Does anyone really write good love songs any more? Yeah, yeah..I know. There are always going to be love songs and there always seems to be some sudsy ballyhoo on the sales chart. Even hair metal bands used to make a living on the power ballad when that's all the gas they had. But the original question was; does anyone really write good love songs any more?
I'm talking about writers who can use one honest twist in the lyrics that can make your head turn. Writers who knew it took more than mid-tempo and a minor chord to set the mood. Writers who could find a phrase that would jolt a name hard through your mind and clench your gut.
Al Green was love incarnate. Incendiary and phoenix, alpha and omega, dust to dust, have and have not. He once wrote, "Someone's on the phone/Three o'clock in the morning/Talkin' about how she could make it right". Is she telling you that she can make it right, or are you telling her that she can make it right? Which is it? It doesn't matter. Al is channeling both F. Scott Fitzgerald and his own night of being haunted by the void. You're coming along with him because it's your ghost story too and Al is in the exorcist role.
Marvin Gaye's "Here, My Dear" has had renewed attention over the last decade and rightfully so. Imagine being inside Gaye's mind while he was in studio, knowing the album is being made solely to pay for a divorce. Knowing the relationship wasn't just damaged, it was totally destroyed. Knowing he never could filter his inner thoughts and feelings. It just flowed out like water from a broken pipe, something that started as a simple leak, each attempt to stop the leak made the water flow faster. He wound up chronicling a swim for life.
Ann Peebles wrote wonderfully of the introspection that can come when alone in bed, with rain beating on the window pane. The discordant opening tones of sound, sour and alarmingly wrong, it just sets her off.
Soul and R&B performers never had a stranglehold on lost love. George Jones' albums should have come with a parental advisory label. Not to warn them of what their children would hear, but to warn them specifically, "Caution: These songs could happen to you!"
Lennon wrote, "Red is the color that will make me blue/In spite of you, it's true"
Pete Townshend had Jimmy from Quadrophenia say, "The girl I used to love/Lives in this yellow house/Yesterday she passed me by/She doesn't want to know me now"
The Smithereens sang about the house we used to live.
Love is a rich vein. It's a sucker's bet and a sure thing. You lose it, find it, lose it again. There is always a song to match your place in the short and long cycle.
For all the dreamy or angry, professed or denounced statements of love; it's always the words of Hoagy Carmichael that I hear:
Though I dream in vain
In my heart it will remain
My stardust melody
The memory of Love's refrain
Monday, January 30, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
EADGBE
I tried my hand at playing guitar too late in life. I was in my 30's when I finally decided to learn. I should have started while still in my teens, when absolute immersion in something is easier because teenage hours are like buckets of water in the ocean. My path in life took me in a different direction but I am still glad I've picked up the guitar, as horrendous as my playing is.
In a way, playing the guitar is like coffee in the morning. You can't play scales or form a few chords while your mind is on something else. You have to focus. Cancel out the external and internal distractions. Internal distractions are the biggest.
If I can eke out a half hour practice from time to time, when I put my guitar down I notice the focus is still there and it sticks. I can solve problems or come to terms with an issue so much more easily. It's such an amazing way to snap my thought process into a calm shape. The problem is I didn't pick up the guitar and do this enough over the past few years.
I just didn't have the time. I couldn't find the time. I didn't make the time. There was too much to do and far too much was at stake, all the time. Time now is more like buckets of water in a pond. It's a smaller area but I can at least see the other side.
In a way, playing the guitar is like coffee in the morning. You can't play scales or form a few chords while your mind is on something else. You have to focus. Cancel out the external and internal distractions. Internal distractions are the biggest.
If I can eke out a half hour practice from time to time, when I put my guitar down I notice the focus is still there and it sticks. I can solve problems or come to terms with an issue so much more easily. It's such an amazing way to snap my thought process into a calm shape. The problem is I didn't pick up the guitar and do this enough over the past few years.
I just didn't have the time. I couldn't find the time. I didn't make the time. There was too much to do and far too much was at stake, all the time. Time now is more like buckets of water in a pond. It's a smaller area but I can at least see the other side.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Down The Lost Highway
I had been hoping to make a two or even three day record buying trip this last fall. Unexpected bills, slower than expected sales, and a lack of extra cash shot down those plans but I'm still hoping to do it this coming spring or early summer.
There is a long, narrow corridor of roads that stretch from where I live all the way to Memphis, and along the way west I can make stops in several cities with rich and noted histories in music.
Florence: The birthplace of W.C. Handy, Sam Philips, and Kelvin Holly.
Muscle Shoals: The Muscle Shoals Sound Studio, The FAME Recording Studio.
Tupelo: Of course, Elvis.
At the end of the road, Memphis.
Back in the 1950's and 60's you could have traveled those same roads and run into any number of rock and roll, R&B and country legends. Muscle Shoals isn't New York or Los Angeles, but in the right place at the right time you could have found yourself rubbing elbows and chatting with Duane Allman, Bob Dylan, Aretha Franklin or Keith Richards.
R&B pioneers clambered into old buses and station wagons, shuttling from one city to the next while touring the Chitlin Circuit. They drove through little towns every day, just like the town I currently live in. Some times they stopped for food and gas and to stretch their legs when time permitted.
Hank Williams' last road trip on Earth took him through Fort Payne, Alabama; a town less than 30 miles from where I sit. Williams and his driver stopped at a local diner so the driver could grab a bite to eat, Williams left their waiter a $50 tip. Williams also purchased a bottle of bourbon from a local bootlegger. Off they drove toward Chattanooga and then to Knoxville, scant measured hours of life were left for Williams as they left Fort Payne. The wire stories reporting his passing would be out in less than 24 hours.
Johnny Cash had a notorious run-in with the police just north of here. In late 1967 and with a head full of pills, Cash wound up spending a night in the Walker County jail. He had crashed his car and scared the living hell out of a local by beating on their front door in the middle of the night, in his altered state he thought it was the home of a friend. Just how and why Johnny Cash found himself driving around the north Georgia mountains, so very far from Nashville, high as a pine is tall, is still a mystery to me. This area isn't just off the beaten path, it's several trails over from the beaten path, hidden by hills.
Several years after her passing I learned that even my Grandmother had one of those brushes with greatness. At one point during the 1950's my Grandmother and Mother moved to Vila Rica, Georgia for a brief period of time. My Grandmother was apparently working at a small roadside diner when Fats Domino stopped to get something to eat and his order was brought out to him. I assume he and his band were making their way between Birmingham and Atlanta, most likely for Chitlin Circuit dates. My Grandmother wasn't the person who brought his order to him but she did get the chance to see him. Apparently she was impressed with how polite he was and that he was a stunningly sharp dressed man.
The last big band to come through here, that I can recall, was REM. They came to town to visit Howard Finster and shot a video in Paradise Gardens. This was long before the big time, long before they played the big sheds.
No one comes through town anymore. I need to get back onto the road and explore.
There is a long, narrow corridor of roads that stretch from where I live all the way to Memphis, and along the way west I can make stops in several cities with rich and noted histories in music.
Florence: The birthplace of W.C. Handy, Sam Philips, and Kelvin Holly.
Muscle Shoals: The Muscle Shoals Sound Studio, The FAME Recording Studio.
Tupelo: Of course, Elvis.
At the end of the road, Memphis.
Back in the 1950's and 60's you could have traveled those same roads and run into any number of rock and roll, R&B and country legends. Muscle Shoals isn't New York or Los Angeles, but in the right place at the right time you could have found yourself rubbing elbows and chatting with Duane Allman, Bob Dylan, Aretha Franklin or Keith Richards.
R&B pioneers clambered into old buses and station wagons, shuttling from one city to the next while touring the Chitlin Circuit. They drove through little towns every day, just like the town I currently live in. Some times they stopped for food and gas and to stretch their legs when time permitted.
Hank Williams' last road trip on Earth took him through Fort Payne, Alabama; a town less than 30 miles from where I sit. Williams and his driver stopped at a local diner so the driver could grab a bite to eat, Williams left their waiter a $50 tip. Williams also purchased a bottle of bourbon from a local bootlegger. Off they drove toward Chattanooga and then to Knoxville, scant measured hours of life were left for Williams as they left Fort Payne. The wire stories reporting his passing would be out in less than 24 hours.
Johnny Cash had a notorious run-in with the police just north of here. In late 1967 and with a head full of pills, Cash wound up spending a night in the Walker County jail. He had crashed his car and scared the living hell out of a local by beating on their front door in the middle of the night, in his altered state he thought it was the home of a friend. Just how and why Johnny Cash found himself driving around the north Georgia mountains, so very far from Nashville, high as a pine is tall, is still a mystery to me. This area isn't just off the beaten path, it's several trails over from the beaten path, hidden by hills.
Several years after her passing I learned that even my Grandmother had one of those brushes with greatness. At one point during the 1950's my Grandmother and Mother moved to Vila Rica, Georgia for a brief period of time. My Grandmother was apparently working at a small roadside diner when Fats Domino stopped to get something to eat and his order was brought out to him. I assume he and his band were making their way between Birmingham and Atlanta, most likely for Chitlin Circuit dates. My Grandmother wasn't the person who brought his order to him but she did get the chance to see him. Apparently she was impressed with how polite he was and that he was a stunningly sharp dressed man.
The last big band to come through here, that I can recall, was REM. They came to town to visit Howard Finster and shot a video in Paradise Gardens. This was long before the big time, long before they played the big sheds.
No one comes through town anymore. I need to get back onto the road and explore.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Echoes
There is an album you play and it makes you a kinetic mess. Your neck moves, your face tics, and your index finger points to that one cymbal crash in the left speaker. You've heard it a million times, it's the table of contents, predictable and reliable. It's dog-earred. It's the best dish at your favorite restaurant.
There is an album you play and it's sleep paralysis. A face you can still see clearly, her voice in a long concrete pipe. The woman, the harvest moon, the chord change is the smell of her hair in summer. You've heard it a million times, you never expected the plot change when the first song began. Low fire burns down to embers.
I can lean my head back and adjust the headphones. Sometimes I see the ceiling as a movie screen, sometimes a canvas I'm painting, sometimes the ceiling is just white. The run out grooves make me stand up. I have to flip sides.
There is an album you play and it's sleep paralysis. A face you can still see clearly, her voice in a long concrete pipe. The woman, the harvest moon, the chord change is the smell of her hair in summer. You've heard it a million times, you never expected the plot change when the first song began. Low fire burns down to embers.
I can lean my head back and adjust the headphones. Sometimes I see the ceiling as a movie screen, sometimes a canvas I'm painting, sometimes the ceiling is just white. The run out grooves make me stand up. I have to flip sides.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Radio Song
I still listen to a lot of radio, especially while I am working. My work often carries over to late night when I can get some quiet time and the ability to focus is much easier. I still love picking up AM stations. A good station will not distract me from work, for good or bad reasons.
Late at night the AM band turns mysterious. The far away signals you pick up can vary from night to night based on the weather. A strong signal one night may be a static mess the next. Of course there are the odd signals that faintly come in unexpectedly. One night it's Huntington, one night it's Nashville.
I used to regularly stay up listening to the radio into the night when I was a teenager. I had to stay as quiet as possible, a plastic earphone stuck in whatever ear I could hear with better. In the summer I would regularly pick up stations in Texas and from time to time a Mexican station would come in.
There is a station out of Cleveland I listen to regularly. They play Coast To Coast AM at night and I enjoy listening to their local news before the sun rises. Something still enchants me about hearing the local news from a place so far away. Yes, I could easily look on the internet to see what's going on in Cleveland, but hearing local folks tell the story, from the place it is happening, has charm you can't get from a web page. It's a person. A voice. Contact.
Some folks are into radio DX'ing, where they try to pick up radio signals from as far as possible and keep records of their finds. If they pick up something unique they'll write the station a letter and tell them the technical details. Engineers at the stations used to send the DX'ers a postcard that thanked them for the information since it was valuable for engineers to know how their transmitters were working. DX'ers collected those postcards. I think this form of communication is now done through email. I think getting a postcard was a much better deal.
On good days or nights I'll have a vague impression of what's playing while I am busy with work. I might get pulled into a song or some DJ banter, but only briefly. When a station is doing it right I'll wonder where the time went. I'll want to pull out a record I haven't played in years. I'll feel good and positive. There will be a rhythm to what I am doing while I work.
If every day could just be like that...
Late at night the AM band turns mysterious. The far away signals you pick up can vary from night to night based on the weather. A strong signal one night may be a static mess the next. Of course there are the odd signals that faintly come in unexpectedly. One night it's Huntington, one night it's Nashville.
I used to regularly stay up listening to the radio into the night when I was a teenager. I had to stay as quiet as possible, a plastic earphone stuck in whatever ear I could hear with better. In the summer I would regularly pick up stations in Texas and from time to time a Mexican station would come in.
There is a station out of Cleveland I listen to regularly. They play Coast To Coast AM at night and I enjoy listening to their local news before the sun rises. Something still enchants me about hearing the local news from a place so far away. Yes, I could easily look on the internet to see what's going on in Cleveland, but hearing local folks tell the story, from the place it is happening, has charm you can't get from a web page. It's a person. A voice. Contact.
Some folks are into radio DX'ing, where they try to pick up radio signals from as far as possible and keep records of their finds. If they pick up something unique they'll write the station a letter and tell them the technical details. Engineers at the stations used to send the DX'ers a postcard that thanked them for the information since it was valuable for engineers to know how their transmitters were working. DX'ers collected those postcards. I think this form of communication is now done through email. I think getting a postcard was a much better deal.
On good days or nights I'll have a vague impression of what's playing while I am busy with work. I might get pulled into a song or some DJ banter, but only briefly. When a station is doing it right I'll wonder where the time went. I'll want to pull out a record I haven't played in years. I'll feel good and positive. There will be a rhythm to what I am doing while I work.
If every day could just be like that...
Monday, January 16, 2012
Let's Go Down To Berlin, Join The Ice Capades
I got into The Ramones when I was 15 years old. This wasn't something I could broadcast in my little home town. This was something I did in secret. We would all grow into new music and broader ideas as the school year progressed and the changes of adolescence seemed to accelerate in speed. By time we had driver's licenses a year later we would almost be completely different creatures and even more different by time we turned 17. But at 15, The Ramones had to be a secret kept in my bedroom.
Later there would be that moment of truth, admitting to a friend that I had a Ramones album and I really thought they would like it too. A tape would be made, another wandering soul could be saved, another link in the secret chain we were a part of.
These friends had to be like minded, and those were in short supply, but they were there no matter how small the town. When I later joined the Navy I was fortunate to meet and become friends with another kindred spirit and he would introduce me to Black Flag, The Dead Kennedys and other forbidden musical fruits.
Years of loud shows and albums passed, we went our separate ways to start new lives but oddly enough I found no new kindred spirits for the music when I moved on. I learned to put up a screen where new people saw whatever it took to keep them from running away. Inside was where the other music was playing and no one to share it with.
Yes, there were the clubs and the shows and the record stores, places I could co-mingle with the other freaks. But you're really only relating to people on that superficial "public" face level at those places, unless you are going with that friend, the one who gets "it".
The one who got why you hunched your shoulders and made that weird face when playing Tin Machine.
The one who got what D. Boone was doing with that Telecaster and had his poster hanging on her closet door, like a huge guardian keeping an eye on her while she slept. Maybe she felt comfortable enough to show you because you got "it" too. You got D. Boone jumping around the stage like a wild bear in cutoff jean shorts, all treble and polemic. Maybe that was vulnerability? An 80's college girl showing a guy she was into The Minutemen.
The one who got why you felt disgust with any fellow wearing guy-liner and a blouse-y shirt with black jeans and Cuban heeled boots; while he nursed whiskey sours chatting up the girls by prattling in detail about some band who's music you could only get through mail order, as if he were Jarrell and the band were Frost.
Am I prattling right now? Well, I'm certainly not Jarrell and The Ramones were certainly not Frost.
It seems these days that folks under a certain age are less likely to be unsettled by music that has a structure different than what they are used to hearing. Maybe some of this is due to the ubiquitous nature of digital downloads for young people who's teenage and young adult years have been spent with iPods and iPhones and downloading torrents? They've been exposed to everything and it's still rock and roll to them, and I can't believe I stole a Billy Joel lyric, but it just happened. Maybe some of it can be traced back to an after effect of the Grunge breakthrough? Maybe 1991 through 1993/4 was some kind of a booster vaccination for noise tolerance? Maybe everything older than 10 years is simply quaint now?
There was a time when The Ramones were just a loud and simple mess to so many ears. Just 3 chords, inane lyrics and "they look so weird." They were a distillation of one flavor of rock and roll. It was comic books and leather jackets and crazy hair and really, really intense passion. They made music that could make you bounce along like a bouncing ball on a twisted version of Mitch Miller.
If I could have one rock and roll wish it would be that some kids cook up one more crazy distillation of rock and culture, boil off the useless medium, render the essence, and passionately throw the results back into the face of the world, saying, "See what you made us do? It's all your fault!"
Later there would be that moment of truth, admitting to a friend that I had a Ramones album and I really thought they would like it too. A tape would be made, another wandering soul could be saved, another link in the secret chain we were a part of.
These friends had to be like minded, and those were in short supply, but they were there no matter how small the town. When I later joined the Navy I was fortunate to meet and become friends with another kindred spirit and he would introduce me to Black Flag, The Dead Kennedys and other forbidden musical fruits.
Years of loud shows and albums passed, we went our separate ways to start new lives but oddly enough I found no new kindred spirits for the music when I moved on. I learned to put up a screen where new people saw whatever it took to keep them from running away. Inside was where the other music was playing and no one to share it with.
Yes, there were the clubs and the shows and the record stores, places I could co-mingle with the other freaks. But you're really only relating to people on that superficial "public" face level at those places, unless you are going with that friend, the one who gets "it".
The one who got why you hunched your shoulders and made that weird face when playing Tin Machine.
The one who got what D. Boone was doing with that Telecaster and had his poster hanging on her closet door, like a huge guardian keeping an eye on her while she slept. Maybe she felt comfortable enough to show you because you got "it" too. You got D. Boone jumping around the stage like a wild bear in cutoff jean shorts, all treble and polemic. Maybe that was vulnerability? An 80's college girl showing a guy she was into The Minutemen.
The one who got why you felt disgust with any fellow wearing guy-liner and a blouse-y shirt with black jeans and Cuban heeled boots; while he nursed whiskey sours chatting up the girls by prattling in detail about some band who's music you could only get through mail order, as if he were Jarrell and the band were Frost.
Am I prattling right now? Well, I'm certainly not Jarrell and The Ramones were certainly not Frost.
It seems these days that folks under a certain age are less likely to be unsettled by music that has a structure different than what they are used to hearing. Maybe some of this is due to the ubiquitous nature of digital downloads for young people who's teenage and young adult years have been spent with iPods and iPhones and downloading torrents? They've been exposed to everything and it's still rock and roll to them, and I can't believe I stole a Billy Joel lyric, but it just happened. Maybe some of it can be traced back to an after effect of the Grunge breakthrough? Maybe 1991 through 1993/4 was some kind of a booster vaccination for noise tolerance? Maybe everything older than 10 years is simply quaint now?
There was a time when The Ramones were just a loud and simple mess to so many ears. Just 3 chords, inane lyrics and "they look so weird." They were a distillation of one flavor of rock and roll. It was comic books and leather jackets and crazy hair and really, really intense passion. They made music that could make you bounce along like a bouncing ball on a twisted version of Mitch Miller.
If I could have one rock and roll wish it would be that some kids cook up one more crazy distillation of rock and culture, boil off the useless medium, render the essence, and passionately throw the results back into the face of the world, saying, "See what you made us do? It's all your fault!"
Sunday, January 15, 2012
The Shoes Of The Fisherman's Wife Are Some Jiveass Slippers
Imagine the Pearly Gates of Heaven, two podiums stand side by side.
The first podium is where Saint Peter stands and he's looking to see if your name is written in the Book. He sees your name and grants your entry to glorious heaven.
You walk toward the gates and suddenly a burly black arm grabs you by the collar of your shirt, "Hold on a second, son."
Standing at the other podium is Charles Mingus. Mingus is there to judge the soul of your music collection.
Mingus can't be jived.
The first podium is where Saint Peter stands and he's looking to see if your name is written in the Book. He sees your name and grants your entry to glorious heaven.
You walk toward the gates and suddenly a burly black arm grabs you by the collar of your shirt, "Hold on a second, son."
Standing at the other podium is Charles Mingus. Mingus is there to judge the soul of your music collection.
Mingus can't be jived.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
From time to time I find myself doing a little research through old issues of Billboard Magazine via Google Books. Usually this research relates to release dates of old LPs or I'll see if a record company did a press release when I find a more obscure title. Recently I found a very interesting article in the January 25, 1964 issue.
In an interview, Nat "King" Cole stated, "No one's developing stars anymore, and the industry is guided by hard sell, blitz tactics. Artists are here today and gone tomorrow."
"Today a kid makes a record and if he's lucky, it becomes a hit and he goes out and buys a Cadillac, sets up his own production company and sits around like an expert."
Things haven't changed much since 1964, except the Caddy is now a Veyron.
In an interview, Nat "King" Cole stated, "No one's developing stars anymore, and the industry is guided by hard sell, blitz tactics. Artists are here today and gone tomorrow."
"Today a kid makes a record and if he's lucky, it becomes a hit and he goes out and buys a Cadillac, sets up his own production company and sits around like an expert."
Things haven't changed much since 1964, except the Caddy is now a Veyron.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
I Got Nasty Habits, I Take Tea At Three
Sometimes you can have too much of a good thing and still not find the power or will to cut back. With financial needs pressing and a desire to lighten my load of heavy personal items, I've done a bit of culling from my personal book and record collections over the last year. Oddly enough, the books have been the hardest to let go of for sentimental reasons. I considered culling some copies of one of my favorite albums of all-time, but I ultimately nixed that idea.
I'm not 100% positive what year I first bought The Rolling Stones Let It Bleed but I believe it was 1980. I do remember I bought it at a flea market in the summer, and I am positive I knew the album before they released Emotional Rescue. I absolutely loved that old copy of Let It Bleed. It was well worn with plenty Rice Crispies action going on -- snaps, crackles, and pops. But the songs had an impact regardless of the high noise level.
At some point in the mid-80's I picked up a new pressing of the album and absolutely loved being able to hear such a clean sound. I could finally crank up the volume without being pelted with noise. This was followed by an early digital remaster released on virgin vinyl in the 80's that blew me away. Several years later when I was living in Virginia I was able to score an original US pressing in beautiful condition complete with the glossy poster. Of course, there are the remastered CDs. I should, by any reasonable stretch of the imagination, be able to let some of these copies go. But I just can't bring myself to do it.
I still have the ratty old copy I bought over 30 years ago, but I just feel too sentimental about it to let the damn thing go, split seams and all. It was the copy I fell in love with. The original release I found in Virginia is just one of those "nice" things I can't muster the will to let go of and quite frankly, the two 1980's re-issues just sound too good to let go of, even compared to the CD remasters. I play the virgin vinyl copy sparingly but on one occasion I played it for a friend with an audiophile's predisposition and even he was duly impressed with the sound.
Exile on Main Street may get the higher reputation, but for my money Let It Bleed was their best and most powerful album. I believe the real secret to this album's success is not in Richards' or Taylor's guitar work, as impressive as they are. It isn't even Jagger's vocals, which he seemed to finally be able to masterfully manipulate at this point. Lyrically it's one of their strongest albums. What seals this album's greatness lies in the grooves made by Wyman and Watts.
Wyman's walking bass lines are really lively and drive all through the album, my favorite being on Live With Me. He's aggressive but not once is he obtrusive. There is no sense that the bass is climbing all over the song, trying to find a groove or just exploit what's going on. He's pulling the groove along, like a locomotive.
Charlie Watts..no question this was his greatest work with the band. After all these years I am still impressed with just how well he played on this album. He alternately plays in front of the beat, behind the beat, and on the beat. He never pushes the song hard, doesn't throw out a cliched fill and sounds understated even though he's laying a groove with Wyman that the rest of the band dances upon.
It's the groove. You have to listen for the groove and follow what the rest of the band are doing with it to grasp the power of the album. It's the sort of thing Booker T and the MGs mastered, get the groove moving and hang on for the duration. This is much more raw than Booker T and the MGs and this was the essence of the Stones as the decade closed. Raw.
Pure brilliance.
I'm not 100% positive what year I first bought The Rolling Stones Let It Bleed but I believe it was 1980. I do remember I bought it at a flea market in the summer, and I am positive I knew the album before they released Emotional Rescue. I absolutely loved that old copy of Let It Bleed. It was well worn with plenty Rice Crispies action going on -- snaps, crackles, and pops. But the songs had an impact regardless of the high noise level.
At some point in the mid-80's I picked up a new pressing of the album and absolutely loved being able to hear such a clean sound. I could finally crank up the volume without being pelted with noise. This was followed by an early digital remaster released on virgin vinyl in the 80's that blew me away. Several years later when I was living in Virginia I was able to score an original US pressing in beautiful condition complete with the glossy poster. Of course, there are the remastered CDs. I should, by any reasonable stretch of the imagination, be able to let some of these copies go. But I just can't bring myself to do it.
I still have the ratty old copy I bought over 30 years ago, but I just feel too sentimental about it to let the damn thing go, split seams and all. It was the copy I fell in love with. The original release I found in Virginia is just one of those "nice" things I can't muster the will to let go of and quite frankly, the two 1980's re-issues just sound too good to let go of, even compared to the CD remasters. I play the virgin vinyl copy sparingly but on one occasion I played it for a friend with an audiophile's predisposition and even he was duly impressed with the sound.
Exile on Main Street may get the higher reputation, but for my money Let It Bleed was their best and most powerful album. I believe the real secret to this album's success is not in Richards' or Taylor's guitar work, as impressive as they are. It isn't even Jagger's vocals, which he seemed to finally be able to masterfully manipulate at this point. Lyrically it's one of their strongest albums. What seals this album's greatness lies in the grooves made by Wyman and Watts.
Wyman's walking bass lines are really lively and drive all through the album, my favorite being on Live With Me. He's aggressive but not once is he obtrusive. There is no sense that the bass is climbing all over the song, trying to find a groove or just exploit what's going on. He's pulling the groove along, like a locomotive.
Charlie Watts..no question this was his greatest work with the band. After all these years I am still impressed with just how well he played on this album. He alternately plays in front of the beat, behind the beat, and on the beat. He never pushes the song hard, doesn't throw out a cliched fill and sounds understated even though he's laying a groove with Wyman that the rest of the band dances upon.
It's the groove. You have to listen for the groove and follow what the rest of the band are doing with it to grasp the power of the album. It's the sort of thing Booker T and the MGs mastered, get the groove moving and hang on for the duration. This is much more raw than Booker T and the MGs and this was the essence of the Stones as the decade closed. Raw.
Pure brilliance.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Hoveround With The Devil
So, it sounds like a new Van Halen album is really in the works. Dear Lord, all I can hope for is that they will go back to Eddie's "Brown Sound" and cast aside maturity and wisdom to the wind. No reason to suddenly grow up on us boys, no reason to experiment. Just go with the old formula and be happily done with it.
In the early 80's I genuinely admired Joe Strummer. A serious minded muckraker of Strummer's level was always a good tool to keep handy, especially in an uncertain time. Some goals and heroes should set a high standard and The Clash fit that bill nicely in those early Reagan years.
Van Halen, on the other hand, was pure teenage boy ecstasy. A generation earlier a boy of my age may have fantasized about running away from home to join the circus. In my age the fantasy was being kidnapped by Van Halen with their intent of corrupting you with loud music, illicit substances and teased hair, gum smacking rock chix (yes, with the "x").
They were everything I wasn't. I was shy, introverted, and as naive as the day was long. They certainly weren't any of those things. They were loud, smart-assed and about as serious as a 1950's Archie comic book. They were one of the last thing adults wanted us to listen to and that made the fruit so much sweeter. We weren't going to make a new religion after their image, or even a lifestyle. Just drop the needle on Diver Down or VHII and for a brief while you could live vicariously through them.
Looking back on those horrible, hormone-driven teenage years, one thing I can now see clearly with the benefit of 30+ years distance is that you can be pure with your listening tastes at that age. You don't need to reconcile the contradictions of having Lou Reed, The Rolling Stones and Rush lined up in your meager LP crate. You didn't need to worry what someone else might think if you had the new Journey LP in your collection. All it took was for word to get around that you had a copy of Iggy Pop's The Idiot and people would bring you a new Maxell tape still in the wrapper, asking nicely for a copy even if you were a Grade A high school screwball.
Just a few years later, just a few short years past puberty and into the stages of early adulthood and things would drastically change. In the eyes of some Van Morrison would be acceptable in your collection, Van Halen would not. You had to learn how to stash certain records when certain people would visit.
Diamond Dave isn't going to bring out the ass-less chaps again and there will be no more feathered hair. Eddie's even got short hair now, and a new life post cancer. Michael Anthony won't be harmonizing with Eddie either. We can't go back to 1981, but we can at least get a little taste of what we once had. The good things we had. Here's hoping for the brown sound and at least one more good laugh.
Image from Van Halen News Desk.com - http://www.vhnd.com/2011/09/09/caption-this-photodavid-lee-roth-at-the-us-festival/
In the early 80's I genuinely admired Joe Strummer. A serious minded muckraker of Strummer's level was always a good tool to keep handy, especially in an uncertain time. Some goals and heroes should set a high standard and The Clash fit that bill nicely in those early Reagan years.
Van Halen, on the other hand, was pure teenage boy ecstasy. A generation earlier a boy of my age may have fantasized about running away from home to join the circus. In my age the fantasy was being kidnapped by Van Halen with their intent of corrupting you with loud music, illicit substances and teased hair, gum smacking rock chix (yes, with the "x").
They were everything I wasn't. I was shy, introverted, and as naive as the day was long. They certainly weren't any of those things. They were loud, smart-assed and about as serious as a 1950's Archie comic book. They were one of the last thing adults wanted us to listen to and that made the fruit so much sweeter. We weren't going to make a new religion after their image, or even a lifestyle. Just drop the needle on Diver Down or VHII and for a brief while you could live vicariously through them.
Looking back on those horrible, hormone-driven teenage years, one thing I can now see clearly with the benefit of 30+ years distance is that you can be pure with your listening tastes at that age. You don't need to reconcile the contradictions of having Lou Reed, The Rolling Stones and Rush lined up in your meager LP crate. You didn't need to worry what someone else might think if you had the new Journey LP in your collection. All it took was for word to get around that you had a copy of Iggy Pop's The Idiot and people would bring you a new Maxell tape still in the wrapper, asking nicely for a copy even if you were a Grade A high school screwball.
Just a few years later, just a few short years past puberty and into the stages of early adulthood and things would drastically change. In the eyes of some Van Morrison would be acceptable in your collection, Van Halen would not. You had to learn how to stash certain records when certain people would visit.
Diamond Dave isn't going to bring out the ass-less chaps again and there will be no more feathered hair. Eddie's even got short hair now, and a new life post cancer. Michael Anthony won't be harmonizing with Eddie either. We can't go back to 1981, but we can at least get a little taste of what we once had. The good things we had. Here's hoping for the brown sound and at least one more good laugh.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Daydream of Birdland
A few years ago Bob Dylan was questioned by police in New Jersey after they received a report of a suspicious person peeking into the windows of an empty house. When asked why he was roaming around in a residential neighborhood, Dylan responded "I wanted to take a walk." Dylan is still out there, roaming and making music, and chances are that house in Jersey is still unsold.
2011 saw the breakup of REM and Sonic Youth. I read a number of message boards after REM's announcement and with jaded eyes I read post after post praising the band...for calling it a day. I don't know why so many of us think this way but at some point the bands we love, or at least tolerate when their efforts become less inspired, seem "old" and we want them to go away.
Does it really matter that REM would probably never make another "Reckoning" or "Automatic For The People"? Not really, as long as they were working and creating new music, wasn't that enough? Maybe, maybe not. There is Dylan though, he's still out there. Peeking into windows in New Jersey.
Sonic Youth's breakup is less like a retirement. The best description of Sonic Youth's music that I ever heard was from one of my old friends. He said "I'm not epileptic, but their music makes me feel like I am, and that isn't bad." Shortly before they announced the band was breaking up, we learned that Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon had separated. In light of divorce, a band breaking up is trivial.
The part of my brain that controls stupid behavior reacts to such news by saying, "This means Kim Gordon is available." That same part of my brain follows up with "Lot of good that does me...we don't live in the same town." That stupid part of my brain is also found in other people when they are glad to see a long-standing band break up. I can't really explain it in any other way.
I think I was 19 when I first read On the Road. Back then I didn't know who George Shearing was, but it was obvious how smitten Kerouac was with him. Shearing was a total mystery to me but I understood what Kerouac felt when he described seeing Shearing perform. I had similar experiences already, that feeling of being in the presence of some kind of perfection. Or was it a feeling of peeking into a window, seeing something miraculous on the other side?
In all the Shearing obituaries I read in 2011, none made note of Kerouac's lyrical praise of Shearing. It is a shame, actually. Source inspiration so strong that it sends a writer into a transcendent state is never to be taken lightly. REM and Sonic Youth are no longer with us in the figurative sense, George Shearing in the literal sense. There are albums and interviews and assessments left to mark their place. The vibe of their time of brilliance is, however, gone; and with it is the true explanation for what they did and why they did it. Kerouac left a template for decoding any mystery of their music.
Dylan is still out there though, he's peeking in windows.
2011 saw the breakup of REM and Sonic Youth. I read a number of message boards after REM's announcement and with jaded eyes I read post after post praising the band...for calling it a day. I don't know why so many of us think this way but at some point the bands we love, or at least tolerate when their efforts become less inspired, seem "old" and we want them to go away.
Does it really matter that REM would probably never make another "Reckoning" or "Automatic For The People"? Not really, as long as they were working and creating new music, wasn't that enough? Maybe, maybe not. There is Dylan though, he's still out there. Peeking into windows in New Jersey.
Sonic Youth's breakup is less like a retirement. The best description of Sonic Youth's music that I ever heard was from one of my old friends. He said "I'm not epileptic, but their music makes me feel like I am, and that isn't bad." Shortly before they announced the band was breaking up, we learned that Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon had separated. In light of divorce, a band breaking up is trivial.
The part of my brain that controls stupid behavior reacts to such news by saying, "This means Kim Gordon is available." That same part of my brain follows up with "Lot of good that does me...we don't live in the same town." That stupid part of my brain is also found in other people when they are glad to see a long-standing band break up. I can't really explain it in any other way.
I think I was 19 when I first read On the Road. Back then I didn't know who George Shearing was, but it was obvious how smitten Kerouac was with him. Shearing was a total mystery to me but I understood what Kerouac felt when he described seeing Shearing perform. I had similar experiences already, that feeling of being in the presence of some kind of perfection. Or was it a feeling of peeking into a window, seeing something miraculous on the other side?
In all the Shearing obituaries I read in 2011, none made note of Kerouac's lyrical praise of Shearing. It is a shame, actually. Source inspiration so strong that it sends a writer into a transcendent state is never to be taken lightly. REM and Sonic Youth are no longer with us in the figurative sense, George Shearing in the literal sense. There are albums and interviews and assessments left to mark their place. The vibe of their time of brilliance is, however, gone; and with it is the true explanation for what they did and why they did it. Kerouac left a template for decoding any mystery of their music.
Dylan is still out there though, he's peeking in windows.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
A Day In Their Life
Few things go hand in hand as well with music as books about music? I currently have a small selection of nice music themed books on sale in my eBay store for your choosing. I have to say that music biographies are a very strong seller for me and they are hard to keep in stock. I'm adding new inventory when I run across something nice, so if you are interested in seeing what my current selections are I'd suggest you visit regularly.
A Drink With Shane MacGowan A wonderful biography of MacGowan written by his long-time partner, Victoria Clarke. The structure of the book is more like a long conversation with MacGowan rather than a chronological telling of his life. It's very easy to get lost in Shane's words and I often found myself "hearing" his voice as I read his words. You can almost hear his sly laughter in many of the stories. An excellent biography that probably has more in common with Cash than the average music biography.
Do I Come Here Often? Black Coffee Blues Pt. by Henry Rollins, signed.
I've been a fan of Rollins since the 80's and I think his writing is somewhat overlooked. I would love to see some of his mid-80's magazine work published again, especially the back page articles he did for Spin Magazine in it's earliest days. One of the old back issues that I still have in my collection features his article about Madonna and the music industry titled, "Desperately Seeking Something"
He had a great energy in his writing that was a definite carry-over from his Black Flag days and from living in the tool shed behind Raymond Pettibone's parents house.
Blown Away: The Rolling Stones and the Death of the Sixties by A.E. Hotchner
Hotchner's book does one thing exceptionally well that I feel is overlooked. He is able to capture the darkness that seems to envelop rock and roll musicians who suffer an untimely, early death. Whether Brian Jones tempted his own fate of "death by misadventure" or if there was a conspiracy involved, what is very clear is the dark undercurrent in his life at the time of his death.
While Blown Away is less stylistic than the writings of John Gilmore, the tone and subject matter are very much in his area. I've also found the book to be a good companion piece to the Maysles documentary "Gimme Shelter".
To check out more of my book offerings on eBay, click here
I've been a fan of Rollins since the 80's and I think his writing is somewhat overlooked. I would love to see some of his mid-80's magazine work published again, especially the back page articles he did for Spin Magazine in it's earliest days. One of the old back issues that I still have in my collection features his article about Madonna and the music industry titled, "Desperately Seeking Something"
He had a great energy in his writing that was a definite carry-over from his Black Flag days and from living in the tool shed behind Raymond Pettibone's parents house.
Hotchner's book does one thing exceptionally well that I feel is overlooked. He is able to capture the darkness that seems to envelop rock and roll musicians who suffer an untimely, early death. Whether Brian Jones tempted his own fate of "death by misadventure" or if there was a conspiracy involved, what is very clear is the dark undercurrent in his life at the time of his death.
While Blown Away is less stylistic than the writings of John Gilmore, the tone and subject matter are very much in his area. I've also found the book to be a good companion piece to the Maysles documentary "Gimme Shelter".
To check out more of my book offerings on eBay, click here
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