Showing posts with label Barry Manilow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Barry Manilow. Show all posts

Sunday, August 1, 2021

POSTHUMOUS: DUETS WITH THE DEAD

Ain't technology wonderful? Want to do a duet with the deceased? No problem, and there is a rich seam of grave-robbing for profit, the still living plundering the coffins of, often, better performers, craving some kudos by association. And a hit. To be fair, the majority of these are terrible, the ghoulishness of the exercise all too apparent, but sometimes, just sometimes, there is at the seed of a good intent, of mining a mawkish opportunity to do what had never been possible in life. These are often by relatives, who may, maybe, have more leeway to have this considered potentially OK. Or not. Hell, some are called into service and put back on tour, long after the ashes are cold, something, I confess, I am in no hurry to witness. (Yes, I do know it isn't actually the corpse that struts the stage, it being all the 3D trickery of holograms, but would even Colonel Tom Parker be up for this degree of exploitation?)


My idea for this piece was to find some good ones, something I swiftly found might be too hard an ask. So let's settle for the least worst, with the odd stinker thrown in for good measure. Let's start with one of the latter.

I'll be honest, as I started typing, I couldn't remember whether Barry Manilow was still with us, needing a quick google, just in case. But he is, and it is his 2014 album, 'My Dream Duets' that is the lodestone of this genre, being a whole album of songs, 11 in all, pairing Manilow with the likes of Louis Armstrong, Andy Williams, Judy Garland and G.G. Allin. (No, that was a joke, not G.G. Allin, but that could have been different, doncha think?) All the songs chosen weren't even supposed to be duets, so it seems a little hard that some of these performers may not, in their lifetime, have necessarily have been Fanilows. But, then again, looking down the list, most were such media tarts and divas as to have bitten his arm off to appear alongside. I wonder then, what drew Barry toward this particular list? Intriguingly, of all the people to offer an opinion on the record, David Byrne, the onetime Talking Head, who sums up the dynamic best, here

I think I am slightly happier with the concept behind one of the late Patsy Cline's later albums, Duets, in 1999, 39 years after her death, in a plane crash, aged only 30. In fact, the records full name is Duets Volume 1, but, thus far, the 2nd volume has yet to appear. Rather than being pillaged by, say, Garth Brooks, the idea was that a whole host of singers, would sidle in on existing duets, replacing the original partner. (I wonder how that affected the royalties?) Willie Nelson was one of those inveigled, as well as being also a contemporary of Cline, writing perhaps her most famous song, Crazy. But what she would make of him now would be anyones guess. As in, whatever happened to that fresh faced kid, with his flat top redhead and beaming smile? What's that, you want his version too?

Let's stick with country music, the most celebrated name therein being that of Hank Williams. Tough shoes to fill mind, as both Hank Williams Jr. and III have found, if not without some appeal of their own. I actually rather enjoy this Senior/Junior "collaboration", the video being a sly mix of tongue in cheek and paterfamilial reverential. Will Hank III splice himself in when his own Daddy too departs the building?

Sometimes it is the demand for lost material that drives the projects, however much of a beady eye remains on the cash-register. There cannot be an act more covetable than the Beatles, with any and every studio scrap hoovered up for posterity and profit. So, when some tapes of part finished demos emerged, the deaths of John and George were considered mere supportive detail to the rest of the band polishing them up and giving a sheen of respectability to the songs. That is, until it became apparent the reason John had failed, at the time, to get them added to the repertoire in his lifetime and that of the band, that being they being pretty thin fare. Rumours remain as to a number of other lost songs in a similar vein, ready for future box sets. Remember, you need but one "new" song to make the die-hards shell out, all over, for all the others they have before, so as to fulfilling completist mode. The song above is drivel, to my ears, sounding like a song that even the rest of E.L.O. would refuse to play.

I'd like to find something good to end with. I'd like to, but I can't. But, I can end with a slightly different trick, the old band in heaven idea. This was taken to sterling effect by a singing postman from Belfast, who sidelined as an Elvis impersonator. Not duets. Rather, he came up with the idea that Elvis Presley, on leaving this side of the curtain, might continue his career on the other side, perhaps performing the hits of those similarly lost from active service. A brilliant deceit, and there have been two iterations of this, 'Gravelands' and 'Retun to Splendor', with Elvis, through the medium of Jim Brown, as 'The King', sings the songs of the dead. I love them, and this is the highlight. Or lowliest, as you may see it. And, like the clip from Bladerunner 2049 at the start, ends where we began. With Elvis.

RIP to all of the mentioned and featured, living and dead.


Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Steel: A Steel Guitar and a Glass of Wine




Back when I was in college, early to late 90s (I stuck around to take a few extra classes) there was a neo/retro-lounge music craze that kicked off. For me, the whole soft bubble keys and castanets movement started with Esquivel. Juan Garcia Esquivel was a Mexican bandleader, and his Esquivel! or Space-Age Bachelor Pad, re-released along with a lot of other music on Bar None, was the height of easy listening. Space age pop, exotica, lounge: it all meant the same thing.

The music goons and college DJs and bar band bums that made up my crew got into it, thought that sleazy lounge nostalgia pop made us sophisticates. We bought a bartender's book and learned how to mix fancy drinks. We hit up the Goodwill and bought the snazziest polyester duds we could and threw Lounge Lizard parties. Our first one was a smashing success. Some tools tried playing 80s music, nostalgia for the ‘80s becoming a real fad itself about that time. But, we insisted: lounge or nothing.

From there on it was Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Herb Alpert, Combustible Edison, Dezi Arnez, The Squirrel Nut Zippers, Southern Culture on the Skids, the very Reverend Horton Heat, Les Baxter, Elvis movie soundtracks, Ennio Morricone, Stereolab, Paul Anka, Canada’s crown prince of the languid orchestral swing. Understand, we were making our own definition of lounge. It didn’t matter if we were throwing in Big Band, Rockabilly, or Barry Manilow: sweet and easy listening meant being silly chic and suave in a way that let us push the furniture against the wall, put on our dancing socks and glide sliverswift across the floor with the few girls we had convinced to come to our one of a kind Odd Ball.

It didn’t matter that we were mixing in multiple genres—Tarantino was making great soundtracks with AM radio gems that would never have been any one single radio programmer’s play list. And we took our inspiration from him and the record bins at the local CD shops (Vinyl was making a big comeback as as fad about this time, too). We made up our own playlists and bought even  better records at those same thrift stores.  We were chasing a kooked up, weirded-out vibe, where sound was blatantly old, odd, but fun, without any pretension, full spectrum color that came from a time we didn’t really know, but wish we had.

This was the early ‘90s, right? I said that? Nirvana was magic, but the spell hadn’t quite taken full effect. So flannel and Doc Martens hadn’t taken up so much room that those natty, mis-matched suits bought at the thrift store were  out of our wardrobes quite yet. Eventually, those two sartorial elements would merge together, and velvet jackets, ratty, off-labeled t’s and thick soled suede wingtips would all somehow look good together. That, a superior hair.

I miss dressing like that. I also miss those parties, where our social existence was an un-ironic Halloween bash every weekend, while we swilled well-vodka martinis and cruised, strutted and cut a rug like we were some variation of George Lazenby James Bonds, full of the kind of exuberant camp, quirk and whimsical bliss that space-age pop music, with all those Batman and Robin zings and zangs and zooms and booma boom booms sound effect graphics, brought to glorious, techni-color life. 


So, Paul Anka—I dubbed him the crown prince of Lounge, with a capital “L”. Today, I ask you to pull out your snazziest duds, get dolled up and hit the dance floor with your very best gal, and ring a ding ding to the glorious sound of  “A Steel Guitar and a Glass of Wine.” Dig it  and dance on, space traveler...