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Better Ed than Dead

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(Steven J Wilson)

Ed Sheeran - He looks like Van Morrison, kinda, huh? Check the tats.  

Ed Sheeran is the highest paid entertainer on the planet. I think. I don’t know. They say he’s worth 65 million. Anyway, I read that somewhere. God knows he travels light and doesn’t have to share that dough with an orchestra or anything.

I saw Ed once. At least that I’m aware of. He opened for the Rolling Stones in 2015 (or was it 16?) at Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City. Just me and several thousand of my closest friends. He came out with a guitar in front of that throng and mesmerized the crowd. Okay, not really. Some kids seemed to like him. Old people, eighty percent of the attendees, treated him as a curiosity or mild irritant, not uncommon for a warmup act served up before the Stones’ Lions and Christians, bread and circuses exhibition. Later, he sang “Beast of Burden” with Mick. He was better than Dave Matthews.

I see his ruddy little mug and tousled ginger top here and there in the social media. He seems like a nice fella. What little of his music I’ve heard I found inoffensive, innocuous, fairly musical. But nothing to get hung about.

But context, you know, can be everything. Last night I was driving home from having seen If Beale Street Could Talk, which put plenty on my mind, about white privilege, the souls of black folks, and all kinds of stuff. I located the FM station with the best reception for the KU (Jayhawks) basketball and distracted myself with the talents of young African-Americans (mostly) performing for proprietary white (mostly) people. Go, team.

I’d tell you that I’m semi-retired and I just work at my encore career as a library flunky at Lawrence High School because I want to stay active and give back to my community. That would be 1/3 true. The other 2/3 is I need the money because life in the music business left me where it leaves most people in the music business – nowhere. I get social security; which Mitch McConnell wants to take away from me to pay for David Koch’s appropriation of National Public Radio. But I digress.


Alright, cut to the chase, I’m driving to work at 6:54 in the morning and the radio is tuned to the same station as the night before, only now the station has returned to its usual programming of ‘hits.’ And on comes “Castle on the Hill” by Ed Sheeran. I caught a fragment of lyric that was pedestrian, but evocative in its way. Attached to it was a sort of melody. Surrounding it was this predictable wash of “I, too, treasure my original copy of The Unforgettable Fire sounds.” And you know, it wasn’t bad. It told a story (you know, like country music … doink, doink, doink) and as I listened I was transported. Specifically, to being the age most of his target audience is. To not having a million prejudices and the weight of the western pop music canon on my temples. To hearing this not charmless little graft of “Brown-eyed Girl” and “Summer of ‘69” (without, perhaps, ever having heard either) and thinking … I like this.
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The god/doglike genius of Asako Ota ... Meet the Maltese!

(Steven J Wilson)
I wouldn’t know a damn thing about the Maltese were it not for my friend, Todd Newman. Todd is a wonderful singer-songwriter himself with a pretty sweet recorded legacy, including one record, Too Sad for Words, that I co-produced. Todd is a devotee generally of the best of J-pop. He’s especially a fan of an artist named Asako Ota. She’s the driving force behind the Maltese. Previously, she led another band called the Dog Hair Dressers.   I’m not sure what her fixation on canines is about, and I’ll damn sure never know from listening to her music, because all the lyrics are in Japanese, which is Greek to me.   What I do know is that she’s a damn fine songwriter, singer and guitarist. Her singing is gracefully tuneful, never overpowering, her playing strong and accomplished, but never showy; everything Ota does is dedicated to her really, really good songs. The music she makes is loosely categorizable as power-pop, and the Maltese isn’t twee; they’re not afraid of the po...
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Hello and welcome.

(Steven J Wilson)
 I wrote a column called  DITB (Down in the Basement)  for the Tornado , the greatest community newspaper ever with a four-month lifespan. I didn’t exactly write reviews. I had other people do that; I edited them. Nope, I just kinda went on about whatever was on my mind at the time related to popular music. DITB was probably the first place outside of New York or London where someone raved at length about the Strokes. I went on for a few hundred words about Weezer once. I have no idea what inspired that.   DITB did follow the rules of journalism. I did my best to research shit. Fact check. Include details. I guess that is where SPEW will divert from DITB . For SPEW I fully intend to forget names, get facts wrong, neglect to give complete titles, and otherwise write irresponsibly.   Reverberations is the name of my music blahg. Reverberations dates from my days at the KC Free Press, the best online KC news and culture resource ever with a four-month...
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Algiers is here. Don't start the revolution without them.

(Steven J Wilson)
"I guess you could trace it all the way back to growing up in the South: developing a structural critique of racism, and then looking back into history and understanding where that came from. I think what we wanted to reflect in our music — not even necessarily through the lyrics, but through the music itself — is this idea of time and memory collapsing upon one another. That's why the music extends in different directions, because our thoughts on history and society and violence and racism and capitalism extend in so many different directions.” - Ryan Mahan, Algiers It’s a commonplace that because of the complexities and vagaries of modern production and processing the typical consumer doesn’t know much about how the products they buy got to the shelf.   The same is as true of music as it is meat.   For Charlie Parker, Pablo Casals or Jerry Lee Lewis it was pretty simple. They rehearsed the material they intended to record, they and their fellow musicians ...
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