Classic Rock Musings, Rants & Raves

Why stop at 10, when you can go to 11? After all, it’s “one” louder. OK, so maybe this sounds like a scene right out of This Is Spinal Tap, but the fact is I couldn’t narrow it down any further. Now that DVDs have all but replaced CDs in total rock and roll immersion, I was knocked out and bowled over with all the hot discs that flooded my mailbox in 2008. Did I miss any? Probably. But I think the 11 Classic Rock DVDs presented below are the cream of the crop when it comes to full-length music documentaries and live action concerts featuring the world’s greatest rock and rollers. Read on and decide for yourself.

1. Rush ~ Snakes & Arrows Live
2. The Who ~ At Kilburn 1977
3. The Yardbirds ~ The Story Of The Yardbirds
4. Lou Reed ~ Berlin
5. Genesis ~ When In Rome
6. Deep Purple ~ Around The World Live
7. Pink Floyd ~ A Technicolor Dream
8. ZZ Top ~ Live From Texas
9. Classic Albums: The Doors
10. Sunshine Superman: The Journey Of Donovan
11. Classic Albums: John Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band

Oftentimes, I get so caught up in the expanded reissues, compilations and documentary DVDs coming out from a slew of Classic Rock artists that I forget there’s a cache overflowing with new groups. Yeah, a good majority of them are pretty pathetic, but there’s a select few who are stirring up the pot in an attempt to keep the rock and roll flame burning. The Raconteurs are heading up the charge.

Led by Jack White, the male half of the quirky boutique garage band the White Stripes, the Raconteurs aren’t exactly reinventing the wheel, but they’re doing a damn good job keeping it greased up. The first night of their two-day stand at the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles comprised a 75-minute, no-frills set without pretense or bullshit. White knows he’s the main draw, but on this night he often came across as just another member of the band, which also includes vocalist/guitarist Brendan Benson, bassist Jack Lawrence, drummer Patrick Keeler and keyboardist Mark Watrous.

With all due respect to drummer Meg White, the other half of the White Stripes, Jack needs a full band to get his explosive, quirky ideas across. Having a clutch rhythm section like Lawrence and Keeler makes it easy. The groove that morphed into “Consolers Of The Lonely” wouldn’t have been nearly as dynamic coming from a two-piece. And White’s whining yelp of a rock and roll voice didn’t even come into the song until halfway through. Benson, a solo artist in his own right, played the less abrasive counterpoint, providing that sort of Lennon-McCartney, Ying-Yang thing that sets the foundation and extends the possibilities.

After White wrapped his guitar around a couple of numbers, he jumped over on a Fender Rhoads and went into a bluesy, gospel mode on “Blue Veins.” This song is pure old school, but White made it soulful and fresh. From there, he strapped on an acoustic and fell into a Delta blues number called “Top Yourself.” Here, Benson got a chance to slip and slide up and down his bottleneck like a possessed Jimmy Page from 1971.

“Intimate Secretary” was a churning bucket of commotion with White’s piercing, staccato leads popping holes in the ozone, while the frenetic blues-based romp of “Keep It Clean” tapped into the root of White’s chakra. By this time, the spelling game was tumbling across the sea of faces like lost luggage, never to be found again. “You Don’t Understand Me” put White back behind the keys, where he could have just as easily confessed to a shopping list of indiscretions, but instead pored his heart into a simple case of miscommunication. “Old Enough,” with keyboardist Mark Watrous handling the fiddle, stuck out as a spunky reflection of the group’s adopted home-base of Nashville (White and Benson are from Michigan).

Then it was another trip through the murkiness of the blues with “Rich Kid’s Blues” before finishing the main set with the group’s first single from 2006, “Steady, As She Goes.” White joked that the song was “a hit for us back in 1974,” but there was no doubt in my mind the driving riff would have fit right in back then.

The encore of “Many Shades Of Black” and “Salute Your Solution/Broken Boy Soldier” confirmed what I already figured out: the Raconteurs are a hot rod unit that meander and whittle away with the best of the Bonnaroo jam bands. That alone gives them a lot of credibility in my book. And my book doesn’t necessarily follow the dictum of Classic Rock.

In the world of Classic Rock, you hear a lot of old guys whining how the good old days are forever gone and that new music just out and out sucks. These are the same guys who won’t give Radiohead and Beck any credit for creating new and wondrous music, then claim the last Lynyrd Skynyrd album was their best. Go figure. So where does that leave a group like the Raconteurs? Perched at the crossroads of what was and what can be could very well mean they are the future of rock and roll. I’ll be keeping my eye out on this one to see if it’s true.

On Monday, I had the pleasure of seeing a small, ambitious play at the Cat Club in Hollywood called Be Bop A Lula, a tale that revolves around 1950s rock legends Gene Vincent and Eddie Cochran. Not exactly the Kodak Theatre, the Cat Club is narrow, dingy and owned by Slim Jim Phantom, the drummer for the Stray Cats. It’s situated along the row of shops between the Whisky A Go Go and the Roxy Theatre. Yeah, the place is pure rock and roll — a rather appropriate locale when you consider the storyline of the play.

If you’re unfamiliar with the life and times of Gene Vincent and Eddie Cochran, I’ll give you the abridged version. Both had major, influential rock hits in the mid 1950s — Cochran with “Summertime Blues” and Vincent with “Be Bop A Lula.” By 1960, both had peaked in America, so they toured together in England, where their style of rock and roll was embraced by the likes of John Lennon and Paul McCartney.

On the night of April 17, 1960, Cochran, his girlfriend Sharon Sheeley and Vincent were riding in a taxi cab, en route to London’s Heathrow Airport, when it crashed into a lamp post. Vincent and Sheeley were injured, but survived. Cochran wasn’t so lucky — he died at the age of 21. This is where the plot thickens, so to speak. Three weeks prior, Cochran and Vincent were on tour and had spent the night at a hotel in a small English village. That evening’s full turn of events is up for speculation, but the manager of the hotel claims he was rustled from his bed in the middle of the night by a frantic knocking on his door. When he rushed to see who it was, he found Eddie Cochran crying and claiming he was going to die.

On the small stage of the Cat Club, two beds function as the essential makings of the room Vincent and Cochran shared that night (if, in fact, they shared a room at all). A guitarist and keyboardist hide in the shadows, awaiting their cues, which are subtle, but necessary to the pace. The lights dim, and the 50 or so patrons squeezed into the tiny room fall mute. Rex Weiner, the play’s author, breaks the silence by introducing himself and setting up the story. Then he brings up a very special guest — John Densmore, the drummer for the Doors.

It turns out Densmore has a past relationship with the Be Bop A Lula play which he, along with other luminaries including Adam Ant, produced at another Hollywood venue back in the 90s. He speaks softly and mentions that the Cat Club was where the Doors played many of their early gigs. It was the London Fog back then, according to Densmore. Although I’d read the coffee shop next door was where the London Fog was, I wasn’t about to argue with a guy who was there. It makes more sense anyway.

Densmore talks about a time in L.A. when Jerry Lee Lewis opened for the Doors. It’s great to hear guys from the 60s speak with such reverence about guys from the 50s — back when rock and roll was actually invented. There’s no doubt in my mind that Lewis, along with Cochran, Vincent, Chuck Berry, Little Richard and a couple of others, are the true architects of early rock.

The play begins in the midst of the darkened club as Chancellor Dean as Eddie Cochran and Aaron Dupree as Gene Vincent snake their way to the stage, immediately engaged in dialogue. At the story’s heart are two complex characters, young, in their early twenties, yet already past their prime. Dupree convincingly lives up to Vincent’s image as a rough, reckless, self-deprecating prankster in chronic pain with a bad limp and resigned to his status as a has-been. Dean’s Cochran is the more likeable of the two, playing a talented, homesick musician who wants to quit the road, marry his girlfriend and raise a family.

The two trade barbs, laugh and cuss up a storm until a couple of English girls — Alice and Martha played by Zoe Simpson and Nicole Nelson, respectively — knock on the door. Cochran lets his guard down at one point, making a play for Alice before things get dark and introspective. That’s when Buddy Holly, played by Ron Geren, emerges and spoils the party.

I don’t want to spoil the party, so I’ll leave it at that. But I will say that this is a fascinating play, and anyone who digs the twisted, demented history of rock and roll should go and see it. The current production of Be Bop A Lula — with subsequent performances scheduled at the Cat Club on September 15, 22, and 29 — is directed by Weiner and Polly Shannon, and produced by Lincoln Phipps and Chris Kobin. For tickets and additional information, head over to the Be Bop A Lula My Space page.

If you haven’t heard (and it’s very likely you haven’t), King Crimson have slipped under the radar and reassembled for a few select shows. The only drawback is that the venues they’ve played so far have not been anywhere near Los Angeles, which is where I am. I can say with certainty that if they drift into my neighborhood, I will be there to root them on.

King Crimson is unlike any other band I know of. They’ve never really been part of the mainstream, never hit-bound, never conventional in any sense. The only constant has been Robert Fripp and his insurmountable drive for perfection. And that’s the way it’s always been. Any musician who passes through the ranks of King Crimson (and there have been many) has to understand this, or they will be shown the door.

Examples of this are plentiful. When things started to get ugly for bands like King Crimson in the late 70s, Fripp folded up shop without even a simple good-bye. Then, in 1981, Fripp and drummer Bill Bruford revived Crimson with two Americans. That set a whole new precedent because during their formative years, King Crimson was the quintessential English band.

They weren’t plying the blues like so many of their counterparts; they were twisting the form into a strange and wonderful amalgamation. When vocalist/guitarist Adrian Belew and bassist Tony Levin came aboard, Crimson’s sound evolved into something more modern, a little less morose, but still adventurous and quirky. I was initially put off because they reminded me more of the Talking Heads than the King Crimson of old. A lot of old fans actually had a problerm with this. But then I started listening closer, discovering the complexities lurking beneath the tight interplay.

After three albums, Fripp put on the brakes again, and King Crimson were swept into hibernation for another decade. When they returned, Fripp, Bruford, Belew and Levin were joined by two younger Americans, Warr guitarist Trey Gunn and drummer Pat Mastelotto. The double trio, as it was called, was short-lived, but stupendous in every way. I caught one of their shows in San Diego in 1995, and it remains one of my all-time favorite concerts.

The group sort of “fractured” after that, releasing a flurry of long and lumbering improvisational records with different members joining Fripp on various grooves. Then in 2000, King Crimson became a quartet, without Bruford and Levin. This lineup released two albums, the second being T[B]he Power To Believe[/B], which holds a special place in my heart. That’s because I was invited to hear it at a sushi bar on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood.

Across the room from me were three members of King Crimson. We all sat, myself and about 30 other invited guests, transfixed by the force of this new music, immersed in the sonic sauce, as we guzzled down our Sapporos and dined on rainbow rolls and other delights. During a brief Q&A — a very rare treat — I asked Fripp what it was like to open for the Rolling Stones in 1969. “It was a remarkable event,” he replied. “But the Stones should have done some warm-up gigs before. For Crimson, one snapshot of the event was when the very large cardboard figure of Brian Jones fell and landed on Greg Lake’s head.” That brought the house down and lightened the mood. Later, I asked Trey Gunn if Fripp would sign my program from the 1995 tour, but he told me to put it away. “He’ll bolt if he sees that,” he warned me.

But the guy I really got to know that night was Adrian Belew. I’d interviewed him earlier that day, and he graciously told me about how his experiences with Frank Zappa, Talking Heads and David Bowie more or less lead him to the court of crimson king. But after a couple more Sapporos, Belew was suddenly sitting shotgun in my red Mustang and we headed up into the hills to a party. Tom Arnold was just exiting, and Adrian, myself and my buddy (who knew the host) wrangled ourselves inside. The next thing I knew, Adrian Belew and I were drinking martinis and trading stories with Dave Coulier, Bob Saget and then-Lakers power forward Robert Horry. It was a dizzying site, seeing the lead singer of King Crimson mingling with two cast members from Full House. Belew told me he had never been to a party like this before.

We dropped him off at his hotel in the wee hours of the next morning, and I haven’t had a chance to speak with him since. I did, however, catch two shows on The Power To Believe tour and no one looked any worse for wear. The performances were as dynamic and vibrant as ever. Trey Gunn left shortly after. “We were pretty much completing a phase in the life of the band,” he told me during an interview. And King Crimson went back to sleep.

But I knew, as everyone knew, they’d be back. News leaked out that Tony Levin had rejoined, but nothing immediate happened. A year or two later, I bumped into Levin at a tradeshow and asked him what was going on with King Crimson. “We’re rehearsing,” he said. I pressed him for more. What about an album? How about a tour? Levin smiled. “When Robert says we’re ready…”

So, we were back to the stop-and-start antics of Robert Fripp. So be it. It’s only been five years, and they’re playing a handful of dates. Along with Fripp, Belew, Levin and Mastelotto, they’ve added a second drummer, Gavin Harrison. I’ve heard bits and pieces, and it’s fresh, challenging, beautiful stuff as always. But for how long is anyone’s guess. Just as Trey Gunn explained to me, “As with all things Crimson, it’s kind of wait and see what really happens.” Oh boy, here we go again…

Anyway, have a peak at King Crimson from August 7 in Chicago.

Every year around this time, I think about the life and death of Jerry Garcia. Maybe it’s because he was born on August 1, 1942, and he died on August 9, 1995. To this day, I mourn his passing with great reverence — recalling all those Grateful Dead and Jerry Garcia Band shows I attended, and marveling at the man’s determination to play his music his way without intervention from the suits in the peanut gallery. It was a long, strange and successful trip with a high price. Garcia paid with his life; many of his fans paid with their hearts and lost their way in the process.

That day, in 1995, when news of Garcia’s passing spread, I was living near Carlsbad and listening to the radio for updates (why people, myself included, listen to updates when someone famous dies is beyond reason). Come late afternoon, it was announced that fans could go to Balboa Park, down near the San Diego Zoo, and pay their respects. It sounded more like a party, so naturally I felt compelled to investigate. As could be expected, Grateful Dead music floated through the air, mingling with the scent of pot and patchouli. Seasoned devotees plotted their next move. Who would buy their veggie burritos and grilled cheese sandwiches? The cancelled Fall tour was a major blow. Everyone was gassed up with no where to go. There was Bob Weir, on tour at the time (I caught an emotional Ratdog performance at the Warfield, two weeks after Garcia’s demise). But it wasn’t going to be the same without Jerry. It was never going to be the same without Jerry.

Thirteen years later, the thing I miss most is watching Garcia on stage, leading the band through a marathon of hits, misses, oldies, newbies and whatever else stuck. The shows are forever embedded in my brain as the most pure and wistful rock and rock moments of my life. Every other artist I have followed hasn’t aged as well as Jerry and the Dead (well, maybe Neil Young). The older and crustier they got, the more refined and fascinating they became. If only Jerry Garcia could come back and reclaim the mantle. We sure could use his magic right about now.

I’ve always been indifferent to the playlists of radio stations for one simple reason: I have so many CDs I create my own playlists. OK, I suppose there’s a little more to it than that. When I was young and dumb, it was KMET and KLOS all the way. But I soon soured on the classic rock formats that took overe these and many other stations whenever another Fleetwood Mac tune leaked out of my speaker. Which isn’t to say I don’t like Fleetwood Mac — I do, just not 25 times a day. If it wasn’t for Mark & Brian, Uncle Joe Benson and Jim Ladd, I wouldn’t have any reason to tune into KLOS.

At the other end of the dial is KROQ, always hip and on the cutting edge. The problem is that a lot of what’s hip and cutting edge these days isn’t exactly candy to my ears. Which is probably why, for the last few years, I’ve been listening to talk radio. But even that’s starting to wear thin. I mean, you can only listen to blowhards like Tom Leykis, Adam Carolla and Danny Bonaduce blabber on about themselves for so long.

Aside from the boring formats and big egos, radio here in Los Angeles, as well as in other major metropolitan markets I imagine, is feeling the pinch from satellite and the Internet. When, at least, that’s what you hear. I’m not qualified to comment on the regulation slowly seeping into the Internet radio scene, but for awhile there, it was like anyone could become a DJ. Seriously though, do podcasts pose any real threat? I doubt it. And really, neither do satellites.

Howard Stern may have put a little scare into the big radio conglomerates when he first signed on with Sirius, but that’s seems to have died down a bit. In fact, if Stern’s ego — much mightier and more annoying than Leykis, Carolla or Bonaduce — has its way, he’ll probably return to terrestrial radio at some point in the not-too-distant future. No amount of money can soothe a beast with a shrinking audience.

This brings me to The Sound 100.3 FM in Los Angeles. The latest in a long line of boutique radio stations with a twist, The Sound does indeed rock to a different and diverse beat. I stumbled onto the station one day when I heard them playing the Grateful Dead. No one, I thought, plays the Dead without a specific reason, so that was a revelation in itself. But I kept listening — Bob Marley, then the Talking Heads, then the Black Crowes, then Coldplay, then… I wasn’t only hearing great songs I had never heard on the radio; I was hearing great songs I had never heard at all. A bit of the old weird with a wild selection of the new can often kill the broth, but somehow The Sound is turning out soufflés.

With their strategically placed billboards around town and along the freeway corridors, screaming “World Class Rock” and “Where Music Matters,” the instigators behind The Sound have taken to staging listener gatherings to gauge reaction, hear from diehard music lovers, introduce new artists and announce their existence. I was recently privy to such an event at the Gibson Guitar Showcase in Beverly Hills. Myself and about 50 others were treated to a fantastic brunch, a bag of swag, some stimulating musical discussion and a live performance by a young three-piece blues band from the British Isles called Back Door Slam. It was one of the nicest Sundays I’ve had in awhile.

I guess I could play favorites with The Sound because of their hospitality, but I’m really pulling for this station. They were sincerely receptive to the comments and suggestions that bounced around the room. Some faulted the station for being too soft and playing certain songs twice in the span of 24 hours, but for the most part The Sound is on the mark and winning converts. Of course, being “different” and serving the eclectic tastes of a discerning few can be a major obstacle for a brave new radio station, especially these days. Indeed, they’re swimming upstream here in La La Land where everyone’s a critic with a blog and a movie deal. But somebody’s gotta kick it up a notch.

Yes, boys and girls, the Clear Channels of the world haven’t killed the true spirit of rock radio. The Sound is angling for its own blue lagoon in a sea of mediocrity. They don’t have hyper DJs signing breasts at the Playboy Mansion. Instead, they play music that resonates, irregardless of age, gender, race, sexual orientation, religious affiliation, marital status, security clearance, education, years on the job, number of siblings, length of hair, or favorite NBA team. Isn’t it nice to be a music lover and explorer of new and wondrous sounds instead of a demographic? See for yourself by heading over to The Sound website — where they stream the tunes as they’re playing and encourage your input.

When Steve Morse replaced Ritchie Blackmore in Deep Purple, a monumental shift occurred. Morse faced an uphill battle joining a band whose glory days as a preeminent, big-selling hard rock band were pretty much over. Just as he had done with Kansas, the Dixie Dregs guitarist eschewed the temptation to pass himself off as a clone. Instead, he humbly embraced Purple’s rich history and slyly integrated his own style, tone and grace into the mix. Since Morse came aboard in 1994, Purple has sustained its reputation as a powerful live unit with a unique history of its own, extensively documented over four DVDs on Around The World Live.

The meat and potatoes of this hefty box set is a generous spread of thick and gooey live stuff. Not to be outdone in exoticism, there’s a 1995 show from Bombay, India, a few numbers from Seoul, Korea, from the same year, a 1999 performance from Australia, and a very special 2002 gig from the Hammersmith Odeon in London, England. Make no mistake about it: in the mid 90s, Deep Purple was a revitalized music machine, writing new music, tackling odd and off-the-wall themes, and thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Not longer battling with Blackmore, Ian Gillan is especially more assured as the band’s frontman and vocal piece. Morse, of course, developed an instant rapport with everyone, particularly keyboardist Jon Lord. Watching the two bounce off each other is especially poignant given the fact that the 2002 London was Lord’s last show as a member of Deep Purple. If anything, this box set is a tribute to the keyboardist, who reluctantly departed the group he co-founded, feeling he can no longer give a hundred percent.

One of the benefits that came with Blackmore’s departure, according to Gillan, was the band’s chance to explore some of the more obscure songs from Purple’s vast canon. Along with the obligatory parade of first stringers like “Space Truckin’,” “Highway Star,” “Woman From Tokyo” and “Smoke On The Water,” there’s the force of “Fireball,” the bombastic screech of “Bloodsucker’ and the austere eloquence of “Mary Long” to keep things on pace and unpredictable (although, why they threw in “The Battle Rages On” and “Anya,” two of the last songs Purple recorded with Blackmore, remains anyone’s guess). Somehow all the tunes from the Blackmore years perpetuate newer songs “Sometimes I Feel Like Screaming” and “Ted The Mechanic” to an almost mythic status — giving them a Purple sheen with a fresh, well-scrubbed face.

At the heart of the shows, however, is the interplay and improvisation, which defines the core of Deep Purple’s exulted radiance. The loose, open-ended arrangements spawned from the hearts and minds of Morse, Lord, bassist Roger Glover and drummer Ian Paice are challenging and suspenseful enough to keep even the most judicious critic on the edge of his seat. This just makes those one-offs all the more special.

And that’s what happens when Don Airey, Lord’s replacement, joins the group for the first portion of the 2002 London show. Proofing his worth, Airey scurries through an absorbing keyboard solo before tastefully winding down and stepping away. The lights dim, then slowly come up, revealing Lord behind the keyboards, taking command of his signature lick on “Perfect Strangers.” On the set’s numerous interviews, both Airey and Lord recall that the switch was an emotional and dramatic moment, spilling over with respect and gratitude, during an already intense evening.

Meanwhile, Steve Morse continually grinds his ax, stretching the imagination and blazing through a fiery solo before running through a myriad of classic riffs from the likes of Skynyrd, the Who, Zeppelin and the Beatles before surrendering to the call of “Smoke On The Water.” For all his strengths, Morse can’t deny the impact of that one mighty riff.

Each of the first three discs are rounded out with loads of extra interviews and performances. The fourth disc collects a series of interviews, rehearsal footage and old clips for the 88-minute Access All Areas documentary. Simply put, we get a fairly straightforward, somewhat fragmented overview that grazes the recent history of the band, while offering polite acknowledgements of the days before Morse. Obviously, a complete history of Deep Purple from all of its participants isn’t in the band’s immediate future. But for sheer distance and audacity, Around The World Live, housed in its hard-bound, 32-page cover, encapsulates the importance of Deep Purple’s undying pursuit of musical excellence, no matter who’s stage.

If you’ve ever wondered about the sonic perfection behind timeless classic rockers like “Magic Man” and “Barracuda,” your ship has come in. Heart In The Studio, a new book written by Jake Brown and published by ECW Press, digs deep into the nitty gritty of the writing, recording and studio wizardry that went into every Heart album.

Lead by sisters Ann and Nancy Wilson, Heart scaled the male-dominated mountain of hard rock in the 70s and 80s and came out a winner with over 30 million records sold. Brown goes to the very beginning, chronicling the girls’ growth as musicians, singers and songwriters, with an emphasis on their influences (mainly the Beatles and Led Zeppelin). As teenagers, Ann and Nancy — along with friend Sue Ennis — spent countless hours singing and playing guitars. This would nurture a special and strong creative bond that went onto produce numerous Heart classics.

Then, in Seattle, post-Hendrix and pre-grunge, Heart was born. Ennis pushes the narrative forward with memories of how Ann was playing the bar band circuit, the girls’ fascination with writers like Kafka and Dostoevsky, as well as their musical heroes, and the birth of Heart. Producer Mike Flicker, another frequent speaker, explains how when he first saw Heart, it was Ann Wilson and a bunch of guys.

Nancy took the folk music route before being persuaded to join her sister. Nancy’s acoustic tendencies transformed the band, and the sisters signed with Flicker’s Mushroom Records. Together, with Flicker, arranger/engineer/future band member Howard Leese, guitarist Roger Fisher, bassist Steve Fossen and an “ever-changing line-up of drummers,” Ann and Nancy recorded Dreamboat Annie and Heart’s star took an immediate rise.

At this juncture in the book, each chapter focuses squarely on each of the band’s albums. Flicker, who produced the first five Heart albums, goes into great detail about the process, breaking down each microphone and instrument used for any track that matters, and lavishing praise upon Ann’s incredible voice and Nancy’s role as harmonizer, co-songwriter and acoustic guitarist.

Leese deservedly draws a lot of credit for helping Heart develop musically and prosper. It’s interesting to read how he, not Fisher, was responsible for many of the guitar leads on those early albums. Fisher gets his due for his creativity and contributions to various songs (and Fossen and the band’s first permanent drummer Michael Derosier pull a scant mention or two), but it’s a shame he wasn’t interviewed and given a chance to explain his part in the early days of Heart. Then again, his departure is somewhat downplayed, so perhaps his memories of Heart aren’t so favorable.

Truth be told, if you’re looking for dirt on the Wilson sisters or anyone from Heart’s personnel, this isn’t the book to read. But if you’re a recording buff and need to know what kind of microphone was used on the bass drum for “Barracuda,” then this is your new bible. Even then, it isn’t as much a high tech guide as it is the story of a typical band experiencing the ebb and flow of the topsy-turvy music business.

One of the more fascinating periods in the history of Heart is the 80s when they recruited new hot-shot players (bassist Mark Andes and drummer Denny Carmassi) and world-class producers (Ron Nevison, Ritchie Zito, Keith Olson) who insisted on reshaping the band’s sound and using outside songwriters. That along with the big-hair image proved to be, while financially satisfying, a bit of a rough patch for the Wilsons. Ann Wilson says that the compromises Heart made in those days, “offended us actually…” explaining how MTV and the video age placed unreasonable demands on women with “fake fingernails and corsets and all the stuff that was big in the 80s.” Brown politely skirts the issue of Ann’s weight problems, while continually extolling the virtues of her incredible voice.

The 90s onward found the Wilson sisters settling into their role as veteran pioneers. It also gave the girls to time to breathe, reflect, have families and eventually return to their roots. Brown touches on the Wilson’s side group, the Lovemongers, before landing on an overly long chapter on the most recent Heart album from 2004, Jupiter’s Darling.

For this record, Heart sported a whole new lineup, aside from the Wilsons, including guitarist Craig Bartok. Bartok dominates the chapter with lengthy expositions on the songwriting and recording of the album. Brown would have served the book better had he cut the chapter and peppered it with a few more Ann or Nancy quotes. Nevertheless, Bartok, like every other producer and commentator interviewed for the book, thinks the Wilsons are brilliant in every possible way, echoing the shared theory that their singing harmonies attain that special blend genetically (which makes sense when you think of other singing siblings like the Every Brothers). Point taken.

The book also touches on Ann and Nancy side projects, notably on the former’s 2007 solo covers album, Hope & Glory, which includes duets with Gretchen Wilson, Wynona Judd and Elton John. The final chapter speculates on the group’s future, suggesting their next album might be something more conceptual, akin to Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side Of The Moon. That could be interesting.

As should be expected there’s a fair share of rare photos (mostly of the Wilson sisters — alone, together, band promo shots, or in the studio with their dogs) and a couple minor inaccuracies (Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours did not come out three years after Dreamboat Annie and Jimmy Iovine did not produce John Lennon’s Double Fantasy). For the most part, however, this is a cool and calm read any Heart or music fan will enjoy and savor. Pushed along with extensive quotes from most of the key players, alternating with a mixed bag of facts, figures, tidbits and whatnot, Heart In The Studio is the most authoritative tomb on Heart, the biggest female-led hard rock band of all-time.

When I saw Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young screaming politics during their Freedom of Speech 2006 tour, I felt compelled to join a movement, any movement, to initiate a positive change in America. Two years later, with things seemingly murkier in the daily struggle to survive, perhaps the new documentary CSNY: Déjà Vu , which chronicles the 2006 tour, will reignite a commitment to building a better life for everyone here in the good old U.S.A.

With Neil Young’s controversial Living With War CD providng a bulk of the tour’s material, the film documents audience reactions to the music and the foursome’s ongoing connection with their fans, all against a backdrop of war and news footage. The documentary hits U.S. theaters July 25 (simultaneous with the release of the DVD), while a soundtrack CD is already creating a buzz of its own.

Neil Young told Billboard that the CSNY: Déjà Vu soundtrack may be the best album ever made by the legendary supergroup. “It’s CSNY,” he said. “It really is CSNY. It’s not overdubbed. There’s no fixes. It’s straight from the board. The basic mixes are the mixes that people heard when we were playing it. So it’s got rough spots all the way through it, which I think is refreshing, especially considering the subject matter. Why should we polish? Why polish this? Who gives a shit whether it’s polished or not? It is what it is, and that’s the message of the music. It’s what we’re doing. If you don’t like, you don’t like it. If you like it, you like it. But it is what it is. Chroming it is not going to help it.”

To experience a slice of CSNY: Déjà Vu, check out the videos below.

Déjà Vu Official Trailer #1

Déjà Vu Footage