Digging around for a possible alternative using the obstruction co-theme, what to my surprise but ... the Airplane again. Actually, it shouldn't be much of a surprise: For the most part, much of the 60's music scene was a process of breaching the walls of "the establishment", and that establishment being an obstruction to peace, love and understanding. 60's music was a veritable cabal of mop-heads and irreverent protesters determined to undermine through music, to exhort the pop music masses to follow the evil ways of rock and roll. Near the forefront of this rebellious movement was Jefferson Airplane. They were not alone: certainly CSNY, SDS, the Black Panthers .... heck MLJ ... but the Airplane certainly pushed the limits with their cry to Break Down the Walls...
The song Crown of Creation is pre-Volunteers, the album/song of <break down the walls>), but the energy is clearly building even as early as the Airplane's first "JA Takes Off". Jeff Tamarkin's "Got A Revolution" is an entertaining and informative history of JA if you want to dig deeper.
Written by Kantner, the lyrics are inspired by and their use officially approved by John Wyndham is his book The Chrysalids, a 50s sci-fi novel about a post-apocalyptic civilization that survives after the destruction of a sinning technologically advanced culture. Although this came out a year or so before Volunteers, the not-so veiled messages that society is out of tune with reality is present.
Z-Man's review remarks at Allmusic note that Crown is "unnerving ... a portentous forwarning of what mankind's enmity could someday provoke" while rating the song a B+ (Triad and The House at Pooneil Corners from said album get A's). Tamarkin says "The song pulsates with a martial rhythm ... the agitated energy reflects its time .."
The qualifying lyrics: "... they cannot tolerate our minds ... we cannot tolerate their obstruction"
Coincidentally, as happened in my last post, there is also a band of the same name, this time from Germany.
I find myself pre-disposed to prefer the Ry Cooder version of this because that's where I first heard it (and the version I, myself, play in open-D tuning). And because I have posted again and again and again and ... songs by Ry Cooder. My first SMM guest post as a possible SMM writer included a reference to Ry.
Ry Cooder fully credits Bobby Miller (of course he would) on his '74 album Paradise and Lunch, but I never dug deeper into the story of the song. Now that I have, I see that there was much that I missed. I knew that Ry regularly focuses on music that is at the roots of contemporary pop/rock. But without that exploration, I have been missing some great music.
Miller, known as a producer and songwriter, doesn't appear to have left a recording of himself performing the song. Me, I find it hard to imagine that a songwriter didn't also play the song in some version himself, but we'll have to rely on the version he first produced for/with Little Milton back in the '60s. I assume it was what he himself might have played - if in fact he played an instrument. I can also see what might have attracted Ry Cooder to come up with his own rendition. "It's the same old song .." but with a different beat. The original Little Milton version was released on the Checker label, a subsidiary of Chess records.
The notion behind the lyrics is certainly not new. What goes on behind closed doors that the walls could tell us about if only they could speak is a theme as old as ... well... the hills that could also tell a lot of stories. There's a peepin' tom side to it as well as an element of eternal truth about the human condition.
Geraint Watkins and the Dominators have a version
as does Koko Taylor
Here's a version by Dr Feelgood
And another from Duke Robillard that harkens back kind of to the original by Little Milton (at least in the strumming intro)
Hang on, what the bejasus has this to do with walls, I hear you say, the perfectly decent back to Bakersfield project by Jay Farrar and his revolving door of troubadours? More about building bridges, surely, between the goddam longhair americana hippies and the more trad what Hank did iterations of a redder necked country. Yebbut, but go check out the track listing, with at least three tracks referencing walls and barriers. See? That's good enough for me.
Big fan of Son Volt, as much as for Jay Farrar being there to assist at the birth of No Depression/Alt Country and all the many myriad names to try and disguise the solid bloodline of, or the musical origins and forbears of the style. Country rock was good enough for me in the 70s, but I guess that name suggests the need and presence of a drum kit, so fair play. Farrar and his for-a-while buddy, Jeff Tweedy had been the impetus within the band Uncle Tupelo, a honey of a group that, ahead of clashes of personality, produced some glorious music. Did they do any songs around walls or obstructions? Not as such, but this one acknowledges the truth that most doors have a need for surrounding masonry.....
Screen Door
Anyhow, moving on, and with Farrar moving out of Tweedyshot, and with Uncle Tupelo essentially having become Wilco, Farrar needed gainful. Son Volt began as a band in 1994, Farrar hooking back up again with Tupelo original member and drummer, Mike Heidhorn, himself also having, some time before, fallen out of step with Tweedy, recruiting the Boquist brothers. Hitting the red dirt ground running, their debut, Traces, was well received if not so well bought. That line up, plus additional instrumentation, produced three albums before Farrar called quits; as the principal writer, it was effectively his band. A wall link? Well, I believe that creosote is sometimes applied as weather proofing to wooden walls?
Creosote
Five years later and Farrar seemed ready to pick up the brand again, initially with the same members. However, following a solitary appearance on an Alejandro Escovado benefit/tribute album, this was not to be, and a near totally new set of sidemen were recruited. This version, shedding and adding as required, have since pursued a somewhat erratic course, careering from style to style. You want some Dylanesque ballads? Tick. Barroom brawlers? Likewise. But, for me it was and is Honky Tonk that hits their lodestone. Perhaps this is because that is the style of music I like best within the broad church of country, with, here, the sounds and influences of Merle Haggard and Buck Owens spilling through into this recording with affection and respect. Predominantly acoustic of guitar, bar the essential wail of pedal steel, with twin fiddles and the never more mournful vocal of Farrar, this format ideal for his world weary tones And, add the premium of three songs based around walls, there is nothing to obstruct the right of this album to lead this thread.
Brick Walls
Seawalls
Barricades
Beautiful stuff! OK, the lyrics may be a little hokey, but, hell, that's the M.O., they have to be; an effortless recreation of the fabled Bakersfield sound, that must even had Dwight Yoakam eating out his own heart. The steel, variously by Mark Spencer and Brad Sarno, is just exquisite. Given Farrar has now embarked on a 25 years later revisioning of his Son Volt output, with last years re-released Traces, with additional unreleased material, I can't wait for, gulp, 2038.
This week SMM's contributing vloggers have done a remarkable job skirting the obvious- we have seen all sorts of <Over>s that remained remarkably apolitic. Kudos to all - Maybe Biden's middle of the road approach will work?
This song actually has its own Wikipedia page in which we learn that it is considered to be one of the earliest examples of rock and roll. The date? 1947. Note that: the start of Rock is '47. The page also informs us that another contender for earliest example of rock and roll, Bill Haley's Rock Around the Clock, bears several technical similarities.
If you already know about 'Hank" Williams, you are a step ahead of where I was earlier this week. I knew the name, knew he was associated with country and maybe had even once read the story of a life that was over too soon. Not quite a member of the 27 club of musicians, as incidentally was Robert Johnson [see last week], as were Janis, Jimi, Kurt and Jim.
In addition to Williams' original, there are a number of others who have recorded it, including George Thorogood on an album of the same name. That said, for whatever reason, the version that caught my attention before I even learned that it was a Williams original was this one by Willie Nelson. There's something about the story told in the lyrics that just fits what little I know about Nelson. It seems like a song he ought to sing.
Purchase Head Over Heels--skip the middleman, buy from the band!
I love songs that work in dichotomy. Particularly, when the upbeat melody and sound of the song in no way matches the lyrics. Some songs are so happy, so poppy, that it's hard to relate the sonic sensation that listening brings when you actually listen to what the singer is on about. I recall this was a point of criticism in 2002, when Springsteen put out the September 11th response album, The Rising. Mixed into those soaring, elegiac and hymn-like sounds were songs of tragedy, pain and heartbreak. Some too-stiff typewriter trolls found that unforgivable.
But, then, music is meant to be a healing force, and I think that a sad lyric put to a bursting, energetic melody is the perfect combo.
Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" never fails to uplift, despite the near-suicidal evocation in the lyrics. Springsteen's "The Rising" is a prayer of gratitude and awe for those who risk their lives to save others, and "Mary's Place" is a hell-with-it-all promise to the self, made at a turning point in grief and a personal decision to move on and find the beauty in life, a soul-fused, dance floor banishing of sorrow for affirmation of the fact that life goes on.
Catharsis measured by sing-alongabiltiy, release in turning the volume up. There is just an ineffable magic about something sad that still makes you feel good. It's the magic of the music whispering the lyrics in one ear, and in the other, the gentle admonish, "Don't be sad..."
I can't think of a better place to turn when I'm done than my record collection.
I can write you a nice long playlist to help you out of emotional jams...
Which takes us to the song I've picked for the theme this month, which is 'over'. Over it, over done, overwrought, over and out? "Head over Heels," as done by the four album power pop, cute-punk California girls of my adolescent dreaming, The Go-Gos. A band that never got taken seriously, much to the "Doh!" of many of us who wrote them off as cream puff radio wannabes.
I love a lot of what the Go-Gos did, especially on their first album, where there was a lot of new wave grit to give the bubble gum some snap and sizzle. They made radio history with distinctly cool, distinctly genre leaning pop-punk tunes. There's glitz, and glam, but their music had a California vibe that would serve as the melodic precursor to your Green Days and your Blink 182s, abhorrent as it is to think punk could be pop, listened to by the masses and blared on commercial radio. Such is the way these things go--I mean, how many people who wear a Ramones t-shirt know the Ramones were a band? Music, as a cultural force, isn't exclusive to any one tribe, and the chameleon like appeal some bands carry is tribute to the universality of sound and the resistance we should all have toward arbitrary labels.
But, back to the Go-Gos. They got short shrift for being the first Billboard charting, all female band to write all of their own songs, and play all of their own instruments. That sounds like a backhand slight, disguised as a compliment, but given the politics of pop music, and the exploitation that went along with so many of the hits that will forever be staples in our cultural history, the Go-Gos were a real band. With talent, and hooks, and looks.
"Head Over Heals" comes from Talk Show, their last album before they split up. It's the most commercial album they did, yet reflects the pressures of fame, and the lead single in particular speaks to the struggles the band faced with big label pressures, finances, substance abuse, and personality conflicts. Like any juggernaut pop band, the Go-Gos were put on a running cycle of touring and producing that brought fame very quickly. So many cautionary tales come from the world of pop and rock--young talent, driven by labels to repeat early flashes of magic, and then the trappings of fame, in the guise of sex, drugs and all the other glittery delights. It did the Go-Gos in, like so many other acts, but they managed four great hybrid albums in that run that reward listeners with fresh appeal, almost 40 years on.
The Go-Gos certainly had a bright flash across the pop landscape, top 10 hits and fun videos. But, it came at a cost, as it did for so many bands, over the years. In a New York Times interview, lead singer Belinda Carlisle said "We were run ragged, we didn't know how to say no. ['Head Over Heels'] has an upbeat, cheerful melody and lyrically it really captures the darker side of fame and fortune - I had an appreciation for the lyrics then but not like I do now in hindsight." What make "Head Over Heels" such an interesting song--aside from it's confectionary of the opening piano riff to its tub thumping drums and static robot signal guitars, is the very dark nature of the lyrical content.
Any song talking about head going over heels would most likely be about love, and while there is an intimation of romance here, "Head Over Heels" is a far darker, more plaintive song about being overwhelmed and out of control. It's a heavy ditty disguised as a light one, and the timelessness of the angst and the fear at being out of control has a universal appeal. You can tap your toes and snap your fingers to the song, but maybe it's a nervous tic rather than a signal of how into the groove you got.
"Been running so fast Right from the starting line No more connections I don't need any more advice One hand's just reaching out And one's just hangin' on It seems my weaknesses Just keep going strong..."
I know the song just went on repeat in your head--it's catchy, to say the least. But what I find most striking, again, is the dichotomy: here we have a dark confession of how fear and anxiety seem to rule the mind, and the lament that, despite best intentions, one's weaknesses are often stronger than our intentions not to be ruled by them. But, if there's anything to this song, it's the embodiment of hope and perseverance in the music. And music itself is sometimes just the thing we need to take one more step towards something better than the slow, sad moment we find ourselves in. Our weaknesses might be the only thing that has any strength, but keep working--you're doing fine, and it will get better.
Can there be a more evocative intro to a song? The pizzicato guitar plucks, with then the rolling riff of the lead guitar, sounding exactly how a shiver feels, creeping up your back(bone), standing all the hairs up on end. It's glorious. But the version you know is possibly not the version I know, the original failing to cross the atlantic at the time. Which is a pity, as it that rarity, a song of the early pre-Beatle 60s that can still hold its head up, undrenched in the syrupy strings that would spoil most of the UK's rock'n'roll output, often a tawdry and anodyne bowdlerisation of the real thing.
Johnny Kidd and the Pirates were huge during that short period of homegrown rockers, their calling card being their appearance, always in pirate costume, Kidd sporting an eyepatch and a cutlass. With the line up including the now legendary session man on drums, Clem Cattini, the guitar motif, both bits, was provided by one Joe Moretti, a Scot who also played on Vince Taylor's Brand New Cadillac. Number one in 1960, Kidd and his band couldn't hold on to that momentum, each further follow-up bringing diminishing returns, the line-up frequently changing until Kidd was killed, in a car accident, in 1966. For trivia lovers, also injured in that same crash was then Pirate, Nick Simper, later to be a founder member of Deep Purple. The Pirates weren't finished though, and I saw a revived version perform at the famous London pub venue, The Hope and Anchor, in the late 70s. A trio including the dynamic guitarmanship of Mick Green, he was one of the first players to play in a hybrid lead/rhythm style. Somehow, despite their age and portliness, they were lumped into the punk movement, mainly due the speed and precision of their sonic assault. Green was a key influence on Wilko Johnson, who picked up and ran with that style in first Dr Feelgood and then is his own band and with Ian Dury. I remember they did play Shakin' All Over that night, and I was bemused, knowing the song but not why they were playing it, other than the fact it was fast and ferocious. Green later became an integral part of Van Morrison's band, in the days when fellow 60's survivor, Georgie Fame was musical director and organist supreme. He died in 2010.
Wilko Johnson is then a link to the next version, courtesy his still fairly recent album with Roger Daltrey, the excellent Going Back Home, from 2014. Daltrey, of course, the then, the very much earlier and the still vocalist of the Who. Often cited as one of the best live albums of all time, their Live At Leeds, their version is a little slower and has a harder rock sound, with less roll. Legend has it that the only reason they played the song, was to get over the sometime confusion between themselves and Canadian band, the Guess Who, who had had a big North American hit with the song, in 1965. If a confused section of the audience were to muddle them up, and to call out for the song, it was easier to just play it, rather than have to explain.
(By coincidence, and possibly for the same reason, guess what song the Guess Who played on their possibly less well remembered 1967 Live in Winnipeg opus? Good stuttering practice for a later collaboration, too.)
Another noteworthy version was by from veteran rockabilly shouter, Wanda Jackson, who possibly shared a stage with Kidd at some time in the late 50s or early 60s. Better perhaps known for another song about shaking, she gave it a delightfully retro twang, including it on her 2011 collaboration with Jack White, The Party Ain't Over.
Quite why the emerging country and blues singer Eilen Jewell included it in her repertoire, on Sea of Tears, I do not know, other than that the idea was to reproduce the twangy tone of that time period, it suiting well her own material, if written nearly a half century later. But I'm glad she did. Still then an avid mix-tape maker, quirky covers were always a welcome discovery to slip alongside other songs I was trying to impress upon friends and family. It meant, in her case, I got to hear more of her own work, liking them and keeping up with her continuing career. Again, her cover is not a radical rewrite, but offered a little more of a western swing to it, with a decidedly more touchy vocal.
When this theme was announced, I decided to write about the X song, “Once Over Twice,” but before I even started that piece, I heard Crowded House’s great ballad, “Don’t Dream it’s Over” twice on different Sirius XM stations while driving around in my car. So, it seemed like the universe, or at least the satellite radio folks, were telling me something.
This song was discussed on this blog back in 2011, before I started writing here, by “boyhowdy,” who was one of the fine writers who attracted me to the blog as a reader first, and then as a writer. Unfortunately, he doesn’t write very often here anymore (and not at all since 2018), but still writes quite well and somewhat irregularly at Cover Lay Down. As it is my oft-stated policy not to try to write something if someone has said it better already, and because boyhowdy is a really good writer, let me quote briefly from his short post:
this well-known EnZed pop ballad is clearly intended to be romantic in nature. But strip away the pop production . . .and it, too, transforms effectively as an anthem for our times, a call for change in a world where the vitriolic stream of talk radio madness overwhelms any attempt at rational discourse, where the news stations dumb down our world daily in their attempt to demonstrate that every idea has two equal and equivalent sides, where my inner city students struggle to find safe haven in a culture which seems to have forgotten them.
And remember that passage was written in 2011, when the idea of Donald Trump as president still seemed like a joke. (Damn. Can’t stop inserting politics into music posts. Bad Jordan.)
“Don’t Dream It’s Over,” was written by Neil Finn, who I still have trouble distinguishing from his older and also very talented brother Tim, for his band Crowded House, and was released on their 1986 self-titled album. It was a massive international hit, peaking at No. 2 on the Billboard Hot 100 in the US.
Since I’m stealing stuff from better writers, here’s a description of the song two Australian writers, Andrew Ford and Anni Heino, from their book, The Song Remains the Same: 800 Years of Love Songs, Laments and Lullabies, as excerpted in The Guardian:
It was the song you danced to at the end of the night, pressed close to the intriguing person you’d just met while wondering what might happen next. The palpable sincerity in Neil Finn’s voice and the expansive melodic line of the song’s chorus encouraged hope. The song was also fast becoming an anthem for Antipodeans overseas, the slightly maudlin counterpart to Men at Work’s novelty song Down Under.
If you read the Guardian piece, there’s a lot more about the musical attributes of the song that I have no ability to write myself.
According to Finn, despite the fact that he knew the song was good, it almost didn’t come together. He told Uncut (I can’t find a link to the whole interview):
The day I did it, I knew I had something quite special. Then the next day we played it with the band and it sounded like a bag of s--t. It was only when Mitchell (Froom) suggested the bassline, which Nick (Seymour) elaborated on, that it really found its groove. I was wavering away doing demos, and Mitchell made some quite profound suggestions. Like an R&B bassline might be better than a rock or pop approach, or a Hammond organ could sound nice. These were not textures I was used to. He filled in quite a few areas that we weren't covering, but maybe it made our individual sound less distinctive. It took a while, but then 'Don't Dream It's Over' started to work in the US and whole record went on to have a pretty big life.
Somehow, Neil Finn ended up in the most recent touring version of Fleetwood Mac (replacing Lindsey Buckingham), and the band performed the song as a duet by Finn and Stevie Nicks. Check out this version from a show in Auckland, New Zealand, not that far from where Finn was born, and where he probably never dreamed he’d be singing on stage with Stevie Nicks.
Well, you can try and draw some inference into this song and the exit of Agent Orange or, even, prematurely, I fear, to feel vaccines are auguring in any swift end to the 'rona. But you'd be wrong. I even sat and listened hard to the words, trying to shoehorn in some hidden message, but, no, it didn't really materialise. Let's face it, the lyrics are sufficiently vague as to be harbingers of just about anything, whether good, bad or indifferent. I suspect, however, given the ambience and the counter-culture image of the band, bad. So ignore them as anything other than a contrivance to fit in with the theme, just enjoy the song.
Evening Over Rooftops
And what a song. It takes me back, in a shake, to probably 1972 or 3. I shared a study with two others, the three of us competing to have the coolest music, where cool equalled the most obscure and arcane. These were days when walking anywhere necessitated an army surplus greatcoat and an album, a LP, under your arm, demonstrating your street cred to one and all. Benjy favoured the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane and Frank Zappa, unusual choices then for fifteen year old boys in south coast England. I favoured Fairport Convention, the Byrds and the Burritos, and still do. But Nige, with access to wealth beyond our means, was ploughing further fields, and, as he owned the record player, made sure we knew it. His tastes ran to Captain Beefheart, Kevin Coyne and Van Morrison, enjoying vocal styles a little rawer than the rest of us. He had introduced us also to the Edgar Broughton Band, and this song in particular.
Apache Dropout Boogie
Edgar Broughton and his band were darlings of the underground. Prodigiously hairy of head and face, they were forever being featured in reviews of free festivals, a phenomenon somewhat of the rage in early 70's UK. Often performing on a flat-bed truck, you could guarantee their presence, and that of Hawkwind, whenever or wherever the freaks were gathering. Locked away in our boarding school, this we could only dream of and did, incessantly. Evening Over Rooftops is perhaps not the greatest invitation or introduction to their oeuvre, their more typical product being cathartic squalls of rudimentary thrash. I wasn't so keen on that, not that, god forbid, I could or would ever admit to that. Anyway, the sleeve of the record that contained the song, their third, entitled the Edgar Broughton Band, was so sufficiently eye-opening as to put the musical content into a distinct second place. It has tended to be better known as the 'Meat Album'. I'm surprised I never owned it, but I bet I borrowed it. Conspicuously. It reached an astonishing number 28 in the UK album charts of 1971.
Out, Demons, Out
I don't think I thought of either the Edgar Broughton Band or their music much after 1975. The shifting mores of the day put their hairiness and bombast out of favour. But they never went away, remaining a shadowy fixture in the periphery, adding members and trying new ways to carry their message onward. The core unit remained Edgar, unsurprisingly, on guitar and vocals, his brother, Steve, on drums and Arthur Grant on bass, other players dipping in and out on lead guitar and keyboards. Although they haven't performed together for a decade, Edgar playing largely solo, he has never officially broken up the band, or so he has said in an interview and piece in this month's Mojo. (Earlier interviews tell a slightly different tale....) But then, out of the blue, or even, out of the blog, came a reminder, and a chum posted the featured track. The decades dissolved and I was that teenage boy again, delighting in the fact I could still sing along and remember all the words. A quick shift around Discogs and I finally did own a copy of the parent album. Or a CD, to be fair, so not quite so impressive to tout around town.
So, let's revisit it. First the introductory swirl of strings, the acoustic strumming then cutting in, as the orchestration sets the sombre mood. The voice, Edgar's, a flat and blunt tool but perfect. Backing vocals sashay in with oo-oos and aahs, as bass and drums leap in, propelling the song up a gear. Then comes the wonderful guitar solo, by initial fourth band member, and co-writer, with Edgar, of the song, one Victor Unitt. Channeled, as was then the vogue, through a Leslie cabinet, it is a gloriously nostalgic sound. Building progressively, no messing around with middle eights, gradually the voice gets more and more demented, a stentorian sermon until a girly chorus, the Ladybirds, no less, ushers in the fade. Of course you can play it again!
I think that the impetus behind this theme is the end of the Trump Error, and one of the things that many of us are hoping for is that politics won’t be a constant drumbeat in our brains. So, except for this brief mention, I’m going to try to steer this piece away from politics and toward music.
Many critics consider X’s second album, Wild Gift, to be their finest, and I agree—and the fact that this is the second time I’ve written about the band here, both times about songs from the same album, bears that out. Which is not to say that they haven’t released a lot of good music (and their album from last year, Alphabetland, their first in years, would have been on my “Best of 2020” list, if I was still writing one at my other blog). But there’s something about Wild Gift’s mix of punk and Americana, and the skewed harmonies of Exene Cervenka and John Doe, that hit the sweet spot.
“The Once Over Twice” kicks off the album with a blast of punk/rockabilly guitar, and then we are off to the races with a sad, concise slice of life tale written and sung by Cervenka. The opening lines are killer:
I just heard the sad song by another band Sung by another man
He gave me the once over twice
The phrase “the once over twice” generally means giving an attractive person the “once over” and liking what you see so much that you feel compelled to do it again. Clearly, it is a sign of attraction, so are we seeing the start of a new relationship? Something hopeful? Nope.
I said when
He said okay so long.
Oh well. After considering her options, in the face of rejection, the singer decides:
I got some more scotch instead
Before beginning to wallow a little:
Then I died a thousand times
He hung me with the endless rope
Then I died a thousand times
Maybe you don't but I do
Got a hole in my heart size of my heart
And then, it appears, she reaches acceptance:
I'll see you and I'll raise you off the floor
I'll floor you and we'll dance without a band
In an article from a few years ago about the album, the writer recounted Cervenka telling him that Wild Gift, "showed off ‘our sense of humor,’ . . . More personalized songs such as ‘The Once Over Twice’ detailed a want for something greater, but settling ‘for some more scotch instead.’ She continues that, as a writer, she lived for whatever was inside her head, then worked to get it all out quickly.”
Whether or not you agree with Rick Anderson, an Allmusicreviewer, that some of Cervenka’s lyrics in the song “don’t amount to much more than pretentious high school noodlings” (I don’t), it is hard to disagree with his conclusion that “when she and Doe sing those lines together in their inimitable raw harmony, the effect is electric.”
Also, later today, Trump’s term will be OVER!!OVER!!OVER!!WOOOHOOO!!
Because <In Memoriam> is kind of a coda to the year past, we might call this the first theme of the new. If you are of the type who makes resolutions at this time of year, it's like Starting Over. Unless, that is, you prefer to look back and claim the past is over. Either way, over it is.
And yes, I know we had a similar theme 5 years back, but time's has changed and so have half of your bloggers here.
And maybe I shouldn't go too far down this path, but .. hey .. if it's over, then judgment day is next.
This song is genrally credited to the legendary Robert Johnson, and Mr Eric Clapton plays a pretty decent rendition of the song. The real story of the song may be more complicated - a song that has been re-made over and over again from what appears to be the original - from a song called <Roll and Tumble Blues> by Hambone Willie Newburn (who?), which was maybe based on a piece called Minglewood Blues (what?).
You're probably familiar with the story of how Robert Johnson is said to have sold his soul to the devil in return for super-natural guitar skills. And while more recent renditions of this song (Clapton) reference Johnson (and we learn that he may not have been the original source), hereis some rather detailed research into the background of the era - most of which totally de-bunks the common Robert Johnson myth. For what it's worth. Myself, I prefer to live with the myth.
None of which really needs to influence our enjoyment of the selected output here. Over to you....
My better half thinks I carry a jinx. Possibly: 2 years back, I played Tom Petty's <You Got Lucky> on stage. The man passed a month later. It's not my fault, I swear (and I don't believe in these kinds of "non-coincidences"). For the past month or so, I have been circling around Tony Rice. "Circling" as in repeatedly bringing up Clarence White, his mentor.
The story is that Tony ran into/across Clarence White when he was a younger man and srabbled to purchase Clarence's much punished Martin guitar after his mentor's death.
In my ignorance, I first came across Tony Rice when my cousin-in-law shared <Tone Poems> with me. We were aiming to do some guitar/banjo together based on those tunes. I knew of David Grissman through my interest in the Grateful Dead - but I failed to focus onTony Rice. Let that be a lesson to you: if you come across someting as great as Tone Poems and ignore the half, you're probably making a mistake.
Somewhere, I missed Tony Rice's connection to The Dead via Jerry Garcia's eclectic collaborations. Again, I missed cues via Ricky Scaggs and Bruce Hornsby and Phish - all music that I come and go from with some level of attention.
Better late than never. For me, the man's music will live on.
To say I am fond of pedal steel guitar would be an understatement; I bloody adore the instrument and how it sounds, whether as high lonesome shorthand for classic country, or, indeed, often more whenever it pops up in unexpected settings. This year we lost two or the best, two, even if I often confused the one with the other, with this piece probably now continuing to prolong the blurring of my Bucky with my Buddy.
So, in alphabetical, we got Mr Bucky Baxter, who left us in May. Born in Florida 65 years ahead of that, he was perhaps best known for his pivotal role in the bands of Steve Earle and of Bob Dylan. Indeed, he was a Duke for the three breakthrough albums of Earle's early career, Guitar Town through Copperhead Road, appearing sporadically thereafter. His was the steel in R.E.M.'s World Leader Pretend, and on Ryan Adam's Gold album, he featured on Joe Henry's Trampoline and, possibly surprisingly, played on and produced a record, Cockahoop, by the ex-Catatonia singer, husky welsh chanteuse, Cerys Matthews. But it was as a Bob Dylan regular on the Never Ending Tour throughout most of the 90s that his name became best known. Indeed, Dylan had come across him at a Steve Earle concert, asking him to teach him how to play the instrument. (History has not revealed how well that went.) In the studio, he also appeared on Dylan's Unplugged and Time Out of Mind, the latter, not without coincidence, one of my favourite Dylan's.
Fearless Heart/Steve Earle & the Dukes (1986)
World Leader Pretend/R.E.M. (1988)
Tryin' To Get To Heaven (live)/Bob Dylan (1999)
I have to mention Dylan some more, as Baxter was there for one of the two ever times I have caught the Bob live, when he headed a stormy Friday night in July at the Phoenix festival, near Stratford-on-Avon, in 1995. If Blackbushe a decade before had been sublime, this was ridiculous, all songs unidentifiable in the muddy sound, all party to tuneless new arrangements. All unidentifiable until Baxter's steel gave a hint of the original melodies, a highlight in an otherwise forgettable evening. O, had it been to the standard of the Vienna concert, above, four years later.
Baxter wasn't all that ambitious, it seems, happy to be a contributor rather than the focus of attention. But he did make one solo recording, Most Likely No Problem, an instrumental album which is worth the seeking out, with an astonishing who who's of participants.
The Big Difficult/Bucky Baxter (1999)
Here's a nice interview which gives an idea of the man. Finally, those with a finger on the pulse might know he is/was the father of the up and coming Rayland Baxter.
Buddy Cage, not to be confused either with another fellow deceased steel maestro Buddy Emmons, was a Canadian by birth, born a few years ahead of Baxter, in 1946. Another musician proficient in his instrument from an early age, he first drew attention in canadian country-rockers, Great Speckled Bird. However it was his longterm tenure in the steel seat for Grateful Dead offshoot band, New Riders of the Purple Sage, between 1971 and 1982, that he will be best remembered, taking the reins of the instrument from Jerry Garcia. Frankly, a much more adept player than Garcia. He also did a load of sessions, including, the ubiquitous Dylan reference, laying down some tracks on the many and varied Blood on the Tracks sessions, if only once on the actual studio release.
Calgary/Great Speckled Bird (1970)
Gypsy Cowboy/NRPS (1972)
Peggy O/NRPS (2010)
Although the Riders continued for several more years, Cage had not been tempted to return to that fold until 2005, until after founder member, John Dawson had put the original band to bed in 1997. Their 2012 release, 17 Pine Avenue, I thought terrific and well up to the standards of their earlier work, better even, tighter without their notorious cannabinoid looseness of yore.
The intervening years had him back to guesting on innumerable projects, but he never made a solo record. Perhaps closest might have been if the music from a Dutch tour, in 2005, had been ever committed to posterity. In cahoots with Derek Trucks and Sonny Landreth, both accomplished legends on slide, it was called Steelin' and Slidin'. (I wonder if any clips are available?)
Steelin' and Slidin'/Trucks, Cage and Landreth (2005)
Here's an interview with him from his second spell with the band. Multiple myeloma took him in February.
I suspect that like most American music lovers, my knowledge of reggae music is limited to the Bob Marley classics (and a few tunes by his family members), some Jimmy Cliff, a little Peter Tosh, a handful of Toots and the Maytals songs, and maybe a few other well-known tracks. I like reggae, but rarely went out of my way to listen to it (I am more familiar with the ska revival music of the late 70s and early 80s and the ska-punk music of the 80s and 90s). (By the way, check out Lovers Rock on Netflix, if you want to hear some great reggae music and see an excellent movie.)
But in 2018, when I started to occasionally blog shows for the Capitol Theater in Port Chester, I had the chance to see Toots and the Maytals, and experiencing the then 75 year-old reggae legend play for 2 hours was a night I won’t forget. You can read about it here.
Like probably every genre of music after the first caveman banged a stick on a rock (although someone probably would claim that the caveman’s efforts were derivative of some “more authentic” ape music), it is impossible to literally pinpoint when reggae was created. I discussed this a few years ago in the context of determining what was the first rock song. Trying to figure out where ska and rocksteady stopped and reggae began is similarly fraught, but most historians of the music agree that it was Toots & the Maytals’ 1968 single, “Do The Reggay” that gave the genre its name. Hibbert was once explained:
There's a word we used to use in Jamaica called 'streggae'. If a girl is walking and the guys look at her and say 'Man, she's streggae' it means she don't dress well, she look raggedy. The girls would say that about the men too. This one morning me and my two friends were playing and I said, 'OK man, let's do the reggay.' It was just something that came out of my mouth. So we just start singing 'Do the reggay, do the reggay' and created a beat. People tell me later that we had given the sound it's name. Before that people had called it blue-beat and all kind of other things. Now it's in the Guinness World of Records
Frederick “Toots” Hibbert was born on (probably) December 8, 1942 in May Pen, Jamaica. His earliest performances were of gospel music in church choirs. At the age of 11, he was orphaned, and moved to the Trenchtown neighborhood of Kingston, the capital, to live with his brother. In 1961 or 1962, along with Raleigh Gordon and Jerry Mathias, he formed a band. Maytals is a word of unclear origin, which may be a reference to Hibbert’s home town, or to the Rastafarian term for “do the right thing.” The Maytals became a top ska act, initially releasing songs with religious themes powered by Hibbert’s powerful, soulful voice (and his multi-instrumental talent), influenced by, among others, Elvis Presley, Mahalia Jackson, James Brown, Wilson Pickett and Otis Redding, and eventually branching out into more secular songs.
After Toots served 18 months in prison for marijuana possession, the band had a hit in the “rocksteady” style with "54-46 (That's My Number)," which Toots wrote about his prison sentence. They released “Do The Reggay," and then hit the UK charts with “Monkey Man.” Toots and the Maytals appeared in the 1972 film The Harder They Come, which popularized reggae worldwide, and had two songs on the film’s soundtrack. The band’s next album, Funky Kingston, released on Island Records, was a critical and commercial success (a different version of the album was released in 1975 in the US). Robert Christgau wrote about the album:
The quick way to explain the Maytals is to say that in reggae they're the Beatles to the Wailers' Rolling Stones. But how do I explain Toots himself? Well, he's the nearest thing to Otis Redding left on the planet: he transforms 'do re mi fa sol la ti do' into joyful noise.
In 1981, the original Maytals broke up, and after about a decade as a solo act, Toots formed a new Maytals in the mid-1990s. In addition to continuing to record and perform, Hibbert has collaborated or performed with Willie Nelson, Gov’t Mule, JJ Grey & Mofro, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Eric Clapton, Bootsy Collins and The Roots, Willie Nelson, Bonnie Raitt, Keith Richards and Jamaican greats Shaggy, Marcia Griffiths and Ken Boothe, among others.
Hibbert was hit in the head on stage by a thrown bottle in 2013, and despite the injury that caused a nearly three year hiatus from touring, Toots wrote the judge, pleading for leniency for his attacker who, nevertheless, was sentenced to a six month sentence. After recovering from the injury, Hibbert and his band continued to tour and appear on television. He released his first new album in years, Got To Be Tough on August 28, 2020.
Two days later, Toots was admitted to University Hospital of the West Indies in Kingston with, it has been reported, COVID-19, and on September 11, 2020, he died “peacefully . . . surrounded by his family.”
In a year like we've had, one filled with such division, anger, isolation, and death, it's a tough assignment to go back and look at the overly-long list of musicians we lost since last January. We do it every year, in the magazines and the lists--celebrate the best and the worst in our 'end of the year' accounting, and usually, noting those we lost becomes less painful as it is part of the ritual of seeing out the old and making for the new. Reading the list seems a little sadder, and a little longer after these 12 long months. But, then most things have taken on a different sort of weight lately, and gravity has a different--heavier, perhaps--effect than it normally does. Or should.
While he was never the household name that he should have been, troubadour and poet of the everyday American life, John Prine passed this year from complications from Covid19. Seems unfair that he could have survived a life of his own, self-chose misadventures only to be brought low by this damned virus. Prine's work was expansive and ranged in styles over the years, while always staying within the country, folk, Americana genre. But to label him solely as a country artist is to miss the point of his songs. His guitar was simple while also distinctive. His voice was distinctive, too. But, it wasn't vocal talent that made him memorable, but the words that he sang.
Prine's lyrics were narrative, telling stories and trafficking in images of the everyday, of the course of our lives, our loves, our happiness and sadness. his images are what we see, rendered poetic. He sings through characters who go about their daily lives, the weight of their actions growing with the parings of guitars and pedal strings, an emotional resonance of love, loss, and just living though a human day. You can read Prine and listen to him, and both endeavors are filled with emotion and meaning. In interviews, Prine bristled at being labeled a poet, and once said, “If I wanted to be a poet, I’d write poetry. I know what poetry is. I’m not writing poetry, I’m writing song lyrics. Whatever the subject is, I’m trying to write as well about that subject as I possibly can but still within the confines of a song. I’m not trying to put my words down as a poem set to music. To me, that’s a different thing.” It is the universality of his writing--the commonplace imbued with meaning and familiarity--that gives Prine's music the weight.
Another musician who is celebrated equally as a poet, Bob Dylan, is a fan of Prine's commonplace poetic beauty. Both have received literary awards, in addition to musical ones. He compared Prine to Proust, for his ability to craft story from the prosaic ordinariness of life, and said, in his own, unique way: "Prine's stuff is pure Proustian existentialism. Midwestern mindtrips to the nth degree. And he writes beautiful songs."
Prine's catalog is large, and he worked hard, all the way up until he died. You can start anywhere, skip around, you'll hear some wonderful stories, meet some great characters. If you're in need of direction, two highlights: the debut, self-titled album from 1971, and the songs "Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore" and "Sam Stone", both about the Viet Nam war. And a personal favorite, 1991's The Lost Years, which features back up from Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. "Angel From Montgomery", "Souvenirs", "Everything's Cool"...the list does indeed go on.
It's been a lousy year. Listening to music is a lifeline that will pull you from a sea of trouble.
And another footle into the corridors of my consciousness, this probably little known name leaving a big gap in my vault of sounds and scenes. Possibly best known as one of the three frontline vocalists in 1970s soul-funksters Kokomo, she was a hell of a lot more than just that.
Flashback to the early mid 70s. Still at school, if towards the later stages, my musical tastes were broadening. As a boarder at a UK private school on the south coast of England, we were effectively imprisoned for weeks on end, albeit with some scant day release visiting rights into the surrounding community. An enlightened housemaster was keen to make our education rounder than just the slog toward university entrance grades, and arranged for occasional school trips to cultural events. This had included Steeleye Span the year before. I was keen to expand this idea, and had persuaded him of the virtue of Procol Harum, necessitating him listening to a record, and he signed my pass out. Astonishingly, he then, without even the presumed mandatory check, allowed me out to visit the Eastbourne Winter Gardens, where the Naughty Rhythms Tour was dropping by. Naughty Rhythms? This was three bands touring together, taking turns to top and bottom the bill, the bands being the chalk, cheese and chowder of Dr Feelgood, Chilli Willi and the Red Hot Peppers and Kokomo. I was a huge Chilli Willi fan, quite liked the cut and thrust of the Feelgoods, but was then unfamiliar with Kokomo. A bit like the Average White band, said friends, but with better singers.
It was a terrific show. I may have discussed it before. The Willi's were great, as expected, Dr Feelgood solid dynamo's, but Kokomo had me completely flummoxed. Loads of 'em, crammed on to the stage, with a hefty waft of Motown/Stax chops that was outwith my then comfort zone by a mile. Yet I was entranced. Sure, I knew of some of the members, the second guitar and bassist, Neal Hubbard and Alan Spenner, both ex-Greaseband and the man on saxes and flutes on nearly every then current record needing a parp, from Clannad to Bad Company, King Crimson to the Stones, the mighty Mel Collins, that being sufficient to defuse any innate prejudice against the style of music. But it was the vocals that stood out, four singers, three at the front, rounded out by those of the fella on keys. The three at the front were Paddy McHugh, Frank Collins and the person I am writing mainly about, Dyan Birch. Taking turns at lead and backing, each had a distinct personality and, collectively, a stunning ensemble hit.
But it wasn't the first I had heard of them. A dimly recalled hit single of a few years before betrayed a similar sound. That song, Friends, had been a favourite of mine, by short lived band, Arrival, the self-same trio, along with Tony O'Malley, who had also joined Kokomo, as the aforementioned fourth singer and piano player. Having enjoyed that song, with Birch singing the lead, McHugh and Collins alongside a then additional female singer, I was ready to enjoy their new direction.
Birch was born in Liverpool in 1949, it being realised early on that she, McHugh and Collins had something. After Arrival had left the building, the trio and O'Malley expanded the concept, in London, and, in truth, had greater expected of them than was ultimately delivered. Hot on the heels of the AWB blazing a UK blue eyed soul strain, with a stellar range of musicians backing, including also Jim Mullen as lead guitarist, later a bigger name in jazz, they never quite staked their claim. True, it was a time of change, with the long hairs of prog rock gradually being sidelined by the more adventurous turks of pub rock, ahead of then being totally, if temporarily, blown out of the water by punk. For a ten piece band playing melodic, soul-infused rock, this had them somewhat out of time. A slightly diffident first release, Kokomo, in 1975, was followed by the more confident Rise and Shine, three years later. By now I was in London, and caught them a number of times, in pubs and clubs, as well as seeming to be the perpetual support act for as number of lesser bands. Mullen had left, his jazzier noodling actually a distraction, and the band seemed more focussed. But it couldn't and didn't last. Even the kudos of the band having been absorbed into Bob Dylan's Desire recordings couldn't sustain them.
Thereafter came a number of rests and reunions, lasting until the death of Alan Spenner in 1991, he and Birch having been partners. The years that followed kept she and the rest of the 'girls', as O'Malley affectionately called the trio, busy, on the sessions circuit, working with and for Bryan Ferry, Terence Trent D'Arby, Alison Moyet and many more, a delight being to spot them, unexpectedly, on Top of the Pops, sashaying around behind any number of other performers.
Kokomo again rose from the ashes in 2008, but Birch's health was failing and her voice beginning to go. She retired from the band in 2014, a victim to the COPD that eventually finished her off, this year. Kokomo continue sporadic performances, now down to Collins, McHugh and O'Malley, fleshed out by a roster of exemplary sidesmen and women, if, when possible, often also featuring a returned Jim Mullen, Alan Hubbard, Mel Collins and percussion superwoman, Jody Linscott, herself an original. At no performance does a mention of Dyan Birch go unmade, with tributes to her part in the story and legacy of the band. Truly, the voice of an angel, singing, below, Aretha's song of the same name:
As an afterword, here's and interesting piece I dug out, relating the the period between Arrival and the establishment of Kokomo. Likewise a set of great video interviews with Frank Collins, that go into some depth his shared history with Birch.
Since its formation in 1968, King Crimson has gone through many different lineups and musicians, and over the years, there has been some sort of official differentiation between “members” and additional musicians who recorded and/or toured with the band, although some people moved between the two statuses. In 2020, we lost three musicians affiliated with King Crimson, two full members, and one who declined the rights and privileges, such as they are, of that status. Two of those remembered here were involved in 1970, the third played during the more recent configuration of King Crimson, from 2013 until his death earlier this year.
Gordon Haskell was a school friend of King Crimson leader Robert Fripp, and played with him in a band when they were teenagers, before moving on to become the bass player in the band Fleur de Lys (and, apparently, briefly sharing a flat with Jimi Hendrix). They also acted as a house band for Atlantic Records, which gave Haskell the opportunity to work with noted producers, including George Martin, Arif Mardin and Glyn Johns. He recorded a solo album in 1969, but it went nowhere.
Meanwhile, his old friend Robert was having problems of his own. After recording In the Court of the Crimson King, a legitimate classic, and touring behind the album, both Ian McDonald and Michael Giles left the band. Then, singer/bass player Greg Lake quit, planning to form Emerson, Lake and Palmer. After hiring, and then sacking, the still unknown Elton John (who got paid £250 for not working) as the vocalist on Crimson’s second record, In The Wake of Poseidon, Lake ultimately agreed to sing on the album (in exchange for Crimson’s PA equipment), but there was one song that Fripp felt wasn’t right for Lake. He approached Haskell, who recalled, “I straight away, without any hesitation, said ‘absolutely not’. I was totally R&B oriented and it wasn’t my sort of music. I didn’t like King Crimson. Anyway, after a while I said I’d think about it, and my wife got to work on me because she wanted a regular income so in the end I joined.” Haskell sang on one song, “Cadence and Cascade,” which is a beautiful ballad, beautifully sung, as you can hear at the link above.
After completing Poseidon, Fripp regrouped again, adding more musicians, who began work on Lizard, which was jazzier and more avant-garde than the two prior records, and it was not a good experience for Haskell, who sang and played bass on the album. He didn’t like the music, noting that “At the end of one song, ‘Indoor Games’, I just burst out laughing. You can hear it on the album. They thought it was really freaky, that I’d understood the lyrics and my part – but the truth of the matter is, it was a lousy song, the lyrics were ludicrous and my singing was atrocious so I just burst out laughing. And they thought it was wonderful!” Haskell left the band, acrimoniously, during rehearsals for live performances, and later King Crimson for royalties.
After leaving King Crimson, Haskell struggled for years, before having a hit single in England, “How Wonderful You Are” in 2001 and he followed that up with a successful album, Harry’s Bar, in 2002. His next record was not as well-received, and he was released by his label after a dispute. From then on, Haskell continued to release music without much success, and wrote an autobiography, The Road to Harry’s Bar.
Haskell died from cancer on October 15, 2020 at the age of 74. Announcing his death, the official King Crimson website noted, “The
experience was not a happy one for Gordon and he bitterly regretted his
decision to join,” and that Haskell had “come to detest” the song
“Cadence and Cascade,” which is a shame.
Keith Tippett also played on the Poseidon and Lizard albums. Allmusic’s biography of Tippett states that he “held an unparalleled place in British contemporary music,” due to the breadth of his collaborations, the variety of music he wrote and performed, and the influence that he had on other musicians. Tippett's work ranges from free improvisation as a solo pianist and with duos and small groups, to compositions for, and performances with, contemporary classical groups and large-scale works for Jazz Orchestra.
Tippett (whose last name was actually Tippetts, which he changed for the delightful reason that he was tired of seeing his name on posters with the apostrophe after the last “t” and not the “s”), was a classically trained pianist who had formed a jazz band, the Keith Tippett Sextet, which released its first album in 1969. Other members of that band included Elton Dean, later of Soft Machine, and Mark Charig and Nick Evans, who also contributed to King Crimson albums. Tippett was hired to play piano on Poseidon (including some pretty playing on “Cadence and Cascade”), and along with Charig and Evans, played on Lizard and Islands. His influence in King Crimson increased over time, and he claimed that Fripp offered him co-creative control over the band if he would join full time. However, as he remembered, “I didn’t want to join King Crimson, not because I didn’t like King Crimson, I had great respect for the band, but I wanted to be doing other things, I didn’t want to just go out on the road for eighteen months. I had too much love for the sextet and it would have taken me away from the jazz scene.”
One of those things was to put together a 50 piece band, Centipede, that included members of his jazz band, along with members of Soft Machine, King Crimson, and other bands that skirted the progressive rock/jazz genres, along with students from the London School of Music. It released an album, Septober Energy, produced by Fripp (who had appeared live with the band, but was not on the album), in 1971. Melody Maker wrote about this album, “In this one piece he has done more than almost anybody else that comes to mind in breaking down barriers in rock, jazz and classical music” The album was, however, not commercially successful, probably for the reason that it broke so many barriers.
Tippett continued to perform and record improvisational and avant-garde jazz music and jazz/rock with various combinations of musicians, including many from the Canterbury scene, until fairly recently—his discography as a leader and sideman is vast.
Tippett succumbed on June 14, 2020 to a heart attack after two years of recurring illness at the age of 72.
After disbanding a version of King Crimson in 2008 and playing with various Crimson-related musicians before briefly retiring, Fripp decided to form a new King Crimson lineup, this time with three drummers. One of the drummers was Bill Rieflin, who had played with, among others, Ministry, KMFDM, and R.E.M. after Bill Berry left the band. Although mostly known for playing industrial and darker rock music, his stint with R.E.M. and his work on other projects demonstrated the wide scope of his talent. In addition, he was a prolific session musician, recording with artists from Nine Inch Nails to experimental rockers Swans and pop singer Robbie Williams. He released his first solo album, Birth of a Giant in 1999, which included contributions from Fripp and Trey Gunn, who was in King Crimson at the time.
Over the years, Rieflin, who also played keyboards and other instruments, had collaborated with Fripp in a number of different projects, and participated in Fripp’s Guitar Craft project, about which he stated (before joining Crimson), “I couldn't possibly describe in any detail the impact this has had in my life; I can say that it was and continues to be significant. Were I to say "life-changing," this would be true, but it wouldn't begin to communicate the depth of the experience.”
So his inclusion as part of the new “seven-headed monster” configuration of Crimson, along with Fripp, Tony Levin, Mel Collins, Pat Mastelotto, Gavin Harrison (who had played in prior versions of the band), and Jakko Jakszyk, was not surprising. I saw this band play in 2014 and was blown away by the power and intricacy of the percussion work (as well as by the rest of the band, of course). Here’s a video of the three drummers, with Rieflin in the center, “soloing” during rehearsals in 2014, highlighting how they play both in unison and separately.
Rieflin took a “sabbatical” from the band in 2016, but returned in 2017 to create a “Double Quartet” formation, but rather than have four drummers (that would be crazy, right?), he focused on “mellotron, keys and fairy dusting, rather than using drums as a main instrument.” He didn’t appear on the autumn US tour in 2017 (when I saw them again, and they were, again, great), but returned in 2018 before taking another sabbatical in 2019.
Rieflin died on March 24, 2020 from cancer at the age of 59.
The saying always was that only the bad girls liked the Rolling Stones, which then needed a whole further category for the Pretty Things, as their reputation made the Stones, by comparison, seem like Herman's Hermits. With longer hair, tighter trousers and a r'n'b* so raw it could make you flinch, these 60's rockers were making hell long before Jagger et al were shocking the nation. How was it that I, at the age of eight, could be their number one fan?
I should add I probably wasn't, but they certainly made an impact on my formative and future tastes. I may have stated here before how recorded music first entered my reckoning, my elder sister coercing my parents into the purchase of a dansette record player. It was either second hand, or on special offer, as it came with a stack of 45s, many of which I have to this day. Mostly staid early 60s fare, Bobby's Darren and Vee, the big O, Gene Pitney, some Elvis ballads and probably an early Beatle or two. But within the stash of paper sleeved parlophones, derams and regal zonophones, there was a cardboard sleeved disc. With photos of scowling youth on the cover. Two tracks on either side! This was an EP.
I played it to death, the two main cuts, 'Rosalyn' and 'Don't Bring Me Down' being peculiarly affecting. All snarled vocals, rudimentary backing and more attitude than was ever allowed back then. Already a precocious reader of the musical press, having access to the Disc and Musical Echo, I learnt about the band. In truth I only cared about the singer, Phil May, having, probably, a big pre-teen crush. He had the longest hair in London, I learnt, that being enough for me, shackled then in to my schoolboy compulsory short back and sides for a good many years yet. However I also being confused by one of the band having a beard, something I associated with jazzmen and my brother, and being the opposite of cool. Even discovering this was Dick Taylor, who had left the Rolling Stones nascent line-up to form this band, still sat oddly. He just looked so old.
The years went by and I became a teenager. I was now a creature of underground tastes, 'underground' the name for proto-progressive and heavy metal: hard rock as we called it. Whilst I learnt Phil May still had the longest hair in London, their first wave had peaked, necessitating a huge change in direction. I confess I was no longer on the bus at this stage, as, whilst familiar with S.F. Sorrow and Parachute, I had bigger fish to fry. S.F. Sorrow may have been the first rock opera, but I was busy listening to Tommy. The Pretty's just became another rock band on the fringes, well regarded, prolific, a bit like Savoy Brown, just nothing to bother my ears with. I even caught them live, in the 70s, if by mistake. Newly signed to Led Zeppelin's Swansong label, the one with the logo of Robert Plant with wings, a rumour spread that Zeppelin would be playing London's tiny basement Marquee Club, as a support to their new signing. Well, the Pretties played, but nobody else. Silk Torpedo was the album being promoted. I didn't buy.
I guess David Bowie gave me my renewed interest, his Pin Ups album including both the songs I had loved so much from the EP. I should declare here I abhorred these Bowie versions, my inner rock snob near fully formed, having 'preferred his earlier stuff' of Hunky-Dory. This also gave me the opportunity to whip out that EP and play it loud to my largely indifferent friends.
Years go by, decades go by, marriages, children and respectability wax and wane. And still the Pretty Things play on. It was probably about 2012 I started again to go to festivals, my tent having had a good rest for most of the decade or so ahead. One such was Lunar Festival, 2016, at Tanworth-in-Arden, near Stratford-on-Avon. One of the clinchers of my going was that the Pretties were on the bill, the other being it's nearness to where I was living. The hippy years had come and gone for the band, fame had further beckoned but never quite delivered, and they were reliant as much on their longevity as their talent. Back more to a more bluesy garage band clatter, wailing harmonica, black suits and skinny ties, they were distinctly survivors. May and Taylor, the latter back in the band having passed on some of the hippy dream, the front men alongside some younger blood, some of whom had been with the band for decades. Taylor, still with beard, looked positively ancient, but kept a tight hand on the tight Chicago blues, whilst May, thinner on top, a little paunchy, sang like a man possessed. It was wonderful, my day capped by being able to thank Mr May personally for his years of my musical pleasure, he happy to roam the crowd after the performance.
I think it was 2019 I learnt the pair were beginning to wind down the band, emphysema playing havoc with May's singing. But there remained a promise of a lower-key acoustic version remaining a possibility. So it was a shock to learn of May's passing, in May, aged 75. Not covid, praise be, but from complications of hip surgery. Hardly rock'n'roll but hardly surprising. Making then for a surprise, as that promised material appears, the first couple of tracks a week after his death, the rest of the album, 'Bare as Bone, Bright as Blood', dropping in September. Well worth a punt.
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