Joanna Newsom --"Cosmia"
It took me quite a while to get used to the voice, but once I did finally give in to it, I fell pretty hard for it. This is still, I think, Newsom's best song thus far, and although I like the Van Dyke Parks-produced version from Ys, with its dramatic string arrangement, I love the lengthier, folkier arrangement on the Joanna Newsom and the Ys Street Band EP, which sounds like a dressed-up version of a barn dance with its accordion, musical saw, and banjo.
Newsom's voice is able to convey genuine pathos, and though the lyrics here aren't quite as stunning as they are elsewhere on Ys, they still fascinate. As a song of parting, "Cosmia," the album's closer, pairs logically with "Emily," the album's opener. There's something to do with the odd but functional family dynamic -- "kith and kin" -- referred to elsewhere on the album. There's the elemental fire and water motif, vaguely indicating some kind of medieval thematic framework. The song structure is classical, effectively designed to emphasize the shifting emotions of the song. I can't tell if Newsom's oddity is affected or not -- her most recent album, a triple disc set that I still haven't completely explored, boasts some great material, but as far as I can tell there's nothing there to freak out the squares. Regardless, she has created some songs with a genuine affective power, and this is one of the best of them.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
1/30/2012
The Rolling Stones -- "Street Fighting Man"
This song inevitably seems to me like an invitation to enter the heart of darkness. I can't hear this track without thinking of the passage from Michael Herr's Dispatches in which Herr recounts a conversation he had in Vietnam with a US Marine machine-gunner who said he couldn't wait to get to Hue so he could blast this song from the tape deck strapped to his back while he simultaneously blasted his way through the rubble of the devastated city with his machine-gun.
Of course, this may have been intended as an anti-war song, and the "street fighting" referred to might be well-intentioned democratic protest, but the heart of darkness seems more like the Stones' natural groove. There are different ways to get to that dark place, and the careless hedonism of their music must surely be one. For all that, this is simply a great song, with a distorted acoustic guitar driving it along and sitar and tamboura filling out the sound. Jaggers' voice doesn't sound peaceful, though, and the acoustic nature of the song can't disguise the fact that, whatever the band's intentions, this song is a fighting song.
This song inevitably seems to me like an invitation to enter the heart of darkness. I can't hear this track without thinking of the passage from Michael Herr's Dispatches in which Herr recounts a conversation he had in Vietnam with a US Marine machine-gunner who said he couldn't wait to get to Hue so he could blast this song from the tape deck strapped to his back while he simultaneously blasted his way through the rubble of the devastated city with his machine-gun.
Of course, this may have been intended as an anti-war song, and the "street fighting" referred to might be well-intentioned democratic protest, but the heart of darkness seems more like the Stones' natural groove. There are different ways to get to that dark place, and the careless hedonism of their music must surely be one. For all that, this is simply a great song, with a distorted acoustic guitar driving it along and sitar and tamboura filling out the sound. Jaggers' voice doesn't sound peaceful, though, and the acoustic nature of the song can't disguise the fact that, whatever the band's intentions, this song is a fighting song.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
1/29/2012
Bob Dylan -- "Obviously Five Believers"
Lyrically, this one is kind of a throwaway for Dylan. There's nothing to distinguish the lyrics as Dylanean until you get to the next to last stanza, with its mysterious talk about jugglers and believers, counted out in quantities of five. Even then, there's not too much to say about the lyrics, other than the fact that the rest of the song gives us some pretty classic blues material.
But to limit the discussion of the song to the lyrics is to miss the mark. This is a straight-up blues number with a driving beat and a nicely bended riff on the harmonica that effectively punctuates the end of each verse. The guitar work here -- and I haven't been able to figure out which of the guitarists present at the Blonde on Blonde recording sessions is playing the lead -- works in and out of various standard blues and rockabilly phrases without lingering on any one of them for too long to wear out the welcome. If there's nothing profound here, at least there's a jumping tune and a nice lead-in to the weightier material of "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands."
Lyrically, this one is kind of a throwaway for Dylan. There's nothing to distinguish the lyrics as Dylanean until you get to the next to last stanza, with its mysterious talk about jugglers and believers, counted out in quantities of five. Even then, there's not too much to say about the lyrics, other than the fact that the rest of the song gives us some pretty classic blues material.
But to limit the discussion of the song to the lyrics is to miss the mark. This is a straight-up blues number with a driving beat and a nicely bended riff on the harmonica that effectively punctuates the end of each verse. The guitar work here -- and I haven't been able to figure out which of the guitarists present at the Blonde on Blonde recording sessions is playing the lead -- works in and out of various standard blues and rockabilly phrases without lingering on any one of them for too long to wear out the welcome. If there's nothing profound here, at least there's a jumping tune and a nice lead-in to the weightier material of "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands."
Saturday, January 28, 2012
1/28/2012
Hank Williams -- "Weary Blues from Waitin'"
Hank's voice is ragged in this classic demo, but it's also right. This is the last of the classic Hank Williams songs -- which isn't necessarily to say that it's the best of the demos he recorded shortly before his death -- but of all these demos it does best represent a mastery of the standard idioms of country music without rendering them cliche, and as such it follows in the same vein as "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" and has the same hit potential. Compared with their antecedents, though, the sorrowful notes in "Weary Blues" resonate through an emptier space, sonically and emotionally, and thereby seem to attain more depth. Other demos signaled something of a new direction Hank might have taken had he regained his mental and physical health, but this one is a classic that easily ranks among his best compositions.
Hank's voice is ragged in this classic demo, but it's also right. This is the last of the classic Hank Williams songs -- which isn't necessarily to say that it's the best of the demos he recorded shortly before his death -- but of all these demos it does best represent a mastery of the standard idioms of country music without rendering them cliche, and as such it follows in the same vein as "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" and has the same hit potential. Compared with their antecedents, though, the sorrowful notes in "Weary Blues" resonate through an emptier space, sonically and emotionally, and thereby seem to attain more depth. Other demos signaled something of a new direction Hank might have taken had he regained his mental and physical health, but this one is a classic that easily ranks among his best compositions.
Friday, January 27, 2012
1/27/2012
Hank Williams -- "Angel of Death"
A sober statement on the reality of death from a man who was, at the time he recorded this demo, rarely sober. The timing here is eerie, as it is with Gram Parsons' "In My Hour of Darkness." Shortly after recording this demo, Hank had his own encounter with the Angel.
It's hard to imagine this song embellished with fiddle or steel guitar -- the stark austerity of the demo is just right. Compared with the earnest but plaintive reording of "The Log Train," there's no pathos in "Angel of Death," just a strict, stern statement on human mortality couched in the terminology of the religion that Hank seemed to embrace so sincerely in his heart but so poorly in his deeds.
A sober statement on the reality of death from a man who was, at the time he recorded this demo, rarely sober. The timing here is eerie, as it is with Gram Parsons' "In My Hour of Darkness." Shortly after recording this demo, Hank had his own encounter with the Angel.
It's hard to imagine this song embellished with fiddle or steel guitar -- the stark austerity of the demo is just right. Compared with the earnest but plaintive reording of "The Log Train," there's no pathos in "Angel of Death," just a strict, stern statement on human mortality couched in the terminology of the religion that Hank seemed to embrace so sincerely in his heart but so poorly in his deeds.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
1/26/2012
Twin Shadow -- "At My Heels"
A pitch-perfect evocation of an era. Not that the era itself was so great -- Reaganomics, the AIDS epidemic and the rampant homophobia that accompanied it, crack cocaine and urban squalor -- but there's an automatic emotional response at having the past resurrected in such exquisite detail, especially for those of us who were alive and aware at the time, regardless of how we felt about being alive and aware at that particular historical moment.
Somehow the music doesn't end up sounding derivative. Rather, it's fresh, as authentic as programmed drums could ever be. "At My Heels" features the drum machine and the synths that characterize the sound of Twin Shadow's entire first album and some subtle but effective guitar playing, as well. Lyrically, the song plays with the fractured fairy tale theme that unifies the album. In this case, the story seems to be an inversion of the princess-in-the-tower story. It's the guy who's stuck this time around: "Lean your ladder against my window, and I'll come down." It's Prince and Morrissey both at once, the product of a singular, romantic vision. When the song first breaks down to a subdued reading of the bridge, then explodes into a final repetition of the chorus, we become aware that we are sonically in the presence of a master stylist.
A pitch-perfect evocation of an era. Not that the era itself was so great -- Reaganomics, the AIDS epidemic and the rampant homophobia that accompanied it, crack cocaine and urban squalor -- but there's an automatic emotional response at having the past resurrected in such exquisite detail, especially for those of us who were alive and aware at the time, regardless of how we felt about being alive and aware at that particular historical moment.
Somehow the music doesn't end up sounding derivative. Rather, it's fresh, as authentic as programmed drums could ever be. "At My Heels" features the drum machine and the synths that characterize the sound of Twin Shadow's entire first album and some subtle but effective guitar playing, as well. Lyrically, the song plays with the fractured fairy tale theme that unifies the album. In this case, the story seems to be an inversion of the princess-in-the-tower story. It's the guy who's stuck this time around: "Lean your ladder against my window, and I'll come down." It's Prince and Morrissey both at once, the product of a singular, romantic vision. When the song first breaks down to a subdued reading of the bridge, then explodes into a final repetition of the chorus, we become aware that we are sonically in the presence of a master stylist.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
1/25/2012
The New Pornographers -- "The Electric Version"
I still remember the day I walked into a Washington, DC used bookstore and heard the New Pornographers for the first time. I didn't have to ask the clerk what he was playing: I had read about the band already, and as soon as I heard it I knew who it was, so perfectly did the description match the sound.
I listened to "The Electric Version" -- both the song and the album -- on a regular basis for years to come. Here we find the power-pop sublime as it has rarely been achieved: there's a little bit of Blondie here in the vocals and the dashes of synth, some Elvis Costello in the wry, clever lyrics, and hooks a-plenty. The guitars are powerful but they never take over. There's also, I think, just a bit of '80s hair-metal styling in here with the drums that, when you listen closely, prove to be surprisingly heavy, and when A. C. Newman's vocals reach into a near-falsetto. The overall sound is timeless, though, hinting at everything that's happened since The Beatles (except for The Beatles). (There's a lot of tastefully employed e-bow elsewhere on the album, to give it that up-to-date feel.)
The best part of this track is Neko Cases' walk-on vocal part, the way the word "magnets" takes on an extra syllable at the end just to give it a nice, clean finish. This is fine ensemble work, even if it was recorded in bits and pieces. There's a lot of talent on display in this track, and as with just about every song on the album, this one is imminently listenable, the kind of thing you can't help singing along to.
I still remember the day I walked into a Washington, DC used bookstore and heard the New Pornographers for the first time. I didn't have to ask the clerk what he was playing: I had read about the band already, and as soon as I heard it I knew who it was, so perfectly did the description match the sound.
I listened to "The Electric Version" -- both the song and the album -- on a regular basis for years to come. Here we find the power-pop sublime as it has rarely been achieved: there's a little bit of Blondie here in the vocals and the dashes of synth, some Elvis Costello in the wry, clever lyrics, and hooks a-plenty. The guitars are powerful but they never take over. There's also, I think, just a bit of '80s hair-metal styling in here with the drums that, when you listen closely, prove to be surprisingly heavy, and when A. C. Newman's vocals reach into a near-falsetto. The overall sound is timeless, though, hinting at everything that's happened since The Beatles (except for The Beatles). (There's a lot of tastefully employed e-bow elsewhere on the album, to give it that up-to-date feel.)
The best part of this track is Neko Cases' walk-on vocal part, the way the word "magnets" takes on an extra syllable at the end just to give it a nice, clean finish. This is fine ensemble work, even if it was recorded in bits and pieces. There's a lot of talent on display in this track, and as with just about every song on the album, this one is imminently listenable, the kind of thing you can't help singing along to.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
1/24/2012
Jimi Hendrix -- "All Along the Watchtower"
I find myself suspicious of the big guitar players of the classic rock era. They generally boasted little in terms of subtlety, and the formulas they rode to stardom sometimes seem a little easy, despite their technical proficiency. Also, the edge wore off pretty quickly with a lot of them. Eric Clapton quickly became a lot less interesting without the psychedelic tendencies of Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker to urge him on.
There's something about Hendrix, though, that sets him apart. The funk and soul of his music are part of it. The leanness of the music, even with studio overdubs and effects, works much to its credit. Hendrix could write a good song, but here's a situation in which he was better off with someone else's. Of course, when that someone else is Bob Dylan, the stakes run pretty high. The ratio of bad Dylan covers to good Dylan covers is, overall, pretty dismal. This song is easy to cover -- three basic chords, and it's the Hendrix version people are covering, not Dylan's -- but it's hard to make it sound good. Maybe it's the heavy strings Hendrix used, or maybe it was the upside-down guitar, but whatever the case, there is a distinctive signature in everything Hendrix played. Here's a song with a kind of gravity to it, and Hendrix manages to channel its downward minor-key energy into something powerful, urgent, and profound, even though it's just about impossible to say what exactly the song is really about.
I find myself suspicious of the big guitar players of the classic rock era. They generally boasted little in terms of subtlety, and the formulas they rode to stardom sometimes seem a little easy, despite their technical proficiency. Also, the edge wore off pretty quickly with a lot of them. Eric Clapton quickly became a lot less interesting without the psychedelic tendencies of Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker to urge him on.
There's something about Hendrix, though, that sets him apart. The funk and soul of his music are part of it. The leanness of the music, even with studio overdubs and effects, works much to its credit. Hendrix could write a good song, but here's a situation in which he was better off with someone else's. Of course, when that someone else is Bob Dylan, the stakes run pretty high. The ratio of bad Dylan covers to good Dylan covers is, overall, pretty dismal. This song is easy to cover -- three basic chords, and it's the Hendrix version people are covering, not Dylan's -- but it's hard to make it sound good. Maybe it's the heavy strings Hendrix used, or maybe it was the upside-down guitar, but whatever the case, there is a distinctive signature in everything Hendrix played. Here's a song with a kind of gravity to it, and Hendrix manages to channel its downward minor-key energy into something powerful, urgent, and profound, even though it's just about impossible to say what exactly the song is really about.
Monday, January 23, 2012
1/23/2102
Pharoah Sanders -- "The Creator Has a Master Plan"
There are much, much worse things you could do with 32:47 of your time.
What else can one say about this track? For starters, there are very few artists who can make a recording featuring a flute that is worth listening to. I could say also that the low, buzzing moodiness of the sax sounds right with the extra percussion that you never would have heard in, say, John Coltrane, that this kind of thing makes sense as what I would consider to be jazz's last stand, which was also a nod to its prehistoric (that is, pre-recoding technology) origins. After Afro-jazz, there really wasn't anything else left for the genre to do because Western music had moved on.
So, Pharoah Sanders met the Afro-Beat artists of the same era half-way: they looked from Africa to the West for inspiration, Sanders from the West to Africa. "The creator has a master plan," Sanders tries to convince us, and, religious convictions aside, we find ourselvves rather inclined to believe him.
There are much, much worse things you could do with 32:47 of your time.
What else can one say about this track? For starters, there are very few artists who can make a recording featuring a flute that is worth listening to. I could say also that the low, buzzing moodiness of the sax sounds right with the extra percussion that you never would have heard in, say, John Coltrane, that this kind of thing makes sense as what I would consider to be jazz's last stand, which was also a nod to its prehistoric (that is, pre-recoding technology) origins. After Afro-jazz, there really wasn't anything else left for the genre to do because Western music had moved on.
So, Pharoah Sanders met the Afro-Beat artists of the same era half-way: they looked from Africa to the West for inspiration, Sanders from the West to Africa. "The creator has a master plan," Sanders tries to convince us, and, religious convictions aside, we find ourselvves rather inclined to believe him.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
1/22/2012
The Pernice Brothers -- "Baby in Two"
Variants of the lyric "hey kids, rock and roll" have a long and storied history, dating back at least to the 1973 David Essex hit "Rock On," a standard of the classic rock genre that lost its freshness a long time ago. R.E.M. picked up the lyric for its early 90s hit "Drive." And a decade or so later, Joe Pernice picked it up again for this song. Pernice's treatment of the lyric -- sardonic, literate, with a wry nod back in Essex's general direction -- makes clever use of stale material: rock and roll is a bullseye hung on your soul.
This song seems to be about a failed attempt at stardom, or a failed attempt at a relationship, or both -- typical Pernice Brothers, then. A life of failure kept afloat, just barely, by the powers of cynicism and irony. "I wish I knew a sure simple way to reach you," Pernice sings. The song functions as just that -- sure, simple way to reach an audience -- the only problem being that not enough people were listening.
Too bad. Stardom may have eluded Pernice, Solomonic wisdom as well. "I'd be the king if I could say to you / Cut the baby in two": at least he knows what he'd be doing if he were the king.
Variants of the lyric "hey kids, rock and roll" have a long and storied history, dating back at least to the 1973 David Essex hit "Rock On," a standard of the classic rock genre that lost its freshness a long time ago. R.E.M. picked up the lyric for its early 90s hit "Drive." And a decade or so later, Joe Pernice picked it up again for this song. Pernice's treatment of the lyric -- sardonic, literate, with a wry nod back in Essex's general direction -- makes clever use of stale material: rock and roll is a bullseye hung on your soul.
This song seems to be about a failed attempt at stardom, or a failed attempt at a relationship, or both -- typical Pernice Brothers, then. A life of failure kept afloat, just barely, by the powers of cynicism and irony. "I wish I knew a sure simple way to reach you," Pernice sings. The song functions as just that -- sure, simple way to reach an audience -- the only problem being that not enough people were listening.
Too bad. Stardom may have eluded Pernice, Solomonic wisdom as well. "I'd be the king if I could say to you / Cut the baby in two": at least he knows what he'd be doing if he were the king.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
1/21/2012
Robyn Hitchcock -- "Acid Bird"
Neo-psychedelic pop of the finest possible variety, with the power to convince you that not everyone's acid trips are a waste of time. At the same time, this song captures an experience, a wide-eyed innocence, that seems almost impossible today -- the experience of seeing things for real for the first time. But that's what's at the heart of all psychedelia, whether it's John the Revelator's (cave-trance induced), William Blake's (possibly induced by epilepsy), or the more modern chemical variety. The guitars are chimey, the melody sinuous, the bass there to remind us on occasion that our feet are actually still on solid ground. My advice: skip the acid, just listen to the soundtrack. You'll get the idea.
Neo-psychedelic pop of the finest possible variety, with the power to convince you that not everyone's acid trips are a waste of time. At the same time, this song captures an experience, a wide-eyed innocence, that seems almost impossible today -- the experience of seeing things for real for the first time. But that's what's at the heart of all psychedelia, whether it's John the Revelator's (cave-trance induced), William Blake's (possibly induced by epilepsy), or the more modern chemical variety. The guitars are chimey, the melody sinuous, the bass there to remind us on occasion that our feet are actually still on solid ground. My advice: skip the acid, just listen to the soundtrack. You'll get the idea.
Friday, January 20, 2012
1/20/2012
Johnny Cash -- "The Matador"
From the "Ring of Fire" era, this song takes the same approach as that more famous number but relocates to a setting more central to the heart of that song's sound: the bullfighter's arena. Lyrically, the song is nothing brilliant, chronicling the thoughts of a bullfighter who hopes to win back the heart of his love through his valor in the ring. The matador may have lost his love, but he still maintains his dignity, and what would easily be a novelty coming from another artist, briefly entertaining but utterly forgettable, is a bold triumph for Cash, who manages to convey what seems to be genuine emotion through the bravado of his voice.
From the "Ring of Fire" era, this song takes the same approach as that more famous number but relocates to a setting more central to the heart of that song's sound: the bullfighter's arena. Lyrically, the song is nothing brilliant, chronicling the thoughts of a bullfighter who hopes to win back the heart of his love through his valor in the ring. The matador may have lost his love, but he still maintains his dignity, and what would easily be a novelty coming from another artist, briefly entertaining but utterly forgettable, is a bold triumph for Cash, who manages to convey what seems to be genuine emotion through the bravado of his voice.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
1/19/2012
Bob Dylan --"Desolation Row"
To undertake the task of writing anything -- even a paragraph or two -- on Bob Dylan is a daunting task. It's not that everyone else has written so well on him, nor is it that Dylan is an unassailable genius, but rather that it's just so easy to sound like a fool when you're trying to find something worthwhile to say about him.
Those of us who do think we might have something worthwhile to say about Dylan often get confused because the persona he presents is so slippery, so evasive. The man distracts us from the music. So, to bypass the artist and look at the art, let's just say that "Desolation Row" is one of the few eleven-plus minute songs that slips by in no time. It's gone before it wears its welcome out, which is pretty remarkable considering that there is very little change in the structure of the song throughout its duration--no bridge, no middle eight, no chorus except for the repetition of "Desolation Row" at the end of each verse, just a couple of instrumental breaks featuring primarily the harmonica. Charlie McCoy's nimble picking variations on the lead acoustic guitar help out, though, and a listen to the alternate version of the song from No Direction Home -- featuring Al Kooper gamely playing along on electric guitar -- quickly clarifies what a great decision it was to get McCoy on board. Lyrically, the song is written in the heavily allusive vein that characterizes all of Highway 61 Revisited; it offers a series of brief but telling character sketches, using names from history, literature, and folk tradition very haphazardly. Dylan's Ophelia and Cassanova bear little resemblance, respectively, to their antecedents in literature and history. The result is a deliberate veering away from the expected meanings of things: everyone starts over from scratch, even if scratch means the gutter. It's a song equivalent to John Ashbery's "Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape," a poem that offers a sestina about Popeye the Sailor. Both works seem to be saying that the old set of allusive references -- the Bible and the classical tradition -- are lost on a modern audience fed on a steady diet of pop culture ephemera. There's a lot of free association going on here, and the sketches are only loosely thematically related by the scenes of urban squalor conveyed throughout the song.
Somehow, though, it all works. Beyond this, I can't pretend any further to be able to explain why.
To undertake the task of writing anything -- even a paragraph or two -- on Bob Dylan is a daunting task. It's not that everyone else has written so well on him, nor is it that Dylan is an unassailable genius, but rather that it's just so easy to sound like a fool when you're trying to find something worthwhile to say about him.
Those of us who do think we might have something worthwhile to say about Dylan often get confused because the persona he presents is so slippery, so evasive. The man distracts us from the music. So, to bypass the artist and look at the art, let's just say that "Desolation Row" is one of the few eleven-plus minute songs that slips by in no time. It's gone before it wears its welcome out, which is pretty remarkable considering that there is very little change in the structure of the song throughout its duration--no bridge, no middle eight, no chorus except for the repetition of "Desolation Row" at the end of each verse, just a couple of instrumental breaks featuring primarily the harmonica. Charlie McCoy's nimble picking variations on the lead acoustic guitar help out, though, and a listen to the alternate version of the song from No Direction Home -- featuring Al Kooper gamely playing along on electric guitar -- quickly clarifies what a great decision it was to get McCoy on board. Lyrically, the song is written in the heavily allusive vein that characterizes all of Highway 61 Revisited; it offers a series of brief but telling character sketches, using names from history, literature, and folk tradition very haphazardly. Dylan's Ophelia and Cassanova bear little resemblance, respectively, to their antecedents in literature and history. The result is a deliberate veering away from the expected meanings of things: everyone starts over from scratch, even if scratch means the gutter. It's a song equivalent to John Ashbery's "Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape," a poem that offers a sestina about Popeye the Sailor. Both works seem to be saying that the old set of allusive references -- the Bible and the classical tradition -- are lost on a modern audience fed on a steady diet of pop culture ephemera. There's a lot of free association going on here, and the sketches are only loosely thematically related by the scenes of urban squalor conveyed throughout the song.
Somehow, though, it all works. Beyond this, I can't pretend any further to be able to explain why.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
1/18/2012
Death -- "Politicians in My Eyes"
The details of the story are pretty familiar now -- black proto-punk band from Detroit records a set of demos in 1975, then disappears into obscurity, only to have these tracks rediscovered more than thirty years later and subsequently released to great acclaim. Though there are only seven tracks in the Death catalog proper (depending on whether you count the less remarkable second batch of demos released last year), that's six more than is necessary to secure a legendary status for this band -- the very existence of which is so improbable as to seem almost impossible. Comparisons to Bad Brains are, of course, inevitable and apt, especially for this track, likely the first ever to fuse together funk and the as-yet-unbroken new genre of punk. Comparisons aside, though, Death was a remarkable band. "Politicians in My Eyes" is the angriest and the most powerful of their demos, and, black president aside, the message is as apt today as it was during the band's brief existence.
The details of the story are pretty familiar now -- black proto-punk band from Detroit records a set of demos in 1975, then disappears into obscurity, only to have these tracks rediscovered more than thirty years later and subsequently released to great acclaim. Though there are only seven tracks in the Death catalog proper (depending on whether you count the less remarkable second batch of demos released last year), that's six more than is necessary to secure a legendary status for this band -- the very existence of which is so improbable as to seem almost impossible. Comparisons to Bad Brains are, of course, inevitable and apt, especially for this track, likely the first ever to fuse together funk and the as-yet-unbroken new genre of punk. Comparisons aside, though, Death was a remarkable band. "Politicians in My Eyes" is the angriest and the most powerful of their demos, and, black president aside, the message is as apt today as it was during the band's brief existence.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
1/17/2012
Chuck Berry -- "Thirty Days"
While Elvis and other white boys in Memphis were making rock and roll suitable for mass consumption, Chuck Berry was carrying the genre forward by creating the formula that would ultimately win out. Not to knock Elvis, a musical savant in his own right, and the rest of the Sam Philips crowd, but the rock and roll tradition of the 60s draws more from Chuck Berry in terms of sound. What makes "Thirty Days" one of my favorite Chuck Berry tracks is not just the playful inventiveness of the lyrics but also the crunch of the guitar, which isn't quite distorted, exactly, but it does have a bite. The sound of the song isn't that of hopped-up country music or even hopped-up blues--though it starts with both. For all the indie kids out there today who've thought to ask themselves where it is that the music they listen to origianlly came from, here's the answer.
While Elvis and other white boys in Memphis were making rock and roll suitable for mass consumption, Chuck Berry was carrying the genre forward by creating the formula that would ultimately win out. Not to knock Elvis, a musical savant in his own right, and the rest of the Sam Philips crowd, but the rock and roll tradition of the 60s draws more from Chuck Berry in terms of sound. What makes "Thirty Days" one of my favorite Chuck Berry tracks is not just the playful inventiveness of the lyrics but also the crunch of the guitar, which isn't quite distorted, exactly, but it does have a bite. The sound of the song isn't that of hopped-up country music or even hopped-up blues--though it starts with both. For all the indie kids out there today who've thought to ask themselves where it is that the music they listen to origianlly came from, here's the answer.
Monday, January 16, 2012
1/16/2012
Big Star -- "Back of a Car"
You can tell just how big a star Alex Chilton wants to be when you listen to this song. This is well before he must have just said to hell with it: after Big Star, he seems to be more content with off-beat obscurity. But on this track, he and the rest of the band are shooting for a kind of jangle-pop power that still has a lot of muscle to it, and a lot of ambition. It's the most archetypal of rock and roll narratives: loud music, fast driving, something about love. Guitar, bass, drum, and harmony. In an alternate universe, one that is much more sane and tasteful than our own, Big Star's also-ran shot at rock music glory must have won out, and the shape of popular music was forever changed.
You can tell just how big a star Alex Chilton wants to be when you listen to this song. This is well before he must have just said to hell with it: after Big Star, he seems to be more content with off-beat obscurity. But on this track, he and the rest of the band are shooting for a kind of jangle-pop power that still has a lot of muscle to it, and a lot of ambition. It's the most archetypal of rock and roll narratives: loud music, fast driving, something about love. Guitar, bass, drum, and harmony. In an alternate universe, one that is much more sane and tasteful than our own, Big Star's also-ran shot at rock music glory must have won out, and the shape of popular music was forever changed.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
1/15/2012
Television -- "See No Evil"
Television doesn't sound punk to a modern audience, but they were there when it all started. Musically, however, the guys in the band were simply too talented to play straight-up faster-louder. "See No Evil" is the closest they ever got to punk, but more importantly this song serves as a kind of manifesto for the band's aesthetic vision, which is closer to that of the French Symbolist poets (such as Paul Verlaine, for whom frontman Tom Verlaine renamed himself) than it is to that of The Ramones. I won't even try to decipher Tom Verlaine's lyrics, but they evoke a kind of gutter-bound romantic perspective, embracing the city, from Broadway to the Bowery, in all its filthy glory. The title of the song says it best, presenting life as aesthetic experience, beyond good and evil. A great way to introduce the best album by one of the most distinctive bands of the 1970s.
Television doesn't sound punk to a modern audience, but they were there when it all started. Musically, however, the guys in the band were simply too talented to play straight-up faster-louder. "See No Evil" is the closest they ever got to punk, but more importantly this song serves as a kind of manifesto for the band's aesthetic vision, which is closer to that of the French Symbolist poets (such as Paul Verlaine, for whom frontman Tom Verlaine renamed himself) than it is to that of The Ramones. I won't even try to decipher Tom Verlaine's lyrics, but they evoke a kind of gutter-bound romantic perspective, embracing the city, from Broadway to the Bowery, in all its filthy glory. The title of the song says it best, presenting life as aesthetic experience, beyond good and evil. A great way to introduce the best album by one of the most distinctive bands of the 1970s.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
1/14/2012
The Clash -- "Bankrobber"
Of course, the single of "Bankrobber" is a great track, and I'm not one of those people who insists that The Clash were only at their best during their live shows, but the live version of this song from the June 9, 1981, performance at Bond's International Casino in Times Square is, quite simply, one of the best-ever recordings of one of the best-ever bands. The bootleg of this show, taken from an FM radio broadcast, is pretty high quality, and the band was at its peak in the summer of 1981. The Clash had, for a little while at least, become a New York band, and they sound as if they are playing on home turf here at the end of a long string of over-capacity shows in New York. DeNiro was there. The young Beastie Boys were there. Fab Five Freddy was there. I don't think Andy Warhol was there, but he would show up next year when the band played Shea Stadium.
Joe Strummer was there, of course, doing what Joe Strummer did best. His lyrics here take the romanticized idea of robber as folk hero and give it a bit of a West Indian send-up. Mick Jones was playing a pretty laid-back role in versions of the song from about this time. If you listen to earlier live versions of the song, you can tell that he couldn't quite figure out at first what to do here--this is not a guitar-powered song--but now he's got it figured out: don't do much of anything. Instead, the bass and drums drive the song, and Topper Headon is at his absolute best. Subtlety is not exactly the right word to describe Topper's drumming, but it is a far, far cry from the John Bonham school of pounding the skins. Finesse is a good word. Rapid-fire. The galloping beat that drives the last set of choruses is one of the greatest triumphs of his career.
Just so you get the right version of the song, here's a link to the song on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bXxdAIFVcAM&feature=results_video&playnext=1&list=PL34C99A19FFEBCDE2
Of course, the single of "Bankrobber" is a great track, and I'm not one of those people who insists that The Clash were only at their best during their live shows, but the live version of this song from the June 9, 1981, performance at Bond's International Casino in Times Square is, quite simply, one of the best-ever recordings of one of the best-ever bands. The bootleg of this show, taken from an FM radio broadcast, is pretty high quality, and the band was at its peak in the summer of 1981. The Clash had, for a little while at least, become a New York band, and they sound as if they are playing on home turf here at the end of a long string of over-capacity shows in New York. DeNiro was there. The young Beastie Boys were there. Fab Five Freddy was there. I don't think Andy Warhol was there, but he would show up next year when the band played Shea Stadium.
Joe Strummer was there, of course, doing what Joe Strummer did best. His lyrics here take the romanticized idea of robber as folk hero and give it a bit of a West Indian send-up. Mick Jones was playing a pretty laid-back role in versions of the song from about this time. If you listen to earlier live versions of the song, you can tell that he couldn't quite figure out at first what to do here--this is not a guitar-powered song--but now he's got it figured out: don't do much of anything. Instead, the bass and drums drive the song, and Topper Headon is at his absolute best. Subtlety is not exactly the right word to describe Topper's drumming, but it is a far, far cry from the John Bonham school of pounding the skins. Finesse is a good word. Rapid-fire. The galloping beat that drives the last set of choruses is one of the greatest triumphs of his career.
Just so you get the right version of the song, here's a link to the song on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bXxdAIFVcAM&feature=results_video&playnext=1&list=PL34C99A19FFEBCDE2
Friday, January 13, 2012
1/13/2012
Tom Waits -- "Big Black Mariah"
Part of Tom Waits' genius is his knack for flanking himself with great guitarists, particularly the endlessly inventive and chameleonic Marc Ribot. In this case, though, Keith Richards was exactly the right man for the job. This track plays like a primal blues, disassembled and then put back together again with a studied haphazardness. Think of Charley Patton, electrified and with a drum kit. Waits shrieks, he howls out some elliptical metaphors for what seems like a funeral service out in the sticks, and Richards follows right along by his side. The horn section completes the sound. Overall, it's a winning formula.
Part of Tom Waits' genius is his knack for flanking himself with great guitarists, particularly the endlessly inventive and chameleonic Marc Ribot. In this case, though, Keith Richards was exactly the right man for the job. This track plays like a primal blues, disassembled and then put back together again with a studied haphazardness. Think of Charley Patton, electrified and with a drum kit. Waits shrieks, he howls out some elliptical metaphors for what seems like a funeral service out in the sticks, and Richards follows right along by his side. The horn section completes the sound. Overall, it's a winning formula.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
1/12/2012
Townes Van Zandt -- "It's Only Him or Me"
You get the sense that Townes Van Zandt was the kind of person who left a lot. Lovers, family, friends--he abandoned them all. Despite his claim in this song that he "never got close enough to stay," you imagine that some people, despite their own better judgment, must have gotten attached to the bastard.
If Gram Parsons' voice is characterized by wistful melancholy, Townes' voice is that of the ragged and weary depths. His more upbeat songs still sound pretty damn low. Though some of his albums were so overproduced that I can barely listen to them, Delta Momma Blues is one of the best, and this song is one of its best tracks. He's the one doing the leaving -- and yet somehow he's the one you end up feeling sorry for.
You get the sense that Townes Van Zandt was the kind of person who left a lot. Lovers, family, friends--he abandoned them all. Despite his claim in this song that he "never got close enough to stay," you imagine that some people, despite their own better judgment, must have gotten attached to the bastard.
If Gram Parsons' voice is characterized by wistful melancholy, Townes' voice is that of the ragged and weary depths. His more upbeat songs still sound pretty damn low. Though some of his albums were so overproduced that I can barely listen to them, Delta Momma Blues is one of the best, and this song is one of its best tracks. He's the one doing the leaving -- and yet somehow he's the one you end up feeling sorry for.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
1/11/2012
The Band -- "Rag Mama Rag"
It would take a group mostly comprising Canadians to figure out how, once and for all, to play American music. While Gram Parsons was in the early stages of crafting his equally grand Western-soul "cosmic American music," these guys were steeping themselves in the traditions and culture of the American South, not to effect a redneck vibe but to get a sense of what redeeming qualities there were to the culture. They pulled it off because they were endlessly inventive and uniquely talented as musicians. The peculiar genius of this song comes from the arrangment: tuba for bass, and mandolin and fiddle adding the funky elements. Though everything is pefectly in its place, the highlight of the song is Garth Hudson's rolicking barrelhouse piano, which seems throughout the track to be on the verge of leaping away and starting its own song, until the very end, when the other instruments drop out and the song reaches its conclusion, but Hudson keeps on playing to a fade-out. You get a sense that, regardless of whether he was accompanied by any one else or not, he could go on with it forever, and part of you wishes he would do just that.
It would take a group mostly comprising Canadians to figure out how, once and for all, to play American music. While Gram Parsons was in the early stages of crafting his equally grand Western-soul "cosmic American music," these guys were steeping themselves in the traditions and culture of the American South, not to effect a redneck vibe but to get a sense of what redeeming qualities there were to the culture. They pulled it off because they were endlessly inventive and uniquely talented as musicians. The peculiar genius of this song comes from the arrangment: tuba for bass, and mandolin and fiddle adding the funky elements. Though everything is pefectly in its place, the highlight of the song is Garth Hudson's rolicking barrelhouse piano, which seems throughout the track to be on the verge of leaping away and starting its own song, until the very end, when the other instruments drop out and the song reaches its conclusion, but Hudson keeps on playing to a fade-out. You get a sense that, regardless of whether he was accompanied by any one else or not, he could go on with it forever, and part of you wishes he would do just that.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
1/10/2012
Calexico -- "Frontera"
It's hard to decide on a representative track from Calexico, but "Frontera" has most of the qualities you'd expect from this outfit. There is Joey Burns' heavily reverbed electric guitar (with tremolo, to boot), John Convertino's nimble and precise drumming (along with some other percussion), some steel guitar, some organ, some vibes, and other miscellaneous clatter -- and, of course, the horn section. Without the last of these -- the horns -- the vision would simply not be complete. As it is, everything fits: it's surf, it's jazz, it's mariachi, all experimental. Even before I heard Joey Burns say it in an interview, it was pretty clear what the band was after: to make a whole genre out of Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire." Cash himself said that the idea for the horns came to him in a kind of vision. The vision reached fruition in that song, and then again decades later in Calexico's sound.
It's hard to decide on a representative track from Calexico, but "Frontera" has most of the qualities you'd expect from this outfit. There is Joey Burns' heavily reverbed electric guitar (with tremolo, to boot), John Convertino's nimble and precise drumming (along with some other percussion), some steel guitar, some organ, some vibes, and other miscellaneous clatter -- and, of course, the horn section. Without the last of these -- the horns -- the vision would simply not be complete. As it is, everything fits: it's surf, it's jazz, it's mariachi, all experimental. Even before I heard Joey Burns say it in an interview, it was pretty clear what the band was after: to make a whole genre out of Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire." Cash himself said that the idea for the horns came to him in a kind of vision. The vision reached fruition in that song, and then again decades later in Calexico's sound.
Monday, January 9, 2012
1/9/2012
Fela Kuti -- "Water No Get Enemy"
My favorite Fela Kuti track. I don't know that I'm even qualified to say much about it, except that I love the deep buzz of the bari sax, love how the song seamlessly meshes together elements from different continents -- the music of Africa, filtered through American history and culture, then brought back to Africa and re-Africanized. I don't know what the lyrics are about, can't really decipher the gist of the song, but whatever Fela is saying, I'm on board with it. Well worth the investment of 9:50 of your time.
My favorite Fela Kuti track. I don't know that I'm even qualified to say much about it, except that I love the deep buzz of the bari sax, love how the song seamlessly meshes together elements from different continents -- the music of Africa, filtered through American history and culture, then brought back to Africa and re-Africanized. I don't know what the lyrics are about, can't really decipher the gist of the song, but whatever Fela is saying, I'm on board with it. Well worth the investment of 9:50 of your time.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
1/8/2012
Gram Parsons -- "Streets of Baltimore"
The defining quality of Gram Parsons' voice is the wistful sense of melancholy that it evokes -- not the sense of a deep despair, but that of a weary and lingering sadness, nonetheless. "Streets of Baltimore" is one of the best showcases for this quality. The story the song tells is a staple of the country tradition: Tennessee farm boy goes to the city; things go fine for a while, but ultimately the city defeats him, and back he goes to Tennessee. Along the way, he manages to lose his wife, who succumbs not to the seduction of a blackguard rival but rather to that of the city itself and the promise of the high-life that it offers. "Streets of Baltimore" is Ray Price's "City Lights" with a little more added to the story. Of course, Gram is accompanied here, as he is in all of his solo recordings, by a top-notch crew of sessions players. The sound is rich but tasteful. Not to knock a classic like "Hickory Wind," but "Streets of Baltimore" is a little less sacharine, a little less burdened with sentiment, and for me at least the result is a song that is in the end more lasting. "Streets of Baltimore" is not necessarily a prime example of what Gram called "cosmic American music," but it is song with a lot of soul, sung by a performer who also possessed a lot of soul.
The defining quality of Gram Parsons' voice is the wistful sense of melancholy that it evokes -- not the sense of a deep despair, but that of a weary and lingering sadness, nonetheless. "Streets of Baltimore" is one of the best showcases for this quality. The story the song tells is a staple of the country tradition: Tennessee farm boy goes to the city; things go fine for a while, but ultimately the city defeats him, and back he goes to Tennessee. Along the way, he manages to lose his wife, who succumbs not to the seduction of a blackguard rival but rather to that of the city itself and the promise of the high-life that it offers. "Streets of Baltimore" is Ray Price's "City Lights" with a little more added to the story. Of course, Gram is accompanied here, as he is in all of his solo recordings, by a top-notch crew of sessions players. The sound is rich but tasteful. Not to knock a classic like "Hickory Wind," but "Streets of Baltimore" is a little less sacharine, a little less burdened with sentiment, and for me at least the result is a song that is in the end more lasting. "Streets of Baltimore" is not necessarily a prime example of what Gram called "cosmic American music," but it is song with a lot of soul, sung by a performer who also possessed a lot of soul.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
1/7/2012
Gillian Welch -- "The Way It Goes"
An article in the New Yorker several years back described the partnership of Gillian Welch and David Rawlings as a two-person band named "Gillian Welch." It's certainly true that it's eerie how well the two complement each other. On this song as elsewhere in the Gillian Welch catalog, Rawlings' harmony mimics the lead voice so well you might think that Welch was singing her own harmony -- but then you hear them perform live, and you realize you're hearing the two of them together. This track features some typical Welchian notes of desperation, despair, and resignation (along with a wry, dark little blot of humor when it comes to the line about selling "that pussycat"), but it also offers jaw-dropping lead runs that Rawlings knocks out as though they were beginner's work. It's not that anything he plays is so audacious; it's just the speed, the accuracy, and the ease with which he rattles off all those notes.
An article in the New Yorker several years back described the partnership of Gillian Welch and David Rawlings as a two-person band named "Gillian Welch." It's certainly true that it's eerie how well the two complement each other. On this song as elsewhere in the Gillian Welch catalog, Rawlings' harmony mimics the lead voice so well you might think that Welch was singing her own harmony -- but then you hear them perform live, and you realize you're hearing the two of them together. This track features some typical Welchian notes of desperation, despair, and resignation (along with a wry, dark little blot of humor when it comes to the line about selling "that pussycat"), but it also offers jaw-dropping lead runs that Rawlings knocks out as though they were beginner's work. It's not that anything he plays is so audacious; it's just the speed, the accuracy, and the ease with which he rattles off all those notes.
Friday, January 6, 2012
1/6/2012
Joe Gibbs and The Professionals -- "Walls of Jericho"
All of these Joe Gibbs instrumentals can blur together at times -- not that they aren't all spectacularly performed and produced -- but this one definitely stands out as having a particularly attractive melody. Gibbs' drummer, Sly Dunbar, was a genius of precision. The drums are the best part of this song, and the best part of the whole State of Emergency album, but the horns and the organ are also right on target. I like to make my own playlists when it comes to reggae, to make sure that each track stands out, but this song almost always makes it on to the playlist.
All of these Joe Gibbs instrumentals can blur together at times -- not that they aren't all spectacularly performed and produced -- but this one definitely stands out as having a particularly attractive melody. Gibbs' drummer, Sly Dunbar, was a genius of precision. The drums are the best part of this song, and the best part of the whole State of Emergency album, but the horns and the organ are also right on target. I like to make my own playlists when it comes to reggae, to make sure that each track stands out, but this song almost always makes it on to the playlist.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
1/5/2012
E. C. Ball -- "Pretty Polly"
Could there ever be a creepier song? Perhaps so. The traditional "I Wish My Baby Was Born" might qualify. Regardless, "Pretty Polly" seems to me to be the most archetypal of murder ballads. Different incarnations of the song offer slight variations on the story the song tells, but none of them offer much in the way of motives for the awful deed that the song portrays. Our murderer is identified here, as he so often is in murder ballads, by the name of Willie. If the murder ballads teach us anything, it's that pretty young women should not be hanging out alone with anyone named Willie. My suspicion is that Willie has impregnated the dear girl, and he doesn't want to deal with the ramifications of being a baby-daddy. Or perhaps he suspects Polly of cheating on him. The absence of a clear motive is part of what makes the song so creepy. What makes this particular performance of the song so hair-raising, though, is the deadpan, nearly emotionless delivery of the master old-time artist Estil C. Ball. Ball, who comes across elsewhere as earnest, devout, and, in short, a rather harmless type of fellow, sounds here as though he might actually be exactly the kind of guy who could stab Polly in the heart, toss her into a shallow grave, then simply ride away.
Could there ever be a creepier song? Perhaps so. The traditional "I Wish My Baby Was Born" might qualify. Regardless, "Pretty Polly" seems to me to be the most archetypal of murder ballads. Different incarnations of the song offer slight variations on the story the song tells, but none of them offer much in the way of motives for the awful deed that the song portrays. Our murderer is identified here, as he so often is in murder ballads, by the name of Willie. If the murder ballads teach us anything, it's that pretty young women should not be hanging out alone with anyone named Willie. My suspicion is that Willie has impregnated the dear girl, and he doesn't want to deal with the ramifications of being a baby-daddy. Or perhaps he suspects Polly of cheating on him. The absence of a clear motive is part of what makes the song so creepy. What makes this particular performance of the song so hair-raising, though, is the deadpan, nearly emotionless delivery of the master old-time artist Estil C. Ball. Ball, who comes across elsewhere as earnest, devout, and, in short, a rather harmless type of fellow, sounds here as though he might actually be exactly the kind of guy who could stab Polly in the heart, toss her into a shallow grave, then simply ride away.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
1/4/2012
R.E.M. -- "Wolves, Lower"
I had pretty much forgotten about this band in recent years until a nostalgia trip sent me back to their earliest material, particularly the Chronic Town EP and the band's first and greatest full-length, Murmur. This song, from Chronic Town, offers a perfect statement on the band's ethos at this point in their career. This song has the energy, the vitality of punk, but it's clearly not punk. Early R.E.M. was defined by an abstract pursuit of melody. Peter Buck's guitar work is busy here, jangling, chiming, evoking the Byrds but never quite sounding like them. Michael Stipe's lyrics follow a loose string of associations. They don't mean anything in the end, except maybe to suggest something about the way the unconscious mind works -- fitting for a band named after a sleep-state. The eyes are moving, but they don't see anything.
I had pretty much forgotten about this band in recent years until a nostalgia trip sent me back to their earliest material, particularly the Chronic Town EP and the band's first and greatest full-length, Murmur. This song, from Chronic Town, offers a perfect statement on the band's ethos at this point in their career. This song has the energy, the vitality of punk, but it's clearly not punk. Early R.E.M. was defined by an abstract pursuit of melody. Peter Buck's guitar work is busy here, jangling, chiming, evoking the Byrds but never quite sounding like them. Michael Stipe's lyrics follow a loose string of associations. They don't mean anything in the end, except maybe to suggest something about the way the unconscious mind works -- fitting for a band named after a sleep-state. The eyes are moving, but they don't see anything.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
1/3/2012
The Clash -- "Version City"
In case you've never made it to the end of Sandinista!, let me tell you that you can skip most of side six unless you're a die-hard fan of The Clash. There's not much that I would want to cut from the earlier sides except to edit the sequencing, maybe, and to trim a few songs down to size. On side six, though, there's not much that needs to be there except for the novelty remake of "Career Opportunities" with child vocalists (not a track anyone is likely to listen to often, but it provides some minor amusement) and this little number. The song itself is nestled in between spoken-word segments offering a largely unnecessary send-up of the hi-fi lifestyle of the 1960s, but it's worth bearing through because, starting at about 32 seconds into the track, you'll find The Clash's most credible exploration of the funk genre. Play this song to someone who has never listened much to Sandinista!, tell them it's The Clash, and see their reaction. The bass playing is note-perfect -- no offense to the great Paul Simonon, but I suspect that it's actually guest bassist Norman Watt-Roy of The Blockheads playing here. Joe Strummer is there with his voice as well as his harmonica. Topper Headon is spot on, as always, with his snares and his hi-hat. Mick Jones is playing a subdued role, mostly behind the sound desk, one imagines. Micky Gallagher of The Blockheads is playing the keys, and in all this song is an absolute gem, one that highlights the great and often underappreciated versatility of one of the greatest bands of all time.
In case you've never made it to the end of Sandinista!, let me tell you that you can skip most of side six unless you're a die-hard fan of The Clash. There's not much that I would want to cut from the earlier sides except to edit the sequencing, maybe, and to trim a few songs down to size. On side six, though, there's not much that needs to be there except for the novelty remake of "Career Opportunities" with child vocalists (not a track anyone is likely to listen to often, but it provides some minor amusement) and this little number. The song itself is nestled in between spoken-word segments offering a largely unnecessary send-up of the hi-fi lifestyle of the 1960s, but it's worth bearing through because, starting at about 32 seconds into the track, you'll find The Clash's most credible exploration of the funk genre. Play this song to someone who has never listened much to Sandinista!, tell them it's The Clash, and see their reaction. The bass playing is note-perfect -- no offense to the great Paul Simonon, but I suspect that it's actually guest bassist Norman Watt-Roy of The Blockheads playing here. Joe Strummer is there with his voice as well as his harmonica. Topper Headon is spot on, as always, with his snares and his hi-hat. Mick Jones is playing a subdued role, mostly behind the sound desk, one imagines. Micky Gallagher of The Blockheads is playing the keys, and in all this song is an absolute gem, one that highlights the great and often underappreciated versatility of one of the greatest bands of all time.
Monday, January 2, 2012
1/2/2012
The Decemberists - "July, July!"
I had just about forgotten about The Decemberists until watching Portlandia (combined with the chance overhearing of this song in a coffee shop the other day) reminded me of how great they were. This isn't exactly the best song from their first album, but it's the catchiest, the first one I would recommend to someone who hadn't listened to Castaways and Cutouts. It's more uptempo, the closest thing to a real rocker on the album, and it displays all the qualities that we like about the band: the quirky literary sensibility, a good melodic hook, the steady drill of the organ over Colin Meloy's acoustic guitar, and above all an endearing sense of the richness and strangeness of life. I haven't been following The Decemberists much lately, but I'm thinking that it might be worth seeing what they've been up to.
I had just about forgotten about The Decemberists until watching Portlandia (combined with the chance overhearing of this song in a coffee shop the other day) reminded me of how great they were. This isn't exactly the best song from their first album, but it's the catchiest, the first one I would recommend to someone who hadn't listened to Castaways and Cutouts. It's more uptempo, the closest thing to a real rocker on the album, and it displays all the qualities that we like about the band: the quirky literary sensibility, a good melodic hook, the steady drill of the organ over Colin Meloy's acoustic guitar, and above all an endearing sense of the richness and strangeness of life. I haven't been following The Decemberists much lately, but I'm thinking that it might be worth seeing what they've been up to.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
1/1/2012
"What Goes On" by the Velvet Underground
The rhythm guitar makes this song, an incredibly simple one that features Lou Reed's attitude in full effect: self-aware, cool without trying too hard. Is he singing, or is he just talkling? The fact is that this song goes on for an incredibly long time repeating the same chord progression, but I never seem to mind. The fuzzed-out lead in the middle of the song is also pretty simple, but the result is the same: I could listen to it over and over. A great rock and roll song, intelligent but also somewhat pointless, as all great rock songs should strive to be.
The rhythm guitar makes this song, an incredibly simple one that features Lou Reed's attitude in full effect: self-aware, cool without trying too hard. Is he singing, or is he just talkling? The fact is that this song goes on for an incredibly long time repeating the same chord progression, but I never seem to mind. The fuzzed-out lead in the middle of the song is also pretty simple, but the result is the same: I could listen to it over and over. A great rock and roll song, intelligent but also somewhat pointless, as all great rock songs should strive to be.
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