It's Better to Burn Bright than Fade Away
Featuring Living Colour
How do I love Living Colour? Let me count the ways.
Well, for starters, there’s their first three albums, a trio of essential masterworks that manage to eloquently and urgently reflect their times and endure, in all the right ways, for all the right reasons. There’s also the amount of times I’ve seen them live which, if I’m counting correctly, includes seeing them open for The Rolling Stones (in ‘89 at RFK—a concert I felt obliged to attend because how much longer, I thought, would the Glimmer Twins be on tour—haha), in ‘93 during their Stain tour (one of my all-time favorite live performances, of which more shortly), catching Vernon Reid opening up for the ‘90s incarnation of King Crimson (another all-time show and one of the greatest sonic one-two punches imaginable; this was around the time VR dropped Mistaken Identity, a touchstone that’s deeply embedded in my DNA—in fact, quick intermission to celebrate a very sadly under-appreciated if totally unremembered tour de force)…
…okay, and in 2004, 2009, 2012, 2018(?) and this past Monday, at the local institution The Birchmere (ostensibly to acknowledge and celebrate the 35th—yikes—anniversary of Time’s Up dropping on an unworthy world (a proper appraisal of that one, which I love so much it may surprise even people who know me, soon).
I’m delighted to report that the show exceeded any reasonable and perhaps even unreasonable hope or expectation. It’s not simply that these dudes still got it going on (they do), or that they would embarrass any of their peers (they will), or that they can give any band several decades younger a run for their money (they absolutely can), their dedication and (not-so-funny) vibe provide a rare template for how to age not only gracefully, but with purpose, passion, and a happy defiance. This is a model for any human being, but it’s so infrequently evidenced in the rock and roll world, it stands out as a genuine test case, inspiration information, and a miracle that ought to be celebrated, however impossible it may be to imitate.
Not for nothing, this performance was on the eve of my 55th orbit around the sun, and it served as a reminder/reinforcement that there’s only way to age, which is by living. Lest that sound entirely too cute, as I, ahem, mature, I find I don’t envy the insouciance of youth and am ever more inspired by those my age (or older!) who refuse to get old, not by ridiculous and self-depriving health regimens, or cosmetic surgeries, or any number of things that affront common sense and are the opposite of authenticity, but by staying young because you’re never not curious, never unwilling to expand, in search of new tastes, sounds, and souls all of which keep a body vital, yearning, hoping, being.
I’m going to link to several pieces I’ve published over the years about the band, and post excerpts from each, below. For the full, unfettered lovefest:
Here’s me on Stain (#7 on my 2011 feature Ten Albums That Supposedly Suck, But Do Not).
Here’s me on seeing the Stain tour.
Here’s my rave about 2009’s The Chair in the Doorway.
Here’s me chatting with Vernon Reid in 2012 when he was touring with Spectrum Road
(RIP Jack Bruce—and here’s my feature The Thinking Man’s Golden God).
Here’s my review of Will Calhoun’s remarkable album Life in This World (which, no shame in my game, prompted this email from Mr. C., a very welcome validation of my efforts to not only appreciate but articulate why this music matters, and why it means so much to me: I want to personally thank you for writing a brilliant review on my recent release LIFE IN THIS WORLD. More importantly, your insight into the music, choice of tunes, personnel, my career, and the reality of the music business reveals the true identity to the reader. Thank you! Will Calhoun.)
Another intermission: in case you’ve forgotten (or, unforgivably, never knew) these guys are The. Shit. There are so many songs I could reference, but this one (again, one of many on a long list) illustrates the range of influences—a veritable melting pot of sounds, styles, references—that make this band so deeply rich and American in all the best ways (meaning the culmination of an inclusive E pluribus unum sensibility that often provides our best art). Oh, also: Corey Glover has got a set of pipes sent by celestial and very benevolent spirits. And then there is Vernon Reid: every note he plays adds to a body of work that justifies his name being mentioned in any discussion of all-time great axemen. Reid was already a man amongst boys when Living Colour broke through in the late ‘80s, and he has never stopped absorbing and innovating, crafting a technique that is virtually all-encompassing.
A Brief and Exhaustive, yet Not Nearly Adequate Explanation of why Living Colour is the ultimate Sum-of-Its-Parts Operation.
Even though Living Colour is still making excellent music today, they are mostly remembered as the band who did “Cult of Personality” two decades and change ago. Some people remember that their second album, Time’s Up was an improvement on the (outstanding) debut, and for a minute Living Colour was one of the biggest bands in the world. Then they made a third album and… that was that—at least for another ten long years. That third album was many degrees harder, darker and more difficult than their first two albums, which might explain why it did not go over. But how to reconcile the lack of love with the fact that in some regards Stain was their best album yet?
Losing the brilliant bassist Muzz Skillings, who bolted after the second album, could have been a crippling blow (he was that good) but when ancient school session wizard Doug Wimbish stepped into the mix the band did not miss a beat — literally. Wimbish brought a funky, in your face dynamic and he and drummer Will Calhoun formed an unbreakable rhythm section: deep, elastic and loud. The star of the show, as always, is Vernon Reid, who is a human encyclopedia of sound. From the hat-tip to grunge stylings in “Go Away” to the typically ear-burning pyrotechnics of “Leave It Alone” to the Robert Fripp-esque atmospherics in “Nothingness”, Reid covers all the bases while refining his own idiosyncratic style.
Take it or leave it: no other band on the planet could ever make a song like “Wall”, which is capable of shaking you, making you smile and seeing the world with new ears.
19 years ago: I remember exactly where I was. Grad school. In my snug Resident Advisor room hunkered down trying to read 100 books in one calendar year (I exaggerate, but not by much). Suffice it to say, money was tight. But then, as now, I’d give up food for music, and when Living Colour’s third album dropped, there was no question that it had to be acquired. (Obligatory reminder for today’s whipper-snappers: this was not only way before the digital era of samplers and/or online stealing, this was when compact discs cost a disgusting amount of money.)
Stain is not only a brilliant album, it’s –especially with the benefit of hindsight– very much an album of its time: there are the inexorable nods to grunge (this was 1993, after all), and a musical/lyrical reaction to the social issues of the day (this era, lest we forget, was an uneasy cauldron of racial tensions, coming in between the 1992 Republican Convention, Rodney King and the cultural clusterfuck of the O.J. Simpson trial). Stain is a prescient album in several regards: on one hand, Clinton had been inaugurated less than two months before, ending a 12 year Republican stranglehold: life was good again, right? Right. Except for the fact that so much was wrong. As impossible as it may be to recall, this was a time where racial matters (see: Rodney King, etc.) and sexual preference (see: Don’t Ask Don’t Tell and the political debacle that turned into) where still toxic, third-rail type distractions. Of course, Clinton’s unsuccessful attempt to reform Health Care proved that America was simply not ready to act in its collective best interest (some things never change, right?). Put in more stark terms, 1993 was a year when Chevy Chase had his own talk show. Needless to say, America was a very confused place in many regards.
Here’s the thing: so much music made in the early ’90s sounds astonishingly dated, and the copycat impulse was in full effect –everyone wanted to sound like they came out of Seattle. A little bit of that went a long way. And while, as already acknowledged, Living Colour certainly tipped their creative caps to what was going on around them, they were also carving out a deep, dark sound that still sounds, well, vivid, almost two full decades on. Even though they did not go on to own the decade, like they may have, they sort of did anyway.
It was an appropriately hot (I mean steaming hot) evening, and the venue was the old WUST Arena (now the relocated 9:30 Club), which was located in a sketchy part of town. The venue was small, tight and absolutely crammed with fans. Keep in mind: this was 1993 so the mosh-pit craze was in full (and annoying) effect, which meant that what would/should have been the first 10-15 rows were necessarily allocated to shirtless d-bags doing the man dance. Nevertheless, the band was in killer form and the set, which drew heavily –and appropriately– from Stain was scorching. It was a revelation to actually watch each of these artists do their thing: the lanky Wimbish manhandling his bass, Calhoun beating the drums within an inch of their lives, and Reid locked and loaded, effusing cool and gritty elan. But Corey Glover, who had by this time shorn his dreads and (wisely) retired his body-suits, was the main attraction. Dude was en fuego: snarling and prowling the stage and (this was 1993) doing copious stage dives. At one point he shimmied up one of the speaker towers and, I am not exaggerating because I was in the upper deck, at least twenty feet above the floor and was essentially eye-to-eye with him for a few seconds, just dropped into the crowd. They caught him, of course. But that was just balls. It wasn’t like he said “Catch me” or made some big dramatic overture before diving; he just got up and then got the fuck down. But the crowd was there for him.
I was soaked through by the time the gig was over, and aside from the sweat, beer and blood (figuratively speaking, from 20 feet up) those 9o minutes were more like a prizefight than a concert. I’ve seldom seen a band more focused and intense and, as I drove home that night, I really did think they were about to take over the world. Like I said, they sort of did anyway.
The rumors of Living Colour’s demise have been greatly exaggerated. They are back, but perhaps more to the point, they were never really gone. The Chair in the Doorway, their fifth official album in 21 years, should not lead anyone to conclude that this band is rock music’s Rip Van Winkle. None of them have been sleeping: they seem to disappear for extended siestas, only to return enervated and voracious. Of course, as more committed fans are well aware, these interminable hiatuses (this release represents only the second album of original material since 1993’s Stain) are a mixed blessing. If the guys had gotten their acts together, so to speak, would we have been treated to more classic efforts in this past decade or so? Certainly. But then, would we have gotten the bounty of solo projects — all interesting, some essential — that the individual musicians have dropped? Probably not. On balance, the collected works represent the best of both worlds.
The good news is that The Chair in the Doorway is exquisite enough to make casual fans lament the ostensibly lost time. Those fans are encouraged to make an effort to get acquainted with the considerable blessings contained in works like Trippy Notes for Bass (Doug Wimbish), Native Lands (Will Calhoun), Hymns (Corey Glover), and the gamut of Vernon Reid releases (especially Mistaken Identity and Other True Self).
It is immediately apparent (and reinforced after subsequent listens) that the band put considerable thought into The Chair in the Doorway. Everything from the order of the songs to the production sounds like the result of a shared vision and a near-perfect plan. A few words about the production: having heard much of this material live a couple of weeks before receiving the disc, it seems apparent that the band sought to harness their ferocious sound without taming it. The songs were scorching in person, and while the sparks certainly fly throughout the recorded versions, there is a certain feeling unifying the proceedings. The finished product is fresh and clean, but retains an abrasiveness that gives it a most welcome edge. As ever, Living Colour’s cauldron bubbles over with rock, soul, hip-hop, metal, blues and their own idiosyncratic expression, a heart full of soul.
Listening to Vernon Reid speak is like listening to Vernon Reid play the guitar: you need both ears and all your mind to keep up. Ideas flow eagerly, thoughts within thoughts ricochet off each other, quotations and questions are sprinkled in like sugar and spice, and it is almost overwhelming. In a good way.
Keeping up with Vernon Reid in conversation is like trying to keep track of his career: blink and you might miss something. Though best known for his work with Living Colour, Reid has been an indefatigable — and essential — presence in the avant-garde community, involved in projects ranging from jazz (the postmodern fusion of 1984’s Smash and Scatterationwith fellow guitar hero Bill Frisell), electronic/illbient (the Yohimbe Brothers, with DJ Logic) and the crucial work he’s done under his own name (most recently, the easily recommended Other True Self from 2006, which features a remarkable interpretation of Depeche Mode’s “Enjoy the Silence”).
….What Spectrum Road is reflecting, and what Williams anticipated, is a world where information overload has become an unquestioned facet of existence. “We are in a culture that is somewhat insane,” Reid says. “No one can keep up with it; new trends are instantly passé.” At the same time, it’s a culture of conformity, or at least one where a certain sameness can provide security, if not success. “To carve out your own path as an artist, or even as a person, can be extraordinarily difficult… and there is resistance.”
“I’m still trying to learn the instrument, trying to find that individual voice. I always think of the great people who gave me advice or taught me how to think about things in a different way.”
This leads to a discussion of his aesthetic and philosophy, which are pretty much one and the same. “When a person means what they say they expose themselves,” he explains. “When a person is earnest he exposes naked humanity. Coltrane went all in. Hendrix was all in. There was no irony or calculation; this was their life, finding a unity of expression.” Once again he could be describing himself.
In 2000 Calhoun boasted his jazz chops on Live at the Blue Note, an intriguing collection of standards and originals. In 2005 he released Native Lands, a remarkable achievement that fully –and finally– integrated his myriad influences. The result is a melting pot of styles, shifting convincingly from jazz to ambient to a more Eastern-oriented world music. This type of experimentation, from lesser musicians, is often a recipe for indulgence or straight-up embarrassment. Calhoun managed to successfully cultivate a unique sound, and the assembled musicians (including Pharaoh Sanders, Orrin Evans and Marcus Miller) satisfied any questions about the talent Calhoun could attract.
We live in a peculiar time, where industries are imploding and traditional opportunities are shrinking. Whether it’s movies, books or music, the increasingly antiquated view is that an artist should find one thing, do it well, and repeat as often as possible. That limited — and limiting — approach could never apply to a creative force as itinerant and gifted as Will Calhoun. Living life and making music on his own terms has made him the antithesis of our attention deficit generation, and an artist worthy of our consideration and gratitude. It seems certain he will continue doing inspired work that will remain engaging many years from today.
You still with me? Well, that’s a lot of words. More to come. For now, don’t take my word for it: seeing—and hearing—is believing. Living Colour, folks: long may they run.