Peter & Gordon: A World Without Love
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You know you're a top-drawer songwriter when even your rejects make #1 hits for someone else. This someone else was lucky enough to be the brother of the songwriter's girlfriend. The songwriter was Paul McCartney, who deemed this song not quite good enough for the Beatles. Lucky Peter. He also got "Nobody I Know" from Paul as well.
Cannonball Adderley: Mercy Mercy Mercy
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Joe Zawinul started his recording career as a bandleader in 1959, but he was soon working as a sideman. By 1966, Zawinul had been with Cannonball Adderley for five years. That was when he wrote Mercy Mercy Mercy. This was the rare jazz song to hit the pop charts, peaking at #11. Zawinul was a pioneer in the use of electronic keyboards in jazz; in this case, it is the electric piano.
The song became a jazz standard. But something else happened as well. The song acquired words somewhere, and was recorded by such artists as The Buckinghams and, later, Phillip Bailey of Earth Wind & Fire. Queen Latifah recorded a version with a different set of lyrics. And finally, Joe Zawinul, coming off a highly successful tenure in Weather Report, recorded a version as a leader, also with vocals. But, for me and many others, the original recording of Mercy Mercy Mercy will always be the real one.
Rita Coolidge: Superstar
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Joe Cocker: Delta Lady
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This explanation will read more like Six Degrees of Separation than a normal musical post. Let's see if I can get us through the maze.
Leon Russell began his career as a 60's session musician and songwriter. Sometime around 1969, he was an integral member of Delaney & Bonnie & Friends, a transient group made up of Delaney and Bonnie Bramlett plus or minus George Harrison, Eric Clapton, Duane Allman, Dave Mason, Booker T. Jones, Isaac Hayes, Bobby Whitlock, Jim Keltner, Rita Coolidge, and a boatload of other musicians. Together Russell and Bonnie wrote "Superstar," an unnoticed B-side single for Delaney and Bonnie in 1969.
In early 1970, Russell went on to produce Joe Cocker's Mad Dogs and Englishmen tour, and he's featured soloing on several tunes on the very successful live album. As was Rita Coolidge, who does a bust-up job on "Superstar". Even so, you are probably most familiar with The Carpenters' 1971 version. Richard Carpenter, though, had heard neither Bonnie's or Rita's version, but instead caught it on a TV show performance by a then-new vocalist, Bette Midler.
Meanwhile, in this fertile period of cross-collaboration, Leon Russell also wrote a song about the aforementioned Coolidge, at the time nicknamed "Delta Lady". Cocker picked up that song and made it a hit in 1969. Leon recorded his own version a year later.
Sam & Dave: You Don't Know Like I Know
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Before Chef, before Shaft, and before his 18-minute version of "By the Time I Get to Phoenix", Isaac Hayes was half of a potent Stax songwriting/producing duo with David Porter. Soul singers Sam & Dave were the prime beneficiary of their talents, having been gifted with classics like "Hold On, I'm Comin'", "When Something is Wrong with My Baby", and most notably "Soul Man". The first hit the duo had with Hayes & Porter was "You Don't Know Like I Know", which went to #7 on the black singles charts in March of 1966. It started a string of ten consecutive Top Twenty R&B hits for them.
In 1968 Hayes recorded his first album, which bombed. But his second album, Hot Buttered Soul (the one with the 18-minute version of "By the Time I Get to Phoenix") was the first in a series of hit albums that made him a star in his own right.
Incidentally, Porter also became a recording artist, but never achieved anything approaching Hayes' success.
Howlin‘ Wolf: Spoonful
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Here is my audacious statement of the week: Willie Dixon was as important to the classic sound of Chicago blues as Muddy Waters. That’s because you can’t look at the best work of any of the Chicago greats without finding a song that Willie Dixon wrote, and possibly produced. We heard Wang Dang Doodle here during nonsense week; that’s a Dixon tune. Willie Dixon became a house songwriter, producer, and studio musician, at Chess Records in the 1950s and early 60s. So just about anyone who went through Chess played some of his tunes. Some, like Spoonful, became signature tunes for the first artist who recorded them, in this case Howlin’ Wolf.
I’m stretching the definition of our theme a bit with this one. Yes, Howlin’ Wolf was the original artist, and yes, the song’s author, Willie Dixon, would later record the song under his own name. But Willie Dixon also plays bass on Howlin’ Wolf’s original version. So, even though Dixon’s later recording has him singing the song for the first time, he was more than just a bystander here. But I wanted to pay tribute to Dixon this week, and I don’t have a complete discography for all of the songs he wrote for others. So this is my solution. I hope nobody minds.
Mott The Hoople: All The Young Dudes
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David Bowie wrote All The Young Dudes for Mott The Hoople when Mott was struggling to place something on the charts. It was to the point of them throwing in the towel but Bowie and Hoople bassist Peter Watts got to talking and Bowie offered them Suffragette City. Mott rejected that so Bowie came up with All The Young Dudes. The song became a signature glam rock tune but Bowie later said the song was intended to speak to the coming apocalypse, much in the same way as Bowie's song Five Years. Rolling Stone rated the song as one of the 500 Greatest Songs of All Time and it is also one of The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame's 500 Songs that Shaped Rock and Roll.
The Spinners: It's a Shame
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Some week's theme's are pretty binary, and a song pretty clearly falls in or out of the box – songs from 1991, songs beginning with "you", songs with handclaps. This week is a little more challenging and the box has very fuzzy boundaries, so I'm playing it safe. Stevie Wonder, Syreeta Wright and Lee Garrett, all three artists in their own right, co-wrote and produced this song for label-mates the Spinners. After seven years plugging away for Berry Gordy's Motown label, the Spinners finally had their biggest hit to date. Two years later, they switched to Atlantic records, and producer/songwriter Thom Bell (remember him from the Delfonics post?) helped them achieve a string of 70's R&B/soul hits.
Patsy Cline: Crazy
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In 1961, Willie Nelson was hardly a household name. He was one of any number of Nashville songwriters who labored anonymously behind the scenes, hoping for a hit. Writing a hit single could often be the only way to get the chance to record an album of your own. Early 1961 found Nelson working on a song called Stupid. Nelson had the song in mind for a male singer. As he got close to finishing the song, Nelson changed the name to Crazy. One more thing had to fall into place. The singer Nelson had in mind turned the song down, and someone got it to Patsy Cline. Not only a hit, but a classic song was born, and Nelson was one his way to having his own recording career. But it would still be many years before Nelson would record his own version of Crazy, and Cline’s version has never been matched, not even by the song’s author.
Nico: These Days
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Though I have it listed in my archives as a Jackson Browne cover, this 1967 song is actually the original recording, written by a sixteen-year-old Browne for the mononymic Nico to record, with Browne on acoustic guitar and Velvet Underground chums Cale and Reed on everything else...and only later taken back by the songwriter, as his stature as a performer began to truly take off. As such, as I noted over at Cover Lay Down back in May of 2008,
cover versions of These Days tend to fall into two camps: those that cover Nico, and those that cover Jackson Browne. The former seem more popular among a certain indiefolk crowd, especially after her version lent hipster cred to the soundtrack for The Royal Tannenbaums, calling us back to its fragile, anxious, somewhat spacey sound; you can hear the secondhand influence of Nico in more recent covers from fringefolkers Kathryn Williams, St. Vincent, and Mates of State. Meanwhile, fellow seventies icons Gregg Allman and Kate Wolf clearly have Browne’s slow, simple poetics and clear, open-hearted delivery in mind; so, a generation later, do relative newcomers Denison Witmer, Fountains of Wayne, and Tyler Ramsey.
But as others have pointed out long before me, the bifurcated trunk of the musical tree that is These Days versions is relevant to an evolution of song not only because of the curious history, but because the choices made in each version affect the meaning of the song. And here we are not just talking musical interpretation, either: Nico’s version is lyrically different as well as musicially distinct, and the lost second-person subject of the penultimate line, the focus on belief (I don’t think I’ll risk another) over feeling (It’s so hard to risk another), changes the narrator into someone more narcissistic, less historied, and — some believe — less believable overall.
Our new theme this week is a bit tricky to define precisely - we're not looking for cover songs; we're looking for songs written by recognizable songwriters, artists known as performers in their own right, but which were originally recorded by others - but more common than you might imagine, given the tendency of many artists to start their careers as songwriters and small-scale performers, famous within the music community before they record their first record, not to mention the wont of some famous artists to pen songs for other voices as a sort of side-project. Not all thematic entries will have as rich a history of coverage as These Days, of course - some songs that fall into this theme are never recovered by the original artist; others are, but don't end up standing on their own as well in the hands of others. But it can be a delightful surprise to uncover authorship in these cases. I'm certainly looking forward to seeing what the Star Maker community comes up with.
Morrissey & Siouxie: Interlude
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Our mononymic week is quickly coming to an end (and I finally learned how to type mononymic at the first try). I thought it was a brilliant topic, don't you? We managed to get quite a few j-rockers in there, but we missed a boatload of other worthy artists.
We missed the rappers and hip-hop dudes like JayZ, Coolio, will.i.am, and Eminem. We missed the tough chicks like P!nk and Peaches, the pop princesses like Jewel, Tiffany, and, er, RuPaul, the rock stalwarts like Bono and Sting, the soulful sounds of Ne-Yo, Duffy, and Sade, and the quirky guys like Jonsi, Mika, Moby, and Beck. So here's my last stab at a final two-fer. I can't say it's a stellar duet---to me it sounds like two pretty unique voices that aren't trying at all to blend as one. Actually, these two had a falling out over the making of the video and haven't spoken since, which surprised no one given Moz's record of taking himself way too seriously, not to mention slagging off other vocalists. Still, they're both indie icons of a generation (he of The Smiths, she of The Banshees), and getting them to record this Timi Yoru cover together was a 1994 event.
Mariza: O Gente Da Minha Terra
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Amalia Rodrigues was the queen of Fado music until her death in 1999. In 2001, Mariza made her debut, and arguably took over Amalia’s old title. In Portugal to this day, Rodrigues is still referred to by her first name, and everyone there knows who you mean. O Gente Da Minha Terra represents a passing of the torch; the lyric is by Amalia Rodrigues, but it was Mariza who finally wrote a tune for it. But what is Fado? Let’s let some Portugese musicians answer that question:
The man that sings Fado usually does it in a black suit. He sings his love affairs, his city, the miseries of life, criticizes society and the politicians. He often talks about the bullfighting’s, the horses, the old days and the people already dead, and talks, almost every time, of "saudade" (longing). But where did the word Fado came from? It came from the Latin fatum, which means fate, the inexorable destiny that nothing can change. That is why Fado is usually so melancholic, so sad: as it sings that part of destiny that was opposite to the wishes of its owner. The woman sings always in black, with a mournful voice, and usually with a shawl on her shoulders. She sings the love and death: the death from the loss of love, the love lost to death...
This way of singing shows, in a certain way, the spirit of the Portuguese people: they believe in destiny as something that overwhelms them and to which they can't escape, the domination of the soul and heart over reason, that leads to acts of passion and despair, and reveal such a black and beautiful sorrow.
Lulu: Feelin' Alright
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Raspy-voiced Scottish Britpop soul singer Lulu had already recorded a couple of albums by the time she made her film debut in To Sir With Love at the tender age of nineteen, playing the rebellious Barbara "Babs" Pegg to Sidney Poitier's inspirational inner-city teacher. Lulu's memorable delivery of the film's title song charted at number one in the US, but her career neither began nor ended there; the woman has released scores of hit singles in her long, rich career, won the Eurovision Song Contest in 1969*, appeared as a judge and TV host for plenty of programmes since, and was named an OBE in 2000 in recognition for her contributions to British music.
To prove her prowess, here's one of many favorite funky coversongs she took on during her peak as a name-brand musician, from a 1970 major-label release spawned, in part, by her engagement to first husband Maurice Gibb of the Bee Gees. The Memphis-style horns, actually recorded in Alabama's Muscle Shoals, really drive the song forward, though the song could really use a bit more cowbell. And if you like this, you really should check out her takes on Dylan's The Mighty Quinn and Bowie's The Man Who Sold The World.
*Bonus points: Lulu's winning Eurovision Song Contest entry, Boom Bang-a-Bang, was only the second Nonsense Song to win the contest; the following year, it would be succeeded by a song from another Mononymic Artist, Irish singer-songwriter Dana
Hakuei: Kyou wo Ikiyou (Let's Live for Today)
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Just a quick drive-by post, in case you were thinking that J-Rock's all about death and mourning (my last two posts happened to pick up that theme).
I mentioned Hakuei (pronounced "Hawk-way") and his voice that's so much like Kiyoharu's. Here's a fun little song of his, a cover that maybe some of you know as a 1967 hit for the Grass Roots.
It's fun to check out this guy's photos, 'cuz he's also a model for Black Peace Now, a Japanese gothic clothing line. He's got more looks than Lady Gaga. In his spare time, he also produces a YouTube advice column, "Ask Dr. Hakuei ". I don't know about you, but when I'm having serious life issues, the first person I think of to turn to for advice is...the lead singer of the Visual Kei band, Penicillin.
You know what, though? He seems to do as well as any of the other agony aunts I obsessively read.
Odetta: How Long Blues
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Odetta had one of the most remarkable voices I ever heard. I talked about that in my tribute to her during our In Memorium week two years ago. I wanted to present her again for this week’s theme, so I went shopping in Amazon’s mp3 store, not knowing what I would go with. How Long Blues shows a side of Odetta I hadn’t been aware of before. Here she is as a jazz singer. The reviewers on Amazon are roughly split on whether this was a good idea for her; I think it was. Odetta would return to the idea shortly before her death. She made another album with a jazz combo in 2006, and it too sounds great.
Kiyoharu: Note
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Last time in J-Rock 101, we were treated to the mellow tones of Hyde and Gackt. I think you all are ready for someone a little bit more challenging (just a little bit, though---I'm not sure we're ready for the screamo artists yet, like Kyo from Dir en grey).
Kiyoharu's voice can be a bit of an acquired taste. Whereas in western music, any vocalist who sings with such a pronounced nasal tone and quirky vibrato would find it hard to find a recording contract, that sound's not uncommon among Japanese rock singers (Hakuei is another one with the same sound – they're hard to tell apart sometimes). And yet Kiyoharu's wildly popular in Japan both as lead vocalist for the bands Kuroyume and SADS and as a solo artist (yeah, he's older than he looks - he's 42).
I've avoided any of his rock-y songs in favor of this ballad that starts out more like something by Gordon Lightfoot or Jeffrey Foucault. The more I listened, understanding none of the lyrics but hearing that intensity, the more I was sure that this song wasn't some simple boy-meets-girl tale. So I poked around and found out my impression was right. According to Kiyoharu, his father was diagnosed in the final stages of pancreatic cancer so while he worked on this album (Forever Love), he often returned home to take care of him. He stated, "Because my father was the only one who approved of me becoming a musician, this is a work packed with my thanks, and I'll never forget it." I found the translated lyrics by Cayce on NotGreatestSite.net, and I have to say that after I read them, I was so moved by Kiyoharu's grief for his dying father that I cried.
I read the notebook that chronicled our days together,
I’ll break away from the grey sky, ah,
Your hand was weak holding mine,
You left me, saying “I’ll come again”… bye bye.
“The end was faster than we are,
Was it just that I wanted more time?”
I said, “I think I just gave up a little,”
I wanted to stop it, but it didn’t change.
complete lyrics here
Bjork: It's Not Up To You
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With a first name like Bjork there's not much need for a last name. But when your last name is a mouthful like Guðmundsdóttir, your fans will thank you for shortening it for them. As it is, she is known the world over by her first name, and has singularly put her homeland of Iceland on the map for many people.
The song I chose is from her 2001 album "Vespertine". It's a little after our 2000 cut-off for this blog, but it was an important year for my love of Bjork, and I really love this song. It was the year that I saw her in the Lars von Trier film "Dancer in the Dark", and showed the movie to a number of friends, and also my parents. Later that year I received an excited call from my mother while she was on vacation to tell me that she has sat next to Bjork on the flight into New Mexico that afternoon. I of course didn't believe her, but all signs point to it being true at this point. Figures my mother who only knew of her because I showed her that movie would sit next to her and make small talk about ginger ale and I'd be sitting at home, because I had decided not to join my family on their trip to New Mexico. Silly me.
Donovan: Wear Your Love Like Heaven
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Donovan's dreamy psychedelic folk rock doesn't age that well - this 43 year old hit single, for example, has a retro, slightly sluggish feel in a world of crisp pop production. But it's still sunny enough to fit nicely on the odd folk-and-then-some mixtape. And it made for a great moment in Season 13 of the Simpsons, where it served as soundtrack to Homer's experiment with medical marijuana.
Falco: Rock Me Amadeus
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I thought I'd give you something non-Japanese today as a bit of a palate cleanser. It's still foreign, though, so there's that.
Falco, an Austrian New Wave singer, gave the world this funky ode to the awesomeness of his fellow countryman, Mozart. (He was a virtuose, was a rock idol, and everyone shouted: Come on and rock me, Amadeus…) It became a worldwide hit in 1986, even reaching #1 in the US, a country notoriously tough on songs without English lyrics. In fact, Falco's first hit, Der Kommissar, only made it to the US charts as an Anglicized cover by the one-hit band, After the Fire.
I now feel properly rocked!
Ferron: Shadows on a Dime
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Ferron is one of those songwriters that more people should know about. I’ve never known her to resort to clichés in her writing. Shadows on a Dime is a fine example of her artistry. Here, a train ride becomes a metaphor for a string of memories. People the narrator has known are deftly sketched in just a few lines. Ferron’s voice perfectly conveys the layers of emotion that memories can involve, as fond nostalgia mixes with regret in the same line at times. And the arrangement of this song is perfect, with the interplay between the acoustic guitar and bass just enhancing the overall effect. So, if you haven’t heard Ferron before, explore her music further. There are many more gems in the mine this came from.
Gackt & Hyde: Orenji no Taiyou (The Orange Sun)
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Gackt: Freesia ~op.1~
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At dusk, I beheld the orange sun with you.
With a tear-streaked face, you bid an eternal farewell.
I can’t love you any more than I do, and just by that, I feel complete.
So don’t cry, we can always meet again whenever we close our eyes...
Could you hear me squee when boyhowdy announced this week's theme? 'Cuz guess what, SMM fans? J-rockers, bless their hearts, rival western rap/hip-hop musicians in that nearly all of them go by single names. That means either you're gonna get an earful of new j-rock music this week, or your finger's gonna get some fruitful exercise looking for that scroll key. Win-win, right?
Gackt, aka Gakuto Kamui, is one of the most successful J-Pop/Rock singers in Japan. Hyde, born Hideto Takarai, is the vocalist for the hugely popular band L'Arc~en~Ciel. Together they wrote and starred in a pretty strange 2003 film, Moon Child (that I actually own), in which all of the cast but one ends up dead or, well, undead. Orenji no Taiyou is the film's theme song.
And you know what? I think it's utterly gorgeous. It's unusual in any genre to have two guys sing a stunning ballad like this. Check out how well matched their voices are, especially at the climax around the 5-minute mark. I know both of their tones pretty well, and even then I have a hard time working out who's who (Gackt takes the high part). You can hear his beautiful baritone strutting its stuff in the second song, from his 2000 album, Mars.
