collection of blues and spirituals, or “specials” as Fred calls them, act as gallery of honest, unapologetic human expression, the only way true art should be exhibited.

McDowell kicks off the set with a blistering version of “Shake Em On Down”, commanding the audience to do just that. The slinky, slide guitar driven melodies mimic, and sometimes substitute his gravelly vocals. The magic of Fred’s playing lies in his ability to play both rhythm and lead simultaneously. The songs’ slippery melodies ride shotgun to the percussive, thundering backbones built of thumps, scratches, clacks, snaps, slaps, and drawn out rumbles which shuck and jive like a clubfooted tap dancer. The outcome, hypnotic, entrancing, and all-consuming. Fred reflects on his own unique style of playing by admitting, “I don’t go put no expert guitar player. I don’t even try to outplay nobody. I got my own way of playin’, see. I play by feeling. You know it, some people don’t ever feel nothing until they lose somebody in their family, then they say ‘I’m sorry, I did all i could’ when they ain't done nothing, y’understand?” Accompanying McDowell’s unique one-man-brand of blues is Tom Pomposello, whose walking bass lines should be commended in their own right. It’s not easy to follow music as alive and spontaneous as McDowell’s, and he never misses a beat.

Between the boogeying juke-joint burners such as “Shake Em On Down”, the traditional “John Henry”, “Red Cross Store”, “My Babe”, “Baby Please Don’t Go” and the sultry “Good Morning Little School Girl” lie the deep gut-wrenchers like “Mercy”, “Someday baby”, “Fred's Worried Life Blues”, and “Levee Camp Blues.” An interesting pause in the music occurs prior to playing “You Got to Move”, in which Fred admits, “I have a request for this piece. I get tired of playing it, but you know if people want to hear it, I don’t mind playing it for you.” Obviously in response to the overwhelming popularity of The Rolling Stones album Sticky Fingers, released earlier the same year, on which they cover Fred’s tune.

Rounding out the collection includes interpretations of spirituals and gospels instilled in the artist. Blues, in general, is a music born out of age old hymns and field hollers. Music that eases the pain and celebrates hope. Both responses by the oppressed, both lit from the same wick. But to play the blues, is to wield a double edged sword. In generations past, it’s a sin unforgivable enough to find yourself blacklisted by your own family. To lead the life of a bluesman is to sign your name on the Devil’s dotted line. That being said, many cut their teeth playing the Church’s music, which roots itself equally as deep in the artist. Early in the record, Fred notes, “I play blues, and I play specials too. I play blues this way. It’s what i know. But when I play special songs, I play from my heart, y’understand? Of course, I feel both of them. But a special song is closer to me than the blues do... sometimes.”

Like any collection of this caliber, I’ll let the music do what it does best, which is speak for itself. I like to think of the album as a snapshot of an artist all to rare and out of style in this day and age. Although the music may not be everyone’s cup o’ tea, it’s raw, stripped down, unchoreographed, unrestrained freedom of expression demands respect. Fred McDowell remains a legend of a genre of music based in legend and folklore. This serves as a window inside the heart of Fred McDowell, and a smaller window inside the heart of a music so cherished by it’s ambassadors and interpreters. After all, it’s music that separates us from other species, isn’t it? Music, and art in general, is the only universal language. - Alex Schwer

 

As sit in panera bread eating this stale bagel (baked fresh what?) I've decided to become involved and We strongly believe our views are not only rational, but nearly seamless in their content. 

This is an honest heartfelt review of your website, Ultimate Guitar.com, and in particularly the forum set up/it's contributors, as well as the websites all around functionality and design. 

Now: The Good, The Bad, and I guess i'm going to have to play the role of your favorite Drunk Uncle -> Big Fuckin' Ugly. 

Mainly in a rapidly-genderated initial impression of disgust to the layout of  this lemon-website debacle you're running over here. Navigating through the ANALs of this site is much like trying to find your way through a maze while being blindfolded @ night. not to mention over razorblades with a head full of a good BUZZ. We've seen the strongest of minds crumble beneath our Red Wing Iron Rangers. 

With that said, I'm extremely disappointed to say: I am amazed by the amount of inaccuracies found in this cess pool of bad information; shadowed by it's uneducated, uniformed, conservatively narrow minded forum "contributors?"  I use the word contributor loosely, solely on the fact that it appears to be a magnet for people who look to get the least out of life, while maximizing EVERY opportunities based only on their power trips and personal agendas. We'll just refer to them as UltimateSuperTroopersWhoGetOffOnJamming up your Grandmother with a J Walking ticket on the way to get her neighbor's mail. I mean WTF they're always on Vacation. In Fact I think it's our mail she keeps stealing, we haven't gotten any bills in quite sometime and I'm still able to charge We's macbook so.... 

what do you want me to do? I'd love to change the world. 

But I'll leave it up to you bunch of mediocre scrubs.  

Look to Watchtowermusicblog.com to further your understanding of a sub par, ratty, ignorant website in comparison to one that harbors an explosion of lateral-racing- ALL original, creative thought. and by doing so not only outside the box, We're going to use the cardboard from it as kindling to assassinate subpar internet entities like the one i'm writing for right now. you're welcome. finally some literate online literature. (Do I smell a bit irony? or is that just the visual equivalent to South Street's pungent population of the Homeless?)

Oh no, it's your website, noSunshine, JustRainonacloudyday. Great, my motorcycles getting wet and I have to make a break for it back to the Watchtower house to put up more quality content. 

Always working! With tireless Stamina! We're ready for our shot at the belt. and although you're a far cry from Floyd Mayweather (we're more like the Floyd Mayweather) we feel it'd still make for an easy first round Ko against a much less prepared opponent. Sorry? never. "We don't apologize for our genius." (Gee thanks Keith Buckley from the band Every Time I Die for such an adorable lyric quote. You guys always hit the nail on the head straight through the board into our <3's. 

let me explain myself further. 

Especially in regards to this incident that has been brought to my attention:
We're sorry to inform you that your account has been banned by DisarmGoliath.

Now I have to live with the fact that We @ the Watchtower have something in common with this sorry sight of a site. (Like that?) It appears you've banned one of our writers as well as a member of our marketing department. 

He can be a tough one to tolerate @ times, talk about an eccentric streaming aura of hilarious shit. (you think you've seen him on a roll? wait till you see that mother fucker when he's  drinking). We have to live with him!

Normally I find myself writing these types of pieces to review bands and venues in the local Philadelphia area, as well as cleaning up the mess usually left behind in his wake. And we wouldn't have it any other way. He's one of the greatest word smiths we have and I challenge anyone of you to find yourself a better marketer (looks like your site could fucking use one)

This is a HUGE deterrent of traffic to yourwebsite, first of all you da-da-dumbies. Don't realize that the Nerd in charge here @ Ultimate-nothingtodowithguitarbesides send you down the wrong rabbit hole, teaching and force feeding it's users not only an inferior product but also a landslide of useless irrelevant information. Can't you feel yourself suffocating already?

Is it hot in here?
Or is it hotter over at my shameless plug for a website that celebrates artists, venues, music makers, instrument building, live jamming, professionally embedded video content exclusive to only OUR destination. 

After reviewing his posting history on your forums, I see no reason for an apology. He stayed 100% in the guidelines just as much as anyone else on the forum. I feel he was unjustly targeted by a moderater, some of his/her/manginaowners may know him as Username: Disarm Goliath. and we plan it. 

From here moving forward, Disarm Goliath will be known to the Watchtower Music Blog nation as Babyarm Goliath. 

For those of you users on this website that may be a little slower in thought processing (noooooo on this site? sheesh), I'll break it down for you. A baby's arm holding an apple is a popular metaphor for you and us goddamn well know what. And we plan on ramming one  straight down his esophagus as well as any entity associated with such a communist narrow minded swine. I hope you don't pay him @ all, and if you do, I hope it's only 2 cents. Which is what i'm giving you. OURS, I'm willing to give the website 2 cents of my own capitol, contigent upon the debadging of Baby'sArmStuckInMyTurdCutterButIGuessItTastesBetterThanHeyThat'sMyOwnFeetYourMarketerHasBeenForceFeedingMeThesePastFewHoursLikeAVincentBlackLightningWideFuckingOpenOnTheBonnevilleSaltFlats authority over the banning and removal of your members (Who generate the site $$$$$. Those are dollar signs. And your to be receiving less and less when We do some fabricating on this glass house you represent with fire, lightning and a sledgehammer is the only tool we can afford. 

Here's what We're up to:

We on some door-to-door now
Order ten dollars or more, and we'll shove it down your throat for free!
I'll sacrifice my inborn tendencies
For copper pennies for the one commanding "Gimme that"
So We can retain baby fat. 

and listen to as much Aesop Rock as possible while doing so. 


Is it noisy? Ha Ha Ha

hyuck, yuck yuck :tearsoflaughter:

Ummm Did We just rename your moderator "Baby'sArmStuckInMyTurdCutterButIGuessItTastesBetterThanHeyThat'sMyOwnFeetYourMarketerHasBeenForceFeedingMeThesePastFewHoursLikeAVincentBlackLightningWideFuckingOpenOnTheBonnevilleSaltFlats" ?

Yes. Yes we did. 

Well I'd be ( and not as prone to be as other websites I can think of) 

a goddamned preacher behind the pipe organ with the altar boy if I could find a better marketer and I'd be:

A goddamn nut deposite on it's ebony bloodstained keys if we didn't just let him type this, 
you poor pathetic soft pastey dungeon masters! Suck me@ Watchtower.com. 

This tiny little box on We's computer screen, located deep in the bowels of the inter web now belong to tWe. We are fortunate enough to live in a country that allows us to support ourselves while maintaining a firm erection/lust for the days ahead/to come, a thirst for nothing but knowledge truths through delivering as well as offering a first-rate onsite into the underground Philadelphia music scene, and all with a smile that We just can't seem to wipe off our distorted mugs. 

How's that old saying go? Mess with horns and and something about mounting a bull because you're all a bunch of uneducated internet hicks? We've been over here filing the Tips of our double-U into tapered, well lubricated ivory piercing projectiles. For all dada-dumby population, it's similar in some was to bringing your best calf to battle a over juiced wrestle mania version of an armored triceratops from the doors of your mind that your parents told you never to open. Oopsy Daisy!

Attn:

EVERYBODY!

We the American working population
Hate the fact that eight hours a day
Is wasted on chasing the dream of someone that isn't us
And we may not hate our jobs
But we hate jobs in general
That don't have to do with fighting our own causes
We the American working population
Hate the nine to five day-in day-out
But we'd rather be supporting ourselves
By being paid to perfect the pastimes
That we have harbored based solely on the fact
That it makes us smile if it sounds dope

There's pictures of him on there. Like this one We just found on our server.....

We'll even do your writing homework for you for a bit composition. Who else offers that? Hell We'll do it for 2 cents. Hell we'll do it for the two cents i'm willing to pay you. remember? (in comedy lingo, this is called a "callback". Thank you Howard Stern. Please run for president, and then Run on over to see We @watchtowermusicblog.com

that's watchtowermusicblog.com (Getting it right the FIRST time)

you did write this down.... didn't you ThickDense Skulls filled with pudding? (my favorite kind of popsicle)

Does the hardware seem like it will last? 

No. Na. Nope. Doubt it. Prove it? (We plan to).  Doesn't seem so. Reference above passages for in depth analysis and highlight reel. The Watchtower Army will continue to FIREBOMBTHEFUCKOUTTA this website until documented proof of action against your main douchebag moderator is produced. 

Are the strap buttons solid? No. Of course not. Look @ this shithole. We couldn't trust them to keep even BabyArmInjectionsOfEveryTypeAccepted's shitty Squier Strat his parents bought him off the floor. Everyone knows those things ain't worth a a steady continuous fountain of lukewarm bubbling piss in a wishing well full to the brim with feces. Sucks to be our Huckleberry, Doesn't it, Doc (valentines)Holiday? 

Last of the peace offerings (or our Follow's are going to think we've gone limp like all you guys who can still crank their chubs to Fred Dursts backwards red baseball hat. And even ejaculate! OH the wonderful horror. The very LEAST you can do (your job, like... as site manager) is review my marketing teams forum posts and user profile and communicate a rational, thought out, in depth explanation as to why We're not allowed to be a member on a website that is based on similar content (in theme @least) to We'z. 

All requests for therapy admissions, please contact We’z marketing depot: @http://www.watchtowermusicblog.com

Forever yours, 
The motherfucking management. 

This has been brought to you by the lovely people I can’t say enough about over athttp://watchtowermusicblog.com

I can send you a logo if you’re willing to include it on your website. It’s just business. and there’s no crying in rock n roll. or baseball? no there’s crying in baseball because that’s a faggy sport. 

Real men play sports like Hockey. 

There’s also no room for crying in business. No butthurt feelings okay? If anything you read here offended you you may contact the OP with @ Watchtower’s brand spankin’ new complaint depot. Biz is a booming these days! Go figure. 

Let’s go Flyers!
Let’s go Eagles!
MGMT

Newz!

The Watchtower has landed on planet Tumblr! hyaaa! Please Add/Subscribe/Like/Comment/Critique the new digs!

as well as:

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