Sam Sheridan, The Disaster Diaries: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Apocalypse

Sam Sheridan could have been Batman. The dude is a former wilderness firefighter, merchant marine and EMT who graduated from Harvard, studied with a muay thai master in Thailand, and did construction work in Antarctica — and all of that came before he started working on The Disaster Diaries.

A renaissance man’s guide to surviving the end times, this book depicts Sheridan jumping through all kinds of hoops in pursuit of preparedness — not just shooting ranges and firebuilding, either. We’re talking stunt driving, knife fighting, bugout-bag packing, elk hunting, igloo building and more. He traipses through bleakest Arizona with primitive-living expert Cody Lundin. He learns how to steal cars from an ex-con in Los Angeles. He gets some long, hard lessons on dog sledding from Inuit guides in Nunavut. Still, The Disaster Diaries transcends its straight-up usefulness at every turn. A skilled storyteller with a journalistic mindset, Sheridan is always sneaking in some telling details about this survivalist’s paranoid monologues, or that thief’s regret, or some tough guy’s considerable ego. And the author’s own wild flights of fancy — chapters frequently begin with him battling zombies, escaping super-quakes, beating back mutant gangs, or dodging alien spider robots — give the book an occasional touch of the surreal that’ll either heighten your own paranoia or put your mind at ease.

As readers, we can enjoy the book as a true-life first-person adventure story while taking solace in the fact that Sheridan is preparing for an apocalypse that will probably never happen. Probably.

Discover: Don Giovanni Records

A handful of the most impressive labels in the history of American independent rock have focused very closely on a single local scene: Dischord in Washington, D.C., Dangerhouse in Los Angeles, Sub Pop (for a while, at least) in Seattle. That list has a new contender: Don Giovanni Records, which, for the past decade, has been the voice of the underground rock scene of deeply unglamorous New Brunswick, New Jersey. Founded in 2003 by Joseph Steinhardt and Zach Gajewski to release a single by their own band Talk Hard, Don Giovanni has built itself up, slowly and steadily, into an indie-rock powerhouse, releasing records by bands like Screaming Females, The Ergs! and Waxahatchee, and building a national following for the scene Steinhardt and Gajewski grew up in.

“We never planned on being a label,” Steinhardt laughs. “But as soon as we put out our own 7-inch, some other friends of ours in a local band wanted to put one out, and we said, ‘If we sell ours and get our money back, we’ll put out yours.’ And it still kind of works that way, even though we’re bigger in scale. When we put out the Ergs!’ record” — their 2005 album dorkrockcorkrod — “we thought it was the end of the label. It was our first full-length album, and we figured if our money goes down to zero, we’ll just stop. We did it on vinyl. At first it didn’t really sell. And slowly, after three or four years, it blew up.”

The label’s founders both have day jobs that have nothing to do with music — Gajewski works in publishing, Steinhardt is a graduate student — which allows them to put the label’s profits back into releasing more projects. “I think, honestly, Zach and I believe in the New Brunswick scene more than anything,” Steinhardt says. “A lot of the Don Giovanni bands might have been bad financial decisions at first, but in the long run, that focus has paid off. We don’t think of what’s going to make us money, we think of what’s going on right now in our scene, and how we can document that.”

Don Giovanni’s roster is very much a community — the bands have mostly known one another for many years, and wave the flag for one another. (“Everyone on the label is a little obsessed with Brick Mower and Black Wine,” Steinhardt says. “Locally, they’re even bigger than Waxahatchee.”) Both of the founders are still in Don Giovanni-associated bands: Gajewski plays bass in the headbanging punk band Nuclear Santa Claust, and Steinhardt occasionally plays under the name Modern Hut. “It’s a really a solo project,” he notes, “but there’s a lot of people who keep it going, because I’m honestly not very talented. My friend Marissa from Screaming Females is really what made it happen — I’ve actually been working on a Modern Hut record with her for, like, six years.”

Since 2008, Don Giovanni has also put together a big concert for its bands every February. The annual showcase has expanded to increasingly large venues; this year’s showcase was a three-day, 15-band blowout. “I always liked the idea of really big shows,” Steinhardt says, “and when I started it, none of our bands had ever played places like Maxwell’s. I thought if we could do a show there that was successful, those bands could get on the radar at those venues. We did, and it sold out, and it’s just kept growing — every year we try to push the limit.”

We asked Steinhardt to tell us a bit about the history of Don Giovanni’s relationship with half a dozen of its most significant artists.

Interview: Sally Shapiro

Sally Shapiro is genuinely happy to be a part-time diva. Having eschewed the trappings of a full-time music career (no late-night performances or tireless promo appearances, and all but a handful of interviews), what we know about her is largely derived from her three albums of unapologetically romantic Italo disco. While Shapiro will admit that she prefers not to sing anything she can’t identify with, the details of Shapiro’s personal life — and even her real name — are all but lost in the haze of producer Johan Agebjörn’s effervescent electro pop, acid house, and dance tunes. Just the way she likes it.

eMusic’s Laura Studarus caught up with Shapiro and Agebjörn, and the two joined her in a conversation about their new album Somewhere Else, the power of nostalgia, and the cinematic possibilities of their back catalog.

Being film fans, do you ever picture how your music might be used in movies?

Agebjörn: On “Sundown” on Somewhere Else, we tried to recreate the sound of a certain type of ’80s ballads, or maybe not exactly ballads, but some kind of slower 80s pop. With the saxophone solo at the end it sounds (especially on the vinyl version of the album) very much like something played in a cheap bar in the ’80s — for example, in the bars on the Viking Line ferries between Sweden and Finland. The lyrics are about having lost your love, so we imagine a scene in a movie taking place in the ’80s, where someone has just lost her/his love and is sitting in a bar, drinking in order to forget, while the live band is playing this song.

Shapiro: Our track “Casablanca Nights” [from Agebjörn's album with the same name] was originally inspired by the film Love Actually, and all the complicated love stories in there. The writing of the song started with the phrase “Since when did love get uncomplicated?” However, if we got to set one of our tracks to that movie, we would choose the last minutes of our first track, “I’ll Be By Your Side,” to the happy ending scene with people hugging each other.

Agebjörn: When we made “Swimming Through The Blue Lagoon” [from the album My Guilty Pleasure], we didn’t have the film The Blue Lagoon from 1980 in mind, but we had watched the film many years ago, so probably it was a subconscious influence. Our track would suit pretty well, we think, to the scenes where they are swimming in the lagoon, obviously.

With love as a running them throughout your music, do you consider yourselves to be romantics?

Shapiro: [Laughs.] Yes, I would really say so!

Agebjörn: Music is a good way to express that. Because I don’t think we are more romantic than everyday people in our ordinary, day-to-day actions. But inside, yeah.

What’s more fun for you, to create a tragic love song? Or one that’s a bit happier?

Shapiro: I think a tragic one is better. Or funnier, in a way. It feels more real, even though there are happy love stories also. But it feels more strong.

Agebjörn: Maybe you have a need to express it more.

Shapiro: Happy love, it feels like it should happen more with a different sound than [ours]. Happy love songs have to be good — at least if you’re going to bother to make a whole album of them.

Agebjörn: I think it can be some kind of therapy for yourself, to express melancholic feelings in the music.

Who brings most of these themes to the table?

Shapiro: I don’t really know who does the most. It feels like we both do. But I can’t really say. I think it’s quite equal.

Agebjörn: In the beginning it felt a bit more like my project than it does now. At least the first few songs.

Shapiro: Yes. I feel more a part of it now. Not that I didn’t have a chance to be more a part of it before, but it feels like I’m taking a bigger part in it.

Agebjörn: I don’t have to convince Sally as much as I did in the beginning. So that’s good.

Shapiro: No [laughs]. In the beginning it was more like my saying “yes” or “no” to the things that Johan wrote for me. But now I’m more in the process.

How important is it to you that your personality comes through in these songs?

Shapiro: It is important that it’s not a total other personality. There is more to both me and Johan’s personality than we express in the songs, but it’s important that it feels like us. Or at least one of us.

Agebjörn: I remember you weren’t too fond of “Space Woman From Mars.”

Shapiro: No. Exactly. Because that’s not something I can really identify with. But I can identify with most of the other songs. Therefore the lyrics are very important for me.

Do you see music as an escape from your day-to-day life? Or is it an expression of it?

Shapiro: A tough question!

Agebjörn: Maybe it’s an escape if you look at what you do. We both have other occupations.

Shapiro: But not in a feelings way. It makes feelings get stronger.

Agebjörn: You feel like you’re more of yourself. I didn’t realize when we first made Disco Romance, but when I thought about the songs, I was just thinking that, “OK, let’s do this the Italo disco way.” I didn’t realize until afterwards that there was a lot of my personality in it as well.

I think that that could be hard to escape, not putting your personality into a project, even when you’re working in a frame like Italo disco.

Shapiro: [Laughs.] Yeah. It would probably not be very good either. Maybe it depends on the artist.

Agebjörn: when I look back at the different types of music that I tried to create back in 2005 or 2006, the songs that were most successful were probably the songs where I expressed my personality. I also made French Filter House music, which was popular about 10 years ago. I tried to do some of that. When I listen to it today, it sounds pathetic, since I was just copying things. Where as Sally Shapiro and my own music, there’s more of myself in it.

Do you find that now you’re taking even more ownership of your music, Somewhere Else expresses who you are maybe more than Disco Romance did?

Shapiro: Maybe in some way, with some of the songs.

Agebjörn: On the other hand, “Find My Soul” from Disco Romance, it’s a song about having a boyfriend who doesn’t understand you, which was a theme in your life.

Shapiro: Yeah, yeah! That’s true. [Laughs.]

Is it easier for you to be vulnerable about things like a boyfriend that doesn’t understand you in song than, say, discussing them with a friend?

Shapiro: Absolutely. Yeah.

Agebjörn: That’s something we’ve talked about. Sally sometimes says if everyone knew her name and who she was, she wouldn’t be able to do this in the same intimate way.

Shapiro: Yeah. I don’t think so. I think that’s also important. You are more free in this way. Some of it can sound very intimate. And that’s a frightening feeling if you’re called out. But I think many people feel that but can’t express that, because it’s been expressed so many ways before. But doing it this way, it feels like you can do it, and not think about that all the time. In that way it’s better.

Was music a major part of both of your childhoods?

Agebjörn: Yes. I recorded stuff to tape when I was five or six years old. I still have some of those tapes. It’s fun to listen to them. I recorded myself singing and making sounds and things.

Shapiro: We both — like most people in Sweden, really — went to this music school in our spare time where we learned to play piano.

Agebjörn: My strongest musical memories are all from the time I was a teenager. It seems like that’s pretty common.

Shapiro: It’s also a period when you start to build up an identity. What kind of music you listen to becomes part of your identity.

Agebjörn: What’s funny with Sally Shapiro is that I didn’t listen to disco so much when I was in my late teenage years. I listened to disco when I was 12. Electronica was part of my later teenage period. Then I returned to my love from childhood.

It’s amazing how we do return to things we loved as children.

Shapiro: Yeah. It’s hard to say if we really do still like them.

Agebjörn: We are very nostalgic people, both me and Sally.

Is there a song or a band that reminds you of the first time you fell in love?

Agebjörn: I remember I was listening to an album by Erasure when I was in a period of unhappy love when I was 17 years old. It was the album I Say I Say I Say that contains the song “Always” [sings], “Always, always, do do do.”

In the past, your music has been called a “guilty pleasure.” What do you think would be the greatest compliment that someone could say about your music?

Agebjörn: Sometimes we get emails from people who tell us stories, personal stories about our music and how it has affected them. That’s the best thing that can happen in terms of feedback. Someone told us our music helped them start a relationship — that’s really fantastic.

Shapiro: It is fun when people feel that they can identify, that it expresses their feelings. I like that.

The Luck of the Fictional

We’ve all heard about the luck of the Irish, that mythological good fortune that clings to the Emerald Isle and all of its inhabitants. But we’d wager that the luckiest people around aren’t Irish at all…nor are they, technically, people. Fictional characters have the highest good luck-to-mishaps ratio around, finding themselves in the most impossible of impossible situations and then, just as unexpectedly, coming out unscathed (and maybe even enlightened) on the other end.
There’s something about good fortune that’s intensely appealing to writers, a notoriously down-on-their-luck group, and they can’t help but grant their creations with the deus ex machine they themselves could use so much. Here, we’ve gathered five of our favorite lucky characters, a disparate group connected by a common good fortune.

Top 10 Non-Smiths Johnny Marr Moments

Johnny Marr is best known as the guitarist of ’80s icons the Smiths, but in the quarter-century-plus since he left the group, the 49-year-old Manchester, England, native has carved out a diverse career as a trusted sidearm. Besides joining several other bands as a touring and/or recording member (The The, Modest Mouse and, most recently, the Cribs), he’s worked with an impressive roster of British and American musicians—including Talking Heads, the Pretenders, Beth Orton, the Cult, and even Girls Aloud. To celebrate the release of his first solo album, The Messenger — and honor his colorful catalog — here are 10 of his best collaborations.

St. Patrick’s Day Flash Sale

No matter what your St. Patrick’s Day plans — be it a rowdy pub crawl or a more low-key celebration of Irish culture — we’ve got the soundtrack covered. Discover Irish artists from Glen Hansard’s heartfelt folk songs to the drunken punk of Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly, all on sale for $4.99 or less through March 18, exclusively for eMusic members. Want more Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly than what you see below? Check out the rest of their catalogs for more albums on sale.

Billy Bragg, Tooth & Nail

Billy Bragg’s career is defined by a dichotomy. He is best known as one of the last surviving examples of the protest singer, the spirit of Woody Guthrie reincarnated in an Essex punk rocker (a reputation cemented further by Bragg’s curation of Guthrie’s legacy in the company of Wilco on the terrific Mermaid Avenue albums). But Bragg has written at least as many love songs as he has political jeremiads. Tooth & Nail, Bragg has admitted, is an effort at reminding his listeners, and himself, of his facility on this front.

Tooth & Nail is not without political content: Guthrie’s “I Ain’t Got No Home” was too timely a cover to pass up, its line “The gambling man is rich/ While the working man is poor” an astute a summary of 21st-century economic reality as might be imagined. And Bragg can’t quiet himself:¬ “There Will Be A Reckoning” seethes with vengeful portent, and “No Knows Nothing Anymore” is a fretful meditation on the dissolution of certainties. But most of Tooth & Nail is concerned with relationships between individuals, rather than between countries or classes.

Bragg was clearly determined not to overthink matters: The album was recorded in just five days at producer Joe Henry’s home studio. Measured against the rest of Bragg’s canon, it is most similar in tone and texture to 1988′s Workers Playtime, which contained such love/unlove songs as “She’s Got A New Spell” and “The Price I Pay.” Tooth & Nail contains much that reaches those standards, especially the rueful countryish ballads “Chasing Rainbows” and “Over You.” Not for the first time, Bragg distils the eternally infuriating truth that the conflicts of lovers make the ructions of competing nations and ideologies look relatively uncomplicated.

Lady, Lady

This invigorating retro-soul album comes from a duo consisting of one-time UK 2-step garage star Terri Walker and Nicole Wray, whose “Make It Hot” (under her first but not last name) was one of a half-dozen Jeep bombs Timbaland concocted in 1998. Nothing about Lady, also the name of their act, feels forced — Walker and Wray sound like they’re having the time of their lives, not least because nothing is stopping them from getting to dig in lyrically. “If You Wanna Be My Man” analyzes a relationship sharply but without rancor (“You changed, and I changed/What we used to be”) over a groove that’s equal parts Spinners and Bill Withers. And the amazing “Money” is a bad-boyfriend anthem (she likes the green better than him) that doubles as a proud feminist declaration (“I feel proud that I’m an independent lady”) — not to mention a classic soul single, whatever the calendar year.

Interview: Phosphorescent

On 2010′s Here’s To Taking It Easy, Matthew Houck, aka Phosphorescent, seemed to have left behind the hippie commune behind him. Armed with the crack country/rock/soul ensemble he’d assembled for his Willie Nelson tribute record To Willie, he crafted a hard-livin’, hard-drinkin’ country-rock record, a valentine to Gram Parsons, the Stones and more. Maybe this backwoods weirdo had looked in the cracked mirror, combed his beard and made up his mind to pursue his fortunes in the big city.

Or maybe not: From the opening moments of Phosphorescent’s new Muchacho, it becomes clear that Houck is as unalterably weird as ever. Muchacho is a fusion of everything Phosphorescent has been over the course of the last several unpredictable years: It is an ethereal meditation on fate and the limits of free will delivered by a sadly broken soul. It is a record full of beautiful, inscrutably poetic language — koans, charms, blades, invocations. And all those horn charts and pedal steel guitars are still here, but they’ve been put to a larger task than ever before: Houck is contemplating his place in the universe, and ours.

At a bar in Greenpoint, over afternoon beers and shots of Jack, Houck talked with eMusic’s Jayson Greene about the time he almost killed Phosphorescent, the damage inflicted by life on the road, and the mind-clearing trip that brought Muchacho into the world.

This album is framed by two pieces called “Sun Arise.” On Pride, you had a song called “Be Dark Night.” Were you trying to draw a specific contrast there?

I would like to lay claim to that much control over what I was doing. The “Sun Arise” thing was a very conscious decision, but not in reference to other work. I knew I had this piece, which is that synthesizer piece you hear in the opening, and I thought I thought it was going to be a recurring theme that goes in and out of the record. When I realized it was going to bookend the record, it seemed like the logical thing would be to have a sunrise and a sunset. But then I realized I didn’t want a sunset! Because it’s a relatively heavy record, and I think it needed some focusing on the brighter aspects of things, the ascension, as opposed to the downward spiral.

Your music always seems pretty heavy to me — what about this record feels particularly so to you?

There are parts here where feel revealed. I call this thing I do Phosphorescent as opposed to just Matthew Houck to have a degree of separation there, and keeping that is still pretty important to me. There’s a lot of fiction blended in with truths, but to me, I can hear some stuff on here that is heavy to me on a personal level. I don’t know if other people can pick up on that or if that’s just in my head. Which parts those are I think is for you, the reader, to decide.

What was the first thing you wrote for this album?

“Muchacho’s Tune.” And that one just kinda just came. We had gotten off the road after the last record, Here’s To Taking It Easy, and had been on the road really hard — both in length of time and the way we were traveling were pretty brutal. I came back really fried. There’s way worse ways of making a living, obviously, so you don’t want to bitch, but honestly it can be a very damaging way of life.

During that time, I was making these little ambient sound pieces and playing around with them, and was thinking about maybe not making another Phosphorescent record. Maybe I’d call my next thing something else. At the very beginning, I had Brian Eno’s first ambient record, Another Green World, and his last one that was a little more songwriter — Before And After Science — in my head. I went deep into those, where I wasn’t really listening to much of anything. There was about a year there where I was figuring out if I was going to keep doing Phosphorescent or not.

What helped change your mind?

I ended up going down to Mexico. I sort of checked out of my life for awhile — well, for a week — and went down there and the rest of the little fragments started to assemble themselves into something that I would consider to be a Phosphorescent record. It was a real spur-of-the-moment thing; I had some points on a credit card and jumped on a flight early one morning. I was in this place called Tulum. It’s this place that’s kind of off the grid — like, it’s literally off the electric or water grid. They run generators for water and power for a few hours during the day and then at some point everything shuts down. They have these little huts, like haciendas that you can just rent. People who are checked out of society a little bit, I think, tend to gravitate there, and there’s definitely a contingent of people who exist on that frequency at all times, and they live there year-round. Other people like me just stay for a while.

My friend had gotten a van to tour through mainland Mexico just for kicks, so I went down there to rendezvous with them for a night, but for the rest of the time I was completely alone. I’m sure there were people gathering together at night over the fire or something like that, but I was really on my own tip. I did a lot of walking, and swimming, and then a few hours every day of getting the guitar out and trying to do something concrete. I didn’t talk to many other people much. I think it gave me a chance to just write, just to focus, which I don’t always do. I’ve never really had a great work ethic about writing, as far as putting my ass in the chair and writing goes. It goes in spurts.

For that reason, I kind of like deadlines, how they force things into being. Like with the country records in the ’60s and ’70s — the reason they were so prolific was that their record company was bearing down on them, like, “You’ve gotta do this,” cracking the whip. I kind of like that notion that you can be pushed to do something that you wouldn’t ordinarily do if you were just treating it as your sort of whimsy.

This album sounds quite a bit unlike your last two records…

For me, Here’s To Taking It Easy and To Willie were these little detours, but I think for many people, it was the first thing they heard, so they assume this is what Phosphorescent sounds like, and this is somehow a departure. I really loved making those records, but for me, those were the departures and this is kind of the core. I had put that band together to tour for To Willie, and just realized how goddamned good they were. I was like, “I really just need to try to make a record while all these people are in one place.” It was my only time making a record for a band, instead of making a record and then finding the band for it.

I made a concerted effort to have the pedal steel not be a signifier for “country.” It’s a beautiful instrument, but I think by and large, the first time you hear pedal steel come in on a song, people are like, “Ah, country.” The pedal steel baffles me, honestly. I look at people who play it the way I look at people who are heart surgeons.

On that song, “Muchacho’s Tune,” you wrote “Fix myself up/ come and be with you,” which feels like an interesting sentiment: It’s oddly hopeful, even as it acknowledges that the narrator is in a bad place. Was that a personal sentiment for you?

If you’re asking me the specific “you” that I would have been writing that for, I don’t think I’d be able to give you one. To me, that song is about something higher than that; it’s aiming for a real redemption of sorts, I think. I think that’s what music does, or hopefully that’s what it does. And the theme for that song, and for this whole record is one of redemption.

Lenny Kaye Walks Through Hendrix’s Last Years

Loaves and fishes. Out of a foreshortened lifeline and a relatively small body of work, it seems there is no end to the many miracles wrought by Jimi Hendrix to feed our insatiable hunger to hear every lick he played. For someone who did his fair share of burning the candle at both ends, as well as in the middle, he never lost sight of his work ethic and fascination with music’s byways — ceaselessly experimenting, recording and jamming with his peers. Even now, when the sea-scrolls of recording tape he magnetized have been scrupulously parsed and excavated, especially in the hands of his long-time extra-sensory engineer, Eddie Kramer, with People, Hell and Angels, there is still more to discover, savor and put in the context of his time on this Earth.

His every note bears a hand-stamp of tone and bend, Marshall amps shuddering to keep up with his sonic overload. Snapshots of work-in-progress are mingled with the sheer joy of playing. Despite the fact that Hendrix owns the spotlight, the hook of the album is collaboration — his readying to take a step into his next music, the one that we can only tantalizingly hear in these tracks. The sounds he would have made for the next 40 years, and then some.

He entwines easily with his rhythm section, whether it be the straightforward and propulsive Buddy Miles, whose mighty whack on the snare goes with his insistent right foot; or Mitch Mitchell, always the most airy and spatial of drummers, skittering around the kit. Hendrix mostly relies on his old army buddy Billy Cox to underpin the bass, when he’s not assuming the low frequencies himself. Others who drop by are Steven Stills, saxophonist Lonnie Youngblood and members of assemblages that he is exploring new textures with, especially his percussive Woodstock “band,” Gypsy Sun and Rainbows. The level of commitment in the studio is high, and no matter whom he’s interacting with, Jimi doesn’t change so much as usher the chosen players into his spatial universe.

Some of it is remarkably straightforward, caught before the afterthoughts of overdubbing. “Earth Blues,” which leads off the album, can be heard in more fleshed-out form on Rainbow Bridge, with Mitch Mitchell replacing Miles on drums, but I prefer this no-frills alternate take where the psychic interplay between the Band of Gypsies can be felt as they prepare for their Fillmore East New Year’s Eve extravaganza. The trio had been recording since the previous May (1969), and two blues-drenched cuts — “Hear My Train A-Coming” and Elmore James’s “Bleeding Heart” — show Jimi’s vision of what might be done with blues’ traditional formalisms. As always, the focus is on his truly inspired guitar playing, and his solos range free, filled with quick-draw tangents and asides, losing themselves in the passion of the moment.

Sometimes the seams show. “Let Me Move You” is a showcase for Lonnie Youngblood, but the results are somewhat perfunctory, especially given what someone like Sly Stone was doing with the concept of funkification. Hendrix, however, plays through with rhythmic confidence and grits-and-cheese chop-chording. “Izabella,” with the Gypsy Sun ensemble, is more assured, a stepping-stone to the Band of Gypsys version that would be captured a year later. “Crash Landing,” another early idea-in-the-making (later to provide the dominant riff of “Freedom,”) was previously heard only in a severely post-overdubbed version; but here, with original instrumentalists Rocky Isaac (of the Cherry People) on drums, an unknown organist, and the ever-reliable and underrated Cox on bass, comes as close as any of Hendrix’s compositions to crossing the funkadelic line. The well-developed “Inside Out” — with Jimi’s guitar lines doubled and himself on bass — is an instrumental overlaid with the whirligig sound of a Leslie speaker in full rotation. Add the contemplative “Villanova Junction Blues” for Hendrix at his most serene, and, yes, People, Hell and Angels is a listenable and fascinating tour of Jimi’s thought processes in the last years of his life.

There will always be debate on how these tracks would have been finalized had Hendrix lived, and the worthiness of what, in the end, were takes that were discarded for one reason or another, or posthumously embellished. But as the years recede, even Hendrix’s toss-aways take on added significance, and in truth, sometimes more polished productions are not as revealing of his magic as these moments when he is at his most vulnerable, stepping out from his persona into his great unknown, to see what might be revealed.

New This Week: John Grant, Squarepusher & More

John Grant, Pale Green Ghost Grant’s Queen of Denmark was named the best album of 2010 by Mojo, thanks to its confessional tales of heartbreak and lush, lovingly arranged production by Midlake. Its follow-up sees Grant branch out into darker electronic pop, but is just as intensely involving, as he documents an astonishing catalogue of trials including depression, drug addiction and recently being diagnosed as HIV positive.

John Fullbright, From The Ground Up Fullbright hails from Woody Guthrie’s hometown in Oklahoma, and at just 24, already has a handle on the sort of rich dustbowl Americana that recalls Townes Van Zandt or Randy Newman. Sung in an Okie twang, which ranges from soft to an alley-cat yowl, this accomplished debut suggests Fullbright has his sights set on the great American canon. John Morthland interviews Fullbright here.

Brandt Brauer Frick, Miami This classical trio’s third album has a more supple, spontaneous feel than 2011′s Detroit techno-inspired Mr Machine, and features guests vocalists including Jamie Lidell and Sun Ra member Om’Mas Keith. Ben Beaumont-Thomas writes:

“These guest slots smooth out the potential fussiness of the instrumentation, which includes everything from plucked strings to warm brass. The bottom end of a tuba’s range rumbles through “Verwahrlosung” – it could be the trio wittily redefining the parameters of bass music.”

East India Youth, Hostel EP The bedroom producer who inspired the founders of the music website The Quietus to set up a record label, just for him, showcases an irresistible, unpigeonholeable mix of pop, techno, Krautrock, electro and churchy crescendos, layered with melodic guitars and distinctive heartfelt vocals. Stuart Turnbull’s interview is here.

Squarepusher, Enstrobia Originally a bonus EP with his CD album Ufabulum, this is the first time these tracks have been available digitally. The release is to promote an audiovisual spectacular planned for London’s Roundhouse on March 30.

Ólöf Arnalds, Sudden Elevation It’s no small risk for Ólöf Arnalds to write and sing Sudden Elevation in English instead of her native Icelandic. J. Edward Keyes writes:

“Peeling away her gauzy facade leaves the raw essence of her music exposed. The good news is that the songs can bear the scrutiny. Sudden Elevation contains all the tender beauty of Arnald’s previous efforts – the wandering-bard guitar playing, the vocal melodies the bob like butterflies in a spring breeze.”

Nadia Sirota, Baroque Sirota is the violist of choice for the New York contemporary-classical scene, and on Baroque she follows her astoundingly assured debut with fresh works from many of the composers who contributed to it, among them Judd Greenstein, Nico Muhly and Missy Mazzoli. Seth Colter-Walls writes:

“Shara Worden’s “From the Invisible to the Visible” is a brief, attractive offering that introduces keyboards and organs into the mix to considered effect. While more tricked-out electronically than Sirota’s first offering, Baroque retains her aesthetic imprint.”

The Virgins, Strike Gently – sophomore release from the New York quartet.

Adrian Younge Presents the Delfonics

The original Delfonics lineup split up decades ago, but their legacy has lingered. The hip-hop generation saw to that, using Thom Bell’s velvety arrangements and the achingly sweet falsetto of lead singer William Hart to striking effect. Enter Adrian Younge, the Black Dynamite soundtrack mastermind who’s also collaborated with avowed Delfonics fanatic Ghostface Killah (Pretty Toney highlight “Holla” famously paid homage to “La-La – Means I Love You”). Adrian Younge Presents the Delfonics is an unusual type of throwback: Younge’s muddy, lo-fi atmospherics recall low-budget early ’70s local-label 45s more than they do Bell’s vintage lushness. But the hallmarks of those classic albums’ instrumentation — burbling electric sitar, tinkling harps, chiming bells — are not only present but mix well with Younge’s characteristic elements of blown-out fuzz guitar and bone-chilling organ. And if Hart’s once-delicate falsetto has aged into something with a bit more bite to it, it cuts through the production’s intense haze vividly and harmonizes lushly with the young backup singers Saudia Mills and Loren Oden. With a slate of achingly heartfelt love songs — the blues-drenched garage-soul of “Lost Without You”; the haunting Om’Mas Keith collabration “Stop and Look”; the early ’60s vibe of “I Can’t Cry No More” — this is a fitting addition to the canon of a justly revered name in R&B.

John Kenney, Truth in Advertising

Finbar Dolan, the sexually frustrated, commitment-phobic, 30-something protagonist of Truth in Advertising, is an archetypal beta male. He works in advertising, where he’s carved out a reputation as a competent but not exceptional copywriter, and he sucks at sustaining loving relationships — he spontaneously canceled his engagement and has cut off contact with his dysfunctional family.

Author John Kenney breathes new life into the emotionally-stunted-guy narrative, infusing it with humor and generosity. The book turns a discerning, unforgiving eye toward the absurd world of advertising, in which people earnestly say things like “diarrhea should be aspirational.” Over the course of the novel, Finbar comes to understand his abusive father, learning in the process how to commit to big decisions.

Truth in Advertising wants to be both a satire and a heartwarming story of recovery from childhood trauma. Though the latter effort is touching, its pace can grow tedious and the tonal shifts are jarring. Reader Robert Petkoff exacerbates Kenney’s tendency to stereotype, bestowing a Japanese businessman with a Mr. Miyagi-like accent and reading love interest Pheobe with a breathy, vapid voice.

In trying to reconcile cynical humor and humaneness, Truth in Advertising sometimes leads the two perspectives to clash. Though Kenney might not inspire epiphanies in his readers, he’s all but guaranteed to provoke laughter.

Six Degrees of Matmos’s The Marriage of True Minds

It used to be easier to pretend that an album was its own perfectly self-contained artifact. The great records certainly feel that way. But albums are more permeable than solid, their motivations, executions and inspirations informed by, and often stolen from, their peers and forbearers. It all sounds awfully formal, but it's not. It's the very nature of music — of art, even. The Six Degrees features examine the relationships between classic records and five other albums we've deemed related in some way. In some cases these connections are obvious, in others they are tenuous. But, most important to you, all of the records are highly, highly recommended.

Teddy Wayne, The Love Song of Jonny Valentine

Even at 11 years old — almost 12, he’d tell you — tween-pop phenom Jonny Valentine is afflicted with a certain Hollywood ennui. The singer, who shot to fame thanks to YouTube videos and a ferocious dipsomaniac of a momager, might be not-so-patiently waiting for puberty to arrive, but he’s already well versed in sleeping pills, publicity stunt relationships and websites that count down the days until he’s 18 and therefore “legal.” He’s also juggling lagging concert attendance, life on the road, and the sudden reappearance of a father who’s been missing for most of his short life.

In Teddy Wayne’s sharp, funny book, young Jonny serves as a carb-counting, video game-obsessed ragdoll for the music industry, consumers included, to play with until boredom — or a voice change — sets in. Valentine’s thisclose to being a Justin Bieber stand-in (he does have a signature haircut), but in the book he lags in popularity behind Tyler Beats, a slightly older, acne-prone crooner whose career he wants to emulate. Being second place — as well as lacking the professional and personal structure that seems to let Tyler function as more teen than machine — gives Jonny something for which to strive, giving the book a satisfying arc. A journey as smooth as Jonny’s own yet-to-explode skin wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable to read.

And while some of our protagonist’s observations seem beyond his years and parallels between his life and the hard-to-complete video game he can’t stop playing are a bit heavy-handed, it’s not hard to forgive these missteps and let Jonny Valentine‘s sugary charm win you over. That’s the whole idea.

Sound City – Real to Reel, Sound City – Real to Reel

In Dave Grohl’s world, if you want to direct a movie about a defunct recording studio, you make a few calls; take a few meetings, and wha-la! you’re a director. Similarly, if you need some fellow rock stars to record a tribute album supporting said tribute film, well — you get the picture. Thankfully, for the budding film auteur, Sound City – Real to Reel is everything we’ve come to expect from the former Nirvana drummer turned million-selling, molar-flashing Foo Fighter.

Writing and performing alongside Paul McCartney, Stevie Nicks, Rick Springfield, Trent Reznor, Josh Homme, Rick Nielsen, Lee Ving of Fear, Corey Taylor, Brad Wilk and Tim Commerford of Rage Against The Machine, and the Foos, Dave Grohl’s Real to Reel is a nostalgic tribute to L.A.’s closed Sound City studio, the birthplace to Rumours, Damn the Torpedoes, Rage Against The Machine and Nevermind. Sound City – Real to Reel is high on energetic hits, worthwhile rock-star vanity pieces, and one extremely nasty miss. The album was recorded on Sound City’s original analog Neve console, now safely ensconced in Grohl’s 606 recording studio.

First, the “Best of Real to Reel“: Stevie Nicks croons in her classic adenoidal purr on the Rumours-worthy, “You Can’t Fix This”; Rick Springfield (!) mightily fronts the Foos on the wonderfully nerve-rattling revenge ode, “The Man That Never Was”; Fear’s Lee Ving goes into a spazzy vocal riot on the punk-blues of“Your Wife Is Calling”; Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme, Alain Johannes and producer Chris Goss join Grohl for the acoustic psychedelia of “Centipede” (equally psychedelic is Commerford, Goss, Grohl and Wilk’s “Time Slowing Down”). Grohl sings a love-scarred semi-acoustic plea on the resonant “If I Were Me,” another highpoint.

Then there’s the B-sides. Homme, Johannes and Grohl rock a forgettable popcorn intermission on “A Trick with No Sleeve,” opener “Heaven & All” with Black Rebel Motorcycle Club cheaply recalls Guns ‘N Roses, closer “Mantra,” with Homme and Trent Reznor, comes off like a dry heave from Them Crooked Vultures, 7:45 of repetitive bass guitar and vocals. But Real to Reel‘s weakest song is Paul McCartney’s lackluster blues rocker “Cut Me Some Slack,” the former Beatle wheezing like he’s fronting a raucous Wings cover band (“Helen Wheels” in reverse?). That Kirst Novoselic and Pat Smear share performance duties make the song all the sadder.

Bad notes aside, Real to Reel is another notch in Dave Grohl’s platinum belt, its hits ultimately outweighing its misses. Perhaps more important than the songs is the album and the film’s message, documenting an era when recording rock music meant performing together as a band in an analog environment — Pro Tools gridding, digital “autotuning” and the mercenary commercial effects of the computer age be damned. Sound City – Real to Reel is about a reality that once was, a golden oldie that is nevermore.

Devendra Banhart, Mala

In the near-decade since Devendra Banhart released his third album, 2004′s Niño Rojo, the intriguing, free spirit balladeer has laughed in the face of genre confinement. Emerging in the early-aughts as the focal point of the then-burgeoning freak-folk movement, the Texas-born Venezuelan fought restriction with each successive album: Meander alongside him, he offered, down patchouli-scented paths strewn with jazzy asides, sitar-slathered daydreams, acoustic-flecked British folk and Brazilian Tropicália. These were albums stocked with vivid, largely sprightly tunes, but also lacking a discernable thread to mend the stitches.

Mala, Banhart’s seventh album and first for Nonesuch, is, on the surface, no less diverse than its predecessors (there’s still a slew of genres here). Thankfully though, it’s far more succinct. Throughout, Banhart sizes up his favorite topic — love’s cruel ways — often in less time than it takes to create an online dating profile. He may be engaged, but the singer/songwriter still possesses a tarnished heart: “Daniel,” slow-rolling and sticky with tape hiss (and a Suede reference), disassembles a relationship in just over three minutes; elsewhere Banhart needs only a few words to size up the topic (“love yer a strange fella”), as on the tribal-stomping album-highlight “Never Seen Such Good Things.”

Even at his most obtuse, Banhart has always infused humor into his creations. At times here it works splendidly: On “Your Fine Petting Duck,” the whimsical duet with his fiancé Ana Kras, he plays an ex-lover reminding his partner how miserable he once was. “Fur Hildegard Von Bingen,” however, while intriguingly sly and slinky, is a stretch, even by Banhart’s out-there comic standards: You try envisioning a German medieval feminist as a MTV VJ. Then again, such is Banhart’s self-carved trail: Take it far enough and, detours be damned, you’re bound to find intermittent wisdom and splendor.

New This Week: David Bowie, Devendra Banhart and More

There’s not a whole lot out this week, probably because everyone is in Austin for SXSW (including eMusic’s editorial team: Follow our coverage here) — except that, oh wait, there’s a new David Bowie record out today! So at least we’ve got that — and a few other notables, below.

David Bowie, The Next Day — The return! Barry Walters, who wrote the review for us, seems to have right measure on this one:

As confirmed by “The Stars (Are Out Tonight),” the album’s second single, Bowie hasn’t entirely abandoned his post-heyday habit of leaving his vocal melodies frustratingly underdeveloped. Sometimes when the groove is tight and he pours on the vocal razzle-dazzle, that matters little: The opening title track comes on like gangbusters and — befitting the album’s self-reflexive and iconoclastic artwork — recalls Heroes‘ kick-starter “Beauty and the Beast. “The Next Day ultimately proves itself too musically self-referential to be groundbreaking, but it does capitalize better than the singer has in decades on his own assets: This is Bowie doing Bowie.

Devendra Banhart, Mala — Banhart’s latest finds him musing on the peculiarities of love in his own inimitable way. Dan Hyman writes:

Emerging in the early-aughts as the focal point of the then-burgeoning freak-folk movement, the Texas-born Venezuelan fought restriction with each successive album: Meander alongside him, he offered, down patchouli-scented paths strewn with jazzy asides, sitar-slathered daydreams, acoustic-flecked British folk and Brazilian Tropicália. Mala, Banhart’s seventh album and first for Nonesuch, is, on the surface, no less diverse than its predecessors. Throughout, Banhart sizes up his favorite topic — love’s cruel ways — often in less time than it takes to create an online dating profile.

Carmen Villain, Sleeper — The debut recording by a former model, Carmen Hillestadt, who makes darkly evocative, Sonic Youth-inspired post-punk. Dan Hyman writes:

A former cover model, Carmen Villain’s longtime gig was to effortlessly exude beauty. Things haven’t changed too much: Now a musician, on her remarkably engaging, dark and oftentimes abrasive debut album, Sleeper, the singer and multi-instrumentalist simply expresses her loveliness in a more nuanced shade. Heavy on reverb and made for headphones, the decidedly lo-fi album, its tracks washing up onto another, calls to mind Sonic Youth and Royal Trux.

Adrian Younge Presents the Delfonics — A loving tribute to one of the greatest Philly soul groups of all time. Nate Patrin writes:

The original Delfonics lineup split up decades ago, but their legacy has lingered. The hip-hop generation saw to that, using Thom Bell’s velvety arrangements and the achingly sweet falsetto of lead singer William Hart to striking effect. Enter Adrian Younge, the Black Dynamite soundtrack mastermind who’s also collaborated with avowed Delfonics fanatic Ghostface Killah (Pretty Toney highlight “Holla” famously paid homage to “La-La – Means I Love You”). Adrian Younge Presents the Delfonics is an unusual type of throwback: Younge’s muddy, lo-fi atmospherics recall low-budget early ’70s local-label 45s more than they do Bell’s vintage lushness.

Various Artists, Sound City: Real To Reel — To hear Ken Micallef tell it, this all-star tribute to a famous L.A. sound studio, masterminded by Dave Grohl, is the best kind of rock-star vanity project:

Writing and performing alongside Paul McCartney, Stevie Nicks, Rick Springfield, Trent Reznor, Josh Homme, Rick Nielsen, Lee Ving of Fear, Corey Taylor, Brad Wilk and Tim Commerford of Rage Against The Machine, and the Foos, Dave Grohl’s Real to Reel is a nostalgic tribute to L.A.’s closed Sound City studio, the birthplace to Rumours, Damn the Torpedoes, Rage Against The Machine and Nevermind. Sound City – Real to Reel is high on energetic hits, worthwhile rock-star vanity pieces, and one extremely nasty miss. The album was recorded on Sound City’s original analog Neve console, now safely ensconced in Grohl’s 606 recording studio.

Nadia Sirota, Baroque — The violist and leading force in NYC contemporary classical’s second album. Seth Colter-Walls writes:

Nadia Sirota is the violist of choice for the New York contemporary-classical scene, and on Baroque, she follows up here her astoundingly assured debut, First Things First, with fresh works from many of the composers who contributed to that recording.But there are new composers this time as well, even if they are generally familiar to the New Amsterdam coterie. Shara Worden’s “From the Invisible to the Visible” is a brief, attractive offering that introduces keyboards and organs into the mix to considered effect. While more tricked-out electronically than Sirota’s first offering, Baroque retains her aesthetic imprint.

Brandt Brauer Frick, Miami — a new one from this classical-electro trio. Says Ben Beaumont-Thomas:

Classical music and club culture aren’t easy bedfellows, which is one reason why Brandt Bauer Frick are such an intriguing proposition. The Berlin trio plays minimalist techno on classical instruments: Their 2011 album Mr Machine was a clubbing soundtrack re-imagined by a 10-piece orchestra. Miami is another album of groove-led chamber music, although this time, it has a more supple, spontaneous feel, enhanced with guest vocalists.

The Virgins, Strike Gently — sophomore release from the New York quartet.

The Mary Onettes, Hit the Waves — dreamy, summer-ready indiepop from Sweden.

Wild Belle, Isles — the soulful, genre-hopping debut from the buzzy brother-sister duo Wild Belle.

Brandt Brauer Frick, Miami

Classical music and club culture aren’t easy bedfellows, which is one reason why Brandt Brauer Frick are such an intriguing proposition. The Berlin trio plays minimalist techno on classical instruments: Their 2011 album Mr Machine was a clubbing soundtrack re-imagined by a 10-piece orchestra. Miami is another album of groove-led chamber music, although this time, it has a more supple, spontaneous feel, enhanced with guest vocalists.

After the portentous funeral procession of the 10-minute opener, “Miami Theme,” the sensational second track, “Ocean Drive,” is a slice of fiery funk, piano stabs jabbing around a 4/4 bass beat. It is cinematic, oxygenated techno that uses the piano’s percussive heft to drive the track forward.

German electronic musician Gudrun Gut uses deranged repeated whispers to embellish the ornate instrumentation of “Fantasie Madchen.” Sun Ra member Om’Mas Keith, who crafted a number of tracks on Frank Ocean’s Channel ORANGE, chants in the slipstream of the beats on “Plastic Like Your Mother.” And Jamie Lidell brings an intoxicating sensuality to album highlight “Broken Pieces,” where the trio ditches steady beats in favor of pure syncopation.

These guests slots smooth out the potential fussiness of the instrumentation, which includes everything from plucked strings to warm brass. The bottom end of a tuba’s range rumbles through “Verwahrlosung” — it could be the trio wittily redefining the parameters of bass music.

David Bowie, The Next Day

There are so many David Bowies. And although there’s little consensus on his absolute best, the choices include Arty Bowie, Dramatic Ballad Bowie, Rockin’ Bowie, Glam-Pop Bowie and The Bowie That Writes About Bowie. All of the above appear on The Next Day, his first collection of new material in 10 years. The timing couldn’t better: Primed by absence, public speculation on his physical and mental health and then the unexpected release of “Where Are We Now?” — his most personal and justly-acclaimed single in decades — on his 66th birthday, rabid fans and respectful admirers alike have built up a deafening buzz for his 24th album. Would it be another comparatively underwhelming disc akin to his ’90s and early ’00s output, or would it join the best of his ’70s and early ’80s trailblazers?

The answer lies somewhere in between. As confirmed by “The Stars (Are Out Tonight),” the album’s second and far more extroverted single, Bowie hasn’t entirely abandoned his post-heyday habit of leaving his vocal melodies frustratingly underdeveloped. Sometimes when the groove is tight and he pours on the vocal razzle-dazzle, that matters little: The opening title track comes on like gangbusters and — befitting the album’s self-reflexive and iconoclastic artwork — recalls Heroes‘ kick-starter “Beauty and the Beast.”

Although many of the starman’s key albums present unified genres while evoking similarly specific time periods, The Next Day flits all over the place, often suggesting Bowie’s own back pages — a little futuristic Station to Station art-funk here (“Dancing Out in Space”), a little Tin Machine quasi-metal there ["(You Will) Set the World on Fire"]. The melodically substantial “Valentine’s Day” goes further back to the glammy days of Ziggy Stardust, right down to Bowie veteran Earl Slick’s stinging Mick Ronson-esque guitar cries. Kindred cut “You Feel So Lonely You Could Die” climaxes the album with the desperation of “Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide,” adding a coda that suggests Ziggy‘s “Five Years.” The Next Day ultimately proves itself too musically self-referential to be groundbreaking, but it does capitalize better than the singer has in decades on his own assets: This is Bowie doing Bowie.