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Madison Spiers
Lola Brooke made sure to bust out all her hits from "You" to "Don't Play With It." Midway through her set, the Brooklyn rapper brought out fellow New Yorker ScarLip. The rising New York rapper came out to perform "This Is New York" and allowed Brooke to spit her own verse to the song.
DJ SpinKing surprises the crowd with appearance from DaBaby & more
A Boogie Wit Da Hoodie brought Highbridge to Jersey during his lengthy set. He opened with "Jungle" and performed other songs like "Ransom" and "Timeless" before he brought out some special guests. He tapped ScarLip to deliver her new song "No Statements" followed by B-Lovee who performed their popular collaboration "My Everything II." Towards the end of his set, Boogie paid homage to the late PnB Rock by performing their song "Lovin'."
He heads straight for a dark-hued, dream-like painting hanging on the living room wall. "This is a piece of art that I like a lot," he says, explaining that it's the work of painter Ray Martin, who named it after Crowell's breezily philosophical song "Earthbound," one of the more recent selections that he's re-recorded for Acoustic Classics, a new album revising, and even refining, music from every era of his career. (Another of Martin's pieces, drawing on another of Crowell's songs, hangs in the studio on the other side of the house.)
Growing up outside of Houston, Crowell was introduced to music-making as something that spurred drinking and dancing and blowing off steam, not paintings or folk sculpture. He watched a Hank Williams show from his father's shoulders at age two. Though his father, J.W. Crowell, made his living as a construction superintendent, he had a burning desire to entertain hard-working folks just like Hank Williams, playing rough-and-rowdy beer joints whenever he could, enlisting 11-year-old Rodney as his drummer. "I wasn't any good at it," the younger Crowell clarifies. From his dad's perspective, it was worth putting up with his son's lurching inexperience behind the drum kit if it meant one less musician to pay at the end of the night.
After a brief spell in college, Crowell moved to Nashville at 22. There, he encountered a circle of fellow Texas expats that included folk-country songwriters Townes Van Zandt, Mickey Newbury, and Guy and Susanna Clark, who all put their elevated notions of artistry on casual display during the salon-like guitar pulls immortalized in the documentary Heartworn Highways. (In one scene, Crowell treats those gathered around table to an eager rendition of his song "Bluebird Wine," with a baby-faced Steve Earle strumming along next to him.)
By the mid-1970s, Crowell had found another important audience for his songs: a young singer named Emmylou Harris, who was striking out on a solo career after the death of her former musical partner Gram Parsons. At the time her producer, Brian Ahern, had assembled a pile of songs for Harris to consider recording for what would become her album Pieces of the Sky. "I didn't like anything he played me," Harris recalls. "So he said, 'OK well, I've got this one last thing.' And it was a cassette in brown paper. He unwrapped it and stuck it in, and I heard Rodney singing 'Bluebird Wine.' ... I just said, 'OK, now we're talking.' "
Harris and Crowell bonded over a shared impulse to bring youthful verve and bohemianism to hallowed country forms. She convinced him to move to L.A., where he joined her Hot Band and shared with her the songs he was writing. "Of course, I wanted them," she says. "I always wanted everything that he wrote, and I was lucky enough to kind of have him all to myself for a while, before other people discovered what a great writer he was."
Within a few years, Crowell's songs had also been recorded by Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash, and he was making albums of his own. But having a record label behind him didn't assuage Crowell's self-consciousness over the unevenness of his skill set. He explains, "I always felt like, 'Yes, I am truly a songwriter, and I'm a good one, as long as I continue to work at it, to keep the work ethic in the proper place, in terms of ego.' The thing that developed more slowly for me was performing, and specifically singing. When I think about seasons in my career, there were some down years when I was making records. ... I was so frustrated with my inability to get across vocally what I wanted to get across." (Harris doesn't share his opinion: "I loved his singing ... I don't think there's anybody that even comes close to that particular original thing that he has in his voice.")
Crowell goes on, "I think at that particular moment, I happened to have the right songs, and Tony Brown [his producer and former band mate], to help me record it. I had really great relationships with the musicians who I was working with, and it just worked out good."
At the time, Crowell was also coming to terms with the fact that the hit-making era of his career was likely over, and recognized the need for an artistic reinvention. He was through with what he calls "broad-stroke" writing, the sort of approach that can yield a song equally suited to any number of artists, and ready to explore the potential of speaking from an autobiographical vantage point and incorporating prose-level meticulousness and narrative detail. From that point on, he quips, his songs had "a lot more verbiage."
The literary heft that Crowell has strived for on virtually every album since The Houston Kid is present in Chinaberry Sidewalks, an arresting 2011 memoir that captured the earthiness and volatility of his working-class upbringing. Early on in the writing process, he got the attention of the renowned memoirist and fellow Texas native Mary Karr, author of The Liar's Club, by name-checking her in the lyrics of a song. They struck up a friendship. He sent her the first 130 pages of his memoir. She convinced him of the need to condense his writing to its punchiest, most potent form. "The difference between Rodney and other musicians and artists and actors who have written memoirs you never wanna see again is that Rodney, I think, really put 10 years into it," says Karr. "I mean, it got a great review from The New York Times. Who gets that? Nobody."
Over the course of their correspondence, Crowell also convinced Karr to venture into co-writing songs with him. Their collaboration generated an album on which an array of roots music luminaries played the parts of their salty protagonists. She insists that he supplied subtle rhymes she'd never have thought of on her own. "He is that kind of language-drunk kind of poet," says Karr. "He's somebody who just has such an amazing ear and a sense of music and sound and everything, which is a lot of what I learned from him as a writer."
I had met a producer named Josh Goodwin, and he had asked for us to write some songs and see what we could come up with. We had written two songs, and one of them I don't think ever saw the light of day. The other was "Sorry."
If he had told me that it was the 100th anniversary, I probably would have been really stressed out. I'm a Disney fan. I've been a Disney fan since I was a kid; I love Disney songs. And so there was already that added pressure to make something that's going to stand the test of time. But I also think that because I grew up with [Disney] it is probably in my psyche more than I even know. And so I wanted to make a song that felt really classic and really powerful and really beautiful, but also still sounded like something that I would write.
Since her early '60s breakout to her current status as a bona fide living legend, Barbra Streisand has lived a lot of life. Streisand's 992-page tome breaks down her humble beginnings growing up in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and her subsequent stratospheric life during which she received a whopping 46 GRAMMY nominations and released many timeless songs. Along the way, she also became the first female in the history of moviemaking to write, produce, direct and star in a major motion picture (Yentl).
I started writing songs with a really bad acoustic guitar, learning three chords to write punk rock. My biggest wish in life was to get an electric, and once I did, I started a punk rock band when I was 14.
In that way, I started as an artist. Producing for others was never anything that I planned. It wasn't that I wanted to be on stage. I just wanted to create music, and I didn't realize there were other people behind artists producing the songs. It's not like the punk rock bands I was listening to had a producer. That [understanding] came from hip-hop.
Milian wasn't really signed or anything. It was more of an artist development thing Def Jam was doing. Instantly, I wanted to work with her. I believed in her, and we did a lot of songs together. That was the first really big project I took on as a serious production role.
From then on, me and Pontus were with Britney all the time, from being with her on the tour bus to different studios in different cities. She trusted us, which was great. We felt like we had freedom, and we had a great relationship with whoever she was working with at the time. I really liked working on [Spears' 2007 album] Blackout. We wrote so many great songs, and we really took the freedom and just went with it.
I'm chasing freedom all the time in my music. Miike Snow is so much freedom, but I'm writing the songs with Pontus and Andrew, so it's not the complete freedom I get in Galantis. Now, I can pick any vocal and work with anyone, and dance music was the way I wanted to express myself because I was so into DJing.
Sages Risk Stasis
Tuesday, September 11, 2012 Pet Shop Boys: Elysium (Astralwerks)
The music may well seem too restrained, presumably because NeilTennant and Chris Lowe figured that on an album where 11 songs find 11different ways to mock, rue, ponder, and accept their professionalmortality, the entitled glee of their full-on disco productions is offthe table. Even the explicit "Your Early Stuff" and the valedictory"Requiem in Denim and Leopardskin" keep a lid on it, the better to fitin with the ones that go "Look at me, the absentee," "Say it's notso/That you'd rather lose me," "Our love is dead/But the dead don't goaway," and everything else except the pounding "A Face Like That,"which also boasts the only lyric that doesn't follow theprogram. Whether metaphysical ("Everything means something") or bitchy("There's got to be a future/Or the world will end today"), they're atpeace with the fate of their fame and their retirement accounts. Andthe understated beats suit their elysianequanimity. A MINUS