Well, this is a first, as I have never knowingly sat and listened to anything by this venerable institution of a band, finding the pictures alarming enough. True, I know a little of them, and their behemoth beating heart, Eraserhead outtake, David Thomas. And whilst he being an alumnus of Jackie Leven ought to give me some hope, I also have it on authority that, at their peak, they were well nigh unlistenable. Except to the droogs and dweebs with a penchant for bad haircuts, junk food and buttoned up to the top raincoats, avidly reading Pitchfork and Quietus. But needs must. Maybe I can find some love.
First off and I discover there are twelve tracks, the whole clocking in at barely half an hour. Is this good? Does this mean business: bish, bash, bosh, in, out with an efficiency of attack and melody, mood mooted and met in an instant? We'll see. Looking swiftly back through the back catalogue, of the fifteen earlier, and one later made records, song length seems about average for them, album length a little shorter. Which blows my theories about, I don't know, post-rock and/or post-punk being prone to longer excursions, prolonged proto-prog efforts, if scratchier and with more treble. What I also actually discover is that, Thomas apart, I have heard of some previous members of the band: Anton Fier, Eric Drew Feldman, Wayne Kramer, for chrissakes. Let alone exemplary jazz(ish) crooner and ex-Communard alumnus, Sarah Jane Morris, and british trumpeter Andy Diagram. And, get this, they have had a pedal steel player. Could this be I will like this stuff? And in the current band, although not on this record, is no less than Chris Cutler, arthouse drummer to the, in my prejudice, lauded and leg-endary, if, in my prejudice, equally unlistenable Henry Cow. (But see end of piece.....)
Funk 49
I sense you feel I'm delaying my listening, so I'll hurry along. Track one, Monkey Business, sets up a standard guitar thrash, with Beefhearty yowling and growling. Fab if you like the Captain. Sadly I can't stand the fella. The backing is OK, and I quite like the skronky sax. And I quite like Funk 49, at least as it starts, a pleasant enough Talking Heads vibe, with more skronky sax. I'll bet Mark E. Smith, erstwhile frontman/dictator of the Fall, liked this band, like his own, a tight rhythm section perpetually marred by shocking vocals. Prison of the Senses is better again, a semblance of singing creeping in, but not enough not to annoy me. More of the same with Toe to Toe before, at last, something to get my teeth into. In fact, I really like track five, The Healer, Thomas coming on like a very ill Michael Stipe, a minor chord lament that gradually builds into and bleeds into Swampland, uplifted by the segue, give or take a nanosecond. Goes in a bit, mind, always a flaw in a sub two minute song. Got bored with next two, Plan From Frag 9 and Howl, but Red Eye Blues, very reminiscent of PiL, canters along more agreeably. (As I type, I am realising my issue must be all about vocals.) Walking Again sounds as if it was deliberately sabotaged, the singing once again redolent of illness, psychosis, this time, rather than any physical decay. But, in the same song and following a plea to 'come to Papa' comes some effective if anaemic lycanthropic howling that lifts things. And I Can Still See is nothing short of terrific, a klezmer clarinet and synth tones weaving around Thomas, here sounding almost like Nick Cave, over a military and metronomic beat. In fact this would not be out of place on last years Ghosteen, which is high praise indeed. I'd love to say final track, Cold Sweat, keeps up that momentum, and, had the vocals remained in the same key, perhaps it would. But the higher register had me, instead, laughing, being now reminded of no less than David Essex.
The Healer
I Can Still See
So there you have it. I made it through and out alive. Two tracks I loved, two more, I'll confess, than I expected. The rest veered from OK, to bearable, just about, to just unbearable, the overall tally much as for Unconditionally Guaranteed, the only Beefheart record with anything at all by him I like. (Inevitably the one his fans deride as his nadir....) That is the clearest reference for me, along with, as mentioned, the Fall and PiL. Clearly I am too shallow and mainstream, with insufficient intellect to get this style of music, despite trying. I have stood through performances by each of those two latter. Or for most or some of said performances, if truth be told. If that is the case, I will have to take that on the chin. I'll hope the loyal readership, hi, Mom, of this site won't take too much offence. I guess this music has a right to exist and I am glad it does, just count me out. But, you know, I quite like that Henry Cow clip linked above......
The first records for Star Maker Machine in the Wayback Machine date back to 2008. That's less than the 20 years I had been hoping to see (seems like I've been here at least that long!). That said, SMM has racked up close to 2.5 million visits since it began. Further, it is close on to 20 years since Blogger first came on line - even if SMM didn't incorporate at that time.
In some time frames, 20 years is a drop in the bucket. For the Internet, that's half a life-time. The 11 years of SMM's existence is not bad for an Internet life. Many online lives don't last that long. So ... here's wishing that SMM eventually celebrates its 20th in one form or another. 20 years in terms of rock/pop is nothing to snear at either. Or the 20 x 2 years behind this song! Again, many come, many go, but that's a theme for another post (Gone Before 20?).
I'm not sure it is "the most important and influential rock-and-roll album ever recorded" as per Kevin Dettmar. But it may be. It certainly took us from AM radio style to ... something different. It's a "concept" album - the band had an idea that encompassed a series of songs about a single theme: an "alter-ego" fictional pseudo-Edwardian experiment.
Maybe you had to have been around at that time to latch on to its importance. The overall/lasting effect has been lost to time with (shortly) later output from the likes of Hendrix and pyschedelia that this album introduces to the main stream , but the Sgt Peppers album should be reconsidered in light of its ground-forging effects on popular music: the Beatles commanded the top lists and so anything they did affected the trajectory of the market.
I’m pretty sure that I first started paying attention to the band Magazine in 1981, when their live album Play was released in the US (It was released in the UK in 1980, which would make it 2x twenty years ago....). I have to assume that we had their earlier albums in the WPRB library, and for all I know, I played them, but Play is the first album of theirs that I remember.
What made me take notice of them was the keyboard part in the recording of the song “Definitive Gaze,” because it sounded like it could have come from any number of prog rock albums, although the band’s vocal, and general sound, were more punk than prog. Understand, that in 1981, we were still in the relatively early days of punk, or maybe more accurately at that point, new wave, and the whole basis of that movement seemed designed to sweep away the excesses of the prog and classic rock world. Nowadays, that seems kind of quaint, in an era of genre mixing, where Elvis Costello could win a Grammy for Best Traditional Pop Vocal, of all things, but back then it seemed revolutionary.
It took me a little while to figure out that Howard Devoto, the leader and singer of Magazine had been in The Buzzcocks, a band that I discovered after he had left, and which was at that point still pretty punk, and I think that part of the reason that Devoto left was to explore a broader musical palette. Magazine was one of those bands whose popularity and influence in England was much greater than in the U.S., and they broke up in 1981, so I have to admit to losing track of them after I graduated from college, missing their reunion(s) entirely.
Another song on Play, which was originally the b-side of a single (“A Song From Under the Floorboards,” a great song, was the a-side), was “Twenty Years Ago,” which is how we, ultimately, get to our theme. It’s a good song, if not my favorite from the band, but we write to the theme here.
But it did give me the excuse to think about where I was in my life twenty years ago, in 2000, which turned out to be a pretty momentous year for me. I started the year being miserable working at a law firm, and ended it much happier working in-house at a large financial services company. My supervisor was, without a doubt, the best boss that I ever worked for, my work was interesting, and I had colleagues who were, for the most part, smart and pleasant, and I remain in contact with many of them to this day. In fact, my four years there were, overall, the best time that I ever had as a lawyer—I got some great experience, was treated as a professional, was paid reasonably well, and did enough travel to make it interesting but not burdensome.
Sadly, the company sold the business that I worked for to a competitor, and eventually, my job was going to disappear. Which led to a return to a law firm where I was less happy, and ultimately to my life as a solo practitioner.
Lots more happened during the last 20 years, some of it good—like my kids graduating from high school and college and moving on with their lives, my son getting married, and beginning my blogging hobby---and some bad—like the death of my father and father-in-law, 9/11, and Trump.
Looking back makes you realize that it is really impossible to predict the course of one’s life. I’m sure that if you asked me back in 2000 what my life, or the life of my family, would be like—or what the country or world would be like, my guesses would have been terribly wrong, except in the broadest strokes (I’m pretty sure that I would have predicted that I would still be a lawyer and still married to the love of my life, for example). And it makes me wonder where I’ll be in 2040—if I’m still kicking in my late 70’s.
OK, OK, a bit obvious, but I can think of a dozen and two thirds reasons why it has legs aplenty, perhaps even enough for two crabs. Plus, and here is the bonus, it gives the opportunity to celebrate one Connie 'Guybo' Smith. Who he? What, aw, c'mon (everybody), SWIDT.
No, of course I didn't know either, a gap in my and, possibly, your encyclopaedic I am now happy to fill.
Twenty Flight Rock, or 20 Flight Rock as it looks better, was a rock'n'roll/rockabilly banger that first made its appearance in 1956 film, The Girl Can't Help It, a film to celebrate the emergence of teenagers as a viable sub-group of society and a market for the cinema to exploit. Naturally, music and sex were the selling points, the latter in the form of twin peaks, not the film, actress Jayne Mansfield. As in most such films, the plot is the usual mess of wannabe stars, svengalis and shattered dreams. Or thereabouts. The plot doesn't really matter, it is really all about the music, the OST littered with soon to be idols like Little Richard, Gene Vincent, Fats Domino and, of course, Eddie Cochran.
Following the success of the film, Cochran put out the song again, re-recorded, to be a bit more polished than the raw barnyard trio version in the film, where the instrumental might had been voice, guitar, bull fiddle and a cardboard box. A 2nd guitar and backing vocals were added for the newer version, which is, inevitably, not a patch on its predecessor. Apart from Cochran, the other one constant was Guybo. A boyhood chum of Cochran, he played various stringed bass instruments alongside him for most of the early classic years, and was on the farewell tour of the UK, that ironically became just that, as Cochran was killed in a road traffic accident. Guybo lost his place in the sun, but continued to be a reliable source of detail around these formative days, popping up in documentaries. Hell, he even has a facebook page, if somewhat quiet of late.
Arguably the Cochran legacy gained no small boost from his death: nothing like the early burn of a free spirit to grant status as an icon. This happened perhaps more in the UK than at home, as, unlike many of his compatriots yet or ever to grace these shores, the british Teddy Boys took especially to Cochran, likewise to, injured in the same crash but surviving, Gene Vincent. (But let's face it, these cool dudes looked one whole lot more street than much of their R'n'R compadres.)
The song has lived on in many versions. True, most do nothing fancy with it, regurgitating the basics and, give or take an occasional sax, leaving at that. Indeed, think of any revivalist band treading the boards between now and then, yup, they'll do it, whether anodyne chart teds, Showaddywaddy, or genuine believers like the Stray Cats. But a few bear mention. Legend has it that it was the song used by Paul McCartney to serenade John Lennon, as the latter recruited the former to what, in time, became the Beatles. No recordings of that remain, bar this near decade later studio eavesdrop, but McCartney has oft included it in live performances. I prefer this version, however, from the Beatles in Hamburg biopic, Backbeat, where the story and the song see to come together.
Rivals the Stones, always IMHO a sturdier torch holder of the R'n'R essence, had to show that anything they did was better, an easier task given the Beatles being long gone by this 1981 performance.
But all this rock and roll credibility forgets this is essentially a rockabilly song, the country hick version, no les potent for its lesser sophistication. So who better than Commander Cody to give a (slight, very slight) country twist.
Perhaps the closest in spirit to 1956 and The Girl Can't Help It is this final clip, the effervescent energy of Leith identical twins, Craig and Charlie Reid, aka the Proclaimers, bursting through the grooves.
Tony Glover is one of those who influence behind the scenes- not a name that most people have heard. However, people in the music business have. And they rate him high.
Glover passed away in May 2019, age 79.
One obit article notes: he was the harmonica player Mick Jagger called for lessons... to the Doors, the Allman Brothers and to Bob Dylan ... he was the master of his art. That's saying quite a lot.
Back as early as the 60s, known as "Little Sun", he played for Elektra records in the "Koerner, Ray & Glover" band. He called his style "Ragged but right", The clip above shows that50 years on down the road, he was still getting up on stage - with Spider John Koerner.
Well beyond the 1960s-70s, his main era, he continued to play the Mid-west/Minneapolis scene.
In addition to his on-stage shows, Glover did radio programs, including at KDWB, where he hosted Hendrix, Clapton and more on his show.
It is the early to mid '70s, an awkward time for the awkward young men with a penchant for the music of the day and earlier. Probably a bit young for prog and still at school when the full hippie vibe was the freak flag of the day, earnest young men with spotty faces and serious record collections already under their belt. With developed tastes already embracing country, folk and other roots genres, they were a large and restless tribe, seeking a brand, seeking a label. No, I am not talking about the assault of punk rock; they were already just a tad too old and learned for that. And, anyway, we are ahead of ourselves, it being yet to ignite. I was there. I was (am) one of those boys wanting to be men. And pub rock was our saviour, whether we were old enough to go into pubs or not.
This is not the place for a discourse in this overlooked yet influential musical movement, beyond an understanding that it provided the loosening of the established masonry that punk would later pull down, if for however briefly. But, via Brinsley Schwarz, Chilli Willi & the Red Hot Peppers, Dr. Feelgood and many others, a melting pot of styles and influences were put into the mix, thrown up in the air and allowed to land, with a ramshackle 4/4 beat and a cheeky smile, short and tuneful songs to put you on your feet. Out of the movement came many of the now established names of current music, Nick Lowe and Elvis Costello being probably the best known, as well as the germination of what then did beget punk, Joe Strummer being a member of the 101ers ahead of forming the Clash. Resolutely tending to be avoidant and ambivalent of style or uniform, pub rockers were of all shapes and sizes, fashion often thrift shop, hair allowed to be long or short, styled or merely as nature intended, facial hair optional rather than a then spurned accessory. Proudly uncool, even. Eddie and the Hotrods fitted well that template. But, in front of the motley bunch of urchins on instrumental duties, they had a cataclysmic and archetypal angry young man in singer, Barrie Masters. They had been around for a while by the time of their break through, chugging out covers of 60's garage rock.
Do Anything You Wanna Do
I was too young to go into pubs, and whilst, yes, occasionally I did, these were not the London pubs that celebrated and created the movement. That came later. I had to rely on the inkies, the musical press, NME and Melody Maker, and the TV, Top of the Pops and Old Grey Whistle Test. And they provided me plenty. TOTP was the weekly chart show, Whistle Test more for the serious (and insomniac) polymath. I devoured both. I remember my first sight of the Hotrods, probably at home, half past seven on a thursday night. Crammed between dross like David Soul, I recall being so bloody excited. They were fast, they were passionate, they were exciting, making my head whirl. Instantly my favourite band, I bought not only the single, 'Do What You Wanna Do', but the album, 'Life on the Line', too. It being 1977, punk had begun, and whilst they certainly sounded punky, there was a touch more melodicism in the undercurrent of bass and the choppy rhythms. But they didn't look it, flared trousers may even have been involved, plus they had a singer called Barrie. Apart from Clive, there can be fewer less rock'n'roll names. And that, I guess, became the problem. A flourish of singles and they were gone, overtaken and subsumed by altogether rougher looking lads. Like the Damned and the Clash. The Sex Pistols, to all intents and purposes, had, by then, been and gone. (Although, for their infamous near debut, in February 1976 at the Marquee Club, guess who the Pistols were supporting? Yup, the Hotrods.) Because of all this and despite all this, for those brief moments and for that summer they were my favourite band.
Ignore Them
Of course, the band never went away. Sure, they broke up, reformed, broke up, reformed, Masters the only constant, and looked to be going on forever, the oldest teenager in town, and still looking good. (Well, quite good.) So it was a shock when, suddenly and perhaps unexpectedly, he died, probably a heart attack, aged 63. 2019 had been an eventful year, with a successful tour in support to similar 70s refugees, Belfast's Stiff Little Fingers, followed by a celebratory gig, drawing back a legion of ex-members to play a "Done Everything We Wanna Do" concert in April. Was this a warning that the show couldn't go on forever? I don't know, but should anyone even be surprised that it probably will, the residual members of the last band, continuing into this year, first performance tonight? Somehow the Hotrods, as they will be, won't be quite the same without Eddie. And completely different without Barrie.
Despite Nashville’s self-proclaimed title as Music City, I think that New Orleans might have a stronger claim to the title (although Nashville certainly has a fair argument, and New Orleans already has some pretty good nicknames). I’ve writtenbefore about my interest and limited expertise in the area of New Orleans music, but it is fair to say that there are few places where so many types of music have developed and cross-pollinated over the years, and where music is so interwoven into the fabric of the city.
One of the reasons for this was Dave Bartholomew, who died on June 23, 2019 at the age of 100. Bartholomew rarely recorded under his own name, but instead was a trumpeter, composer, bandleader, arranger, and producer who, it could be argued, helped create both rhythm and blues and rock music. After an early career as a trumpeter and bandleader, Bartholomew connected with Fats Domino, and their co-written song, “The Fat Man,” kickstarted Domino’s career. Together, they had 65 singles on the Billboard pop chart from 1955 to 1964, including “Ain’t That A Shame,” “I’m Walkin’” and “Walkin’ to New Orleans.” Bartholomew also wrote or co-wrote "My Ding-a-Ling,” which was a hit for Chuck Berry, “I Hear You Knocking,” for Smiley Lewis, and produced Lloyd Price's recording of “Lawdy Miss Clawdy.” Among many, many others. And many of his songs were covered by artists including Elton John, Paul McCartney, the Rolling Stones, Hank Williams Jr., Elvis Presley, Dave Edmunds, and Cheap Trick. He was also name-checked by Elvis Costello in his song “Monkey to Man.”
Bartholomew remained active into his 80s, and in 2011, appeared in his first rap video –“Born in the Country,” a collaboration with his son, New Orleans hip-hop producer Don B, and grandson, rapper Supa Dezzy.
The young Mac Rebennack’s first studio session was supervised by Bartholomew, before he was Dr. John, and when he was still a guitar player. Rebennack started playing with Professor Longhair at the age of 13, and continued his career as a sideman and leader based in New Orleans, until 1960, when the ring finger on his left hand was injured by a gunshot at a gig in Jacksonville. This led him to switch to piano. At about this time, Mac also got involved with drugs and other illegal activities, and after a stint in jail, he ended up in Los Angeles as a studio musician, including being part of the fabled Wrecking Crew, and backing artists as diverse as Sonny & Cher and Frank Zappa (who fired him due to drug use).
In 1968, he adopted the persona of Dr. John, the Night Tripper, and released his first album, Gris-Gris, containing his particular brew of music, psychedelia, and voodoo. For the next few decades, he had a mostly successful career, with hit songs, exciting live performances, awards, guest appearances and star-studded collaborations, all focused on the varied music of his home city.
One highlight was his 1973 album, In The Right Place, a collection of funky songs, including both “Right Place, Wrong Time,” and “Such A Night.” The album was produced by another New Orleans legend, Allen Toussaint, and featured the quintessentially New Orleans band, The Meters.
In later years, Dr. John explored many musical styles, including standards and classic jazz, but also collaborated on one of his last albums with Dan Auerbach. And, he played himself in the great TV show, Treme. Although a long-time heroin abuser, Dr. John had been clean since 1989 and died of a heart attack on June 6, 2019 at age 77.
One of The Meters, who appeared on In The Right Place, was Art “Poppa Funk” Neville, who contributed keyboards. He was the oldest of four brothers, and began his musical career in his teens. By 1965, he had formed The Meters, which was later joined by brother Cyril. The Meters’ 1975 album, Fire In The Bayou, was a critical and popular success, and after all four brothers appeared on 1976’s The Wild Tchoupitoulas, an album of "call-and-response" style chants typical of Mardi Gras Indians, led by George “Big Chief Jolly” Landry, the Nevilles’ uncle, they formed The Neville Brothers. The group became a New Orleans institution, and for years, the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival closed out with a Neville Brothers set.
In 1991, Art and Charles Neville inducted Dave Bartholomew into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Neville later reunited with his Meters collaborators, and performed with both acts over the ensuing years. Neville retired from music in 2018, and died at the age of 81 on July 22, 2019, after years of declining health.
A deceptively simple song, with a picked acoustic guitar and a rudimentary organ, a repetitive whisper, barely crooning over the top, yet just enough going on to nail a mood, an almost intrusive melancholy. No middle eight, no instrumental flourish to embroider the two notes in the key. Of course the words are busy, not that it is that easy to make them out. One senses the writer maybe not in such a good place. (A blink at the lyrics supports that suspicion, albeit without that much clarity.)
Perhaps then, a couple of decades after I first heard that song above, Basement Dream, from parent album, Basement Dreams, the news that the performer had taken his own life came less of a shock. Well, still a shock, less of a surprise.
Not that this was necessarily his usual style or format, his name being more of a worthy gun for hire, a name to add kudos to the work of another. I certainly took a second look and a greater interest if I saw his name on a record sleeve, playing, usually, guitar, often piano and, surprisingly, quite often the photo on the front.
These Days with You, 'Fade Away, Diamond Time', solo, 1995)
Neal Casal first hit my attention when UK rock mag Mojo awarded him the Americana Album of the year, 1998, for Basement Dreams. Americana is a big deal in the UK and there are many US musicians who seem much bigger names in that field over here than in their homeland. I'm thinking Willy Vlautin, both with Richmond Fontaine and, now, the Delines, I'm thinking ex-Green on Redder, Chuck Prophet, people like that. The UK also had, at least then, a strong library sector, where, as well as books, so too could you borrow vinyl records and, later still, CDs. Many a fledgling collector of music would expand their shelves handsomely, home-taping the crop of their local library, most hi-fis easily able to record straight from vinyl onto cassette. Sure, home taping was as illegal as it ever is, but, somehow, the libraries were in on the act, extracting a small fee for the lend. An urban myth suggested this went toward the royalties of the artist, easing any pang of conscience. (The urban truth gets, um, murky, but isn't too complicated, but, worry not, RIAA, I binned all my cassettes years ago, when I ceased having a player or the space to play or keep 'em.) Anyhoo, my first copy of Basement Dreams was exactly that, a copy, enlivening many a car journey, that being where the cassette ruled in those days.
Debris (Ronnie Lane/Faces cover), 'Return in Kind', solo, 2005
Liking the cut of his jib, I dug around his name and sought new works. A covers selection, Return in Kind, was especially good, my obsession with cover versions already beginning to hit a stride. Another artist heralded by Mojo, was Ryan Adams, and I snapped up his breakthrough albums, his apparent erraticism then putting me off later product. But when I read that Casal had become his right hand man in backing band, the Cardinals, I was back in like Flynn. His instrumental prowess lifted the sometimes leaden tendencies of Adams into loftier territory. Furthermore, when the Adams' helmed Cardinals became the chosen backing band for Willie Nelson's 2007 recording, Songbird, this should have been perfection. (Actually it wasn't, disappointing me with a somewhat hamstrung over-production, but where it was good, it was very, very good, and usually when Casal was to the fore.)
Everybody Knows, 'Easy Tiger', Ryan Adams & the Cardinals, 2007
Songbird, 'Songbird', Willie Nelson & the Cardinals, 2007
Another initially well regarded musician was Chris Robinson, especially with Black Crowes, until he fell out with his brother. Resultant band, the Chris Robinson Brotherhood, could have been just another stoner jam band, but, again, Casal was at hand to give some stabilising muscle.
If You Had a Heart to Break, 'Barefoot in the Head', Chris Robinson Brotherhood, 2017
Alongside this he also formed an integral part of Hard Working Americans, a so-called supergroup of players filling their downtime productively by making yet more music. Co-fronted by Casal and Todd Snider, the band also included members of Widespread Panic.
Opening Statement, 'Rest in Chaos', Hard Working Americans, 2016
The last I heard of him he was in the line-up of yet another band of loose affiliates from elsewhere, the Skiffle Players, this time with Cass McCombs and members of Beachwood Sparks.
Always, 'Skifflin'', The Skiffle Players, 2016
As if this weren't enough, he managed twelve solo offerings, and performed on innumerable sessions, for Lucinda Williams and Tift Merritt amongst others. And I haven't even mentioned Circles Around the Sun, the band he formed when commissioned to write the between sets music for the residual Grateful Dead 2015 Fare Thee Well tour and 50 year celebrations, that request arising from his participation in, yes, as well, a Phil Lesh & Friends touring project.
He seems to have been a well loved individual, given the eulogies made by friends and bandmates. Capable of extended and joyous electric solos, as well as reflexly capable rhythm control, and a deft hand on an acoustic to boot, familiar in most of the modern american genres that bridge the gap between the Stones and the Dead. Which, as the youngster he was, obsessed with the music of both, leaves no small legacy and big gap. He also had the voice of a tarnished choirboy, capable both of soaring beauty and understated lyrical dialogue, a gifted craftsman of songs.
So what makes someone take their own life, as he did, on August 26 last year? I cannot imagine and wouldn't want to, but I would guess, if labelled 'gentle' and 'introspective', as he usually was, depression will have been the diagnosis, suicide sadly no stranger to musical circles these past few years.
I know I have overloaded the clips, but here is a a full stream of his memorial concert. However, I should warn it is very long indeed, five hours....
My memory told me that <Goats Head Soup> followed <Exile on Main Street>. Must have been one of the toughest Stones' outputs. (I mean .. pretty hard to improve on that one)
That said, Goats Head Soup (who named it??!?!?) actually includes a few of my favorite Stones pieces - ones I could listen to back to back/over and over again. [Maybe I did once upon a time]. The AllMusic review says as much: difficult placement after Exile ... lots of good overlooked songs. But, it's <Winter> we need to zoom in on.
Something about the melodic structure - the sound of the instruments ... something else I'm missing that manages to convey a real sense of winter/cold.. Is it the reverb? Or just Jagger's uncanny ability to fit the voice to the theme?
Granted, the lyrics slightly miss the theme of ice and snow, but ...hey ... Winter: the season of ice and snow.
And here I thought this song was all about winter conditions.
It
was my son who introduced me to the Red Hot Chilli Peppers - me being
from a Who and Stones generation, I find/found it harder and harder to
keep up with groups that appeared after about the arrival of Prince.
Around about Nirvana's arrival, I just tuned out.
Granted, it
would have been hard to miss the arrival of some of the post 90s music,
and the Chilli Peppers fall into the pretty hard to miss category.
But
my ignorance - no naivete goes deeper: I took the lyrics of
<Snow> on their surface meaning. I mean "tracks in the snow" - you
know how you leave footprints in drifts. As Anthony Kiedis said: a
fresh canvas of snow. In between the perfect cover of another wonder - I
mean, a covering of snow is a true wonder. Master of lyrics he is, I
now read that Kiedis is couching his addiction to snow of a different
kind in a metaphor about the weather. Look a bit deeper, and the lyrics
speak about "get high on" and "killing me". Oh! Snow. Now I get it. Ah
well, chalk it up to experience.
Doesn't detract from my love of the song. It's great music that sits up there with classics like the Stones and the Who.
We interrupt the Ice & Snow theme for our fifth annual listing of the most viewed posts of the prior year.
Through our (usually) two-week long themes, our international
roster of writers address many different kinds of music, and bring
different perspectives to their pieces. In our top 10, we have
discussions about spy themes, sidemen, musicians who died, doctors, unhappy couples and David Crosby. Our
posts throughout the year included rock, folk music of various countries, prog, power pop, country, punk, blues, standards, comedy and other genres.
So, in
case you missed them, here are the most viewed posts from the last
calendar year. But they are only a small sampling of what you will find
in our archives, which we invite you to explore. Also, we invite you to like us on Facebook, so that you won't miss anything.
Surprisingly, our top post of the year was about a classic movie theme:
Because so many of the most viewed posts are from early in the year,
which makes sense, since they were available to view on the site for
the longest, below are the top posts for each of our themes not
represented in the total top 10:
Thanks so much for reading our work this year. If you are interested in
joining our staff, contact information can be found at the top right of
the blog.
And we promise more great music and writing in 2020, including our annual In Memoriam theme, coming soon!!
Quite a metaphor, that, uncertain which is the dominant force, whether it is sugar sweetening the destructive power of an iceberg, or a the gulp of realisation following a swallow of something not quite so sweet after all. I am sure the lyric explains but I prefer the uncertainty, tending more towards the tune and the presentation. Both of which this band had, here and in general, in spades. And I notice they have some gigs lined up for next year, this late return surely worth a shout, pinned as it is on the back of the 25th anniversary of their third album, 'Jollification'. (Which was last month, with a trio of initial shows then taking place.)
I was on the bus a bit before Jollification, they, or he, Ian Broudie, having hatched the band alone in his studio, playing all the instruments and singing all the vocals on the first album, 1989's 'Cloudcuckooland'. Perhaps not quite as big an ask as you might imagine, he being already an accomplished producer of other folks records in his home town of Liverpool. But I am still ahead of myself, my introduction to Ian Broudie being through his membership of Liverpudlian semi-supergroup Big in Japan. Where, let alone anywhere else, they weren't, their fame being mainly down to where the many and various members went next, it being the launchpad for, amongst others, Frankie Goes to Hollywood and the KLF, one drummer later joining Siouxsie and the Banshees, the keyboardsman joining The Teardrop Explodes. And Ian Broudie becoming producer for Echo and the Bunnymen and The Icicle Works. Not bad for a band so reviled in their lifetime as to have a petition taken out to promote their dissolution, albeit signed also by the band themselves.
Above is 'Pure', the debut single from the above mentioned 'Cloudcuckooland', I remembering well the first time I heard it. I was in full Morris Dancing costume, dancing with local side, Silhill Morris, at fabled warwickshire country pub, the Black Boy, the pub as mentioned, momentarily, in the finale of Peaky Blinders, series 5. Whilst I dare say I may not have fully dredged up this skeleton from my past, something for another day, that day some bemusement was to be had by the already punished locals by the sight of yours truly putting the song on the jukebox, repeatedly and repeatedly, whilst my colleagues danced outside to the song of an altogether older Albion. I love the music of the morris, but, that day, I was transfixed.
Next album, 'Sense', followed a couple or so years later. It was good, if not quite so, the video for lead single, 'Life of Riley', perhaps revealing why, at least for the espousedly non-football loving me, it had Broudie delineating his love for all things soccer writ large. Prejudice is a strong word, but it was enough to put me off the band. So, when Broudie then teamed up with comedians David Baddiel and Frank Skinner, all three utter football nuts, to write and perform the (admittedly very catchy) England European Nations Championship song of 1996, I was mortified. Getting it to number one in the UK singles charts twice, it being reprised in 1998, made it worse still, the horror of when one of your favourite bands not only become well known and celebrated to all, it also being with also something you cannot admit to any love for. (Admit is the operative word, I fear, as see also Chumbawamba.)
So I missed out, at the time, on 'Jollification'. And, until this piece, had no idea the b(r)and put out a further three albums, the knowledge giving me no small amount of homework. The featured song even comes from one of them, 'Dizzy Heights'. Are they any good? Unsurprisingly, yes, they are, even if the bubble of britpop had burst somewhat, along with the laddism of football hurly-burly becoming, now to others as well, a less well received intrusion, propelled no doubt with the ongoing dismal performances of the national side. In particular, I like the more dance oriented sound on 5th album, 'Tilt'.
A ten year gap, to 2009, and their final, at least so far, committal to disc, 'Four Winds'. Resorting now more to co-writes, you might be mistaken, from the opening of 'Ghosts', below, that this represents a further change in direction. That is, until the familiar angelic vocal chimes in, a familiar clang-clang backbeat, even if surrounded by sweeps of synth. So, all is well.
I await my show, in March, an early and late birthday present to myself. I look forward. Just don't play bloody 'Three Lions'......
(If this actually is up your street, between 'Tilt' and 'Four Winds', perhaps tilting at the four winds, came 'Tales Told', altogether simpler fare, the studio tricks reined in, may be even more so, it being a solo Ian Broudie release.)
There are many truisms in the world of music fandom, and one of them is that when a “punk” band starts releasing well-produced albums, particularly on a major label, and particularly when the songs and playing show craftsmanship, the band’s early fans scream “sellout.” For example, The Clash were accused of “selling out” at least as early as London Calling, and certainly by the time of Combat Rock. Of course, other critics at the time, and more recently, have pointed out that another word for that is “evolving,” or that it was possible for ambitious, talented bands to want to transcend the purity of punk for a broader artistic vision and, possibly, a larger audience (and yeah, probably more money.)
Hüsker Dü emerged from Minneapolis in the late 1970s-early 1980s, and their initial approach of playing music loud, fast and hard was made clear from the name of their first album, Land Speed Record. But relatively quickly, you could hear through the aural assault (and poor production values) that songwriters Bob Mould and Grant Hart were able to write melodic pop songs. Even if those songs were played at punk rock speeds and volumes, and often dealt with difficult themes.
As their music evolved, their influence increased, and in the mid-80s, Hüsker Dü became the first band of their “scene” to sign with a major label (during a period when major labels were taking risks, looking to find the next big thing(s). Of course, the complaints of "sellout" rang out (as they did years later when Green Day transcended their punk roots and became more mainstream and popular.) I saw Hüsker Dü tour in support of their first major label album, and it was a great, if incredibly loud show. Their second album for Warner Bros., 1987’s Warehouse:Songs and Stories, was a double album filled with well-produced, well-written songs that still had the energy of punk. It wouldn’t be a stretch at all to say that this album was one of the precursors of the “alternative rock” movement that became popular in the ensuing years.
However, despite the quality and influence of Warehouse, it was also the end of Hüsker Dü. Over the years, Mould and Hart had developed a rivalry that was both artistic and personal, fueled first by their substance abuse, and later by Mould’s cleaning up and Hart going in the opposite direction.
One of the highlights of Warehouse is Mould’s “Ice Cold Ice,” a typically bleak and depressing but incredibly powerful song that uses cold and ice both metaphorically and literally.
In 2011, Mould was honored with a tribute concert at Los Angeles’ Walt Disney Concert Hall, mostly featuring Mould and his band playing with a series of guest stars, and it included this great version of “Ice Cold Ice,” featuring Dave Grohl:
The concert was, through a Kickstarter campaign, turned into a movie, but it doesn’t appear to be streamable at this time.
When I think of snow and ice, I think of Scotland. And when I think of Scotland, I think of Jackie Leven. Yes, I have mentioned him before in these pages, that being no good reason not to bring him back again. His legacy of recorded material is immense, having been so prolific for his record label that he had to seek different contracts under different names to get it all out. Sadly missed, his brand of celtic soul impacts on and draws inspiration from his home and the characteristics that reminded him of it. Kate Bush may have offered 50 Words for Snow, I swear Big Jackie had 50 songs. Here are a few.
Snow in Central Park
From his full length solo debut in 1994, Snow in Central Park is arguably one of his better known songs, if any had a claim to that right, his appeal the epitome of cult, a world famous superstar only to those in the know. Of course, it wasn't even his solo debut, he having had (at least) two careers ahead of this, firstly as late 60s singer-songwriter John St. Field, and in scary punk/new-wave band Doll by Doll. And then there were the two alongside, Fife balladeer, Sir Vincent Lone and the Kirkcaldy David Sedaris, Jackie Balfour.
None of the below are in chronological order, but all display lyrical nods to the snowier, icier aspects of his oeuvre. Don't get me wrong, he could do songs about rain and wind as well, being no one winter pony. (Actually I jest, for although he could and did, he could also sing uplifting and cheerful songs too. Just less often. And not for today.)
Stopped by Woods on a Snowy Evening (A Robert Frost poem set to music by Leven.)
Your Winter Days
The Wanderer
Lammermuir Hills
Kirkconnell Flow
Washing by Hand
Finally, with all the above coming from his 20 odd studio albums, it is worth a mention is how he took his muse out on the on the road, leaving behind the often lush arrangements and instrumentation. Live it was usually just himself, a burly bear of a man, year round shorts, ripped denim shirt and battered guitar. A masterfully inventive player on that instrument, bringing all sorts of percussive textures to bear, tapping the wood and caressing the strings, the high point always his voice, a majestic croon, beauty from the beast. At one foot a pint glass with the vodka and lemonade he would occasionally seek topping up, at the other a microphone, to catch the constant rhythm of his foot. You can't catch him now, dead these 8 years, but there are a celebration of live albums also out there. The song below is typical Leven, describing the fear men hold inside. The fear men have without love, without a mother, a wife, a partner, and the dark places that such solitude leads, and the tragedy of it all. He knows these men and, if we are honest, so do we, all within us, but for better grace and luck.
I took some time off from this blog over the summer, so for the Leftovers theme I’m trying to hit some of what I missed--and this post covers three in one!
I have to believe that more food is eaten from Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day than any other similar period during the year. At least in my family, this period is filled with big family meals, parties, dinners out, and many, many cookies, thanks mostly to my wife, the master baker. As someone who struggles with weight and diet and the related health issues that this has caused, it seemed appropriate to write about this song, a cautionary tale about overeating.
My introduction to the song came from its inclusion on the only studio album released under the Rockpile name, Seconds of Pleasure, despite the fact that the musicians (Nick Lowe, Dave Edmunds, Billy Bremner, and Terry Williams) acted as the band for both Edmunds and Lowe on a number of solo releases. At the time of the album’s release, I remember being a little disappointed, despite the fact that there were a number of strong tracks, but as a fan of both Edmunds and Lowe, maybe I expected too much. I think that the critical opinion of the album has improved over the years, though.
What I didn’t realize until I started writing this was that “A Knife and Fork” is a cover—which is a little embarrassing for someone who sporadically contributes to a cover blog. It was originally written and performed by a mostly forgotten performer, Kip Anderson, back in 1967. The song was recorded at the legendary FAME Studios in Muscle Shoals, Alabama (hey—that’s another theme that I missed), and was produced by Rick Hall. Check out the original version:
Look, I’m a big Dave Edmunds/Rockpile fan—ask my college roommates—and their cover of the song is good—I liked it then, and I like it now, although I was never a huge fan of when Edmunds’ voice sounds processed. But if you compare it to the more soulful, horn-filled original, the Rockpile version feels restrained. So, I have to say, the original is better. Because, in part, everything is better with a horn section.
Edmunds, to his credit, often covered obscure songs, giving them a new life—on Seconds of Pleasure, for example, in addition to giving Kip Anderson some royalties, he covered a lesser known Chuck Berry song.
Although I do expect to indulge during this festive period (and I already have), I hope that the situation isn’t as dire as the song portends.
I initially thought I wouldn't make it to this party, my macbook's hard disk seeming to be in dire need of palliative care, the icing on a week of disappointments. Yup, just as you guys are belatedly getting around to impeaching your bleach blond furball, we have elected ours back in, with a steaming majority. Steaming as in, well, you know. So Brexit has been "done" and, pending 5 or 6 years of expensive, extensive wrangling with Europe, our garage sale of goodies will be up for grabs. It is what it is, and chlorinated chicken can't be all bad.
In the UK, our politics is gauged by colour. Red is Labour, a sort of rather more socialist Democrat party, not communist by any means, if still a shade by far too goddam lefty pinko for your Republicans. They were trashed on friday. Orange is the colour of the traditional 3rd party in the usual two horse race we run here, the Liberals, or, as they re-badged some time back, the Liberal Democrats. They came, traditionally, 3rd. Or rather, 3rd in England, somewhat swamped by Scotland's resplendent bright yellow party, the Scottish Nationalists, dominant party in that aspirational stand alone nation for 3 elections now. And counting. And, much as I am despairing the blue tide of the Conservative party in England, more right wing than they have ever been, who have triumphed and some, I doff my bonnet to the SNP. If and when, my scottish parentage may offer me the safety net of a scottish passport, when and if ever should become a reality.
Billy Bragg is the nearest thing we have to a Woody Guthrie. (OK that's harsh on Ewan MacColl and other musical firebrands, but, in terms of success, sales, and ubiquity, Bragg has a greater claim to the accolade, in my humble.) I can't imagine he will have been raising any glasses in good cheer this weekend, if similarly, like me, probably downing some. Of course, he is known in the US, having been chosen by Nora Guthrie to add music to the reams of songs found within her father's legacy, she appreciating their shared stance about fighting (aka singing) for the undertrodden and overlooked. The song chosen would be as much at home in the US as UK; it is an american song after all. All feeling today, mind, as equivalently out of step.
I'm spoilt for choice in looking for something evocative enough for the SNP; music of the scottish tradition is within an equivalent renaissance now as was irish in the 1970's and 80's. In my cups, sentiment is all, and so it is the Battlefield Band to whom I turn, with this tear stained version of the old Charlie Rich standard. I'm not so naive to believe in the the shortbread tin school of scottish thought, as so savagely laid into by Dick Gaughan, another firebrand politico, but you never know.
I think the UK will dissect in the near future, a new referendum demanded by the SNP of the new government, allowing the scots their right to an independent future, if so sought. This time it will be closer. Meanwhile, in Northern Island, the Unionists (stay with UK) are for the first time in a minority with relation to the Nationalists (join the rest of Ireland).......
I was never that much into the Liberals, feeling them often more material for a protest vote or for tactical voting. Sure, they have had some good ideas in their manifestos, and some fascinating characters in their ranks, but their time has rarely seemed right. As for a song with an appropriate link, it is back north I go. The scottish northern isles, Orkney and Shetland, with their respective scatter of tiny islands and far-flung communities, have long been staunchly electing Liberal members of parliament. Too far north to ever consider themselves Scots, I think this is why they sleight the Nationalists, a greater affinity to the Vikings and Scandinavia than to other britons, whether scottish, english, welsh or irish. The song has no political axe, but is as good a place as any to introduce Orcadian songwriter Erland Cooper to these pages, one third of Magnetic North and the Erland of the earlier Erland and the Carnival. He describes the music of Magnetic North as psychogeography. And that's fine by me.
So... I get the first slot: a mix of Family and Leftovers.
Since the <family> theme is officially over and I never got this finished, I guess it qualifies as a leftover.
When I began writing this, I wondered why so many of the songs I initially scoped out for <family> are disco pieces or from the disco era. Maybe you have an answer?
There's Sly and the Family Stone and Mary J. Blige with "Family Affair" [ granted they are not the same song, but the name's the same]. Then, there's Sister Sledge, which I decided to zoom in on because ... it's family.
Sister Sledge were really all sisters with the family name Sledge. Four of them from Philly, PA. They are still touring - minus Joni, who died back in 2017.
Singing backup on We Are Family is a [then] little known Luther Vandross (unlikely that you can make him out). Various other related tidbits: this was the Pittsburgh Pirates theme song in 1979 - the year they came back from 1-3 down to win the World Series; Joe Lieberman used the song as his campaign theme in 2003; the song essentials were used in "We are Pepsi Free"; The song made #1 on the R&B list back then and #3 in the album lists. The sisters have performed with or been on stage with Aretha, Al Jarreau, Pope Francis and a couple others.
There's absolutely nothing great about the lyrics - except that it fits a family of sisters:
We are family
I got all my sisters with me
We are family
Get up everybody and sing
OK, just a quick one, mainly because I cannot believe we have got this far in a thread themed 'Family' with no mention of Leicester's finest, um, Family. A quick rustle back through the back pages and it seems they don't get any mention in any other category at all. How can this be? Surely the sandpaper gargled vocals of Roger "Chappo" Chapman translate to more than any purely eurocentric vibe? Please tell me so.
So, if in doubt, go wiki, and it looks not, their US peak being with an inwithabullet 177 in the Billboard album charts, with 'Fearless', in 1977. What a shame, what a loss, as, when good, they were very very good. OK, and yes, when they were bad they were horrid, but that wasn't often. We're talking 1968 to 73. Very few bands achieved all killer, no filler.
No time for a history lesson, but I guess one issue was their inability to be pigeon holed within any one genre, hopping from style to style almost song to song, combined with an ever-changing membership that could include standard guitar, bass, drums with violin, vibraphone, trumpet. You name it and they probably did, encompassing rock, folk, jazz, funk, prog. The lot. All carried by the incomparable vocals of Chapman. Have some hits. And, if you can't be arsed, fer chrissakes, at least listen to Burlesque, the dirtiest bit of sleazy funk this side of Sleazyfunktown in Sleazyfunktownshire.
The Weaver/s Answer (1970)
In My Own Time (1971)
Burlesque (1972)
My Friend the Sun (1973)
After they split asunder in the early 1970s, Chapman and guitarist, Charlie Witney, carried on for a while as (Chapman-Witney) Streetwalkers, with, I guess, even less acclaim. Chappo then became, 'big in Germany', that country always retaining an enduring love for the knights in blue denim of 60s into 70s UK rock. ( And, yes, to save your navigation, Family do get a shout.) Astonishingly, after a mere gap of 40 years, a version of the band reformed, Chappo, no Witney, and they play, sporadically to this day, alongside Chappo's solo project, Roger Chapman and the Shortlist. (I wanna ticket!!!)
Burlesque (2013)
At least now if anyone searches 'Family' on this site, up will come the band, and that, say I, is as it jolly well should be.
After a few prog-related posts in a row, we need a little punk palate cleanser, right? Sort of like how during a Thanksgiving dinner filled with heavy foods, you need something tart to shake things up. Which may be the first time anyone compared The Ramones to cranberry sauce.
Although this Family theme was designed to relate to the gathering of relatives during the Thanksgiving season, my two song selections have taken a little different approach. Last week, I wrote about a man contemplating patronizing a prostitute, but who ultimately passes, somewhat reluctantly, because he’s a family man.
Today’s song, from possibly The Ramones’ best album, Rocket To Russia, is a satirical look at a dysfunctional family, featuring a closeted drug dealing father, a pill-addict mother, and a neglected, fly-eating sick baby, all of whom eat refried beans. This is nothing at all like my family, although when I was born, my mother and father and I did live in Queens, about 4 or 5 miles away from where The Ramones hailed from.
I’ve now been blogging long enough that I can’t remember if I’ve ever discussed how lucky I feel that my family, for the most part, gets along. This year, we had a relatively small Thanksgiving—my wife and I, our widowed mothers, my sister and her daughter, and my brother. Over the years our family table at various holidays have included my son and daughter-in-law (who were celebrating with her parents), said daughter-in-law’s parents (which gives me a chance to link to this again), my late father and father-in-law, my expat daughter, my siblings’ former spouses (and then their occasional “plus ones”), my sister’s son (off serving in Americorps), my brother’s kids (celebrating this year with their mother’s family), and occasionally some others.
It is always a fun time. There is, of course, laughter, good food, football (including sometimes of the European version) on the TV, a Thanksgiving-themed playlist created by the family music blogger, and, of course discussions, sometimes even of politics.
My college friend David Campt is an expert in fostering dialogues—his company is named “The Dialogue Company,” so it must be true. He travels the country trying to help people with different views engage in constructive discussions, often about race, but not exclusively. I hope that the pre-Thanksgiving interactive piece he co-wrote on The New York Times’ website about how to successfully engage family members with different views prevented bad feelings, broken crockery and spilled gravy at some dinner tables last week. But I count myself lucky that this isn’t an issue with my family—we run the gamut from liberal to very liberal, and there isn’t a MAGA hat in anyone’s closet.
And while that may result in a relatively drama-free Thanksgiving (assuming that I don’t either burn the turkey or start cooking it too slowly), it does ratchet down the stress level a lot. Which is nice, because even though my wife and I have been hosting Thanksgiving for our family for a while now, there are a lot of moving pieces, including a number of dishes that only get cooked once a year (including the all-important bird), so I’m glad that I don’t have to get into a debate with a Trump acolyte, knowing full well that I would eventually forget everything that I learned from David Campt, and revert to my more litigious bent.
So, I’m glad that I really do have a happy family, even without gulping down any Thorazines.
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