Seattle quintet Juno was one of those bands from the past decade that there should have been more of. Consisting of guitarist/vocalist Arlie Carstens, guitarist Jason Guyer, third guitarist and keyboardist Gabe Carter, drummer Greg Ferguson, and a revolving cast of studio and touring bass players, the group released only two records at the turn of the century before disbanding in 2003. To label the band “emo-core” is a disgraceful insult to every loud, intelligent guitar rock group of the past half-century; theirs was a sound that would obliterate self-indulgent whiners like Dashboard Confessional or The Promise Ring from the stage in a swift fury. With a three-pronged guitar attack, a daring prog-rock approach to songwriting, and smart, insightful lyrics, it’s no surprise that the major labels and MTV gave them a wide berth while pursuing more marketable groups. A typical live Juno set would usually include amps cranked to eleven, intermittent diving from monitors, splintering shards of feedback, and violent guitar thrashings resulting in head injuries to various members of the band. It didn’t take long for them to become underground favorites.

After an assortment of seven inches and brief courtships by Sub Pop and Jade Tree, Juno signed with Kim Coletta’s DeSoto Records for their debut, This Is the Way It Goes and Goes and Goes (1999). It’s a strong first release, only weighed down by occasional forays into overextended Mogwai-esque boredom-rock during its midsection. It would be hard to argue with Arlie Carstens’ vocal comparisons to Bob Mould, and it’s no more difficult to imagine the Husker Du frontman emote lines like:

You saved for me a memory of my former self,
But I won’t ask if you promise not to tell.
Lord knows we really never had much else.
It slides in real slow, you slide out real slow.
When she died she was just twelve years old.

Yet Juno’s sound is more about texture and subtle nuance, toying with dynamics and structure rather than full-frontal and direct guitar assaults. The organ at the intro of “The Young Influentials” is a nice touch, and what at first seems like a gut-wrenching ballad transforms into an aggressive stop-and-start workout for the band.

“The Young Influentials” – Juno 4:00 (This Is the Way It Goes and Goes and Goes, DeSoto 1999)

All great bands have a secret weapon, and for Juno it was drummer Greg Ferguson, a musician in complete deference of the song, never showboating, propelling each section with reliable time and thoughtful patterns. The rewarding half-time breakdowns are just one of the joys of “Venus on 9th Street,” where the three guitars shtick is applied to magnificent utilization.

“Venus on 9th Street’ – Juno 3:15 (This Is the Way It Goes and Goes and Goes, DeSoto 1999)

The follow-up to their debut, A Future Lived in Past Tense (2001), is one of the best guitar records since Hum’s glorious and criminally overlooked Downward Is Heavenward (1998). The concise six-stringed drills of the debut are expanded into atmospheric spoken-word mood pieces and furious onslaughts of noise, with the occasional marimba-led ballad and hypnotic instrumental tossed in. A Future also shows the band experimenting more with odd time signatures and, as “Help Is on the Way” exhibits, minimalistic repetition. Note how the hammered-on guitars slowly pan left and right during the introduction and how Ferguson’s bass drum delightfully anticipates the next section. At 1:43 the three guitars can’t control themselves any longer, forcefully bouncing off one other as Carstens’ vocals increase in intensity.

“Help Is on the Way” – Juno 5:29 (A Future Lived in Past Tense, DeSoto 2001)

The highlight of the record is saved for the finale, a monstrous juggernaut of a song titled “Killing It in a Quiet Way,” which couldn’t be more misleading. At nearly seven minutes, the track is an ideal illustration of what Juno had matured into over the course of a few years, and encompasses all the best elements of the album. Listen at 3:03 as the guitars erupt into chaos, and at 4:12 Ferguson blasts into one of the sickest 5/4 drum patterns I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing; from there the guitars promptly enter the stratosphere. It’s absolutely stunning, and one of the few songs in existence that is mandatory listening at 130 decibels.

“Killing It in a Quiet Way” – Juno 6:51 (A Future Lived in Past Tense, DeSoto 2001)

Juno was a band that should not be relegated to the annals of obscure 90’s indie rock; every guitar player absolutely must own a copy of A Future, and any fan of rock music in general would do well to pick up either.

Curtis Mayfield, at the summit of his creativity, wrote and produced three soundtracks during the 70’s: the ever-popular Blaxploitation drug saga Superfly (1972), Aretha Franklin’s career-reviving Sparkle (1976), and one of my favorites, the sweet and soulful Claudine (1974) for Gladys Knight & The Pips. The film starred Diahann Carroll as a struggling single mother on welfare in Harlem, and explored her relationship with James Earl Jones, an affable garbage man trying to manage a few kids of his own. This lighthearted drama didn’t make much of an impression on me when I watched it a few years ago; the preachy welfare system lessons were handled awkwardly and tended to detract from the chemistry between Carroll and Jones. Admittedly, I was only watching the film because I love the soundtrack so much and wanted to see how it translated visually.

Knight and Mayfield were both at the height of their popularity in 1974, with the former still coasting on the success of the universally-praised classic Imagination (1973) and Mayfield continuing his string of socially conscious Soul records beginning with Curtis (1970). Claudine’s only fault is its brevity: at seven tracks and with a running time of a little over half an hour, it’s incredibly skimpy by today’s standards. But what it lacks in length it more than makes up for in content. Every track is a solid gem: the irresistibly funky single “On and On” (which spent four weeks at #2 on the Billboard R&B charts), a lovely interpretation of Mayfield’s own “The Makings of You,” and the gospel-tinged “Hold On,” to name a few. “Mr. Welfare Man” opens the album with some incredible string and woodwind arrangements (listen closely for that flute line), airtight interaction in the rhythm section, and a delightfully campy chorus.

“Mr. Welfare Man” – Gladys Knight & The Pips 5:31 (Claudine, Buddah 1974)

One of the more fascinating aspects of the soundtrack is hearing Gladys sing with Curtis’ unique vocal inflections. “Make Yours a Happy Home” wonderfully combines Mayfield’s phrasing style with her Southern gutbucket wails.

“Make Yours a Happy Home” – Gladys Knight & The Pips 4:33 (Claudine, Buddah 1974)

Mayfield’s orchestration skills on Claudine had taken a huge leap forward since Superfly, as the sunny title theme demonstrates. Ideally, I would have preferred more cues and incidental music on the record, but it’s really more of a vehicle for Knight and less an Original Motion Picture Soundtrack; this instrumental track suffices well enough.

“Claudine Theme” – Curtis Mayfield 4:21 (Claudine, Buddah 1974)

I picked up this disc for $8.99 at a Barnes & Noble in Fredericksburg, VA seven years ago, and sadly, it’s gone out of print, with copies fetching up to $189.00 (!) on Amazon. (What an unfortunate shame that some opportunistic prick would have the audacity to make someone pay that much for something that cost less than a buck to manufacture. But I digress.) I’ve seen original vinyl editions for less than $10 on eBay, which may be the best solution to getting one’s hands on a copy – it has my highest recommendation and is a key addition to any classic 70’s Soul collection.

When I was a horribly lanky, impressionable lad in the ninth grade, I walked into the cafeteria one morning before school and happened upon my friend Jeremy sitting quietly at a table by the windows. He was alone with headphones on, staring intently at nothing, like he was studying an imaginary fly on the wall. I sat down and waited for him to acknowledge my presence, and as he removed the cans from his ears, he began to rewind the Walkman and said, “Ben, you have to hear this.” I listened to the dark, slinky bassline that opens “Three Days” from Ritual de lo Habitual, said, “Cool,” and I tried to hand his headphones back to him. But Jeremy made me listen for the next ten minutes, watching as I became enveloped in the sonic whirlwind the song morphs into. This was a no-brainer; I was now a Jane’s Addiction fan.

At first I was drawn to Perry Farrell’s nasally, whiny vocals and the flashy guitar heroics of Dave Navarro (whom I’ll still defend now, ridiculous parody that he has become. Try to name one other guitarist from the late 80’s who was even remotely close in style and technique to Navarro – an amalgam of complex jazz chording, hair-metal pyrotechnics, and gritty funk. Say what you want about him now, but the dude was incredibly unique for his day). It wasn’t until I started playing electric bass, however, that I started to notice how outstanding Eric Avery and Stephen Perkins’ rhythm support was.

Normally I’m pretty quick to dismiss rock drummers who tour the country giving eight-hour clinics at Guitar Center and appear on the cover of Modern Drummer grinning and twirling a pair of sticks. But Perkins, damn him, is just so charmingly self-effacing, so un-rockstarish (despite the mohawk), so eager just to contribute a solid drum part than hog the spotlight. And his technique is absolutely flawless, but tasteful; most drummers of his caliber are calculated and cocky, using any opportunity to display their double bass drum chops or some nauseating tom roll. I’m only posting “Ted, Just Admit It…” for purposes of convenience, as everyone really should own a copy of Nothing’s Shocking, but listen to how Perkins confidently navigates through the maze of parts and compliments everyone in the band beautifully, like he had been playing this song for decades. Oh, and he was barely 21 when this was recorded. Twenty-one, people.

“Ted, Just Admit It…” – Jane’s Addiction 7:22 (Nothing’s Shocking, Warner Bros. 1988)

After Jane’s disbanded and Farrell took Perkins with him to form Porno for Pyros, his drum work evolved into something more complex and subtle. I was surprised at the amount of negative criticism their self-titled debut received when it was released; I thought it was quite good for the most part and appreciated the fact that Farrell wasn’t trying to create a Jane’s v2.0. All four musicians were accomplished veterans of the L.A. music scene, but there was a still a loose, unprofessional vibe to the record that I feel many critics and fans overlooked. (My favorite anecdote about the Pyros was that bassist Martyn Lenoble had no fingerprints because he played so hard.) By this stage Perkins’ kit had expanded to the kitchen sink and then some, but he incorporated the exotic percussion into the music in a thoughtful and consistent manner. Check out the accents in his bizarre pattern during Peter DiStefano’s guitar solo on “Cursed Male,” one of the highlights of the disc.

“Cursed Male” – Porno for Pyros 3:51 (Porno for Pyros, Warner Bros. 1993)

Occasionally I’m asked what my favorite pieces of classical music are, or if I have any recommendations for someone new to the genre. I’m relatively new to this kind of music, only beginning to explore it in depth four years ago, and to be honest, I don’t really listen to it as much as I used to. I feel like I’ve discovered all of the great composers that I need to know about, I’ve firmly established my tastes in regard to likes and loathes (avoidances: Liszt, Wagner, Mahler), and there are only a few left that I want to further investigate (Webern, Nielsen, Berg).

So where should one start? I have no idea, because so much of it depends on the person. A knee-jerk response would be Mozart or Haydn, but most of their music bores me to death (geniuses they may be). My first real exposure was Stravinsky’s Le Sacre du printemps, but I could understand if its heaviness and dissonance may be a turn off to newcomers (though admittedly it sounds relatively tame today). I suppose the best advice I could offer would be to purchase The Rough Guide to Classical Music and go from there. Fortunately, most classical music on compact disc is incredibly cheap (a tip of the hat to Naxos), which lowers the intimidation factor significantly. I usually tell people that it’s nearly impossible to go wrong with Beethoven, so start there and branch out.

For what it’s worth, the following is a list of ten classical works that I absolutely could not live without, more or less ranked:

10. Dmitri Shostakovich: Cello Concerto No. 1 (1959)

Heather and I saw a performance of this at the BSO back in November of ’03, with Claudio Bohorquez as soloist, and my jaw was somewhere on the floor the entire time (sadly, it was followed by the dull monotony of Tchaikovsky’s 2nd). Technical metalheads love this piece, blissfully daydreaming about shredding those 16th note syncopations from their Jacksons. I’ve always had conflicting feelings about Shostakovich’s personal politics and his complacent succumbing to Stalin’s regime, but the man penned some amazing symphonies and string quartets, and this concerto just exudes so much raucous power it’s hard to not bow in submission.

“Cello Concerto No. 1 / I. Allegretto” - Dmitri Shostakovich 5:57 (Mstislav Rostropovich, The Moscow Philharmonic)

9. Arnold Schoenberg: Verklarte Nacht (1917)

I had a private instructor at school who was madly obsessed with Schoenberg’s 12-tone compositions, and though I believe they have their place, I prefer his earlier work, which smacks of German Romanticism but without the melodrama and pomposity. I’m quite fond of his Five Orchestral Pieces (1909), but Verklarte Nacht (Transfigured Night) for string orchestra is breathtaking, its nebulous, rich counterpoint giving impressions of glowing moonlit clouds and dark sexuality.

“Verklarte Nacht / I. Grave” – Arnold Schoenberg 6:03 (Herbert von Karajan, The Berlin Philharmonic)

8. Bela Bartok: String Quartet No. 4 (1928)

Scholars will still be dumbfounded a century from now trying to figure out what kind of shit Bartok was on. The man simply has no peers, and his ingenious string writing has been one of the most crucial contributions to the canon of modern music. His fourth string quartet is perhaps his most “difficult,” but as is the case with these things, its rewards are seemingly infinite. I must have listened to this in its entirety over a hundred times, even following along in the score, and I continually manage to uncover little buried jewels of brilliance that leave me astonished.

“String Quartet No. 4 / II. Prestissimo, con sordino” - Bela Bartok 2:41 (Emerson String Quartet)

7. Maurice Ravel: String Quartet in F major (1903)

One of the most performed and popular quartets of the past century, and deservedly so. Ravel caught a lot of criticism in his day for his quartet’s similarity to Debussy’s, but the benefit of time has shown that while both share a similar structure, Ravel’s work is much more solid, astute, and not as deliberately experimental. For me, I love the wistful airiness of the piece, the bouncy jubilance, yet reflective and childlike at once.

“String Quartet in F major / II. Assez vif. Tres rythme” – Maurice Ravel 6:05 (Keller Quartet)

6. Sergei Prokofiev: Cinderella (1944)

Many often select Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet (1936) as his ballet masterwork, but his less popular Cinderella has always struck a louder chord with me. The themes are denser, the orchestration more inventive, and Prokofiev constantly dips into his bag of clever tricks at every corner: note the cunning harmonic turnaround he uses at 0:50 to dive into a lush romantic lagoon of sweeping strings and harp arpeggios. While arguably not the most important or influential composer of the 20th century, Prokofiev has always been my personal favorite, easily adept at writing violent, barbaric battle hymns to elegant moments of sublime tranquility, and Cinderella has it all.

“Cinderella, Act I: Introduction” – Sergei Prokofiev 2:34 (Vladimir Ashkenazy, The Cleveland Orchestra)

5. Bela Bartok: Music for Strings, Percussion & Celesta (1936)

Kubrick fans might recognize excerpts of this from The Shining, and for good reason: it’s some of the most evil and terrifying music ever composed. From the pitch-shifting tympani to the dizzying piano and celesta, the “Adagio” is a fitting soundtrack to an endless nightmare. The piece begins with a claustrophobic, cyclic fugue almost beyond comprehension, furiously expands on a theme in the second movement, explores psychotic dementia in the third, and concludes on a loud, abrupt A major chord after a quick, rather diatonic spree in the fourth. Bartok’s unquestionable brilliance is on display throughout, and it’s a journey well worth taking, believe me.

“Music for Strings, Percussion & Celesta / III. Adagio” – Bela Bartok 6:28 (Jukka-Pekka Saraste, Toronto Sympony Orchestra)

4. Igor Stravinsky: L’Histoire du Soldat (1919)

After the notorious success of Le Sacre du printemps (The Rite of Spring) (1913), Stravinsky wrote this compact, bizarre little theater piece, undoubtedly one of the most inventive works of the past century. At times L’Histoire du Soldat (The Soldier’s Tale) sounds like a New Orleans jazz combo on crack. Or a somber and mysterious chamber group (“Pastorale”). Or a band of traveling circus musicians suffering from serious mental deterioration. The entire score is doused in head-spinning rhythmic complexity, advanced harmonic clusters of sound, and unconventional instrument combinations. By all means, hear this.

“L’Histoire du Soldat / Marche du Soldat” – Igor Stravinsky 1:43 (Pierre Boulez, The Cleveland Orchestra)

3. Jean Sibelius: Lemminkainen Legends - The Swan of Tuonela (1893)

Oddly enough, I don’t much care for most of Sibelius’ work; I find his symphonies too placid and colorless and his orchestration a bit lifeless. But when I first heard the tone poem The Swan of Tuonela from his Lemminkainen Legends suite, I was floored. No other piece of music could possibly evoke a frozen, barren landscape such as this, and any cold-environment analogy or metaphor wouldn’t remotely do it justice, but I’ll try: if you’re ever walking across a snow-blanketed field at midnight on a starry, crystalline night in January, The Swan of Tuonela is what will be guiding you.

“The Swan of Tuonela” – Jean Sibelius 9:11 (Paavo Berglund, Philharmonia Orchestra)

2. Claude Debussy: Pour le piano / II. Sarabande (1901)

I had a Writing for Strings class in college where the final assignment was to take a piano piece and transcribe it for string orchestra. I chose the “Sarabande” from Debussy’s Pour le piano suite because a casual listening gave me the impression that it was interesting enough and didn’t seem too difficult. Over the course of the next few weeks, I fell head over heels in love with this piece, to put it mildly. I would put it on repeat and listen to it while I was making dinner. It was in my headphones everywhere I went. I fell asleep and woke up to it. When it came time to complete the assignment, I jumped into it with delight, writing every note by hand and ignoring my professor’s advice to use Finale for the score. Amazingly, after hundreds of listens of different versions, it still sounds fresh and wonderful. Rarely has a piece of music spoken so clearly and directly to me.

“Pour le piano / II. Sarabande” – Claude Debussy 5:49 (Philip Entremont)

1. Sergei Prokofiev: Violin Concerto No. 1 (1917)

Naturally and perhaps unsurprisingly, Prokofiev is at the top of the list. Like Debussy’s “Sarabande,” some pieces of music possess the talent of using the canals of the ear as a direct conduit into one’s personality, miming every trait and idiosyncrasy with frightening exactitude. Prokofiev’s Violin Concerto No. 1 is my musical double. In less than four minutes, the scherzo has the solo instrument viciously sparring with a flute, commandeering the orchestra into combat with a mighty battle cry, and executing flights of technical expertise that no string instrument should be capable of doing. And to think that Prokofiev was only 21 years of age when he finished this. I have yet to find another work in the classical literature that gets me as excited as this one, and it’s highly doubtful I ever will.

“Violin Concerto No. 1 / II. Scherzo: Vivacissimo” - Sergei Prokofiev 3:52 (Charles Dutoit, Montreal Symphony Orchestra)

Honorable mentions:
Edgard Varese: Ionisation (1931)
Steve Reich: Six Marimbas (1986)
Claude Debussy: Sonata for Flute, Viola and Harp (1915)
Igor Stravinsky: Le Sacre du printemps (1913)
Ludwig van Beethoven: Symphony No. 7 (1812)

As much as I love and admire the man’s work, I’m hardly a completist when it comes to Ornette Coleman’s discography. My collection contains a few records each from the three major eras of his career: the popular early Atlantic quartet, his sporadically- recorded tenure with Blue Note in the 60’s, and his work on Columbia and with his electric band Prime Time in the 70’s. I’m certainly not in the position to offer a primer on Coleman’s canon in a single post; his music is far too diverse, with spiritual and political currents too extensive to examine casually, and impossible to pigeonhole, even in the traditional jazz sense. You won’t see an attempt at a definition of his harmolodics theory, either. Needless to say, everyone should own a copy of The Shape of Jazz to Come. For now, I’ll offer another comparison between two songs.

Ornette consistently applied and revisited particular melodic motifs in various contexts throughout his career, a technique that helps thread his large body of work together with some cohesion. The see-saw melody “All (of) My Life” was a theme that he played with in the early 70’s, first appearing (to my knowledge) on 1971’s Science Fiction (paired with the similar Broken Shadows on a double-disc reissue by Columbia in 2000). Science Fiction is a hit-or-miss assortment of free-blowing workouts at light speed (“Rock the Clock”), painfully dated avant-garde nonsense (the title track), and curious vocal pieces like “All My Life.” Indian vocalist Asha Puthli provides the melody atop some nervous rumblings and rolling tympani from the rhythm section (longtime standbys Haden, Blackwell, and Higgins). Coleman and the horns enter at 1:17 to re-emphasize the theme as the percussion grows more frantic. The whole production sounds like a pop song from an alternate universe.

“All My Life” – Ornette Coleman 3:56 (Science Fiction, Columbia 1972)

At the risk of blaspheming to the jazz purists, my favorite Coleman record is the one furthest away from a traditional jazz context, his symphonic orchestral piece Skies of America. Although not the first composition for orchestra that Coleman wrote, it was the first one to be released on record, by Columbia in 1972. The controversy surrounding Skies is sadly more prominent than the music itself: rumors abound about how the London Symphony Orchestra deliberately played the wrong notes to express their hostility with the score, the British Musicians’ Union banned Coleman’s group from playing on the record, and that Columbia butchered the composition for public release.

Regardless of the notoriety, editing, or production values, Skies of America is a stunning and gorgeous record; one that is not easy to assimilate by any means, but its rewards are substantial. In terms of the music itself: keys and tonal centers are vague at best, dissonant colors and textures dominate, and the voicings are at extreme ends of the instruments’ ranges to invoke a wide, expansive mood (“earth and sky,” as Coleman stated). For me personally, I feel that this is some of the most “visual” music ever recorded. With eyes closed, I see a cross-section of some of my deepest impressions of America: the endless breadth of the Nebraska plains, the industrial slums of the inner city, the quiet dominance of the Rockies, the lifeless concrete wastelands of the suburbs.

I feel hints of guilt and misrepresentation for offering only one track from the disc, as if one could possibly grasp the depth and intensity of this work from a three-minute excerpt. But listen to how Ornette transforms the “All My Life” motif into a rich, tranquil meditation for orchestra.

“All of My Life” – Ornette Coleman 3:08 (Skies of America, Columbia 1972)