God bless Neil Young. At 62, he's as earnest as ever - supremely confident in his well-worn niche. In 2007, it takes some kind of self-assurance to sing, without a hint of irony: "I'm just a passenger / On this old freight train."
For the last 40 years, Young has alternated with almost stunning regularity between country-inflected acoustic ballads and gritty electric numbers.
As baseball season gets underway, one man looms larger - much larger - than most: Barry Bonds.
Bonds, of course, is on pace to break Hank Aaron's 755 career home run mark, one of baseball's most hallowed records.
By all accounts, life on the road is nasty, brutish and long. And on the eve of a North American tour, Islands' Nick Diamonds is sick in a Toronto hotel room, speaking in low tones to protect his voice.
From the time I left campus last spring until June 14, I had Radiohead on my mind. Mine was an obsession that verged on downright mania, transforming my usually tepid opinions into axioms and outright platitudes.
In the wake of Ashlee Simpson's lip-synch debacle on SNL nearly two years ago, Kelefa Sanneh wrote a diatribe against its most strident critics in The New York Times. "The Rap Against Rockism" asked "Could it really be a coincidence that rockist complaints often pit straight white men against the rest of the world?" (A rockist, of course, being a subscriber to the creed of authenticity and a strict guitars-drums-bass worldview.) In other words, is "alternative rock," in all its monikers, yet another white boys' club defined by its own exclusivity?
Coachella, a documentary on the six-year-old Indio, California music festival of the same name, incessantly begs such questions by refusing to play to its strengths.
Hopping the pond makes for strange bedfellows. Though the Subways had an early U.S. breakthrough this fall on that great cultural arbiter, The O.C., a February release date has lumped their debut with the latest wave of British musical exports.