Self-Reflection: Longer Than You’ve Been Alive

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Here’s a bit of Star Maker Machine behind the scenes info—recently, in an email discussion among our writers about the frequency of posting, one veteran member of the group reminded us that posts don’t always have to be long.

He’s right, and I’m going to go against my usual inclination to ramble on to simply draw attention to this song and album by the Old 97’s, who I have written about in much greater detail already.

Last year’s excellent Most Messed Up is, for the most part, a self-reflective album, looking back on the highlights and lowlights of the band’s 20 plus year career. Specifically, the opening track, “Longer Than You’ve Been Alive,” discusses the life of a veteran touring rocker. It discusses the problems of finding love on the road, the risk of jumping off of risers, the smell of dressing rooms, the quantity of booze they have drunk, and even their drug preferences. But it is also about how much they love doing what they do. And, to make it even easier to follow, the video embedded above has all of the lyrics right there on the screen.

I mean, how could we do this theme and leave out a great song with the lyric:

I'm not crazy about songs that get self-referential 
And most of this stuff should be kept confidential 
But who even gives half a fuck anymore 
You should know the truth, it's both a blast and a bore

Self-Reflection: Bo Diddley

Hell, less self-reflection or even self-reference, more self-reverence, this was a man of, um, unconventional looks, with such exquisite self-belief that he managed to introduce himself into near all his output, entitling LPs and individual songs with tales of his derring-do. So he was, variously, a gunslinger, a lover, a twister, 500% more man, a black gladiator, you name it, he was that man. And all with the same tune and the same rhythm. (Well, almost.)

Born Ellas Otha Bates in 1928, Bo Diddley, ironically, was slang for absolutely nothing, considering he aspired to absolutely everything. But, trivia merchants, he was actually and nominally capable of being a gun-slinger, at least for a while, as he served 2 1/2 years as Deputy Sheriff in Valencia County. (It was the Citizens' Patrol.......)

His life makes for an entertaining read, and I'm not going to play it here, but go search out this, his biography, which makes for an entertaining read. Or this interview.

Here's his catalogue

Self-Reflection: Pete Townshend, "I Am an Animal"

Click and listen: I Am An Animal

[Purchase "Empty Glass"]

When I first started thinking about this theme, the second song that popped into my head was “I Am an Animal,” by Pete Townshend, from his 1980 album, Empty Glass. (The first one was “I Am a Scientist,” by Guided by Voices, in case you were curious.) Odd that this song should pop into my head that quickly, since I think it has been a number of years since I listened to that album all the way through and heard the song, but it now seems like an apropos choice: of the 47 lines in the song (as counted from the song's page on a song lyric website), 40 of those lines contain the words “I,” “me,” or “my.” Now THAT is introspection. Or narcissism.

Musically, the song feels to me like it could have been an outtake from Quadrophenia — although “outtake” implies that it didn’t make the cut, and the melody of “I Am an Animal” is equal in caliber to many of the quieter, more introspective songs on Quadrophenia (I think I’m making a connection to “Dr. Jimmy”: “Is it me, for a moment?”).

Lyrically, the song deals with . . . well, it’s about . . . um . . . uh . . . hm. You know, I don’t really know — not exactly. But Pete is searching. He seems uncertain of the future, unsure of his memories of the past, and speculates a bit about what his current state is: animal? vegetable? angel? king? queen ("of the fucking universe,” no less)? It’s all going by in a blur, that’s for sure.

I'm looking back

 And I can't see the past anymore, so hazy


 I'm on a track and I'm traveling so fast

 
Oh, for sure I'm crazy


I am a human being


 And I don't believe all the things I'm seeing

 
I got nowhere to hide anymore

 
I'm losing my way

Ultimately, Pete settles on “animal,” and who can argue with that? Aren’t we all, after all?

Self-Reflection: We

The Roches: We
[purchase]
As the Roche sisters tell us in this song, they were known in New York City, and had done shows in England before the release of their first album in 1979. For the rest of us, "We," which led off the album, was our introduction to their amazing harmonies and their unusual outlook on life. They already knew at least one famous, if unlikely, person. The album was immediately hailed by folk-oriented audiences, but it was produced by art-rock legend Robert Fripp. The rest of the album showed us the emotional depth of their songwriting, and their skill and story tellers.

The Roches: The Death of Suzzy Roche
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The sisters’ second album was another matter. Robert Fripp was not on board for this one, and this time the sisters wanted to show their range by rocking out. It was, for the most part, a mistake. I saw them live during the tour for this one, and they were very loud, but this approach showed off their songs poorly. Nevertheless, the album did include "The Death of Suzzy Roche." This song may not be for everyone, but I love the savage self-deprecating humor of it, as well as the fact that the sisters were not letting their initial burst of fame go to their heads. Later in their careers, the Roche sisters would find better ways to plug in without losing what is so special about their music, but Nurds stands as a document of a group still finding its way.

Self Reflection: Back Door Man, Mannish Boy

Purchase: Howlin' Wolf--Back Door Man


Purchase: Muddy Waters--Mannish Boy

I read an interesting article that talked about how it was possible to trace the rise in narcissism over the generations through popular music.

It actually works, especially when you use love songs as your filter.

In the 1950s, pop songs were all about how much the singer loved the subject. Lots of adoration and pleading. The 60s--all about loving everybody, as was the fashion. “Come on people now, smile on your brother…” and such…

The 70s brought on a bit of a change, and love songs took on a bit more strut, a little look at me kind of vibe.  Disco will do that for you—not much more to say than “Boogie Oogie Oogie” and the less said about the 70s, the better, at least when it comes to Disco.

The 80s and the 90s-- a pretty soft decade, but pop songs saw a turn toward the more sensually charged and carried an overt sense of sexuality--what I'm gonna’ to do, and you to me. But, still, there was more adore you rather than look at me happening in the music. Whitney Houston taught us a lot, especially about always loving...someone.

Get to the 2000s, if you can still stand to listen to pop music, and it gets pretty ugly. Pop music is a preponderance of bragging rights, showing off, getting off on the image of the self, and love songs are pretty much,I'ma gonna...you know....'cause nothing looks as good as this (self-referential expletive deleted...In an age where Paris Hilton can release an album, and Rhianna can get on stage, bend over and become a multi-billionaire, and there’s an industry dedicated to solely to making it easier to take a selfie with your camera, one should be surprised that we haven’t all fallen into the water and drowned while loving ourselves.

This is by no means a scientific observation--I can't stand to do the research, ie: listening. But, if you listen closely to pop music across a spectrum of the decades, I promise, you will find a disturbing trend toward the very narcissistic and decidedly self-aggrandizing, be it about wealth, swagger, street-cred or carnal prowess. Elvis once pleaded 'let me be your teddy bear', but I think he'd be laughed off the American Idol set nowadays with that kind of sentiment.

Pop music is pretty much a celebration of the booty and the bling, and I guess Niki Minaj is now President? Maybe I'm wrong--I saw her video for "Anaconda" the other day and I realized: Jesus, we're all in big trouble...

So, yeah, I am making a half-hearted attempt at trashing what passes for popular music these days, but, does the argument really deserve that much merit? Most of what 'the kids' listen to these days is so bad, it's kind of a strange exhaustion in itself to even bother talking about it. So...let's move on. And talk about the kind of music that has always been a little narcissistic, and done by guys who make a living off bragging and strutting. The Blues has always been self-referential. The original players were more bad ass than anyone since, but, that's because the Blues was born of circumstance and sociology, or place and economy more than glittery fantasy or poppy imagination.

Promoters didn't need to dress up the blues, or invent the back-story--it was music born of hardship and reflective of the daily lives of the men and ladies who sang it. I can't give the history of the Blues its proper due here--I'm not a scholar, nor am nuanced enough in the research of it to give the history its proper due.

But, I do know what the blues is, and that is....? . I can't define the Blues. It's all in the guts, how you feel and react. One doesn’t need to define the Blues to do what is really needed to love the Blues, or have the Blues—feel it. That’s all. Just feel it…

There are multiple genres within the blues, and lots of ways that it is delivered, making it as nuanced and multi-layered as any other genre of music, But one of my favorite aspects of the blues is the sense of bragging and calling out the bonafides that comes with being a blues man...Being tough, bragging on prowess in all matters--drinking, swinging, picking and....other stuff--that's the DNA of the blues. And calling out rivals, swearing on your toughness and singing proud--that's what the blues is for. If there's a ratio of what kind of brio a blues song calls for to be a real blues song, I'd say it's 1 part badass to 3 parts bragging, mixed in with a whole of lot of strut and swagger and good old fashion shit talking...

The original blues singers were all about survival. Cutting heads is a term that describes the original Delta player’s method of stealing a crowd from a rival. Cutting heads was as bold as one could get, and players engaged in it would set up on an opposite street corner from another player and try to steal their crowd and tips. The Blues was a cutthroat way to make a living in the Jim Crow South, so it only seems fitting that the players would use their music to further their reps and their credibility that had already established scrapping together a living traveling from town to town, playing street corners, juke joints and house parties. If you weren't tough, you weren't going to make it.

So, by definition or by necessity, the Blues is self-referential. And it is populated by some of the most colorful first-person narrators in any kind of music. The personal feel of the Blues comes from the honesty in the voices--or the exact opposite, the lying and the bragging--of the players, and a good blues song, then, is one that...well, it can do whatever it wants. The blues is multifaceted, but it's always at its best when one man (or woman) gets on the mic and howls a little bit of their story at you and makes you feel glad you're not him, or kind of wish you were...

 So, this month, I have chosen two tracks, both of which I think embody the best in Blues strut and bluster, and after I say these are two songs that ought to make the rest of the pretenders shut up and take notice, I'll get out of the way and let the men talk for themselves--because neither one of 'em needs me to do any of the talking--they do just fine on their own.
For your listening pleasure, and a possible path to getting your mojo workin’, I present Howlin Wolf's Back Door Man and Muddy Water's Mannish Boy

 I'll shut up and get out of the way now...

Self Reflection: Wilco (The Song)

Wilco: Wilco (the Song)
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One of the best things about writing for this blog is that it has given me an outlet to use music as a way to write about myself, my family, my friends and my opinions—and not only about music.  I get to write about whatever the hell I want, as long as I can tie it to the theme, no matter how tenuously. And I’m glad that today, in addition to a little personal self-reflection, I get to write about one of my favorite bands.

Wilco is definitely in my top 5. And yet, I’ve never actually written about a Wilco song on this blog. I’ve mentioned them often, and I’ve written about Golden Smog and former member Jay Bennett, and even a whole piece on Jeff Tweedy’s stage banter. So, when I started to narrow down the possibilities for this piece, upon reflection, I decided to finally discuss this band, and their self-referential song, “Wilco (The Song)” from, yes, Wilco (The Album). I’m heading into a bit of a Wilco period now, because I’ve committed to write a thing or two about them for my other blogging home, but I’m not on deadline there, so this comes first.

I think that any sort of artist has to have enough ego to believe that what he or she produces would be interesting to other people. Sure, there are stories about great artists who were unknown until their hidden work surfaced after death, but I think that it is a fair generalization. The belief that your work would interest others, though, doesn’t necessarily mean that you have to be arrogant. Many great musicians, painters, writers, etc. seem to be relatively humble, and based on what I’ve read about him, Jeff Tweedy appears to be one of those guys. Clearly, he has enough confidence to have gone from the new kid, barely able to play his instrument and booking gigs for his friend’s brothers’ band, to the leader, primary songwriter and front man of one of the most well-respected, analyzed and popular rock bands of its era. And yet, so much of Tweedy’s music, with Wilco and otherwise, is mysterious and to a great degree appears to be distanced from his life. So often in Wilco’s music, even the most emotional songs are not simple confessionals, but seem to be written for a character or filled with odd metaphors. And for the most part, he appears to have kept his personal life relatively simple and private (if you count having footage of your family in a documentary and touring with your son, relatively simple and private). What I’m trying to say, is that he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who wants the spotlight on him, although he does seem, now, comfortable in that spotlight.

There’s a part of me that wishes I was more like that. And not only that I wish that I could write music, play and sing as well as Tweedy, but I can’t, and I’ve accepted that. I’ve always had opinions about music, but except for that brief period from 1979-1982 when I got to opine to a small audience on a college radio station in central New Jersey, my opinions were shared only with friends and family. I’ve also always thought that I was a good writer, but since college, my only writing of note was a law review article and a bunch of legal papers, which only rarely allowed me to show any sort of creativity.

A few years ago, I took some fiction writing classes with an excellent teacher, and he encouraged me to write, which I did, until time, money and a feeling that I was repeating myself ended my participation. But the positive reactions that I got from the other members of my class, the teacher, and my family, made me feel good. And, for a short time, that was it. I didn’t have the confidence that what I was writing was anywhere good enough to try to have published. Then, I started reading music blogs. Some of them are incredible, and others, frankly are dull and poorly written. But I really liked one called Star Maker Machine. Good writers writing about interesting music. One day, I saw that the blog was looking for writers. I inquired, wrote a piece which was published and then became a regular contributor. The positive feedback that I received encouraged me to write more, and to begin writing for Cover Me, where I also have gotten encouragement and praise. So, yeah, I have enough of an ego now, that I think that my writing is worthy of being read by others. But I’m still afraid to try to do anything other than to write for free blogs, in part because I feel that doing more would require more work, research and rigor than I think I’m willing to do, and in part because I’m worried that I will fail. Which is why I give enormous credit to those of my friends who write, perform or make art for all or part of their living.

So, the question at hand, is, why would the popular but unassuming Wilco, led by the popular but unassuming Jeff Tweedy, put out an album called Wilco (the Album) and lead it off with “Wilco (the Song)”? My take on it was that the band was having a little bit of fun with its audience, which takes the band very seriously. It is clearly tongue in cheek, as if it was actually necessary to make it clear that the song was a song, the album was an album, and later, the tour was, yes, Wilco (the Tour) (where I purchased Wilco (the Tote)).

Then there are the lyrics. Essentially, they say that you shouldn’t worry about your problems, because, hey, Wilco will love you, and that will fix everything. I take that to be a mocking of the band’s celebrity and power that fits more into the self-deprecating humor that Tweedy is known for, and to me, explains the title. I found an interview in which he discussed the fact that Wilco (the Album) was meant to be more fun and lighthearted than its immediate predecessors, with the goofy cover of a camel’s birthday party as further evidence, and the song was not only meant as somewhat of a lark, but also as a way of reintroducing the band, after some instability. Ultimately, Tweedy said, “we struggled with a lot of other titles that felt more exemplary of what the music was. But nothing else felt quite so succinct."

So, while the song is self-referential, it may not be completely self-reflective. Unless it is.

Self Reflection: Our House

purchase mp3 of Our House
Purchase Deja Vu



I wasn't actually there then. Almost but not quite - age was a factor (just a year or 3 under the "limit") - permission and location were also limits (right time .. right place ...wrong age). When Deja Vu came out, I was among the millions who bought a copy. I was among the fewer number who totally espoused CSNY's anti-establishment rhetoric (and still do!): F*ck the estabishment - regardless of the consequences or the logic of their point of view- if it is "establishment", it must be wrong.

As you well know, 1970's Deja Vu was a landmark in the rock repertoire: a collection of the best (Hey: the lead from the hit-maker Hollies sings some vocals! and there's Buffalo Springfield and the Byrds and ... wow! ) CSNY incorporated an impossible line-up of personalities of greater future destinies. No less awesome than Blind Faith (of about the same era)

Somehow, this group managed to pull off a 1974 tour and this clip appears to be from that era (for more ... read a great Rolling Stone article about which), "box set" listed above as a purchase item.

The story of the "Our House" song is related in numerous blogs and such (Graham Nash- the N of CSNY) wrote it in a "flash" for his "love" of the moment - the one and only Joni Mitchell (you gotta read this if you have the least interest).


For you and me - aside from the song being a classic and a veritable paen to "love at home", you ought to note the way that CSNY made the best of multiple talents: song written by Graham Nash - totally not-Young style (can you see him doing this kind of collaboration these days? - that's him far right on foot at the mic in the clip above). But it works - they are all giving it their best (mildly off tune - but not too bad for what is almost a-capella.) And more or less classic CSN(Y) - vocal harmony. Togetherness. Peace, man. That was the sound of the hippies (Sorry: I has been pilloried here before for my affinity to  those long haired freaks, but I stand by the basic tenents of letting your freak flag fly...)

Neil Young's style is not "Our House" compatible?

Self Reflection: You Turn Me On I'm a Radio

Joni Mitchell: You Turn Me On I’m a Radio

Joni Mitchell: You Turn Me On I’m a Radio

[purchase]

Please don’t tune me out! It’s a common feeling that many musicians have. As I pondered music with “self-reflection,” I quickly decided to put on an old well-played LP by Joni Mitchell called “For the Roses” that dates back to 1972. While her first few albums in the 1968-71 timeframe had rather expressive folkie singer/songwriter material, I always enjoyed hearing Joni’s stylistic forays into the jazz and pop genres. “For the Roses” documented one of those transitional periods and is a great album from one of the 20^th century’s most significant female recording artists. Always straightforward, lyrical and reflective, Joni’s music is close-up and personal.  

Joni had been asked by her record label to write a radio-friendly hit to include on her fifth album, “For the Roses.” So she came up with “You Turn Me On I’m a Radio.” She had hoped that such a witty song with multiple references to radio might actually get DJs to sit up, take notice of it and convince stations to play it. Sure enough, the approach worked, and “You Turn Me On I’m a Radio” became her first Top 40 hit. It also didn’t hurt that the song was also about love, had flavors of country and pop, and it was well arranged with nice backing vocals and a harmonica solo played by Graham Nash. Joni Mitchell made her song’s purpose quite clear: “And I'm sending you out, This signal here, I hope you can pick it up, Loud and clear.”     

As a musician myself, I always laugh at Joni’s astute advice and wisdom when she immediately launches the song with “If you're driving into town, With a dark cloud above you, Dial in the number, Who's bound to love you.” Hey, in the music world (and radio business specifically), why not practice a little reciprocity of love? Support those who support you. A little neighborly exchange and working for each other’s mutual benefit goes a long way to establishing relationships, finding affection, getting music on the airwaves, building fans and tuning the static from your reception (puns intended).     

As far as Joni’s “self-reflection” in the song, this verse says it all and is downright genius: “Oh honey you turn me on, I'm a radio, I'm a country station, I'm a little bit corny, I'm a wildwood flower, Waving for you, Broadcasting tower, Waving for you.”

And if you want your hit song to get airplay, close with “Call me at the station, The lines are open.” LOL, what a great way to get people calling in to request it!

Self Reflection: Fire

Well, if manliness is next to godliness, where, I wonder, would that place this gent, the self-styled "God of Hellfire"? Certainly a man, if his stentorian croon and beardliness denote, and, perhaps against any odds or expectations, from all and any corner, still alive, still going and still performing, surely that displays some degree of immortality? So maybe, as he introduced himself in this, his only real "hit", maybe he was, maybe he is?

Born Arthur Wilton Brown in Yorkshire, England, in 1942, he was even relatively mature as his career began, having studied both philosophy and law at University before taking to musical boards. When success failed to beckon, he diverted from London to Paris, nominally to bone up on mime and acting, recording a couple of songs along the way for Roger Vadim's film of Zola's La Curee. Here is one of them, recognisably in his style and template, if also never a chance of being hit material. However, it demonstrated his knack for allying himself with life's more free thinkers and spirits.

A return to the UK and he could have been a member of the Foundations, moving onward before they hit their stride with a change to that name, and success with "Baby, Now That I've Found You", top ten in the US, UK and Canada and later covered by Alison Krauss. It somehow seems odd to imagine him within their ranks, crooning along to that, too tame for him by far. But he had now formed the eponymous "Crazy World of....", becoming an established outsider on the lunatic fringe of late 60s psychedelia. "Fire" actually was his most totemic prop, as he repeatedly set himself alight, as well as singing about it, both deliberately and accidentally, more often a combination of the two, necessitating vigilance in his supporters to douse his burning hair and head with anything to hand, usually beer. If that wasn't enough, he would often add nakedness to the act, getting himself deported from Italy, flames and nudity being too much even for the hotblooded Italian authorities.

1968 and "Fire", the title song from their debut LP,  was a massive success on both sides of the Atlantic. Forgive my indulgence, but if the flames and the screeching aren't enough, it is also in the running for "best ghoulish laughter in the rock song idiom" canon, 1968 edition, the only other candidate from 1968 being the one from my sophomore piece on this site, now nearly 2 years ago.  Apropos "Fire," if my views are worth anything, the rest of the album is frankly disappointing, with the only other standout being the cover of the like-minded maverick, Screaming Jay Hawkins' "I Put a Spell on You," which fits, conveniently, also the self-referential requirements of this piece. And I bet he thought he really could!

Vincent Crane, whose Gothic Hammond keyboard signatures were a vital part of the Brown sound, then left the Crazy World, along with their 2nd drummer, a youthful Carl Palmer, to form Atomic Rooster, leaving Brown adrift, although Crane was to later return to his side. The 70s saw his extraordinarily odd traveling circus, Kingdom Come, a multi-media extravaganza of song, mime and melodrama, combining spoken word with ever more controversy. I can't find much self-reverential focus in this time period, sensing a mind spilling over into multiple personality rather than any one core being. (But I do somewhat love this little whimsy, which is both personal and perennial, popping up in many guises on many subsequent releases.)

His later career, which encompasses the last 40 years, astonishingly, has been a scattergun of involvements: the Priest in the Who rock-opera, Tommy, dalliances with ex- Mother of Invention, Jimmy Carl Black, and, almost inevitably, an on-off and lingering association with hoary old eternal  UK space-rockers Hawkwind. Here he is, performing with them in 2002. and for a time, in California, he ran a house decorating business, again with Jimmy Carl Black. Imagine the surprise if those hairy loons turned up to paint your house? The colours, the colours, the horror, the horror... Or maybe not.

This decade he has had various short-lived tours and shows with a number of revised line-ups of both Crazy World and Kingdom Come, as well as solo excursions. So, naturally, having become the god he had created, it seems only rational and reasonable to return to his abiding identity, a performance an astonishing 45 years apart from the 1st:

Time for a douse-down, I think!

In Memoriam: Paco de Lucia

purchase Mediterranean Sundance as an mp3
purchase the album Friday Night in San Fransisco

Paco de Lucia passed away unexpectedly in February 2014 while in Mexico. He was in his mid-late 60s. More or less born and bred as a flamenco guitarist, his father, brothers, uncles - all played guitar - some of them as members of his sextet.

But de Lucia would probably never have come to my attention if it hadnt been for his musical exploration for ways to extend flamenco beyond its traditional Spanish home. From the 1970s, he teamed with the kind of musicians that I would have been more likely to listen to: Back in the 70s and 80s, my musical muses included Al Dimeola and John McLaughlin , who here collaborate to display what may well be the collected fastest fingers in guitar on one stage/album and they do their best to outshine eachother in this clip. My personal favorite of the trio is Al Dimeola, but Paco de Lucia's classical background seems to stand out as "style". John McLaughlin's performance on the other hand carries the inflections of his Mahavishnu influence - a slightly oriental or almost transcendental juxtapositions of notes.

Although he is going to be remembered as a flamenco master, de Lucia also played with other jazz greats besides his most famous trio above, including at one time or another Chick Correa. Like so:

And Larry Coryell:

 

In Memoriam: Mickey Rooney & Robin Williams

[purchase the first Night at the Museum movie]

After two quick posts on this theme, we have gone silent here, and that’s a shame, because there are many people in the music world who deserve commemoration. Just a few of the famous and less famous who passed in 2014, and who might make a good subject include, in chronological order of death: Phil Everly, Amiri Baraka, Ronny Jordan, Pete Seeger, Shirley Temple, Sid Caesar, Bob Casale, Paco de Lucia, Scott Asheton, Joe Lala, Nash the Slash, Jerry Vale, Casey Kasem, Horace Silver, Gerry Goffin, Bobby Womack, Tommy Ramone, Charlie Haden, Johnny Winter, Dick Wagner, Joe Sample, Kenny Wheeler, Paul Revere, Raphael Ravenscroft, Jack Bruce, Marcia Strassman, Rick Rosas, Jimmy Ruffin, and Buddy DeFranco. If you don’t know who these people are, you should check them out, what with the Internet having all of the information and all.

But I like to see connections, as can be seen by my last piece on Bobby Keys and Ian McLagan, and last year saw the release of Night at the Museum: Secret of the Tomb, which turned out the be the first posthumously released film for both Mickey Rooney, who died on April 6, 2014 at the age of 93, and Robin Williams, who died on August 11, 2014, at the age of 63. Although neither of these show business masters are remembered best as musicians, they both dabbled in the field. And, anyway, I can write about whoever I want.

I’m not going to try to really discuss the careers of these two men—that has been done better and in more detail elsewhere. But their lives and careers, which intersected in these silly movies, have a number of parallels, and a few key differences.

Rooney, who was born in 1920 as Joseph Yule, Jr. to parents who were in vaudeville, made his stage debut as an infant and his film debut at age 6. His career spanned the age of silent films to Netflix, he was a decorated soldier in World War II, and he rebounded from a period where he was nearly forgotten to become a respected character actor on TV, in movies and on Broadway. Also, he was married eight times.

Williams was born in 1951 and was trained in the acting program at Julliard, although he left before graduation, actually encouraged by John Houseman to leave because there was nothing more for him to learn. He worked his way from brilliant, improvisational standup comedy, to Mork and Mindy, to roles in both comedies and serious films and on the stage.

Both men were known for their abundance of energy, their immense talent, their remarkable versatility and their general likeability. Unfortunately, both men also suffered from substance abuse issues—Rooney with alcohol and pills, and Williams with cocaine and alcohol. In Rooney’s case, though, he lived until a ripe old age, and, despite some health issues, was able to contribute a cameo to the Night at the Museum sequel in his nineties. Williams, on the other hand, committed suicide at only 63, with four movies, including Night at the Museum (for which he received much better reviews than the film), already in the can.

But, let’s talk about music, because this is, at its heart, a music blog. To be fair, Rooney’s musical career is a bit more substantial—he could play a number of musical instruments and sang in many films, often with Judy Garland, as in the clip above. He won a Tony Award in 1980 for Best Performance by a Leading Actor in a Musical for Sugar Babies. Williams’ musical career was much more limited, and was more of a novelty. He did sing as the Genie in Aladdin, and contributed some vocals to charity projects, but the video above is his cover of the Beatles’ "Come Together," with Bobby McFerrin, on an album of Beatles covers by various artists produced by George Martin as, essentially a tribute to himself.

In Memoriam: Joe Cocker

This was still a shock, when, just before Christmas, the news of Joe's passing crept into the newsfeeds. Despite the well acknowledged punishments he had put himself through, he seemed always the eternal trouper, plugging away in the background, touring occasionally, with regular recording to remind of the ragged beauty of his voice, ageing but unmistakeable. Once this man was a colossus, known to all, courtesy of three days of love and peace in upperstate New York, late 60s. Featuring in most lists of best male vocalists, whether in Rolling Stone (a lowly 97/100) or elsewhere, in my list he was up there where he belonged (sic). His critics made great play of his loss of range in latter years, but I believe most singers in his idiom would be more than satisfied by even only the slightest morsels from his larynx. I was a fan and I miss you, Joe.

Born in Steeltown, UK, Sheffield that is, at the tail end of the war, he had, unsurprisingly, had the influence of Ray Charles etched upon his teenage years, as well as of Lonnie Donegan, skiffle-meister supreme. Singing from the age of 12, he started his semi-pro career as Vance Arnold in the south Yorkshire pubs around his hometown, supporting the Rolling Stones as early as 1963, from which came his first recording contract. Dropped after a year or so, he grafted away, with a few name changes ahead of meeting up with fellow sheffield muso, Chris Stainton, to form the Grease band. For someone so well known as an interpreter of songs, his first  success, albeit minor, was with his co-write, with Stainton, Marjorine , reaching 48 in the UK charts. But his Midas moment appeared shortly thereafter, electing to cover the Ringo singalong, "With a Little Help from my Friends", transforming this arguably throw-away song into a massive soul anthem. And that was Paul McCartney's opinion rather than mine. Most people would now steam straight into theWoodstcock footage, which undeniably brought him to worldwide attention, through the film, but I recently read that the field recording on the day was apparently dodgy, and that Joe had later crept into a studio and overdubbed his entire vocal, synching every moment perfectly. (On a contrary note, there is a Live at Woodstock recording that begs to differ.........) So what, maybe, but here is my Joe, and it is back to Top of the Pops, the universal portal to pop that graced the BBC for so many years. This is one where even my mother's withering words and my father's disbelief couldn't destroy my joy:

One point consistently undermentioned in most recent eulogies has been the sheer quality and class of the musicians he surrounded himself with in his early years. A glance of my copy of his first LP reveals names such as Jimmy Page, Albert Lee, Steve Winwood, B.J. Wilson, Merry Clayton, all these alongside the exemplary Greaseband. (This record, however, has possibly the worst cover picture of possibly any in my collection, and is the visage at the head of this piece.)

As the 70s opened and my mid teens beckoned, Joe could do no wrong, his Tourette inspired flailing arms and contortions denoting the template of my then dancing style. As he moved into the rock'n'roll circus of Mad Dogs and Englishman, my fantasies of life on the road became further fuelled by tales of excesses, usually holding the image of a bra-less Rita Coolidge well to the fore. Still the sidesmen and the material was exemplary, as was his voice, though perhaps the seeds of its demise were hereby being sown, alcohol getting a hold on his well-being and depression a hold on his mind. He effectively retired for two years, before returning to the live arena in 1972, the subsequent few years marred by a dalliance with heroin and further descent into alcoholism, with the full rack of onstage drunkenness, vomiting and all. To any eye he seemed close to burn and his sales were reflecting this.

In 1976 the unexpected arose and despite major debts, he became signed to a new manager, producer Michael Lang, on the condition he remained sober, getting shakily back into his stride, garnishing a Grammy nomination along the way for his work with the Crusaders. I should also mention he also gave due credit to his wife for the turnaround in lifestyle and fortune. His next stroke of luck was his involvement with Jennifer Warnes for the film soundtrack of "An Officer and a Gentleman". Most of his existing fans may disagree, let alone those of his duet partner, but this ghastly epitome of schlock, I forget it's name (ha!), was massive and catapulted him back into the recognition both of a public who had forgotten him, or had never heard of him in the first place. This time he got the Grammy. This allowed him the recognition and the kudos to keep touring and to put out regular recordings, all bolstered by a canny intuition to continue to ally himself with film soundtracks. It's true he never managed as memorable recordings as within his early years, but the choice of material always remained top-notch, mostly with an ear to the songs and the songwriters who count, making the credits always worth a good read, sometimes pointing towards their originators as much as this consummate interpreter.

Here's a selection of my favourites:

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

Do I Still Figure In Your Life

My Father's Son

Sail Away

Many Rivers To Cross (live)

And yes, it is still dear old Chris Stainton playing in that last clip!

What to buy? Hell, I don't know. There are a stash of Greatest Hits collections that might suit some. Personally it would be always be this , sorry only that the full majesty of the picture really needs  gatefold vinyl

In Memoriam: Bobby Keys and Ian McLagan

[purchase New Barbarians-Buried Alive: Live in Maryland]

Unfortunately, every year, we lose legendary musicians, people whose names are instantly recognizable, and we also lose a larger number of unheralded performers. And then there are guys like the two I’m writing about—Bobby Keys and Ian McLagan—who were sort of famous. If you are reading a music blog, you’ve probably heard of them, but stop someone (of a certain age) on the street, they would be more likely to have heard of, say, Joe Cocker (who died a couple of weeks later and employed both men) than either one of today’s subjects.

It is one of those strange coincidences that these two men, both of whom were associated with the Rolling Stones, died on consecutive days. Keys died on December 2, 2014 of cirrhosis and McLagan died from a stroke on December 3, 2014. And while they were both known as Stones sidemen, and performed together, their lives and careers were quite different.

Bobby Keys was the classic sideman. Born on December 18, 1943 near Slaton, Texas, Keys (which is his real last name) began touring as a sax player when he was 15, playing with, among others, another Texas boy, Buddy Holly. Keys met the Rolling Stones in 1964 and became friendly with Keith Richards, who was born on the very same day. Keys and Richards shared a love of music, mind altering substances and mischief. It was Keys and Richards who notoriously threw a television from a hotel window, and he toured with the band for years. Keys was also the best man at Mick Jagger’s wedding to Bianca. However, he was booted from the band for a while when he, supposedly, filled a bathtub with Dom Perignon, and then drained it. This was a stunt that reportedly annoyed Jagger. However, Keys was back on the team in the late 1980s, and toured with the Stones until recently.

But it was not only his partying personality that made Keys a popular sideman—he could play, adding the iconic sax solos to many tunes, notably “Brown Sugar” and “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking.” He played with innumerable other acts, including Lynyrd Skynyrd, Eric Clapton, Delaney & Bonnie, all of the Beatles and Yoko, Joe Cocker, Warren Zevon, Sheryl Crow, Jim Carroll, Barbra Streisand, Carly Simon, John Hiatt, Graham Nash, and on and on. He was part of Lennon’s “Lost Weekend,” appeared in the film Mad Dogs and Englishmen, and while he released two solo albums, he will always be best remembered as a hired gun—if one of the top guns. Unfortunately, it appears that his hard living finally did him in, and he passed away on December 2 in Franklin, Tennessee.

Ian McLagan was born on May 12, 1945, 16 years to the day before me, in Hounslow, England. A gifted keyboard player, McLagan bounced through a few bands, including one fronted by future King Crimson/Bad Company member Boz Burrell, until he was hired in 1965 for a pittance to replace the keyboard player in a band called the Small Faces. After finishing his probationary period, he joined the band, and took a pay cut. Along with Steve Marriott, Ronnie Lane, and Kenney Jones, McLagan created a body of music that still stands up today. And after Marriott left the band, and Rod Stewart and Ron Wood joined the reconstituted Faces, who reached further heights of popularity before breaking up. McLagan participated in various full and partial Small Faces and Faces reunions over the years. Although initially he left the songwriting chores to others, ultimately, McLagan wrote a number of classics, including “Stay With Me.”

In the mid-1970s, McLagan agreed to join Wood and record and tour with the Stones, apparently turning down the chance to join Kenney Jones in the Who. Tough choice. With the Stones, he contributed, among other things, the piano part to “Miss You.” He also appeared with or recorded with Chuck Berry, Rod Stewart, Bob Dylan, Jackson Browne, Bonnie Raitt, Paul Westerberg, Bruce Springsteen, Billy Bragg, Frank Black, John Hiatt, and many others, and recently had significant involvement in Lucinda Williams’ latest album, Down Where the Spirit Meets the Bone.

Unlike Keys, though, McLagan enjoyed being in or leading a band, rather than being a session musician. He formed the Bump Band, starting in the late 1970s, and he released a number of solo albums as well as recording with the Empty Hearts featuring Eliot Easton of the Cars and Clem Burke of Blondie. He was scheduled to be a part of Nick Lowe’s Quality Holiday Revue along with Los Straitjackets when he was felled by a stroke, in Austin, where he had lived for two decades, and had become an integral part of the local music scene.

The video above is one of a number of crappy videos that are available on YouTube of performances from a 1979 tour by The New Barbarians, a band featuring Keith Richards, Ron Wood, Stanley Clarke on bass, drummer Joseph “Zigaboo” Modeliste of The Meters, Keys and McLagan. Through the fuzz, you can see both of our subjects playing their hearts out and getting a bit of the glory (while the spotlight remains mostly on Richards and Wood).

The passing of Keys and McLagan, though, raises one significant question—how the hell is Keith Richards still alive?

Holiday Blues: Let Me Sleep

Pearl Jam, "Let Me Sleep"
Watch/Listen
Purchase sorry, you gotta join the 10 Club

Christmas is over--so are the 'holidays'--which is too bad. I dig this time of year, mostly because it gives me a no-questions-asked excuse to drink it up and eat like DeNiro getting ready for "Raging Bull". What I won't miss is the music...I swear, if I have to hear David Bowie and Bing Crosby doing the "rum-pump'a pum-pum" thing one more time, I'm gonna kick an innocent bystander right in his jingle bells...

I don't hate the season, really, I promise. I just get a little weary of they way we cart out the same albums year after year, and expect that somehow,  the one millionth playing of a Christmas tune is going to somehow sprinkle us all with magic happy dust and turn in holiday seasons into a perfect, Gap-commercial-style celebration.

Uggg...I take it back: I'm glad Christmas is over. I can once again eliminate the "Christmas Tunes" playlist from my iPod that my wife insists I revive every late November, and get around to a much better tradition: making my way through all those "Best Albums of the Year" lists and hear all the stuff I ignored during the year...

Without going too deeply into my personal history of obsession, I want to present an anti-Christmas song by the greatest band ever--Pearl Jam.

Why are they great? Well...

Wait, wait: I said I wouldn't go into it...New Year's Resolution number 46: "Stop Obsessing"...

But, out of the million or so reasons why Pearl Jam is my favorite band, one of the coolest things they do is their "Christmas Singles" tradition. Like the Beatles, who made an annual Christmas single available to their fan club members, Pearl Jam has been releasing their own fan-club-only 45s since 1991, exclusively for 10 Club members.

Strange sleeve art work accompanies an often eclectic selection of two songs, and though it's deemed a Christmas single, fan club members often have to wait until spring to hear the strange little treasure the band has offered up for the faithful.  Past highlights are many, but include 2005's "Little Sister", with Robert Plant, 2010's bluesd out "No Jeremy", and 1999's cult fave "Strangest Tribe", an apt descriptor of those of us who like to say we're part of the "Jam-ily" rather than just saying we're fans.

But, perhaps the best single they released was their first, "Let Me Sleep", from 1991. It was the height of the grunge era, when Vedder made a name for the band for amongst many other reasons, penning blistering screeds told from the point of view of the abused and the outcast (Why Go, Jeremy...etc) and probably explains why so many found his voice, along with another miserable flannel-clad Seattle boy name Kurt Cobain, as the one speaking for them. Tell a sad story with some angst and a take it no more attitude, and launch a revolution.

"Let Me Sleep" is in the same lyrical tradition of much of the album "Ten", featuring a speaker lamenting a miserable station in life. "Let Me Sleep" is told from the point of view of a tortured adult looking back to his childhood and begging just to be able to sleep, because it's Christmas time, and go back to what it was like " when I was a kid" and remember  "how magic it seemed".  It was a nice departure from the sonic boom of "Ten" and, if I recall, the first acoustic song the band released, showing a side they would expand on and ultimately make an even greater reputation for themselves on "MTV Unplugged" a year later.

What else to say about the song? It's spare and sad, darkly poetic and it ranks up there with The Pogues "Fairytale of New York" as not really a Christmas song, but somehow always manages to make it into the playlist every year, just to put a little damper on all that forced Christmas cheer...Which, for those of us who don't really hate Christmas but like to pretend we do, is just the right kind of song to put the spirit in perspective. Bah humbug! Can't wait for next Christmas!

Holiday Blues: Sweet Side

Lucinda Williams: Sweet Side
[purchase]

One of the ways that I consider myself lucky is that I’ve never suffered angst at the holidays. Growing up as a relatively secular Jew in a religiously mixed area, I never felt any tension. I celebrated Hanukkah, and some of my friends, did, too. But other friends celebrated Christmas. I don’t remember having any friends from mixed marriages, where there was a question about which holiday to celebrate, or any Jewish families who had “Hanukkah Bushes.” My family never really spent too much time focusing on the religious aspect of Hanukkah—family, latkes and dreidels were more important than thinking about the theological issues of whether oil lasting longer than expected was a miracle, or just a miscalculation. (Not to mention the question of whether Hanukkah represents the triumph of religious fanatics over more secular Hellenizers, and whether that’s really worth celebrating.) And, of course, as a Jewish kid, we got to act smug because we knew that there was no Santa Claus well before any of our gentile friends.

My family was also flexible about celebrating Hanukkah. By the time my cousins and I started going off to college, for example, we exchanged gifts either at Thanksgiving or during Winter Break, whenever we could easily gather a critical mass of family. I think that this gave me an adaptable approach about the December holidays that later paid off.

When my now wife and I were first living together, I knew that she came from a secular Protestant background, and celebrated Christmas with her family. She bought both a small tree and small menorah for our small apartment, which took me a little while to warm up to. Because my family treated Christmas as just another day off, I didn’t have to worry that spending Christmas with her family would conflict with my celebration, and I found myself really enjoying doing both. As it turned out, her Christmas included a slew of Jews, since her aunt converted when she married her uncle, and her cousins were raised as secular Jews. And it also included much drinking, eating, presents and (mostly) merriment.

A few years ago, circumstances led to a parting of the Christmas celebration in my wife’s family, and eventually we morphed the event again. Now, on Christmas Eve, my Jewish family and my in-laws get together at our house for a feast including lasagna (despite the distinct lack of any Italian in any of our bloodlines) and, often, latkes. Everyone decorates the tree, the menorah is lit, if appropriate, and both Hanukkah and Christmas music plays. The next morning is Christmas, with my nuclear family and my in-laws. We eat my wife’s family’s traditional, and scarily delicious, sausage and egg casserole, open presents, slowly, and we end the day with ham. Not to mention some of the millions of cookies that my wife has baked (10 different kinds this year!). In general, everyone gets along, and it is fun. Often, there is a nap.

So, maybe I’m not the right guy to write about Holiday Blues. But Lucinda Williams is. One of America’s great songwriters, her lyrics cut right to the gut, and the featured song today is no exception. It isn’t really a holiday song, but it does reference Christmas. It’s clearly a love letter of sorts, to someone who was damaged by a tough, mentally and physically abusive childhood and life, someone who puts up a hard veneer, but which the singer has seen through, to the rarely disclosed “Sweet Side.” It is a heartbreaking song, but also a hopeful song, because the singer has committed to sticking by her lover, “through thick and thin/ No matter what kind of shape you're in.” Although it is a situation for which I have no frame of reference, Williams’ lyrics makes it relatable, and that, in part, is what makes it art.

Now, even with the brilliance of the lyrics, Williams has been criticized for the song’s musical style, which verges on rap, but really, it isn’t. If anything, it is closer to a “talking blues” of the kind made popular by Lucinda’s musical forebears Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan (and apparently “invented” by Chris Bouchillon back in the 1920s). But that raises yet another issue about the impossibility of parsing out all of the influences in any given piece of music. Who’s to say that rap music wasn’t also influenced, directly or indirectly, by talking blues? So, “Sweet Side” has elements of country, rock, rap and blues, and probably other stuff, too. Sure, it doesn’t sound exactly like most of the rest of Williams’ music. And while a total stylistic shift by an artist can be jarring, it also can be exciting for listeners, and invigorating for performers. What’s wrong with that?

Holiday Blues: Blue Christmas

It's a bit bloody obvious, I know, and I can't even be arsed to see if it has been done before, but it seems so apposite in so many ways, covering any number of the bases I enjoy covering, even, in this case, if that veneer is of and with a thick, snowy schmalz. It's possible I may have previously mentioned my love of cover versions and this song, almost to my shock and awe, is one I have way more versions of than I ought. Or anyone ought. Who knew so many folk woke up one day and felt that this and only this was the song to cover. But then, Christmas, for all it's peace to the world and joy to all people can be a pretty godawful time of year for many, anticipatedly or contrived, through the foibles of massed family and friends. The main problem with the compulsory good cheer of Christmas is that it emphasizes the family, it expects partnership, it insists on conviviality, with that very pressure often enough to burst asunder through any too great expectation based upon. Been there, done that, and, hells teeth, alone at Xmas is the pits, the more so if you are clutched to the bosom of what loved ones you still have, rendering the essence of gooseberry to it's quintessential. I feel that Billy Hayes and/or Jay W. Johnson, who wrote the song back in the 40s knew this, the lyrics extolling the pain of lost love at Yuletime. (Having added my own existing knowledge to the 37 and counting pages of youtube vids, the repeated hearing of this song can itself render one near suicidal, alone or otherwise, but that's another story.)

Elvis is clearly the template most are aware of, originally appearing on his 1957 LP, Elvis' Christmas Album, later as a 1964 single, each doing well in their own formats, either side of the Atlantic. But it had been well-covered ahead of that, as early as 1948, by Ernest Tubb, a lot less ornately, and hence, to my ears, a lot more attractively. Since then the list has been extensive and extraordinary, largely within the canon of country (+/- western), encasing such disparates as Willie Nelson and Billy Idol, Wynton Marsalis and the Partridge Family and many, many more, sadly more distinguished by their bland similarities than any novel differences. Particularly galling examples I cannot even begin myself to link are by latter day "Great American Songbook" destroyer Rod Stewart and the appalling Mickey Bubbles. And even a live Bruce Springsteen and Jon Bon Jovi, separately (unless you know better) have managed to savage it to an ignoble death. There is also the horror of Lou Reed, together with the unlikely collaboration of, God help us, the McGarrigles, so truly bad I have to offer it, pleading then your forgiveness. But there are a few that can proudly stand above the parapet, if only by the quality of the production or the quirkiness quotient. So let me present odd UK Led Zep reggae tribute band Dread Zeppelin, Scotland's finest, the Proclaimers, credible mainly for their heavily accented diction, and recently deceased reggae legend John Holt.

There are many more. If you seek yet more malaise still, the versions by Jerry Lee Lewis, Leon Redbone, Sheryl Crow, Nicole Atkins, Low, Jimmy Martin (quite good actually), Tammy Wynette, Jewel, the Ventures (likewise), Brian Wilson with the Beach Boys, Fats Domino, Bright Eyes, Johnny Mathis, Robert Gordon, Dean Martin, the Platters and Leann Rimes, they are all but a click away, in all their varieties of awfulness.

I need to leave you with some imagery though, to break up this wall of prose, so here are 2 final personal favourites: Porky Pig.....

........and Kermit the Frog:

Happier New Year!!