Twenty Four Hour Service / Ian Gomm
I'll be honest: this is a test post. So it made sense to try it out with an artist I've been dying to write about, who doesn't have a ton of YouTube links (the handy resort of bloggers who don't need to get obscure). The sad truth being that I DO need to get obscure sometimes.
Though honestly, folks -- why should Ian Gomm be obscure? When Brinsley Schwarz dissolved (I refuse to say "broke up") in 1975, while most of the group re-formed as the Rumour (as in Graham Parker and the), both bassist/singer/songwriter Nick Lowe and rhythm guitarist/singer/songwriter Ian Gomm headed off to try solo careers. And they had every reason to. Nick's career took off, sorta-ish, and thanks to his serendiptitous meeting with Dave Edmunds, with whom he formed Rockpile, managed to get some traction. But we forget that Ian Gomm did pretty well out of the gate as well, charting a #18 hit with "Hold On" in 1979. Yeah, Nick produced for Stiff Records and Elvis Costello, but Ian produced the Stranglers and Alec Korner at his studio up in Wales. Now that we're in the throes of this Nick Lowe renaissance, maybe we need to take a second look at the very talented Ian Gomm as well.
Okay, let's backtrack. Ian Gomm was a late addition to Brinsley Schwarz, joining them I think in September 1970 (please, Ian or Will, correct my research) -- early enough to join all but their first two albums, but late enough to completely escape responsibility for the Fillmore East debacle. This is a good thing.
Once Ian showed up, Nick Lowe wasn't the band's only songwriter any more -- which, given the congenial pub rock culture, meant collaboration as well as competition. Okay, quick quiz: Who wrote Nick Lowe's only bona fide hit single, "Cruel to Be Kind"? People tend to forget that this was a co-write job, and Ian Gomm never gets the credit he deserves.
Check out this addictive track from Ian's first solo album, 1978's Summer Holiday. (Originally titled Gomm With the Wind in the US.)
http://www.divshare.com/download/17573014-044
What's not to love about this track? That upward bubbling rhythm line, the confiding lyrics of the verse, exploding into a joyful profusion of snappy horns -- this is a feel-good track indeed. (Got to love the Presley-like low voice as he sneaks in the "twenty-four.") Now that we actually live in a 24-hour service economy, we should pay homage to this prescient track. This came out back when it was actually special, and kind of exciting, to offer around-the-clock service -- sad that it's become a jejeune thing.
And if Nick Lowe is currently producing some of the best work of his career, I direct your attention to Ian Gomm's 1997 Crazy for You or 2002's Rock 'n' Roll Heart. C'mon, folks, expand your horizons!
And please let me know if this method of linking worked for you. Because I need to get back in the game with those obscure tracks we all want to know about!
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
All I Know Right Now / Marshall Crenshaw
All I know right now is that there are only a few days left for you to be part of something pretty amazing. Marshall Crenshaw has mounted a new project on Kickstarter which will allow music lovers to help underwrite his new baby: a series of EPs to be released on vinyl over the next year or so, featuring a mix of new original Crenshaw songs and dynamic cover versions of other people's songs. (Because, as you know if you've ever seen Marshall live, he really digs performing other people's music too.)
Click here and Marshall himself will tell you all about it: Marshall's Kickstart campaign
I signed up. You should too.
One of the cool things about this Kickstarter project is that it will allow you to sample many facets of this multi-dimensional artist. There's the romantic spirit, full of yearning and emotional vulnerability, that breaks through the lush 80s-style wall of sound on his 1983 album Field Day. "All I Know Right Now" is a song that literally stops me in my tracks everytime I hear it:
But anyone who thinks that Marshall Crenshaw is only about bright and bouncy power pop deserves to listen more. He does dark and brooding and edgy perfectly well -- like this song, "On the Run," from his 1989 album Good Evening. I have this track on my favorite workout playlist, and everytime it cycles up, I feel a burst of power.
And lest you think he's a relic of the 80s, just listen to the powerful stuff he's doing today. "Stormy River" is . . . well, I was about to say it's one of my favorite tracks from Marshall's most recent album, Jaggedland, but that's crazy talk: I love the entire album, just love it to death. Because the real great artists don't stop growing.
Now as you know I'm a besotted fan of this guy, and I've written about him a lot: Here and here and here, just for starters. Oooh, and I can't help throwing in a link to this post, either. And maybe just one more YouTuber, because the accompanying video is just too much fun:
So now that you've spent your afternoon listening to all this Marshall Crenshaw -- isn't it time you went and got yourself a little piece of the action? Marshall's Kickstart campaign
All I know right now is that there are only a few days left for you to be part of something pretty amazing. Marshall Crenshaw has mounted a new project on Kickstarter which will allow music lovers to help underwrite his new baby: a series of EPs to be released on vinyl over the next year or so, featuring a mix of new original Crenshaw songs and dynamic cover versions of other people's songs. (Because, as you know if you've ever seen Marshall live, he really digs performing other people's music too.)
Click here and Marshall himself will tell you all about it: Marshall's Kickstart campaign
I signed up. You should too.
One of the cool things about this Kickstarter project is that it will allow you to sample many facets of this multi-dimensional artist. There's the romantic spirit, full of yearning and emotional vulnerability, that breaks through the lush 80s-style wall of sound on his 1983 album Field Day. "All I Know Right Now" is a song that literally stops me in my tracks everytime I hear it:
But anyone who thinks that Marshall Crenshaw is only about bright and bouncy power pop deserves to listen more. He does dark and brooding and edgy perfectly well -- like this song, "On the Run," from his 1989 album Good Evening. I have this track on my favorite workout playlist, and everytime it cycles up, I feel a burst of power.
And lest you think he's a relic of the 80s, just listen to the powerful stuff he's doing today. "Stormy River" is . . . well, I was about to say it's one of my favorite tracks from Marshall's most recent album, Jaggedland, but that's crazy talk: I love the entire album, just love it to death. Because the real great artists don't stop growing.
Now as you know I'm a besotted fan of this guy, and I've written about him a lot: Here and here and here, just for starters. Oooh, and I can't help throwing in a link to this post, either. And maybe just one more YouTuber, because the accompanying video is just too much fun:
So now that you've spent your afternoon listening to all this Marshall Crenshaw -- isn't it time you went and got yourself a little piece of the action? Marshall's Kickstart campaign
Saturday, April 21, 2012
The Weight / The Band
Obvious, I know. Levon Helm dies, and every blogger has to pipe up. But this death did get to me, a real sock to the gut, more than I ever would have expected.
It's not because I was a longtime fan of The Band or anything. Count me in the legion of music fans who only discovered The Band when The Last Waltz came out in 1978. (Hey, at least I'll admit it.) I explained it all when I wrote last year about "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down."
In that film, watching Levon, with his gingery beard, open grin, and twangy drawl, I immediately sensed he was the authentic heart of The Band. The guy from Turkey Scratch, Arkansas, was real country, as opposed to those Canadian wannabes. If the Band invented Americana -- and we might as well give them credit for that -- Levon was their pipeline to the real stuff. Okay, okay, so that's a gross simplification. The music we now label Ameericana has always been a fabrication of sorts, a self-conscious blending of folk rock and bluegrass and Delta blues, There's no reason why a talented bunch of Canadians couldn't do it as well as anybody. If Nick Lowe can pass himself off as a country crooner, anything is possible.
But accidents of geography aside, Levon's joyous passion for music seemed to me to be the energy feeding The Last Waltz's performances. I saw that same passion still alive a year and a half ago, when Levon joined Nick Lowe, Richard Thompson, and Allen Toussaint at a taping of Elvis Costello's Spectacle. Even though Levon couldn't sing -- he claimed it had nothing to do with his bouts of throat cancer; now I wonder -- just watching him bash those drums was a joy. There was no disguising the evident affection those other musicians felt for Levon, either. I went to that taping to watch Nick and Elvis, but in the end it was Levon's night all around.
So here, in tribute to one of the music greats, is another Band classic:
In many ways this is the quintessential Band song: the traded harmonies, the rustic setting, the Biblical overtones, the old-timey storytelling. From the very first line -- "Rolled into Nazareth, I was feeling 'bout half-past dead" -- we seem to be dwelling on the border between gospel and folk song. Never mind that it's most likely Nazareth, PA, he's rolling into, home of the Martin Guitar factory -- you can't tell me that Robbie Robertson didn't assume listeners would think he was writing about Jesus.
The ambiguous clues keep on coming. The traveller can't find a place to sleep, just like Mary and Joseph stranded in Bethlehem. He runs into the Devil, walking down the street. There's a Luke (like the Gospel writer) waiting for the Judgment Day. There's a Miss Moses, who he tells to "go down" (like in the spirtual "Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt land, / Tell old pharoah, / Let my people go"). Come on, Robbie!
And what is this "weight" that the singer/s is going to take off of Anny and "put right on me"? Is it really just a simple obligation, to say hello to an old friend? Or is it Christ taking on the sins of the world?
Of course, Robbie Robertson wasn't writing a Christian parable. All of the people the traveler encounters -- a song structure that he totally ripped off of their mentor Bob Dylan -- are supposedly real people they knew, all the way down to Crazy Chester and his dog Jack. (Do we not love Rick Danko's strangulated singing on the Crazy Chester verse?) But if Robbie could rip off Dylan, why not borrow a little flavor from the Bible, too? All smoke and mirrors, my friends.
And yet, the lyrics of the song aren't why it's great. It's those stately, momentous piano chord progressions, the glorious wailing harmonies on the chorus, and, yes, that loping whack of the drums, courtesy of Mr. Levon Helm. It's definitely more than the sum of its parts. How perfect to have the Staples Singers join in on this number in The Last Waltz, testifying their hearts out.
I'm sorry now that I wasn't more clued in in 1968 when Music From Big Pink came out. This music may have sounded old-fashioned, but at the time it was in fact something original indeed. In a world full of Beatle-esque pop and psychedelia, someone was finally coming out with a new sound. (Not that it didn't have its own psychedelic buzz...).
And at the heart of it all was Levon Helm, one of the music greats. Lay your head down in peace, brother.
Obvious, I know. Levon Helm dies, and every blogger has to pipe up. But this death did get to me, a real sock to the gut, more than I ever would have expected.
It's not because I was a longtime fan of The Band or anything. Count me in the legion of music fans who only discovered The Band when The Last Waltz came out in 1978. (Hey, at least I'll admit it.) I explained it all when I wrote last year about "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down."
In that film, watching Levon, with his gingery beard, open grin, and twangy drawl, I immediately sensed he was the authentic heart of The Band. The guy from Turkey Scratch, Arkansas, was real country, as opposed to those Canadian wannabes. If the Band invented Americana -- and we might as well give them credit for that -- Levon was their pipeline to the real stuff. Okay, okay, so that's a gross simplification. The music we now label Ameericana has always been a fabrication of sorts, a self-conscious blending of folk rock and bluegrass and Delta blues, There's no reason why a talented bunch of Canadians couldn't do it as well as anybody. If Nick Lowe can pass himself off as a country crooner, anything is possible.
But accidents of geography aside, Levon's joyous passion for music seemed to me to be the energy feeding The Last Waltz's performances. I saw that same passion still alive a year and a half ago, when Levon joined Nick Lowe, Richard Thompson, and Allen Toussaint at a taping of Elvis Costello's Spectacle. Even though Levon couldn't sing -- he claimed it had nothing to do with his bouts of throat cancer; now I wonder -- just watching him bash those drums was a joy. There was no disguising the evident affection those other musicians felt for Levon, either. I went to that taping to watch Nick and Elvis, but in the end it was Levon's night all around.
So here, in tribute to one of the music greats, is another Band classic:
In many ways this is the quintessential Band song: the traded harmonies, the rustic setting, the Biblical overtones, the old-timey storytelling. From the very first line -- "Rolled into Nazareth, I was feeling 'bout half-past dead" -- we seem to be dwelling on the border between gospel and folk song. Never mind that it's most likely Nazareth, PA, he's rolling into, home of the Martin Guitar factory -- you can't tell me that Robbie Robertson didn't assume listeners would think he was writing about Jesus.
The ambiguous clues keep on coming. The traveller can't find a place to sleep, just like Mary and Joseph stranded in Bethlehem. He runs into the Devil, walking down the street. There's a Luke (like the Gospel writer) waiting for the Judgment Day. There's a Miss Moses, who he tells to "go down" (like in the spirtual "Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt land, / Tell old pharoah, / Let my people go"). Come on, Robbie!
And what is this "weight" that the singer/s is going to take off of Anny and "put right on me"? Is it really just a simple obligation, to say hello to an old friend? Or is it Christ taking on the sins of the world?
Of course, Robbie Robertson wasn't writing a Christian parable. All of the people the traveler encounters -- a song structure that he totally ripped off of their mentor Bob Dylan -- are supposedly real people they knew, all the way down to Crazy Chester and his dog Jack. (Do we not love Rick Danko's strangulated singing on the Crazy Chester verse?) But if Robbie could rip off Dylan, why not borrow a little flavor from the Bible, too? All smoke and mirrors, my friends.
And yet, the lyrics of the song aren't why it's great. It's those stately, momentous piano chord progressions, the glorious wailing harmonies on the chorus, and, yes, that loping whack of the drums, courtesy of Mr. Levon Helm. It's definitely more than the sum of its parts. How perfect to have the Staples Singers join in on this number in The Last Waltz, testifying their hearts out.
I'm sorry now that I wasn't more clued in in 1968 when Music From Big Pink came out. This music may have sounded old-fashioned, but at the time it was in fact something original indeed. In a world full of Beatle-esque pop and psychedelia, someone was finally coming out with a new sound. (Not that it didn't have its own psychedelic buzz...).
And at the heart of it all was Levon Helm, one of the music greats. Lay your head down in peace, brother.
Thursday, March 08, 2012
King of Anything / Sara Bareilles
HELL HATH NO FURY WEEK-ish
You want to see a pissed-off woman, you should have seen me two weeks ago when my replacement hard drive also decided to crash, putting me off-line again. But I'm back -- and wrapping up Hell Hath No Fury Week, just a feee-eee-ew days late.
I'll admit, I had very little interest in Sara Bareilles until she showed up as one of the judges of The Sing-Off, alongside the perenially adorable Ben Folds. Sara replaced that girl from the Pussycat Dolls -- you know the one -- whose name I refuse to learn, and yeah, yeah, the third judge is sweater-boy Shawn Stockman from Boyz 2 Men, who has been slowly growing on me. But let's face it, I watch the show for Ben Folds.
Turns out Sara was a natural addition to the show, since she herself started out in a capella groups. And while her notes to the contestants are never as detailed as Ben's ("I heard your second soprano lose pitch," he consults his notes, "about a half-tone in measure 48, which really threw off your key change..."), she still impressed me with her musical knowledge. So I did what any music fan does these days -- I went to iTunes and listened to snippets of various songs -- her big hit, "Love Song," is the one you'll recognize -- to cherry-pick one or two that I liked. I'll let those swap around in the stewpot of my Shuffle for awhile and then see if I feel like splurging on a whole Sara Bareilles album someday.
But this one jumped right to the top of my playlist, and for obvious reasons. Don't be misled by the perky opening -- Sara Bareilles is not about perky. This girl is so sassy, so sure of herself, you can tell she's not even going to waste her time, not with this guy. This is better than a break-up song; it's a pre-break-up song.
HELL HATH NO FURY WEEK-ish
You want to see a pissed-off woman, you should have seen me two weeks ago when my replacement hard drive also decided to crash, putting me off-line again. But I'm back -- and wrapping up Hell Hath No Fury Week, just a feee-eee-ew days late.
I'll admit, I had very little interest in Sara Bareilles until she showed up as one of the judges of The Sing-Off, alongside the perenially adorable Ben Folds. Sara replaced that girl from the Pussycat Dolls -- you know the one -- whose name I refuse to learn, and yeah, yeah, the third judge is sweater-boy Shawn Stockman from Boyz 2 Men, who has been slowly growing on me. But let's face it, I watch the show for Ben Folds.
Turns out Sara was a natural addition to the show, since she herself started out in a capella groups. And while her notes to the contestants are never as detailed as Ben's ("I heard your second soprano lose pitch," he consults his notes, "about a half-tone in measure 48, which really threw off your key change..."), she still impressed me with her musical knowledge. So I did what any music fan does these days -- I went to iTunes and listened to snippets of various songs -- her big hit, "Love Song," is the one you'll recognize -- to cherry-pick one or two that I liked. I'll let those swap around in the stewpot of my Shuffle for awhile and then see if I feel like splurging on a whole Sara Bareilles album someday.
But this one jumped right to the top of my playlist, and for obvious reasons. Don't be misled by the perky opening -- Sara Bareilles is not about perky. This girl is so sassy, so sure of herself, you can tell she's not even going to waste her time, not with this guy. This is better than a break-up song; it's a pre-break-up song.
Dig the specificity of that coffee shop setting, the cars crawling past the window, the awkward pauses in their conversation -- awkward at least for her, who's given up trying to get a word in edgewise. We can only guess what kind of superior advice he's dispensing, judging from her (unspoken) side of the conversation: "I hate to break it to you, babe, but I'm not drowning," "I'm not the one who's lost, with no direction," and in the refrain, with its syncopated hoots of scorn, "You dare tell me who to be?" He's cast himself in the role of the hero who'll save her, but she sees that for the hoary old-movie cliche it is: "But you expect me to jump up on board with you / and ride off into your delusional sunset."
I can just picture this guy -- a beard, probably, an artfully ratty sweater, maybe an esoteric tattoo or two. I can imagine how confidently he lounges on the banquette, occupying more than his share of the booth. Sitting across the table from him, fighting for oxygen, she takes refuge in silent snarky observations: "You've got opinions, well, we're all entitled to 'em," "You're so busy making maps / With my name on them in all caps," and, my personal favorite, "You got the talking down, just not the listening." For the refrain, she twists a snide cliche into her own mantra of empowerment: "Who died and made you king of anything?"
But in the bridge, as the melody turns dreamy and the arrangement lush, she admits that this self-possession of hers is only a recent discovery. "All my life / I've tried / To make everybody happy while I / Just hurt / And hide / Waiting for someone to tell me its my turn / To decide." How many of us were raised like that, to be good little girls and please everybody in our lives? How hard it is to un-learn those lessons -- and how essential.
Then those triumphant staggered intervals break in again, Bah bah, bah bah / Bah bah. bah bah (I hear echoes of Jackie DeShannon and Burt Bacharach, those quintessential interpreters of SoCal culture) as, gathering up her new courage, she launches back into taunting the King of Anything. "Lemme hold your crown, babe," she purrs, but the way I see the scene, she's already on her feet and walking out of that coffee shop. C'mon, boots, start walking!
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Changed the Locks / Lucinda Williams
HELL HATH NO FURY WEEK
Come on. From the very first mention of Hell Hath No Fury Week, you should've known Lucinda would be on the roster.
For all its world-weary slouch, this song isn't late Lucinda Williams; this tough-girl attitude is where she started out. From her third album, 1988's Lucinda Williams, this is her first track that got some airplay -- not much, granted, but some. In the 1980s, this gutsy hybrid of rock and country-blues wasn't necessarily mainstream taste. Even after Mary Chapin Carpenter's sweetened-up cover of "Passionate Kisses" won Lucinda some songwriting recognition, it would still be another 10 years (with Car Wheels on a Gravel Road) before the world was really ready to listen to Lucinda Williams.
By the time she gets to the last two changes, she's hitting surreal extremes -- "I changed the tracks underneath the train / So you can't find me again," then "I changed the name of this town / So you can't follow me down." So what is she so afraid of? So "you can't touch me like before, and you can't make me want you more." It isn't him she's afraid of; it's herself, and the self-destructive passion she feels for him.
HELL HATH NO FURY WEEK
Come on. From the very first mention of Hell Hath No Fury Week, you should've known Lucinda would be on the roster.
Unlike most of my favorite chick singers, Lucinda Williams isn't exactly someone I'd invite over to nosh Doritos and giggle over the Golden Globes telecast. She's more like the hard-bitten divorcee down the hall who bums cigarettes off you and asks you to lie to her biker boyfriend if he shows up unexpected. Still, if a man were doing you wrong, who would you ask for advice? Not sympathy, mind you, but all-men-are-bastards advice? You betcha.
From that opening snarl of guitar, you know she's pissed off and ready to do battle. The drums smack relentlessly, the guitarwork is dirty and a little raunchy sounding. She's way beyond pretty tunes, too -- each "verse" is simply a dogged chant, describing one radical change she's making to scour this man out of her life for good. Her voice is gruff, sarcastic, edged with a bitter yelp. Changing the locks is obvious, and so is switching her phone number. But the more she goes on -- she's bought a new car, a new wardrobe -- you start to wonder: What did he do to make her so furious?
Normally people change the locks when someone's trying to hurt or harass them. But is this guy threatening her physically? If she didn't change the locks, she declares, he'd come in and -- whoa, lie down on her couch. If he could phone her up, he'd "say those things to me / That make me fall down on my knees." Following her on the street, he might "knock me off my feet" or "call my name out loud." It's hardly what I'd call abuse. The real story, in fact, is that he's trying to woo her back. Romantic, right? Like Ryan Gosling trying to win back Rachel McAdam in The Notebook. Yet that romantic movie ending is exactly what she doesn't want.
By the time she gets to the last two changes, she's hitting surreal extremes -- "I changed the tracks underneath the train / So you can't find me again," then "I changed the name of this town / So you can't follow me down." So what is she so afraid of? So "you can't touch me like before, and you can't make me want you more." It isn't him she's afraid of; it's herself, and the self-destructive passion she feels for him.
That's a great twist, a sure sign of smart songwriting. But stop thinking this guy is Ryan Gosling, or Channing Tatum, or even (think 1988) Rob Lowe. He may turn her knees to jelly, but I'm betting he's still bad news, and now she knows it. Quivers of passion animate her vocals -- listen to that trembling uplift at the end of every lne -- but there's also a ragged edge of scorn to her voice.
And if she can't resist his powerful charm -- well, then, she'd better change the locks, or the town name, or whatever.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
I'm Running Out Of Love /
Dolly Parton
HELL HATH NO FURY WEEK
In all the hoopla over the tragic death of Whitney Houston last weekend, I must've heard "I Will Always Love You" twenty-five times. Whitney's version was stellar, but I prefer Dolly Parton's version -- after all, she wrote it. That fact seems to surprise a lot of people, judging from internet chatter over the past couple of days. Why should they be surprised? Everybody knows Dolly for her pneumatic hourglass figure, overdone blonde hair, and sugary little-girl twang, but behind that Barbie doll facade is a serious songwriter and a force to be reckoned with. I'm sorry to hear that her recent movie with Queen Latifah, Joyful Noise, was supposedly dreadful -- those are two women I'd really love to hang out with.
So here's Dolly in prime Hell Hath No Fury mode...
It's an early track, from Dolly's second album, released in 1968; still working to establish herself as more than just Porter Waggoner's "girl singer," she sticks to a tried-and-true Nashville sound, with nimble guitar picking, tick-tock percussion, and hoedown fiddle. Like many of her early songs, she wrote it with her uncle, Bill Owens, who was her earliest mentor, teaching her to play the guitar and taking her to Nashville when she was still a teenager. (Uncle Bill is still a Dollywood regular.)
That subject matter is classic country too -- I'll guess that at least fifty percent of all country songs in this era dealt with infidelity. Growing up in the Midwest, I was convinced that all country music fans were wife-swapping cheaters and whorers. But perky, sassy Dolly didn't come across as a victim -- if her man was going to cheat on her, he'd be sorry.
A barely veiled threat runs through this song. "Better learn to resist temptation / Or someday you'll wake up and I'll be far away." "I ain't gonna let you take my heart and break it." "How long did you think I'd stay quiet and take it?" "Someday you'll pay for the wild seeds you're sowing." She's not moaning, she's not feeling sorry for herself -- she's got her fists planted firmly on those curvy hips and her big blue eyes are shooting sparks of fire. I love the confident swings of her voice on those upward climbing phrases, how she curls her twang around certain words with just a hint of spite. She's got a vibrato, but it's quivering with rage, not with sorrow. (Listen to the menacing shiver on "running out of patience.") This isn't a woman who'll take anything lying down.
Okay, so he seems to "get worse every day" and keeps on "doing me wrong" -- is he really cheating on her? The most we know is in verse three: "You come and go just any time you want to / And you never bother to tell me where you're going." That's enough to plant suspicion in her mind -- "I wonder if there's anything you don't do" -- but actual proof is almost irrelevant. He's not there for her, he's not being honest with her, he's not really sharing their life together. And Dolly's put her finger right on a big truth: How careless behavior can eat away at love, until there's none left. Men, take note.
The fictional world of country music may be full of unfaithful wives and husbands, but that runs hand-in-hand with a sense that marriage is sacred. Dolly's character in this song isn't getting back at him by fooling around herself (though there's plenty of "revenge cheating" in other country songs -- listen to Loretta Lynn's "The Shoe Is On the Other Foot Tonight" or Dolly's own "I Wish I Felt This Way At Home"). She believes in marriage, which makes his straying all the worse. Dolly herself has been married for over 40 years to the same man, who almost never appears in public with her and has absolutely no celebrity profile of his own. Maybe she knows something about how marriage is supposed to work -- something that the rest of us could learn from.
Dolly Parton
HELL HATH NO FURY WEEK
In all the hoopla over the tragic death of Whitney Houston last weekend, I must've heard "I Will Always Love You" twenty-five times. Whitney's version was stellar, but I prefer Dolly Parton's version -- after all, she wrote it. That fact seems to surprise a lot of people, judging from internet chatter over the past couple of days. Why should they be surprised? Everybody knows Dolly for her pneumatic hourglass figure, overdone blonde hair, and sugary little-girl twang, but behind that Barbie doll facade is a serious songwriter and a force to be reckoned with. I'm sorry to hear that her recent movie with Queen Latifah, Joyful Noise, was supposedly dreadful -- those are two women I'd really love to hang out with.
So here's Dolly in prime Hell Hath No Fury mode...
It's an early track, from Dolly's second album, released in 1968; still working to establish herself as more than just Porter Waggoner's "girl singer," she sticks to a tried-and-true Nashville sound, with nimble guitar picking, tick-tock percussion, and hoedown fiddle. Like many of her early songs, she wrote it with her uncle, Bill Owens, who was her earliest mentor, teaching her to play the guitar and taking her to Nashville when she was still a teenager. (Uncle Bill is still a Dollywood regular.)
That subject matter is classic country too -- I'll guess that at least fifty percent of all country songs in this era dealt with infidelity. Growing up in the Midwest, I was convinced that all country music fans were wife-swapping cheaters and whorers. But perky, sassy Dolly didn't come across as a victim -- if her man was going to cheat on her, he'd be sorry.
A barely veiled threat runs through this song. "Better learn to resist temptation / Or someday you'll wake up and I'll be far away." "I ain't gonna let you take my heart and break it." "How long did you think I'd stay quiet and take it?" "Someday you'll pay for the wild seeds you're sowing." She's not moaning, she's not feeling sorry for herself -- she's got her fists planted firmly on those curvy hips and her big blue eyes are shooting sparks of fire. I love the confident swings of her voice on those upward climbing phrases, how she curls her twang around certain words with just a hint of spite. She's got a vibrato, but it's quivering with rage, not with sorrow. (Listen to the menacing shiver on "running out of patience.") This isn't a woman who'll take anything lying down.
Okay, so he seems to "get worse every day" and keeps on "doing me wrong" -- is he really cheating on her? The most we know is in verse three: "You come and go just any time you want to / And you never bother to tell me where you're going." That's enough to plant suspicion in her mind -- "I wonder if there's anything you don't do" -- but actual proof is almost irrelevant. He's not there for her, he's not being honest with her, he's not really sharing their life together. And Dolly's put her finger right on a big truth: How careless behavior can eat away at love, until there's none left. Men, take note.
The fictional world of country music may be full of unfaithful wives and husbands, but that runs hand-in-hand with a sense that marriage is sacred. Dolly's character in this song isn't getting back at him by fooling around herself (though there's plenty of "revenge cheating" in other country songs -- listen to Loretta Lynn's "The Shoe Is On the Other Foot Tonight" or Dolly's own "I Wish I Felt This Way At Home"). She believes in marriage, which makes his straying all the worse. Dolly herself has been married for over 40 years to the same man, who almost never appears in public with her and has absolutely no celebrity profile of his own. Maybe she knows something about how marriage is supposed to work -- something that the rest of us could learn from.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Your Thing Is A Drag / Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings
HELL HATH NO FURY WEEK
But why wait until Break-Up Day? Modern-day soul queen Sharon Jones isn't letting any grass grow under her strappy stilettoes. Her man has the nerve to whine about how she's "stepping out of line" -- and she's more than ready to put him in his place:
Honey, if you're going to get judgmental, well then, the lady can do that too. "I know you think you got your own thing," she launches into the chorus. "I know you think you got your own bag." (Calling James Brown!) "But believe me, baby, when I tell you: [beat] / Your thing is a drag." I love how that song zips up tight at the moment, horns and scampering bassline and scritchy guitar riffs all stopping as she spits out that scornful punchline a capella.
Of course both partners should have their own independent selves; that's the 21st-century element to this song. (I can't think of any 60s soul song where the social roles are supposed to be equal like this. Can you?) She's fully prepared to live and let live. But now he's riding her case, and turnabout is only fair play. He started this conversation, but now she's going to end it -- and on her terms.
Examples? You want examples? She'll tick them off on her manicured fingers. In verse two they're at a party, and he pouts to go home early; she's singing at a club and he doesn't even come to watch her. In verse three, they're at a club, and "When the rest of us are drinkin' and smokin' / You're sittin' at the bar and you're ordering juice." She can barely veil her contempt, and by this time we share it too. Why on earth would a spitfire like this ever be with such a wet blanket?
And here's the kicker: "When I try to make it good to you, babe, / It seems the time that your head start achin'." He's so hung up in his resentment, he can't even enjoy the moments they do have together. He deserves to lose her.
HELL HATH NO FURY WEEK
But why wait until Break-Up Day? Modern-day soul queen Sharon Jones isn't letting any grass grow under her strappy stilettoes. Her man has the nerve to whine about how she's "stepping out of line" -- and she's more than ready to put him in his place:
Hard to believe this record was released in 2005 -- the way it channels classic funk-soul, you'd think it was a vintage track from 1972. And that's no accident. Sharon Jones grew up in the height of the Motown era, and has been slowly working her way towards stardom ever since. You've gotta admire her persistence; she's the poster child for late-career break-throughs. It wasn't until 1996, when she was 40 years old, that she finally got a recording contract with the indie funk label Desco Records. (Some of those early Desco singles, I've heard, were bought up by collectors convinced that they were underdiscovered gems from the 60s/70s -- that's how authentic her sound is.) Until her big break, Jones held such illustrious jobs as Rikers Island prison matron and Wells Fargo armored car guard, both of which seem oddly appropriate. Listen to those fiery, rambunctious vocals -- this is not a woman you'd want to mess with.
The scenario couldn't be simpler: One half of the relationship likes to sit home and be cozy, while the other half likes to go out and raise hell. The only twist is, this time it's the woman who's got the itch to party. There's no question this is a party girl's song, with a relentless speedy groove and whiplash instrumental hooks. "Ain't no need to ask me, baby, / About what time I'm coming home," she declares. I can just see the raised eyebrows, the sideways disdainful glare, hand coolly primping her hairdo. She insists she's not betraying him - "You know I'll never do you wrong, baby," -- but she has got to be who she is. And that's clearly something magnificent -- why should he put a damper on that?
Honey, if you're going to get judgmental, well then, the lady can do that too. "I know you think you got your own thing," she launches into the chorus. "I know you think you got your own bag." (Calling James Brown!) "But believe me, baby, when I tell you: [beat] / Your thing is a drag." I love how that song zips up tight at the moment, horns and scampering bassline and scritchy guitar riffs all stopping as she spits out that scornful punchline a capella.
Of course both partners should have their own independent selves; that's the 21st-century element to this song. (I can't think of any 60s soul song where the social roles are supposed to be equal like this. Can you?) She's fully prepared to live and let live. But now he's riding her case, and turnabout is only fair play. He started this conversation, but now she's going to end it -- and on her terms.
Examples? You want examples? She'll tick them off on her manicured fingers. In verse two they're at a party, and he pouts to go home early; she's singing at a club and he doesn't even come to watch her. In verse three, they're at a club, and "When the rest of us are drinkin' and smokin' / You're sittin' at the bar and you're ordering juice." She can barely veil her contempt, and by this time we share it too. Why on earth would a spitfire like this ever be with such a wet blanket?
And here's the kicker: "When I try to make it good to you, babe, / It seems the time that your head start achin'." He's so hung up in his resentment, he can't even enjoy the moments they do have together. He deserves to lose her.
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