"She Won't Be Back" / Bill Lloyd
Usually I steer away from tribute albums -- I'd always prefer to hear the original artists perform their own songs. But I'm too curious not to bite when the tribute's to Ray Davies or Nick Lowe. After all, the first Nick Lowe song I ever heard was a cover, Elvis Costello's "What So Funny 'Bout Peace Love and Understanding." If it hadn't been for Ray Davies tribute albums, I'd never have discovered Ron Sexsmith, Fountains of Wayne, Matthew Sweet, Yo La Tengo, or Bill Lloyd. (Both Lloyd and Sexsmith covered the same relatively obscure Kinks song, "This Is Where I Belong".) You gotta figure, any artist who's eager to cover Kinks songs knows where it's at.
But it took me a while to dig deeper into Bill Lloyd's work -- somehow I got the notion he was a country artist (because of his late 80s work in the duo Foster and Lloyd) and left it at that. Then I noticed he'd collaborated with Marshall Crenshaw on MC's wonderful album #447, co-writing the mesmerizing "Ready Right Now." That jumped Lloyd right to the head of the Artists I Should Investigate queue. And when I learned that his 1999 album Standing On the Shoulders of Giants was an homage to the 60s British bands who'd formed his musical taste -- well, I was in.
Lloyd's got an amazing list of collaborators on this album, including Crenshaw, Al Kooper, and another Nashvillean who should be better known, Greg Trooper. (Trooper and Crenshaw have both also added their licks to Nick Lowe tribute albums - do I love these guys or what?) I drove myself crazy the first few times I listened to this record, trying to identify all the familiar riffs weaving in and out -- echoes of the Searchers, the Byrds, the Who, the Hollies, and Badfinger, as well as the Kinks and the Beatles (songs like "Dr. Roberts' Second Opinion" and "Turn Me On Dead Man" are only the most obvious references). Lloyd's songs may not equal their models, but they're tuneful and full of smart pop energy.
Leading off with a Kinky riff ("Set Me Free," appropriately enough), "She Won't Be Back" writhes with pre-break-up anguish -- the singer's lying bed waiting for his girlfriend to come home, with a sinking feeling that she won't. "The clock shows 5 AM / Could she be wondering where I am? / Well, I'm the one who's lying in our bed." But in this scenario, he knows he's the one to blame. "She gave me every chance," he admits in verse two, "to give her more than just a song and dance / And now it's too late to change my tune." He's riddled with middle-of-the-night doubt and agony: "And so I watch the clock / Hoping she's just circling round the block / But that's an empty wish that won't come true." It's a bitter moment of self-honesty and guilt, piled on top of a stomach-heaving sensation of loss.
So far, it's a caustic set-up Davies or Lennon might have written -- but that second bridge is distinctly modern: "She always talked about a trip out west / Now she's got the time I guess / I never listened to her dreams / But now I know how much that means." We've come a long way from Lennon songs like "Run For Your life" or "Girl", though I guess McCartney and the Zombies were ahead of their time when it came to being sensitive males (or at least pretending to be).
Lloyd's slightly reedy voice isn't your classic British Invasion blues imitation, but the song works just fine without it. The song winds up with a nifty guitar solo by Pat Buchanan, heard most recently on Ray Davies' new album Working Man's Cafe -- talking about closing the circle. This song may not be "Yesterday" or "Days," but it's a lot better than "Sexy Back." Add Bill Lloyd to my roster.
She Won't Be Back sample
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
"Memphis in the Meantime" / John Hiatt
Some good news from Nashville: in September, John Hiatt will receive a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Americana Music Association, following in the footsteps of Willie Nelson, John Prine, and Guy Clark -- a well-deserved honor, because in my opinion nobody defines Americana like John Hiatt does. That, together with the news that John's got a new CD coming out May 27th -- wryly titled Same Old Man -- has got me deep in a Hiatt groove today. That's never a bad thing.
Sampling from country, R&B, alt rock, bluegrass, folk, and whatever else you've got that sounds good, Hiatt's wonderful body of work can't be boxed into any one genre -- the grab-bag term "Americana" kinda had to be invented to describe what Hiatt does. It probably hasn't helped his career that he's so hard to slot in any one niche (his buddy Lyle Lovett suffers from the same thing.) But that's what "Memphis in the Meantime," one of many great tracks from his breakthrough 1987 album Bring the Family, is all about. Sure, it's a driving song, a perfect bookend to "Drive South." But propelled by a speedy, funky beat (dig that rhythm section, with Jim Keltner on drums and Nick Lowe on bass), it's also about music, and how you've got to mix things up to keep from going stale.
This is a great springtime song, busting out with energy and longing for a fresh start: "We've been hanging around this town / Just a little too long a while . . .But if I don't get outta here pretty soon / My head's going to explode." He hangs on that "explode" for a dizzy extra beat; you can almost hear the blood pulsing in his temples. He's got Ry Cooder chipping in on guitar too; those riffs snap, crackle, and pop with nervous energy.
Hiatt lives in Nashville now (he grew up in my neighborhood in Indianapolis) but that doesn't mean he has to worship all the time at the church of Ryman and the Opry. "Sure I like country music / I like mandolins," he admits in the lead-in to the chorus, "But right now I need a Telecaster / Through a Vibro-lux turned up to ten." (I love how Hiatt defines it all through those specific details.) And so he invites his girlfriend to hop in the car and breeze down the highway to Memphis. Hiatt's got a long-standing romance with the open highway, another prime Americana quality (and hey, it's the Indy connection too). They're not going forever -- it's just for the "meantime" -- but dang, sometimes you need a change.
In his early days Hiatt was packaged as the American Elvis Costello, which ended up being more of a curse than anything else -- both were forced to act like angry young men a little too long -- but as far as witty lyrics go, Hiatt deserved the comparison. Here he deals out image after image to contrast the Nashville and Memphis scenes: "I wanna trade in these ol' country boots / For some fine Italian shoes . . . Forget the mousse and the hairspray, sugar / We don't need none of that / A little dab'll do ya, girl / Underneath a pork pie hat," and in the final chorus, "One more heartfelt steel guitar chord / Girl, its gonna do me in / I need to hear some trumpet and saxophone / You know sound as sweet as sin." Oh, yesssss.
Sure, he knows this won't be his long-term route to success -- "I don't think Ronnie Milsap's gonna / Ever record this song" (these days in concert I recall he sings "Kenny Chesney" instead). Eventually he'll dutifully toe the Nashville line again -- "And after we get good and greasy / Baby we can come back home / Put the cowhorns back on the Cadillac / And change the message on the code-a-phone." But it's spring, and he's itchy, and change is always invigorating: "If we could just get off-a that beat little girl / Maybe we could find the groove / At least we could find us a decent meal / Down at the Rendezvous." Hey, a good meal is reason enough to hit the road, especially now that the dogwoods are in blossom. Put this track on in your car next time you go road tripping -- you may end up in Memphis yourself before you realize it.
Memphis in the Meantime sample
Some good news from Nashville: in September, John Hiatt will receive a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Americana Music Association, following in the footsteps of Willie Nelson, John Prine, and Guy Clark -- a well-deserved honor, because in my opinion nobody defines Americana like John Hiatt does. That, together with the news that John's got a new CD coming out May 27th -- wryly titled Same Old Man -- has got me deep in a Hiatt groove today. That's never a bad thing.
Sampling from country, R&B, alt rock, bluegrass, folk, and whatever else you've got that sounds good, Hiatt's wonderful body of work can't be boxed into any one genre -- the grab-bag term "Americana" kinda had to be invented to describe what Hiatt does. It probably hasn't helped his career that he's so hard to slot in any one niche (his buddy Lyle Lovett suffers from the same thing.) But that's what "Memphis in the Meantime," one of many great tracks from his breakthrough 1987 album Bring the Family, is all about. Sure, it's a driving song, a perfect bookend to "Drive South." But propelled by a speedy, funky beat (dig that rhythm section, with Jim Keltner on drums and Nick Lowe on bass), it's also about music, and how you've got to mix things up to keep from going stale.
This is a great springtime song, busting out with energy and longing for a fresh start: "We've been hanging around this town / Just a little too long a while . . .But if I don't get outta here pretty soon / My head's going to explode." He hangs on that "explode" for a dizzy extra beat; you can almost hear the blood pulsing in his temples. He's got Ry Cooder chipping in on guitar too; those riffs snap, crackle, and pop with nervous energy.
Hiatt lives in Nashville now (he grew up in my neighborhood in Indianapolis) but that doesn't mean he has to worship all the time at the church of Ryman and the Opry. "Sure I like country music / I like mandolins," he admits in the lead-in to the chorus, "But right now I need a Telecaster / Through a Vibro-lux turned up to ten." (I love how Hiatt defines it all through those specific details.) And so he invites his girlfriend to hop in the car and breeze down the highway to Memphis. Hiatt's got a long-standing romance with the open highway, another prime Americana quality (and hey, it's the Indy connection too). They're not going forever -- it's just for the "meantime" -- but dang, sometimes you need a change.
In his early days Hiatt was packaged as the American Elvis Costello, which ended up being more of a curse than anything else -- both were forced to act like angry young men a little too long -- but as far as witty lyrics go, Hiatt deserved the comparison. Here he deals out image after image to contrast the Nashville and Memphis scenes: "I wanna trade in these ol' country boots / For some fine Italian shoes . . . Forget the mousse and the hairspray, sugar / We don't need none of that / A little dab'll do ya, girl / Underneath a pork pie hat," and in the final chorus, "One more heartfelt steel guitar chord / Girl, its gonna do me in / I need to hear some trumpet and saxophone / You know sound as sweet as sin." Oh, yesssss.
Sure, he knows this won't be his long-term route to success -- "I don't think Ronnie Milsap's gonna / Ever record this song" (these days in concert I recall he sings "Kenny Chesney" instead). Eventually he'll dutifully toe the Nashville line again -- "And after we get good and greasy / Baby we can come back home / Put the cowhorns back on the Cadillac / And change the message on the code-a-phone." But it's spring, and he's itchy, and change is always invigorating: "If we could just get off-a that beat little girl / Maybe we could find the groove / At least we could find us a decent meal / Down at the Rendezvous." Hey, a good meal is reason enough to hit the road, especially now that the dogwoods are in blossom. Put this track on in your car next time you go road tripping -- you may end up in Memphis yourself before you realize it.
Memphis in the Meantime sample
Thursday, April 24, 2008
"My British Tour Diary" /
Of Montreal
To begin with, Of Montreal isn't from Montreal at all -- they're from Athens, Georgia. And calling them "they" is a bit of a stretch, since the only person who's been in every incarnation of the band is front man and songwriter Kevin Barnes. That's most of what I know about this indie band, except that their (okay, his) songs are devilishly catchy and danceable.
This track from 2004's Satanic Panic in the Attic gives you a good idea of their crisp pop spirit. Granted, the lyrics are self-referential ("Hanging out with Steven Drew, Theo, / Paul and Sorrel too / Eating at Welcome Breaks daily / We danced in Leeds with Brit Pop Haley") but it's propelled by a cheery backbeat rhythm that's hard to resist. That bass line is so darn funky, it really betrays their Athens roots. Barnes' boyish vocals let him get away with murder, really: "On our trip to England I noticed something obscene / People still actually give a shit about the Queen." Oh, you irreverent Yanks.
One thing he does capture in this song is the surreal quality of life on tour, mixed up with a dose of culture shock: "Left alone to drive ourselves on the opposite side / Man it was a miracle that nobody died"; "Bitching because Steven booked us / On such early flights / Always in a foggy haze / Because we hadn't slept for days." I have a feeling that everybody in the band remembers incidents like "Every single one of our London cabbies played / The most truly repellent techno music ever made / But they'll drop you without hesitation / If you try changing the station." I imagine it as a scene out of Hard Days Night, mixed with a little Trainspotting.
"Up to our necks in crisps and litter / In the van we dubbed the Gary Glitter," he recalls at the end, almost fondly. This is what it's like to travel with your bandmates when being a rock musician is still exciting and new, and I dig being brought along for the ride. Despite the electronic gloss of their sound, they've got too much youthful energy to sound like robots. Apparently there are other Of Montreal albums where Kevin Barnes gets depressive -- but if that's so, I'm happy to stick to this one. (Other favorite tracks: the wistful psychedelic "Will You Come and Fetch Me?" and the jazzy "Spike the Senses.") It's a mere pop confection --but some days, that's just what I want.
My British Tour Diary sample
Of Montreal
To begin with, Of Montreal isn't from Montreal at all -- they're from Athens, Georgia. And calling them "they" is a bit of a stretch, since the only person who's been in every incarnation of the band is front man and songwriter Kevin Barnes. That's most of what I know about this indie band, except that their (okay, his) songs are devilishly catchy and danceable.
This track from 2004's Satanic Panic in the Attic gives you a good idea of their crisp pop spirit. Granted, the lyrics are self-referential ("Hanging out with Steven Drew, Theo, / Paul and Sorrel too / Eating at Welcome Breaks daily / We danced in Leeds with Brit Pop Haley") but it's propelled by a cheery backbeat rhythm that's hard to resist. That bass line is so darn funky, it really betrays their Athens roots. Barnes' boyish vocals let him get away with murder, really: "On our trip to England I noticed something obscene / People still actually give a shit about the Queen." Oh, you irreverent Yanks.
One thing he does capture in this song is the surreal quality of life on tour, mixed up with a dose of culture shock: "Left alone to drive ourselves on the opposite side / Man it was a miracle that nobody died"; "Bitching because Steven booked us / On such early flights / Always in a foggy haze / Because we hadn't slept for days." I have a feeling that everybody in the band remembers incidents like "Every single one of our London cabbies played / The most truly repellent techno music ever made / But they'll drop you without hesitation / If you try changing the station." I imagine it as a scene out of Hard Days Night, mixed with a little Trainspotting.
"Up to our necks in crisps and litter / In the van we dubbed the Gary Glitter," he recalls at the end, almost fondly. This is what it's like to travel with your bandmates when being a rock musician is still exciting and new, and I dig being brought along for the ride. Despite the electronic gloss of their sound, they've got too much youthful energy to sound like robots. Apparently there are other Of Montreal albums where Kevin Barnes gets depressive -- but if that's so, I'm happy to stick to this one. (Other favorite tracks: the wistful psychedelic "Will You Come and Fetch Me?" and the jazzy "Spike the Senses.") It's a mere pop confection --but some days, that's just what I want.
My British Tour Diary sample
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
"Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" / The Smiths
Watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall over the weekend, I caught this song faintly in the background as the lead character (hard to call him a hero) moped around his house after being dumped. An obvious soundtrack choice, but I wish it had been played up more; that adolescent self-pity vibrating through Morrissey's vocals completely pegged what was going on with that guy, and I've been humming the song ever since.
I missed the Smiths -- but then again, most of us in the States did. Face it, the Eighties were a strange musical limbo, with the great stuff (there was great stuff, I now know) floating around the ozone while records like Thriller and Like a Virgin and Kissing to Be Clever were repeatedly blasted at us. No wonder we sucked up the Police and Dire Straits like fresh water in the desert. If it hadn't been for that vacuum, maybe we wouldn't have had Springsteen to deal with today.
But coming to the Smiths late is better than never discovering them at all. While I dig Morrissey's more recent stuff too, the idiosyncracies of the Smiths really get me where I live. Being a Ray Davies fan, I'm not put off by Morrissey's fey vocals at all; in fact I love them. Few songwriters can get away with throwing rhymes out the window, but Morrissey pulls it off, maybe because he also doesn't care how many syllables are in a line. That quirky mix of Brechtian songspiele with a backbeat and Johnny Marr's catchy guitar riffs was genius.
Our singer's condition is something we can all secretly identify with: "I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour / But heaven knows I'm miserable now / I was looking for a job and then I found a job / And heaven knows I'm miserable now." None of the conventional cures really work for this guy. As the melody ricochets wearily between two notes, occasionally flipping up into a mournful falsetto, we're sucked into his passive-aggressive paralysis.
His general misanthropy kicks in too -- "In my life / Why do I give valuable time / To people who don't care if I live or die" (great self-pitying wail there) or "Why do I smile / At people who / I'd much rather kick in the eye" -- we all know how that feels. But how English is that knee-jerk politeness, not to mention all the resentful baggage it carries with it? His girlfriend is useless: "What she asked of me at the end of the day / Caligula would have blushed." That line cracks me up, especially given the drama queen flutter he gives "blushed." "Oh, you've been in the house too long, she said" -- I bet she did -- "And I naturally fled." Naturally. Really, he may feel sorry for himself, but I've got news for you, man, she's not the problem.
So what are we supposed to make of this guy? Morrissey sees how ridiculous he is, for sure, but he's not totally putting him down; there's some sneaky sympathy there too. (It's the same slippery perspective Ray Davies has been using for years.) We're free to see aspects of ourselves in his whiny despondency, or not. Whatever. It's better than a trip to the shrink, in my opinion, and a hell of lot more fun.
Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now sample
Watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall over the weekend, I caught this song faintly in the background as the lead character (hard to call him a hero) moped around his house after being dumped. An obvious soundtrack choice, but I wish it had been played up more; that adolescent self-pity vibrating through Morrissey's vocals completely pegged what was going on with that guy, and I've been humming the song ever since.
I missed the Smiths -- but then again, most of us in the States did. Face it, the Eighties were a strange musical limbo, with the great stuff (there was great stuff, I now know) floating around the ozone while records like Thriller and Like a Virgin and Kissing to Be Clever were repeatedly blasted at us. No wonder we sucked up the Police and Dire Straits like fresh water in the desert. If it hadn't been for that vacuum, maybe we wouldn't have had Springsteen to deal with today.
But coming to the Smiths late is better than never discovering them at all. While I dig Morrissey's more recent stuff too, the idiosyncracies of the Smiths really get me where I live. Being a Ray Davies fan, I'm not put off by Morrissey's fey vocals at all; in fact I love them. Few songwriters can get away with throwing rhymes out the window, but Morrissey pulls it off, maybe because he also doesn't care how many syllables are in a line. That quirky mix of Brechtian songspiele with a backbeat and Johnny Marr's catchy guitar riffs was genius.
Our singer's condition is something we can all secretly identify with: "I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour / But heaven knows I'm miserable now / I was looking for a job and then I found a job / And heaven knows I'm miserable now." None of the conventional cures really work for this guy. As the melody ricochets wearily between two notes, occasionally flipping up into a mournful falsetto, we're sucked into his passive-aggressive paralysis.
His general misanthropy kicks in too -- "In my life / Why do I give valuable time / To people who don't care if I live or die" (great self-pitying wail there) or "Why do I smile / At people who / I'd much rather kick in the eye" -- we all know how that feels. But how English is that knee-jerk politeness, not to mention all the resentful baggage it carries with it? His girlfriend is useless: "What she asked of me at the end of the day / Caligula would have blushed." That line cracks me up, especially given the drama queen flutter he gives "blushed." "Oh, you've been in the house too long, she said" -- I bet she did -- "And I naturally fled." Naturally. Really, he may feel sorry for himself, but I've got news for you, man, she's not the problem.
So what are we supposed to make of this guy? Morrissey sees how ridiculous he is, for sure, but he's not totally putting him down; there's some sneaky sympathy there too. (It's the same slippery perspective Ray Davies has been using for years.) We're free to see aspects of ourselves in his whiny despondency, or not. Whatever. It's better than a trip to the shrink, in my opinion, and a hell of lot more fun.
Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now sample
Monday, April 21, 2008
"Don't Think About Her" / Nick Lowe
"Don't Think About Her When You're Trying To Drive" / Little Village
Little Village was such a great idea -- a supergroup comprised of Nick Lowe, John Hiatt, Ry Cooder, and Jim Keltner, who'd worked before on Hiatt's brilliant 1987 album Bring the Family. Unfortunately, something inexplicably weird happened as they were recording their one and only album and the group never went any further. And at the time, I was living in some alternate universe and had no idea all this was going on.
This is the sort of thing I can spend hours thinking about. Who pissed off whom, and who was to blame? Though I'm tempted to side with Nick and John and assume it was all Ry Cooder's fault, I suspect there's no real answer.
"Don't Think About Her When You're Trying To Drive" is my favorite track from this album, with Hiatt ripping into some of his most soulful vocals ever. Yeah, I know, the song sounds like a goof, but the guy who's singing it isn't laughing -- he's barreling down a highway half-blinded with tears. There's something crazy and all-out romantic about it, and with Hiatt's full throated rendition on that chorus -- "Don't think about her / Move on, you're lucky just to be alive / You'll live without her / Just don't you think about her / When you're trying to drive" -- you really get the sense of a guy just barely holding it together.
So imagine my delight and surprise to find an early version of this song in the Nick Lowe box set The Doings (it's on disc four, the rarities disc). It's an 1989 demo, just Nick on an acoustic guitar, and except for that refrain it's a whole different song. The tempo's faster, and the tune's got a retro feel that wouldn't be out of place in a 1950s movie theme song. "It's just a heartache that soon will pass / Given time there will be a light at last / It's a beating you'll survive / But till that day arrives / Don't think about her when you drive." He's trying to make light of it, but he's just as heart-broken and obsessed as Hiatt's singer -- he's just deeper in denial. Only in the bridge do you really begin to realize how fixated he's become: "Think about her while you're leaving here / Think about her while you're selecting gear / Think about her before you cross the tracks / But don't think about her when you're driving back."
Okay, I know Nick's song is a throwaway. Once Little Village got hold of it, all the images were reworked and tightened up to make it a driving song from start to finish. "She don't know who you're missing / Driving down that lonesome road tonight / Looking for one starlight glowing / Or her face, shining in the dashlight." Hiatt sings of Natchez and Memphis; his tires squeal, the clutch misses; he stops to phone her and then hangs up. It's a classic country-tinged song, and it deserved to be a big hit -- if only anybody could've figured out in 1991 what genre to file this under.
But you know what? I'm totally besotted with Nick's version. Now that it's been rewritten, it'll never get trotted out again; those few, erm, awkward turns of phrase won't ever get fixed. Nick's so self-critical, he can throw things like this away and never look back. (Completely the opposite of his buddy Robyn Hitchcock, who'd happily release an album of his lawn clippings.)
Well, I'd have loved to be a fly on the wall watching the drama of this song being rewritten. I could write a whole novel about that.
Don't Think About Her sample
Don't Think About Her When You're Trying to Drive sample
"Don't Think About Her When You're Trying To Drive" / Little Village
Little Village was such a great idea -- a supergroup comprised of Nick Lowe, John Hiatt, Ry Cooder, and Jim Keltner, who'd worked before on Hiatt's brilliant 1987 album Bring the Family. Unfortunately, something inexplicably weird happened as they were recording their one and only album and the group never went any further. And at the time, I was living in some alternate universe and had no idea all this was going on.
This is the sort of thing I can spend hours thinking about. Who pissed off whom, and who was to blame? Though I'm tempted to side with Nick and John and assume it was all Ry Cooder's fault, I suspect there's no real answer.
"Don't Think About Her When You're Trying To Drive" is my favorite track from this album, with Hiatt ripping into some of his most soulful vocals ever. Yeah, I know, the song sounds like a goof, but the guy who's singing it isn't laughing -- he's barreling down a highway half-blinded with tears. There's something crazy and all-out romantic about it, and with Hiatt's full throated rendition on that chorus -- "Don't think about her / Move on, you're lucky just to be alive / You'll live without her / Just don't you think about her / When you're trying to drive" -- you really get the sense of a guy just barely holding it together.
So imagine my delight and surprise to find an early version of this song in the Nick Lowe box set The Doings (it's on disc four, the rarities disc). It's an 1989 demo, just Nick on an acoustic guitar, and except for that refrain it's a whole different song. The tempo's faster, and the tune's got a retro feel that wouldn't be out of place in a 1950s movie theme song. "It's just a heartache that soon will pass / Given time there will be a light at last / It's a beating you'll survive / But till that day arrives / Don't think about her when you drive." He's trying to make light of it, but he's just as heart-broken and obsessed as Hiatt's singer -- he's just deeper in denial. Only in the bridge do you really begin to realize how fixated he's become: "Think about her while you're leaving here / Think about her while you're selecting gear / Think about her before you cross the tracks / But don't think about her when you're driving back."
Okay, I know Nick's song is a throwaway. Once Little Village got hold of it, all the images were reworked and tightened up to make it a driving song from start to finish. "She don't know who you're missing / Driving down that lonesome road tonight / Looking for one starlight glowing / Or her face, shining in the dashlight." Hiatt sings of Natchez and Memphis; his tires squeal, the clutch misses; he stops to phone her and then hangs up. It's a classic country-tinged song, and it deserved to be a big hit -- if only anybody could've figured out in 1991 what genre to file this under.
But you know what? I'm totally besotted with Nick's version. Now that it's been rewritten, it'll never get trotted out again; those few, erm, awkward turns of phrase won't ever get fixed. Nick's so self-critical, he can throw things like this away and never look back. (Completely the opposite of his buddy Robyn Hitchcock, who'd happily release an album of his lawn clippings.)
Well, I'd have loved to be a fly on the wall watching the drama of this song being rewritten. I could write a whole novel about that.
Don't Think About Her sample
Don't Think About Her When You're Trying to Drive sample
Saturday, April 19, 2008
"Any Day Now" / Alan PriceHAPPY BIRTHDAY ALAN PRICE
Apparently Mr. Alan Price turns 67 today, which I just can't believe; anybody who's seen him in concert lately (I had that privilege a little over 3 years ago) knows that he can still wail the blues and tear up and down a keyboard like nobody's business.
Price's career has followed a funny road, from those early days with the Animals through collaborating with Georgie Fame, covering loads of early Randy Newman songs, providing peerless soundtracks for most of Lindsay Anderson's films, and gigging away as a versatile singer-songwriter. Most folks in the States have no idea who he is, which is why so few of his albums are even available on Amazon -- there were about a dozen tracks I wanted to honor on this occasion, but couldn't locate MP3s for.
Still, there's no need to apologize for introducing you to "Any Day Now," if you don't already know this honey of a song. It was one of his early hit singles (1965) with his first post-Animals outfit, the Alan Price Set, a band that deliberately aimed for a non-Animals sound with a full horn section -- and no competing lead singer. With the Alan Price Set, Alan finally moved into the spotlight and up to the mike, and anybody who doubts that he deserved to sing more with the Animals only has to listen to the vocals on this number.
Written by Burt Bacharach (though with lyrics by Bob Hilliard instead of Hal David), "Any Day Now" was a 1962 hit for American R&B singer Chuck Jackson. The song's about a man anticipating being left by his restless girlfriend, and Jackson's version is underlaid with dread and regret. In Price's hands, the whole song brightens up, with a perkier tempo, brass fanfares, and a cha-cha organ syncopation. Jackson sounds like he's laying a guilt trip on the girl; Price is putting her on a pedestal, glorying in her free-spirited nature. (Think Julie Christie in Darling.) Now tell me, ladies, which would you rather hear?
And then there's Price's vocal performance, which is smoky and incredibly sexy. Enhanced by echo effects, he plays up his huskiest tones, dropping down to a whispery hush on the lines "goodbye my love," "meet someone new" or "you'll call it off," giving a throaty flutter to the words "bird" and "flown." "Any day now / I will hear you say / 'Goodbye my love' / And you'll be on your way" -- he knows what's coming, but he's fatalistic about it; he accepts that that's the price a man pays for spending any time with such a lovely creature.
"I know I shouldn't want to keep you / If you don't want to stay / Until you'll gone forever / I'll be holding on for delight / Holding you this way / Hoping you will stay," Price tells us in the bridge, the heart of the song. With that hint of gruffness in his voice, he sounds earnest and earthy all at once, and I get lost in dreaming about what "holding you this way" means.
Well, I know it's an old song -- Alan Price was in his early 20s when he did this, and he's now in his late 60s. (Still hard to believe.) But believe me, he's still got the magic. Happy birthday, Alan, and many many more.
Any Day Now sample
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
"Angel" / The Wood Brothers
"The Wind Cries Mary" / Robyn Hitchcock
I've got nothing against Jimi Hendrix -- it's just Jimi worshippers who annoy me. You know, the guys who go on and on about what a genius he was, greatest guitarist ever, blah blah blah. Jimi's like the rock-n-roll equivalent of James Joyce or T.S. Eliot -- a wonderful unique talent who led all his successors down an artistic blind alley. I blame Jimi for every long-winded tedious guitar solo I've suffered through in the past 40 years, and just for good measure, I'll blame most of the drum and organ solos on him too. Come on, since when was puttting a lit match to your guitar a creative act? I'm with John Hiatt on the arrogance of wrecking a perfectly good guitar.
I'm having to backtrack a little on my Jimi rejection lately, though, thanks to these two addictive new Hendrix covers. I strongly believe that a cover version of any song should bring something new to it; that was always hard to do with Hendrix tracks. Maybe we just needed this much time to pass before musicians could feel free to re-imagine his songs.
The Wood Brothers are one of my new discoveries, a totally captivating duo who combine Oliver Wood's thumping jazz acoustic bass with brother Chris's crunching buzzsaw of a Southern rock guitar. The result is sorta folk, sorta bluegrass, sorta roots-rock, and one hundred percent enchanting. They cover Hendrix' song "Angel" on their new album Loaded, and it's a revelation. I remember "Angel" as a langorous sex plaint encrusted with show-off riffs; the Wood brothers give it a light-hearted zydeco strut that's like turning devils-food cake into angel food cake.
They've roped in Amos Lee to share singing duties with Oliver, and the contrast between Oliver's distinctive raspy tenor and Amos' honey-and-buttermilk vocals is delicious indeed. The backing arrangement is mostly drums, some syncopated organ chords for shimmer, and just a few jangly strums on Chris' guitar. Freed of Jimi's ponderous tone, the song takes off joyfully, putting the poetry back into this "story about the love between the moon and the deep blue sea."
Then there's Robyn Hitchcock's version of Jimi's "The Wind Cries Mary" on his new album Shadow Cat. (If I haven't mentioned it, I have such a crush on Robyn Hitchcock it isn't funny.) The psychedelic imagery of this song is right up Robyn's alley -- "After all the jacks are in their boxes / And the clowns have all gone to bed / You can hear happiness staggering on down the street" sounds just like something Robyn might have written himself.
Delivering absurdist lyrics is second nature to this man, and he layers on the breathy vocals, exaggerating a groan or a growl here and there. There's a knowing wink behind it all, turning a heavy trip into phantasmagoria. Hitchcock prowls through this song like a cartoon cat; though he replicates that classic riff of Jimi's, Robyn's acoustic version is hushed and stealthy rather than sinister. Somehow he draws me into this bizarro landscape more deeply than Jimi ever could; I never even noticed the lyrics before. But then Jimi was never about lyrics, was he?
Neither the Woods brothers nor Robyn Hitchcock seem too awed by Jimi's godlike stature to take a few liberties. Well, it's about time.
Angel sample
The Wind Cries Mary sample
"The Wind Cries Mary" / Robyn Hitchcock
I've got nothing against Jimi Hendrix -- it's just Jimi worshippers who annoy me. You know, the guys who go on and on about what a genius he was, greatest guitarist ever, blah blah blah. Jimi's like the rock-n-roll equivalent of James Joyce or T.S. Eliot -- a wonderful unique talent who led all his successors down an artistic blind alley. I blame Jimi for every long-winded tedious guitar solo I've suffered through in the past 40 years, and just for good measure, I'll blame most of the drum and organ solos on him too. Come on, since when was puttting a lit match to your guitar a creative act? I'm with John Hiatt on the arrogance of wrecking a perfectly good guitar.
I'm having to backtrack a little on my Jimi rejection lately, though, thanks to these two addictive new Hendrix covers. I strongly believe that a cover version of any song should bring something new to it; that was always hard to do with Hendrix tracks. Maybe we just needed this much time to pass before musicians could feel free to re-imagine his songs.
The Wood Brothers are one of my new discoveries, a totally captivating duo who combine Oliver Wood's thumping jazz acoustic bass with brother Chris's crunching buzzsaw of a Southern rock guitar. The result is sorta folk, sorta bluegrass, sorta roots-rock, and one hundred percent enchanting. They cover Hendrix' song "Angel" on their new album Loaded, and it's a revelation. I remember "Angel" as a langorous sex plaint encrusted with show-off riffs; the Wood brothers give it a light-hearted zydeco strut that's like turning devils-food cake into angel food cake.
They've roped in Amos Lee to share singing duties with Oliver, and the contrast between Oliver's distinctive raspy tenor and Amos' honey-and-buttermilk vocals is delicious indeed. The backing arrangement is mostly drums, some syncopated organ chords for shimmer, and just a few jangly strums on Chris' guitar. Freed of Jimi's ponderous tone, the song takes off joyfully, putting the poetry back into this "story about the love between the moon and the deep blue sea."
Then there's Robyn Hitchcock's version of Jimi's "The Wind Cries Mary" on his new album Shadow Cat. (If I haven't mentioned it, I have such a crush on Robyn Hitchcock it isn't funny.) The psychedelic imagery of this song is right up Robyn's alley -- "After all the jacks are in their boxes / And the clowns have all gone to bed / You can hear happiness staggering on down the street" sounds just like something Robyn might have written himself.
Delivering absurdist lyrics is second nature to this man, and he layers on the breathy vocals, exaggerating a groan or a growl here and there. There's a knowing wink behind it all, turning a heavy trip into phantasmagoria. Hitchcock prowls through this song like a cartoon cat; though he replicates that classic riff of Jimi's, Robyn's acoustic version is hushed and stealthy rather than sinister. Somehow he draws me into this bizarro landscape more deeply than Jimi ever could; I never even noticed the lyrics before. But then Jimi was never about lyrics, was he?
Neither the Woods brothers nor Robyn Hitchcock seem too awed by Jimi's godlike stature to take a few liberties. Well, it's about time.
Angel sample
The Wind Cries Mary sample
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