Rock + Alternative

Phish’s Baker’s Dozen residency at Madison Square Garden—which ran July 21-August 6, 2017—was a doozy of epic proportions: 13 nights, 26 sets, and tons of free donuts, and all of it was webcasted to the world at large (save the donuts, of course). They were, as Rolling Stone writer Jesse Jarnow pointed out, some of the group’s most “ambitious sets in years, with an attention to detail that recalls their nineties heyday.” On top of debuting many new tunes, as well as novel transformations of old classics that surprised even longtime heads, Phish dropped a slew of first-time covers, including Shuggie Otis’ Beatlesque funk gem “Strawberry Letter 23,” Neil Young’s static-drenched riff workout “Powderfinger,” and The Velvet Underground’s dreamy ballad “Sunday Morning.”For those only now diving into the Phish zone, such tastefully hip covers may seem odd for a band that, truth be told, was outright dissed by cool indie types for most of their career. (Amazing how this has changed in recent years thanks to tastemakers like Vampire Weekend and MGMT singing their praises in interviews.) However, for those who have followed the band since, like, forever (my first Phish experience came when the original H.O.R.D.E. tour passed through the neo-hippie stronghold of Syracuse, New York, in 1992), the killer covers are par for the course. Even if you’re confident in the immutability of your anti-Phish bias, one thing’s unfuckwithable: their record collections.Since their early days up in Burlington, Vermont, Phish have put all manner of choice covers through their jammy filter: the Talking Heads’ proto-New Wave classic “Psycho Killer” is refitted with a spiky funk groove shaped by Innervisions-era Stevie Wonder and rippling improv showcasing Page McConnell’s keys; “Purple Rain” is mutated into a Flaming Lips-like alt-freak anthem featuring Jon Fishman’s crying vacuum cleaner; and Ween’s weird pop ditty “Roses Are Free” is reborn as a punchy, twangy sing-along. Even Phish’s taste in classic rock reflects their crate-digging astuteness. In addition to numerous deep cuts from the Stones’ muddy landmark Exile on Main St., they actually tackle a (very liberal) rendition of The Beatles’ musique concrète composition “Revolution 9”—and, yes, it’s deeply noisy and bizarre, like a cross between Spike Jones, heroic doses of psilocybin, and nude performance art.Part of Phish’s aim is to challenge and surprise their fans. For them, embracing the unexpected is an expression of freedom, and this extends to their unpredictable choice in cover songs. But it also has to be pointed out that covering the likes of Talking Heads, Ween, and The Velvet Underground actually isn’t all that weird, in a sense. After all, Phish—back at the dawn of their career—were considered something of an alternative band. I know this sounds strange after decades of them being hailed as the modern-day Grateful Dead (which has never been a terribly accurate comparison). But as this fogey explicitly recalls, when Phish started to make a buzz around the Northeast they had a quirky, cerebral, and mischievous reputation that owed more to Frank Zappa and David Byrne than Papa Jerry. It’s an aspect of their legacy that’s slowly re-emerging as more and more indie kids embrace their unique music. And that’s a cool thing.

Ella Yelich-O’Connor expresses her passion for music in many of the ways typical of teenagers and just-turned-twenty-somethings the world over. She’s forever making new discoveries that prompt her to widen her tastes and pledge undying loyalty to artists she may have barely heard of a few days before. She consumes music voraciously and is eager to share all that excites her in every public platform at her disposal. Her playlists—which have cool mixtape-ready names like “Homemade Dynamite”—are roughly split between sure-fire party starters and more melancholy fare for early-morning journaling sessions. Her Twitter and Instagram feeds are full of shoutouts to the artists she loves and messages quoting the lyrics that have just become her new words to live by. But the difference here—what with her being Lorde and not some adolescent rando—is that those artists tend to tweet a reply with an emoji-laden expression of right-back-atcha.Though her existence has changed immeasurably since “Royals” broke her wide in 2013, Lorde has not lost the unabashed fandom that’s proven to be one of her most endearing qualities. Indeed, she’s continued to be a rarity as a young artist who expresses a keen understanding of a remarkably diverse array of new and old sounds without sounding derivative of any of them in particular. Likewise, she’s figured out ways to retain her own sensibility across an array of cover renditions in the past four years, an impeccably chosen slate that ranges from songs by canonic rock acts (David Bowie, Replacements, Nirvana) to relative newbies (Bright Eyes, Bon Iver) to hip-hop and R&B (Jeremih, Kanye). And while many of the most dramatic moments of her sophomore album Melodrama do suggest the influence of a few of her most-cherished touchstones—single “Liability” is a close cousin to Kate Bush’s “The Man With the Child In His Eyes,” for instance—the connection between her own music and the stuff she loves is more a matter of shared energy and attitude. That’s true even of old favourites that—like any fan—she may be hideously embarrassed about now. Likely case in point: The Cult’s “Edie (Ciao Baby),” which the pre-Lorde once performed as a 12-year-old in her school band Extreme. (Alas, the band’s repertoire apparently did not include “More Than Words.”)As Melodrama arrives to usher in our summer of Lorde, we present a deep dive into the music of other artists that she’s performed and loved. Long may she want to tell us all about them.

Click here to add to Spotify playlist!Ohio musician Jay Joyce played with bands like In Pursuit and Iodine in the ‘80s and ‘90s, but in the 21st century, he’s reached enormous success as a producer and songwriter for country music. Having recorded all five of Eric Church’s studio albums, Joyce has cultivated a sound that’s both polished and homemade, with warm acoustic textures and a reverb-soaked ambience that recalls the work of Daniel Lanois. Church’s hits have ranged from the poignant, piano-driven “Springsteen” and the thunderous power ballad “Give Me Back My Hometown” to the raging celebration of “Drink In My Hand,” and the combination of Church’s ambitious songwriting and Joyce’s lively production has yielded a string of platinum plaques.After his success with Church, Jay Joyce was in high demand in Nashville, producing chart-topping singles for Carrie Underwood and Zac Brown Band. He’s put his stamp on everything from the soulful groove of Thomas Rhett’s “Make Me Wanna” to the doo-wop balladry of Little Big Town’s crossover hit “Girl Crush.” In 2011, he produced one of country legend Emmylou Harris’ most successful albums, Hard Bargain, and in 2015, Joyce was nominated for Producer of the Year, Non-Classical, at the GRAMMYⓇs—the only country producer to appear in the category in recent years.But Joyce’s rock roots and skill at capturing a live-band feel have also brought a wide range of clientele from outside of country music. Early in his career, he produced a solo album by Crowded House frontman Tim Finn, and he produced Kentucky alt-rock band Cage the Elephant’s platinum 2009 self-titled debut, as well as albums for garage punk band FIDLAR, and hard rock revivalists Halestorm. This playlist lets you appreciate the sheer breadth of his work.

In the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, the historic British town of Canterbury became the breeding ground for an idiosyncratic music scene that could have been called a movement if its avatars weren’t quite so unassuming in their demeanor. The Canterbury scene grew up around Soft Machine, which started out blending post-psychedelic weirdness with jazz influences before shifting into straight-up jazz-rock fusion in the ‘70s. Early Soft Machine and the bands that became part of their family tree (Caravan, Hatfield & The North, Egg, etc.) shared a quirky, very British sense of humor and a knack for blending jazzy jams into an offbeat but breezy brand of prog rock that boasted a much lighter touch than that of King Crimson, ELP, et al.

“I saw her standin on her front lawn just twirlin her baton / Me and her went for a ride, sir, and ten innocent people died.” — Bruce Springsteen, “Nebraska”Throughout the history of popular music, singers and songwriters have been drawn to the macabre, taking the song form as an opportunity to reflect on the vanquished and their assailants. Some describe it with sobering detail, as Snoop Dogg did when envisioning his own murder in “Murder Was The Case” (“Pumping on my chest and I’m screaming/ I stop breathing, damn, I see demons”). Others reflect on death with despair, such as Tom Waits (“Why wasn’t God watching?/ Why wasn’t God listening?/ Why wasn’t God there/ For Georgia Lee?”). Some approach it coldly, as a mere narrative like any other, while some give it a satirical dimension. One of the all-time best meditations on murder and its consequences is Tupac’s “Hit ‘Em Up,” which turns his failed assassination into an epic tome on urban warfare (“Grab your glocks when you see Tupac Call the cops when you see Tupac, oh/ Who shot me, but you punks didn’t finish/ Now you ‘bout to feel the wrath of a menace”). These collected tracks, whose topics range from mass murders to harrowing crimes of passion, contain some of the more chilling stories committed to record. -- Adam Rothbarth

Punk may have started as a reaction against convention, but what started out as iconoclasm eventually turned into orthodoxy as the genre’s conventions were gradually codified. If it wasn’t short, fast, and loud, with three chords and a barking vocalist, it wasn’t punk. America’s hardcore underground wasn’t without its share of party-line camp followers, but it also boasted some true rebels, who realized that when your revolution becomes generic, it’s time to start over. Black Flag grew their hair long and turned to long jams and Beat poetry, while Bad Religion adopted soaring synthesizers and turned to Hawkwind-esque space/psych/prog rock. Flipper tapped into the Stooges free-jazz impulses, and the Minutemen married punk with funk, fusion, and even the occasional Steely Dan or CCR cover. In the end, these were the true punks -- unafraid of being bold, and refusing to kowtow to expectations. -- Jim Allen

Punks various origin stories have been documented ad infinitum, and through them, the movements myriad influences have been enshrined in a familiar proto-punk canon. It includes everything from the snotty 60s garage-rock bands compiled on Lenny Kayes Nuggets compilation to the metallic Motor City soul of the MC5 to the sleazy glam of the New York Dolls to the proletariat pub rock of Dr. Feelgood. But while theres no denying the impact these groups had on punks inaugural class-of-76, to 2018 ears, a lot of them can sound, well, a little tame. Sure, a Nuggets standard like The Standells "Dirty Water" oozes bratty attitude, but its really no more threatening than the average golden oldie. And while the brash swagger of the New York Dolls still resounds, they essentially sound like a more irreverent Rolling Stones.But in this playlist, we highlight the pre-punk songs that, to this day, sound every bit as violent and visceral as what followed. Certainly, theres some expected names: Iggy and the Stooges 1972 thrasher "I Got a Right" actually blows past punk completely to invent hardcore a good six years early. And the nastiest of Nuggets, like The Music Machines "Talk Talk," still hit like a leather-gloved fist to the face. But there also are a number of classic-rock icons here who, in their most unhinged and primordial states, rival anything punk coughed up——listen to John Lennon shred his throat into a bloody pulp on "Well Well Well," or Deep Purple fuse 50s hot-rod rock and 70s metal on "Speed King." Punk may have preached "no future," but these songs still blaze like theres no past.

Bayside’s Vacancy is an album steeped in the tradition of a very specific iteration of New York-bred punk rock. With a name nicked from a train station in the nether reaches of Queens, the group shares far more in common with other bands that have emerged from the city’s outer boroughs, family-oriented neighborhoods, and even the suburban sprawl of Long Island than they do the hipster transplants infesting Williamsburg and Manhattan’s Lower East Side. The number of top-tier musicians who call these, the uncool parts of the greater New York metropolis, home is really rather bonkers. After all, where would New York punk and hardcore be without the likes of the Ramones, Sick of It All, Murphy’s Law, and Brand New?

When members of Midlake, Franz Ferdinand, Grandaddy, Travis, and Band of Horses started exchanging ideas via email in 2013, they probably didn’t care that they were taking part in a long, if sometimes neglected, tradition in the music world. Nor should they—the idea of putting together a supergroup for its own sake is pretty dumb, unless you’re Sebastian Bach. This motive tends to be secondary to the usual reasons that musicians get together, like playing with others whose company they enjoy or taking a break from the pressures of maintaining a major act.That this particular congregation of musicians savored the chance to play together and socialize is reflected in the title they chose for the project: BNQT, pronounced “banquet.” The nods to the Traveling Wilburys in both the album title and the jangly folk-pop sound of BNQT’s debut release, Volume 1, suggest that they’re well aware of the historic code of the supergroup. We can only assume that the question of who got to be Roy Orbison was determined by rock-paper-scissors.They’re hardly the only example of a group in recent years who have abided the same code, one that gave us Blind Faith and CSNY at the best of times and Damn Yankees at the not-so-best. Certain musicians, such as Jack White, Damon Albarn, and Dave Grohl, have been repeat supergroup-participators, evidence of their many musical interests and extrovert tendencies, and the century has also seen a boom of free-floating collectives whose members have many extracurricular activities—Broken Social Scene, The New Pornographers, UNKLE—but who nevertheless swagger like a supergroup whenever they deign to convene.Contemporary definitions of a supergroup can also stretch to contain side projects like EL VY, fronted by The National’s Matt Berninger, or Nice As Fuck, featuring Jenny Lewis, though traditionalists may reserve the term for more conventional matchups between musicians with equally illustrious resumes, like Divine Fits (Spoon + Wolf Parade + New Bomb Turks) and Minor Victories (Slowdive + Mogwai + Editors). Even if these equations don’t always result in the irrefutable chocolate-and-peanut-butter deliciousness we hope for, supergroups can still be super, as these choice cuts prove.Click here to follow this playlist on Spotify.

Whenever you come across a list of the most influential rock bands of the ‘90s, you can easily predict the core names you’ll see on there: Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Green Day, Nine Inch Nails, Radiohead, and so on. Rarely will you see the name Better Than Ezra. Yet they’re arguably more emblematic of the era than any of the groups mentioned above. Because all those other bands never really went away—to this day, you still hear them regularly on the radio, you can still spot their names in headlines on major music sites, and you still see new generations of kids wearing their faux-vintage t-shirts. In that sense, they belong to 2002 and 2009 and 2018 as much as they do 1993. Better Than Ezra are likewise still a going concern—they released a new single in June—but to many people, they are a band inextricably tied to the year 1995, when their single “Good” went to No. 1 on the Billboard Modern Rock Tracks chart.“Good” is the entire ‘90s alt-rock narrative condensed into three minutes and five seconds. It’s the ultimate totem of an era when the major-label trawl for the next Nirvana was cast so far and wide, it swept up any DIY group with a distortion pedal and quirky name—even one that cut its teeth playing frat parties in the indie-rock desert of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. But more significantly, it’s the song that effectively marks the end point of the ‘90s alt-rock revolution—the moment where the last remaining edges of an underground-spawned sound had been sanded off and polished into pop.With its strolling bassline triggering an earworm chorus caked in fuzz, “Good” dutifully followed the quiet/LOUD playbook established by the Pixies on their 1988 debut album, Surfer Rosa. That record’s violent mood swings were the natural sonic manifestation of a band trying to reconcile its formative loves of Peter, Paul and Mary and Hüsker Dü (the two influences that, according to legend, were listed in the classified ad that recruited bassist Kim Deal). But Surfer Rosa also represented a crucial evolutionary step beyond indie rock’s ‘80s hardcore roots, with its carnage unleashed in more controlled, strategic bursts, and Deal’s basslines serving as the cool counterpoint to Black Francis and Joey Santiago’s flesh-searing guitar onslaught. Before long, that poise-to-noise maneuver was being duplicated in all corners of the alterna-verse—most famously by Nirvana, whose frontman, Kurt Cobain, openly admitted to aping the Pixies.But if Nevermind set off the bomb that forever destroyed the barriers separating the underground and mainstream, what followed was an ongoing effort to clear the path and clean up the debris. In the hands of bands like Weezer and Bush, the spastic dynamic shifts mastered by the Pixies started to resemble carefully mapped peaks and valleys that you could see coming from a mile away. And though Better Than Ezra’s “Good”—and the album from which it hailed, Deluxe—was originally released independently in 1993, its mainstream-breaching major-label reissue in 1995 couldn’t have been more perfectly timed. By that point, the post-Pixies sound had become so familiar on alt-rock radio that Better Than Ezra could easily settle into their chart-topping position as if gliding into the ass groove on a vintage secondhand leather sofa. And while none of the band’s subsequent releases achieved the same level of zeitgeist-defining ubiquity, their less-heralded 21st-century catalog has attracted at least one famous fan, perhaps providing a clearer view of the band’s legacy: More than just the fleeting ‘90s alt-rock sensation of popular perception, Better Than Ezra are actually the missing link between Black Francis and Taylor Swift.