Listen to me; I'm Irish.

​Pipes, fiddles, bodhrans, a jig, and a reel are as essential to Irish music as green is to garments on St. Patrick's Day. Today, even U2 is passé as far as deflecting the stereotypes is concerned. Fortunately, then, there's a new crop of Irish émigrés whose irreverence and insurgence are as critical to that seasonal soundtrack as leprechauns and shamrocks are to the old country's folklore.


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​To read past installments of Notes from the Soundboard, click here.

One constant theme of this column is a fixation on bands and artists that somehow fell through the cracks that occur within pop music's lengthy trajectory. That's one hazard of rock's rich repertoire -- so many artists, but so little time to absorb it all. Fortunately, the industry's current obsession with reissues offers a second opportunity to rediscover music that may have been overlooked the first time around.

Once such opportunity has presented itself with the re-release of several albums by the Scottish band, Blue. When the band first appeared on vinyl in the early '70s via a self-titled album, its instantly accessible, pure pop sound won the hearts of all who heard it ... which sadly was far too few.

Nevertheless, the obvious influence of the Beatles -- Paul McCartney in particular -- as well as Badfinger was evident from the first track, "Red Light Song." And with one member of the trio proving to be a dead ringer for both Macca and Badfinger's Joey Molland, conspiracy theorists might have had cause to suspect they were secretly cloned from the same source.
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John Dawson fronted this pioneering Americana band.

​To read past installments of Notes from the Soundboard, click here.

It's become all too common in our society to mourn the passing of those whose fame has taken them to the heights of international stardom, while all but ignoring others who perhaps lack that same stature. Michael Jackson's recent passing was merely the latest case in point. There was endless, ongoing coverage of every aspect of his demise. Consequently, obits for lesser-known artists have gotten scarcely a mention in the press.

That's not surprising, of course. The public's always reserved its greatest fascination for those who maintain a certain notoriety in terms of fame and/or fortune. Sadly though, it also negates the accomplishments of those who made their own contributions in modern musical realms.

For example, a recent weekend brought news of the passing of John "Marmaduke" Dawson, one of the founders of the New Riders of the Purple Sage, an early offshoot of the Grateful Dead first fronted by Jerry Garcia. More >>

Notes from the Soundboard is a new column appearing weekly on Crossfade,  focused on pop music's history and ongoing evolution. Lee Zimmerman shares insights and observations on how music continues to connect with the weirdness of the world. Click here to read past installments.

Okay, let me start by stating that I'm not an expert on Broadway musicals. Never have been. I like what I like, but my criteria falls under some narrow parameters, generally being governed by the fact that I'm all about songs and not as much about the stage. So when I tell people that I believe there hasn't been a Broadway show that's harbored hits since, say, 1963, I'm not commenting on the caliber of Broadway musicals in general. Far be it for me to disparage the likes of Andrew Lloyd Weber and all those other authors and composers whose names I don't even know.

Not surprisingly then, my pronouncement always gets astonished reactions from everyone I share it with, kind of akin to the reaction accorded AIG's insistence that those big fat bonuses were actually earned. Even those who know less about Broadway than I do -- and there aren't many that fit that category -- tend to dispute my claim. So in my defense, here's how I've come to that conclusion.  More >>

Notes from the Soundboard is a new column appearing weekly on Crossfade,  focused on pop music's history and ongoing evolution. Lee Zimmerman shares insights and observations on how music continues to connect with the weirdness of the world. Click here to read past installments.

In the coming days, this headline will morph into a cliché: "The King Is Dead."

If one wants to quibble, it ought to be remembered that Michael Jackson was the self-proclaimed the King of Pop. Whether or not that title was well deserved is, rightfully, a matter of individual conjecture.

Because when it came to Michael Jackson, there was rarely a confluence of opinion. You either loved him or hated him. Some thought him a genius, others, a weirdo -- "Wacko Jacko," as his detractors labeled him. As always, the truth likely falls somewhere in between.
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Notes from the Soundboard is a new column appearing weekly on Crossfade,  focused on pop music's history and ongoing evolution. Lee Zimmerman shares insights and observations on how music continues to connect with the weirdness of the world. Click here to read past installments.

I have a gripe. 

I don't want my music on MP3s. I could care less what's streamed for me or what I'm allowed to download. And don't expect me to give my nod towards an iPod. The fact is, I don't own one.

 Now I realize this sounds incredibly archaic and that I'm clearly walking headfirst opposite a tidal wave of today's technology. So be it. I'll even go so far to say that when CDs become obsolete and its no longer possible to obtain music in physical form -- meaning with cover, packaging and jewel case -- I'll stop collecting. And I'm a music obsessive making that declaration, a guy that reviews music as an avocation and not an occupation. More and more publicists are trying to tempt yours truly with downloads and links and invitations to explore music on MySpace and other cyber realms. And frankly, I'm fed up.
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via myspace.com/rufuswainwright

Rufus Wainwright did his dad proud

Notes from the Soundboard is a new column appearing weekly on Crossfade,  focused on pop music's history and ongoing evolution. Lee Zimmerman shares insights and observations on how music continues to connect with the weirdness of the world. Click here to read past installments.

"It's not time to make a change, Just sit down, take it slowly.
You're still young, that's your fault, There's so much you have to go through..."
-- Cat Stevens, "Father and Son"

And you think you have pressure from your parents to achieve! Imagine being the offspring of a musical icon and having to follow in pop's footsteps. There's no shortage of examples of kids who've tried -- some successfully, some not quite as well. So with Father's Day rapidly approaching, we though it an apt time to look at some examples of children trying to carve their own careers in the shadow of some famous fathers.More >>

Notes from the Soundboard is a new column appearing weekly on Crossfade, focused on pop music's history and ongoing evolution. Lee Zimmerman shares insights and observations on how music continues to connect with the weirdness of the world. Click here to read past installments.



I try not to spend too much time on YouTube, but today was an exception. Mike, a publicist friend of mine sent me some clips of a reunion gig by a band I adore called Poco. They were shot at the Stagecoach Festival in California on April 26 and marked a reunion of mostly original members who played in the band when they first formed some 41 years ago.

Chances are, if you're under 30, you've never heard of this group. On the other hand, if you're a fan of Americana, roots rock or whatever the hell they call it these days -- and more specifically, groups like Wilco, Son Volt, the Jayhawks, the Old 97s and the like -- then you owe them a debt of gratitude. More >>

The Beatles' Let It Be was a sign of the times

Notes from the Soundboard is a new column appearing every Wednesday on Crossfade, focused on pop music's history and ongoing evolution. Lee Zimmerman shares insights and observations on how music continues to connect with the weirdness of the world. 

1969 was, looking back with the benefit of 40 years of hindsight, a year of paradox. It had its highs -- Woodstock, the Isle of Wight Festival, the landing of the first man on the moon, Led Zeppelin, the Stooges, Crosby Stills & Nash, Tommy, Abbey Road, "Easy Rider" and Let It Bleed. It was also populated with shattered myths, disillusion and disappointment -- Vietnam, Altamont, and the demise of rock's first major casualty, Rolling Stone Brian Jones.

The year found Woodstock, CSN (and Y) and Abbey Road documenting the last gasp of the hippie dream, already shattered in the drug-addled embers of the Summer of Love two years before. Past and present morphed into the future, without any clear-cut divide. The Beatles' slow meltdown became Let It Be, Altamont provided a rude awakening to the realities of mob rule, and the steady toll of 1960s casualties, precipitated by Jones' drowning in his own swimming pool, began in earnest. The Manson's family's grisly antics showed how those sunny spires of the 1960s -- the Beatles and the Beach Boys -- were mutated into grotesque symbols of perversion and rage. 
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