THIS is a CLOSE-UP?

For years now, I've been buying CD's that have the word "REMASTERED" plastered all over the front, but there's no real universal standard for what that word actually translates to as a listening experience. Sometimes, it's compression that makes the music louder and brighter while losing dynamic range in the process; for example, I bought a New Order singles compilation a few years back that jumped out of the speakers, but with a brittle harshness that made me put it on the shelf in favor of the old pressings. After all, I have a volume knob for a reason. However, there are times where the remastering process genuinely cleans up the sound without removing the essence of the recording, allowing you to hear even the most hoary chestnut of a track with new ears and a renewed appreciation. And over the past few years, I've had those aural experiences mostly through the work of Steven Wilson. For over a decade, Wilson was the focal point behind the band P

Now more than ever, it's clear that we are full participants in an unrivaled Age of Bullshit. Ever since Harry Frankfurt at Princeton published " On Bullshit " in 2005, the academic pursuit of examination has turd blossomed into a swirling miasma of day-to-day existence, where the fetid waves of bullshit threaten to gaslight into madness even the staunchest supporters of an objective reality governed by valid and reliable truths. And sadly, a large chunk of our American body politic lacks the basic skills to discern what is and is not, failed by products and policies beyond the span of control. Thankfully, that's where Carl T. Bergstrom and Jevin West at the University of Washington come in. They've proposed a one-credit course titled Calling Bullshit , where some basic readings over a twelve-week period offer a cogent framework of introduction, identification, and inculcation. (The syllabus, complete with links to the readings, can be found here .) Going in

It begins with a simple 4/4 beat and a sinewy bass line, followed by some piano and organ chords. But the first real hook is the top-line melody played on steel drums -- not exactly the most commercial thing to do in 1978 -- and while I can't remember the first time I heard " Every Kinda People " by Robert Palmer, I do know that the younger me (a) wanted to hear that song again, and (b) wanted to hear more from this Robert Palmer guy. And in time, boy, did I ever. There was never a point in time when it was cool to be a Robert Palmer fan; often, when people asked what I was listening to, an admission of Clues or Pride would elicit at best a guttural "huh?" and at worst a dismissive "ugh." Even during his commercial peak in the mid-to-late '80s, his ubiquity never quite translated to critical accolades. But when you dug below the lacquered black-clad models in his most famous videos, when you saw past the smart suits and swirled smoke smirk, th

The band is gold, thin and simple. The dings and dents of a thousand collisions line the sides. It was in a simple box that I found while cleaning the other day, about the same day that my mother's mother (Esther) had taken a turn for the worse with her health. Esther is 88, in hospice care in an industrial room that has seen life and death for decades, and without that ring, she likely wouldn't be here. And neither would I. Inside that ring, which now sits on the pinkie of my right hand, is the following inscription: L.G. to C.C. June 26 - 26 Over 90 years ago, a few summers before the Great Depression, my great-grandfather Leo Glover popped this ring on the finger of my great-grandmother Caroline Currivan. I don't remember much about Leo, as I only knew him as an invalid, taken care of by Esther until his passing. There were rumors that he was offered a spot with the Detroit Tigers, but that farming in Fowlerville was much more lucrative at the time, so he stayed

In doing a little 2017 cleaning, I found my pile of concert ticket stubs and realized that I hadn't done anything with my concert documentation since the '09 post. So here we are. I'm going to count the ex-MST3K'ers at Cinematic Titanic as concerts, because it's my parameters of what means what, and so there. As always, 2010 had some real winners, especially towards the end of the year, so here goes: Cinematic Titanic [Royal Oak Music Theatre 2.19] Wild Beasts [Pike Room, Pontiac 2.10] Janelle Monae [St. Andrews Hall, Detroit 4.2] Julian Casablancas [St. Andrews Hall, Detroit 4.5] Coachella Music & Arts Festival [Empire Polo Club, Indio 4.16-18] Public Image Limited [The Crofoot Ballroom, Pontiac 4.28] Sharon Jones and The Dap-Kings [Majestic Theater, Detroit 5.18] Broken Bells [St. Andrews Hall, Detroit 6.1] The New Pornographers [The Crofoot Ballroom, Pontiac 6.14] Pitchfork Music Festival [Union Park, Chicago 7.16-18] W

As I write this, I'm sitting in the downstairs room of my house, listening to the 24 bit file of 2017's  Reflection by Brian Eno on my stereo while behind me are around 5500 CD's, sitting in large metal filing cabinets. To my right are plastic bins filled with about 500 vinyl LP's, and to my right are cardboard storage boxes with hundreds of DVD's and Blu-ray's. There are boxes of comics, read and unread, and a bookshelf of books in similar states. In short, I'm a buyer of physical media, but I also enjoy the fruits of the digital realm in significantly lesser amounts. I do so because I'm not sure that musical artists will survive and thrive in a streaming infrastructure. Sure, it appears that television and movies have cleared those hurdles; Game Of Thrones is the most pirated TV show, yet it's the top cash cow for HBO, and a great indie film that might have been lost can be swooped up by Netflix or Amazon and be seen globally. But despite Apple

First, let's be honest -- if you were an old music fan (or a fan of old music), 2016 sucked. It was a reminder that while the art will live forever, the artist will leave your side sooner than you think, like the all loved ones in your life. Whether it's Leonard Cohen or Leon Russell, two-thirds of Emerson, Lake, & Palmer, or some of the most transformative artists in music history -- David Bowie and Prince -- the sorrow runs deep and true, the bittersweet magic captured in each tune and every note. But I want to take a moment to talk about George Michael, perhaps the most tragic loss of the lot. If you weren't around for the first couple waves of George Michael fandom, it's easy to see him as an also-ran, that guy who made that one Christmas song with the synths. But it's not an exaggeration to say that he was on track to be an Elton John of the MTV generation, but an Elton that could write and perform and produce his own work, a true auteur of pop and R&