© Warner Bros Music 2012

“A living detachment exists between the music and listener”

It seems there is a renaissance afoot. Amongst the musical community, the resurgence of indie infused psychedelic, electro pop has never been more popular.

As much of a mouthful as that seems, the oncoming summer months seem to bring out such bands like midges from a mossy log. Throwing their hat into the ring with debut offering It’s a Corporate World are Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr.

For those UK fans unfamiliar with the band. Formed in Detroit, Michigan, the duo takes their name from American Indy Car racing legend Dale Earnhardt Jr. who, according to some sources, is a reputable fan of the band. Joshua Epstein and Daniel Zott have sky rocketed their reputations amongst fans and music critics alike since their formation in 2007.

Branding themselves as psychedelic, electro and Motown influenced, Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr. appear to be on the cusp of domination of the indie, elector scene. This debut album, It’s a Corporate World arrives as the total of maligned performances, side projects and other dedications that have prevented the two members from publishing their collective work. They bring the haunting, wistful vocals and soft guitar hooks that have established them as a stand out indie outfit to what will presumably be a much wider audience, possibly globally.

Tracks “Simple Girl,” “When I open My Eyes,” and the eponymous “It’s a Corporate World,” showcase the band’s eclectic, anathema style. Drawing clear influences from late Beatles and their own brand of psychedelic pop rock, Epstein (coincidentally) and Zott mesh seamlessly together both vocally and musically.

None more apparent than the harmonic, toe tapping “Vocal Chords.” A fun, catchy, high tempo track that lends itself perfectly to the up coming summer months, Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr. know their audience and how to effectively win them over new listeners.

This stellar rise amongst their own scene and the music industry as a whole raises some suspicions amongst the more skeptical listeners. And therein lies the problem with both Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr. and this debut album. It’s a Corporate World is, quite simply, a clean cut, glossy, over produced album that would be more suited to a band’s second or third offering.

Following their various EP releases and a loyal fan following of their energetic live performances, this fully fledged debut album arrives amongst a sea of publicity. None more apparent than the highly touted select UK appearances on Club NME and HMV Next Big Thing. Surprising, surely, to those indie electro groups from native shores who are still scratching around on their home turf all begging for that big break. More importantly, with substantial discographies behind them.

Fundamentally, the band’s ethos and material seems oddly unoriginal enough to warrant this lavish production. Although by no means a poor piece of work, it is exactly that that makes for suspicious reasoning. They may sing of heartfelt, unrequited love and psychedelic jaunts through golden fields, albeit with the looming presence of a disapproving chaperone lurking somewhere in the background. It’s fun but well supervised fun.

A living detachment exists between the music and listener. Begging the question, have Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr. sold out before they were even in? Suddenly the album’s title takes on an altogether more sinister and frightening meaning.

Jonathan Whitelaw

Television talent shows are nothing new and certainly nothing original. Whether the great British public is falling flat on their faces for fifteen minutes of fame. Or warbling out their favorite karaoke hits to a TV audience of millions, it hardly matters anymore.

With that in mind, the BBC has jumped on the bandwagon in a big way with The Voice. Following the successful formula of continental Europe, who says we’re not a part of the EU, The Voice has its roots in the Netherlands. The Beeb therefore has employed “major” stars in their effort to foil the vindictive machinations of Lord and Master of Earth, Simon Cowell.

For those unfamiliar with the concept, and quite frankly why wouldn’t you be, the show compromises four judges listening blindly to aspiring singers. If interested, they will spin around in their thrones with all the decorum of The Emperor at a wet t-shirt contest. Should more than one judge spin around, the contestant has to choose who will be their mentor. Simple really.

So to the judges. The four esteemed representatives of a multi-billion pound industry responsible for social trends, political awareness and the fashioning of infinite taste across the globe.

Up first, the alliterated Danny O’Donoghue, a man so anonymous that MI5 still have no clue who he is. As if to add insult to an already bleeding gash of an injury, he proudly promotes his own band, The Script, as Irish “soft rock.” Credits on Mr. O’Donoghue’s sparkling CV include a nomination at this year’s BRITs for best international act. That, in a nutshell, is it.

Second in the lineup is Jessie J. A vocally sound, enjoyable lyricist with the slightly left field style that is still safe for the masses. Her only problem is her relatively green respectability within the industry. Having enjoyed success as a songwriter to the stars before exploding onto the scene in 2010 with a string of catchy hits, her album sales were moderate at best as was her general billboard performance. The BBC, however, always leaps at the chance to capitalize on a popular star.

Then comes Tom “The Voice” Jones. The only member of this venerable cavalcade of follicle freaks who can spell longevity let alone boast it as an accolade. The man who attracts ladies’ underwear with his throbbing, muscular, pulsing… voice and charm is by far the standout star of the show. He is, of course, the visible difference between BBC programming and other broadcasters. Where The X Factor and Britain’s Got Talent all attract recognizable names, Jones is a five star, silver bullet star and has been for nearly fifty years.

Over 100 million records sold across genres as diverse as R&B, techno, dance and country, he was great friends with Elvis and called Las Vegas his performing home up until as recently as 2011. It therefore begs the question, if offered the chance to be mentored by this legendary music industry figure of the past half century, why would a contestant choose anybody else?

It should also be noted there is a fourth judge. Will.I.Am takes a break from goading aging rock stars and faded prima donnas to boost his UK image as something more than a sideshow in Cheryl Cole’s circus.

The show is fronted by the usual nodding dog combination associated with prime time Saturday night TV. Reggie Yates draws himself up from obscurity while Holly Wiloughby, the woman offered the role of The Joker without the need of any makeup, glares dead eyed at the audience spouting gibberish.

All of this, of course, and nobody has sang a note. It is ironic, therefore that the public is the one constant throughout this latest masquerading of entertainment. They will always be relied upon to buckle and crack for the viewing public’s pleasure and dismissal.

The Voice therefore adds its name to the ever lengthening list of shows that continues to grow momentum year after year. The formula and unique approach to this format is, however, refreshing in its originality. A blind audition plays well to the highly publicized, moral dilemma of contestants failing to make the cut because they do not have “the look”. For every Susan Boyle there are ten Girls Aloud after all.

In that respect, The Voice seeks to level the playing field. But in a market so overly saturated with similar shows and time tested formulae, originality may not be enough to keep viewers interested. On star power alone, however, The Voice is about as premier league as anything currently on television. A quarter of it anyway.

Nobody's Fool © DixieFrog

Trail blazing a path that has now taken him all across the globe, Dave Arcari has returned with a fourth album, Nobody’s Fool. A regular here on M&B, Dave’s unique brand of delta blues infusion and throaty folk tradition have proven to be great successes for the man in the hat so far.

It seems like an almost incalculably long time since Arcari’s last offering, Devil’s Left Hand stormed onto the country scene in late 2010. By comparison, Got Me Electric is now over two years old and still offers a fresh, invigorating sound to what is one of the oldest genres of music. It is with this same pioneering approach that Arcari delivers Nobody’s Fool.

Recorded between Finland and Arcari’s native Scotland, Nobody’s Fool represents the growing international recognition of the singer himself. This latest offering is his most ambitious to date. That ambition drips from every one of the thirteen tracks with a glossy, conscious production as Arcari is joined by some substantial names from the across the industry. Most notable of these is on “One Blind Side” where drummer Paul Savage of The Delgados fame. Part of one of the most successful, well loved Scottish indie bands of all time, the testimony, is all Arcari’s. This is a collaboration, not an endorsement and, more importantly, something that works.

Featuring previously released tracks re-recorded at Sonic-Pump studios in Finland; the album offers more of what has come to be expected from Aracri. Following a “if it aint broke…” policy, Nobody’s Fool is as throat raspingly raw as it’s predecessors. With a voice that feels like a saw’s blade, the man in the hat takes listeners on long, emotional, heart felt rides with every song. As is customary in Delta Blues, the need to lament, bemoan and generally feel sorry for one’s self is something expertly delivered and weighted in Arcari’s signature brogue. Indeed, had it not already been started in the American bayou, Scotland would no doubt be the blues capital of the universe.

With the added weight of three successful albums behind him, Nobody’s Fool marks a watershed in Arcari’s career. No longer considered a fringe artist in a niche market, this outing will most likely become Dave’s most widely acclaimed piece. Both through general exposure and now substantial touring back catalogue and set to draw from, Arcari is now on the threshold of wider acclaim and recognition across all musical spectrum. The importance of Nobody’s Fool is therefore much greater than simply another forum for new material and re-recorded classics. It is the wide spread calling card that could become synonymous with an artist and his career.

The breakthrough album is what every artist aspires to achieve, that’s just musical fact. Some spend whole careers before achieving the feet, David Bowie being one who slaved through mediocrity before going stratospheric. Others hit the jackpot on their (relatively) first attempt, Michael Jackson’s solo career, The Clash and of course, Guns n Roses. But when the dust settles, the last cocktail drunk and the spoon cooled down, all that matters is the quality of the work left behind.

With that in mind, Nobody’s Fool is an album that will be regarded in the future as a defining moment for Dave Arcari. The potential has been evident for years and success has duly flowed. Thousands of gigs and albums sold are testimony to Arcari’s growing endurance and loyal fan base. The next step therefore awaits, the signature breakthrough for an artist most deserving of the accolades that brings. Time, as it always does, will tell.

Courtesy of Jezus Factory Records © 2012

Psychedelic-folk rock is not the easiest genre to let roll off of the tongue. Indeed, since its inception way back in the hazy sixties, there have been few markets of popular music as niche and subtle as this. As The Beatles provided a Technicolor master class to start with and Pink Floyd dabbled in the mysteries of the universe seven years later, the folk infused guitar riffs of rock and roll became altogether more relaxed and laid back.

It is from Belgium then that, some four and a half decades later that the latest pretenders to the psych-folk throne come sweeping along in typically haunting and morose manner. Birds That Change Colour (BTCC), a clichéd yet strangely evocative name, are the latest Belgian act bringing their own brand of 60s throwback to the British shores this March. With their debut On Recording the Sun the band set up their tie-dyed shop for the rest of Europe with a surprisingly strong, enjoyable ten track album that packs a lot of bang for the buck.

In keeping with the tradition of the greats who have gone before them, BTCC kick off their work with the hauntingly simple “Stones.” An eerie and simple ode to the nuances of subtle guitar and string work, vocalist, Koen Kohlbacher, creates a lofty ambience that evokes images of a misty early morning wood or lofty sky.

This mixture of high art and emotional imagery continue throughout the album as a whole, none more apparent than in “Playground,” “Oh So Tired” and the 11 plus minute epic “Never Ending First of May,” a track that steals the show from the other ample works. Contrary to this eclectic, borderline gloomy approach to what is generally regarded as bucolic infused neuroticism designed purely to toy with one’s own perception of the universe, there are a number of playfully cheerful songs thrown in for good measure.

“Tales from the Moon,” has all the hall marks of a late Beatles piece of fun, the psychedelic images of distorted cartoons and brightly coloured suits forming almost instantly in the minds of the listeners’, all to the tune of tame drums and the merest hint of sitar. The final track “Oh What a Day” rounds off the album with a Bowie meets Ringo infusion of juvenile story telling that serves perfectly to compliment the rest of the tracks. The guest vocals from Nathalie Delcroix and the pepped up pipes serve as timely reminders that this is a work of art, mainland European art no less and close the work amply, smiles all around.

In all, BTCC have delivered an album that is on the whole enjoyable and fun, two emotions that are very rarely placed together when interpreting modern music. It could be a combination of the wonderfully crafted images, the honorable tributes and throwbacks to the past masters of the genre and the lovingly produced nature of the work that makes On Recording The Sun work. Regardless, only time will tell if it makes an impact abroad.

Jonathan Whitelaw

Thrashing drums, whiplash inducing head banging and a sphincter clenching devotion to blistering guitar solos and riffs. Not the usual adjectives reserved for sunny Spain. Shove the paella back in the oven, put away the sunscreen, hard rock n roll is back, lock up your daughters.

By that, of course, the triumphant return of ’77 has occurred. Hailed on M&B as the champions of a dying breed, the cymbal crashing cacophony from Catalonia have produced their follow up to 2010’s 21^st Century Rock with a much glossier, slicker produced and still irresistibly thrown back (and up) to the glory days of pub rock.

High Decibels is this highly touted follow up. Less than a sequel and more of a rebranded, better equipped version of the first installment, this album marks a much more professional, intensely matured taste of the band’s talent.  The first difference is the more intensified sense of individual identity. This is hardly surprising. In the eighteen months since their last release, the band have moved from an AC/DC tribute act who played their own material to an act in their own right.

Expanding from their native Spain, this summer sees a continental tour that takes in Germany and Sweden. As profile has risen, so too has the ambition of this four piece outfit. With tracks like “Back Door Man,” “This Girl is on Fire” and “Melting in a Spoon,” a more sinister, edgier vibe is shown here. With lofty ambition comes the same mix of catchy blues riffs, solid solos and the sleaze fuelled harmonies that would make your mother blush.

The near nine minute opus “Promised Land” stands as a testimony to how far this band has come since their debut. Split into multiple parts of changing pace, eclectic imagery and the fundamental three riff hooks that force smiles onto the most maudlin of rock fans, the aspiration of such a project is plain to see. Evoking memories of Bad Company, early KISS and even Led Zeppelin in one song is not something regularly attempted, less carried off. “Promised Land,” however, skirts the line between success and disaster with enough majesty and arrogance that the whole operatic ethos comes off with a plom. The jam session approach, casual riffing and constantly changing tempo and medley is an audio delight.

When 21^st Century Rock appeared, there were many who rolled their hypothetical eyes at “another seventies throwback, completely out of touch with the modern music listener.” An unfair but altogether more realistic view of the industry and the chances of such an act. However, defying such criticism and producing a follow up as strong, layered and arguably defining like High Decibels has done nothing short of place ’77 in as strong as position they could hope for. The much cleaner production, bigger, bolder sound and broader audience (the album is available on iTunes) reach will provide an excellent starting point for what should be a big year for the band.

Jonathan Whitelaw

The Brit Awards continue to provide seemingly unlimited infatuation amongst the music industry. As this sceptred isle’s sole musical awards ceremony that still garnishes a world wide media audience, it seems not a year goes by where the idea seemed great before it happened only for the organizers, musicians and public to wonder, why do we still bother to do this the morning after.

That less than cryptic and skin crawlingly obvious introduction is, of course, a reference to this past week’s Brit Awards (Sponsored by MasterCard). The apparent “Crowning of Queen Adele” as the be all and end all of music dominated the 32nd edition of the British record industry’s annual awards ceremony.

Her domination of the headlines leading up to the ceremony was nothing short of unexpected. Pictures of her holding a plethora of Grammy’s were paraded around the British press like the second coming as well as stoking rumours of her looming engagement. A diamond the size of Jupiter’s core on her finger paid testimony to the industry’s investigative skills.

Never to be bested by our trans-Atlantic cousins, Adele picked up the hideously ugly new Brit gongs for Best female solo artist and British album of the year (sponsored by MasterCard) for the deliberately maudlin, over dramatized 21. Credit must, however, be shown to the 23 year old, yes 23, for being able to fill a whole 14 month touring schedule singing just the one song and padding the rest out with benign chat even the most loquacious taxi driver would cringe at. The highlight of the show coming when her “speech”, political rallies have been shorter, was prematurely cut off to which the singer flipped the bird. Classy.

The rest of the winners seemed to mix into a huge cauldron of mediocrity that by the end of the three hours, nobody really knew why they turned up. Prince of the Gingers Ed Sheeran matched Adele’s double triumph with Best Male and Breakthrough awards (sponsored by MasterCard), a testimony perhaps to how heartless Adele’s publicity machine is or how terrible his is that this “achievement” went relatively unnoticed. Sheeran thanked his management for making him the musician he is today as without them he would have been “poor, fat and ginger.” Quite.

Coldplay had, of course, their pedestal rammed further up their backsides by receiving Best British Group. Of course not content with merely being rewarded for their obsequious oral odysseys, they dribbled onstage with a live performance best described as mediocre. Fans later agreed it was one of their best shows ever.

There are quite literally more British bands more deserving of such an honour (also sponsored by MasterCard) that there is not enough room in the universe (sponsored by MasterCard) to list them. To still be handing awards to these deliberately grey, bland and ever so charmingly befuddled middle aged men is almost beyond comprehension.

However, some good could possible come out of this award and the others. The dubiousness of this year’s Brits has only served to further highlight the increasing inadequacy and defunct nature of the ceremony. In what has been another sub par offering of both live performances and the nature of winners and even nominations, The Brits have been steadily declining in quality and, as a result, credibility for the almost two decades. Where this year Adele, Sheeran, Coldplay and a plethora of other flashes in the pan dominated, 1995 saw the likes of Paul Weller, Oasis, Blur, Eddi Reader, Prince and KD Lang achieve success.

Always branded as a less than important after thought to the Grammys of course, the Brit Awards were always a much more raucous, jovial affair that smacked of British eccentricity. Where they lacked industry recognition and clout, they made up in quirkiness and character. All this based firmly on recognition of quality artists and material.

The industry has, of course changed; there is no denying that. Technology and its mass consumerism availability have meant that those who stood little or no chance of becoming music stars can now show their wares from the comfort of their own bedroom. But that excuse can only account for so much. The overall presentation and nature of awards dished out at this year’s Brits was of a terrible quality that was, quite frankly, an embarrassment to the British music industry.

From Olly Murs’ off key cat screeching to the parading of James Corden’s obvious lack of live show presenting ability, the whole show was a feast of car crash television. Award ceremonies like this are never meant to be actual recognition of an artist’s work and any act worth their weight in talent would be more concerned about record, ticket and singles sales. However, a duty is still there to be served to the world from these mass media events.

This country has produced some of the biggest, best and genre-defining musicians the world has ever known. We deserve to be represented fairly and with dignity on the world stage. It is only fair, after all, to showcase the very best we have to offer and not the latest in a long, long line of fleeting prima donnas and talentless transients.

Jonathan Whitelaw

Celebrating a band who are almost forty years old is not something that can and is taken lightly. In fact there are very few groups who have a) lasted as long, b) stand the sight of each other after so long, c) have a career that justifies such a celebration and d) still has the captivation of the paying public. But that is exactly what AC/DC have done in the form of AC/DC: Scotland’s Family Jewels.

Arriving on the cusp of the world infamous Scottish Winter, the exhibition comes to an end this weekend, February 12^th. But rather than a review, M&B will take a look at the evocative nature and tribute of the exhibition that, like the band themselves, came and conquered quietly without hype or fuss.

Featuring everything from ticket stubs to glossy photographs. Rare LP covers to cardboard cutouts and beyond, the exhibition, aptly titles Scotland’s Family Jewels is a no nonsense, balls to the wall effort that has become synonymous with the group since their initial success right through to their world domination. Charting the rise and rise of the band from humble beginning through an intricate web of photos, letters and paraphernalia, viewers are given access all areas to exhibits in an approachable and hands on fashion.

Of course the exhibition is Bon Scott intensive. As fitting a tribute as any could be made to one of the most instantly recognizable, sadly missed figures in rock and roll. Few have embedded themselves more within the rock collective consciousness than Scott did in the short time we got to know him but of that there is a wealth of enjoyment and pleasure to be found.

Making up the majority of sampled work on display are private letters to family members, postcards, clothing and previously unreleased photographs of the singer. Touching messages to his sister and others reveal what has always been known about Bon. That he was a caring, conscious and genuine human being who lived and loved the way he wanted, when he wanted and with who he wanted. That the world saw the brash and bold, charismatic lout who loved all things sleazy and down right rotten was an epitome of what he was as a person. As has been written many, many times both before and since his untimely death in 1980, Bon was a man people could not help but like and love. As comfortable in front of ten people down the pub as he was before 10,000 at Wembley Stadium through this unique insight, fans get the opportunity to be vindicated in the adulation and praise.

However, there is a darker side to this glorification. When walking through the gallery’s aptly dark, dingy and overtly branded exhibit halls, the pictures of Bon and co stare back with all the guile and sheen of record label produced gloss. The personal objects of Bon’s, his jacket, sweater, private photographs and his passport are tokens of the other side of the fence that hit home he was just another man like those who worship at his alter.

To be given a look at the personal items that belonged to a man dead 32 years has a strangely prophetic and almost eerie quality. Suddenly the boldness and machismo are gone and the day-to-day hum drummery of a larger than life character is laid bare in a Perspex cabinet. Suddenly the toll of his death becomes that little bit more real and the stark honesty and bitterness of what might have been become all together apparent. To see his items, his handwriting, a window into his thoughts makes the loss altogether more tragic and terrifying.

Journalism and endless tributes can only conjure up as good an image as their creator to describe the man but his possessions make for a grim but sobering reality. It is therefore any wonder that the rest of the band are able to speak about his passing and further compliments their creative driving force that continued. The exhibition brings a whole new appreciation to Back in Black the album designed and conceived as a tribute to him and further promotes how brilliant a job Brian Johnson did in, as he would always say, “filling in” for the irreplaceable.

As maudlin as all this may be, the exhibition is, if nothing else an extraordinarily thorough shrine to the exalted masters of rock. Comprising of multiple projector screens throughout the exhibit that feature rare concert footage along with more recognized gigs such as the Monster of Rock 1991 headline and the Black Ice World Tour. A myriad of posters, album covers, collectables, backstage passes, Angus Bucks and guitars, the exhibition offers hardcore fans of the group an intriguing insight beyond the blazing cannons and inflatable women but also offers more casual listeners and viewers a genuinely inviting chance to see the amassed work of one of the most instantly recognizable bands and brands on the planet.

From Glasgow the exhibition moves on to Seattle, Washington where North American fans will be able to ogle until their hearts are content.

Jonathan Whitelaw

Not an HD toy

The quality of digital music is a relative hot potato within the industry. Veteran rocker Neil Young has claimed Steve Jobs wanted on increasing the quality of digital music before his untimely death.

Speaking at the All Things D conference 2012, the mutton chopped Young effectively criticized and defamed a whole generation’s work in the digital music field. His main point of argument was the quality listeners are forced to hear from modern MP3 files. Just 5% of the original data is present in a standard MP3 file and Mr. Young says there should be an option for those who wish it to listen to the other 95%.

However, as is often the case with ivory towered celebrity thinking, there are some important issues that Young failed to understand. The logistics of creating a device culpable of playing the supposed missing 95% would be severely hampered by essentially all of the things that make an iPod and digital music so popular.

Firstly, convenience. In order to have the quality that Neil Young demands, upwards of thirty minute download times for single tracks would be a very real possibility. Caused by the high resolution and gargantuan file size this would create, there are very few, if any, things that the average music listener or computer user will wait thirty minutes to download. In the modern world as a whole, there are very few things anybody would wait thirty minutes for.

Putting this into perspective and based on these hypothetical figures, Neil Young’s Harvest would take over six and half hours to download. Bizarrely, this would take longer than getting to the nearest record store, buying the album, getting home and listening to it in full back in 1972, the year of the album’s release. To ask users to wait thirty minutes per track seems like an almost impossibly futile, retrospective throwback to an age that has long gone.

The practicalities of such a venture would also be almost futile. The iPod classic has a maximum capacity of 160 Gigabytes. This equates to 40,000 tracks, 4000 albums on average, based on the current sound resolutions of most MP3 files. To transport songs of a higher resolution, as high as Neil Young wants, would result in the same iPod only storing thirty albums. This massive leap in sheer quantity alone would be more than enough to put off even the hardest core of audiophiles, who are more likely to own over thirty albums.

Unfortunately the numbers, statistics and practicalities do not add up. However, there is method to the madness in many respects. In the first decade of the 21^st Century, society has become obsessed with bettering all that it has. It is no longer acceptable to have a television with a cathode ray tube or even five standard channels to watch on it.

Food, clothing, news and even relationships can now be bought at the click of a track pad and keyboard. If your not digitized your not anything in the world of tomorrow, which conveniently is now today. The digital age has also afforded mass consumption of better quality good and luxury to the masses, so to speak, unlike any other time in civilization. So why, then, do listeners have to make do with only 5% of the audio quality of their music.

Neil Young has a valid point to make in that the digital option should be made available. However, this may be yet another classic case of thinking beyond our means. Young’s arguments may be flawed in other ways, most notably his overkill estimations of resolution speeds and potential improvements. However, had Steve Jobs’ untimely death not occurred, who knows what we’d be listening to or how we’d listen to it.

Ultimately, music comes down to the music itself. There is no point in high quality audio files if the lyrics and musicianship are sub standard. Despite change sin formatting, branding and accessibility, talent is still the watermark by which an artist and consumer are judged.

Jonathan Whitelaw

The year is not a month old yet but already the music community is in mourning. The very sad news that Etta James, the First Lady of Blues and Soul, has died aged 73. Having battled through leukemia and dementia towards the end of her life, James’ contributions to 20^th and 21^st Century popular music will stand as a lasting tribute to one of the very finest performers of her generation.

Born Jamesetta Hawkins in Los Angeles, California, young Etta began her musical career at the tender age of 14, singing with local bands. A move to San Francisco would ultimately lead to a recording contract with Chess Records in 1960 and what would go on to be one of the most recognisable and successful careers in music.

Famous for her grinding vocals, monumental longevity and a style that made every lyric feel like a flaming knife stabbing listeners in the heart, Etta James was, for many, the epitome of the popular blues and soul movement. Indeed, for fans and casual listeners alike, she was the definitive figure in a world dominated by smoke choked men, rasping their way over 4 bar blues guitar and being mimicked by modern rock legends.

Her signature tracks “At Last,” and “I’d rather go Blind” are regular features on the greatest tracks lists across all genres of music. James also racked up a number of honours that would not look entirely out of place amongst the MTV Generation’s glittering trophy cabinets. Inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1993, the Blues Hall of Fame in 2001 and the Grammy Hall of Fame to name but three of her illustrious awards, James’ lasting legacy will be her own longevity.

As a recognisable face, style and sound of an entire genre, her later years provided the luxury that artists of her caliber can enjoy in their twilight, variance. Johnny Cash and more recently Lou Reid have all made successful leaps into the worlds of hard rock, heavy metal and beyond and with her 2011 album The Dreamer, the ever venerable James, suffering badly from her illnesses, took the successful steps into country, pop and hard rock. Highlights include a brilliant cover of Little Big Town’s “Boondocks” and Guns’ N Roses “Welcome to the Jungle,” the latter a wonderfully crafted soul rendition of an excitable classic that still retains its brooding malice and tribute to all things debauched.

The passing of Etta James is both a sad and mournful occasion but one that should be interpreted in the best possible way. With over five decades of work to choose from and a back catalog that is sure to cater to anybody’s tastes, this time should be spent celebrating one of the very best recording artists who has ever lived.

Jonathan Whitelaw

After a long day at the track, The Stig resorted to making mass, generic hip hop

Some would argue this has been a long time coming. Others have said it has been a long established fact. Realistically, however, there is a simple truth behind all of the hype. Rock and roll has died and it is one of its longest serving champions who has driven the final stake through its heart.

As bold and perhaps unashamedly over dramatic as this headline is, the fact of the matter still exists that rock music is in decline. When this writer first started with Moon & Back Music back in 2009 there was a case to be made that rock music would, could and should never die. At that time, however, the music industry was a different place.

The top earners in global events and gigs were all traditional rock acts. AC/DC, U2, The Eagles, Rolling Stones, Bon Jovi, it was an eternal list of the glitterati who have lit up stereos and music systems the world over for the past five decades. January 2012, however is a very different and bleaker outlook.

Causing this is one particular track. The hugely popular William James Adams, Jr, aka will.i.am is the sometimes eponymous “singer” of the even more popular Black Eyed Peas. For those readers who are unfamiliar with this group’s work, they are the hip hop act who appeal to those discerning and music conscious consumers who do not wish their hip hop to be dangerous, threatening or indeed hip hop in any way shape or form. He is also a producer, rapper, actor, songwriter, dancer and creative director, managing to balance all of these talents along with being the single softest person in music.

With his latest offering now gaining widespread recognition from a baying public, he has systematically brought about the final death knell for rock music and its widespread popularity. It is, as usual, the typical air brushed, photo shopped, auto tuned out of it’s tiny little mind, nonsense we have all come to expect from Mr Adams Jr. Entitled, “The Hardest Ever” said artiste stumbles through four mind numbingly dull minutes hopping from trains to trucks to helicopters to fighter jets and eventually into a space ship fleeing from an as yet unrevealed foe, possibly speakers one hundred feet tall blasting out his “greatest hits”

As with any master criminal, he has an accomplice, somebody in which to turn to for undying support when the question “is this bad enough yet” crosses his Botox filled lips. Where Bonnie had Clyde, Adams Jr has Jennifer Lopez, once again airbrushed and crammed into clothes perhaps better suited for a woman not in her 60s. Her collaboration is limited, thankfully, to a rehashed vox pop that could not have taken any longer than five minutes to record, indeed a fraction of the time it must have taken her to scrub up for her appearance in the video.

But is with great pity, shame, horror and regret that we reach the final offender on the list. Yes, as hard as it is to believe that such a throw away piece of forgettable populous nonsense could take three recording artists to produce, the last name on this venerable hit list is none other than Sir Michael Jagger. Shock, gasp, save the children, the Knight of the Realm appears at the end of an elaborated graphic sequence in which will.i.am has traveled through a Clarke/Kubrick 2001: Space Odyssey esque star gate flooded with more multicolored J-Los than Ben Affleck’s worst acid trip.

For what purpose this serves in the overall narrative of the video and song is anybody’s best guess. In the movie/novel this was seen as a watershed movement towards a higher place of evolution for the human race. The first five callers to get the answer correct for this interpretation will win tickets to King Crimson. Fans will be glad to know there is no homicidal on board computer, only the million screaming voices of terror as the track is unleashed on the universe.

Jagger’s appearance at the end of this sequence, in what can only be described as a blathering, incoherent rap/rant, symbolizes a transitional moment in music. As sales figures and general consensus grow that, in the UK at least, rock music has been replaced as the public’s first choice in buying music. The overall growth in so called “bedroom producers” and the ability in which to self distribute, publish and sell music on a much more personal level has also taken a toll on the rock scene, if not from a local level then certainly a mainstream success level.

It would be spurious to say that this appearance of the Rolling Stone in such a different, unabashedly commercial hit has been the final moment to solidify rock’s relegation. Maroon 5, serial offenders in the defamation of rock’s mainstream profile, have their “hit” “Moves like Jagger” and Cheryl Cole’s more talented clone Cher Lloyd’s “Swagger Jagger” have brought the veteran rocker’s profile up in the past few months. Never one to shirk making money, it could be argued that Mick is merely riding the cash cow and banking on this new found obsession modern artists seem to have with his sags and wrinkles.

Regardless, the frankly laughable “The Hardest Ever” is here to stay and will no doubt set dance floors alight and make multiple millions for all of those involved. One good to come from it, however, is that “Dancing in the Street,” is now no longer Jagger’s worst collaborated work. Mr Bowie, you may rest easy.

Jonathan Whitelaw