Author Archives: ERM

Song #1006*: “Regret,” by New Order

Posted on December 26, 2020 | Comments Off on Song #1006*: “Regret,” by New Order
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“Regret,” from the 1993 New Order album Republic.
Tension, cool riff, fun bass.

(4 minute read)

*Note – I’m not even going to try to rank songs. I just plan to periodically write a little bit about some songs that I like.

~ ~ ~

Music critics have been at work since (at least) the days of Bach and Beethoven. Three hundred years later, their place in society is still debated, discussed, and defended. While I love reading reviews and opinions on music, I’ve always found it silly to think that a writer can state, fairly and objectively, that a piece of music is “good” or “bad.” It’s ridiculous that someone can pompously name himself “Dean of America’s Rock Critics[ref]By the way, as I argued at length when writing about Billy Joel, I truly believe that most critics are failures, creatively, who turn to criticism to soothe their egos. I learned from Christgau’s Wikipedia page that this is true about him. As I suspected.[/ref],” and folks just follow along as if his opinion (and it is an opinion) means more than any other schlub’s out there. As Emeritus Professor of Music at McMaster University Alan Walker wrote:

[I]t is difficult to show that a value judgment can stand for anything that is even remotely true about music, as opposed to standing for something that is merely a personal whim on the part of the critic …[ref]He goes on to neatly make a case for why it is an important effort nonetheless. I, however, have deftly trimmed his complex, multi-part essay down to a snippet of a sentence so as to make it appear that he thinks the entire enterprise is bullshit.[/ref]

It’s simply impossible to appreciate music outside of the context of your own experiences. To me, music IS a personal experience. If music writing isn’t based on one’s intimate connections with it, the opinion isn’t worthwhile. The writer may as well simply assess a piece of sheet music.

So I say, unequivocally and proudly, that I love New Order’s “Regret” because it reminds me of a great time in my life. Its lyrical tension between aspiration and apprehension captures the essence of my outlook in the summer of ’93. I like the riff and the bass and drums, too. It’s a good-sounding, catchy song. But it’s Bernard Sumner’s lyrics and delivery that really resonate.

The song opens with Gillian Gilbert’s shimmering synth chords, with a sample of Sumner’s guitar riff dropped on top. It’s a catchy, strummed, syncopated riff, but as a sample it sounds clipped and robotic. It’s a duality that mirrors the song, and it drew me in the first time I heard it. It was spring, 1993, in a bank parking lot in San Rafael, CA. I’d arrived a few weeks earlier as a 25-year old, after a 2800-mile drive from my childhood home.

At about 0:13, Stephen Morris’s drums crash in and the treble-y bass line from Peter Hook starts driving the song. For a long time “Regret” was the only New Order song I liked. I found them to be too synth-y and drum-programmy. Then I realized that drummer Morris is often playing drums, but is so precise and fast that it only sounds programmed! (Sometimes they are programmed.) This made me listen to them more closely, and now I like several of their songs. Also, as a bass player myself, I love Hook’s penchant for playing lead bass. He’s truly an excellent, unique bassist.

The band plays through the verse, and Sumner’s syncopated strumming sounds great through all the chord changes. Then his lyrics start. Having left everything behind, I totally bought in right away: “Maybe I’ve forgotten/ The name and the address/ Of everyone I’ve ever known/ There’s nothing I regret.” It’s only one of many lines that spoke to my new life as a transplant, wondering if landing in a faraway place with no job, no friends, and no plan was such a great idea. I told myself I didn’t regret anything just to stay afloat.

That introductory guitar sample hits at the end of every verse, leading into the chorus (1:06), and it lifts my spirits every time. Sumner’s voice isn’t powerful, but the melody in the chorus just begs a sing-along. “I would like a place/ I could call my own,” he sings. In more ways than one that’s the sentiment of anyone’s Big Move. The lyric “Wake up every day/ That would be a start” also resonated. My depression at the time brought with it several days spent lying in bed.

But the song isn’t sad and dreary! Morris plays ahead of the beat, with a danceable hi-hat shaking throughout. Hook’s lead bass line is sticky behind that upbeat, winding chorus melody. Sumner sounds a bit tired, a bit hopeful – like any human facing life and getting through the day. Some of the words are dark, but they’re set against this happy music – a damned pleasing juxtaposition. That balance is maintained all through the song.

Artwork for New Order’s 1993 release Republic expresses the spirit of the song “Regret.”

The lyrics evoke both the excitement and anxiety of my first few weeks in Cali. So many lines connected with me. “Have a conversation on the telephone,” describes virtually every conversation I had. “You used to be a stranger/ Now you are mine.” Anyone who I met a second time fit this bill – including the beautiful young woman Julia, to whom I’m still married. “I was a short fuse/ Burning all the time” was how I felt before I decided to leave home. “You may think that I’m out of hand/ That I’m naive, I’ll understand/ On this occasion it’s not true/ Look at me, I’m not you.” As a small-town kid, this quatrain summarizes the entirety of my decision to get in my 1985 VW Jetta and get the fuck outta Dodge.

To me, “Regret” is an uplifting song, one I never grow tired of. Sure, Sumner’s lyrical coda sticks a pin in the positive thoughts generated by the catchy melody, cool riffs and hopeful lyrics: “Just wait ’til tomorrow/ I guess that’s what they all say/ Just before they fall apart.” Damn, Bernard, I was just feeling like getting out of bed! But that’s okay – overall the song retains its perfect tension and leaves me inspired. It’s a tremendous song, emotionally complex yet fun.

The band shot a video for it on a Southern California beach with David Hasselhoff, as a tie-in to the TV show Baywatch. It sort of encapsulates the song: the juxtaposition of carefree, seashore frolickers and the pale, trouser-clad band members, the most out-of-place beach-goers since The Munsters.

I think you have to take some chances in life, then accept the good with the bad. We all just have to make the best of it. If we can do so with few regrets, maybe we’ll end up happy. It’s been a long time since I made that move, and the only regret I carry about it today is New Order’s “Regret.”

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Album #120: Amyl and The Sniffers, by Amyl and The Sniffers

Posted on December 19, 2020 | Comments Off on Album #120: Amyl and The Sniffers, by Amyl and The Sniffers
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Amyl and The Sniffers.
2019, Rough Trade Records. Producer: Ross Orton.
In My Collection: Spotify, 2020.

(Five Minute Read)

IN A NUTSHELL: Amyl and The Sniffers is a loud, fast, short record that offers old-school sounds and throwback themes. These Aussies could’ve been plucked right out of 1977 London. Vocalist Amy Taylor is more of a rhythmic shouter than a singer, but it fits perfectly on top of guitarist Dec Martens’ riffs and crunch. It goes by quickly, but it leaves you happy, and ready to kick the whole world’s ass.

THEORETICAL PLACE IN A FUTURE TOP 100 LIST I’LL NEVER WRITE: Top 80.

~ ~ ~

The very first song that Billboard magazine deemed Number 1 in the USA was “I’ll Never Smile Again,” by Tommy Dorsey and His Orchestra. The song featured a young Frank Sinatra crooning, “I’ll never smile again/ Until I smile at you/ I’ll never laugh again/ What good would it do.” It’s syrupy and wispy, with tinkling bells and a chorus of characterless voices backing up Ol’ Blue Eyes. It was huge, holding down the #1 spot for three months in the summer of 1940. So, when I graduated high school, any peers who didn’t like the contemporary 80s sounds, but instead had a thing for 45-year-old music, might’ve been jamming to this bop.

But let me tell you something about 80s teens: we may have been lame, but we weren’t that lame. Nobody was listening to that crap[ref]Not to say the song is crap.[/ref]. However, I was in the marching band, so I knew many musicians who did listen to, and enjoy, and PLAY 45-year-old music. They liked jazz music by artists like Louie Armstrong, Benny Goodman, and Duke Ellington. This was music that was far afield from the the pop[ref]Short for “popular,” after all.[/ref] hits of the day. Songs like “I’ll Never Smile Again,” or Bing Crosby’s “Only Forever,” which bumped Dorsey off the top spot and held it for over two months, sound primped and frail next to those other muscular, sweaty jazz sounds. The top of the pop chart, generally, has never been where the interesting music is found.

In 1974, Billboard‘s Number One song of the year was “The Way We Were,” by Barbra Streisand. In 1975, it was “Love Will Keep Us Together,” by The Captain and Tennille. Wings held the spot in 1976 with “Silly Love Songs.” However, far beyond the pop charts in the early to mid-70s, something more dangerous was bubbling under. The Stooges, The New York Dolls, and The Ramones were putting out records in the US, and in the UK, The Sex Pistols and The Clash were doing damage. Modern musicians are more likely turn to these acts when pilfering 45-year-old styles than any of the watery, safe sounds from the era’s Top Ten. I offer to you the following evidence: Amyl and The Sniffers.

Amyl and The Sniffers are a mulletted Australian band featuring three men with a woman singer who reminds me of the trailer park girls I knew in high school who I was afraid would kick my ass. They play loud, fast, catchy songs with vocals that are more shouted than sung, equal parts fury and fun blasting straight out of the speakers.

I first heard them over the summer of 2020, in the early part of the Great Lonesome. Spotify randomly played them, and I was hooked on their bouncy, aggressive clamor. The band is named after the street drug amyl nitrate, or “poppers.” Singer/shouter Amy Taylor told the BBC, “In Australia we call poppers Amyl. So you sniff it, it lasts for 30 seconds and then you have a headache – and that’s what we’re like!”

I haven’t done poppers, but I can’t disagree with her assessment of the band – although I like the ensuing headaches. Loud, fast punk rock is fine with me, but I do need some melody and something to interest me beyond speed and volume. Amyl and The Sniffers are melodic and interesting. I also like a variety of sounds and styles, and while they don’t mix up the style much, at least the songs are all about 2 minutes long so it doesn’t get old.

Apart from Taylor’s shouting (which I’ll get to), the most interesting thing about the band is guitarist Dec Martens, who gets to show off his skills right off the bat on “Starfire 500.”

About 0:53, Martens plays a solo that’s bouncy and catchy, and perhaps unusual in a punk song. The band plays through a verse and chorus before Taylor finally joins in about 1:48. She speak-sings lyrics about an attractive sex worker, and her style is somewhere between Corin Tucker, of Sleater-Kinney, and Craig Finn of The Hold Steady. She kind of sings the chorus (2:11) on this song, and Martens gets to play some cool licks about 2:30, and the boys all shout along to the chorus in their Aussie accent. It’s a good song to introduce the band.

In the true spirit of punk, they have songs about life stressors aggravated by the inherent inequities of modern socio-economic systems. Or, more succinctly, being “Gacked on Anger.”

The lyrics are great, and the clicking, crunching guitar is great. This one really is a “30 seconds and a headache” type song. The same can be said for “Cup of Destiny,” in which Taylor breaks out the signature grunt (0:23) – sometimes a squeal – she uses for emphasis. The song’s an update on the grim 70s UK “no future” sentiments. Martens gets to wedge in a brief squawky solo at 1:35. The energy is ramped up even more for “GFY,” propelled by Fergus Romer’s distorted bass guitar. It’s a song about dealing with douchebag people, with the chorus “… go fuck yourself.” Punk rock has no use for subtlety. (Here’s a cool live clip of the song.)

Amyl and The Sniffers have more to them than snotty rage and stomping beat. They have a bit of 70s hard rock and glam in them. For example, “Angel.”

It’s melodic in spite of Taylor’s style, and allows Martens to do more than a Johnny Ramone impression. His riff makes this one of my favorites on the record, and Drummer Bryce Wilson adds nice fills, too. Lyrically, it’s an unrequited love song, although Taylor doesn’t exactly try to sell the emotion of the song. She’s more comfortable yelling about the joys of playing a show in the rain, as in “Monsoon Rock.”

The band speeds up The Doors’ “Waiting for the Sun” riff, and basically runs wild with it. Martens plays a buzzing mosquito solo at 1:35 (after another of Taylor’s grunts), and the band just has the most fun possible in under two minutes. (Another kick ass live clip here.) It’s another favorite of mine. “Control” is a driving, X-ish rave-up about being in charge, and it ends with plenty of grunts and squeals. “Got You,” is a love song, actually, and has a fun, shouty chorus from the band, but gets a bit repetitive.

The track “Punisha” is flat-out speed and power, and drummer Wilson gets quite a workout. His fills are sweet. The song’s about vengeance, I think. “Shake Ya” is a good, old-fashioned, straightforward rock song about fucking that sounds like a pretty direct response to “You Shook Me All Night Long” from fellow Aussies AC/DC.

I really love the entirety of Amyl and The Sniffers, its energy and power, but the album closer is my favorite: “Some Mutts (Can’t Be Muzzled).”

The opening guitar riff is an immediate classic, rising menacingly. Romer’s bass ramps things up, and drummer Wilson crashes in (0:28) and then it’s just a head-banging frenzy! The band pulls back a bit for some more Martens riffage, then plows ahead, Taylor asking the musical question, “You got a new dog/ Do you remember me?” It’s a scorching scorned-woman song with few words (two of which are “Woof! Woof!”) and lots of attitude. Martens lets loose a bunch of punk/hard rock crunch. Check out one more live clip.

There you have it: eleven songs, twenty-nine minutes. A perfect punk morsel. Amyl and The Sniffers are making my old(er)-man heart happy. The musical future is in good hands with terrific throwbacks like this.

TRACK LISTING:
“Starfire 500“
“Gacked on Anger“
“Cup of Destiny“
“GFY“
“Angel“
“Monsoon Rock“
“Control“
“Got You“
“Punisha“
“Shake Ya“
“Some Mutts (Can’t Be Muzzled)“

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Song #1005*: “Rosalita (Come Out Tonight),” by Bruce Springsteen

Posted on December 12, 2020 | 1 comment
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“Rosalita (Come Out Tonight),” from the 1973 Bruce Springsteen album The Wild, The Innocent and The E Street Shuffle.
Joyous, raucous energy, cool story.

(5 minute read)

*Note – I’m not even going to try to rank songs. I just plan to periodically write a little bit about some songs that I like.

~ ~ ~

If I didn’t know me so well, I’d expect I’d love Bruce Springsteen. An East Coast white guy in my mid-50s, I grew up on 70s rock. I have a soft spot for horns and bombastic songs, and powerful songs about average people just living their lives. I value artists who seem like decent people, and who have a bit of a stick-it-to-the-powerful streak to them. And I do love a great rock and roll performer. But just like poison ivy, I’ve never had Bruce Fever.

For 18 months I dated a woman who loved Bruce. It was a lousy relationship that ended badly (her and me, not her and Bruce), and I used to attribute my disinterest in The Boss to that experience. But it was 35 years ago, and the drama of it seems so silly after all the living that’s ensued. So I gave him another listen in the past 10 years, and found I was still not susceptible. I guess it wasn’t her fault. You see, I don’t seem to get poison ivy[ref]Although I won’t take on any dares to prove it. I just have never really had it.[/ref], and I don’t seem to get Bruce Springsteen.

Except for “Rosalita,” a joyous, raucous, multi-part spectacle with several chill-inducing swells, a funny story and about a million words. It’s not a perfect song (I’ll get to that), but to me it’s the perfect Boss song. It’s a song that makes me go, “Okay, I get why people love this guy,” even though none of his other songs seem to give me that experience. Perhaps if I rolled, naked, in a deep bed of poison ivy I would experience what it’s like to have a reaction. Maybe “Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)” is like a poison ivy wallow. (In a good way.)

“Rosalita” is immediately – from the first two organ chords – all about building and releasing tension. The song sits on top of a bouncy sax riff from Clarence Clemons that drummer Vini Lopez stays on top of with little rolls and fills. The E Street Band (on this album, and counting The Boss) includes a sax, a guitar, an organ, a piano, and bass and drums. This means they can throw in all sorts of interesting riffs and sounds throughout a song. In the verses, organist Danny Federici plays a lot of little curlicues, and pianist David Sancious adds nice emphasis. There’s so much good stuff going on from the whole band through the entire song.

The verses are key to how “Rosalita” works. (Here’s a link to the lyrics. You’ll need them.) Each verse in the song has two parts – a spirited, wordy, first half and a mellower second. For example, at 0:27 (“spread out now Rosie …”) and at 0:52 (“you don’t have to call me …”). At the end of that second half, (1:05, “Rosie, you’re the one!”) Clemons plays a rising sax riff that … doesn’t resolve. It’s just a tease. Our ears are ready for something big and new, but instead we get another verse, some nonsense about what Dynamite and Little Gun are up to. But that rising riff is key to the song, because it keeps coming around. And whenever it delivers a chorus, as at 1:53, the sense of joy and release and power is inescapable.

But I have to write a bit about the lyrics, because they may be, generally, the reason I can’t get into Bruce. I don’t need poetry: I love Yes and Van Halen and AC/DC, none of whom are what would be called wordsmiths, or Voice-of-a-Generation types. But I also love XTC, The Beatles, Lucinda Williams, Elvis Costello – artists who can move you with a simple phrase. I even love Steely Dan and Jimi Hendrix and Belly, and The Stone Roses, each of whom must be making some point, but I generally have no idea what it is.

But many of Bruce’s lyrics seem sort of goofy and embarrassing[ref]Granted, I only know a few of his songs.[/ref]. He goes on about highways running, calling his car a “machine,” and talking about all the dangerous guys and tough chicks on street corners that he knows. Bruce always wants you to know he loves you, baby, and that together you’ll make it, despite the long odds. And he’s forever asking you to put on that cute little dress of yours (you know the one), so he can sit you on the back of his motorbike and ride down suicide streets and whatnot. (He seems like the kind of guy who’d say “motorbike” – maybe he doesn’t.) I don’t know. He always sounds like a handsome horndog with a terrific rap. Maybe I’m jealous of him. But what do I know? One of my favorite songs has the lyrics “Anger, he smiles towering in shiny, metallic, purple armor.” I guess it’s all a matter of taste.

But in “Rosalita,” I’m able to put all my qualms aside. His lyrics are goofy as ever, but they’re so joyous, and tell such a great version of Romeo & Juliet that I’m even able to (basically) overlook his assertion that the only lover he’ll ever need is Rosie’s “soft, sweet little girl’s tongue.” Look, songs by men have forever demeaned their targets with patronizing terms like “little girl,” I get it. But even setting that aside, the line sounds more like a serial killer’s letter to the newspaper than romantic badinage. But who cares? I’ll put up with it, and Weak Knees Willy, too, and Sloppy Sue, and his machine that’s a dud, and mama in her chair, and all that jive, because I like the story.

But back to the music! We left off at the chorus (1:53), which is pure shout-along, frenzied fun. The backing harmonies are terrific, and it all passes much too soon, leaving us back in a verse with Jack the Rabbit, et al. (Okay, again, I understand that lyrics don’t have to make perfect sense, but how are they going to “skip some school” if they’re doing this at night?) But this verse does have a tremendous couple of lines: “Windows are for cheaters/ Chimneys for the poor/ Closets are for hangers/ Winners use the door.” Then after another rousing chorus, we hit the magnificent bridge.

But first! At 3:18 there’s another crazy tension-building section. The organ tootles up and up the scale, the bass joins in ratcheting the anticipation, everything is coming to a head … then (3:43) Clemons plays a sax riff that doesn’t exactly break the tension, but doesn’t relieve it, either. (By the way, through all this drummer Lopez is playing like a man possessed.) The band joins in the riff, and it almost seems like they’ve forgotten what song they were playing. But they come out of it and bring things down (4:17) so a simmering Bruce can start moving us – oh so gradually – to the story’s big payoff. Rosalita’s family hates, him[ref]It’s worth noting, I think, that in 1973 “playing in a rock and roll band” was a lot shadier than it is now. I mean, parents back then weren’t signing their kids up for cute Rock Band classes, like nowadays. They were sending them to trombone lessons and claiming that electrified music wasn’t real music. Believe me, I know.[/ref], fine, but he doesn’t care. And he really does sound sexy announcing his plans to “liberate you, confiscate you.” We’re approaching resolution … but first …

Before he gets us there, he leads the band in a sing-along of “papa says he knows I don’t have any money!” I mean, come on Bruce!! A little teasing is fine, but this is starting to get annoying! But then, finally, at 5:11, when The Boss reveals he’s gotten a big advance, the exuberance is palpable! The payoff seems worth all the buildup throughout the song, and I never feel manipulated. It feels satisfying, like a good short story or TV show, like the writer and I have bonded. The rest of the lyrics are denouement, and I don’t even bother myself with questions of how he’ll get Rosalita to the airport (they’re headed “down San Diego way[ref]Oh brother, Bruce.[/ref],” after all) with his car lost in a swamp. Or how she’ll know to pack a bag for what originally sounded like a simple evening on the town, playing pool and going to Woolworth’s, but now involves a cross-country trek. (At least now the skipping-school part makes sense.)

It wouldn’t be right to simply fade out or end the song un-bombastically, so The Boss throws in some “hey-hey-hey”s at 6:31, then Lopez leads everyone through a twenty second flourish until a simple, warbling organ is all that remains. It’s an exhausting song, like a good workout. When you watch live clips of Bruce playing the song, it’s a wonder to behold. They played this version on MTV all the time. There’s a version of a young, Mike Nesmith-looking Bruce playing in London. Folks have often told me that I haven’t caught Springsteen Fever because I’ve never seen him live. I haven’t been close enough, just like why people say I’ve never had poison ivy. If that’s the case, I’ll probably never fully get into The Boss. But I sure do have a reaction to “Rosalita.”

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Album #119: Beggars Banquet, by The Rolling Stones

Posted on December 5, 2020 | Comments Off on Album #119: Beggars Banquet, by The Rolling Stones
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Beggars Banquet
1968, Decca Records. Producer: Jimmy Miller.
In My Collection: CD, 2003.

(Five minute read)

IN A NUTSHELL: Beggars Banquet is a record of three gorgeous diamonds set amongst seven smaller gems. It’s mostly acoustic blues, with Keith Richards giving a masterclass on guitar. Mick Jagger’s vocals stand out, as he yelps and seethes, but also puts on other voices to sell each song completely. Even stronger than Mick’s voice are his lyrics. He’s a deeper guy than his decades-long persona would indicate. And let’s not forget drummer Charlie Watts, who always manages to liven up even the most straightforward numbers.

THEORHETICAL PLACE IN A FUTURE TOP 100 LIST I’LL NEVER WRITE: Top 20

My dad, forever. With the author (top) and two sisters, circa 1970.

The dearly departed exist in our minds, where they are fixed forever. My dad died two years ago and I think of him regularly. In my mind, he remains about thirty-three years old, making his family laugh, fixing anything that breaks, working on cars, and getting ready for hunting season. There was so much more to him, and he lived for 45 more years, but most thoughts that pop up are of him as a young father. I generally only consider his many other attributes when my own kids ask me questions, and he becomes a character in one of my answers. I’ll say, “I totally forgot about this, but …” and then share a little tidbit.

Author (r) and mother, ca. 1969.

Even those still with us are subject to this compressed perspective. My 80-year-old mother continues to grow and change, but in my mind she’s stuck as the young auburn-haired mom, baking cakes, running the PTA, taking us to the pool, and watching The Guiding Light.

Similarly, we tend to remember historical figures and artists for small parts of their lives and their work. As we approach 2021, it’s very easy to go online and dive into the details about everyone, so it may seem useless to remember more than The Big Stuff. But I think it’s worth knowing that Thomas Edison didn’t just invent the lightbulb. Nina Simone did a lot more than Little Girl Blue.

And if we remember The Rolling Stones merely as the guys that played “Satisfaction” and “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” or “Miss You” and “Start Me Up,” or released 16 number-one hits in the US and UK, recorded 25 (or thereabouts) albums over 58 years, and up until the pandemic of 2020 were annually among the highest-grossing live acts in the world … well, if you only think of those things, you may overlook Beggars Banquet.

The “toilet cover” was originally banned, but was brought back for CD release.

There are many terrific Stones albums. From 1966 (Aftermath) to 1981 (Tattoo You) the Stones released 13 albums. Not all were classics (ahem, TheirSatanicMajestiesRequest, ahem), but none of them sucked. Not even the much-maligned Emotional Rescue, from 1980, which I’d argue (perhaps in a future blog post) is actually a standout album of the era. Three of these records are already on my Official 100 Favorite Albums List: Sticky Fingers, Some Girls and Exile on Main Street. Several others nearly made the list. Beggars Banquet just missed.

Beggars Banquet is a subdued, acoustic blues album with a few startling spikes of power, grit and even whimsy. It starts off with a number that is among the band’s most-popular, and that sounds like nothing else on the album. Or anywhere else.

“Sympathy for the Devil” is a straight-up, no-questions-asked classic. It starts perfectly, with conga drums, by guest Rocky Dijon. Together with the yelps and background laughter, it sounds rather sinister. Initially, Mick Jagger’s vocals, on top of longtime side man Nicky Hopkins’ piano chords, sound restrained and, well, refined. When Keith Richards’ beautifully sloppy bass line[ref]I swear, all the best Stones bass lines are played by either Keith or Ron Wood or Mick Taylor.[/ref] begins halfway through the first verse, about 0:37, the song really kicks into high gear. Jagger gradually becomes more menacing with each verse. Not much changes in the song, except for the intensity, which continually ratchets up. The lyrics of the song are really brilliant. On first pass, they’re a rundown of Satan’s deeds through history[ref]The band was recording the song when Robert F. Kennedy was killed in Los Angeles. Jagger immediately changed the lyrics from “I shouted out who killed Kennedy” to “… the Kennedys.[/ref], the sort of thing that my 14-year-old self thought was really cool. But the last verse makes the real point of the song clear: “Just as every cop is a criminal/ And all the sinners saints …” Jagger’s saying that “Satan” is in all of us, we all have the capacity for both good and evil. If we don’t have a little respect for that evil residing in ourselves, we’ll see this shit happening forever[ref]Okay, I don’t want this to drag on and on, but let me say that I think Mick’s lyrics are generally WILDLY underestimated by many. He is a smart guy who wrote some pretty thoughtful lyrics. I mean, he uses the word “politesse” (correctly) in this song![/ref].

Anyway, the song is fucking amazing. Keith on bass is always terrific, his guitar solo, beginning at 4:48, is a classic, and the “hoo-hoo” backing vocals are catchy as Covid. (Sorry.) The song’s so good that I even liked it when World Party (basically) re-did it in 1990 as a song called “Way Down Now.”

The Stones explore a different, sadder dark territory on the acoustic blues of “No Expectations.” Mick’s voice is in fine form on a hangdog song about a breakup. Original Stone Brian Jones plays acoustic slide, on what Jagger would later say was his last real contribution to the band. (He’d be excused from the band a year later and drown within days at age 27.) They lighten the mood considerably on the near-parody “Dear Doctor.” I always love hearing Keith sing, and his harmonies here are fun, drawling alongside Mick. It’s a jokey song about a hick who’s left at the altar.

Beggars Banquet maintains its full-on, acoustic blues direction on the swampy “Parachute Woman,” a double-entendre-laden ode to Mick’s horniness. I really like Charlie Watts’ drumming on this one. It’s simple, but he throws in more stuff than a slight, three-chord blues number would normally have. His creativity is also on display on the strange, cool “Jigsaw Puzzle.”

It’s a rambling, dreamy, Bob Dylan-ish number that gives us the amusing imagery of the posh, sophisticated Mick Jagger on the floor engaging in the pedestrian humdrummery of completing a jigsaw puzzle. (I don’t know why he wants to complete it “before it rains anymore,” as jigsaw puzzles are known to be a delightful rainy-day activity.) This is one of my favorite Bill Wyman bass lines, as he travels up the neck, hiccuping alongside Keith’s terrific slide guitar. It’s not perfect, as Brian Jones nearly ruins the song with a high-pitched, whiny mellotron, and it could’ve been shortened by 90 seconds, but I like it.

If you want a perfect track, along with “Sympathy for the Devil,” Beggars Banquet presents to you the incomparable “Street Fighting Man.”

It’s got one of the strongest acoustic guitar openings of any rock song. It’s a declaration, immediately taken up by Watts’ bass drum. Mick’s voice impersonates a wailing siren, dismayed at the fact that the street fighting happening in ’68 isn’t happening in London. He does, however, offer to kill the king – which must have been pretty shocking in 1968 UK, the lack of a king notwithstanding. The song struck a chord with me again this past summer, as I drove my kids to rallies and protests where – thankfully – no street fighting occurred while they participated. (Like their dad, neither of them is a street fighter.) The song has a driving energy, and the sitar behind Mick provides a sense of dread. I like Bill Wyman’s descending bass line after the chorus, but it’s Keith’s acoustic and Mick’s vocals that make the song.

The band returns to traditional blues on the Rev. Robert Wilkins number “Prodigal Son.” Mick’s affected voice is terrific on the retelling of a parable of Christ. It’s one of my favorite of the band’s straight blues numbers. “Stray Cat Blues” is a druggy, swampy number that could’ve come off Exile on Main Street. As good as the song sounds, the lyrics are some of Mick’s most disturbing, perhaps even beating out “Brown Sugar” for that prize. Keith’s guitar solo stands out. Up next is “Factory Girl,” an acoustic folky number, featuring Ric Grech on violin. In this song, Jagger is waiting for another girl. She works at a factory, so, unlike the character from “Stray Cat Blues,” she’s presumably older than 15.

Beggars Banquet is three brilliant diamonds surrounded by seven smaller gems. And the third diamond, after “Sympathy for the Devil” and “Street Fighting Man,” is “Salt of the Earth.”

It’s a touching ode to the working class, and as a childhood member of that class, I’ve always connected with it. I absolutely love Keith’s warbly singing voice, and he sings the first verse with gusto. He then supplies harmony vocals throughout, and they sound great. Charlie Watts has several rumbling fills, after entering about 1:20. The band’s always loved gospel music, and the Watts Street Gospel Choir beautifully joins in at 2:35. Then they help turn it into a stomping Ray Charles number after 3:50. The song’s a brilliant, sentimental anthem that turns into an uplifting celebration. Mick and Keith sang it on stage after 9/11, at the Concert for New York City. There aren’t too many better album-closers.

The entire album really shows off Keith’s acoustic guitar playing. He’s never been a flashy, guitar-hero type guitarist, but he’s always creative. His Glimmer Twin, Mick, is also on fire, both as lyricist and singer. There’s a lot to remember when we think of The Rolling Stones. Let’s not forget Beggars Banquet.

TRACK LISTING:
“Sympathy for the Devil“
“No Expectations“
“Dear Doctor“
“Parachute Woman“
“Jigsaw Puzzle“
“Street Fighting Man“
“Prodigal Son“
“Stray Cat Blues“
“Factory Girl“
“Salt of the Earth“

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Song #1004*: “The Tears of a Clown,” by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles

Posted on November 28, 2020 | Comments Off on Song #1004*: “The Tears of a Clown,” by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles
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“The Tears of a Clown,” from the 1967 Smokey Robinson and The Miracles album Make it Happen. Released as a single in 1970.
Sad lyrics in a happy melody create a perfect pop song.

(4 minute read)

*Note – I’m not even going to try to rank songs. I just plan to periodically write a little bit about some songs that I like.

Clowns got a bum rap in American culture over the past 50 years. When I was a kid, in the 70s, they were happy icons of childhood mirth and wholesome good times. In addition to being the best part of any circus, they sold fast food, breakfast cereal, and household cleaners (!?), and had TV shows. A friendly clown even came to my elementary school to teach us kids about being safe around strangers. He told us if we were ever kidnapped we should make ourselves vomit by sticking a finger[ref]”The middle finger, the longest finger!” he enthusiastically told us.[/ref] down our throat so the kidnapper would toss us, barf-covered, out of the car[ref]What I realize as an adult is that he should’ve told the kids how to report the abuse in their own homes, as it’s always been far more rampant than kidnappings![/ref].

By the early 90s, clowns were viewed in a different light. Maybe it was Stephen King, maybe it was Bob Goldthwait, maybe it was The Simpsons. Maybe ICP? Or maybe it was the fact that folks finally spoke out to say they were pretty creepy all along. Suddenly, clowns were not so cheery. But despite its previous history as an icon of fun, the clown had never been positively portrayed in popular music. In songs, clowns were almost always contemptible or malevolent or pitiable.

The Everly Brothers’ “Kathy’s Clown” was an object of ridicule. Roy Orbison’s candy-colored clown[ref]I’m sure many of you immediately thought of Blue Velvet, so here you go.[/ref] “In Dreams” tricked the lovelorn into believing a lie. The dying performer in The Kinks’ “Death of a Clown” is so pathetic he encourages the audience to drink along with him to his own abject end. It’s pretty brutal stuff. “The Tears of a Clown” actually lands on the uplifting end of the Spectrum of Misery of Musical Clowns.

The song is special because of the sad lyrical content set against the fun, calliope-style music. It’s in a long line of songs about putting on a brave face, including Robinson’s earlier “The Tracks of My Tears,” through Adele’s “Someone Like You.” (And let’s not forget the McCartney-esque directness of McCartney’s “My Brave Face.”)

Motown’s famed “Funk Brothers” played the backing music. They were a rotating cast of musicians who played on thousands of songs, so it’s unclear who played on this one. The upbeat melody starts with flutes and a brilliant counter-melody on bassoon. It gives way to the main bass line in a few seconds. The pumping, uplifting sound, with driving drums, is accompanied by a blurting trombone that keeps it sounding circusy. The music was written by Stevie Wonder and his producer, Hank Crosby. Wonder couldn’t think of lyrics, so he gave the song to Robinson. Smokey had the genius idea to write lyrics that go against the song’s happy sound, but retain a circus theme.

Smokey’s voice is smooth as ever, and The Miracles’ harmonies are brilliant. At 0:37, and throughout the song, when Robinson sings “I’m sad,” and The Miracles repeat it while drum fills ricochet around them, it’s about the best 15 seconds of sound ever put to record. Then a brief rising scale (“there’s some sad things known to man …”) resolves in the title line, which somehow sounds even better! When he softly sings “the tears of a clown/ when there’s no one around,” and that flute/bassoon riff enters, the juxtaposition of words and sounds always gets me right in the feels. I could listen to this song every day.

The lyrics are terrific, and the bridge cleverly refers to the tragic Italian opera Pagliacci (“Clowns”), about a clown who discovers his wife is having an affair[ref]Ok, ok, there’s lots more to it. But you can go read wikipedia if you’re interested.[/ref]. (“Just like Pagliacci did/ I try to keep my feelings hid.”) I’ve always been impressed that a pop song referenced an opera, or any stage production other than Romeo & Juliet. Then again, the first million-selling recording ever was Enrico Caruso’s 1903 recording of “Vest la Giubba,” from Pagliacci, so Robinson probably heard it a lot growing up.

As a fan of 70s/80s music, I must point out the great cover of the song by The English Beat, who nicely folded the song into their ska-based musical approach. But as good as that version is, nothing comes close to Smokey’s original. It’s got the sound, the lyrics, the style … it’s got everything.

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Album #118: Mermaid Avenue, by Billy Bragg and Wilco

Posted on November 21, 2020 | Comments Off on Album #118: Mermaid Avenue, by Billy Bragg and Wilco
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Mermaid Avenue
1998, Elektra Records. Producers: Billy Bragg, Grant Showbiz & Wilco.
In My Collection: CD, 1998.

(Five minute read)

IN A NUTSHELL: Mermaid Avenue is a record whose sum may be greater than its parts, which is really saying something considering its parts are Woody Guthrie, Billy Bragg and Wilco. Bragg and head Wilco man Jeff Tweedy penned classic Americana tunes for Guthrie’s lost lyrics, and the result is a treasure. From sad, lonesome cowboy songs to kids tunes and silly love songs, the amalgam works on all levels. Bragg and Wilco wisely allow the lyrics to shine through melodies.

THEORETICAL PLACE IN A FUTURE TOP 100 LIST I’LL NEVER WRITE: Top 40.

There are, in the history of the creative arts, some really lousy-on-paper ideas that, in practice, produced excellent works. Recent examples include a hip-hop musical about the life and works of the US’s first Secretary of the Treasury; a cartoon about anthropomorphized animal actors in Hollywood; and the 900th retelling of a classic American novel, this time on the Silver Screen. All of these – Hamilton, BoJack Horseman, and Little Women, respectively – were much, much better than I ever expected. However, the fact remains that most lousy-on-paper ideas turn out lousy.

Valleys of Neptune is one dead-Jimi release that’s actually pretty good.

Nearly guaranteed to be the lousiest of the lousy-on-paper ideas in popular music are those of the “posthumous release” variety. As a huge fan of both Jimi Hendrix (an artist with more than 80 albums released by various ghouls since his death in 1970) and The Beatles (who released this song in 1995), I’m aware of the spotty nature of such endeavors.

The idea of a posthumous release seems even lousier when it’s attenuated to a degree that no longer involves actual recordings, or even complete songs of an artist. To compound the perceived lousiness one could take the fragments from an artist dead thirty years, who wrote songs in a genre that’s waned in popularity in the interim, and give those fragments to other unpopular artists to complete and record.

This is the (admittedly un-generous) story of Mermaid Avenue, a brilliant record of Woody Guthrie lyrics set to music and performed by Billy Bragg and Wilco. Guthrie is a folk icon who penned my choice for US National Anthem, “This Land is Your Land.” Bragg is a UK punk troubadour/ provocateur whose excellent songs were largely overlooked in the US. Wilco is … well, Wilco; basically an alternative country-rock band led by Jeff Tweedy that blurs musical lines and has a (dare I say?) Deadheadish cult following.

It’s a 15-song album, so I’ll quickly dispatch with the particulars. Upon his death in 1967[ref]From Huntington Disease, which is a horrible way to die.[/ref], Guthrie had left behind thousands of lyrics with no music. His daughter, Nora, thought some should be set to updated musical styles so they could be heard by a new generation of music fans, so she contacted Billy Bragg. He got Wilco onboard, and they wrote some music – some songs together, and some separately. Thus Mermaid Avenue, named after a street near Coney Island where Guthrie once lived, was born.

“Walt Whitman’s Niece,” kicks off the record, a bouncy tune from Bragg. It’s perfect for Guthrie’s vaguely naughty, shaggy-dog story about two men following a pair of women up some stairs, and the book of poetry they found. Apparently.

The song sets a simple blueprint for Mermaid Avenue. If you have lyrics from one of America’s best-loved songwriters you’re not going to obscure them with a bunch of complex musical ideas or blazing feats of instrumental virtuosity. Bragg and Tweedy give the lyrics lovely melodies to follow and set them within arresting and emotional musical arrangements. They’re the kind of songs you hear once, then find yourself humming the rest of the day.

For example, “California Stars,” penned by Jeff Tweedy and his late bandmate Jay Bennett.

It’s a beautiful, country-western ode to both love and home. Tweedy’s voice isn’t strong or perfect, but it’s certainly full of feeling and charm. In fact, one thing that makes the record so good is that neither Tweedy nor Bragg have a particularly exceptional vocal instrument. But they imbue the lyrics with warmth and character that resonates. In “Way Over Yonder in the Minor Key,” Bragg exemplifies this notion, singing “ain’t nobody that can sing like me” in a voice that isn’t great, but carries great weight.

Natalie Merchant, of 10,000 Maniacs, sings harmony on that song, and takes lead on “Birds and Ships,” a song about longing that I’m not wild about. (I’m not too keen on her voice.) But “Hoodoo Voodoo” is a fun one! It’s a nonsense kids’ song, but Tweedy and Wilco give it their all, with clanks and boings and an energy that conjures images of my kids dancing around the room when they were little. Bragg and Wilco collaborated on that one, and also on “She Came Along to Me.”

It’s another jaunty number, sung by Bragg, with a nice slide guitar solo and some cool-sounding harmonica throughout. It’s one of my favorite songs on Mermaid Avenue due to Guthrie’s brilliant lyrics. It starts off as a tribute to his woman, to all women, and to the differences that make couples work. Then it takes that thought to the logical conclusion of a blending of humanity that makes physical differences disappear. Then it offers hope that “maybe we’ll have all the fascists out of the way by then.” It’s a clever, yet powerful, song, especially given the recent years in America. I’m sure we’re farther away than he thought we’d be by 2020, but then again ten thousand years is a long, long time.

“At My Window Sad and Lonely” is the type of sad, country song, with organ, dulcimer and acoustic guitar, that Wilco does brilliantly. “Ingrid Bergman” is a cute solo Bragg number about the movie star, reminiscent of his own works – just guitar and voice. “Christ for President” has good lyrics, but it really gets pretty repetitive.

“I Guess I Planted” breaks things up with a jazzy, bouncy beat and a dynamic melody. It’s practically a show tune.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sAHBRXa6qQ8

As with “She Came Along to Me,” the lyrics start in one place and take you somewhere else. This time it’s about how a song starts as a seed of an idea, then becomes stronger when it’s put together with other songs. This leads into a terrific sing-along chorus about the Labor Movement, and what it’s done for everyone. There’s cool organ and a bit of lead guitar riffing throughout from Tweedy. It’s a great song, probably my favorite on the record.

Another beautiful sad number from Tweedy and Wilco, “One by One” flows like a wistful river, recounting a lost love. It’s the type of song never to listen to when you’re heartbroken. Or maybe it’s the best type. “Eisler on the Go” is a protest song from Bragg about HUAC victim Hahns Eisler, but I find it a bit too sleepy to connect with it.

Guthrie’s cute, mid-20th century takes on love and courtship are quite charming, and “Hesitating Beauty” falls into this genre. Tweedy wrote the classic, twanging music, and it’s fun one. The brief, yet deep, “Another Man’s Done Gone,” was written by Bragg, but its sorrowful content shines in Tweedy’s soulful croon.

The album closer “The Unwelcome Guest” is an instant classic.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvKEDw-v_Zo

It’s a first-person account of a mid-century American Robin Hood, a cowboy with a trusty horse, Black Bess. It may be the perfect blending of Guthrie, Bragg and Tweedy. The lyrics are deceptively simple. They have a moral center of The Common Good, but the narrator is doubtful of his actions. Yet he’s also sure they’ll continue after he’s gone – which is both hopeful (“My guns and my saddle/ Will always be filled/ By unwelcome travelers/ And other brave men/ And they’ll take the money/ And spread it out equal/ Just like the Bible/ And the prophets suggest”) and depressing (“But the men that go riding/ To help these poor workers/ The rich will cut down/ Like an unwelcome guest.”) Bragg’s unadorned voice is perfect for the character, and Tweedy’s thin harmony vocals provide a beautiful, mournful counterpoint.

Mermaid Avenue was a terrific idea, well-executed. Afterwards came Mermaid Avenue Vol. II and a box set with outtakes, Mermaid Avenue: The Complete Sessions. Doubters, like me, were wrong. So go out and try to make your crazy creative ideas work. They might turn out better than you’d think!

TRACK LISTING:
“Walt Whitman’s Niece“
“California Stars“
“Way Over Yonder in the Minor Key“
“Birds and Ships“
“Hoodoo Voodoo“
“She Came Along to Me“
“At My Window Sad and Lonely“
“Ingrid Bergman“
“Christ for President“
“I Guess I Planted“
“One by One“
“Eisler on the Go“
“Hesitating Beauty“
“Another Man’s Done Gone“
“The Unwelcome Guest“

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Song #1003*: “Possum Kingdom,” by Toadies

Posted on November 14, 2020 | Comments Off on Song #1003*: “Possum Kingdom,” by Toadies
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“Possum Kingdom,” from the 1994 Toadies album Rubberneck.
Crunching, powerful weirdness on one-hit-wonder track.

(4 minute read)

*Note – I’m not even going to try to rank songs. I just plan to periodically write a little bit about some songs that I like.

In April of 1993, I attended Nirvana’s benefit Concert for Bosnian Rape Victims at the San Francisco Cow Palace. It was a tremendous, 4-hour show featuring L7, The Breeders, and the show-stealing Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy. Nirvana closed things with a full set, then about 10 minutes of feedback and horseplay. Immediately afterwards the stage went dark, and to clearly signal “No Encore” the house lights came on and a familiar song played over the speakers.

The song was “Sunshine Day,” by The Brady Bunch kids. All of us Gen-X fans in the crowd went nuts and sang along. We’d grown up with the early 70s TV show, and we recognized that a) it was campy bullshit; but b) it was also a really great song! The track in that post-mayhem context tickled our strong love of Letterman-esque irony. But it also catered to our real fondness for cheesy, 70s AM radio pop. That feeling of “the-70s-were-so-bad-but-I-love-them!,” is one I’ve maintained. I love the “Have a Nice Day!” bubblegum pop from my 70s youth, and the one-hit-wonders of the era particularly stand out.

Looking Glass, King Harvest, Paper Lace, Starbuck, Hues Corporation, Pilot, Blue Swede … These acts are far from household names, but their songs – “Brandy,” “Dancing in the Moonlight,” “The Night Chicago Died,” “Moonlight Feels Right,” “Rock the Boat,” “Magic,” and “Hooked on a Feeling,” respectively – live on. There were dozens of others. It seemed like anybody in the 70s with a sleepy electric piano, or sheepdog hair, or a hippy-chick voice, or a catchy hook was guaranteed a week or two in the Top 20. One-hit-wonders have existed as long as the pop charts, but 70s AM radio hits resonate with me.

Just like that Nirvana concert demonstrated, early 90s music fans loved the 70s! And I think early 90s alt-rock coincidentally reflected the 70s in the proliferation of one-hit wonders. Between 1993 and 1998, I had a 40-minute commute to work in the Bay Area. On the alt-rock radio station[ref]Kids, back in the day there were “radio stations” and they played music, and you could listen for free! The downside was that there were a shit-ton of ads, and you had to suffer through some goofy-ass DJs.[/ref] Live 105, a single song[ref]Okay, okay, I’m sure a few acts had two songs that got airplay. But come on.[/ref] from each of the following acts got significant airplay:

Sponge, Filter, eels, Fastball, Veruca Salt, Harvey Danger, Del Amitri, Luscious Jackson, Marcy Playground, Eve 6, Seven Mary Three, Sister Hazel, Letters to Cleo, Better Than Ezra, Elastica, Republica, Dishwalla, Candlebox, Cornershop, Semisonic, Spacehog, Jamiroquai, Natalie Imbruglia, Tracy Bonham, Meredith Brooks, Abra Moore, Edwyn Collins, Eagle-Eye Cherry, Blind Melon, Primitive Radio Gods, Collective Soul, Soul Coughing, New Radicals, Deep Blue Something, White Town, Silverchair, The Cardigans, The Rentals, The Verve, The Verve Pipe, OMC, Local H, Chumbawumba, Nada Surf, Dog’s Eye View, Imperial Teen, Jars of Clay, and Sneaker Pimps. Other established acts, like The Butthole Surfers and The Meat Puppets, finally got one song on the radio. The brief, weird fascination with swing dancing, new ska and old-timey music meant one song each for bands like Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Reel Big Fish and Squirrel Nut Zippers.

But my favorite one-hit wonder from the era[ref]There’s a good chance another song or two from that list will appear in this column.[/ref] is “Possum Kingdom,” from Toadies. The Texas band named the song after a lake and recreation area near their home, and they crafted a story about a vampire stalking its shores and boathouses. The first time I heard the song, I joined in the middle, and heard singer Vaden Todd Lewis asking, over and over, “Do you wanna die?” I thought, “This song sucks.” But after hearing it again, I realized it was just a horror story. The narrator is a vampire, not a proponent of suicide. I put aside my derision and just enjoyed the music.

Because the music fucking rocks. First of all, the opening riff establishes at once that the song is in an alternating 7/8 & 8/8 meter! As a fan of Rush and Yes and prog-rock, to hear a punkish band go full-on 15/8 (if you will) gets me excited[ref]Which I know is a weird reaction.[/ref]. The intro vocals include spooky delay and reverb, and it’s hard to tell where things are going. Until 0:25, when Lisa Umbarger’s bass enters, and Darrell Herbert’s lead guitar begins its curling, feedback-driven assault.

“Possum Kingdom” is great because of how it consistently builds and releases. In the second verse there’s a sort of plodding feel that quickly turns foreboding as Lewis sings “I’ll show you my dark secret,” and Herbert’s guitar re-enters. At 1:11, Lewis jumps an octave, and the energy is kicked up further, with drummer Mark Reznicek leading the charge. The chorus (1:27) has a clever, satisfying chord progression that resolves on Lewis’s “so help me Jesus.”

The power of changing dynamics (the “quiet, loud, quiet”) was a key feature of alt-rock and grunge. It was popularized by Nirvana, who admitted to swiping it from Pixies. Toadies use it to perfection on “Possum Kingdom.” Maybe it’s the continued, hiccuping 15/8 beat, or the creepy lyrics, or the simple, Jaws-music bass, but there’s a paranoia to the quiet verses that makes the loud choruses, when they arrive, feel like both danger and relief.

At about 2:30, the bridge (“give it up to me”) begins, which is either in 20/8, or a combination of 6/8s and 4/4. I don’t know enough music theory to tell. But I do know it adds to the ominous feeling of the song. At 3:16 there’s feedback and the band begins the long climb – you can almost feel the mosh pit preparing to explode – to the song’s final, uber-satisfying release at 4:23.

“Possum Kingdom” winds down, ending with a sort of sigh from the guitar. I always feel like I’ve been through an ordeal at the end. I myself don’t like to work out, but maybe this is the feeling exercisers enjoy afterwards? Toadies may have only ever had one hit, but of all the songs from those artists listed above, it’s my favorite.

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Album #117: Maggot Brain, by Funkadelic

Posted on November 7, 2020 | Comments Off on Album #117: Maggot Brain, by Funkadelic
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Maggot Brain
1971, Westbound Records. Producer: George Clinton.
In My Collection: Spotify, 2015.

IN A NUTSHELL: Maggot Brain is a 70s hard rock jam fest, and it’s got all the stuff I love from a rock band from that era: big drums, strong grooves, and searing guitar solos. With just enough funk to keep my butt shaking, it’s the love child of Black Sabbath and Stevie Wonder. Eddie Hazel’s guitar is the hero of the day, and Tiki Fulwood’s drumming is astounding. Its quick seven songs really pack a wallop.

THEORETICAL PLACE IN A FUTURE TOP 100 LIST I’LL NEVER WRITE: Top 60.

Way, way back, 100 years ago, in 2017, when I wrote about my 37th Favorite Album, The Who’s Who’s Next, I noted that rock fans of the 70s and 80s (like me) often harbored animosity against other forms of music. Bigotry was a large component of that animosity. Growing up in a narrow-minded place and time, I was subtly taught by otherwise good people around me to disdain non-whites. I learned to camouflage it with performative tolerance, but I vigilantly maintained an identity for the white people around me. Among some of these white music fans, listening to the wrong style of music could dent my rock bona fides.

I heard many of them use an ugly term for some off-limits music, and even though I never used the phrase, I knew it meant anything by a Black artist who wasn’t Jimi Hendrix. So I missed out on some awesome music, probably the least important consequence of that cultural education. I don’t necessarily mean pop and R&B – styles that, whatever the artist’s ethnicity, didn’t connect with me. But a lot of music that I might have really loved eluded me, and Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain is a case-in-point. As a teen-ager who loved music with a screaming guitar and a great big beat, and who didn’t give a shit about lyrics, I would have found a lot to love on it!

George Clinton, the leader of Funkadelic, is the kind of flamboyant musician I might have loved, too. He’s better known as the leader of Parliament-Funkadelic, or P-Funk, and it took years for me to figure out that it’s two different bands: Parliament and Funkadelic. (They were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1997 as “Parliament-Funkadelic.”) In the early 90s I picked up the Greatest Hits record “Uncut Funk,” seemingly attributed to P-Funk, and loved it. It turns out it’s actually Parliament’s Greatest Hits, and has no music from Funkadelic. (As an aside, the Parliament song “Flashlight” is the song my wife and I consider to be “our song.”)

Parliament was R&B-oriented, whereas Funkadelic was psychedelic rock. And as a testament to Funkadelic’s modus operandi, they intentionally cut the album Free Your Mind … And Your Ass Will Follow to see what happened when everyone involved in its creation was tripping on LSD during the process. Other albums included The Electric Spanking of War Babies, America Eats Its Young, Cosmic Slop, and Hardcore Jollies. (Click that link and listen to “Hardcore Jollies” – it’s like Grand Funk Railroad, if they actually played funk.)

Everything about the band’s albums screams “whacked out on mind-altering drugs:” the artwork, the titles, the production. When I first encountered the Maggot Brain album cover (which, yes, appears to be a screaming woman’s head emerging from a pile of maggot-infested dirt) in my friend’s collection, I asked what it sounded like. “A bunch of Black funk-rockers on acid,” he replied. I can’t say he wasn’t accurate.

The title track is a virtuoso guitar solo by Eddie Hazel, and it’s an epic sonic journey, the type of track that rarely opens a record. But Funkadelic does things their own way, so why not? (In case you’re wondering whether psychedelics were ingested during the recording of this album, the answer is “yes.” The proof is in the opening spoken word section …)

This song shows up on all kinds of best-guitar-solos-ever lists. Hazel’s guitar has an amazing tone, and it’s placed at the forefront of the mix. Other instruments reverberate in the background, as Hazel channels Hendrix and anticipates Eddie Van Halen. The solo bounces between speakers, delayed and distorted, and the experience of listening, particularly on headphones, is pleasantly disorienting. If you hang on, it’ll take you places.

There’s nothing at all “funky” about the song “Maggot Brain.” The funk remains muted on the next track, “Can You Get to That,” a slow groove that sounds a bit like something from The Band, even down to the shambling, homespun lyrics.

George Clinton started his career as a doo-wop artist, and the vocal arrangement here definitely harkens back to it. His original doo-wop buddy, bass “Sting Ray” Davis, sings a sticky “I wanna know,” while backing vocalists Patsy Lewis, Diane Lewis and Rose Williams share lead vocal duties (kind of). The next number, “Hit It and Quit It,” sounds like it could almost be a Lynyrd Skynyrd demo. It’s built on a Hazel riff and calliope-esque organ from Bernie Worell, and at 2:50 has a soaring guitar solo. The lyrics express a desire for some mama to undertake the effort to “hit it” and then, in direct fashion, “quit it.” They also allow for said mama to “shake it” in a bidirectional fashion, perhaps even for dinner, and then to spread it all around. That’s about the extent of it.

But the lyrics on Maggot Brain can be meaningful, as on the social commentary number “You and Your Folks, Me and My Folks.” It’s about two people from different backgrounds falling in love. The sound reverberates strangely, but it’s an infectious groove driven by Worrell’s piano. The chorus melody is really catchy, which is always a plus for me, and it may be my favorite on the record.

Then again, there’s a lot to be said for “Super Stupid.”.

The intro solo from Hazel is very much in an Eddie Van Halen vein, and in fact the entire song could be a DLR-era Van Halen number. The brief lyrics, about the foolishness of street drugs (believe it or not), have the thrown-together feel of that band. Hazel is also the vocalist[ref]According to this website.[/ref], and his bark-don’t-sing approach is very much in the David Lee Roth style. Tiki Fulwood’s drums, particularly the syncopated bass drum, sound like they come directly from Led Zeppelin’s John Bonham. But the hero here is Hazel, who plays unbelievable solos at 1:35, and again at 2:42. It’s actually one long solo that ends the song with crafty pyrotechnics.

After that sonic wonder, the simplicity of “Back In Our Minds” is like a mid-meal sorbet. It’s another loose, Band-ish jam with boings and jaw harp, and its lyrics seem to advocate NOT using drugs. As a former trombonist in my high school marching band, I must point out the excellent trombone solo by McKinley Jackson that ends the number.

The closing number of the short masterpiece that is Maggot Brain is “Wars of Armageddon,” a psychedelic freak-out that – to be honest – probably would’ve scared the teenaged me, regardless of the band’s racial makeup. It’s a straight-up riff-based jam, with guitar and organ solos, and more incredible drums from Fulwood. There are strange noises – babies, cuckoo clocks, TV shows, flatulence – and they could’ve been pulled from a Pink Floyd song (except for the farts.) It sort of has lyrics, but they’re really just more snippets of noise. But I’ll tell you what: if this is what the Wars of Armageddon will sound like, I’m showing up to listen.

Maggot Brain is excellent. There’s so much going on in those seven songs that it requires multiple listenings. It’s a record that will please any guitar rock fan, regardless of where or when or how they grew up.

TRACK LISTING:
“Maggot Brain“
“Can You Get to That“
“Hit It and Quit It“
“You and Your Folks, Me and My Folks“
“Super Stupid“
“Back In Our Minds“
“Wars of Armageddon“

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Song #1002*: “No Second Thoughts,” by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers

Posted on October 31, 2020 | Comments Off on Song #1002*: “No Second Thoughts,” by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers
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“No Second Thoughts,” from the 1978 Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers album You’re Gonna Get It!
Subtlety and sadness, and a different sound from Tom.

*Note – I’m not even going to try to rank songs. I just plan to periodically write a little bit about some songs that I like.

Number 11 on my 100 Favorite Albums List is Damn the Torpedoes, by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. When I wrote about that album, I realized that I probably should’ve had more than one Tom Petty album on my list. He’s an artist that put out so much good music over such a long period of time that I tended to forget about how much I really like his songs.

But it’s not just the songs. I also like the sound. When I think of Petty, I think of Heartbreakers’ guitarist Mike Campbell, and his uniquely creative guitar playing. You hear it on upbeat rockers, like “American Girl,” and “Refugee,” and “Change of Heart.” Or his perfect phrasing in slower numbers like “You Got Lucky” or “A Woman in Love,” or “Breakdown.” Then there’s the subtle organ of Benmont Tench. It’s on songs like “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around,” and “Don’t Do Me Like That” and “Letting You Go.” And how about original drummer/ backing vocalist Stan Lynch? Just check out “Shadow of a Doubt!”

Also, there are the lyrics. Petty is a great lyricist. He’s one of those “turn-of-a-phrase” guys, like Elvis Costello, but not so flashy. He can put together a line or two that will break your heart, or make it soar. “… I showed you stars you never could see,” from “Even the Losers.” “… I can tell the whole wide world to shove it!” from “Here Comes My Girl.” (However, I am still a bit salty that he ripped off The Replacements‘ Paul Westerberg’s “Rebel Without a Clue” line, from “I’ll Be You.”) He’s also adept at story songs, with a knack for letting the listener fill in the details.

So, take all those great sounds and put them together with Petty lyrics delivered in that distinctive voice, and you’ve got yourself a thrilling, boisterous, helluva good time. But what if you strip away all those sounds? What if it’s only some acoustic guitar and Tom’s voice on cleverly sparse lyrics? Throw in some bongoes and weird bass guitar sounds and you’ll have “No Second Thoughts.” I think it’s as good as anything the band’s ever done.

It starts with the tape machine turning on, giving the song the feeling of an afterthought, as if the recording engineer decided to capture an off-the-cuff performance. The arrangement is sparse, with Petty and Campbell strumming acoustic guitars, Lynch banging on bongoes, and bassist Ron Blair playing an odd, but really cool, bass line that sometimes sounds like two instruments. (I think he may be finger-picking, and allowing low notes to ring while he plucks higher strings?) Not much else happens musically. Around 1:27 Campbell plays some extra acoustic lines, and organist Tench plays a final chord, but otherwise it’s just vocals.

The lyrics describe a woman on a beach leaving her husband to run off with another man. Her “silent partner” is presumably the narrator of the song. In the second verse, she seems to be getting cold feet, asking him to help “cast this evil down.” In the chorus, the narrator explains they’re almost free, and should arrive with no second thoughts. In the last verse, she says it sure seems like they’ve driven really far…

It doesn’t sound like much of a story, but Petty’s voice conveys a sadness that carries the song’s weight. And the harmony vocals on “ooh yeah,” and on the final verse (I’m guessing sung by Lynch?), add depth to the feeling. Petty makes clear that both people in the song are actually having serious second thoughts. The lyrics read as if the narrator is affirming and supporting his partner, inspiring her to cast away her apprehension. But the song in total doesn’t sound like that. To me, the song is really about the futility of promising to have “no second thoughts.” Second thoughts abound in this song, in both characters. The woman immediately feels like they’re doing evil and then admits they’ve gone too far. The man never really sells the idea that everything will be fine.

“No Second Thoughts” is a short song full of subtle emotion, backed by cool sounds. It’s not the type of track that reaches out and grabs you. It’s more the type that quietly burrows deep inside you.

The song wasn’t a single, but was the B-side to “I Need to Know.” I first heard it when I bought You’re Gonna Get It! 10 or 15 years ago. It’s been a favorite of mine ever since. It’s different from a lot of other Tom Petty songs, but it captures something about him that made him special.

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Album #116: It’s a Shame About Ray, by The Lemonheads

Posted on October 24, 2020 | Comments Off on Album #116: It’s a Shame About Ray, by The Lemonheads
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It’s a Shame About Ray
1992, Atlantic. Producer: The Robb Brothers.
In My Collection: CD, 1992.

IN A NUTSHELL: It’s a Shame About Ray is a Generation-X jangle-fest. Great melodies, cool lyrics, and even some lead guitar now and then. There’s much to love here, even though it clocks in at under 30 minutes. It’s certainly a showcase for Evan Dando’s easy facility with melodies and hooks. The songs are super short, but they’re so packed with hooks that if they were longer they’d verge on cloying. As a Gen-Xer myself, I’m proud to have Dando and The Lemonheads on our team!

THEORETICAL PLACE IN A FUTURE TOP 100 LIST I’LL NEVER WRITE: Top 50.

A year ago or so, the whole “OK, Boomer,” thing went wild around the internets. Teens and young adults mocked the outdated, bigoted ideas of many from the Baby Boomer generation by dismissing them with these clever two words. It’s a modern-day “Don’t trust anyone over 30” which, deliciously, targeted the originators of that 60s slogan, and I loved it. Except when my teenaged daughter would say it to me!

“Listen!” I’d say, “I don’t mind that you’re dismissing my opinion, but DON’T CALL ME A BOOMER! I was born in ’67 – I’m a Gen-X-er! I’ve been hating Boomers since at least 1989!” (Not all Boomers! Shout-out to Sandy, one of my most steadfast and engaged readers, who even helped me with my novel! She’s a great person with a terrific husband, Joe!) Collectively, the Boomers did some good things, but mostly they selfishly ravaged the planet while Kumbaya-ing all over themselves to cover up their smug, bullshit back-patting. As a true Gen-X-er, it makes me so angry that I shake my head and say, “Whatever.”

And while I agree that they listened to the greatest band ever[ref]A note: The Beatles are NOT Boomers – they were born during WWII, and so are part of The Silent Generation. Boomers are generally said to have been born between 1946 and 1964.[/ref], the often-espoused idea that good rock and pop began and ended with the Boomers is just one more example of why I think they’re generally a bunch of whiny frauds. Every generation makes great music, and one of the touchstones for Generation X music is The Lemonheads’ 1992 release It’s a Shame About Ray.

The Lemonheads, a Boston band, are essentially Evan Dando, plus a rotating cast of supporting musicians. Dando was kind of the grunge-ish, Gen-X version of a teen idol. Instead of the pre-fab, sparkling, unthreatening, beautiful teen-agers that generations past, and future, would foist upon the world, our team said, “here’s a shaggy, creative, beautiful young man, instead. Oh, and he’s a drug addict. Whatever.” But regardless of anything else he was (watch Dando charm David Letterman and his audience in 1992 – he really seemed to have the whole package…) Evan Dando wrote excellent songs!

The first song I remember hearing from It’s a Shame About Ray was the lead track, “Rockin’ Stroll,” a song about a baby in a stroller with a video about a baby in a stroller. It’s a minute-forty-five of total kick-ass.

The tumbling guitar riff is tight, and lyrics about a baby seemed so cool in 1992! The hookiness of the song can’t be denied, and it’s a characteristic of the entire album. These songs get stuck in your head, even if they can be difficult to sing along to. For a long time I sang the next song, “Confetti,” as “Hey, kindly share a soda with a lover or a cola.” My sister pointed out that the actual words, about unrequited love, were much better than that. David Ryan’s drums in the song are great, as is Dando’s guitar solo (1:45), a rarity for early-90s rock.

The songs on the album are short, all under 3:00, but they’re all such concentrated nuggets of pop charm that if they were any longer they’d overwhelm. The title track, with a video featuring another Gen-X heartthrob, fits a cool guitar riff, a great chord progression, and a note that sounds like it’s held for 12 bars (“Raa-aaa-aayy”) into a pleasing little gem. 100FaveAlbum member Juliana Hatfield plays bass on the album and sings backing vocals, as well. “Rudderless” has another great chord progression (two, actually), and more Hatfield backing vocals. Lyrically, it expresses experiencing life in a druggie malaise (“Hope in my past …”)

If folks were ever shocked about the fact that Dando became so hooked on drugs[ref]I saw The Lemonheads in SF in ’93, and Hole opened for them. Courtney Love and Hole were absolutely fantastic. I went in thinking she and her band were sort of phony-baloney, so I was truly blown away. However, Dando was clearly not up to performing that night. He almost fell asleep while singing. By the second half it seemed like some other drug kicked in, and the final third of their set was a blast. Roles were apparently reversed in this Variety-reviewed show.[/ref], they weren’t listening closely to his song’s lyrics.

“My Drug Buddy,” again with Hatfield, is a flat-out celebration of the camaraderie of drug use. Its organ riff is lovely, and the singalong melody is terrific. But as “The Turnpike Down” demonstrates, melody was never a problem for The Lemonheads. I don’t know what the lyrics are about, but it’s fun to sing “Butterscotch street lamps/ Mark my path!” “Bit Part” is lyrically far more direct, as the clamorous spoken-word opening makes clear. It’s a short song asking for a role in someone’s life.

It’s not just melody that makes Dando more than a pretty face. As “Alison’s Starting to Happen” demonstrates, he can also write some great lyrics.

Couplets like “I never looked at her this way before/ Now she’s all I see,” and, one of the best lines ever, “She’s the puzzle piece behind the couch/ that makes the sky complete,” are nearly XTC-level cleverness. The drums are great throughout, and I love the clanking bottles and cans in the wordless bridge. “Hannah & Gabi,” a Country tune with unspecific lyrics[ref]Malcolm Gladwell has pointed out in his podcast Revisionist History that Country & Western music is stereotypically sad because its lyrics are generally very specific, as opposed to Rock lyrics.[/ref], has a really nice acoustic guitar intro from Dando and slide guitar from Steely Dan and Doobie Bros. veteran Jeff “the Skunk” Baxter. It’s a great song that breaks up the sound.

Then it’s back to the peppy jangle with “Kitchen.”

Great bass from Hatfield, fun hand-claps, and, at 1:18, some groovy ooo-bop-bops. It’s a rom-com song, reminiscing about the meet-cute in the kitchen. “Ceiling Fan in my Spoon” is a quick, thumping rocker, and about as close to the band’s punk roots as they would get by 1992. There are once again “bop-bops” in a chorus that’s catchy as hell. (No idea what it’s about, though.)

And I guess, despite my anti-Boomerism, I have to give it to them for the musical Hair[ref]Although, once again, the writers Gerome Ragni, James Rado and Galt MacDermot, were Silent Generations members, NOT BOOMERS! Boomers just acted like they were responsible for it. Typical …[/ref], which gave us “Frank Mills,” the last song on the record. It’s a cute acoustic version. Covering childhood memories is very Gen-X. Which is probably why Dando covered “Mrs. Robinson,” even though he hates the song and Paul Simon[ref]Paul Simon – also a Silent Generation guy, not a Boomer.[/ref].

The song was recorded to celebrate the 25th anniversary of The Graduate, but wasn’t on It’s a Shame About Ray. Dando didn’t want it on the album. But, once it became a hit, the Boomers in charge of Atlantic Records tacked the song onto the end of the record anyway. The creeps. I have an early edition of the CD, WITHOUT the song, and I’m proud of that. Which is a weird thing to be proud of. But whatever.

TRACK LISTING:
“Rockin’ Stroll“
“Confetti“
“It’s a Shame About Ray“
“Rudderless“
“My Drug Buddy“
“The Turnpike Down“
“Bit Part“
“Alison’s Starting to Happen“
“Hannah & Gabi“
“Kitchen“
“Ceiling Fan in My Spoon“
“Frank Mills“
BONUS TRACK (not on my CD):
“Mrs. Robinson“

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