Bloom: When The Apple Blossoms Bloom In The Windmills Of Your Mind I’ll Be Your Valentine

ELP: When The Apple Blossoms Bloom In The Windmills Of Your Mind I’ll Be Your Valentine
[purchase] 

You might have noticed that I’ve long been a fan of prog rock and have often filled this space with discussions of it. You also might have noticed that I’ve never written about one of the most well-known prog bands, Emerson, Lake & Palmer (although, I have mentioned their bassist/vocalist Greg Lake, mostly in the context of his work with King Crimson, which I have written about probably too many times). And that’s because I was never that big a fan of ELP. Although there are a handful or so of their songs that I’ve liked, and I appreciated their musical virtuosity, I don’t think that I have ever bought a full ELP album in any format. There was always something about their music that left me a little cold, while I think that the more emotional music of their contemporaries Genesis and Yes appealed to me more. 

Despite a run of popular and well-received (except by the prog-haters) albums in the early 1970s, it seemed that by the middle of the decade, as the genre began to lose favor, ELP also appeared to lose creativity and cohesiveness. Their 1977 album, Works Vol.1 was a double album, with each member of the band getting one side, and the fourth side was collaborative. Although it sold well, it really wasn’t good, although the band’s version of Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare For The Common Man” was fun (and is on my list of ELP songs that I like). Later that year, they released Works, Vol. 2 which was essentially an odds and ends compilation of B-sides and unreleased tracks. Since most of these came from an earlier period when ELP was firing on all creative cylinders, it has more good stuff on it, including our feature song. 

“When The Apple Blossoms Bloom In The Windmills Of Your Mind I’ll Be Your Valentine” is a relatively short song for ELP, clocking in at just under 4 minutes, with a title that takes almost as long as that to say. (but if you want long titles, check out the Red Sparowes). It’s an upbeat and relatively unpretentious (by ELP standards) instrumental that may well have started as a jam. You can hear the musical talent of the three musicians and enjoy their playing on this track. It was recorded during the Brain Salad Surgery sessions and was released as the B-side to the “Jerusalem” single. 

Works, Vol. 2 was less commercially successful than its predecessor, which is probably what economists call a lagging indicator. But it also pretty much the end for ELP. Their next album, the contractually required Love Beach, which features the band members posing with mostly open shirts near a beach, appeared to be an attempt to pivot toward more pop-oriented music, much as Yes and Genesis were doing in this period, but without any real conviction. Moreover, the band was breaking apart even more, with Lake and Palmer recording their parts and fleeing the studio, leaving Emerson to finalize the album. It sold OK, but was not well received by critics, even those who still liked the genre. 

Other than a few live releases, a few partial reunions that included other musicians replacing absent core members, and a brief full reunion in the 90s, that was pretty much it for ELP. Emerson died in 2016 of a self-inflicted gunshot, and Lake died of cancer the same year.

BLOOM: BLOOMERS (DINAH MOE HUM/FRANK ZAPPA)

Us crack team of world weary scribes often have a little virtual chat around the introduction of each new theme. For this one, as the (currently*) token Brit, the newsroom wondered whether I would be taking on bloomers under this portmanteau. As someone who never discusses taking off bloomers, again a British "thing", I somehow have found myself delivering a post about voluminous panties. Well, someone has to!

And you know, I discovered how few songs there are on the subject. Indeed the only one that I could instantly think of, is one I can't stand. Perspective. When I were a lad, inky fingered from addiction to the musical press, I read more about music that had opportunity to listen. Thus, I liked a lot of artists long before I ever heard a note they played, purely on the basis of the enthusiastic coverage in New Musical Express and in Melody Maker. Frank Zappa and his Mothers of Invention were one such, as was his acolyte and erstwhile friend, Captain Beefheart. They looked such outrageous reprobates, not just dirty hippies, but filthy dirty hippies (or so my naive mind wandered). This admiration would take a logical step into afternoons misspent in the record shop, cans on, rifling through the records available. By good luck, it was Hot Rats that I first got my ears around, a record I love to this day, and can whistle still every nuanced guitar solo. It's true, I didn't much like the Beefheart vocals in Willie the Pimp, overly mannered and affected. (It's why my vinyl copy has a deep ridge in the grooves, as I tried, clumsily, always to skip them, as the guitar calisthenics that followed were and remain phenomenal. It sort of went downhill after that. OK, forgive me, I bought Live At The Fillmore, snickering at mud shark misdemeanours and other such low brow schoolboy humour; hell, I was a schoolboy. It has remained unlistenable for years since, bar the lift of Flo and Eddie reprising the Turtles' Happy Together, which I used to add to mixtapes. Showing how long, that too, was. (Of course I knew they were the Turtles before they were Flo and Eddie, should anyone be tempted to pass comment. You might anyway, as it has been so long that any of us had a comment that you could wonder if we write merely for ourselves.)

Fast forward, what, a couple of years, and I was sharing a study with someone with an even more over-attuned sense of hip than I. We shared our admiration of Zappa, and one fine day he unleashed his latest purchase, Overnite Sensation, playing it loud, on rotation, for several hours. I got to know the songs well, the lyrical drift imprinting on my brain like a bad smell. What was this dreck, this drivel? Even as I tried to concentrate on the instruments, all I could get was his insufferable baritone, smirking and smutting. In a crash of lightning it came to me, Zappa was shite, a charlatan. And, Hot Rats aside, there he has remained. I still think that a work of genius, so much so, in fact, as when his son, Dweezil,  recently came over and played the album as the modus operandi of a tour and album, I had to go. And, when he had played the album, consummately, I should add, with his band, again I had to go, as he started the second half by cranking straight up into fecking Dina Moe..... Which meant I was home and tucked up in bed, probably before the encores. (Note, the review is not mine, but the first comment is.)

So, having written off both Zappa, largely, and Beefheart, totally, as pants, SWIDT, what more is there for me to do here? Well, how about the only Beefheart song I can abide.

That his most hardcore fans wrote this late commercial phase as a sellout and a sham probably tells you as much about them as it does about me. Me, I blooming' love it.

Bloom here!

(*currently as in still here, but additional limeys still deemed eminently welcome, as indeed all citrus. Wanna write here? As it says in the top right hand corner: "Star Maker Machine is always open to new bloggers joining our ranks. Send an email to learn more: smmmod2000@gmail.com )

PAUL: TALL PAUL

Another rabbit warren of antique archaicism to fall down today, as we grasp at the few straws offered by Tin Pan Alley to the Pauls of this world. Johns, and Johnnys are, of course, two a penny, and even Williams get more action, if more frequently foreshortened to Billy. So, then, pop pickers, who remembers “Tall Paul”? Don’t worry, I don’t either, but it was 1959 when Annette Funicello took it to the Billboard chart, where it reached number 7. 

There’s a nice tale about the song, suggesting it was written for Paul Anka, not least as he and Funicello were briefly an item. Anka responded vigorously to deny this, citing he was not remotely tall, an inescapable truth. Funicello was an erstwhile Mousketeer for the Mickey Mouse club, long before, I should add, any more recent incumbent, and the song was written by the Sherman brothers, Robert B. and Richard M., who specialised in writing for Disney, and penned most of the soundtrack for Mary Poppins. The song? Well. It ain’t up to much, typical fare for the times, but it did provoke a response. 

The tradition of a song producing a response, unrelated, from another group or singer is long and celebrated. Possibly the best example would be the songs traded between the star crossed squeezes, Neil Sedaka and Carole King. “Oh, Carol” was a massive hit for the former, and “Oh Neil”, her reply, was not, perhaps explained by her, in the interim, having married Gerry Goffin. More recently there was the somewhat more nuanced bromance between Morrissey and Billy MacKenzie. The Smiths brought out “William, It Was Really Nothing”, the seemingly somewhat a little infatuated Associates singer, with the explosive H bomb of a voice, riposted with “Stephen, You’re Really Something.” Probably more a little bit of celebrity one-upmanship, it makes for a great tale, if largely and likely apocryphal. 

Anyway, “Tall Paul” too garnished a reply, from a songwriter, Ray Hildebrand, who elected to give it a duet status, enrolling the niece of his landlord, Jill Jackson, to help him sing it. Picked up by showbiz mogul and producer, Major Bill Smith, who, despite outranking Colonel Tom Parker, was in an entirely different league. He gave Ray and Jill the name Paul and Paula, and a hit was born, hitting the number 1 spot in 1962. I was confident that was that, but it appears they went on to have a career of sorts, with further hits and a few albums, ahead of Hildebrand quitting the glitz, returning to college and embracing the Church. A later “Dear Paula” did not chart. 

Coming soon, in a future theme entitled Bernard, will be more enticing tales of derring do, but, until then, grab ‘em while you can…… 

Tall Paul 

Hey Paula

Paul Songs: Broken Bones & Pocket Change

St. Paul & The Broken Bones: Broken Bones & Pocket Change
[purchase] 

When a musician leaves the stage and heads into the crowd, you never know what is going to happen. That’s probably why you don’t really see it very often, and when it does happen, there’s usually a phalanx of security guards to protect the musicians from bodily harm. I’ve written about one time that I saw The Decemberists leave the stage in Amsterdam to reenact the 1667 Battle of Chatham, and another time that Buddy Guy jumped off the stage in Central Park and eventually approached my wife and I, and our two-month-old son, who was at his first concert (not including a couple he attended in utero). And I recall seeing the Blind Boys of Alabama do it, also in Central Park. I’m sure there are more examples, but the only other one that I can specifically recall was when I saw St. Paul & The Broken Bones at the Capitol Theatre in 2019.  Although I feel like that is something that Bono has done on occasion, and we all know what his real first name is, right?

I’ve mentioned in passing before that I occasionally blog about shows at the Capitol Theatre, the storied venue in Port Chester, New York. When they announce shows, I can request a ticket, and if I am chosen, I get to go for free, and write about the show. They then post what I wrote, usually with a bunch of nice pictures taken by a professional photographer, on their website, in a section called the “Squirrel Blog.” Squirrels are important to the Cap. I blogged that show, so let me borrow from what I wrote back then, when it was fresh in my memory: 

After Janeway introduced and thanked the band, they launched into the emotional “Broken Bones & Pocket Change,” as Janeway plunged into the crowd before walking upstairs, singing from the side boxes, traversing and nearly climbing off the balcony, and ending the show from the boxes on the other side. 

You can see a video of that part of the show here. I don't think you can see me in the video, but I'm standing in front of the soundboard, because someone once told me that it was the best place to stand.

The “Janeway” that I referred to is Paul Janeway, the titular "St." Paul, who had trained as a preacher before eventually turning to music. The band’s name came from our featured song, the first that Janeway wrote with bassist and co-founder Jesse Phillips. They formed the group in 2012 in Birmingham, Alabama, and soon became an 8-piece soul band that included guitarist Browan Lollar, who had been part of Jason Isbell’s band The 400 Unit and keyboard player Al Gamble (whose brother Chad is the drummer in the 400 Unit). Their first full album, Half The City, which contained our featured song, was released on Single Lock Records, which I only mention because one of the owners is John Paul White (of The Civil Wars), and then, only because we are focusing on “Pauls.” 

Here's how I described their performance that night: 

Janeway regally commanded the stage, a shiny cape over his shoulders like Solomon Burke, and the crowd was in his hands from the start. 

Good performers feed off the energy of the crowd—great ones take that energy and send it back, magnified, and that’s exactly what Janeway and the band did, holding nothing back through the hour and a half set. His voice is a freak of nature, rich and soulful—think Al Green or Otis Redding—with an otherworldly falsetto that thrilled the crowd. 

It was a great show, I got to see it for free, the lead singer left the stage and climbed into the balcony, and nobody got hurt. If that's not a great night, I don't know what is.

Paul Songs: Paul Kantner

 

purchase [  Volunteers ]

From what I have read, Paul Kantner was the driving force behind the Jefferson Airplane/Starship. Obviously neither was a one-man show, but aside from his credits as co-founder of the band, he is also credited as the one who rescussitated the band following their height of fame years. Sure ... there were other equally important "Jefferson" members (wouldn't want to belittle any of them, but Grace Slick and Marty Balin probably come next in the list for both incarnations).

While there are a number of other bands that came out the mid 60s/Summer of Love era in and around San Fransisco, for psychedelia, two stand out in my personal preferences, and they couldn't be more different in approach. (I know, this is a gross simplification that leaves out the more than 100 other Bay Area bands from that time, but .. Sly, Santana, Creedence don't really fit the psychedelia filter). So ... more different. The Dead = laid-back, rambling, a tinge of country: Airplane= in-your-face, hard-edged, with a sharp message: "Tear down the walls, m***f***s ")

Was Kanter a great guitar player? (One of the Google questions you'll see if you go digging.) Aside from asking for your personal opinion, I'll give mine. Considering the state of guitars, guitar playing, rock music in the late 60's ... I would say "good, not great". Having never seen him live (where you can really get a sense of one's skills), he did a good job with what he needed to do. Not flamboyant, but consider the effect (that is what counts?) of the guitar (opening guitar) on the Volunteers song: Nothing incredible - except that it is just what the song - and the song's message - needs.

PAUL: PAUL/BIG THIEF

Yeah, me neither, but it is what it is, and gives an obtuse pleasure more profound than, say, "Types of Horse" or "Continental Cheeses", although the latter could have some traction as a future theme. First I thought about witty puns and homophones, you know, pallbearers and the such aPAULing ideas. Then I moved on to the name, with which I have stuck. At first I was going to riff on alternate spellings, so Porl Thompson or Pòl Brennan*, but left off, feeling it too contrived. (Like it has ever stopped me before.) I assumed someone somewhere might already be considering the only living boy in New York, so avoided that one, or any other singer-songwriter casting a similar shadow. So, what was left?

I asked Alexa, and she didn't disappoint, reminding me of the estimable charm of Adrianne Lenker's band, Big Thief, whom I don't think have been included here before. Big Thief usually get described as indie, which, these days, seems a phrase of some redundancy, encompassing anything outwith a standard blues based rock orthodoxy, and where electric guitars are employed. I have also seen them written up as folk-rock, which also, at least in any anglo-celtic tradition, seems just wrong. Could they be post-rock, that term I don't really understand, knowingly dropped into conversation by erudite folk like, well, like me, actually. Never let it be said that understanding is a prerequisite to use of any word, idea or undertaking. (For the record, wiki tell me that post-rock is:"a form of experimental rock^[3] characterized by a focus on exploring textures and timbre over traditional rocksong structures, chords, or riffs." Well, that clears that up, then.)

Frankly, does it matter? The sound and songs they make are often a delight of subtle twists of phrase and melody, borne along on the fragile and raw intimacy of Lenker's vocal. Unfair to call the band Lenker's really, as she has a separate solo life that began ahead the band, and continues, alongside. And that, perhaps, does fit more comfortably into a "folk" characterisation, acoustic and organic Indeed, she made her first album in 2006, before even attending Berklee College of Music, where she met the other members of Big Thief, all four of the original quartet graduates of that august institution. But she becomes identifiably the focus, such is the default of most vocalists.

Paul comes from their debut, often defined their masterpiece, which is handy, as that is exactly the same name they gave it themselves, back in 2016. It is one of those songs that instantly arouses interest. I guess I first heard it back in about 2020, ever late to the game,  possibly as the pandemic had me hunkering down, with more time to explore back catalogues and back pages, the present effectively on hold. A splurge on youtube viewing had me moving from track to track, album to album. Similar to when I first heard the National, suddenly I wanted to hear it all and hear them more. Thankfully(!), they haven't been that prolific, unless one discounts her solo work and the proto-BF stirrings of her duet work with later bandmate, and erstwhile husband, the guitarist Buck Meek. Since Masterpiece, there have been four releases, the latest being a freshly minted double, Dragon New Morning Warm Mountain, from barely two months ago.

I'm not going to link any more of their songs; I want that to be a delight for any self-sourcing this piece may provoke. But here's a live radio performance of Paul:

And a further version, stripped back in duet form, Adrianne and Buck style.

Enjoy your searching.

(*SWIDT, given the avatar for this theme!?)

Paul Songs: Paula Y Fred

Latin Playboys: Paula Y Fred
[purchase] 

When brilliant roots rock/Americana/Latin band Los Lobos joined forces with producer Mitchell Froom and engineer Tchad Blake for the 1992 album Kiko, their murky, quirky and layered production style added a new, experimental, facet to Los Lobos’ already diverse sound, and many believe it to be the band’s finest album. After Kiko, Los Lobos member David Hidalgo played some demos for Froom, who suggested that, instead of using them for a new Los Lobos album, they be used for a new side project. Enlisting fellow band member Louie Perez to form Latin Playboys, the quartet released a self-titled album in 1994 that took Los Lobos’ eclectic sound and pushed it to the limit, with all sorts of noises, distortion, and just plain strangeness. It was compelling and fascinating, even if I admittedly rarely listen to it from start to finish (but that’s pretty much true for me with most albums these days, I guess). 

Los Lobos came together with Froom and Blake for Colossal Head in 1996 and This Time, in 1999, and Latin Playboys released a second album, Dose in 1999 which was also pretty experimental, but had more distinct songs than the debut. 

One of those songs is “Paula Y Fred,” which The New York Times (yes, the Times actually gave a pretty long review to the Latin Playboys’ second album) described as “a cheerful son jarocho, sung in Spanglish, in which unrequited love leads to murder.” It is cheerful sounding, and my rudimentary Spanglish allows me to concur with their description of the plot, but I had to look up “son jarocho.” Wikipedia says that it is the “Veracruz Sound", “a regional folk musical style of Mexican Son from Veracruz, a Mexican state along the Gulf of Mexico.” You can read more about it at the Wikipedia link, or, I bet, at other sites that are more authoritative about Mexican musical styles. I listened to a few examples of traditional sones jarocho, and I think the Times is right. By the way, “La Bamba,” which Los Lobos famously covered, was originally a son jarocho too. 

Dose was the last Latin Playboys album, and Los Lobos would move on from Froom and Blake, using a different producer for their next album—lots of critics began to write that the production seemed to be getting in the way of the music, although in my opinion, all of their collaborations contained gems. But Los Lobos' desire for mixing sonic experimentation with the basic rootsy sounds never really disappeared, and it has enriched their music. As regular readers of this blog know, I really like Los Lobos (although I’ve had some issues with some of their live shows over the years). 

Look, I’m not sure what the point of this theme is, but it gave me the chance to revisit some interesting music that I hadn’t thought about in years, and I hope that this piece introduces you to Latin Playboys, or makes you go back and check them out again.

Shelter: Gimme Shelter Covers

 

purchase [ Let It Bleed ]

Shelter without the elephant in the room? Well ... Jordan *did* once bring it up with a post about the one and only Merry Clayton, who did the incredible backup ... nay ... co-vocals with Mick Jagger on Gimme Shelter (from Let It Bleed) - screenshot above. Myself? I am such an old Stones man that in one of my classes today, the first thing that came to mind was to play <Out of Time> when the clock ran out on my students' quiz time .  ("Baby, baby, baby, you're out of time ...") And yes, I've been known to post here about the band on occasion [ here and here and more ]

Gimme Shelter certainly ranks among my favorites - not just Stones favorites. I can't help but stomp  my feet when I hear the song kick in full force. Certainly it has something to do with classic Keith style: the songs  just reeks of Richards' guitar. Probably the reverb on the intro riffs? And then there's the message in the lyrics. Again, so Stones: murder, rape, shot, flood, fire, storm, war ... a kiss away. Shelter from a kiss, or war is just a kiss away? I tell ya, I'm gonna fade away if I don't get some shelter.

So ... without the elephant, some covers below:

You want more?

SHELTER: ME (LORD)

 At times of terror and turbulence we, as humans, often seek solace or succour from a higher power, quite whatever that might be. And, no, this isn't extending a troll to the many millions who hold dear such an idea, certain of the reality. I get the need, sure, I get the need, even often wishing I could accept what I can't fully embrace. But I don't believe, arguably more agnostic than atheist, but fully respect the want of others to have a faith. So much so that I can absolutely love the musical convictions offered by those with belief and surety. Religious music can move me to tears and frequently does. Here, as the ravages rained down upon Ukraine fill our 24 hour rolling news channels, I feel sure, were I in the maelstrom of Mariupol, that it would be songs like this that would be filling my head.

One could easily assume the above, as performed by Louisiana bluesman Tab Benoit, to be an ancient spiritual, handed down from generation to generation, even brought over on the slave ships, so earthy, rugged and real the entreaty. I certainly assumed so, Benoit having the knack of uprooting the overlooked and arcane to cover for his repertoire of authentic sounding country blues from the bayous. Having a voice like an earthquake and adept workmanlike precision on his guitar certainly hinders little. Hell, if you forgive the use of the word in this context, he just makes you want to believe in his God. (Or, at least, to take the Marc Cohn option, "Ma'am, I am tonight!")

But it isn't an old hymn, as I discovered, coming from a much more recent source. Here, above, is the original version, as appearing on Buddy Miller's 2004 album, Universal House of Prayer. I sometimes feel an overt Christian faith is deemed as disadvantageous in the world of rock and roll, not least as the Devil is said to have the best songs. Well, if that is the case, someone forgot to tell Buddy Miller, hotshot guitarist and record producer, who has played alongside both Robert Plant and Emmylou Harris, and produced, amongst others, Richard Thompson and Patty Griffin. This is as well as having his own solo career and that as a duet, with his wife, Julie, who actually wrote the song featured. Below is a live version, Buddy with three of his famous friends, Emmylou, Patty and, also a recipient of his production work, Shawn Colvin.

Quite apart from the couldn't be clearer lyrical thrust, is the odd fact that this self same song was used as the theme of a TV reality show in the U.S. Named Sons of Guns, it was about the life and business of a gun dealership. Which sorta sits uncomfortably. So, get rid the thought of it selling guns, and concentrate on applying it to losing the guns, and tanks, and bombs, from Ukraine, or, at least, from the hands of Putin's "military exercise". Maybe offered up as a prayer?

Have a last version, this time from Canada's excellent Blackie and the Rodeo Kings, joined here by no less than Mrs Springsteen herself, Patti Scialfa:

Shelter Tab, Buddy and Blackie's.

Shelter: Inshallah

 

purchase[ 57th and 9th ]

We are thinking about refugees this week: people seeking shelter. Sadly, issues like this come to the forefront when there are wars, when in fact, they are on-going problems that the world faces  and often turns a blind eye to on a daily basis. Something is koyaanisqatsi. Maybe many things?

Most definitions of the word inshallah combine a mix of fate/kismet and hope. The word allah is clearly embedded inside and the meaning is: if God wills it so. I would guess that the average speaker of Arabic/Turkish utters the word every day.

it shouldn't be a great surprise that Sting chose it for one of his songs: he is no foreigner to Arabic/Islamic culture (see:  Desert Rose), and he comes across as sensitive to multi-culturalism. He himself is an immigrant (see: Englishman in New York)

The song is about refugees coming to Europe from Islamic countries: but he also notes that the sense of "I hope" is an everyday occurance in Western culture - if we are attuned to it. He notes that when you cross a busy intersection in the city, you would be wise to say "inshallah, I'll make it to the other sidewalk". There is an element of fate and luck every time you step off the sidewalk.

And then I try to put myself in the shoes of a refugee (of a war, of hopeless poverty, homelessness), where it's not just a search for protection from tonight's rain or snow, but the longer-term need for a place that's safe. And I can't do it. Sure - I've been without shelter in various bad weather. Short-term, all. But not without hope. And that's where inshallah comes in.

Sting isn't the only one to include inshallah in his lyrics, but it comes as no surprise to me that most other examples are not from US musicians. My better half has on occasion suggested that I refrain from using the word in our private conversations when we are in the US - for example in a mall - because of the unwanted attention it might draw. (I did say that people from this part of the world utter the word frequently every day)  Lyrics.com suggests about 500 songs with the word, and the artists are primarily European resident Arabic rappers. No big surprise.

Inshallah, you'll enjoy the song. Inshallah, you'll put yourself in the (mental) shoes of someone seeking shelter - and do what you can. As Sting says in French "I hope this songs engenders your empathy" (my liberal translation) And of course ... the venue for the clip above adds to the poignancy.

Blvck Oreo (Vibes & Inshallah) :

Shelter: Shelter

The Dexateens: Shelter
[purchase]

I seem to be writing about my song selection process a lot lately, which may mean that I’m trying to fill space because I’m running out of songs that have particular meaning for me. I hope not, because that would be bad for a blogger who mostly responds to theme prompts, but we’ll see—and maybe I need to take another short sabbatical to recharge. I’m spending a good deal of time these days working on projects directly or indirectly related to my 40th college reunion in May, which I’m sure I’ll figure out a way to write about down the road, and that also explains why I’ve been writing once per theme more often than twice these days. Also, there’s work and family. And good TV. 

So, when I heard the theme, my first thought was a King Crimson song, but seriously, who really wants me to write about another King Crimson song, and an instrumental, at that? (The volume of my Crimson-related posts surprises even me, considering that they are not my favorite band. What is my favorite band? I really don’t know.) My second thought was to pick the obvious Rolling Stones song, but I’ve written about that before. There’s also a Dylan classic, but writing about Dylan can be heavy lifting, and I don’t have the patience for that right now. 

Which inevitably led me to an iTunes library search, where I landed upon today’s feature song, “Shelter,” by The Dexateens. Is it a great song? No. Is it a good song by an underappreciated band in the vaguely Americana genre? Yes. Which means that it’s a good one for me to write about. (Although having finished this post, I realize that I mentioned the band a few years ago).

The Dexateens were formed in the late 1990s in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, featuring singer-songwriters and guitarists Elliott McPherson and John Smith, with drummer Craig "Sweet Dog" Pickering and bassist Matt Patton. If that last name seems familiar, we’ll get there. Their name came not from the same source as Dexys Midnight Runners, but instead from a guitar pick that Smith’s brother had gotten signed by Dex Romweber, a musician that you might have heard of. Or not. Although he’s pretty good and it is a memorable name. Mixing punk with southern rock, The Dexateens’ self-titled debut album from 2004 is excellent—raw and rocking, and “Shelter” is a Stonesy-stomp. 

I’m not sure when I first heard about The Dexateens, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it was in 2007, when their fine album Hardwire Healing was released, and it was co-produced by Patterson Hood of the Drive-By Truckers and David Barbe, who has worked with the Truckers (as well as playing bass in Sugar). I suspect that this was the hook that got me to check out the band, which has de-emphasized punk over the years. After some personnel changes, the band broke up in 2010. Patton joined the Truckers on bass (and as the occasional Ramones cover singer), and also plays with The Dexateens, which re-formed in 2013. And, he co-owns a recording studio in Mississippi (where part of the Ramones cover video in the link was shot). Busy man. 

 So, check out The Dexateens if you aren’t familiar with them.

SHELTER: BIRDY

 Yes, I know it's a cover. In fact, all but one of the songs on her first album are covers, arguably all the more surprising, with her subsequent three records being visually all self-penned, at least including co-writes. But it is to her eponymous debut I return the most, giving life and substance to songs I am otherwise not overly fond of.

Named down to her love of Charlie Parker, her neo-jazz skronkings have soundtracked many an apocalypse, making this post entirely appropriate for the moment. I jest; the name comes from the more prosaic open mouth she made as a hungry infant, seeking sustenance. Plus, it is a whole lot easier to say than her given name, Jasmine Lucilla Elizabeth Jennifer van den Bogaerde, almost as much of a mouthful as the dissimilarly derided Dido, for whom it is compulsory to mock with the full extravagance of her christened names. Odd that, but I digress, not least as Birdy has a far greater claim on the Peerage through the Lords and Barons that abound her family tree. As well, interestingly, the actor, Dirk Bogarde, her late great-uncle. And, worry not, neo-jazz skronkings are the last thing she could be accused of.

The original song, by electronica-dance merchants the xx, is such a slight tendril of a tune that it is, to my mind, remarkable what Birdy brings to it, her skilled and school piano-play an altogether more stately setting for the somewhat allegorical lyric. If this theme was designed to show a light on the horror Putin is unleashing on his neighbour state, I fear the words are overly vague, but I am disregarding that point. Just the act of typing out Putin is a psycho monster makes me feel better, wishing that alone could give some relief to the beleaguered Ukraine. Of course it can't, but I can only hope that someone somewhere is plotting a sly, sneaky bullet in him, sooner rather than later. 

But back to Birdy. Like most people, I first heard of her as she brought Bon Iver's song, above, to a wider audience, at the same time, rendering it bearable to those, like me, who can appreciate the construction but cannot stand his enuretic voice. (Apologies to his potent fanbase, who, as he delves deeper and deeper into studio tricks and FX, goes from bad to much, much worse.) What I didn't know, until writing this piece, was that she was a sickening fourteen years old when she cut this cover. Eek, simultaneously discovering I am somewhat older than either of her parents. Given I am known to be especially curmudgeonly toward child prodigies, perhaps it is as well I didn't, at the time I enjoyed the song and bought the album. That was 11 years ago, the other covers on her debut split between the left field indie faves and the sole chestnut, James Taylor's ageless Fire and Rain.

So, what of her later stuff? Casting her net wide for sympathetic co-writers, her next two releases show her finding her feet, it taking 2021's Young Hearts to display the sense of maturity she pretended earlier. Surrender, the song below, is one such example, which brings on board the not inconsiderable talents of Daniel Tashian (Lissie, Kacey Musgraves), a fella who knows his hooks. 

Why have I chosen Surrender? I guess as my heart hopes Zelensky won't, even if my head suggests he has to, in the absence of the NATO support he so strongly wants, and that NATO are so scared of providing.

Gimme Shelter....

Marching: Minor March

 

purchase [ Quintet/Sextet ]

Bitches Brew was the first that I heard (of) Miles Davis. It must have been mid '70s.

Much later, I saw him live in Istanbul near the end of his life. My wife was 5 months pregnant and *man* was he loud. My son-to-be kicked his way through that one. I think it qualifies as "he's been to a Miles Davis concert". We were in something like row 5, which undoubtedly added to the volume. That outdoor venue appears to have been one leg of his 1988 European tour which apparently he cut short for health reasons. Despite his fame/acclaim, he came across as particularly ornery.

There's a fair amount of Davis' work that I find hard to access/enjoy. This 1954 piece - Minor March - isn't one of those. Maybe it's partially the effect of Milt Jackson and his vibraphone that makes the piece (the album? Quintet/Sextet) fairly melodic.

Minor March was written by Jackie McLean who plays the sax on it. Wikipedia says that Davis wrote in his autobiography, "I remember Jackie got so high he got terrified he couldn't play. I don't know what that shit was all about, but after this date, I never used Jackie again." Wikipedia says he never recorded with the man again.

MARCHING: CES BOTTES SONT FAITES POUR MARCHER

 

OK, so a bit of international licence here, an entente cordiale to fit the subject, which, like a kinky boot, it does, très snug. I love a bit of foreign, do I, so it was with some disappointment and frustration I have felt it wise to cancel a forthcoming jaunt to Paris. Little to bear, in comparison to our friends in Ukraine, but Putin can go sit on one. OK, as he could before, but this biscuit has been well and truly taken, the birds of his political interferences in US and UK governments now arguably coming home to roost, as "we" struggle to work out what is and isn't justified in return. Bad and sad days.

Endeavouring to remain upbeat, let's pursue the arena of pop in translation. Yé-yé, as our french cousins say. One rule, mind, that being an avoidance of where an anglophone artist simply translates their song into french, and copycats it, so none of this, no Bowie or Blondie. (Strangely, this is a trick the Beatles never pulled off, even if tried a bit of Deutsch.)

Africain à Paris/Tiken Jah Fakoly

The above is an extraordinary piece of translation, changing both the words and the locations, succeeding in an impressive alchemy. And, musically, is it any less wrong to suggest the Parisian music scene is to Africans that New York might be to an Englishman? The number of artists from that continent in the French capital, making there their music, is immense, belying a concept that Paris could well be the home of African culture.

Hey Joe/Johnny Hallyday

I'm uncertain if the translated lyric has actually, name apart, anything to do with the original, but, it being my favourite song, possessing dozens of versions of it, yes, of course, this I already have and was so already well familiar with. Fond of, less. Having said that, it was a song he never stopped playing, with this considerably later version even quite edgy, in a poundshop Keith Richards way. 

L'Amour C'Est Comme Une Cigarette/Sylvie Vartan

Well, if we are going weird, we have to go here. Ms. Easton's paean to the early morning commute seems clearly a whole different concept through a French lens, this song stealing only the tune, as it, well, as you do, compares love to a cigarette. A Gauloise, I assume. I will avoid smutty allusions around sucking on it and watching it turning slowly to ash.

D'En Haut de la Tour de Guet/Francis Cabrel

Another of my favourite songs in coverland, the translation itself a labour of love. Indeed, so wordy is most of his work that you forgive all the continentals who sang on, regardless, in English, rather than wrestle long and hard, as clearly had the performer here. It comes from an entire album's worth of similar fare, and I tip my chapeau his way.

Hôtel de Californie/The Cat Empire

Is this cheating? I suspect it is, but it is such a delightfully gallic take on the song to ignore the fact it was cobbled together in Australia by Melbourne ska-punkers The Cat Empire. And what better place to end this reverie.

Bottes by Eileen: ici

MARCHING: MONCK'S MARCH

 Every now and then I forget my audience (!?!) and revert to type, with arcane and counter-intuitive posts that, often, involve injudicious use of the F word. F for f***in' folk, FFS, catnip to dogs everywhere, and, what's more, not even in  the watered down transatlantic meaning of the word, being the full on, bang on of trad. So, gather round, enjoy.

A history lesson first. General George Monck, 1608 - 70, was quite the journeyman soldier, assiduously applying his colours to the prevailing flags of the day. Acclaimed as a brutally efficient suppressor of rebellion, he made his name crushing the Irish in 1641. Returning in time for the English Civil war, he, in turn, fought for the Royalists, was captured and spent two years in gaol, becoming then Cromwell's lead in Ulster and Scotland. When Cromwell died and his short lived republican Commonwealth was faltering, he reattached support to the Monarchy and, with the throne restored, Charles II rewarded him with senior position. The tale always told was that he satiated any conflicts of loyalty by purposefully marching his army so slowly int battle as to often miss the skirmish altogether. (Hmmm, a good man for NATO right now, then.....)

The tune, Monck's March, is a staple of the English Morris Cotswold tradition, emanating from the village of Sherborne. It celebrates the good general by offering a heel and toe step, sort of one step back for each two steps forward. I have it on good faith that this was the inspiration for Michael Jackson's "moonwalk", the entire Jackson family strong aficionados of English Country Dance. I suspect I have before mentioned my own forays into this energetic prelude to the drinking of much ale, thus delighted when the dance became absorbed into our repertoire. As a huge lifelong fan of all things Fairport, I had been drawn to the offshoot noodlings of Ashley Hutchings and friends in the Morris On project, followed up, in succession, by Son of Morris On, Grandson of Morris On and so on. It was a short step from dinner party dance time with napkins to actually join a side. My knees eventually called time on me, together with the gradual loss of other like minds: you don't ever see many Morris men under 60 these days, and so it is now a fond memory rather than much else. Thankfully, Mr Hutchings has never lost his enthusiasm, and Morris On, as a project, continues. Here is a clip from their live show, at Fairport's Cropredy Festival a few years back.

But there are other ways of presenting the tune. Here's a full orchestral version for Symphonic Wind Orchestra:

Lute, I think:

Or a medieval version, all sackbuts and crumhorns:

Finally a jolly country band version, that I can imagine going down a storm at a ceilidh.

Thanks for indulging me! 

Son of Morris On.