I confess- the text here is half baked. Never
quite finished – but this music needs to go out before the theme expires.
I used to be a sci-fi fan when I had the time.
Registered user at baen.com where the Eric Flint alternate reality series about
Europe1600's really caught my attention.
If only I had paid more attention. What was
sci-fi back then is now reality. Who would have thought that I would have spent
the past year zoom-ing my lessons to legions of students in a form of virtual
reality. Nothing new: It was imagined in Sci-Fi.
Not sure which <Leftover> (lost) theme to
place this one, but it needs sharing. I’m going to force it into Lessons, because
it is a lesson learned for me.
I get up in the morning and boot the computer in
time for my 7:50 class. It takes a while for all 20 students to join the Zoom
meeting. While we wait .... music.I
need it, I figure they do, too. Lately I waffle back and forth between
Bluegrass and Turkish pop that might be more to their liking.
Buegrass. Flat picking. Where to start? There are
so many, many masters. Recently, I have been focused on an incredible archive
of live concerts made available from Woodsongs. Absolutely amazing 20+ year
archive of … well … start here
Prolific beyond belief, Clarence was a mainstay
of the Byrds as well as too many other bands to name (an early band composed of
his brothers, the Kentucky Colonels, and much, much more). Various online
sources name him as the father of flatpicking rock.
He's an early Lowell George before Lowell George.-
and for me, that’s major accolades. Vocals very similar?
A leftover to encapsulate both ‘empty’ and ‘spirit’, as in I am in danger of being drained of all celebratory Christmas spirit. OK, it’s true, my score on the humbuggery meter has always been on the higher side of stripey, but whither my goat? It’s bloody Christmas songs. You’d think, what with tiers and lockdowns, that exposure to seasonal dross would have been reduced, but no, it is as if this plague year has given folk carte blanche to wheel out their own version of any old warmed up fare from years gone by. And even, in those rare instances of when a Christmas hit does other than make you want to hit someone, most of the rebakes are so soggy as to insist you do. Or yourself, or the wall, anything to block out their ceaseless epiphanies. So, for your delight and delectation, here are some of this year’s turkeys.
Fairytale of New York is (was) a pretty good song by any standard, and one, in the original, I still enjoy. But it does not translate, and I don’t even mean the fuss and nonsense about the language used. There have always been dire versions, but this years offering takes the proverbial tin of shortbread. What were you thinking, Jon bloody Bon Jovi? Just because it’s for charity dose not let you off the hook for excreting this pot-pourri of scented manure. It’s supposed to be a duet, FFS, at least try to get that, but the arrangement, the distorted vowels, the all of it, it’s awful. (One tiny weeny positive, in that the replacement lines for the term of foodstuff abuse highlighted above, is a little more inventive than many of the other bowdlerisations out there.) I should here add my disclaimer, I never was that much keen on Slade, and was always more of a Wizzard man in the day. OK, it was good the first million or so times I heard it, but that still only takes it to about 1975. But, when you might fear it may be its own nadir, along comes bloody Robbie Williams and Jamie Cullum, the Puck and Bottom of Christmas, and, by heck, don’t they look pleased with themselves. Apparently it came out last year, but, being then spared that joy, they are now giving it an extra boost this year, clogging up all the cosy TV magazine shows with interviews and performance. (Apparently they each also have new songs apiece for this year, but I have suffered enough already, so you don’t have to either, if you are wise.) From the gurning and mugging, to the smug complicity of the horn section, aaargh. Simply aaargh. Call me out of touch, as I understand this one is nearly a decade old, but, forgive me if I haven’t kept up with the Bieby and try to avoid the wretched Busta Rhymes at all cost. And, whilst it could be said the Bing’n’Bowie version, probably the template for odd pairings everywhere, is the best known of this venerable tune, as well as growing on me, year by year, this abomination is one I could cheerfully never hear again. If the odious vocalisaions aren’t enough, the rap, like many, it’s true, plumbs all known depths in search of a sickly slickness that will burn equally, whichever direction it explores your gut.
Had enough? I could go on but I think that is enough for one sitting, and clearly now what is needed is something soothing to bring in the new dawn of a new year. One for Robert Burns, clearly, but, sadly there being no recordings of his own renditions for posterity, instead we must make do with sweet baby James, his voice itself like a hot toddy sipped as the pipes skirl and the clock chimes. What’s that? Too much sugar? Damn right, too much sugar. I’m off to the pub. (They’re still closed.)Happy Christmas!
I guess this is sort of related to my “No Thanks” post about Old 97’s “Lonely Holiday,” but back in June, when I think that we were really coming to grips with the changes that the coronavirus was causing to our lives, our theme was “Looking Forward,” as in, things we were looking forward to in the After Times. I wrote about seeing live music, which I continue to miss terribly.
But, as you know if you’ve read my “Lonely Holiday” piece, not to mention some of my other writings about family and friend-filled meals, I miss getting together with people to eat. Whether it is a holiday meal, or a backyardBBQ, or even if there’s no specific reason, I love to cook for a group, and I enjoy eating with a group.
So, yeah, I miss having a crowded table.
Now, the song, “Crowded Table,” by The Highwomen, seems to me about more of a big nuclear family, but the message still fits.
I want a house with a crowded table And a place by the fire for everyone
Let us take on the world while we're young and able
And bring us back together when the day is done
And, to add to the inclusivity message:
The door is always open Your picture's on my wall
Everyone's a little broken
And everyone belongs
Yeah, everyone belongs
If you don’t already know, The Highwomen are an all-female country/Americana “supergroup” created officially in 2019 by Amanda Shires, Brandi Carlile, Maren Morris, and Natalie Hemby, all of whom have varying levels of fame in the business. The idea was to pay homage to The Highwaymen, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson. So, they didn’t want to put much pressure on themselves, right? Their first live appearance was at a show celebrating Loretta Lynn’s 87th birthday at the Bridgestone Arena in Nashville (go big, or go home, I guess).
The project was designed to include other musicians, so that their first single, “Redesigning Women,” had a video that included, among others, Tanya Tucker and Wynonna Judd, and their self-titled debut album featured a re-write of Jimmy Webb’s “Highwaymen,” other co-writes with, among others Jason Isbell (Shires' husband), Miranda Lambert, and Ray LaMontagne, and appearances by Yola, Sheryl Crow, Isbell, and members of Carlisle’s and Shires’ bands.
“Crowded Table,” was written by Hemby, Carlile and Lori McKenna, and features vocals that weave in and out of unison and harmony. Rolling Stone considered the song to be the Highwomen’s mission statement noting that it is "looking for a world where everyone is given a chance to fit in. This isn’t about leaning in or fighting for the top chair. It’s about making room."
Which is a good message, both as I look forward to someday sitting at a crowded table for a big meal, but also as we look forward to the post-Trump world.
SMM has done Leftovers at this season every year since its inception back in 2008. That theme, something Christmassy, followed by our In Memoriam theme are our traditions.
With ony two in the house for "turkey day" this year (in Istanbul, Turkey no less), we had no leftovers besides the pumpkin pie and a dab of cranberry. To compensate, I cooked a second batch of stuffing and turkey the next night. Want some more? Yes, please. Gotta have those leftovers.
But ... the music ... No leftovers here. Does Village Voice critic Robert Christgau like James Taylor? His comment about Taylor's version of this song are a pretty clear: "No, thanks". He labelled it "disgraceful". Further remarks he has made about Taylor indicate that it is not just this song. He writes: "I am no more likely to enjoy a James Taylor concert than an Engelbert Humperdink concert, and [...] this prejudice is not primarily musical."
In almost a rebuttal to Christgau's "no way, thanks", Taylor's version of the lyrics of Marvin Gaye's original, again and again sing "thank you baby" - to Carly SImon.
I kind of side with Christgau -but not as vociferously - Sweet Baby James was a good album. I'm mildly prejudiced because I had one foot in Chapel Hill, NC in those days, so Taylor was a home-town hero (and the songs were provocative in their own genre for the time). After that ... we discovered the true baby james.
For contrast, there's narry a thanks in Marvin Gaye's lyrics, The song "vibe" itself is thanks enough. Christgau is right.
2020 brought a lot to bear, not the least being a real challenge to sobriety. When there's nothing to do, getting drunk in the dark of my cave-like home office with something mindless streaming through the Netflix tractor beam was often the highlight of the day. Memes and internet jokes about happy hour being pretty much any hour of the day abound. Still.
Because this shit is far from over.
Taking a break from the news, from the social media doom scroll, and from the living room couch are all important steps to recovery. So, is laying off the booze and hiding the keys to the liquor cabinet. Seems like the sober-er times of 2020 are the times I'll most want to forget. There really hasn't been anything much in the way of redeeming when it comes to the past year. Save for music, which even in the best of times, is a key to happiness.
I know highballs and new tunes were a balm in this dark year. But, like all good things, in moderation we trust. Because 2020 feels a lot like a hangover that won't fade.
This track from Ringo's 1974 Goodnight Vienna is a fun little reggae-esque romp about getting sober. Given the prodigious amount of chemical experimentation of the Beatles' later years, and lack of lingering damage it caused, in comparison to many of their contemporaries, "No-no Song" comes off as more than just another silly Ringo tune. ("Octopus Gardens," anyone? "Yellow Submarine?" ) This song has the feel that it was meant to be a lark, but took on a more realistic sense the more it got played. Ringo always struck as the most whacked out of the Beatles, to be honest. But, here in "No-no Song," he seems to be striking a sober chord, if only because he's tired of waking up on the floor. How serious he is depends on how much you want to see the song as ironic. It was written by Hoyt Axton, famous cowboy singer and actor, who had also struggled with sobriety and drug use in his life. And Ringo was far from sober at the time of the recording. In an interview with Time magazine, he claimed that he and Axton recorded the song "...with the biggest spliff and a large bottle of Jack Daniel's."
I suppose, reading too much into the song is a mistake. It is kind of funny, in it's escalation of peer pressures and continuous inebriation. But, maybe it's just supposed to ironic, like it's ironic when we wake up from a bender and say, "I'm never doing that again..."
Irony, for sure. But, then this is 2020 and we've got a premium on irony. Filled to very top with it. Looking back, all this was predictable. Preventable. And looking forward, we'll look back on this and just shake our heads in angry, rueful hindsight at what could have been.
In the meantime, we've still got time to listen to good music. The bottle and whether the cap stays on, or comes off, once again, is another question. We can always so "no-no" in the future. Let's get through the next few months first. And hope for better days to come.
Here's a bit more countrified version of "No-no Song" with the first All-Starr Band, which looks a lot like the E Street Band...
There's much about him that I don't really approve of, but he was amazing in many ways. Alas, I do not profess to be well-versed about the man or Queen- I think I'm moderately informed (and despite the previous remark - don't consider myself biased. I like what I like. Period.)
So .. a search for songs about <no thanks> turned up a Queen song that I wasn't aware of. Perhaps - if I had purchased their 1984 <The Works> album, I would have been informed. After all, that's the album with "Radio Ga Ga" and "I Want to Break Free". Very muchly my bad for this ignorance. But that ignorance is in the past and it is not the fırst tıme I have ignored some great music that I shoud not have. Do it again? No, thanks. But that's easier said than done, isn't it? There are so many factors that bias us before we even give things a chance.
1984 is officially history. Sadly, Freddy Mercury is, too. One apsect of a historical perspective look back at the 1980s is the main stream adoption of digital [synthesized] sound. Sure .. we had "Switched On Bach" at the end of the 60s, but here ... we're moving to rock bands doing "fake" sound live - it's gone commercial/practical. Beyond this point, all "sound" is potentially an invention * to the extent that digital is manıpulated. This song is one of those inflection points.
The first part of the song is "machine" dominated. (Remember that the Apple Mac (ad) came out that same year). Make of it what you will in terms of techno-message, it's the music that matters. When the technobabble (yes, homage to Alan Parsons) dies down a bit, we are left with a song almost as pwerful as the tracks from this album that did make it to the charts.
No place. No soul. No regard. No conception. (But no <no thanks> except for the main message: machines? No, thanks.)
Another crappy thing that happened this year, totally unrelated to the COVID pandemic, was that I had eye surgery, and it hasn’t really gotten better yet.
In November, 2019, I stopped a very hard soccer shot by a very good player from very close range with my left eye. Being the weekend warrior that I am, I shook it off, because, really, I felt fine. That my contact lens was dislodged, and could not be found on the turf field, didn’t faze me, and I finished the game.
Months later, as the coronavirus became a thing, I started seeing flashes in my eye, which I ignored. Because sometimes, I can be an idiot, and the world was going crazy. Then, one day, at the end of April, the vision in my left eye was partially obscured. I quickly went to my eye doctor, who, after a brief examination, hustled me off to a retinal specialist, who diagnosed a retinal detachment and started treatment by putting a bubble of gas in my eye. That was followed by lasers to tack down the retina. Unfortunately, I then developed a macular hole, which required surgery, followed by a period where I had to stay face down as much as possible, facilitated by what looked like a massage chair, and a similar headpiece for bed to allow me to "sleep" face down. It sucked. That’s me, right after the surgery. You don’t want to see what’s under the bandage. So, "No Thanks," eye surgery.
My vision remains imperfect. Not only is it slightly distorted (although it appears to be healing, but verrrrrry slowly), the surgery has caused or accelerated the development of a cataract in the eye, making my vision blurry. Despite some souped up glasses, things are not back to normal, although I can do pretty much everything except read really small print on the TV screen. I’m even playing soccer again, with goggles, and a “no heading” policy. I’m back to the retinal doctor on Friday for another report, and some guidance as to when I might be able to arrange to have the cataract removed, to bring me closer to my pre-damage vision.
I know that Kkafa wrote about this song in February, 2019, but it seemed like the right one. It’s a good song—probably the first Jackson Browne song I heard (I think back in my sleep away camp radio days), and still probably my favorite. It isn’t about eye surgery, but instead about a man who has suffered, but comes to accept his fate. So, maybe it works for my situation, anyway. It also features David Crosby and Graham Nash on harmony.
One positive thing was that because of COVID, most doctors and hospitals only took emergency cases, and I qualified, so I probably got treated a little faster than I might have had there been no pandemic. And I got a COVID test—which was negative, not that that means anything now.
For a long time after I started writing for this blog back in 2011, I tried not to repeat artists, but eventually I stopped worrying about that, because sometimes a song by an artist I had already written about called to me. And it shouldn’t be surprising that I’d want to write about bands that I like. So, I hope that you overlook the fact that not only is this the fifth time that I’ve written about the Old 97’s here, but this is actually the third song off of their great Fight Songs album that I’ve highlighted. You can read the last time I wrote about the band and album here, and it links to the three other times I’ve featured them.
It goes without saying that we just finished the strangest Thanksgiving in a long time—maybe ever. If you want to read more about the history of the holiday—which, like so much else in our country is tied to the Civil War—read this post by the great Heather Cox Richardson.
I’ve also written about my familyThanksgivingtraditions, which were mostly blown up this year by COVID-19. Instead of a big family dinner at our house, my wife and I cooked almost as much food as we usually would, but sat down to dinner on Thursday as a couple. On Friday, we brought a bunch of leftovers to my mother-in-law for a socially distanced lunch, met my mother, brother and a nephew at a restaurant for dinner under a tent on the way back, and on Saturday, my son and daughter-in-law visited for another socially distanced meal of leftovers. Between the three meals, and the care packages distributed to our family members, we actually don’t have an enormous amount of food left over.
So, while in some sense, it was a lonely holiday, we made the best of it. But “No Thanks,” to this sort of serial celebration, and I can’t wait until we can gather together as a family to celebrate. I’m pretty sure that Christmas will also be a lonely holiday.
At this point, I really don’t have much more to say about the album. The song is a very typical Old 97’s song, in which a peppy melody is used to deliver some dark lyrics--this time about about loneliness, suicide and love.
I’m going to switch things up here, and keep it short, and not get into politics.
If no, thanks is the answer, what, I wonder, was the question? For that's the thought that always enters my mind when this song crops up. The lyric casts some broad, if vague, hints. Is this something for consenting adults, for behind closed doors? Or is it something far worse? I'm thinking that both Daryl Hall and John Oates must be fairly broad minded individuals, men of the world even. Yet?
I Can't Go For That (No Can Do)
But let's stack up the evidence, it wasn't the first time they had been caught on the hop and out of their depth. All talk and no trousers is the english phrase for it. Right back at the beginning of their career they were already pushing the envelope further than the price of the stamp, with the evidence here. Did the experience leave some wound, some scar on their collective conscience?
I'm Just a Kid (Don't Make Me Feel Like a Man)
So, Daryl, what's the story? Anything to say, John?
Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid
Oho, the old 5th amendment trick, eh? You don't have to say, but we'll find out. O, yes, and if not the truth, something better. Live with that?
I Don't Think So
Hmm, well, you would say that anyway. With all your fancy vids and prancing about, what do you think you are? Popstars?
(You Know) It Doesn't Matter Any More
That old one! Always the same, string us along, keep us all none the wiser and then, pffsh, nothing, nada, the brush-off.
I Ain't Gonna Take It This Time
Calm down, calm down, keep your shirts on, just a bit of fun.
I really love Hall and Oates, but, y'know, don't you ever wonder who the F was making their wardrobe and coiffure decisions.
As in, yes, if you are asking me whether I won't, no thanks, I will survive. I will, rather than rejecting the alternative option, but this song offers so much that is apt to this theme that I will disregard any earlier appearance, a decade ago. (Even if it uses up my favourite version ever.) But this is where we all, the survivors, or most of us, stand on 2020, defiant and steadfast against the tide of badness, with light beginning to seep through the cracks. Covid 19? The vaccine beckons. Donald aka Agent Orange? The back door is open and waiting. The economy? Hmm, well, we'll have to see on that one. Boris and his chumocracy of cronies? That too.
It's true, the song was originally a sturdy polemic against a returning suitor, or as wiki puts it so neatly: "the narrator's discovery of personal strength following an initially devastating breakup". The assertive lyric, carried by and coupled with an uplifting and anthemic tune, guarantees for a sea of raised hands on the dance floor, and not just by righteous rejectees. I love it.
Gloria Gaynor introduced us all to the song, an astonishing 42 years ago. I was not, it's fair to say, a fan of disco in 1978, but I could see this was one terrific song. Indeed, even the stuffy old Library of Congress put it up, in 2016, for the National Recording Registry, alongside such essentials of every collection as Alan Sherman's Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah and Swanee, by Al Jolson. (I jest: they have a cracking selection!) VH1 gave it the accolade of the Greatest Ever Dance Song in 2000, Rolling Stone only managing it a number two in their 2012 Best Disco Tracks of All Time.
Over the years many have tried to bring their bit of something to the song, many, most, in truth, poor and lucklustre facsimiles, but some have been really rather interesting. A rule I have is that, if it includes the rolling piano intro, I will listen to no more. Here's a few that don't:
Dig a little beneath the initial hit of gruyere, and this, by the Puppini Sisters, is actually a delight. I don't go a whole bundle of the recalibration of songs into a faux-forties Andrews/Beverley Sisters style, but this transcends my prejudice, by playing rather more with the arrangement, some glorious walking bass and aan unexpected choral middle eight and coda.Who the Puppini Sisters? A clue; they ain't, but one actually is Puppini by name and they were doing this sort of thing way ahead of Scott Bradleee, if from downtown London rather than New York. (Has Bradlee tackled the song? Of course he has.......)
Much as I adore R.E.M., I confess to finding their throwaway b side live/impromptu covers a slightly less than intrinsic need, but, against that odd, this one conveys just enough charm to make it, Stipe's stumbling through the lyrics a little haphazardly falls just the right side of endearing.
SMM used to have a gentleman's agreement not to include anything too new, mainly then a naive hope that it would keep the RIAA off our case, from the days we put up mp3s. This is barely a couple of months old, but in the spirit of survival, or its flip, given we may not be here next year, mankind, not the site, I feel I have to place it. A terrific version, a slow chant of faith. Lykke Li is a Swede, one of a bevy of Nordic artists firmly finding their feet in the world of electronica and ambient.
And so finally to Anohni, or, as she still was at the time of this recording, Antony, a song so suited on so many levels, not least the comments on youtube, made to proclaim the ownership of this wracked performance. Some say she overeggs near all she touches. I say bring it on.
So, my new year resolution: survive!
(OK, you want the Cake one too? We all need Cake in these dark days, the darkness potentially deeper ahead the dawn.)
There are so many things not to be thankful for in 2020, which will go down in history as a particularly bad year. Maybe not as bad as during the Civil War, or the Great Depression, or other periods of strife and struggle, but I think that the sheer number of different bad things that have happened during the year is unprecedented. I know that I’ve written a few political pieces on this music blog recently, so I hope that this one is the last for a while, but as I put figurative pen to paper, our political system is being bent to the point that there is real concern about it breaking. I’m confident that it will not snap, but like most things that are stressed to the breaking point, it will be weakened, maybe permanently.
So, why, “Sound of Lies?” Because one of the things that I will not miss from 2020 is worrying that every time I turn on the radio, or TV, or check social media, I will be barraged by a steady stream of lies from the president and his henchpersons, sycophants and enablers. I mean, we all knew that most politicians shaded the truth when expedient, and that some lied, outright. But the sheer volume of dissembling and BS from this crowd has been astonishing and exhausting. I fully expect that, shortly after January 20, 2021, there will be stretches of days where I don’t even think about the President, and don’t have to get angry about his lies, which I expect to improve my mental health.
“Sound of Lies,” the song, is the title track of the Jayhawks’ 1997 album, which followed the departure of co-leader Mark Olson, and the resulting primacy of Gary Louris as singer and songwriter. And the album also marked a shift in the band’s Americana-based sound to include more pop influences, although the twang wasn’t completely eradicated. It’s an album that received mixed reviews at the time—in fact, they were “mixed” not in the sense that reviewers thought the album was mediocre, but in the sense that some reviewers loved it and others hated it. I suspect that many of the “haters” were the folks who object to bands that change and grow over time. And, in fact, many writers, often in pieces discussing the album’s reissue in 2014, noted that it had held up well over the years. In an interview from 2014 about the album, Louris said:
It’s probably our favorite album as well. It is the 'fuck you' record. It really is the fuck everybody record, I really remember Olsen had left, he had quit, I was going through a divorce, I was a mess, I was drinking too much, I was unhappy… I really felt this was the last Jayhawks record, and why not go out with a bang, so fuck it?
The song, though, is not a glossy pop song, but is, instead, a quiet, heartbreaking ballad, which is consistent with the dark place he was in. And while the lyrics to the song don’t really relate to the current political situation, these lines do resonate:
The sound of lies rings funny Against the truth
Despite Louris’ belief, it was far from the Jayhawks’ last album (it wasn’t even their last album with Olsen), and despite the despair and exasperation, they’ve gone on to continued creative success.
Hopefully, next year, at this time, we can all put aside our current despair and exasperation, and move on to be thankful about the truth.
<No, thanks> or <no thanks>. There is a difference. Syntax/punctuation matters.
Actually, I think this SMM theme is more about <no Thanksgiving> and other joys denied us in 2020. Yes, the holiday will come and go, but we are being told not to invite the whole family. I'm usually the host, but if I were invited, I would say "No, thanks. Not this year."
"No, thanks" leads me to think of all sorts of issues that have poppped up in 2020: Another 4 years? Classes in a room with 20 X 14 year olds? Sharing my office with a colleague who has had COVID? Riding a service bus to work with 20 others? No, thanks no thanks to our incompetent "leadership".
Then consider the other version: I have recieved no thanks for my actions related to many of the above. At this point I am expected to be thankful for still being alive?
That aside, let's focus on the music that drills down into the theme. Above Woody, then here his son Arlo: <Dead or Alive>. How appropriate!
the sherrif wants me dead or alive ... no thanks
Arlo sounds a lot better than his old man, but that may be related to recording technologies as much as the way things evolve over time.
I think it's fair to say that Woody Guthrie was re-working a "traditional African-American work song", a tune called <Poor Lazarus>, but the chronology is a bit muddy as far as I could discover.
James Carter is credited as the author of Poor Lazarus, but the Alan Lomax recording from the state pen is dated 1959. setlist.fm lists the first Woody Guthrie performance of <Dead or Alive> recording as dated 1949.
Poor Lazarus and Dead or Alive are pretty much the same story and I would be inclined to leave the provenance as traditional. The Guthrie legacy is managed by grandchild anna canoni and there is an informative dialog here.
The Social Security website shows that naming your child Joe is in decline. Over the last 20 years, it has moved from 315th most popular to 705th. Liam, Noah and Oliver are in the first 3 for 2019. That said, there are a number of musicians named Joe - some by birth, some taken later.
Because ... the theme is Joe, these gentlemen qualify. (I don't know of any girls named Joe, but there are a few named Jo.) And ... Billie Jo Spears and Jo Stafford kinda fit the theme-related bill.
A couple of random Joes here ... no sequence, no relation except that they are all Joe. And there's many more Joes I didn't list, but ...hey ... my list.
Well, at this point half way through the theme, we haven't recieved any flames about our not so subtle topic. Your SMM bloggers each bring their own baggage (Mr LaRaygun: his metal...) and mine: more heavily embued with folk. My father was a choir/orchestra conductor and I sang tenor (for him) in Handel's Messiah and similar
I had a back of the mind recollection that Hair, the musical, had a reference to Joseph. But, not so ... it must have been Jesus Christ Superstar. Both of the same ilk: early Rock Operas. However, further digging on my part (and a revivial of some dead brain cells- synapse links) revealed that my memory was of another Rock opera named >Joseph and the Coat of Many Colors<. There we go: Joe. Finally.
There is in fact a fair amount of similarity - at least in my mind: more or less same time and same style. At least I can see why I had them confused: Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice.
The biblical story of Joseph is familiar to most: "killed" on account of his brothers' jealousy, Joseph comes back to life in Egypt, this time in control of the situation. The musical rock opera covers this narrative.
The musical is a product of Andrew Lloyd Webber, a budding composer at this time (my confusiuons explained, since he was complicit in Jesus Christ Superstar). And Tim Rice goes beyond Llloyd Webber: collborated with Elton John, Rita Coolidge, Rick Wakeman and Freddie Mercury (and more).
The whole prospect behind rock operas seems to be that [in the modern era] the concept of the classical opera is dated and something "modern/pop/rock" might elicit interest and ticket sales. <Hair> and <Jesus Christ> made limited inroads. So did <Cats> (another Webber piece). Jospeh did not.
That has not killed the rock opera notion. A variation of the idea lives on in animated films (Lion King, which spawned a couple of charting songs, for one) and of course the Who's <Tommy>, Pink Floyd's <The Wall> and more.
One of the things that made Joe Biden a compelling candidate (other than the fact that most people look good by comparison to the lame-duck president) is the way he appears to relate to his family. Clearly, so much of Biden’s life was shaped by the tragic loss of his wife and child, and his attempts to continue to be there for them as a single father trying to make his way in the Senate. And we’ve heard about his second marriage, his support of one son through addiction and other personal issues, and having to watch another child die. . His sister is his closest political advisor, who ran all of his campaigns until this last one. Not to mention his relationship with his grandchildren, who he claims to call or text every day. There’s a genuineness to all of this, which again contrasts with the man he beat handily, whose children seem to be more like junior business associates, and whose third wife regularly slaps his hand away.
Much of this can be explained, I think, by the relationship that the men had with their fathers. Mary Trump has described her grandfather (and the two-time popular vote loser’s father) in very cruel terms, and as a man who forced his children to fight for his affection and money. (He also was charged more than once with racist practices in his business and was arrested outside a Klan rally. We report. You decide).
Biden, on the other hand, had a close, friendly relationship with his namesake father, who appeared to instill in his son respect for others, personal humility, and a resilient personality, but most of all, a belief that family is paramount.
Hearing Biden speak over the past few months, it is clear that he’s no communicator in the way that President Obama was, but he does display an “everyman” charm, and an empathy that has been lacking in our president since the current impeached resident of the White House was sworn in before a small crowd. Biden often refers to his father, and wisdom that Joe, Sr. imparted to him, and he often starts these anecdotes by quoting his father calling him “Joey.” (You knew we’d get there eventually, right?) Which makes sense, in a family with two Joes. In fact, last summer, Jill Biden released a children’s book about her husband’s childhood, called Joey.
The featured song, “Joey” is, for most of us, the only song by Concrete Blonde that we know, and it was released in 1990 on the band’s third album, Bloodletting. Written by singer Johnette Napolitano, it was the group's biggest hit, topping Billboard’s Modern Rock Tracks chart for four weeks and hitting number 19 on the Billboard Hot 100. The song is about being in love with an alcoholic, who Napolitano eventually revealed to be Marc Moreland of Wall of Voodoo.
Formed in 1982 as Dream 6, and renamed at the suggestion of Michael Stipe after signing to IRS Records, the band failed to achieve much success after “Joey,” broke up in 1993, and has had occasional reunions over the years. Napolitano has released albums as a solo act and with other artists, and was even part of the Heads, a project with the members of Talking Heads, without David Byrne, which fizzled out after the requisite litigation.
Joe Biden ran for president in 1998, with little success, dropping out after a series of plagiarism allegations, briefly tried again in 2008, but was overshadowed by Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, and was asked to join Obama’s ticket in 2008, becoming Vice-President. He chose not to run in 2016, in part because of the death of his son Beau, and in part, I think, because there was a feeling that it was time for a woman to be president (which it was, and should have been). Biden has admitted regretting that decision. I have to admit that I thought that Biden’s dream of becoming President was over, and that someone younger would end up running in 2020. So, I was wrong. As it turned out, Biden’s message of empathy, competence, calmness and bipartisanship struck a nerve, and he won with an enormous margin in the popular vote, and a significant margin in the stupid Electoral College (winning a few states, though, by a slim margin).
So, maybe Concrete Blonde has another comeback in them. Just ask Joey.
Another short post, having me rue on the fact that most "Joe" songs, as alluded to in my last, involve heading down Mexico way, gun in hand, old lady no longer shenanigans. And that will never do, guns seeming more in truck with the current incumbent. (Mind you, "Donald" songs are an even harder nut to track, so, hey, no bright ideas, Boss!)
But, thinking on, let's play on the soubriquet offered him courtesy the wit and wisdom of DRT, given the outcome.
I guess I could have used the Herman's Hermit's Sleepy Joe, as, likely, the better known song. But I then listened to it, possibly for the first time in nigh on half a century. Astonishingly, I could remember it in a Proustian rush, drying in front of the fire after a thursday evening bath and watching Top of the Pops. I liked Herman's Hermits, but I always found it alarming the way Peter Noone mugged directly into the camera, always worried he could see thus the seven year old me, naked in front of the old black and white TV. That would be more than enough to not want to use the song. Plus it is shit. So it is to the glorious playing of Norman Blake. Just his hands and fingers on a single guitar, making a change from the dobro he became better known for. 'Sleepy Eyed Joe' is the first of two tunes. The second is 'Indian Creek', as in Native American rather than Indian Indian, but let's overlook that and assume a timely link to his deputy.
But he ain't so sleepy is he, boys and girls, and the words of Agent Orange hang in the air like the scent of a cheap hairspray. 'Not So Sleepy' is a terrific tune from 1957, from one Oscar Pettiford. Appropriately enough it came out on a record entitled Winner's Circle, and included only contributions from artists coming first or second in the Down Beat critics poll of the year's best. Thus Pettiford, a double bassist of some renown, 3/4 Native American and 1/4 African American, found himself alongside the likes of Joh Coltrane and Donald Byrd, names that have largely outlived his. I think it a great romp, and exudes celebration. Clearly, a Winner's Circle with relation to POTUS can only include outright winners, something as yet to sink into the mindset of the defeated, but we live in hope.
purchase [ Smiley Smile ] - I had totally forgotten they did this and I even once had a copy of the LP
Wikipedia tells us that Smokey Joe refers to a number of people & places. I note that there is an eatery using the name in Istanbul that is not included in their list of links. That makes it an international phenom.
The song itself comes from the extensive Leiber and Stoller music collection from the 1950s. That's Leiber and Stoller - of previous posts by myself, Seuras Og, Any Major Dude and others here at SMM. At least as legendary as Smokey Joe.
Leiber and Stoller shuffled bands and musicians the way you and I shuffle cards. One of the definitive versions of Smokey Joe's Cafe comes from a doo wop group known as the Coasters (so named because they moved from the West to the East Coast), but in LA, were originally named the Robins (one of a number of 50s "bird" groups).
As for Joe, the story goes that back in the days when you could find oil in downtown LA, there was a beans eatery named Smokey Joe's incongruously located in the middle of the derricks. The song is also noted to be one of the signature style that Leiber and Stoller perfected where the "hit" combined a certain humour with the music (see Yakety Yak as another example).
Check out the flippant lyrics for this Leiber piece:
I'd rather eat my chili beans
At Jack's or John's or Jim's or Jean's
Than taking my chances eating down at Smokey Joe's Café
the Robins/Coasters (YouTube videos appearing under both names appear to be identical)
Among the various extant versions of the song is one that is said to be a Buddy Holly home recording that was originally just of him and his guitar and that was later enhanced in studio after his death.
As befits an oldie but goldie, the song has been brought to the modern age by others, for example
No, not, really not a snarky, snidey post at all, but a comment that might not have been out of place even as little as a year ago. And, had the forces of Agent Orange had their way, would be as true in another year. But, for sure, everybody now knows who Joe is. So what if the lyrics, clearly a companion song to Hey, Joe, don't fit the circumstances, never let that get in the way of a great song saluting a greater moment. And, if we disregard the main thrust of the words, and cherry pick the odd phrase, and disregard the new order New Order allegedly might have been celebrating with their name, yeah, it's an OK comment. Who listens to words anyway? And I can't really buy into conspiracy theories about Manchester pop groups. "There's a storm in the sky passing over"
Well done, America. Now how do we get rid of our own World Leader Pretend over here in the UK?
Myself> at a wedding party, perhaps a similar party venue, like a year-end celebration. How about in the streets? Chicago, New Orleans, New York City. Philladelphia, PA, Baltimore, Motor City and D.C.
Aside from their country of location, what relevance to our theme? Well .. they're places and they're not mentioned in the title.That makes them fodder for this <Hidden Places> theme.
These cities, of course, have streets and they were chosen. Chosen to represent a kind of revolution that took hold starting back in 1964. A revolution of abandon? No, that was dancing in the streets when WWII ended. That was the jitterbug craze. But the evil that rock and roll represented was a kind of abandon where the youth danced ... wild. Arms and hands and hips all over the place. Often side by side nearly on top of eachother (definitely no social distancing here). Disgraceful.
Marvin Gaye's song - made famous by Martha and the Vandellas - has been covered by the Kinks, the Dead and Van Halen among others.
Now, 1964 is a bit early for the 'Nam revolts ... More a reaction to LBJ's Civil Rights Act? But it seems to be part of a spark that lead to a more sustained expression: we'll dance in the streets to voice our opinions and our understanding of what it means to be social. And - it doesn't even matter what you wear.
Seems quaint. These days, we'll bring our guns or drive our trucks <to the streets>
So who has listened to the original of this recently? Or seen the film? Decades ago would be my answer, it, West Side Story, being a staple on the sunday afternoon film rota, bought in by my school to entertain the confined pre-teens. Yup, the great old UK tradition of sending kids away to boarding school, at the personal expense of the parents and the psychological expense of their children. Explains how I react so well to the rigours of lockdown. Or would to prison, I gather. Anyway, even in the late 60s, I recall it all seemed desperately dated and I never quite bought the idea of teen hoodlums bursting into either song or dance, let alone both. Especially when so well groomed and clearly in their 30s. But, as it turned out, not such a bad song, and notorious pants-splitter, P.J. Proby took it high in the UK charts. I remember finding his kitschy take astonishingly awful as a boy. Now it just has me howling.
And the theme? Another kinda sorta one, I'm afraid, as I know only too well the sort of "place for us" Tony might have had in mind, very much doubting Maria would find much lasting joy there, her mind thinking more of a whole different setting, of more lasting promise. But I detract from the incisive commentary around the plight of young love in the urban jungle. Maybe. And, yes, I get it that she dies, so rendering my remarks cheap and ignorant, but given the where isn't ever discerned, that makes it, ergo, hidden. Possibly backstage, in a poky dressing room, between scenes.
Being an erudite lot, you'll know the melody isn't an original, nicking parts from both Beethoven and Tschaikovsky, who, together, had designed the New York Subway signature screech. Covered innumerable times, the purpose of this post is to demonstrate some of the less well known versions, a gig I tend more to occupy in another guise, over at Cover Me. Of course there are also innumerable stinkers, every two-a-penny talent show competitor dredging up a version for "show night". Or even their judges....
I'm going to skim over this one, it's the one I'm "expected" to post, Tom Waits being a poster boy for the serious music nerd. To be honest, I find his voice just toooooo much, although, as I get older, I find I can dip my ears in his earlier stuff. Later stuff still defeats me, but the whole grand guignol of this demolition appeals to my sense of the absurd enough to allow it. And the trumpet is really rather good.
Talking of kitsch, as we were earlier, PSB are never afraid to embrace their inner divas, and this is a song ripe for their everything and the kit(s)chen sink OTT overkill, and this is ticking most of their boxes. Sumptiously overproduced, this only lacks the chorus of the Red Army guard. As here.
I hadn't known Aretha had done a version, this stemming from 1978, where she deconstructs most of the additional arrangements, here in background reminder only, as she swoops and soars around the melody, possible accompanying herself on piano, instilling a blast of gospel hued R&B, even as it then morphs into a jazzier vibe altogether, with a glorious walking bass line and some classy sax noodles, before returning, to finish, in the chapel.
Another welcome deconstruction, Hem transferring the song off Broadway to the Catskills, all tinkling mandolin, dreamy steel and the soothing benevolence of a pipe organ and clarinet combo. Touching on tweeness in the middle eight, the vocal charm of Sally Ellyson is sufficient to swiftly dismiss that thought.
Finally, and not without some internal dialogue, an "interesting" duet version between Marianne Faithfull and Jarvis Cocker. As with the commentator who originally put the song up on youtube, I am uncertain if it deeply awful or just plain disturbing. The arrangement is quite something, a sophisticated supper club shuffle. But the singing? Neither orthodox vocalists, rather than playing to their strengths, as, arguably, did Waits, here they seem to be playing their weaknesses. But I still felt drawn to post it. Put me under undecided.
Sorry, no time for Dee Snider, Phil Collins or the Bee Gees, for which you should thank me. Really. In the meantime and in anticipation of your plaudits, I'm off to my somewhere. To hide.........
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