I live in
Roseburg, Oregon, the town now known worldwide for the mass shooting that took
place at Umpqua Community College on October 1, 2015 where nine people lost
their lives, and nine others were injured. It was in an introductory writing class that the shooting took place, and I ponder what these students and their teacher would've penned if they had been asked to compose something related to music and the future.
The victims of this tragedy included:
* Lucero
Alcaraz, 19, of Roseburg
• Quinn Glen
Cooper, 18, of Roseburg
• Kim
Saltmarsh Dietz, 59, of Roseburg
• Lucas Eibel,
18, of Roseburg
• Jason Dale
Johnson, 33, of Winston
• Lawrence
Levine, 67, of Glide. Levine was the teacher inside of the classroom.
• Sarena Dawn
Moore, 44, of Myrtle Creek
• Treven
Taylor Anspach, 20, of Sutherlin
• Rebecka Ann
Carnes, 18, of Myrtle Creek
Their futures were
cut short, and we carry their names in our heavy hearts. Our entire community is heartbroken and grieves their loss. In their memory and as
a tribute to them, I’d like to post a song I once wrote and recorded called “Somewhere
Down the Road.” It speaks to the optimism and ideals that a young person might
hold as they prepare for the future.
Unfortunately, the
future for these nine has put them “Through Heaven’s Gate,” another song
written to describe their new home – in a glory land with jasper walls, golden
bells, angel band and harps of gold.
By and large there is nothing like the future for making a monkey of the past, with the present being, usually, equally no less capable of second guessing what's next. But it seems us humans love nothing so much as to dreaming away the now by imagining about later, whether a simple reverie about what's for tea, or all the pillars of literature parading their visions of times yet to pass. Orwell's 1984 is the prime example, written 36 years earlier and, as we now know, getting it not quite right. But, having read it at school, even as late as 1983, aged 26, I was certainly worrying whether he would turn out to be right, helped even, or hindered, by the film that came out in the same year it was supposedly depicting. Handy timing or what! And 2001, book and film, both from 1968, also portraying the future in a way the past has failed to deliver. Of course there are rules in all of this: just as the past is always portrayed as utopian, anything about the future has to have in its byline the word dystopian. Talk about glass half empty pessimism, I wonder whether it is an automatic response to the often grim reality of the present. Is the only way to accept the now to be by assuming worse ahead?
Music is no stranger to such fantasy, and what better place to start than rocks elder, maybe eldest, statesman, laughing Leonard Cohen. Having had a share of fame as poet and novelist, then bedsitter singer-songwriter exemplary, in the later 70s and early 80s it was all going a bit quiet for him. Rather than hanging up his mitts, he came back in 1988, already 54 years old, with 'I'm Your Man', a re-invention with a much wider sonic spectrum than his earlier acoustic guitar and drone. 1992 saw 'The Future' appear as a belated follow-up, and was arguably his most counter-intuitive work yet, blowing his old persona into a distant (utopian?) past, synthesisers and massed girly vocals well to the fore. Having loved 'I'm Your Man', I well recall being a little shaken at the time. Taking no prisoners, it burst straight for the jugular with the eponymous opening track, mentioning both crack cocaine and anal sex (censored in the above video) in the very first few verses. No more Mr Nice Guy, and good bye to playing it to your parents generation. (Or his, by chaotic coincidence.) But, the audience was growing, whether old fans, auspiciously disappointed, or those who just liked to hear a grown man talk dirty.So long Marianne, for sure. All in an unclassifiable genre, probably its main strength, or, as his biographer put it: "Classic big budget AOR, yet with lyrics by Bukowski and Lowell, sung by an old wino from skid row who really wanted to sing like Ray Charles at the Apollo." I think that's perfect, and he even became Canadian Best Male Vocalist fo this in 1993, which tickled even him, even allowing for the partisan nature of his home crowd.
"Give me crack and anal sex Take the only tree that's left and stuff it up the hole in your culture Give me back the Berlin wall give me Stalin and Saint Paul I've seen the future brother: It is murder."
So what's it all about? Has it come true yet? Well, I neither know, nor, actually care that much, but here's a link to one essayists thoughts that are certainly profound. I'm not sure if I buy all of it, and, anyway, what's with needing to constantly understand and interpret? It's like the infernal never ending learned resumes about Dylan versus Keats. It's pop music, fer chrissakes!
What has troubled me, though, in times more recent, is how the singer has chosen to bowdlerise himself, the anal sex of the 90s now sung as careless sex, somehow altering the impact, not to say the cadence. Has the now octogenarian become a pussy? Or is there regret that his dystopian future failed to warn him of his own journey to follow, whereby he effectively retired to his cave whilst an errant manger spent his nest-egg, necessitating a return to the greasepaint and trappings of performance, a 3rd rebirth, possibly his most successful yet. And who, in 1992, could possibly have foreseen that, with new work appearing still, in his ninth decade? So. What's next for Cohen. Slippers and commode? Don't bet on it! Studio or Live, buy it down the links!
The theme now is The Future, so, of course, I need to start by looking at my past.
I think that most music obsessives have a story about learning about music by listening to their parents’ records, or from an older sibling or a friend. I don’t really have that. My parents, who claim to have gone to some of the legendary Alan Freed shows in Brooklyn in the ‘50s, were not interested in rock music by the time I was old enough to pay attention. To my memory, they mostly listened to the Sinatra-heavy WNEW-AM, and news radio. And I’m the oldest child in my family. Instead, my first real musical education came during the summer of 1969, listening to top-40 radio station WABC-AM, in the station wagon that took me to day camp. Listening that summer was, for me, Rock Music 101, and my professors were the distinguished faculty members Harry Harrison, Dan Ingram, Ron Lundy and Cousin Brucie. It was an era in which top-40 singles could actually be great songs (although not always), and I remember soaking them up. It was like I had found something that was mine, an interest in something that was different from my parents.
In retrospect, of course, the summer of 1969 was a huge year for rock music, much of which completely passed me by at the time. Woodstock and Altamont. The Beatles’ last live performance on the roof. Dylan and Elvis returning to live performance. The sheer volume of music released in 1969 that is still considered classic today is staggering. Led Zeppelin and Led Zeppelin II. In The Court of The Crimson King, The Gilded Palace of Sin, Kick Out The Jams, Goodbye. Dusty In Memphis, The Velvet Underground, Nashville Skyline, With A Little Help From My Friends, Chicago Transit Authority. Hair, Stand!, Clouds, Everybody Knows This is Nowhere, Tommy, Crosby, Stills & Nash, The Meters, At San Quentin, Trout Mask Replica, Aoxomoxoa and Live/Dead, The Soft Parade, What We Did On Our Holidays and Unhalfbricking and Liege & Lief, Green River and Willie And The Poor Boys, My Cherie Amour, The Stooges, Blind Faith, Santana, The Band. Abbey Road, I Got Dem Ol' Kozmic Blues Again Mama!, Hot Rats, David Bowie (Space Oddity). The Allman Brothers Band, Ballad of Easy Rider, Through the Past, Darkly (Big Hits Vol. 2) and Let It Bleed, Okie From Muskogee, Volunteers. And that is far, far from everything released that year that is still remembered and played today.
But the song that really gripped my 8 year old ears—the first song that I can remember caring about, was “In The Year 2525,” by Zager and Evans. The song, about the post-apocalyptic future, seemed so serious and “heavy” and the music was so dramatic, that it was impossible not to be struck by it. It was a vision of the future gone wrong, as a result of over-reliance on technology, lack of care for the environment, and passivity struck a chord with adults, too (or at least the record buying public) because its themes were certainly much discussed during that year. “In the Year 2525” hit number one on the Billboard Hot 100 singles chart on July 12, and held the spot for six weeks, during the bulk of my summer camp season. Which meant that it was played over and over again on WABC, and I heard it in the car, and on the AM radio in my room (also used to listen to the Mets’ march to the World Series).
I’ll never forget how disappointed I was when the song was dislodged from its lofty perch on top of the charts by some weird song with lyrics I had trouble understanding—“Honky Tonk Women.” This inferior song only held the top spot for 4 weeks, when it was knocked off by the classic Archies’ confection, “Sugar, Sugar.”
As Wikipedia notes, “It is unusual for a recording artist to have a number one hit and then never have another chart single.” "In the Year 2525" actually gave Zager and Evans this status twice; they remain the only act to do this in both the U.S. Billboard Hot 100 and the UK Singles Chart.” Their attempt to follow up their big hit was a song (which I have no recollection of) called “Mr. Turnkey,” a pleasant ballad written from the standpoint of a rapist who nails his own wrist to the jail wall as punishment. And that, was, pretty much that for Zager and Evans. Zager stopped performing and started a company building “E-Z Play Custom Guitars” and Evans retired to New Mexico.
Listening to the song now, I’m kind of horrified by how much I liked it. But my love and devotion to that song was the gateway to my life-long interest in music, and you can draw a line directly from that station wagon, to my first radio experiences in sleepaway camp, to my high school years listening to WNEW-FM and pawing through records, to my WPRB years, through the mixtape era, to downloading and more recently, music blogging.
The year, 1965. It’s a magic charm of sorts. Say the year,
summon the mystical brilliance of one of the greatest years in musical history—great in the
sense that so many bands and songs that would become contributors to the canon
were born in these 12 fortuitous months. So many great entries, so many great
authors, at the forefront of this beautiful revolution that keeps turning,
keeps revolving, keeps innovating, despite the modern trends that seem so bent
on working against its progress. Rock is dead, they say? Daltrey sang it so in
1972—he wasn’t the first; he won’t be the last.
If rock survives, it should be in spite
of all those whole take such joy in declaring it flat lined while celebrating
the latest trend and innovation that take music in some new, misguided
direction. If rock survives—and seriously, stop bitching about it—it will be by
virtue of a strange alchemy of swagger, sex, rebellion and a whole host of
attitudes and behaviors. It will not depend on the older generation's disapproval and the sneering reaction of the younger one--rock will
always be frowned upon by ‘polite’ society. How many times has the press declared
rock’s heartbeat to have ceased and insisted on putting it in the ground,
ignoring the funky, beautiful rhythm of the dirt falling on the casket? Rock
dies and comes back to life in the same ragged breath. How many times? Too many. And none
of them have ever been right. Look at this year, look 5 years, 10 years, 20
years back. Rock is rebellion, rock is pure eff you attitude, rock is refusal
to be labeled, dead, alive, whatever.
Look back as far as you want--rock music thrives off being the anti. But look at the year 1965 if
you want to get a historical frame of perspective—so many songs that
would be exemplars for what was to come, and what the rest of rock ‘n roll
history would always have to live up to came out in one simple year. It’s hard to
believe. It’s a bit of magic, and with that kind of mojo working in it's favor,
you have to admit, rock ‘n roll has got all the odds beat, and while it might
go through fits and spurts and change its appearance, maybe get a little silly,
a little bitchy, and little funny at times, might even need a smack to set it
right, it will never die.
Not with this kind of pedigree…
Rather than linger any longer on this sermon I present a
small sampling of a few of the sacred verses from that blessed year, of 1965.
Imagine hearing these songs for the first time? Did those kids have any idea of
the history making moment they were listening to?
Dominus Ominous, pass the wine, hit the chords, turn it up,
Long live rock…
In 1965, The Who released I Can't Explain, from their debut, My Generation. Power chords and madman drummers. The Who is rock 'n roll. pure, simple. Rock 'n roll.
Bob Dylan abandoned his acoustic, to a
very well-documented collective howl of
betrayal from his folk-purist fans and put out Highway 61 Revisited .
the lead track? "Like a Rolling Stone What else can you say? Nothing has been the same since.
The Tracks of My Tears,
by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles has always been one of my favorites. Immortalized in Oliver Stone’s Platoon, “Tracks” is soul
at it’s best: smooth vocal harmony, bittersweet lamentation, pure groove, all all
right.
Van Morrison defined badass cool so
much better, and earlier, than anyone else with his band, Them. Baby Please Don't Go"
still sounds like the toughest tough guy you know showing just a little bit of
vulnerability in the face of losing the hottest girl you’ve ever know. Or wish
you did. Switchblades included with purchase of this 45.
("I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction" by The Rolling Stones. Seriously. If you don’t understand the absolute holy place this
Keith Richard’s riff holds in the very echelon of rock’s greatest, absolutely
greatest, moments, than you’ve missed the whole point. A few notes, a bit of
fuzz, and everything—EVERYTHING—changed. Amazing what a hard snare-driver beat,
a thumping base, and repeating riff can do to stir the soul of a few million
kids looking for a brand new way to give the finger to the generation before,
and the one to come.
Oh yeah, and there was also this little
group called The Beatles. They released a lot of music between 1964 and 1965. Help,
Ticket to Ride, Eight Days a Week—The Beatles. What else can you say?
Rubber Soul…Released December 3, 1965.
One of the greatest pop/rock albums ever recorded. Nice way to end one of the
greatest years rock will ever know…
1965—what would rock be without it?
Hard to believe - and I confess that I actually purchased this 1965 album - Herman's Hermits had 3 of the top 100 hits of 1965 - No, wait ... Wikipedia says 4!
I'm even more contrite about the fact that I collected this stuff after listening to the clips below, but ... that's what it was back then. Top 10.. gotta buy it. The power of the media - AM radio was the media venue we all followed and it (in retrospect) appears to have dominated not just the air waves.
Be that what it may, Herman's Hermit's were hot. Top of the Pops.
We've got Peter Noone (aka Herman) doing vocals with a bit of a put-on accent - see Mrs Brown, Derek Lekenby on lead/solo guitar - see Henry the Eighth. And- apparently typical of Mickie Most's production style - some additional musicians doing things like keyboards that aren't visible in the stage versions below.
Andy
La Ray Gun and I are neighbors. His digs are an apartment; mine a secluded
house with its own garden. And a decent charcoal grill. As the designated cook
of the household, I used to be considerably more dedicated to the grill method,
but we’ve cut down on the meat consumption. Well, red meat, that is. The grill
for us is primarily a variation for our fish, and the city where Andy and I
live is famous for its seasonal fish such as the palamut and the lufer as they swim south through the Bosphorus
starting in the fall. Fish season here starts after summer is over, so … it’s
grill season for me.
That said, as others here have noted, I
belatedly found that although I was able to research and come up with a list of
hundreds of songs that include grill or BBQ in the lyrics, there is no small
number of them that are actually about teeth grills – and most of them are not
familiar to me. Says something about our times or my musical knowledge, I
guess.
On the other hand, a little digging
produces a number of classics (classics partly by dint of their age) in which
the grill we originally meant to feature is a … er, feature … of the song. None
of the below are songs about grilling, per se. They just happen to mention that
grilling is a pleasant part of life:
Take for instance the Ray Charles tune
called “Mess Around”. Based on a boogie tune from the 30s/40s, Ahmet Ertegun is
credited with writing the song. (Atlantic Records, and a man who would have
been well versed in the art of grilling the palamut): “You can talk about the pit
barbeque, the band was jumpin’ …” just watch them jump!"
Or, you might relate to John Mayall’s “All
Those Heroes …”. You’ll have to listen closely or dig a bit to his tangential
reference to “Barbeque Bob Blind Fuller”, but you are sure to relish the man’s
ability to transition between vocals and mouth harp. At that age! I was left breathless.
One more similarly tangential reference to
grilling pops up in Peter Gabriel’s “And Through the Wire,” where he sings “
barbeque parties on blood red sands…” – your interpretation ... belongs to you.
I will admit straight off: I had to go searching for a song
to fit our theme this month. Much as I love grilling, I really couldn’t think of
any song in particular that dealt with tossing burgers, brats and steaks on
the bbq…
And, in looking around for tunes to use, and reading about grilling, I realized how much I miss my grill. I live in the middle of mega-city, all concrete and asphalt, and I can’t really grill here without 1) causing a fire on my balcony, or,
2) smoking out my neighbors. This city of mine isn’t really good for the
outdoor kind of cooking I dig. It’s much more about little hobo fires on disposable
grills over charcoal on the side of the road…that’s something I suppose, but I
dig a nice propane fueled, six burner Weber that I can drive like a tank
commander, steaks, sausage, chops and more, all guns blazing, ice cold beer in one hand, tongs in the other. Damn…maybe I need
to move to a place with a back yard…?
I googled a lot of songs about meat. I also googled “grill” and came up with a lot of pics the look like this…
…uh, yeah…that’s not what I was
looking for…
Funny, there are tons of websites
that list songs about BBQs, but those lists are all about songs that will make for a
great BBQ, aural party favors so to speak. And of course, good tunes do make
the party—but, party songs, floor filling sing-alongs, are usually not about
eating. Drinking? Yes. There are more rock songs about partying and boozing it
up than almost any other topic, but eating seems to take a secondary as a theme to
drinking in the anthology of rock n rock lyricism.
That being said, it was kind of fun
to seek out food references in music. What comes immediately to mind is Howlin’
Wolf’s brag that he can “..eat more chicken than any man ever seen…” in the
classic blues staple “Back Door Man.” That’s a hell of a claim. He talks about
“pork ‘n beans”, too. And now I’m getting hungry…
So, where else do we find food in
our tunes?
North Carolina's deep fried rockabilly throw back rockers Southern Culture on the Skids do food well a few times, particularly with "Fried Chicken and Gasoline", but if your drumsticks taste like gasoline, you are doing it wrong, amigo... (SCOTS is a hell of a band, deserving of their own post...next time, perhaps)
How about a song that chooses from the whole menu? Guy Clark’s “Texas Cooking.” I'm going down to save my soul/ Get that barbeque and chili…"
Texas is a strange strange, with its strange ethos and self-referential tendencies and seeming dislike for the rest of the country. Politically, I can’t really take the place, but
Austin has given the world a great many musical gifts, and while I’m sick of
hearing how great the state is, how above the rest of the union the place is, I
could very happily eat my way from the gulf to the top of the pan handle and go back for seconds. BBQ,
Tex-Mex…? Almost makes you forget about the whole “Don’t mess with Texas” silliness. Clark’s tribute to Texas cooking hits on all the menu options: white
gravy, big ol’ sausages, “enchiladas greasy…steaks chicken
fried”. It’s pretty much a soul saving journey, with Texas food being the
communion that will deliver: “I'm going down to Austin, Texas/
The course says
it all, summing up what all the good ‘ol cooking is going to do:
Oh my, momma ain't that Texas cookin'
something/Oh my, momma it'll stop yo' belly and backbone bumpin'/ Oh my, momma
ain't that Texas cookin' good/Oh my, momma eat it everyday if I could alright
For a guy like me who lives in a country that doesn’t believe in sausage, and has never
really heard of enchiladas, let alone nachos, Clark comes across as preaching Gospel,
stomach-rumbling truth…and when one hasn’t had a taco in far too long, Texas
cooking just might save a soul. Hallelujah,
and pass the beans. And the rice. And whatever else you got.
Guy Clark, "Texas Cookin'"Watch, live from 1975And
because I’m getting hungry for grilled fare that is distinctly American, I’m
going to throw in a bonus track from one of my old time faves, Buck Owens.
Twangy rock-a-billy finger popping tunes, Owens is credited with creating the
“Bakersfield” sound. And that sound was really just an electric, buzzed up
country which borrowed elements from early rock and roll, especially
flashy rhythm guitars and a steady go go go backbeat. Nashville,
at the time, was orchestral and overproduced, (kind of like today) and the "Bakersfield" sound, even at
an early stage, was looking back to the roots of rhythm.
Later on, Owens would
be associated with the related and refined “Honky Tonk” sound which
featured raw finger picking, twanging Telecasters and pedal steel guitars, but still
with that great backbeat and sense of what we would eventually call country
rock. Buck is also known for and associated with the TV show “Hee Haw”, but the
less said about that, the better…For
obvious reasons, I’m including Owen’s 1956 rock-a-billy strutter, “Hot Dog.”
(He went by Corky Jones at the time). Starting out with a stair stepping bass line and a roadhouse piano line, “Hot
Dog” might not be profound in its lyricism, but it’s got that sweet tangly
guitar and the thumpy backbeat that I always think must have been the greatest
sound ever heard when rock music first hit the airwaves. I know I’m not talking
about food anymore, but what must that have been like, to hear that thumping
cadence, drums simmering, guitar and bass ready to pop, leading to a blow up like a
burst of fireworks? Must have been amazingly cool to hear that sense of joyful
abandon for the first time. “Hot Dog”
the song is only called so for the fact that the protagonist’s girl, while
totally hot and one of hippest hep cats around, happens to work at a hot dog
stand.She’s a looker, she’s a dancer,
she’s an all around teenage dream. And her cumulative effect on the singer is
too leave him dumbstruck and incapable of uttering anything more than, “hot
dog!” every time he sees her…I can relate. What pretty girl didn’t leave me
stumble-dumb and tripping over my own two feet when I was that age? Buck Owens "Hot Dog"
Alright,
then…I wish you fond listening and hope your kitchen and your grill is hoppin’ tonight with good tunes, juicy treats and if you’re on a diet—which is
so not rock ‘n roll!—I hope this post doesn’t make you as hungry reading it as
it did me writing it…bon appetite!
<
I can admit that a perfectly smoked brisket is an amazing thing, burgers from the grill can be great, and smoked chicken wings are wonderful, but at the end of the day, the best meat to barbecue is pork. Pork ribs, smoked until they almost, but not quite, fall off the bone. Pork butt slow cooked until it falls apart into shreds that melt in your mouth. Pork belly cured and magically turned by time, heat and smoke into bacon. There’s nothing better. Although I suspect my kosher grandma is spinning wildly in her grave.
The picture above is from Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint in Nolensville, Tennessee, just outside of Nashville, which is famous for their whole hog ‘cue. They only do that on the weekend, which was unfortunate, because we went there on a weekday night. When we arrived, they were almost out of food—we got the last two racks of ribs, one dry, and one wet, and most of the remaining sausage, leaving pretty much nothing for the poor guy who got on line after us. The food was great, and it was interesting comparing the dry ribs with the wet. I liked them both. A lot.
I’ve cooked a fair amount of pork this summer, mostly St. Louis style ribs and pulled pork, and considering my limitations (not buying fancy meat, using commercial rub and an electric smoker), the results have been delicious, and well received.
There’s something about the blues and barbecue that go together, probably because of their common southern based traditions. There is also a long tradition of blues songs that contain double entendres, and our featured song fits into both categories. Bo Carter, who wrote and performed the song, was really named Armenter Chatmon, and was a member of a well-known Mississippi musical family. But as Bo Carter, he was best known for songs that were meant to titillate, while ostensibly not about sex. A few of his song titles will give you an idea: “Banana In Your Fruit Basket.” “Don't Mash My Digger So Deep.” “Pin in Your Cushion.” “My Pencil Won't Write Anymore.” And "Your Biscuits Are Big Enough for Me." Beyond the sexual innuendo, his singing and guitar playing are also wonderful.
So, while there is nothing in the song that directly would get it banned from a family oriented radio station, I suspect that Bo isn’t talking about pulled pork. If you know what I mean.
What's that then? Well, actually not anything until you use its alternate name of Soul Sauce, when it becomes something that would definitely liven up any ribs or burgerfest. Originally a Dizzy Gillespie tune, it was all a bit polite in his version, think paper plates and tinned hot dogs, served up at the prom, or that's how it seems all these years on. Actually a co-write with the fascinating sounding Chano Pozo who seems to have given Gillespie his post bebop Latin lilt, it wasn't until it fell into the hands of ace vibraphonist Cal Tjader that it really showed its chops. (SWIDT!)
Tjader was an interesting guy, and one I always assumed to have been Latino. He was actually of Swedish-American stock, and came from a vaudeville family, his father tap-dancing to his mother's piano accompaniment, becoming a tap-dancing prodigy himself in his teens, as well as developing proficiency in both percussion instruments and the piano. Upon demob from the army, he hooked up with Dave Brubeck and Paul Desmond, becoming drummer in their first band, teaching himself vibes and introducing them into the band. Latin influences were now gradually being introduced into the palette of jazz music, and Tjader gradually became drawn more into this sphere. Becoming Downbeat magazine's 1953 best new star on this instrument gave the confidence to start his own band, the Cal Tjader Modern Mambo Quartet. The next decade saw any number of bands and collaborations, with 1964's Soul Sauce, the album and the track, being the pinnacle of his career. Altogether a messier version than the original, this was a shirt-staining, chin-dripping gumbo of a tune, becoming both a radio hit and its parent album being in the years top 50 sellers.
Later years saw some decline, as he experimented with Asian scales and motifs, before a return to a heavier Latin sound, introducing elements of fusion, as well as contributing to the soundtrack of 1972's Fritz the Cat, the animated feature based upon the Robert Crumb cartoon, notably this, Mamblues. He died, whilst out on the road, aged just 56, but his legacy has lived on, through samples, with over 80 samples seemingly identifiable as being of his work, notably by New York hip-hoppers A Tribe Called Quest in their Midnight Marauders.
I like it when a bunch of things come together to inspire a blog post. We’ve been kicking around the BBQ/Grill theme for much of the summer, but it never made the big time. Now, though, as we head into the unofficial end of the summer in the Northern Hemisphere where, I believe, all of our writers live, it was time. You’d think that there would be tons of songs about barbecuing or grilling, which are different things, and while there are a bunch, there don’t seem to be as many as I thought.
Being a stereotypical man, I enjoy cooking outside. For years, I insisted on using a charcoal grill, but a few years ago, I succumbed to the convenience of propane, and while the old charcoal grill sits next to its gas fueled cousin, I rarely have the patience to light the coals and wait for them to burn down to the appropriate ashy white. But, I do have the patience to use my smoker to slow cook ribs, pork butt and chicken (also, occasionally brisket, which is very hard to get right, leg of lamb, the rare Thanksgiving turkey, and even bacon and pastrami). Again, though, I opt for some convenience, using an electric smoker, rather than a wood, charcoal or pellet based contraption that has more street cred, but also takes more work. No one has yet complained about my food because my hickory, fruitwood, oak, mesquite or pecan chunks are burned by a big electric element. I also make a mean cole slaw and potato salad, and a much loved Memphis-style sauce, from a recipe I found years ago in the well-known barbecue bible, Newsday.
I’ve fired up the grill and the smoker a few times this summer, but starting on the Fourth of July weekend, it has been a bit crazier. That weekend, I smoked ribs and chicken wings and grilled chicken thighs for some friends. Shortly after that, we visited Tennessee and Kentucky and ate a bunch of really good ‘cue, which I didn’t have to cook. On our return, I kicked it into gear. Three weekends ago, we had a big family gathering at our house to celebrate a bunch of milestones, including our anniversary, my in-laws’ 60th anniversary, my father’s birthday and my nephew’s birthday. I did ribs and pulled pork in the smoker and chicken on the grill, although the most memorable thing about that gathering may well be the Tennessee whiskey and bourbon tasting. I didn’t even put away the smoker, because the next weekend was a party for our daughter, a combination late graduation and buen viaje celebration before she left for Barcelona on a one-way ticket. Not knowing exactly who would show up, and how much they would eat, we went overboard with ribs, wings and grilled chicken, along with a ton of sides and salads. And just today, I committed to a little Labor Day BBQ with some old friends, for which I am currently planning the menu (but pulled pork is pretty much a lock). As hard as it is to get everything just right, I enjoy it—the prep, the process, the eating, and, I admit, the praise.
But what song to write about? Nothing really grabbed me, until I remembered this sort-of hit by Wall of Voodoo, “Mexican Radio.” Like most of their songs, it is atmospheric and strange, and includes the memorable line:
Which brings me to the second thread of this post. I first heard Wall of Voodoo while I was at WPRB—I remember hearing their very odd, ominous cover of "Ring of Fire" (which I thought, erroneously, was a Johnny Cash song). Readers of my work here, and pretty much anyone who knows me, is aware that my 3 and a half semesters working in the basement of Holder Hall has had an outsized influence on me, even if I didn’t go into broadcasting or music. I know that I am far from the only one that the station has affected, and it has been around for a long time. WPRB is currently celebrating its 75th anniversary in operation, making it one of the oldest college stations in the country, and possibly the oldest commercially licensed campus radio station in the nation. In connection with the anniversary, the station’s “educational advisor” (something that the station didn’t have back in my day. And get off my lawn), and others have worked hard to put together a comprehensive history of the station. There is a great blog, wprbhistory.org, on which yours truly is well represented (thanks), and later this month, an exhibit of WPRB history will be opening in the Seeley G. Mudd Manuscript Library on the Princeton campus, somewhere near where my thesis sits, likely unread by any scholars since its deposit there.
If those two threads weren’t enough, as I was thinking about writing this, I looked at The New York Times’ website and saw this story, about the fate of pink iguanas in the Galapagos Islands after the recent eruption of the islands’ tallest volcano. Because if one of those iguanas got too close to some lava, it might find itself like its long-ago eaten relative from “Mexican Radio.”
I've said it here before: writing a post generally involves learning something new. 1965 was the year I started listening to pop/rock, but my interest wasn't particularly academic. For the most part I couldn't name the members of a band or who played what. Hence the need to research today when I go back to 65.
My weekly allowance wasnt enough to cover the cost of an LP, so my record collection was built mostly of 45s, and by the end of 65, I had probably 25 and a couple of LPs. I can recall, for example, when and where I first heard "Like a Rolling Stone" or "Eight Days a Week". My exposure to the top hits - like most American kids of the time - was through Hullabaloo, American Bandstand, Shindig and AM radio. (FM radio listener numbers didn't surpass AM until the 1970s.) Aside from the in-dash car radio, the device of choice was a battery operated portable transistor radio, maybe with a single ear plug. It seemed to me like it was a good year for American kids. It was also a good year for pop music. A turning point. Bob Dylan goes electric, playing a Fender Stratocaster for the first time on stage. 65 is also the year that Leo Fender sold his company to CBS. 1965 was the year that Ford began installing 8-track tape players as an option - the simplicity of a cassette that could be inserted and removed with minimal distraction was a factor in its success. Justin Hayward is the name most commonly associated with the Moody Blues. In actual fact, the singer/guitarist didn't join the band until 66. Before then, the Moody Blues, under various names and combinations were mostly trying to get noticed. It happened in 65, with Go Now. Without Hayward.
There was a hell of a lot of great music released in 1965. Other writers have posted about some of it, and I hope that more posts about this music get written before the theme ends. But when I looked at a list, while I acknowledged that, yeah, there are some great songs there, nothing jumped out and said, “J. David (or whatever you real name is), you need to write about me.”
Instead, I decided to go with my first reaction to hearing the theme, which is that in 1965 my incredible sister was born. Although I was just shy of 4 years old when it happened, I do have some clear memories of the day, or at least the first time that I saw her at the hospital. And since then, I don’t think a cross word has ever passed between us.
When we were kids, we would get up early on Saturday to watch cartoons and eat cereal and Charles Chips pretzels from those big cans. And as we grew up, we always had each other’s back. My parents drilled into us from an early age that we were each other’s best friend, no matter what, and I suspect that there are still some things that went on that my parents don’t know about. Which is a good thing.
Interestingly, although we have always been close, we didn’t really share too many interests—she was not a big sports fan, we never really had the same musical taste (and music was much more important to me than it ever was to her), and history wasn’t her favorite subject—and four years (and five school years) can be a big age difference when you hit your teens. She went through some difficult times in high school while I was off in college, and in the pre-Facebook, pre-cell phone era, I wasn’t really around, and I’ve often felt bad that I wasn’t there for her, although she got through it, and turned out great.
I’ve always envied my sister because she found work that she loved and was good at, and which benefited humanity, way more than I ever did, and although her personal life hasn’t always been easy, right now she has two wonderful kids and seems happy in her personal relationship with a guy who, amusingly to me, drags her to concerts that she never would have imagined a few years ago. I’ve also envied her large group of close friends, with whom she regularly travels and socializes, although to be fair, with my borderline loner personality it isn’t surprising. Luckily for me, she lives only 15 or 20 minutes away, depending on traffic and how fast I drive, so we get to see each other fairly regularly. A few weeks ago, we were walking in town, and she and her boyfriend coincidentally stopped at the light as they drove through and were able to join us for dinner.
We’ve been able to watch her kids grow up, as she has watched mine. She babysat for my kids, and we have done the same with hers. She shops with my daughter and I’ve seen hers play soccer (and fed her dinner last night).
When I thought about writing about my sister, I thought of Dan Bern’s song, “Oh Sister.” Now, the song really doesn’t exactly fit our situation—Dan’s sister was the older one, who he credits for teaching him stuff and being there for him, and my sister is the younger one, although, to be fair, she’s taught me stuff and been there for me. And Dan’s family situation was different from ours, but the song works here for a couple of reasons. First, despite the differences, the song is about the love of a brother for a sister, and that definitely applies. And second, Dan Bern was born in……1965.
In 1965 Johnny Cash recorded his 1956 #1 country single "I Walk The Line" in German. Fifteen years earlier, Cash was assigned to the 12th Radio Squadron Mobile of the U.S. Air Force Security Service at Landsberg, Germany as a Morse Code Intercept Operator for Soviet Army transmissions. While his friends headed to downtown bars to pick up women, he'd often stay at the barracks playing his guitar and dreaming of the day he'd become a country music star.
In 1965, the same year The Beatles recorded some of their songs in German, Cash tackled his old hit.
With his customary twang, Cash delivered the lines: Am allerschönsten war es doch zu Haus/ Und doch zog's mich einst in die Welt hinaus /Und in der Ferne suchte ich mein Glück /Wer kennt den Weg, den Weg zurück?
And you know what? Country music doesn't sound half bad in German.
In a performance that spoofs Laurence Olivier's Richard the III, Peter Sellers recites "A Hard Day's Night" on a 1965 show called "The Music of Lennon and McCartney". The single would peak at #14 on the UK charts with Sellers doing "Help" as a vicar on the B-Side
Just as fun is a series of outtakes from the performance. He even slips into an Indian accent that would reappear in the 1968 Blake Edwards comedy "The Party".
This song is somehow so apposite of 1965, a gruff yet never more Dylanesque slice of protest, replete with frantically strummed acoustic guitar and brief toots of harp. For, in 1965, many truly felt we were on the eve of a self-imposed destruction, nuclear holocaust a mere button away and seeming so close. Earnest troubadours were on every corner warning of the same, anti-war diatribes billowing forth, from Bob himself to would-be Bobs aplenty. And these were no mere paranoid ideations, as there was a palpable sense that oblivion lay waiting ahead, eagerly itching in the wings for the over-eager finger of a Brezhnev (or even an LBJ). This was the year of US troops arriving in ‘Nam and occupying the Dominican Republic, the assassination of Malcolm X, the Watts riots, with fighting breaking out between India and Pakistan, between China and Taiwan, in the Congo, with coups commonplace elsewhere in sub-Sahara, in Indonesia, in Aden. Hell, no wonder folk were nervous.
It was almost an accident that McGuire came to be the one-hit wonder he became. The Byrds had been given first shout, rejecting it. Offered then to the Turtles, it was tucked away on their debut, taking a full 5 years to eventually sneak into the Billboard Hot 100 as a single. At 100. P.F. Sloan, the writer, had a successful early 60s career as a staff songwriter at publisher Screen Gems, coming to the attention of Dunhill records music mogul, Lou Adler, who put him to work penning for many of his roster, from the aforementioned Turtles to Herman’s Hermits and Jan and Dean. He was also an accomplished musician, playing guitar with celebrated sessionmen the Wrecking Crew, who would be responsible for backing, anonymously, many a more famous name and often instead of the musicians otherwise credited. (Go see.) Back to Eve, and, mid July, McGuire recorded a rough demo vocal to the backing track, laid down with Sloan, together with other wrecking Crew alumni, Hal Blaine on drums and Larry Knechtel on bass. Although this was intended to be later tidied up, the demo found its way to a radio station. This all happened within 5 days, and the song became a worldwide hit, hitting the Billboard top slot within about 8 weeks. The more polished version was never made.
In 1965 I was 8. It was the year, impending doom regardless, that my parents first bought a record player, a neat little Dansette, capable of playing a stack of singles one after the other. It came with a selection of about 30 or so of said 45rpm discs, ranging from Elvis, through the Beach Boys, to the Swinging Blue Jeans, none of which were to my parents taste. However they were just the ticket for my elder sister and I can probably blame my enduring infatuation with music on this particular acquisition in the autumn of ‘65. And, of course, Eve of Destruction was one of the records and I own it still, being one of a select few I sneaked from home when my sister left for University, writing my name on each of them for keepsake.
So what happened to McGuire? It seems he was far from the rough hewn counter culture warrior the song suggests, having been earlier a member of the uber-kitch New Christy Minstrels. (He was the singer on this, their best known number.) After stardom beckoned, he retreated from the limelight, becoming a born again Christian, refusing the play the song again for decades and only then with a bowdlerisation of the lyrics to avoid any possible offence. Sloan continued to write and to seek his own stardom, which largely eluded him, but was the subject of this intriguing song, by the arguably far more successful Jimmy Webb, who claimed his inspiration was fired by Sloan's experience.
50 years on, the world lurches on. Is the Eve of Destruction any the further? Or any the nearer? At least we are still here. Yet the song remains worth singing, as performed here by the Pogues.
Two classics for you in a short post before time's up for the current theme:
I've posted more than once here about FZ and still - 40+ years on - revere the irreverence of Overnight Sensation. Zappa led a band large enough at most times to qualify for our theme's (6 or more band members) limit. And more. The man composed/orchestrated for the band. I've read that he could write musical score as fast as it came to his head - I imagine a scene from Amadeus where Mozart is scribbling away as he explores harmonic options. Yes, a certain amount of drivvel emanated from Zappa's musical mind. (Sheik Yerbouti maybe?) At any rate: Big Bands idea number one: my favorite Zappa orchestral work, from Hot Rats - well, not this version. purchase Peaches en Regalia
As I postponed, delayed and thought through the Big Band theme possibilities, I found myself wandering back in the disco '70s. Alongside Fleetwood Mac and Steve Miller, there was the Electric Light Orchestra. Aka Jeff Lynne's ELO. Like many other Big Band candidates, ELO varied in size from year to year, with wind and string instruments/musicians in addition to Lynne, Roy Wood and Bev Bevan as staple/founding members.
I was on vacation in Nashville last week and was mulling over another possible post on this theme, when my wife, daughter and I watched Jon Stewart’s last show as host of The Daily Show. The broadcast ended with a performance by Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band of “Land of Hope and Dreams” which segued into the triumphal end of “Born to Run.” As I was watching, I realized that there were a lot of musicians up there playing and it became clear what I was going to write about.
First, a confession. For some reason, I didn’t start watching Jon Stewart until probably the end of the second Bush administration, and I have no real excuse. I was in the habit of watching the local news at 11, which I came to find awful, mostly fires and dumb stories, with sports and weather that I already knew from the Internet. I’m pretty sure that my wife suggested that we start watching The Daily Show, and I became hooked. Stewart, whose brother was a college classmate of mine, but who I didn’t know, and who was a bartender at the great Trenton punk club City Gardens after I stopped going there, was brilliant. Also, he is a soccer fan (and former player).
I’m not going to try to give a serious critique of the show, but it was funny, smart, and ruthless in pointing out hypocrisy, stupidity and bias in the media and politics. So many nights (and occasionally the next day, when we fell asleep during the show and watched it on our DVR), my wife and I would remark about how incredible the show’s researchers were in finding exactly the right clips to make someone look foolish, disingenuous or worse. Or how Stewart had cut directly through the crap to get to the truth. The guy legitimately changed opinions, opened eyes and held feet to fire. Whether or not you like the current office holder, when the President calls you a “national treasure,” it is pretty amazing, and not at all hyperbole. Beyond that, Stewart surrounded himself with talented performers, most, if not all of whom showed up for the finale. As a number of commentators have noted, The Daily Show alumni are exceeded in talent and success only by former Saturday Night Live performers.
Ending the show with Springsteen, a fellow Jerseyite and liberal, was perfect. On stage that night, other than Bruce, were his wife, Patti Scialfa on acoustic guitar and vocals, original E Street Band bass player Gary Tallent, long-time members Max Weinberg on drums, Roy Bittan on keyboards and guitarists Steve van Zandt and Nils Lofgren, saxophonist Jake Clemons (nephew of original member Clarence), violinist Soozie Tyrell and keyboard player Charles Giordano. That’s 10 members, a pretty big band.
The choice of songs was also right on point. “Land of Hope and Dreams,” which Stewart requested, is a song of optimism, hope, and inclusion, a vision of a better place, filled with sunlight, hope, dreams, where everyone--saints and sinners, losers and winners, whores, gamblers and lost souls—have a place. And just when you thought it was over, the band kicked into the end of “Born to Run,” Springsteen’s signature song, which, even 40 years after its release, is still moving. As Springsteen has said, “The song transcends your age and continues to speak to that part of you that is both exhilarated and frightened about what tomorrow brings. It will always do that – that's how it was built." Stewart was, at heart, an optimist, who used his brashness, sarcasm and biting wit, in an attempt to argue that the greatness of America (and the world) can be realized when informed citizens pay attention to those who want to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes so that they can take advantage of the darkness.
One article about the finale noted that Stewart brought to the show “a sense of mission. And, very simply (and hopefully), that mission was to make things better.” The article further pointed out that the finale was able “to convey that feeling of optimism without sacrificing the show’s central idea that the mission isn’t over, all in the shape of a joyous party.” But prior to the party, and the Boss, Stewart concluded the substantive portion of the show with a final rant about “Bullshit,” mostly the “more pernicious bullshit. Your premeditated, institutional bullshit, designed to obscure and distract.” The type of bullshit that Stewart clearly believed led people away from the hope and dream of the best country or world that we could be. The rant concluded with Stewart admonishing his audience to be wary—“So I say to you tonight, friends, the best defense against bullshit is vigilance. So if you smell something, say something.”
A change from some recent jottings, as I ease myself back into something at least resembling a comfort zone, avoiding the scatter gun of chuck everything at the browser, hoping some will stick of recent weeks. And, astonishingly, given my floundering ill-preparedly in the sea of big band jazz, this is partly jazz. But partly folk, with a tinge of classical chamber string quartet for good measure, and altogether the best damn piece of recorded music of the last decade. Sure, yeah, and other opinions are available but bear with me. It'll be worth it, I promise.
Colin Steele is a Scottish trumpeter. Trumpet to me is an instrument I always despised, smacking of the worst excesses of jazz, which to me, as a boy, meant Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen. Or it meant the hideous over instrumentation of 60s pop, wherein any and every band had to smothered in brass and strings. Even 'cool' bands ruined their reputations, Love and the Byrds for two, with the infernal parping I now know and love. Strangely, I can't claim it was Miles and Chet that put me right, although, ultimately, they did, it was more Chumbawamba who bludgeoned me into an acceptance of a trumpets worth. Anyhoo, Steele started his career in the late 80s, tinkering in the ranks of maverick Scots experimental soul boys, Hue and Cry, as they threw jazz and Latin into an ever smoother mix. Tiring of that and traveling through Europe, predominantly France, where bebop is still a potent groove, picking up more echoes of funk and worldbeat to his repertoire, he then formed his Quintet, up to now largely orthodox jazz, albeit well-received and acclaimed, within the minnow pool of UK jazz. This is by now the early years of this century. Jazz musicians traditionally don't make money from their muse, relying on outside projects to butter their bread, coming into contact with musicians from other spheres, and there has been a noble tradition of folk-jazz fusion in Scotland. Steele has thus found himself in the ranks of Scottish dance band, the wonderfully named Ceilidh Minogue and the unclassifiable The Unusual Suspects, themselves who could have been a shoo-in for this fortnights theme. But never had their been anything with with solo trumpet as a lead instrument.
"Stramash" burst into being after a visit to the Festival Interceltique, L'Orient in France, 2008, having immersed himself in Islay island life to prepare this immaculate gem. The folk purists at this meeting of the Celtic nations initially turned their noses up at this jazz trumpeter invading their domain, but not for long. The record followed in 2009, and was garlanded with accolades, becoming the Guardian national newspapers Jazz album of that year. Here's a wonderful review from All About Jazz. "Stramash" is a Scottish word meaning commotion or kerfuffle and is so apposite for the joyful ensemble pieces that flit between genre, effortlessly interwoven and interlinked. Enough of this, ye'll be wanting some music. Trumpet, sax, piano, bass, drums? Check. String quartet? Check. Fiddle and bagpipes? Check.....
3 consummate excerpts. I request you, nay, I require you to tarry no longer, Buy it!!!!
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