WEDNESDAY SHUFFLE
Plug in your earbuds and take a ride with me!
1. "Passing Through" / Marshall Crenshaw
From Jaggedland (2009)
One of the great neglected albums of the past year. I love how the twangy guitar line weaves around, while Marshall's reverbed vocals gently meditate on the passage of time. When I saw him last fall, he mentioned that he wrote it while stuck at an airport in Alaska, but its sense of life's transience is bigger than that.
2. "Dream Baby" / Waylon Jennings
From Phase One: The Early Years 1958-1964
Waylon's outlaw country persona dominates his image, but he's been around a lot longer than that. Here's a blast from Waylon's rockbilly past -- and what a great vehicle for his voice!
3. "Where Will You Go" / The Minus 5
From Down With Wilco (2003)
At least part of the Minus 5 (Peter Buck and Scott McCaughey) are in the Venus 3, Robyn Hitchcock's frequent collaborators. There's a genial goofiness to some of their stuff that I find appealing, though the songs (usually written by McCaughey) don't make a hundred percent sense. I dig the unspooling guitar riff that stitches this song together.
4. "Tears in Heaven" / Eric Clapton
From Unplugged (1992)
Oh, I know it's the big sappy hit, written about his son's early accidental death, and I've considered deleting it a dozen times. But here it still is, tugging on the heartstrings. Absolutely nothing that makes Eric Clapton a major musical figure makes an appearance in this song (okay, there is that one deft little guitar twiddle). The soporific pace is putting me to zzzzzzzzz....
5. "Breakfast at Tiffany's" / The Testotertones
From Singing in Hormony
A CD by the a capella group at my kids' high school, which was our constant road trip accompaniment for a couple summers when the kids were younger. I've never heard the original, but it sounds like something they'd sing on Glee. Nice harmonies, though, which was kinda the point.
6. "Seein' Her" / Paul Westerberg
From Besterberg
Now this is more like it. Replacements-style crunchy garage rock, with a frantic beat, tapping right into the uncritical exuberance of new love. "Everything about her, I like everything about her / I like everything about her" -- sometimes it really is that simple.
7. "Love Me Dead" / Ludo
From You're Awful, I Love You (2009)
This funny, snarky indie track is a perfect follow-up to "Seein' Her" -- this is what happens when the teen love goes sour.
8. "Birthday" / The Beatles
From the White Album
I want this song sung to me every birthday. Those doubled guitars just spank the hell out of that riff, and Ringo's drumming is insane. "I would like you to dance / Birthday! / Take a ch-ch-chance" -- wild and crazy.
9. "I Got the Love" / Nick Lowe
From Pinker and Prouder Than Previous (1988)
What a boppy little gem! Such a light touch, just a perky loping bass line and few exhalations of organ, a tinkle of piano keys here and there. It's like the rockabilly lovechild of reggae and bluegrass, with fantastically simple lyrics ("I've got the love / And I want to shout it / I've got the love / The rain has gone...And if it don't stop / I'm-a gonna pop!") It's entirely possible that this is Nick Lowe's worst album ever, but I have to admit, I kinda love it.
10. "I'm A Fool for Loving Her" / George Jones
From I Am What I Am (1980)
You want extravagant emotions? George Jones is the master of love triangles, infidelity, and every other brand of misplaced affections, and he knows just how to wring it out, with deft yelps and yodels. There's a lot of country music I don't like, but George Jones? Brilliant.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
THE FIRST ANNUAL GRAHAM PARKER MARATHON
"When You Do That To Me" / Graham Parker
We're still in the 80s -- 1985 to be precise -- and when I think of what other dreck was being played on the radio back then, it's galling. Really, DJs, would it have hurt you to play a song like this? This is not challenging, wrenching music -- it's bright, infectious pop with a clever beat and a sly sexy subtext. What's not to love?
Wikipedia tells me that this album was mostly recorded in New York City, just as GP was beginning to relocate to the States; it did produce one (sorta) hit, "Wake Up (Next To You)." I have no memory of ever hearing this song, but then I hardly ever listened to the radio in the mid-80s. I listen to "Wake Up" now and it's a little too Tears for Fears-y for me; "When You Do That To Me," on the other hand, is more Huey Lewis-y, which in my book is a very very very good thing.
Did I say a sly sexy subtext? To be honest, it's not all that subtle -- remember, this was the era of the Eurythmics' S&M-inspired "Sweet Dreams," which upped the ante for suggestive lyrics. But at least in the opening verse, things remain merely lascivious:
The spirit of doowop scintillates through the refrain, with its playfully shifting syncopation. The tune switches happily to a major key, and a sprightly guitar riff (thanks, Brinsley!) dots all the i's and crosses the t's. Though the melody simply skips between two notes, the words land on different notes each time the title phrase is repeated. "WHEN you DO that TO ME / WHEN YOU do THAT to ME" -- it's sort of like one of those old handclap songs, when you have to focus on getting the counterrhythm just right. You wait eagerly for the refrain to come around again, because now you've got the hang of it, you've just got to sing along.
In verse two, however (back to an ominous minor key), we learn that what they're doing in that dark bedroom may be illegal in at least a few states: "If I took a picture / Tried to write a book / It would shock the printer . . . " The imagination goes wild. And to help it along, the percussion sneaks in a few whip cracks and metallic clangs (snap those handcuffs tight!). With Graham urgently repeating in the bridge "I need you so bad, it feels so bad," not to mention the endless iterations of "When you do that to me" in the outro -- well, he seems to be operating on sheer reptilian brain at this point.
The bridge and the outro build a little too frenetically, turning clamorous and dark -- it was the 80s after all. That taut, lively refrain gets lost in an overproduced tangle of minor-key organ, smackdown drums, and menacing guitar line. I know, I know, I get the point; it just isn't as much fun. But hey, I'm not complaining -- it's still a tasty track indeed.
"When You Do That To Me" / Graham Parker
We're still in the 80s -- 1985 to be precise -- and when I think of what other dreck was being played on the radio back then, it's galling. Really, DJs, would it have hurt you to play a song like this? This is not challenging, wrenching music -- it's bright, infectious pop with a clever beat and a sly sexy subtext. What's not to love?
Wikipedia tells me that this album was mostly recorded in New York City, just as GP was beginning to relocate to the States; it did produce one (sorta) hit, "Wake Up (Next To You)." I have no memory of ever hearing this song, but then I hardly ever listened to the radio in the mid-80s. I listen to "Wake Up" now and it's a little too Tears for Fears-y for me; "When You Do That To Me," on the other hand, is more Huey Lewis-y, which in my book is a very very very good thing.
Did I say a sly sexy subtext? To be honest, it's not all that subtle -- remember, this was the era of the Eurythmics' S&M-inspired "Sweet Dreams," which upped the ante for suggestive lyrics. But at least in the opening verse, things remain merely lascivious:
When you walk that walk girlLet's be honest: Can you hear this without picturing that seductive walk of hers? Me, I can't even hear it without immediately trying to walk that walk.
Into a dark bedroom
It fills my heart with lovin'
Puts sugar in my spoon
The spirit of doowop scintillates through the refrain, with its playfully shifting syncopation. The tune switches happily to a major key, and a sprightly guitar riff (thanks, Brinsley!) dots all the i's and crosses the t's. Though the melody simply skips between two notes, the words land on different notes each time the title phrase is repeated. "WHEN you DO that TO ME / WHEN YOU do THAT to ME" -- it's sort of like one of those old handclap songs, when you have to focus on getting the counterrhythm just right. You wait eagerly for the refrain to come around again, because now you've got the hang of it, you've just got to sing along.
In verse two, however (back to an ominous minor key), we learn that what they're doing in that dark bedroom may be illegal in at least a few states: "If I took a picture / Tried to write a book / It would shock the printer . . . " The imagination goes wild. And to help it along, the percussion sneaks in a few whip cracks and metallic clangs (snap those handcuffs tight!). With Graham urgently repeating in the bridge "I need you so bad, it feels so bad," not to mention the endless iterations of "When you do that to me" in the outro -- well, he seems to be operating on sheer reptilian brain at this point.
The bridge and the outro build a little too frenetically, turning clamorous and dark -- it was the 80s after all. That taut, lively refrain gets lost in an overproduced tangle of minor-key organ, smackdown drums, and menacing guitar line. I know, I know, I get the point; it just isn't as much fun. But hey, I'm not complaining -- it's still a tasty track indeed.
Monday, May 10, 2010
THE FIRST ANNUAL GRAHAM PARKER MARATHON
"You Can't Take Love for Granted" / Graham Parker
Okay, so maybe I won't have a Graham Parker marathon every year. But judging from how hard it's been to pick one song to write about today, this blog could do with a great deal more Graham Parker. So let's get started!
Only a couple of weeks ago, I was as guilty as anybody of thinking that Squeezing Out Sparks was Graham Parker's best album. Now I know better: it wasn't his best album, it was just his best-seller. And as a card-carrying Kinkster, I understand completely the frustration of hardcore fans who know that their favorite artist's best work is virtually unknown by the mass music-listening public. So I'm determined to save you good readers from this same mistake -- I'm focusing only on the post-Squeezing Out Sparks catalog, which is where Graham Parker really gets good.
So let's touch down in 1983, with The Real Macaw, Graham's second Rumour-less album, though his old guitarist Brinsley Schwarz was already back on board. If you can overlook a few 80s touches in the arrangement -- the echoey lead vocals, little spangly accents of synths -- this minor-key samba is simply stunning.
I'm beginning to discover that Graham Parker is so much better on relationships than most of his New Wave peers, with the possible exception of Joe Jackson. As he reels off example after example of bad date moves, it's an uncanny description of every subpar romance I've ever tried to nurse into life. Ladies, raise your hands if any of these scenarios are familiar:
In the refrain, he ruefully scolds himself, "But you can't take love for granted, underneath another skin / Can't take love for granted, up behind another grin." That old split personality -- how well we know it. Not coincidentally, this album came out around the time of Parker's marriage; it's no surprise that fine-tuning relationships would have been on his mind. What a novel concept for rock 'n' roll, this idea that you have to work at a relationship to try to make it last. Music for grown-ups!
It's a pity that the "angry young man" tag was stuck onto Graham Parker -- "passionate young man" would be more like it. Yes, there's feistiness and frustration there, and an occasional howl of rage, but the yearning romantic is never far from the surface. He's a lover AND a fighter - what a knockout combination.
"You Can't Take Love for Granted" / Graham Parker
Okay, so maybe I won't have a Graham Parker marathon every year. But judging from how hard it's been to pick one song to write about today, this blog could do with a great deal more Graham Parker. So let's get started!
Only a couple of weeks ago, I was as guilty as anybody of thinking that Squeezing Out Sparks was Graham Parker's best album. Now I know better: it wasn't his best album, it was just his best-seller. And as a card-carrying Kinkster, I understand completely the frustration of hardcore fans who know that their favorite artist's best work is virtually unknown by the mass music-listening public. So I'm determined to save you good readers from this same mistake -- I'm focusing only on the post-Squeezing Out Sparks catalog, which is where Graham Parker really gets good.
So let's touch down in 1983, with The Real Macaw, Graham's second Rumour-less album, though his old guitarist Brinsley Schwarz was already back on board. If you can overlook a few 80s touches in the arrangement -- the echoey lead vocals, little spangly accents of synths -- this minor-key samba is simply stunning.
I'm beginning to discover that Graham Parker is so much better on relationships than most of his New Wave peers, with the possible exception of Joe Jackson. As he reels off example after example of bad date moves, it's an uncanny description of every subpar romance I've ever tried to nurse into life. Ladies, raise your hands if any of these scenarios are familiar:
Took her to a party and danced with the hostI love how he repeats the melodic phrase over and over, each line picking its doomed way downward. The lyrics are so sharp, so articulate, they'd be worthy of Bob Dylan, except that here they're paired with a hauntingly beautiful melody and sung with soulful grace. (Did I mention how beautiful Parker's voice is on this record?) And the next verse leads us into even more painful territory:
Took her to a restaurant and treated her like a ghost
Took her to a movie and looked at another screen
Paid for entertainment she'd already seen
Demonstrated passion in a grip hard to shakeThere's something flawed about this affair -- and the amazing thing is, he knows it too. This song dances on the edge between your old-fashioned advice song (like the Beatles' "She Loves You") and the sort of rock confessional that Chris Difford and Glenn Tillbrook had been honing in their band Squeeze (whose drummer Gilson Lavis plays on this LP). The two halves of each line work almost like a soul song's call-and-response -- as if Parker takes a good hard look at his own behavior, then gives himself advice.
Took up every fashion till everything went fake
Pulled a coat over her shoulder, cracked a joke over and over
Watch the rain turn the night colder, stared into the headlight beam
In the refrain, he ruefully scolds himself, "But you can't take love for granted, underneath another skin / Can't take love for granted, up behind another grin." That old split personality -- how well we know it. Not coincidentally, this album came out around the time of Parker's marriage; it's no surprise that fine-tuning relationships would have been on his mind. What a novel concept for rock 'n' roll, this idea that you have to work at a relationship to try to make it last. Music for grown-ups!
It's a pity that the "angry young man" tag was stuck onto Graham Parker -- "passionate young man" would be more like it. Yes, there's feistiness and frustration there, and an occasional howl of rage, but the yearning romantic is never far from the surface. He's a lover AND a fighter - what a knockout combination.
Saturday, May 08, 2010
"Don't Ask Me Questions" / Graham Parker
The full Graham Parker Marathon isn't starting until next week, but I couldn't resist throwing this little teaser your way. It's an early track, from GP's first album Howlin' Wind -- which just happened to be produced by a fellow named Nick Lowe, whose former bandmates Brinsley Schwarz and Bob Andrews were part of the line-up of Parker's new band The Rumour. (It kills me how everybody seems to have known everybody else in those days when the pub rock scene was morphing into New Wave.)
Forget that stately intro -- once this song switches to its brisk reggae-soaked tempo it clips smartly along, as GP fires off a no-holds-barred diatribe at God. This is Graham Parker's other face, political and angry in a way that no other British New Wavers could match (even with Elvis Costello, it always seemed to stem more from personal grudge than from moral outrage). I think back to 1976, when this song first came out, and remember the super-charged politics of that era, with the Vietnam War barely over and the anti-war movement still revved up. Though Parker wasn't a punk rocker, as an East Londoner he must have been fueled by some of that same class resentment.
What a tight band this was, to keep this roller coaster rattling along. (Love those quivering guitar notes, dropped like bombs.) And talk about a cathartic song for a live performance -- those repeated "Hey Lord"'s just cry out for audience participation, preferably with a fist pumped in the air. This is where this guy started, for chrissake. I can't wait to see where he went from here.
The full Graham Parker Marathon isn't starting until next week, but I couldn't resist throwing this little teaser your way. It's an early track, from GP's first album Howlin' Wind -- which just happened to be produced by a fellow named Nick Lowe, whose former bandmates Brinsley Schwarz and Bob Andrews were part of the line-up of Parker's new band The Rumour. (It kills me how everybody seems to have known everybody else in those days when the pub rock scene was morphing into New Wave.)
Forget that stately intro -- once this song switches to its brisk reggae-soaked tempo it clips smartly along, as GP fires off a no-holds-barred diatribe at God. This is Graham Parker's other face, political and angry in a way that no other British New Wavers could match (even with Elvis Costello, it always seemed to stem more from personal grudge than from moral outrage). I think back to 1976, when this song first came out, and remember the super-charged politics of that era, with the Vietnam War barely over and the anti-war movement still revved up. Though Parker wasn't a punk rocker, as an East Londoner he must have been fueled by some of that same class resentment.
What a tight band this was, to keep this roller coaster rattling along. (Love those quivering guitar notes, dropped like bombs.) And talk about a cathartic song for a live performance -- those repeated "Hey Lord"'s just cry out for audience participation, preferably with a fist pumped in the air. This is where this guy started, for chrissake. I can't wait to see where he went from here.
Thursday, May 06, 2010
THURSDAY REVERB
I'm giving you fair warning, folks -- I'm just about to veer off into one of my periodic fixations. Having recently reviewed Graham Parker's new album Imaginary Television, and blogged here about my favorite track on it, I went to see Graham last Friday night at the City Winery. Well, the guy simply blew me away, and it killed me that so many of his songs were from albums I'd never heard. I had to have them!
I scoured the internet for hours the other night, cherry picking great songs off of various albums -- man, this guy has been prolific! -- and eventually ordered half a dozen entire CDs when I could no longer be selective. I've got a long car trip coming up tomorrow, and I've got that stack of CDs ready to play. So I expect next week may just have to be Graham Parker Week. Meanwhile, here's a little warm-up, to trace how this Parkerphilia really began.
"You Can't Be Too Strong" / Graham Parker & the Rumour
There is a huge hole in my record collection, and it's called Squeezing Out Sparks. I didn't even realize this until this afternoon, when I laid down the book I was reading -- Will Birch's excellent No Sleep Till Canvey Island, the definitive history of British pub rock -- and went onto iTunes to check out early Graham Parker & the Rumour albums. After all, half of the Rumour were in Brinsley Schwarz with Nick Lowe, and Nick produced Parker's early albums . . . well, you get the idea; in my personal rock world, all roads lead to Nick Lowe. (Except for the roads that lead to Ray Davies.)
So there I sat, calling up samples from Squeezing Out Sparks, and track after track hit me with deeply familiar force. I've searched my stacks of vinyl and no, incredibly enough I never owned this record, but I'm guessing that my boyfriend at the time (this would have been 1979) must have had it. In fact, we must have listened to it non-stop -- that's the only way to explain why I know every bit of it by heart, AND why I resisting buying it after the break-up (those must have been some powerful associations). Weird how this slipped into some mental fissure until just now.
I've fixed the problem; I've just ordered my own shiny new copy from Amazon, and I should be getting it in 36 hours. Until then, I'll have to be satisfied with a couple of downloaded tracks. It's a toss-up which slays me more -- "You Can't Be Too Strong" or "Passion Is No Ordinary Word." But the nod goes to "You Can't Be Too Strong"; I can't think of another song about abortion that's so heart-breaking.
He launches straight into it: "Did they tear it out with talons of steel /And give you a shot so that you wouldn't feel /And wash it away as if it wasn't real?" Here's abortion from the perspective of the guy, who I guess wasn't consulted -- "It's just a mistake I won't have to face / Don't give it a name, don't give it a place / Don't give it a chance -- it's lucky in a way." Does he really thinks it lucky? He really doesn't yet know how he feels, and that ambivalence is what makes this song so goddam poignant.
Considering the load of regret and uncertainty this song carries, the arrangement is appropriately sober and simple, just an acoustic guitar, embroidered with a few delicate keyboard fillips from Bob Andrews. Behind all the male bluster -- "I ain't gonna cry, I'm gonna rejoice /And shout myself dry, and go see the boys /They'll laugh when I say, 'I left it overseas'" -- there's a haunting echo of desire in Parker's voice: "But everybody else is squeezing out a spark / That happened in the heat, somewhere in the dark." I love that little vocal echo he throws in, "in the dark," the voice of a helpless kid still trying to sort things out.
He can't help returning to that furtive surgery scene: "The doctor gets nervous, completing the service / He's all rubber gloves and no heart." As the song goes along, the title phrase loads up with irony -- maybe you CAN be too strong, too tough, too hard. The way he pauses, wondering, each time he sings "You can't be too strong" in the chorus -- surely that toughness is a double-edged sword here.
My favorite line has to be "It must have felt strange to find me inside you / I never intended to stay." That's so disturbingly sexy, which I think is the whole point of this song -- how sex turns complicated on people. This guy doesn't know how he feels about all this, or how he feels about the girl now. And he leaves it there, confused and numb and unresolved. Perfect.
This song reminds me of what might have happened if you could throw the earnest young Bruce Springsteen into a cocktail shaker with the rueful wit of Joe Jackson; that gritty soulfulness in Parker's voice lays on so much passion, but he can hold back and leave things unsaid. I'm still puzzling over this song, 25 years later. It's long past time to bring Graham Parker back onto my playlist. I can't wait for this CD to arrive.
I'm giving you fair warning, folks -- I'm just about to veer off into one of my periodic fixations. Having recently reviewed Graham Parker's new album Imaginary Television, and blogged here about my favorite track on it, I went to see Graham last Friday night at the City Winery. Well, the guy simply blew me away, and it killed me that so many of his songs were from albums I'd never heard. I had to have them!
I scoured the internet for hours the other night, cherry picking great songs off of various albums -- man, this guy has been prolific! -- and eventually ordered half a dozen entire CDs when I could no longer be selective. I've got a long car trip coming up tomorrow, and I've got that stack of CDs ready to play. So I expect next week may just have to be Graham Parker Week. Meanwhile, here's a little warm-up, to trace how this Parkerphilia really began.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
"You Can't Be Too Strong" / Graham Parker & the Rumour
There is a huge hole in my record collection, and it's called Squeezing Out Sparks. I didn't even realize this until this afternoon, when I laid down the book I was reading -- Will Birch's excellent No Sleep Till Canvey Island, the definitive history of British pub rock -- and went onto iTunes to check out early Graham Parker & the Rumour albums. After all, half of the Rumour were in Brinsley Schwarz with Nick Lowe, and Nick produced Parker's early albums . . . well, you get the idea; in my personal rock world, all roads lead to Nick Lowe. (Except for the roads that lead to Ray Davies.)
So there I sat, calling up samples from Squeezing Out Sparks, and track after track hit me with deeply familiar force. I've searched my stacks of vinyl and no, incredibly enough I never owned this record, but I'm guessing that my boyfriend at the time (this would have been 1979) must have had it. In fact, we must have listened to it non-stop -- that's the only way to explain why I know every bit of it by heart, AND why I resisting buying it after the break-up (those must have been some powerful associations). Weird how this slipped into some mental fissure until just now.
I've fixed the problem; I've just ordered my own shiny new copy from Amazon, and I should be getting it in 36 hours. Until then, I'll have to be satisfied with a couple of downloaded tracks. It's a toss-up which slays me more -- "You Can't Be Too Strong" or "Passion Is No Ordinary Word." But the nod goes to "You Can't Be Too Strong"; I can't think of another song about abortion that's so heart-breaking.
He launches straight into it: "Did they tear it out with talons of steel /And give you a shot so that you wouldn't feel /And wash it away as if it wasn't real?" Here's abortion from the perspective of the guy, who I guess wasn't consulted -- "It's just a mistake I won't have to face / Don't give it a name, don't give it a place / Don't give it a chance -- it's lucky in a way." Does he really thinks it lucky? He really doesn't yet know how he feels, and that ambivalence is what makes this song so goddam poignant.
Considering the load of regret and uncertainty this song carries, the arrangement is appropriately sober and simple, just an acoustic guitar, embroidered with a few delicate keyboard fillips from Bob Andrews. Behind all the male bluster -- "I ain't gonna cry, I'm gonna rejoice /And shout myself dry, and go see the boys /They'll laugh when I say, 'I left it overseas'" -- there's a haunting echo of desire in Parker's voice: "But everybody else is squeezing out a spark / That happened in the heat, somewhere in the dark." I love that little vocal echo he throws in, "in the dark," the voice of a helpless kid still trying to sort things out.
He can't help returning to that furtive surgery scene: "The doctor gets nervous, completing the service / He's all rubber gloves and no heart." As the song goes along, the title phrase loads up with irony -- maybe you CAN be too strong, too tough, too hard. The way he pauses, wondering, each time he sings "You can't be too strong" in the chorus -- surely that toughness is a double-edged sword here.
My favorite line has to be "It must have felt strange to find me inside you / I never intended to stay." That's so disturbingly sexy, which I think is the whole point of this song -- how sex turns complicated on people. This guy doesn't know how he feels about all this, or how he feels about the girl now. And he leaves it there, confused and numb and unresolved. Perfect.
This song reminds me of what might have happened if you could throw the earnest young Bruce Springsteen into a cocktail shaker with the rueful wit of Joe Jackson; that gritty soulfulness in Parker's voice lays on so much passion, but he can hold back and leave things unsaid. I'm still puzzling over this song, 25 years later. It's long past time to bring Graham Parker back onto my playlist. I can't wait for this CD to arrive.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
WEDNESDAY SHUFFLE
Round and round and round she goes, and where she stops --
1. California Girls -- The Beach Boys
From Summer Days (And Summer Nights!) (1965)
I swear, a sea breeze just stirred my hair -- and is that sand between my toes? An instant trip to Southern California. When this first came out, I rankled at the line, "Those Midwest farmer's daughters really make me feel all right," but I longed to become a California girl myself. White Levis, Sun-In in my hair -- I tried everything. And then of course there's the Beatles' parody in the bridge of "Back in the USSR" -- "well, the Ukraine girls really knock me out ..."
2. "Lately I've Let Things Slide" -- Nick Lowe
From The Convincer (2001)
One reason I love the Shuffle: Nick Lowe suddenly appears when I least expect it -- and it hits me all over again why I love him so. "Smoking I once quit, now I've got one lit / I just fell back into it . . ." -- how succinctly he nails this lovelorn loser, sloping around his messy flat, laundry piling up in the corners, a carton of untouched takeaway spoiling on the table. God is in the details, both lyrics and music (those Nashville horns!).
3. "Rooftops (A Liberation Broadcast)" -- Lostprophets
From Liberation Transmission (2006)
Welsh indie rockers! Mostly this got onto my iPod because it is just so much damn fun to proclaim that staccato chorus at the top of your lungs: "Standing on the rooftops, everybody scream your heaaart out!" One of the rare tracks where a crunchy metallic tangle of guitar is totally necessary.
4. "No More, No Less" -- Collective Soul
From Dosage (1999)
My dear rock chick buddy Sharon loves this band, just loves 'em to death. I hear the hooks, I appreciate the soulful metal quality, but in the end, they just don't light my fire. Too much open passion for me, and not enough irony. Can't help it; I'm an irony junkie.
5. "Sister Madly" -- Crowded House
From Temple of Low Men (1988)
Irony -- like this. That great skippy pop rhythm sets off a tart little character study ("sister madly, stepping on my head!). Wonderful bebop piano solo too. Thank you thank you thank you Inaki for hepping me to this band -- I knew the singles, but there's so much more to discover.
6. "Willie and Laura Mae Jones" -- Dusty Springfield
From Dusty in Memphis (1969)
There's not a bad track on this album, is there? Dusty shows Bobbie Gentry how it's done. It matters not one whit that Dusty never lived in a shotgun shack at the edge of a cotton field; she never slept with the son of a preacher man either.
7. "Nightswimming" -- R.E.M.
From Automatic for the People (1992)
Ah, the mesmeric powers of Michael Stipe. The piano reels off endless arpeggios, strings and clarinet mourn, Stipe scats the same melodic phrase over and over -- and yet somehow I'm back in Indiana, in the dark of a summer night, brooding over boyfriends lost. Who knew R.E.M. had so much sweetness and melancholy in them?
8. "Take Off Your Uniform" -- John Hiatt
From Slug Line (1993)
In which Johnny H. langorously strips a coffee shop waitress and makes sorrowful, sympathetic love to her, in his best soulful yelp. A true man of the people. Why is this guy not bigger than Bruce Springsteen? Oh, I know the answer. . .
9. "One Thing" -- Neil Young
From This Note's For You (1988)
Possibly my favorite Neil Young album, his one brief shining jazz moment (that achingly beautiful guitar line!). Whatever was going on in Neil's life at the time, he proved beyond a doubt that he had intimate knowledge of the blues. "I think we're heading for a heartache / That's my suspicion / I think we're heading for a heartache / That's how I feel." The quaver in Neil's voice never worked better.
10. "Sound and Vision" -- David Bowie
From Low (1977)
Glam meets funk, all gussied up with synths -- yes, the experimental 80s were upon us, with Bowie and Brian Eno leading the way. This album is most memorable to me as the inspiration for Nick Lowe's own e-less EP titled Bowi. But you gotta love this disco-ready musical collage, with Bowie alternately growling and wailing disconnected phrases, like snatches of conversation overhead at a bar. Strung along that brilliant rhythm track, it's a song that begs to be danced to. With drugs.
Round and round and round she goes, and where she stops --
1. California Girls -- The Beach Boys
From Summer Days (And Summer Nights!) (1965)
I swear, a sea breeze just stirred my hair -- and is that sand between my toes? An instant trip to Southern California. When this first came out, I rankled at the line, "Those Midwest farmer's daughters really make me feel all right," but I longed to become a California girl myself. White Levis, Sun-In in my hair -- I tried everything. And then of course there's the Beatles' parody in the bridge of "Back in the USSR" -- "well, the Ukraine girls really knock me out ..."
2. "Lately I've Let Things Slide" -- Nick Lowe
From The Convincer (2001)
One reason I love the Shuffle: Nick Lowe suddenly appears when I least expect it -- and it hits me all over again why I love him so. "Smoking I once quit, now I've got one lit / I just fell back into it . . ." -- how succinctly he nails this lovelorn loser, sloping around his messy flat, laundry piling up in the corners, a carton of untouched takeaway spoiling on the table. God is in the details, both lyrics and music (those Nashville horns!).
3. "Rooftops (A Liberation Broadcast)" -- Lostprophets
From Liberation Transmission (2006)
Welsh indie rockers! Mostly this got onto my iPod because it is just so much damn fun to proclaim that staccato chorus at the top of your lungs: "Standing on the rooftops, everybody scream your heaaart out!" One of the rare tracks where a crunchy metallic tangle of guitar is totally necessary.
4. "No More, No Less" -- Collective Soul
From Dosage (1999)
My dear rock chick buddy Sharon loves this band, just loves 'em to death. I hear the hooks, I appreciate the soulful metal quality, but in the end, they just don't light my fire. Too much open passion for me, and not enough irony. Can't help it; I'm an irony junkie.
5. "Sister Madly" -- Crowded House
From Temple of Low Men (1988)
Irony -- like this. That great skippy pop rhythm sets off a tart little character study ("sister madly, stepping on my head!). Wonderful bebop piano solo too. Thank you thank you thank you Inaki for hepping me to this band -- I knew the singles, but there's so much more to discover.
6. "Willie and Laura Mae Jones" -- Dusty Springfield
From Dusty in Memphis (1969)
There's not a bad track on this album, is there? Dusty shows Bobbie Gentry how it's done. It matters not one whit that Dusty never lived in a shotgun shack at the edge of a cotton field; she never slept with the son of a preacher man either.
7. "Nightswimming" -- R.E.M.
From Automatic for the People (1992)
Ah, the mesmeric powers of Michael Stipe. The piano reels off endless arpeggios, strings and clarinet mourn, Stipe scats the same melodic phrase over and over -- and yet somehow I'm back in Indiana, in the dark of a summer night, brooding over boyfriends lost. Who knew R.E.M. had so much sweetness and melancholy in them?
8. "Take Off Your Uniform" -- John Hiatt
From Slug Line (1993)
In which Johnny H. langorously strips a coffee shop waitress and makes sorrowful, sympathetic love to her, in his best soulful yelp. A true man of the people. Why is this guy not bigger than Bruce Springsteen? Oh, I know the answer. . .
9. "One Thing" -- Neil Young
From This Note's For You (1988)
Possibly my favorite Neil Young album, his one brief shining jazz moment (that achingly beautiful guitar line!). Whatever was going on in Neil's life at the time, he proved beyond a doubt that he had intimate knowledge of the blues. "I think we're heading for a heartache / That's my suspicion / I think we're heading for a heartache / That's how I feel." The quaver in Neil's voice never worked better.
10. "Sound and Vision" -- David Bowie
From Low (1977)
Glam meets funk, all gussied up with synths -- yes, the experimental 80s were upon us, with Bowie and Brian Eno leading the way. This album is most memorable to me as the inspiration for Nick Lowe's own e-less EP titled Bowi. But you gotta love this disco-ready musical collage, with Bowie alternately growling and wailing disconnected phrases, like snatches of conversation overhead at a bar. Strung along that brilliant rhythm track, it's a song that begs to be danced to. With drugs.
Sunday, May 02, 2010
PHILLY SOUL WEEK
"Break Up To Make Up" / The Stylistics
It was hard to pick just one Stylistics song to gush about. When the starry-eyed "Betcha By Golly Wow" came out in 1971, I wasn't sure what to think -- it teetered right on the verge of cheesy. But 1972's "I'm Stone in Love With You" sealed their sound, adding a gentle rollick to the beat that convinced us these guys were hip. (Ever sit in the back of a VW Beetle with half-a-dozen loopy teenage girls trying to match that octave jump on "you-oooo"?) And in 1974, the Stylistics hit their height with "You Make Me Feel Brand New," the most glorious melodic line ever written for Russell Thompkins' angelic falsetto.
But I realized I had to go with "Break Up To Make Up," a 1973 hit that sums up everything I feel about Philly soul. There's no question that it's schmaltzy and overproduced, with a stately waltz tempo that pours on the emotions even more. On top of that, it features the default Philly soul plot line, a romantic complaint song by an injured male -- a situation I really can't relate to. When I recall the song, it's like thinking about a rich pastry when you're not hungry. All that whipped cream! The custard filling! The chocolate drizzles on top! But play 30 seconds of the thing -- take just one bite -- and you remember all over again how beautiful it is.
That long lush intro may overstay its welcome, but remember, on the AM radio you'd never hear it all -- the DJ would always take advantage of it to cram in a little more chatter. That ooze of strings and vibes is there just to set the tempo and the mood -- a musical palate cleanser, wiping away whatever sassy trash you were listening to previously. And then Thompkins' voice sails in, stepping sorrowfully by thirds down the scale: "Tell me what's wrong with you now / Tell me why I / Never seem to make you happy / Though heaven knows I try." Two lines of straight time, followed by two lines of complicated syncopation, as if he's tripping over his own feelings. That gorgeous vocal doesn't need much of a setting -- a light tick of hi-hats, a whisper of vibes, that's all.
Then it gently slides into the chorus: "Break up to make up, that's all we do / First you love me, then you hate me / That's a game for fools." Maybe you've been lucky enough never to be in a love affair like this, but I know people who never have any other kind of relationship. Personally I run for the hills when the fights start, which may be why Thompkins' wistfulness strikes home with me. The arrangement is just brilliant (Thom Bell, I'm assuming, though Kenny Gamble also had a hand in this song, along with Bell's usual lyrics partner Linda Creed). Listen to how the other Stylistics cling to the rueful melody, while Thompkins' melismatic descant shimmers above it, as if his heart is running away with him.
Thom Bell -- who'd begun producing the Stylistics when Thompkins was barely out of high school -- vanished from their lives in 1974 and their career faltered in the States. They did have a second career in Europe, as evidenced by the Simply Red cover of "You Make Me Feel Brand New" (someone keep those guys from mucking around with the Philly classics!), but their sound never evolved significantly. The Stylistics were Philly soul's new kids on the block -- they hadn't previously toiled in the R&B backwaters for ages -- yet they still wore the matching suits, still did the hand motions and twirls behind the mic stands, stepping effortlessly into the mold that Bell and Gamble & Huff had laid down. In the end, even Russell Thompkins' extraordinary voice wasn't enough without the genius producers pulling the right strings. For better or worse, Philly Soul was a producer's genre. But who's to say that's a bad thing?
"Break Up To Make Up" / The Stylistics
It was hard to pick just one Stylistics song to gush about. When the starry-eyed "Betcha By Golly Wow" came out in 1971, I wasn't sure what to think -- it teetered right on the verge of cheesy. But 1972's "I'm Stone in Love With You" sealed their sound, adding a gentle rollick to the beat that convinced us these guys were hip. (Ever sit in the back of a VW Beetle with half-a-dozen loopy teenage girls trying to match that octave jump on "you-oooo"?) And in 1974, the Stylistics hit their height with "You Make Me Feel Brand New," the most glorious melodic line ever written for Russell Thompkins' angelic falsetto.
But I realized I had to go with "Break Up To Make Up," a 1973 hit that sums up everything I feel about Philly soul. There's no question that it's schmaltzy and overproduced, with a stately waltz tempo that pours on the emotions even more. On top of that, it features the default Philly soul plot line, a romantic complaint song by an injured male -- a situation I really can't relate to. When I recall the song, it's like thinking about a rich pastry when you're not hungry. All that whipped cream! The custard filling! The chocolate drizzles on top! But play 30 seconds of the thing -- take just one bite -- and you remember all over again how beautiful it is.
That long lush intro may overstay its welcome, but remember, on the AM radio you'd never hear it all -- the DJ would always take advantage of it to cram in a little more chatter. That ooze of strings and vibes is there just to set the tempo and the mood -- a musical palate cleanser, wiping away whatever sassy trash you were listening to previously. And then Thompkins' voice sails in, stepping sorrowfully by thirds down the scale: "Tell me what's wrong with you now / Tell me why I / Never seem to make you happy / Though heaven knows I try." Two lines of straight time, followed by two lines of complicated syncopation, as if he's tripping over his own feelings. That gorgeous vocal doesn't need much of a setting -- a light tick of hi-hats, a whisper of vibes, that's all.
Then it gently slides into the chorus: "Break up to make up, that's all we do / First you love me, then you hate me / That's a game for fools." Maybe you've been lucky enough never to be in a love affair like this, but I know people who never have any other kind of relationship. Personally I run for the hills when the fights start, which may be why Thompkins' wistfulness strikes home with me. The arrangement is just brilliant (Thom Bell, I'm assuming, though Kenny Gamble also had a hand in this song, along with Bell's usual lyrics partner Linda Creed). Listen to how the other Stylistics cling to the rueful melody, while Thompkins' melismatic descant shimmers above it, as if his heart is running away with him.
Thom Bell -- who'd begun producing the Stylistics when Thompkins was barely out of high school -- vanished from their lives in 1974 and their career faltered in the States. They did have a second career in Europe, as evidenced by the Simply Red cover of "You Make Me Feel Brand New" (someone keep those guys from mucking around with the Philly classics!), but their sound never evolved significantly. The Stylistics were Philly soul's new kids on the block -- they hadn't previously toiled in the R&B backwaters for ages -- yet they still wore the matching suits, still did the hand motions and twirls behind the mic stands, stepping effortlessly into the mold that Bell and Gamble & Huff had laid down. In the end, even Russell Thompkins' extraordinary voice wasn't enough without the genius producers pulling the right strings. For better or worse, Philly Soul was a producer's genre. But who's to say that's a bad thing?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)