superstitions: ubangi stomp

purchase [Ubangi Stomp ]



A confluence of auspicious days as I write/post. Today is Friday the 13th. Sunday is the Ides of March. Both of which go back a ways in history. One online source says Friday the 13th began being propagated in the 1300s, but is linked to the time of Jesus (the 13 disciples).

Personally, I am of two minds about superstitions - based on my experiences from a couple of decades in this world. No: I don't believe in them. On the other hand ... I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side if in fact one or more of them turns out to be "true".

I noted to the SMM team that there are some pretty weird superstitions in Turkish culture: spit on your new-born to ward off the evil? Again, I confess that my car sports the <de rigeur> blue bead/evil eye. I mean ... why not?

You've likely heard the term "Ubangi".  Maybe (like me in the days before politically correct took over) Ubangi Warriors, Maybe from  the "Bozo" (that's the clown) Travels the World recording? (Appears at about the 8 minute mark) Probably not in a positive light in these times, but it was perfectly acceptable when I was a kid: imitate the accent of a Ubangi warrior, imitate Ivan from Russia's limited English/accent. Aren't they the tribe that put plates in their lips to make them huge? Pretty wild, huhn? Did you know that they stomped on deformed babies to kill them? Welp... not so, but they had some such superstition that reverberated around the world.

Credited to Warren Smith, Ubangi Stomp is a [very classical] rock and roll piece that stems from the Ubangi stomping on deformed children superstition. Believe it or not.

 

Link to the source of the superstition mentioned here

SUPERSTITIONS: KNOCK ON WOOD

Now that we all know that it is often hard surfaces that carry the droplet particles we excrete contracted coronavirus out and about into the population, arguably this ain't such a good good luck charm. Unless we ritually wash our hands thereafter, for the required two minutes whilst singing a suitable song. So may I assume that given as an adjunct to this post?

As to why knocking on wood, or even just touching wood, should confer positive outcomes, this stems back to the days when it was believed that spirits and deities lived in trees, and so a way of making contact. Somehow seems a more tactile expression of faith than just projecting your thoughts into the ether, maybe why christianity appropriated the superstition, with a slight sleight, with the idea of it stemming from the tapping the wooden beams of the cross of the crucifixion. Made from, thus, a dead tree, clearly giving a mixed message to the noviciates transferring over from paganism.

Be all that as it may, clearly the authors, Steve Cropper, guitarist of Booker T's MGs, and soul singer Eddie Floyd, thought it a potent totem for their 1966 chart hit, themselves then muddling matters up with its talk of thunder and lightning, forgetting what also "touches" wood in a thunderstorm. But their luck duly held, the song was a hit for Floyd, hitting number 28 on the Billboard chart, even better, 19, in the UK., and is now an acknowledged star in the Stax firmament.

But it didn't end there, with, to date, well over a hundred and twenty covers, spanning many styles and genres. Cropper himself reprised the song for an often overlooked album, Jammed' In, a trio effort between himself, Pops Staples and Albert King. I commend the album. Floyd also repeated himself, as part of the Blues Brothers circus of films and tours. (And, yes, I am sure that is also Cropper in that clip, his face often inconveniently masked by the neck of the bass guitar.)

David Bowie, on his exit from the Ziggy/Aladdin years, famously went funky, or his manifestation thereof, and David, Live, the live showcase of the Young Americans style, produced this version. The backing is all a bit loopier than the precision of original Muscle Shoals studio setting, the vocals all over the shop. Not originally included in the album, it was released as a single in Britain, hitting a very reasonable number 10 in the chart during 1974.

Which wasn't a patch on the 1978 version by Amii Stewart, made during some down time from musical touring duties in London's theatreland. This never more disco, syndrums to the fore, version became a worldwide smash, a number one in her American home territory. Whilst I was way too cool to ever then admit to liking either her version or disco music in general, I certainly recall her performance/outfit enlivening episodes of Top of the Pops. So huge was the song in the clubs that, when the film of Studio 54, 54, was made, in 1998, it was Stewart's showstopping performance that was reimagined as a set piece performance for the film, if pseudonymised. I have never worked out quite why a song with such subject matter should be so successful with the often largely gay clientele of such clubs, most of the surrounds being metallic. (Yeah, right.)

I would have liked to have found a really out there version to finish with; sadly this wasn't to be. So iconic is the song and so distinctive the riff that none seem to stray from the rigidity of the template. However, I confess to liking this version by James Taylor, as much for the smile on his face as he sings it, acknowledging just how great a song it is.

Knock, knock.....

Superstitions: An Cat Dubh/Into The Heart

U2: An Cat Dubh/Into The Heart
[purchase]

When you think about U2’s great debut album, Boy, “An Cat Dubh/Into The Heart” is probably not the first thing that you think of. Maybe, like me, you think about how the album’s unique sound, earnestness and confidence, despite the young age of the band members, was impressive. Or about how “I Will Follow” blew you away. Or maybe you think about how this album launched U2 to the heights of the music business. Is it the best U2 album? No. Is it my favorite U2 album? No. Was it a groundbreaking, remarkable debut? Yes.

Nevertheless, these two joined songs are strong, even if they weren’t my go-to tracks when I played this album on WPRB, which I did many, many times. (The second half, “Into The Heart,” is about childhood, maturity and the loss of innocence.)

“An Cat Dubh” means “The Black Cat” in Irish, and so we have officially satisfied the theme. Now, when I think about the black cat superstition, I think about bad luck. But because I care about you, the Star Maker Machine reader, I do research. Not exhaustive research, but at least a look at Wikipedia (I know…) And it appears that in Celtic lore, black cats can be lucky! Also, according to that article, pirates believed that if a black cat walks towards someone, that person will have bad luck, but if a black cat walks away from someone, then that person will have good luck—although in the UK, the belief is the opposite. So, if you see a black cat, it could be good luck or bad luck, and depending on the way that it walks, it could be good luck or bad luck. Or the opposite. Here’s another article. Look—superstitions aren’t real, so it doesn’t matter, knock on wood.

Meanwhile, the song “An Cat Dubh” is really about sex. It was written about a short relationship that Bono had while separated from his then-girlfriend, now wife Ali. The lyrics of the song, though, are a little more obscure—they are about a cat that kills a blackbird and then sleeps beside it. I guess that’s what we call a metaphor. And you can decide whether the black cat is lucky or not—I’m pretty sure I know how the bird thinks, though.

SUPERSTITIONS: WALK UNDER LADDERS/JOAN ARMATRADING

"I'm Lucky, I'm Lucky", sang Joan Armatrading, "I Walk Under Ladders", on the song that gave the title, Walk Under Ladders,  to the 1981 LP that, for me, cemented her reputation. Produced by Steve Lillywhite, the go-to producer of the 1980s, who also went on to deliver the business for music as diverse as U2, Morrissey and his then wife, Kirsty MacColl, it had the muscle to present Armatrading's heartfelt songs in a convincing sheen of new wave. Gradually moving along from her earlier singer-songwriter and coffee shop soulstress modes, by the 80s she could hold her own with Joe Jackson and Costello, with sharp invigorating songs, underpinned by any style from a broad shelf of those available.

I guess I came as an early adopter: John Peel, the disc jockey and UK arbiter of taste for all spotty teenage music nerds for  decades, even as those teenagers hit their thirties, celebrated her very early on, long before the eyes shut swayathons of Love and Affection and Rosie. I saw her at Reading Music Festival in 1976, remembering, in truth,  little more than you were supposed to like her. And then she became the civilians darling, beloved of all the womenfolk, it seemed, in the world. At least any I had an eye upon. I sort of just went along with that, attending many a gig. But, rather than resting on her laurels, she evolved almost in front of my eyes. Suddenly, with Me, Myself, I, I was the one paying attention. She was suddenly cool, really. Blondie producer, for chrissakes, Richard Gottehrer produced that one, full of electric guitar based songs, rousing songs, not ballads, not that she couldn't still bring a corker or two of this out of the hat. And she played an electric guitar. On stage. Girls just didn't, or at least not very often.

I think the copy of Walk Under Ladders I had access to was on cassette tape originally, but my shelves show me I have the vinyl as well. An astonishing array of stellar musicians had been assembled by Lillywhite: the credits reveal XTC whizz Andy Partridge, synth boffin Thomas Dolby, eternal sax machine and session man Mel Collins, Tony Levin, later to be a Peter Gabriel and King Crimson acolyte. These were big fry. And I haven't included the ska dream team brass section of Rico Rodrigues and Dick Cuthell. Or only bloomin' Sly and Robbie! Impressed already, the excitement could only up.

Opener, I'm Lucky, seemed so apt, whether referring to the feet she had landed on or to the ears of the listener. A Dolby synth riff introduces the song, ahead of, first, Joan's exuberant vocal, with then the drums and bass kicking in and we're off. Second track, When I Get It Right, hurtles in with frantic sax, before skanking through verses, each ended by a never more power-pop chorus. She got it right. Three in a row with Romancers, the ska influences far more obvious than I remember at the time, every song so far clocking in at an economical sub four minute mark. Can you tell I'm smiling as I write, Spotify propelling me back the years? Birmingham Odeon may have been all seats but I but I sure wasn't sitting ten, either. I Wanna Hold You, a straightforward romp, all scuzzy guitars and anthemic chorus keeps up the momentum, wondering how long this can go on. It can't. Because it is time for Uber-Joan, her pinnacle, the song that ensures her place on the pantheon, no matter how she maybe later became. Oh. My. God. Just how good, how heartbreaking is The Weakness In Me? Don't answer, just accept, the setting a perfect placement for this hymn to the pain of infidelity, planned or even merely imagined.

Side two, remember I told you this was vinyl, is the second killer ballad, No Love, perhaps the wrenching downside or the kick of reality to the foolishness of juggling love and lovers, the inevitable aftermath: "If I Had No Love, I Wouldn't Give It To You". Ouch. No wonder next track, Going To The Hop, is such slight fare, if only by comparison. Any thoughts of slight fare, however, become immediately dismissed, as the splendour of I Can't Lie To Myself judders into earshot, a dubby, if dub-lite, lurch of roots reggae, the bass and drums of Sly Dunbar and Robbie Shaakespeare unmistakeable, the choppy guitar of Gary Sanford, well worth a link, her regular guitar man, not half bad either. But it is the descending duh duh duh duh duh bass that gives most joy. That and Joanie on fire. An ear worm that will stay for days, this has to be the high water mark of this already all the levees broken album, yes, even above The Weakness In Me. Straightforward synth-rocker Eating The Bear, no, me neither, follows with some unnecessary basso profundo BVs, making it the most disposable track on the record. But just as you'd have been happy to have ended it all the track before, another tearjerker is pulled from the bag, an almost gospel hued number, Only One, all fretless bass and more synth twists, a reasonable and satisfying winding down of proceedings.

So what happened next? I kept up for a record or two, but it seemed harder work. With Lillywhite still largely on board, The Key had its moments, before another whizz producer, Mike Howlett, even more foot wedged in the door of electro-pop, took over for Secret Secrets. The songs still good but the formula a bit tired and, especially now, dated. I sort of stopped checking after that, she fading from my radar, if still a name in lights, at least for a while.

I rejoined a lot later. 2007's Into The Blues burst her back into the limelight, if a different one from before, hitting all the blues genres best of's of that moment. Which was odd, as it seemed to echo no semblance of blues of which I was aware, being, to my ears, a muddy stodge. It was another 8 or so years before I could face her again, upon her supposed farewell tour, a solo retrospective project. My wife, also a fan, although more of her earlier stuff, came too, ahead of each leaving disappointed. Here's why.

The moral? Don't turn back, never turn back? Maybe. I have to say the rest of the audience seemed ecstatic. I just wished I had left after my last live sight of her, probably 1987. My wife, maybe 1980.
But I have the records, so maybe I'm lucky too. And this is and was the best.

Superstitious?