Sneak Preview: Mudcrutch

You've probably heard by now that Tom Petty has reunited with Mudcrutch, his pre-Heartbreakers band from his Gainesville, FL days, for an album and short tour. Considering that Mudcrutch also contained two other Heartbreakers, guitarist Mike Campbell and keyboardist Benmont Tench, it's admittedly not that big a stretch, and there's nothing on the self-titled Mudcrutch debut album, released next week on April 29th (a long time coming for a band that started in the early '70s!) that would prove too off-putting for Petty fans, but there's definitely a difference.

In keeping with the original Mudcrutch spirit (look around the web and you can find some mid-'70s live bootlegs), there's an old-school country-rock feel running through the album. Check the Byrds cover tune "Lover of the Bayou" and the Mudcrutch version of country standard "Shady Grove" for starters, not to mention the easygoing twang of a number of original tunes here. The more straightforward rockers, like "Scare Easy" and "The Wrong Thing To Do" wouldn't sound out of place on any other Petty album, but they'd likely be standouts if they popped up on one of his more recent releases. For longtime Petty fans, the most appealing aspect of the Mudcrutch project will be the fact that he hasn't sounded this loose and inspired since he made the two biggest aesthetic errors of his career: letting drummer Stan Lynch go and hiring Jeff Lynne to (over)produce him. Be of good cheer, Pettyites, this can only augur well.

PUNK IS DEAD (AT LAST)

OK, so fashion muckety-muck John Varvatos is turning the old CBGB spot into a clothing boutique, and every Johnny Thunders wannabe who ever staggered down St. Mark's Place with a crow's-nest haircut and an overdeveloped trash aesthetic, or just wishes they did, is emitting a Marlboro-choked cry of "foul."

Who really gives a good goddamn? First of all, the joint hasn't been even remotely culturally relevant for at least 20 years, even by the most generous estimation. And what would have been a more fitting monument, some stagnant, fossil factory of a "punk museum" that deadens and de-claws everything that was ever vital about the club's punk history to begin with? Cleveland is bad enough, do people really want that sort of thing on the Bowery too? Maybe they do, considering the theme-park feel that's overtaken much of the East Village anyhow.

Or maybe they'd rather have a bank on that spot instead, which Varvatos claims was one of the building's possible futures before he came along? Another Starbucks perhaps? How about a sports/karaoke bar where overgrown fratboys (and girls) can bellow out tuneless renditions of "I Wanna Be Sedated" and "Psycho Killer" with as much naif charm as the originals?

Most importantly, let's take a quick, objective look at one of the most wearying cultural perspectives of the last three decades. If you could put an ear to the air and hear it in the wind, it would sound something like this: "PUNKPUNKPUNKPUNKPUNKPUNKPUNKPUNKPUNKPUNKPUNKPUNKPUNKPUNKPUNKPUNK"

Alright, already! Sure, punk was a brilliant sonic/conceptual tempest that broke down a host of old conceptions and cleared a path for countless new ideas. No argument there. Unfortunately, it's also been a blunt object with which every intellectually lazy, anti-art, anti-education, anti-sophistication, smart-is-bad, moronic-is-better, the-only-cool-rock-is-caveman-rock douchebag with a Ramones tattoo and semi-ironic Kiss t-shirt has striven to bash to pieces anything that smacks of dreaded complexity. If it's rooted in something other than three-chord ramalama, they maintain, say, for instance, bebop, reggae, bluegrass, classical, avant-garde, blues, gospel, or international styles, it has no hope of ever achieving true coolness. Unless, of course it filters those roots through said ramalama.

Fortunately, the recent rash of progress-friendly bands--the aspirational likes of Yeasayer, Fleet Foxes, Make A Rising, and the like, offers hope that relief from this monomaniacally limited worldview is on the wing. Nevertheless:
Yeah, yeah, yeah. We know, we know, we know. Punk, punk, punk. Give it a rest, and go buy a Thelonious Monk record or something. Right now.