LUCK: OF THE DRAW

 

I’m a big fan of Bonnie Raitt. Always have been, from long before her eventual break through, the one heralded, I guess by the song that entitles this piece. Before then she was a doe-eyed vixen who confused the biz as where best to place. Sure, the blues was her bag, but, in the 1970s blues was not deemed the domain for wee slip of a girls from Burbank, California. Yes, she was admired for her bluesy based formula, drawing in roots from folk, country and rock music, but nobody much bought her records. Being also, in her earlier years, a bit of a booze hound led, sometimes, to an inconstancy of performance that perhaps baffled and beguiled those responsible for her career, with any number of producers throwing different prisms her way, through which her light might get seen to shine.

Making her live debut on stage at the 1970 Philly Folk Festival with Mississippi Fred McDowell perhaps 

accentuated the quandary, the contrast between the grizzled old bluesman and the fresh faced girl somewhat remarkable. Her first solo release followed a year later, critics recognising her star, her bottleneck guitar play already to the fore, together with her distinctly yearning vocal timbre. Success, however took a while, it taking seven years, six albums and five producers before anything like a hit. And, when it came, a cover of Del Shannon's 'Runaway', it wasn't even all that typical, a, frankly, boogie by numbers chug, a very good boogie by numbers chug, mind, but it got her her hit single 

 

Now signed to a major deal, this should have been plain sailing, but their expectations were higher than her sales, resulting in a brutal dump, shortly after the completion of what would have been her 9th album, were it not shelved. Without a label, and despite her affinity for substance abuse getting increasingly in on the act, her profile was kept high by touring and activism: if there was an 'Aid' between 85 and 88, the chances are she was involved, so Sun City, Amnesty International, Farm Aid. But her luck outed, or maybe her determination, as, by 1987, she was clean and open again for record deals. Capitol signed her and 1989 saw 'Nick of Time', a presciently entitled LP if ever was, sweep her to overnight superstar. I guess the time was right for efficiently smooth grown up music, with enough experiential heft to be valid to a market then beginning to open the boundaries of what might be considered marketable. Her 10th record, not only did it dent the charts, it hit the top, becoming, in time, 230/500 in the Rolling Stone list of all time. With the title track her own, along with two others, the rest was a shrewd mix of songs by other artists of more pedigree than presence; John Hiatt and Jerry Lynn Williams for two. And what a stellar cast of musicians: Crosby and Nash, Don Was and the Was Not Was singers, Herbie Hancock. And the first appearance of her later near constant rhythm section, Hutch Hutcherson on bass and the ex-Beach Boy, Ricky Fataar, on drums. A great album. And let's not forget her duet, 'I'm in the Mood', with John Lee Hooker, for which they gained a Grammy, for his late life smash, 'The Healer'.

But, astonishingly, not as great as the next, the one that inspired this piece. I'm biassed, of course, but not alone, as it did even better, sales wise, than its predecessor. Why my greater love? Down, actually to the choice of songs. Again, a mix of hers and those by celebrated writers in their own right. So, with four of hers, there are another John Hiatt, a Womack and Womack, a Chip Taylor and two by fricking Paul Brady, including the title track. I should add I was on a big Brady binge at this sort of time, so for her to be playing his songs was enough to guarantee my attention. It also included the song, which has become most associated with her, much re-covered subsequently, if never quite so well, the sublime 'I Can't Make You Love Me'. She also provided a cover of Richard Thompson's 'Dimming of the Day' round about this time, for the tribute album, 'Beat the Retreat', which I habitually include as part of LotD, when I play it on my laptop. Paul Brady and John Hiatt were among guest musicians this time, as was Thompson, so getting on for being a dream team. I remember buying this disc in 1991, and it still holds up a a personal favourite. I'll bet it also Brady's, he continuing as a presence throughout the rest of his career, adding songs, having his own profile (and income) boosted as a result.

Seven albums have followed, allowing her to crest the wave of acclaim she had found. If never quite as successful as the double whammy of 'Nick' and 'Luck', she has maintained an elegant presence, a stateswoman for the blues and the older woman in rock music. I saw her live, for the first time, some time before the pandemic, 2016, actually, I discover with a shudder, and she was terrific. As was her Fataar and Hutchinson inclusive band, with the great George Marinelli her now regular guitar sidekick. Realising it was so long ago alerts me to the fact she tours the UK again next year. I should go. Before she does, to capture that skill, her effortless guitar, a slide to die for, and that voice, the elixir of smoke and honey.

Let's finish with Bonnie and Richard, hoping their day never dims.....

I can't make you love her, but....

Bonnie.

Only: Not The Only One

 

purchase [ Luck of the Draw  ]

Bonnie Raitt ranks very high among my favorite musicians, slide players and vocalists, but I have said that again and again here.

50 years since her first album, this past April she released her latest album <Just Like That> which her website says is her 21st, and is back on the road - in TN and NC the week of this posting. Again, from bonnieraitt.com, it appears that the new album and "Made Up Mind" are finally bringing her the kind of recognition she desereves beyond people like ourselves who already know how good she is. There is an interview with her in April's Variety where she notes that some of the intention behind the album was to share music of/by/with musicians who may not be around all that much longer. (see Living For the Ones)

When we decided this theme, I had not cheked to see if in fact the songs of choice had aready been covered here. At the time my thoughts were more back with Dave Mason's Only You Know and I Know, which kind of acts as a bridge to the theme. Oh, and also a question in the back of my mind:

why do we pronounce one as wən but only as ˈōn-lē. And why do we combine them in the saying "one and only"? If, like myself, words interest you as much as music, have a quick look at some etymology here.

But this is off the track we should be on: the song Not the Only One, one of a couple of songs from 1991's Luck of the Draw by Paul Brady. And Paul Brady is a musician whose history is worth a trip down this link to learn more: 

Brady appears to have released the song back in 1983.

Here it is with Brady together with Raitt

pretty much not on topic but - hey it's got the one and only bonnie, it's live and it's a great collaboration with the one and only Keb Mo'

PAUL: PAUL/BIG THIEF

Yeah, me neither, but it is what it is, and gives an obtuse pleasure more profound than, say, "Types of Horse" or "Continental Cheeses", although the latter could have some traction as a future theme. First I thought about witty puns and homophones, you know, pallbearers and the such aPAULing ideas. Then I moved on to the name, with which I have stuck. At first I was going to riff on alternate spellings, so Porl Thompson or Pòl Brennan*, but left off, feeling it too contrived. (Like it has ever stopped me before.) I assumed someone somewhere might already be considering the only living boy in New York, so avoided that one, or any other singer-songwriter casting a similar shadow. So, what was left?

I asked Alexa, and she didn't disappoint, reminding me of the estimable charm of Adrianne Lenker's band, Big Thief, whom I don't think have been included here before. Big Thief usually get described as indie, which, these days, seems a phrase of some redundancy, encompassing anything outwith a standard blues based rock orthodoxy, and where electric guitars are employed. I have also seen them written up as folk-rock, which also, at least in any anglo-celtic tradition, seems just wrong. Could they be post-rock, that term I don't really understand, knowingly dropped into conversation by erudite folk like, well, like me, actually. Never let it be said that understanding is a prerequisite to use of any word, idea or undertaking. (For the record, wiki tell me that post-rock is:"a form of experimental rock^[3] characterized by a focus on exploring textures and timbre over traditional rocksong structures, chords, or riffs." Well, that clears that up, then.)

Frankly, does it matter? The sound and songs they make are often a delight of subtle twists of phrase and melody, borne along on the fragile and raw intimacy of Lenker's vocal. Unfair to call the band Lenker's really, as she has a separate solo life that began ahead the band, and continues, alongside. And that, perhaps, does fit more comfortably into a "folk" characterisation, acoustic and organic Indeed, she made her first album in 2006, before even attending Berklee College of Music, where she met the other members of Big Thief, all four of the original quartet graduates of that august institution. But she becomes identifiably the focus, such is the default of most vocalists.

Paul comes from their debut, often defined their masterpiece, which is handy, as that is exactly the same name they gave it themselves, back in 2016. It is one of those songs that instantly arouses interest. I guess I first heard it back in about 2020, ever late to the game,  possibly as the pandemic had me hunkering down, with more time to explore back catalogues and back pages, the present effectively on hold. A splurge on youtube viewing had me moving from track to track, album to album. Similar to when I first heard the National, suddenly I wanted to hear it all and hear them more. Thankfully(!), they haven't been that prolific, unless one discounts her solo work and the proto-BF stirrings of her duet work with later bandmate, and erstwhile husband, the guitarist Buck Meek. Since Masterpiece, there have been four releases, the latest being a freshly minted double, Dragon New Morning Warm Mountain, from barely two months ago.

I'm not going to link any more of their songs; I want that to be a delight for any self-sourcing this piece may provoke. But here's a live radio performance of Paul:

And a further version, stripped back in duet form, Adrianne and Buck style.

Enjoy your searching.

(*SWIDT, given the avatar for this theme!?)

PAT: SHAMROCKS, SNAKES, STAFFS & SPEAKING WITH THE PAST

Did Green Day derive their name from the Green Day of March 17? And I know I am a day or two late in nailing it, but it is one of many questions I don't plan to investigate too deeply, because it wasn't, but it's as good a place to start as any. It seems strange to me how St Patricks Day has become such a big thing in the U.S., certainly compared to his supposed homeland of Ireland. Even if, in the same way life imitates artifice, it is now catching up. I'm not sure the Liffey has ever been dyed green like Chicago's Chicago River, but it wouldn't surprise me if it were for the future. Not this year mind, but in the same way that Irish bars have become such a big thing all over the world, what the US identifies with as a merchandising exercise today, catches on, well, everywhere, in due course. Hell, even Thanksgiving is becoming a thing over this side of the pond, which seems more than a little counter-intuitive.Too much like turkeys celebrating Christmas. (Which is when turkey is supposed to be eaten, I should add.)

But it is St. Pat of Paddy's Day we are here to blether about, and the abiding myths and legends seem as good a place to start.

Paul Brady is, for me, the consummate Irish performer, and I would place him above Van Morrison, Christy Moore, Phil Lynott, Bono, any of them. A soaring and piercing voice, a human equivalent of uillean pipes, and capable of bringing forth similar tearful emotions, allied to a masterful guitar technique and, if his majesty with the traditional canon isn't enough, a glorious songwriter to boot. This traditional lament has been covered by him at many stages of his career, but it is this version that is the best, from his first solo album, and also his last to fully feature only trad.arr. Shamrocks were said to have been an essential part of St. Patricks preaching, using the three leaves as a metaphor for the Holy Trinity. It may also have been that pagan Ireland already held sacred this plant, and so used that regard as a link between old divinities and the new. It seems plausible, and probably why this plucky little plant is the national emblem of the land. But, tell me, does the shamrock ever have four heads, or is that a clover led question?

Let's stick with Irish artists to tackle the next topic, the tale of how St. Patrick rid Ireland of snakes. It seems that, whilst meditating and fasting, he was disturbed by one, and was so outraged that he henceforth banished all snakes and drove them into the sea. This strikes me as an ultimately dodgy story, and seems hard to swallow. That was, however, ahead of my appreciating that neither are there snakes in Iceland, Greenland, Hawaii or New Zealand. And never were, at least once they became islands. So unless Saints Thorlak, Arnaldur, Damien or the Virgin Mary were responsible for a similar banishment in those countries, I suspect it pure supposition. There are snakes, of course, in Ireland, but only in zoos and as pets. (What if one, or two, I suppose, escaped?) Shane McGowan is a learned and erudite soul around all things Irish, his songwriting awash with imagery and legend. The snake here is a ring, but one feels a whole lot more too. This is from McGowan's post (and between) Pogues project, the Popes, after he had become too unreliable for his bandmates, but before his muse had succumbed entirely to the ravages of his lifestyle.

So this is the one where St. Patrick's staff takes root and grows into a tree. I think we have all been to church services where the sermon has gone on so long that that would seem an entirely expected phenomenon, but I am not sure that is the message the legend imparts. The staff was made of ash, I gather, and, rather than down to the length of the discourse, was about the length of time the locals took to latch on to this Christianity lark. There are lots of songs about trees, especially in the folk idiom, and the piece chosen is only part provided by an Irishman, the wonderful uillean pipes prodigy and singer, Jarlath Henderson. With a vocal tone not dissimilar from that of Paul Brady, he combines a career as a musician, often in cahoots with fellow gael, the Scottish piper and whistler player, Ross Ainslie, with qualifying and working as a medical doctor. (Here is the duo with another song, an instrumental of the same name, from when they were both teenagers.)

The final story is how St. Patrick apparently met with two ancient Irish warriors, Oisin and Cailte Mac Ronain, who had somehow managed to survive the centuries and be there for him to try and convert from their pagan ways. They didn't get on, it seems, and it all gets very complicated as to why they met, other than for him to contrast the sunny lit uplands of the calm and Christian life, as compared to their roustabout fighting and brawling. St. Patrick seems to have prevailed as, given their great age, they died and he lived. It all sounds like the later episodes of TV boxset Vikings, which became progressively less fun as Heaven overtook Valhalla as final destination of choice. And there couldn't be a better illustration of pagan irish ways than by Horslips. The track above comes from The Tain, their 1973 musical re-telling of the legend of Finn MacCool, from whose warrior clan came the two elderly relics who met up with St. Patrick.

Slainte!

Brady, McGowan, Henderson, Horslips.

LESSON: NO TEACHER NO METHOD NO GURU

Looking for some of the wit and wisdom of "Here Comes the Knight" Sir George Van the Man Morrison? Sorry to disappoint, he is strictly off my menu for the foreseeable, courtesy the simplistic guff of his recent return to form. By form, I mean of being the contrariest celtic r-soul in rock. Dissatisfied with providing the surliest birthday thank you message in history, following the splendid accolades corralled together and gifted him by the always great Hot Press of Dublin, he has followed this up with an EP of puerile, ill-researched and poorly conceived assaults on those who restrict his freedoms. That is, his freedoms to contract and transmit C19. It's common knowledge, and I am not going to grace him with any links to his music; he'd get 'em taken down anyway, but I can't resist not offering some of the social media ripostes directed his way. So we got Inarticulate Speech of the Fart, we got Moondunce, we got A Sense of Blunder. For sure he is no teacher, has only madness in his method and is is no longer any guru of mine.

But this is a music blog. Not for us to question the man behind the muse. Maybe, maybe not, but it certainly leaves a sizeable hole in my collection to excise him and his influence from history. So it got me thinking. Is there anyone else who can tap that same philosophers stone? Well, praise be, happen there can.

Light Shine/Jesse Colin Young

Jesse Colin Young, erstwhile Youngblood, was cutting a very similar cloth back in the early 70s, this, the title track from the LP of the same name, of a very similar vibe to the Caledonian Soul Orchestrations around about the same time, with heartfelt vocals, sublime brass and as uplifting as anything from the cheerful chappy of Cyprus Avenue. OK, it couldn't last for the whole of the record, fading into the second side, but I still exhort you to search it out.

Call Mother a Lonely Field/Jackie Leven

Of course this man is an obvious and worthy contender, with a body of work nearly as broad, until cruelly cut down getting on for a decade ago. Much less lauded, much less well known, but a much more reliable source of brilliance, at least in my opinion. A much more affable and approachable man, likewise, and one whose live performances certainly trumped the hit and miss of Van with his personality free zones.

Ride On/Mary Coughlan

Proving this is no purely masculine domain, here is the might of Mary Coughlan, who has ignored every classifying as she travails the domains of blues, folk, rock, jazz. Or music, as we call it. This is an early example, a transformation of the otherwise gentle lament penned by Christy Moore. From the Republic of Ireland rather than the North, her history suggests she could chew up Morrison for breakfast and probably would.

Nothing But the Same Old Story/Paul Brady

Let's stick with the Irish, not least one who has famously had spats with Morrison over the years, with likely little love lost. Paul Brady began a folkie, reaching acclaim with the second iteration of Planxty, ahead of relaunching himself as a songwriter and performer of anthemic and emotional music. Similarly sometimes judged a curmudgeon, age has seemingly had a mellowing effect, as this interview discusses. 

Over the Fields/Blue Rose Code

Finally, a much younger man, the wonderful Ross Wilson, from Scotland. Performing as Blue Rose Code he has just put out his 4th full length recording. Widely seen as owing many an influence to Morrison, there is also a distinct hint of John Martyn, but with hefty additional hits of hebridean melody. The featured song is the opener from his penultimate record and is gloriously fleshed out as compared with his live shows, often just he and a single accompanist, sometimes two. Huge in Scotland, recognition elsewhere awaits.

PILGRIMS & IMMIGRANTS: NOTHING BUT THE SAME OLD STORY

Pity the poor emigrant. No, this isn't a misprint. You can, and maybe will, blame this on my inability to fully appreciate Thanksgiving; isn't it around "my" country's failure to win the War of Independence? Anyhow, whatever Bobby Z has to say about the poor immigrant, how about the other side of the coin? So here is one of my favourites, Paul Brady, voicing the plight of the refugee. This is around the mass migration of the Irish to the UK, usually for work:

Maybe I am playing with tautology, but it gives me opportunity to write about Paul Brady and the Hibernian drift overseas more generally.

Paul Brady is still not and has probably never been a household name, but the chances are you will be familiar with his songs through either Bonnie Raitt or Tina Turner. It was actually substantially after he started his recording career that he made a transition from traditional Irish folk to writing his own wider derived material.

Between 1967 and 1974 he was a member of The Johnstons, before becoming a latter-day member of the definitive revivalists, Planxty, in time for their final first time around recording, and then as a duo with Andy Irvine, from which I give you his showstopping version of Arthur McBride, still staple of his live performance. Subsequently, in 1981, he launched his non-traditional solo career, with Hard Station, from which the featured song above derives. A string of albums appeared throughout the 80s, leading even Bob Dylan, 2nd mention, to comment: "People get too famous too fast these days and it destroys them. Some guys got it down-Leonard Cohen, Paul Brady, Lou Reed......

Perhaps of interest is the above, from a 1977 rarity, which explores what may have happened to Arthur McBride, had he accepted the Kings Shilling, again a reflection of the plight of those transplanted, for whatever reason, from their homes.

Brady continues to work and continues to tour. seek him out, if you can. As a final pointer, returning again to the intended theme, here is another version of the song that leads this piece, this time from a BBC series that became a double disc CD that I also endorse, dealing with the whole gamut of Irish emigration to the UK, USA and beyond, "Bringing it all Back Home". Here's a link to Philip King, whose brainchild it had been.

Buy Paul Brady