Impecunious: Breadline Blues

Bernard “Slim” Smith: Breadline Blues

Del McCoury Band: Breadline Blues 2008

[purchase]

Del McCoury Band's 2008 album entitled "Moneyland" opens with Franklin D. Roosevelt espousing a "broader definition of liberty" that allows more freedom and security for the average man than ever known before. Then, the latest news in Bernard "Slim" Smith's 1932 "Breadline Blues" is about the funny relationship between having a job, money, friends, and food. I first heard this 1932 version on the “Moneyland” album, and The Del McCoury Band offers up their own 2008 version of the same song at track 15. 

The Del McCoury Band's title cut on this album establishes a contemporary perspective about the "money disease" and "a thing called greed." Clearly with a thematic message, the album consists mainly of previously-released cuts from additional artists like Marty Stuart, Merle Haggard, Chris Knight, Patty Loveless, Emmylou Harris, Dan Tyminski, Bruce Hornsby & The Fairfield Four.

By that point of the album when the new remake of "Breadline Blues 2008" cues up, we’re still left wondering about various moral dilemmas and whether there are any clear-cut answers. Bruce Hornsby had earlier claimed "some things will never change, that's just the way it is, but don't you believe them." 

Of course, the social commentary of "Breadline Blues" between the long-eared mule and the big-mouthed elephant is still relevant today. Timely for its release during the 2008 Presidential election year, the McCourys stated that the only goal of the album was to send a clear message to the politicians in Washington. It’s obvious they took no heed, and Washington has only become more dysfunctional. They should’ve sent complimentary copies to the President and every member of Congress.   

Whether you consider yourself "red" or "blue," these songs go beyond partisan politics. They simply get us thinking about the current state of rural Americans, their communities and livelihoods. We've got to find a way to keep the corn from getting cobbed. FDR was optimistic, and we should be too. Still timely today, FDR's advice was to overcome our arduous burdens and economic calamities by retaining our faith in our ability to master our own destiny. Hmmm, what exactly does that mean? The McCourys attempted to transfer that sentiment to their musical sampler so listen closely for a way ahead to get our economy back on track.

John: The Ballad of John and Yoko

10 days back, in my haste to get a new theme out, I neglected to search the SMM archives: In fact, back in 2008, SMM did a "Johns" theme. That said, there are plenty of Johns that weren't then covered and still haven't been covered this time around. Before clicking "Publish" this time around, I did check back into the SMM history, and while John Lennon has naturally been covered more than once here, I could not find another link to "The Ballad".

Recorded and issued in 1969, the autobiographical lyrics relate some of the events surrounding John Lennon and Yoko Ono's honeymoon - their selection of Gibraltar for the marriage itself, their bed-in for peace, their Vienna show called Bagism.

Although the song was released as a Beatles song, the only two band members recording the song were Lennon and McCartney: it was a single session where they overdubbed multiple tracks without either George or Ringo's input. Credited to Lennon/McCartney, it is primarily a "John" song.

Bits of the lyrics upset various folks, in retrospect, the controversy likely adding to the song's place in history. "Christ, you know it ain't easy .... They're going to crucify me..." For critics who recalled a Lennon comment years earlier about how the Beatles were more famous than Jesus, these words opened up old wounds. For the Spanish dictator Franco, the words "Gibraltar, near Spain" brought about a ban of the song in Spain. And of course, there were the many others who weren't at all inclined to graciously accept Yoko's position.

After all is said and done, the song ended up at #1 in the UK for 3 weeks. Rightly so.

JOHN: WARDLE

If you have an hour to spare, this says it way better than I can

Buy this early marvel

John Wardle. You've never heard of him, have you? However you may well be forgiven for that, as I suspect there are few, apart from his mother and various aunties, who still call him that, as he has spent most of the last 30 plus years with the somewhat more grandiose name of Jah Wobble. I appreciate that, stateside, that may still be a name less well known, but he oughtn't to be, as he is that rarity, a true enthusiast who has steadfastly ploughed his own furrow, exploring the wider frontiers of dubby bass motifs across any number of genres, and been allowed to. The only remotely similar reference would be Bill Laswell, who has been doing the same with his bass guitar across a similar time period. (Perhaps unsurprisingly they have worked together, of which more later.)

A schoolboy contemporary of both Johns, Lydon (nee Rotten) and Ritchie (aka Sid Vicious), he was an early consideration for replacing Glen Matlock in the Sex Pistols, before that particular job went to Ritchie, but he did hook up with Lydon eventually, in the first incarnation of Public Image Limited. Having been bowled over by the playing of Aston "Family Man" Barrett of Bob Marley's Wailers, reggae, and in particular, dub, was always a hefty part of his style. Indeed, he was one of the audience, apparently, at Marley's legendary Live at the Lyceum recording of 1975, along with the other hundreds of thousands who claim to have been in this small dance hall, capacity 2,100, that night.

After a clash of the usual musical differences, fuelled by substantive substance abuse issues, Wobble left P.I.L. in 1980 to start his body of solo material, coming into contact with various ex-members of Can along the way, collaborating therewith, picking up much of their freestyle experimental vibe. His first successful venture was as the bandleader of the Invaders of the Heart, which plunged the evanescent world music genre into a melting pot with dub and mystical overtones. With a central core of Wobble, Can metronome Jaki Liebeszeit on drums and current Robert Plant sidesman Justin Adams on guitar, live and studio performances were augmented by whomsoever had a broad enough palette to be involved, from pedal steel maestro B.J. Cole to the singers Sinead O'Connor, Natacha Atlas and Dolores O'Riordan. Further scuffles with drink and drugs necessitated a period away from and disillusionment with music, spending some years as a station announcer for the London Underground, where his deadpan vocal fitted the part perfectly.

1986 saw sobriety beckon and a return to music, now with a dedication encroaching on obsession, bringing his basso profundo into all and any genre previously untouched, from folk to free jazz, Chinese Chamber Music to dance/electronica. Collaborations with Bill Laswell were, unsurprisingly very, very heavy on the lower registers.

I first saw the Invaders of the Heart at Glastonbury in, I think, 1994, astonished at the prescient pulse of the band, a good decade ahead of the now routine meshing and melding of almost counter-intuitive musical paradoxities. Since then I have picked up a number of his recordings, and his discography is immense, never being disappointed if sometimes a little bemused. Somehow he has also managed to study and attain a degree in Humanities, at Birkbeck College in London, as well as write book reviews, poetry and a volume of autobiography.

Bringing him right up to date, he has recently revisited his P.I.L era work, as a duo with his erstwhile colleague therein, guitarist Keith Levene, not necessarily to Mr Lydons pleasure, he also out on the road with a similar project. And only this month he has brought out "Jah Wobble presents PJ Higgins", a vehicle to promote the eponymous Dub Colossus vocalist. I bought it last week and it is typically marvellous.

John: My Dog & Me (John Hiatt)

John Hiatt & The Goners: My Dog & Me
[purchase]

That handsome guy pictured above was named Strummer, after the great Joe, who died in December, 2002, about a year before his canine namesake was born. And, on Sunday, our Strummer passed away quietly, in his home, with people he loved.

I didn’t want to get him, and I didn’t want to have him, and certainly more than my wife and children, I resisted his considerable charms. For years, I took a predictably passive aggressive position about getting a dog. They talked about getting one, and I nodded and did nothing to advance the project. This strategy was remarkably successful for years, but one day, to my surprise, on a February day in 2004, I found myself in a minivan on the way to the North Shore Animal League. We looked at a bunch of dogs, none of which satisfied the selection committee (while I stood in the back, trying to remain detached). But when Adam found this little black Lab mix, with white markings, he was smitten, and his enthusiasm swayed his sister and mother. I was pretty much indifferent, although I had to admit that he was a nice looking puppy.

On the ride home, the little guy was scared, he sat on Adam’s lap, and even baptized him with piss. We got home, and were dog owners. Of course, in the traditional manner of all kids who promise to do all of the work relating to a dog, in reality, most of it fell on my wife, and to a lesser extent on me. At the time, I was working full time in New York, and my wife was home more, and cared more, so she did most of the heavy lifting.

Strummer was a good dog. He was, as could be expected from what we believe was a Lab/Pit Bull mix, very territorial. As I said on Sunday, he retired undefeated in preventing the mailman, the UPS guy and the FedEx guy from getting in the house, because he barked like crazy when they approached. In fact, he barked at pretty much anyone, or any dog who walked by the house. He especially seemed to hate these two greyhounds that lived in the neighborhood, and I used to joke that they had, as Woody Allen once said, “passed a remark” about him. But once we let you into the house, he was an affectionate and friendly guy, even though he grew to be about 100 pounds and could look pretty imposing. He loved my family unconditionally, and when my kids came home from college, he gave them an excited greeting that was something to see.

I have to admit that I kind of resented having to deal with him at times, like when it was freezing and he needed to go out, or when we needed to pay to have him taken care of so that we could go away for a day or longer. And as my kids got older and became more independent, I was not pleased about still having to worry about him. To be clear—it wasn’t the dog that bothered me, it was having a dog at all, which is a different thing, at least to me.

In March, 2013 I left my job in the city and started working from home. All of a sudden, I was Strummer’s main caretaker, which was quite a change for me. And we bonded a bit. I found myself talking to him in the quiet house, which for some reason seems somewhat less crazy than talking to no one. And at times, it wasn’t bad to come downstairs from my office to his wagging tail and hopeful eyes. Of course, sometimes he insisted on barking while I was on the phone with clients, or demanded to go outside when I wanted to do something else. And it was still a pain in the butt having to deal with taking him out during the winter, or when I was working. But we also started taking regular walks, and having Strummer gave me an excuse to explore local trails that I would never have chosen to walk alone.

Unfortunately, a few months back, Strummer hurt his leg, and the vet diagnosed him with a torn or strained ACL in his back right leg. Considering the cost of operating, the difficult rehab and his age, she advised only to give him pain meds and have him take it easy. So, the long walks stopped, and he became a bit more sedentary. He was still alert and seemed happy, if a bit hobbled, which I could sympathize with.

Suddenly, last Tuesday morning, he had trouble walking, and his “good” back leg was swollen. The vet hoped that it was just an infection, but suspected something worse. On Thursday, we got the diagnosis of lymphoma, and a bad prognosis. His condition deteriorated quickly, and a few family friends and relatives came to say goodbye. By Sunday, he couldn’t walk at all. We knew it was time to let him go, and had the vet scheduled to come to the house that afternoon to put him down. But, before that, and sitting with Adam as he did that day he joined the family, Strummer completed the circuit of life and died on his own terms. We buried him on the perimeter of the territory he guarded so jealously, with Adam, his girlfriend Robin, my wife and my parents standing by, and with my daughter watching on Skype, sadly only 6 days before she would be returning from a year abroad.

We aren’t religious people, so we don’t think that Strummer is off in some big dog park in heaven running with Max and Maggie, or his friends from day care, but I’m glad that he is no longer in pain. I know that all of us—even me—were enriched by his life and his years as part of our family. You’ll be missed, big fella.

Clearly, John Hiatt had a dog that he loved, because the lyrics to “My Dog & Me” could only have been written by someone who did. I mean, Hiatt is a great songwriter, and all, but this song has the ring of truth.

John: Uncle John’s Band

[purchase the Dick’s Picks version]
[purchase the original Workingman’s Dead version]

The Grateful Dead are an incredibly polarizing band. On the one hand, you have the haters, people who dislike the jamming, the psychedelic weirdness, the oblique lyrics, the often weak studio albums and the sometimes questionable harmonies. And then there are the legendary Deadheads, for whom the band was more than just a group of musicians, who followed them around the world, obsessed over their setlists and, to this day, nearly 20 years after the death of Jerry Garcia, still follow various remnants and splinter groups.

And then, there is me (and, I suspect I am not alone). I like the Grateful Dead. I like them a lot. I think that some of their music is remarkably good, particularly their more Americana-sounding stuff, but I’m not by any means a Deadhead. Although I recognize that they were much better live than on most of their studio albums, I saw them exactly once, in 1979 (more on that later), and I have never seen The Dead, The Other Ones, Furthur, Phil Lesh and Friends, RatDog, the Rhythm Devils, or any other of the post-Dead ensembles (although I kind of regret missing Phil Lesh and his sons playing at Princeton reunions a few years ago, with Stanley Jordan sitting in, but I was having fun with my classmates at the time. You can’t do everything).

I have two strong memories that relate to the Grateful Dead. The first was from 1974, when I was a 13 year old junior counselor at Gate Hill Day Camp. During lunch, they often blasted The Dead on the stereo, usually the recently released From the Mars Hotel album, which I really liked, especially the song “U.S. Blues.” That was the summer that the Watergate scandal was coming to a head, and as a politically aware kid, I understood how Nixon had subverted the law. Later that summer, we had a resignation party, which was great. But I also appreciated the dissonance (although I wouldn’t have used that word) of the hippie, druggie, anti-Establishment Grateful Dead writing a fun, almost positive song about America, waving the flag “wide and high!”

Jump ahead 5 years, and now, I’m a college freshman. I’m roadtripping to Lafayette College to see the Grateful Dead for the first (and, as it turned out, only) time with my high school friend Chris, who was at Lafayette (and some friends from Princeton, although I really can’t remember who). Things were going well as we waited outside the fieldhouse. It was a few days before my 18th birthday, and there were things to drink and smoke, none of which were legal for me to partake in, but, hey, it was still the Seventies, man. I even saw my cousin Billy there—he was more of a Deadhead than me, and came over from Muhlenberg, as usual with a beautiful girl in tow.

It was a general admission concert, and when they opened the door, it was a mad rush to get in. People were getting jostled, knocked over, pushed. When I got close to the door, I saw my cousin standing over his girlfriend, protecting her from the crowd, and I jumped in, pressing my hands against the wall of the fieldhouse to create a safe space for his girlfriend, until we went in. You can read more about the “’tidal wave’ of overzealous fans . . . who pushed through three doors . . . “ which was like “’the sinking of the Titanic and the mad rush to get to the lifeboats’” and the other security issues that resulted from the inexplicable decision to only open three doors from The Lafayette, here (as well as the fact that the band was surprisingly punctual, clean and easy to get along with). It was hot in the fieldhouse, the acoustics were not great, and I was completely freaked out by, you know, almost getting trampled. Only a few months later, at a Who concert in Cincinnati, 11 people were killed getting into a show. My memory was that for the first set, I was unimpressed, but the second set came alive. I’ve listened to recordings of the show, and read some comments about it, and it seems that my memory in that regard was accurate. Until I heard the recording, though, I had no recollection whatsoever of what they played. And I can attribute that to lots of different things, but you can speculate all you want.

Which, in a roundabout way, brings us to “Uncle John’s Band,” a song I chose because it fits the theme, but it is really just an excuse for me to tell my two Dead stories. Although it was not performed that day at Lafayette College, it is one of their most popular, and was often played by the band and on the radio. It’s accessible melody and Crosby, Stills and Nash inspired harmonies make it one of the Dead songs that even many non-Dead fans appreciate. Although like most lyrics by Robert Hunter, it is hard to figure out exactly what he means, it appears that the song is at its core a reference to “Uncle John” Cohen of the New Lost City Ramblers, an old-time string band that also included Mike Seeger, Pete’s half-brother, and a distinguished and influential musician in his own right. Cohen, a musician, photographer, filmmaker and musicologist. married Mike Seeger’s younger sister Penny. For much, much more about the song, its lyrics and what it all may mean, take the time to read this.

The obsessive nature of Deadheads, the band’s permissive policy on taping, the fact that every show is different, and the vast network of traders (even before the Internet facilitated such things) have resulted in spirited debates over the “best” version of their songs. For “Uncle John’s Band” there are a few contenders, but one of the most popular choices is the version in the video above, from a show at the Oakland Arena on December 26, 1979 (only a few months after I saw them). The show was a benefit for the Seva Foundation, a health care charity which focuses on vision care in poor countries and Native American communities. Bob Weir is an Honorary Lifetime Board Member of the foundation.

Ultimately, the entire show was released by the band as part of the Dick’s Picks series.  I lack the breadth of Grateful Dead knowledge to have any way of knowing if it is, in fact, the best version (if such a thing can even be determined). But I have to say that there is something really nice about the feel of it, the quality of the guitar solos and the harmonies, that make it special. And the band must have liked it, too, because they decided to reprise the song at the end of their last encore.

JOHN : BARLEYCORN (reprise)

John, eh? Big bad? B Goode? (Or even be good, Johnny*.) 99? Or should it be the still warm Winter, J, R.I.P, hoping it will be for someone. Cash, Paycheck, Copeland, and the Hurricanes? Cale, Mayall, Elton or the Dr himself? Too much choice, too much choice. So what could I think of? Why, only the same bloody thing as Darius, esteemed senior fellow SMM scriber, came up with a mere 5 years ago. D'oh! Too bad, but since when did that ever stop me? If imitation is flattery, surely plagiarism is more so? You judge.

Luckily I love a cover version, indeed collect them, so I'm not going to play this one , however brilliant it is. And it is. I might play this one, though , given its altogether simple revisiting, Winwood's voice having mellowed and matured in the decades between.

So what's my take on the song? Simples. It is no more and less a love song to beer, or more specifically, to ale, that curiously warm brown liquid we prefer on this island. Or used to. Ironically, as the never ending spew of yellow fizz seems to be slowing down elsewhere, given the surge of craft  beers in the US and Australia, so the more brits are selling their palates to cheap froth, "brewed under licence". I can admire a good lager on it's home territory, but stealing/borrowing the name, and brewing a flaccid fauxsimile in a factory near Leeds is not quite the same thing. (Our american readers should not worry unduly here, Bud seems to be shit wherever it's made.) And anyway, a cold yellow beer needs something equivalently yellow, but hot, in the sky to cut it. I have been in Turkey for a week and the Efes brand hit the spot wonderfully there, but this is the United Kingdom. It has been thunderstorming since I returned. So as I type I have a trusty bottle of Old Hooky to my side from the world famous, well, in the Cotswolds anyway, Hook Norton brewery. And jolly wonderful it is too. Neither too strong or too weak. Just the thing for getting together in the country, and I am sure that Messrs Winwood, Wood and Capaldi were not unfamiliar with the fruits of this village, Hook Norton being also the name of its home.

But I ramble. Beer can do this. Lager makes you burble, but beer is a sturdier pilot. I am mentioning Traffic when I said I wouldn't, so with no further ado, I'll bet you didn't know Black Francis had turned his attention and interest to this song. Who'da thought it, with his sylph like, but nonetheless, it's true. To be honest, I was never a big fan of the Pixies in the day, but I remember when this LP came out in 2006, a little later than SMM usually prefers, and was intrigued 2 ways, firstly by the fact he was covering, OK, revamping near entirely, this song, but also that he was backed and produced by the legendary and exemplary Stax/Muscle Shoals team, producing one classy piece of work. Also includes a fab version of Ewan, father of Kirsty, MacColl's Dirty Old Town. And the, um, intriguingly entitled Kiss My Ring. It's called Fast Man, Raider Man, and is widely felt to be a follow up to the similarly eclectic Honeycomb of a year before.I highly endorse it. Clearly sold diddly, as he is back a-Pixillating as we speak.

*Why the asterisk? Just a memo to whomsoever covers Johnny B Goode to remember this antipodean oddity

Revolution: Children of the Revolution

Violent Femmes: Children of the Revolution
[purchase]

No matter how much you think you may know about music (or anything), you don’t know everything. Not even me. (Cue loud guffawing from my wife and kids). One of the great things about caring about music, like I assume you do if you are reading this, is that you are always learning something new. Over on the other blog I write for, Cover Me, they just published a group post in which a bunch of the writers wrote about songs that they didn’t know were covers. I wrote about “Ring of Fire,” which was not originally done by Johnny Cash, but by his future sister-in-law, Anita Carter (and written by his future wife, June Carter). This song, “Children of the Revolution” is another one that fits into that category, because when I first heard the Violent Femmes’ version, back in the mists of the 1980s, I had no idea that it was originally by T. Rex. None, whatsoever.

I wish I could remember when I discovered this fact (among the many, many things that I wish I could remember), but I don’t. It is on my “covers” iPod playlist (along with a nice cover by Lloyd Cole), and I have a version of the original, but this knowledge really could have been learned at any time. And one of the great things about writing about music, even just for fun like I do, is that I (sometimes) research my pieces and (usually) learn something I didn’t already know. And you, the reader, are the beneficiary!

Violent Femmes are one of those bands who have one song that pretty much anyone knows, “Blister in the Sun,” and a couple of others that a few people know, but it is a shame that the rest of their output is mostly forgotten. This is, of course, a common thing—I was listening to the radio the other day and heard “Something in the Air” by Thunderclap Newman, and you could probably listen to every channel of Sirius/SM for a month and never hear another song by Thunderclap Newman (even though Pete Townshend is the bass player on the recording, under a pseudonym)  (and, of course the thing that is “in the air” in that song? Revolution!! But I digress, again.)

“Children of the Revolution” appeared on Violent Femmes' third album, The Blind Leading the Naked, and it was produced by Jerry Harrison of The Talking Heads (and before that, the Modern Lovers, whose singer, Jonathan Richman was often referenced as an influence on Femmes’ singer Gordon Gano, which apparently pissed Gano off). The album is maybe a touch more commercial than their first two records, but it was by no means a “commercial” record. It did, however, break into the Billboard charts.

But “Children of the Revolution” was originally by T. Rex (a band that was very popular, but I bet you haven’t heard any song of theirs other than “Get It On (Bang a Gong)" recently). It is about the kind of teenage rebellion that was, at the time of its original release in 1972, a pretty common thing, as the youth culture became ascendant. It was not “Commie propaganda,” but in 1972, there were a lot of people who thought a lot of things were “Commie propaganda.” (Although in 1996, an interesting movie with the same name was made in Australia about the life of a fictional illegitimate son of Joseph Stalin, and it used the T. Rex version over the credits.)

Not only that, in doing my research, I found that there is an incredible version of the song, featuring T. Rex with Elton John and Ringo Starr, from a 1972 documentary about T. Rex, Born to Boogie, which was directed by Ringo. Here is the clip from the film, and if the production (and Ringo’s hair) seems a bit dated (as is the video for the Violent Femmes version), the performance is great, especially by Elton on the piano.

REVOLUTION : REVOLUTION IN THE SUMMERTIME

Play it here!
Buy it here! (Of course it's on vinyl!!)

We don't need a revolution in the summertime
We don't need a revolution anytime

what we need is someone to believe
in like a god to fall out of the sky
what we don't need is a revolution
that could blow our minds away,
yeah away,
tomorrow or today

You can sell me Darwin's theory
evolution got me here to where I am
i'd believe in anyone who'd promise me
the sun would shine today
yeah today
or any other day

we can pray for the sun and let it shine on everyone
sunshine brings love
we can pray for the sun and let it shine on everyone
sunshine brings love

Uncertain of the irony of this appearing directly above the Airplane theory below, given I am referring, perhaps again, to the "revolution" via summer music festivals, albeit with particular reference to the UK. In a strange way, the lyrics above completely underline the point that, needed or not, it has taken/did take place. And now, is it a revolution or a ritual? Or relic?

I love festivals. As a younger man I attended as many as I could, from the Rock of Reading 1975 to the more ambitious Glastonbury 1994, the latter with  my then wife and pre-teen kids, my tastes gradually turning then more to the more intimate (nominally) folk festivals. I think I finally stopped going in about 2003, my swansong being my much visited Cropredy in 2002, the annual Fairport Convention run and curated shindig, still going after many a long year. But, in a whimsy of  disappearing youth, I have this year bought tickets and a tent for The 50th Cambridge Folk Festival. It is true my choice is as much based on my musical preferences as the seemliness of my age: both the stage and the audience will make me feel young, as the "revolutionaries" of the 60s and 70s have become respected elders, letting down (whats left of) their hair in like-minded company. It will feel both a reminiscence and an evolution. With Glastonbury being now on the summer privileged corporate circuit of Wimbledon and Henley Royal Regatta, mass-produced and must-do, both anaethema to me, I am hoping this will feel a nostalgic wallow in ageing counter-culture.

But what of the song? Have you listened to it? Sorry about the biker bit that precedes, it was the only link I could find to this wonderful slice of completelyoutofitstime hippy wisdom, if that is no oxymoron. It is the Cosmic Rough Riders, even the name reeking of a patchouli scented lysergia. Sounding as if from the heart of a stoned california of a quarter century ago, it actually stems from the urban mayhem of Glasgow in 2000. For some strange reason, Scotland's concrete city landscapes have always been a dab hand at producing USA-philic jangle-pop a la Byrds and similar. (Another and possibly better known example would be the wonderful Teenage Fanclub .) By the time the LP upon which Revolution in the Summertime appeared, actually a compilation of 2 earlier self-produced albums, the band had begun to implode, their singer leaving as a run of singles therefrom had begun to garnish them both notice and praise. The band actually lurched on for a number of years and several more recordings, never quite, at least for me, catching these glory days. Enjoy the Melodic Sunshine is the name of the parent record and I unashamedly promote it it a tonic to turn to, on those occasional days we get a blast of sun and summer. I'm praying that it won't rain at Cambridge.

Revolution: Volunteers

Jefferson Airplane at Woodstock: Volunteers
[purchase] the album

I recently read an eye-opening article that relates to my “revolution” choice. The link came my way via “Longreads”, which I access thru Flipboard. The “long” article chronicles a free outdoor music festival that pre-dates both the seminal Monterey International Pop Festival in ’67 and Woodstock in '69. The festival was called the Fantasy Fair and Magic Mountain Music Festival and it took place in ’67, about a week before the Monterey festival that launched Jimi Hendrix and Otis Redding, among others.

Here’s a link to the article itself, but for those who prefer to miss out on this article of great historical import, a summary: SF radio station KFRC, in an effort to increase ratings, sets up a free show the week before Monterey. Partly because it is a last minute effort, but partly because few of those involved have yet to get a taste of mammon, the whole thing comes off as one big love-in. Without a backstage area, the bands end up hanging with the audience ... and more. Less than one week later at Monterey, the whole thing has turned commercial – despite the smell of “revolution” in the air.

The point behind all this is not so much the logistics, but rather that which was in the air from ’67 on, and more than one band called it for what is was: a revolution. In France, the students were in the streets; in the US, students were in the streets and in front of the courthouses, in the UK, the Beatles were in the studio with “Revolution”. The revolution extended to the privacy of the bedroom and up-ended social mores. Yada yada yada. You know the rest.

The article plausibly claims that Magic Mountain was the spark that lead to Woodstock. Certainly, it was a major event in the history of many of the bands: some went from local to national on the basis of their performance (or maybe simply their participation in) this weekend. If nothing else, the tech crew that pulled off Magic Mountain learned and morphed into the team that also put Woodstock together.

Among the bands that appeared at Magic Mountain, Monterey and 2 years later at Woodstock, was Jefferson Airplane. In many ways, without getting as deeply political as CSNY (Chicago, and again Chicago), the Airplane managed to give the impression of standing for revolution. Was it Grace Slick’s style/appearance? Was it Jorma Kaukonen or Paul Kantnor, Marty Balin or even Nicky Hopkins or the combination of all of the above and the confluence of time,  the stars and the moon?

In any event, the link above will lead you to part of the Airplane’s 100 minute set on the 2^nd day of Woodstock back in 1969. The question I might ask is if the hippie  ”revolution” actually happened? Does it count as a revolution today? It sure has taken a long time to make only a little progress (didn’t David Crosby sing “seems to be a long time ...” in reference to the changes?)

In Volunteers, the Airplane sing:

Hey now it's time for you and me
got a revolution got to revolution
Come on now we're marching to the sea
got a revolution got to revolution

The flipside of the record is equally revolutionary: We Can be Together, and so I link to that as well.

In We Can Be Together, they sing:

We are forces of chaos and anarchy
Everything they say we are we are
And we are very
Proud of ourselves
Up against the wall
Up against the wall fred (motherfucker)
Tear down the walls

 

 

Whew! Seems to me you would be hard pressed to get away with this these days!

 

Revolution: The Revolution Starts Now

Steve Earle: The Revolution Starts Now
[purchase]

Although the day that commemorates the American Revolution has just passed, the idea of “revolution” is not limited to the U.S.A. The word “revolution” is from the Latin “revolutio,” meaning to turn around, and in politics, of course, it means a change, usually of regime. It also is used to describe the turning of records or CD’s, those somewhat quaint media that we used to use to listen to music. So, melding the two meanings, for the next couple of weeks, we here at SMM will be writing about songs that relate to Revolution, and fittingly, we begin with a song that declares, that the revolution, like our new theme, starts NOW!

Most political revolutions have resulted in one political group overthrowing another (like the Russian or French Revolutions) (and, unfortunately, often becoming as oppressive as their former oppressors), or a colonial group throwing off the rule of colonizers (like the American Revolution) (ditto).

Marxist theory posited a “permanent revolution,” which was championed by Trotsky as a way for the proletariat to obtain power. And in our featured song, Steve Earle argues for a new, grassroots revolution to address the problems that he saw in the American society of 2004. Earle, whose message had become increasingly political, found himself excoriated by the right wing for his leftist politics. As the presidential election approached, Earle wanted to make a statement against the Bush Administration and its policies, and he recorded the album, The Revolution Starts...Now. In the liner notes to the album, Earle explained:

The Constitution of The United States of America is a REVOLUTIONARY document in every sense of the word. It was designed to evolve, to live, and to breathe like the people that it governs. It is, ingeniously, and perhaps conversely, resilient enough to change with the times in order to meet the challenges of its third century and rigid enough to preserve the ideals that inspired its original articles and amendments. As long as we are willing to put in the work required to defend and nurture this remarkable invention of our forefathers, then I believe with all my heart that it will continue to thrive for generations to come. Without our active participation, however, the future is far from certain. For without the lifeblood of the human spirit even the greatest documents produced by humankind are only words on paper or parchment, destined to yellow and crack and eventually crumble to dust. 

His call to personal political revolution is made clear by the lyrics of the song:  

Yeah the revolution starts now 
In your own backyard 
In your own hometown 
So what you doin’ standin’ around? 
Just follow your heart 
The revolution starts now 

Of course, history shows that Bush defeated Kerry in 2004, and it wasn’t until 2008 when Earle’s (somewhat reluctantly) favored candidate, Barack Obama, was democratically elected (Earle would have preferred a socialist, which, despite what you may hear from the right, President Obama is clearly not).

Whether that qualifies as a “revolution” is open to debate, I’d say. But, interestingly, Obama’s presidency has only increased the call for a revolution from the right, which in many instances has challenged the legitimacy of his election and has obstructed Obama’s agenda. Many of these more radical truth deniers have adopted the “Tea Party” moniker, drawing from the iconography of the American Revolution, although some of us think that they have more in common with another group of revolutionaries with a narrow, theistic point of view, the Taliban. It is interesting that the Tea Party movement is funded by rich capitalists who fear that continued government support of poor Americans might take away some tiny fraction of their billions, but is often championed by people who need the very government support that they eschew, making it more of an "Astroturf" movement than a real "grassroots" one.

And it is also interesting that much of the “progress” made by these right wingers has come from the kind of local action that Earle would probably approve of—taking control of school boards and local government units, and other small scale activities. Unfortunately, the result of this conservative activity ultimately has resulted in the imposition of reactionary policies, either by vote, inaction, or even through endorsement by one of the worst Supreme Courts ever. The exact opposite of what Earle was looking for, which is a shame.

A couple of weeks ago, I attended the Clearwater Festival, mostly for the great music.  But I was happy to see that the Activist Area was fully staffed, with many groups and people dedicated to trying to change the country and the world to make it fairer, cleaner and better for everyone, in the spirit of one of Earle's idols, Pete Seeger and his wife Toshi.  So, there is hope.

Oh--it is also a good song.

Football/Soccer: The Victory Song 1993

[purchase]

If you had told the young me that I’d be a huge soccer fan at this point in my life, I would have looked at you a bit dumbfounded. Unlike today, when millions of kids around the country at least try soccer, when I was growing up, in my part of the New York suburbs, soccer was a game mostly played by the children of German and Italian immigrants. In junior high school, I had played fall tennis, but when I moved to high school, there was no fall team. A friend suggested that I try out for the soccer team, because they needed big guys to play defense. So, I did.

It must not have been hard to make the team, because I was inexplicably not cut, and spent the next two fall seasons practicing and mostly watching my teammates play from the bench. Occasionally, usually when my father showed up at the games, the coach gave me a sympathy run out on the field, including one memorable stint at forward, where I had a pretty epic collision with the opposing keeper. It was fun, but when I injured my leg before my junior season, and with no real prospects to ever play for the varsity team, I hung up my cleats for what I believed was the last time. Remarkably, at my 35th high school reunion last year, I spent a surprising amount of time with my former soccer teammates.

When I went off to college, I found out that Princeton has a fun event, Cane Spree, deriving from a quaint 19th century tradition where freshman and sophomores would brawl over the use of walking sticks (really). By the time I was there, it had morphed into a day-long intramural competition between the two classes, but if I recall, varsity athletes were barred from playing their sports. Somehow, I found myself playing Cane Spree soccer, out of shape, unpracticed and frankly pathetically. And after the game, I figuratively hung up my cleats for what I believed was the last time (since I didn’t actually have cleats).

Following the flameout of the NY Cosmos and the collapse of the North American Soccer League, the soccer landscape was pretty bleak in this country through the 1980s. Then, the US was awarded the 1994 World Cup, which led to an actual uptick in interest. It also roughly coincided with my son getting to the age where he could join AYSO. Soccer is, in many ways, the best game for little kids to play, since they can run around and kick a ball much easier than they can hit a baseball, even off a tee, or shoot a ball into a hoop. We signed him up, and I agreed to be an assistant coach, because that’s what dads do.

I fell in love with the game.

First, I fell in love with coaching the kids and the socializing with their parents on the sidelines. I started to take coaching classes and read books and websites about coaching kids. We started attending local minor league games, and went to see the MetroStars (who became the Red Bulls). Within a short time, I found myself as the assistant commissioner of our local region, then commissioner and then area director for essentially the county. My family started going to AYSO meetings and conventions around the country, and both of my kids were enthusiastic players. My wife organized our local soccer camp, and it felt like soccer was sort of our family business. It was a great way for us to do something that we all enjoyed as a family. I even started to play in the occasional pickup game. I was still terrible, but it was fun.

But even into the early 2000s, soccer was still hard to find on television. Even with the great Women’s World Cup victory of 1999 (my family was at the opening matches at Giants Stadium), and the men’s surprisingly fine showing at the 2002 World Cup, MLS games were not easy to find, European and South American games were rarely available (at least in English), and there was no streaming available on the slow Internet of the day. Due to our soccer camp work, we hosted young, mostly English, coaches, some of whom played at the lower levels of the English system, and we were able to follow a few of their careers on the web (and still do).

In 2001, my soccer loving son decided to do an independent study project for his enrichment class on English football, and using my abilities to wrangle the myriad filesharing sources of dubious legality then available, I found enough football songs to create a CD to use as background music for his presentation. Without a doubt, the worst of these songs is the one in the video above, which commemorates the Arsenal F.A. Cup winners of 1993 (but the video features a very different group of Gunners). Really—listen to it and revel in its awfulness.

A couple of years later, our cable system started carrying what was then the Fox Soccer Channel, featuring regular English Premier League games. My son and I decided that we needed to pick a team to support. Considering that most of the US teams that we root for are generally disappointing, we felt like this gave us a clean slate to pick a good team to support. We considered Manchester United, but they were at the time in a marketing arrangement with the hated Yankees, so they were out. Chelsea was in the process of buying themselves to prominence, which we didn’t approve of. Arsenal, though—they played attractive soccer, weren’t crazy spenders, and had some wonderful players, including Thierry Henry (now the Red Bulls captain). We picked them, and that season they were The Invincibles. Of course, since then, it has been a somewhat more painful experience.

And speaking of painful experiences, a year or so ago, as part of an attempt to improve my health and fitness, I started playing soccer again. I’m still bad, but improving, and I’m lucky to play with a group of very supportive guys who don’t bust my chops about my lack of skill and fitness. My cleats are in a bag, now, by the front door, and I don’t expect to hang them up for a while.

Football/Soccer : That's the Way the Ball Rolls

The Rumour: That's the Way the Ball Rolls

[Purchase]

   After 15 heroic saves, US goalie Tim Howard's block party had to end some time, and in the third minute of extra time it did when Belgium's Kevin De Bruyne found the net.

    By that point everyone in the office had stopped working to watch the match on TV. Yes, there was work to be done. Deadlines to be met. But why tidy up a presentation when history was unfolding before our eyes? We gathered around the screen. Some wore scarves. We prided ourselves it using words like "match", "pitch" and "nil". But when Romelu Lukaku made it 2-0, most of us walked back to our cubicles, tossing our scarves on to the floor.

    And then we heard Jim.

   "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLL!" Jim held that note for at least 30 seconds longer than Bill Withers did with "DAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY" on "Lovely Day". His face turned as red as rare steak. And then he gave in to a coughing fit.

    I walked up to Jim, ready to present him with a yellow post it note, the closest our office had to a yellow card,  when I realized the US was really back in the game. 19-year-old Julian Green scored on his first touch, making  it 2-1 in the 107th minute.

    Again we gathered by the TV to "ooh" and "ahh", to cheer and to groan and ultimately to see the dream end. Sometimes the ball rolls where you aim it. Sometimes a keeper robs you at the last possible moment, Clint Dempsey.

    For every time that's happened here are ten opportunities to make fun of goalies.

   And now to the subject of the song choice

Coming off their best album together, Squeezing Out Sparks, Graham Parker gave his backing band "That's the Way the Ball Rolls" for the Rumour's third album, 1980's Purity of Essence. At the time The Rumour was made up of legendary pub rockers Brinsley Schwarz  (Brinsley Schwarz), Martin Belmont (Ducks Deluxe), Andrew Bodnar and Steve Golding. There were two separate recordings of the album. One for the UK and a second for the US. The US version doesn't have "That's the Way the Ball Rolls", but you get the Glenn Tilbrook-penned "Depression" and a cover of "Rubber Band Man".

FOOTBALL/SOCCER : ROD STEWART

I bloody hate football, me. I suppose I ought to be ashamed of myself, as a brit, but, there, I've said it now.

The beautiful game is a waste of energy to me, and all the fuss and hyperbole leaves me cold. Furthermore, like the Charles Addams cartoon above, am I the only person over here enjoying the ignominy of the english early bath after 3 lack-lustre games? (Or so I heard, as I was certainly not going to waste our current glorious weather in front of a TV. And it is wonderful to walk and drive through the deserted streets of this country whilst the games are on.) In truth I was going to give this theme a miss, but I have belatedly been stung into prose by newcomer JJ's reminder of the horror referred to below, when my glorious Lindisfarne sullied their name and reputation with the travesty unwound in his piece. So how can I take away that flavour, yet stick within a theme with no resonance for me? And then it came to me: Roderick David Stewart, football trialist (failed) for Brentford F.C.

Now, in fairness, I am not that keen on Rod Stewart either, at least not these days. But there was a time when he could do no wrong. Ignore his ghastly gargles through the Great American Songbook and, more recently, Motown. Forget even the Britt Ekland  silk and satin years and beyond. (Do you think I'm sexy?No.Not one iota.) I refer to the gravel voiced guttersnipe, busking his way around Europe, before blagging his way into Steampacket, a multi-voiced venture with Long John Baldry, featuring also the then husband and wife, Julie Driscoll and Brian Auger. From CND sympathising folkie, Rod was now morphing into "Rod the Mod". A spell in the Jeff Beck Group led him into contact with longterm partner in mischief, Ron Wood. Upon the dissolution of the Small Faces, Ron Wood stopped their ship from sinking, as replacement for Steve Marriott, drafting in his old mucker on vocals. The rest is, as they say, history, with Stewart having dual success with the (no longer Small)Faces and with his own solo career. I loved those first 4 or 5 Faces LPs and his contemporaneous solo work, feeling his mojo became lost as he left the former to concentrate on the latter. One was tempted to ask him, as he became a megastar, where, Rod, did it all go so wrong? (On a football related note, this was often the question asked of George Best, legendary 60s soccer player, as he cavorted in baths of champagne with various Miss Worlds)

So why is Rod Stewart my theme, even if he once bid to play the game professionally? Why, so I have an excuse to play this wonderful clip from, as ever, my beloved Top of the Pops. Maggie May was arguably his breakthrough moment, and despite being credited to his solo career, it is with the Faces that he appears here, joined by famous underground DJ, John Peel, "busking" on mandolin, before the scene descends into a kickabout. Both Rod Stewart and John Peel were big afficionados of football, Rod, I think, famously being the most conscientious supporter of his Scotland side, themselves absent from many a world cup these last few years. I still hate football but I do love that clip.

Buy the song here!

FOOTBALL/SOCCER: FOG ON THE TYNE

Lindisfarne feat. Gazza: Fog on the Tyne (Revisited)

It's like lycanthropy.

Once every four years, I change. I incorporate more red and white into my wardrobe, I become argumentative, I'm prone to fits of pouting and I spent entirely too much of my time enraged and yelling at the television.

However, this change isn't spurred by the full moon. No. It's the World Cup that does funny things to me.

I was born in England and spent my childhood there where amidst reading, writing and maths, I also learned several other life lessons - the importance of properly dunking one's biscuit into one's tea and that in this life, football matters. A lot.

I came of age during the height of Gazzamania - the 1990 World Cup - when the legend of Paul 'Gazza' Gascoigne was elevated to mythic proportions. His grinning visage was emblazoned on everything from candy wrappers to clothing and you couldn't escape headlines screaming out about England's favorite son.

Even pop music wasn't safe as in 1990, he got together with pop-folk act Lindisfarme to re-record Fog on the Tyne.

Gazza's version is a novelty hit in every sense of the word. It was catchy, it featured stilted "rapping" from a man who truly had no business being anywhere near a recording studio and every 30 seconds or so, the song urged the listener to, "Come on!"

In short, it's a perfect, silly World Cup song that sticks in your ear and celebrates that Geordie Boy we as a nation pinned our hopes on - the great Gazza.

Unfortunately, his career and personal life spiraled downwards and in recent years, Gascoigne has battled publicly with alcohol addiction.

But regardless of what the future holds for Paul Gascoigne, the fog on the Tyne will always be all his. 

Football/Soccer: Kasey Keller

Barcelona: Kasey Keller
[purchase]

Like any good American, I have been glued to the television over the past week, watching the World Cup. It has been amazing to see everything, all over the country, come to a complete halt during the matches, and I’ve enjoyed getting into impassioned arguments with strangers over the relative merits of Croatia and Costa Rica. Or the tactical arguments over whether it is better to play a 4-3-3, or a 4-3-2-1. And whether using a false 9 really ever works.

When you come from a country with as proud and successful a soccer tradition as the United States, it is hard to decide what our greatest World Cup moment was. (Note—I’m focusing here on our men’s team. The women’s tradition, is, if anything, even better.) Was it our third place finish back in 1930? Or the victory over England in 1950, which made Joe Gaetjens a household name? Or was it something more recent, like our victory in 1994 (despite some of the ugliest uniforms ever) over Columbia (thanks, in part, to the tragic own goal from poor Andres Escobar)?

I mean, who could forget our incredible 2002 tournament, where we beat both Portugal and Mexico (of course, by the score of dos a cero, which has become a national chant) and only lost to Germany because of Torsten Frings’ dastardly cheating?

Or maybe it was our magnificent draw with the Italian thugs in 2006, despite ending the game with only 9 players? You could argue that our best moment was topping the group in South Africa in 2010, what with the stirring draw with England, the amazing comeback against Slovenia (and getting cheated by the referee’s awful offside call), and Landon Donovan’s incredible game winner against Algeria, which shook the world?

We’ve also had some big moments away from the World Cup, like beating Mexico at Azteca, or Paul Caligiuri’s game winner over powerful Trinidad and Tobago to clinch a berth in the 1990 World Cup? Or the Snow Game?

And, with all of that incredible history, there may be only one American soccer victory that has become so embedded in the national psyche that it inspired a song. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that I am talking about the 1-0 victory against Brazil at the 1998 CONCACAF Gold Cup.

Who can forget the legendary Kasey Keller, whose exploits that day in Los Angeles allowed the great Preki’s 65th minute goal to hold up? To this day, Americans remember where they were watching the match, and who they were with. We tell the story of Keller’s 10 saves to our kids, and sing this tribute to Keller, by the Washington D.C. area band Barcelona, whenever American soccer fans gather. (Although as a passionate Gooner, I do have to overlook Keller's tenure with Sp*rs, but country before club, right?)

Hey, look, an American soccer fan can dream, right? (And I'm not discussing last night's draw with Portugal.  Because I. Believe. That. We. Will. Win.)

Football/Soccer: Another Star

Stevie Wonder: Another Star
[purchase]

There are songs specifically written with the World Cup in mind and there are others that get co-opted to the purpose. Ricky Martin's La Copa de la Vida comes to mind as one of the more successful: you didnt have to be a football fan to notice the commercial success of the song.

Curiously, it took the US women's team - and Mia Hamm - back in 1996, to light the fire for soccer in the US. Sure ... there were other sparks: Pele and his backers tried hard. Beckham, too. But even today, soccer/football in the US of A - in terms that really matter (salaries, revenue, viewers...)  falls pitifully below other more American sports.

There are "official" songs for each World Cup, and then there are other songs that are "un-official".. Whereas Pitbull/Jenifer Lopez's "Ole Ola" and Shakira's "La La La" are considered to be official this year, the BBC has chosen this year to go with Stevie Wonder's "Another Star". Why so?

Folks who edit video are well aware of the effect that a sound track has over the video: even a sloppy visual sequence can turn into decent "film" through the judicious use of appropriate audio, and that appears to have been the Beeb's  ... er ... goal. There isn't much in the lyrics to suggest its application to a World Cup theme song (unless you accept the starting "la la la ..." as a tribute to the official Shakira song? Or perhaps the notion that "no other love" is a football fanatic's state of mind? Again, the audio overlaid to the video and the simple fact that this clip provides a history of sorts of the "Cup" are reason enough for me to start us off with this clip on the next 2-week theme in honor of the 2014 World Cup.

Hotels and Motels: Super 8

[purchase Southeastern]

If you have spoken to me about music over the past year or so, you probably know that my favorite album of 2013 was Jason Isbell’s Southeastern. In fact, it is probably the best album that I have heard in years. And I’m not alone in singing (actually just talking) its praises. It made a ton of year-end best lists, topping some, and has been nominated for all sorts of awards. Although for some reason, WFUV, which you would expect would be all over this disc, never really committed to it. Southeastern’s incredible songwriting, singing and playing, when coupled with Isbell’s story of talent, addiction, leaving a band, marriage and redemption scored Isbell about as much publicity as you can get playing the type of confessional Americana music that he plays. He has been on Letterman (who loves him) and Conan and has been featured on NPR and on the CBS News. But with the music business being what it is, the album has probably sold less in total than some no-talent pre-fab tween pop tart sells in a day.

For the most part, Southeastern is a pretty mellow affair, but its songs’ messages are anything but laid back. There are lots of songs that can be directly or indirectly tied to his life story, and one, “Elephant,” about a woman dying of cancer, that is literally brilliant. Almost every song has imbedded itself into my head, so that I couldn’t tell you what song is my favorite.

The album had just come out last summer, right before my family and I were going to see him perform at the Clearwater festival. I’ve mentioned that performance before, mostly in the context of how great it was that his former colleague in the Drive-By Truckers, Patterson Hood, sat in on one song, and Isbell returned the favor during Hood’s set. Especially since Hood was one of the people who was instrumental in essentially kicking Isbell out of the band when his drinking became too much of a problem. (Clearly, they have buried the hatchet—just the other day, Isbell, Hood and Trucker Mike Cooley performed an entire show together for a benefit.)

Although I had heard the album, it was still new, and hearing Isbell perform the songs, basically solo, was thrilling. Even my wife, who was never the big DBT fan that my son and I are, was blown away. Then, we found out that Isbell, with the full band, was going to be playing at Lincoln Fucking Center, as part of a series of pretty well-respected artists from across the musical spectrum—including jazz, opera and musical theater. I went with my son, his girlfriend and a musician friend of mine who was unfamiliar with Isbell (my wife had a prior commitment). It was an incredible show, in an incredible venue. The entire broadcast from PBS is here, and it is primarily songs from Southeastern, with some older songs and some Truckers classics.

The set ends with “Super 8,” the one real rocker on the album, a Stones-influenced rave about the craziness and danger of life on the road, particularly in cheap motels. In a recent piece in, yes, The Wall Street Journal, debuting the official video for the song, which is above, Isbell was quoted as saying: “This song is one story built out of moments from many different actual nights. Things that are funny now, but weren’t funny at all when they were happening. The song took a couple hours to write, but years to live through.”

 By the way, after “Super 8,” the band encored with an actual Stones song, “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking,” a part of which you can hear at the end of the video.

And have I mentioned how much I liked Southeastern?