As with so many acts these days, I came late to the National, somehow thinking for ages they were were yet another set of blue-collar Jersey rockers, thrift shop Springsteensalike. Indeed I didn't let them trouble my ears until an otherwise unfettered weekend had me perusing the streams from last years's Glastonbury Festival, a TV highlight over here. This is all that is left still on-line. I think it fair to say that the National made a fair old impression, not just on me but the armchair revellers of the UK in general. I thought that show terrific, hoovering up their back catalogue. Thus, when the opportunity came, as it did, in the early summer to catch them, headlining at All Points East, a new festival, or series of day festivals, in London's east side, I was there. Here was my review, penned elsewhere.
Wine seems apt in association with the National, or at least in connection with the often exuberant front man, honey-tonsilled baritone Matt Berninger. His performances often contain as much wine as his lyrics, bottles seemingly downed, empties hurled who knows where, as an adjunct to finding his acceptable level of muse. (Strangely, when I saw him he was strangely euthymic, water seemingly by his side and in his hand.)
The song I feature comes from, arguably, their breakthrough album, the 3rd, 'Alligator', when they moved from being part time hobbyists to full time musos. This was 2005, but the earlier year has seen the song also featured on a EP, 'The Cherry Tree'.
As to whether the studio versions are the same is harder to know. Maybe in the mix? It gained some discussion on the bands own forum on their website, the confusingly entitled American Mary. (It's a song on their debut.) So, seeing as this "other" version gets a mention, you may as well be the judge.
As to what it all means? Me, I just like the play on words, the cadence of syllables, the meaning of lesser import. It is, after all, only rock and roll. But there are websites devoted to such ephemera, did you know? Maybe I speak to the converted but here is a snatch from one.
I don't know what it is about the band I like so much. I think it is probably the mix of the cerebral and the bacchanal. And, importantly for an old guy like me, they are clearly no callow boys off some svengali's floor, or raw garage busboys bringing in a new wave of youth rebellion, frightening the horses of my generation. The sound is meticulous, hewn from experience and talent, technique with an additional bravadaccio that boasts both the library and the taproom as sources of inspiration. Charles Bukowski with a eng. lit. major, perhaps? And as apt for the live experience as at home with, yes, definitely, a glass of wine.
Have Some Madeira M’dear is a song that I married into. It was a favorite of my late father-in-law, and I had never heard it until my wife introduced me to it. My father-in-law had a fine sense of humor, and this one also appealed to his lecherous tendencies. The Limeliters were the nearest rivals in popularity to the Kingston Trio and Peter Paul and Mary. These three were at the top of what I think of as the pop-folk genre. For a great gentle satire of the excesses of that genre, find and watch the movie A Mighty Wind. Still, pop-folk did include some very talented musicians, and that certainly included the Limelighters. Have Some Madeira M’dear is a song that I hope will not offend any of our readers and listeners. It describes in a humorous way something which certainly is not humorous in real life: date rape. But the song is not meant to be real life at all. It is a send up of Edwardian social mores, and the genteel way in which it describes something I feel sure the songwriters would not have approved of is the joke, certainly not the act itself.
I only discovered in researching this post that The Limeliters were not the songwriters on this one, but I might have known. Now that I do, it seems obvious that this one must have been written by British artists, in this case the duo of Flanders and Swann. Michael Flanders and Donald Swann were a musical and comedy duo active roughly from the end of World War II until the mid 1960s. During their career, they would even write operettas. But Madeira M’dear, as they titled the song, is probably their best known song nowadays. You may also know the Hippopotamus Song. That’s the one that has the chorus that starts with “Mud, mud, glorious mud…” I had not remembered that there were verses until I worked on this post.
I confess that I am a die-hard Clapton fan: one of the first albums I bought was Disraeli Gears. Not too long after, I had the chance to see Blind Faith live in Seattle. But probably one of my favorite/top albums is the eponymous Eric Clapton first solo album from 1970. To me, it seems to embody/include the best vibes of the John Mayall/Yardbirds era with the harmonic vibrancy that has infused Clapton's later music.
The album - to my recollection - came out at about the same time as McCartney was starting on his solo career: Wings and such, and they both had a transformative effect on me - band-based musicians that had broken free and could produce substantially better music than they were capable of under the constraints of working together with other band members.
Eric Clapton first solo album shows-cases a style that blends Clapton's transition from the harder/rougher (Slwabyr? is what?) to the more melodic tones we hear when he picks up the Steve Winwood influence of Blind Faith, Delaney and Bonnie and beyond.
There's a certain amount of John Mayall influence in this album, a certain amount of Cream - but more of what later turns out to be really inside the man: more melodic tunes.
I can't say that Bottle Of Red Wine is my favorite track from the album: my choice would be a toss-up between Slunky, Easy Now, Let It Rain and After Midnight (and that comprises most of the album).
I do wonder why Clapton might focus on wine when there was so much else of the mind-bending substances going on around him at that time (see my last post about West Bruce & Laing). You could take a minute to consider the lyrics:
I went to an all-night get together
And everyone I knew was there.
Had the love that would last forever.
Everywhere I looked, I saw you standing there.
Get up; get your man a bottle of red wine.
Get up; get your man a bottle of red wine.
I can't get up out of bed
With this crazy feeling in my head.
I said get up right now, oh oh.
I said get up right now.
In digging around for copies of songs for Eric Clapton's Bottle of Red Wine, I came across a series of clips that I wanted to share from a guy who does a very decent cover of most of the album. He's doing what I myself have also started in on: guitar on top of backing tracks (it's a great way to perfect your chops)
Like many people, A Night At The Opera, and particularly, “Bohemian Rhapsody” was my gateway to Queen. That album came out in 1975, when I was in high school, and it really was not like anything else I (or most people) had heard. My love for that album led me to look at their prior albums, which at that point consisted of their self-titled debut from 1973, and Queen II and Sheer Heart Attack, both (!) released in 1974.
What made Queen so fascinating was that they were one part heavy metal, one part prog, one part vaudeville and music hall, and one part pop, but elevated above the pack by Freddy Mercury’s other worldly voice, Brian May’s distinctive guitars, and a strong rhythm section. Mercury, who has been scientifically proven (!) to have been the world’s greatest singer, would have turned 72 today, had he not died in 1991.
While Queen’s debut may have tilted toward metal, and their second, filled with tales of fairies and black and white queens, might have been more proggy, Sheer Heart Attack, was, as its title hinted, more straightforward hard rock. But not completely.
In fact, the big hit single from the album—their first international hit that made it to No. 2 on the UK charts and No. 12 on the US charts, was “Killer Queen,” a song that Mercury stated was not the hard rock that people expected from Queen, but was more like a song that Noel Coward might have sung. In addition to using a grand piano, Mercury overdubbed it with an upright, to give it a vaudeville feel. And May’s multitracked guitar solo is excellent (and one of his favorites)—he added it late in the recording process because he had been in the hospital with hepatitis and a stomach ulcer.
“Killer Queen” is a song about a high class call girl, and the lyrics set this up by informing us, at the song’s very start:
She keeps Moët et Chandon In her pretty cabinet.
Moët et Chandon, is, of course, a famous maker of champagne, whose history goes back to 1743, and its prestige made it a perfect signifier for the expensive (if not quite Dom Pérignon-level) tastes of the person who Mercury was describing in the song.
Wine is a theme that is rich with possibilities. I hope it will allow us to make a strong comeback from our last theme. This one differs from our old Drinking Songs theme in two important ways. First, we are limited here to Wine. I thought of opening with something by Tom Waits, but his drinkers go for the hard stuff. Beer is also right out. But the second difference should open things up quite a bit. Yes, wine can get you drunk, but many songs about it describe a gentle glow, rather than a full-on drunken stupor, so I hope we will see some examples of that as we go along. I am afraid, however, that that is not the case here. I went with the first song that came to mind, and it is definitely a drinking song.
I was prepared to keep looking. I knew that Drinking Wine Spo-Dee-o-Dee became one of Jerry Lee Lewis’ signature tunes, and I wasn’t looking to feature him. But it turns out that he wasn’t the original artist or writer. In fact, the song had been around for twelve years and numerous other covers before Lewis recorded his version in 1959. Let’s have a look.
Drinking Wine Spo-Dee-o-Dee was written by Sticks McGhee, who first recorded a solo acoustic version in 1947 that went nowhere. But two years later he signed with Atlantic and recorded a new version, heard here, that became Atlantic’s first hit. McGhee is one of several artists in this post who could have been featured in our Forgotten theme. He was the brother of the great bluesman Brownie McGhee, and Sticks had several other hits on the R&B charts before the era of rock and roll dawned. That he is not better known probably has everything to do with him arriving on the scene too early.
Lionel Hampton with Sonny Parker: Drinking Wine Spo-Dee-o-Dee
Lionel Hampton certainly has not been forgotten, but the great singer heard here, Sonny Parker, has been. In his case, it had everything to do with the shortness of his career. Parker was just establishing himself in 1949 when he recorded this hit with Hampton. His career would only last until 1957, when he died of a brain hemorrhage. Based on this evidence, I for one would like to know more.
As I said earlier, Sticks McGhee’s hit version of Spo-Dee-o-Dee came out in 1949. It was the custom of record companies in those days to rush to record and release new covers of current hits. So it was still 1949 when Wynonie Harris had his own hit version. McGhee gave us an acoustic blues-based treatment, Hampton jazzed it up, and now Harris gave the song a full blown R&B treatment. What else was there to do with it?
Loy Gordon and His Pleasant Valley Boys: Drinking Wine Spo-Dee-o-Dee
Actually, I’m glad you asked. How about a western swing version? This one is also from 1949, and technically the musical genre here is something called bopping hillbilly music, but it sounds to me like a very close cousin to western swing. Loy Gordon and His Pleasant Valley Boys are a truly forgotten act. I could find nothing about them except for this song, but it’s a good one. If anyone has more information about them, please add it in the comments.
And so it went for the next ten years. Every year, a new artist or three released their version of Spo-Dee-o-Dee, with varying degrees of commercial and artistic success. I invite the reader to seek out for themselves some fine rockabilly versions from this time. But gradually, it became more difficult to add anything new to the conversation. There are many versions that simple rehash what previous artists had done. So Jerry Lee Lewis in 1959 deserves a lot of credit for his version. He took the song and made it one of his piano-based rockers that couldn’t possibly be anyone else.
Larry Dale: Drinking Wine Spo-Dee-o-Dee
I couldn’t resist closing with one more. Larry Dale’s version is so forgotten, I couldn’t even find a purchase link. But that is a shame, because this one really cooks. Even after Jerry Lee Lewis had claimed the song as his own, Dale could still find life in it. That is a process that continues to this day, as the song has become a rock standard. I’ll drink to that.
When SMM checked into the Trio theme back in 2010, Darius wrote up Strange Brew by Cream. After the Cream trio broke up, Clapton and Baker moved on to Blind Faith, which included Steve Winwood.
Jack Bruce teamed up with two members of Mountain to form a band called West, Bruce & Laing. West, previously from Mountain, [Nantucket Sleighride] apparently earned the <Mountain> moniker on account of his rather large size.
Ostensibly one of the famed late 60s super groups, WBL produced a trio of albums between '72 and '74 before folding; a trio of albums in a trio of years. As a super-group, they signed the largest contract of the time - a $1 million deal with CBS for the three albums. As with much of Mountain's repertoire as well as a fair amount of Cream's, the music a pretty heavy. And it wasn't just their music that was heavy.
Their first album, Why Dontcha did reasonably well, but by all accounts their heavy use got in the way of potentially better quality work. The posted song is from the second of their studio albums but as far as I can tell it is from the much later reincarnation of the band with Jack Bruce's son.
I'm just back from a Folk Festival. As many of my posts might reveal, I am quite a fan of trad.arr. and enjoy an occasional immerse in it. Towersey is a small village in Oxfordshire that has been having such a shindig for over 40 years, this being the 45th. I hadn't been since the 25th or thereabouts, since which time it has moved a little down the road, to an agricultural show ground near Thame, named, I guess, after the river. Like many things, the definition of folk is a an increasingly broad church; the economics of these events require bigger names than any purist folkie might want to expect, which is fine by me, so this weekend included Big Country, Beth Orton and the Proclaimers, who filled the big tents, whilst the more hard core material filled in the gaps at smaller stages. (For the record, of those three names, Big Country were dire, arguably unsurprisingly as their lead singer and songwriter took his own life over a decade ago, I gave the Proclaimers a wide berth, if not far enough to avoid the massed du-de-du-dus bleeding into my beer, across the other side of the site, and Beth Orton was charming, a gauche elfinesque figure with an acoustic guitar and an intense electric guitarist to her side, revelling in his effects pedals.) There was also a fine set by the Richard Thompson Electric Trio, which could have been my theme today but, sorry, it isn't.
Which is all a very long preamble to what is, a celebration of possibly the biggest band on the folk circuit proper. Who weren't even playing. And aren't a trio. Or weren't.
Show of Hands have ascended, modestly, to folk royalty during their 31 year career, starting off as a showpiece for Steve Knightley's songs, aided and abetted by ex-Albion Band alumnus, Phil Beer, on anything with strings and second vocal. However, knowing they needed to get in on the folk club circuit, they added enough traditional songs to get their foot in the door. Avowing a deliberate punk DIY ethos, they started as they meant to go on, turning up with their own P.A. and lighting, avoiding agents and booking fees, arranging their own gigs for a take of the door. A model that has since become far more widespread, giving both control and consistency, with the next step being ownership of their own publishing and, in turn, their own label. Starting off with cassettes and an honesty box, a loyal following has seen these acorns grow, if not overnight, certainly surely and steadily, until now having sold out the fabled Royal Albert Hall on at least 5 occasions, and with 25 albums behind them, ranging from new songs to old songs, instrumentals, covers and collaborations, they can, literally, call their own tune. Adding Miranda Sykes, on double bass and 3rd vocal, in 2004, she has added both a top and bottom end to their sound, and they now tour and play more often as three than two.
You'll be wanting some music, I suppose. It is difficult to choose, so wide and varied their output. I have seen them play perhaps a dozen times, impressed always by Knightley's strong vocals and his ability to pen a keenly political take on country matters, whether the c be in capitals or otherwise. More than once his espousal of rural concerns, such as the pricing out of locals from living in their own villages, have led to front page controversy. Phil Beer just leaves me gobsmacked, such is his mastery on fiddle, guitar or mandolin, often all in the same song. (And, fact fans, as well as his sterling work as Ashley Hutching's aide de camp in the 80s Albion Band, it is also he who plays fiddle and mandolin on the Rolling Stones' "Blinded by Love". ) I confess I didn't at first see why Hart was needed until my most recent sighting of the band, earlier this year at another festival, the rather more and decidedly grungy Bearded Theory, where they went down an absolute belter with the audience of grizzled ex-punks and crusties. Hart gave a sufficient and robust solid anchor to allow Knightley and Beer to individually, vocally and instrumentally, soar. Here are 4 songs, from various stages of their existence, 3 originals, 1 cover, it being their masterful transplantation of Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" from the west coast to the west country.
"Galway Farmer" was actually written by Steve Knightley, but, so ubiquitous has it become on the folk club circuit, it has made it's way into a songbook of "traditional" irish ballads!
"Country Life" gained the band a fair amount of notoriety for the no holds barred lyric, but little compared to that of the song below, "Arrogance, Ignorance and Greed." Can you guess what it is about?
Though not, I believe in the above clip, when playing this song live, the second verse mention of a 'Deadhead sticker' is often switched for a 'Bellowhead sticker', Bellowhead for a while being the biggest buzz in the UK folk scene. SoH have outlasted them.
If you like what you see and hear here, here is a bigger clip, a live streamed recording from 2016's Shrewsbury Folk Festival, where Knightley is also a patron.
When I was a kid, I was not allowed to watch The Three Stooges, or their cartoon analogue, Tom and Jerry, because my mother thought that they were too violent. I’m fine with that, and while I was generally aware of the Stooges, and probably saw bits and pieces of their lunacy over the years, my first real, sustained exposure to them was when the Mets started to play a video of “The Curly Shuffle,” by the otherwise forgotten (!) Jump ‘N the Saddle Band during games. The song was released in 1984, as a tribute to the Stooges, particularly Curly, the most bizarre member of the team.
As I have noted, I’ve been a Mets fan since 1968, and while I exulted in the 1969 championship, I also had to live through the terrible teams of the late 70s and early 1980s (and most years after that, sadly). But from 1984-1986, I was living in New York, going to law school and working at law firms during the summers and after graduation. I had time, disposable income, the Mets started to get interesting, and tickets were not outrageously priced. I went to many games during this period, and while they fell short in 1984 and 1985, the team was exciting and won regularly, often coming from behind. At some point, possibly in 1985, the Mets started playing the “Curly Shuffle” video late in games, energizing the crowd, and somehow it seemed to lead to victories. The “Curly Shuffle” became a crowd favorite, and this continued through the championship year of 1986.
At some point, though, the team stopped playing the video—I’ve read that there was some sort of copyright dispute, or for other reasons, and the Mets began a long decline. Although I do remember that the song made at least a cameo appearance during the 2015 season, when the Mets got to the World Series, only to fall short of ultimate glory.
The Jump ‘N the Saddle Band was a true one-hit wonder—an average western swing revival band from Chicago who hit paydirt with a novelty hit (although props to them for covering Nick Lowe’s “Play That Fast Thing (One More Time)” on their only album). When it became time to do a follow up album, they met with Atlantic Records president Doug Morris (who shortly before this was briefly my boss). His first suggestion was to write another novelty song about the Marx Brothers, but then insisted that they cover a 1940’s song by Benny Bell, “Shaving Cream,“ in which the gimmick was that instead of saying the word “shit,” the lyrics substituted “shaving cream.” The band didn’t want to do it, but Morris was (and continued to be) a powerful guy in the industry, so they did. But, in what amounted to career suicide, they added their own final verse to the demo (which they never intended to release):
We rewrote this song for Atlantic They wanted us to deliver a hit Instead we put this thing together And sent them a big pile of…..shaving cream.
Apparently, Morris didn’t get the joke—or more likely, he got the joke and didn’t like it. Jump ‘N the Saddle Band was tossed from the label, and were never heard from again.
The Three Stooges, of course, were far from a one-hit wonder—whether you count that by their successes, or by the number of times they whacked each other. The three original Stooges, Moe, his older brother Shemp, and Larry, three Jewish boys, two from Brooklyn and one from Philadelphia, came together as part of a vaudeville act supporting Ted Healy in the 1920s. In 1933, Shemp decided to go off on his own, and he was replaced by Curly, who was his and Moe’s younger brother.
For the next 12 years, this group of Three Stooges created their classic works, with Moe as the bossy “leader,” Curly as the child-like fool, and Larry, who was also a talented violinist, as the supposed voice of “reason.” With slapping, pies, and seltzer bottles. Curly’s health deteriorated, and after he had a stroke in 1946, Shemp was lured back into the fold. This changed the dynamic of the group, but they continued to be popular and successful, although not consistently.
The advent of television led to a resurgence of Stooge popularity, even if it might have resulted in lower quality productions. Shemp died in 1955 (resulting in the use of a stand-in, Joe Palma, to permit completion of four films—this led to the “Fake Shemp” trope.). Shemp was replaced by Joe Besser for a couple of years, and then by Joe DeRita, dubbed “Curly Joe,” and this group continued to produce shorts and films until 1970, when Larry had a stroke, and that was pretty much it for the team. So, essentially, there were six Three Stooges.
As my team, the Mets, continue to stumble, Stooge-like, to the end of another season—sort of a Joe Besser type of season---maybe they need to bring back the “Curly Shuffle.” As Jerome Lester Horwitz, a/k/a Yehudah Lev ben Shlomo Natan ha Levi, a/k/a Curly, might have said---“Soitenly!!”
Why would I begin our Trio theme with a band called 2 Nice Girls? Because I am featuring two songs from their debut album, by which time there were three of them. Before they broke up two albums later, there would be one departure and two new arrivals, bringing the number of members at the end to four. But that, I think, is an important difference between this theme and the Trios theme we did a few years ago. The earlier theme had us posting songs by bands that were trios for the entirety of their existence, and there is room for that here too. But our current theme also allows for songs by more transient lineups. This can include songs recorded by three artists who may even have gotten together for a one-shot project, without intending to become a more lasting act at all. I hope to have an example of this kind of trio later in this theme, maybe even two such examples. But let me get to the matter at hand.
2 Nice Girls was originally the duo of Gretchen Phillips and Kathy Korniloff. With this line-up, they won a Sweet Jane contest in Austin TX that also led to their being signing to the Rough Trade label. By the time they released their debut album, the line-up had expanded with the addition of Laurie Freelove. As you can hear above, their version of Sweet Jane had also expanded to interpolate Joan Armartrading’s song Love and Affection. The best tribute I can pay to 2 Nice Girls is to say that they made the combining of these two songs sound not just natural but obvious. And yet, they were the first to think of it. The group also did originals, in which they were open about their lesbianism, and they displayed a wonderfully sly sense of humor. I Spent My Last $10 is a wonderful example of this. Here they take the homophobic trope of the good girl who goes wrong and becomes a lesbian, and turn it on its ear.
Before the Rough Trade label went under, their releases became increasingly hard to find, so I have never heard 2 Nice Girls’ last two releases. But fortunately, all of this material is now available again. I had wanted to post about this wonderful group before now, but there was no proof they had ever existed the last time I looked. I am glad that situation has been corrected.
J. David's post that started this theme mentioned the Amsterdam scene, which got me thinking about a band that I for some reason mistakenly associated with Amsterdam. In fact, they were American. I've been searching my brain for reasons why I might have made that incorrect link. Was it the title "Vincebus Eruptum"? While the band did at one time make a move to Germany, that would have been after I stopped paying them any attention. In fact, after most anyone stopped paying them much attention- which is the focus of this theme. I will note, however that the photo above, taken from Wikipedia, kind of bolsters why I might have been thinking so.
Blue Cheer may have come out with a small handful of albums, but only one of their albums and only one of their songs made it anywhere on the music charts. That said, they had some influence - credited by many as one of the first heavy metal groups and by Clapton and Jim Morrison for their musical influence.
The band struggled through more different lineups than you can imagine, almost all of them including bass player Dickie Peterson.
But it's their version of Eddie Cochran's Summertime Blues that stands as their major claim to fame.
I know, I know, Darius, what the heck is this? Even though we don’t have a “no disco” rule here, what am I doing? Well, first of all, give these songs an actual listen. Nobody hated disco more than me, and I hate it still, but this is not disco. Yes, Dr Buzzard’s Original Savannah Band especially were marketed as disco, and it worked well enough to make Cherchez La Femme/ Se Si Bon a hit in 1977. But this is not disco. This is music that a major label thought for some reason that they could sell, but it is another thing entirely. Nowadays, we might call this electroswing, if anything, but that genre label would not exist for another thirty years. August Darnell, first with Dr Buzzard, and then with Kid Creole and the Coconuts, was there long before it was even mildly fashionable, and he made this fascinating music that defied the genre labels of the day, and still does. From song to song, you might hear traces of big band music, various Latin stylings, and anything else that caught Darnell’s ear. By the time we get to Stool Pidgeon in 1982, we are hearing one of the greatest bass lines in history, but the song is not exactly funk either.
The main difference between the two groups was emphasis. Dr Buzzard’s Original Savannah Band featured Cory Daye on lead vocals, while Kid Creole and the Coconuts would feature various singers until Darnell himself finally stepped up to the microphone. There were also some lineup changes, but the core group of August Darnell, Stony Browder, and Andy Hernandez remained a constant.
I discovered this music starting with Kid Creole and the Coconuts and the album Off the Coast of Me. The song Lili Marlene particularly caught my ear, even though I don’t understand the German lyrics at all. At the time of its release, I was learning about most of the new music I heard from our own J David and other DJs on WPRB, the Princeton University station. But this one came to my attention because of a write up by Robert Palmer in the New York Times. As I recall it, Palmer talked about how August Darnell lived in a neighborhood in New York City where he would hear music from many different ethnic groups, and he brought all of those influences into his music. Many other artists swam in this same musical ocean, but no one else that I have ever heard synthesized it like this. Beneath the shimmering surfaces of these songs lie great musical depths. Allow yourself to explore them, and you will wonder as I do why this music is not better known today.
Remember back in the 90s, when “Hey Jealousy” was all over the radio? It was a top-25 hit in the US, and was popular on the college/alternative stations. And the follow up single, “Found Out About You,” did well, too, also cracking the top-25, and topping Billboard’s Modern Rock chart. The album from whence these songs came, 1992’s New Miserable Experience, made it to No. 30 on Billboard’s album chart, and the band was riding high. But behind this success was something darker.
One of the founding members of the band, which got together in Tempe, Arizona in the late 1980s, was guitarist and songwriter Doug Hopkins, who was in many ways the “spiritual leader” of the band, which was named after the slang phrase for what alcohol abuse did to W.C. Fields’ nose. After the band cycled through members, gigged regularly and independently released an album, they were signed by A&M Records, and began to work on what became New Miserable Experience. Hopkins contributed both future hits, and some other songs to the album, but his alcoholism became so difficult to deal with, that at the end of the recording sessions, Hopkins was sacked. And because of financial hardship, Hopkins sold his publishing rights for a relative pittance.
So, while the Gin Blossoms were gathering momentum, the guy who wrote their two biggest songs was out of the band. Now, that’s not to say that only Hopkins’ songs were good. In fact, New Miserable Experience is, for the most part, a deep album, with many good songs written by a number of different writers. It is an album that fits broadly into the power pop genre, with influences from Big Star, to R.E.M., to The Replacements, but they often married upbeat tunes with darker lyrics. Personally, I really liked the album and a number of the songs made it onto cassette mixtapes that were played in my car, turning the Gin Blossoms into a favorite of my young son.
In 1992, as the Gin Blossoms were rising, Hopkins, who had taken a job as a pop songwriter for hire, told an interviewer:
When it comes on the radio, I turn it off, because I don't really want to hear that. It doesn't make me feel good or anything. . . I mean it makes me feel like I accomplished something, but it didn't turn out the way I intended. Well, nothing ever does.
Now's getting to be the time when, in a way it would be a lot of fun, because they're on the radio all the time. It's my song but I don't enjoy it. I can't listen to it because it just pisses me off. I started the band five years ago. I spent five years of my life on this, to get it to where it is now, and now it got yanked out from under me, so I'm a little on the disenfranchised side.
On December 5, 1993, Hopkins committed suicide.
The band had a successful song on the Empire Records soundtrack, "Til I Hear It from You," co-written with Marshall Crenshaw (who is probably a good subject for another “Forgotten?” piece), which charted as a single, and the band’s follow up album, Congratulations I’m Sorry, named after comments the band received—“Congrats on your success, but sorry about Doug,” was also successful, if not to the level of its predecessor. I liked it, and there are a bunch of good songs on it. The Gin Blossoms appeared on Leno, Letterman (sometimes with Kiss) (and Paul Shaffer often used their music to go in and out of commercial breaks), and Saturday Night Live. But their momentum stalled, and in 1997, the Gin Blossoms broke up.
Reunion tours in the early 2000s, and a handful of album releases thereafter, including one a couple of months ago produced by the great Don Dixon, have pretty much failed to break through in any real way, and I have not listened to them (although I probably should).
Speaking of Forgotten, the current Gin Blossoms website fails to mention Hopkins at all, which is kind of petty. Although he hasn’t been part of the band for decades, it is likely that had it not been for him and his songs, we might not even know about the Gin Blossoms at all.
But, for a few years, Gin Blossoms were blooming everywhere, and maybe this will prompt you to move them from the Forgotten column to the “Oh yeah, I remember those guys” column.
I loved this band, their singles always enlivening my youth, with Fire Brigade being one of the first singles I bought, familiar with all the words of all their hits, identifying, o yes, with the cool, hairy dude who seemed to run the show. You will understand I was still at school and short back and sides haircuts were the order of the day, perhaps intrinsically one of the reasons I was drawn to the shaggier bands of the day. And whilst lead singer Carl Wayne was always neatly groomed, it was the freakier fellow who played guitar and did additional vocals, later learning he wrote all the songs, that drew my innocent eye. I learnt his name. Roy Wood.
The Move had a chequered career, two steps back for every, and there were many, step forward. Beset by a management that always put notoriety ahead of sustainment, finances were always struggle, after a court case that had them surrendering royalties for their biggest song, Flowers in the Rain. Their manager had thought it a great ruse to produce, in a promotional postcard for the band, a cartoon of the then prime minister, Harold Wilson, in bed with his secretary. They also had then the bad luck of losing the master tapes of the LP produced to build on the back of said single, the delayed re-recording then missing the momentum of the moment. Nonetheless, they were a staple in the UK charts between 1966 and 1969, with hits such as I Can Hear the Grass Grow and Blackberry Way. Why no american breakthrough? In hindsight it seems strange, at least to me, and this was something they hoped a change of management, signing up with the notorious Don Arden, father of Sharon (Osborne), would remedy. Sadly this didn't materialise much beyond a support tour with the Stooges, although they can be included in the roster of artists who managed to produce a Live at the Fillmore LP, perhaps the exception to prove the rule, it being otherwise a yardstick of greatness. (To be fair I haven't heard it, knowing not of its existence until the research conducted for this piece, but it took 42 years to be released.)
The original band was a roster of greats from the Birmingham, not that one, circuit. Brumbeat, as the sound of the city was called, was quite a force in the 60s, with the Moody Blues, Spencer Davis Group and Black Sabbath, themselves also managed by Arden, all emanating therefrom. The original line up of Wayne, Wood, Ace Kefford, Bev Bevan and Trevor Burton began to fracture. First Ace Kefford was fired, for his drug use, shortly before the band appeared at the inaugural Isle of Wight festival of 1968. Trevor Burton subsequently took umbrage at the more commercial direction pursued, with Wayne then moving into the cocktail and chicken in a basket cabaret circuit in 1970. Burton, surely a shoulda/coulda also ran in rock's back pages remains to this day a staple on Birmingham's pub-rock circuit, fashioning his never changing and never fashionable blues-rock, remaining, like sometime cohort, Steve Gibbons, world famous in Birmingham. Wayne strangely reappeared, after years on the easy listening pastures, as a latter-day lead singer for the Hollies, replacing Allan Clarke, and introducing a few old Move songs to this now largely nostalgia act's repertoire, ahead of his later death.
So what could Wood and Bevan do now? Luckily for them, old mate Jeff Lynne was now available, having earlier been too engaged with the Idle Race, another forgotten band, and was enlisted alongside Rick Price, another Birmingham stalwart foot soldier, on bass. This gave an enormous shot in the arm, with a first sight of the elusive US single chart entries missed before. Brontosaurus, California Man and Do Ya' showed a much more vigorous retro rock and roll style that made a (slight) dent into america. But you are ahead of me, as you query my ownership of the last mentioned. Surely that was......
Indeed. At the same time as Wood and Lynne revived the Move template, so also they worked together on another ambition of Woods, the marriage of strings and rock music. A keen self-taught cellist, amongst virtually any other instrument you might name, he had long sought an opportunity to replicate live the sort of lavish sounds of, say, Strawberry Field Forever. With Lynne an even more fervent fan of the Fabs, in 1970, in parallel with the Move, Electric Light Orchestra were born. However, after their first eponymous recording, musical differences began to appear, and they split, consequently also fracturing the Move. ELO, of course went on to fame and fortune, which need not burden us here, their brand becoming overly saccharine for my taste, although their "version" of Do Ya' perhaps is worthy of compare.
For a while Wood seemed the man more likely. He took his brainchild into the equivalently cello laden Wizzard, but with a much more varied palette, a slew of hit singles evoking bygone eras, in turn replicating an ersatz rockabilly vibe, at others, and convincingly, the Phil Spector wall of sound. Perhaps too talented for his own good, he pursued a solo career of quirky singer-songwritery, as often as not used to demonstrate his mastery of an ever more arcane instrumental palette. Since then, and thus for the best part of 30 years he has seemed to pursue ever decreasing circles, as Wizzard became the Wizzo band, producing a sub-Zappa jazz-fusion, ahead of innumerable short lived iterations. Perhaps he just ran out of steam, perhaps he just didn't need to try so hard. An intensely shy and private individual, living quietly in the same town as a chum of mine, he is apparently content to merely potter about for much of the year, ahead of his yearly donning the warpaint for the annual outing of his pension plan, along with a yearly Christmas concert at Birmingham's Symphony Hall. Mind you, the royalties for a song that never fails to chart, year upon year upon year can do no harm.
He remains etched upon my childhood, a lost figure content, it seems, so to be. Up there with Ray Davies in my book, Kinks supremo, who, perhaps unlike Wood, has never quite given up trying to replicate his bounteous past. Here's his take on it. So, cheers, Woody, thanks for all of that.
Postscript: Do NOT fall for the more recent faux Move product, a latter-day laying claim to by drummer Bev Bevan, who has a track record of this, his E.L.O. part II originally also claiming to be the real thing. Or so, a lawyer writes, I understand.
To put it mildly, our Forgotten? theme is off to a slow start. The problem, I think is the paradox at the heart of the matter. By definition, any band or artist I can think of is not forgotten, because I remember them. So the key, I think, is to feature acts who we feel never reached the level of fame they deserved.
I offer as my first example the band Mandrill. As heard here on their biggest hit, Fencewalk, these guys were easily the equal of any of the great 1970s funk bands, such as Sly and the Family Stone or Kool and the Gang. But two things set Mandrill apart, and both kept them from greater fame. The first was that, unlike so many of their peers, Mandrill never went disco. The band lasted in their original run until 1981, and attempted a comeback in 1991, but they never bowed to the prevailing musical trends. That was also the second thing that held them back. Despite the ppure funk heard here, the most unusual thing about Mandrill was how they blended Latin and African musical elements into their sound. Listen to Funky Monkey from 1977 to see what I mean. This was their attempt to adapt to the times, but they couldn’t bring themselves to record a pure disco song.
This one never settles into the robotic groove that disco required, and the rock guitar late in the song was something that might have been heard on a Parliament album at that time, but would not break the charts until Michael Jackson and Prince did it ten years later.
As a final example, here is Hang Loose. This one is from the same album as Fencewalk, but here the band is much looser. Every time you think you have the groove figured out, something else happens to change your mind. It makes the song a challenge to dance to, but it’s a great listening experience, and that actually sums up what Mandrill is all about.
The premise of our next theme is to highlight bands or musicians who had some degree of fame, but seem to have been forgotten over the years. I think it will be interesting to see what our team comes up with over the next two weeks.
I recently heard Focus’ most famous song, “Hocus Pocus” somewhere, and I was reminded that the song is both an example of incredible musicianship and remarkable silliness. Interestingly, though, most of the band’s music that I am familiar with is not at all silly, and to some degree, their legacy has been tainted by being considered as a novelty act because of this one song. Nothing could be farther from the truth, though. In fact, during the period of Focus’ popularity, their music was clever, well-played, and was able to straddle the worlds of rock, folk, jazz and classical without difficulty. They amply deserved their fame, and should be remembered today for more than one song—even if it is a pretty great song.
Originally formed as a trio in 1969 in Amsterdam by keyboardist, vocalist, and flautist Thijs van Leer, after the addition of guitarist Jan Akkerman, the newly named Focus secured a regular gig as the pit band for the Dutch production of Hair. An initially unsuccessful debut album, called Focus Plays Focus followed, but the band recorded a song, “House of the King," a classically influenced instrumental that featured Akkerman’s incendiary guitar and van Leer’s flute, that became a top 10 hit in the Netherlands, and garnered interest outside their native land. The song was added to the international version of the album, re-titled In and out of Focus, but the album was still mostly ignored, only reaching No. 104 on the US album charts.
But it was Focus’s second album, after the rhythm section was replaced, that the band took off. Called Focus II in Holland, but Moving Waves elsewhere, it included the aforementioned “Hocus Pocus,” whose 6:42 second length was edited down to 3:18 for single release. It hit No. 9 on the Billboard 100 chart in the US, and has been featured in movies, TV shows and commercials. In fact, researching this piece reminded me to go watch the movie Baby Driver, which uses an excerpt from “Hocus Pocus” to great effect (spoiler alert). The album reached No. 8 on the Billboard album chart in the US and No. 2 on the UK album chart. Moving Waves featured the band’s signature classical/jazz/rock fusion, with top notch playing, and is really a wonderful album.
Following a successful tour of Europe and the UK, Focus returned to the studio to record their third album, Focus III, with yet another new bass player. Included on this album was the triumphant instrumental (with some wordless vocals) “Sylvia,” a reworking of an old pre-Focus song written by van Leer, and our feature song (because if you have heard of Focus, you probably know “Hocus Pocus,” but maybe not “Sylvia.”) An economical three and a half minute tune, it always makes me happy. While “Sylvia” didn’t reach the same heights as a single in the US (stalling at No. 89), it became an international hit for the band, and the album was also a success. As Allmusic has observed:
The song remains one of the most loved and best remembered songs from Focus' catalog. The consistency in musical quality throughout Focus III is enough to merit any listeners' respect. To be frank, this LP has it all: diverse songs, astounding musicianship, one of the finest singles ever released -- Focus III should unquestionably be ranked alongside the likes of Revolver, Dark Side of the Moon, and any others of rock's greatest.
And yet, it isn’t.
Focus followed this success with a headlining tour of Europe and the UK, and a North American tour, opening for other prog-rock luminaries. But the rigors of touring exacerbated tensions between van Leer and Akkerman and led to the replacement of drummer Pierre van der Linden. One set of songs was trashed before the band, with the two leaders working separately in the studio, released Hamburger Concerto, another diverse album that while often engaging, was not as good as its predecessors (and even included another attempt to strike “Hocus Pocus” gold with a song called “Harem Scarem.”). The album charted, but not as highly as Focus III. Another world tour followed, including an appearance on Don Kirshner's Rock Concert. Apparently, a young Michael Jackson was a fan, and saw them a few times, with Akkerman later claiming that MJ nicked a bass line from one of his solo songs.
That’s pretty much where I, and I think much of the world, lost track of Focus. Akkerman and van Leer feuded, drummers came and went, and ultimately Akkerman was given the boot, replaced by the fine Belgian guitarist Philip Catherine. But the band devolved into chaos, and a number of bad ideas and alcohol led to the breakup of Focus in 1978.
A few reunions in the 1980s and 1990s, some with, and some without, Akkerman were unsuccessful, but in the early 2000s van Leer formed a new version of Focus, has released a handful of new albums, and, as this piece is written, the band is on tour, with 2018 dates in Europe, the UK, and Mexico. Akkerman's solo career has embraced jazz, rock, fusion, and classical music, and he still breaks out both "Hocus Pocus" and "Sylvia" on occasion.
Clearly, the changing musical landscape in the late 1970s led to the disappearance of many prog-rockers, most of whom changed their sound, disappeared, or fell into obscurity. And yet, there is still a cohort of these bands who are still remembered today. I’d like to add Focus to that group.
A stark, unforgiving and unrepentant reflection on drug addiction and personal destruction: I cannot think of another song so blatantly unapologetic in directly speaking of the reasons for , effect and legacy of drug abuse than Steve Earle's 1996 song "CCKMP (Cocaine Cannot Kill My Pain)."
The song is dark and disturbing, a funeral dirge, and one of Earle's most direct and earnest narratives in a career that has gloriously reveled in using song as story.
I have to say, for a long time, I wasn't sure what the song meant to accomplish on a narrative or artistic level. That is, until I started to think of it in terms of what Earle was doing as a writer rather than a singer. It's not really persona adoption, where an author gives us the means to understand a life, a personality and motivations we don't have the direct access or ready evidence to understand. The recreation of a life the consumer (listener or reader, I suppose is better) doesn't know is the basis of creative work, the lifeblood and reason narrative--be it song, story, poem, painting, or sculpture--exists. We read (or look at or listen) to the stories of others so we can understand. Art creates not a forgiveness or a justification so much as an understanding and a sense of empathy. That's why we go to art: to learn what others know through a vicarious experience. This is also a notion that has come under attack with increasing indignation lately. I feel like we're wading in territory of intolerance and victimhood that threatens to drown us and thus, end the artists' ability to explore and bring to the life the story of others and shed light into places that few of us know. Intolerance is a singular animal, destructive to others, regardless of the motivation or what political or social spectrum it stems from. If we kill voices, or worse, lay exclusive claim to certain stories or voices, we risk losing the stories entirely. To illustrate my point, I direct you to this article from the New York Times. I'm not really sure what the problem is: be it a lived experience or an imagined one, if it is an experience others can benefit from living, even just on a page, it is most likely valuable. So, Earle is allowed to give us this dark slice of addiction and despair because it is his own experience of both. However, this tangible hold on addiction doesn't give the author exclusive rights to the story, does it?
Of course, what I find refreshing about Steve Earle's "CCKMP" is the visceral rawness of the experience he presents. He doesn't have to explain himself, he just gives us a story that is his story. Or was. Earle is famously clean and sober now and works hard to help others out of the place he was once trapped in. His own experiences gave rise to this simple, uncompromising reflection on his own addiction. Of course, he owns the story and the pain that colors it, and by sharing it, he does shine light into a dark corner we don't know. Earle can give us this story because he lived it and thus owns the scars. But, the artist's job is to do this: let us understand the pain that causes the scars in hopes we don't inflict the same on ourselves. Art is meant to bring experience to life; if the artist has lived the experience, they have every right to it. If they haven't, can we still appreciate their efforts to interpret and bring to life the experiences of others? I'd say yes, resoundingly so. Without art, without interpretation in attempt to understand, what would we know?
Methamphetamine is still, for some, a remedy and, should you be obese and with a hyperactive attention deficit disorder, and for whom other drugs have failed, it may yet be prescribed you. But otherwise it remains a scourge, ravaging communities for its "recreational" effects, which ain't no game I want to play. Cheap and relatively easily fashioned, as anyone who has watched "Breaking Bad" will be familiar, it is better known by its street name of crystal meth. And despite the fact the band represented here take on the title of a Medicine Show, I don't think they are singing of its medical success, the title of the parent album, "Tennessee Pusher" perhaps giving more the game away. But don't get me wrong, the song is no paean to the charms of the high, as can or used to be the case in times and songs not so far gone, more a warning as to the perils of the low. (In many ways I see it a companion piece to Cocaine, written as Coco Blues by the Rev. Gary Davis in 1961, and memorably added to and covered by Jackson Browne 15 odd years later.)
Times, they ain't like nothing they used to be From rocky mount' to northeast tennessee Where the river flows with a dusty, cold disease And the babies whine cause they can't find nothing to eat
But, mama, she ain't hungry no more She's waiting for a knock on the trailer door
It's gonna rock you like a hurricane It's gonna rock you 'til you lose sleep It's gonna rock you 'til you're out of a job It's gonna rock you 'til you're out on the street It's gonna rock you 'til you're down on your knees It's gonna have you begging pretty please It's gonna rock you like a hurricane Methamphetamine
Old Crow Medicine Show are a wonderful band, built on the slim sounding idea of recreating the sound of an old-timey string band, busking their way through an amalgam of folk, country and blues. But rather than offering faux re-enactions and milking the idea, along the lines of, say, Hayseed Dixie and their bluegrass spoofs, these guys have stuck to their guns through, largely, writing their own material, a gritty steampunk americana that sits comfortably alongside the more acoustic works of Bruce Springsteen or John Mellencamp. Or indeed virtually any period Bob Dylan, a recent recording being a live tribute to Blonde on Blonde. Which is terrific. It seems somehow apocryphal that their break came as they were found strumming in the street, conveniently enough by Doc Watson, legendary bluegrass guitarist, who was visiting a pharmacy in Boone, North Carolina. Reeks of set-up to me, like those you-tube videos where a busker sings a song by somebody, who, surprise, surprise, just happens to be passing, and joins in, to the astonishment of massed ranks of phone photographers. But, true or no, it's a great tale. That was in the very late 90's, Watson bringing them to the 2000 Merlefest as his guests.
Tennessee Pusher is their 3rd major label outing, the first to be produced by Don Was, earlier production duties being by David Rawlings, who also actually co-wrote the featured song. Another example of with friends like these, maybe, but sympathetic production certainly made a difference, as a listen to an earlier 'remedy' song, Memphis Minnie's "Cocaine Habit" shows, a much rawer deal.
With various changes in personnel, but still centred about core members, Ketch Secor and Critta Fuqua, who met in 7th grade and started it all. Nearly 30 years on, not content to rest their laurels on the Dylan/BoB set, they have recently issued "Volunteer", album number 6, in April this year, the disc rocketing to a number 1 in the bluegrass chart, 7 in americana/folk and 14 in country. That's some sales. I haven't seen 'em live yet, despite 9 trips to the UK over the years. I really must remedy that. (Just don't come back with the wretched Mumfords next time.....)
The original lineup of U.K. brought together some of the best at their instruments British prog rockers. The band was formed in the late 1970s by drummer Bill Bruford, who had played in Yes and King Crimson, and singer/bassist John Wetton, who had played with Bruford in King Crimson and had also been part of Roxy Music and Uriah Heep. Bruford and Wetton each recruited another musician, with Bruford bringing Allan Holdsworth, who had been with Soft Machine, Tony Williams’ Lifeline, Gong, and Jean-Luc Ponty, as well having played on Bruford’s debut solo album, and Wetton inviting Eddie Jobson, a keyboard player and violinist who had played with him in Roxy Music, and who was in Frank Zappa’s band.
U.K., the one and only album recorded by this lineup is considered by many to be a prog-rock classic. Excellent playing (of course) on interesting, unusual songs, featuring a true fusion of rock, jazz and classical influences, has made this one of my favorites—which is not surprising, considering that Bruford is probably my favorite drummer, Holdsworth is my favorite guitarist, and I have lots of respect for both Wetton and Jobson.
That being said, I have to admit that “Mental Medication” is not one of my favorite songs from the album. There’s something about Wetton’s vocals, particularly at the beginning, that I don’t love. But there’s a thrilling four minute stretch of instrumental music, including a guitar solo from Holdsworth that is both jaw dropping and subtle at the same time, and a violin solo from Jobson, all over Wetton’s stellar bass playing and Bruford’s signature drumming, that makes it worth a listen.
Sadly, after some extensive touring, tensions in the band led to Wetton and Jobson “firing” Holdsworth, and Bruford also left. Rather than find a new guitarist, the remaining members brought in drummer Terry Bozzio, also from Frank Zappa’s band, and recorded Danger Money as a trio. It isn’t a bad album, and actually spawned a minor hit, “Nothing to Lose.” After a live album, Wetton and Jobson themselves disagreed on the future of the band, and they broke up. A couple of years later Wetton formed Asia, with Steve Howe, Carl Palmer and Geoff Downes, which definitely sounded a lot like what U.K. might have sounded like if it tried for a more commercial sound.
Bruford took some of the songs that he had written for a second U.K. album and used them on his second solo album, the great One of a Kind (which also featured Holdsworth on guitar).
There were a few Wetton/Jobson led reunions of U.K. over the years, featuring various drummers and guitarists, but the original lineup never got back together.
Sadly, both Wetton and Holdsworth died in 2017, which I commemorated here.
The Clovers started out before the rock and roll era, and became regulars on the rhythm and blues charts before anyone knew who Elvis Presley was. But they never had a number one song on the r & b charts, and never crossed over. Despite this, they were the original artists on a song that has endured long after most of the songs that charted in 1959 have been forgotten. Of course that song was Love Potion Number 9. Oddly, the song was their last major hit. The group had had lineup changes almost from the beginning, with a single member leaving at a time and being replaced. But right after Love Potion Number 9 charted, the group split in two, with both halves claiming the Clovers name. That would be the end of their popularity.
I can not help wondering what might have happened if they had stayed together. Love Potion Number 9 was the result of a big break for The Clovers. It was their first chance to work with the producing and songwriting team of Jerry Lieber and Mike Stoller. Lieber and Stoller are legends today, and rightly so. In the 1950s, it seemed that everything that bore their names turned to gold. Love Potion Number 9 would not become a major hit until it was covered by The Searchers in 1963, but I have always preferred the Clovers original version. Here, there is a nice New Orleans vibe to the rhythm that would be completely removed in the Searchers’ version.
The Clovers became the original artists on Love Potion Number 9 almost by accident. Right before Lieber and Stoller were hired for the session, they had been working with the Coasters, in a session that yielded the hits Charlie Brown, Along Came Jones, and Poison Ivy. If things had gone just a little differently, The Coasters might have been the original artists on Love Potion Number 9. They finally did record the song, as heard here, in 1971. This was a completely different take on the song then what they might have done in 1959. Times and musical tastes had changed, and The Coasters were clearly trying to update their sound with this jazzy funk take. The “Serve it up and drink it down” chorus vocal is new, and the Latin feel to the opening is something Santana might have done at the time. Curiously, there is a Santana video on YouTube that is mislabeled as Love Potion Number 9; it is actually a performance of Evil Ways, but the melodies are surprisingly similar.
I couldn’t resist including this wonderfully sassy version by the Lamours. They are clearly covering the Coasters’ version, retaining the “Serve it up and drink it down” chant and making the Latin vibe even more explicit. Male singers have always changed the year in the lyrics to keep them from being too old. So the original is “I’d been this way since 1956”, but the Coasters sang “1966”. The Lamours, however, are both shamelessly retro and female, so now we hear “I told her that I was a flop with guys/ I’d been this way since 1955”. So they are taking a 1971 version of the song, performing it now, and treating the lyric as though it was 1959 again. It’s a head scratcher for sure, but it sounds great.
One might well question quite what medicine the band had in their pockets as you listen to this slow and dreamy waltz. Less the second coming of the Velvet Underground, as the british press cited them, this sounds more like the Shadows spaced out on quaaludes, with a brief hint of klezmer in the side streets. In a good way. I was a fan back in the day, their day, mid 90s, the band bigger in Europe than at home, the breakthrough being their UK Reading festival performance in 1993. (Now ain't that a line-up?!) Hell, you can even hear that performance here.
So who or what were Madder Rose? The brainchild of Billy Cote, songwriter and guitarist, and Mary Lorson, singer and frontperson, they came together in 1991 New York, an archetypal Greenwich Village loft band. Languor was very much a watchword for those days, and, although not perceived as bedfellows then, I can latterly see parallels with Mazzy Star and the Cowboy Junkies, as well as the Dandy Warhols and Low. This track, an instrumental closer, appears on their major label debut, 'Bring It Down', in 1993. Thanks to the support of John Peel, the UK underground through to alternative DJ I reference frequently, they secured that festival slot, selling 10k copies of that record in the UK as that took place.
Those of you, if any, who have access to this debut, may query, the featured song apart, my comparisons, but, as each successive album dropped, so the more energetic indie-isms became ever more reined in, the songs becoming more thoughtfully arranged, latterly adding even some restrained electronica to the mix. 1999's "Hello June Fool" was as far as this iteration got, sadly, the band then breaking up. It was, however, good to see their brand get a hearing on "The Sopranos" in 2007, from the same valedictory album. Remember it?
But the story didn't end there, both Cote and Lorson following through on solo works. I need here to discuss how and why I became drawn in. Cooking Vinyl, their eventual record label, were a company that gave a good guarantee of quality. In the early 80s through 90s I was a huge fan of their roster, Oyster Band, Michelle Shocked, Jackie Leven, all sorts of left field fare. And they had a club deal: join, some sort of yearly fee, and they discounted hugely their product, provided enough was bought. That was how I caught Madder Rose and, better still, how I caught Mary Lorson's next project, Saint Low. You could argue this whole piece a shallow artifice around the presentation of a single song. To which I would respond: And?
Lorson's first solo album in this name, with some added Cote guitar duties, is the terrific, 2000's eponymous 'St. Low." And this is the closing track. Sure, she has done more since but, in my book, I rest my case. This always makes me feel a whole lot better. Try it. Sometimes I just want to play a song. That's all. Trust me. I am a doctor. If you can't love this, you don't have a heart.
Star Maker Machine does not accept music submissions from artists or promoters. However, most of the contributors here do accept submissions for our own blogs, listed below. Please visit our blogs, take the time to listen to what we post, and then feel free to contact us if you feel that your music would be a good fit.
:format(jpeg):mode_rgb():quality(90)/discogs-images/R-4643922-1370879386-4478.jpeg.jpg)
